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// Chapter 8: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.” 
// Story: Sherclop Pones and the Cloudsdale Crimes 
// by A Sherlockian Brony 
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“Excellent, Watcolt!” cried Sherclop Pones upon my return. “Now, all we need is Myclop…”

We sat opposite to one another at the lobby of Buck Hall, a government facility situated in the heart of Canterlot, where the Caballus Club was located in. An illustrious establishment with posh wooden flooring, chandeliers which provided a yellowish illumination upon the rims of the portraits of the various members that adorned the walls. They seemed to be illustrious figures of Equestrian society, judging from their poses and countenances that spoke of prominence. There were portraits of figures great academic importance to the wizardly world, some of which were long gone or currently somewhere else in some unknown errand. 

Bearing similar builds to Myclop Pones with their stout, portly forms, ponies with smug grins or the most poutful of expressions were found deeply sunk upon their respective armchairs which had littered the lobby, omitting each other’s existence as they listlessly flipped through the pages of their gazettes. 

Then I remembered what Pones had told me about the queer customs of the Club, wherein none of its members, under no pretext, shall be granted to speak to one another and merely acknowledge his own existence and business as they meticulously manage the ongoings of Equestria. 

“To do this,” explained Pones. “they must hold the records of every single subject under this Monarchy; if they were to ever uncover one of them conducting some shady exercises that may potentially pose a threat to Equestria by acting as a direct confederate to one of its enemies, Myclop and his boys would be there on the scene. Even yours and my own, my dear Watcolt, they hold records to. This is the exact reason why we are here you see. While you were on your little errand, I alighted by balloon and inquired the receptionist over there for the papers for all the parties concerned in this confounding case. Now, since most of the ponies here are of government employ, it requires the direct supervision of my brother, for he is himself one. Ah, if it isn’t stallion himself. Good afternoon, Myclop, we were just discussing that current Cloudsdale matter at hoof…”

Emerging from a room opposite, the stout, bulky form of illustrious Unicorn official stood before us.

“It is essential that you do so, brother mine,” said the other Pones with jovial smile as several manila folders levitated beside him. “I have done as you requested; here are the papers concerning the varying histories of those involved…”

Tossing them unto the table before us, we buried ourselves into a devolvement of prosaic work.

As the dongs of the distant clock resonated hourly across the hall, constantly reminding us how much time had elapsed, we’ve learned and reiterated various facts and records. 

Dr. Hayfield’s long and reputative chemical career of note and how he has been in the field in which he held so close to his heart for the better part of a few decades and how he gained his employ at the Factory sometime around his thirties.

Following him was his new secretary. As previously ascertained from Cloud Sweeper, Fred Porlock, not so long after Sky Scraper’s unfortunate death, answered to an advertisement and hastily filled up his predecessor’s post. They found nothing odd concerning his records. He was clean. He was of legal age, young, and had a clear and concise mind. 

We then went through once more to those of Sky Scraper and Cloud Sweeper, and to save the reader from such tedious reiterated facts, I hitherto omit their mentions.

Having once completed this examination, Myclop Pones, having finished his tenth cigar, heartily chuckled at the heap of tattered papers before us.

“Where do we go from here, Sherly?” said he, heaving a sigh. “It seems a long shot from missing technical papers to devolving ourselves to an all-out investigation of hours’ worth. Of course, there is something inevitably logical behind it all; but up until know, I confess, I fail to perceive any such notions…”

Sherclop Pones, whose haggard, yet determined complexions grew more determined by every passing minute, turned to the latter with a cynical and rhetoric glare. 

“If only you’ve seen the vital point of the gunpowder, my dear brother…”

Myclop raised a brow.

“‘Gunpowder?’ Dear me, when does that come into play?”

“You and the entirety of Cloudsdale Yard shall know soon enough, I assure you. Well, well, I think we have exhausted all that we can from here. I believe, gentlecolts, that we must request an audience with a certain employee at the Factory which shall bring, I hope, an end to all of this—”

“What?” said I. “With whom?”

“Cloud Sweeper?” clued Myclop, raising his monocle.

Pones shook his head.

“With Dr. Hayfield’s reputable secretary, Frederick Porlock of—wherever he lives; it is queer, is it not, that it is never mentioned once where does he take his lodgings? Well, well, we’ll let it slip for the moment. Come, Watcolt, let us recruit Lestrot at the Yard to join our quest to the clouds of Cloudsdale Yard. I suggest you come along, Myclop, for I fear that your expertise may be needed…”

With Myclop Pones’ massive weight hindering the ascension of the afternoon balloon, we nonetheless reached the top with relative ease. (Though the pilot, a cherry pink coat, casted occasional glares as she maneuvered the flight.)

Lestrot was found back at Atlas Jail, where he questioned imperatively the alleged culprit, Cloud Sweeper. Though, in spite of the stoic expression of the official, it was clear he was at his wit’s end on what to do. 

When he heard of our presence, he betrayed his stoicism and heaved a sigh of relief. Upon learning of our intentions, he expressed his utter delight and feverishly shook hooves with Pones.

“Thank you, Mr. Pones,” he cried. “whatever it takes to end it all! I just don’t seem to get it; it’s that confounded window, I tell you; I could never conjure up an explanation for it…”

“That is all fine, my dear Lestrot,” said my companion, placing a reassuring hoof at the official’s shoulder.    

“And the sheer velocity of the bullet—is it ever conceivable for a Webley to inflict such—mutilation?”

Pones shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps, perhaps…”

“And the Papers! Where could they be?”

“Only demonstration upon Mr. Porlock’s part could show us that, Inspector;”

“A demonstration upon what exactly, Sherly?” inquired Myclop.

“Why, how the entire production works, of course! How else would I locate this elusive murderer and the vital 10th page in which he stole if I were to not understand how the system in which all of this revolves around works? It is but a logical procedure; I am bound to do it. Perhaps there is some technical point in which I may have so unfortunately overlooked, which may or may not, upon me regarding it, guide me to the answer. Only the reputable Mr. Porlock could show it. Now, Lestrot, where have you last seen this fine fellow?”

“At the Factory, when I left some hours ago when I took care of the unfortunate Doctor’s body. Said he wanted to bid a proper goodbye to the bloke…”

Pones rubbed his hooves.

“Splendid; now, we go…”

─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

“Of course, gentlecolts, as you wish…” so complyingly said the slim and lithe form of Fred Porlock at our entrance. “Anything to resolve this matter…”

We found him sorting the papers of his late employer in meticulous order, his youthful face somber and gaunt.

“Where do I start?” said he, directly addressing Pones.

“With the chemical process of—” the latter considered for a moment. “—clouds, for example. Surely, having such close personal ties of Dr. Hayfield you yourself at least possess a sufficient level of knowledge upon Weather Production…”

The secretary frowned, but then hastily replaced his confusion with a flatteringly appreciative beam.

“I thank you, Mr. Pones; very well, follow me, gentlecolts…”

We were then led to varying labyrinths of the melancholily empty Factory, constantly evolving as we passed certain sectors from personal lockers, to offices, and, at last, to the chemical labs. In it, I studied in awe as I observed the empty stalls in which Pegasi chemists from all backgrounds carefully and caringly designed snowflakes for the coming winter, the actual specimens themselves lying temporarily abandoned in jars. There were also the fantastically colorful goos of rainbows, and the machines which converted buckets of water into variants of clouds. The latter most of which our attention dictated to as Porlock performed its chemical production.

With his left wing, he produced from a drawer a labeled flagon of water, to which he promptly poured into the machine. 

Both the Pones brothers and official watched in interest as the machine’s whirring chugged a white puff of cloud with a shoof.

Once the demonstration was completed, Porlock chased the rogue cloud (which had begun to blow by the wind’s direction) and presently shoved it into an empty jar with his left hoof. With an eccentric gesticulation of it, he explained that clouds could only be manufactured, when necessary, not for mere showcasing.

“A most intriguing and precise presentation, Mr. Porlock, I commend you;” said Pones, clasping and unclasping his hooves. “Would you mind indeed if were to tax upon you a few more questions?”

Fred Porlock keenly analyzed the amateur before agreeing with queer acquiescence. He nodded.

“You mentioned during our first encounter, that you used certain—” he waved a hoof as if searching for the proper word. “–beauty products, which had actually caused you a terrible allergic outbreak of rashes! How is it for you, might I ask?”

At the mere mention of it, as if on que, the secretary scratched the reddish marks, though they were much subdued to what they were no so long before. 

“Eh, ample,” said he. 

Pones smiled.

“Would you mind showing them to me?”

“Really, Mr. Pones!” retorted Lestrot. “I don’t see the relevancy of—”

But the other Pones silenced him with the glare of his monocle.

“Patience, Detective Inspector;”

“Would you guide me to them?” said Sherclop, turning his gaze back at the frowning secretary. The latter nodded.

“We’ll be back shortly, don’t you worry—” said Pones, disappearing from the facility with Porlock alongside him. 

Presently, they reappeared; Porlock carrying the same brown saddlebag earlier this afternoon, and beside him, Pones with a levitating miniscule bottle containing a powdery blue substance.

“You mentioned beauty products; I’ve imagined gel or something of the sort, not makeup. Whatever could you use it for, Mr. Porlock?”

The secretary visibly flushed red at the remark.

“I play at the theatre in my free time, sir,” he explained, reddening even more as my companion further examined the bottle.

“Ah, indeed?” he commented with a certain glimmer. “A secretary to the famed Dr. Hayfield of worthy chemical note, and the other, an actor! My, my, you are certainly one talented individual, my dear Porlock; I commend you once more…”

Porlock bowed.

“Thank you, sir; really, it’s just a mere hobby—”

“Acting is assuredly no mean feat, I tell you.” He pondered for a bit. “An allergic reaction…” he repeated.

“Yes, you’ve already said that—” said the secretary, bewildered increasingly becoming more prominent upon his features.

“Quite right, quite right; what plays do you normally perform? The Hamster? Pear and the Apple?”

The secretary had been evidently taken aback by this, for he took a step back, but quickly regained his composure.

“Yes, I do Shakeshoof from time to time. The Hamster, to be precise—”

“Which character, might I inquire? As I recall, there’s over a dozen of them—”

“Ponieius—”

“Indeed? Mind if you give us a little demonstration—a line, for example?”

Lestrot was about to utter a retort, but Pones waved a dismissive hoof at his direction. He then turned back to the secretary.

With reluctant and bewildered compliance, the colt then did so. Reciting Shakeshoof’s famous line with the expected theatrical flair. It was however, I confess, rather amateurish. Then I remembered that acting was just a mere hobby of his and was then therefore natural that some lack of professionalism in the art was present. 

Pones, however, seemed to be rather left…unsatisfied upon the concluding the quotation. He gave a slow clap. 

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, Mr. Porlock;” said he, ignoring the impatient grunts of Inspector Lestrot and Myclop’s ticking watch. “But I seem to recall that Ponieius was of a bluish color, in terms of his coat—”

“Mr. Pones, really,” the secretary began to riposte. “I hardly see the relevancy of my hobbies here—”

“So it seems, my dear sir; rest assured that all this seeming farce shall reach a conclusion soon enough. Now, I must ask you forgive me for the following request I’m about to impose: would you mind applying some this blue makeup?”

“Why, whatever for?” 

“Ponieius, as stated, had a sky-blue color on his coat. You play as him in plays; but to do so, you must bear resemblance to him. But you are of greyish color. Hence the blue makeup. To fully flesh out your portrayal, I must ask you to kindly put it on…”

He then tossed the bottle to Porlock, who clumsily caught it with his left wing.

Perhaps it was the compelling presence of the figures around him, or my friend’s commanding air and the certain glare in his stern eyes, young Porlock hastily complied to his wishes and smudged his face with bluish substance, knowing full well the allergic reaction that shall ensue from it.

He flinched as he did, but once it was complete, I perceived the translucency of the makeup and how it queerly blended its owner, emitting a strange contrasting combination of bluish grey. He then quoted Hamster.

“Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't” Fred Porlock cried.

A pregnant silence then filled the room for few moments, one in which was spent both parties exchanged befuddled glances from one another. It was the secretary who broke it.

“What—”

Pones had cut him off. He wretched off the saddleback from the colt and emptied its contents upon the ground. 

“It is final;” declared Sherlcop Pones approaching the ever-shrinking form of the secretary. “Inspector, arrest this pony—”

Pens, notepads, pictures and various papers consisted of its contents. Amongst the clutter that littered the floor, was the 10th page of the Weather Factory Plans.