The Atlas Jail held Cloud Sweeper till the inquest. Drawing his card which had always given a command of respect to officials, Sherclop Pones gained admittance to have half an hour of chat with the prisoner.
Cloud Sweeper proved to be an exceedingly handsome specimen somewhere around his thirties. But by glancing at his records, he was in actuality a mere 26-year-old. A lithe, yet stern figure, with a hint of athletic agility and a tempestuous wit behind those emerald eyes, he addressed us with certain indignant air, but was compliant enough to answer our inquiries.
We reiterated and confirmed what had already been known—his duties as chief guardian of the Factory’s documents, his close association with Dr. Icarus Hayfield and, naturally, with his secretary, Fred Porlock.
Cloud had lamented the murder of the unfortunate chemist, but vehemently denied his culpability, as well as the alleged robbery. He won’t deny how “damningly conclusive” it is for the actual documents to be found on his person, but claims to have been framed.
“I just don’t know by whom…” said he. “…like I would ever do such a thing!”
He won’t deny Cassie Windy’s telegram and his arrival at Charlie Cross to tend to his sweetheart, but had stuck to his narrative of remaining there throughout the entirety of the crimes’ timeline.
“But the facts, sir,” Pones pointed.
The stallion uttered a curse.
“Damn it all, Mr. Pones; why do they have to be so convincing? Even I, Mr. Pones, question my own innocence. But it’s impossible, I tell you, for that fellow in your so-called ‘surveillance’ to have been me. The tape must’ve been tampered by magic or something—”
He turned away from us.
“—and now I’m here, away from Pearl, when she’s there, not even able to speak…who could’ve done such crimes, Mr. Pones? Old Hayfield, a good friend, dead. And to top it all off, I’m here, impossibly accused for his death. And treason, to make matters worse. I’ll get them villains, once I get out of here—”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Sweeper,” my companion cooled. “contemplating on another crime won’t do you any good—”
“Another? But I’m innocent—”
“Loathing won’t either. You’re in a very black position, Cloud, that’s certain. But I’m inclined to pursuit an alternative thread for there are certain points of your ‘case’ that I find rather odd in nature. If you wish the wrong to be set right, I implore you to not do anything rash and do as I tell you. So far, you’ve given me exemplary account of your doings last night, now I must ask you: what are the respective shifts, that of your own, the late doctor and his secretary?”
The guardian bit his lips.
“My own starts from 7 PM, up to 4 in the morning, where I do the usual stuff—checking surveillance, monitoring guards, assuring the security of the Plans safe in their safe. Then, I go home, I couldn’t say the same for old Hayfield, however.
“The Factory has a very specific system in managing their employees’ shifts, you see, and the old doctor had his own. Characteristically, he has two shifts; his day shift and night shift. It’s rather necessary for the position in which he so delicately holds. From 6 to noon, where he dictates the morning to afternoon’s weather, then won’t return till 6 PM which lasts until midnight, where he shall dictate the evening to sunrise’s weather.”
“Hmm…” said Pones, stroking his chin as he took down notes upon his pocketbook. “What of Fred Porlock?”
“Ah, being the secretary, just like Sky Scraper before him, Fred’s practically the same as Hayfield—”
“I beg pardon—” interposed Pones with a raised hoof. “Sky Scraper?”
“Yeah, poor fellow; his murder never was solved…”
“Murder?”
Cloud Sweeper looked at Pones.
“Surely you’ve heard of him; he was an old mate of mine, and Fred’s predecessor—”
“Dr. Hayfield’s secretary, you mean…”
“Quite right.”
“Murdered?”
Cloud nodded.
“Ah,”
Pones became rigid, his features contorted in immense thought. His eyes darted round corners as he mumbled incoherently under his breath. A new line of thought, perhaps. A smile then slowly unfurled across his face.
“And, upon Sky Scraper’s murder, this Fred Porlock hastily filled up his position…”
“Yes,”
“How long has he been in the doctor’s employ?”
“For the past year or so, not so long, perhaps, after Princess Twilight’s coronation. Sky was murdered somewhere in May, and, ten days later after some advertising, Fred came along.”
“How has he proven?”
“Eh, he’s alright, I’d say. Meets his ends, effectively assists Hayfield like a good assistant would. But he’s no Sky, I tell you that. But Porlock has his traits; good on making a laugh, I tell you that. He’s become close friends with the doctor, always cracking up jokes concerning work.”
He gave a sad smile.
“And now I’m accused over it, and—poor Fred, can’t blame him, though, with all the evidence—testifies my culpability. What would you do, Mr. Pones, if you were him, and actually found the body of Hayfield, lying there. You wouldn’t do any different…”
“If the facts would align, yes…” mumbled my companion.
A brief silence ensued, in which was broken by a correctional officer behind us informing that our time is up.
“Well, well, we’ve got all that we can from your account, my dear sir,” said Pones, bowing to Cloud. “Rest assured, Dr. Hayfield, and yourself and Ms. White shall be done right.”
We turned to go, but Pones stopped and addressed the prisoner.
“Raise a hoof, Sweeper!”
Cloud Sweeper did so, raising his right limb.
“Why—”
“Now, your wing!”
Cloud then complied.
“Thank you, my dear sir.”
With that, we left the facility as Cloud Sweeper watched our departure with a sort of desperate confusion in his eyes. Pones opted to ignore my questions.
“An employment that quickly succeeds an unsolved homicide, Watcolt…very strange, is it not?”
“Why, what do you see in it, Pones?”
“A sign for us to pay a visit to the records of Cloudsdale Yard. I shall have no stone left unturned till I ascertain the meaning of this conundrum. To do so, we must reopen the case of Sky Scraper, the late secretary of the late Dr. Icarus Hayfield…”