Sheridan Bell & the Vanishing Beast: Chapter One

“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 rarely exists and, with a single careless expression, diminishes all of the hard work put into something. While there certainly are people in this world 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, watching Henry through the dissipating steam. “What brings this on?”

With a small pout, Henry slid his newspaper across the table toward Joseph, a slender finger 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. For a moment, he and his wife Ines, looking over his shoulder, skimmed the paper and 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 building the couple shared with Henry. Soft morning light filtered in through the open windows and morning air wafted in, crisp and cool. Out beyond the window, beyond the narrow garden, the city bustled, pedestrians and rattling carriages passing by without a care for the tiny building or the conversations that happened within it.

“This is wonderful!” It was Ines who finally broke the quiet, then reading aloud: “On Friday night, a local 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, showed unprecedented genius in his use of magic to—”

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

Henry chewed his toast angrily in answer, his delicate features pulled into a pout. “I wonder,” he began after a moment, “What was the point of interviewing me if they were only going to sensationalize the story regardless? The praise they’re heaping on me 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 over the top of it at his guest. “Well, 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, embarrassed. “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. He absently rubbed his cheek, then stood and stretched like a leisurely cat, his long, 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 something and I won’t be able to find it for you again,” Henry said. He grabbed his coat. “If you continue to read that feature, whatever else it says about me, good or bad, I beg you not to tell me.”

“Oh? Are you 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 a stagnated 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 need the nutrients in the gofio, Hen; you work yourself too hard,” 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 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 warm goodbye from the Amaikes, Henry excused himself from the flat and turned to the narrow stairway leading up to his own. He stopped at the bottom, though, surprised to find two strangers coming down the stairs toward him. Above them sat only his own flat and an unrented set of rooms on the third story, so he had to assume they were there for him.

Indeed, when the woman in front noticed Henry, her face lit up. 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?”

“Yes, that’s me. Can I help you with something?”

The woman stopped two steps above Henry. “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!” 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 to pay you to do something about it.”

Henry rarely found himself caught by surprise, but all he could do for a moment was stare at the strange woman, processing. The woman had the pointed ears of the sídhe, and while that accounted for the eccentricity, he’d never before heard of any sídhe possessing divinatory abilities. It worried him, then, how she was 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 and considered what to ask next, where to even go from there, but the woman’s companion beat him to it. “What are you talking about? How do you know this? Who did you kill?” a clear, high voice demanded.

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, then.

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

“I’ll certainly do what I can.”

“There, see?” the woman asked Alice, her companion.

“Who did you kill?” Alice asked.

“I just said I didn’t!”

“Well, who’s dead?

Henry cringed at his guests’ 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, where he paused to unlock the door of his flat.

“Would either of you like tea?” he asked as he ushered them both inside.

“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 the interaction, and glanced longingly at the abandoned 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 another crucial point on which I could use clarification, Ms. Evans. Who’s the victim of this murder?”

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