It was hours until she fell asleep. Tired though she was; the anxiety of her danger kept her awake, so that even when she dimmed the lamp, she rolled and fidgeted uncomfortably in her bed for some time. I said nothing. Perfectly concealed next to the door, my eyes fell upon her as she finally succumbed to her weariness, and I turned up my collar to avoid the same.
How could I ever forget that dreadful night vigil? I couldn’t hear a sound. Every single breath that I took was slow, purposefully noiseless. Until my night vision came to, I was blind and deaf, and even when it did, my vision was restricted to the black outline of the four-poster bed, its curtains drawn and occupant dozing in a restless slumber. The silken curtains of her windows cut off all but one slender ray of moon-light, and I waited in perfect and absolute blackness.
From outside, the soft hooting of the night-bird occasionally set my nerves on edge. Far away from the city centre I heard the deep; sombre chimes of a bell. Midnight came and passed in a small eternity. Then, the hour of one struck. Two and three passed similarly. My limbs were wracked with stiffness, but still I sat, frozen in place, waiting silently for whatever or whoever might come. I did not dare move. I felt that if I were to move it would be my undoing – it might distract me from the only warning sound of the murderer I would get.
Suddenly, there was a momentary gleam of light from underneath the doorway. It vanished almost immediately, but I was sure of what it was. There was no other possible confusion to be made. My heart was set on edge. I heard a gentle tap of movement up the stairs, and then all was silent once more. I smelt that unmistakable scent of paraffin wax. Yes - a candle had been lit, and extinguished nearby. For half a minute or so I sat, straining my ears and eyes to catch the faintest whiff of trouble.
Without warning, there was a stampede of hoofsteps from outside, followed by a cry.
“Have at you!” It came. It was the voice of the Colonel, and there was the sound of a blade being drawn. The instant I heard it I got to my feet and raced to the door, laying my hoof upon the doorknob –
There was a crack, and then all noise ceased for a moment.
“Coward!” came the Colonel’s voice once more. It was different to the challenge that he had issued before. It was strained, if a word could be used to describe it. And then, the thud and tumble of an unmistakable, heavy weight hitting the ground reached my ears. The light shone freely once more, penetrating the blackness underneath the door.
How that strange series of noises nearly stole my sensibility. My soul stood still. My heart froze. My mind raced in anxiety. In fear I backed away from the door and back towards where I was sitting. It was a reaction that most likely saved my life, as in the next instant the door exploded inward with a mighty crash.
At the moment the light struck my eyes I heard the thudding of more footsteps, but the sudden glare of light blinded me, and the door itself was between me and him. I pointed my revolver at the heavy wooden shield, and fired twice - there was another shout of pain. I saw from the shadow that was cast upon the floor that a large, bold figure was silhouetted in the doorway. There then came a crack of his own pistol, but I was quicker - I seized the moment of his injury to turn and buck the door shut. The blow shook my legs with a wobbling pain, but the speed with which it crashed into the pony standing at the door was great, and it threw him off balance. Then, there was a loud clang, and the light vanished, followed by a cry of alarm, and the rolling thudding of something as it bounced down the stairs. It slammed into the floor at the bottom, and there was an earthly cracking noise, followed by a shriek. It rose, louder and louder, a yell of pain and fear mingled into one, till it shrank and died away to a whimper.
I ran to the bedside of Spitfire, who was drawn back against the covers, cowering with fear, her pistol untouched on the bedside table. She screamed a little as I opened the curtains, but I seized her by the shoulders.
“It’s me! Up!” I cried, hauling her out bed. She did so, but she fumbled for her own pistol. I had scarcely got her to all fours when I heard a swift pattering sound. Thinking it might be the assassin, I turned, making my own pistol ready again.
“Trotson!” barked the voice of Pones. “I am coming up. Do not shoot.”
I lowered my pistol, and the room was illuminated by a sudden and intense light of several lanterns, as well as the sound of many hooves pounding up the stairs.
Pones’ face was illuminated from beyond the doorway. He glanced from huddled Spitfire to myself.
“Neither of you are hurt? That is good to see." he relaxed visibly. "It is all over,” he added. “Come and look for yourselves.”
I did as I was bade; advancing forward cautiously still, for I knew by the small cry that my shots had not killed him. However, as I came out of the room there laid a figure whose presence left me crestfallen.
Colonel Flash was over to the right of the doorway. He had been shot in the chest, and there was a damp streak down his chest where the blood had stained that wonderful jacket of his. He had fallen to one side, though as I exited the bed-chamber a policepony picked him up, propping him against the white bannister of the stairway before tending to his wounds. Flash passed me the briefest and most forced smile as his eyes fell upon me, and I noticed that the razor-sharp sword was still tensed tightly in one hoof.
“Blighter had a pistol,” he said with effort. I nodded, and then peered down the stairs to where the attacker lay. All I could see of him was a mop of a red mane, but he was either dead or unconscious.
“He is knocked out for the moment,” Pones said from next to me. “I came when I heard the cries, and met him coming down, as it were.” With this, twirled a police baton before my eyes. “Gave him a broken leg to remember me by – so tender sweet was our brief meeting that I could not help but give him a parting gift.”
I remember asking as to his identity.
“All in good time,” he replied, smiling at me. It was, with some relief, the knowing smile that I had become accustomed to, and my heart was glad to see it etched into his thin, grey face. That particular moment I remember quite well, for the adrenaline was causing my head to thud in an almost painful way.
Spitfire had regained her composure, and obstinately refused to leave my side, even to the point point where we were all hustled into the back of a police cart. The Colonel was bundled into another cart and rushed to hospital, we had no injuries, but there were statements to be taken.
There I lost track of time for a moment, or at least, that is the end of my clear memory of that night. I apologise for being so awfully vague and undoubtedly very inaccurate with the details, but I struggle at the best of times to recall all. I don’t think there was much said. What was there to say, after all – and who would be willing to say it?
The tapping of hooves on the flagstones returns to me as I write this, and I cannot help but wonder if I fell asleep sitting in the back of that Black Maria cab while listening to that rhythmic tune, in-time with the jingling of the driver’s harnesses. I had the vilest feeling of nausea overcome me at one point... I had shot a pony, I thought. With worry and weariness wracking my mind and body, I forced my eyes shut and prayed for sleep. At one point I remember the faintest scent of Spitfire’s mane as she still leant into me, her grasp so unforgivingly tight around my foreleg that it tingled with pins and needles. That made the sick feeling recede a little, and I was lulled into resting for a while. It seems strange, given what had just transpired, but no sooner had the adrenaline worn off than I was overcome by weariness.
Very brief and disjointed details are all I can recall until the next morning. There were the bright lights of the station, and then blur of questions, faces and voices all rolled into one gigantic mess. A doctor checking up on me. The stern voice of Pones in my ear, and my own replying, seemingly weak and bleary by comparison.
I must have been weary beyond measure, for I slept quite deeply, though I do not recall lying down anywhere. In fact, I awoke with a frightened lurch as my head slipped off whatever comfortable pillow I had laid it on.
My reactions were still a little dim, and I fell off my chair as a result. Thankfully it was not far to fall, and the ground was a little softer for an unknown reason, but as my lucidity returned to me I began to make sense of where I was. And who I had been leaning on.
Spitfire looked down at me with some fright and alarm.
“Huh?...” she mumbled, raising her hooves to her face. I opened my mouth and said something, but unfortunately my brain not reached the point where I could speak in complete sentences. I stared, in earnest hope that whatever I had said made some sense, but she returned my gaze blankly.
“Sorry, did you say something?” she asked, puzzled, rubbing her eyes against the sleep. “I think I dozed off.”
I did not reply, but gazed quickly around the room. It was small, white, and square, and had no windows barring one that was very high up. Through it the light of day shone, though it was a dim half-light that filtered between the gaps of a thatched iron grate. There were long, wooden benches placed on each wall, and it was on one of these that I had been sitting, head drooped down.
“You’ve been like that for hours,” said a voice. I looked behind me, and noticed the figure of the inspector in an open doorway. He looked like he’d had a rough night. Dark circles encroached underneath his eyes, but a relaxed look dwelt on his face. “Flash’s just fine. The bullet missed all of his vitals, I’m pleased to say.”
Behind me, Spitfire half-laughed and half-choked on her relief. I was overcome similarly, and I took a wonderfully deep breath. Like a stallion who’s been caged up all his life, the news was liberating – it lifted the giant weight that lay upon me, and I felt immensely more alive.
“You were all dog-tired, so we put you up for the night in a holding cell.” The unicorn peered once around the room. “Looks like Pones is already gone, though.”
“What time is it?” I inquired, getting to all fours before yawning raucously.
“Eight o’clock.”
“And what of our stallion?”
The detective grimaced.
“He’s in hospital. You did shoot him in the stomach, after all.”
“Will he live?”
“Yes.”
“The shot was poor, then.”
His expression cracked into a grin.
“Now now, Doctor. He is in custody. The hangman's rope will have him yet.”
“I should hope so. What is his name?” I asked.
“Major Sebastian Moran.”
I glanced over at Spitfire, but to my surprise she was unmoved by the announcement of the murderer’s identity.
“I’ve never heard of him,” she said.
“You are sure?”
“Positive.”
I looked back at the inspector. He was just as puzzled as I by her revelation, and he blinked his tired eyes once or twice before raising his hooves in defeat.
“Well then, his motives are beyond me,” he said, stepping through the doorway and taking a seat on the bench opposite me. “Perhaps he is merely insane,” he added, kneading the tiredness out of his face with his hooves.
“No, I do not think so.”
I looked up; for it was not I that had replied, and there in the doorway stood my elusive friend Pones. I jumped a little, for I had not noticed his appearance. He leant casually against the doorway, the smoke trailing from the tip of his pipe and his green jacket cast about him once more. He was still missing his cap, and from where it should have sat on his grey forehead there spilled the untidy mess of brown that might have been called bedhair. It was a strange moment to remember, and I would not have but for the striking realization that now Pones seemed far more real to me. Without his cap he was not the pony I had known him to be - the logical, and sometimes cold genius, almost machine-like in precision. I wondered if he had been standing behind Inspector Bradsteed for the few minutes that the tired policepony had been speaking to us, and simply chosen to let his invisibility linger a little longer. Bradsteed himself looked back at the doorway for the source of the voice, but was not surprised by its owner’s appearance.
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
“Just getting my possessions,” said Pones.
“You’re missing your hat,” I observed.
“Lost,” said Pones. Here, he looked down his nose at me. “You must have dropped it.”
“No, I hung it on the clothesrack here,” I replied indignantly.
“Then it was stolen;” he replied. His face grew stern and he looked at Bradsteed. “Bradsteed, send out every stallion you have. We must recover my hat.”
“Oh?” Said Bradsteed, acting concerned. “Well where did you last see it, sir?”
“It was stolen from a police station.”
The two of them burst into laughter. I had quite missed the joke, and was thusly sure that it was at my own expense, but again I ignored it, for there was another flash of energy through Pones.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and that's quite true. Pones’ eyes were more like the windows in the cell– high up, they appeared to let the world through, but strong bars stopped anything from getting out. I had never noticed it before, but his eyes lit up when he laughed. A little spark of mirth and uncharacteristic naturalness that peeked out from behind his closed mind. Perhaps there was some further joke to be understood – something of the way that Bradsteed sat, his tired eyes scrunched shut, the low, deep rumble of his laughter filling his room, and Pones’ own merriment – the dry, short laughs of the intellectual who has found something entertaining - told me that they had worked together for a very long time, and that the joke extended beyond any real humour. Laughter for laughter's sake, simply to lift the spirits.
The laughter soon died away, though Pones was still grinning at Bradsteed.
“Yes, I have retrieved my kit, and now I am here to retrieve my companion.” Here, his gaze switched to me.
“Shall we, Trotson?”
“Certainly, but I have a few questions first.” I looked back at Spitfire, who had silently watched the exchange, a look of concern on her face. “And, seeing as how they are relevant to her, I thought we might have it all out in the open.”
The lady of the arena nodded her head in agreement, and Bradsteed murmured his own confusion. Thus pressed by us all, Pones showed signs of irresolution. He came into the small room and began to pace, his head sunk onto his chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.
“I would have asked for you to wait until he is awake. But he was still sleeping last I saw him – still under the anaesthetic they used when they removed the bullet from his chest. But, you are quite right. Miss Spitfire does deserve an explanation, and so do you for risking your life.”
Here, he stopped and faced me abruptly.
“You know of his name?”
“Yes.”
“And his squad?”
“No.”
“The fifth light cavalry.”
I stared my confusion at him. He looked back at me as if he had told me something of great importance – in the manner of a teacher trying to force a particularly obstinate student to answer a question.
“That does not tell me much,” I said finally.
“Exactly!” he replied happily. “He has no link with the victims.”
“So was this character a hired brute, then?”
“No. And though his killings were indeed patterned, the murderer is not mad.” Here, he gazed wistfully at the beams of light and warmth that shone onto the floor. “He is the most brilliant soldier of his lot.”
Such high praise I had not expected, though I knew them to be more words of contempt from a stallion like Pones.
“It is a very strange backstory,” he continued. “A veteran flier of nine years. He joined the airforce when he was young and battled his way up through the ranks. He is a native of Fillydephia.”
“A Midwesterner, then?”
“Yes, though he has lived here long enough that he does not have any accent. Anyway – he joined when he was twenty-one. Straight out of college and into the flight school, he was. But he retired after a particular incident known as ‘Operation Firestone.’” Here, Pones looked over my head and to Spitfire.
“You have heard of it?”
“Only that it was a bloody massacre,” she replied gravely. I was quite alarmed by her response, and I looked back to see that a shadow had fallen across her face.
“Yes, quite so, quite so,” my companion said. “A most unpleasant event.”
“What happened?” I inquired, being lost as to the details.
“A dragon.”
My eyes widened in shock and horror. A dragon hadn’t been seen in Equestria for several decades.
“How did I not hear of this?” I asked. Spitfire was the one to reply this time, her grainy voice speaking into my left ear.
“It was classified,” the Lieutenant said. “I remember hearing word of it on the grapevine, though that didn’t last long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they discharged the guy that told me, and threatened to do the same to me if I breathed a word of what I’d heard to anyone. I hadn’t found anything out – just the mere mention of what happened in the mess hall one day – but still, that was enough to get him booted out of the airforce. Later when I joined the wonderbolts, I asked the Colonel what it all meant, and he knew, so he told me.”
“The Colonel?... Flash, you mean?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“So... what happened?”
“The dragon had to be dealt with.” Pones interrupted our musings, and we both turned our attention back to him. “And a squad of the finest young fliers in Equestria were deployed to 'deal with it', as it were.” He paused for breath, putting a hoof to his chin. “And they were summarily dealt with.”
My jaw dropped in horror.
“You mean they were all killed?”
“No, no, though two died, and one was seriously injured. He lost his wing. It was a mistake in the order of commands, the post-action report says. His fire team engaged the dragon at the wrong time.”
“And was the commander held responsible?”
“He was court-marshalled, but he was found innocent.”
Spitfire’s eyes flashed.
“How did you get your hooves on information like that?”
Pones did not enjoy being challenged at the best of times, but his answer to her was surprisingly polite.
“Time and patience,” he said meekly. Spitfire did not look satisfied, so he elaborated. “I asked the Colonel.”
“Oh. I suppose he would have a copy. He was in command, after all.”
“What!” I cried, looking up. “We are discussing the Colonel himself? I thought he might have known, but I did not know he was in charge.”
“He was in charge, and he did know the murderer,” Pones replied pointedly. “The Colonel is also of the 5th cavalry. That should tell you something.”
I shook my head, still unsure.
“I don’t quite follow how that has led to this,” I said. “How did Moran know the murder victims, and why did he do what he did?"
“Ah, that is why I was hoping that we might wait for our friend to be conscious before talking.”
A fourth voice rang out from the corridor.
“Well you are in luck!” It said.
We all turned and looked again. A few seconds passed before Gregson appeared in the doorway, smiling tiredly. Behind him stood the aquamarine Pegasus known to me as Rainbow Dash.
Spitfire gave an excited gasp of happiness, and got to all fours.
“Dashie!” she cried, and the two embraced. ‘Dashie’ had shunted Gregson to one side of the doorway in her haste to meet her friend, and there he stood, his confused expression swapping between myself, Pones, the two fillies and his fellow Inspector.
“Where’s the party?” he said, peering around the now cramped room.
“We were just discussing Moran,” Pones replied. “You have news of the Colonel’s recovery? His input would help clean this whole debacle up.”
“Yes,” Gregson replied, still bemusedly looking at the two fillies. “They know eachother?”
I glanced over at Rainbow Dash. Her eyes were screwed up tight, and her head was buried in Spitfire’s golden-orange mane. I cleared my throat.
“Maybe it would be best,” I said, “If the stallions left for now. We'll meet outside, and take cabs to see the Colonel.”
There was a simultaneous understanding between all four of us, and we stood to leave. Being the furthest away from the door, I was last to leave and Gregson waited for me, but before I could leave, Dash called out to me.
“Hey Doc, could you stay for a second?”
I was distracted by the use of my name, and I caught Gregson’s eye.
“I’ll be a minute.”
He smiled, nodded briefly, and vanished off down the corridor after Pones and Bradsteed. I gave my attention back to Spitfire. Rainbow Dash had pulled her face from where it had buried in Spitfire’s fiery orange mane, and I noticed that her eyes were a little pinker than usual. Indeed, now that she stood next to her friend, I noticed how strangely similar the two Pegasus were. They could have been sisters. Maybe it was the many-toned nature of their manes. Maybe it was because they had the same die-hard fierceness in their eyes.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s nothing,” she replied quickly, though her haste gave away her true thoughts. “I just wanted to say... Thank you.”
I shook my head.
“You need not thank me,” I said modestly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Spitfire added, her eyebrows rising. I have to admit, I had warmed greatly to her, and couldn't stifle my grin.
“Yeah, you really did a lot. Not just for her, either. You splinted my wing, and that worked out pretty nicely, if I do say so myself.” Here, she flapped the appendage loosely, and I noticed that the swelling had much reduced, and that it looked much better.
“A pleasure,” I said with a grin.
“…And thank you for what you said the other day, too,” Dash continued. "You remember, right?"
It seemed like an eternity ago that it had occurred. Personally, I felt as if had I'd lived an entire year’s worth of weariness between yesterday and today, but indeed, I remembered my words quite well.
“Yes, I do.”
She smiled at me. Again, I felt myself transfixed by her irises, sincere and fierce.
“Thanks.” She paused. “It meant a lot.”
I wondered briefly if she meant her wing or what I had said. But there was little time for me to think, for she then she trotted forward, and before I could object, planted a passionate kiss on my nose. I burned from head to flank in surprise and embarrassment, flustered for words.
“O-oh…Well… It wasn’t anything… It was just, um, perfectly natural for me to….”
A rogueish grin came about the filly’s features, and she looked wickedly at Spitfire.
“He’s cute when he's flustered,” she said, her grainy voice having resumed its full rowdiness.
Spitfire rolled her eyes.
“And engaged.” She gave me an apologetic glance, putting a hoof on her friend’s back. “Reel it in, Dashie.”
“Huh? Aw..." Her ears drooped noticably. "Wait, how do you know?”
“Mr. Pones told me,” the older Pegasus replied sternly.
She looked quite dejected, but so self-possessed was her nature that she rebounded quickly. She turned to me.
“Sorry, Doc,” she said, though the grin on her face still kept me on edge. “She must be pretty good-looking to compete with the one and only Rainbow Dash!” here, she shook her mane in an attempt to appear picturesque. Instead, it flopped into her face, and I laughed. I was not offended. She could not have possibly known that I was engaged, I reasoned, and besides, she was a few years younger than me. Fillies might have been alright for the younger, travelling me, but unfortunately for her I belonged to Redheart, and that was that.
“Yes,” I replied with a foolish grin, reaching into my coat-pocket and withdrawing a fluttering photograph. Dash recognised the fluttering piece of paper instantly, frowning.
“He keeps a picture of her?” she said, irritated. “Alright, that’s too cute for me.” Her expression remained that way for a moment - until she suddenly realize who the pony in the photo was. At this, her head lurched away in surprise, and her eyes shot open fully.
“Wo-o-oah, you’re that stallion she keeps talking about?” her voice reaching an incredulous squeak.
“Wait, you know her?” Spitfire said, peering over at the picture.
“Oh yeah, that's Doc Redheart. She runs the clinic in Ponyville. You know I live there, right? Anyway, I go in there for my monthly checkup, and for like, the last three months, all she wants to talk about is this one guy called John. He’s coming to stay, blah blah blah, he's so insensitive, blah blah blah, we’re getting married…” She stuck her tongue out and mimed gagging. “Who would even wanna get married? Why tie yourself up like that when there’s so many great gals and guys out there?”
I ignored her last words. I was simply happy at the knowledge that I had been talked about.