• Published 22nd Jul 2012
  • 9,012 Views, 208 Comments

The Case of the Starry Night - Bad Horse



Has Holmes met his match in a travelling showpony?

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5. Thrice-frightened

"The Great and Powerful Trixie is pleased to perform for the legendary Fetlock Holmes," Trixie said boldly. "To what does she owe the honor?"

"It appears," Holmes replied, "that we share an interest in art."

Trixie snorted. She turned back to Mr. F., who was still blinking nervously, oblivious to the contest of wills. "It was wise of you, sir, to bring in such a renowned pony to help guard Luna's Starry Night while it is on display here. I hope you have taken other precautions as well."

"Oh, yes," Mr. F. replied happily. "It's as safe as a baby in a basket. No force known to ponies could wrest it from its place, short of one of the Sisters themselves."

Trixie's condescending smile brightened proudly, as though the curator had paid her some great compliment. "Trixie is relieved to hear this." She looked out to the audience. "But can we be sure that the precious painting is safe? Trixie is still concerned."

She looked directly at Holmes for a moment, as though working herself up for something. Then she lowered her head, closed her eyes tightly, and gritted her teeth. Her horn began to glow even more brightly than before, turning yellow, then white, then too bright to look at. I turned away, and saw sharp shadows of the audience cast against the wall on the far side of the room, and felt waves of heat rolling off the stage. The air smelled of ozone. A high-pitched whine rang in my skull as if it had bypassed my ears entirely. I was dimly aware of indignant cries and audience members retreating from the stage.

Suddenly the bright light vanished. All was still and silent. Ponies stood gaping at the stage, ashen-faced, raised hooves frozen in mid-flight. I turned back and looked. Trixie was bent over and breathing heavily, her sides heaving, but she had a triumphant gleam in her eyes. There, floating in the air beside her, was the Starry Night. It is odd how one never realizes how large most paintings are when seeing them in a gallery.

Trixie addressed Mr. F., who had taken several steps back, and now stared unblinking, sweat dripping down his face, at the painting. He hesitantly stepped forward.

"This is the painting, Mr. F. Yes?" Trixie asked pleasantly, between breaths.

Mr. F. reached out a hoof to touch the frame. He studied it for a long time, breathing deeply.

"It is," he finally said.

"Wonderful! Trixie is so pleased that it is, in fact, safe. Would you be a good pony, and return it to the museum?"

Mr. F. looked at Trixie in horror. I looked to Holmes for his reaction, and found with a start that he was no longer present. I looked back at Trixie, waiting some further trick. But none came. The curator eventually unlocked the connecting door to the museum, wrapped the painting in his own telekinetic field, and departed rapidly with it.

Trixie strutted back and forth, addressing the audience. "As you heard from the museum curator himself, no power could retrieve it, but one of the Sisters. Or else the Great and Powerful Trixie!"

Not one hoof stamped in response.

Trixie scowled at the audience, with barely-controlled rage. She inhaled deeply and ominously, and without any conscious decision I found myself turning and bolting for the exit along with many others. Just then, the door to the kitchen, which had been shut when the kitchen closed nearly an hour ago, opened, and a thick cloud of smoke rolled out. "Fire!" a voice called from within.