Fatum (Working title)
A. Spencer Hartnett
Preface
The crowded London rooftops cowered into a diminutive mass under the oppressive fog. The encroaching haze seemed to mar the workings of this bustling machine, like throwing a wrench into an engine.
But, I reflected, it is those imperfections that heighten a mechanic's perceptions – indeed, gives them a cause to live and breath.
These were the nights for which I existed, the jerking halt that was swept in with a yellow cloud; offering me an anonymity that was seldom found. It was a night like this where my desire for seclusion found me falling face first into a destiny I'm not sure I was ready for…
Chapter One
Fatalis"G'day to ya, govener, Just deliver'n some papers, 'ere. Put 'em up in the chambers?"
A frazzled politician briefly spotted the man a glance, and then jerked his attention to the transcript in his hand. "Mmm, yes…up there." He vaguely pointed in the opposite direction.
Once the two had parted, the artificial grin melted off his face, and the daunting complexity of the present task registered. The deliveryman wheeled his cart into one of the farthest chambers, his own footsteps, and the squeak of an ancient wheel murmured in a strange duet, echoing the singularity of the man's presence. All was quiet now, but in a few minutes, the halls would be filled with argumentative men, released from the confines of their verbose cages so carefully gilded in the Commons and Lords Houses.
He worked with as much speed as the delicate task would allow, setting the tub of volatile liquid next to the radiator, unloading the explosives, gently tucking the blasting caps into a peaceful position next to their partners in crime. The man didn't know the first thing about explosives. No matter. His goal was complete. The rest was up to the next link. He sauntered out of the room, tipping his hat to the guard as he strolled past. Glancing back, he watched the guard strip off his gloves and make a beeline for the room now deserted. Leaving the man; his colleague, he supposed, to his job, all pretense was abandoned and he sprinted out of the building toward Downing Street.
Walking with the confidence of one who has deceived their superior, his foot hit the street, amplified by a piercing roar.
****
One Month Before….
With a sickening thud my body hit cobblestone. My face ground into the street, attracting grit to my moistened lips and newly acquired abrasions. Something told me that tomorrow I'd be remembering tonight's excursion with every cell in my body.
"Oy, o'er 'ere. Looky what's I's caught today, boys," chortled a disembodied voice. A bit closer now, he growled, " What's a fine young gen'lman loike y'self doin' out 'ere? Could yeh spot me a quid, young master?"
Presently, I was rendered immobile by the invisible man's foot placed squarely on the back of my neck. "Gegrouomph," I replied eloquently.
"What's that? Oh, 'tis a bit uncomfortable for yeh, eh? Well, by all means, let me help you up."
My vision panned from gray stone, to yellow smog, to a large fist. Knocked backwards from the blow, I stumbled over the curb, and careened into a brick wall. The impact rattled loose an idea. I advanced, gaining ground while on the balls of my feet, fists held at the ready.
I thought I was doing well – of course, I wasn't landing any blows, but then again, neither was my opponent.
Laughter erupted from behind me, and I realized my mistake. In the dim light filtering from the lamppost, I had, in fact, mistaken a post box for my attacker. While relieved as I was that I had not succeeded in my attack, thus saving my hands, a sudden, sharp pain on my back cut short my congratulatory reverie.
"My dear gentlemen, is that pitiful specimen really worth all your trouble?" A new, sardonic voice cut through the opaque air, carrying through with an otherworldly tone.
The cackling of my assailants was silenced, remaining as an echo in the otherwise deserted London street.
I was grabbed by the scruff of my coat and flung forward. Recovering my balance, I whirled around, flashed a toothy grin toward the now visible foe, and bowed. "Thankee kind sirs for 'e lovelee conversation. Much obliged."
They were already gone.
With that, I turned to stroll down the street, only succeeding in bashing directly with my future.
****
"What might a young aristocrat such as yourself be doing out at this hour…this end of Town…" speculated the figure.
I surveyed the man, though the only indication of my doing so was a minute nod of my head. A cigarette dangled nonchalantly from his thin lips, illuminating facial features. Light eyes glared inquisitively from under a contemptuously furrowed brow. His sharp nose formed a precipitous cliff, protruding well off his face. Days of stubble peppered his jaw, running over the sharp undulations of his cheekbones, and disappearing under a high collared navy wool pullover. His long arms were holstered in the deep pockets of a black waterproof.
This tall, lean man looked every inch the sailor, but his accent suggested otherwise. In my experience, there are few sailors with the impeccable accent of an educated British upperclassman. As his statement suggested, this, I should know.
"Should you not," he interjected, " be at home, mulling over dinner conversation and wine – if you're even allowed some." He looked me over in the lamplight, pausing briefly. " London at night is no place for a juvenile."
It had occurred to me that everything this man had said was iterated as a statement of fact, not a question. I looked down, observing my muddied trousers, torn, threadbare jacket, and the sorry state of my shoes. "How did you know I was an upperclassman," I said conversationally. Culminating my observations, I went out on a limb, adding for good measure: "Mr. Holmes."
The sound of his name brought his head reeling up from its contemplative posture, his eyes meeting mine with interest. "Hmm. Intriguing. Well, young sir, I believe I can follow your train of logic that brought you to that conclusion. But, you were inquiring into mine. It was the state of your hands really, the calluses in a centralized area, namely on the fingertips, rather than the upper palm, like most laborers; also the lack of grime, especially under the fingernails. One can learn much about a person from their hands."
We were walking now, past the empty, lifeless windows, mirroring our reflections as we hustled past.
Well, hustling on my part anyway. I was now beginning to feel the extent of the injuries I had sustained, and from an inexperienced opinion, I was in need of some rest and pain killer. I was very proud that I could keep this man with in my earshot, let alone match his lengthy stride.
"It would appear you have an advantage over me. You have the benefit of my name, while I know not what to call you." He kept his eyes pointedly ahead.
In a tired voice, I said, "Gregory Talbot."
"Enchanté."
I looked toward his face, the nights shadow's not entirely covering his attempts at stifling his laughter. "What?" I demanded angrily. Sherlock Holmes or not, I was in no mood to be laughed at. As far as I was concerned, he was a perfect stranger.
Eyes glinting, he responded, " I cannot answer your question without you putting that pronoun in context."
"WHAT is so humorous about my name?"
"Ah, you do not know? The name 'Gregory' is derived from the Greek root gregoros." His eyebrows rose, and he continued. "To be observant. Watchful. Alert."
His remark stung, but not as much as my physical wounds. I was beginning to tire. If ever was there a time for Sherlock Holmes to employ his legendary talents of observation, this was it.
But, he had been miles ahead of me on this matter, and I found myself in front of the one building in the city with an illuminated interior. Vaguely, I remember the number 221, and Holmes muttering something about the convenience of knowing an amiable doctor. I sank into the clear interior with unquestioning fatigue.