My colleague’s period of inaction and silence did not break, even as the cart rumbled forward once again. For a quarter of an hour after we had set off, the rattling hoof steps of our driver and the tapping of the carriage wheels over the pavestones were the only noise. Pones was reclined into one corner, facing backwards, and opposite him was Gregson. I myself was tucked away into the opposite corner, determinedly staring out of the window, and it startled me slightly when Pones spoke once more. He always launched onto various topics of conversation without any introduction; and in this case the subject was our client. His stern voice rattled out a command for Gregson.
“I think it would be best if you waited to free Miss Dash, else our friend might catch on.”
I, admittedly, had forgotten all about the cyan filly whose optimism had been sworn to me just earlier that day.
“Is that the suspect in Peregrine’s murder?” Gregson asked. “I would have a better idea, but I only got up here this afternoon, and then I was whisked from the station to the very scene of the second murder, so I am not familiar with the accused.”
“Yes, that is her name. Bradsteed did not exercise the greatest caution in arresting her, and she made a scene. While such a thing is poor for his policing records, it will prove invaluable to us. The farther this fellow believes us away from his trail, the slower he might act, and the more time we have to prepare.”
“A little bit of time,” the harried Inspector mumbled, “would be welcomed. I still have a few too many questions for my liking.”
“Well ask them out loud, and I will do my best to remedy that.”
This was the first instance in which I had seen Pones offer to explain things. Usually, one was left guessing – particularly when he was seized by a thought and entered one of his dream-like moods, as he had back in Pilot’s row. I was still annoyed, and had no questions, but all the same I was forced to listen.
“The report for the girl that Bradsteed gave me says the knife was in her home.”
My companion swayed a little as the cab lurched over a small pothole, but all the same he raised his hooftips to a point in front of his chin and spoke precisely, closing his eyes.
“She came home in the early hours of the morning, and slept till noon, upon which she woke with a hangover.”
The Inspector looked at him, unsure.
“You mean to say, the weapon was planted as she slept?”
“It is not unlikely."
“Then you had already suspected something was ahoof from the start?”
“Yes – though, it is my job to chase her innocence, and as such I was almost bound to by duty. But never completely. You must ever be careful, Gregson, in making assumptions and theories before obtaining evidence, or else one finds one’s self adjusting the meaning of the latter to satisfy the former. In any case, Bradsteed was most accommodating in allowing me to speak to her, and, though her story was quite trivial, I was able to determine two key things.”
Here, he straightened up, and held out a hoof, tapping it with the other as he counted off his conclusions.
“We start at her height and weight. I had only to observe the coroner’s report to know that this was a strange crime for a young lady to commit, so I thought I must see her physique first. She is not overly tall, which casts doubt over whether she was able to kill him. When she rears onto her hind legs, she is the correct height, though the angle of entry for the blade to sever the spine would have been incorrect. In fact, the method of killing itself was what most caught my intrigue. How to correlate a young filly with no formal military training with this kind of execution, one wonders – and the answer is that there is no correlation. Such a manoeuvre would have been at the hooves of a skilled fighter. Furthermore,” he continued, his eyes shooting open to reveal his intense and dark irises, “She has an innate fear of blood.”
“How did you-?” I began to ask, but I stopped myself mid-sentence, for I had understood, and had no desire to involve myself in the conversation. I was still disgusted at being nominated for the dangerous task that stood before us without my consent. Pones glanced over at me.
“The slightest prick of a hooftip was all it took to elicit the reaction. I kneaded out the wound to make the blood spill a little freer, and then used my cursory examination of her as a distraction. Did you see the way she fell back onto the chair when I showed her?”
I did not respond, though I did indeed remember Dash taking a seat when she saw his bloody hoof, her face white. I chose instead to look out of the carriage window as we trundled into another leafy suburb, having resigned myself to my fate. It was only his gravelly and swift voice that I heard when he spoke next.
“You have the grand gift of silence, Trotson,” he said sincerely. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.”
I laughed a little to myself, incredulous. Had he really assumed that my unwillingness to speak came as a result of my respect for his ways? I did not honour the compliment with any other remark, and the uncomfortable silence that had filled the Captain’s apartment overcame the small, four-seater cab.
“So, in summary, then;” Pones continued, and it was to my irritation that he did so, as the way he spoke gave no indication of sympathy or understanding at my annoyance. “Too short, wrong weight, no training in the method, disposition towards blood.”
“A shame that your conclusions were all wasted,” Gregson said with a sniff.
“Not entirely,” replied Pones. “Colonel Flash will be most delighted to hear that his student is innocent, and that is the job that I was hired to do.”
“But the real job is not over. We must prevent him from striking again.”
“Correct.”
As he spoke, the carriage ground to a halt, and I descended from the cab in front of what could only be described as a comfortable and well-decorated manor-house.
It was fashioned in the traditional Canterlot style, with high arching roofs, and ivy twisting its way up the grey brick like so many verdant snakes. It appeared to have started small and been added onto over the years – such was the hereditary nature of property in both Canterlot and Cloudsdale, as land was very expensive to purchase in the big city. There was a well attended front lawn with a small skirting of green trees around a driveway where carriages might arrive, and a very large and foreboding brick fence topped with black spikes. It ran in a ring around the property, and so my view was constrained to what I could see through a pair of iron double-gates before me. A swift glance around at the neighbouring houses revealed similarly large and cosy properties, and I recognised the suburb as Richmond, famous for harbouring the rich of Cloudsdale in much the same way that Woodrow did for the wealthy of Canterlot. I had, as I mentioned earlier, attended patients in Cloudsdale, and some of them did indeed live around here, but this house did not belong to one of them.
I heard a click from behind me, and turned to see that the carriage door had closed, and that I was the only one who got out. The faces of Gregson and Pones were hidden well within the darkness, and I had to squint to make them out at all.
“We must not be seen, Trotson,” Pones said hastily. “Do you know of your role?”
“No,” I replied curtly. It had not been explained to me, of course, and I had expected it in a sense. Pones, in all his brilliance, was inclined to notice every small detail bar one, and that was that otherponies did not often arrive at the same conclusions that he came to so swiftly and easily.
“We need you to explain the situation to Miss Spitfire.”
“Obviously,” I said. “And then?”
“I had not finished—” and here I felt a lecture coming on “—but there is little time to waste. Gregson will return late with reinforcements, and watch the front-gate.”
“And you?”
“I will be vigilant over the back, and other entries.”
Suddenly, a white hoof that I recognised to be Gregson’s shot out of the window. In it was clasped a lightweight cloth parcel.
“Take this, but do not open it now,” the voice said warningly. “It is my service revolver and badge, as well as the military files. You will need the latter two to convince her of your trustworthiness, and we must pray that you do not need the former. I take it you are familiar with guns?”
I had, among other things, fired rifles and shotguns for hunting in the Cloplin countryside, where I grew up. This gifted me with a familiarity with some weaponry – though not highly extensively, and I had not held or shot a gun since I had left home. My experience did not leave me unwise in this instance, though, for safety and maintenance was something that my ever-strict father would unrelentingly drill into me. If I left a gun dirty, I was often forced to polish his entire selection, among which there were many fine pistols.
“It is a regular Eley’s Number 2,” Gregson said. I replied that I was familiar with it, and slipped the bundle under my foreleg.
Pones’ voice echoed out from the darkness of the carriage. “We will be watching,” it said.
“How comforting,” I answered dryly. “I’m sure you can tell my fiancé all about how you make me risk my life when we get home.”
There was a distinct pause from the carriage.
“…Good luck, old boy,” said the voice, and with that, the carriage took off once more. I watched the carriage retreat down the street until it had rounded the corner, and I felt a slight hint of remorse. Unfortunate though my circumstances were, they were entirely necessary to ensure that we catch this fiend. Arguably, I had been right to be angry, as I had not agreed to be a bodyguard or to risk my life, but simultaneously I knew that I had no choice. Upon reflection, the vote of confidence I had received from Pones back in the flat of Captain Fletcher was probably the grandest compliment he had paid me yet, but I was too irate to see it at the time.
Regardless, I did not shrink from the task at hand, for in front of the lady’s house I now stood, and I could not voice my disapproval now. I strode up to the gates and examined them. As I had expected, they were shut and locked by a padlock of considerable size, and instead I walked left until I came upon another smaller gate. It was of the same black iron that the driveway gate was made out of, but it was not locked, and I swiftly entered onto the crescent-shaped path that ran towards the house.
No sooner had the gate shut behind me with the soft clink of metal on metal, than a mare’s voice reached my ears.
“Can I help you?”
I looked around for the source, my attention having been distracted by the weight of my own problems, and saw a honey-yellow Pegasus cantering down towards me. She wore a light summer dress of sea blue, and it complimented her well, particularly due to her wild and vivid mane. It was as if her head and neck was on fire at first glance – her mane was a great two-toned shock of orange. Darker strands mixed in with lighter ones as the gentle breeze pushed it about, and she walked down the path towards me. It was easy to recall such a strange and flaring colour, for it had seemed familiar to me at the time.
“I was looking for Miss Spitfire, if she might be around,” I said in my most cordial voice. I had had plenty of practice with unknown relatives of the sick and wounded, and it proved most useful at times – but not enough, evidently, for she laughed at my proposition.
“Yeah? And what do you want with her?” She said as she came within a few lengths of me.
“I’m afraid,” I replied, “that it is a private matter, and that I will discuss it only with her.”
The mare smiled back, her pale orange eyebrows raised.
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“Pardon?”
She shook her head.
“You have any idea of how you look right now, loverboy?”
It was then that I realised who I spoke to, and I would later berate myself for not realising sooner. Pones would have laughed at how much of a blunder it was, though in my defence, she was scarcely recognisable without her sea-blue bodysuit and goggles. The pictures I had seen of her featured her mane ruffled by the wind, and almost on end, but in person it fell loosely to either side of her youthful face. I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off.
“Uh-huh,” she said sweetly, looking me up and down.
“I didn’t recognise you at first,” I said apologetically. “I would have mentioned it sooner, but I’m here with the police.”
Spitfire laughed a little. “You don’t look like any policeman I’ve ever seen,” she replied, gesturing to my dress. I half-opened the bundle that I held under my arm and produced Gregson’s badge, being careful so as not to show the gun to her. The triumphant smile vanished from her lips as her gaze fell over the badge.
“I thought I told that Inspector Bradstreet, or whatever his name was, that I don’t know anything about Dash, and I’m not saying a word against her.” she said. All trace of good humour and her own merriment had also disappeared, and her fiery, sienna-coloured eyes seemed to ignite me with a sudden and vivid intensity.
“That is just as well,” I said, pocketing the badge once more. “I am not here to collect a statement.”
“Then what are you here for?”
“…Perhaps I could tell you inside?” I hinted strongly, cocking my head on an angle. I saw her frown and start to object some more, but I cut her off quickly. I knew that if the killer were watching us, that he would have some suspicion as to my identity.
“In-side,” I repeated, my gruff reply catching her before she could complain. She appeared a little taken aback, as up until then I had been nothing but polite, and indeed until a few moments ago she had possessed the upper hoof. She accommodated me anyway, leading me back up the dusty path, and through the door of her home. No sooner had she closed the door behind me than I turned to her.
“Firstly,” I said, “I am not a policeman.”
She nickered nervously, taking a cautionary step back against the door. “Who are you?”
“My name is Doctor John Trotson, and I’m here at the behest of the Inspector in charge of Miss Dash’s case,” I replied, sitting back on my haunches and raising my forehooves to show I meant no harm.
“What do you want?”
I did not waste time in cutting to the chase.
“She is innocent,” I said simply, and Spitfire let out a gasp of amazement. The moment of surprise gave way to happiness, and an infectious grin came about her face, the orange-topaz eyes glittering as she beamed at me.
“That’s amazing news!” she cried.
“The murderer has struck again since she was imprisoned. He is still at large.”
Her look turned to horror.
“Oh, sweet Celestia,” she murmured, putting a hoof to her lips.
“I do not know if you know his latest victim very well,” I said. “Captain James Fletcher.”
She let out a shuddering gasp of horror.
“Oh, Celestia,” she repeated. “Oh god…”
“And, it is our belief, that as a squad mate of the two victims and a current wonderbolt, that your life is now in danger,” I finished.
The expression of surprise did not drop away from her face instantly. Instead, the reality of my seriousness dawned on her as she surveyed my face, and her skin paled visibly. Her face drained of the life that she had shown moments before. It was not a reaction akin to finding out that the condition of a loved one had worsened, and indeed, the way she leaned against the door for support reminded me of many of my bereaved clientele over the years.
“I am sorry I had to deceive you.” I said, and I was – I had ever made the poor liar, and as such it was scarcely on my repertoire when dealing with others.
“Why?... What?” she said, clearly struggling for words.
“Perhaps there is someplace more comfortable that you could sit, so that I might explain it all to you in full?” I suggested helpfully. It took a moment for my words to register, and she had averted her gaze from me, glancing all around as if she was searching blindly for some explanation.
“…Yes,” she replied, taking a few tentative steps away from the door, and brushing past me. She led me down a corridor past some closed doors, a flight of stairs, and into a luxurious living room that adjoined a kitchen. If the house had appeared modest and traditional from the exterior, than its interior was anything but – glass vases chandeliers hung from the ceiling, with fine Persian rugs tickling my hooves underfoot, but there were no other antiquities of the old and refined wealth that I was used to.
The living room was broken away from the kitchen by a partition, where a set of screen-doors could be drawn shut in the event that she wanted to entertain. It had a high ceiling, which I noticed upon entry still possessed some of its original decorative markings, though other than that, the room was fairly modern. Black and white photos hung around the walls, and crowded a nearby table. All of them were Spitfire with various ponies or groups of ponies. Some of these I recognised to be famous figures, and I wondered how much they might have been worth - but the strange lack of family or personal effects around the room bothered me. On the opposite wall to the couch (which ‘backed’ onto the kitchen, was it were) there was a vast array of books – some of them biographies, some of them old history, but all of them slightly dusty and unread. In various nooks and crannies around the room, there were vases filled with some delicate flowers, but other than that, the room gave a distinctly stale and lifeless impression.
The couch that she showed me to was a settee of black leather, and there were a few similarly-coloured poufs scattered on it. These she cleared very briskly with a push of her hooves before literally falling onto the couch. I was not sure whether to sit myself or draw up a chair beside her, so as to hold her hoof and utter soothing words.
“I need a drink,” she said. I nodded, and stepped towards the kitchen, intending to fetch her a glass of water. “No – behind you,” her grainy voice came again.
I turned, and was surprised to find a mahogany liquor cabinet set into a nook in the wall. I opened it and, from among various other liqueurs and spirits withdrew what appeared to be a very old bottle and expensive bottle of spiced rum – just the thing to soothe a nervous soul. There were glasses atop the decanter and I removed two, though I had no intention of drinking. Then, pulling up a small and ornate hand-table from beside the couch, I set the glasses down and poured her a drink.
No sooner had I done so then she picked up the glass and drank it with such speed that I was almost alarmed. I decided to pour one for myself so as to seem pleasant, but no sooner had I finished doing so then it too vanished in a flash of yellow. She gulped the fiery liquid almost greedily, and though my mind was on other things I was bewildered by her ability to imbibe the strong drink as if it were water.
I refrained from pouring any more, instead setting the bottle down on the table gingerly and turning my attention back to her. Aside from the paling of her skin, she was shaking slightly. I put a hoof to her forehead, and her amber eyes snapped over to me as I did so.
“I’m fine,” she said, reading my thoughts, though she was clearly suffering from intense anxiety.
“Your pulse a hundred and twenty beats per minute at rest, and you’re burning up,” I replied, giving her a stern gaze. “That is not fine, particularly not for an athlete, where the resting-rate of the heart is lower than normal. You should be running in the Derby right now.”
She appeared a little flustered for words, and was briefly overcome. Up until that point she had simply lain on her back and stared at the ceiling, but now she sat up, away from the comfort of the cushions, so that her back legs touched the floor. She then put both forehooves over her mouth and breathed heavily. I could hear the labour in her breath.
“Oh Celestia…” she muttered again, and I could see tears developing in her eyes. She made an attempt to wipe them away, but she could not prevent their free flow down the sides of her face. “Excuse me,” she said a little hoarsely.
I shunted the little table with the bottle on it to one side and sat on the couch next to her, and drew a leg tight around her. For a while, then she took her grief, and I consoled her to the best of my ability. How odd it was for me to be of some small comfort to the Pegasus who was almost renowned for her attitude and spunk, both inside the arena and out. I could never have imagined that I might be the one that bore any grave news to her, nor imagine the circumstances which took me to her door that fateful day in early December. For years she had been a raw object of desire for countless colts and the epitome of the party-girl, but I had gained not a shred of evidence to support such a theory, barring the way she had drunk the rum moments before. She dressed normally, her house was as orderly as could be, and, in the horrible moment where she leaned her head onto my shoulder and wept, I realised quite painfully, dear reader, that she was of course just a regular pony, just like you and I. If I might walk away with a lesson from this whole incident, it would be never to take somepony’s impression from hearsay and the words of others, and always to take your own evaluations.
I forget how long it took her, but I became momentarily convinced that time slowed purposefully to drill the lesson into me. Finally, though, I realised that her sobs had stopped. I looked down to my shoulder, a kind smile on my face.
“Feeling a little better?” I asked the distraught flier. She sniffed and drew her flame mane off of me, and I saw that the tears were still flowing freely, though her face was bravely smiling back.
“A little.”
“Good.”
For a while we sat, speechless, and she took the time to re-compose herself a little, wiping away her tears on her summer-dress. Finally, though, she took the great step of asking after her comrade’s death.
“How did he die?”
“Quickly and painlessly, I can assure you,” I said quietly. This was no lie. The severing of his spinal cord meant that his death, while grizzly, was instantaneous. I did not mention the aftermath. It had sickened me, and I am a seasoned medical practitioner, so I thought it best to neglect the grim detail to her so as to not upset her once more. “In the same manner as Peregrine.”
She breathed a sigh of relief at my former comment, though her grief was still evident.
“Well then, at least it was painless,” she said, blinking away another few tears.
“I was the attending physician,” I added. “I will no doubt give testimony to his death once we catch the stallion responsible.”
She looked up at me again, her eyes radiating sadness.
“…And now he’s after me?”
I grimaced and retrieved my bundle from the left.
“That is why I’m here.”
I then explained in great detail why my presence was not accompanied by police, and exactly who I was, and why I was placed in the uncomfortable position of being her momentary bodyguard. I will not bore you with the details twice, but her expression remained unchanged throughout the entire detail.
“I know you,” she said, almost twenty minutes after I had begun speaking. I shook my head, and told her that she must be mistaken, for I had never met her prior to that afternoon.
“Yeah, I do,” she insisted more eagerly. “You were Soarin’s doctor once.”
She was right. As I mentioned before, my brief encounter with the Pegasus had resulted in him resuming his intensive training a long time before I had recommended, much to my dismay.
“I’m surprised that I got a mention,” I said honestly, and she shook her head.
“I only know because he re-injured himself about two days later. Sat around moaning, saying he should have listened to the doctor.”
I smiled at my prediction having come true, and she picked up some of her spirit.
“Yes, he did seem a little… hasty,” I replied. “I wish he had listened.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Soarin’ for you.” The smile faltered from her face, and I could tell that she, like me, had greater things on her mind – not the least of which was her mortal peril. The small talk was pleasant enough to keep her mind off of it, and I decided, that, now I was here, that there was no need to rush or hurry the details. She could learn them in her own time, if she so decided.
“…You weren’t in the force ever, were you?” she asked.
“No, what makes you think so?”
She reached out and touched one of the gold buttons on my navy coat.
“Dunno, you just remind me of someone I used to know. Maybe it’s the jacket.” She smiled.
“Who is that?”
“The head honcho at the Cloplin hospital,” she replied. “Came and saw me while we stationed up there. Nice old geezer.”
“Maybe he wasn’t that old,” I said meaningfully. “Perhaps you were just too young to have been in the army.” She sighed and leant back a little into the soft couch, resuming the lounging pose that she had been known for assuming for all the wrong reasons.
“Too young to do a lot of things,” she said sadly. I decided to not pursue the comment.
“Actually; it’s your military past I wanted to ask about.”
“Shoot.”
I put my hooftips together. It was not a conscious decision, and it was not until the time of writing that I noticed that it was a most Pones-ian habit to have acquired.
“I don’t suppose you made any obvious enemies?”
She shook her head.
“Not that I know of.”
“What about the other two?”
Spitfire paused and racked her head thoughtfully.
“I don’t really know,” she said after a while. My spirits fell. “I wasn’t the only filly to have passed basic training that year,” she continued. “It was about fifty-fifty colts and fillies, and we all got along.”
I informed her that we had determined that the culprit was most likely a Clopliner and a stallion, but she grimaced at me, clearly displeased she was unable to help.
“Nopony I know. Sorry.”
I winced.
“It does not change the nature of my job,” I said resignedly, and here I began to unravel the bundle on my lap. Inside was the dossier from Gregson, and I put that to one side, for what was underneath it was of my more immediate focus.
It was a strangely familiar sight to me to see a gun. It appeared well-worn around the grip, but maintained quite immaculately. As one might inspect of a weapon used by a policeman, the thing was well crafted and polished, and in the light I was able to read the name of its maker. It was unloaded, but there lay a hoof-full of bullets beside it, presumably for me.
“An Eley’s number two is an excellent argument for any murderous fiend with a knife,” I said, becoming aware of Spitfire’s eyes on the revolver. She let out a very dry laugh.
“I don’t suppose you are armed, being of the services?” I inquired to her, glancing up.
The Pegasus shook her head. “Not since the glory days,” she said wistfully. “You sort of have to give up the looks and the lifestyle of the army if you want to look good on the cover of a magazine.”
I nodded slowly, though I understood little of the transition from soldier to star.
“Well then, I shall just have to follow you. You live alone?” This last afterthought was perhaps something I should have asked earlier, though I knew she was not married.
“Yes,” she replied. “The house is mine.”
I slid six brass-cased bullets into the wheel of the gun, closed it shut and spun it till it clicked.
“It is for the best,” I said stiffly, putting the weapon into my coat pocket. “And, err, no visitors?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Right.”
I then stood and took a stroll around the abode, observing the locations of the windows and shutting the locks on them. She followed me as I did so, watching me with a mixture of worry and interest as I addressed every possible point of entry.
“Tell me,” she asked as I deadlocked a very high lattice-window, “why is he after me?”
“I do not know,” I admitted, not pausing from my efforts. “I was hoping before that you would be able to give me some reason for that.”
“I cannot think of any reason,” said she. “Are you positive that he… wants to kill me?” This last explanative sounded forced and reluctant.
“Madam,” I began, stepping off the chair and turning to face her. My next words faltered a little, for she looked fairly forlorn and afraid, and so I pressed with a softer tone. “Spitfire. There is no certainty, but I do not think my good friend Sherclop Pones would have sent me here without his own conclusions.”
“You are sure he is right then?” she asked.
I hesitated, for I knew that she wanted to be cleared of the unhappy thought more than anyone else. “I have not known him to be wrong yet,” I said carefully.
She smiled bravely once more. Later I would admire the monumental strength of character that it took to do so; but for now my heart radiated sympathy.
“I have also never known him to be outwitted," I added. "The police will be hidden out the front awaiting his signal. The odds of him even getting to you are next to none.”
It was a tactful addition, for her features brightened.
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. I finished examining the house and locking the doors and windows, all the while under her watchful gaze as I wandered from room to room.
“There,” I said, snapping the lock on her upstairs bedroom window shut. “I think that is the last of them.” I then gave a brief once-over of the window to make sure that it was shut, and it was as well that I did so, for I spied a figure trotting up the path towards the house. I beckoned Spitfire over and we both looked, though from a distance we were unable to determine who it might have been.
We went back down-stairs and into the hallway, but stayed out of sight of the blurred glass that would have betrayed our silhouettes.
“If you open the door,” I said quietly, “then I will wait behind it.”
She looked at me, panicked.
“What if it’s him?”
“Let me worry about that,” I said, and, crouching low, I took my spot behind the door. Total silence filled the house and hallway, and in my hoof was the revolver that I had loaded earlier. My heart thudded in my ears like a booming kettle-drum, and so nervous was I that I jumped a little when there was a series of loud raps upon the door. Spitfire came down the hallway, her dark almond eyes flickering once to me. She pulled the wooden front door open, and I saw her face gave way to a mixture of relief and enthusiasm.
“Ah, Coach!” she said gladly.
“Hello, Adrianna,” wafted a familiar voice. “How are you?”
“Ah, could be better,” she mumbled.
“Did you go out last night? You look a little hungover.”
I blanched at the comment, for whoever it was might have suspected something, but Spitfire’s acting was immaculate. She hung her head.
“Just a few drinks with a friend,” she replied modestly. “A quiet night.”
There was a chiding tut of a tongue on teeth.
“Come on,” the voice implored. “I know what a ‘quiet one’ means to you, Spitfire. You really have to cut that party-girl attitude out, and I’ve already asked you once to try.”
“I am trying,” she replied somewhat indignantly. “Anyway, do you want to come in?”
“Oh, I only want to talk to you very quickly, but if that’s alright with you,” it said. Spitfire leaned in, opened the fly-screen door, and took a few steps back. I readied the revolver and raised myself a little from the ground. The figure strode through the doorway, and immediately the gun was on him. I pulled the hammer back with a soft click and cleared my throat.
“That will do.”
The figure froze mid-step. He was dressed in a jet-black coat and matching stovepipe hat that radiated wealth, and underneath his arm he carried a pace-stick.
“Hooves on the wall,” I commanded, and he obeyed almost instantly, dropping the cane and rearing before pressing his forehooves against the wall.
“Spitfire,” the stranger said cautiously, and it was of some surprise to note that his voice was quite calm. “What have you done?”
I patted his coat-pockets down and felt upon his breast the shape of a gun.
“He’s got a gun,” I said, reaching into his coat with my spare hoof and retrieving it. I tossed it to one side. “Now, turn around,” I commanded, and the figure did so. As I gained sight of his face, I realised with a start that the familiar voice and clean dress belonged to Colonel Flash, the very stallion who had hired my friend and I. He seemed as surprised by my identity as I was by his, and for a moment we exchanged incredulous glances.
“Doctor,” he murmured.
“Colonel.”
“What exactly is going on?” He asked. I relaxed a little bit, and lowered the revolver.
“Perhaps it would be best to start from where you left us,” I replied.
I retrieved the Colonel’s service revolver, and he his stick, and we returned to the living-room. I had my eye on him and stood between the two Pegasus, and when we had sat, I explained all that there was to be known.
“So you are saying that Dashie is innocent?” he said, after I had finished. Such a casual euphemism of the young filly I had not expected from someone so formal and well-dressed - though his face was washed with relief, so perhaps in light of his happiness he had let slip his fondness of her. “I knew that it could not have been her. As I mentioned to you before, she is far too kind for such a heinous crime. But if not her, then who?”
“I thought it might have been you at first,” I said.
He looked puzzled. “Myself? But I am your client!”
“You are also a stallion known to all three victims, with a military background and training enough to perform the deed, and certainly wealthy enough to procure the cigars that he smoked.”
The Colonel’s wings flittered in anxiety as I outlined the details for my suspicion, but he was ever the gentleman, nodding his confirmation.
“I see. I take it that this is also the reason you have not returned my service revolver.”
“Correct.”
Having long since removed his hat, he ran a hoof through his sandy mane.
“ You are bound here until Pones contacts you, then?”
“Yes. He has gone back to the station to gather reinforcements to help watch her tonight.”
“Well that leaves me in a bind,” he replied. “I would happily stand with you against this fiend, but then I cannot be trusted with a weapon. So that you might trust me fully, here is my other concealed tool.” Here, he presented his stick to me, and I was baffled by the action until he pressed a small ivory button in its side. The bottom half then slid down to reveal a dazzling, smooth-edged rapier, such as was issued to veterans who fought in the Midwest.
“You may stay still,” I added hopefully. Any help was better than no help, I reasoned, and even if I could not trust him entirely by my own knowledge, it was highly unlikely that anything untoward would come from him.
“Only if you would permit it,” he said boldly to Spitfire, and I saw his chest swell a little with pride. “I’d never dare leave you to your fate.” To this he reached forward and seized the hoof of Spitfire, looking at her intently. “I was never your commanding officer, but I’ll sooner face him and spin the wheel than live a coward,” he said.
She looked humbled by his pledge of loyalty, and was a little overcome, her gaze turning to the ceiling.
“Thanks, coach,” she mumbled, dabbing the warmth from her eyes with a hoof.
“Then I will leave your pistol with her, and you may keep your sword,” I added as an afterthought. We all agreed that this was a fitting idea, and, as night-time fell without further impression or signal from Pones, we split our attention. She went upstairs to her room, and the Colonel stood watch at the stairs. I myself took my place on the inside of her bed-chamber.
“I know it is futile,” I said to her as she changed into bedclothes behind an oriental fold-out screen, “but you should try to relax.”
She stepped out in a light violet nightgown and clambered into her bed.
“I will read,” she said to me, squinting into the darkness to where I sat on a chair. “He’ll be watching for me to sleep, right?”
“Maybe.”
The cold night outside pressed in at the drawn windows, a glimpse of the half-moon shimmering in through the window and onto the wooden floor in front of me. Other than this, though, the room was deathly quiet and dark, shy of a single gas lamp on Spitfire’s bedside table.