The 18th of April, 7:55pm The Palace
The grand oak doors of Prince Blue Blood’s extravagant home opened noiselessly. A gray-haired butler drew it back to let me enter. He closed it equally as noiselessly and deftly relieved me of my overcoat and scarf.
He murmured in a low expressionless voice, “What name shall I say?”
“Miss Octavia Melody.” I answered.
There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened a door and announced, “Miss Octavia Melody.”
Sherry glass telekinetically suspended by his magic, Mr. Blood came forward to meet me. He was as usual immaculately dressed. The Mephistophelean suggestion was heightened tonight; his eyebrows seemed accentuated in a mocking twist.
“Ah! Good evening Miss Melody. Let me introduce you. Do you know Mrs. Cherry?” I believe the showman in him enjoyed the little start of surprise that I gave.
Mrs. Hazel Cherry was extremely well known as one of the foremost writers of detective fiction and other sensational stories. She wrote chatty, if not particularly grammatical, articles on “The Tendency of the Criminal,” ”Famous Crimes Passionnels,” “Murder for Love vs. Murder for Gain.” She was also a rather hotheaded feminist and when any murder of importance was occupying space in the press there was sure to be an interview with Mrs. Cherry, and it was mentioned that Mrs. Cherry had once said, “Now, if a mare were the head of The Equestrian Police Force!” She was an earnest believer in mares intuition.
For the rest she was an agreeable mare of middle age, handsome in a mostly untidy fashion, with fine eyes, substantial shoulders, and a large quantity of rebellious greyish green hair with which she was continually experimenting. One day her appearance would be highly intellectual - a brow with the hair scraped back from it and coiled in a large bun in the neck; on another, Mrs. Cherry would suddenly appear with Madonna loops, or large masses of slightly untidy curls. On this particular evening Mrs. Cherry was trying out a fringe.
She greeted me; we had met before at a literary dinner, in an agreeable bass voice. “And Superintendent Silverstar you doubtless know,” said Blueblood.
A big square wooden-faced stallion moved forward. Not only would an onlooker feel that Superintendent Silverstar was carved out of wood, as I did – one would also manage to convey the impression that the wood in question was the timber out of a battleship.
Superintendent Silverstar was supposed to be Trotland Police Services’, commonly referred to as simply Trotland Yard, best representative.
He always looked stolid and rather stupid.
“I know Miss Melody,” said Superintendent Silverstar. His wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former unexpressiveness. I smiled and nodded politely.
“Colonel Fancy Pants,” went on Blue Blood.
I had not previously met Colonel Pants, but I knew something about him. A wealthy, handsome, cheerful stallion of fifty, he was usually to be found in some outpost of some formidable country - especially if there was trouble brewing.
Secret Service is a melodramatic term, but it described pretty accurately to the lay mind of the nature and scope of Colonel Pants’ activities.
I had by now taken in and appreciated the particular essence of my host's humorous intentions.
“Our other guests are late,” said Mr. Blood. “My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them eight-fifteen.”
But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced,
“Doctor Hooves.”
The stallion that came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly coloured individual of middle age.
Small twinkling eyes, a touch of solemnness, a tendency of embonpoint and a general air of a well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. I felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical. Merrily he said, “A little champagne in convalescence perhaps.”
‘Ah,’ I thought to myself ‘A stallion of the world!’
“Not late, I hope?” said Doctor Hooves genially.
He shook hooves with his host and was introduced to the others.
He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Silverstar. “Why, you're one of the big noises in Trotland Yard, aren't you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop, but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor to be interested in, I dare say. Mustn't say so to my nervous patients however, ha ha!”
Again the door opened.
“Mrs. Sapphire Shores.”
Mrs. Shores was an extremely well dressed mare of sixty. She had lovely cut features, beautifully arranged blue hair, and a clear, incisive voice. More like the principal of a college than a successful murderer.
“I hope I'm not late, I had a perfect idiot of a chariot driver, he got hopelessly lost trying to take a short cut though a clearly oversized cloud," she said, advancing to her host. She turned from him to greet Doctor Hooves with whom she was acquainted, and then moved to greet myself.
The butler announced, “Major Shining Amour.”
Major Amour was a tall, lean, handsome stallion, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. He looked very solemn and had a hardened complexion about him. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Pants - and the two stallions were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari. I watched him for a while, as he intrigued me. He truly was a very handsome stallion.
For the last time the door opened and the butler announced, “Miss Lyra Harpstrings.”
A young mare in her early twenties entered. She was of medium height and very pretty. Light green curls clustered on her neck and back, her yellowish brown eyes were large and wide apart. Her face had no make up. Her voice was slow and rather shy.
She said, “Oh, dear, am I the last?”
Mr. Blood descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious.
Miss Lyra was left sipping her sherry by my side.
"Our friend is very punctilious,” I said with a smile, after a brief silence.
She agreed. “I know. Ponies rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say, ‘I expect you know everypony,’ and leave it at that.”
“Whether you do or you don't?” I pressed for sake of clarity.
“Whether you do or don't. Sometimes it makes it awkward - but I think this is more awe inspiring.”
I said nothing as I speculated what Miss Harpstrings had said. I have a habit of speculating over things that later I realise were irrelevant.
She hesitated and then said, “Is that Mrs. Cherry the novelist?”
Mrs. Cherry’s bass voice rose powerfully at that minute speaking to Doctor Hooves. “You can't get away from a mare's instinct, Doctor. We know these things.” Forgetting that she no longer had a visible brow, she endeavored to sweep her hair back from it but was foiled by the fringe.
“That is indeed Mrs. Cherry,” I said, smiling.
“The one who wrote The Manehatten Murders?” Miss Harpstrings’ tone was impressed.
“The identical one.” I obliged.
Miss Harpstringsfrowned a little. “And that wooden-looking stallion; was he a superintendent, did Mr. Blood say?”
“From Trotland Yard.”
“And you?”
“And me?”
“I know all about you, Miss Melody. It was you who solved the top Manehatten crimes. You were voted one of the cleverest intellectuals in Equestria last year and are known for your use of complex words, your love of classical music and your cello.” She said appearing to be rather proud of her knowledge on the subject of the one whom she was standing next to.
I smiled and modestly said, “Miss Harpstrings, you cover me with confusion.” Despite the fact that everything she had said was true. Naturally I was flattered, but I chose not to show it.
“I will admit, however, it is true that I am known for my sesquipedalian manner.”
Realising that she had fallen silent, I waited for her to speak.
Miss Harpstrings drew her brows together.
"Mr. Blood," she began and then stopped. "Mr. Blood is - "
Sensing what she was about to say, I said quietly, “One might say he is rather ‘crime minded?’ Hm - it seems so. Doubtless he wishes to hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Cherry and Doctor Hooves. They are now discussing untraceable poisons.”
Miss Harpstrings creased her brow further as she said, “What a queer pony he is!”
“Doctor Hooves?”
“No, Mr. Blood.”
She shivered a little and said, “There's always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never know what would strike him as amusing. It might - it might be something cruel!”
“Such as fox hunting?”
Miss Harpstrings threw me a reproachful glance. “I meant - oh, something that would be unpleasant for everyone but him.”
“He has a tortuous mind,” I admitted.
"Torturer's?"
"No, no, tortuous, I said." I corrected.
“I don't think I like him very much,” confided Miss Harpstrings, her voice dropping.
“You will like his dinner, though,” I assured her. “He has a most ingenious cook.”
She looked at me doubtfully and then laughed. “Why,” she said, “I believe you are quite humored Miss Melody,”
“I should certainly hope that I am humored, Miss Harpstrings.”
“You see,” said Miss Harpstrings, “all these celebrities are rather intimidating.”
“Miss Harpstrings, you should not be intimidated - you should be thrilled! You should have all ready your autograph book and your quill pen.” I said, not in reference to myself as much as to the others.
"Well, you see, I'm not really terribly interested in crime. I don't think mares are; it's always stallions who read detective stories."
I sighed affectedly.
"Alas!” I murmured. “What would I not give at this minute to be even the most minor of film stars! Perhaps then, in your eyes, I could excuse my very occupation.”
Miss Harpstrings smiled and laughed softly to herself, “I believe that I am beginning to like you, Miss Melody.”
“And I believe that I am beginning to feel likewise, Miss Harpstrings.” I said, smiling. Glad to have made a new acquaintance with whom I could relate.
The butler threw the door open.
“Dinner is served,” he announced.
My prognostication was amply justified. The dinner was delicious and its serving perfection. Subdued light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Baltimare glass. In the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Blood looked more than ever diabolical.
He apologised gracefully in advance for any potential dissatisfaction with the dinner. None was voiced as it was enjoyed by all.
Mr. Blood sat with Mrs. Shores on his right hand, Mrs. Cherry on his left. Miss Harpstrings was between Superintendent Silverstar and Major Amour. I was between Mrs. Shores and Doctor Hooves.
The latter murmured facetiously to me, “You're not going to be allowed to monopolize the only pretty filly all the evening. You police mares, you don't waste your time, do you?”
“I happen to be a Private Detective,” I murmured, feeling rather insulted at having been lowered to the level of a mere enforcer of the law, and at the alleged accusation of monopolisation.
“Same thing where the mares are concerned, I expect,” said the Doctor cheerfully.
Then, dropping the facetiousness, and adopting a professional tone he began to talk to Colonel Pants on his other side about the latest developments in the treatment of sleeping sickness.
Mrs. Shores turned to me and began to talk of the latest plays and the theatre. Her judgments were sound and her criticisms apt. We drifted on to books and then to world politics, a topic almost constantly under my scrutiny and speculation.
I found her a well-informed and thoroughly intelligent mare.
On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Cherry was asking Major Amour if he knew of any unheard-of, out-of-the-way poisons.
“Well, there's curare.”
“My dear stallion! That's been done hundreds of times. I mean something new!”
Major Amour said dryly, “Primitive tribes are rather old fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them.”
“Very tiresome of them,” said Mrs. Cherry. “I should have thought they were always experimenting with pounding up herbs and things. Such a chance for explorers, I always think. They could come home and kill off all their rich old uncles with some new drug that no one's ever heard of.”
“You should go to civilization, not to the wilds for that,” said the Major. “In the modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent looking germs that will produce bona fide diseases.”
“That wouldn't do for my public,” said Mrs. Cherry. “Besides one is so apt to get the names wrong – staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things - so difficult for my secretary and anyway rather dull, don't you think so? What do you think, Superintendent Silver?”
The superintendent stroked his mustache thoughtfully once before answering. “In real life ponies don't bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Cherry,” said the superintendent. “They usually stick to arsenic because it's nice and handy to get hold of.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Cherry. “That's simply because there are lots of crimes you people at Trotland Yard never find out. Now if you had a mare there - ”
“As a matter of fact we have - ” began Superintendent Silver, but Mrs. Cherry cut him short.
“Yes, those dreadful police mares who bother ponies in parks! I mean a mare at the head of things. Mares know about crime.” She said, sipping her glass of cherry (for such magnificent sherry it was).
“They're usually very successful criminals,” said Superintendent Silver. “They keep their heads well. It's amazing how they'll brazen things out.”
I chose to reflect on his statement, for such statements complementing the opposite sex from the superintendent were rare. That is, if Mrs. Cherry took it as such.
Mr. Blood laughed gently.
“Poison is a mare’s weapon,” he said. “There must be many secret mare poisoners - never found out.”
I looked up, as it was the first time the prince had spoken in some time.
“Of course there are,” said Mrs. Cherry happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie grass. Seizing the opportunity, Major Armor and I did likewise.
“A doctor, too, has opportunities,” went on Mr. Blood thoughtfully.
“I protest,” cried Doctor Roberts, in a genial tone. “When we poison our patients it's entirely by accident.” He laughed heartily.
“But if I were to commit a crime,” went on Mr. Blood. He stopped, and something in that pause compelled attention.
All faces turned to him.
“I should make it very simple, I think. There's always accident – a shooting accident for instance - or the domestic kind of accident.”
Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his wineglass. “But who am I to pronounce - with so many experts present?”
I looked hard at him. What sort of game was this prince playing?
He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine onto his face with its handsome features, his small gold broach, his fantastic bowtie.
There was a momentary silence.
“An angel passing.” Said Mrs. Cherry.
“What was that you said?” I asked her, with a deliberately conversational tone.
She replied, “It’s what one says when a sudden silence falls.” She then added, in a lower voice, “Though I fear in this case it may be an angel of darkness.”
We all remained silent for a few seconds longer until Mrs. Cherry said, “It’s just a saying, nothing foreboding.”