An investigation upon the mysterious death of Fred Porlock promptly took place. Efforts were made to track down the assassin, but it only proved futile. What had only remained as positive evidence would be my own witnessing, and the fresh batch of discharged gunpowder found in a particularly geographically aligned area of the Pegasus Colosseum…as well as the Webley bullet extracted from the corpse.
He and Dr Hayfield received proper funerals the following week, after Sherclop Pones and Lestrot gave their statements during the court proceedings of the entire affair.
Soon, the Plans, complete with its vital tenth page, had been returned and whose security has been doubled to ensure such scandal shall never occur again. Cloud Sweeper had been released from Atlas Jail and reunited with Pearl White, who was relieved to see her beloved sweetheart once more. Because of this reunion, Ms. White’s jubilated spirits found themselves in speedy recovery. Soon enough, she regained the ability to speak and even move a limb. The doctors of Charlie Cross are of the opinion that she’d be back to her old self (though with some slight modifications of her bones) within a year.
Cloudsdale found immediate replacements to their chemist and secretary, but took up a week of leave to pay respect to old Hayfield. Once it returned to operations, Cloud Sweeper retook his position.
We sat our breakfast table back within the humble walls of Baker Street as I narrated the latter most entry from Equestrian Daily. My meal had remained untouched as grotesque memories recalled to us. When I look at the bottle ketchup, I think of the gargling stream of blood of Fred Porlock and how he spent his terrible final moments. I pushed the plate of spaghetti and sincerely apologized to our landlady. Sherclop Pones seemed to share this sentiment for he left his ham and eggs and consoled for his pipe. He turned his back round us, omitting our presence, and lit its embers.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudcolt,” said I apologetically. “we shall devour your fine cooking later—I’ve been feeling rather a bit worn down these days.”
Mrs. Hudcolt casted sad and almost concerned looks at the either of us before slamming the door.
“A tedious week this has been, has it not, my dear Watcolt?” said Sherclop Pones quietly. “An organized, yet chaotic case—one in which I took an immense pleasure in.” He gazed distantly at the glowing embers of our hearth. “‘Pleasure’—hmph, a subjective word. Here we have resolved both dilemmas—the retrieval of the Plans, and justice upon old Hayfield. Yet, we seem to have paved way into something much more sinister than this plot, for once more, we have crossed paths with the Professor, who we have seen twice, mind you, orchestrating the most heinous of crimes. Yet, I can’t help but feel a bit exhilarated by all of it—”
It had always been a queer characteristic of Pones to be pleased over something that poses a challenge to his ingenuity. And this Professor fellow seemed to provide him with just that. But that had, once more, brought up the question—
“Who is he, Watcolt?” said Sherclop Pones, breaking my reverie. “He had already proved himself to pull off the most damning of schemes and had nearly succeeded in doing so—” he trailed off here, as his stern grey eyes seemed to glimmer the words “if hadn’t it been for Sherclop Pones”.
“We are left in rather similar dilemma in which we had been during our preceding encounter with him during the fiasco of Pinkie’s Cupcakes—we are left to ponder, once more, who could this ominous and seemingly omnipresent entity be? We know that he has a brain of the highest order, as inferred from the sheer mathematical construction of both his plans to stage a Changeling coup, and to commit a scapegoat robbery…all of which, one observes, to all work against Equestria. Why—why must he do this? What grudge—what gripes does he hold against the Monarchy?”
Shaking his head, he placed his pipe down and walked about the room with an air of a troubled professor who has discovered a problematic specie.
“It had been only for sheer luck that we managed to foil his plans, Watcolt, sheer luck…”
“Certainly not—”
“Why, yes; observe how we only have the rules of collateral nature to thank our success for. In Pinkie’s Cupcakes, by the Changeling’s consequential mistake to falsify evidence of Rainbow Dash’s so-called ‘disappearance’ by forging advertisements, which led me to inquire the authenticity of her claim by sending a telegram to our Cloudsdale Yard friends over Ponyville. Here over these Cloudsdale crimes, Porlock’s plot had only been uncovered by lucky mistake of his forgetting to account the possibility of failing to understand the utter technical knowledge imposed by the documents, which compelled to leave the tenth page behind, which had also consequently led him to me. How long shall we rely on our luck before the inevitable happens?”
A pause.
“To ensure that whatever malignant plans in which this Professor has in stored for us, it is of imperative importance that we exploit whatever sliver of identity he has in hopes that we bring him before a jury’s dock. That sliver, we begin with his invaluable subordinate—the Colonel.
“We know he’s a precise markspony, as proven by our own witnessing of Fred Porlock’s own murder before us. Perching upon a structure at an incredible distance from his prey and actually hitting it with remarkable precision shows his formidable level of skill. Combine this knowledge that the Professor was willing to kill his own trusty thief, we infer that the Colonel shows unwavering loyalty to his master.
“Now, combine this knowledge with what we have deduced from Colonel Cumulonimbus’ flask of Lunarian Ash, we get very interesting indications indeed. Incredible marksponies, cleverly designed rifles, criminal records and—”
“They’re both retired Wonderbolts—” I finished. “My dear Pones, all we need to do now is to get a hold of the fellow’s records, trace anyone associated with him who may match the description of the Professor, and—”
“We’ve got him,” said Pones with a smile.
“Then, what are we waiting for, Pones? To the Wonderbolts—”
“Same old Watcolt, always the pony of action and tenacity. There’s no need, for I’ve already done so. I sent a telegram inquiring just that to the captain of the Bolts herself and had actually received a reply—"
Igniting his horn, he materialized a leather bag whence he procured several manila folders. A named had been pinned into each, printed in bold red letters—
Colonel “Stormy” Cumulonimbus.
Next to it was a picture of a middle-aged Pegasus. If he had been painted in a more positive light, I would have seen him as a hero. But because of what we have learned, I now saw a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a sensualist below, the equine must have started with great capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals. Whether he had guilty and malignant agenda or not, we were yet to determine. If it were to prove to be the latter, we would be one step closer to ring the lawful noose round the neck of the Professor.