//------------------------------// // Which Of Them? // Story: The Murder of Prince Blue Blood // by Tavi4 //------------------------------// Silver looked from one face to another. Just as I predicted, only one pony answered his question. Mrs. Cherry, never averse to giving her views, rushed into speech. “Lyra or the doctor,” she said. Silver looked questioningly at Pants and I. Admittedly, I was unwilling to make a pronouncement. The Colonel seemed to share the same mindset. Pants shook his head. I carefully smoothed my crumpled bridge scores. They never seemed to become un-creased. This was beginning to frustrate me. “One of ‘em did it,” said Silver. “One of ‘em’s lying like hell. But which? It's not easy - no, it’s not easy.” I looked up from my stubborn bridge scores. He was silent for a minute or two, then he said, “If we’re to go by what they say, the Doctor thinks the Major did it, the Major thinks the Doctor did it, the Miss Harpstrings thinks Mrs. Shores did it - and Mrs. Shores won’t say! Nothing very illuminating there.” “Perhaps not,” I said. Silver shot me a quick glance. “You think there is?” I waved an airy hoof. “A nuance - nothing more! Nothing to go upon.” I said, dismissively. In actual fact, nothing had come to me at all. Silver continued. “You two won’t say what you think.” “No evidence,” said Pants curtly. “Oh, you stallions!” sighed Mrs. Cherry, despising such reticence. “Let’s look at the rough possibilities,” said Silver. He considered a minute. “I put the doctor first, I think. Specious sort of customer. Would know the right spot to shove the dagger in. But there's not much more than that to it. Then take Shining. There’s a pony with any amount of nerve. A pony accustomed to take quick decisions and a pony who’s quite at home doing dangerous things. Mrs. Shores? She’s got any amount of nerve, too, and she's the sort of mare who might have a secret in her life. She looks as though she’s known trouble. On the other hand I’d say she's what I call a high principled mare - sort of mare who might be headmistress of a filly’s school. It isn't easy to think of her sticking a knife into anypony. In fact, I don't think she did. And lastly there’s little Miss Harpstrings. We don’t know anything about her. She seems an ordinary, good-looking, rather shy filly. But one doesn't know, as I say, anything about her.” “We know that Blue Blood believed she had committed murder,” I said. “The angelic face masking the demon,” mused Mrs. Cherry. “This getting us anywhere, Silver?” asked Colonel Pants. “Unprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, there’s bound to be speculation in a case like this.” “Isn’t it better to find out something about these ponies?” Silver smiled. “Oh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there.” “Certainly. How?” “As regards Major Amour. He’s been abroad a lot - in South Elephantia, in East Rhinolia, in North Austneighlia – you’ve means of knowing those parts. You could get information about him.” Pants nodded. “It shall be done. I’ll get all available data.” “Oh,” cried Mrs. Cherry, making Pant’s and I jump. “I’ve got a plan. There are four of us – four sleuths as you might say - and four of them! How would it be if we each took one? Backed our fancy! Colonel Pants takes Major Amour, Superintendent Silver takes Doctor Hooves. I'll take Miss Harpstrings, and Miss Melody takes Mrs. Shores. Each of us to follow our own line!” Superintendent Silver shook his head decisively. “Couldn’t quite do that, Mrs. Cherry. This is official, you see. I’m in charge. I’ve got to investigate all lines. Besides it’s all very well to say back your fancy. Two of us might want to back the same pony! Colonel Pants hasn’t said he suspects Major Amour. And Octavia mayn’t be putting her money on Mrs. Shores.” Mrs. Cherry sighed. “It was such a good plan,” she sighed regretfully. “So neat.” Then she cheered up a little. “But you don't mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?” “No,” said Superintendent Silver slowly. “I can’t say I object to that. In fact, it's out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, you’re naturally free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But I'd just like to point out to you, Mrs. Cherry, that you’d better be a little careful.” “Discretion itself,” said Mrs. Cherry. “I shan’t breathe a word of - of anything.” she ended, a little lamely. I frowned. “I do not think that was quite Superintendent Silvers’ meaning,” I said. “He meant that you will be dealing with a pony who has already, to the best of our belief, killed twice - a pony, therefore, who will not hesitate to kill a third time - if they considers it necessary.” Mrs. Cherry looked at me thoughtfully. She smiled - an agreeable, engaging smile rather like that of an impudent small filly, I thought. “You have been warned,” she quoted. “Thank you, Miss Melody, I’ll watch my step. But I’m not going to be out of this.” I bowed gracefully. “Permit me to say - you are the sport, Mrs. Cherry.” “I presume,” said Mrs. Cherry, sitting up very straight and speaking in a businesslike committee meeting manner, “that all information we receive will be pooled - that is, that we will not keep any knowledge to ourselves. Our own deductions and impressions, of course, we are entitled to keep up our sleeves.” Superintendent Battle sighed. “This isn’t a detective story, Mrs. Cherry,” he said. Pants said, “Naturally, all information must be handed over to the police.” Having said this in his most “Orderly Room” voice he added, with a slight twinkle in his eye, “I’m sure you'll play fair, Mrs. Cherry. The stained glove, the hoofprint on the tooth glass, the fragment of burned paper, you'll turn them over to Silver here.” “You may laugh,” said Mrs. Cherry, “but a mares intuition - ” She nodded her head with decision. Pants rose. “I’ll have Shining looked up for you. It may take a little time. Anything else I can do?” “I don’t think so, thank you Colonel. You’ve no hints? I’d value anything of that kind.” “Hm. Well - I'd keep a special lookout for shooting or poison or accidents, but I expect you're on to that already.” “I’d made a note of that - yes.” “Good stallion, Silver. You don't need me to teach you your job. Good night, Mrs. Cherry. Good night, Miss Melody.” And with a final nod to Silver, Colonel Pants left the room. “Who is he? I mean, in terms of what he does?” asked Mrs. Cherry. “Very fine Military record,” said Silver. “He’s traveled a lot, too. Not many parts of the world that he doesn't know about.” I said. “Secret Service, I suppose,” said Mrs. Cherry. “You can’t tell me so, I know, but he wouldn't have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and the four sleuths - Manehatten Yard. Secret Service. Private Investigator. Detective Fiction. A clever idea.” I shook my head. “You are in error, Hazel. It was a very stupid idea. The Manticore was alarmed - and the Manticore sprang.” “The Manticore? Why the Manticore?” “By the Manticore I mean the murderer,” I said, having found another spot on the crumpled bridge scores to be absently transfixed upon. Silver said bluntly, “What’s your idea of the right line to take, Octavia? That’s one question. And I’d also like to know what you think of the psychology of these four people. You’re rather hot on that.” Still smoothing the bridge scores, I said, “You are right; psychology is very important. We know the kind of murder that has been committed, the way it was committed. If we have a pony who from the psychological point of view could not have committed that particular type of murder, then we can dismiss that pony from our calculations. We know something about these ponies. We have our own impression of them, we know the line that each has elected to take, and we know something about their minds and their characters from what we have learned about them as card players and from the study of their handwriting and of these scores. But alas, it is not too easy to give a definite pronouncement. This murder required audacity and nerve - a pony who was willing to take a risk. Well, we have Doctor Hooves - a bluffer, an overbidder of his hand, a stallion with complete confidence in his own powers to pull off a risky thing. His psychology fits very well with the crime. One might say, then, that that automatically wipes out Miss Harpstrings. She is timid, frightened of overbidding her hand, careful, economical prudent and lacking in self-confidence - the last type of pony to carry out a bold and risky coup. But a timid pony will murder out of fear. A frightened nervous pony can be made desperate; they can turn like a rat at bay if driven into a corner. If Miss Harpstrings had committed a crime in the past, and if she believed that Mr. Blood knew the circumstances of that crime and was about to deliver her up to justice, she would be wild with terror; she would stop at nothing to save herself. It would be the same result, though brought about through a different reaction – not cool nerve and daring, but desperate panic. Then take Major Amour - a cool, resourceful stallion willing to try a long shot if he believed it absolutely necessary. He would weigh the pros and cons and might decide that there was a sporting chance in his favor - and he is the type of stallion to prefer action to inaction, and a stallion who would never shrink from taking the dangerous way if he believed there was a reasonable chance of success. Finally there is Mrs. Shores, an elderly mare, but a mare in full possession of her wits and faculties. A cool mare. A mare with a mathematical brain. She has probably the best brain of the four. I confess that if Mrs. Shores committed a crime; I should expect it to be a premeditated crime. I can see her planning a crime slowly and carefully, making sure that there were no flaws in her scheme. For that reason she seems to me slightly more unlikely than the other three. She is, however, the most dominating personality, and whatever she undertook she would probably carry through without a flaw. She is a thoroughly efficient mare." I paused. “So, you see, that does not help us much. No - there is only one way in this crime. We must go back into the past.” Silver sighed. "You've said it," he murmured. “In the opinion of Mr. Blood each of those four ponies had committed murder. Had he evidence? Or was it a guess? We cannot tell. It is unlikely, I think, that he could have had actual evidence in all four cases - ” “I agree with you there,” said Silver, nodding his head. “That would be a bit too much of a coincidence.” “I suggest that it might come about this way - murder or a certain form of murder is mentioned, and Mr. Blood noticed a look on someone’s face. He was very quick - very sensitive to expression. It amused him to experiment, to probe gently in the course of apparently aimless conversation; he was alert to notice a wince, a reservation, a desire to turn the conversation. Oh, it is easily done. If you suspect a certain secret, nothing is easier than to confirm your suspicion. Every time a word goes home you notice it - if you are watching for such a thing.” “It’s the sort of game that would have amused our late friend,” said Silver, nodding. “We may assume, then, that such was the procedure in one or more cases. He may have come across a piece of actual evidence in another case and followed it up. I doubt whether, in any of the cases, he had sufficient actual knowledge with which - for instance - to have gone to the police.” “Or it mayn’t have been the kind of case,” said Silver. “Often enough there’s a fishy business - we suspect foul play, but we can’t ever prove it. Anyway the course is clear. We’ve got to go through the records of all these ponies - and note any deaths that may be significant. I expect you noticed, just as the Colonel did, what Blue Blood said at dinner.” “The black angel,” murmured Mrs. Cherry. “A neat little reference to poison, to accident, to a doctor's opportunities, to shooting accidents. I shouldn't be surprised if he signed his death warrant when he said those words.” Said Superintendent Silver. “It was a nasty sort of pause,” said Mrs. Cherry. “Yes,” I said, looking up from my bridge scores. “Those words went home to one pony at least - that pony probably thought that Blue Blood knew far more than he really did. That listener thought that they were the prelude to the end - that the party was a dramatic entertainment arranged by Blue Blood leading up to arrest for murder as its climax! Yes, as you say, he signed his death warrant when he baited his guests with those words.” There was a moment’s silence. I stopped smoothing the bridge scores. “This will be a long business,” said Silver with a sigh. “We can’t find out all we want in a moment - and we’ve got to be careful. We don’t want any of the four to suspect what we’re doing. All our questioning and so on must seem to have to do with this murder. There mustn’t be a suspicion that we’ve got any idea of the motive for the crime. And the devil of it is we’ve got to check up on four possible murders in the past, not just one.” I demurred. “Our friend Mr. Blood was not infallible,” I said. “He may - it is just possible - have made a mistake.” “About all four?” “No - he was more intelligent than that.” “Call it fifty-fifty?” “Not even that. For me, I say one in four.” “One innocent and three guilty? That’s bad enough. And the devil of it is even if we get at the truth it mayn’t help us. Even if somebody did push his or her great-aunt down the stairs years ago, it won’t be much use to us today.” “Yes, yes, it will be of use to us.” I encouraged him. “You know that. You know it as well as I do.” Silver nodded slowly. “I know what you mean,” he said. “Same hallmark.” “Do you mean,” said Mrs. Cherry, “that the previous victim will have been stabbed with a dagger, too?" “Not quite as crude as that, Mrs. Cherry,” said Silver, turning to her. “But I don’t doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It’s odd, but a criminal gives themself away every time by that.” "Equidae is an unoriginal species," I said, sighing. “Mares,” said Mrs. Cherry, “are capable of infinite variation. I should never commit the same type of murder twice running.” “Don’t you ever write the same plot twice running?” asked Silver, wit ha chuckle. I remembered something from two of Mrs. Cherry’s detective novels. “The Chess Game Murder,” I murmured, smiling. “The Clue of the Unicorns Horn.” Mrs. Cherry turned on me, her eyes beaming appreciation. “That’s clever of you – that’s really very clever of you. Because of course those two are exactly the same plot, but nobody else has seen it. One is stolen papers at an informal week-end party at the Mayors house, and the other’s a murder in Rhinolia in a melon planter’s bungalow.” “But the essential point on which the story turns is the same,” I said. “One of your neatest tricks. The melon planter arranges his own murder; the Mayor arranges the robbery of his own papers. At the last minute the third pony steps in and turns deception into reality.” “I enjoyed your last book, Mrs. Cherry,” said Superintendent Silver kindly. “The one where all the chief constables were shot simultaneously. You just slipped up once or twice on official details. I know you’re keen on accuracy, so I wondered if - ” Mrs. Cherry interrupted him. “As a matter of fact I don't care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nopony nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful filly of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favorite dog, Kelpy, good-by, does anybody make a fuss because the filly was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyhay terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing I don't see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more.” I laughed quietly at this. The Superintendent smiled. Mrs. Cherry continued. “What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing’s getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somepony is going to tell something - and then they’re killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books - camouflaged different ways of course. And ponies like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and fillies tied up in cellars with water pouring in, such a troublesome way of killing anypony really, and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villain’s singlehooved. I’ve written thirty-two books by now - and of course they’re all exactly the same really, as Octavia seems to have noticed - but nobody else has; and I only regret one thing, making my detective a Caneighdian. I don't really know anything about the Caneighdians, and I’m always getting letters from Caneighdia pointing out something impossible that he’s said or done. They seem to read detective stories a good deal in Caneighdia. I suppose it's the long winters with no relief from the cold. In Mesotrotania they don’t seem to read at all. I’d have done better to have made him a Mesotrotanian,” She broke off. Silver and I stared at her. “I’m so sorry.” She said, “I’m talking shop. And this is a real murder.” Her face lit up. “What a good idea it would be if none of them had murdered him. If he’d asked them all, and then quietly committed suicide just for the fun of making a mystery of it.” I thought about this for a brief moment and then nodded approvingly. “An admirable solution. So neat. So ironic. But alas, Mr. Blood was not that sort of stallion. He was very fond of life.” “I don’t think he was really a nice pony,” said Mrs. Cherry slowly. “He was not nice, no,” I said. “But he was alive - and now he is dead and, as I told him once, I have a bourgeois attitude to murder. I disapprove of it.” I added softly, “And so - I am prepared to go inside the Manticore’s cage.”