//------------------------------// // Mr. Blood // Story: The Murder of Prince Blue Blood // by Tavi4 //------------------------------// It was one of the most interesting cases I have ever come across. There were four ponies, one of who must have committed the crime, but which of them? The whole extraordinary business began at an exhibition of Miss Rarity’s finest garments and dresses at the Royal Canterlot Gardens. Admission was one Bit in aid of Nurse Red Hearts Hospitals. It was as I was scrutinizing a rather fanciful green and yellow dress that a certain Prince Blue Blood, looking rather pleased with his surroundings, approached me. He seemed to be delighted to see me. Either that or he was being sardonic. “Ah, my dear Miss Melody,” he said, smiling. It was a soft purring voice - a voice used deliberately as an instrument - nothing impulsive or unpremeditated about it. “Good morning your Royal Highness.” I replied, with an almost untraceable note of contempt at having my inspection disturbed. “Not apprehending culprits and jailing criminals much just at present? Slack season in the criminal world? Or is there to be a robbery here this afternoon? That would be too delicious.” Mr. Blood said, rather morbidly, I thought. “Alas, Mr. Blood,” I said, “I am here in a purely private capacity.” “That dress you were looking at is quite exquisite, so unfortunate it is to big for you, I do believe you would look simply splendid in it.” Said Mr. Blood, still smiling. Prince Blue Blood had deliberately cultivated the ‘Royalty on an outing’ effect. His light golden hair was heavily accented, and shining like the sun. He wore an extravagant blue jacket, and a small golden broach. Mr. Blood was distracted for a moment by a pretty young mare with long apple green hair and politely asked her which dress she fancied the most. While the lovely young pony made a suitable reply, I allowed myself a good study of the adornment on Mr. Blood’s neck. A fine bow tie - a very fine bowtie - the only bowtie in Equestria, perhaps, that could compete with my own. It was a light shade of blue, and the ends were correctly starched. “But it is not so luxuriant,” I murmured to myself. “No, decidedly it is inferior in every respect. But it catches the eye.” In fact, the whole of the pony caught the eye. As if he was designed to do so. His clothes were works of art - of exquisite cut - but with a suggestion of the bizarre. Every healthy Stallion who saw him longed earnestly and fervently to kick him! They said, with a singular lack of originality, “There's that damned Blue Blood!” Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said, varying the idiom according to their generation, words to this effect: “I know, my dear. Of course he’s terrible. But he’s so rich! And a Royal Prince! And such marvelous parties! And he's always got something amusing and spiteful to tell you about ponies.” Also, I noted, there was also a suggestion of Mephistophelean about his manner. There was a feeling, perhaps, that he knew a little too much about everypony. And there was a feeling, too, that his sense of humor was a curious one. People nearly always felt that it would be better not to risk offending Mr. Blood. It was his humor this afternoon to bait that solitary, solemn looking mare, Private Investigator Octavia Melody; myself. Mr. Blood brought his attention back to me, “Why did you not come to the Garden Ball last week? You really shouldn’t have missed it; it was quite a remarkable evening. Quite a few ponies actually spoke to me after they had arrived, one even approached Princess Cadence and I and said ‘how do you do’ and ‘goodbye’ and ‘thank you so much’.” “It was evidently an occasion to remember.” I said, smiling, “But I see, that you have lent three of your finest jackets to the exhibition?” I commented. “Oh, one picks up trifles here and there. Your friend Rarity truly knows how to make excellent clothes of almost any variety.” Mr. Blood replied, looking rather pleased with himself and his jackets. Looking me in the eyes, he said, “You really must come to one more of my formal occasions Octavia.” Lowering his voice to almost a whisper, he said in my ear, “I could even reveal to you a few things in your own line.” “What sort of things?” I inquired, my imagination buzzing, also lowering my voice. Around us the well-dressed languid Canterlot crowd eddied mildly. Voices drawled and murmured. “Why, you’re a private detective. Things to do with murder of course.” Laughed Mr. Blood, clearly sensing my misinterpretation of his statement. “Is that so Mr. Blood? Do you happen to have a private crime museum of your own?” I asked, now smiling too, having regained my composure. “Ha! You mean the spectacles of one of the victims of Mane-iac or the shoes of Nightmare Moon? Pff! I would never pardon myself with rubbish like that. No, I collect only the best objects of their kind.” He was smiling slyly now. “And what do you consider to be the best objects in the field of crime?” I asked, slightly cynically. “I collect only the ponies themselves who commit the crimes, and I collect only the best.” He replied proudly. “Naturally,” he went on, smiling, “I don’t keep these ponies in glass cabinets. Unfortunately, they still live among us.” He said, gazing at the other ponies milling throughout the garden. I was intrigued. “The best being?” I pressed. Laughing softly, Mr. Blood answered; “Why my dear Mare, the ones who have got away with it! The murderers who no breath of suspicion has ever touched.” then pausing, appearing to consider for a moment, drawing a seemingly long breath before continuing, “Why don’t I hold a formal dinner party so you can meet my exhibits? It will take time to organize of course, let us say, ah, the week after next. On what evening would you be free?” Mr. Blood so graciously asked me. “Any evening of that week would suit me.” I replied, slightly stupefied at this suggestion, but grateful to have some form of input to this hastily organized gathering. “Then we will say Friday the eighteenth. Really, the whole idea pleases me enormously.” Declared Mr. Blood, with an unmistakable flush of eager anticipation. I looked casually at the dresses surrounding us. “Hm. I’m not sure that it pleases me.” I said in a nonchalant manner. Mr. Blood raised an eyebrow, “Does it not appeal to your overly cautious sensibilities? My dear Octavia, you really must free yourself from the limitations of the police type mentality.” I replied, “Hmm, it is true that I have a thoroughly, as you say, police type attitude to murder.” I replied. “But why? Murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist!” laughed Mr. Blood. “But he is still a murderer, Mr. Blood.” I countered. “And yet, if he does such a thing supremely well…” Began Mr. Blood. “Oh, I am not so insensitive to art in crime as you think.” I cut him off, “I can admire the perfect murderer. I can also admire a Manticore. But I would admire him from outside his cage,” I looked at Prince Blue Blood seriously, “I will not go inside. Not unless it is my duty to do so. For you see Mr. Blood, the Manticore might spring.” “And the murderer?” Said Mr. Blood, leaning his head closer and raising an eyebrow. I finished gravely, “Might murder.” The proud Prince laughed aloud, “Ha! Ha! What an alarmist you are, Octavia. Then you will not come to meet my collection of ‘Manticores’?” He said, with a hint of disappointment. “On the contrary,” I smiled, “I shall be enchanted to come.” “Excellent!” he grinned, “I shall go along with my preparations for the eighteenth, at, let's say, at eight o’clock, do not forget.” And with that, he turned, and walked away. I stood alone for a few moments, watching him as he began to disappear into the crowd, slowly shaking my head in quizzical intrigue.