//------------------------------// // Chapter 9: Sherclop Pones explains // Story: Sherclop Pones and the Cloudsdale Crimes // by A Sherlockian Brony //------------------------------// “Why, you little runt!” bellowed the infuriated Lestrot as he managed to deliver a blow upon Fred Porlock’s youthful face. “How long have you had this?” The wretch attempted to flee, but Myclop Pones’ bulky form projected itself in front of the secretary. Desperate, Porlock produced a collapsible baton from his jacket and raised it at the blocking Pones. But the latter’s brother intervened and welted it off from the former’s grasp with his cane. “Not a wise decision, my dear sir;” drawled Sherclop Pones in a menacing fashion which had sent a shiver down my spine. He then jerked his head at Lestrot. “If you please, Inspector…” Producing a pair of cuffs from his pocket, the ferret form of the Cloudsdale Inspector then obliged, approaching the cornered, shrinking form of his prey. “Frederick Porlock, I place you under arrest on the charge of theft and the murder of—” “I wouldn’t be so quite sure on that latter point, I warn you, my dear Inspector—” interjected Pones approaching the cuffed culprit and placing a cold, gripping hoof upon the latter’s shoulder. “He does, however, deserve the full culpability of the robbery and as a direct subordinate of not only the murder of the notable Dr. Icarus Hayfield, but the murder of the latter’s old secretary, the old undeserving Sky Scraper, as well as the mutilation of the unfortunate Pearl White.” Lestrot’s eyes widened. “Sky Scraper?! Why, isn’t that the same bloke of Dolphin Street?” “The same one…” “But what does he bear here with this damned youth’s—” “I shall explain soon, enough, Lestrot; if only you’ve delved a bit deeper into Webley bullets and shattered windows—for now, I ask you to put Mr. Porlock down somewhere safe for a moment; I would like to hear, from the own criminal’s mouth, how did he exactly pull of his amazing robbery…” With prideful reluctancy, the Cloudsdale official obliged and violently shoved his catch into a stool, where four shadowy towering figures before him could cast down menacingly picturesque silhouettes. Right next to him was window, which he tried to pry open, but I had been hastily halted him by whacking his wing with my cane. Recognizing the hopelessness of his situation, Fred Porlock’s lithe form slouched into a miserable slop of guilt. “How did you find out?” Sherclop Pones smiled. “Your explicit left-hoof and wingedness, my dear sir; those characteristics alone are incriminating enough to arouse the most dangerous suspicions… “When I first heard the Inspector’s initial deductions—which are, I admit, admirably logical and sound down to the minutest of detail, but excruciatingly lacking in imaginative flair—I had the whole murder case practically closed. There lie Dr. Hayfield, murdered—mutilated, and by regarding motive and opportunity—and most conclusively, the surveillance—with relative ease, Lestrot was able lay his grasp upon the only logical culprit, the honorable Cloud Sweeper. His upcoming marriage and the money needed for it could elicit a motive, and his unaccounted absence up to 8:20 last night could amply suffice for an opportunity. Even the common peasantry could convince a jury that the case looks absolutely black against the chief guardian. However, no matter how logical Mr. Lestrot’s theories were, he was still unable to elicit that 10th page. As a solution, I must see for myself the facts and see where it leads, free from any prejudice and foreign interference and see whether or not it leads to a different conclusion, even if means some reiteration of Lestrot’s points. “But even as I did, there was this notion that had beat the back of my head like a hammer that something—I was uncertain at the time—something was definitely wrong. Well, whatever theory I may draw up, it must account for Cloud Sweeper’s ardent denial of guilt, and the missing paper’s location. “My first step was to conduct an examination of the surveillance, which had been the final point which ‘concluded’ the whole murder business, for in it, we actually see Cloud Sweeper committing the crime… “Already, by my first viewing, I had perceived some peculiarities worthy of note—” “When Pearl White’s telegram arrived, I regarded Cloud Sweeper’s explicit inclination to use his right hoof and wing. Why? Because he was right-hooved. He used his right limb to receive the parcel. That is clear. You could view it for yourselves, gentlecolts, just to prove it. “Upon his return, I observed, queerly, that, suddenly uncharacteristically of him, he was left hooved and winged! In doing tasks where he would’ve normally naturally used his right, Cloud Sweeper did so, using his left. Such as robbing the plans, as it is remembered, he tucked them under his left wing. He wielded the gleaming revolver with it as well. And opened the door with left wing! Odd, is it not?” “Oh, this is preposterous!” cried Porlock. “not everyone could use their right-hoof in all tasks—” Pones shrugged before continuing. “Quite so; some tasks vary in preference. Such as my own inclination to wield a small firearm with my left hoof, but to write with my right. One’s inclination could easily be explained away by this notion. But it could, however, do so to the oddity of the illogical pristineness of his clothing! “Picture this, gentlecolts: you are a young, amply athletic fellow; impulsive, emotional, and affectionate to those you love. You are informed that your beloved fiancé was met with a terrible accident…what do you do? You rush to her aid, neglecting your duties and departing at full speed to a hospital, which is quite the distance from the Factory. You come back at the same speed to enact, despite its noble and heroic motif, a treasonous deed, with all these wild thoughts in constant rotation in your scheming mind. You are stressed; under pressure. How does the body react to these combined activities? Perspire—sweat! Any clothing upon your body must be consequently drenched as well. Do you observe the peculiarity?” “He lacked those traits…” I answered. “Very good, Watcolt! Cloud Sweeper lacked them—to which I ask myself: why? How could impossibility occur? “Then, there the was the odd coloration of Cloud’s blue coat—why did he seemed to be a tad paler? Naturally, the recent tragedy upon Pearl could explain it, but his paleness would be a reaction upon receiving it, not when he’s about to act upon a crime. On the contrary, he must be livid with color for the increased blood flow. Still, he might feel a bit ill when committing a literal act of treason, a certain amount of paleness is to be expected—but not to this extent! The typical sky-blue coat of his has degraded into an almost greyish color, with a very slight hint of blue as if it had been a poor attempt to mimic the original color. “I then design a theory that shall serve as, by the information I had back then, a sufficient explanation— “An imposter had posed as Cloud Sweeper and who had, in full actuality, committed the robbery. This imposter had deliberately waited for ten minutes to pass before entering as a means of giving the impression that it had been indeed Sweeper himself who reentered for that is around the same amount of time one would take to reach both destinations at a hurried pace. In the meantime, the imposter had waited out of sight, which would explain his the pristine and perspiration-less appearance of both his own person and clothing. The paleness would be explained by the application of makeup as a means of mimicking Cloud Sweeper’s color to properly pose as him. The left-handed preference, too—the imposter theory would explain that as well, for the original was right-handed. Conclusively, Cloud’s ardent denial of his “guilt” could be explained as well for the crime had been done by someone who posed as him. If this were true, then I would need to reconstruct the entire crime from this newly conceived working hypothesis that Sweeper is innocent, and that something else much more malignant lies beneath this. If is true, then the possibility that this imposter committed Dr. Hayfield’s murder is as equal as his guilt over the robbery. I needed to reconstruct the case from an entirely new perspective with the new imposter premise by reexamining all the facts and see where does it lead me. If what I discovered from the reexamination denied his claim and further supported Lestrot’s own, then I am forced to accept Sweeper’s guilt…but if it were to prove otherwise— “So much had I theorized, but answers to questions still remained to be affected, granted this hypothesis to be true—who was this mysterious poser and where is the vital 10th page? Why had he done this, why did Hayfield need to be killed, why the need to frame Sweeper? But I have exhausted all that there is to be exhausted from the surveillance, I then move on to the scene of the robbery to see if any clues had been left. Without even a moment’s passing, I had already perceived an oddity— “I had observed that for one to gain access to the Plans, one must be in the same relative league as Dr. Hayfield or Cloud Sweeper—as it could be inferred from our own difficulty to access them. You remember, Watcolt, that we had to possess three keys—that of the arsenal, the office and the safe. Only the highest officials could access them with ease…” I remembered Pones asking of this when we were at the arsenal this morning. He then continued. “You could imagine the deduction I procured from this and the vague outlines of the miscreant’s image which had started to form in my mind. He worked, as stated, in the same position as Cloud Sweeper and Dr. Hayfield, for they themselves are in possession of these keys. But I had to put this thought aside first, as I moved on to the murder of Dr. Icarus Hayfield— “The first peculiarity that had strike me was the violence of it all. How could such a relatively small gun inflict such horror, if the gun as depicted is indeed the same weapon that killed the chemist. Why would it not? The gun found was discharged of a single round, and the bullet extracted from the corpse corresponds with those in the chamber. The velocity in turn could be explained by supposing that the gun had been modified to do such damage. Lestrot’s reasoning upon this point was permissible…but then I saw the shattered window… “Why the shattered window? Was it logically necessary, by the play of the events, for it to break? The bullet had actually been found upon Hayfield’s person—so why the window? The good Inspector suggested the gun’s modified velocity and the sound ensuing from it shattered it—which is all well and good, I confess, but could not it also be explained by supposing that the gunman fired from outside? This would assuredly explain the window, but that would consequently render useless the entire narrative of Cloud Sweeper (or his poser, rather) reentering the facility, armed with a Webley, mind you, and then murdering Dr. Hayfield out of cold blood! How could he do so, when he is actually seen in the surveillance—how could have he be two places at once? Committing the theft, the resulting murderous ‘scuffle’, and doing the latter deed while standing right outside the chemist’s study. Unless, of course, he had a subordinate! A subordinate who wielded a particularly modified Webley. “But this latter statement just nabbed me the wrong way for I don’t recall any statement of the gun to be modified in any sort of way. Watcolt, you’re a military ordinance, certainly you could tell if a firearm had been mechanically tampered with by mere sight?” “Quite right;” “Had you perceived anything?” “No;” “How about you, Lestrot; how did it prove to be?” Lestrot casted his head down with a rueful glare. “Negative, Mr. Pones; the gun proved clean…” “Precisely—so why the grotesque mutilation? That was left unexplained. But then I regarded the strange perfect geometrical alignment of the great Pegasus Colosseum from the study window; it had directly overlooked in a nearly-perfect straight line. With this, I propose a most absurdly fantastic, yet perfectly logical explanation— “What if Dr. Hayfield’s murder had been done by a markspony whose weapon was specifically designed to use revolver cartridges as a means of diverting attention to the actual murder weapon, for if the police were to examine the marksman’s victims and extract a cartridge bullet from it, who in their right mind would suspect a riflepony? This theory explains a lot of things— “The shattered window; if a marksman did it from a distance and shot through the window, it’s bound to be shattered. “This is further corroborated by what had the window directly commanded a view of—a geographical and geometrical alignment that would enable a markspony, with careful and distant positioning, pull the trigger. That was the Colosseum. “Then there was the sheer violence from the bullet; if a rifle had done it, such mutilation would be naturally expected, but not from a revolver, despite the Webley rounds in which it takes in. “Then there was the unnatural disfiguration of the bullet itself, only a rifle could do such a thing. “With this, that means that the imposter had an accomplice. But who could that be? “I then move on to the next on my list—the parties concerned, starting with the very ‘motive’ of the crime herself, Pearl White. “But as were about to depart for Charlie Cross, as you may remember, Watcolt, you had collided with the secretary himself to the late chemist, Mr. Fred Porlock, to whom, by a single glance alone, I had already had my suspicions… “The previous deduction alone of the culprit being in the same league should have incriminated him, but my mind at that time had been too occupied over the whole absurdity of the matter. Porlock was of the same league, you see, with Dr. Hayfield and Cloud Sweeper—he could have easily laid access to the keys. But my suspicions had been aroused by other factors… “I had immediately observed that dear Porlock here had almost the same exact bodily build as that of Cloud Sweeper. There was the same height, the same youthful litheness and was roughly of the same age. How old are you, sir?” “Twenty-three…” drawled our criminal “See? With this, I thought how simple it could have been for Porlock to act essentially as Cloud’s body double…then it dawned on me. What if, he was the imposter—what if he acted upon the substitution? He could have easily done so—the similar body build could easily substitute that of Sweeper’s; since Porlock had a greyish coat, the imposter’s own greyish-blue coat could be explained by, presuming Porlock to be the culprit, by Porlock adding blue makeup, which would result to the greyish tinting of the Cloud’s supposed blue coat, thus rendering him a palish color. Does it not sound familiar, Mr. Porlock?” He glared at the secretary before continuing. “In my mind, there was something else that could perhaps further incriminate Porlock’s criminality: the outbreak of rash for, just as it was said by the secretary himself, he has an aversion to certain products. His reasoning was beauty products. Supposing however, that what if it wasn’t, in fact, beauty products, but an allergic aversion to makeup? Hence the rash. “Presuming he was the culprit, Porlock had the perfect opportunity for, to my knowledge at that time for no mention of it was said in the accounts and that of Lestrot’s, no one saw him when he left. But what was the motive? “Then there was the lack of historical background of the fellow—so far by this point, I’ve heard nothing in the papers. His records, his life prior to the current employment, etc. … which certainly paints him in a suspicious light, for it seemed like his identity merely popped into existence just for the sole purpose of being employed as Hayfield’s secretary. Which we’ve seen as much, as you remember, Watcolt, when we were at the Club inquiring certain records. Porlock strangely bore none prior to his life as a secretary. But it may or may not prove either even more incriminating, therefore I must include him in his reexamining list. But if there is, then there’d be potential motive. By then, I had put him aside at the moment as we departed for Charlie Cross. “I wanted to see if there was anything with Pearl White’s story that may either work with or against my current theory. I learn from her what had already been learned—last night, around 8, she was attacked by a gang of vicious thugs, who robbed her of her belongings and mutilated her. Her caring neighbor, Cassie Windy, upon hearing Pearl’s call for help, right after the thugs left, then tended to her hurt unfortunate neighbor. Cassie called for an ambulance and wrote a telegram to Cloud imploring the latter to come as quickly as possible to Charlie Cross. Since then, Pearl remained in bandages, every bone of her body broken, while its severity brought upon muteness which had compelled her to only communicate via the dings of a desk bell. “She still had insisted Cloud Sweeper’s innocence, for during the crimes’ occurrence, he had remained with her from 8:10 to 8:30 until Lestrot came. “I then needed to interview Cassie, to hear her own account of the incident. I learned of the continuous presence of the stalker and suspected that this was no ordinary and unplanned robbery—it was a deliberate, premeditated and carefully-coordinated attack that served as a subordinate to something even more sinister. The suggestion is interesting—however fantastic; supposing that this were indeed the case, then it seemed to solely function as a ploy to lure Cloud away in order for the poser to be enabled to commit his crime and lay the blame on him. For whatever reason, this poser had a rifle-wielding subordinate who had Hayfield killed. “I then investigated the telegraphic service that night. The mailmare situated there—Derpy Hooves—affirms from the Trotkins’ own account that a message written by a Cassie Windy did arrive that night and nothing had been discovered to deny the official theory. But then I had observed something queer… “You remember my observing, Watcolt, that it was strange for such a speedy delivery service to have such a crucially fatal delay in delivering Cassie’s telegram. You made the naturally assumption that some previous parcels caused some traffic, which is perfectly logical…but at that time of day? Peculiar, is it not for the telegram to arrive at ten minutes when it should have taken a mere 3, considering the location from the telegraphic station to the Factory. As you may remember, of course, as inferred by the muffins upon her plate, I discovered that poor Ms. Hooves had been bribed, by a handsome price, oblivious to the consequences of her complying might entail, to deliver that particular parcel precisely at 8:10. “With this discovery, I then surmise a theory that this cruelly-moustached fellow (who had bribed the mailmare) is connected with the crimes at the Factory and had, with the criminal subordinate (whoever he was) within its own constitution, deliberately gave this order to further provide authenticity to Cloud’s culpability for it led to the direct result of his arriving precisely at Charlie Cross to see Pearl, thus supporting the official narrative. Why 10 minutes? Because that’s the amount of time an ambulance from Charlie Cross would journey to and fro. If Cloud were to arrive time later or earlier, because of the timing of the telegram, it could totally shake the effect of the concocted case. Hence 10 minutes. Now, gentlecotls, you could hardly blame my consequential proposition of this damning discovery—there is a grand conspiracy afoot… “Supposing that this theory of some great farcical ploy surrounding the Plans were factual, and that these events are connected—this notion proved more likely considering such great lengths were taken to ensure the authenticity of Cloud’s culpability by forcing the narrative of a money motive and the substitution made for the robbery. But a list’s reexamining remained to be affected, therefore we departed for Atlas Jail, where Lestrot’s culprit was kept. “I then interview Cloud Sweeper to see what shall he bear to the crimes. Save from what has already been established—his role, his duty, his close association with the late chemist and ultimately, the latter’s secretary, his so-called “culpability” of the crimes and his ardent denial of them—I learned nothing. His story agrees with that certain part of the footage and Pearl’s story up until the delivery of the telegram and his arrival at Charlie Cross, but denies the rest. But his denial further and my own experiment reinforced my notions. “You remember, Watcolt, when I had inexplicably commanded Cloud to raise a hoof—” “Yes, he had raised his right forelimb,” said I, recalling our departure from the jail. “and that you also commanded to raise a wing—” “To which he replied by doing so with his right one—very good. This seemingly little farcical experiment of mine proved that Cloud Sweeper was indeed a right-hooved and right-winged individual. But that was not all I got from him… “When I asked him of his personal account and knowledge of his colleagues, he happened to mention Fred Porlock’s predecessor, the late Sky Scraper, who once was commemorated for his reliability.… “Naturally, my attention had been grappled by this for the peculiarity of it all. It is curious, is it not, for Mr. Porlock, whom I suspect of being a direct player of this grand ploy, to immediately succeed the position of Sky Scraper, whose murder had remained unresolved; I then conducted my own investigation and reopened his case. “We headed for Cloudsdale Yard and indulged ourselves in very interesting study as we examined the records of Sky Scraper’s murder, which I had immediately perceived uncanny similarities with that of Dr. Hayfield’s own murder. “There was the same grotesquely unnatural mutilation; the same Webley round found upon his person and the cartridge contorted into a coin-like shape; and, damningly, a shattered window. “I began to suspect that the same subordinate who had killed Hayfield was responsible for Scraper’s as well. “To further support this, I must examine the crime scene itself and had regarded the same possible commonality with Hayfield’s murder—the abandoned flat across Sky Scraper’s own. It seemed to be the perfect place for the markspony to set up shop and commit his murder. “I confirmed that this was no ordinary robbery-turned-murder by hearing the account from a neighbor that after the shot, he claims that someone had entered the house, made a wreck of the place, and left, which is the wrong order of how a robbery-turned-murder goes—for the entry, wreck goes first, then the shot, finally the swift exist, not this jumbled up version of it. I theorized that this crime had been deliberately made to have Porlock in Hayfield’s employ so that, later on, upon attaining the ranks of his colleagues, the new secretary could enact upon the robbery— “Presuming that the substitution theory to be true, that is,” interjected Porlock. Pones chuckled. “I had no idea that my theory to be true back then, but I had compelled myself to set that aside first as I had further reinforced this the markspony theory by visiting the abandoned flat which directly overlooks Scraper’s own, which I found, sure enough, remnants of discharged gunpowder at the window sill, which had a direct geometrical alignment with Sky Scraper’s study. “To further support this notion, I had ordered Dr. Watcolt to ascend to the Pegasus Colosseum and find a position where he has a direct view to the Factory as a means of reconstructing the markspony’s position. There, as I had expected, he found the same discharged gunpowder, thus confirming my theory. So far, my perception of the grand conspiracy is thus: “There is a master schemer behind all this, one who had particularly designed this inexplicable plot with such mathematical meticulousness and precision to absolutely ensure a successful robbery. This master schemer wanted, for whatever reason to get his hooves on the Weather Factory’s technical papers. But he couldn’t do it for himself—no, no, for that would undesirably attract attention—our specimen appears to an extremely cautious, and shadowing being who very much prefers to shroud himself as a faceless anomaly. “What does he do, then? He sends one of his pawns to infiltrate the very constitution itself. This pawn must know the technicalities surrounding the Plans—its security, its own technicalities, and the geography it is in. To know these, the pawn must be in close ties with the most prominent figures of the facility. What better role could that description fit than a secretary employed under the head chemist himself, Dr. Icarus Hayfield. “It is perfect—so perfect, you perceive. The pawn gains a level of confidentiality and friendship with Hayfield and his closest associates (such as the chief guardian, Cloud Sweeper, for example)—which consequently enables the fellow to learn the necessary knowledge in which he could use to enact the perfect robbery. He would know the technicalities on Weather Production, the varying levels of security housing the documents, and most importantly, once the time comes, he could navigate his way through the factory without so much as a scruple thanks to the familiarity of the entire facility in which he had gained throughout his employment and the level trust given by his prestigious colleagues. Furthermore, with the friendships in which this pawn has cultivated, once the crime had been enacted, it would be preposterous of notions for his colleagues to accuse him of it, for he already won over them. It is indeed a marvel, this ingenuity posed by this master schemer’s masterful intentionality! But for this secretarial plan to work, he must deal with Dr. Hayfield’s already existing secretary, Sky Scraper. Herein enters the markspony subordinate. “With a rifle deliberately designed to throw pursuers off track by cleverly only firing Webley rounds, this subordinate successfully manages to entail the entirety of the Yard a red-herring in which they shall never solve. They merely suspect a common burglary-gone-wrong. Scraper was orphaned and unmarried, and very much a recluse—none shall miss him once he’s gone. “It was night, most of his neighbors were asleep; who were there to oppose the official theory of a robbery when the poor fellow’s house had been ransacked and the stallion himself dead. But as you know, gentlecolts, this is simply untrue… “Here comes the pawn, whom we know is actually Fred Porlock, to replace the late Sky Scraper as Dr. Hayfield’s secretary at the Weather Factory. There he remained till a sufficient amount of time has elapsed whence he established confident relations with the chemist and Cloud Sweeper and learned everything there is to learn. It was only a matter of time before he at long last enacted the robbery and all its necessities. “Porlock, by purposeful deliberation, had Dr. Hayfield distracted over something which compelled the latter to remain inside the Factory till his murder came. What was it, exactly, my dear sir?” “It was precisely at 8 PM; told him that some papers were needed on his checking—” “Which had served its purpose, for he had actually stayed there 2 hours beyond his usual shift, which is almost exactly as your own. From the early hours of the day to noon, and the dawning twilight to midnight. You left Dr. Hayfield, Mr. Porlock, in his study where your subordinate waited for the exact moment to enact upon the murder and for you to enact the robbery. During that time, I suppose, you had applied makeup, obtained facsimiles of the keys, and adorned yourselves the necessary clothing to imitate Cloud Sweeper’s own appearance. “At the same time, your master schemer orchestrated a false ‘robbery’ on Pearl White’s property, which had sadly led to the result of her unjust mutilation—” “Sweet Celestia!” cried Lestrot. “How—” “Monstrous? Quite right, my dear inspector; I fear, however, that would rather undermine the sheer malignancy of this vile act. Evil seems more appropriate, eh? This whole farce served only one purpose—to lure Cloud Sweeper from his duties which shall support the image in which the master schemer wishes to convey—that Cloud had committed the robbery to sell the Plans for his upcoming marriage and the medical bills, and had murdered his close friend in a resulting scuffle. His departure to heed the needs of his sweetheart would seemingly convey the desired image that it was that exact moment where the decision to commit treason had hatched. “As you know, the caring neighbor Cassie Windy sent out a telegram, which its arrival had been bribed to be postponed for a few minutes and had actually arrived at the Factory at 8:10, when it should’ve arrived, at least, at 8:05. “Cloud Sweeper receives this and hastily departs for his sweetheart not so long after the telegram’s arrival. At 8:20, herein enters a readied Porlock to enact the substitution and robbery. “As you may remember, gentlecolts, it was rather foolish for the supposed “Cloud Sweeper” to been seen by surveillance right before he committed his crime, when he could have easily found other means to avoid security and capture while attaining the same results…to which we know, he did not, because it wasn’t Cloud Sweeper. But it didn’t matter for Porlock for the desired point had already been conveyed—to frame the guardian. “You must remember my remark, Watcolt, when I said that one could easily be out of frame from Camera A and B, since they were attached at both opposing corners of a pillar, to stand in between them and how one could easily merely stand there and do nothing. Well, that’s exactly what Porlock did. He stood there, until the proper time came to commit the robbery, with a gleaming dud Webley in hoof. Ten minutes had elapsed and the doctor was murdered by the subordinating markspony, which gave the cue for Porlock to do his part. He was seen by Camera B, which had directly overlooked the study, with the Webley and the Plans as he made his exit. “That blank portion between the cameras led directly to Dr. Hayfield’s study. Since no once couldn’t have guessed what goes on in there, coupled by Porlock’s substitution ploy, we naturally made the quick and immature conclusion that it was Cloud Sweeper who did the crimes. But also because of the blank portion, it is equally fair for me to theorize this notion of mine. “Porlock departs with the Plans safe in his possession from whence he shall…do what, exactly?” “Make copies of the originals…” answered Porlock. “Indeed; and were you to send those said copies to send to your leader?” Porlock nodded before Pones continued. “And were you to plant originals in Cloud Sweeper’s person to frame him of the deed and to play along with your concocted narrative?” Porlock nodded again. “Ha,” said Pones, rubbing his hooves. “the plan was flawless—absolutely flawless. The Plans stolen and copied, and the blame logically on Cloud Sweeper. Tell me, why had it been necessary for Dr. Hayfield to be murdered? As far as I know, all you and your little cronies needed were the Plans—” “Because he knew too much, Pones,” sneered the vindictive youth. “Ah, is it so? Your master schemer wanted, if ever in the undesirable case that your malignant history and plot ever comes to light, a direct witness would be Dr. Hayfield. So you had him dealt with, which in doing so served a dual purpose of laying the culpability of your theft upon Cloud Sweeper by having him framed for murder as well. With this, you had cleverly made your crimes untraceable to you, your subordinate and your master. I must say, my dear Porlock, I commemorate your ingenuity. “But you had unexpectedly encountered a little hindrance, did you not—one in which had cost you dearly and had eventually led you into me—that a certain page of the Plans themselves proved a little too difficult for you, a mere secretary, to copy. It was too technical, despite your time of employment, to translate into paper, and that the same level technical knowledge in which Dr. Hayfield has, is a requirement for your endeavor to prove successful. A travesty, this must have been for you, eh? I could not imagine for worlds the panicked thoughts that had crossed your minds upon this revelation. You were under pressure, as your schemer’s plan was moving in a fast pace and copies were needed quick to be delivered to your subordinate. What do you do? You kept the tenth original page, no doubt intending to meticulously study its contents till you sufficiently had copied it, which you had been doing throughout the entirety of this day. The other nine, however, were still planted on Cloud’s person, for it didn’t matter if they discovered ten or eight them—the same idea would nonetheless be conveyed—the treasonous pony bent on greed. It didn’t matter if the police went looking for it, all you had to do was copy the last page then you’d be on your way. The copies of the 9 ended up with your subordinate, did they not?” “Yes—” Pones looked grave. “Oh, dear. I believe we still have to affect a search of those nine. Now, we return to my procedures; all that remained to confirm all of this is to employ a pressing interview with the main link of it all—Fred Porlock, which, gentlecolts, recall my succeeding. The left-hooved and left-winded inclination; the bluish-grey hue resulting from the application of blue makeup to his grey coat; and most conclusively, the actual documents found in his person.” There had been a momentary eerie silence, one in which we all stood there expectant for the dreaded account. As Lestrot readied a pen, I had always observed Porlock, with a worried face to cast subtle, yet very much indiscreet glances at the window beside him and had always shifted upon the stool in which he sat. It was Lestrot who took the initiative. “I’m tired of your melodrama, boy,” he silently drawled. “just tell us what this damned mess is all about—who’s your boss, your ‘subordinate’ and either confirm or deny what Pones here poses— and maybe, just maybe, I could sooth your sentence…” He then threateningly whacked the baton at the chemical flask next to him, breaking it. With this gesture, the secretary obliged. “It’s true, what he said, all of it,” said Porlock, refusing to look any at the eye. “The damned 10th page—it was too much mumbo jumbo, barely intelligible writing. I thought taking it with me for a while as I scavenged the old bloke’s study for any clues. I thought no harm might come it since the Yard was all over Sweeper. Heh, turns out it proved fatal after all.” He then looked at Pones. “Though, you did miss some points—” “Oh, pray do enlighten me,” queried my friend with a languid smile. “Let us start, for example on your master’s strange choice to separately employ a professional thief and murderer when he could have easily done so with one who is both? It would certainly save the effort—” “It was because I was his scapegoat, Sherclop Pones. He exploited my lack of historical background, as so you put it, to his own benefit. If the theft were to ever be traced back to me, they would be quite unable to trace my affiliation with Master. It just so happened that I excel in thievery; I was the perfect pawn. All they’d find is blank spot in my records.” “How come?” For the first time, Porlock appeared as strained as we were as he rather unable to come up an answer. He shrugged his shoulders. “That I don’t know,” he confessed. “I suppose I came into the whole game when I was a child of 8 or 9. I was young, but I remembered my parents abandoning me, a mere homeless urchin begging in the streets; so he took me into his care and raised me up. I had no name, no records or anything that may affirm my existence. He maybe thought that that would come in handy one day. He gave me a name, Porlock, and never even bothered to fill up that empty portion of my life.” Pones smiled. “That would explain why couldn’t find anything about you,” said he. “how about Pearl White? Had it been necessary for her to be mutilated the she had been?” “Absolutely; you see, Master wanted her to be a bait to lure Cloud, but not in a position where she could compromise the entire operation, but would also benefit it as whole. If she were merely injured, she would have been capable of cognitive thinking and would strongly defend Sweeper’s alibi, which would be detrimental to our narrative. So, we had every bone of her body broken and deprived her from the capability to speak. She would lure Sweeper, and, since she’s mute, she would be unable to provide a defense for her boyfriend. All the Yard would have is Sweeper’s account. But I hadn’t expected her blasted neighbor to actually remain with her. Guess she was helpful to you, eh?” “Yes, yes, it has; but what had been purpose of stealing the Plans? It’s of no practical use to anyone, save blackmailers. Whyever, would one deprive the Pegasi’s societal role in weather production?” Once more, Porlock was unable to draw a coherent explanation. “Master was rather vague on that point, I’m afraid,” said he. “he said it was to serve a greater purpose. Though, quite frankly, I fear this whole talk of ‘harmony’ he gives is a mere bee in his bonnet. But who was I to dismiss his beliefs?” Pones nodded, whose gesture the secretary returned by nodding back with defeated acceptance. “All that remains is to name these subordinates of yours;” began Pones. “who was the markspony?” “Just some middleman; an ex-Wonderbolt, so I’ve heard. As you say, he carries along this rifle designed by some Griffon engineer who goes by the name ‘Herder’.” My mind flashed to the flask of Lunarian Ash. My friend seemed to share this sentiment, for his expression grew grim as he tightened his jaw. “Does he have name, this markspony of yours?” I asked. He glanced at the window with a worried expression. “Only as an alias, doctor,” said he, turning to me. “we call him the Colonel. Nothing else.” He then turned hastily at Lestrot and Pones. “Oi, could I change my—erm—position here? I have a little thing against windows—” Lestrot raised his baton. “Indeed, not!” said he. “You may do so once we’ve finished with you—” “But—” “Mr. Porlock,” interjected Sherclop Pones, defusing the tension. “who is this ‘Master’ of whom you speak?” The criminal shifted in his seat, taking bit off a distance from the window beside him. “Who is he?” We were unprepared for the tragedy. From that day, I could, try as I did, never seem to drive my thoughts elsewhere to its sheer violence—its mutilation. Was it Fate? Could have I done better to prevent such evil? There was a distance crack of a blast which echoed ominously through Cloudsdale’s nocturnal heavens—like a bottle of champagne whose cork had been popped off. Without even a moment’s passing, the window shattered and a quiet yet distinct schluk sound ensued from the shrapnel of splintered glass. It happened all too quick. When I had reopened my eyes, I found Myclop Pones writing profusely at his magic messenger book as the Cloudsdale Inspector ran through the door. “Forbes, MacPherson—where are you twats? Call the surgeon and get in here!” I looked out at the window, and found indeed that the great figure of the Pegasus Colosseum lie distantly before us, whose silhouette was rendered foreboding by the night sky. But all these details had only struck my attention afterwards, for my thoughts were entirely absorbed by the dark, vague, and distant outline of a coated Pegasus taking flight from an arch of the great structure and never to be seen again. “WATCOLT!” a voice behind me cried. Turning to it, I found Sherclop Pones, undoing his tie, kneeling before the bloodied form of Frederick Porlock. The secretary chocked from his ever-gurgling blood as he vainly reached for his throat, eyes tearing. He tried to speak, but had been only able to utter gargled gibberish. My medical instincts compelled me to reach into my case and look for anything to help a dying pony, but Pones forbade me. “It’s too late, Watcolt,” said he as the he carried the secretary’s head lie in his bloody hooves. “Who was he, Mr. Porlock?” Fred Porlock, momentarily reopening his eyes, which locked into those of sleuth’s. Then, with a great strain of effort, he raised his head to the latter’s ears. “The Professor—” With that final utterance of breath, Fred Porlock’s once youthful and lithe, his bloodied, disfigured form expired before us, his once ambitious now empty eyes gazing forevermore into the abyss.