With luck I have managed to come here under the benefaction of a man who big fan of my ‘work’ (a rather strange reason, I admit – I did not create the work he is referring to, and shouldn’t thank me for it – but I have no qualm and am most grateful for his contribution!). I have come to the land that is as beautiful as its people are distrustful and pretentious. No success to report on tracking down the whereabouts of Hercule Poirot – he would appear to be working on another case, rather than trying to escape me, which I find quite disturbing – not for him but for myself.

I never heard of Hercule Poirot; you seemed to know of him, and insisted on his good intentions and his detective background, but indeed I let my initial ill-favor of this man cloud my judgment, and I shoved off your requests that I make peace with him. I went after him distrusting that he was of good intent; when he escaped to Paris I believed that it had to do with some machinations against me. But to hear of him spending his time… on a case? If he was a detective, it would make perfect sense, but if he was a man of gambit and malice, it would seem a strangely wasteful and unrewarding activity simply to maintain an identity.

As a result I have decided to change my approach and tactic in approaching Hercule Poirot, although I am less concerned now whether or not he can trust me as opposed to me trusting him. I have not figured out how but I hope to find some way of contacting this man in good terms in the not too distant future.

Holmes

Aha! So just as I was outsmarted by this Hercule Poirot he was outsmarted by me! For if the Poirot was clever enough to foresee my venture to his apartment he could have followed me home, discovered where my hideout was, and used the information to advance against me! Upon uncovering this strong possibility I quickly moved to pack up all my materials and moved to a different apartment, leaving but one shred of evidence behind: a note that read, “You think me a fool to not recognize my own tactic? You will have to do better than that! Sherlock Holmes”

And sure enough, who should I find coming to my original place at a late, ungodly hour but that Belgian oaf! I would have approached him but I confess that without the proper protection I was unwilling to meet him face to face without the protection of witnesses, since I did not know how he would react. So instead I waited for him to search in vain and leave; then in disguise as a drunk party goer I followed him to his next location. I expected him to go to a new hideout, but alas I must have stunned him so; he instead followed the Thames to Wapping where a ship hoisting a French flag was docked. Understanding the predicament I tried quickly to change into the outfit of a harborman and perhaps sneak on to the ship, but it was in vain; by the time. By the time I was outfitted Poirot had been outfitted in one of the cargo crates!

Nevertheless I happened to catch an argument between Poirot and the captain of the ship, where he complained about the dirty state of his vessel, saying that he did not want want his clothes to be dirty, he was ‘going to Paris after all’! Aha, Mr. Poirot, I know where you are headed!

Luckily – though I am bound from giving details – arrangements have been made to allow me to go to France. Poirot seems to believe, or so I infer that I will be less potent in a foreign country, particularly where he speaks the language fluently. Do not be so hasty in assuming, Mr. Poirot! I have been employed by French aristocracy before and you will find me just as quick-witted and steadfast whatever side of the channel I am standing on!

Holmes

I am sending this post to address the queries that some of you have made which in the impending difficulties I had not discussed properly, so let me be clear.

First of all, some of you seem to believe that my client was called Arthur Moore, but he was not. He was a Dutchman, not an Englishman, and he spoke in a capable accent. I addressed him as Mr. Stein, although I recall his first name to be Elias. I met him only once, as he directed me to meet him in the Cheshire Pub. The lighting was poor and his features were obscured with his dark clothing, bowler hat, tinted spectacles and a great orange beard. He did not go into many details about himself, and I must confess at the time I didn’t care to discover them; I was desperate enough to trust this man and come upon a case of some intrigue. More than that upon meeting me he was clearly frightened despite a demeanor which struck me as usually calm and collected, so I trusted he was in some duress.

In retrospect perhaps I should have been more suspicious; I recognized that his suit was bought perhaps the day before and that his hands were gloved. But my capacity of suspicion has been terribly harmed in the week or so of forced habituation with your future society. The only further detail I noticed was his occasion to wipe his lips with a napkin from the Cafe Nero. Had I been wise I would have asked my roommate James whether he recognized the man; yet what more could I have done? Accuse the man before his face and cause him to run off? Again, I only succeeded in meeting him once; he told me that he was properly busy and was going to fly to America in the next couple days on more official business, that this case was only to avenge a friend and colleague.

Yet it is one thing to say that this man is suspicious and another to accuse him of being the infamous Professor Moriarty! I do not know by what method I have come into your world, but to believe that such a method would pick up Moriarty as well indiscriminately? And that he should have collected himself well enough to commit such a plot the likes of which you have described… I find it rather unbelievable myself! I have sat around wondering – wishing even – to find a face that I recognize, but believing so has led me only to be disappointed. My brother Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, my friend Dr. Watson – I found satisfaction only in admitting to myself that they are back where I came from and that I must commit my energy to returning where I belong!

And let me further the point; even IF I was eager after your queries to follow up on this Mr. Stein, even if I was convinced of the possibility that Mr. Stein was Professor Moriarty in disguise and to believe that it was worth a follow-up, such a concern would be for naught. The man has left for America, and I am stuck in London. I am wanted by the police, and I have neither the legal nor the financial means to follow up on such an investigation. It is a dead end, and I must move forward, and the only way forward is with this man Poirot, who seems as keen to evade me as I am to find him. His efforts to evade me however have only emboldened to find out more about him!

So unless you happen to know some sort of benefactor, some powerful figure who can transcend the rules and has the capacity to deliver me across country borders in the interest of discovering more about who this Mr. Stein is, I have only one path forward, and that path is Poirot!

With great annoyance,

Sherlock Holmes

So our friend “Reynald” is cleverer than we thought; last night I used the address information provided for me to loot his apartment for information. Sadly, it was a decoy apartment, and ‘Reynald’ as he is known left a mocking incitement in the form of a note “This is not my real apartment, Mr. Hefner”. Do not think this has dissuaded me!

And what is more, I have discovered his real name, that he signed at the bottom of the letter – Hercule Poirot. A strange name – I never cared for the Belgians or their politics. Of course, I never cared for politics at all – that was Mycroft’s field of focus – but I do care for getting to the bottom of this, Mr. Poirot!

Ladies and Gentlemen, for all those who were worried about what happened to me over the past two days, I’ll have you know that I am well and safe hiding in the East of London. However there is something of more gravity I wish to tell you.

I have made a decision (not lightly, mind you) to reveal my true identity to you, which you in jest told me. You will probably not believe me, and it will seem that I am mad but I assure that is true; for you all know me better as the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. I have been transported to this realm by some means unknown to me which I am thoroughly devoting my efforts to solving. I have since discovered that I am transported not only through conventional time and space but to another dimension of reality where my existence is regarded as a fiction – that is, an element of the popular culture which, though people may access it, their ignorance leads them to maintain a shallow and most flawed impression of me. And for all of you readers who have heard of me but are not well familiar, those who have decided not to observe me well and draw their own conclusions of me out of sloth – oh, you future Lestrades, you! – I would like to inform you of the following.

• I do not frequently say “Elementary, my dear Watson”; to my knowledge I have never said it once. I do speak of the elementary details to my comrade, but only to imbue him with a particular philosophy of observation, and never merely to gloat!
• While I am not known to display it frequently in the crowds I am a tasteful, sensible dresser. I wear a well-tailored suit around town and in my abode I enjoy donning a nice smoking jacket with a pipe of tobacco smoke. I would never wear a deerstalker hat and tweed cape anywhere but the far-reaching countryside; to wear such an outfit otherwise around my well-to-do acquaintances – some of whom are friends of the royal courts of Europe – I would positively look like an ass!

I could go on about how my story has been reduced to a shallow caricature – I imagine to be compatible with your odd social mores – but I have made the mistake in the past making a qualm about your absurdities. For my outburst I have been accused for a crime against some bottom dwelling panderer. I move on to this business.

You have all spoken of this Reynald St. Jerome to me… or Hercule Poirot which many of you wish to call him.  By good chance, I happened to have received information of where he is hiding on the east end of London. I shall go to his apartment and figure out who this person really is and what he wants from me. Tonight I shall settle the score!

Yours Truly,

Sherlock Holmes

Oh God no; I have little time! My roommate James has informed that authorities are looking for me. I cannot stop; I must fly! Forgive my rudeness!

Hello again! New information on the Verhaeren case and my word – it is intriguing! I went to find the receptionist who was there that afternoon, but found she was not there – she was fired from her job for negligence as a consequence of these events. Observe:

• At the hotel I discovered construction going on in the reception area – particularly around the grand centerpiece where multiple angels adorn an old-fashioned clock built into the south wall. Perhaps Saint-Jerome used the scaffolding to his advantage, and used it to hide himself in plain sight.

• That day, she was rather exhausted and took an impromptu nap, so she was unable to identify who was coming in and out of the hotel and identify the murderer (sounds like foul play to me). She can’t remember when, but she fell asleep sometime after her lunch break ended at 1pm, and was woken up around 2pm when Verhaeren himself woke her up to ask for the time, and she told him he might as well just look himself and pointed to the large public area clock – 2pm. Before she had fallen asleep again, our ‘Saint-Jerome’ entered the hotel asking whether or not Verhaeren had entered. She replied that he did and further told him what room he was staying in. She fell asleep again, and woke up just in time to see Saint-Jerome exit around 4:30pm when he got into a scrap with one of the construction workers.

By her account, Saint-Jerome spent two and a half hours in the hotel – ample time to commit the murder, move the body, wait for it to burn, and leave the hotel. Besides, there is little other reason to have spent two and a half hours in the hotel by himself. There are some logistical problems with the theory that I have not worked out however; the notion that he killed the man, took the body out of the room and moved it into the furnace without fear of being noticed is an act of almost unbelievable boldness, even recklessness. Yet how could he have done it? Did he cut up the body in the bedroom? No – not a trace a blood. He had to have dragged the body to the elevator all the way from Verhaeren’s room. It would seem too reckless for such a cleanly executed murder.

More research is to be done. I have seen a picture of the man for the first time – he is not a pleasant looking man; short and fat, nearly bald with one of the most hideous mustaches I have ever seen. We’ll see what my investigation turns up regarding him!

Yours Truly,

H. Hefner.