Prince Blue Blood has been murdered. It was one of the most interesting cases Private Detective Octavia Melody have ever come across. Prince Blue Blood was dead. There were four ponies, one of who must have committed the crime, but which of them?
The year is 1938, and Private Investigator Octavia Melody is an excellent detective. Possibly the best in Equestria. In accordance to her occupation, she was invited by Prince Blue Blood, an eccentric with a most definitely questionable sense of humour, to a dinner party of his organisation and to a personal exhibition. An exhibition of the perfect murder. This exhibition is interrupted, however, when Prince Blue Blood is found dead whilst his dinner guests played bridge only a few yards away. Of the eight guests, four of them are well-established investigators, Octavia included. Now the investigators must determine which of the remaining four guests is a murderer. Can Octavia discover the murderer before they kill again?
It was one of the most interesting cases I have ever come across.
There were four ponies, one of who must have committed the crime, but which of them?
The whole extraordinary business began at an exhibition of Miss Rarity’s finest garments and dresses at the Royal Canterlot Gardens. Admission was one Bit in aid of Nurse Red Hearts Hospitals.
It was as I was scrutinizing a rather fanciful green and yellow dress that a certain Prince Blue Blood, looking rather pleased with his surroundings, approached me.
He seemed to be delighted to see me. Either that or he was being sardonic.
“Ah, my dear Miss Melody,” he said, smiling.
It was a soft purring voice - a voice used deliberately as an instrument - nothing impulsive or unpremeditated about it.
“Good morning your Royal Highness.” I replied, with an almost untraceable note of contempt at having my inspection disturbed.
“Not apprehending culprits and jailing criminals much just at present? Slack season in the criminal world? Or is there to be a robbery here this afternoon? That would be too delicious.” Mr. Blood said, rather morbidly, I thought.
“Alas, Mr. Blood,” I said, “I am here in a purely private capacity.”
“That dress you were looking at is quite exquisite, so unfortunate it is to big for you, I do believe you would look simply splendid in it.” Said Mr. Blood, still smiling.
Prince Blue Blood had deliberately cultivated the ‘Royalty on an outing’ effect. His light golden hair was heavily accented, and shining like the sun. He wore an extravagant blue jacket, and a small golden broach.
Mr. Blood was distracted for a moment by a pretty young mare with long apple green hair and politely asked her which dress she fancied the most.
While the lovely young pony made a suitable reply, I allowed myself a good study of the adornment on Mr. Blood’s neck.
A fine bow tie - a very fine bowtie - the only bowtie in Equestria, perhaps, that could compete with my own. It was a light shade of blue, and the ends were correctly starched.
“But it is not so luxuriant,” I murmured to myself. “No, decidedly it is inferior in every respect. But it catches the eye.”
In fact, the whole of the pony caught the eye. As if he was designed to do so.
His clothes were works of art - of exquisite cut - but with a suggestion of the bizarre.
Every healthy Stallion who saw him longed earnestly and fervently to kick him! They said, with a singular lack of originality, “There's that damned Blue Blood!”
Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said, varying the idiom according to their generation, words to this effect: “I know, my dear. Of course he’s terrible. But he’s so rich! And a Royal Prince! And such marvelous parties! And he's always got something amusing and spiteful to tell you about ponies.”
Also, I noted, there was also a suggestion of Mephistophelean about his manner.
There was a feeling, perhaps, that he knew a little too much about everypony.
And there was a feeling, too, that his sense of humor was a curious one.
People nearly always felt that it would be better not to risk offending Mr. Blood.
It was his humor this afternoon to bait that solitary, solemn looking mare, Private Investigator Octavia Melody; myself.
Mr. Blood brought his attention back to me, “Why did you not come to the Garden Ball last week? You really shouldn’t have missed it; it was quite a remarkable evening. Quite a few ponies actually spoke to me after they had arrived, one even approached Princess Cadence and I and said ‘how do you do’ and ‘goodbye’ and ‘thank you so much’.”
“It was evidently an occasion to remember.” I said, smiling,
“But I see, that you have lent three of your finest jackets to the exhibition?” I commented.
“Oh, one picks up trifles here and there. Your friend Rarity truly knows how to make excellent clothes of almost any variety.” Mr. Blood replied, looking rather pleased with himself and his jackets.
Looking me in the eyes, he said, “You really must come to one more of my formal occasions Octavia.” Lowering his voice to almost a whisper, he said in my ear, “I could even reveal to you a few things in your own line.”
“What sort of things?” I inquired, my imagination buzzing, also lowering my voice.
Around us the well-dressed languid Canterlot crowd eddied mildly.
Voices drawled and murmured.
“Why, you’re a private detective. Things to do with murder of course.” Laughed Mr. Blood, clearly sensing my misinterpretation of his statement.
“Is that so Mr. Blood? Do you happen to have a private crime museum of your own?” I asked, now smiling too, having regained my composure.
“Ha! You mean the spectacles of one of the victims of Mane-iac or the shoes of Nightmare Moon? Pff! I would never pardon myself with rubbish like that. No, I collect only the best objects of their kind.” He was smiling slyly now.
“And what do you consider to be the best objects in the field of crime?” I asked, slightly cynically.
“I collect only the ponies themselves who commit the crimes, and I collect only the best.” He replied proudly.
“Naturally,” he went on, smiling, “I don’t keep these ponies in glass cabinets. Unfortunately, they still live among us.” He said, gazing at the other ponies milling throughout the garden.
I was intrigued. “The best being?” I pressed.
Laughing softly, Mr. Blood answered; “Why my dear Mare, the ones who have got away with it! The murderers who no breath of suspicion has ever touched.” then pausing, appearing to consider for a moment, drawing a seemingly long breath before continuing,
“Why don’t I hold a formal dinner party so you can meet my exhibits? It will take time to organize of course, let us say, ah, the week after next. On what evening would you be free?” Mr. Blood so graciously asked me.
“Any evening of that week would suit me.” I replied, slightly stupefied at this suggestion, but grateful to have some form of input to this hastily organized gathering.
“Then we will say Friday the eighteenth. Really, the whole idea pleases me enormously.” Declared Mr. Blood, with an unmistakable flush of eager anticipation.
I looked casually at the dresses surrounding us.
“Hm. I’m not sure that it pleases me.” I said in a nonchalant manner.
Mr. Blood raised an eyebrow, “Does it not appeal to your overly cautious sensibilities? My dear Octavia, you really must free yourself from the limitations of the police type mentality.”
I replied, “Hmm, it is true that I have a thoroughly, as you say, police type attitude to murder.” I replied.
“But why? Murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist!” laughed Mr. Blood.
“But he is still a murderer, Mr. Blood.” I countered.
“And yet, if he does such a thing supremely well…” Began Mr. Blood.
“Oh, I am not so insensitive to art in crime as you think.” I cut him off, “I can admire the perfect murderer. I can also admire a Manticore. But I would admire him from outside his cage,” I looked at Prince Blue Blood seriously, “I will not go inside. Not unless it is my duty to do so. For you see Mr. Blood, the Manticore might spring.”
“And the murderer?” Said Mr. Blood, leaning his head closer and raising an eyebrow.
I finished gravely, “Might murder.”
The proud Prince laughed aloud, “Ha! Ha! What an alarmist you are, Octavia. Then you will not come to meet my collection of ‘Manticores’?” He said, with a hint of disappointment.
“On the contrary,” I smiled, “I shall be enchanted to come.”
“Excellent!” he grinned, “I shall go along with my preparations for the eighteenth, at, let's say, at eight o’clock, do not forget.”
And with that, he turned, and walked away.
I stood alone for a few moments, watching him as he began to disappear into the crowd, slowly shaking my head in quizzical intrigue.
The grand oak doors of Prince Blue Blood’s extravagant home opened noiselessly. A gray-haired butler drew it back to let me enter. He closed it equally as noiselessly and deftly relieved me of my overcoat and scarf.
He murmured in a low expressionless voice, “What name shall I say?”
“Miss Octavia Melody.” I answered.
There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened a door and announced, “Miss Octavia Melody.”
Sherry glass telekinetically suspended by his magic, Mr. Blood came forward to meet me. He was as usual immaculately dressed. The Mephistophelean suggestion was heightened tonight; his eyebrows seemed accentuated in a mocking twist.
“Ah! Good evening Miss Melody. Let me introduce you. Do you know Mrs. Cherry?” I believe the showman in him enjoyed the little start of surprise that I gave.
Mrs. Hazel Cherry was extremely well known as one of the foremost writers of detective fiction and other sensational stories. She wrote chatty, if not particularly grammatical, articles on “The Tendency of the Criminal,” ”Famous Crimes Passionnels,” “Murder for Love vs. Murder for Gain.” She was also a rather hotheaded feminist and when any murder of importance was occupying space in the press there was sure to be an interview with Mrs. Cherry, and it was mentioned that Mrs. Cherry had once said, “Now, if a mare were the head of The Equestrian Police Force!” She was an earnest believer in mares intuition.
For the rest she was an agreeable mare of middle age, handsome in a mostly untidy fashion, with fine eyes, substantial shoulders, and a large quantity of rebellious greyish green hair with which she was continually experimenting. One day her appearance would be highly intellectual - a brow with the hair scraped back from it and coiled in a large bun in the neck; on another, Mrs. Cherry would suddenly appear with Madonna loops, or large masses of slightly untidy curls. On this particular evening Mrs. Cherry was trying out a fringe.
She greeted me; we had met before at a literary dinner, in an agreeable bass voice. “And Superintendent Silverstar you doubtless know,” said Blueblood.
A big square wooden-faced stallion moved forward. Not only would an onlooker feel that Superintendent Silverstar was carved out of wood, as I did – one would also manage to convey the impression that the wood in question was the timber out of a battleship.
Superintendent Silverstar was supposed to be Trotland Police Services’, commonly referred to as simply Trotland Yard, best representative.
He always looked stolid and rather stupid.
“I know Miss Melody,” said Superintendent Silverstar. His wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former unexpressiveness. I smiled and nodded politely.
“Colonel Fancy Pants,” went on Blue Blood.
I had not previously met Colonel Pants, but I knew something about him. A wealthy, handsome, cheerful stallion of fifty, he was usually to be found in some outpost of some formidable country - especially if there was trouble brewing.
Secret Service is a melodramatic term, but it described pretty accurately to the lay mind of the nature and scope of Colonel Pants’ activities.
I had by now taken in and appreciated the particular essence of my host's humorous intentions.
“Our other guests are late,” said Mr. Blood. “My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them eight-fifteen.”
But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced,
“Doctor Hooves.”
The stallion that came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly coloured individual of middle age.
Small twinkling eyes, a touch of solemnness, a tendency of embonpoint and a general air of a well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. I felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical. Merrily he said, “A little champagne in convalescence perhaps.”
‘Ah,’ I thought to myself ‘A stallion of the world!’
“Not late, I hope?” said Doctor Hooves genially.
He shook hooves with his host and was introduced to the others.
He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Silverstar. “Why, you're one of the big noises in Trotland Yard, aren't you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop, but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor to be interested in, I dare say. Mustn't say so to my nervous patients however, ha ha!”
Again the door opened.
“Mrs. Sapphire Shores.”
Mrs. Shores was an extremely well dressed mare of sixty. She had lovely cut features, beautifully arranged blue hair, and a clear, incisive voice. More like the principal of a college than a successful murderer.
“I hope I'm not late, I had a perfect idiot of a chariot driver, he got hopelessly lost trying to take a short cut though a clearly oversized cloud," she said, advancing to her host. She turned from him to greet Doctor Hooves with whom she was acquainted, and then moved to greet myself.
The butler announced, “Major Shining Amour.”
Major Amour was a tall, lean, handsome stallion, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. He looked very solemn and had a hardened complexion about him. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Pants - and the two stallions were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari. I watched him for a while, as he intrigued me. He truly was a very handsome stallion.
For the last time the door opened and the butler announced, “Miss Lyra Harpstrings.”
A young mare in her early twenties entered. She was of medium height and very pretty. Light green curls clustered on her neck and back, her yellowish brown eyes were large and wide apart. Her face had no make up. Her voice was slow and rather shy.
She said, “Oh, dear, am I the last?”
Mr. Blood descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious.
Miss Lyra was left sipping her sherry by my side.
"Our friend is very punctilious,” I said with a smile, after a brief silence.
She agreed. “I know. Ponies rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say, ‘I expect you know everypony,’ and leave it at that.”
“Whether you do or you don't?” I pressed for sake of clarity.
“Whether you do or don't. Sometimes it makes it awkward - but I think this is more awe inspiring.”
I said nothing as I speculated what Miss Harpstrings had said. I have a habit of speculating over things that later I realise were irrelevant.
She hesitated and then said, “Is that Mrs. Cherry the novelist?”
Mrs. Cherry’s bass voice rose powerfully at that minute speaking to Doctor Hooves. “You can't get away from a mare's instinct, Doctor. We know these things.” Forgetting that she no longer had a visible brow, she endeavored to sweep her hair back from it but was foiled by the fringe.
“That is indeed Mrs. Cherry,” I said, smiling.
“The one who wrote The Manehatten Murders?” Miss Harpstrings’ tone was impressed.
“The identical one.” I obliged.
Miss Harpstringsfrowned a little. “And that wooden-looking stallion; was he a superintendent, did Mr. Blood say?”
“From Trotland Yard.”
“And you?”
“And me?”
“I know all about you, Miss Melody. It was you who solved the top Manehatten crimes. You were voted one of the cleverest intellectuals in Equestria last year and are known for your use of complex words, your love of classical music and your cello.” She said appearing to be rather proud of her knowledge on the subject of the one whom she was standing next to.
I smiled and modestly said, “Miss Harpstrings, you cover me with confusion.” Despite the fact that everything she had said was true. Naturally I was flattered, but I chose not to show it.
“I will admit, however, it is true that I am known for my sesquipedalian manner.”
Realising that she had fallen silent, I waited for her to speak.
Miss Harpstrings drew her brows together.
"Mr. Blood," she began and then stopped. "Mr. Blood is - "
Sensing what she was about to say, I said quietly, “One might say he is rather ‘crime minded?’ Hm - it seems so. Doubtless he wishes to hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Cherry and Doctor Hooves. They are now discussing untraceable poisons.”
Miss Harpstrings creased her brow further as she said, “What a queer pony he is!”
“Doctor Hooves?”
“No, Mr. Blood.”
She shivered a little and said, “There's always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never know what would strike him as amusing. It might - it might be something cruel!”
“Such as fox hunting?”
Miss Harpstrings threw me a reproachful glance. “I meant - oh, something that would be unpleasant for everyone but him.”
“He has a tortuous mind,” I admitted.
"Torturer's?"
"No, no, tortuous, I said." I corrected.
“I don't think I like him very much,” confided Miss Harpstrings, her voice dropping.
“You will like his dinner, though,” I assured her. “He has a most ingenious cook.”
She looked at me doubtfully and then laughed. “Why,” she said, “I believe you are quite humored Miss Melody,”
“I should certainly hope that I am humored, Miss Harpstrings.”
“You see,” said Miss Harpstrings, “all these celebrities are rather intimidating.”
“Miss Harpstrings, you should not be intimidated - you should be thrilled! You should have all ready your autograph book and your quill pen.” I said, not in reference to myself as much as to the others.
"Well, you see, I'm not really terribly interested in crime. I don't think mares are; it's always stallions who read detective stories."
I sighed affectedly.
"Alas!” I murmured. “What would I not give at this minute to be even the most minor of film stars! Perhaps then, in your eyes, I could excuse my very occupation.”
Miss Harpstrings smiled and laughed softly to herself, “I believe that I am beginning to like you, Miss Melody.”
“And I believe that I am beginning to feel likewise, Miss Harpstrings.” I said, smiling. Glad to have made a new acquaintance with whom I could relate.
The butler threw the door open.
“Dinner is served,” he announced.
My prognostication was amply justified. The dinner was delicious and its serving perfection. Subdued light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Baltimare glass. In the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Blood looked more than ever diabolical.
He apologised gracefully in advance for any potential dissatisfaction with the dinner. None was voiced as it was enjoyed by all.
Mr. Blood sat with Mrs. Shores on his right hand, Mrs. Cherry on his left. Miss Harpstrings was between Superintendent Silverstar and Major Amour. I was between Mrs. Shores and Doctor Hooves.
The latter murmured facetiously to me, “You're not going to be allowed to monopolize the only pretty filly all the evening. You police mares, you don't waste your time, do you?”
“I happen to be a Private Detective,” I murmured, feeling rather insulted at having been lowered to the level of a mere enforcer of the law, and at the alleged accusation of monopolisation.
“Same thing where the mares are concerned, I expect,” said the Doctor cheerfully.
Then, dropping the facetiousness, and adopting a professional tone he began to talk to Colonel Pants on his other side about the latest developments in the treatment of sleeping sickness.
Mrs. Shores turned to me and began to talk of the latest plays and the theatre. Her judgments were sound and her criticisms apt. We drifted on to books and then to world politics, a topic almost constantly under my scrutiny and speculation.
I found her a well-informed and thoroughly intelligent mare.
On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Cherry was asking Major Amour if he knew of any unheard-of, out-of-the-way poisons.
“Well, there's curare.”
“My dear stallion! That's been done hundreds of times. I mean something new!”
Major Amour said dryly, “Primitive tribes are rather old fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them.”
“Very tiresome of them,” said Mrs. Cherry. “I should have thought they were always experimenting with pounding up herbs and things. Such a chance for explorers, I always think. They could come home and kill off all their rich old uncles with some new drug that no one's ever heard of.”
“You should go to civilization, not to the wilds for that,” said the Major. “In the modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent looking germs that will produce bona fide diseases.”
“That wouldn't do for my public,” said Mrs. Cherry. “Besides one is so apt to get the names wrong – staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things - so difficult for my secretary and anyway rather dull, don't you think so? What do you think, Superintendent Silver?”
The superintendent stroked his mustache thoughtfully once before answering. “In real life ponies don't bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Cherry,” said the superintendent. “They usually stick to arsenic because it's nice and handy to get hold of.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Cherry. “That's simply because there are lots of crimes you people at Trotland Yard never find out. Now if you had a mare there - ”
“As a matter of fact we have - ” began Superintendent Silver, but Mrs. Cherry cut him short.
“Yes, those dreadful police mares who bother ponies in parks! I mean a mare at the head of things. Mares know about crime.” She said, sipping her glass of cherry (for such magnificent sherry it was).
“They're usually very successful criminals,” said Superintendent Silver. “They keep their heads well. It's amazing how they'll brazen things out.”
I chose to reflect on his statement, for such statements complementing the opposite sex from the superintendent were rare. That is, if Mrs. Cherry took it as such.
Mr. Blood laughed gently.
“Poison is a mare’s weapon,” he said. “There must be many secret mare poisoners - never found out.”
I looked up, as it was the first time the prince had spoken in some time.
“Of course there are,” said Mrs. Cherry happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie grass. Seizing the opportunity, Major Armor and I did likewise.
“A doctor, too, has opportunities,” went on Mr. Blood thoughtfully.
“I protest,” cried Doctor Roberts, in a genial tone. “When we poison our patients it's entirely by accident.” He laughed heartily.
“But if I were to commit a crime,” went on Mr. Blood. He stopped, and something in that pause compelled attention.
All faces turned to him.
“I should make it very simple, I think. There's always accident – a shooting accident for instance - or the domestic kind of accident.”
Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his wineglass. “But who am I to pronounce - with so many experts present?”
I looked hard at him. What sort of game was this prince playing?
He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine onto his face with its handsome features, his small gold broach, his fantastic bowtie.
There was a momentary silence.
“An angel passing.” Said Mrs. Cherry.
“What was that you said?” I asked her, with a deliberately conversational tone.
She replied, “It’s what one says when a sudden silence falls.” She then added, in a lower voice, “Though I fear in this case it may be an angel of darkness.”
We all remained silent for a few seconds longer until Mrs. Cherry said, “It’s just a saying, nothing foreboding.”
When we returned to the drawing room a bridge table had been set out. Coffee was handed round. “Who plays bridge?” asked Mr. Blood. “Mrs. Shores, I know. And Doctor Hooves. Do you play, Miss Harpstrings?” “Yes. I'm not particularly good, though.” Answered Miss Harpstrings, blushing ever so slightly. “Excellent.” Said the Prince, “And Major Amour?” The Major nodded.
“Good. Supposing you four play here.” He gestured to the table.
“Thank goodness there's to be bridge,” said Mrs. Shores aside to me. “I'm one of the worst bridge fiends that ever lived. It's growing on me. I simply will not go out to dinner now if there's no bridge afterward! I just fall asleep. I'm ashamed of myself, but there it is.” She showed one of her rare smiles.
I smiled to myself.
They cut for partners. Mrs. Sapphire Shores was partnered with Lyra Harpstrings against Major Shining Amour and Doctor Hooves. “Mares against Stallions," said Doctor Hooves, grinning, “They haven’t got a hope poor dears!” He laughed, “Ah, your deal I think, Mrs. Shores.”
Mrs. Shores began shuffling the cards expertly.
“Mind you win,” said Mrs. Cherry to Miss Lyra and Mrs. Shores, her feminist feelings rising. “Show the stallions they can't have it all their own way.”
Major Amour sat down rather slowly. He was looking at Miss Harpstrings as though he had just made the discovery that she was remarkably pretty.
“Cut please,” said Mrs. Shores impatiently. And with a start of apology he cut the pack she was presenting to him. Mrs. Shores began to deal with a practiced hoof.
“There is another bridge table in the other room,” said Mr. Blood. He crossed to a second door and the other four followed him into a small, comfortably furnished smoking-room where a second bridge table was set ready.
So, I thought, he has separated the sleuths from the suspects.
Looking around at the uneven number of ponies, Colonel Pants said, “Oh, we’ll have to cut out,”
Mr. Blood shook his head. “I do not play,” he said. “Bridge is not one of the games that amuses me.”
We protested that we would much rather not play, but he overruled us firmly and in the end we sat down - Mrs. Cherry and I against Silver and Pants.
Inevitably, Mrs. Cherry made a witty but rather brazen comment, on the evident battle of the sexes, and then we began.
Mr. Blood watched us for a little while, smiled in a Mephistophelean manner as he observed on what hand Mrs. Cherry declared two no trumps, and then went noiselessly through into the other room.
There they were well down to it, their faces serious, the bids coming quickly. “One heart.” “Pass.” “Three clubs.” “Three spades.” “Four diamonds.” “Double.” “Four hearts.”
Mr. Blood stood watching a moment smiling to himself. Then he crossed the room and sat down in a big chair by the fireplace. A tray of drinks had been brought in and placed on an adjacent table.
The firelight gleamed on the crystal stoppers.
Always an artist in lighting, Mr. Blood had simulated the appearance of a merely firelit room. A small shaded lamp at his right front leg gave him light to read by if he so desired. Discreet floodlighting gave the room a subdued glow. A slightly stronger light shone over the bridge table from whence the monotonous verbal ejaculations continued.
“One no trump”, clear and decisive, Mrs. Shores.
“Three hearts”, an aggressive note in the voice, Doctor Hooves.
“No bid”, a quiet voice, Lyra Harpstrings.
A slight pause always before Major Amours voice came. Not so much a slow thinker as a stallion who liked to be sure before he spoke.
“Four hearts.”
“Double.”
His face lit up by the flickering firelight, the young Prince smiled. He smiled and he went on smiling. His eyelids flickered a little.
His party was amusing him.
“Five diamonds. Game and rubber,” said Colonel Race. “Good for you, partner,” he said to me.
“Oh, I have my little moments, Colonel.” I said modestly.
“I didn't think you'd do it. Lucky they didn't lead a spade.” Said the Colonel.
“Wouldn't have made much difference, I expect,” said Superintendent Silver, a stallion of gentle magnanimity.
Colonel Pants looked at his watch.
“Ten past twelve. Time for another?”
“You'll excuse me,” said Superintendent Battle. “But I'm by way of being an ‘early to bed’ stallion.”
“I, too,” I said, for I have never seen the exact point of remaining awake for lengthy periods of time accept perhaps when I am in the process of writing a concerto.
The result of the evening's five rubbers was an overwhelming victory for the male sex, much to Mrs. Cherry’s displeasure. I did not mind as much, for I have never fully understood the conflict between the sexes. As a matter of fact, I’ve never fully understood either sexes altogether.
Mrs. Cherry, though being a rather bad bridge player and not feeling particularly happy on the gender side of things, was a sporting loser. She paid up cheerfully.
She owed three Bits to the other players including myself.
“Everything went wrong for me tonight,” she said. “It is like that sometimes. I held the most beautiful cards yesterday. A hundred and fifty honors three times running.” She rose and gathered up her embroidered evening bag, just refraining in time from stroking her hair off her brow.
“I suppose our host is in the next room,” she said.
Prince Blue Blood was in his chair by the fire. The bridge players were absorbed in their game.
“Double five clubs,” Mrs. Shores was saying in her cool, incisive voice.
“Five no trumps.”
“Double five no trumps.”
Mrs. Cherry came up to the bridge table. This was likely to be an exciting hand. Superintendent Silver came with her.
Colonel Pants went toward Mr. Blood, I was behind him. "Got to be going now, Blood, old boy," said Pants.
Prince Blue Blood did not answer. His head had fallen forward and he seemed to be asleep. Fancy gave a momentary whimsical glance at me and went a little nearer. I was looking over at him. Suddenly the Colonel uttered a muffled ejaculation, bent forward. I was beside him in a minute; I too, looking where Colonel Race was pointing, at something that might have been a particularly ornate shirt stud, but was not.
I bent, raised one of Mr. Blood's hooves then let it fall. I met Pant's inquiring glance and nodded. The latter raised his voice.
“Superintendent, could you, come here a moment?”
The superintendent came over to us. Mrs. Cherry continued to watch the play of five, no trumps doubled.
Superintendent Silver, despite his appearance of stolidity, was a very quick man. His eyebrows went up and he said in a low voice as he joined them. “Something wrong?”
With a nod Colonel Pants indicated the silent figure in the chair.
As Battle bent over it, I looked thoughtfully at what I could see of Mr. Blood's face. Rather a silly face it looked now, I thought, the mouth drooping open - the devilish expression lacking.
I shook my head. Not so much in grief, but more so was I already thinking of the culprit. I gazed absentmindedly over at the four apparent murderers. One of them may have just stuck a second time, if any of them have in fact murdered before, but which one? I pondered the ever-ultimate question in my line of work. The foremost question to ask one self, who did it?
Superintendent Silver straightened himself. He had examined without touching the thing, which looked like an extra stud in Mr. Blood’s shirt, which was not an extra stud. He to raised the limp hoof and let it fall.
The faint sound of the hoof flopping back onto the arm of the chair bought me back to the present. A shame, I thought, I was enjoying deep speculation.
Superintendent Silverstar turned towards the remaining bridge players and Mrs. Cherry. Unemotional, capable, soldierly. Prepared to take charge efficiently of the situation.
“Just a minute, please,” he said.
And the raised voice was his official voice, so different that all the heads at the bridge table turned to him, and Lyra Harpstrings hoof remained poised over an ace of spades.
“I'm sorry to tell you all,” he said, “that our host, Prince Blue Blood, is dead.”
Doctor Hooves and Mrs. Shores rose to their hooves.
Shining stared and frowned. Lyra Harpstrings gave a little gasp.
“Are you sure, stallion?”
Doctor Hooves, his professional instincts aroused, came briskly across the floor with a bounding medical "in at the death" step.
Without seeming to, the bulk of Superintendent Silver impeded his progress.
“Just a minute, Doctor Hooves. Can you tell me first who's been in and out of this room this evening?”
The Doctor stared at him.
“In and out? I don't understand you. Nobody has left this room since we entered it.”
The superintendent transferred his gaze.
“Is that right, Mrs. Shores?”
“Quite right.”
“Not the butler nor any of the servants?”
“No. The butler brought in that tray as we sat down to bridge. He has not been in since.”
Superintendent Silver looked at Shining.
Shining nodded in agreement.
Lyra said rather breathlessly, “Yes - yes, that's right.”
“What's all this, stallion,” said Doctor Hooves impatiently. “Just let me examine him – it may be just a fainting fit.”
“It isn't a fainting fit, and I'm sorry - but nobody's going to touch him until the divisional surgeon comes. Mr. Blood's been murdered, mares and gentlestallions.”
“Murdered?” A horrified incredulous gasp from Lyra.
A stare, a very blank stare from Major Amour.
A sharp incisive “Murdered?” from Mrs. Shores.
A “Good God!” from Doctor Hooves.
Superintendent Silver nodded his head slowly. He looked rather like a porcelain statue. His expression was quite blank.
“Stabbed,” he said. “That's the way of it. Stabbed.”
Then he shot out a question. “Any of you leave the bridge table during the evening?”
I watched their faces. I saw four expressions break up - waver. I saw fear - comprehension - indignation - dismay - horror, but neither Silver nor I saw anything definitely helpful.
“Well?”
There was a pause and then Major Amour said quietly, he had risen now and was standing like a soldier on parade, his narrow intelligent face turned to Silver, “I think every one of us, at one time, or another, moved from the bridge table - either to get drinks or to put wood on the fire. I did both. When I went to the fire Blue Blood was asleep in his chair.”
“Asleep?”
“I thought so - yes.”
“He may have been,” said Silver. “Or he may have been dead then. We'll go into that presently. I'll ask you now to go into the room, next door.” He turned to the quiet figure beside him. “Colonel Pants, perhaps you’ll go with them?”
Pants gave a quick nod of comprehension. “Right, Superintendent.”
The four bridge players went slowly through the doorway.
Mrs. Cherry sat down in a chair at the far end of the room and began to sob quietly.
Battle took up the telephone receiver and spoke.
I watched him silently.
After a minute he said, “The local police will be round immediately. The Royal family will be informed immediately. Orders from headquarters are that I'm to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How long should you say he'd been dead, Octavia? I'd say well over an hour myself.”
I considered this for a brief moment.
“I agree. Alas that one cannot be more exact - that one cannot say, ‘This stallion has been dead one hour twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.’”
Silver nodded absently.
“He was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over an hour, not more than two and a half - that's what our doctor will say, I'll be bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a desperate chance to take. He might have cried out.”
“But he did not. The murderer's luck held. As you said, it was a very desperate business.”
“Any ideas, Octavia? As to motive? Anything of that kind?”
I said slowly, just managing to hide a sardonic smile, “Yes, I have something to say in terms of motive. Tell me, did Mr. Blood not give you any hint of what kind of a party you were coming to tonight?”
Superintendent Silver looked at me curiously.
“No, Octavia. He didn't say anything at all. Why?”
A bell whirred in the distance and a knocker was plied.
“That's our people,” said Superintendent Silver. “I'll go and let ‘em in. We'll have your story presently. Must get on with the routine work.”
I nodded. Silver left the room.
Mrs. Cherry continued to sob.
I went over to the bridge table. Without touching anything I examined the scores. I shook my head once or twice.
“The stupid stallion! Oh, the stupid stallion,” I murmured. “To dress up like a devil and try to frighten ponies with his disturbed humor. What foolish childishness!”
The door opened. The divisional surgeon came in, bag in hand; he was followed by the divisional inspector talking to Silver. A constable came next. There was a second constable in the hall.
Mrs. Cherry, Colonel Pants, Superintendent Silver and I sat round the dining room table. It was an hour later. The body had been examined, photographed, and removed. A hoofprint expert had been and gone.
Superintendent Silver looked at me.
“Before I have those four in, I want to hear what you've got to tell me. According to you there was something behind this party tonight?”
Very deliberately and carefully I retold the conversation I had held with Blue Blood at The Palace Gardens. I told of the reasons for the party and of Mr. Blood’s intentions.
In all honesty, I was rather enjoying myself, describing the details of the conversation and watching the facial contortions of the others.
Well, with the exception of Silver, he remained stony faced. It began to irritate me frightfully. At one point I was tempted to ask politely if he could possibly pretense an expression of shocked intrigue, but the thought of potential ramifications overcame my urge.
When I had finished conveying all I knew, there was a pause.
I was just about to ask if I had not given a sufficient answer when Superintendent Silver pursed his lips. He very nearly whistled.
“Exhibits - eh? Murderers! And you think he meant it? You don't think he was pulling your leg?”
I shook my head. “Oh, no, he meant it. The Prince was a stallion who prided himself on his Mephistophelean attitude toward life. He was a stallion of great vanity. He was also a stupid stallion - that is why he is dead.” I said with a streak of unintentional sociopathic attitude.
“I believe you’re right, Octavia,” said Superintendent Silver, following things out in his mind. “A party of eight and himself. Four sleuths, so to speak - and four murderers!”
“It's impossible,” cried Mrs. Cherry. “Absolutely impossible. None of those ponies can be criminals.”
Superintendent Silver shook his head thoughtfully.
“I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mrs. Cherry. Murderers look and behave very much like everybody else. Nice, quiet, well-behaved reasonable ponies, very often.”
“In that case, it's Doctor Hooves,” said Mrs. Cherry firmly. “I felt instinctively that there was something wrong with that pony the moment I laid eyes on him. My instincts never lie.”
Silver turned to Colonel Pants.
“What do you think, Pants?”
Pants frowned. He took the question as referring to my statement and not to Mrs. Cherry's suspicions, much to my relief. “It could be,” he said. “It could be. It shows that Blue Blood was right in one case, at least! After all he can only have suspected that these ponies were murderers, he can't have been sure. He may have been right in all four cases, he may have been right in only one case - but he was certainly right in one case; his death proves that.”
“One of them got the wind up - think that's it, Miss Melody?”
I nodded. “The late Mr. Blood had a reputation,” I said. “He had a dangerous sense of humor and was reputed to be merciless. The victim thought that Blue Blood was giving himself an evening's amusement, a game of cat and mouse, leading up to a moment when he'd hand the victim over to the police – you. He or she must have thought that Blue Blood had definite evidence.”
“Had he?”
I shook my head thoughtfully.
“That we shall never know.”
“Doctor Hooves!” repeated Mrs. Cherry firmly. “Such a hearty stallion. Murderers are often hearty - as a disguise! If I were you, Superintendent Silver, I should arrest him at once.”
“I daresay we would if there was a mare at the head of Trotland Yard,” said Superintendent Silver, a momentary twinkle showing in his unemotional eyes, “But you see, mere stallions being in charge, we’ve got to be careful. We've got to get there slowly.”
"Oh, stallions - stallions," sighed Mrs. Cherry and began to compose newspaper articles in her head.
"Better have them in now," said Superintendent Silver. "It won't do to keep them hanging about too long."
Colonel Pants half rose. "If you'd like us to go -"
Superintendent Silver hesitated a minute as he caught Mrs. Cherry's eloquent eye. He was well aware of Colonel Pants’ official position and that I had worked with the police on many occasions. I believe that allowing for Mrs. Cherry to remain was decidedly stretching a point for the superintendent. But Silver was a kindly stallion. He remembered that Mrs. Cherry had lost three Bits and seven one fifth Bits at bridge and that she had been a cheerful loser.
“You can all stay,” he said, “as far as I'm concerned. But no interruptions, please,” At that moment he looked at Mrs. Cherry, much to my silent amusement. “And there mustn't be a hint of what Detective Melody has just told us. That was Blue Blood’s little secret and to all intents and purposes it died with him. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Mrs. Cherry.
“Of course Superintendent,” said Colonel Pants.
Pants walked to the door and called the constable who was on duty in the hall.
“Go to the little smoking-room. You’ll find Constable Whiplash there with the four guests. Ask Doctor Hooves if he'll be so good as to step this way,”
“I would have kept him to the end,” said Mrs. Cherry. “In a book I mean,” she added apologetically. I smiled at this.
“Real life's a bit different,” said Silver.
“I know,” said Mrs. Cherry. “Badly constructed.”
Doctor Hooves entered with the springiness of his step slightly subdued.
“I say, Silver,” he said. “This is the devil of a business! Excuse me, Mrs. Cherry, Miss Melody, but it is. Professionally speaking, I could hardly have believed it! To stab a stallion with three other ponies a few yards away.” He shook his head. “I wouldn't like to have done it.” A slight smile twitched up the corners of his mouth. “What can I say or do to convince you that I didn't do it?”
“Well, there's motive, Doctor Hooves.”
The doctor nodded his head emphatically.
“Well, that certainly lets me out. I hadn't the shadow of a motive for doing away with poor old Blue Blood. I didn't even know him very well. He amused me – he was such a fantastic fellow. Touch of the bazar about him. Naturally you'll investigate my relations with him closely; I expect that. I'm not a fool. But you won't find anything. I'd no reason for killing Blue Blood and I didn't kill him.”
Superintendent Silver nodded woodenly.
“That's all right, Doctor Hooves. I've got to investigate, as you know. You're a sensible pony. Now can you tell me anything about the other three ponies?”
“I'm afraid I don't know very much. Shining and Miss Lyra I met for the first time tonight. I knew of Shining before - read his travel book, and a jolly good yarn it is.”
“Did you know that he and Mr. Blood were acquainted?”
“No. Blue Blood never mentioned him to me. As I say, I’d heard of him, but never met him. Miss Lyra I've never seen before. Mrs. Shores I know slightly.”
“What do you know about her?”
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“She's a widow. Moderately well off. Intelligent, well-bred mare, first class bridge player. That's where I've met her as a matter of fact, playing bridge.”
“And Mr. Blood never mentioned her either?”
“No.”
“Hm - that doesn't help us much. Now, Doctor Hooves, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tax your memory carefully and tell me how often you yourself left your seat at the bridge table and all you can remember about the movements of the others.”
Doctor Hooves took a few minutes to think.
“It’s difficult,” he said frankly, “I can remember my own movements more or less. I got up three times - that is, on three occasions when I was dummy, I left my seat and made myself useful. Once I went over and put wood on the fire. Once I brought drinks to the two mares. Once I poured out a whisky for myself.”
“The table with the drinks was beyond Mr. Blood’s chair?”
“Yes. That’s to say I passed quite near him three times.”
“You assumed he was asleep at this point?”
“That’s what I thought the first time. The second time I didn't even look at him. Third time I rather fancy the thought just passed through my mind, ‘How the beggar does sleep’ but I didn't really look at him.”
“I see. Now when did your fellow players leave then seats?”
Doctor Hooves frowned.
“Difficult - very difficult. The Major went and fetched an extra ash tray, I think. And he went for a drink. That was before me, for I remember he asked me if I’d have one and I said I wasn’t quite ready.”
“And the mares?”
“Mrs. Shores went over to the fire once. Used the poker I think. I rather fancy she spoke to Blue Blood, but I don’t know. I was playing a rather tricky no trump at the time.”
“And Miss Lyra?”
“She certainly left the table once. Came round and looked at my hand - I was her partner at the time. Then she looked at the other ponies’ hands and then she wandered round the room. I don't know what she was doing exactly. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Superintendent Silver said thoughtfully, “As you were sitting at the bridge table, no one's chair was directly facing the fireplace?”
“No, sort of sideways on and there was a big cabinet between us, a beautiful piece it was too, very handsome. I can see, of course, that it would be perfectly possible to stab the old chap. After all when you’re playing bridge, you’re playing bridge. You’re not looking round you and noticing what is going on. The only person who's likely to be doing that is dummy. And in this case - ”
“In this case, undoubtedly dummy was the murderer,” said Superintendent Silver.
“All the same,” said Doctor Hooves, “it must have taken nerve you know! After all, who is to say that somepony won't look up just at the critical moment?"
“Yes,” said Silver. “It was a big risk. The motive must have been a strong one. I wish we knew what it was,” he added with unblushing mendacity.
“You’ll find out, I expect,” said Hooves. “You’ll go through his papers and all that sort of thing. There will probably be a clue.”
“We’ll hope so,” said Superintendent Silver gloomily.
He shot a glance at the other.
“I wonder if you’d oblige me, Doctor Hooves, by giving me a personal opinion - as stallion to stallion.”
“Certainly.”
“Which do you fancy yourself of the three to have done it?”
Doctor Hooves shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s easy. Offhand I’d say Shining. The stallions got plenty of nerve, he’s used to a dangerous life where you've got to act quickly. He wouldn’t mind taking a risk. It doesn't seem to me likely the mares are in on this. Take a bit of strength, I should imagine.”
“Not so much as you might think. Take a look at this.”
Rather like a conjuror, Silver suddenly produced a long, thin instrument of gleaming metal with a small, round jeweled head.
A stiletto.
We all leaned closer for hope of a better look.
Doctor Hooves leaned forward, took it, and examined it with rich, professional appreciation. He tried the point and whistled. “What a tool! What a tool! Absolutely made for murder, this little toy. Go in like butter - absolutely like butter. Brought it with him, I suppose?”
Battle shook his head.
“No. It was Prince Blue Blood's. It lay on the table near the door with a good many other knick-knacks.”
“So the murderer helped himself. A bit of luck finding a tool like that.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” said Silver slowly.
“Well, of course it wasn’t luck for Blue Blood, poor fellow.”
“I didn’t mean that, Doctor Hooves. I meant that there was another angle of looking at the business. It occurs to me that it was noticing this weapon that put the idea of murder into our criminal’s mind.”
“You mean it was a sudden inspiration? That the murder wasn’t premeditated? He conceived the idea after he got here? Er – anything to suggest that idea to you?” He glanced at Silver searchingly.
“It’s just an idea,” said Superintendent Silver stolidly.
“Well, it might be so, of course,” said Doctor Hooves slowly.
Superintendent Silver cleared his throat.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Doctor. Thank you for your help. Perhaps you’ll leave your address.”
“Certainly. Two hundred Thoroughbred Estates, W. two. Telephone Field Street No. Two-three-eight-nine-six.”
“Thank you. I may have to call upon you shortly.”
“Delighted to see you any time. Hope there won’t be too much in the papers. I don’t want my nervous patients upset.”
Superintendent Silver looked round at me.
“Excuse me, Miss Melody. If you’d like to ask any questions I’m sure the doctor wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not. Of course not. I’m a great admirer of yours, Miss Melody. ’It's all in the mind - order and method.’ I know all about it. I feel sure you’ll think of something most intriguing to ask me.” He said cheerfully.
I sat forward in my chair and frowned in my omnipresent contemplating manner.
“No, no. I just like to get all the details clear in my mind. For instance, how many rubbers did you play?”
“Three,” said Hooves promptly. “We’d got well into the fourth rubber when you came in.”
“And who played with who?”
“First rubber, Shining and I against the mares. They beat us, Celestia bless ‘em. A complete walkover, we never held a card.
“Second rubber Miss Harpstrings and I against Shining and Mrs. Shores. Third rubber Mrs. Shores and I against Miss Harpstrings and Shining. We cut each time but it worked out like a pivot. Fourth rubber Miss Harpstrings and I again.”
“Who won and who lost?”
“Mrs. Shores won every rubber. Miss Harpstrings won the first and lost the next two. I was a bit up and Miss Harpstrings and Shining must have been down.”
I said smiling, “The good superintendent has asked you your opinion of your companions as candidates for murder. I now ask you for your opinion of them as bridge players.”
“Mrs. Shores is first class,” Doctor Hooves replied promptly. “I’ll bet she makes a good income a year out of bridge. Shining’s a good player too - what I call a sound player - longheaded chap; Miss Harpstrings you might describe as quite a safe player. She doesn't make mistakes but she isn't brilliant.”
“And you yourself, Doctor?”
Hooves’ eyes twinkled, “I overbid my hand a bit, or so they say. But I’ve always found it pays.”
I smiled.
Doctor Hooves rose. “Anything more?”
I shook my head.
“Well, good night, then. Good night, Mrs. Cherry. You ought to get some copy out of this. Better than your untraceable poisons, eh?”
Doctor Hooves left the room, his bearing springy once more.
Mrs. Cherry said bitterly as the door closed behind him, “Copy! Copy indeed! Ponies these days are so unintelligent. I could invent a better murder any day than anything real. I’m never at a loss for a plot. And the ponies who read my books like untraceable poisons!”
Mrs. Shores came into the dining room like a gentlemare. She looked a little pale, but composed.
“I’m sorry to have to bother you,” Superintendent Silver began.
“You must do your duty, of course,” said Mrs. Shores quietly. “It is, I agree, an unpleasant position in which to be placed, but there is no good shirking it. I quite realize that one of the four ponies in that room must be guilty. Naturally I can't expect you to take my word that I am not the pony.”
She accepted the chair that Colonel Pants offered her and sat down opposite the superintendent. Her intelligent eyes met his. She waited attentively.
“You knew Mr. Blood well?” began the superintendent.
“Not very well. I have known him over a period of some years, but never intimately.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“At a hotel in Fillydelphia - the Winter Palace, I think.”
“What did you think of him?”
Mrs. Shores shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“I thought him - I may as well say so - rather a charlatan.”
“You had - excuse me for asking - no motive for wishing him out of the way?”
Mrs. Shores looked slightly amused.
“Really, Superintendent Silver, do you think I should admit it if I had?”
“You might,” said Silver. “A really intelligent pony might know that a thing was bound to come out.”
Mrs. Shores inclined her head thoughtfully.
“There is that, of course. No, Superintendent Silver, I had no motive for wishing Mr. Blood out of the way. It is really a matter of indifference to me whether he is alive or dead. I thought him a poser and rather theatrical, and sometimes he irritated me. That is - or rather was - my attitude toward him.”
“That is that, then. Now, Mrs. Shores, can you tell me anything about your three companions?”
“I’m afraid not. Major Amour and Miss Harpstrings I met for the first time tonight. Both of them seem charming ponies. Doctor Hooves I know slightly. He’s a very popular doctor, I believe.”
“He is not your own doctor?”
“Oh, no.”
“Now, Mrs. Shores, can you tell me how often you got up from your seat tonight, and will you also describe the movements of the other three?”
Mrs. Shores did not take any time to think.
“I thought you would probably ask me that. I have been trying to think it out. I got up once myself when I was dummy. I went over to the fire. Mr. Blood was alive then. I mentioned to him how nice it was to see a wood fire.”
“And he answered?”
“That he hated radiators.”
“Did anypony overhear your conversation?”
“I don’t think so. I lowered my voice not to interrupt the players.” She added dryly, “In fact you have only my word for it that Mr. Blood was alive and spoke to me.”
Superintendent Silver made no protest.
He went on with his quiet methodical questioning.
“What time was that?”
“I should think we had been playing a little over an hour.”
“What about the others?”
“Doctor Hooves got me a drink. He also got himself one - that was later. Major Amour also went to get a drink - at about eleven-fifteen, I should say.”
“Only once?”
“No - twice, I think. The stallions moved about a fair amount, but I didn’t notice what they did. Miss Harpstrings left her seat once only I think. She went round to look at her partner's hand.”
“But she remained near the bridge table?”
“I couldn’t say at all. She may have moved away.”
Silver nodded. “It’s all very vague,” he grumbled.
“I am sorry.”
Once again Silver did his conjuring trick and produced the long, delicate stiletto.
“Will you look at this, Mrs. Shores?”
Mrs. Shores took it without emotion.
“Have you ever seen that before?”
“Never.”
“Yet it was lying on a table in the drawing-room.”
“I didn’t notice it.”
“You realize, perhaps, Mrs. Shores, that with a weapon like that a mare could do the trick just as easily as a stallion.”
“I suppose she could,” said Mrs. Shores quietly.
She leaned forward and handed the dainty little thing over to me.
“But all the same,” I said, speaking more to myself than the others “the mare would have to be pretty desperate. It was a long chance to take.”
I waited a minute but Mrs. Shores did not speak.
“Do you know anything of the relations between the other three and Mr. Blood?” said Superintendent Silver.
She shook her head.
“Nothing at all.”
“Would you care to give me an opinion as to which of them you consider the most likely pony to have committed the crime?”
Mrs. Shores drew herself up stiffly.
“I should not care to do anything of the kind, Superintendent. I consider that a most improper question. I’m surprised you should have the temerity to ask it.”
The poor superintendent looked like an abashed little colt that had been reprimanded by his grandmother.
“Address, please,” he mumbled, drawing his notebook toward him.
“Anything you want to ask, Octavia?” said Silver hurriedly.
Mrs. Shores paused, her head slightly inclined.
“Would it be a proper question, Mrs. Shores, to ask you your opinion of your companions not as potential murderers but as bridge players?” I asked, looking into her eyes.
Mrs. Shores answered coldly, “I have no objection to answering that - if it bears upon the matter at issue in any way, though I fail to see how it can.”
I said bluntly, “I will be the judge of that. Your answer, if you please, Mrs. Shores.”
In the tone of an impatient adult humoring an idiot child Mrs. Shores replied, “Major Amour is a good sound player. Doctor Hooves overbids but plays his hand brilliantly. Miss Harpstrings is quite a nice little player but a bit too cautious. Anything more?”
In my turn doing a conjuring trick, I produced four crumpled bridge scores.
“These scores, Mrs. Shores, is one of these yours?” I asked, holding out the score paper to her.
She examined them. “This is my writing. It is the score of the third rubber.”
“And this score?”
“That must be Major Amour's. He cancels as he goes.”
“And this one?”
“Miss Harpstrings’. The first rubber.”
“So this unfinished one is Doctor Hooves’?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shores. I think that is all.” I said, pocketing the paper.
Mrs. Shores turned to Mrs. Cherry.
“Good night, Mrs. Cherry. Good night, Colonel Pants.”
Then, having bit us all goodnight with all four of us, she went out.
“Well, we didn't get any extra change out of her,” commented Silver. “Put me in my place, too. She's the old-fashioned kind, full of consideration for others but arrogant as the devil! I can't believe she did it, but you never know! She’s got plenty of resolution. And what was the idea of the bridge scores, Octavia?”
I spread them out on the table.
“They are illuminating, don’t you think?” I said gazing at them almost fondly.
“What do we want in this case? A clue to character. And a clue not to one character, but to four characters. And this is where we are most likely to find it - in these scribbled figures. Here is the first rubber, you see - a tame round, soon over. Small neat figures - careful addition and subtraction - that is Miss Harpstrings’ score. She was playing with Mrs. Shores. They had the cards and they won.”
I moved on to the next score sheet.
“In this next one it is not so easy to follow the play, since it is kept in the cancellation style. But it tells us perhaps something about Major Amour - a stallion who likes the to know at a glance exactly where he stands. The figures are small and full of character.”
I moved on to the final score sheet.
“Here is the last score - the unfinished rubber. I collected one score in each person’s handwriting, you see.”
“And these figures are rather characteristically flamboyant.” Said Colonel Pants, observantly, pointing to the doctors sheet.
“Indeed. Not such high scores as the preceding rubber. That is probably because the doctor was playing with Miss Harpstrings and she is a timid player. His calling would make her more timid.” I said.
“You may think that my questions to the suspects are foolish, but they are far from it. You see, it is a way of getting to know our four suspects. Take Mrs. Shores’ handwriting for instance, it is graceful, firm, legible. These scores are a clue to character. I want to get at the characters of these four players, and when the questions are only about bridge, they answer freely.” I concluded and straightened myself, rather pleased with the impressed look from the other three.
“I never think of your questions as foolish, Miss Melody,” said Silver. “I’ve seen too much of your work for that. Everyone’s got their own ways of working. I know that. I give my inspectors a free hand always. Everyone's got to find out for themselves what method suits them best. But we’d better not discuss that now. We’ll have Miss Harpstrings in.”
Lyra Harpstrings was upset. She stopped in the doorway. Her breath came unevenly.
Superintendent Silver was immediately fatherly. He rose, and set a chair for her at a slightly different angle. I personally failed to see how this would have any effect on the poor filly in terms of emotional comfort, but somehow, it seemed to work – somehow.
“Sit down, Miss Harpstrings, sit down. Now don’t be alarmed. I know all this seems rather dreadful, but it’s not so bad really.”
“I don’t think anything could be worse,” and Lyra in a low voice. “It’s so awful - so awful - to think that one of us - that one of us went and - ”
“You let me do the thinking,” said Silver, kindly.
“Now then, Miss Harpstrings, suppose we have your address first of all.”
“Haystack Cottage, on the outskirts of Ponyville.”
“No address in town?”
“No, I’m staying at my club for a day or two.”
“And your club is?”
“Mares’ Naval and Military.”
“Good. Now then, Miss Harpstrings, how well did you know Mr. Blood?”
“I didn’t know him well at all. I always thought he was a most frightening stallion.”
“Why?”
“Oh, well, he just was. That awful smile! And a way he had of bending over you. As though he might bite you.”
“Had you known him long?”
“About nine months. I met him during winter wrap-up.”
“I should never have thought he went out for winter wrap-up,” said Silver, surprised.
“He only skated. He was a marvelous skater. Lots of figures and tricks, but not really any actual work.”
“Yes, that sounds more like him. And did you see much of him after that?”
“Well - a fair amount. He asked me to parties and things like that. They were rather fun,”
“But you didn’t like him himself?”
“No, I thought he was a shivery kind of pony.”
Silver said gently, “But you’d no special reason for being afraid of him?”
Lyra Harpstrings raised wide limpid eyes to his.
“Special reason? Oh, no.”
“That's all right then. Now about tonight, did you leave your seat at all?”
“I don’t think so. Oh, yes, I may have done so once. I went round to look at the others’ hands.”
“But you stayed by the bridge table all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Quite sure, Miss Harpstrings?”
The filly's cheeks flamed suddenly.
“No - no I think I walked about.”
“Right. You'll excuse me, Miss Harpstrings, but try and speak the truth. I know you’re nervous, and when one’s nervous one’s apt to - well, to say the thing the way you want it to be. But that doesn’t really pay in the end. You walked about. Did you walk over in the direction of Mr. Blood?”
The filly was silent for a minute then she said, “Honestly - honestly – I don’t remember.”
“Well, we'll leave it that you may have. Know anything about the other three?’
Lyra shook her head.
“I’ve never seen any of them before.”
“What do you think of them? Any likely murderers among them?”
“I can’t believe it. I just can't believe it. It couldn't be Major Amour. And I don't believe it could be the doctor. After all a doctor could kill somepony in so much easier ways. A drug - something like that.”
“Then, if it’s anyone, you think its Mrs. Shores.”
“Oh, I don’t. I'm sure she wouldn’t. She’s so charming - and so kind to play bridge with. She’s so good herself and yet she doesn't make one feel nervous, or point out one’s mistakes.”
“Yet you left her name to the last,” said Silver, blankly.
“Only because stabbing seems somehow more like a mare.”
Silver did his conjuring trick. Lyra Harpstrings shrank back. “Oh, horrible! Must I - take it?”
“I’d rather you did.”
I watched her as she took the stiletto gingerly, her face contracted with repulsion.
“With this tiny thing - with this - ”
“Go in like butter,” said Silver with gusto. “A child could do it.”
“You mean - you mean,” wide, terrified eyes fixed themselves on his face, “that I might have done it. But I didn't. Oh! I didn't! Why should I?”
“Why should anypony?” Said Silver, surprisingly short in his manner.
“That's just the question we'd like to know,” said Silver. “What’s the motive? Why did anyone want to kill Blue Blood? He was a picturesque person but he wasn’t dangerous as far as I can make out.”
I watched her silently.
Was there a slight indrawing of her breath? A sudden lifting of her chest?
“Not a blackmailer, for instance, or anything of that sort,” went on Silver. “And anyway, Miss Harpstrings, you don't look the sort of mare who’s got a lot of guilty secrets.”
For the first time she smiled, reassured by his geniality.
“No, indeed I haven't. I haven’t got any secrets at all.”
“Then don’t you worry, Miss Harpstrings. We shall have to come round and ask you a few more questions, I expect, but it will be all a matter of routine.”
He got up. “Now you go off. My constable will get you a sky taxi, and don’t you lie awake worrying yourself. Take a couple of aspirins.”
He ushered her out and closed the door behind her. As he came back Colonel Pants said in a low, amused voice, “What a clever old forge you are, Silver! She was really taken in by your Fatherly manner. Your kind air was certainly surpassed.”
“No good dallying about with her, Colonel Pants. Either the poor mare is dead scared - in which case it’s cruelty, and I’m not a cruel stallion; I never have been - or she’s a highly accomplished little actress and we shouldn’t get any farther if we were to keep her here half the night.”
Mrs. Cherry gave a sigh and ran her hoof freely through her fringe until it stood upright and gave her a wholly drunken appearance. “Do you know,” she said, “I rather believe now that she did it! It's lucky it’s not in a book. They don't really like the young and beautiful mare to have done it. All the same, I rather think she did. What do you think, Miss Melody?”
I had been staring at the floor with an extremely serious look on my face, thinking turning over what had been said in my mind.
I continued to stare at a particular spot on the floor, which had now become a point of interest, when I became aware of my name being used.
I looked up with a jerk of my head, regained my previous frown, drew in a breath, all the while my three companions waited patiently.
Then I went back to my gazing spot on the floor.
After a moment of silence, I spoke.
“I have just made a discovery.”
“In the bridge scores again?” Said Mrs. Cherry, patiently.
A few more seconds of silence followed.
Absently, I said, “She turns her score over, draws lines, and uses the back.”
Mrs. Cherry said, “Pardon?”
Looking up, I said with a glimmer in my eyes, “Lyra, she turned her score over, drew lines, and used the back. Why not get a new score sheet? Why reuse the old one?”
“And what does that mean?” Said Pants, slightly confused.
“It means she has the habit of poverty or else is of a naturally economical turn of mind.” I replied, feeling as though I may have had just made an important discovery.
“She’s expensively dressed,” said Mrs. Cherry.
“Send in Major Amour,” said Superintendent Silver.
Shining entered the room with a quick springing step - a step that reminded me of something or someone.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting all this while, Major Amour,” said Silver. “But I wanted to let the mares get away as soon as possible.”
“Don’t apologize. I understand.” He sat down and looked inquiringly at the superintendent.
“How well did you know Mr. Blood?” began the latter.
“I’ve met him twice,” said Shining crisply.
“Only twice?”
“That’s all.”
“On what occasions?”
“About a month ago we were both dining at the same house. Then he asked me to a cocktail party a week later.”
“A cocktail party here?”
“Yes.”
“Where did it take place - this room or the drawing-room?”
“In all the rooms.”
“See this little thing lying about?”
Silver once more produced the stiletto.
Major Amour’s lip twisted slightly.
“No,” he said, “Well, I didn’t mark it down for future use, if that’s what you mean.”
“There’s no need to go ahead of what I say, Major Amour.”
The superintendent cleared his throat hastily.
“I beg your pardon. The inference was fairly obvious.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Silver resumed his inquiries.
“Had you any motive for disliking Mr. Blood?”
“Every motive.”
“Oh?” The superintendent raised his eyebrows in a surprised manner.
“For disliking him - not for killing him,” said Shining, still in his even voice. “I hadn’t the least wish to kill him, but I would thoroughly have enjoyed kicking him. A pity. It’s too late now.”
Silver gave a half smile, “Why did you want to kick him, Major Amour?”
“Because he was the sort of rat who needed kicking badly. He used to make the top of my hoof fairly itch.”
“Know anything about him - to his discredit, I mean?”
Major Amour sighed, “He was too well dressed; he wore his hair too long, and he smelled of scent.” The Major frowned, “I know he was a Prince, but still…”
“Yet you accepted his invitation to dinner,” Silver pointed out.
“If I were only to dine in houses where I thoroughly approved of my host I’m afraid, I shouldn’t dine out very much, Superintendent Silver,” said Shining dryly.
“You like society, but you don’t approve of it?” suggested the other.
“I like it for very short periods. To come back from the wilds to lighted rooms and mares in lovely clothes, to dancing and good food, and laughter - yes, I enjoy that - for a time. And then the insincerity of it all sickens me and I want to be off again in some barbaric land inhabited by uncivilized folk.” Shining smiled.
“It must be a dangerous sort of life that you lead, Major Amour, wandering about in these wild places.”
Shining shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly.
“Mr. Blood didn’t lead a dangerous life - but he is dead, and I am alive.”
“He may have led a more dangerous life than you think,” said Silver meaningly.
“How do you mean?”
“The late Mr. Blood was a bit of a Nosy Parker,” said Silver.
The other leaned forward. “You mean that he meddled with other people’s lives - that he discovered - what?”
“I really meant that perhaps he was the sort of pony who meddled - er - well, with mares.”
Major Amour leaned back, in his chair. He laughed, an amused but indifferent laugh.
“I don’t think mares would take a mountebank like that seriously.”
“What’s your theory of who killed him, Major Amour?”
“Well, I know I didn’t. Little Miss Harpstrings didn’t. I can’t imagine Mrs. Shores doing so - she reminds me of one of my more God-fearing aunts. That leaves the medical gentlestallion.”
“Can you describe your own and other ponies’ movements this evening?”
“I got up twice - once for an ash tray and I also poked the fire – and once for a drink.”
“At what times?”
“I couldn’t say. First time might have been about half-past ten, the second time eleven, but that’s pure guesswork, Mrs. Shores went over to the fire once and said something to Blue Blood. I didn’t actually hear him answer, but then I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t swear he didn’t. Miss Harpstrings wandered about the room a bit, but I don’t think she went over near the fireplace. Hooves was always getting up and down - three or four times at least.”
“I’ll ask you Miss Melody’s question,” said Silver with a smile. I continued to watch the Major silently. “What did you think of them as bridge players?”
“Miss Harpstrings is quite a good player. Hooves overcalls disgracefully. Mrs. Shores is damned good. Does that answer your question, Miss Melody?”
"Very clearly," I said, without expression, "Thank you Major."
Silver turned to me.
“Anything else, Miss Melody?”
I shook my head
Shining gave his address as the Albany, wished us good night, and left the room.
He closed the door behind him.
It then occurred to me what it was that Shining had reminded me of when he first entered the room.
I made a slight movement.
“What is it?” demanded Silver
“Nothing,” I said.
“Only, it just occurred to me that he walks like a Manticore - yes, just so, lithe, easy, like the Manticore moves along.” I said, staring at the door through which Shining had just exited.
“H'm!” said Silver. “Now then,” his eye glanced round at us, his three companions, “which of ‘em did it?”
Silver looked from one face to another. Just as I predicted, only one pony answered his question. Mrs. Cherry, never averse to giving her views, rushed into speech.
“Lyra or the doctor,” she said.
Silver looked questioningly at Pants and I.
Admittedly, I was unwilling to make a pronouncement. The Colonel seemed to share the same mindset. Pants shook his head. I carefully smoothed my crumpled bridge scores. They never seemed to become un-creased. This was beginning to frustrate me.
“One of ‘em did it,” said Silver. “One of ‘em’s lying like hell. But which? It's not easy - no, it’s not easy.”
I looked up from my stubborn bridge scores.
He was silent for a minute or two, then he said, “If we’re to go by what they say, the Doctor thinks the Major did it, the Major thinks the Doctor did it, the Miss Harpstrings thinks Mrs. Shores did it - and Mrs. Shores won’t say! Nothing very illuminating there.”
“Perhaps not,” I said.
Silver shot me a quick glance.
“You think there is?”
I waved an airy hoof.
“A nuance - nothing more! Nothing to go upon.” I said, dismissively. In actual fact, nothing had come to me at all.
Silver continued. “You two won’t say what you think.”
“No evidence,” said Pants curtly.
“Oh, you stallions!” sighed Mrs. Cherry, despising such reticence.
“Let’s look at the rough possibilities,” said Silver. He considered a minute. “I put the doctor first, I think. Specious sort of customer. Would know the right spot to shove the dagger in. But there's not much more than that to it. Then take Shining. There’s a pony with any amount of nerve. A pony accustomed to take quick decisions and a pony who’s quite at home doing dangerous things. Mrs. Shores? She’s got any amount of nerve, too, and she's the sort of mare who might have a secret in her life. She looks as though she’s known trouble. On the other hand I’d say she's what I call a high principled mare - sort of mare who might be headmistress of a filly’s school. It isn't easy to think of her sticking a knife into anypony. In fact, I don't think she did. And lastly there’s little Miss Harpstrings. We don’t know anything about her. She seems an ordinary, good-looking, rather shy filly. But one doesn't know, as I say, anything about her.”
“We know that Blue Blood believed she had committed murder,” I said.
“The angelic face masking the demon,” mused Mrs. Cherry.
“This getting us anywhere, Silver?” asked Colonel Pants.
“Unprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, there’s bound to be speculation in a case like this.”
“Isn’t it better to find out something about these ponies?”
Silver smiled. “Oh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there.”
“Certainly. How?”
“As regards Major Amour. He’s been abroad a lot - in South Elephantia, in East Rhinolia, in North Austneighlia – you’ve means of knowing those parts. You could get information about him.”
Pants nodded.
“It shall be done. I’ll get all available data.”
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Cherry, making Pant’s and I jump. “I’ve got a plan. There are four of us – four sleuths as you might say - and four of them! How would it be if we each took one? Backed our fancy! Colonel Pants takes Major Amour, Superintendent Silver takes Doctor Hooves. I'll take Miss Harpstrings, and Miss Melody takes Mrs. Shores. Each of us to follow our own line!”
Superintendent Silver shook his head decisively.
“Couldn’t quite do that, Mrs. Cherry. This is official, you see. I’m in charge. I’ve got to investigate all lines. Besides it’s all very well to say back your fancy. Two of us might want to back the same pony! Colonel Pants hasn’t said he suspects Major Amour. And Octavia mayn’t be putting her money on Mrs. Shores.” Mrs. Cherry sighed.
“It was such a good plan,” she sighed regretfully. “So neat.” Then she cheered up a little. “But you don't mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?”
“No,” said Superintendent Silver slowly. “I can’t say I object to that. In fact, it's out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, you’re naturally free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But I'd just like to point out to you, Mrs. Cherry, that you’d better be a little careful.”
“Discretion itself,” said Mrs. Cherry. “I shan’t breathe a word of - of anything.” she ended, a little lamely.
I frowned. “I do not think that was quite Superintendent Silvers’ meaning,” I said. “He meant that you will be dealing with a pony who has already, to the best of our belief, killed twice - a pony, therefore, who will not hesitate to kill a third time - if they considers it necessary.”
Mrs. Cherry looked at me thoughtfully. She smiled - an agreeable, engaging smile rather like that of an impudent small filly, I thought.
“You have been warned,” she quoted. “Thank you, Miss Melody, I’ll watch my step. But I’m not going to be out of this.”
I bowed gracefully.
“Permit me to say - you are the sport, Mrs. Cherry.”
“I presume,” said Mrs. Cherry, sitting up very straight and speaking in a businesslike committee meeting manner, “that all information we receive will be pooled - that is, that we will not keep any knowledge to ourselves. Our own deductions and impressions, of course, we are entitled to keep up our sleeves.”
Superintendent Battle sighed.
“This isn’t a detective story, Mrs. Cherry,” he said.
Pants said, “Naturally, all information must be handed over to the police.”
Having said this in his most “Orderly Room” voice he added, with a slight twinkle in his eye, “I’m sure you'll play fair, Mrs. Cherry. The stained glove, the hoofprint on the tooth glass, the fragment of burned paper, you'll turn them over to Silver here.”
“You may laugh,” said Mrs. Cherry, “but a mares intuition - ” She nodded her head with decision.
Pants rose.
“I’ll have Shining looked up for you. It may take a little time. Anything else I can do?”
“I don’t think so, thank you Colonel. You’ve no hints? I’d value anything of that kind.”
“Hm. Well - I'd keep a special lookout for shooting or poison or accidents, but I expect you're on to that already.”
“I’d made a note of that - yes.”
“Good stallion, Silver. You don't need me to teach you your job. Good night, Mrs. Cherry. Good night, Miss Melody.” And with a final nod to Silver, Colonel Pants left the room.
“Who is he? I mean, in terms of what he does?” asked Mrs. Cherry. “Very fine Military record,” said Silver.
“He’s traveled a lot, too. Not many parts of the world that he doesn't know about.” I said.
“Secret Service, I suppose,” said Mrs. Cherry. “You can’t tell me so, I know, but he wouldn't have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and the four sleuths - Manehatten Yard. Secret Service. Private Investigator. Detective Fiction. A clever idea.”
I shook my head.
“You are in error, Hazel. It was a very stupid idea. The Manticore was alarmed - and the Manticore sprang.”
“The Manticore? Why the Manticore?”
“By the Manticore I mean the murderer,” I said, having found another spot on the crumpled bridge scores to be absently transfixed upon.
Silver said bluntly, “What’s your idea of the right line to take, Octavia? That’s one question. And I’d also like to know what you think of the psychology of these four people. You’re rather hot on that.”
Still smoothing the bridge scores, I said, “You are right; psychology is very important. We know the kind of murder that has been committed, the way it was committed. If we have a pony who from the psychological point of view could not have committed that particular type of murder, then we can dismiss that pony from our calculations. We know something about these ponies. We have our own impression of them, we know the line that each has elected to take, and we know something about their minds and their characters from what we have learned about them as card players and from the study of their handwriting and of these scores. But alas, it is not too easy to give a definite pronouncement. This murder required audacity and nerve - a pony who was willing to take a risk.
Well, we have Doctor Hooves - a bluffer, an overbidder of his hand, a stallion with complete confidence in his own powers to pull off a risky thing. His psychology fits very well with the crime. One might say, then, that that automatically wipes out Miss Harpstrings. She is timid, frightened of overbidding her hand, careful, economical prudent and lacking in self-confidence - the last type of pony to carry out a bold and risky coup. But a timid pony will murder out of fear. A frightened nervous pony can be made desperate; they can turn like a rat at bay if driven into a corner. If Miss Harpstrings had committed a crime in the past, and if she believed that Mr. Blood knew the circumstances of that crime and was about to deliver her up to justice, she would be wild with terror; she would stop at nothing to save herself. It would be the same result, though brought about through a different reaction – not cool nerve and daring, but desperate panic.
Then take Major Amour - a cool, resourceful stallion willing to try a long shot if he believed it absolutely necessary. He would weigh the pros and cons and might decide that there was a sporting chance in his favor - and he is the type of stallion to prefer action to inaction, and a stallion who would never shrink from taking the dangerous way if he believed there was a reasonable chance of success. Finally there is Mrs. Shores, an elderly mare, but a mare in full possession of her wits and faculties. A cool mare. A mare with a mathematical brain. She has probably the best brain of the four. I confess that if Mrs. Shores committed a crime; I should expect it to be a premeditated crime. I can see her planning a crime slowly and carefully, making sure that there were no flaws in her scheme. For that reason she seems to me slightly more unlikely than the other three. She is, however, the most dominating personality, and whatever she undertook she would probably carry through without a flaw. She is a thoroughly efficient mare." I paused.
“So, you see, that does not help us much. No - there is only one way in this crime. We must go back into the past.”
Silver sighed. "You've said it," he murmured.
“In the opinion of Mr. Blood each of those four ponies had committed murder. Had he evidence? Or was it a guess? We cannot tell. It is unlikely, I think, that he could have had actual evidence in all four cases - ”
“I agree with you there,” said Silver, nodding his head. “That would be a bit too much of a coincidence.”
“I suggest that it might come about this way - murder or a certain form of murder is mentioned, and Mr. Blood noticed a look on someone’s face. He was very quick - very sensitive to expression. It amused him to experiment, to probe gently in the course of apparently aimless conversation; he was alert to notice a wince, a reservation, a desire to turn the conversation. Oh, it is easily done. If you suspect a certain secret, nothing is easier than to confirm your suspicion. Every time a word goes home you notice it - if you are watching for such a thing.”
“It’s the sort of game that would have amused our late friend,” said Silver, nodding.
“We may assume, then, that such was the procedure in one or more cases. He may have come across a piece of actual evidence in another case and followed it up. I doubt whether, in any of the cases, he had sufficient actual knowledge with which - for instance - to have gone to the police.”
“Or it mayn’t have been the kind of case,” said Silver. “Often enough there’s a fishy business - we suspect foul play, but we can’t ever prove it. Anyway the course is clear. We’ve got to go through the records of all these ponies - and note any deaths that may be significant. I expect you noticed, just as the Colonel did, what Blue Blood said at dinner.”
“The black angel,” murmured Mrs. Cherry.
“A neat little reference to poison, to accident, to a doctor's opportunities, to shooting accidents. I shouldn't be surprised if he signed his death warrant when he said those words.” Said Superintendent Silver.
“It was a nasty sort of pause,” said Mrs. Cherry.
“Yes,” I said, looking up from my bridge scores. “Those words went home to one pony at least - that pony probably thought that Blue Blood knew far more than he really did. That listener thought that they were the prelude to the end - that the party was a dramatic entertainment arranged by Blue Blood leading up to arrest for murder as its climax! Yes, as you say, he signed his death warrant when he baited his guests with those words.”
There was a moment’s silence. I stopped smoothing the bridge scores.
“This will be a long business,” said Silver with a sigh. “We can’t find out all we want in a moment - and we’ve got to be careful. We don’t want any of the four to suspect what we’re doing. All our questioning and so on must seem to have to do with this murder. There mustn’t be a suspicion that we’ve got any idea of the motive for the crime. And the devil of it is we’ve got to check up on four possible murders in the past, not just one.”
I demurred.
“Our friend Mr. Blood was not infallible,” I said. “He may - it is just possible - have made a mistake.”
“About all four?”
“No - he was more intelligent than that.”
“Call it fifty-fifty?”
“Not even that. For me, I say one in four.”
“One innocent and three guilty? That’s bad enough. And the devil of it is even if we get at the truth it mayn’t help us. Even if somebody did push his or her great-aunt down the stairs years ago, it won’t be much use to us today.”
“Yes, yes, it will be of use to us.” I encouraged him. “You know that. You know it as well as I do.”
Silver nodded slowly.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “Same hallmark.”
“Do you mean,” said Mrs. Cherry, “that the previous victim will have been stabbed with a dagger, too?"
“Not quite as crude as that, Mrs. Cherry,” said Silver, turning to her. “But I don’t doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It’s odd, but a criminal gives themself away every time by that.”
"Equidae is an unoriginal species," I said, sighing.
“Mares,” said Mrs. Cherry, “are capable of infinite variation. I should never commit the same type of murder twice running.”
“Don’t you ever write the same plot twice running?” asked Silver, wit ha chuckle.
I remembered something from two of Mrs. Cherry’s detective novels.
“The Chess Game Murder,” I murmured, smiling. “The Clue of the Unicorns Horn.”
Mrs. Cherry turned on me, her eyes beaming appreciation. “That’s clever of you – that’s really very clever of you. Because of course those two are exactly the same plot, but nobody else has seen it. One is stolen papers at an informal week-end party at the Mayors house, and the other’s a murder in Rhinolia in a melon planter’s bungalow.”
“But the essential point on which the story turns is the same,” I said. “One of your neatest tricks. The melon planter arranges his own murder; the Mayor arranges the robbery of his own papers. At the last minute the third pony steps in and turns deception into reality.”
“I enjoyed your last book, Mrs. Cherry,” said Superintendent Silver kindly. “The one where all the chief constables were shot simultaneously. You just slipped up once or twice on official details. I know you’re keen on accuracy, so I wondered if - ”
Mrs. Cherry interrupted him.
“As a matter of fact I don't care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nopony nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful filly of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favorite dog, Kelpy, good-by, does anybody make a fuss because the filly was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyhay terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing I don't see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more.”
I laughed quietly at this. The Superintendent smiled.
Mrs. Cherry continued.
“What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing’s getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somepony is going to tell something - and then they’re killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books - camouflaged different ways of course. And ponies like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and fillies tied up in cellars with water pouring in, such a troublesome way of killing anypony really, and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villain’s singlehooved. I’ve written thirty-two books by now - and of course they’re all exactly the same really, as Octavia seems to have noticed - but nobody else has; and I only regret one thing, making my detective a Caneighdian. I don't really know anything about the Caneighdians, and I’m always getting letters from Caneighdia pointing out something impossible that he’s said or done. They seem to read detective stories a good deal in Caneighdia. I suppose it's the long winters with no relief from the cold. In Mesotrotania they don’t seem to read at all. I’d have done better to have made him a Mesotrotanian,” She broke off.
Silver and I stared at her.
“I’m so sorry.” She said, “I’m talking shop. And this is a real murder.” Her face lit up. “What a good idea it would be if none of them had murdered him. If he’d asked them all, and then quietly committed suicide just for the fun of making a mystery of it.”
I thought about this for a brief moment and then nodded approvingly. “An admirable solution. So neat. So ironic. But alas, Mr. Blood was not that sort of stallion. He was very fond of life.”
“I don’t think he was really a nice pony,” said Mrs. Cherry slowly.
“He was not nice, no,” I said. “But he was alive - and now he is dead and, as I told him once, I have a bourgeois attitude to murder. I disapprove of it.”
I added softly, “And so - I am prepared to go inside the Manticore’s cage.”
“Good morning, Superintendent Silver, Miss Melody.”
Doctor Hooves rose from his chair and offered a clean hoof smelling of soap and carbolic.
“How are things going?” he went on.
Superintendent Silver glanced round the comfortable consulting room before answering.
“Well, Doctor Hooves, strictly speaking, they’re not going. They’re standing still.”
“There’s been nothing much in the papers, I’ve been glad to see.”
“Sudden death of the well-known Mr. Blood at an evening party in his own house. It’s left at that for the moment. We’ve had the autopsy – I brought a report of the findings along - thought it might interest you - ”
“That’s very kind of you; it would. Hm - cervical third rib, etcetera. Yes, very interesting.” He handed it back.
“And we’ve interviewed Mr. Blood’s solicitor. We know the terms of his will. Nothing of interest there. The Royal Family is distraught of course, but not as much as you’d think. And then, of course, we’ve been through all his private papers.” I spoke for the first time since entering the room.
Was it fancy or did that broad, clean countenance look a little strained - a little wooden?
“And?” asked Doctor Hooves.
“Nothing,” said I said, watching him.
There wasn’t a sigh of relief. Nothing so blatant as that. But the doctor's figure seemed to relax just a shade more comfortably in his chair.
“And so you’ve come to me?”
“And so, as you say, we’ve come to you.”
The doctor's eyebrows rose a little and his shrewd eyes looked into mine. I looked back blankly.
“Want to go through my private papers - eh?”
“We had hoped so.”
“Got a search warrant?”
“No.”
“Well, you could get one easily enough, I suppose. I’m not going to make difficulties. It’s not very pleasant being suspected of murder, but I suppose I can't blame you for what's obviously your duty.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Superintendent Silver with real gratitude. “I appreciate your attitude, if I may say so, very much. I hope all the others will be as reasonable, I’m sure.”
I nodded in agreement.
“What can’t be cured must be endured,” said the doctor goodhumoredly.
He went on. “I’ve finished seeing my patients here. I’m just off on my rounds. I’ll leave you two my keys and just say a word to my secretary and you can rootle to your heart’s content.”
“That’s all very nice and pleasant, I’m sure,” said Silver. “We’d like to ask you a few more questions before you go.”
“About the other night? Really, I told you all I know,”
“No, not about the other night. About yourself.” I said.
“Well, ask away. What do you want to know?”
“I’d just like a rough sketch of your career, Doctor Hooves. Birth, marriage, and so on.”
“It will get me into practice for my curious patients,” said the doctor dryly. “My career’s a perfectly straightforward one. I’m a Trottingham stallion, born there. My father was in practice there. He died when I was fifteen. I was educated at Canterberry and went in for medicine like my father before me. I have slight heart trouble, nothing serious, but you’ll have all the medical details already, I expect.”
“I looked you up, yes. You an only child or have you any brothers or sisters?” Superintendent Silver was franticly scribbling down notes.
“I’m an only child. Both my parents are dead and I’m unmarried. Will that do to get on with? I came into partnership here with Doctor Troth. He retired about fifteen years ago. Lives in Trotland. I’ll give you his address if you like. I live upstairs here with a cook, a parlormaid, and a housemaid. My secretary comes in daily. I make a good income and I only kill a reasonable number of my patients. How’s that?”
Superintendent Silver grinned. “That’s fairly comprehensive, Doctor Hooves. I’m glad you’ve got a sense of humor. Now I’m going to ask you one more thing.”
“I’m a strictly moral stallion, Superintendent.”
“Oh, that wasn’t my meaning. No, I was just going to ask you if you’d give me the names of four friends - ponies who’ve known you intimately for a number of years. Kind of references, if you know what I mean."
“Yes, I think so. Let me see now. You’d prefer people who are actually in Ponyville now?”
“It would make it a bit easier, but it doesn’t really matter.”
The doctor thought for a minute or two, then with his quill he scribbled four names and addresses on a paper and pushed it across the desk to me.
“Will those do? They’re the best I can think of on the spur of the moment.”
I scrutinized the names, nodded my head in satisfaction, and passed the sheet of paper over to Superintendent Silver. He then read it carefully, nodded, and put the sheet of paper in his pocket.
“It’s just a question of elimination,” I said. “The sooner we can get one person eliminated and go on to the next, the better it is for everyone concerned. We’ve got to make perfectly certain that you weren’t on bad terms with the late Mr. Blood, that you had no private connections or business dealings with him, that there was no question of his having injured you at any time and your bearing resentment. I believe you when you say you only know him slightly, but it isn’t a question of my belief. I’ve got to say we’ve made quite sure.”
Doctor Hooves rang a bell on his desk.
Almost immediately the door opened and a competent-looking young mare appeared. “You rang, Doctor?”
“This is Miss Daisy, Superintendent Silver from Trotland Yard.” Miss Daisy turned a cool gaze on me. It seemed to say, “Dear me, what sort of ponies are these?”
“I should be glad, Miss Daisy, if you will answer any questions Superintendent Silver and Miss Melody might put to you, and give them any help they may need.”
“Certainly, if you say so, Doctor.”
“Well,” said Hooves, rising. “I’ll be off. Did you put the morphia in my case? I shall need it for the Lockhaert case - ”
He bustled out still talking and Miss Daisy followed him. She returned a minute or two later to say, “Will you ring that bell when you want me, Superintendent Silver?”
We thanked her and said he would do so. Then we set to work.
Our search was careful and methodical, though we had no great hopes of finding anything of importance. Hooves’ ready acquiescence dispelled the chance of that. Doctor Hooves was no fool. He would realize that a search would be bound to come and he would make provisions accordingly. There was, however, a faint chance that we might come across a hint of the information we were really after, since Hooves would not know the real object of our search. Superintendent Silver opened and shut drawers, rifled pigeonholes, glanced through a checkbook, estimated the unpaid bills - noted what those same bills were for. I scrutinized Hooves’ passbook, ran through his case notes, and generally left no written document unturned. The result was meager in the extreme. I next took a look through the poison cupboard, noted the wholesale firms with which the doctor dealt, and the system of checking. I re-locked the cupboard, and passed on to the bureau. The contents of the latter were of a more personal nature, but Silver found nothing germane to his search. He shook his head, “Well, Octavia, either he’s clean, or he’s coved his tracks very carefully.”
I said nothing, shattered by the lack of anything of use.
Superintendent Silver sat down in the doctor's chair, and rang the desk bell.
Miss Daisy appeared with promptitude.
I asked her politely to be seated and then sat studying her for a moment, before I decided which way to tackle her.
I had sensed immediately her hostility, and I was uncertain whether to provoke her into unguarded speech by increasing that hostility or whether to try a softer method of approach.
“I suppose you know what all this is about, Miss Daisy,” I said at last.
“Doctor Hooves told me,” said Miss Daisy shortly.
“The whole thing's rather delicate,” said Superintendent Silver.
“Is it?” said Miss Daisy.
“Well, it's rather a nasty business. Four ponies are under suspicion and one of them must have done it. What I want to know is whether you’ve ever seen Prince Blue Blood in person?”
“Never.”
“Ever heard Doctor Hooves speak of him?”
“Never - No, I am wrong. About a week ago Doctor Hooves told me to enter a dinner appointment in his engagement book. Mr. Blood, eight-fifteen on the eighteenth. I didn’t know that it was the actual Prince Blue Blood.”
“And that is the first you ever heard of the Doctors association with Mr. Blood?”
“Yes.”
“Had you seen his name in the papers? He was often in the fashionable news.”
“I’ve got better things to do than reading the fashionable news.”
“I expect you have. Oh, I expect you have,” said the superintendent mildly.
“Well,” I went on. “There it is. All four of these ponies will only admit to knowing Mr. Blood slightly. But one of them knew him well enough to kill him. It’s our task to find out which of them it was.”
There was an unhelpful pause. Miss Daisy seemed quite uninterested in the performance of Superintendent Silver and my task. It was her job to obey her employer’s orders and sit here listening to what Superintendent Silver and I chose to say and answer any direct questions he might choose to put to her.
“You know, Miss Burgess,” the superintendent sounded slightly pain staked, but he persevered, “I doubt you appreciate half the difficulties of our job. Ponies say things, for instance. Well, we mayn’t believe a word of it but we’ve got to take notice of it all the same. It’s particularly noticeable in a case of this kind. I don’t want to say anything against your sex, and Miss Melody’s, but there’s no doubt that a mare when she’s rattled, is apt to lash out with her tongue a bit. She makes unfounded accusations, hints this, that and the other, and rakes up all sorts of old scandals that have probably nothing whatever to do with the case.”
“Do you mean,” demanded Miss Daisy, “that one of these other ponies has been saying things against the doctor?”
“Not anything precisely,” I said cautiously. “But all the same, I’m bound to take notice. Suspicious circumstances about the death of a patient. Probably all a lot of nonsense. I’m ashamed to bother the doctor with it.” I watched her closely while I spoke.
“I suppose someone’s got hold of that story about Mrs. Fall,” said Miss Daisy wrathfully. “The way ponies talk about things they know nothing whatever about is disgraceful. Lots of old mare’s get like that; they think everypony is poisoning them - their relations and their servants and even their doctors. Mrs. Fall had had three doctors before she came to Doctor Hooves, and then, when she got the same fancies about him, he was quite willing for her to have Doctor Ruby instead. It’s the only thing to do in these cases, he said. And after Doctor Ruby she had Doctor Steel and then Doctor Farmer - until she died, poor old thing. She traveled all over the place for each new doctor.”
“You’d be surprised the way the smallest thing starts a story,” said Silver. “Whenever a doctor benefits by the death of a patient somepony has something ill-natured to say. And yet why shouldn’t a grateful patient leave a little something or even a big something to their medical attendant?”
“It’s the relations,” said Miss Daisy. “I always think there’s nothing like death for bringing out the meanness of equestrian nature. Squabbling over who’s to have what before the body’s cold. Luckily Doctor Hooves has never had any trouble of that kind. He always says he hopes his patients won’t leave him anything. I believe he once had a legacy of one hundred Bits and he’s had two walking sticks and a gold watch but nothing else.”
“It’s a difficult life, that of a professional stallion,” I said with a sigh. “He’s always open to blackmail. The most innocent occurrences lend themselves sometimes to a scandalous appearance. A doctor’s got to avoid even the appearance of evil; that means he’s got to have his wits about him good and sharp.”
“A lot of what you say is true,” said Miss Daisy. “Doctors have a difficult time with hysterical mares.”
“Hysterical mares. That’s right. I thought, in my own mind that that was all it amounted to.” “I suppose you mean that dreadful Mrs. Cloudfair?”
Silver pretended to think, “Let me see, was it three years ago? No, more.”
“Four or five, I think. She was a most unbalanced pony! I was glad when she went abroad and so was Doctor Hooves. She told her husband the most frightful lies; they always do, of course. Poor stallion, he wasn’t quite himself; he’d begun to be ill. He died of anthrax, you know, an infected shaving brush.”
“I’d forgotten that,” said Silver untruthfully. I hid a smile.
“And then she went abroad and died not long afterward. But I always thought she was a nasty type of mare - stallion mad, you know.”
“I know the kind,” said Silver. “Very dangerous, they are. A doctor’s got to give them a wide berth. Whereabouts did she die abroad? I seem to remember –“
“Elephantia, I think it was. She got blood poisoning - some native infection.”
“Another thing that must be difficult for a doctor,” I said, making a conversational leap, “is when he suspects that one of his patients is being poisoned by one of his or her relatives. What’s he to do? He’s got to be sure - or else hold his tongue. And if he’s done the latter, then it’s awkward for him if there’s talk of foul play afterward. I wonder if any case of that kind has ever come Doctor Hooves’ way?”
“I really don’t think it has,” said Miss Daisy, considering. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“From the statistical point of view,” said Superintendent Silver, “it would be interesting to know how many deaths occur among a doctor’s practice per year. For instance now, you’ve been with Doctor Hooves some years - ”
“Seven.” I said.
Miss Daisy looked at me, surprised. “How did you know that?” she asked.
“I saw your file whilst searching through some papers.”
“But that didn’t say when I was employed.”
“But it did say your age. You look as though you are perfectly familiar and relaxed with this office, and you are of an age where full time employment would have come available to you approximately eight years ago. This office was established eight years ago, and their was one part time employee before you on exchange from Austneighlia, they were here one year.”
Silver and Daisy stared at me, speechless.
Superintendent Silver just looked at me with bored contempt.
I shrugged, “Simple deduction.”
Silver sighed, “Right, seven. Well, how many deaths have there been in that time offhand?”
“Really, it's difficult to say.” Miss Daisy gave herself up to calculation. She was by now quite thawed and unsuspicious. “Seven, eight - of course I can’t remember exactly - I shouldn’t say more than thirty in the time.”
“Then I fancy Doctor Hooves must be a better doctor than most,” said Silver genially. “I suppose, too, most of his patients are upper class. They can afford to take care of themselves.”
“He’s a very popular doctor. He’s so good at diagnosis.”
“The Doctor and I find common ground.” I muttered. And then, louder, “We should be going now, Superintendent.” Went over to the door to retrieve my coat.
Silver sighed and rose. “I’m afraid I’ve been wandering from my duty, which is to find out a connection between the doctor and the late Prince Blue Blood. You’re quite sure he wasn’t a patient of the doctor’s?”
“Quite sure.”
“Under another name, perhaps?” Silver handed her a photograph. “Recognize him at all? He didn’t go out in public very often.”
“What a very theatrical-looking pony! No, I've never seen him here at any time.”
“Well, that’s that.” I sighed, having retrieved my coat. “We’re much obliged to the doctor, I’m sure, for being so pleasant about everything. Tell him so from me, will you? Tell him I’m passing on to number two. Good-by, Miss Daisy, and thank you for your help.”
I made my exit and waited for the Superintendent.
Silver said his goodbyes and departed. Joining me outside, he took a small notebook from his pocket and made several entries in it under the letter H. I watched silently.
Mrs. Fall? Unlikely.
Mrs. Cloudfair? No legacies.
Investigate deaths of patients. Difficult.
He closed the book and we both left.
We walked for approximately twenty three minutes (give or take a second or two), before turning into the Thatch Gate branch of the Ponyville & Canterlot bank.
The display of his official card and my incomprehensibly perplexing explanation of my part in our reason for being their brought us to a private interview with the manager.
“Good morning, sir. One of your clients is a Doctor Jaffrey Hooves, I understand.”
“Quite correct, Miss Melody.”
“We shall want some information about that gentlestallions account going back over a period of years.” I said, shortly.
“Oh, er - I will see what I can do for you.” The manager cantered away.
A complicated half-hour followed. Finally Silver, with a sigh, tucked away a sheet of penciled figures. I donned my coat. We had found nothing.
“Got what you want?” inquired the bank manager curiously.
“No, we haven’t. Not one suggestive lead. Thank you all the same.”
It was as I was attempting to rectify the creases in my stubborn coat collar, that an idea stuck me. “I say, Silver,” I said, my eyes lit.
As Superintendent turned to say something, I, most unlike my usual manner, seized the Superintendent’s coat sleeve and galloped back to the office of Doctor Hooves, the poor Superintendent trying his best to keep up and not fall on his face in the process.
We soon arrived, panting outside the door to the Doctors office. Barely having caught his breath, Silver hissed, “What the Devil are we doing back here, Octavia?”
I said nothing but hastily signified for him to hush, by placing my hoof on his face.
He simply fell to an expression of pure defeat and irritation.
I removed my hoof quietly walked to the door and quite audaciously, applied my eye to the keyhole.
Doctor Hooves was washing his hooves in his consulting room, just beyond his office. The consulting room was previously blocked from view by a curtain. The curtain was now drawn back.
Inside there were two ornate wooden chairs, a comfortable looking armchair and a lounge couch. He said over his shoulder to Miss Daisy, who was in the office, “What about our stolid sleuths, eh? Did they turn the place upside down and you inside out?”
“They didn’t get much out of me, I can tell you,” said Miss Daisy, setting her lips tightly.
I narrowed my eyes. Silver now had his ear to the crack. We looked at each other, then returned to out eavesdropping posts.
“My dear filly, no need to be an oyster. I told you to tell them all they wanted to know. What did they want to know, by the way?”
“Oh, they kept harping on your knowing that Prince Blue Blood– suggested even that he might have come here as a patient under a different name. They showed me his photograph. Such a theatrical-looking pony!”
“Blue Blood? Oh, yes, fond of posing as a modern Mephistopheles. It went down rather well on the whole. What else did they ask you?”
“Really nothing very much. Except - oh, yes, somebody had been telling him some absolute nonsense about Mrs. Fall - you know the way she used to go on.”
“Fall? Fall? Oh, yes, old Mrs. Fall! That’s rather funny!” The doctor laughed with considerable amusement. “That’s really very funny indeed.”
And in high good humor he sat down to eat his lunch.
Slowly, Superintendent Silver and I moved our heads away from the door.
I was blushing furiously.
Silver was looking at me like he wanted to bellow. He had gone red and was clearly holding back curse words. We had wasted our time. I thought that perhaps we might have heard something of significance. We didn’t.
Superintendent Silver and I were lunching together. We were both downcast.
“Our morning has not been entirely successful,” I said thoughtfully. Silver shook his head.
“It’s going to be uphill work, Octavia.”
“What do you think of him?” I said, staring thoughtfully at a newly found spot on the tabletop.
“Of the doctor? Well, frankly, I think Blue Blood was right. He’s a killer. And he reminds me of a lawyer chap in Manehatten. Same hearty self-confident manner. Same popularity. He was a devil – so’s Hooves. All the same it doesn’t follow that Hooves killed Blue Blood, and as a matter of fact I don’t think he did. He’d know the risk too well - better than a laystallion would - that Blue Blood might wake and cry out. No, I don’t think the Doctor murdered him.”
I continued to stare at the table. “But you think he has murdered somepony?”
“Possibly quite a lot of ponies. That lawyer had. But it’s going to be hard to get at. We’ve looked over his bank account - nothing suspicious there - no large sums suddenly paid in. At any rate in the last seven years he’s not had any legacy from a patient. That wipes out murder for direct gain. He’s never married – that’s a pity - so ideally simple for a doctor to kill his own wife. He’s well to do, but then he’s got a thriving practice among well-to-do people. In fact he appears to lead a thoroughly blameless life - and perhaps does do so.”
“Maybe. But I prefer to believe the worst.”
I went on. “There’s that hint of scandal over that mare, Mrs. Cloudfair. That’s worth looking up, I think. It would be wise to get someone on to that straightaway. But, seeing as she actually died out in Elephantia by some local disease, so I don’t think there’s anything in that - but it might throw a light on his general character and morals.”
I paused for a moment. “Then there was the husband.”
“Yes. And then he died of anthrax.” Said Superintendent Silver.
“There were a lot of cheap shaving brushes on the market just then - some of them infected. There was a regular scandal about it.”
“I thought it was rather convenient,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“That’s what I thought. If her husband were threatening to kick up a row - But there, it’s all conjecture. We haven’t a leg to stand upon.”
“Courage, my friend. I know your patience. In the end, we will have as many legs as a millipede.” I said, smiling reassuringly.
“And fall into a ditch as a result of thinking about them,” grinned Silver, cheering up.
Then he asked curiously. “What about you, Miss Melody? Going to take up some private in-looks yourself?”
“I may again call on Doctor Hooves.”
“Two interrogations in one day, that ought to put the wind up him.”
“Oh, I shall be very discreet. I shall not inquire into his past life.” I took another sip of my coffee.
“I’d like to know just exactly what line you’ll take,” said Silver, curiously, ignoring his coffee altogether, “but don’t tell me unless you want to.”
“Not at all, not at all. I am most willing. I shall talk a little of bridge, that is all.”
The superintendent sighed, “Bridge again. You harp on about that, don’t you, Octavia?”
“I find the subject very useful.” I replied, ever so slightly offended.
"Well, everypony to his or her taste. I don’t deal much in these fancy approaches. They don’t suit my style.” Said the superintendent, looking down at his coffee, seeming as though he had only just recognized its existence.
Looking at him as if noticing a piece of old cheese left on the side of the path, I said, “I often wonder what exactly is your style, Superintendent.” Before going back to my coffee.
The Superintendent missed the somewhat contemptuous note in my voice, and answered, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “A straightforward, honest, zealous officer doing his duty in the most laborious manner – that’s my style. No frills. No fancy work, just honest perspiration. Stolid and a bit stupid – that’s my ticket.”
I smiled well humoredly and raised my nearby glass of water. “To our respective methods - and may success crown our joint efforts.” Superintendent Silver smiled and did likewise.
After a minute of two of silently eating our Daffodil and Jasmine sandwiches, Superintendent Silver said, his mouth half full of bread and plant, “I expect Colonel Pants may get us something worth having about Major Amour. He’s got a good many sources of information.”
Dabbing delicately around my mouth with a cloth, I said “Most certainly. And Mrs. Cherry?”
“Bit of a tossup there, I rather like that pony. Talks a lot of nonsense, but she’s a sport. And mares get to know things about other mares that stallions can’t get at. She may spot something useful.”
“Undoubtedly she will.” I said setting down the cloth.
After the appropriate formalities were completed, we separated. Silver went back to Manehatten Yard Ponyville Office to issue instructions for certain lines to be followed up. I betook myself to 200 Thoroughbred Estates.
Doctor Hooves’ eyebrows rose comically as he greeted me.“Two sleuths in one day?” he asked. “Handcuffs by this evening, I suppose.”
I smiled.
“I can assure you, Doctor Hooves, that my attentions are being equally divided between all four of you.”
“That’s something to be thankful for, at all events. Cigar?” The Doctor held out a small, wooden, intricately engraved box of long, thin cigars.
“If you permit, I prefer my pipe.”
I produced my omnipresent Canterlotian wooden smoking pipe and my equally omnipresent small silver tobacco case. I only smoke it on the odd occasion. Once I had placed a substantial portion of tobacco inside the pipe, I took the lit match offered to me by the Doctor, lit the pipe, puffed twice, and stationed its end in the corner on my mouth, puffing occasionally. All the while, the Doctor waited patiently whilst smoking his cigar.
Once I had finished the lighting process, Hooves offered me a seat and we sat down, almost in unison.
“Well, what can I do for you?” asked Hooves.
I was silent for a minute or two, puffing, then I said, “Are you a keen observer of Equidae nature, Doctor?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I am. A doctor has to be.”
“That was exactly my reasoning. A doctor has always to be studying his patients - their expressions, their colour, how fast they breathe, any signs of restlessness; a doctor notices these things automatically almost without noticing he notices! I’m sure you’re the sort of pony who would know all about that, seeing as you are a doctor.” I paused for a moment. “I would like your help with something, Doctor.”
Tapping ash into a tray on his desk, the doctor answered, “I’m willing enough to help. What’s the trouble?”
I produced from a neat little pocket case three carefully folded bridge scores.
“These are the first three rubbers the other evening,” I explained. “Here is the first one, in Miss Harpstrings’ writing. Now can you tell me, with this to refresh your memory, exactly what the bidding was and how each hand went?”
Hooves simply stared at me in astonishment. “You’re joking, Miss Melody. How can I possibly remember?”
I was marginally taken aback, until I remembered that most ponies, unlike myself, cannot remember things such as these. I decided that what Doctor Hooves needed was to be assisted with his recollection. “Can’t you? I should be so very grateful if you could. Take this first rubber. The first game must have resulted either in a game bid in hearts or spades, or else one or other side must have gone down fifty.”
“Let me see - that was the first hand, Yes, I think they went out in spades.”
“And the next hand?”
“I suppose one or other of us went down fifty - but I can’t remember which or what it was in. Really, Miss Melody, you can hardly expect me to do so.”
“Can’t you remember any of the bidding or the hands?”
“I got a grand slam - I remember that. It was doubled too. And I also remember going down a nasty smack, playing three no trumps, I think it was - went down a plenty. But that was later on.”
“Do you remember with whom you were playing?”
“Mrs. Shores. She looked a bit grim, I remember. Didn’t like my overbidding, I expect.”
“And you can’t remember any other of the hands or the bidding?”
Hooves laughed.
“My dear Miss Melody, did you really expect I could? First there was the murder - enough to drive the most spectacular hands out of one’s mind - and in addition I’ve played at least half a dozen rubbers since then.”
I sat looking and feeling rather crestfallen.
“I’m sorry,” said Hooves.
“It does not matter very much,” I said slowly. “I hoped that you might remember one or two, at least, of the hands, because I thought they might be valuable landmarks in remembering other things.”
“What other things?”
“Well, you might have noticed, for instance, that your partner made a mess of playing a perfectly simple no trumper, or that an opponent, say, presented you with a couple of unexpected tricks by failing to lead an obvious card.”
Doctor Hooves became suddenly serious. He leaned forward in his chair, taking the cigar from his mouth, “Ah,” he said. “Now I see what you’re driving at. Forgive me. I thought at first you were talking pure nonsense. You mean that the murder - the successful accomplishment of the murder - might have made a definite difference in the guilty party’s play?”
I nodded, “You have seized the idea correctly. It would be a clue of the first excellence if you had been four players who knew each other’s game well. A variation, a sudden lack of brilliance, a missed opportunity - that would have been immediately noticed. Unluckily you were all strangers to each other. Variations in play would not be so noticeable. But think, Doctor, I beg of you to think. Do you remember any inequalities - any sudden glaring mistakes - in the play of anyone?”
There was silence for a minute or two, in which time I puffed silently on my pipe, then Doctor Hooves shook his head. “It’s no good. I can’t help you,” he said frankly. “I simply don’t remember. All I can tell you is what I told you before. Mrs. Shores is a first-class player - she never made a slip that I noticed. She was brilliant from start to finish. Amour’s play was uniformly good, too. Rather a conventional player - that is, his bidding is strictly conventional. He never steps outside the rules. Won’t take a long chance. Miss Harpstrings –“ He hesitated.
“Yes? Miss Harpstrings?” I prompted him.
“She did make mistakes, once or twice, I remember - toward the end of the evening: but that may simply have been because she was tired, not being a very experienced player. Her hoof shook, too –“ He stopped.
“When did her hoof shake?”
“When was it now? I can’t remember - I think she was just nervous. Miss Melody, you’re making me imagine things.”
“I apologize. There is another point on which I seek your help.”
“Yes?”
I said slowly, “It is difficult. I do not, you see, wish to ask you a leading question. If I say, did you notice so and so - well, I have put the thing into your head. Your answer will not be so valuable. Let me try to get at the matter another way. If you will be so kind, Doctor Hooves, describe to me the contents of the room in which you played.”
Hooves looked thoroughly astonished.
“The contents of the room?”
“If you will be so good.”
“My dear mare, I simply don’t know where to begin.”
“Begin anywhere you choose.”
“Well, there was a good deal of furniture –“
“No, no, no, be precise, I pray of you.”
Doctor Hooves sighed. He began facetiously, adorning the manner of an auctioneer.
“One large settee upholstered in ivory brocade - one ditto in green ditto - four or five large chairs. Eight or nine Mesotrotanian rugs - a set of twelve small gilt Empire chairs. William and Mary bureau. I feel just like an auctioneer’s clerk. A very beautiful Baltimare cabinet. A Grand piano. There was other furniture but I’m afraid I didn’t notice it. Six first-class Elephantiain prints. Two Mesotrotanian pictures on a looking glass. Five or six beautiful snuffboxes. Some Trotish ivory netsuke figures on a table by themselves. Some old silver - Arthur the First tass, I think. One or two pieces of Manehatten enamel –“
“Bravo - Bravo –“ I applauded.
“A couple of old Canterlotian slipware birds - and, I think, a Saddle Wood figure. Then there was some Eastern stuff - intricate silver work. Some jewelry, I don’t know much about that. Some glorious Emeralds, I remember. Oh, and some miniatures in a case - pretty good ones, I fancy. That’s not all by a long way, but it’s all I can think of for the minute.”
“It is magnificent,” I said with due appreciation. “You have the true observer’s eye.”
The doctor laughed and asked curiously, “Have I included the object you had in mind?”
“That is the interesting thing about it,” I said. “If you had mentioned the object I had in mind, I would have been extremely surprised. As I thought, you could not mention it.”
“Why?”
I twinkled my eye.
“Perhaps - because it was not there to mention.”
Hooves stared.
“That seems to remind me of something.”
“It reminds you of Sherlock Hooves does it not? The curious incident of the dog in the night. The dog did not howl in the night. That is the curious thing! Ah, well, I am not above stealing the tricks of others.”
Doctor Hooves simply stared at me, apparently lost, “Do you know, Miss Melody, I am completely at sea as to what you are driving at.”
“That is excellent, that. In confidence that is how I get my little effects.”
Then, as Doctor Hooves still looked rather dazed I said with a smile as I rose to my hooves, “You may at least comprehend this; what you have told me is going to be very helpful to me in my next interview.”
The doctor rose also. “I can’t see how, but I’ll take your word for it,” he said.
We bid each other farewell.
I went down the steps of the doctor’s house and hailed a passing taxi chariot.
“One eleven Bridle Lane, Canterlot, please.” I told the driver.
One eleven Bridle Lane was a small house of very neat and trim appearance standing in a quiet street. The door was painted black and the steps were particularly well whitened, the brass of the knocker and handle gleamed in the afternoon sun.
The door was, opened by an elderly parlormaid with an immaculate white cap and apron. In answer to my inquiry she said that her mistress was at home. She preceded me up the narrow staircase.
“What name, ma’am?”
“Miss Octavia Melody.”
I was ushered into a drawing-room of the usual L shape. I looked about me, noting details. Good furniture, well polished, of the old family type. Shiny chintz on the chairs and settees. A few silver photograph frames about in the old-fashioned manner. Otherwise an agreeable amount of space and light and some really rather beautiful chrysanthemums arranged in a tall jar.
Mrs. Shores came forward to meet me. She greeted me without showing any particular surprise at seeing me, indicated a chair, took one herself, and remarked favorably on the weather.
There was a pause.
“I hope,” I began, “that you will forgive this visit.”
Looking directly at me, Mrs. Shores asked, “Is this a professional visit?”
“I confess it.”
“You realize, I suppose, Miss Melody, that, though I shall naturally give Superintendent Silver and the official police any information and help they may require, I am by no means bound to do the same for any unofficial investigator?”
“I am quite aware of that fact, Mrs. Shores. If you show me the door too me, I march to that door with complete submission.”
Mrs. Shores smiled very slightly.
“I am, not yet prepared to go to those extremes, Miss Melody. I can give you ten minutes. At the end of that time I have to go out to a bridge party.”
“Ten minutes will be ample for my purpose, I want you to describe to me, Madam, the room in which you played bridge the other evening - the room in which Mr. Blood was killed.”
Mrs. Shores' eyebrows rose.
“What an extraordinary question! I do not see the point of it.”
“Madam, if, when you were playing bridge, somepony were to say to you, ‘Why do you play that ace?’ or ‘Why do you put on the knave that is taken by the queen and not the king which would take the trick’? If ponies were to ask you such questions the answers would be rather long and tedious, would they not?”
Mrs. Shores smiled slightly. I took this as a ‘Yes’.
“Meaning that in this game you're the expert and I am the novice. Very well." She reflected a minute. “It was a large room. There were a good many things, in it.”
“Can you describe some of those things?”
“There were some glass flowers - modern - rather beautiful. And I think there were a few paintings of Austneighlian landscapes. And there was a bowl of tiny red tulips - amazingly early for them.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m afraid I didn't notice anything in detail.”
“The furniture - do you remember the color of the upholstery?”
“Something silky, I think. That's all I can say.”
“Did you notice any of the small objects?”
“I’m afraid not. There were so many. I know it struck me as quite a collector’s room.”
There was silence for a minute. Mrs. Shores said with a faint smile, “I’m afraid I have not been very helpful.”
“There is something else.” I produced the bridge scores. “There are the first three rubbers played. I wondered if you could help me, with the aid of these, to reconstruct the hands.”
“That was the first rubber. Miss Harpstrings and I were playing against the two stallions. The first game was played in four spades. We made it and an over trick. Then the next hand was left at two diamonds and Doctor Hooves went down one trick in it. There was quite a lot of bidding on the third hand, I remember. Miss Harpstrings passed. Major Amour went a heart. I passed. Doctor Hooves gave a jump bid of three clubs. Miss Harpstrings went three spades. Major Amour bid four diamonds. I doubled. Doctor Hooves took it into four hearts. They went down one.”
“Excellent,” I said. “What a memory!”
Mrs. Shores went on, disregarding me, much to my irritation. “On the next hand Major Amour passed and I bid a no trump. Doctor Hooves bid three hearts. My partner said nothing. Amour put his partner to four. I doubled and they went down two tricks. Then I dealt and we went out on a four spade bid.”
She took up the next score.
“It is difficult, that,” I said. “Major Amour scores in the cancellation manner.”
“I rather fancy both sides went down fifty to start with - then Doctor Hooves went to five diamonds and we doubled and got him down three tricks. Then we made three clubs, but immediately after the others went game in spades. We made the second game in five clubs. Then we went down a hundred. The others made one heart, we made two no trumps, and we finally won the rubber with a four club bid.”
She picked up the next score.
“This rubber was rather a battle, I remember. It started tamely. Major Amour and Miss Harpstrings made a one heart bid. Then we went down a couple of fifties trying for four hearts and four spades. Then the others made game in spades - no use trying to stop them. We went down three hands running after that but undoubled. Then we won the second game in no trumps. Then a battle royal started. Each side went down in turn. Doctor Hooves overbid but, though he got badly down once or twice, his calling paid, for more than once he frightened Miss Harpstrings out of bidding her hand. Then he bid an original two spades, I gave him three diamonds, he bid four no trumps, I bid five spades and then, he suddenly jumped to seven diamonds. We were doubled, of course. He had no business to make such a bid. By a kind of miracle we got it. I never thought we should when I saw his hand go down. If the others had led a heart we would have been three tricks down. As it was they led the king of clubs and we got it. It was really very exciting.”
“I believe that’s a grand slam vulnerable doubled. It causes the emotions, that! Me, I admit it, I have not the nerve to go for the slams. I content myself with the game.” I said, studying the scores.
“Oh, but you shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Shores with energy. “You must play the game properly.”
“Take risks, you mean?”
“There is no risk if the bidding is correct. It should be a mathematical certainty. Unfortunately few ponies really bid well. They know the opening bids but later they lose their heads. They cannot distinguish between a hoof with winning cards in it and a hoof without losing cards - but I mustn’t give you a lecture on bridge, Miss Melody.”
“It would improve my play, I am sure, Mrs. Shores.”
Mrs. Shores resumed her study of the score.
“After that excitement the next hands were rather tame. Have you the fourth score there? Ah, yes. A dingdong battle - neither side able to score below.”
“It is often like that as the evening wears on.”
“Yes, one starts tamely and then the cards get worked up.”
I collected the scores and made a little bow “Madam, I congratulate you. Your card memory is magnificent – naught but magnificent! You remember, one might say, every card that was played!”
“I believe I do.”
I continued, being carful that my tone and demeanor remained the same; “Memory is a wonderful gift. With it the past is never the past. I should imagine, Madam, that to you the past unrolls itself, every incident clear as yesterday. Is that not so?”
She looked at me quickly. Her eyes were wide and dark. It was only for a moment, then she had resumed her mare-of-the-world manner, but I did not doubt. That shot had gone home.
Mrs. Shores rose. “I’m afraid I shall have to leave now, I am so sorry, but I really mustn’t be late. I have the bridge party I must attend.”
“Of course not - of course not. I apologize for trespassing on your time.”
“I’m sorry I haven't been able to help you more.”
“But you have helped me,” I said, with attempted reassurance.
“I hardly think so.” She spoke with decision.
“But yes. You have told me something I wanted to know.”
She asked no question as to what that something was.
I removed my hat and smiled in a bidding of farewell.
“Thank you, Madam, for your forbearance.”
As she smiled and nodded at me she said, “You are an extraordinary mare, Miss Melody.”
I inclined my head momentarily in a gesture of appreciation “I am as the Gods made me, Madam.”
“We are all that, I suppose.”
“Not all, Madam. Some of us have tried to improve on their pattern. Mr. Blue Blood, for instance.”
“In what way do you mean?”
“He had a very pretty taste in objets de vertus and bric-a-brac; he should have been content with that. Instead, he collected other things.”
“Well - shall we say - sensations?”
“And don’t you think that was dans son caractère, as they say?”
I shook my head gravely. “He played the part of the devious God too successfully. But he was not the devil. Still, he was a stupid stallion. And so - he died.”
“Because he was stupid?”
“It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, Madam.”
There was a silence. Then I said, “I take my departure. A thousand thanks for your amiability, Madam. I will not come again - unless you send for me.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Dear me, Miss Melody, why should I send for you?”
“You might. It is just an idea. If so, I will come. Remember that.”
I bowed once more and left the room.
In the street I said to myself, “I am right - I am sure I am right – It must be that!”
