Sherlock Hooves - The Lost Cases

by Scribble Script

Revenge of the Sphinx - Prologue

Revenge of the Sphinx

Prologue – The Scholar’s Complaint

“What a rubbish, what a complete and utter nonsense!” I gave vent to my anger. “I can’t belief how the newspapers cash in on the superstitions of ponies!” I emphasized my indignation by vehemently throwing the papers on the ground. “And then the Times! Of all newspapers the Times had to start this! D. Trail… What a pen pusher!”

Sherlock Hooves watched me pacing over to the chimney. My spell levitated my pipe from the mantelpiece and I began to fill it resolutely with tobacco from the Saddle-Arabian slipper.

“Allow me, Trotson”, said Sherlock turning back to his microscope, a slight grin on his face. “You must be indeed boiling with indignation if you abjure your precious Arcadia tobacco in favour of my stronger Shag. What is it that’s so agitating to you? It’s this issue about the mummy’s curse, I presume?”

I grimaced. “Yes, you presume right, but it appears to me you should rather use your talent for deduction to solve that issue, not that of assumption. It has put the whole town into a flurry. Two stallions die, and we are made to believe a four thousand years old mummy is the murderer! I’m surprised you can stay so calm, Sherlock!”

I think, my faithful readers, this matter might need a further explanation: During the late 880s, an extension of the diplomatic connections to the kingdom of Saddle-Arabia had allowed archaeologists from the Royal Scientific Society to first undertake excavations along the river Neighle, where the pyramids of the extinct Coltypian Empire are located. Those pioneering achievements on the field of archaeology had not only unearthed secrets of a lost culture of ponies and other fabled beings, but entailed a string of magic-theoretical and historical, as well as magic-etymological studies and researches. Among the non-academic people, the fair and beautiful art treasures of that long gone era full of gold and gemstones had started a downright 'Coltyptomania', may my readers excuse my word coining. Coltyptian talismans and amulets, no matter if authentic or not, and furniture in old Saddle Arabian style, there were little items more sought these days, and who fancied himself owned at least one antiquity of Coltypian origin.

The most recent archaeological expedition had been discussed over and over in the newspapers all the more for it was crowned by an overwhelming success. The expedition of Royal Scientific Society’s Professor Apocrypha had discovered a tomb deep down in a chasm in the Valley of Royals. After long and tough work, they had eventually bored their way to the central chamber only recently; the archaeologists had been fascinated by the excellent condition of the stone coffin, the grave furnishings and finally of the mummy of pharaoh Katebet itself. This mummy was the really sensation, because unmissable, the ancient queen hadn’t been an alicorn like Princess Celestia, and neither a unicorn, in fact she had been no pony at all. The queen had been a sphinx, the first one to have ever been discovered.

News had gone head over heels about the sensational discovery, but soon grimmer events had overshadowed the extraordinary finding:

Professor Apocrypha had been found dead in the tomb. The expedition had only a few more weeks of work to do, when the calamity occurred. According to the newspapers Professor Apocrypha had worked till late in the night and thus remained behind alone in the chamber, as all other members of his expedition retreated for the night.

His lifeless body was discovered on the next morning by Doctor Adder Stone, a fellow archaeologist. The professor had been strangled, and mummy bandages were found around his neck. Following the news of Apocrypha’s death, superstitious ponies, foremost the Saddle Arabian ancillaries had started to blame supernatural forces for the professor’s murder…
Indeed, it appeared that the expedition had been cursed from the very moment they had broken the seal: On their return to Equestria, the Professor’s assistant, a pony named Scriptoria succumbed to a similar grim fate. Setting for his inexplicable death was the steamer Eastern Star; he was found in the forehold, dead, just in front of the crate in which the pharaoh’s coffin was shipped.

Of course, it was in the nature of things the gutter press leapt at these incidents like vultures, with a certain D. Trail leading the way. He was the Canterlot Times’s self-announced expert for history and archaeology.

Don’t get me wrong my friends, I do believe there exist things in our wide world far beyond the knowledge of our schoolbooks, and maybe I do also believe in some stories that are generally derided, such as those about vampire and wolf ponies, but as an academic unicorn I know the limits of magic very well. Though often enough tried, rising the dead isn’t among ponies’ capabilities… And the withered corpse of a three thousand years old queen rising from its coffin to seek bloody vengeance on those who disturbed its eternal rest? That sounds quite melodramatic, doesn’t it?

No, at this point even my ‘facileness’, as it was often scolded by Sherlock, was stretched to its limits…

“I find these articles rather interesting than upsetting”, Sherlock calmly replied to my outburst. “From a certain scientific point of view, of course.”

“You can’t actually believe in all the stupid talk that some kind of curse would be responsible for the death of these two stallions, can you?”

Sherlock Hooves indulgently shook his head. “My dear friend, since the beginning of time there exists the curse feral for us ponies, and I don’t arrogate myself to get to the bottom of that curse. And after all, there is a whole discipline of magic dedicated to death: The dark art of necromancy. But since you are a unicorn, you probably know better about that matter than me, anyway...”

“I’m physician, not a sorcerer”, I said ungraciously. “And as you very well know, they don’t teach necromancy in university. It’s just a myth, there’s no evidence something like the ability to awake the dead ever existed in the first place.”

“Or so they want you to think”, Sherlock replied with an uninterpretable look, but I had little time worry that my friend could have mixed with the conspiracy theorists lately, because at that moment my thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.

“Do we expect a visitor, Sherlock?” I wanted to know.

“Not that I’m aware of”, my friend replied and stretched himself. “But I’m sure, if this visitor is of any interest for us, knowing our diligent Mrs. Herdson, she’ll inform us in... Say, thirty seconds.”

Maybe I took Sherlock’s statement a bit too literally, but I must admit that I indeed counted the seconds. Anyway, he was right, exactly twenty-nine seconds later, our landlady knocked at the door.

“Mr. Hooves, Doctor Trotson”, Mrs. Herdson said. “Here’s a young lady who wants to speak with you. She says she has a vital case of utmost importance and needs you to investigate it; her words not mine. I’ve told her that you don’t see any clients without appointment, but she ‘insists’…”

“Well then”, Sherlock turned to me with an expression between be- and amusement. “We shall not let her wait any longer and hear what she has to say, don’t you agree, Trotson?”

Of course, I agreed. Sherlock took a seat in his favourite armchair and chafed his hooves. And I fetched a new scrap book from my desk, because I had filled the last pages of my old one during our investigations of the Brightwater Murders.

When I turned back to the door, Mrs. Herdson lead in our newest potential client: She entered the room with an outward composure of manner and a firm step. She was unicorn of a –I dare say- pretty remarkable colour: Her coat was of light purple, it could be described as lavender, and her mane, worn in a bun, was a darker shade of the same tone. Her features were clean-cut and her matching dress was of an almost admirable simplicity. From her violet eyes shone a keen intelligence.

But I couldn’t help but observe that her eyes twitched slightley, and she generally showed sign of inward agitation as she introduced herself as Miss Midnight Star. Sherlock Hooves welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked at her in the minute and yet abstracted manner which was typical for him.

“Don’t you find,” he then said. “That with your short sight it is a little trying work with all those faded characters on antique fragments?”

“I did at first,” she answered. “But with these new glasses it’s all better.”

Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her face.

“You must’ve heard about me, Mister Hooves,” she exclaimed. “How else could you know all that?”

“Never mind,” I said, laughing. “It is his business to know things. I recall him deducing half the history of the Eastern World from a Saddle Arabian slipper…”

“Maybe I’ve trained myself to see, what others overlook” interrupted Sherlock, with his put hooves together and his eyes turned to the ceiling.

“Actually, it’s quite simple”, he then reluctantly explained. “All it needed was two quick glances, one at your face, and one at your dress. There is the dint of a pince-nez on each side of your muzzle and there’s a certain kind of dirt on the seam of your right sleeve. It’s a unique yellow-red dust which cannot be found in Equestria. It’s in fact the same kind of dust I once happened to observe on the very slipper Trotson mentioned; dust from the deserts of Saddle Arabia. Now, the most likely way to get in contact with this particular kind of dirt here in Canterlot is to work either for the museum or the university, but in any case with archaeological findings.

So I ventured a remark about short sight and archaeology and you seemed to be surprised. Quite simple, isn’t it?”

Miss Star looked like she had seen a ghost. That was this certain impact, my friend had on many ponies at their first meeting. Though I had often seen this astonishment turning into annoyance once a pony got to know Sherlock Hooves a little better…

“I see, Mister Hooves”, Miss Star drawled. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d indeed hold up to your reputation. Now I see that I’ve been wrong. That is... That is good. It warrants my decision to consult you, even against the will of my adviser.”

“We’ll see if your decision was wise”, Sherlock impatiently discounted her words. “But since you seem to know about my ‘reputation’, Miss Star, and since you already uttered your matter would be of utter importance, please go ahead and tell us about your cause!”

“Yes, yes of course…” Miss Star took a deep breath, then she said: “I presume you have already heard about Doctor Adder Stone?”

We confirmed that. Doctor Adder Stone had just been mentioned in today’s Times. He was an expert for magical history and etymology, and had been a member of Professor Apocrypha’s fateful expedition. Now, as he was the only of the expedition’s Royal Scientist who was still alive, he had inherited the task to organize the forthcoming exhibition in the Equestrian Museum, in memoriam to his late colleagues Apocrypha and Scriptoria.

As things should turn out, Miss Midnight Star was a doctoral student of the Royal University, and Doctor Adder Stone was her thesis adviser. As against Doctor Stone, who apparently had decided to ignore all the gossip of a curse, and who had even refused to give any comment to the newspapers, his student very well was worried:

The rumours about that murderous mummy which admittedly yet lacked any scientific proof, but couldn’t be belied either, these rumours inflamed the public opinion and casted a slur on the scientists who seemingly were unable to stop the curse. And since her mentor kept idle, Midnight Star had decided to take action herself.
The troublesome incident had to come to an end and who would be more suitable to uncover the truth than Sherlock Hooves, the best detective in Equestria?

This was, in short, the concern Midnight Star had for us.
With this request she spoke right from my soul, and I would have happily assured her of our help, but my friend seemed reluctant. Maybe he resented her for having doubted his skills, yes, maybe she had offended his vanity with her disbelief. I, however, decided to stick to his statement that this case would pose ‘hardly a challenge’ to him.

“What are you afraid of?" exclaimed Miss Midnight Star. "You can’t actually believe this stupid talk about some kind of curse, can you?” Little could she know she was almost exactly repeating the sentence I had hurled at Sherlock Hooves not fifteen minutes ago.

“I could tell you something about the ‘impossible’ and the ‘unlikely’, which my dear friend Trotson likes to quote so much, Miss Star”, replied the detective, who encountered Miss Star’s agitation with a stoic serenity. “But instead I’ll tell you the following: I believe the reasons for these murders are closer to us than an ancient mummy.”

The hint of a smile played on his lips, as he turned to me.

“And before Doctor Trotson will be mortally offended with me for the next week because I refused to help a pretty young lady, this case really doesn’t require my assistance. I’m sure, the Doctor will agree with me once he has solved it.”

“Me, Sherlock? I am supposed to solve this case?” I was dumbfounded, understandably I believe.

“Yes, of course, Trotson. I have complete confidence in your abilities, my friend. Why don’t you attend to this matter? Maybe you’ll find something interesting. Investigations regarding the death of two scholars are a yet deplorable, but nevertheless worthwhile cause to enter into realm of research and teaching.”