Sherclop Pones and the Cloudsdale Crimes

by A Sherlockian Brony

Chapter 5: Muffins

It was a strange feeling indeed, to officially reestablish an acquaintance with an individual, when in actuality, you have never met it in the first place. Such were my thoughts upon receiving a vigorous hoofshake from Derpy Hooves at the telegraphic service. Wearing the issued Ponyville and Cloudsdale Delivery Service uniform, she greeted us with a beaming smile and channeled a congenial warmth; a stark contrast to what her Changeling charlatan was.

“It sure's an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Pones!” said she, staring in gaping amazement at my companion.

“Likewise, Ms. Hooves,” said Pones with a tone of uncertainty. “I perceive that you’ve only just finished a light snack of raisin muffins…”

The mailmare gave a squeal of delight.

“Oh, my gosh! I’m taking part to one of Sherclop Pones’ deductions! This is so cool!"

Pones smiled at the remark.

“Elementary, my dear lady; crumbs could be found round your lips and upon your desk. And upon it, are the remnants of wrappings—to which I infer the recent consumption of muffins…the raisins found nearby state its kind…”

The mare bit her lips as her wings flapped in delight.

“You’ve got it just right! You really are a genius! I’ve only just bought them last night. I still have some left; would you like some?”

Pones politely declined with the wave of a hoof.

“I’m afraid, Ms. Hooves, that our presence is strictly upon business. I believe that a certain telegram in which you have sent—around 8:00 to 8:10—has a direct involvement to the crimes at the Weather Factory last night…”

Ms. Hooves’ ears drooped.

“Oh, my; really? I had no idea! A telegram, you say?”

“Indeed; might I have a look at the records?”

The mare then eagerly assisted us to the office of the station. Mumbling to herself and occasionally oathing against her strabismus, she rummaged through the various clutters of drawers.

As she worked, I had observed the remaining muffins stored inside a plastic container that sat half-pried open upon her desk. Beside the desk, was a bin, which contained, I presumed, to be the original cardboard housing of the pastries. Judging by its outlines, I could say that Ms. Hooves hadn’t enjoyed no ordinary muffins. They were of an exquisite and expensive nature, which I infer from the gold linings of the box, the delicateness of the products themselves, and the company that made them—Pegasopolis Pastries.

This had stricken me rather odd, for how could such a mare of so meager a disposition could afford such aristocratic delights? Surely, I thought, she must have had other means, such as saving a fortune to get it. I shrugged it off, but I caught Pones exceedingly captivated by it.

“Here it is!” announced the mailmare, turning to us with a smile. “I sure do hope that Pearl's okay right now…”

She handed it to us. Scrolling through its various entries, Pones found one that was made precisely at 8:02 PM last night. An image of a hurried Cassie, with a mangled Pearl in her hooves, struggling to write the few vital lines of aid flashed through my mind.

Pones stroke his chin.

“May I have a map of the local geography?”

The mailmare then produced one out of her pocket, to which she placed on the desk.

“I am not well acquainted to the byways of Cloudsdale; might I have some assistance, Ms. Hooves, in pointing the exact location of Pearl White’s residence?”

“Sure thing! She’s here, in Daedalus Avenue—”

“Which is 5 blocks away from this station. Very good. Where is Charlie Cross?”

“Here, about 3 blocks away. Hey, isn’t that where you just came?”

Pones stared at the mare’s expectant, and innocent features as a grim shadow seemed to be cast upon his aquiline features. Gone were the homely warmth of his grey eyes, replaced by a steely glare, to which even I, his closest comrade, feared.

“How much were you paid, Ms. Hooves?” said Sherclop Pones.

Derpy Hooves stepped back.

“I—I beg your par—”

“How much were you paid, Ms. Hooves?” Pones repeated, eyeing the mare with a deadly glare.

“I don’t unders—” The mare’s ears drooped, her eyes glimmering in an odd mixture of oblivious yet guiltily knowing fear.

Pones shoved the map across the desk as he slowly, menacingly approached her.

“How much were you paid, Ms. Hooves?”

His tall, gaunt figure now towered over the cornered and cowering mare. Ms. Hooves, shaking, futilely attempted to shield his gaze with her cap.

“I swear, I didn’t kn—”

“How much?”

“A thousand Bits—”

“Who was he?”

“I didn’t have—”

“What did he look like?”

“Uh, a twirly moustache, and brown maned—”

Pones paused.

“How long did he instruct you to delay the delivery?”

“Precisely at 8:10, sir—please, I didn’t—…”

The mare began to sob.

Regarding the distressed state of the mailmare, Pones eased upon his imperativeness. He regained his composure.

“Of course not;” said he apologetically. “I am…sorry…”

He then extended a hoof to assist her on hooves.

A silence then ensued, one in which was spent where Pones merely fixated his gaze on the telegraphic record upon the desk, while Ms. Hooves, having now regained her stance, still quivered in bewildered fear. It was she who broke the silence.

“Mr. Pones; what did I do?”

Fixing his hat, Pones clasped an apologetic hoof upon those of the mailmare.

“I apologize, Ms. Hooves; you couldn’t have known of what consequences it could’ve entailed. Do forgive this ungracious conduct…”

The mailmare looked at him with a confused expression. Pones continued.

“We must be in our way; time may be of the essence. Good morning, Ms. Hooves; I hope you enjoy the rest of your muffins…”

Taking my hoof with his, we exited the office and stepped into the loftiness of Cloudsdale clouds.

“What on Equestria was that, Pones?” I cried.

“A confession to a crime in which she was utterly oblivious in committing…or rather indirectly aiding. Ms. Hooves had been bribed to purposefully delay the delivery of Cassie Windy’s telegram…”

“Sweet Celestia! How—”

“The muffins, Watcolt; you must’ve regarded their expensive nature…”

“Pegasopolis Pastries—yes, but what does that have to do with—”

“At first, I found it rather interesting for a mere minimum-wage worker such as herself to possess such delectables. Of course, she could’ve saved till its purchase, but why waste your time in doing so when you could easily afford a Waffer’s or a Tina’s, which are exceedingly cheaper? I thought nothing of it, then; that is, until I perceived an oddity concerning the geography—

“As you may remember, according to Ms. Hooves, the distance covered starting from Pearl White’s area of residence to the telegraphic station is 5 blocks away, Cassie actually delivering the message at 8:02. Then, from the latter to Charlie Cross, 3 blocks. Why should it take 8 minutes for the message to arrive when it could easily have taken a mere five? The Equestrian delivery service is well-known for its speedy delivery; why should it faulter here?”

“Some natural letter traffic is always to be expected, Pones…”

“Yes, but it was at a time when, especially around these parts where there isn’t much of a populace, there isn’t much of a flow of messages. Why should there be a delay, then?

“The idea may seem like a long shot for its fantastical nature, but it was rather suggestive. Supposing that she had been bribed to purposefully delay the delivery of the telegram, that would certainly explain her sudden purchase of the Pegasopolis Pastries for she would’ve had that extra cash, as the youth place it, to purchase it on…to which I proved on my being right…”

“But what could it mean?”

“That there is a grand ploy—a carefully crafted conspiracy surrounding the Weather Factory Plans and its robbery, one in which I intend on uncovering. Come, my dear fellow; much awaits. Our next quest lies with Cloud Sweeper, Lestrot’s culprit.”