The Vanishing Beast: Chapter One

The Case Files of Sheridan Bell #1

Welcome to The Case Files of Sheridan Bell, a fantasy-mystery webseries about an up-and-coming private detective in the city of Tamarley.

“I don’t care for the word genius,” Detective Henry Sheridan Bell announced over his neighbors’ breakfast table one morning. “It implies a degree of effortlessness that’s impossible to achieve and, with a single careless expression, diminishes all of the actual work put into some-thing. While I’m sure there are those who can accomplish their goals effortlessly, I am not one of them.”

In the seat across from him, Henry’s neighbor Joseph blew idly on his tea and watched him through the dissipating steam. “What brings this on?”

Henry slid his newspaper across the table toward Joseph, pointing to bold letters that read: “Local Detective Apprehends Jewel Thief.”

Joseph took his time unfolding the paper, holding it at a distance to read the fine print. While he and his wife Ines, looking over his shoulder, skimmed the paper, the room was silent but for the ticking of the old pendulum clock in the corner and the delicate clink of dishware as Henry buttered his toast. The three of them sat in the Amaikes’ tidy dining room in the first story flat of the humble building the couple shared with Henry. Soft morning light and fresh air, crisp and cool, filtered in through the open windows. Beyond the narrow garden, the city of Tamarley hummed with life, pedestrians passing and carriages rattling by without a care for the humble building or the quiet conversations that happened inside.

It was Ines who finally broke the quiet. “But this is wonderful!” she said, then read aloud: “On Friday night, a private detective recovered the priceless Sheahan Carbuncle, which went missing in the spring of last year. Sheridan Bell, himself an undiscovered gem among Tamarley’s amateur sleuths, accomplished what the best of law enforcement could not using methods that seem almost magical.”

At the sound of a scoff from Henry, Ines stopped. “Come now, is it so bad as that? I think this is great. You should be proud.”

Henry chewed his toast petulantly in answer, his delicate features pulled into a frown. “I wonder,” he began after a moment, “What was the point of interviewing me if they were only going to sensationalize the story regardless? Their praise is not only undeserved, but inaccurate. I explained my methods to them plainly: there is no magic or genius, only luck and a great deal of hard work.”

Joseph chuckled and folded down the corner of the paper to peer at his guest over the top of it. “Sensationalized or not, you must admit this feature will be great for business.”

“And what good will that do me if people come looking for a sídhe mage and find a plain human detective, instead?” Henry scratched his nose, looking sheepish. “I can’t help but feel they’ll be disappointed.”

“Don’t be absurd, Hen,” Ines said, reaching across the table to pinch his cheek. “With or without magic, your clients adore you.”

“I suppose I never did manage to scare off the two of you,” Henry said.

“Nor will you,” Joseph said. “So if not magic, how’d you actually do it?”

“Find the gem, you mean?” Henry asked. He shrugged. “While the police focused on the owner’s staff and family, I looked into the owner herself. She was having an affair with a man I quickly learned was using a pseudonym—Fear Dearg, a reference to a character from an old sídhe play. With the physical description she gave and what information I gleaned about him myself, I put an ad in the paper and quickly uncovered his identity. From there, it was only a matter of determining what he might have done with the jewel. I suspected someone who named himself after a trickster would be too proud of himself to fence it, and I was correct.”

Joseph considered this a moment, then concluded, “That would make a far less interesting interview, though.”

Despite himself, Henry smiled. “Yes, maybe you’re right.” He stood and stretched, leisurely as a cat, his dark hair falling loose down his back. Stepping over to a small side table, he grabbed a pair of glasses partially tucked behind a decorative vase and passed it to Joseph.

“My reading glasses! I’ve been looking for those. Thank you, Henry,” Joseph said, putting the glasses on.

“You should be more careful. One of these days, you’re going to lose those and I won’t be able to find them for you again,” Henry said. He grabbed his coat. “Whatever else that feature says, good or bad, I beg you not to tell me.”

“Leaving so soon, Henry?” Joseph asked.

“Yes, I don’t want to take up too much of your morning, and besides, this is my first day without a case in weeks. I have an abandoned research project that I’m eager to get back to. Thank you both, as always, for breakfast.”

“You barely ate! If you must go, at least take this with you. You work too hard, Hen; this’ll give you energy,” Ines said with a sigh, pressing a brown drink into Henry’s hand. Henry accepted it, taking Ines’ other hand and placing a gentle kiss to the back. She smiled, appeased. “Will you come around for dinner as well? We have early Mass today for the Feast of Saints’ Spring, but we’ll be home by six.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” Joseph said, clapping a hand on Henry’s shoulder, having risen to show Henry to the door. “You’re welcome any time. And besides, I want to hear the rest of the jewel thief story from the mouth of the detective himself.”

Henry smiled. “I may come by, then,” he said, both Ines and Joseph knowing that meant to expect him. It was an arrangement that suited them all: Joseph and Ines, whose only child recently married and left home, had someone to dote on, and Henry, a bachelor with a habit of forgetfulness and little by way of cooking talent, allowed himself to be doted on.

With a final goodbye from the Amaikes, Henry excused himself from the Amaikes’ flat and turned to the narrow stairway leading up to his own. Before even taking the first step, though, he found an unexpected sight before him: two strangers were coming down the stairs to meet him. This was unexpected primarily due to the nature of the building: only two floors stood above him, one containing a currently empty flat and the other his own modest rooms. He could only assume, then, that these two were here for him.

Indeed, when the woman in front noticed Henry, she picked up her skirts and hurried the rest of the way down to meet him. “Are you the detective from the papers? Sheridan Bell?” she asked.

“I am. Can I help you with something?”

The woman stopped two steps above Henry. “Oh, you’re human? I thought the papers said you had magic. Oh, well. If you’re clever, it makes no difference to me. I’m just glad you’re here!” she said in a rush. Without offering anything more by way of introduction, she took Henry’s hand in both of her own, leaned forward until their faces were even, and said, with the utmost seriousness, “Mr. Bell, any minute now, I will be arrested for murder. I’d like you to do something about it.”

Henry was rarely caught by surprise, but for a moment, all he could do was stare wide-eyed at the strange woman, stunned. She had the pointed ears of the sídhe, and while that accounted for her eccentricity, he’d never before heard of sídhe possessing divinatory abilities. And yet, she seemed so certain of her imminent arrest.

He felt he had to ask: “Did you murder someone?”

“Of course not!”

Henry breathed a sigh of relief. Before he could ask any follow-up questions, the woman’s companion beat him to it, a youthful voice calling out, “What are you talking about? How do you know this? Who did you kill?”

Finally dropping Henry’s hand, the woman stepped aside to reveal the speaker, a sídhe girl of no more than fifteen. The girl crossed her arms, a scowl twisting her sweet features, and Henry recognized the crest on her jacket as belonging to a nearby private school. These two were local, it seemed.

“Don’t worry about it, Alice! I’m sure Detective Bell will get everything sorted,” the woman said. She looked to Henry for confirmation.

“I’ll certainly do what I can.”

“There, see?” the woman asked Alice.

“Who did you kill?” Alice repeated.

“I just said I didn’t!”

“Well, who’s dead?

Henry cringed at their increasing volume, remembering Joseph and Ines on the other side of the door, still trying to enjoy their breakfasts. “Perhaps my flat would be a better place for this conversation? It sounds like there may be some urgency, and I’ll need to hear more about the situation before I’m able to assist.”

“Of course! Lead the way, Detective,” the woman said, moving to let him pass on the narrow stairs. Alice reluctantly did the same, and together, they followed Henry up to the second floor landing.

“Would either of you like tea?” he asked as he ushered them both inside, setting the gofio from Ines on a side table near the door.

Saoirse turned wide brown eyes on him. “No, thank you, I much prefer coffee. Not that I need any of that in me today, with my nerves as they are,” the woman said. She unbuttoned her jacket as she stepped inside, the dress underneath fashionable and neatly fitted, her dark skirts crisply starched. Her blond hair, which fell to just below her chin, glowed a soft golden red in the light that streamed into Henry’s flat.

It struck Henry how collected she was for a woman who was supposedly about to be arrested for murder.

She looked around the room with unmasked interest. While a near replica of Ines and Joseph’s below them, Henry’s flat was more cluttered and less cohesive in its decor. It was brighter here, the cold morning light falling on mismatched furniture and stacks of books, notes, and mysterious scientific apparatus that were scattered about. Henry set the breakfast drink from Ines on a side table and shut the door behind them.

“Charming,” his prospective client said, wandering deeper inside and peering into the adjoining kitchen.

“Quit snooping,” Alice snapped.

“I’m not, I’m not!”

Henry cleared his throat, already feeling exhausted by this entire interaction, and glanced longingly at his research project sitting on his desk. He supposed it would have to wait for a while longer. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with the obvious question: you know my name, but I have yet to learn yours.”

With an exaggerated flourish, the woman bowed. “Saoirse Evans, at your service. Peddler of potions, charms, and whatever magic you need to live the life of your dreams.”

Alice sighed and flipped her long hair—pale yellow, with none of Saoirse’s red—over her shoulder. “And I’m Alice Evans.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Please, have a seat.”

Saoirse did, making herself at home on Henry’s sofa and patting the cushion beside her for Alice. Henry sat opposite them, in his favorite armchair, and said, “There’s a rather crucial point on which I could use clarification, Ms. Evans. Who exactly is the victim of this murder?”

“An excellent question, Mr. Bell. His name is Arthur Hathaway,” Saoirse answered easily, draping her arm over the back of Henry’s sofa, “And early this morning, he was mauled by some kind of beast.”

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