Chapter 7
Cold Case, Canterlot’s local forensics expert, carefully examines the unusual rifle that the would-be killer had. Considering the fact that Canterlot had very little real crime, the young, blue-maned unicorn only worked on call, and he spent most of his evenings with a cup of Earl Gray and some old novel.
But tonight was different. For this was the first time he had been summoned by the Royal Sisters.
“Note where the stock and grip would usually be on this rifle,” Cold Case said, gesturing to the Wingchester Lever-Action rifle that was lying on the steel table in front of him and his companions. The stock was removed and the grip was rounded to look like an umbrella’s handle.
The aforementioned companions were the police chief, Sherclop Holmes and Dr. Trotson. Cold Case was totally professional when he met Sherclop Holmes, even though his papers and thesis on the intermingling of science and deduction were what inspired Cold Case to go into the profession of forensics. Cold Case did not squeal like a fanfilly when he met Sherclop, and he didn’t ask for Sherclop’s autograph. After all, he is a professional.
“What do you recommend for ringing ears, Dr. Trotson?’ the police chief, Chief Bluecoat, asked Dr. Trotson. “I didn’t know a stallions pitch could go that high.”
“I think the noise will go away in about five minutes or so,” Dr. Trotson replied. “It usually does for me.”
Cold Case blushes a bit, embarrassed. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t a complete professional,” he thought.
“Hmm, judging by the way this grip looks, I deduce that our mystery mare probably made this herself,” Sherclop said, scratching his chin. “I can’t think of too many places that would make a grip of such a unique shape.”
“Speaking of whom, has our attempted murderess said anything useful?’ Dr. Trotson asked the police chief.
Chief Bluecoat chuckles, his horseshoe moustache quivering a bit with his laughter.
“Oh, she has said plenty,” he said. “Just nothing useful, unless you think her opinions on the police, the Royal Guard, and just about anything else that annoys her is useful.”
“Not particularly,” Sherclop muttered. “Have you made any progress in finding out her identity?”
Chief Bluecoat shook his head. “I have sent officers to hotels in the surrounding area, seeing if any of them recognize her. No luck so far.”
Sherclop took a closer glance at the rifle, and there seemed to be something that caught his eye. “Mr. Case, have you made a note of this aura dust?”
Aura dust is what is left over after a unicorn has handled an item with their telekinetic grasp. Every unicorn’s aura dust is unique, with a different color and a different symbol inlayed in the flecks of dust.
“Yes I have! It was a rather rare color as well,” Cold Case said. “It was a shade of light orange.”
Sherclop whips out his magnifying glass to take a look at the dust. After examining the rifle, Sherclop stood up straight and shouted, “EUREKA! I have it!”
Chief Bluecoat rubs his ear again. “Dr. Trotson, the ringing is back.”
“Sherclop, what do you have?” Dr. Trotson asked.
“The pattern on the dust flecks is a cross!” Sherclop said with a manic grin on his face. “Don’t you see it, John?”
“Not particularly, no,” Trotson muttered.
“Remember that Prench businesspony a few years back? The one who was shot through the head while he was on his morning jog?”
“Yes, I do. And I remember that a cheap Wingchester rifle was found in a dumpster about a kilometer away,” Trotson said, beginning to understand what Sherclop was talking about.
“And the firearm was covered in orange aura dust that had cross symbols in the flecks,” Sherclop said, nodding with approval.
“So this mare is the same one that killed that Prench fellow!” Trotson exclaimed.
“Precisely.”
“But what motive could she possibly have?” Cold Case butted in.
“That is the question of the hour.”
While the trio was discussing the case, a policemare trotted in and handed a note to Chief Bluecoat. After reading it, the chief cleared his throat to get the attention of the three stallions.
“We’ve got something. One of the workers at the Buckeley Hotel recognized our mare. They said that she checked in under the name Cloverbelle.”
“Cloverbelle,” Sherclop muttered.
“Does that name sound familiar to you?” Chief Bluecoat asked.
“I believe so.”
“Do you care to elaborate?” Chief Bluecoat pressed.
“Not until I am absolutely sure,” Sherclop said, shaking his head. “Is there any way I could talk with our culprit?”
Chief Bluecoat scratched his chin. “Normally we don’t allow civilians to talk with our detainees, but you are working on behalf of the Royal Sisters. Come with me.”
As Chief Bluecoat and Sherclop began trotting out of the room, Trotson called out, “Sherclop, what makes you think that she’ll talk to you?”
Sherclop turned around and gave Trotson a wry grin. “Call it a hunch, old friend.”