Death on Beacon Hill

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Authors: P.B. RYAN
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turned and looked down the center aisle to the front door of the church. Will was standing there, a tall, spectral figure backlit by the glaring morning sun. He lit a cigarette and flicked out the match. His hand seemed to move in a beckoning gesture—or was that just a trick of the light?
    Detective Skinner twisted around in his pew to see what had captured her attention. He looked from Will to her, a policeman’s speculative glint in his eye. Will vanished into the sunlight. 
    Nell turned and faced the front of the church. She plucked her handkerchief from the chatelaine on her waistband, thinking to blot her sweat-dampened face, but thought better of it. Tucking her fan back into the little bag, which she left unlatched, she rose and started walking up the aisle toward the front door. She paused once to dab her forehead, gripping the back of the pew next to her. Skinner was watching her.
    She continued on, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other grasping the handkerchief, her steps slow and unsteady.
    “Miss?” Skinner said as she neared. “Are you...?”
    She looked toward him, swaying ever so slightly on her feet. “I’m...I’m...”
    She reached for the nearest pew, her hands fumbling for purchase as she collapsed.
     
     

Chapter 5
     
     
    Skinner sprang out of his seat, catching Nell before she hit the floor. “Steady, there, miss.”
    She clutched at his coat as he pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry, I...I just need some air.” His clothing smelled of cheap tobacco, his breath of rum and licorice.
    “This way,” he said as he steered her awkwardly out onto the front steps. “Here, sit,” he urged, easing her down onto the top step, which was sheltered from the bright sun by the church’s shadow. His hands lingered on her a bit longer than was strictly necessary, Nell thought.
    Coaches, buggies, and a number of hacks were lined up at the curb. Between the hearse and an elegant Dress Landau with the top folded down—the latter doubtless belonging to the Pratts—she saw Will, across the street, hurl his cigarette aside and sprint toward her.
    “Nell!” Will whipped off his hat and sank onto the step below her. “What happened?”
    “Must be the heat,” Skinner said. “She was pretty shaky there for a minute. I was sure she was fixin’ to faint dead away.” 
    “I’m fine, really,” she protested.
    “Lower your head,” Will said, reinforcing that command by pressing gently on the back of her neck.
    “You know this lady?” Skinner asked.
    “Yes, and I’m in your debt, sir.” From the corner of her eye, with her face half-buried in black crepe, Nell saw Will extend his hand. “William Hewitt.”
    “Detective Charles Skinner, Boston Police. Hewitt, did you say? You aren’t any relation to Mr. August Hewitt of Colonnade Row?”
    “I’m the son no one talks about. No, you don’t,” Will scolded as Nell tried to raise her head. He stroked her upper back, making her skin prickle beneath her stays. “And this rather obstinate young lady is Miss Cornelia Sweeney.”
    Skinner hesitated for a moment—probably to grasp the fact that Nell was Irish—before saying, with careful formality, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sweeney.”
    “And I yours,” Nell mumbled into her skirts.
    “No offense, Hewitt,” Skinner said, “but if you’re August Hewitt’s son, how come you talk like a limey?”
    “He sent me to England as a child,” Will said. “I found my way back home, though, so the joke’s on him.”
    “I’m much better,” Nell said. “I can sit up now.”
    “I’m the physician,” Will said. “I’ll tell you when you’re feeling better.”
    “A physician, huh?” Skinner said. “So, uh, you got this in hand, then.”
    “Entirely,” Will said. “Thank you for your help.”
    Nell turned her head to watch Skinner retreat into the church. Through the open door she heard the choir wind up that dreary hymn, and then came the barely audible voice of Dr.

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