//------------------------------//
// Chapter 7: Gunpowder 
// Story: Sherclop Pones and the Cloudsdale Crimes 
// by A Sherlockian Brony 
//------------------------------//

Mounting upon the balloon in which we came, we promptly descended back to Canterlot and had hailed a coachman to take us to Cloudsdale Yard, whose main precinct is situated in the heart of the Equestrian capital.

A weary receptionist greeted us, and, upon our request, rang for an official. Presently, the bulk form of Detective Inspector Toby Gregcolt emerged from a door.

“Ah, good afternoon, gentlecolts,” said the official as he devoured upon a donut. “to what do I owe the honor?”

“The accounts surrounding the death of a certain Sky Scraper,” said Sherclop Pones. 

The Inspector choked at the utterance. Clearing his throat by shoving a flask of brandy in it, he regained his composure.

“Ah, that bloke, I remember” said he, thumping his chest. “was he the numbskull who's got 'is head blown off?”

Pones raised a brow.

“I was hoping you’d tell me, Inspector,”

The official gave a hearty laugh. 

“Of course, anything for you Mr. Pones. Don’t see any harm in it, for all we know you’d actually bring it to a proper close, since it never had been solved. Right, follow me, chaps…”

Gesticulating at the receptionist, we were admitted into the interiors of the facility. After walking through various corridors and descending flights of stairs, we had eventually reached an undercroft, where a singe gate had. Producing a ring of keys from his pocket, Gregcolt opened it which paved way to a network of various shelves, which mewled at the weight of the immense content.

Picking a particular folder from the category of “Cold Cases,” he brushed off the dust from it and handed it to us.

“Have your fun, gentlecolts,” said he with a smile, revealing teeth marred with donuts and tobacco. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything…”

As the resonance of the clops of his hooves slowly faded into the distance, Pones sprawled the contents of the manila folder using his Unicorn telekinesis. Leaning towards him, we read the initial reports in silent yet intricate interest.

It ran thus:

On the morning on the 12th of August, 18—, as the milkmare delivered the daily consignment to Dolphin Street and noticed Scraper’s flat, No. 16’s door ajar, barely hanging from its hinges. Sensing something wrong, she took the liberty to investigate. 

The house was a mess; books, valuables, and desks tampered and scattered. Eventually, the milkmare stumbled upon Scraper’s room and found the latter dead, his head mutilated nearly beyond recognition and his brains painted upon the wall. Right next to the corpse was the shattered window. 

Officials naturally arrived upon the scene and concluded, by the state of the house and the clearly missing articles, the motive of this dastardly crime is a common robbery, and upon extracting the bullet, they conclude that it was done by revolver. The police weren’t able to quite make out why the window had been shattered, but G. Lestrot, the detective tasked upon the murder, theorized that the criminal wielded such a powerful revolver that, upon shooting Scraper, the sound alone shattered the window. This is further borne out of by the sheer violence of the murder, which could only mean a powerful gun…a modified revolver, perhaps, which would explain the extreme violence upon Sky Scraper’s person. But Toby Gregcolt alternatively proposes that, prior to Scraper’s murder, there had been a scuffle between him and the criminal which resulted to the window’s shattering. This in turn is further borne out by the absolute disarranged state of the flat. 

The surgeon arrived and declared death occurred sometime around midnight. The police scoured for witnesses and examined the place top to bottom for any clues but ended futile. The closest thing they could determine was by several neighbors stating that they heard a violent shot ring out around the same time Scraper died.  Queerly, after it, a neighbor claimed to have witnessed a shadowy figure enter the house and then come back out. The police tried to trace it down, but ended once more futile.

At the end of it, Pones remained lost in thought, his eyes in a constant loop rereading certain paragraphs.

“Window…” he had constantly murmured. “…window…”

“Yes, he was found dead near a window…” said I curiously, following his gaze.

“By Jove, could it be true?” 

Shoving the floating documents aside, he moved on to the photographs taken at the scene. 

One was that of Sky Scraper himself, a lemon Pegasus with a strip of white running down his brown mane. Following it was what had remained of him—

His head had been obliterated into a bloody red mass of what had been once his brain. Only his mutilated nose and forever gaping mouth were of resemblance to the secretary. 

Judging from what I’ve seen in the photographs, rigor mortis had already been put into the body’s effect, for there suggested by the body’s position a certain rigidity. Sometime had already indeed passed upon its discovery. I said as much to my companion who nodded in affirmation.

As he flipped to the next image, something had fallen out from the folder. Picking it up, it was a plastic bag labeled  EVIDENCE.

Pones carefully extracted it and placed it upon my hoof.

“What do you make of that, Watcolt?”

I was momentarily confounded.

“It’s a Webley bullet…”

I frowned.

“But, Pones, isn’t that the same type found upon Dr. Hayfield?”

Pones lifted a shushing hoof to his lips as a mischievous gleam glimmered in his eyes.  He vigorously rubbed his hooves together and replaced the bullet back into the bag. He then moved on.

The following photograph depicted the state of the corpse’s surroundings. Valuable articles and furniture littered about the house, a window, right next to the corpse, was shattered.

“My, my, these all are very suggestive, my dear Watcolt;” said he, shoving the contents back into their respective folder. “It is indeed fortunate that Cloud Sweeper should have mentioned him, otherwise we would’ve missed such an important detail.”

“Do you have a lead?”

“More than a lead, a theory. Fret not, my dear fellow, the 10th page to the Plans is close at hoof. Our quest now lies at Dolphin Street, the residence of the late Sky Scraper.”

With that, grabbing my hoof, we ascended the stairs and various byways to the top, without a single allusion to that mysterious errand left behind us.

I wondered, indeed, what line of thought could my friend possibly be pursuing. The quest of retrieving the vital 10th page seemed like a distant memory. However enigmatic and often maddening Pones’ methods were, I’ve always left myself convinced that they all served to a common end. But I still felt a bit detached from the connection between the two crimes of Cloudsdale—a hideous murder and a baffling robbery—the so-called ploy surrounding Pearl White’s injuries, Cloud Sweeper’s continuous denial of his culpability, and now our investigation of an outlandish crime that occurred a year ago.

Parting a goodbye with Gregcolt, we boarded the balloon once more and ascended into the stratosphere.

Alighting upon a port, we headed for the location indicated.

Dolphin Street proved to be lonely yet homely multi-terraced domiciles, which, situated just across it, was another set of terraces.

Though emptied from its previous owner’s belongings and much repaired from the damage of the horrid crime that took place, No. 16 remained uninhabited, a solitary and rusted “FOR SALE” sign posted upon its brick wall. A sort of haunting and melancholy air hung about the place.

Pones teleported to the door and pried it open. We entered and, instantly, our senses had been harassed by the extreme stuffiness and immense accumulation of dust that we had awoken. Once it had cleared, Pones immediately began a systematic search.

He was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Ponies who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently, he made his way to the study of the deceased, a room which ran through the living room. 

It was a bare room, dust and various cobwebs littered the corners which tingled our noses. His attention had been particularly arrested by the single hung window, which had been originally shattered by the crime’s occurrence. 

He shoved his lens back inside his pocket and lifted the window. He poked his head around and stopped to stare fixatedly at the series of flats across it. He motioned me towards him.

“What do you observe here, my dear fellow?” said he.

Though uninhabited just like its neighbor across, the particular flat across us—No. 17, was much more in a ruined state and seemed to be abandoned long before No. 16 was. 

It was discolored into a dirty brown, its hinges rusted and windows shattered, and the lawn that sprawled below it had been reduced into a plot of withered vines.

Behind me, Pones devolved into a fit of laughter.

“The case is practically solved!” he cried. “Follow me!” 

With that, he climbed over the window and into No.16’s lawn (for the study was merely situated in the first story). With cries of confusion, I followed suit. 

Pones sprinted to No. 17 with characteristic devilish speed and proceeded to kick the door open. We ascended the stairs and entered a space which, amongst the various abandoned articles and relics of its previous inhabitants, lie a bow window, which, in turn, commanded a direct view of No. 16.

Pones went down upon his knees and examined the sills, like a hound upon a scent. Presently, he uttered a cry of excitement. 

“Come, Watcolt,” said he, his eyes livid. “bend down a bit and observe—”

With his telekinesis, he placed something in a plastic bag, which he produced, and handed it to me. It was a sort of black, powdery substance.

“Pones, this is gunpowder…”

My friend clapped my back.

“Indeed, it is, my boy—”

I remained in confounded silence. 

“But what could it mean—”

“Don’t you see? Regard the positioning of this window to that of the flat across the street—surely you perceive a connection?”

My eyes widened at a revelation.

“That the criminal positioned himself here, shot Sky Scraper with a Webley, and robbed the dead of his belongings. Is that it?”

Pones bit his lips.

“Not quite, I’m afraid, Watcolt;” said he. “There is, however, some levity in your statement which isn’t that far from the truth. It’s only a matter of proving, now. Come,”

In somber silence, we descended the stairs in stepped out into the beaming rays of the Cloudsdale sun.

As curious eyes started peering through the half-drawn curtains of the surrounding flats, we hastily left Dolphin Street. 

Pones decided that we satisfy our hunger first before any future proceedings, for some time had already elapsed after 12 and our stomachs growled. We had a hasty lunch of hayburgers and soda at the Monarchial Burger, which sat a couple yards past Dolphin Street. Once we had been sufficiently filled up to the brim, we promptly returned to business.

“My dear Watcolt,” began my companion. “would you be so kind to do me a favor?”

“What kind?” said I, curious.

“Oh, it’s just a mere errand, nothing more. I would like you to climb the top of the Pegasus Colosseum…”

I nearly laughed at the notion, but Pones didn’t seem to share the sentiment.

“A lot may hang on it,” he warned. “it is of paramount importance that you do so for it is in direct correlation with the case in hand…”

I sat up.

“What am I to do there?”

“You would position yourself various times at the various gaps of the structure until you command a sufficient view of the Weather Factory. Upon doing so, you shall report to me your findings—the gauge of the wind, the comfort one would have if one were to put one’s self in such an absurd position—and, most importantly, if you find any gunpowder—”

“My dear Pones, how absurd!”

“But, yes, absurd—that’s the word. But isn’t science and laws of collateral nature absurd? The solution to the murders of Dr. Hayfield and his secretary and the retrieval of the 10th page hangs upon your errand.”

I recalled listing minutes and timelines during the whole affair of Pinkie’s Cupcakes.

With some reluctance, I finally agreed. 

“I knew you wouldn’t shrink at the last,” Pones said, gripping my hoof. “Here’s a pen and paper if you need it. Do meet me at Buck Hall, once you’ve returned; I shall be with Myclop then where we shall discuss matters.”

Tipping his hat, he teleported, leaving some Bits for the waiter. Paying the bill, I prepared myself for the strange quest ahead.

─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

Having lost my left wing during the Campaign, I was thus compelled to ride via balloon to reach the top. In gradual ascension, as the August sun with its beams nearly blinded me, I stood in austere anticipation as the figure of the great relic of architectural beauty slowly came into view.  

Serving as a historical symbol of militaristic might of Commander Hurricane’s Pegasi and as an amphitheatre for the gladiatorial stunts that had been once hosted there, it had remained there, relatively intact, after a millennium since its completion, though there were some slight indications of deterioration, evident by the occasional cracks found upon its edifices.

Having once alighted at my desired location, that is, upon the up most section of the Colosseum’s elliptical structure, I walked through its entirety. 

Its circumference, from an architectural perspective, was nearly a mile long. It was with some difficulty, then, coupled by the continuous Cloudsdale wind that had nearly whisked away my hat and cane, to locate the desired view of the Factory which Pones had put such an importance on.

At long last, however, I prevailed! There it was, with its somber and grim state with absence of its industrial fumes, the distant Weather Factory lied several kilometers away.

Uttering a cry of jubilation, I promptly produced a pair of binoculars and camped at my position.

It was just as Pones had described; a direct view of the facility. I had observed the same shattered window of Dr. Hayfield, its background blackened by the puniness of its distance. Though, I did see several figures darker than the rest of the shadows which presumed to be Lestrot and his constables.

I jotted my discoveries in a small notebook, then proceeded to scour my surroundings for any black powdery substance.

Presently, I found one. 

There, by the corner of the arch which I found myself under in, were the vague exhausted remains of gunpowder.