//------------------------------//
// The Brightwater Murders - Chapter II 
// Story: Sherlock Hooves - The Lost Cases 
// by Scribble Script 
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Chapter II – On Star Trail's last Tracks

Pleasant View Street, for those who aren't familiar with the townscape of Canterlot, is a loose collection of estates, located high on the western side of Canterlot Mountain, with free-standing manors and mansions in various colours, shapes and sizes, each of them in relative solitude from the other. When Sherlock and I went there to investigate in the case of the Brightwater Murders there had been a total of seven local residents from high society; the now famous Cloudsdale-styled holiday home of the Rainbow family was still being built back then.
The two cart ponies who had drawn our hackney up to Pleasant View Street – the street leading there is quite long and bold- were fairly out of breath, exhausted and thus quite ill-humoured as my friend Sherlock told them to wait for us because he wanted to visit the Bagatelle Card Club right afterwards. A fact which I hurried to remedy by hooving each of them generous gratuities and holding out an even bigger one. I know how arduous and wearing it can be to work for Sherlock Hooves…

As for Star Trail's manor: It was one of the smaller mansions, almost humble with its long-established frontage, yet very appealing because of its large blinking windows and the finely crafted, decent ornaments. The house was in fact one of the oldest in Pleasant View Street, it had been built about a century ago and featured the back then fashioned half-columns on both sides of the entrance-portal. They were made from polished sandstone, like the rest of the façade. The door itself however, dark wood, teak maybe, provided a strange and unsettling sight: It had been damaged, large chips of wood had been broken out of the mouldings and the door lock had been completely demolished.
“Interesting, Trotson”, Sherlock stated. “Now, how does this look like to you?”

“Like somepony had knocked in the door to force his entry…?”

Sherlock nodded. “Blunt and brute force, no burn marks and no other sign for the usage of magic. So I dare say you’re right, Trotson.”

He rang the doorbell and almost immediately, the broken door was opened. In front of us stood a middle-aged earth-pony in livery. We introduced ourselves and the butler –seemingly deeply impressed and honoured by the visit of the great Sherlock Hooves- bid us in and lead us to the rooms of Mister Star Trail. It was clear Trail hadn’t advised the built of the house, because different from it’s veneer, the rooms were furnished very luxuriously. But everything was neat, clean and tidy. Sherlock explained the reasons for our visit and asked his questions and we got to know that Grey Sweep –that was the butler’s name- had been in commission for Start Trail almost six years and wouldn’t have minded to carry on his duty for some time longer.

“Of course I’d be glad to help you, sir, I’ll do whatever lies within my possibilities! The police mentioned you might drop by during the day. I usually am a stickler for details but I’ve complied to their will and left everything as I found it in the morning.”

“Very well”, Sherlock applauded. “Maybe you could first tell us something about the front door. Did it happen last night?”

“I think so, yes. This sight was the first shock of many I got here today.”

Sherlock nodded, I took a note and then he continued with his next question: “Did you see Mister Trail the last evening?”

“I fear, no. But I saw him before. Master Trail left for the Bagatelle Card Club at about 4 o’clock. He gave me instructions for the evening meal for him and his guest; he said for about 11 o'clock. But I wasn’t here when he returned, because I only occasionally stay when he has guests that late. Let’s see… I think I left about half past ten.”

But Sherlock had lost the interest in the butler’s remarks right after the first sentence and instead had turned his attention towards the leftovers of Star Trail’s last material meal on the dining-room’s table. “Oats and carrots”, he muttered. “So much for the containing of his stomach. I think we’re done here, Mister Grey Sweep. I will see the other rooms now.”

We left the dining room and entered the study room to our right. The first thing to catch my eyes was the weapons collection that adorned one whole side of the room. I was unwillingly delighted by the beauty of the displayed items immediately. And yet to imagine the ingenuity that must’ve been laid on to invent such a variety of deadly tools was somewhat unsettling. The Razorbeak-crisis about 40 years ago had been the first conflict where Equestrian soldiers had been equipped and trained to deal with muskets. And now Star Trail’s collection consisted almost a hundred different exhibits, wheel- and flintlock guns, pistols and revolvers. The best of the best and very elaborately crafted.
“It’s disturbing, don’t you think”, I gave vent to my concerns. “How much effort ponys nowadays put into creating fire weapons. To think that a hundred years ago, black powder wasn’t even used for guns!”

“It’s logical”, Sherlock replied. “From all sentient beings on this planet only unicorns are able to use magic (excluding Princess Celestia and some dragons). As I’ve already discussed in one of my papers, this leads to an imbalance of powers. And while dragons possess the ability to spit fire, the others –pegasi, earth-ponies, griffons, and so on, cannot access any comparable measure when it comes to an armed conflict. The invention of long ranged weapons was a logical step. And now weapons labour under the same progress as every other tool does.”

“There’s a gap in your argumentation, Sherlock”, I gave back. Did I mention that it could be annoying at times to work with Sherlock? The simple fact that there was hardly any scientific or psychological topic where he hadn’t written one or two essays about did a big part of that. “Unicorns can use crossbows and guns as well as pegasi, earth-ponies and griffons, while actual damage spells are hard to learn and even harder to master. That’d mean an increase of the crime-rate, wouldn’t it?”

“But the balance of powers is remained. Firearms don’t boot anypony. If the gun is properly made, only skill and training determine the results.”
One of the more prominent traits of Sherlock is the fact that he seems to care very little about something so ‘unimportant’ like moral degeneracy. Or at least he doesn’t show his concern. All crimes are of equal importance for him, a problem to solve, a challenge to meet. There is just one thing he takes personally and that is a culprit that escapes his just punishment. He has, well, let’s say, an interesting concept of moral and ethics.
And right now my try to discuss an ethical matter with him split like a ship on a cliff. The increased criminal use of exotic and elaborate weapons meant nothing more to him than he had to broaden his horizon to solve the ‘problem’…

Which in this case had also to do with weapons. With all the guns on the wall Star Trail could’ve equipped his private army; from Blitz alone he possessed three models, a T10-pistol, the successor T11 and a Havoc, which was a bizarre crossing of a wheel-lock revolver and a heavy musket. But it wasn’t the T11 that drew Sherlock’s attention. Even I could see it was brightly polished and unused. No, Sherlock’s interest was applied on the one weapon that wasn’t in place: The hooks above a brass shield spelling ‘Royal 2K’ were empty.
“Oh, yes, the Royal 2K”, the butler nodded after I had asked him about the missing pistol. “It was Master Trails favourite. Look, sir. It’s over there, on the writing desk.”

Said weapon, it was lying on a cotton cloth, was a chromed light-calibred revolver with an ivory inlay at the grip. ‘Royal’ was inscribed in cursive on the shiny barrel. Sherlock carefully fetched the gun from the table and snuffed at the weapon’s muzzle. Then he checked the ammunition.

“The Royal has been fired a short time ago, the stench of powder still is very strong”, he stated. “Three bullets are missing. And…” He hesitated for a moment and then waved me nearer. “Trotson, my friend, now what would you take THIS for?”

I looked at a small pile of papers lying on the desk next to an elegant violet top hat. “Looks like letters of credit to me”, I replied. Then I took a closer look. “Sweet Celestia, Sherlock! These papers must be worth many thousand bits in total! Where did he get that much money from?”

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders but I could almost see the gears turning behind his forehead. Trail couldn’t have possibly earned that much money with playing Whist. Or could he? This question still circled in my mind when we visited the last station of our investigation at Star Trail’s house: The sleeping room.
It was set apart from all other rooms because of a very simple fact: It was a complete mess. The bed wasn’t made, the toilet table was smashed. The wardrobes’ doors were opened wide and pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere about the floor. Among other things, we found dress handkerchiefs, a green jacket, a violet frilled shirt and a silk collar with a brilliant needle. The review of the belongings on the commode revealed a wallet with 110 bits, a new program of the ‘Elephant and Castle Theatre’ and an unused ticket for last night’s performance.

After we had finished our examination, Sherlock again turned to Grey Sweep, who had patiently followed us through all the rooms: “Just one last question: Can you tell anything that could bring light into this case of murder? Do you know who he had welcomed last night?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know that. And the only thing, at least as far as I know, that has been stolen is a Saddle-Arabian carpet from Master Trails sleeping room. Don’t know why anypony should steal a carpet, though…”

Sherlock, although he had strained his ears, quickly stifled Grey Sweep’s flow of speech. “Yes, yes, yes, we thank you for your cooperation!”

“Oh, you’re welcome, sir. I hope you’ll determine the murderer soon. And if you happen to hear of somepony, who’s in need of a butler, please remember me. Good day, sir.”



-<0>-



Sherlock was in a very peculiar mood as we sat in our hackney on our way to the Bagatelle Card Club. His expression kept changing between a varieties of satisfaction, reflection and even slight anger. He ignored whatever I would ask or mention, he didn’t talk at all, but kept slightly clopping his front hooves together. It was a state of close cerebrating I occasionally observed. This case had thrilled him and he’d keep his muzzle on the tracks like a hound until he had unravelled every single thread of this crime-series…

To my luck, my friend had told me about his further plans before we had gotten to Pleasant View Street and before he had sunken into his current state, though he had only mentioned we’d meet a friend at the Bagatelle Club. Until that moment I didn’t know he had friends that frequently attended high-society clubs. Or many friends at all, for that matter… On the other hoof there were ponies, of all social classes who owed him one or two. And after all, he had until back then investigated at least once for the crown!
Be it as it may, the stallion Sherlock wanted to meet this evening, in a way our ominous informant at the club, was indeed a pony who considered himself or at least claimed to be his friend. A rather snooty concierge informed us, as we named our names, that our host would await us. And for over fifteen minutes, as he added condescendingly. 

A valet then accompanied us to the spacious game room. On the left side of the room was a large bar, ornamented with carvings. The white unicorn-barkeeper was busy mixing cocktails and serving drinks for about half a dozen guests. Apart from a living room suite there were only gambling tables set up in the room. Their green felt-covering gave the room an almost rural touch, which was enhanced even further by the maintained silence. Ten of the thirty tables were occupied, and the hush of the gamblers was only now and then interrupted by their announcements and the clapping of their cards.

As I let my eyes wander throughout the room, they eventually hit the living room suite. And I at once knew, why Sherlock hadn’t told me who he wanted to meet here: In one of the armchairs sprawled a slender unicorn with a golden vest, an impeccable violet mane mane and a mauve coat. 
“Mister Hooves, Doctor Trotson, my dear friends”, cheerfully exclaimed Coup de Coeur, Canterlot’s most famous (or infamous, that depended on who was asked) celebrity reporter, worst muckraker on this side of Manehattan and, much to my regret, well-known to us. I’ve already written my about reluctance against Coup de Coeur before. He’s egomaniacal and narcissistic… But let’s drop that subject! It’s a certain fact, though I hate to admit it, Coup de Coeur appears more often in my stories than I would care for. I’ve had the doubtful pleasure to hear his ‘expertises’ about the high society before. His information had always been shockingly accurate and often quite useful for our investigations, though… 

“Good evening, Mister de Coeur”, I greeted him back with a saturnine look.

“Oh please, it’s Coup for my friends!”

“Mister de Coeur”, I insisted and Sherlock and I took a seat as well. “So I presume you can tell us something about the late Mister Star Trail?”

The journalist nodded happily. “Why, of course! That’s why Sherlock Hooves wanted to meet me here! The so called Brightwater Murders… Not quite my desk but nevertheless very thrilling… And shocking, of course! I knew Star Trail and also Inchworm, he was a good stallion, a bit boring maybe, but…”

“So you knew them personally?” Sherlock interrupted de Coeur. He always seemed to get along better with the journalist than me, but on the other hoof showed always little patience for small talk. So it was in his interest to bring Coup de Coeur back to track as soon as possible.

“Yes, yes, of course I knew them personally”, de Coeur confirmed. “When I became a member of the Bagatelle Card Club, they were already on-board.”

“I never pictured you as a gambler”, I couldn’t fight a slightly barbed remark. But the mauve unicorn just flashed me his broadest and whitest smile. “Doesn’t whist require anticipatory thinking, a calm mind and most of all to remain silent?”

“Oh, touché, my dear Trotson. But as a stallion with no vice, I simply thought it'd be time to get me one myself”, he said with a wink. “But where was I? Oh yes, right: I’ve made some plays with Inchworm, for a year or so.” 

Suddenly de Coeur turned serious in a way I hadn’t seen him before.

“He was my friend, gentlecolts. And I mean that. He was a talented player, not as good as he thought of himself, but anyway… In the club almost every evening. A good party of whist inspired him, he used to say. Star Trail was also here most of the time. They knew each other, but I wouldn’t say they were friends exactly . It was no secret Trail earned his living with the cards… And Inchworm simply hadn’t enough money that it would have paid off for Star Trail to play with him. Well, usually, I should say…”

“Usually?” Sherlock asked. “So it changed lately?”

“All I can tell is that during the last month Inchworm was playing with Star Trail almost every evening. With him and his friend Ironwing.”

“IRONWING???!” Sherlock downright yelled that name. Angry glances from all around were shot at us making me fidget around uneasily in my armchair. Sherlock and most of all Coup de Coeur didn’t seemed bothered at all.

“Yes, Ironwing”, the muckraker nodded, a bit surprised by Sherlock’s sudden outburst. “Colonel Ironwing. He and Star Trail were as thick as thieves. I’ve often been Inchworm’s partner against this dangerous duo. Together they were a real dare for every club member.”

“And you passed that dare?” I teased unbelievingly and wound up my brows. This time I got an evil glare from Sherlock and immediately shut my mouth. Mister de Coeur continued:

“At first we did. But then our luck turned and it seemed we would never be able to win again, no matter how good our cards might’ve been. Come to think of it, nopony has that much luck… I think they cheated...”

Sherlock’s eyes had begun to shine. I myself by now had also a pretty good idea, where this story was headed: “So you played for money.”

“Yes, sort of. I always bet only small amount, though. You know, my friends, a gentlecolt should never set more than he can afford. At least a gentlecolt like I would never do that.” De Coeur smiled and narcissistically checked his hooficure.

“And what about Mister Inchworm?” Sherlock pressed on. “Did HE set more than he could afford?”

“Why would I know? The bet is never spoken about among gentlecolts!” the journalist objected with feigned indignation. Then a sly grin appeared on his lips. “But I am a pretty good observer myself, it’s part of my business, you know? And you’d be surprised how much one can divine from a pony’s way to take his drink!” (Sherlock sombrely nodded; I knew he had written an essay on that topic already, but no professional journal would publish a paper about ponies’ drinking habits.)

“As for my friend Inchworm: He wasn’t drinking like he was just frustrated because we kept losing, if you understand what I mean… Last Thursday, when went to the bar –we had lost once again- he knocked back two glasses of gin as fast as the barkeeper could pour out. Then the Colonel came to him and the two of them seemed to have an argument. And after Ironwing had gone he really had a skinful, like they say…
The next evening, the evening Inchworm was murdered, I myself happened to have a drink with Colonel Ironwing. He said he was waiting for Mister Inchworm, but he didn’t show up, and that made the Colonel pretty nervous. He waited until, let’s say, 8 o’clock and then left, rumbling like a thundercloud…”

“And Mister Star Trail? When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday. I arrived at 4 and he came some time later. We took a drink or two and then made a game with two other takers. At first Trail said he could only play a few hours because he had theatre tickets for eight. But fortune favoured us. Star Trail and I reaped quite something that evening. Our opponents kept rising their bets to make up for their loss. And that’s exactly the kind of gambler, Star Trail approved: The more they lose the more eager they seem to lose even more. Trail, all incarnate gambler, then decided to not go to the theatre. ‘I’ve seen the performance for six times already. I can play until 10, and will still be able to make it for my date’, he said.
We played on and won. At half past eight –I recall the time because I happened to look on my pocketwatch that time- Trail received a telegram.  He immediately jumped off of his chair and apologized himself. ‘Sudden duties’, he said. And then he left, much to the anger of our opponents who had lost 150 bits to him by now. That’s important, isn’t it? Murder because of frustration or envy, perhaps?”

As much as Coup de Coeur wanted to read from Sherlock’s face what he was thinking, the great detective’s expression remained absolutely unmoved. But he slightly leaned forward, his hooves put together. “And you can’t think of any other motive to kill Star Trail? Who else could have a motive?” he stressed.

Coup de Coeur chuckled. He had been at least half-way serious until now, but as we got to gossip, ‘his desk’ as he had called it, he was at once back to his old, mincing behaviour.

“Ha-ha-ha, my dear friend”, he laughed. “The question isn’t who wanted to kill him but who managed to actually do it; half of Canterlot’s husbands will sigh in relief now that he’s dead. And half of the wives will cry, but that just by the way. He was quite a charmer and a great entertainer. Could make you laugh even the very moment when you had to hoof him over your money… 
But lately, a low had come upon his love life. Most of his attention was turned towards that little actress, Light Prance. Star Trail always liked the southern beauties, the San Palomino types. In Star Trail’s life there had always been two kinds of mares: The ones he loved and the ones that loved him. They rarely had been the same.
He had been liased with Lady Sandgem, but I hear they broke up recently. Or rather she got rid of him.
And he was often visiting Lady Priceless, of course. You know, the widow of Argent Rapide form the famous international investment firm? But as far as I know they weren't liased.”

“And do you know anything about Miss Light Prance?”

“Oh, my dear Sherlock, I fear she didn’t seem important enough for me to know details about her.” He was honestly afflicted. “But if you'd give me a few days, I could dig-up some!”

“That won’t be necessary”, Sherlock Hooves objected. “You don’t happen to know anything about Point Black or Hightide, do you?”

Mister de Coeur wound up his brow in confusion. “Who’s that?”

I let out an angry sigh: “The names of two other victims! It was in the newspapers!”

“Oh, Trotson, Trotson, Trotson”, he smiled at me. “I happened to hear about the Brigthwater Murders just because it's city-talk! Of course, I don’t read these cheap-written, sensationalist articles about crimes. I only read what I write myself!”

I fought hard to withstand the urge to strangle Coup de Coeur right away and grinded: “And what about Libra Balance? Was SHE important enough for you to know something about her?”

“Oh, the hedge lawyer you mean? I met her once, yes. She was friends with Star Trail. Again, not THAT kind of friend. I don’t think he was her ‘type’, if you understand what I mean…” He made quotation marks with his hooves and lewdly winked at us. “Oh, I didn’t like her, the juristic spirit lacks  of any beauty, any creativity, simply everything I’m interested in! At least Miss Balance did… So she’s dead as well… Not a surprise. I've heard she was bribable, knocking criminals out of court for money. And not always the legal way, you know? Really, not a great loss… But, my dear friends, I fear I can’t help you with her death either. But again if you’d give me some days…”

“That won’t be necessary”, Sherlock repeated. “I think we’ve taken enough of your times. Mister de Coeur…”

My friend nodded at him and rose from his seat. I hurried to follow suit. The sooner I got away from Coup de Coeur the better. It often was worth while to talk to him, as he was  but whenever we had to I got the strong sensation I’d need a very, very long and thorough bath afterwards…