Sherlock Hooves - The Lost Cases

by Scribble Script

The Brightwater Murders - Chapter III

Chapter III – The Final Pieces

“Come on, Sherlock”, I addressed my friend as we sat in a carriage back to Baker Street. “Spill! What is it about this Colonel Ironwing that you were so thrilled to hear his name?”

Sherlock Hooves, who had dug out some pieces of paper and a pen from the mystical depths of his overcoat and now was hastily scribbling down something, rose his head with the pen in his mouth, and looked at me with slight admonition.

“I thought you’d know him. You were in the army after all!”

I sighed: “Not this again! Just because I’ve been in the royal army doesn’t mean I can recall every single officer; or that I even knew them in the first place!”

Sherlock mirrored my sigh and put away his fountain pen. He said: “Alright then, let me fill you in: Ironwing, Colonel off duty, was commanding officer of the third Wonderbolt squadron under Admiral Fairweather and served during the war in Yakyakistan. He was decorated for his part in holding the Icecrown-pass and he’s a well-educated sports-stallion and a prized sharp-shot. There was never an open scandal, but rumour has it he was obliged from his duties because of the recklessness and even ferocity with which he pursued his aims. Today, I dare say, Ironwing’s the second most dangerous pony in Canterlot; he’s downright infamous in the city's underworld, though he manages to keep up a respectable veneer.”

“The second most dangerous?” I wondered, oblivious what trails Sherlock’s thoughts once again had taken. “Who’s the most dangerous then?”

“Well, that would be Moriarty, of course!”

And there we went again: Professor Moriarty, the own personal bugaboo of Sherlock Hooves. I was familiar with this idée fixe, he had fancied the thought of somepony pulling the strings behind each organized crime in Canterlot –maybe in whole Equestria- for quite some time. A genius of the first water, an opponent whose intelligence and skills equalled Sherlock’s, at least, if they weren’t even above. His theory was based upon how elaborate, well-planned and almost artful, some recent capital crimes had been executed. Sherlock came to the conclusion there had to be a highly skilled manipulator trying to unite the whole underworld under one flag and had developed various theories and suspects. I don’t know how he managed to do it, but recently he had managed to give this master-manipulator an actual name: Professor Moriarty. There was just one problem:

“Sherlock”, I said. “You have no proof that this criminal mastermind you’re after exists!”

“Moriarty does exist if I may remind you”, he objected very sanctimoniously. “She teaches applied mathematics and astronomy at Canterlot University. She even is in the 'Who is Who'! But what’s more important”, he said and now sounded very serious.
“Ironwing is friends with the Professor. In fact, rumour has it that the Colonel is Moriarty’s number one, the first in command in her criminal organisation. We have no proof, of course, as we haven’t for each of Moriarty’s illegal activities. Up until now, that is! But if we handle this matter dexterously… and with a little portion of luck… We may finally be able to change that!”

I said nothing more, I knew how much the chance of finding a proof for Moriarty’s criminal activities would mean to him. Don’t get me wrong, my faithful friends, I’ve always trusted Sherlock’s judgement. He wouldn’t suspect anypony without evidence, even if his evidence not always bear legal force. But this conviction on the verge of obsession was a weak point: It wasn’t just a competition of one genius against the other: Sherlock took this clash of minds – if this clash existed - personal! If my friend was right, Moriarty was evading his just sentence for years now and thus Sherlock would do all in his might to bring the criminal mastermind down…

“My dear friend”, Sherlock addressed me suddenly and absolutely out of context. “Would you mind if we dine out tonight?”

“What are you up to, Sherlock?” I wondered, because he could develop quite dubious ideas about a suitable diner.

“I have to do some procurements, to lighten up some of the last dark corners in this case; I’ll meet you at the Old Trunk Inn at, let’s say 9 o’clock?”

Suspicions confirmed, the Old Trunk Inn was a louche tavern and drinking hole in the Lower District. And gathering place for burglars, thieves and shady ponies of all kinds. Of course, Sherlock was a regular guest in that dive… In disguise he often visited the Old Trunk Inn, the innkeeper was, in a fashion, the Coup de Coeur of low lives, knowing about almost everything what was going down. Ironically I got along with him much better than with the mauve muckraker. For a stallion so close to crime, Apple Pie was astonishingly honest and heartfelt. But his impressive orange figure and resolute demeanour made clear he’d never allow any quarrel to happen within his own four walls.

As I entered the inn at shortly before nine, dressed in my oldest and most tattered coat and with a grey cloth around my neck, I at once noticed the familiar auburn mane of Mister Apple Pie; it always looked like the stallion had been struck by lightning. I trotted through the dim room, past some miserable ponies hanging low over their mugs, the scent of dead cider hung in the air, accompanied by the smell of cheap tobacco.

“Gran’ evenin’, Doc”, Apple Pie greeted me with a broad smile as I stepped to the bar and sat down. “Mayflower towl me yer were comin’ along.”

I looked to the right, to the only other pony sitting at the bar. The stallion wore an eroded marine uniform and a skipper’s hat. It was my friend Sherlock Hooves in his frequently used masquerade as the old river-boat-captain Mayflower. He was disguised beyond recognition, his clear-cut features turned into a weary face with grey sideburns, tanned by wind and weather. Once again I was astonished what he could achieve with make-up and fake fur.

Sherlock blinked at me and lifted his hat for a greeting. “I took the freedom of ordering two bowls of Apple Pie’s stew and cake for dessert; I know how much you’re fond of them.”

Well, that was true, and I was at once reconciled with my friend’s choice of a place for diner when the innkeeper placed a bowl a steaming bowl in front of me. Apple Pie made best chestnut stew in the whole town. And, appropriate to his name, the best apple-pie... He watched with pride as I dug into my meal. Sherlock followed my example, though with less speed. Eventually, after he had served a few other customers, Mister Pie turned back to us:

“Neigh tell me, gentlecolts: Yer didn’t jist come for my ‘otpot an' cake, didya?”

Apple Pie very well knew who we were, he had figured that out over a year ago. Even if his thick accent didn’t indicate it, he wasn’t dumb at all. However, Sherlock remained always Captain Mayflower and I was simply the Doc. And Apple Pie would happily trade information with us; he was an admirer of Sherlock's art of deduction. All in all, Apple Pie wasn’t a half bad stallion but just had happened to open a tavern in the wrong borough…

Sherlock nodded at Mister Pie’s comment, slid a silver coin over to the innkeeper and then told him frankly, yet in a low voice: “Ever heard about the Brightwater Murders, Mister Pie?”

“Quite somethin’, aye. One of the victims, Mister Point Blank, was a regular guest ‘ere. Always stuck together wi’ dis other fella, Twig’s ‘is name, I tink… One as class as de other!”

“Twigs?” Sherlock asked, his voice began to tremble with excitement. “Not perhaps Hightide?”

“Hightide? He was another victim, aye? De name’s not familiar”, the innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. “But maybe yer stallion was ‘ere, too. What’s his Cutie Mark?”

“Why, a log and a knife”, I said, checking my notebook.

Apple Pie started to laugh a rumbling laughter: “They got yer 'oaxed gran', gents! That's Twigs, as sure as a smile!”

“No way!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Earth-pony, brute ratbag, a scar right across his forehead? Yep that’s Twigs all over. He and Point Blank were partners. Sum say they were Ironwing’s gurriers, his ‘eadsmen. Cutty Knife an’ Crosshairs we called dem, Twigs was specialised in thrust weapons, Point Blank in firearms. A really evil pair.”

Sherlock’s face expressed a quite inappropriate happiness. This time I could follow his line of thoughts. The sailor pony didn’t fit the picture in total. Why would a sailor from Trottingham, be it even on shore leave, linger around in Canterlot. That was a contradiction. But if Hightide wasn’t Hightide but in fact a local criminal dubbed ‘Twigs’, it all made much more sense.

“Did something get to your ears, why they’ve been killed?” I chased up, keen to know what else the innkeeper might be able to tell us. But Apple Pie shook his head.

“Naw, nathin’. After Point Blank’s death the Colonel let it be known he would root for Twigs. But he didn’t tell why. Doesn’t need ter either. But let me think: At de evenin' Point Blank got murdered, he an' Twigs sat at their regular table an' drank their supper. Aboyt 8 o’clock, Colonel Ironwing showed up, talked ter dem for a minute or two an' den lef again. They 'astily drained their glasses an' den lef as well.”

-<0>-

Well, so far this evening had been fairly prolific and the mysterious series of murders wasn’t so mysterious anymore. Yes, there were still some loose threads to knit, but I was confident to soon be able to close the case. On the other hoof, Sherlock strangely seemed less contend than rather focused and worried.

“My dear friend”, he called from his dressing room. We had arrived back in Baker Street and he was busy emerging his respectable self from the raddled masquerade. “This is no good at all.”

I sat in my armchair and had the evening newspaper unfurled in front of me, only. “What do you mean?”

“I need another approach, Trotson”, he called. “And complete new one I fear.”

“Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t work. My theory doesn’t work, Trotson!” Sherlock exclaimed with frustration.

Of course he didn’t bother with a nothingness like explaining his theory to me. So I had to make my own guess: “It’s not Moriarty, huh?” I muttered, still half-way focused on my lecture of the evening paper. The flu epidemic from last month had gotten me some extra fund and I had made two or three minor sports bets. I don’t remember how much and on which competitions in detail, but I will never forget that one particular bet. As I write this story, my notebook is lying in front of me and note tells me I had placed a bet of fifty bits in favor of a hoof fighter called Lead Step. And now I was eager to get to know the results of this long expected title bout. And of course, if my investment would pay off…

“Oh, come one, you can’t be serious!” I scolded as my gaze fell upon the sports page. The headlines announced that the grand fight had been called off. Due to ‘impairments of health’ by Lead Step, his manager had withdrawn the challenge. Thus for him the fight was lost. And so was my precious money…

“They can’t do that”, I thought. “They have to give me refund.” I wasn’t really believing in it, though. And then I saw something. It was just a marginal note, a half sentence, nothing more, but it was enough to catch my attention: The article mentioned that Lead Step had a fillyfriend, a mare with a name we had only recently heard.

“Sherlock”, I rose my voice because I could hear him rummaging back in his dressing room. “Miss Light Prance is in the newspaper!”

I can’t recall to have ever seen Sherlock crossing the room faster. The door to the boudoir was pushed open so fiercely that it banged against the wall and within a blink my friend stood next to me. One could have been scared witless by his sight: His grey eyes were torn open and flashing. He was half done with removing the make-up, his face was partly covered with white crème and fake grey fur still hung from his cheeks. He looked like his own ghost.

“Where? Quick, tell me, Trotson! What’s in the news?”

I was to some extent shocked by his hefty reaction and read out the paragraph in question:

“… Malevolent tongues see the real cause of Lead Step’s so called impairments in a drama of relationship. His long lasting and ambivalent affair with the actress Light Prance has always…”

“Yes, yes, YES! OF COURSE!” Sherlock yelled and pried the paper away from me. “I’ll be damned if this isn’t the key to this sinister riddle!”

He developed a frenzy of activity, threw the newspaper onto the cocktail table, galloped back to his room to snatch a towel and bolted over to the bookshelf that occupied a whole wall in our living room. He fetched a table of addresses, but then halted and resolutely rubbed off his face with the towel to free himself from the defacing rest of his masquerade. The towel was chucked into a corner before he turned back to the address register. Sherlock skimmed through the pages with incredible speed, and before I knew what was even happening, my friend had dropped the book on the floor and stood booted and spurred at the door.

“Come on, come on, dear friend!” he exclaimed, trembling with excitement. “This ugly case has already claimed five lives and if we don’t hurry, it might well claim another one!”

Even though I hadn’t thought that to be even possible, the things were going to overturn even more.

-<0>-