Chapter I – The Different Approaches
My friend Sherlock had suggested to first gather information about the circumstances of the crimes. Naturally, there were two promising points for me to begin: The first one, of course, was the morgue of Saint Clover’s Hospital. Where all suspicious cases of death are brought to. The other one was the criminal laboratory of Palace Court itself. Where the forensic examinations are done. But where to start? Well, what shall I say, I’m a medical practitioner. Sherlock has often testified me to have a good skill in failing to see the essential details. But that doesn’t count for medical details. When it comes to a medical examination, be it illness or injury, my friend always relies on my expertise. And maybe it was because I knew my strength wasn’t in forensic but in medicine I chose to start at Clover’s; especially since Sir Treatwell, the leading pathologist at that time, wasn’t only a knighted medical luminary but also an old friend and mentor of me.
So I took a walk to the familiar halls of the medical institute, where I’ve done my doctorate. I walked straight through the, with marble and teak equipped, entrance hall and climbed up the narrow staircases to the bureaus of the medical professionals, where I found Sir Treatwell. His office was a little more cluttered than it had been in my memory. The shelves and showcases were overburdened with medical literature, anatomic models, exhibits and preparations, some of them interesting, but most of them slightly eerie. There sat the Doctor, almost hidden behind a whole mountain of paperwork. He looked very tired: His flecked-with-grey mane, a little untidy innately, now was a complete mess and dark rings beneath his eyes implied an acute sleep deficit. Nevertheless, he was levitating a quill with his magic and busily writing, when I entered his bureau.
“Good day, Trotson”, he absentmindedly greeted me. “Um, it IS day, or isn’t it?” He then got into it, just as if he hadn’t left the room for too long.
“Yes, it is day, Treatwell” I confirmed. “Half an hour to noon, I think.”
“Oh. Good. Almost two days awake now! Simply great. Who needs sleep anyway?” he ranted. But he already was too exhausted for a long outburst. “So I guess, you’re here because of the Brightwater Murders? Good, good. I really hope Mister Hooves can achieve something in this series of murder. Every single day a murder, that’s simply too much. If things carry on like this, I will end up one day lying on the table instead of standing in front of it.”
I fear he had went on like this for another five minutes or so, if I hadn't interrupted him gently: “Excuse me, Treatwell, but did you conduct the autopsy of Star Trail?”
“Um, yes, yes, I did. In case of murder I always conduct the examinations myself, heaven knows why… Spending hours bent over the corpse and hours writing the report. I send it to the Court and they don’t even read it. Just file it in… Aaanyway! What can I do for you?"
“Can you tell me something about the victims of the so called Brightwater Murders?”
Treatwell began to rifle through the seemingly random piles of paper on his desk, but within seconds he found what he had searched for.
“Alright, let’s begin. Inchworm, the first victim, has been found at 07.06. Came in shortly after midnight, I conducted the autopsy immediately. Inchworm was an earth-pony, with quill and a three coins for Cutie Mark, dark grey coat, male, about 50, 10.5 hooves tall, and obese. Bad health, lung and heart were already damaged. It was only a matter of time, six months to two years, I guess, and his ill organs would’ve caused his death anyway. Um, his actual death however had been caused by a shot wound in the back. A heavy-calibre weapon, fired at close range. The bullet has penetrated the spine and got stuck in his heart. Death occurred between 9 and 10 in the evening I’d say. I’ve sent the remains of the bullet and his belongings to Palace Court.
That much for Mister Inchworm.
The next one was Mister Point Blank. Guess they dubbed him that because of the white spot on his forehead. For the Cutie Mark, um, I think it’s called ‘crosshairs’. Unicorn, male, about 25. 10 hooves high, very slender. His body came in only a few hours after Inchworm and I conducted the examination as soon as I had been finished. Point Blank was a perfect healthy young lad, no organic results. He has been killed by a long and sharp object that's been pierced through his ribcage on the left side and right into the heart. Very clean and professionally done, death must’ve followed immediately.”
“And how long had he been dead?”
“No longer than a few hours. I assume midnight for time of death, but in any case not later than one o’clock.”
“Well, sounds like a busy day for you” I laughed leading Sir Treatwell to an unnerved snort.
“The last days have been more than busy.” He picked another piece of paper from the pile and continued. “The next one was Libra Balance. Her body had been delivered at the 9th at 10 o’ clock. Since I had just finished another examination I decided to continue with her right away and to have a lie in next day. Anyway, um, Libra Balance: A mint pegasus, a pair of balances for Cutie Mark. ‘Nomen est omen’, I guess. She was 35. Good health, good muscle tone, a bit unpracticed maybe. Killed by a heavy-calibre bullet straight into her abdomen. MASSIVE spill of blood, all over her dress. Not a pretty sight I can tell you; but death never is. She’s been shot at closest range. No other wounds. The bullet also went to Palace Court.
Hightide was the next casualty. He was about the same age as Miss Balance, an earth-pony, the Cutie Mark’s a log and a knife. So his talent was wood-carving or crafting, I suppose. 15 hooves tall and massive. A very strong stallion, and a very violent guy.”
“How could you ascertain that?”
“His body is covered with scars, one runs straight across his forehead. I assume he was attacked with firebolts at least twice and wounded with bladed weapons several times. His body tells the story of a violent life that now has been ended by violence. One or two days before his death he had carried away a flesh-wound by a shot. I’ve retrieved a very small bullet from his left shoulder and sent it, together with the bullets that killed him, to Palace Court.”
“Let me guess, more heavy-calibre?”
“Strangely, um, no. He’s been hit by another two sub-calibre bullets. One in the neck, it didn’t injure any arteria though. The other one was stuck in his back, in his spine to be precise. But the shots didn’t kill him. He drowned. I presume the last round, the one that was stuck in his spine, must’ve cut some nerves aso he was already lamed as he fell into the water… Time of death between 8 and 10 last evening.”
By now I was really glad to be a unicorn and to be able to use my magic to hold the fountain pen I scribbled my notes with. Otherwise I had probably already gotten a cramp because of the abundance of information Sir Treatwell wanted to share with me. I managed to carefully write everything down in my journal.
“As for our last customer”, the Doctor sighed. “Star Trail was a light grey pegasus with a black mane, quite noble in appearance if you want to hear my opinion. Um, about 30. His body has been delivered today at about 3 in the morning, they had him identified by his Cutie Mark, the three five-point shooting stars. I’ve just finished the autopsy before you came. Trail had been heavily battered and beaten, but the contusions at his wrists and hooves indicate that he must’ve left his marks on his murderer as well. He was killed by strangulation in the end. I’d say at about 1 or 2 in the morning, not long after he had sweet chestnuts and carrots for a late diner, concluding by the content of his stomach.”
Having found out all this, I finally put down my notebook. That was plenty of new information, so I was in cheerful spirits even the hard to satisfy urge for knowledge of my friend Sherlock Hooves would be served this time. “Thank you, old friend” I said as I turned to leave. “But a good advice from physician to physician: Now you urgently need a rest. Forget the advice, that's an order!”
-<0>-
To my great surprise, I almost ran into Sherlock when I left Clover’s. He was wearing his usual decent frock-coat and no hat but had added a pair of round dark sunglasses to his outfit, likely because of the bright and especially sunny weather.
“Ah, Trotson”, he exclaimed as he noticed me. “I figured I’d find you here. If you have to decide between the dusty offices of the criminal laboratory and the dusty offices at Saint Clover’s, I take any bet you’d always choose the latter. Even if the all too pony turn to favour an old friend instead of grumpy Lestride prevents you from better achievements!”
“What about your ‘minor duties’, Sherlock?” I gnarled. His habit to always speak with his own ruthless candour could be fairly annoying and arduous sometimes.
“You said it, some minor duties. I’ve settled them for now. And since I knew you’d start at Clover’s I ventured to pick up the more promising end, namely Palace Court.”
Now a fortiori, I was keen to prove the worth of the information I had gotten from Sir Treatwell and flashed my friend a daring smile.
“Well”, I began. “I find my results promising too, Sherlock. Want to hear what I found out?”
“Why not. It can never hurt to cross-check the clues.”
And so we went to a small, Veneightian styled café on Main Street for lunch. As it has always been Sherlock’s habit, we didn’t waste one word about our case during our meal. Instead he pontificated about the tonal feature of the violins manufactured by Stradivari and then seamlessly changed the subject to his recent studies in theoretical magic. For an earth-pony he has always shown an unusual interest for the mechanics of spell craft; but along with countless other unusual topics. I had gotten used to the uncommon being common with Sherlock Hooves.
However, the moment my friend had finished his meal and put down fork and knife, he encouraged me to share my insights of today’s research with him. I whipped out my notebook and told Sherlock what I had written down, careful to not omit a single little detail in case it might be essential.
“See, Sherlock”, concluded my report. “I found out a lot at Saint Clover’s Hospital. Not bad, don’t you think?”
Sherlock just shook his head and flashed me a lenient smile. “Oh, Trotson, when will you learn that the way of least resistance seldom is the best? Of course you prefer a talk to your old mentor to a talk to Lestride, who’d never even admit the he needs our help. But everything you told me, I knew it already, because Palace Court has got all of the reports from Sir Treatwell. And Lestride could show me the reports from the forensic laboratory, too. You see, if I hadn’t wanted to pass you by at the hospital, in this case I could have spared the way to Saint Clover’s completely and have saved quite some time. So obviously, the criminal laboratory at the Court would've been the better point to begin your investigation.”
Luckily, he didn’t go on with lecturing me, but started to supplement my results with his own. At Palace Court he had obtained the following new insights:
Mr. Inchworm, the employee had been killed by an expanding bullet. It had been so deformed that it could only be identified by reference to fouling residues on the stallion’s perforated overcoat. The gun powder had been a unique mixture dubbed ‘cocoa’, used mainly for that heavy, long-barrel pistols made in Gryphonia, the so called ‘Blitz T11’. No money had been found with him except for a single ancient silver-coin. He however had some personal papers, a check book and a member card for the Bagatelle-Card –Club.
And then there was a letter, found in a pocket of the coat. It read:
Worthwile,
When you get this letter, I’ll be dead.
The papers I took with me are in my room.
I had been in boiling hot water and had
no other choice.
Of course, Inspector Lestride (I recall my friend naming him a mule in that context) concluded from that farewell note that Mr. Inchworm must've committed suicide. It had taken Sherlock quite a while to eventually convince him that Inchworm had been an earth-pony, and that it thus surely would have been difficult for him to shoot himself in the back. Without being able to use magic…
But back to topic. An identical coin as the one from Mr. Inchworm had been found alongside with shipping papers in Hightide’s reefer. One of the bullets removed from his corpse was matching to a small wheellock revolver. The second bullet - the one in his shoulder- had been unusually small.
Point Blank was a disappointment. Nothing notable had been found with him, he hadn’t even been dressed.
Ms. Balance, however, had been killed by an equal weapon as Inchworm: Probably a Blitz T11, conducted from the ‘cocoa’, and a expanding bullet. Her body was the only one that wasn’t discovered in the river itself but near to it. And next to her, another remarkable thing had been found: It was a so-called ‘Pepper Box’, a teeny six-shot gun, fancy and very rare. Not the most logical construction, with a very low effective range. This one had been fired three times, and – much to the amazement of Lestride who only right now had realized it - the bullets matched the one found in Hightide's shoulder.
Whatever else interesting Libra Balance might have carried, it had been taken from her corpse.
About the last murder, about Mr. Star Trail: He had no personal belongings with him, no badge, no wallet, nothing. Yet Inspector Lestride mentioned a strange detail from the report that had gotten his attention: The overcoat and the frilled shirt he had worn were terribly mismatched in colour, the one violet and the other green. Lestride, always favouring the sober dyes, had of course remembered that faux pas. But, at that time, I wouldn’t attribute too much importance to Mr. Trails taste of fashion…
“So we have a connection. At least between Inchworm and Star Trail”, I stated after Sherlock had finished to fill me in.
“Apparently so, yes. They both were members of the same club. Not the strongest link, I admit, but I dare say they at least knew each other. And the identical silver-coins also indicate a connection between Hightide and Inchworm.”
I went further into it: “And the sailor killed the lawyer?”
Sherlock made a move, half nodding and half shaking his head. “We have no proof, but a strong clue. Yes, I think we can assume for the moment that –for whatever reason- Miss Libra Balance shot at Mister Hightide and got killed by him in return. Though I hate to admit that we haven’t yet established a motive for the crime as such.”
It has always been Sherlock’s manner to remain almost completely silent about his presumptions and thoughts until the point where he was assembling the clues, evidences and proofs to a consistent picture. This was one of the few occasions where I had been able to educe a conclusion from Sherlock while he was still collecting the pieces. In my mind a strange compare appeared: I saw this case as a snake, twisting and winding at our hooves and Sherlock trying to describe its pattern. Indeed I was asking myself what to do next. My head was spinning from all these nebulous traces in front of us, each of them seemingly leading in a different direction.
“Maybe we should examine the crime scenes”, I half-heartedly provided, mainly because I couldn’t make a better suggestion. Maybe it was because he had been absent during the first murders, mayve it was because I had somehow interrupted his trails of thoughts, in any case, Sherlock’s reaction was fiercer than I expected.
“That wouldn’t get us anywhere, Trotson”, he grimly exclaimed. Then, noticing my confused expression he added in a more calm tone: “Six days! The first murder happened six days ago! The clods from Palace Court manage to mess up and ruin a crime scene in a much shorter time than six days. All these ponies passing through, walking over every possible clue, no, no, that doesn’t do our investigation any good. And we don’t even exactly know where the ponies have been killed. At least as far as their bodies have been found in the Brightwater. As matters stand, they could’ve been murdered anywhere in Canterlot and then thrown into… Wait a minute!”
Sherlock had suddenly jumped to his hooves. A certain blaze shone in his eyes, the blaze he always had when having a sudden, new inspiration. “Sweet Celestia, why did I fail to see that until now?” he muttered to himself. “Of course, it’s a shot in the dark but maybe, if we assume that was the purpose of…”
His muttering turned inaudible as he turned away to leave the café. He had almost went through the door when he noticed that I wasn’t following. During our first cases I had accepted his oddities uncomplainingly, but by now had come to the conclusion that Sherlock every now and again needed to be abated. For a stallion who frequently complained about other’s low intellect he too often demanded his trains of thoughts to be divined by his followers.
“Trotson, come on!” he called back to me. “We have work to do!”
“But what… Where are you going?” I wanted to know, quickly and confusedly glancing between him and our table. We both hadn’t even finished our coffee, let alone had we paid our meal!
“To Pleasant View Street 3, North West of course!” was the answer.
In Pleasant View Street 3, North West stood, as I was just about to learn, the mansion of late Mister Star Trail.