The Spirit is pleased to present a story of serialized fiction throughout the month of August. Each week, we’ll publish a new part in the developing story of William, a watchman in 19th century Northern Liberties, leading up to the dramatic conclusion. Last week left off with William discovering a charred body lying in a smoldering building and finding his first clue in murder mystery.

It was nearly dawn when the coroner arrived. William was smoking by the back window. The woman showed the doctor into the room and to the body.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked William.

“No.” He took another drag. “What is your name?”

“Rosetta.”

Dr. Martin set his bag on the ground and produced a scalpel and a pair of forceps, placing them on the nightstand, and a black notebook.

“What was the patient’s name?”

“Ellen Robinson,” Rosetta said. “Though I’m not sure it was her real one.”

He wrote this down and then took to the gashes on Ellen’s forehead, looking them over carefully and then scribbling something down.

“What’s that?” William asked.

“Cause of death.”

The doctor picked up the scalpel, brushed away the ashes of her nightgown and made an incision.

“The lungs are clean. She was dead before the fire.”

He examined the rest of her body but found little of note.

“No sign of a struggle,” he said.

After quickly writing up his report, he packed up and left, leaving William alone with Rosetta.

“Did anyone meet with her last night?” he asked.

“She had a normal caller, Ben Meyers, but on this night, she informed me not to allow him entrance, that another gentleman would be joining her. When this man arrived, he covered his face with a cloak, but I could tell he was not Ben.”

“Was it this cloak?” William asked, holding up the one from the man who had fled last night.

“It was similar, I can’t say for sure.”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t Ben at the door then?”

“I would know Ben anywhere.”

William dug into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “I found this under the body.” He handed it to her.

“Ellen,” Rosetta corrected. She turned it over and “Ben Meyers” was embroidered across the front.

“The stitching matches the cloak.”

Asking around, William found that on Saturday mornings Ben frequented the North Second Street Market. With a description from Rosetta, he waded through the merchants selling produce, fish, baked goods and clothing. He found him inspecting fruit. Ben was tall and lanky and William knew he wasn’t the man he chased out of the brothel.

“Is this yours?” William asked.

Ben glanced down at him. “It has my name on it.” He went to snatch it but William pulled back.

“Know a woman goes by Ellen Robinson?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Can’t say I do.”

“She seems to have known you.”

“Did she say that?”

“She’s dead.”

Ben stopped in his tracks and ducked into the nearest alley. William followed.

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” he said.

“This was at the scene of the crime.”

“I left that weeks ago. It was nothing.”

“Where did you get it?”

“There’s only one good tailor in this town.”

The shop was not far from the market. It was a modest store front adorned only by wooden tables and hanging garments. An older man, Mr. Buckner, sat at one end, methodically threading a jacket pocket. William laid the cloak in front of him.

“Familiar with this?”

Buckner didn’t look up from his work.

“This shop is by appointment only.”

William reached into his pocket and flashed some cash.

“Still by appointment only.”

He stepped away toward the door but stopped short of it. With Mr. Buckner’s head still deep in his work William grabbed a length of cloth and began wrapping it around, binding him to this chair.

“What the … Someone-,” he let out before William wrapped it across his mouth and muffled his cries.

Pushing Mr. Buckner to the side, he opened the door to the office and began to rifle through work orders looking for the name Winston Steel. Faster and faster he turned through page after page. It almost felt as though the pages were burning between his fingers. He could feel the heat on his back. It was getting warmer. He stopped and turned to the door and smoke was pouring through the cracks. Instinctively he reached for the handle but it seared his hand. Sweat dripped from his brow. It was the only way out.