//------------------------------//
// Two 
// Story: The Adventures of Sherclop Pones 
// by B_25 
//------------------------------//

It was not a great distance to our next destination. The carriage raced through the streets, and we escaped the overgrown terraces that made up Pilot’s row. We passed between buildings of red brick and cast iron - great and towering machinations of Cloudsdale’s booming steelworks industry - and after about five minutes, skidded to a halt in the bustling city centre. Pones had already leapt from the carriage before I was even to my hooves.

We had come to rest outside of a small block of apartments. The door was wide open, and an officer was running a length of cord along the front footpath, so as to block the area off to the public. Only one busybody was there, looking - a rather large gray pegasus. He was dressed in a long, brown coat, and looked as though he might be a reporter. I clambered out of the carriage and stepped up the small flight of stairs that ran into the building, and as I reached the Officer, he looked at me, slightly bemused by the figure that had just raced past him. 
“I’m with him,” I said, gesturing inside. The policepony nodded wordlessly, and returned to his task of guarding the doorway, and I strode through the door, following voices to what appeared to be a kitchen area.

How eerily alike the two dead Pegasus were. A broad, tall, proud body, once great and mighty in its own right, now little more than a lump of feathers and bones in the middle of the shag pile carpet where he lay. He wore the same uncomfortable expression that radiated no pain, but more the dreadful and fleeting sting of the knife as it entered his back. The awful iron like scent of blood that stings one's nostrils with acridity hung dully in the air, and his blue coat was matted together by uneven clots of blood that had surged forth from the vicious wound in his back. He was not wearing any overcoat, and he lay in the same face-down position that Peregrine had assumed. 

There was one key difference to the scene, though, and it was one that assailed my eyes as soon as I entered. There was blood everywhere. It was splattered all over the wall behind, and on parts of the wooden floor. It was as if the murderer had taken joy in his victim’s demise, and it was only then that the true horror of what had taken place struck me - the strange unevenness to the blood on his coat - clearly, a hoof had been pressed to the wound at one point, and swept around his back like a painter’s brush… Flicked left and right in a maddened, savage glee.

I was pushed out of my unpleasant reverie by a harsh voice, some way off to my right.
“Doctor?” It said. I shook my head to clear my vision, and looked around for the culprit. A rough, white hoof was stuck towards me, and my eyes followed the limb back to its owner. 

The stranger appeared to be some kind of detective. He wore civilian’s clothes – a heavy brown duster was draped over his frame, and it nearly ran to his hooves. Such dress was fairly common amongst stallions, and were it not for the glimmering badge that adorned his lapel; I would never have suspected that he was a member of the Yard. He was a unicorn – the tip of his glimmering horn just protruded from beneath a tidy, coffee-coloured mane.

“Inspector Manes Gregson,” he said, as I grasped his hoof out of pure reflex. I murmured a pleasantry, but I cannot recall what it was, for my focus had not yet fully recovered from the sight of the body before me. I cast a swift look around the room, and caught sight of my companion. He had been out of sight in the adjoining pantry, and had re-emerged looking very solemnly at the floor, taking long, slow strides towards the body. He murmured to himself absent mindedly as he did so, and I was reminded forcibly of a fox hound as it hunts for the scent of its prey. As was usual, he had seemingly ignored all other ponies in the room other than himself, and he kept up a steady train of approving hums, whistles and cries of hope as he began his inspecton.

“He was quick to the chase,” Gregson said, seeing that my gaze had fallen onto Pones. No sooner had he said so then Pones broke from his trance like state with a sudden start.
“Trotson, I will need your measuring tape for a moment, and I will also borrow your magnifying glass, Gregson.” There was no hint of a request in his voice, but the Inspector did not seem to mind his rudeness, reaching into the deep back pocket of his coat and producing a steel handled magnifying lens. I reached into my breast pocket and withdrew my measuring tape, tossing it to him. He caught it deftly between his teeth, mumbled a ‘thank you’ and returned to his work.
“Such feverish energy,” I remarked.
“I wonder where he gets it from?” Gregson murmured in curiosity. He did not appear unduly bothered by the presence of the body, and was quite happy to stand to one side with me, while Pones went through what must have been a well practiced routine. I could no sooner understand most of what he was doing, for my knowledge was mostly medical and concerned the body, but I could see the white flash of the measuring tape as it was pressed against various invisible points. Occasionally, he examined the floor, kneeling and sweeping small amount of something into an envelope, and most absurdly, leaned down to the dead stallion, sniffing him.
“There cannot be putrefaction yet,” I said to Pones. “He has not been dead for more than a few hours.”
“How do you know that?” Inquired Gregson to me.
“There’s still colour in his face,” I replied. “I’d give it three to four hours ago that he met his end.”
“And I agree with you,” Said Pones from the floor, “but rot is not what I seek.”

He then got to all fours and trotted towards us, and I noticed that the amazing intensity that had moments before filled him with such agitation had subsided somewhat. He had not returned from his aspect fully, though, for there was no smile about his lips that might linger if all was clear to him. He returned my tape-measure and the glass.
“I have good news and bad news,” said he.
“Well, let us hear of both in due course, Pones,” said Gregson warningly, gesturing to the body on the floor. “First, what do you make of him?”
“He has been murdered by the same pony as the Pegasus who you were on your way to visit.”
“You are sure that they were of the same killer and not just similar in death?” Gregson said.
“It pleases me to see your sharp mind at work, Gregson,” Pones said. “Indeed, I checked for this much.”
“Well what makes you so certain?’
“Multiple things, but not so much the method of the murder, identical though it is. No, there is something far more obvious than that.” Here, Pones drew close to Gregson, putting a foreleg around his neck and guiding his head, pointing with his free hoof to a spot on the wall behind the body. 
“See there, now?” he said, and Gregson nodded.
“The nocks in the wall I had already seen.” 

I had to squint to make sense of what they spoke of, but Pones was right. There were, in the wall, six equally-sized marks. I would not have known what to make of them had I seen them, for they were not very large – about an inch each, and they were arranged in a pattern. There were two vertical cuts above three more, similarly-aligned. They were deliberately set apart into two distinct groupings, and between these was a horizontal slash. This cut was much deeper than the others, and looked as if the swing had been full of energy. 
“They are the marks of the killer.”
“A signature?”
“No,” said Pones, and a stern look fell about his features as he released Gregson. “It is a body count.” 
A deathly silence fell in the room. Even the wind outside seemed to respect the horror that Pones’ statement inflicted on me. Gregson took a deep breath.
“A serial killer,” he said, looking grave. I have to admit that my own feelings were in tandem with his. As I mentioned, I had seen death before, but I had never seen murder done before this day, and the horror that I had twice visited on that bitter winter morning did not soon leave me. The concept of somepony exacting such senseless murder made me sick, and I turned away so as not to wretch at the sight of the body, focusing my gaze on the clean, pure white of the wallpaper.
“No, I do not think so,” Pones' voice said.
“What makes you say this?” inquired the voice of Gregson back.
“It is a running tally,” he replied. “Do you see the groupings? They are a score.”
There was the tapping of hoofsteps on the floor, and then they were muffled by the shag carpet. Then, there was a distinct pause.
“…Two out of three?” Gregson asked again.
“Precisely.”
“I take it there were similar markings at Feather’s body?”
“Yes.”
I turned back to face the grim scene, my ill feelings having subsided. The two had walked over to the cuts on the wall.
“Where were these other markings?” I asked
Pones sniffed. “The marks were scratched into the painting on the wall,” he said nonchalantly. “Did you not see the direction in which the body lay? It was the last thing he clapped eyes on.”
I let out a small utterance of surprise, for I had not thought to look high, only low. My own incompetence was swiftly pushed aside by a second, more pressing thought.
“Then there is one more yet to be murdered,”
“That is the bad news.”
“Indeed, it seems that way,” Gregson confirmed. “The only question is who, and where.”
Pones did not reply. He had resumed kneeling next to the body.
“Where are his dog tags?” He inquired.
“I have them here,” Gregson replied, producing the metal necklace from his pocket. “I have had the luxury of time to determine his background.”
“He is a member of the same battalion as Peregrine,” I said, and Gregson raised an eyebrow. 
“That definitively proves that the murders were connected, then, and I think that it may point us toward our next victim.”
I took a sharp breath.
“You know who is to come next?”
“No, but we can find out,” Gregson replied, turning to Pones. 
“Is your analysis complete?” he asked, to which Pones nodded. “Good. I have his file on-hand.”
“You have a file on him so soon?” I asked, a little incredulous that he had achieved such a feat. He smiled, and with a glow of his horn, levitated a small brown dossier off of the kitchen table, and over to me.
“Yes, but it is not mine. I arrived around half an hour ago, and I sent for his military record as soon as I saw his tags.”
“You have read it, I presume – did you find anything of interest?”
The Inspector faltered a little at the question. “Well… No. The only thing I could see was that he was a seasoned flier in his squad, and an ex-wonderbolt.”
The last point struck me as interesting, and I frowned a little upon hearing it.
“Ex-wonderbolt?’
“Yes, it says he toured with them around Equestria about five or six years ago. A bit of an old hoof among them,” Gregson said.  
“I don’t suppose that he would be congruent with Peregrine Feathers – he was an experienced flier also.”
“Is that so?” the Inspector replied. “Well then, we may assume that the third victim may also be of the army.” Here, he nodded his horn at me, and the file in front of me opened to about halfway, stopping on a two pages. Both were encompassed by an extensive list of names, ranks, and identification numbers.
“On the left page, if I recall correctly, there is the complete list of his Company.”

I scanned the page until I located his name, and then searched up and down the columns, hunting for Peregrine’s name amongst the clutter. I soon found it, though my heart was no lighter for the confirmation of my suspicion. 
“Here is Peregrine!” I uttered. “He was in the same Platoon, so that is a plus - but alas, I fear that we will need more than just his Platoon and rank.”
“Why is that?” Gregson asked, nonplussed.
“There must be at least… forty, no – four dozen other names in the Platoon,” I replied, panning the list briefly up and down. “We need some second point by which to draw a conclusion.”
A grey hoof suddenly appeared over the top of the file, and then dossier dipped and was yanked away. I was a little alarmed, for my focus had been on it and not the room around me, and indeed it was Pones who had taken it. His sharp eyes swept down the list and back up again, and it was not a few seconds before he looked up, a resolute glint in his eagle-like gaze.
“We already have a second point, Doctor,” he said. “That is the good news.”
“Where?” I asked confusedly, striding over to see what he had seen. He surveyed me with some amazement for a second, and I became embarrassingly aware that I had evidently missed a very plain detail. He jabbed at the page in front of him in a particular spot and held it there for a moment while I read the name.
“That’s the pony who’s next on his list.” 
I remember being so shocked by the name that I did not even try to maintain any pretence of composure.
“You are sure?” I said, and he nodded solemnly.
“Definite.”
Gregson, who had meandered over, peered over Pones shoulder.
“Ah, but of course,” he said with an air of understanding. “Peregrine Feathers, James Fletcher, and the lady of the arena, Lieutenant Spitfire.” He sniffed. “They are all wonderbolts, after all.”
“Future, past, and present,” Pones replied. “Two points of data is more than enough to determine his next victim, though Peregrine's death alone was not enough for me to know that this beast would strike twice in such a short time.” For an instant, I heard the vitriol and anger in his voice that gave away his utter contempt for murder, but he swiftly rallied himself and pressed the file into my forehooves before turning to Gregson.
“You must not order anything to hers,” he said, “or else the game will be up.”
“Then what would you have me do?” Gregson pressed. “I agree that in order to catch the villain we must take him in the act, but we cannot risk her safety.”
“Do not worry. I have a stallion I can trust to oversee her tonight. He is not known well enough around here to appear as anything outside of a surprise visitor.”
“And who might that be?”

Silence filled the room, and I looked up from the file to see what the disturbance had been to cause such a break in the conversation. It was to my regret that I did, for both Pones and Gregson were looking at me most curiously, and it only took me a moment to figure out their intentions. 
“Are you sure?” The police-pony asked, looking me up and down. 
“I would do it myself, but undoubtedly I have been seen coming and going, and he will be watching for me tonight.”
“How do you figure this?’
“Our murderer is also an army stallion,” Pones said with regret. “Of fair strength and size, with an Irish accent, and undeniable skill and finesse – one need only look at the manner in which his two victims were taken to know this.” 
“An Irish stallion, then?” Gregson said. “How can you be so sure?”
“He smokes a very heavy cigar. Most likely far too masculine a thing to smoke for any lady,” said Pones, producing the envelope filled with floor-dust from his pocket. He tipped a small amount onto his hoof, and showed it to Gregson.
“Here now, there are ashes from the ground around the body.” He took a pinch and put it on his tongue before spitting, and then sniffed some of the ash. “Cloplin-made, and of a rare type smoked almost exclusively by those who hail from there.” 
“How are you sure that it was not smoked by our deceased Captain?’
“He does not smell of cigar smoke for one, and this kind of cigar is a very bold one - for seasoned smokers and those who would appreciate the art. Our dead friend here shows no signs of the smoking gentlepony. But, there is a more singular reason for my conclusion.” Here, he strode back over to the body and knelt next to it, mumbling his string of conclusions with such rapidity that I was scarcely able to catch all of it.
“The blade was a calculated thrust between the third and fourth vertebrae on both occasions. Spinal cord severed instanteously. Death was similarly swift. Seeing it twice tells me that the blow must be the work of a trained professional. Both figures were turned away from the murderer at the time, which suggests either that he came upon them by surprise, or more likely, given that here our man smoked prior to murdering the Captain…”
“Was known to the victim,” I finished quietly. 
Gregson and Pones, presumably unaware that I had continued to exist, looked over at me in unison once more.
“Quite so, Trotson. And, given that the murders are linked, we may assume that he knows Peregrine in the same way.”
I swallowed in my nervousness, and then looked back down at the list of names.
“So he is also a member of their platoon, then?” 
“It is not a certainty, but it is highly likely.”
“And you want me to stop this trained killer?”

I heard the swift tapping of hooves on the polished wooden floor again, and looked back up from the document to be startled once more by Pones. He had come very close – closer than I was comfortable with, and I backed off a little in my surprise. It was no trick or test, though – his face was of the same seriousness that I had seen when he was informed of the second killing. He seized me by the shoulder firmly.
“I shall be nearby, and so shall Gregson and his officers. I promise you that you will come to no harm.”
I could not help but swallow again, and I began to say something about his reassurances (which were less than comforting to me), but already he had turned his attention away, pacing back and forth before me like a sergeant inspecting his troops.
“…Yes,” he said after a while. “I think you will need a gun.”
“I had better!” I cried. “I don’t intend to go hooftip to hooftip with this trained assassin.”
Gregson nodded.
“I shall see that you get one, Doctor – I assume you carried one already.”
“What?” I said incredulously, struck by the remark. looking back at him. “Why would I carry a gun?” 
The Inspector shot Pones a dirty look.
“His plans usually tend to get whoever he’s working with into a good deal of trouble, intentional or otherwise.” 
Pones waved a hoof dismissively, brushing the underhanded blow away as if it had not bothered him.
“Data, data, data!” He murmured to himself. “I need it! I cannot make bricks without clay. Where will he come from? Will he make himself known, I wonder?”
“We shall just have to try and cover all the exits,” Gregson replied.
“Indeed.”
“Pones?” I inquired, eager to resume the questioning about my role.
“Trotson.”
“Why me?”
He looked at me, startled. The memory was extremely clear-cut – my comment had bewildered him. I had flummoxed the great Sherclop Pones. 
“Why you?” He repeated.
“I am about to be married and perfectly happy, for the first time in a long time. I am contemplating starting my own practice down in Ponyville with my fiancé soon enough. And this,” I said, tapping a hoof testily, “Is supposed to be my holiday.”
He gave me a puzzled look of indifference.
“Nopony asked you to follow me.” 
I bristled at the statement, and was about to give him a piece of my mind when Gregson stepped in between us. In retrospect, he had most likely anticipated such an irritating response from my companion from his own experience with him.
“Now now, you two,” he said, turning to me in particular. “Doctor, you will be perfectly safe, I assure you. Now come, you must see Spitfire, and convey our messages to her.”
“Your promises mean more to me than his,” I said to the former half of his statement, glancing over at Pones. Again, I was surprised by my companion’s actions. He seemed wounded by the words, and one corner of his thin mouth twitched. He looked at me with his usual searching stare, though unlike other instances where there had been a curious fire in his eyes, it was a blank and unfocused look.

With the atmosphere significantly dampened, we departed the apartment, and boarded the drawn carriage once more.