The Beast of Talesend (Beaumont and Beasley Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  The Beast of Talesend

  Kyle Robert Shultz

  Copyright © 2017 Kyle Robert Shultz

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781520383828

  In loving memory of Don West (1944-2014)

  “Heaven is reality itself. All that is fully real is Heavenly. For all that can be shaken will be shaken and only the unshakeable remains.”

  “We know nothing of religion here: we only think of Christ.”

  ~ C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Fraudulent Frog (I Mean, Toad)

  Not every story ends in “happily ever after.” In fact, most stories never end at all.

  Every tale has consequences, you see - fairy tales in particular. You can’t expect everything to end happily when an entire country has just woken up from a hundred-year sleep. Or when a queen tries to murder the crown princess on the recommendation of her mirror. Or when giants fall from fifty-foot beanstalks.

  The truth is, quite a lot happened in all the kingdoms of legend after “The End” - and it wasn’t all happy. There were wars and alliances, extinctions and discoveries. The world of stories changed a great deal in the one thousand and nine hundred years following the end of the last fairy tale. So much so, in fact, that by the 20th century E.A. (Ever After), most people had decided that magic never actually existed. It must simply have been made up by the ancients to explain perfectly ordinary things they were too primitive to understand. And, after all, nothing worthy of a fairy tale had actually been seen for as long as anybody could remember.

  So, the people of the Afterlands closed their dusty old books, left their great palaces to crumble into ruin, and set off into the future to do more worthwhile things like inventing automobiles and airships. They were quite confident in their belief that nothing truly magical had ever happened, or ever would happen.

  I used to believe this. In fact, my job depended on it. I used to be the foremost private investigator in the Afterlands, famous for debunking magic and monsters.

  Until I got magically transformed into a monster, that is…

  The United Kingdom of Camelot

  The City of Talesend

  1922 E.A.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hogarth, but I’m afraid this toad is not your fiance.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d had to tell a client something like this. Reactions to such news tended to vary. As I had anticipated, Miss Lavinia Hogarth did not take it well. I braced myself for her wrath, watching as her face flushed with righteous indignation.

  “Of course he is!” she sputtered. “Don’t you know a person under a spell when you see one? What kind of magical detective are you, Mr. Beasley?”

  “Ribbit,” added the toad, disarranging my neatly-ordered stacks of case files as he hopped across my desk.

  I sighed and turned to look out the window, resisting the urge to throw myself through it. It was a typically grey and foggy Talesend evening outside. The globes of street-lamps and the headlights of automobiles shone through the gathering gloom.

  Leaning my elbows on the desk, I rubbed my temples in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing in my head. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Miss Hogarth,” I said, speaking slowly and meticulously. “I am not a ‘magical detective.’” Quite the opposite, in fact. I am merely a perfectly ordinary private investigator who happens to specialize in cases people think are magical. My job is to look into strange happenings and prove that they’re not actually so strange after all.” I motioned to the amphibian. “Like this toad, for example.”

  Miss Hogarth glared at me. The fiery hues of the young woman’s frizzy red hair seemed to deepen as she gave her head a scornful toss. “And precisely what ‘proof’ do you have that this toad is not my Reginald?” she demanded in an icy tone.

  I picked up a sheet of paper from the desk. “You say he left you this note?”

  “Yes!” She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed sorrowfully at her eyes. “I found him sitting on it, poor dear. I already told you all of this.”

  “Well,” I said, “let’s examine that note again, shall we?” I slipped my spectacles on and gazed intently at the document. “My darling Lavinia, I’m frightfully sorry, but I’ve had a spot of bad luck, and I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel the wedding. You see, I accidentally dented the fender of an old woman’s car outside my hotel yesterday, and she happened to be a witch. Before I could apologize, she waved her wand and muttered some magic words, and - well, you can see what happened. Oh, and don’t bother trying to kiss me, because the witch said that wouldn’t work. You mustn’t worry about me, my love. All I want is for you to be happy. Move on with your life, find someone else, and try to remember me as I was. Goodbye forever, Reginald.”

  There was a loud, mournful honk, like a goose deprived of its mate, as Miss Hogarth blew her nose.

  I cleared my throat, trying to think of a tactful way to phrase my arguments. “The thing is,” I said, “there are a few…inconsistencies in this letter.”

  She blinked rapidly, astonished at the suggestion. “Such as?”

  “First of all, if your fiance got turned into a toad right in the middle of the street, doesn’t it strike you as odd that there was no mention of it in the newspapers? Something like that tends to invite comment.”

  She opened her mouth to object, then hesitated. “Well…” she began, less confidently.

  I pushed on before she could start another tirade. “Also, consider this. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that all that rubbish about magic and curses is real. If so, then Reginald’s description of how this particular spell came about doesn’t match with how magic is described in ancient texts.” I paused to indicate the bookshelves on the wall to my left, lined with heavy volumes on myth and folklore. “I should know. I’ve studied it all. According to the ancients, permanently changing one creature into another requires complicated, lengthy spells. It’s not done by just waving a wand and saying ‘Alakazam.’”

  “So?” she retorted. “You don’t believe magic is real, anyway. What do the details matter?”

  “They don’t matter at all,” I conceded. “But there’s a far more significant point that argues against Reginald’s story.”

  “Which is?”

  “Toads can’t write letters.”

  She seemed taken aback. “Well,” she said, flustered, “he - perhaps he could have—”

  “No,” I interrupted, “he couldn’t have.” I picked up the toad and held it out for inspection. “Note, if you will, the highly inadequate front feet.” I wiggled them to illustrate. “Not much good for holding pens, are they?”

  The toad croaked, sounding offended. I gently put him down again and gave him an apologetic pat on the head.

  I saw realization begin to dawn on Miss Hogarth’s face. Her eyes narrowed. “So…what does this mean, exactly?”

  Here, I would have to be very tactful. “Based on your description of Reginald - timid, nervous, and so forth - as
well as the fact that you’re…well…not timid, I’d say it’s entirely possible that he was too afraid to tell you he didn’t want to marry you. He knew you were a firm believer in magic, so—”

  “I see,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as Reginald will be when I find him.”

  “Ah.”

  She clutched her handbag in a white-knuckled grip. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping me find him? And murder him?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t really do that sort of work.”

  “Then it seems our business is at an end. Good day, Mr. Beasley.” She stood up and marched to the door.

  I got to my feet and cleared my throat loudly. “If we could just discuss your bill, Miss Hogarth…”

  She whirled to face me again, her eyes flashing. “Bill? Bill for what? I don’t see what you accomplished. No magic was involved, so your services as a magical detective were not needed.” Without another word, she stormed out into the reception area, allowing the door to bang shut behind her.

  “I’m not a magical detective!” I shouted, sprinting around the desk to follow her. “Just because the toad’s not really your boyfriend doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay me!” I paused at the door and glanced over my shoulder at the toad, who was still hopping pensively across my desk. “And while we’re on the subject,” I added, “what exactly am I supposed to do with this toad?”

  By the time I got to the reception area outside my office, Miss Hogarth was gone. I muttered something uncomplimentary under my breath and rammed my fingers through my hair in frustration.

  “I take it that went badly.” The comment came from behind the reception desk.

  I turned and gave Crispin a withering glare. “Well spotted, what was your first clue?”

  “Just a hunch. You know, I did say that you needed to start asking for deposits before agreeing to take on cases.”

  As usual, Crispin leaned back lazily in his chair; hands behind his head, feet propped up on the reception desk, an amused grin on his face. His unkempt light-brown hair was the same color as mine, but unlike me, he had stubble to match. His clothes looked as if he had slept in them, primarily because that was exactly what he had done. Every page of the stationery scattered across his workspace was covered with doodles; most of them rather skillfully drawn. Not that he’d ever have taken the initiative to turn that talent into a career, of course.

  I crossed my arms and gave him a disapproving look. “Remember the stern discussion you and I had yesterday?”

  He gave me a puzzled frown. “Which one? We have so many.”

  I pointed to his patent-leather shoes. “Feet. Desk. Off. Forever.”

  He rolled his eyes and swung his legs to the floor. “Killjoy,” he muttered.

  “Careful,” I warned. “Just because you’re my little brother doesn’t mean I can’t fire you like your last eleven employers did.”

  “I’m hardly ‘little’,” Crispin argued, frowning in annoyance. “I’m twenty-three next March.”

  “I was twenty-five last February. And I’m taller than you. So there.”

  He stuck his tongue out at me. I returned the gesture.

  “Now,” I said, “getting back to business, let’s make a new rule. No toads. For that matter, no animals of any kind.” I motioned to the outer door. “The next time you see somebody come through there with any member of the animal kingdom whatsoever, you will send them elsewhere. I don’t care who they claim the animal in question used to be.”

  “Agreed,” said Crispin.

  “And send Miss Hogarth a bill.”

  “She won’t pay it.”

  “Then tell her I’ll sue her.”

  Crispin raised an eyebrow. “I may not be a particularly good assistant, but I think I know enough about your finances to tell you that you can’t afford a lawsuit right now.”

  “I know,” I said resentfully. “I can’t believe how slow business is these days.” I slumped into a nearby chair, one of several that should have been filled with waiting customers.

  Crispin shrugged, penciling in a few additional details on a sketch of a cow with wings. “It’ll pick up again soon,” he said. “You’re the renowned Nick Beasley, remember? Pretty soon you’ll get another one of those wealthy customers who gives you a case that winds up in all the newspapers.”

  I looked around at the framed newspaper clippings hanging on the walls. “NICK BEASLEY EXPOSES FRAUDULENT FAIRY GODMOTHER,” read one. The black-and-white photograph below the bold lettering showed a woman wearing a frilly gown and a battered set of wings crafted from wire and fabric. She was shouting angrily as two policemen led her to a nearby car, while I looked on in satisfaction. Another clipping was entitled, “FAMOUS DETECTIVE REVEALS MERMAID SKELETON HOAX.” In the photo, a short, balding man in spectacles shook his fist at me over a pile of bones.

  Happy times.

  As my thoughts returned to the present, my brief rush of triumph quickly gave way to frustration. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve been too successful. Convincing the public that magic isn’t real may end up costing me my job. What if the criminal classes of the Afterlands have given up ‘magical’ frauds?”

  “That would make you happy, though, wouldn’t it?” Crispin suggested. “Putting people like Dad out of business, I mean.”

  I looked sharply at him.

  “Sorry.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgot I wasn’t supposed to mention him. Oh, by the way, speaking of clients, I just remembered…”

  He began rummaging through the papers on his desk. “I know it’s here somewhere - ah. Here we are.” He picked up a torn-off scrap and held it out to me. “Phone message. Next to the dragon.”

  I took the piece of paper and peered at it. It was mostly taken up by a doodle of a snarling dragon dressed in a long coat and a newsboy cap. “Oi!” My gaze went to the cap and coat hanging on the stand in the corner of the room, then back to Crispin. “Is this supposed to be me?” I pointed an accusing finger at the dragon.

  “’Course not,” said Crispin. “Just look at the message, would you?”

  I shot him another suspicious glance, then read the scribbled words. “Lady Cordelia Beaumont, The Spinning Wheel Restaurant, nine o’clock P.M.”

  “That’s where and when she wants you to meet her,” he explained. “See? A new client, and a member of the nobility in the bargain. I told you business would pick up.”

  “That all depends on what she wants,” I said warily, tapping the note against my hand. “I wonder why she didn’t just come to the office and discuss it.”

  “She acted pretty mysterious about it,” said Crispin. “But I gathered that she actually wants you to do a job for her father.” He gave me a significant look, as if that meant something.

  I shrugged. “Am I supposed to know who her father is?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you know anything?”

  “I make it a point not to know every last detail about the peerage. I deal with frivolous wealthy people enough in my business; what with them falling for every confidence trick in the book. I have no interest in memorizing their family trees.”

  Crispin gave an impatient sigh. “Her father’s Lord Whitlock.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh,” I said. “Him. I can’t imagine why he would want to hire me.”

  “Neither do I, but what does it matter?”

  “Crispin, he practically runs the black market in ancient artifacts. He’s neck-deep in all that magic nonsense. It seems pretty odd that he’s contacting a detective who’s known for debunking magic.”

  “True,” Crispin acknowledged.

  “Plus, I’m not sure I want to work for somebody whose associates tend to vanish under mysterious circumstances.”

  “But he’s rich,” Crispin pointed out. “And as I said before, we need money. Or pretty soon we’ll be peddling your private investigation services on the street.”
r />   I crumpled up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my pocket. “Fine. I don’t like it, but I might as well find out what this Lady Beaumont has to say for herself.”

  “Lady Cordelia,” Crispin corrected.

  “What?”

  “The shortened version of her title is Lady Cordelia, not Lady Beaumont. You don’t use the last name. Now, if she inherits her father’s title, then she’ll be called Lady Whitlock, but—”

  “Crispin.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  I checked my pocket watch. “Eight-thirty. I’d better get going; it’s probably not a good idea to keep the daughter of Lord Whitlock waiting.” I got up and retrieved my cap and coat. “Before you head home, clean up this mess,” I told Crispin, indicating the disarray on his desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Beasley,” he said in a mocking tone.

  I paused in the doorway. “Oh, and feed Reginald.”

  “Who?”

  “The toad.”

  “Wait a minute, what?” I heard him exclaim as I shut the door behind me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Beware of Flying Bread

  “May I help you?” inquired a maître d’ in an immaculate black uniform as I entered the Spinning Wheel. From his expression as he appraised me, I gathered that he would be more than happy to help me right back out the door.

  “I’m here to see Lady Cordelia Beaumont and Lord Whitlock.” I met his cold stare with a cheerful smile. “I imagine they’re waiting for me. Traffic was bad, so I’m a bit late.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Your name, sir?” He hesitated as he spoke the word “sir”, as if reluctant to honor me with the title.

  “Nick Beasley, private detective. You may remember me from my last visit. One of your patrons was running a thriving market in fake love potions; I came and dragged him out by his ear before he had a chance to finish his lobster souffle.”

  The maître d’ blanched. “Ah,” he said, with a reluctant nod. “Yes. Lord Whitlock did warn - er - tell me.” He held out a hand. “May I take your hat and coat?” he inquired, giving the garments another disdainful look.