With the blink of an eye, we were in a completely different location. Judging by the number of ponies in which were present, I assumed we were back in Ponyville’s town square.
“Pones!” I cried as we swiftly walked through the gathering crowd in which had quickly identified whom my friend was. “Pones, would you care to explain on what had just occurred?”
“Such as what?”
I scoffed. “Why, your actions!” said I. “For one, what did you see in those dusty sacks? You had evidently foreseen something there of importance. Why had you beaten the walls, the ceiling, the floorboards of the shop so violently? There’s evidently a reason behind that! Why had you put up such a queer question regarding our landlady’s purchases to Pinkie Pie? And most importantly, where is our client? That last time we had seen her Ms. Hooves remarked that she was to meet an appointment in which she had agreed to attend. That place in which where it was scheduled to take place was Sugarcube Corner. Don’t you find it a bit odd, Pones, that she was never seen since, where, by coincidence, is the same place in which the mare—Rainbow Dash whose strange disappearance we are investigating, was last seen there as well?”
Pones shot a rather inquiringly look. “What could you possibly be suggesting here, Doctor?”
“I’m suggesting that an element of crime may be present in the matter.”
Pones had let out a dry chuckle. “You are right, in a certain sense,” said he. “But what makes you say so?”
“Well, first of all,” I began. “It’s the similarity of the circumstances surrounding each mare’s disappearance.”
“Such as?”
“Pinkie Pie’s queerness! Well, now, look at this—when Ms. Hooves had encountered Ms. Pie on the day of the disappearance, the latter had shown several acts of queerness. Such as the unfolding of the carpet, her standing upon its centre, the bitten cupcake upon the ground (in which she had inexplicably reduced to atoms), and the overall queerness of her manner towards Ms. Hooves every time they had interacted.
“Now, let us see ours with hers—she had unfolded the carpet, stood upon its centre, reduced the bitten cupcake to atoms, and had shown a certain amount of queerness towards us interview. Now, my dear Pones, you could not deny how striking this amount of uncanny similarities are, can you? It is almost they are connected—no, Pones, they are! I stand on my ground that this so, though I still fail to see how they are. Nevertheless, with this, and the fact that both client and the disappeared had set an appointment under a certain pretense, it does strike remarkable, does it not?”
I looked at Pones for at least a sign of approval of my theory. But instead, he broke into a burst of hysterical laughter. I was quite annoyed.
“Pones!”
“My dear Watcolt, you are scintillating today! But the similarities are indeed peculiar—grotesque, even—but I can tell you this—assure you, my dear fellow, Rainbow Dash is not the only reason why I had decided to partake upon this devious case."
“What!”
“Yes, that is so.”
“But—what about the—”
“Let whatever you are about to say lay aside for the moment, Watcolt—an explanation shall come in time. But for now, I can tell you this, the Cakes, Pinkie Pie’s employers—they are the real ones whom we must bring justice upon.”
“For what?”
“For being the victims of a crime.”
“A crime?” I gasped. “But I thought they were victims of an illness!”
“As it seems, Watcolt—as it seems, for they have been artificially poisoned. Someone had purposely poisoned them—once I knew their fur were of a pale greyish hue, I knew they had fallen victim to a strychnine poisoning...not a 'sudden illness' as our dear landlady mistaken to put it as."
"Sweet Celestia!"
"It’s a crime, Watcolt—a crime that functions as the subordinate that shall, once committed, directly contribute to the success of another crime."
“Good Heavens, Pones! What is that crime? Is it concerned to the disappearance of the mares?”
“I can’t tell you what, I’m afraid, for these are just mere speculations. But in order to know if these rather fantastic surmises are indeed the truth, I must first confirm them, and perhaps, in the process, bring the devilish miscreant behind the Cakes' so-called 'illness' to justice.”
“By how?”
“By visiting the Ponyville branch of Cloudsdale Yard, where, upon inquiry, young Stanley Trotkins is currently stationed at.”
“I hold no recollection of you setting an inquiry.”
“The telegram I had sent—its reply—it was written in the distinct writing of the young inspector. This, I believe, is the branch.”
This conversation had taken place as we walked to that branch Pones had alluded, and once it had ended, we were already upon the doorstep of a cottage with a wooden signage reading “Cloudsdale Yard: Ponyville.”
Pones rasped on the door and out came a young stallion in his thirties with a thin moustache, a brownish coat, hazelnut mane, and cladded in an official uniform, stared at us with a pair of amazed green eyes.
“Mr. Sherclop Pones!” cried Stanley Trotkins, shaking my friend’s hoof cordially. “What brings you down these crimeless parts? It is indeed an honor, sir, to meet you once more. And of course, you too, Dr. Watcolt. Do please, come in, and have a cup of tea.”
But Pones waved him off.
“I am indeed sorry, Trotkins, for having to decline your humble offer, for I have come for a delicate matter.”
“Oh," said Trotkins with anticipation being read in his youthful eyes. "What kind of matter?"
“I intend to bring justice upon a criminal that is currently residing in this town.”
A dark expression came across the official’s features. “Here, sir?” said he, a little shocked. “Here in Ponyville?”
Pones nodded.
“What is the crime?” said the young official in a business-like tone.
Pones considered for a moment. “If I were to point out the miscreant,” said he. “would you assist me in bringing justice upon it?”
“Why, yes, sir,” said Trotkins, slightly confused to pronoun of 'it'. “but we need a warrant in order to do so, sir.”
“Could you make one?”
“With pleasure, sir,” said the official, darting to the desk behind him and grabbing a pen and a piece of paper. “but, to whom are we using it for?”
Pones grinned. “Now, Inspector,” said he. “you will, I trust, forgive me if I were to keep you in the dark for not revealing what are we against with. I must not reveal the criminal’s identity if a successful arrest were to be made, but when the time comes that I shall call upon you to arrest it, will you not hesitate to do so?”
Trotkins thought for a moment. “But we still need a warrant!”
“Yes, yes, of course, make one, if you please—but will you do what I ask?”
Trotkins hesitated. “What is what you want for me to do, sir?”
“I want you, my good Trotkins, to make that warrant, then—”
“What is the criminal charged for?”
Pones then whispered something in the official’s ear.
“Star Swirl’s Beard!" cried Trotkins.
“As I was saying, once you made it, you must, inspector, keep it until I call upon you to use it. Is it understood?”
Trotkins nodded. “As you say so, sir.”
Pones patted him upon the back. “Splendid!”
“But when will that time be?”
Pones thought for a moment. “How long, may I ask, is your shift?” said he after some consideration.
“From midday to eight in the evening, sir.” said Trotkins.
Pones, to my surprise, had uttered a curse of frustration.
“What time is it now, Watcolt?” said he, turning to me.
I pulled out my watch.
“Half-past two.”
“Half-past two?!” he exclaimed, placing a hoof to his forehead. He then fell into a reverie. Then, as his expression had slightly lightened up, he finally broke his silence with a joyous cry. He turned to the inspector. "Who comes in after you?”
“Mr. Antheley Jones, sir.”
“His shift?”
“It starts when mine ends—8 PM till 4 in the morning, that'd be.” said Trotkins.
“Who takes after him?”
“That would be Mr. Tobias Gregcolt, sir.”
“Then, as I understand, his would end when yours has begun, that time being midday?”
“Quite right, sir.”
Pones had yet fallen into another reverie. He seemed to brewing some plan as his eyes darted from me to the young inspector then to my watch then the papers at Trotkins’ desk.
“My dear Trotkins,” he had begun, turning to the youngster. “would it be too much to ask if I were to ask you, under a special pretense to do so, to remain stationed even after your shift has ended?”
Stanley Trotkins was rather taken aback by this question.
“For what object?” said he.
“To catch the criminal in which I had spoken of.”
The young detective had considered this for a moment. Then, after his face had contorted to torn expressions, he looked up at Pones.
“How long do you wish to retain me?” said Trotkins, in a decided tone.
Pones had placed a hoof to the youngster’s shoulder.
“I greatly appreciate your compliance, young Trotkins,” said he. “Now, as for the time, it would be around eight in the following morning.”
“But under what pretense? Jones and Gregcolt would question my further presence…”
“You would say that you are currently working upon a case in which was presented to you by me.”
“But what would that case be?”
“They would know what it is you’re currently working upon by glancing at the warrant in which I desire for you to sign.”
“But what if they don’t believe me?”
Pones smiled. “Ah, but that is the plan! They may not believe you, which they are assured to not for the object of the warrant would surpass the capabilities of their imagination. Which would consequently lead them to not mind you doing your duty, and thus resulting for you to remain detained in that station. Now, quick, Trotkins get that warrant signed this instant!”
With that command, the young detective darted off to the magistrate.