“As you may remember, we took chase upon Ms. Hooves for she claimed that she had ‘set an appointment’ with Pinkie Pie. It was when we encountered the latter at Sugarcube Corner that I confirmed both my suspicions of a Changeling’s presence and that of criminal activity.”
“How?”
“I will begin with the former—do you remember being conscious of the state of the shop?”
“Yes, it was rather dusty. Almost everything had been covered by dust. The furniture, the stairs, and even the floorboards.”
“Do you remember noting a track of hoofprints?”
“Yes, I did. There was just one though—found upon the dusty floorboards. But how—”
Then it hit me. I pound my hoof upon the table.
“By Jove, Pones!” said I. “How did not I notice it—I remember now, yes—a single track of hoofprints had originated from entrance, meaning that someone had entered. And by a solid account from the zebra, only Derpy Hooves had entered it! Therefore, those prints were hers! But how came those same prints led to the very same place we had seen Pinkie Pie standing—a totally different mare from our client. It is almost like she morphed into her. Sweet Celestia! This, then, lead to the confirmation of a Changeling’s presence! Derpy Hooves was Pinkie Pie and Pinkie Pie was Derpy Hooves!”
Pones laughed good-humoredly. “You are shining tonight, Watcolt!” said he. “Yes, you follow me wonderfully—those tracks did indeed confirm that suspicion—”
“Then,” said I. “to further reinforce it, you asked her—Pinkie Pie a question in which only the real Pinkie Pie could know—the amount of sprinkles she had given to Mrs. Hudcolt, to which that Pinkie Pie didn’t know either sprinkles nor Mrs. Hudcolt for she ISN’T the Pinkie Pie whom Mrs. Hudcolt knows! Pones, this is brilliant! But how did you confirm the suspicion of crime?”
Pones grinned. “The sacks of flour,” said he.
I stared. “The sacks of—how?!”
Pones took out the cigar from his mouth before answering.
“Do you recall them distinctly?” said he.
“Yes; they littered almost every square inch of the shop—”
“How did they impress you?”
“They were very dusty and quite damp.”
“Is that all?” said Pones.
I considered for a moment.
“Well, they did seem out of place,” said I. “it is as if they didn’t belong there.”
“Exactly, Watcolt, exactly—they are out of place for they DON’T belong there for they were taken away from their appropriate place. I deduced it to be so.”
“How?”
“In order to know their origin, I must ask myself this question—where do bakers usually store their supply of flour? Obviously not in the main shop. Perhaps in a room or some sort. But what kind of room? In order to ascertain this, I must note the condition of these sacks of flour—dusty and damp. Therefore, they must be from somewhere where objects in which inhabit it are prone to dust and dampness. Combine this knowledge with that of my previous knowledge where bakers usually store their flour— a hidden place. And since nowhere in the shop could that amount of dust and dampness could be obtained, a concealed room becomes more likely. This brings in three possibilities on what could that hidden room could be—a secret room concealed within the walls, an attic or a garret, or a basement.
“Now in order to determine which, I must frisk the entire place from top to bottom, as you may remember me doing so. In order to determine any of them, I must, from the walls, the ceiling, and the floorboards, search for any indication that may lead to the existence of a hidden room—typically the resonation of hollow sound.”
I remembered Pones’ queer actions at Sugarcube Corner. Pones paused briefly, reading my expression, then eventually continuing—
“Yes,” said he. “those seemingly meaningless actions—they all have a meaning. A good beating upon all sides of the shop, and was met by hardness. Then I ascended the stairs and beat the ceiling. While there was indeed an attic, it did not impress me to be dusty or damp for it was inhabited. Now, it is an old maxim of mine that when one eliminates all that is impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the TRUTH. Now, in this case, the impossible have been eliminated—that being the possible explanations for hidden spaces that keep the supply, the attic or a hidden room—and what remains is a basement, therefore, remaining from what had been eliminated, the basement must be the missing link. Now, where could that basement be located? Where I would have deduced it to be if I had ever believed the authenticity of the case presented—below the green circular carpet. I then confirm its existence by beating upon the carpet’s centre, which the consequence of doing so lead the sound of hollowness resonated. Therefore, with this deduction, I was able to solve the mystery of the origin of the dusty sacks of flour—the basement.”
“Pones,” said I. “However brilliant, how did this deduction confirm the suspicion of crime?”
Pones glanced at the direction of Pinkie Pie as the latter danced along to the music.
“Put yourself in the schemer’s situation, Watcolt—” said he. “--you want to present to me a concocted case, and it must be very convincing that it gives one the impression that it is an actual case. Therefore, what do you do? You do the necessary procedures to make it authentic as possible. You include the criminal, the victim, the crime, and the unsuspecting and naïve witness who shall present to me the facts in which I shall piece together in order to form a coherent narrative. Now, for this, you would need to also design a convincing crime scene. And since this particular crime in which we are solving involves a basement of some sort, you need an actual basement! And since the crime takes place in Sugarcube Corner, you need its actual basement. But you don’t own Sugarcube Corner, for it is owned by the Cakes, therefore it can’t be left to you freely. Nor can you ask for the owners’ consent for that would surely attract unwanted attention. But you still desperately need the convincing impression to deceit me. But, knowing that this would attract unwanted attention (for if one were to ask its inhabitants to leave the shop to him freely for some days is sure to do so,) he must find another way to use the shop freely without the knowledge of its inhabitants—the Cakes, their children, and their employee Pinkie Pie. What, then, would this someone do to leave the place uninhabited? What did the schemer do? He took it by force—or in other words, through criminal means.
“Now, obviously, the murder of the entire household would consequently lead to unwanted attention, therefore other means must be found to ensure their elimination. What could this schemer do? Poisoning them. If one were to do so upon the unsuspecting household with a non-lethal drug, they would fall ill and cause them to immediately sent to the hospital where they shall remain confined there for the entirety of the business, ultimately leaving the shop for free use.”
A revelation had struck me.
“The Cakes!” I cried. “Their unexpected illness—Mrs. Hudcolt’s narrative—that would explain it!”
Pones nodded. “Yes,” said he. “This would, then, explain the mysterious illness that had befallen upon the shop’s owners. But, how was that poison administered? This could only be answered by Mrs. Hudcolt’s previous narrative of her encounter with the very strange pony with a cruel moustache. In accordance to it, this pony had approached carrying some sort of pouch as he approached the counter of the Cakes, who had placed their cup of coffees upon it. This is, presumably, where the poisoned had been set. But why hadn’t the real Pinkie Pie been poisoned? That would be quite unnecessary for she would leave the shop and depart for the royal wedding in which she had an invitation from. Which brings us to next point of the positivity of criminal activity.
“If one were to deliberately drive my attention away from solving a political crisis that requires my presence in the political event—the Royal Wedding—in which that crisis is to occur by concocting an entirely false case and then presenting it to me so that I may be too preoccupied to pay heed to Myclop’s plead. And in the process commits an actual crime in order to give the impression of authenticity to persuade me that there is indeed foul play such as murder—it all reeks of the foul odor of crime.”