By the age of 32, Archibald Tinkerton had amassed considerable material wealth, had become noteworthy within his profession, and had endured a series of meaningful but ultimately unsuccessful romances. This morning however, he felt as though he were waking from a cold, years long depression. He had felt that way for as long as he could remember.
The Duranfeld Express pulled into Kentshire Station at 8AM the morning of Wednesday, October 5th. Archibald Tinkerton carried with him everything he valued. He stepped onto the platform, undistracted by the bustle around him. He had not slept. After departing his home the night prior, the other passengers had dozed all around him as he gazed upon the rolling moon-swept landscape from his cramped, coach class seat. He had much to contemplate, and much to reflect on.
Archibald had come to Kentshire in search of work. His occupation previously had at times been of a perilous nature, and he thought a change of locale and change of craft would suit him well. He had no particular intention as to what that new craft would be, but his years back home had furnished him well with a diverse suite of skills, talents and trades. He had worked under a banker, learning financial regulations and best practices, studied under a meteorologist, learning weather phenomenon and on occasion observing the cosmos, discipled under a watch-smith, learning mechanics and metallurgy, and even assisted a mortician, learning of anatomy and medicine. Archibald never felt adequate at those tasks however, despite his advised competence. His passion was for something else, and these occupations, engaging and respectable though they were, were mere distractions to him.
Monetary compensation was a last consideration for Archibald, so long as it was in line with what was customary for his new occupation, as to not draw suspicion. His personal wealth would serve him best in secret. He and his brothers, Winston and Cornelius, had inherited a substantial fortune following the passing of their father, Montgomery Tinkerton, who had prospered greatly as a shipwright and trader, and secured the affluence of his progeny for generations yet by Archibald's reckoning, should future generations occur.
Winston had died a few weeks following their father of a sudden fever that burned through him like wildfire. Cornelius too burned, though in an actual fire at their accounting offices, the cause of which had not been determined. A good deal of financial statements for Tinkerton Shipping and Supply Company were lost in that fire, and Cornelius's body was never recovered from the smoldering wreckage.
Both men perished without window or issue, and Archibald himself had as well not yet come into marriage or progenitorship to his knowing. It wasn't long after the fire that Archibald felt it wise to leave town and establish a life elsewhere, his father's legacy as well as his own depended on it now.
Feeling suddenly famished, Archibald decide to patronize a sandwich and pastry shop outside the station. He ordered a turkey on rye and a Cornish pastry. The sandwich he ate readily, but he saved the pastry for later. As he ate, Archibald took note of the faces and attire of the other patrons, and, out the window, that of those passing by. He saw no one familiar or of any other type of interest, and likewise, and perhaps for the best, no one seemed to take note of him either. Kentshire, he thought, would be a perfect place for new beginnings. He knew no one, but more importantly, no one knew him.
Leaving the eatery, Archibald noticed a community posting board near the exit. An apt place for employment opportunities, he thought. Then he saw it. The words that would alter his life irreparably: "Help Wanted, Assistant to Private Investigator, No Experience Required." Perfect, he thought.
