The Adventures of Sherclop Pones

by B_25

Inquiry and Deduction

I rose and dressed swiftly in the morning, leaving my hotel room to roam the market stalls once more. I was in no mood for a hearty breakfast, instead opting for a small, delectable pastry from an elderly shopkeeper’s stall before I hailed a hansom cab. I paid the driver a few silver bits, and was soon underway, and after a brief journey across the city, I arrived at the address that Pones had given me.

On first glance, number 221B Baker Street was a very comfortable abode. It was a moderately sized thing that appeared to have been built for some gentlepony that I knew must live there no longer. The suburb in which Baker Street lay was called Woodrow, and I was somewhat unsure as I cast my inattentive gaze out the window of the hansom cab as it bumped along the road. Woodrow was renowned for being an extremely expensive part of town to live in, usually reserved for the rich and elite. In fact, many of the properties appeared to be quite large and luxurious – some were overly grand in that obnoxious way that always irritated me so, and I was unsure if Mr. Pones had understood my predicament, as I had wanted cheaper lodgings, not more expensive ones.

But, as the roads turned into streets, the majestic mansions that decorated either side of the road were replaced by avenues of trees and smaller, more appropriate houses that settled my nerves. The cab ground to a halt and I stepped out onto the cobbled pavement, where I first laid my eyes on my future abode.

It was, as I mentioned, very snug and cosy looking, a quaint red brick house with a dark tiled roof; two stories in height and not overly large, with white trimmings around the windows. From the iron front gate, I could see several lights on upstairs that shone from between silver-white curtains.

221 Baker Street was caught between two larger and more palatial establishments. On its left, there was a grand house dressed in classical Equestrian style, and on the other side, an unobtrusive yet elegant Tudor manor of grey stone and red wooden trimmings. Number 221 sported quite a garden, and the land must have undoubtedly cost a substantial sum of money, though overall the house paled in comparison to the far more luxurious residences that I had seen on my journey here. I breathed a sigh of relief, thanked the cab driver, and as I had already paid my fare, opened the chest-high gate with one hoof before strolling up a brick path towards the brown oak front door.

I had barely rapped on the door once before it swung open, and there before me stood a portly magenta pony. She had a pair of beady magenta eyes that I remember quite well upon reflection – one felt that as your eyes met hers, that she was attempting to bore through you, and it was quite uncomfortable to meet her stony gaze for any prolonged period of time. I suspected from the crow’s feet either side of her eyes that was in her mid-forties, and she wore the clothes of a wealthy lady. She surveyed me with some suspicion, even though I felt I was quite well dressed and presentable.

“Hullo,” I began politely. “I’m here to inspect the room along with Mr. Pones?”

As if the name of Pones was a key to her kindness, her face seemed to relax and she smiled at me, the corners of her cheeks touching the wrinkles around her eyes.

“Ah! You must be the good Doctor Trotson. Please, come in.”

A brief exchange of names took place. Her name was Mrs. Wilhelmina Emerald, and she was currently employed as the Mistress of the household of her husband, one James Emerald. James, as the surname might suggest, was a wealthy industrialist who owned a gem mine several hours to the north, near Hoofington. Travel to and from the mine every day, even though he was merely the owner and as such did not need to supervise, would have been taxing and expensive -- for while there were trains to Hoofington, they only ran biweekly, as she explained to me. Instead, he lived out of town, while she rented his room to let.

“I see you’ve taken up with Mr. Pones, then?” She inquired amiably, leading me beyond the doorway and down a long, spacious hall. I nodded my reply wordlessly as I scoped out the interior of the modest abode.

The walls were lined with paintings of the countryside in its different seasons; and though all were pretty there were none I recognised. Beneath my hooves, I felt the gentle tickle of a fine rug, and above my head there radiated the dull glow of a modest chandelier. I immediately took a liking to the place much more than I had my hotel – for while the house was well kept and aesthetically pleasing, it was not overly pretentious. There were no eastern vases on fine, hand crafted stands, or excessive trimmings on the walls as were to be found in the houses of other rich ponies that I had met.

Such was my distraction with the inner beauty of the place that I almost bumped into Mrs. Emerald as she paused in her stride. To her right there lay a few flights of wooden steps that led upstairs, and she turned to me.

“Mr. Pones is already upstairs – He's already set everything to his liking, so feel free to shift some of the decorations around as it suits you.”

“Thank you,” I replied courteously, and without a further word proceeded up the stairs.

I emerged into a shorter hallway, upon which there was one door to the left (which presumably lead to a guest’s room or spare room) and another one on the right. At the end of the hallway there lay a window draped with lace curtains, bathing the upstairs area with a soft glow of sunlight. I stood for a moment, earnestly gambling on which door to try, and at length chose the right-hand side. The door opened, and I poked my head in.

This room was quite different from the ones I had been in. It was small and square, and it had a polished wooden floor with a single, large, circular rug cast over it. Two tall, red armchairs were placed very deliberately in front of what appeared to be a large and well used fireplace, and a small hand-table lay between them.

This was obviously a study of some sort – and to confirm my suspicions, my gaze fell upon several wooden filing cabinets stowed in the corner of the room. To my immediate left was a long bureau, topped with leather and wood and boasting a fine gold inlay. Laid in the sunlight offered by a window, it appeared quite luxurious, and as I ran a hoof over its smooth surface, I wondered quite how wealthy my new roommate was.

Whatever inch of wall space that was not occupied by door, window, desk or cabinet, there were tall bookshelves that touched the ceiling, stacked high with immense volumes on anatomy, chemistry and history, some of which I recognised from my years at medical school. There was also an elegant cabinet of mahogany and crystal glass stowed away in the far right corner as one entered. On it, there stood many fine bottles of spirits and boxes of tobacco; with presumably more of the same inside; and to its left, a tall white door that lead to another room.

As my gaze fell upon the door, I saw its brass knob turned, and out from the room beyond stepped my strange companion.

“Ah, Trotson! On time, I see,” he said, nodding his greeting. He carried in both forearms a large stack of files, and he planted them beside the filing cabinet opposite the door before returning to all fours, and shaking my hoof once more.

After talking briefly, he showed me his room and mine, which had been across the way. Mine appeared to have been a guest room of some descript, and was fitted with a desk and several cupboards where my belongings might be kept, along with a large bed. His room appeared to be a slight smaller, but it did not bother him – ‘Homely enough’, he had said of it dismissively.

We then took our leave of the comfortable abode, and together we traveled back to the hotel and retrieved a portion of my possessions each. I was very grateful to Pones, and I spent the next day settling down and accommodating myself to my new surroundings, returning to the hotel only once to retrieve a final box of goods I was unable to carry. The day after that was spent furnishing my room, so that I might feel more at home.

We spent most of our time in the study area when we were not out, and soon I learned that Pones was a very easy fellow to live with. He was not a pony of creature comforts, as it were; and his habits were very precise and regular. It was highly uncommon for him to be awake into the small hours of the morning, retiring at around ten-thirty every night without fail, and rising extremely early, having breakfasted downstairs with Mrs. Emerald and departed before I had even woken up on most mornings.

On some days, he spent his afternoons at the hospital where I had met him first, sussing out a new formula or new ingredient. His works were mostly lost on me, and he did not speak of them unless I inquired of him as to his doings. Even then, he was not overly liberal in his details, claiming it was research into some kind of plant or mineral – not something I would be interested in at the best of times, so I did not pursue it.

As a few days went by and I became less busy with settling down, my interest in my strange companion piqued. He appeared to be full of a restless energy that was dissipated only by his work. Every now and again, he would lie on the sofa and murmur his thoughts to himself until he was taken by something, at which instant he would seize his coat, and, as if struck by a lightning, race off to the hospital once more, where he spent much of his time in the anatomy and chemistry department. Such strange behaviour accentuated his extremely unusual and almost striking appearance, but he did not seem to be bothered by it at all.

He was quite tall and lean – not quite a beanpole among ponies, but nevertheless he stuck out a little. He had small, brown eyes that possessed a rather hawk-like gaze not dissimilar to the one that Mrs. Emerald was capable of giving, though he was not as scrutinising as she. Instead, he gave the appearance of curiously examining whatever it was he was focusing on, and as such it gave him an air of awareness and sensibility that I had never found in any other pony before. His coat was silvery grey, and his mane of a fair auburn curl that was often concealed underneath a close fitting tartan cap when he went out. His preferred garb was a green, patterned waistcoat and a white open necked shirt. When he departed for some meeting or event, his dress was closer to formal, but still carried with it a Bohemian quality - often he would wear a single breasted frock coat with a waistcoat of dark green and gold flower patterned silk, and if it was cold enough, a scarf of the same material.

In fact, it was not until Saturday morning, almost four days after I had moved in, that I learnt of his occupation. I had asked many days earlier if he was a practitioner of medicine as Felicia had thought, and he claimed that he was not. His pattern of knowledge was so bizarre and uncommon that I could not guess what his career was, yet he possessed a certain zeal for whatever it might have been that amazed me. Such work ethic and dogged determination to achieve answers in every question that he had were very strange for a pony who did not appear to be a doctor or any other intellectual occupation, yet I was sure that he had at least some goal that motivated him.

Perhaps it was the exactness in his learning that drove him so, and I thought at one moment that he may have been a professor at one of the many colleges that littered Canterlot.

“Not so,” said he.

He had relatively frequent guests, sometimes several of them at once, though none of them appeared to convey any clues as to his identity or occupation, as they were as varied as he was – from old to young, male and female, and even on occasion members of the police, dressed in their dapper navy uniforms. During their visits, Pones would always ask of me for use of the study, to which I obliged out of politeness, but he never told me what it was that he discussed with the strangers that would so often come and go.

His mind held facts that baffled me, and concerned all manner of sinister dealings. He had no knowledge of literature or politics or philosophy – during one conversation I mentioned Hippocrates to him, to which he inquired who he was and what he had done. He had only a small knowledge of politics and geology, but knew a good deal about poisons and chemistry, as well as anatomy and, most worrying of all, famous crimes of the last century. My bemusement reached an astonishing highpoint on the Saturday that I mentioned, when I discovered inadvertently over a spot of morning tea that he had no idea who Princess Luna was, or any knowledge of how the sun rose in the morning, followed by the moon at night.

“You seem surprised,” he commented, smiling at my bewilderment. “And now that I know such a thing, I shall forget it almost instantly.”

I blustered some words, attempting to make reason out of his ignorance. “But whatever for?” I cried.

“It makes not a shred of difference to me,” he said, raising his eyebrows at my indignation, “Whether the moon rise or fall over sideways at night, nor would learning about the forces that cause it to do so. It would not make a difference to my work, and as such I have no benefit in remembering it.”

“And pray tell, what is your line of work?” I answered. He fixed me with a glare that I met with one of my own - I grew tired of simply guessing as to what his occupation was, and I was determined to get an answer from the enigmatic pony.

“I am a consulting detective, Trotson, if you can understand what that is," he replied, with just a hint of smugness. "Here in Canterlot, we have many detectives hired by the police, and just as many private ones. When they falter, they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right track. Hence my interests, which you find unusual, and my clients, who possess no common thread, to answer your other trivial bothers with me.”

I was again baffled by his clairvoyance of my questions.

“How in Equestria do you do that?” I commented.

“Do what?” He inquired, seemingly unaware of his own ability.

“You did it when we met, and again just now – how did you know I had been recently travelling, and how do you know now that I find your interests unusual?”

“Ah, that! That is just an intuition that I have,” he replied casually, returning to his slice of toast. “Many people find it useful, and so often I am presented with cases where the only things left to do are to use logic and deduction, and to point them in the right direction.” He continued, even though I had not inquired as to the specifics of what he spoke of. “For my knowing that you found me strange, it was not a case of anything specific – no, it was more due to the fact that I saw you reading the books that I had left lying around.”

He paused to wipe away a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “But as for the former, I used my brain to know that you had traveled recently.”

I snorted.

“Surely you were told.”

“Nothing of the sort, my good pony,” he said, a knowing smile forming over his face. “I knew that you had traveled by the simple power of observation, and I arrived at the conclusion quite easily. My thoughts began, ‘Here is a gentlecolt of a scientific nature, but he has the self importance of a well educated pony. Clearly he is a doctor then, which would be further suggested by his close acquaintance with the good Doctor Redheart. He has traveled recently, for his coat is quite light, even though his fetlocks are a darker brown, which suggests he has been abroad, and his appearance is somewhat too reserved to suggest that he did so in luxury.’”

I sat, stunned by the wave of information that had immediately occurred to me as quite obvious and telling.

“...Furthermore, he has been troubled by some strange detail lately, as could be seen in his weary face when he spoke to me, and,’” he added, to a horrid lurch of my stomach, “‘he was rather infatuated with the good Miss Redheart, as indicated by the tensing of his chin when she smiled at him, and the dilation of his pupils as his heart beat fas-’”

“I beg your pardon,” I snapped uncomfortably, “but I am aware of the function of the circulatory system.”

He paused and smiled at me, undoubtedly aware of the bind he had put me into.

“So as you can see, it is simple enough,” he concluded, taking another bite of his breakfast.

“Indeed,” I added, after a moment in which I composed myself. “It is quite simple. You remind me of a cunning wizard from the books I read in my childhood, appearing to know and see all.”

Pones swallowed the mouthful of his toast.

“I assume you are referring to Star-Swirl the Bearded?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Quite so,” I replied, still irritated. “In any case, what you did was a mean trick, and indeed you could not repeat it!”

He laughed and clopped his hooves together once, as he had when I had first met him – it was as if it was his way of showing great delight at some new discovery or problem. He rose from the table, and walked over by the window, pointing with a forehoof to a rather confused pony outside who was slowly turning on the spot, looking all around him as if quite lost. He carried a hefty saddlebag around his back and wore a faint red cap on his head, and sported very muscular features, accompanied by a great beard.

“Take that fellow over there, then, Trotson – what do you make of him?”

I squinted out the window, frowning. “He is the postman, no doubt.”

“Actually, this is not his first occupation,” said Pones, turning his glance away for a half-second before doing a double-take. “He was, up until recently, the first mate of a boat in the navy. In fact, here he comes now.”

I rose to answer the door, and Pones followed me. I opened the door, and there before me stood the muscular, squat figure of the postman. He smiled kindly, and bade us both good morning, before brandishing a letter.

“For Mr. Sherclop Pones,” he said, brushing past me and handing the letter to my friend. He smiled pleasantly and began to leave, but I called out to him as he trotted off the veranda.

“Excuse me, but may I ask what your occupation is?”

The postman turned, a look of confusion on his face.

“Why, I am a postman, sir.” he replied bluntly. He looked down at himself briefly, before looking back up to us as comprehension dawned on him. “Ah – I’m only new to the job, so I have not my uniform yet.”

“And what was your occupation before this?” I inquired.

“Why, I was first mate to a ship in the Royal Navy, sir.”

He threw a small salute, and departed as swiftly as he had arrived.

I turned to Pones. My irritation had given way to resignation, and I watched him as he opened and read the letter addressed to him.

“And what obvious clues were there to indicate all that?” I inquired.

“Indicate what?” Pones replied.

I snorted in exasperation and pressed him further. “How did you know that he was last employed as a sailor?”

“You are not aware?" he said idly, his eyes flitting over the pink note.

“No, I am not.”

“Why, it was easier to simply know it! Explaining it is quite difficult," He commented. He took his eyes off the note, and focused at a spot on the floor, his brow furrowed, as if explaining his deed required concentration.

“The conclusion runs thusly;” he began. “He is clearly a postman as indicated by his cap, but he lacks a uniform. He also appears to be quite lost. Together, these things indicate a new job – if one of his size and stature were to have a uniform made for him, it would have to be tailored, and what veteran postman would be lost in his own neighborhood? Additionally, he had a blue anchor and crown tattooed just above his hoof, which, combined with his large stature, suggested that he had been enlisted in the navy at one point. And then there was his beard, which in its trim and style suggested that he was a respectable sort of fellow, and therefore was a ranking officer of some description, though not high enough to prevent him from taking a second job upon his leaving the navy.”

He turned and looked at my again-shocked expression.

“...Incredible!” I said, in wonder.

“Not quite,” said Pones with another smile, “though I don't doubt it might appear so. It was just common application of logic and deduction.” He then thrust the letter at me. I accepted it with some surprise, as it was not mine, and my inquisitive look to him evoked a reply.

“The policeman who visited yesterday afternoon wrote this to me – his name is Inspector Lestrade, and he works for Trotland Yard.”

“Trotland Yard…” I repeated in a daze, thinking to where I had heard the name before. “Are you referring to the most elite investigative branch of the police force?”

“Yes indeed,” Pones replied, with a nonchalance that belied the importance of what he said. “Have a read of it, and tell me what you make of it.”

“What I make of it?” I replied incredulously. Surely, I reasoned to myself, there was nothing that I could see that his clearly staggering mind could not.

“Just so, my dear Trotson,” he said, clapping an amiable hoof on my shoulder. “You seem to be something of a thinker yourself, so perhaps you might enjoy the read.”

“But is it not confidential?” I asked.

“No, no,” he replied, removing the hoof from my shoulder and fetching his coat and hat from a rack by the door. “It’s merely another case for me to work on, and I understand you will be traveling that way to visit Miss Redheart later this evening,” he remarked.

I did as I was bade, opening the folded note between my hooves and looking down at it. It was written in neat, cursive letters, on a pink slip of notepad paper, and it ran as follows:

TO THE DESK OF MR. SHERCLOP PONES;

221B Baker Street, Woodrow, Canterlot,

I write to you in hopes that I might acquire your assistance regarding a certain case. It concerns the theft of several precious jewels from the premises of one Lady Rarity –

At this point, I looked up at my compatriot, who was still busy fastening his coat around his neck.

“Good Celestia,” I said with wonder, “Is this the Lady Rarity that I have read of in the papers? The beautiful and illustrious fashion designer?”

Pones gestured to the note. “Read on,” he said to me, and I did so.

…You may or may not have read about this in the papers already, of course. It's a cat burglar of some sort, we feel, though she has no known enemies and is well received in the small town of Ponyville, from which her designer’s shop operates. She received a shipment yesterday evening containing several precious gems, and, upon returning this morning, discovered the box in which the jewels arrived was pried open, and its contents missing. Having cordoned off the crime-scene, I have personally surveyed every square inch of the area, and there has only been one distinct clue – a rim of powder around the lock of the box, in which it is thought that an explosive charge may have been used to blow the lock open. I have also examined the garden, and I cannot discover any evident forced entry to the place, which, given that I must return to Canterlot in two days’ time to file a report - and I have been here for a whole one already - means that I must ask sincerely for your assistance in the matter.

Kind Regards, Inspector Lestrade of Trotland Yard.

My head turned back to my friend, whirling with the information.

“What a strange thing that is, then, that we are both due to be in the same place at the same time!”

Pones doffed his cap and looked at me expectantly.

“Yes – I was rather hoping I might attain your assistance on this matter, Trotson. Lestrade is not the sharpest of souls, and, while he is energetic, is prone to miss even the most obvious of conclusions.”

My puzzled expression did not change, and my companion still continued to fix me with one of his curious stares as he stood by the still open door.

“Well, are you coming?” he said, glancing at a clock on the wall. “The next train to Ponyville is at ten o’clock, and it is already quarter past nine.”

I nodded wordlessly; still somewhat dazzled by the fantastic nature of what I had just read, and what kind of work my friend chose to entangle himself in. He smiled another one of his strange smiles and turned, trotting out the door. I grabbed my coat and wallet and pursued swiftly after.

Comments

[Nordlichter]

Was thinking "Fetlock" would be a better first name...

[PrinceLexmarkThePrinted]

As before, very well written and throughly planned out. I did not notice a single logical fallacy or grammatical error. My compliments on this, I will make sure to keep reading.

Also, I can't wait to see Raritys reaction. "THIS IS THE WORST. POSSIBLE. THING!"

[2THAC]

Talk about eye candy

Very very nice. Just one note: "trains to Cloudsdale"? Isn't Cloudsdale that pegasus city up in the clouds? ...Trains?

[Literature]

Dis is good. Very good. ME GUSTA.