//------------------------------// // Chapter 4: Headlines and Advertisements // Story: Sherclop Pones and the Adventure of Pinkie's Cupcakes // by A Sherlockian Brony //------------------------------// Sherclop Pones, who had listened to this peculiar statement—peculiar in both its contents and the way they were presented—seemed to be deeply interested in the matter, for he sat down in his armchair, lit the foulest of his pipes, and smoked it heavily in silence for quite some time. With drooping eyelids, he lazily opened one eye and fixated it on the gazette upon the floor. “So,” said our client upon concluding her narrative. She leaned forward on the settee. “what do you say?” Pones had shot a glare at her direction. “Kindly step outside, Ms. Hooves,” said my friend timidly, as he continued to stare upon the paper. Derpy Hooves stood up. “But, but” stammered our client with a desperate expression. “the case!” “Yes, yes, I assure you, I am considering to consider to take it or not.” said Pones indifferently. “It does certainly have features of interests. If you wish for me take it, however, please leave me be in my reverie.” “But, but—” But Pones raised a warning hoof. “Ms. Hooves,” “But, look!” said our client as she produced a folded piece of paper from her saddlebag. Ms. Hooves then unfolded it and presented it to my friend. “Here,” said she with her hoof upon it. “here’s the advertisement.” There, upon the leaf, was indeed what our client previously alluded to during her narrative—it was an advertisement with a photograph of the missing pony in question: Rainbow Dash, a young athletic mare with a complacent countenance. There were, too, written in bold red letters, printed above the mare, was the word “missing.” Pones, to my slight confusion, as a reaction, simply stared at it with a look of absolute confusion and amazement equally blended upon his aquiline features. Then he smiled. “As I have said,” said he, taking the poster from the Pegasus’ grasp (with an apology.) “I shall, once I am left to myself and had smoked a good amount of tobacco, think the matter over. Now, if you could do so kindly, Ms. Hooves, disappear.” His eyes then swiftly darted towards the direction of the door, in which was followed by the jerk of his head. Our client with some protesting, stood outside with a great amount of nervousness in her. Billy, our page, with a wave of my friend’s hoof, then closed the door behind her. “I trust that you don’t intend to leave me, Doctor?” said Pones when I had half-risen from my chair. “But I thought you said—” “Your presence, my dear fellow, may prove to be extremely invaluable to me in clearing matters up.” He then proceeded to take me back to my chair opposite his. I was about to question him, but he placed a hoof to his lips. “Well, Watcolt,” said Pones, relapsing languidly upon his armchair. “what do you make of it?” I glanced at the door. “It is a rather peculiar business—even she is, I confess,” said I. “for why would a client need to recite from a paper to state her narrative? She had said it so quickly that she didn’t give you chance to even speak!” “Ha! You do too think so, eh?” said Pones; “Well, perhaps the client does not have a capable memory, therefore a form of a memorandum is required. And as for the hurried fashion of stating her narrative, it maybe because of the nervousness caused by her experience. You shan't blame the client, my dear fellow. Nevertheless, Watcolt, you can’t deny the peculiarity of its contents. It is almost as if—” He trailed off as he stared once more at the newspaper upon the floor. He then, with the use of telekinesis, picked it up and had simply stared at the day’s biggest headline. “Yes, it is peculiar,” Pones remarked with his brows knitted together. Laying the edition down, he proceeded to examine the poster in which he had obtained from the client. Minutely, he did this with the help of a powerful lens. He did this for some time—examining the advertisement from the consultation from inch to inch, showing it up against the light, sniffing and even licking it. Then he chuckled. “Tut, tut, clever, clever,” remarked Sherclop Pones to himself, smiling. “but not clever enough.” “What is?” As an answer, he handed over the poster. I then endeavored to do examine the article in a similar fashion as to my friend’s, but had discovered barely anything worthy of note. The paper was, judging by its texture, of regular print, though it did strike me peculiar that it somewhat differed to the posters in the typical advertisements used. It had a very smooth texture, while the ones used often were coarse, rough, and had a certain sandy texture. This particular specimen had not. Other than that, I perceived nothing. I then handed it back. “Do you have a pen and paper?” said Pones, cramming the poster into his pocket. I provided him what he requested. He then proceeded to write upon a telegram form while I stood behind him. It ran thus: Have you ever been consulted upon the matter of a disappearance in the past week? -Sherclop Pones Pones then ringed for the page and had ordered him to deliver the message to the telegraphic office and whispered something to him. “To whom was that for, Pones?” said I, once Billy had dashed out of the room. “To Cloudsdale Yard—" said he." —well, at least to a branch of theirs. I had set off an inquiry upon the subject of a certain—pony—well, it may be just a mere fancy of mine—but still, it may be worth a shot." He seemed to be talking more to himself rather than to me. He then slipped into another reverie, his mind no doubt, embarking into an unknown line of though. He then said suddenly— "How do you define the word 'grotesque, ' Watcolt?" “Strange—remarkable.” said I “There is surely something more than that,” said he. “some underlying of the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of the case of the Rich-Family League. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt of robbery upon the estate of the Rich Family. Or, again, there was the grotesque affair of Orange Pip, which led to a murderous conspiracy of a young colt. The word puts me on the alert.” “Yes, indeed, but what are you, then, implying here?” “I am implying here, my dear Watcolt, that I have quite made up my mind and that I shall take Ms. Derpy Hooves’ grotesque case which was presented to us in so peculiar a fashion. There may something in it that may be worth my attention, and I'm inclined to ascertain on whatever it may be. Now, pack up your old kit-bag, my dear fellow, and come along!" I then gladly did what he requested for there is a promise of an adventure in this matter, and nothing gives me keener pleasure than to partake in my friend’s investigations and jock down notes about his extraordinary powers of deduction. My experience of camp life in the Nightmare Moon campaign had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveler. My wants are few and simple, so that less in a minute, I was fairly ready to embark on this little adventure. Pones in the other hoof, however, spent quite some time in his bedroom. As he did, Billy came back with a small piece of paper in his possession. “The reply-telegram for Mr. Pones, Doctor,” said the page, giving me the reply. I thanked him as he speedily darted out of the room. I then waited for Pones so that he may read the reply-telegram, but he seemed to be quite occupied in a strange business in his bedroom, for the sound of whisking of leaves could be distinctly heard from within it. Growing rather impatient, I knocked upon his door. “Pones?” “Wait a bit, Watcolt!” said he. I then stood at the bow-window. I had observed during this, that an entire legion of Royal Guards marching across the street below us. It had stroke me as extraordinary for why could they be here? There was clearly something amiss, and I could conceive no idea what that something may be that would produce such an effect upon them that they would dispatch an entire legion! Once they were out of view, Pones was still within his room. I then, out of curiosity on the reply of my friend's peculiar inquiry, endeavored to read whatever was written upon the reply-telegram. It ran as follows: To Mr. Sherclop Pones, No, sir, I have not, nor has anyone stationed in this particular branch in that matter. On the contrary, not a single constable or inspector had been conscious of any form of criminal activity for the entire month! Stanley Trotkins Suddenly, a joyous cry came from within Pones’ room. “I’ve found it!” cried his muffled voice, triumphantly; “By Jove, I have got it!” He then violently exited his room with a look of excitement upon his face. He held a newspaper as he did so. I had a glimpse of the interior of his room, and was horrified on what I saw: papers—an absurd amount of papers littered every single square inch of it. “Good Heavens, Pones, your room!” said I. “Surely, Mrs. Hudcolt will be enraged by that!” But Pones had merely laughed at my remark. "My dear Watcolt," said he in an animated voice. “I have, as you may know, my dear fellow, the habit to horde every single addition of the daily papers for any future references that may, in the future, be of use. Now, I have consulted the editions of the past week, including today’s edition and searched in the agony columns and the headlines, hoping maybe that there may be something in them that may assist us in the case, and had ended with a very interesting discovery.” “What, then, is your discovery?” “Nothing!” said Sherclop Pones. “Nothing—absolutely nothing in relation to our current business! Does it not strike you as remarkable? Look here—” He then grabbed my hoof and took me into his room. Amongst the cluster of countless editions that had littered the bedroom, there stood out a bundle of newspapers consisting of six editions. I, then, at Pones’ request, examined one individually by looking first at each edition’s headline, then the agony column. The first one I had examined was last week’s edition, and its headline consisted of the announcement of the National Dessert Competition. Then I had examined the agony column to which in turn consisted of ponies quiring for advice on how to bake the proper cake for the upcoming competition. I then moved on to the second. Its headline depicted that the Pegasi of Ponyville had successfully delivered this season’s water to Cloudsdale where it shall be duly manufactured into rain. Then I had examined the agony column and found nothing but the unfortunate cries of what I perceive to be a nurse begging for medical assistance with the recent outbreak of Feather Flu in the same town. The third edition depicted the dog Cerberus, who guards the gates of Tartarus, running loose and his eventual recapture. The agony column of the same edition consisted nothing but questions asking anyone if there were any sign of trouble found in their area of residence. The fourth and the fifth passed as nothing of interest, that is, until the sixth, where the major headline of that day’s paper depicted the announcement for the same royal marriage in which is depicted in following edition to be scheduled to occur the following day. The agony column consisted of nothing but the groom himself with his honorable name filling the column with pleads for advice for the proper wedding gift for his bride-to-be. “Now, Watcolt,” said Pones, after I had laid it down. “Let me recite to you the contents of this day’s edition, and you shall see for yourself how nothing of importance is depicted. The headline of the upcoming royal marriage between the good Captain and the Princess we already know, but the agony column—it consists of nothing but mares who had been bestowed upon the task of being the bridesmaids of the upcoming marriage pleading for advice. Have a listen— “‘Does anypony know the duties of a bridesmaid?' says Twinkle Shine. “‘What’s a bridesmaid? I need to know what it is because I’ll be acting as one for the upcoming royal wedding, and I don’t wanna look dumb or anything...’ says Minuette. “‘Lyra Heartstrings says: ‘Can anyone offer me advice on being a good bridesmaid? I’ll soon be one for the upcoming marriage of Princess M’— bleat, Watcolt—unmitigated bleat!” “But, Pones,” I interjected. “surely the announcement of a royal marriage counts as being of importance!” “Ah, yes,” said Pones sardonically. “you are right, my good sir, when it comes to the aspect of politics—the marriage does bare of some importance there; but to the case of Rainbow Dash’s disappearance—no, it does not. But these mainstream headlines and pleads of romanticism, however, do positively provide me aid in this case.” “In what way?” “Ah, I see I have received a reply to my telegram!” cried he, taking the telegram from my grasp. Once he read it, he glanced at me and fell into a reverie. “As you may remember.” said he. “Detective Inspector Stanley Trotkins is the youngest officer of the entire Yard, whom I have high hopes for rising in his ranks. He has, if my memory serves to be correct, made his way into your records.” “Yes, indeed, he has,” said I, recalling the adventures in which the young Trotkins had partook action in. “But what is the object of your inquiry to the good official?” Pones had already opened his mouth to speak, when Ms. Hooves suddenly entered our rooms with an imperative air of impatience. “Ah, Ms. Hooves,” said my friend, turning to the mare. “Are you going or not?” said she irritably. “I was about to propose in doing so.” I saw a great withhold of excitement in Ms. Hooves’ eager expression as she grinned from ear to ear and pranced from the back. “So, you’ll take it?” said she eagerly. “You’ll take the case?” Pones looked at her keenly with his grey eyes. “Indeed, I shall do so,” said he, disappearing into his room briefly and emerging from its clutter with a saddlebag in possession. As he did so, I had noticed the familiar twinkle in his eyes that is forever associated in one of his devious moods when hot upon a scent. “Come along now, Watcolt,” said he, as he wore on his ear-flapped travelling-cap; “the game is afoot!”