Conclusion – Four Murders plus One
Sherlock payed a ludicrously high tip to a hackney cab and yelled an address I had never heard of before. The chaise and pair virtually raced to this mysterious destination, a not too wealthy, grey street in southern Canterlot, with dull houses full of keen rental flats. The cab had only barely stopped, when Sherlock already darted out of the vehicle and towards a green painted door. He hammered his hoof against the door, a hasty staccato that expressed utmost urgency.
But unfortunately also drew attention: Before somepony could open the door, a young constable in scratched light plate stepped onto us. She was a rather colourless pegasus, suitable for this borough. The constable expressed a dutiful suspicion as she approached Sherlock and put her hoof on his shoulder, probably to hold him back from knocking in the door. But Sherlock just shoved one of his business card's into her face. I watched as her face now passed through the whole spectrum from confusion, dismay and curiosity.
Then the peeled-off door was opened and Sherlock barged in as soon as he could squeeze himself through the gap, dragging a very, very confused constable with him. I tried to follow them on the hooves, muttering an apology to an intimidated donkey who had opened the door. Sherlock, the bewildered police-mare still in tow, rushed up the creaking staircase to the upper floor, where he started to knock on the door as well.
“He’s not opening”, Sherlock grimly said to the constable as if she could do anything with it. The pegasus just blankly nodded. It took a while and some endeavour to close up to them – my old wound at the left foreleg sometimes still is sensitive to abrupt movements, especially under stress. Sherlock had already begun to try and kick in the door. And I knew, if Sherlock resulted in such drastic methods, a life had to be at stake.
He reared up and smashed the door.
CRACK!
Sherlock doesn’t regularly practise physical training, but he has been a well-versed hoof fighter and fencer during his time at the university. After the first futile attack, he at once changed his tactics and started to buck the lock with his hind legs.
CRACK!
Against the well-placed hoof kick of an earth-pony, no ordinary deadbolt stood much of a chance.
CRACK!
The third hit finally broke the lock and almost knocked the door off of its hinges. Sherlock tossed the broken door aside.
“Quick now, Trotson”, he panted. “He might need your medical assistance. I just hope we aren’t too late already!”
Utmost startled by his words, I hurried to get into the flat. The rooms were ill-lit and stifling. From somewhere back in the in the apartment I heard a chink like from breaking glass and a muffled and indistinct swearing. Then suddenly, the wretched figure of an earth-pony appeared in a doorframe to my left. When I write wretched, I mean the only impression he made on me: He stumbled and his smell of alcohol hit me like a battering ram. The weak light painted deep shadows on his face and underlined his dark under-eye circles. But despite his miserable appearance, he had an impressive stature: At least fifteen hooves tall, a back like a plough pony and muscular beneath his dark-red coat.
“You ain’t gett’n me ‘live, darn pigs!” He roared at me. He was completely drunk and apparently dangerous. The booze and maybe too many saltlicks had made him fearless. Now he was launching an all-out attack.
ON ME!
I had no time to brace myself for the impact before the sturdy stallion crashed into me. We both hit the floor and my head painfully stroke a dresser. Of course, I couldn’t equal his physical strength at all, but at least I was sober. That advantage, even if it only was a little one, probably saved me. As we bowled over the carpet, I managed to curl myself up to provide him with a smaller target. In his state the logical consequence of his furious, rash attack was disorientation and the loss of his balance; he swayed like reed in the wind. And right at that moment, my hooves hit him and knocked him back. My opponent blinked, trying to focus his blurred vision on me but before could even make one more move, his skull made intimate acquaintance with a wooden chair.
Perhaps not Sherlock’s favourite weapon of choice, but he had no time to pick a better on before getting to my aid. However, crashing the chair on his head sufficed to render the furious stallion unconscious. His eyes twisted upwards, then he plunged to the ground like a chopped tree.
“Trotson, my dear friend, are you alright?” I heard Sherlock asking. I had an annoying ringing in my ears, but I could make out the worry in his voice.
“I’m fine, I’m fine”, I grimaced and sustained my head. Somepony helped me up to stand up. I turned my head, slowly to avoid any further damage to my ailing bones, and I saw the young constable. She by now seemed hopelessly over-challenged with the recent events.
As soon as I was on my hooves again, I pointed accusatorily at my friend and grinded: “But I demand an explanation, Sherlock! If I get beaten up, I at least want to know who by or why! Don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Who is that stallion anyway?”
Sherlock Hooves chuckled. “My dear friend, it’s good to hear that the little blow on your head has neither affected your grit nor your curiosity. Yes, yes, Trotson, you deserve an explanation, though it means to admit that I’ve been foolish enough to make an incorrect assumption not only once, but twice. But, my friend, I fear this will have to wait until tomorrow morning, because I still need to wait for the answers of the telegrams I sent earlier this evening. And I dare say our client from Palace Court, Inspector Keen, should be keen to hear that, too. Meanwhile, I will answer your second question: The gentlecolt on the carpet who now forcibly sleeps it off is Mister Lead Step. And I must now ask the constable to arrest him.”
“What for?” The question unanimously came from mine and the police-mare’s mouth. Sherlock Hooves flashed us a triumphant smile.
“For the murder of Mister Star Trail”, he said.
-<0>-
A word and a blow, Lead Step was arrested and put in custody; and Sherlock and I returned to the Baker Street. A glass of brandy helped to calm down my aching head and my spinning mind. Exhaustion did one last thing and I slept well until the next morning.
After an abundant breakfast, at ten o’clock, Inspector Keen appeared in person again. And with him came, a bit to my amazement, Chief Inspector Lestride. He had wanted to hear himself how Sherlock Hooves had solved this case that had left him absolute clueless. And thus, the elite of Palace Court took place on our couch.
“Very well”, Sherlock said and slouched on his armchair. “Now, that we’re all gathered around, we can begin.
A very interesting and stimulating case with some hooks and shanks I hadn’t expected. Let’s begin with the first victim, shall we?
Mister Inchworm. His story can be summed up about thusly: Inchworm, in everyday life a hard working employee, had a passion: Whist. Whist is quite a pleasurable amusement, at least whilst you don’t gamble with ponies like Ironwing and Star Trail for money. By chiselling Inchworm at the card table, Ironwing manged to force him into contribution to the planned abstraction at Argent Rapide & Co. The answer on a telegram I sent yesterday to Mister Rapide’s widow, Lady Priceless, confirmed my suspicion that Mister Star Trail’s good friend Libra Balance was her lawyer. And as such she had access to all documents of the company. And so Ironwing had everything he needed for his plan: Somepony who could attain the intern company documents – Libra Balance- and an insider who could make use of these information –Inchworm. Altogether a good plan, in which however one flaw came to light:
Mister Inchworm himself.
As his farewell letter reveals, a change of heart had occurred with him. He had realised that embezzlement would solve nothing but instead just lead to new unsolvable problems. And so he saw only one way out: Suicide. At the evening of the sixth he was supposed to deliver the stolen stocks and securities to Colonel Ironwing who waited for him in the Bagatelle Club. But while Ironwing waited, Mister Inchworm only wrote his suicide note and left behind the papers in his room for a certain Worthwile to find them. Mister Worthwile, as I learned, is the general manager of Argent Rapide & Company.
However, as Inchworm hadn’t shown up for his appointment with Ironwing, the Colonel sent two of his henchponies, Point Blank and Twigs to search for him. Admittedly, we can’t know which orders he had given them. But I think we can deduce from the old silver coin found with Inchworm’s body – and the identical coin later found with Twigs – they had the order to murder Mister Inchworm. This crime was used as a warning for the underworld: That’s what happens to those who dare to betray Colonel Ironwing. Point Blank, the gunslinger, shot Inchworm dead and then he and Twigs threw the corpse into the Brightwater. After that, they returned to Inchworm’s room to get possession of the stolen securities. All this money on the hoof –round twenty thousand as Mister Worthwile was so kind to impart me – was a sore temptation for Twigs. He stabbed his former partner, took the documents and the Blitz T11 and went underground. In other words, he used documents he probably had stolen or bought on the black market that now identified him as the sailor Hightide.
Of course, Colonel Ironwing wasn’t pleased in the slightest, but he was unable to intervene in person. Too high was the risk somepony would be able to connect him to these crimes, if he did. So Libra Balance now tried track down Twigs and to her misfortune she was successful. She couldn’t bring him to hoof over the letters of credit and therefor tried to shoot him down with her Pepperbox. During the resulting shootout, she couldn’t measure up with Twigs. He shot her with the gun he had taken from Point Blank.
The evidences in Star Trail’s house, the securities, the Blitz and the Royal 2K on his desk strongly indicate that he has been the murderer of Twigs in the end. And so on thing leads to another – an all too everyday story of dishonour and fraud. Among thieves there is no honour.”
Chief Inspector Lestride jumped to his hooves in excitement. “Then Ironwing must’ve murdered Star Trail! We finally got him!” he exclaimed. Sherlock apparently wasn’t the only one who was keen to see the Colonel behind prison bars.
“Sadly not, Lestride”, Sherlock Hooves replied and he looked more than only a bit considerate for a moment. But then his good mood reappeared.
“The circumstances of his death follow logically from the evidences found in his home. Indeed the progression of events was so obvious it awhile blurred my vision for how the death of Star Trail fit in with the other murders. As he had been the last victim, this scent was promising to be the hottest; and that’s why a comment from my friend Doctor Trotson led me to commence my investigations at his manor. It supplied us with evidences in great numbers. The letters of credit on the desk, the money and the jewellery, they all indicate that a robbery couldn’t have been the motive for his killing.
– You see, Lestride”, he addressed the Inspector. “If Ironwing or one of his ponies had killed Star Trail, the papers would have been taken, too. If you ask somepony at Argent Rapide & Co, you’ll ascertain that those securities are the missing papers.
No, I fear we can exclude Ironwing or his criminal organisation.
Star Trail’s death wasn’t a consequence of his criminal but of his romantic wrong ways. There should be no doubt what happened in the night of his death. The course follows clearly from his retained clothes.
After Star Trail had murdered Twigs, he still had time for another arranged appointment. According to Coup de Coeur, who apparently must know it, his date was Miss Light Prance. He picked her up after the show and took her to his home. First he went to his study room, took of his overcoat, freed himself from the burden of the gun and threw the papers on the desk. The following dinner was successful for him, because soon he had routed Miss Prance up to his sleeping room. But then the evening ended with a different climax than he had intended: Somepony kicked in the door and stormed up the staircase.”
“And do you know who?” Inspector Keen wanted to know.
“I think, we are allowed to assume it was the hoof fighter Lead Step. My dear friend Trotson, whose assistance is always invaluable for me, was so kind to bump my muzzle on something I had surely missed otherwise. Mister de Coeur doesn't know anything about Miss Light Prance. And because I never read the sports news, I would’ve never learned about the romance between Lead Step and her myself as it was mentioned just there.
An old, well-known drama had happened, the fight over a mare, of course, and Star Trail lost both the fight and his life. The cheated lover dressed Star Trail again, but -as Chief Inspector Lestride so splendidly has noticed- he didn’t evince the same accuracy as the particular Mister Trail. Then he rolled the corpse up in the carpet, in the carpet that had lain in front of the bed. And as he was a strong and sturdy pony he carried the body down to the river. The murderer didn’t know the irony of this last rest for he knew nothing about Star Trail’s role in the other murders.
Now we get to the part of the story that should explain my frenzy of activity from last night. This is probably the part that my friend has the biggest interest in. As Trotson presented me Star Trail’s murderer on a silver plate, the choice of words in the relevant article extremely alarmed me. Lead Step’s title bout had been cancelled due to ‘impairments of health’! He is known as a jealous hothead, and he’s a hoof fighter, a stallion used to force. But now he had taken a pony’s life; that had to afflict him, even harder since he obviously was a very emotional type.
And the stallion he had killed had mighty friends. When the fight was called off I feared that Colonel Ironwing might try to revenge Star Trail or that Lead Step might even try to end his own life. I got to the conviction we had to hurry because his life was in danger, and if it was only to finally get certainty about the circumstances of the last crime.
But once again, I was wrong: It turns out that Ironwing has left Canterlot two days ago. He probably doesn’t even know about Star Trail’s death yet. And as we forced our entry into Leas Step’s flat, my friend Trotson had to painfully experience that the pony fighter indeed was hopelessly drunk but far away from killing himself.”
I nodded sombrely and at the curious and questioning looks of the two inspectors I added a little unwillingly: “Long story short, he wanted to beat his way out. My head still hurts because he had tried to smash a dresser with it...”
“That was a miscalculation on my part”, Sherlock admitted. “My deepest apologies for that, Trotson. I allowed my obsession with Moriarty’s putative activities to cloud my judgement. In the murder of Star Trail, Trotson would have done far better than me… Nah! Every pony at Palace Court would have done better than the great Sherlock Hooves! This shall be a lesson for me. By now I’ve never been happier to be able to close a case. And given the circumstances it’s the imaginably best conclusion possible.”
“I guess you’re right”, Chief Inspector Lestride agreed hesitatingly. Then he sighed: “Although of course, we still have no evidence against Colonel Ironwing, let alone Moriarty. Unless you have some second to none proof hidden up in your sleeve, that is…”
Sherlock Hooves receipted Lestrides chuntering with a heartfelt laughter: “I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, no aces up my in my sleeves, I fear. But no need to be pessimistic: The youngest events have shown us that Ironwing is getting sloppy. There’ll be another day and another crime. Sooner or later even Ironwing and Moriarty will make a mistake. And that day, gentlecolts, Sherlock Hooves and his faithful friends will be there to bring them down, come what may come!”
We all rose for this extolling moment, we, the sworn in alliance against the organised crime, higlighted dramatically by the golden light of Princess Celestia's sun, Sherlock suddenly cleared his throat.
"Oh, and somepony should impart that constable from last night my apologies as well. I think I kind of overstrained her..."
FINIS.