The Casebook of Currycombs

by AugieDog

5 - The Case of the Withdrawn Witness

Returning Epona's Column to its proper place at the center of Unity Plaza brought a good deal of change to our lives. "The Case of the Purloined Pedestal," as I called the account I wrote up for the weekly Riverside Review, gained Currycombs as many clients as she could manage, and I found myself included more and more in resolving their complaints both at the request of the clients themselves and at Currycombs's invitation.

It all made for quite the exciting month, and in that time, the editor of the Review bought three more accounts of slightly fictionalized cases Currycombs and I had pursued. The journal's circulation, I was informed, had nearly doubled since they'd published "A Study in Sorrel," and while the rate I was paid per word didn't increase at such a precipitous rate, it nonetheless did increase with each sale. I truly began having trouble deciding which I welcomed more: Currycombs's call of "Come, Scalpel! The game's ahoof!" or those days when her absence allowed me to devote my time to arranging my mental notes into story form.

That particular morning when I arose at my usual half hour after dawn, the common room of the apartment I shared with Currycombs lay neat and tidy, a sure sign that my friend was out. She possessed a number of unmistakable talents, Currycombs did, and one of the most unfortunate was her ability to create a seemingly spontaneous nest of stones, flecks of paint, wood shavings, used wax paper, and who knew what all about her whenever she stopped moving for more than three minutes.

I'd been reprimanded several times for calling these items detritus. "It's evidence, Scalpel!" she tended to declare with many a scowl and hoof wave. "I've set each piece in exactly the place I need it to be, and I'll thank you not to disturb the least of them!"

The sun slanting through the curtains made the burnished wood of the room glow, the floors unmarred, the rugs not askew, and no piles of unknown substances oozing over the tabletops. My inventory also couldn't fail to include the rose, still red and vibrant in its vase upon the mantelpiece more than four weeks after Currycombs had plucked it from the magnetized currycombs that had held it in place to the side of Epona's Column.

I knew little of horticulture, but such longevity from a cut flower seemed indicative of magic to me. My examination of it had been unable to detect anything out of the ordinary, however, and Currycombs, though she hadn't mentioned the rose since putting it in place, had also shown no inclination to dispose of it.

Even apart from the pleasant romantic shivers the whole situation engendered, the rose was a lovely thing to rest one's eyes upon, and the regular, quiet, contented noises of Bakery Row outside soothed my ears after the pell-mell of our increased caseload. An approaching clatter of cutlery perked me up, though, the very welcome aroma of breakfast seeping into the air. The doorknob rattled, and Anisette came bustling in, a tray balanced across her back, her wings helping hold it in place. "Good morning, Doctor!" she exclaimed with a smile brighter than the sunlight. "I've a note from Ms. Currycombs, too!"

Sparking my horn, I took the tray in my magic and settled it to the dining table while Anisette peered into the various pockets of her apron. "It's so exciting," she continued as she searched, "to be of use to an equine doing such noble work as Ms. Currycombs." Her eyes widened, and she snapped her head up, her ears going flat. "And yourself as well, Doctor! Reading your accounts of Ms. Currycombs's cases brings them so instantly to life that I feel quite giddy thinking that they're taking place nearly under my very nose! Or rather above my very nose! Or rather—" She stopped and rolled her eyes. "I daresay you understand my meaning better than I understand it myself!"

I couldn't help but smile. Anisette was settling in quite nicely as Mr. Trencher's apprentice downstairs in the panini shop. The young mare hadn't yet received her eigensigil despite Mr. Trencher's continued insistence that it couldn't be long now since she was a natural baker and did so well with the customers. For my part, I felt it rather supported my theory that Anisette, like Currycombs, had an invisible sigil, something I'd never heard of nor so much as considered possible before meeting my friend.

"Ah!" Anisette plunged her snout into a fold of cloth that didn't appear to be an actual pocket and straightened with an envelope clenched in her teeth. I plucked it away with my magic and arched an eyebrow when she remained standing there with her wide eyes and toothy grin aimed at me.

She showed no sign of taking the hint, so I cleared my throat. "Thank you, Anisette. Don't let me keep you from your duties."

Her grin sagged a bit. "Oh. Yes. Of course, Doctor." But in the time that I'd known her, I'd yet to see her go long with a dour countenance. By the time she'd nudged my breakfast dishes from her tray and gathered it once again onto her back, her smile had returned full force. "I suppose I'll be reading all about this moment in one of your stories!" She touched a hoof to her strawberry-blonde mane. "Might you make me a true blonde in your account, Dr. Scalpel? I know it's only a small thing, but—"

"Now, now." I employed a much-diluted form of the glare I'd often employed during my years in Her Majesty's cavalry. "You know how important small details can be when Currycombs is involved."

It was hard to say which went rounder, her eyes or her mouth. "Oh! Of course, Doctor! I wouldn't want to impede the investigation in any way!" Spinning, she very nearly bolted from the room.

With a shake of my head, I settled in to breakfast while summoning a quick scalpel spell to slice open the envelope. My yogurt and oatmeal, however, nearly went down the wrong pipe when I read in Currycombs's unmistakable mouth-scrawl: Scalpel. By the time you see this, I'll be deep inside Nougat Prison. When you've a moment, might you stop in for a visit?

Needless to say, I was on my hooves at once, my magic flailing out to grab one of my blankets and my traveling kit before I burst out into the hallway and clattered down the stairs. Racing along the cobbled streets, I couldn't stop my mind from likewise racing: had Currycombs aimed one insult too many at Inspector Furlong? Had she bent more laws than usual in pursuit of justice for a client? Had she been caught in some fiendish trap set for her by the villain who'd taken Epona's Column and left her the rose as a calling card?

Several blocks and several more thoughts slowed my rush. For what could I actually do on my own? It was certainly too early for visiting hours at the gaol, and pounding on the great iron doors—four times as wide as any equine and as tall as a three story building—would either have no effect or get me thrown into a cell for disturbing the peace. Currycombs was counting on me: I needed to approach this problem using her own brand of deductive and inductive reasoning to show that her faith in me was not misplaced.

By this time, I was trotting more than galloping, and coming around a corner to see the western gate of Nougat Prison, I stopped completely. The former guardhouse in the city's original wall, the prison had expanded along with Ehwazton, Her Majesty's gaolers carving cells from the solid rock inside the wall itself to form a warren of rooms and passages that filled the ancient structure and circled the center of the sprawling metropolis rather than marking its outskirts. The rather gooey look of the yellowish limestone had inspired the name, but little that could be called sweet occurred within its precincts.

Turning away, I cantered back up the street with a new target in mind and quickly arrived at the no-less-imposing gates of Shetland Yard. These gates stood open, at least, and my association with Currycombs had accustomed me to the layout of the place: the first door on the left led into the sparsely furnished reception area, a square opening in the back wall showing a uniformed pegasus sorting papers. "Dr. Silver Scalpel," I informed him upon crossing the room, "here to see Inspector Furlong."

He blinked at me from where he reclined on the other side of a scarred countertop. "Sorry, ma'am. The inspectors don't usually get in till nine, but lemme—" He leaned back and shouted, "Hey, Sarge! Your biographer's here!"

That got me blinking till the sturdy orange figure of Sergeant Tufts stuck her graying blonde head through the doorway behind the patrolsteed, her blue uniform jacket hanging open. "You want another three weeks of this duty, Burr?" she growled at the pegasus. Then her gaze came up to meet mine, and her eyes widened. "Dr. Scalpel? Is ev'rything all right?"

Without hesitation, I produced the note I'd received with my breakfast. After all, Furlong had summoned Sergeant Tufts to the scene of Epona's missing column when Currycombs had requested the equine he most trusted in the entirety of the constabulary, and while Furlong could be more than a bit officious and obtuse, I had no reason to doubt him as a judge of character.

Focused on the note, Tufts's eyes got even wider. "Quick as you can, Burr," she said quietly, "gimme the booking sheets for Nougat this shift."

The pegasus put a hoof on a short stack of papers. "Got 'em right here, Sarge."

Restraining myself from scooping the papers up in my magic, I watched Tufts shuffle quickly through them. "She's not listed, Doctor." She flashed the slightest of grins. "Thought for sure His Nibs had finally gone off his nut and locked her up."

I couldn't keep a grin from tugging my own snout, but neither could I keep it there long. "So if she's not been gaoled under her own name—"

"Cor!" Tufts began leafing among the sheets again. "Here! Aardhorse mare, late twenties, bottled up for drunk and disorderly not more'n two hours ago." Tufts coughed a laugh. "Took a couple swings at the coppers who nabbed her, too."

"But why?" It took some effort not to stomp a hoof. "I've come to expect eccentric behavior from Currycombs, but purposefully getting herself arrested?"

Tufts snapped her uniform coat closed. "Might be we'd best go ask her." She smacked the pegasus on the shoulder. "Let Haymaker know he'll be having gentlemare callers in half a shake, will you, Burr? There's a good lad."

Frowning, the pegasus rubbed a hoof over the shoulder Tufts had struck while with the other he tapped a section of the desk, my horn tingling when a communication spell sparked to life. Tufts for her part jabbed a part of the wall; a door appeared just off to my right, and the sergeant stepped through to join me in front of the counter. "Now, then," she said, starting for the reception area's entrance. "Let's see what Ms. Currycombs has gotten herself into this time."

We made our way swiftly through the increasing bustle of the city streets. Tufts had the same self-assured way of moving through a crowd that I'd admired in the more-skillful sergeants that I'd worked with during my stint in harness. "Were you ever in the cavalry?" I asked her.

"Nah." Tufts tossed her mane. "Patrolling the streets of Ehwazton runs in the family back to the days of Queen Beryl." She beamed at the aardhorses hauling carts past us, the pegasi slicing back and forth through the morning blue above, the unicorns trotting along with packages floating in the glow of their horns. "Never wanted to do anything in my life but this."

As much as I tried to cultivate the sergeant's sang-froid, I found my nerves quivering. Rounding the same corner where I'd stopped earlier, we continued on to the black iron gate, the strange, lumpy wall of Nougat Prison stretching off through the more modern buildings of the city. Tufts came to a halt a dozen paces from the portal and said, "Hold up here, Doctor, and we'll let Haymaker's crew get a squint at us through their peephole." She gestured to a point perhaps two-thirds of the way up the massive arched door.

I neither saw nor sensed anything especial about that portion of the gate, but then a voice crackled out at us with the unmistakable tinniness of magical amplification: "What's all this, then, Sarge? You giving tours?"

"Open up, you great horse apples!" Tufts shouted. "You lot're at end of shift same as me, so the sooner we get this settled, the sooner we can all get home!"

For another moment, we stood in silence, then the groan of heavy but well-tended hinges creaked ahead of us. The gates swung outward, parting down the middle, and Tufts trotted in as blithely as if she were entering a park for afternoon tea. I entered with a bit more trepidation.

The friendly cobbles of the street became flat, cold, slabs of flagstone spattered with dark stains, and the sunlight that had begun warming the air vanished entirely behind the beetled brow of the building. The only light in the enclosed courtyard we entered came from the wall ahead: a magelight so blindingly bright, the shadows it threw seemed sharp enough to cut. A dank miasma of nearly palpable despair draped itself across my back, and I shivered, wishing I'd brought a second blanket.

Tufts, however, raised her head and called toward the magelight, "Like you to meet Dr. Silver Scalpel, Haymaker! She's the one writes about Ms. Currycombs's doings!"

"Currycombs?" a voice as deep as a well responded, and a figure moved into place between me and the light, a veritable clydesdale of an aardhorse, his snout scarred and crooked with the results of an apparently pugilistic life. "Can't say as how I dislike it when she makes the crooks and toffs of the world look right jackanapes." He towered up, larger than even the broad-shouldered infantry steeds I'd known, and for all that his gap-toothed smile was wide and open, I found it somewhat difficult to keep my ears upright. "What brings you down into the winding bowels of Ehwazton, Doctor?"

Swallowing brought no moisture to my throat, but Sergeant Tufts spoke before I could even begin squeaking: "Might be Ms. Currycombs was the drunk 'n' disorderly you packed in here a few hours ago." Her horn flared, and the note floated up to hover before Haymaker's face. "Dunno if she's on a case or what, but couldn't hurt to visit the tank, d'you think?"

Haymaker's long face got longer and longer as he stared at the note. "Well, slap me sideways," he finally rumbled. Turning with a grace I'd not have expected for an equine his size, he vanished into the shadows as thoroughly as if he'd never been there. "Come on, then, the pair of you," I heard him call back. "Help the doctor along, will you, Sarge? Ain't the easiest thing, navigating this place."

With a laugh, Tufts flared her horn. "I'll cast a darkness spell, Doctor, and you cast one for light. Just focus it straight ahead, and you'll see the way." A shadowy cone telescoped away from her, striking the magelight and plunging the whole courtyard into darkness.

Shaking myself, I sent out a beam of light as narrow as my namesake blade, and it sliced through the black to reveal an archway. I moved to it and entered, trusting Tufts would be at my tail, and found myself in what looked for all the world like a large open office suite, uniformed equines working at desks, carpets on the floor, narrow window slits letting in more light than I would've expected.

"Right, then." Haymaker wove among the desks without so much as brushing a one. "Lemme grab a key ring, and we'll see what's what." Reaching the far wall, he stuck a front hoof through one of the glowing silver bands that hung there; the band flared once and shrank to fit snugly about his pastern. He turned then and gestured toward a stone door in the wall to our left. "If there's one place 'round here Sarge knows the way to, it's the drunk tank. So how 'bout you lead the way?"

The look Tufts shot at him would've bruised a lesser equine, but Haymaker merely blinked, his smile as slow and sweet as syrup.

Snorting, the sergeant stomped away, and we passed through several corridors in this fashion, Tufts a solid glower ahead of me, Haymaker a large and shadowy shape behind. The hallways bent, narrowing and widening at seemingly random intervals, barred doors now and again revealing empty cells, until we came into a larger space divided neatly in half by a wall of steel mesh stretching from floor to ceiling.

"My mistake," Tufts said, something like her previous good humor dancing in her voice. "Looks like I brought us to your digs, Haysie."

Haymaker, however, was staring at the enclosed section of the room with his ears back and his nostrils flaring. "We're one drunk short," he muttered.

I looked from him to the cage. Two stallions and a mare lay in three of the corners, their heads lolled on their forelegs in various attitudes of repose, and I knew at once who would be found absent should a roll call be taken. Nodding to the gate, I asked, "Did Currycombs at least have the decency to relock it after breaking out?"

Tufts rattled the door, and it didn't swing open. "How considerate." She didn't sound quite as jolly as a moment ago. "Still, looks like you don't get to meet her after all, Haysie."

The stallion's ears remained folded, and he somehow seemed to expand in the uncertain light of the tiny firefly lanterns. "Don't much care for gaolbreakers," he growled.

Raising a hoof, I felt obliged to say, "We don't know that she's broken out of the gaol, actually. It scarcely seems credible that she would go through such efforts to get herself arrested only to immediately leave."

To judge by the continuing storminess of Haymaker's expression, this use of logic failed to impress him. Tufts, however, gave me several blinks. "Whaddaya s'pose her scheme is, Doc?"

All I could do was gesture toward the doorway opposite the one by which we'd entered. "Perhaps we should find her and inquire."

"Find her?" Haymaker's countenance had darkened so much, it made me quite nervous to see. "That's the least I'll be doing to that—"

A shout echoed from the corridor ahead, and the two patrolsteeds raced forward, myself not far behind. "Damn it!" a rough but high-pitched voice shrieked somewhere off in the semi-darkness. "Stand still so I can kill you!"

The hallway banked sharply to the left, and I followed the sergeant and the gaoler around the corner only to narrowly miss colliding with Tufts. Haymaker was smacking his oversized hoof to the barred door on our right through which I could make out quite the frenzy of activity. Bright green hoofs and feathers flashed, a pegasus mare nearly the size of the gaoler himself flailing about and yelling, "I swore I'd take that secret to my grave! Now that you know, I've gotta take you to yours!"

The metal band around Haymaker's pastern flared silver, and the cell door leaped open to reveal a wiry aardhorse within darting and spinning away from the much larger mare's attempts to strike her. Haymaker and Tufts sprang upon the pegasus, and Currycombs, her eyes bright and her chest heaving, gave me a nod. "Exactly on time, Scalpel! Well done!"

"Currycombs!" I rushed to her side, my ears folding at the bloody slash along her cheek. A quick antiseptic spell wiped it clean, and I proceeded to apply a sticking plaster from my saddlebag. "What in the Queen's name have you been up to??"

"No!" the pegasus mare screamed from across the rough-hewn room where she struggled against the grip of the patrolsteeds. "You're Currycombs?? Then I'm doomed! You'll tell the world, and my oath'll be broken!"

"Fear not, Emerald." Currycombs touched a hoof to her own chest. "I shall act upon the information you've given me, of course, but I shan't divulge the information itself even though the equine you're protecting is as foul a mass of putrid horseflesh as I've ever come across."

The pegasus froze, her eyes wide and staring. "You...you promise?"

"I swear it."

Sighing, Emerald relaxed so completely, Haymaker easily bore her to the ground while the glow of Tufts's magic wrapped some sort of restraining bands about her hoofs.

Beside me, Currycombs gave a brisk nod. "Come, then, Scalpel. Our work here is done."

"Done??" roared Haymaker, leaping up from the now-quiescent pegasus. "That's exactly what you are! Done! You come into my prison—!"

"On a charge," Currycombs interrupted, "so minor that the general practice is to allow drunken equines to sleep it off before sending them on their way with the payment of a small fine." She began advancing toward him. "I shall happily pay that fine, sir, if you don't mind the story being spread about that one of your charges managed to squeeze from your holding facility, enter the cell of a dangerous criminal, and could have lost her life to said criminal if you'd been much longer in arriving!"

Even though Currycombs had to tip her head back to meet Haymaker's gaze, it was the stallion's eyes widening, his ears falling, his scent growing sour with fear. "A gaoler's duty," Currycombs continued, her snout jutting forward while his drew back, "is to protect and reform those who've been imprisoned! With this facility seemingly unable to guarantee the basic physical safety of those ensconced within it, perhaps a review of all procedures from top to bottom wouldn't be entirely uncalled for!"

Haymaker blinked, his mane no longer bristling but now lying flat and limp along his neck. Currycombs held him frozen in her glare another half a heartbeat, then she snorted, turned, and marched for the cell door. "Lovely to see you again, Sergeant Tufts. Might I further prevail upon you to escort Scalpel and me out of this rabbit warren?" She stepped into the hallway and vanished around the corner.

Tufts made a sound that could've been either a gasp or a laugh and galloped after Currycombs. I spared a glance at Haymaker, white still rimming his eyes, his prisoner still lying quietly on the floor beside him. "It was a pleasure meeting you, sir," was all I could think to say before I likewise bolted after the other two.

I caught up with them quickly enough, Tufts evidently in the middle of a low-pitched but very fervent lecture: "—can't just wander about once you've been locked up, Ms. Currycombs! That sort of thing simply isn't done! Nougat has a reputation to maintain, and if word got out that we—"

"Ha!" Currycombs cut through the shadowy corridors as if she knew every step of the way intimately. "Until the blackguard truly responsible for my being here has been brought well and firmly to justice, I have no other concerns."

That got my ears falling. "Are you saying that you were imprisoned due to another's false testimony?"

Currycombs shot me the blankest of blank looks, but then a smile tugged her snout. The tendons that had been standing out along her neck subsided a bit, and she actually gave a bark of laughter. "Forgive me, Scalpel. I fear I misspoke. I alone was responsible for allowing myself to experience incarceration this fine morning. The reason I left you that perhaps overly cryptic note before going out to pretend an assault upon a police officer—" Her gaze darted back toward Tufts, the sergeant gaping back at us. "But perhaps this is information that should wait." She gave Tufts a toothy and completely false grin. "Client confidentiality and all that: you understand, Sergeant."

With a shallow frown, Tufts lead us to the office once again and from there back out onto the street. "My shift's over," she announced as the great iron gates creaked shut behind us. "And I plan to head home, wrap myself in blankets, and stuff pillows in my ears. That won't keep Inspector Furlong from rousting me out and demanding a report on what's gone on here this morning once he learns of it, so if you've anything you need to do before he hauls you in to shout at you, Ms. Currycombs, best you be doing it quickly."

Squinting through the sunlight, I nodded to her. "Thank you, Sergeant, for everything." I expected to hear Currycombs echo the sentiment, but when I looked around, she was already cantering off into the crowds moving up and down Dovecote Street. One more nod, and I hurried after my friend. "Really, Currycombs!" I said with just a touch of asperity. "I can't believe we're in such a hurry that we can't—"

"We are," she replied shortly, her attention focused solely on the path she was weaving through the equines around us.

I struggled to keep up. "But why? What's this all about?"

"Several things, I'm hoping." Cutting suddenly to our right, she leaped into the mouth of an alleyway; barely avoided a cart of onions, I followed.

Entering the alley, I caught sight of her ahead, galloping as if a squadron of griffins pursued her. I picked up my hooves and raced along in her wake, but not even reaching the cross streets caused her to slacken her pace. She shot over the cobblestones like a stone from a sling, seemingly unconcerned with the traffic. I took a more reasonable path, slowing up at the boulevards and giving at least a cursory glance before plunging through, but I always managed to keep her dark hide and red mane in sight.

Finally, with no idea where in Ehwazton we were and my nostrils flaring with each gasping breath, I saw her stopped in the middle of the block we'd just entered. She gave a nod, rose up on her hind legs, wrapped her front pasterns about the rungs of a fire escape ladder, and began shinnying up. Barely pausing at the base—this was the most exertion I'd undergone since sustaining my injuries all those months ago—I clambered after her.

At the roof, I hauled myself over and beheld her creeping across the flat tarpaper shingles. She paused only to swing her head around and touch a hoof to her lips, then she sidled up to the low wall that marked the other edge of the building's roof and peered over.

It took me a moment to calm my panting sufficiently to join her, and when I did, I was astonished to see Mr. Trencher's panini shop below us on the other side of the street. I swung my head toward her to start asking the questions that had been popping into my head for the past several minutes, but she only touched her lips once more and then gestured to the roof of the building next door to the shop.

That building was one of the many bakery supply warehouses that dotted Bakery Row. Like the others, the building had a loading ramp on the roof to accommodate pegasi delivery teams, and in the shadow of that ramp, I could just make out an equine figure wrapped in a dark coat with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down across its face. Currycombs moved the hoof with which she'd brought the figure to my attention and pointed it at the row of windows that marked our rooms above the panini shop, and I realized there could be no doubt: the cloaked equine was very specifically watching our apartment.

The figure jerked suddenly upright, my attention darting over to see a flash of purple and lavender under the encompassing garments. Light flared beneath the hat's brim, and the figure vanished, employing the least ostentatious transport spell I'd ever seen.

Beside me, Currycombs grunted, her gaze fixed upon the now empty spot across the street, a tight smile on her snout. "Impressive," she muttered. "But one can almost smell the fear, can one not, Scalpel?"

I sniffed, and she gave a laughing sigh. "Figuratively," she said, settling back against the balustrade we'd been peering over, the bowstring-taut tension of her back relaxing.

That got me glaring. "Can I get back to my breakfast now?" I asked, refusing to give her the satisfaction of asking what this had all been about.

"No, actually." All trace of laughter disappeared. "I need to explain everything to you in a place where that villain can't overhear us."

"Villain?" I glanced back at the recently vacated spot, and my heart rate, only just slowing from our run, shot upward once more. "You mean that was the mystery stallion? The one who cast the spell on Epona's Column and left you the rose?"

"Yes." Currycombs's mouth went sideways. "Except she's a mare rather than a stallion, I realized when I first managed to catch sight of her some weeks ago. I assume she was initially hoping to create an air of romantic mystery with that rose so that I'd be more inclined to keep it in the apartment and thereby facilitate her magical eavesdropping."

Every hair in my mane stood up. "You mean she's been spying on us through the rose for more than a month? And you didn't see fit to so much as mention it to me?"

Currycombs blinked. "You're as stalwart and honest a mare as I've ever had the privilege to know, Scalpel. I decided that I'd rather not force you into a situation where you had to constantly prevaricate."

Not for the first time since getting to know Currycombs, I wanted to simultaneously shout at her and thank her. Still, it took me some seconds before I could form coherent words. "Then I take it," I squeezed out through clenched teeth, "that you're through pretending you don't know about her?"

"Indeed." She shook her head. "I'm certain she'll see through this morning's ambuscade fairly quickly—she's quite intelligent for one so wracked with self-doubt. I just wish we'd gotten here sooner! A few more moments' observation might have revealed even more details about her!"

I was slowly trying to assemble an idea of what had been occurring around me this morning. "Then you arranged all this—why, exactly? To lure our mysterious villain further out into the open?"

"In part. I needed to speak to Emerald, but with her currently residing in Nougat Prison—" Currycombs cocked her head at me. "You recall, I assume, Doctor, the circumstances of our meeting? 'A Study in Sorrel,' I believe you called it in the largely fictitious version you published some months ago?"

"Of course," I answered, biting down on my impatience. Speaking with Currycombs often reminded me of assembling a jigsaw puzzle: one needed to trust that the picture would come together eventually.

"Well." Currycombs slumped a bit against the balustrade. "After I proved that Violet Peony was lying when she said Hope Springs had murdered her father, I stupidly left the case in Inspector Furlong's hooves to resolve, and he's so far been unable to link Peony to any crime whatsoever! There's no evidence that she assisted her father in killing himself; she speaks quite eloquently in blaming her distraught state of mind for the charge she leveled against Hope Springs; and Springs, the love-struck fool, is refusing to take any civil action against Peony for falsely accusing him of the most heinous crime known to equines!"

Grinding her teeth, she lapsed into a seething silence. "And?" I prompted.

She waved a hoof. "And Emerald shared a cell with Peony while they were both in the Old Hayley. Emerald got six months in Nougat for her crimes along with the supposed attentions of a psychiatrist, but Peony's on the verge of being released without a single charge leveled against her! She who plotted in cold blood to send an innocent stallion to the gallows for a crime no one's committed in generations will be a free mare by the end of the week, and I see no way in which I can prevent it!"

For all that I knew she didn't care to be touched, I reached over to set a hoof on her shoulder. The memory of the scene earlier in Emerald's cell, however, brought me up short. "But...didn't you tell Emerald that you would act upon the information she gave you?"

"I did, and I shall." Currycombs tapped her chin. "But while it's undoubtedly interesting, it's not probative of any crime on Peony's part." Her gaze softened, unfocusing as if she were looking inward rather than outward. "Unless...hmmm..." The silence into which she lapsed this time seemed less angry and more contemplative, too. "That might indeed be a possible course of action," she said after a moment.

I was still seeking to assemble the puzzle. "But how is Ms. Peony connected to the villain who took Epona's Column?"

"What?" Her head snapped around so sharply, I was surprised her neck didn't creak. "She's not, Scalpel! Whatever made you think she was?"

It took a bit of effort to contain my own seething. "Isn't that what we're doing here?"

Currycombs rolled her eyes. "I took advantage of the situation created by my investigation of Peony to alarm our mysterious villain. She obviously has some concern for me and my doings, and you racing from our flat this morning in obvious distress, I felt, would cause her to abandon her usual subterfuge in an attempt to discover what had become of me." A rather self-satisfied little smirk pulled at her muzzle. "It worked rather better than I'd expected, though I doubt she'll fall for the same sort of trick twice."

"So..." I took a breath and blew it out, but my throat still felt a bit tight. "You withheld from me the information that a villain was spying on our apartment, then you used me without my knowledge in a plot to draw this villain out. Is that the gist?"

Her eyes widened. "When you put it that way, I can see that I might have something to apologize for."

She didn't go on. I raised an eyebrow. She cleared her throat. "Yes, I kept you in the dark," she said, shifting against the roof's shingles. "I have what I feel are very good reasons for this, but I can understand how you might disagree. I will therefore resolve that, in the future, when I'm using our shared apartment as bait to trap an archvillain, I will bring the matter to your attention sooner rather than later."

It was, I felt certain, as close as I was likely to get to an actual apology. "Thank you," I said with a nod. "I take it, then, that we'll be disposing of the rose once we go downstairs?"

"We will." Currycombs sighed. "She's a deucedly slippery character, but the glimpses I've caught over the past few weeks have confirmed my resolve not to make the very mistake with her that she's made with me."

"And what mistake is that?" I asked, rising to my hoofs and stretching.

"The cardinal mistake, Scalpel." She likewise stood and started for the fire escape. "She doesn't consider me her equal and therefore underestimates me. I refuse to do the same."

My instinctive reaction nearly drove me to declare that I could think of no equine I would call Currycombs's equal, but watching the unmistakable spring in her step as she crossed the roof froze the words on my tongue.

That this villain had demonstrated her sheer magical power in unequivocal terms, I was more than happy to admit, and her cleverness, too, in what she'd done and the way in which she'd done it. Whether there was more to her than that, however, I found to be very much an open question, but, well, looking at the matter from Currycombs's perspective, I could see that she perhaps needed this villain to be her intellectual equal.

So instead, I asked, "And what of Violet Peony?"

"What indeed?" Currycombs stopped at the top of the ladder and looked back at me. "How prepared are you to make a sudden trip out of Ehwazton, Scalpel?"

I shrugged. "I have very little holding me here."

"Excellent!" She began clambering downward. "We may have to decamp for San Pinto rather expeditiously depending upon the actions our Ms. Peony chooses to pursue. So first, a bit of housecleaning, and then we're standing by for a possible journey west."

Comments

[Georg]

(Not like I've been clicking the story every five minutes since the last update... No, that would be stalking.)

[AugieDog]

8109464

There's nothing wrong:

With a little stalking in a detective story. I mean, they wouldn't call it a deerstalker hat otherwise...

Mike

[Xanni]

Another excellent chapter!

"I clambering after" should of course be "I clambered after".

[AugieDog]

8110915

Thanks!

I always have trouble with clams...

Mike

[Kitcat36]

I love this story

[YeahThisWasBad]

Wonderful chapter! I started reading this months ago, no idea why I've only just now added it to my favorites.

[AugieDog]

8118104
8177027

Thanks, folks!

I seem to be unwisely working on three different stories simultaneously right now--this one, one on my Baal Bunny account, and one that's not related to Pony at all. But I'm determined to see them all through to the end!

Mike

[bloons3]

This is a Sherlock Holmes story through and through.

Bravo. I'd like to thank your presentation at BC, otherwise I wouldn't have know that this amazing story existed.

[FanOfMostEverything]

This is fantastic! I'm very glad you posted that blog; otherwise I might have spent even longer without reading this. It's a fascinating averaging of Equestria and Holmes's London, and I eagerly look forward to more of it. Especially if and when I find out what that Equestria Girls tag is doing there. (Plus, you made Sherlock Holmes a red and black OC, which is hilarious on multiple levels.)

[Cerulean Blue]

It's the little things that I really like, such as the pegasus landing strips - very few stories really consider how wings on a third of the equines might change things (like the earlier quip about the Queen's lovers coming in through the window). It's MLP and Sherlock Holmes blended together, then an incredible amount of OC mixed in.

[Lurks-no-More]

Um. So... is Currycomb's nemesis basically Mare-do-Well?

[AugieDog]

9330873

Read on!

And all will become clear!

Or at least somewhat less muddy...

Thanks for reading, though!

Mike