Sherclop Pones and the Cloudsdale Crimes

by A Sherlockian Brony

Chapter 2: Mr. Myclop Pones

A moment later the tall and portly form of Myclop Pones was ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame, there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance, one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind. At his heels came our official friend Detective Inspector Lestrot, of Cloudsdale Yard—thin and austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest. The detective shook hooves without a word. Myclop Pones struggled out of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.

I had observed a striking resemblance between either of the Pones; though much bulkier and stouter, Myclop had the same listless and resigned yet commanding presence about him which is always characteristic of his brother. He had the same aquiline nose, the same soul-piercing gaze and the wateriness of those stern grey eyes.

“A most annoying business, Sherclop;” said he, wiping his brow. “I extremely dislike altering my habits…”

“Judging from your presence and that of the detective inspector here I could say the matter at present is of a particular societal and criminal bearing…” observed my companion.

“Societal and criminal, indeed, my dear Sherly, one in which causes me a good migraine. Alas, the powers that be would take no denial. In the present state of the upcoming Gala, it is most awkward that I should be away from the office. But it is a real crisis nonetheless. I have never seen the Princess so upset. It is, I daresay, a state matter of the utmost importance, yet Her Majesty desires its resolution to be as swift as possible. As to the Club, it’s buzzing like an overturned beehive. Have you seen the morning papers?”

“I confess I have not,” said Sherclop. “I’ve been occupied upon the intricate study of the Lunarian Ash in which you sent…”

In the same hawk-like oscillation as to his brother’s, Myclop Pones studied the state of the flat, taking note of the most minute of details. His eyes rested upon the ever-increasing mount of coffee cups that lie at the side of Pones’ desk.

“Another obsession, eh?” said he good-heartedly. “Do notify once you’ve turned something up—”

Myclop then extracted the day’s newspaper amongst the clutter (which had been respectably set aside) and began skimming through its pages. Stopping over a particular leaf, he then tossed the gazette over to my companion. Standing behind the latter, we read the following heading in bewildered interest.

ROBBERY AND MURDER AT CLOUDSDALE

<sup>The Pegasi of Cloudsdale have been rudely aroused from their slumbers to the news of the discovery of two crimes taking place last night at the Cloudsdale Weather Factory. A murder and a robbery both taking place simultaneously.

Fred Porlock, a secretary working for the head chemist behind the production operation, upon taking his post to start his shift earlier around 6, he found that the door, which led to a confidential office that housed the Factory’s vital documents, stood ajar. Fearing that something might have occurred, he entered the office to assure himself. To his horror, he found, upon opening the safe which kept the aforementioned documents, empty, robbed from its contents.

He then immediately reported this to his employer, the head chemist Dr. Icarus Hayfield, whom Mr. Porlock thought had already taken post at his study. Upon entering it, however, he found the unfortunate chemist lying upon the floor, dead, his head horribly mutilated by what appears to have been caused by a bullet.

Cloudsdale Yard had been immediately called upon the scene who in turn dispatched their most reputable officer, Detective Inspector G. Lestrot to handle this dastardly crime. He has conducted a most minute study and has come to the conclusion that the chief guardian of the vital documents themselves, Cloud Sweeper, is indeed the culprit.

The suspect has been arrested a few hours after this discovery, in fact; Sweeper had been found at Charlie Cross Hospital, where he tended to his maimed sweetheart, Pearl White whom had been hospitalized last night due to being mugged by villainous blackguards.

Despite such satisfactory discoveries, Mr. Lestrot encounters another dilemma which has very much left the entire Yard at their wit’s end…

The Factory’s documents comprise of 10 pages—only nine have been recovered from Sweeper’s person, and the tenth, it is said, being the most vital amongst the bunch, is missing.

Our readers must be assured that Cloudsdale Yard’s most ardent and tenacious of officers are hard at work to resolve this conundrum.</sup>

“Sweet Celestia!” I cried. “Such absurdity!”

“A most gratif—grotesque an account!” remarked Pones, lying the article down. “How could I have missed such a pleasing problem. Do remind me, Watcolt, no matter how bleak the days would be, to always check the paper. For all we know, even the most uninteresting of articles could possess a rich vein to strike. What were the documents?”

Myclop Pones looked grave and very much dismayed, but had nonetheless answered the question with admirable collectiveness.

“The Weather Factory Plans…” The Pones spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the importance of the subject. “…they contain dictations which are necessary for the Pegasus weather production. They are so technical that only the head chemist could discern its scribbles. Every day, he takes the Plans out and dictates to the workers on what procedures they must take to produce the day’s weather. You see the importance of their disappearance, Sherly? With the Pegasi deprived from their societal role as Equestria’s weather distributers, what evil shall befall upon our great Monarchy? All because of this wretched treasonous youth!”

“Dear me,” said Sherclop, reclining back upon his armchair. “this certainly does seem grave. The case does somewhat possess some points of interest, despite just being a mere retrieval case. If we omit the societal factor and everything that hangs upon it, it’d be like any other textbook crime. Well, well, it can’t be helped, the great cases of the past are long gone; my profession has once again degenerated into mere retrieval cases. Kindly hand me my pipe, Watcolt. Now, gentlecolts the facts…”

Producing a tattered notebook from his trench coat, Mr. Lestrot, whose impatient ferret features grew more impatient by the minute, then began reciting its contents.

“I have listed down the facts in systematic order, just as how you taught us, Mr. Pones, to start with the parties concerned,” he began almost cynically, glancing at my companion. “Right, this fellow, Dr. Icarus Hayfield, as the papers and Mr. Pones—er, Myclop Pones—have placed it, is the head chemist behind the entire weather production of Cloudsdale. He oversees the ingredients that make up all sorts of weather stuff—clouds, rain, snow, what have you—and dictates to its procedures all throughout the day…and night. A very learned fellow, this Hayfield was; unmarried and middle-aged, but very much the gentlecolt admired and respected by his colleagues, one who’d always get the job done and done right. The entire factory practically functioned like cogs in a clock with his management.

“Fred Porlock, the one who initially discovered the robbery and the murder, is—or rather was in Hayfield’s employ for the better part of 2 months now. From his records, he seems efficient enough. A straight and sort of stand-up individual, this colt is. His duties grant him daily contact with the Plans, for narrates its contents to Hayfield for sight wasn’t as good as it once was, who in turn shall discern what they mean and then dictate. His duty normally starts early, around the same time as that of the chemist’s.

“Next up we’ve got Cloud Sweeper, a dashing young stallion of 27; he’s the chief guardian assigned to protect Hayfield’s Plans. Cloud keeps them in a safe, which is located in a confidential office, which it in turn is located within the Factory’s arsenal. He’s got all the keys necessary to access the Plans, as a contrast to Hayfield, who only has one. Sweeper’s duties comprise of assuring the Plans’ security, managing surveillance, commanding guards, etc. He has a sweetheart, as also mentioned; a certain Pearl White, nice girl, I’d say, love’s mutual on both sides, that sappy stuff. Looked into her, her record’s clean as a pipe, not so sure about that of the chap’s anymore though…”

“How severe are her injuries?” I inquired.

Lestrot shook his head.

“Bordering upon mutilation, doctor,” said he. “every bone she has, knacked and cracked like barbwire. Sweet Celestia, absolute brutes, whoever did this vile act were. By my word, we’ll get ‘em. By her account, while she was awaiting Sweeper’s return last night, a gang pulled up to her own house, wrecked the entire place, stole some jewelry and beat her up like she had been—” his words failed him. “—you know the rest, gentlecolts, a caring neighbor spotted her and sent the poor lady to Charlie Cross and wrote a telegram, which compelled the young Sweeper to hastily depart from his offices. Trotkins is currently looking into that, however, while I deal with the 10^th page.”

While being the embodiment of practicality and collectiveness who rarely conveyed his emotions, Sherclop Pones held sympathy towards those who are undeserving of such horrible treatment. For a flickering moment, I read the determination in his eyes.

“What exactly compelled you to conclude with Sweeper’s guilt?”

Lestrot gave a dry chuckle.

“I wasn’t compelled, Mr. Pones, for it was in front of me—plain as a pikestaff, it was. Upon answering Fred Porlock’s call, I naturally checked surveillance if there’d be anything fishy in it. Lo and behold, something fishy indeed. But before I tell you about it, here’s a rough sketch of the geography surrounding the Plans—”

A copy is here reproduced.

Lestrot then continued.

“At 8:10 PM, a knock is heard at the arsenal door. Sweeper exits the office and answers it, greeting a mailmare. A telegram is delivered to Cloud Sweeper, which had a drastic effect upon the young Pegasus. He was absolutely frantic, he hastily departed, shoving the mare aside. I had a look at the telegraphic service near the area, and had ascertained that that telegram was the telegram in which Pearl White had sent.

“8:20 PM, Sweeper returns with his eyes filled with malevolent intention. He heads straight into the office, as seen by the two cameras. A few minutes pass, he remerges with the actual Plans in possession as seen by the camera that directly overlooks the office, that one there, at the left. Normally, you’d expect him to presently be seen by the other, but you’d be wrong, for he doesn’t! It took a whole five minutes, then he appeared again and exited the arsenal at 8:30. Now, this is where I draw his guilt from—

“Why the five-minute interval, I thought. What if, he was the murderer? There was the ample opportunity, he could easily commit it while being out of frame! But I had to look for a motive—so I found one…

“Looking into this fellow’s current financial state, I hear that he paid a lot from his pocket to supply the necessities of the upcoming marriage with Pearl White. With this, I conjecture that he was in a dire need of money and so the idea of stealing the Plans floated around his head with intention of perhaps of trading it with some blackmailer or some sort, for a handsome price that would cover his debt. And, conclusively, what had triggered him to commit the murder, if he did indeed which I’m sure he did, was the attack upon his sweetheart. He thought that the medical bills would drown him in even more debt and the very prospect of it had compelled him to commit this act of treason and homicide. It’s perfect! Only when the noble chemist confronted him was when he encountered an obstacle, and so dealt with it with murder…”

“What evidence do you have to support this, Lestrot?” interposed Sherclop Pones, very much engrossed over the official’s narrative. The latter, evidently pleased with the effect he has made upon the amateur, smiled almost mockingly at the question.

“I knew you’d ask that, Mr. Pones—there was a revolver found, in fact, just outside Dr. Hayfield’s study—a discharged one, mind you. Upon extracting the bullet from the unfortunate chemist, it matches exactly with the gun. Most damningly, in the footage, when Cloud Sweeper reentered the arsenal after answering the telegram, there gleamed by the moonlight the reflection of a gun.

“The rest, as you know, is history. We paid Charlie Cross a visit, in hopes of still catching our miscreant…which we did, almost effortlessly! The fellow, standing next to Ms. White, of course, denied our accusations, but upon presenting the facts, he fainted. I believe that’d enough for a jury. How’d that be, Mr. Sherclop Pones?”

“Good, Lestrot, very good!” chuckled my companion heartily. “A most intricate of analysis; my applause…”

Lestrot, his ferret cheeks blushing in flattered delight, bowed in a pompous fashion.

“We don’t need any of your fancy theories and whatnot, as it proves, Mr. Pones; all we need is what’s commonly up here—” he knocked his forehead.

“Indeed, it as you say, my dear Inspector; one’s common sense typically resolves any a problem,” said Pones rather jovially. Underneath that jubilating expression, however, I could detect a sense of cynicism, and a tinge of uncertainty, as if his mind were elsewhere but here: embarking on a foreign train of thought. “I deduce that your need of me is to locate the vital 10^th page, is it not?”

“Quite so, Sherly…” said Myclop Pones, putting down his monocle which he used in examining my hat (which had lie strewn upon floor before him and thus took upon the liberty to stimulate his mind) during the narrative. “Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the police-court. It’s a vital international problem that you have to solve. Locate the final page and you will have done good service for your nation.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself, Myclop?” queried Sherclop. “You’re just intellectually capable as me, if not even more so. I’ve seen you deduce the entire life of an old soldier—his regiment, his particular role in it, why had he been relieved, his current familial affairs—while I was only able to perceive his tobacco addiction. You could easily bring this confounding affair to a swift close if you so wish—”

“I could, Sherly, I most definitely could! But, alas, it is a question of getting details. I am simply not built for physical exertion. Regard the size of this old belly! Give me your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye—it is not my métier. No, you are the one pony who can clear the matter up.”

“Very well, very well, we shall begin right away. Watcolt,” he sprang up, his eyes glimmering in sinister excitement. “the game is afoot once more! Pack your necessities and possibly your old Wonderbolt attire. We shall first visit the scene of the crime itself—Cloudsdale…”