//------------------------------//
// Black Earth 
// Story: Black and Blue and Bloodied 
// by Sixes_And_Sevens 
//------------------------------//

“She’s lying?” the Doctor repeated as they walked down a busy boulevard. “That’s it? That’s all he said?”
“I’m afraid so,” Blueblood replied. “I can only assume he was referring to her account of her whereabouts.”
“Well, yes, obviously,” the Doctor grumbled. “But that doesn’t tell us much of anything about where she really was, does it?”
Blueblood shrugged. “It tells us she was hiding something,” he replied.
“Yeah, but what? Could be that she’s got an illicit lover, too, could be she was out gambling with the family cash, could be she’s secretly an alien.”
“Well, really,” Blueblood scoffed. “What are the odds of that?”
“I’m secretly an alien,” the Doctor pointed out.
“Exactly. How likely is it that I’d meet two in one day?”
The Doctor stared into space for a moment. “Extremely. Really. Once you meet one, they start popping up everywhere you go, dunno why. Course, from my point of view, it’s you lot that’re aliens, so I can’t hardly judge.”
“I beg your pardon?!”
“Oh look, ‘ere we are,” the Doctor replied, indicating an office building. It was quite large, even in comparison to the surrounding towers and complexes.
Blueblood’s eyebrows rose. “RocRoll Incorporated? That’s a Griffish company!”
The Doctor looked at him strangely. “Yeah. We knew that already, remember? Lady Rings said we were meeting a griffon.”
“Yes, but there’s a difference between a griffon in commerce and a griffon company in Canterlot,”
“Well, no need to be like that,” the Doctor frowned. “Just because they aren’t ponies—”
“No, no,” Blueblood sighed, exasperated. “Tell me, Doctor, have you been to the Griffonlands recently? The recession there is beyond description. There is absolutely no plausible way that this company could exist at all, much less in Canterlot.”
The Doctor frowned. “A recession? Griffonstone?” He looked up at the building, then back at Blueblood. “Tha’s not meant to happen,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head.
The prince rolled his eyes. “You probably got your years mixed up or something. The point is, the last I heard of RocRoll, they were a local mining firm. I only heard of them because of some disaster in the shafts— cave-in, I believe.”
“Tragic,” the Doctor said.
“Yes,” Blueblood agreed quietly. “A great waste of life.”
“You keep saying things like that and then going quiet,” the Doctor said. “So, either we can talk about it on your terms, or we can wait for a crucial moment where absolutely ev’rything is going to fail because of one critical bit o’ information I don’t know ‘cause you wouldn’t tell me.”
Blueblood stared at him, eyes lidded. “The second one.”
“Right. Just so long’s we’ve got that sorted.”


***

Tuxedo Mask had glanced in on the lady of the house after the two detectives' departure. With nopony left to see her, she had let the facade collapse, and wept freely into her furs.
Good.
The butler made his way swiftly and silently up the stairs. Almost all of the rest of the household had been given the day off. For what he was about to do, there could be no witnesses.
Into the mistress's drawing room he went. The dress designs sat out on the desk, each one a perfectly realized idea. Mask gathered them all up. They would be necessary for what came next, but they were hardly the evidence he needed.
He pressed a carving on the side of the desk. Silently, a panel in the wall sprang open. Inside were nigh-identical copies of the designs he had gathered, save for a few small details and one very large one-- the signatures on all the designs belonged to very different ponies than the mistress of the house. He bundled all of them up and stuffed them all into his waistcoat.
He drew the curtains of the drawing room. He left, closing the door behind him, and methodically made his way down the hall, blowing out every candle he passed. A dark house for dark business. He circled the entire floor, blocking out all sunlight. Then he made his way down a floor, and did the same there, circling like a shark, drawing ever nearer to where the lady of the house sat in sorrow.


***

The receptionist was a grey earth pony. The Doctor looked as though he was going to comment on this, but decided against it. Is it the fashion now to have grey service workers? he wondered. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Nah. Probably some new trend, ‘let your man fade into the background’ or the like. Stupid.
“Afternoon,” he said. “We’re ‘ere t’ see a Miss Henn?”
“Have you an appointment?” the stallion asked dully.
“Don’t need one,” the Doctor said, flashing his papers.
The pony blinked. “Of course, Inspector. You and Detective Banks take all the time you need.”
“Thanks much,” the Doctor said, pocketing the wallet with a grin. “Which office is she in?”
“Top story, sir. You can’t miss it.”
“Right. Afternoon,” the Doctor nodded. “Come on, Banksy. Got work t’ be done.”
Blueblood trotted after the Doctor, only pausing for a moment to give the receptionist a searching look.


***

The duo stepped into the elevator. “That receptionist,” Blueblood said thoughtfully. “He looked an awful lot like that butler at Rings Manor, didn’t he? Jet Set's valet, as well”
“I thought so.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No.”
“Shouldn’t we be investigating that?”
The Doctor made a noncommittal noise. “I mean,” Blueblood said, “It’s the only connection we’ve got, isn’t it?”
“Let me give you a bit of advice, Blue. If there’s only one connection between different places, chances are, you’re missing something. You might have a symptom, sure, but not the cause.”
“Yes, but—”
“Oi. Who’s th’ one in charge here?”
Blueblood stared at him for a long moment, his face a scowl. “You,” he finally sighed.
“An’ don’t you forget it, either,” the Doctor warned. "Look, maybe it's worth lookin' into. But right now, we've got to focus on findin' out more about this Miss Henn."
Blueblood huffed in irritation as the doors of the elevator opened and they stepped out. “Come on,” the Doctor said, trotting to a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway.
Blueblood glanced around, vaguely impressed at the decor. It was much nicer than he would have supposed. Early Regency, with influences from Minoa, the sort of sparse design that implied that the owner could afford to look bare-bones. The only real decorations were the paintings that lined the walls. Suddenly, he squinted at one in particular. “That’s odd,” he murmured.
“Oi! You gonna stand there all day?”
Blueblood glanced back and forth between the Doctor and the other end of the hall before trotting toward the office doors.


***

The griffon at the desk was hunched over a table of figures, furiously scribbling down numbers. She barely spared them a glance as they entered. “Who are you, what do you want,” she said, managing to express the apparent minimum possible interest it was feasible to have in the duo.
“We’re here investigating a murder,” the Doctor said, watching her closely.
The griffon glanced up from her work, one eyebrow raised. “Continue.”
Blueblood stepped forward. “A stallion was found dead at the racetracks earlier today. A Lord Golden Rings? You remember, the pony you were sleeping with?”
Ms. Henn blinked laconically. “Sleeping with. You’re joking.”
The Doctor shot Blueblood a glare. “‘Fraid not. A rather incriminating letter was found at the scene of the crime. Ooever killed him wrote ‘im a bit of— well. Let’s just call it a love letter. Accordin' to 'is wife, you were th' only one meetin' 'im on th' regular.”
She snorted once. “That’s Rings for you. Had a new mare every month. His wife was clueless, of course, or that’s what she let on. Personally, I doubt anything living could be so obtuse, but you never know.”
Blueblood frowned. “Were you ever one of these… mares of the month?”
Ms. Henn shook her head exactly once— a tight, calculated motion. Blueblood got the feeling that everything she did was equally precise, right down to the number of cornflakes she had for breakfast. “I knew him too well. He tried, of course— bought me presents, chocolates, flowers. I won’t deny that. I won’t say I wasn’t flattered, either.” She smiled a slim smile. “But not flattered enough to be blind.”
She pushed back her chair and strode to the window. “I am sorry to hear that he’s dead,” she added. “He was one of my biggest financiers. Supported some of my biggest projects, even after a few of them… flopped.”
“The incident at the quarry,” the Doctor supplied.
“Mm. You’ve done your research,” Gertrude nodded. “Yes. After the fiasco at the Echo Mine, more than a few investors dropped out. I can’t say I entirely blame them. Shoddy business, the whole thing. I still don’t know how the surveyors didn’t pick up on those pockets of soft earth. A terrible tragedy.” Her face did not shift throughout the conversation.
There was a long silence. “Pardon me,” Blueblood interjected. “Could you tell me where I might find the lavatory?”
Ms. Henn glanced at him. “Down the hall. On your—”
The Doctor cut her off. “He doesn’t need to go,” he growled, glaring at the prince.
Blueblood glared back. “Yes I do.” he replied with equal firmness. “It could be urgent.”
“You can hold it.”
“No, I can’t.”
Gertrude glanced between the two with increasing bemusement. “Down the hall on the left. Second door.”
The Doctor glared after Blueblood’s retreating back. “I swear,” he muttered, “It’s his aunts all over again.”
“Pardon?”
“I was just saying that he reminds me of his aunt. She had a tendency to powder her nose at inopportune moments, too.” A small smile flickered over the Doctor’s features. “Might just be hope for him yet,” he grinned.


***

Glancing left and right, Blueblood trotted back down the hallway. He stopped in front of the one incongruous element— the sole landscape painting in a row of portraits. It depicted what seemed to be a valley at first glance. It was of such mediocre quality that few would examine it further. A closer look, however, revealed it to be a rock quarry. Not necessarily out-of-place in this building— it was, after all, a company with roots in mining. The painting was not unusual by itself, that was true. However, one that was surrounded by portraits seemed a tad more unusual. Blueblood studied it intently. The picture was of barely acceptable quality, to be sure, but the image itself… those likenesses seemed oddly familiar. His eyes fell on one in particular and he started. That was Lord Golden Rings! And there, next to him— that was certainly Miss Henn. He looked from face to face. Several of them he recognized from various formal affairs; not by name, per se, but certainly by reputation. He frowned. Why would they be—
Suddenly, it struck him. Not realization, but a solid smack on the back of his head. The prince fell like a ton of bricks. The figure behind him regarded the scene unemotionally.