Sherclop Pones and the Adventure of Pinkie's Cupcakes

by A Sherlockian Brony

Chapter 2: An Illness

Upon receiving Pones' word to grant the mare admittance, our pageboy: Billy, a young lad of twelve, left our rooms to tend to the client. Presently, he returned. Hanging from his mouth was a small, rectangular piece of paper, to which he had promptly presented to my friend. It was a card.

Pones read it closely.

“Hum. Kindly show her in.”

With characteristic devilish speed, he sank upon his favorite armchair and assumed a poised yet lethargic mien, while I courteously stood near the doorway as duty in greeting the guest. Presently, the grey mare entered.

Her blonde mane had been done in a ponytail, which spoke of the countrymare's simplicity of fashion and unassuming beauty. Graceful and innocent. Yet, this trait was spoiled by the unkempt state of her mane, the furs of her coat; while feathers of her wings (for she was a Pegasus) were as equally frazzled and agitated. Seeing her in perturbance, I then endeavored, after the fashion of my friend, to read the indications which may account for it.

She had carried a brown and worn-out saddlebag in which a symbol of a key was printed. She bore a Cutie Mark consisting of the symbol of bubbles of various sizes. The most remarkably notable characteristic of her appearance was her condition. She had strabismus—a medical disorder in which causes one to go wall-eyed. Save these remarks, I had once more ended in futility.

“Which one of you is the detective?” said the mare meekly in a rather dazed state, glancing at either of us.

Pones smiled. “I am Sherclop Pones, Ms. Hooves” said he, placing a sententious hoof to his chest. He then waved towards my direction. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watcolt, whom you could speak freely as before myself.”

He then motioned her to the settee in front of us, whence he, perhaps regarding her flustered demeanor, using his horn's telekinesis, offered her a cup of tea. The mare, however, in her fragile state, was caught off-guard with this gesture and had accidentally knocked the contents of the beverage and had so consequently deluged the carpet. Her absence of apology truly spoke the severity of her troubles. Pones no doubt shared this observation, for he swiftly disposed the offer and its remains to his much-clustered table of chemical conundrums behind us.

"Ms. Hooves," said Sherclop Pones in a gentle voice, as was his custom to employ upon troubled clients. "you seem rather alarmed with what may be safely presumed to be the object of your consultation upon my services. Pray, might I kindly ask, my dear lady, for you to kindly enlighten me so that I may guide thee amidst the darkness which shrouds you so dreadfully?"

He had often a hypnotic, fatherly air when situations call for.

Ms. Hooves seemingly failed to hear the question, for she stared blankly in dubious askance. Her walled-eyes, though in much difficulty finding focus, were very much fixated upon my companion with an almost awe-like essence. It was only when Pones had repeated the question when she returned to realms of reality and thus answered.

“She’s missing, Mr. Pones!” cried the mare, raising her hooves frantically in the air. "Sweet Celestia!--she's missing!"

Pones had momentarily glanced at my direction, from which I gleaned the command to listen ever-so carefully to the following narrative, which begs, in lieu of its rather peculiar beginnings, our unalloyed attention.

“Who is this ‘she’ of whom you speak of, Ms. Hooves?” said Pones, leaning forward in intricate interest.

“Rainbow Dash!”

At first Pones had been taken aback by the answer, but then raised a brow. It was some time before he spoke. In this silence, he had languidly relapsed back into the depths of his favorite armchair, whence, in common fashion to his judicial moods, promptly reached for his pipe and lit it. Then, as his brows furrowed and his eyes remained fixated upon the ceiling above him, he used telekinesis to fetch himself the index in which held the records and biographies of ponies whom he deems of importance and placed it onto his lap. He then turned over its pages with a listless air: a procedure in which, in brief intervals, shot glances at our agitated client with keen eyes.

“‘D’ Hum. Let’s see, let’s see—ah! here it is! ‘Dash, Rainbow—born in Cloudsdale, currently residing in Ponyville—22 years of age—Member of the Mane Six—represents the Element of Loyalty’ etc. etc. etc.. Pray correct me if I were to prove mistaken, Watcolt, but I believe Ms. Dash—along with her honorable friends--have saved the Monarchy on already three separate occasions, have they not?”

“Yes, they have indeed done so,” I answered, with some thought, recalling the countless headlines in which had flooded the paper. “A couple months back, they had vanquished the dreadful Nightmare Moon. A few weeks succeeding that they had successfully persuaded the dragon, that had decided to take a little nap in a mountain near Ponyville, to sleep somewhere else where its snores shan't engulf anything in flames. And not so long ago, they had subjected the Lord of Chaos back into stone after a millennium of His being incarcerated in it.”

“Excellent, Watcolt, excellent—now, Ms. Hooves,” said Pones, turning to our client with that familiar ready gleam of mischief in his eyes; “what has happened to the loyal Rainbow Dash of great societal importance, and how are you connected to her disappearance?”

Ms. Hooves then produced a piece of foolscap from her saddlebag. She cleared her throat before she spoke. “Mr. Pones,” the client began, reading from the foolscap; “my name is Derpy Hooves, a citizen of Ponyville. I am a big fan of muffins—I eat them at breakfast—I eat them at lunch—I eat them at dinner. I keep an entire stash of them, in fact, at my house. Not so before, this stash has ran run out. Therefore, I had set off to Sugarcube Corner—”

A gentle knock upon the door had abruptly interrupted the client.

“Mr. Pones?” came the muffled voice of our landlady from outside.

The door opened and Mrs. Hudcolt came trotting into our rooms, to which my friend wasn’t too fond of. He truly resented a needless interruption of his concentration, particularly in occasions such as a consultation.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudcolt?” said he, desperately attempting to conceal his annoyance by giving a cold smile.

“I trust that you may forgive me, Mr. Pones,” said the landlady apologetically. “but I could not but help hear the mention of Sugarcube Corner.” Her voice was the usual motherly voice, calm and gentle. But nevertheless, I was able to detect a certain uneasiness in it, as if she were holding back a secret.

“Yes, yes; our client here,” said Pones, motioning towards the direction of Ms. Hooves. "But why had the mere mention of it had such an effect that it compelled you to needlessly interrupt this interview?” He had said this with a certain tone of contempt, but had retained his gentle demeanor when addressing the landlady.

A dark expression came over Mrs. Hudcolt's elderly face.

“Because, sir, a terrible tragedy had just occurred there!”

Our client seemed to at last break away from her dreamy reverie, for she turned her head to face the utterer of the strange remark.

"Sugarcube Corner, you say?" said she, curiously; though a certain taste of tenacity could be perceived in her tone.

"Why, yes, Miss's," answered the landlady, cordially turning to her.

"A tragedy?"

"Yes, Miss'us"

Ms. Hooves then reverted back to her curious, melancholic reverie, leaning back on the settee as she continued to stare at the carpet below her hooves.

Though impatient, Pones took some interest over this brief interaction between the mares. He then returned to the subject at hoof.

“What is this terrible tragedy in which you speak of, Mrs. Hudcolt?”

“An illness—a very serious illness, in fact, has befallen upon the Cakes!”

“Cakes?” said I with some confusion. “What a queer way to put a sentence I dare say, Mrs. Hudcolt! Why should cakes ever fall ill?”

Mrs. Hudcolt frowned at my remark. She then turned to me. “Why, you misunderstand me, Doctor—Cakes! The Cakes—Mr. Carrot and Mrs. Cup Cake!”

“Who are they, then?”

“Pinkie Pie’s employers!”

This seemed to interest Pones, for he smoked heavily and leaned forward.

“Pinkie Pie, eh? Hum. Curious; curious. When, may I ask, did this occur?” said he, making a gesture with his hoof.

“Well, if you say so, sir,” said she; “it was about a day ago.”

It was evident the landlady’s remarks had a certain effect upon Pones, for he reclined back and remained silent for some time, fixating his gaze at the headline of the newspaper in which I had tossed to the floor.

“Watcolt,” said he, without taking his eyes of the paper. “when did the Captain propose to the Princess for her hoof for marriage?”

“About yesterday,” said I with some bewilderment at this sudden interest in the mainstream media. “Why did you ask?”

Instead of answering, Pones continued to stare blankly at the newspaper, his grey eyes seemingly unmoving.

“How peculiar!” he began at last, breaking his gaze as he turned to the landlady. “But why must you be concerned for the well-being of this unfortunate couple that resides all the way down the country?”

“Well, because, Mr. Pones, they were in perfect health just the other day when I paid them a visit in order to refill my supply of flour for my cupcakes.”

“Was it yesterday when you did so?”

“Why, no, sir—it was a day before the Cakes suddenly fell ill.”

“‘Suddenly' you say?” said Pones, raising a brow.

Mrs. Hudcolt nodded. “Indeed, sir.” said she; “So severe their, illness was, that they had to be rushed to the nearest hospital. To my relief, they are alive, but in a critical condition.”

“Did you notice anything peculiar during your visit there” said I, curious. “Anything off?”

She thought for a moment. “There is one, though.” said she; “On that day I went to Ponyville, just as soon I’ve purchased the flour and was about to acquire with the sprinkles as well for the cupcakes, chatting about the type of tea they were drinking, when there entered a heavily built, middle-aged Pegasus of forty, or thereabouts. He had hazelnut mane and a rather cruel moustache. He wore a pea-jacket, wore an opera hat, and had carried with him a bag that seemed to contain a stick-like object and had walked with a certain type of swagger. He had smoked heavily in the cigar in which he held in his mouth, filling the shop with its fumes. I didn’t like the looks of him, Mr. Pones, not one bit I don’t, for he, upon entering threw the cigar to the ground and had glared at me with an extreme look of ominousness and spoke in the harshest of voices as he confronted the Cakes at the counter.

“‘Are you Mr. and Mrs. Cake?’ says he with a mixture of a growl and a rasp. Oh, Mr. Pones, if only you have been there, he would too impress you as a cruel creature!

“‘Yes, we are’ said Mrs. Cake: sipping her cup of tea. “How may I help ya’?’

“‘Flour,’ said the Pegasus. ‘need it.’

“‘That can be easily arranged.’ said Mr. Cake, placing his cup; 'We have an entire stash of them here! Please, step aside, sir—'

"'You, mare;' drawled the Pegasus, turning to my direction; 'leave...'

I was caught quite off-guard there. What authority did he have in commanding me to leave the shop when I have not yet finished my purchases? What, did he see himself as the colonel and me the foot soldier whom he can boss about as haphazard as a serf to his master?

“‘But, sir—” I protested, but he had cut me off by pointing his stick-like object directly at my forehead, pressing it hard against it. Oh, Mr. Pones, how he frightened me!

“‘Now,’ he drawled in threatening fashion.

“I then did as he told me, despite not getting the sprinkles I needed, for I did not want to spend another second around that fiend. That is my singular experience, Mr. Pones, that had occurred before the Cakes’—”

She trailed off.

“Then, upon the following day, they fell suddenly ill, as you say?” said Pones.

The landlady nodded.

"Hum. Queer, quite queer..."

“If I may interject,” said I, raising a hoof. “may I ask, Mrs. Hudcolt, if you could describe to me the traits of their illness? Perhaps I may give a little say by diagnosing their illness, whatever it may be.”

In the corner of my eye, I saw Pones form a proud grin, while Mrs. Hudcolt considered on what to say.

“Well,” she began. “first of all, it was Pinkie Pie who had discovered them...late in the night, it was. She had been roused from her sleep upon hearing what sounded like violent coughing. She then endeavored to trace its origin and found the two Cakes on the ground: vomiting out a horrifying amount of blood. In an instant, she called an ambulance and they were immediately taken to the Ponyville Clinic.”

“Then, if they were already confined there, Mrs. Hudcolt,” said I. “how did you to come to hear what had befallen upon them?”

“Well, on the day following my strange encounter with that queer Pegasus, I had returned to Ponyville intending to purchase what I had forgotten on my previous visit: the sprinkles. Upon arriving at Sugarcube Corner, I found that it was only inhabited by Pinkie Pie and her employers’ twins. There, Doctor, I had learned what happened, and soon left.”

“What did their fur look like?” interposed Pones, raising a judicial hoof to his mouth as he did so.

Mrs. Hudcolt looked at him curiously. “I beg pardon, sir?”

“Their fur—the Cakes’ fur—what were they like when they were found on the floor?”

“Well, according to Ms. Pie, she said they were of a greyish, pale color.”

“And were they, upon your first visit, found eating a dish, or consuming any type of beverage? Tea, coffee?”

“They were both drinking tea at that time sir.”

“Were the cups on the same counter in which this strange pony you speak of had approached?”

“Yes, sir.”

He remained motionless, in absolute silence, while none those present in the room dared break it.

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[A Sherlockian Brony]