𝑨 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒂𝒔𝒕

🗝️𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚅𝙸: 𝙰 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝙴𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚖𝚊🎴

NARRATOR'S POINT OF VIEW:

In a dark street in London, where almost no one passed during the day, two tall male figures, cloaked in coats as black as night, slipped into an alley. A sign on a wall read "𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝑾𝒂𝒚," a street notorious for crimes, robberies, and shady dealings among mobsters and criminals. In the shadows of the alley, a door stood with a lion-shaped knocker.

The taller of the two figures reached for the knocker and struck it firmly against the door. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing an elderly man with piercing eyes, who regarded them with a mixture of suspicion and familiarity.

"Who seeks entry here?" he asked, his voice gravelly from years of disuse and perhaps a touch of fear.

"We're 'ere to speak to a certain man. 'E sent this letter, and asked us to let 'em in," said one of the figures to the old man, as he showed him the letter with a fleur-de-lis seal on it.

The elderly man's eyes narrowed as he examined the seal. "Ah, so it's you lot, then. Follow me, but mind, no funny business," he muttered, stepping aside to allow the two figures to enter.

Inside, the dim light revealed a narrow, dusty corridor. The walls were lined with peeling wallpaper and old, faded portraits that seemed to watch them as they passed. The air was thick with the scent of damp and decay, making it clear that this was not a place for the faint of heart.

The elderly man led them through a series of twists and turns, deeper into the labyrinthine building. Finally, they arrived at a heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron bands.

"Wait 'ere," he instructed, before slipping inside.

The two figures stood in silence, the only sound the distant drip of water echoing through the halls. After a few tense moments, the door creaked open again, and the elderly man beckoned them inside.

They entered a dimly lit room, where a man sat behind a large oak desk, his face obscured by shadows. The room was sparsely furnished, save for the desk, a few chairs, and shelves lined with books and peculiar artifacts.

"Well, then," the man behind the desk began, his voice smooth and commanding, "what brings you to my humble abode this evening?"

The taller figure stepped forward, removing his hat to reveal a weathered face, marked by years of hard living. "We've come to discuss business. The kind that's best kept out of the public eye."

The man behind the desk leaned forward, his features becoming more visible in the dim light. A slow smile spread across his face. "Very well. Let's get down to it, shall we?"

"Well, Mr. de Belmont, we have news about Detective Poirot. 'E and a young woman went to the Clifford Stationery & Mail Supplies factory on Clifford Lane Street. Apparently, they've discovered where the envelopes we sent to Madame Bouc came from. But, fortunately, when Detective Poirot went to ask who ordered the envelopes, your name wasn't there, Mr. de Belmont," said one of the figures, his voice a curious blend of Scottish burr and Welsh lilt.

Mr. de Belmont leaned back in his chair, his steepled fingers tapping lightly together as he absorbed the information. His eyes, though shadowed, gleamed with a cold calculation.

De Belmont: "So, Poirot is sniffing around, is he?" said he, his voice as smooth as silk yet carrying an undertone of menace. "And this young woman... who might she be?"

The second figure: who had remained silent until now, spoke up. His voice was low and measured, with a distinct Cockney accent. "Goes by the name of Charlotte Beaufort, she does. Seems to be assistin' Poirot with 'is investigations. Sharp as a tack, that one."