Chapter Text
One morning, over coffee and bacon in Piccadilly, Peter said to Harriet: “I am feeling very peculiar this morning. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary about me?” Harriet considered a moment, and then replied: “No more than usual. It cannot be that Bunter has used too much starch?”
“It is not starch that confounds me. The feeling is, perhaps – lower down – or possibly in my feet. My toes. It is not even a feeling. It is a compulsion. How extraordinary. Do you not feel it too?”
“A compulsion?” said Harriet. She set down her coffee cup so quickly that the liquid spilled a little. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I do. How peculiar!”
“It feels as if I am being told quite emphatically to go somewhere.”
“I feel the same! I wonder if it is the same place. I hope so, Peter.”
Peter frowned at her. “Tell me where you are compelled to go, but do not tell me all. Just the first letter.”
Harriet shook her head a little. Something in her brain, or a little outside it, was trying to communicate. It was an odd feeling, but not entirely unpleasant. “The first letter. D.”
“And then?”
“E.”
“And then, O mystery of mysteries?”
“N.”
“And then?”
“M. Perhaps you had better finish the rest, King Belshazzar?”
Now Peter shook his head. “A.R.K. In totum, D.E.N.M.A.R.K. Denmark. But not Denmark.”
“Thank goodness. Somewhere much nearer that does not require a journey over water. I have it.”
“So do I. Denmark Street.”
“Denmark Street. Why on earth should we go there?”
“Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why. Fetch your hat and furs, Harriet, let us hasten there with all speed. A mystery awaits!”
Peter and Harriet’s journey only took ten minutes but during that time the body of their black cab became smoother and curved, and the engine began to purr more like a contented tabby rather than the usual enraged tiger. As he handed her out of the vehicle, Harriet perceived at once that the other cars on the road were of a similar type, or even more smooth and flat, and that the people on the pavement were dressed in attire which made them look rather like workmen at a circus. The smell, too - London’s usual sooty fragrance was replaced with something more metallic or chemical, as if outside a factory.
“Peter, I am beginning to wish we had journeyed over water,” she said.
“Indeed. It is a great deal less nebulous than travelling over time. I wonder when exactly we are?”
“The future, I suppose.”
“Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.” He took her hand. “Providence has led us on many adventures.”
“Including our own meeting and falling in love,” Harriet said firmly, and squeezed his hand in return. “Perhaps it has sent us here. Not to help ourselves, but – ”
“ – someone else?”
As Peter said the words, he turned, and pointed with his cane at a small, rather worn-looking door next to a shop that appeared to sell toy guitars. Inside, Harriet perceived a metal flight of stairs, rather treacherous, that Peter nonetheless dashed up, two steps at a time. “Jackpot, Watson!” he called from above. “Strike and Ellacott Detective Agency. It’s on the door.”