Sherlock: You're keeping a SCRAPBOOK. Only old ladies and pre-pubescent girls keep scrapbooks, John.
John: It's not a scrapbook, Sherlock. I'm collecting papers relevant to the cases. It helps me remember the details. And it was locked away in my desk drawer.
Sherlock: The lock on your desk drawer was insulting me with its pretense at security.
― Guy Adams, Sherlock: The Casebook
It was almost noon when Time Turner and Sheerluck left Roseluck Gardens.
Sheerluck Hooves led Time Turner to the curb, where he called upon a taxi. He ordered the stallion pulling it to take them immediately to the address given to them by the Royal Guard.
“There is nothing quite as refreshing as looking over first hand evidence," Sheerluck announced; "as a matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up on the case, but still we may as well learn all that is to be learned. No need to jump to conclusions so suddenly."
“Honestly, you already know who did it?” Time Turner said in disbelief. They had only been at the crime scene for under an hour, whereas the best of the Royal Guard had been there for several.
“There’s no room for any mistakes in my career. The very first thing which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had come previously, making two ruts with its wheels close to the curb. Canterlot had a particularly heavy rain last night, so those wheels that left such a deep impression must have been there during the night. There were the prints of the driver's hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly visible than that of the other three, showing that the driver wore a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during the morning, it must have been there during the night. And therefore, that it brought those two ponies to the garden."
Time Turner could only shake his head in great bemusement. Sheerluck was a genius in all aspects of the word.
“How do you know what the attacker looked like?”
“Simple enough. squarish hoof-prints in the mud. Long strides. Blood etched in terrible writing, evidence that the murderer used his bare hoof to write out the word. Not too sure if he has a flushed complexion. I may have overstepped on that one. Mere foal’s play.”
“But why did the attacker and the victim come to the garden? Where did the blood come from? How did the attacker get the victim to take the poison? Where did the ring come from? Why did the murderer write in Germane?”
Sheerluck only smiled appreciatively at Time Turner. The Doctor assumed he had asked all of the right questions.
“Excellent questions, excellent. Allow me to answer them for you. The Germane word is one to throw off the police. A clever trap necessary making them think the murder was committed by a Germane immigrant. But no, it was not. The ‘a’ in ‘Rache’ was written in a distinctively un-Germane fashion.”
“You… are one very incredible pony.”
“Thank you, my dear Doctor,” Sheerluck flushed with pride and carried himself with an air bordering on arrogance. For a second Time Turner dared to believe that Sheerluck was a tad bit big-headed.
"I'll tell you one other thing," Sheerluck said, as if to reward Time Turner for his praise, "The victim and the murderer came in the same cab, and they walked down the sidewalk together as friends. When they got to the garden, they walked up and down the path; or rather, the victim stood still while the murderer trotted up and down. I could read all that in the dust. And I could tell that as he trotted, the murderer grew more and more agitated. Then the actual murder occurred. We have a good working basis on where to start. We simply must hurry up, for I want to go to this certain concert to hear Sapphire Shores this very afternoon."
Just as Sheerluck had finished speaking, they came to a stop before a dingy little shack at the edge of Canterlot’s fine city. It was clear that they were in a shantytown.
“That’ll be three bits, sir. An’ if ya want me ta stick around I can drive out later.”
“Yes, thank you,” Sheerluck replied, dropping three gold coins into the cabbie’s extended hoof. Then he led the Doctor past milling foals who were begging for bits to buy toys and trinkets. Sheerluck merely shooed them away before Time Turner could break out his wallet. When they reached the door of the shack, Sheerluck pounded at it with his hoof. They could hear blabbering and cursing from the other side. They heard a crash and the door flew open, revealing a small Earth pony mare with a yellow coat and a curly red mane. Her cutie mark was that of an open mouth, with what could be sound waves coming from them.
“Oh hello there, it looks like I have visitors! Delightful! I’m Chatterbox, I work for the gardens here at Canterlot, I’m guessing you’re the Guard here to question me further? Excellent! Then please, do come in,” she babbled, then turned to scream to the beggar foal, “SO YA WON’T HAVE TA PUT UP WIT’ THESE LITTLE RUNTS!”
The beggars scattered in fear. Chatterbox turned back to beam at the two. She ushered them into a raggedy sofa, while she sat in an extravagant dragon scale chair.
“Just tell us everything that you saw, Missus Chatterbox.”
“Oh it’s just Miss, sir. I’m a single pringle.” She shot a wink at Time Turner, who, being married, immediately felt uncomfortable. “Anyways, I work from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven, there was a fight over at Sweetheart’s. Y’know that bar across the garden? But the fight was hushed before the bells for eleven stopped chiming. At one in tha morning it started to pour down rain somethin’ awful.”
She wiggled around in her seat, getting more comfortable. Time Turner shot a glance at Sheerluck. The detective was paying rapt attention to the blabbering mare and Time Turner’s respect for the odd stallion soared.
“As I was sayin’, I met up with Honey Melon, the beekeeper mare. Had a chat with her ‘fore she went and sold all of her honey mead to the blokes who run Sweetheart’s. Eventually we decided to take a walk, and went around the corner a few times. It was a pretty quiet night. When we came back, she and I parted ways. She went to sell her mead and I back to my work at the garden. I stood at the gate as I heard a commotion from inside the walls of the place. So then I decided to go back inside and see what the ruckus was-”
“You stopped before going inside? Why is that?” Sheerluck interrupted. He was now leaning forward in his seat, as if to drink the very words coming from Chatterbox’s chatterbox. Chatterbox, meanwhile, gave a little jump and squeal at the sudden interruption. It appeared that she did not like being hushed.
“Well… You see, sir, ever since that ghost pony attacked Canterlot…”
“From what I understand, Mister Shudderbones was shown to not be involved in the umbrum attack on the Princess. In fact, he was the one to banish the creature and save Canterlot. Please do not tell me you have prejudice against him because of his unfortunate choice of profession?”
“Oh.” For once, Chatterbox seemed speechless. “Well… I mean... “
“Please go on with your story.”
“Oh-Okay. Well, I was scared it was probably a ghost or an umbrum or whatever word you used. So I hesitated to go inside. I hadn’t seen anypony in the garden before I left for my walk. I’m guessing whoever went in did so while I out and about. So I went in and then… and then I saw…”
“You saw the corpse. You went and walked about it several times, knelt by it, and then was tempted to leave. Then, the good in you remaining, you decided to stay and watch over the body after you finally called for the Guard.”
Chatterbox leapt to her feet, eyes burning with suspicion.
“And where did you hide to find out all that? You seem to know a lot more than you ought to, Mister...”
“Hooves. Sheerluck Hooves.”
“Mister Hooves!”
Sheerluck laughed and levitated a business card out from his cape. He tossed it to Chatterbox, who blinked absently at it.
"Don't get me arrested for a murder I never committed," he said snidely, "I am one of the Diamond Dogs and not the Timber Wolf; The Captain of the Royal Guard will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next?"
Now calm, Chatterbox eased herself back into her chair. She pondered for a moment for resuming her tale.
“I saw it, I decided to make sure what it was that I saw. I thought it was a prank at first. But then I realized the body was all too real. So I sounded the whistle for the Guard. In minutes they came a-runnin’. I was told to go on home.”
“Were the streets empty? Did you see anypony else?”
"Well, it was, as far as anypony that could be of any good goes."
"What do you mean?"
Chatterbox broke out into a great smile. "I've seen many a drunk stallion before here in Canterlot," she giggled, "but never anypony as drunk as that colt was. He was at the gate when I came out, leaning up against the railings, and singin’ at the top of his lungs about Celestia’s New-Fangled Banner, or something like that. He could barely stand up straight on his own, far less help."
Time Turner paled. He felt an impending sort of feeling. Could it be?
“Describe him, please,” murmured Sheerluck thoughtfully. He was studying the pale Doctor closely.
Chatterbox scrunched her nose as she struggled to recall the memory.
“He had a tan coat. Black mane. Cutie mark was a pint of beer, no surprise there. He had a thick Cockney accent. And I swear I heard him rambling about a red-faced colt or something of the sort when I approached him.”
At that, Sheerluck practically leapt from his seat in excitement.
“Where did he go? What happened to him?”
“I daresay he went on home. The Guards were too busy to deal with a drunkard.”
“Well thank you Miss Chatterbox. It was a pleasure meeting you and a great help hearing from you. Farewell.”
“Bye!” Chatterbox called out as they left the house. Sheerluck led TIme Turner down to the curb where the cabbie was waiting. The cabbie smiled brightly as Time Turner tossed him a few bits as a tip. Then he rounded onto the Doctor.
“I believe you know our drunkard, Doctor?”
“All too well… I’ve gone… you know, travelling with him. He’s a friend of mine, I suppose. His name is Carnegie Porter, he lives with Roseluck, who owns the garden. Do you think he got a glimpse of the murderer?”
“Yes. Maybe even spoke with the murderer. Do you have the address?”
“Of course!”
“Then what are we waiting for? We have a mystery to solve.”