My friend had remained silent as he stared vacantly at the window with the envelope in his possession, while I on the other hand, turned over in my head the whatever could have the page and Pones conversed, and why was it spoken in whispers. I thought on what could my friend had possibly seen from staring at the client’s Mark, and how much importance does it bare. I thought of Ms. Hooves' queer demeanor. I sensed that she was concealing something—something important, though I have little to no idea on what that may be, I knew there must be at least something that she withholds. I then endeavored to come up with a competent theory, until it had piled up into a dozen, each being more absurd than the last. I then conceded in doing so, and then endeavored to come up with an explanation of Pones’ queer actions, then I tried to form a theory on our client’s grotesque narrative, to which I have nearly forgotten about. I thought of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Rainbow Dash’s disappearance; the queer actions of Pinkie Pie upon Ms. Hooves—all of these I had attempted to find a definite explanation, but failed miserably in all. Once more, I conceded, and had intended to ask Pones if he himself if had formed one, but by a single glance at the contortion of his aquiline features refrained, fearing the drastic consequences of daring to intercept his thoughts. I then lit a cigar, as a means of passing the time. Then, with an unsure air, I leaned himself back lazily upon the cushions of the bench as I heaved a sigh. I then glanced at Pones. His eyes met mine as he let out a grin.
"Oh, Watcolt," shaking his head to himself. "this case..."
I then took advantage of this communicative mood.
“Have you yourself formed any theories yet?” I whispered, taking a short glance at Ms. Hooves. “About the case, I mean.”
“Several, but only one seems definite.”
“What is it, then?”
Pones didn’t answer. Instead, he simply stared at the envelope which our page had some problems in delivering. He then opened it and took out a very thin epistle. He read it and raised a brow.
“Oh, dear," said he. "dear, dear me—clever little miscreant, aren't you now?"
He then handed me the epistle. The first thing I had noticed was watermark on the top corner of the paper—it was the outline of some kind of umbrella. There had been something strikingly familiar about the queer symbol, it is as if I had seen somewhere before. I had paid no heed it however, for my eyes then rested upon the queer message in which had been printed before me. I had noted that it was typewritten, rather than written. It ran thus:
As I glanced up from this enigmatical message, I saw Pones chuckling at the expression upon my face.
“You look a little bewildered.” said he.
“Good Heavens, Pones, what an absurd message!” said I, handing back the paper; “I fail to see anything clever about it.”
“No, no; it’s the case, Watcolt—the case! It’s the case that is.”
“The case?!”
“So, Mr. Pones,” said Ms. Derpy Hooves, interrupting my friend, much to my frustration. It is as if Fate itself wishes for me to remain in the dark.
Pones turned to her.
“Yes, Ms. Hooves?” said he, giving a beaming smile. Though, despite this, used as I am to his nature, I could detect that there was something cold beneath that superficial benevolence.
“Made any progress?” said the Pegasus, wriggling in her seat.
A dark expression came across my friend’s face. “I have already formed a theory or two concerning your remarkable case, Ms. Hooves,” said he in a serious tone. “and that I desire to make a few inquiries once we arrive at our destination so that I may confirm them.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Ms. Hooves with a smile as her pupils dilated in excitement. “Good, very good.”
And so ended the conversation. We three then sat in silence for the rest of the journey, as I watched the scenery slowly change from the metropolitan to the beautiful countryside. The whistle blew and the train’s acceleration gradually slowed down, signaling that we are drawing near to our destination. The train then pulled to a complete stop, with its noisy breaks upon the rails.
“Ponyville!” declared the stationmaster; “Ponyville, everypony, Ponyville!”
We then alighted the train, and entered the Ponyville platform, with the country air filling my nostrils as I admired the simplicity of the small town.
It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with fleecy white clouds drifting from east to west. The sun was shining brightly, and yet there was exhilarating nip in the air, which set and edge to one’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills of the town, the little hay-like roofs of the citizens peeped out from amid the light of the sun.
The citizens are equally nice as the town the take their residence in. They are extremely polite and friendly, a great contrast to the ponies of Canterlot. So homely they were, that little to no comment was made when an actual zebra purchased spices from a vendor. To me, however, there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this peculiar quest upon which we are engaged.
“Is it not lovely, Pones?” said I, as we trotted around the town. “The peaceful serenity of it all?”
But Pones shook his head gravely.
“Do you not think, Watcolt,” said he; “that it is one of the curses of a mind like mine that I must look at everything with the reference to my own special subject. You look at these houses, and you are impressed by their utter simplicity. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of isolation and of impunity with which crime may be committed there.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these humble folk?”
“They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watcolt, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of Canterlot do not present a more dreadful record than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
“You horrify me!”
“But the reason is very obvious—the pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbors, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these humble houses, with its naïve inhabitants who know so little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Now, I may proceed to set off my inquiries.”
“Wait!” cried Ms. Hooves, pulling my friend’s sleeve. Pones and I then glanced at her, startled at the sudden burst. She apologized and collected herself.
“Mr. Pones,” said the client; “I’m going to Sugarcube Corner.”
“For what particular reason, may I ask?” said Pones, raising a brow.
“Because Pinkie and I had agreed to bake muffins!”
My friend eyed her carefully.
“How strange; how strange indeed! When did she propose to you this idea?”
Ms. Hooves thought carefully with her eyes wondering off to seemingly random places. “Just yesterday!” said she. “When I had received my muffins.”
“What did she say to you exactly?” said Pones.
“She said, just right before I was about to leave, ‘Hey, Derpy, do you wanna learn how to bake?’
"‘Bake what?’ I said.
"‘Muffins!’
"But then I said, ‘But I already know how to!’
"But Pinkie was having none of it.
‘"Well, at least help me make some!’
"‘When?’ said I.
"‘Tomorrow!’ said Pinkie. “Here, at Sugarcube Corner.”
"I then agreed to this, Mr. Pones.”
“But why did you suddenly remember it now?” said I, curiously.
Ms. Hooves had shot a rather annoyed glance at my direction. “Well,” said she. “I was probably too busy thinking about Rainbow Dash that I forgot about it. But having arrived here, I was reminded of it!”
I conceded with a nod of the head.
Pones glanced at me with a pair of roguish eyes before addressing the mare.
"What do you intend to do now, Ms. Hooves?"
The mare sniggered at either of us with a certain glint of malevolence found behind her unassuming eyes, which is so unbecoming of the common countrymare such as herself. Turning her rear at us, Ms. Hooves then broke into a gallop; leaving a cloud of dust behind her. The mare was on the run.
“Follow her, Watcolt!” cried Sherclop Pones, as he and I too broke into a chase.