The Vanishing Beast: Chapter Two

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.

“The victim’s name is Arthur Hathaway,” Saoirse answered, “And early this morning, he was mauled by some kind of beast.”

“A beast,” Henry repeated, trying to keep the skepticism out of his tone. “Can you elaborate? What does that mean, exactly?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Do you read The Gazette?” Saoirse asked.

Henry patted his coat pockets only to remember he’d left his copy of the paper down with Joseph. He’d barely gotten to skim it. “Usually, but I haven’t had a chance today.”

“That’s no problem,” Saoirse said, pulling a rolled-up newspaper out of her jacket and passing it to Henry. “Page two.”

Henry read the headline aloud: “A Mauling at Camberley Hall: Mathematician Found Dead in Home. Magical Culprits Suspected.” Henry skimmed the rest. The article was, he noted with distaste, about as sensationalized as the one about himself, but he managed to glean some key facts from it. Arthur Hathaway was a mathematician with some little renown in the field, found dead in his daughter’s nursery after the sound of gunshots roused his wife and the family nurse. The daughter was unharmed, but witnesses claimed Hathaway’s body had been viciously mauled. The police had yet to officially release any details, but Hathaway’s death was currently thought to be the work of sídhe magic.

Henry clicked his tongue and looked up at the sídhe woman sitting across from him. “Start from the beginning. What is your connection to Arthur Hathaway?”

“The silly thing is, I have no connection to him whatsoever.”

Henry frowned at her. “Then why are you so sure you’ll be blamed for his murder?”

“It’s a rotten, unlucky story, Mr. Bell,” Saoirse said. “Wrong time, wrong place and all that. I run a business in Lower Brimnes, you see, a modest little magic shop. Alice helps me with it when she’s not busy with schoolwork.”

“That’s this Brimnes, correct?” Henry asked.

“Yes, that’s right. We never go to the other Tamarley.”

Henry nodded. “Go on.”

“My shop sells charms, spells, and tokens—small blessings for good luck, fertility, and the like. All the things human tourists love to buy in the other city, conveniently located in their own neighborhood. My real source of income, though, comes from our services: cleansings, protections, exorcisms. These are usually house calls, but we’ll go anywhere. We were supposed to exorcise a pub this afternoon, though now I doubt we’ll make the appointment. It’s probably worth noting, Mr. Bell, that customer satisfaction is very important to me. I try to put my clients at ease through the process, and when we’re done, I leave one of my charms as a complementary gift.

“We hadn’t sold any services in a while, so last Sunday, Alice and I went out in the hopes of bringing in new clients. She passed out flyers; I put advertisements in the local papers and encouraged my regulars to spread word about the business. It took days to see any results, but on Friday, someone new came into the shop. She was a real lady, if you catch my meaning, all delicate and dressed far better than our usual clientèle. She marched right past my charms and came up to the counter to ask about protection services. She bought one of the big protection packages, too, one of the ones Alice said no one would buy because they’re too expensive.”

At this, Alice, rolled her eyes, but Saoirse continued, “With any of our services, I do a consultation beforehand. It helps us know what to expect and tailor the package to the client. During my consultation with the lady, she said her name was Helena Hathaway and that the services would be for her estate up in Chatnam, north of the river. I forgot the exact square footage, but it was a big house. In addition to the usual, there were guest rooms, servants’ quarters, several libraries and a nursery suite. You may have guessed it, but Helena was our Mr. Arthur Hathaway’s young wife.”

Here, Saoirse paused to pull a small metal case out of her pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked. Seeing Henry wrinkle his nose, she quickly tacked on, “It may very well be my last chance before the police come for me, you know, and wouldn’t that be a shame if you denied me.”

Henry sighed and rose to his feet. “As you will, then, Ms. Evans, but give me one moment.”

He didn’t have an ashtray, so instead, he found a small bowl for Saoirse to use. As he slid it across the coffee table toward her, his elbow bumped the candlestick sitting atop it and tipped it over. Saoirse carefully righted it for him.

“Thank you, Detective,” she said, not noticing Henry’s smile. She took her time picking a cigarette, lighting it, and taking a long draft before continuing, “Anyway, Mrs. Hathaway seemed wary of us, which I’m used to dealing with. Most of my clients haven’t even been to the other Tamarley, let alone seen magic in action. They don’t believe in it, but they’re out of alternatives and need a miracle. When I asked Helena about her reservations, she said the magic wasn’t the issue. Her husband wouldn’t like that she was there, even though it was all for him.”

Henry raised an eyebrow at this, and Saoirse pointed her cigarette at him. “That’s how I reacted, too! When I asked what she meant, she only said that her husband had been paranoid lately and she didn’t know why. Seeing him like that had affected her, and she knew she’d feel better with the extra protection. I needed the money, so I didn’t press, but now I rather wish I had. Whatever Mr. Hathaway was afraid of seems to have caught up with him, despite our best efforts.”

“That’s not our fault,” Alice said, crossing her arms. “Our wards were just fine.”

Saoirse shrugged. “In any case, after the consultation, we closed shop and headed straight to Camberley Hall. Everything went smoothly from there, or so I thought. We performed the cleansing and put up the usual protective spells, though it took a while due to the size of the place. I didn’t notice anything unusual, aside from Helena hurrying us out before her husband got home.”

“This was Friday afternoon?” Henry asked.

“That’s right. Helena didn’t know when Arthur would be home but didn’t want to take any risks.”

Henry considered this. “So you performed magic in Hathaway’s home and less than twelve hours later, he died there under unusual circumstances. That does seem a rather damning connection, but if the man’s paranoia is common knowledge, that’s a point in your favor. Is there something else connecting you to the crime?”

“That’s where the unlucky piece comes in. You remember what I said about customer satisfaction, don’t you? About how I leave complementary charms? Well, I left one in the last room we warded, like I usually do.” Saoirse met Henry’s gaze. “It happened to be the nursery.”

“Ah,” Henry said.

“Yes,” Saoirse agreed. “So you see my problem. The police already suspect sídhe involvement, and I imagine it won’t take them long to find my charm at the scene of the crime.”

“What was the charm meant to accomplish?” Henry asked.

“It was one of my own invention. The purpose was threefold: attract luck, prosperity, and good health. I don’t quite remember, but I think I might have used a symbol that could, by some interpretations, be read as one for summoning…?” Saoirse said with a sheepish shrug. “I left it under the baby’s pillow.”

Alice elbowed her. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know that babies choke on small objects? What would you have done if she’d died, too? Then it really would’ve been your fault!”

Saoirse’s expression turned troubled. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t considered that, actually.”

Alice groaned, then turned sharply toward Henry. “They won’t really try to blame Saoirse, will they? It’s just a silly little charm.”

“In my experience, the police go for the most obvious solution, even if it’s not the correct one. They’re also unfortunately ignorant to the limits of sídhe magic. They may claim Saoirse’s charm summoned something to kill Hathaway, even if such magic is neither possible nor within Saoirse’s abilities,” Henry explained. “Ms. Evans, is there anything else I should be aware of before taking on this case?”

“Not that I can think of,” Saoirse said, tapping a finger to her lips.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing else relevant that you’d like to tell me? Nothing that might help me prove your innocence?”

“Why, no. Is there something else you feel I should tell you, Mr. Bell?”

“Nothing at all, you say.” Henry sighed. “Then, can you describe in exact detail what kind of wardings you placed on Camberley Hall, what steps you took to cast those wardings, and what school of magic you trained under? For that matter, where did you receive your magical education?”

“Oh, um.” Saoirse glanced briefly at Alice, eyes wide. “I hardly think all that’s relevant. Is it, Mr. Bell? As I said, they’re very basic wardings.”

“Ms. Evans,” Henry pressed.

Saoirse laughed nervously. “Mr. Bell.”

“Ms. Evans, may I ask you a question? I hope you will not take offense.”

Saoirse laughed again, louder, and covered her sister’s ears. “Oh! Well, I’m very flattered, Mr. Bell, but Alice is right here. You are cute, though. I promise, if you get me out of this, I’ll show you just how grateful I am—”

“Ms. Evans, please!” Henry pressed a hand to his chest, scandalized. “Enough games. I know that you’re human, so why are you pretending to be sídhe?”

Saoirse’s smile fell, as did her arms, leaving Alice to glare and try to smooth out her hair. She sighed. “Oh, alright. You’re even better than I thought! What gave me away?”

“Your ears are prosthetic,” Henry pointed out. “A convincing set, matched well to your skin tone, but when compared to Ms. Alice’s very real pair beside you, the differences are obvious. Your accent is local and you use incorrect terms for sídhe wardings, leading me to believe you never had any sort of magical education. Paired with the way you talk about your services, the situation becomes obvious.”

“How do I talk about my services?” Saoirse asked, eyeing Henry doubtfully.

“While talking about your shop, your charms, or your clients, you use ‘my.’ My shop, my charms, my clients. When you speak about your services, it becomes ‘our.’ Our services. I assume you’re referring to yourself and Ms. Alice, but why do only the services belong to both of you when nothing else does? The only difference I can think of is this: charms, spells, and tokens are easy to fake. No one truly expects them to be demonstrably effective, making it an easy con. Wardings are observable, measurable. If you were selling fake exorcisms, some sídhe would have outed you as a fraud long ago. That leads me to believe that your services are real. However, as a human, you have no magic.

“I knew Ms. Alice was from the other city the moment I heard her speak. Accents are generally malleable before the age of twelve and firm afterward. As Ms. Alice’s accent is thoroughly sídhe, given her age, she must have come to this Tamarley recently—within the last few years, if I’m not mistaken. That would have given her plenty of time to receive a magical education in the other city.”

“Not bad,” Saoirse said, once he’d finished. “You know a lot about the other Tamarley, then?”

Henry shrugged. “Only as needed for my work. I’ve done some studies of the regional dialects on both cities, of course.”

“Of course,” Saoirse echoed.

“There’s one other thing that gave you away,” Henry said.

“Enlighten me, Mr. Bell.”

Henry allowed himself a small smile. He pointed at the candlestick Saoirse had righted for him earlier. “That candlestick you so easily helped me with? It’s made of iron.”

Saoirse groaned and Alice laughed, though the latter quickly clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Henry smiled again, triumphant, and asked, “So is Alice the true magic behind your shop, then?”

Saoirse waved a hand. “Who can say who’s the main contributor of a joint venture? I would say we both provide significant contributions—”

“Yes,” Alice interrupted. “I do the magic. Only for the services, though, not the charms. When we do house calls, Saoirse distracts the client while I work.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Henry said with a pointed look at Saoirse. “Then, Ms. Evans, if all this is true, the charm you left at Camberley Hall has no more magic than any useless gift shop trinket?”

“You needn’t phrase it like that!” Saoirse protested.

Henry ignored her and continued, “Why not simply tell the police the truth, if and when they come for you? You may face fines for the scam, lose business if it comes out in the papers, but that would be the worst of it. It would certainly exonerate you from the murder.”

“Telling the police is out of the question,” Saoirse said, her tone going unexpectedly cold. But then, like an actor pulling on a mask, she smiled and continued loftily, “Do you know how much my services mean to the masses? If people find out I’m human, they’ll lose faith in me. Even worse, they’ll lose faith in themselves and in the good magic can do! Sure, I may not have magic. Sure, the charms I sell are fake, as you said, but nobody buys charms like that expecting them to be real, anyway. They’re merely a representation of dreams vulnerable people want to see manifested. My charms give them hope, Mr. Bell. Do you understand? When the people have hope, the city thrives! Do you want the city to stop thriving, Mr. Bell?”

Henry sat back at the speech, bemused, and studied Saoirse Evans. Alice was rolling her eyes, but Henry didn’t buy any of it. He didn’t believe Saoirse’s boisterous front was anything more than just that: a front, one that hid a shrewd mind, a keen business sense, and, he suspected, a bigger heart than she would have him believe. She had another reason for keeping this secret, one that had nothing at all to do with her business.

“You’re worried for Alice,” he guessed.

Saoirse stilled, a look of genuine surprise flitting across her face, then sighed. When she spoke again, she did so frankly, possibly for the first time that morning: “Aside from me, you’re now the only one in this world who knows Alice has magic. She’s quite the powerful little changeling, and if the police find out about her, at best they’ll want to monitor her. At worst, they’ll take her away. I would rather spend a lifetime in prison than let Alice see a lick of trouble.”

“And what am I supposed to do if you go to prison?” Alice asked, crossing her arms.

“Obviously, Alice, it would be best if neither of us went to prison, but Mr. Bell here is our only chance at achieving that particular outcome.”

When both Alice and Saoirse turned to look at Henry, Henry sighed. “I promise I’ll keep your secrets if I can help it. That does make my job harder, though: the only way to prove your innocence will be to find the real murderer.”

“But you’ll take the case?” Saoirse asked, smiling again. She had a kind smile, soft and warm. It made Henry want to do whatever it took to help her; with a smile like that, he wasn’t surprised she’d made a successful living as a grifter.

“I will,” he said.

“I’m glad you sound confident,” Saoirse began. “I leave Alice in your hands, then—and myself as well. I’m sure the police will be here for me soon, after all.”

“Be here?” Henry asked, eyes widening.

“Of course! I have nothing to hide, so I left a note on the shop door telling them that I’d come to see you.”

“I see,” Henry said. He would’ve liked more time to question Saoirse about particulars, but at that moment, he heard the downstairs door slam and several sets of heavy footsteps start up the stairs. “I suppose that’s them now.”

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