> Sherlock Hooves - The Lost Cases
>  by Scribble Script
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> The Brightwater Murders - Prologue
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Sherlock Hooves
-
The Brightwater Murders



Prologue – A Corpse in the River

On the twelfth day after Summer Sun Celebration, in the year 890, a truly remarkable case had been carried to my dear friend Sherlock Hooves, a series of crimes peerless in Canterlot’s criminal history. And one of the rare occasions where… But let’s start one by one!

Sherlock Hooves had just returned to our apartment in Baker Street 221 B the other day, from what he called a research trip. Though I always suspected that to be an excuse to escape all the turmoil that always happens in Canterlot during the time we celebrate the beginning of summer and the longest day of the year. However, Sherlock was in a jovial mood that morning as he sat at the breakfast table, wrapped in his dark-green velvety banyan, smoking his favourite old pipe.

“Trotson, I must say” he greeted me as I sat down for breakfast as well. “For once I’m satisfied with my research. My trip to the north has brought some interesting new insights on a subject that use to haunt me for quite some time.”

“Something of interest?” I asked. He gave me a side eye over the lecture of the Canterlot Times. 

“And with that I suppose you mean ‘something of interest for your faithful readers’, don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged”, I had to admit laughingly. “So, are they?”

“Not yet, dear friend, not yet. Though I admit they might be handy some time.” And with that he dove back into his newspaper.

I still was puzzled by that –even by Sherlock’s standards- mysterious reply, when somepony rang the doorbell. “Now, who can that be?” I wondered.

“Your guess is as good as mine”, replied Sherlock. “But I dare claim this to be somepony from Palace Court wanting to consult me because the latest of the ‘Brightwater Murders’, as the press refers to them. A rather sensational titling, but… Oh well…” He sighed. “What else can we expect from the newspapers nowadays?”

“Sweet Celestia, Sherlock!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “You just arrived last evening, how can you already know about those unspeakably horrible crimes?”

To a better comprehension for my faithful readers: During the late seventies and early eighties, some quite elaborate abductions, burglaries, fraud cases and heists had occurred in Equestria, but almost no murders. This case however had –according to my knowledge- involved three killed ponies so far. One murder was uncommon enough, but three committed in a short period of time? The gallery had been shocked and yet curious about such a horrendous series of crimes. 

“Quite simple, Trotson”, Hooves answered my former question, still not looking up from the paper. “It’s in the news. Listen:

Fourth Brightwater Murder in six days
Last night shortly after eleven another dead body has been found in the Brightwater River, near the waterfall. The stallion was later identified by reference to the ships papers found in a pocket of his jacket as the seapony Hightide, native to Canterlot and employed at a shipping company in Trottingham. He had been killed by a gunshot…
 
I must say, I’m not very impressed so far…” Sherlock commented and lowered the paper. “Let’s see what our visitor has to say, shall we?” 

At this moment, Mrs. Herdson, our landlady and general kind soul entered and announced the arrival of Inspector Keen from Palace Court. Keen, a pegasus-stallion turned grey on duty, had always appreciated the expertise of Sherlock Hooves and also never overused it. In fact he was one of the few inspectors my friend acknowledged to be less sloppy and incompetent than most of his colleagues.

“Guid day, Mister Hooves, Doctor Trotson”, Keen greeted us with a little nod of his head. He was from somewhere north of Trottingham and even all the years in Canterlot hadn't been enough to fully grind of his northern accent.

“Good morning, Inspector, would you like a cup of tea?” I asked because I felt he was looking a little stressed and out of breath. I pointed towards the second, free armchair at the table. “Please, help yourself.”

There were three settles in our living room, including the old one Sherlock had brought from one of his earlier rooms and he was currently occupying. Inspector Keen thanked us and took a seat in the spare armchair. He poured himself a cup of steaming Earl Grey and gave in five cubes of sugar; he liked his tea especially sweet. While he used his hoof to stir the tea with a spoon, he turned to my friend: “I believe, since you’re Sherlock Hooves, you already know, what I am here for?”

“Because of the Brightwater Murders, of course. It’s common talk, isn’t it?”

Again, Keen nodded. “What did you hear so far?” he wanted to know. Sherlock Hooves put his left hoof to his chin, like always when he was thinking, as he answered.

“Well, I know nothing beside what’s in the newspaper: The last victim was identified as Hightide, a sailor appointed in Trottingham. According to the Times he is the fourth victim within a six-day range to be killed and thrown into the Brightwater; he was shot, apparently. Let’s see, the writer of this article states the other victims to be a lawyer, an executive employee and ‘a stallion of dubious character’. The main reason why these murders are called the Brightwater Murders is apparently the simple fact that all four corpses had been found in the river.”

“All five corpses, Mister Hooves”, Inspector Keen dryly replied, holding up his hoof. “There has been one more murder last night."
My friend strained his ears, but said nothing. 
"Luckily the blasted newspapers had already deadline when the last victim was found. That’s be a feast for them! Five murders in six days – Mister Hooves I hope, nay pray to Celestia you can bring a little light into this darkness. Y’know I’m occupied with two other cases. And Lestride seems to be at his wit’s end.”

Sherlock leaned over and launched into a comment. In the end, however, he contented himself with an ironical and knowing smile.

“This morning”, Inspector Keen continued. “The dead body of Star Trail has been found beneath the pedestrian bridge near the Main Railway Station. He had been terribly battered and the heavy bruises at his throat lead to the conclusion that he was strangled to death. As I said, this is the fifth body to be found in or near the Brightwater during the last week. So far we couldn’t find any coherences between these murders – maybe there are none- but that’s exactly what I want to find out.” 

“What can you tell us about Star Trail?” I wanted to know, whipping out my notebook. Sherlock had sunk back in his armchair, his eyes closed and his hooves put together. He was listening.

“He was the step-son of Lord Gemstone. His father, General Morning Trail, was killed during the war in Yakyakistan. His mother, Lady Summer Breeze married Gemstone ten years ago. She’s a member of Canterlot’s high society. Her son on the other hoof had the reputation of being a ne’er-do-well, some even say a scoundrel. His sole known source of income was his skilfulness at card games. He was one of the best whist players in Canterlot and to be found almost every day at the playing tables in Bagatelle Cardclub, Stalliongrad-Street. But he’s been a frequent guest in the salons of Canterlot’s finest families…" He heistated for a moment. "Sometimes also in the bedrooms…”

“Bedrooms?” I exclaimed. “You mean he was a ladykiller?”

Inspector Keen looked a little embarrassed. “That’s what gossip says, yes.”

Sherlock Hooves, who had been silent during Keen’s remarks, now addressed the Inspector: “And did you achieve any progress in the other cases?”

“Not as far as I know. As I said, Lestride has taken the case, but I don’t think he’s gotten any further till now. I could provide you with the names of the other victims though, if you want.”

“Now, that would be a start”, my friend commented. And while Keen skimmed through his notes, he turned to me: “This case could be refreshing, my friend. It could establish quite some interesting possibilities. We don’t know if there are any connections but I don’t believe in coincidence in such accumulation. Five murders in one week, and that during these frustrating peaceful and boring times, and each corpse has been found in or near the river! Mere coincidence? I think not! Don’t neglect that we have to search for the logical precept that underlies each crime. For no matter how fiendish the criminal mind may be, it’s always guided by logic. This logic we have to detect.
Did you find the names of the victims, Inspector?”

“Here you are, Mister Hooves. I’ve written together a list with the names and the days of death.” Inspector Keen hooved us over the following list:
Mr. Inchworm, executive at Argent Rapide & Co.		07.06.
Mr. Point Blank, day-worker							08.06.
Ms. Libra Balance, barrister and lawyer					09.06.
Mr. Hightide, sailor									11.06.
Mr. Star Trail, professional gambler						12.06.

“I really hope you can help us in this case, Mister Hooves.”

Sherlock grimaced a little. “Unfortunately, I fear I have a few minor duties to do before I am free to investigate in this case. But I’m sure, Doctor Trotson will worthily substitute me for the moment.”

“But Hooves, what could be more important than five murders?”

“Many things, Keen, very many things! But I assure you I’m not uninterested in your case and I shall pay my full attention as soon as possible.”

Inspector Keen gave him a very little convinced glance. “If you say so, Mister Hooves… Anyway, crime’s not sleeping and I’d better be going now. Guid day and so long, gentlecolts, I hope we’ll get some results soon, one way or another…”

And with another of his characteristic nods, Keen left us to the remains of our breakfast.

“I think he’s a little offended, Trotson. He hasn’t finished his tea…” Sherlock drawled, taking a nip of his own cup. The look I returned Sherlock was at least as sceptic as Inspector Keen’s. “A few minor duties, Sherlock?” I asked with a screwed up brow.

“A few minor duties, yes”, he confirmed with a half-smile.

“And I presume in this very case, that’s ‘not yet’ interesting for my readers and you don’t want to talk about?”

“Of course!”

I let out a meek sigh of resignation. Once again I seemingly was destined to be my friend’s errand colt. 
“Alright, alright. So where do I start?”

> The Brightwater Murders - Chapter I
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter I – The Different Approaches

My friend Sherlock had suggested to first gather information about the circumstances of the crimes. Naturally, there were two promising points for me to begin: The first one, of course, was the morgue of Saint Clover’s Hospital. Where all suspicious cases of death are brought to. The other one was the criminal laboratory of Palace Court itself. Where the forensic examinations are done. But where to start? Well, what shall I say, I’m a medical practitioner. Sherlock has often testified me to have a good skill in failing to see the essential details. But that doesn’t count for medical details. When it comes to a medical examination, be it illness or injury, my friend always relies on my expertise. And maybe it was because I knew my strength wasn’t in forensic but in medicine I chose to start at Clover’s; especially since Sir Treatwell, the leading pathologist at that time, wasn’t only a knighted medical luminary but also an old friend and mentor of me.

So I took a walk to the familiar halls of the medical institute, where I’ve done my doctorate. I walked straight through the, with marble and teak equipped, entrance hall and climbed up the narrow staircases to the bureaus of the medical professionals, where I found Sir Treatwell. His office was a little more cluttered than it had been in my memory. The shelves and showcases were overburdened with medical literature, anatomic models, exhibits and preparations, some of them interesting, but most of them slightly eerie. There sat the Doctor, almost hidden behind a whole mountain of paperwork. He looked very tired: His flecked-with-grey mane, a little untidy innately, now was a complete mess and dark rings beneath his eyes implied an acute sleep deficit. Nevertheless, he was levitating a quill with his magic and busily writing, when I entered his bureau. 

“Good day, Trotson”, he absentmindedly greeted me. “Um, it IS day, or isn’t it?” He then got into it, just as if he hadn’t left the room for too long.

“Yes, it is day, Treatwell” I confirmed. “Half an hour to noon, I think.”

“Oh. Good. Almost two days awake now! Simply great. Who needs sleep anyway?” he ranted. But he already was too exhausted for a long outburst. “So I guess, you’re here because of the Brightwater Murders? Good, good. I really hope Mister Hooves can achieve something in this series of murder. Every single day a murder, that’s simply too much. If things carry on like this, I will end up one day lying on the table instead of standing in front of it.”

I fear he had went on like this for another five minutes or so, if I hadn't interrupted him gently: “Excuse me, Treatwell, but did you conduct the autopsy of Star Trail?”

“Um, yes, yes, I did. In case of murder I always conduct the examinations myself, heaven knows why… Spending hours bent over the corpse and hours writing the report. I send it to the Court and they don’t even read it. Just file it in… Aaanyway! What can I do for you?"

“Can you tell me something about the victims of the so called Brightwater Murders?”

Treatwell began to rifle through the seemingly random piles of paper on his desk, but within seconds he found what he had searched for. 
“Alright, let’s begin. Inchworm, the first victim, has been found at 07.06. Came in shortly after midnight, I conducted the autopsy immediately. Inchworm was an earth-pony, with quill and a three coins for Cutie Mark,  dark grey coat, male, about 50, 10.5 hooves tall, and obese. Bad health, lung and heart were already damaged. It was only a matter of time, six months to two years, I guess, and his ill organs would’ve caused his death anyway. Um, his actual death however had been caused by a shot wound in the back. A heavy-calibre weapon, fired at close range. The bullet has penetrated the spine and got stuck in his heart. Death occurred between 9 and 10 in the evening I’d say. I’ve sent the remains of the bullet and his belongings to Palace Court. 
That much for Mister Inchworm.

The next one was Mister Point Blank. Guess they dubbed him that because of the white spot on his forehead. For the Cutie Mark, um, I think it’s called ‘crosshairs’. Unicorn, male, about 25. 10 hooves high, very slender.  His body came in only a few hours after Inchworm and I conducted the examination as soon as I had been finished. Point Blank was a perfect healthy young lad, no organic results. He has been killed by a long and sharp object that's been pierced through his ribcage on the left side and right into the heart. Very clean and professionally done, death must’ve followed immediately.”

“And how long had he been dead?”

“No longer than a few hours. I assume midnight for time of death, but in any case not later than one o’clock.”

“Well, sounds like a busy day for you” I laughed leading Sir Treatwell to an unnerved snort.

“The last days have been more than busy.” He picked another piece of paper from the pile and continued. “The next one was Libra Balance. Her body had been delivered at the 9th at 10 o’ clock. Since I had just finished another examination I decided to continue with her right away and to have a lie in next day. Anyway, um, Libra Balance: A mint pegasus, a pair of balances for Cutie Mark. ‘Nomen est omen’, I guess. She was 35. Good health, good muscle tone, a bit unpracticed maybe. Killed by a heavy-calibre bullet straight into her abdomen. MASSIVE spill of blood, all over her dress. Not a pretty sight I can tell you; but death never is. She’s been shot at closest range. No other wounds. The bullet also went to Palace Court.

Hightide was the next casualty. He was about the same age as Miss Balance, an earth-pony, the Cutie Mark’s a log and a knife. So his talent was wood-carving or crafting, I suppose. 15 hooves tall and massive. A very strong stallion, and a very violent guy.”

“How could you ascertain that?”

“His body is covered with scars, one runs straight across his forehead.  I assume he was attacked with firebolts at least twice and wounded with bladed weapons several times. His body tells the story of a violent life that now has been ended by violence. One or two days before his death he had carried away a flesh-wound by a shot. I’ve retrieved a very small bullet from his left shoulder and sent it, together with the bullets that killed him, to Palace Court.”

“Let me guess, more heavy-calibre?”

“Strangely, um, no. He’s been hit by another two sub-calibre bullets. One in the neck, it didn’t injure any arteria though. The other one was stuck in his back, in his spine to be precise. But the shots didn’t kill him. He drowned. I presume the last round, the one that was stuck in his spine, must’ve cut some nerves aso he was already lamed as he fell into the water… Time of death between 8 and 10 last evening.”

By now I was really glad to be a unicorn and to be able to use my magic to hold the fountain pen I scribbled my notes with. Otherwise I had probably already gotten a cramp because of the abundance of information Sir Treatwell wanted to share with me. I managed to carefully write everything down in my journal.

“As for our last customer”, the Doctor sighed. “Star Trail was a light grey pegasus with a black mane, quite noble in appearance if you want to hear my opinion. Um, about 30. His body has been delivered today at about 3 in the morning, they had him identified by his Cutie Mark, the three five-point shooting stars.  I’ve just finished the autopsy before you came. Trail had been heavily battered and beaten, but the contusions at his wrists and hooves indicate that he must’ve left his marks on his murderer as well. He was killed by strangulation in the end. I’d say at about 1 or 2 in the morning, not long after he had sweet chestnuts and carrots for a late diner, concluding by the content of his stomach.”

Having found out all this, I finally put down my notebook. That was plenty of new information, so I was in cheerful spirits even the hard to satisfy urge for knowledge of my friend Sherlock Hooves would be served this time.  “Thank you, old friend” I said as I turned to leave. “But a good advice from physician to physician: Now you urgently need a rest. Forget the advice, that's an order!”



-<0>-



To my great surprise, I almost ran into Sherlock when I left Clover’s. He was wearing his usual decent frock-coat and no hat but had added a pair of round dark sunglasses to his outfit, likely because of the bright and especially sunny weather. 

“Ah, Trotson”, he exclaimed as he noticed me. “I figured I’d find you here. If you have to decide between the dusty offices of the criminal laboratory and the dusty offices at Saint Clover’s, I take any bet you’d always choose the latter. Even if the all too pony turn to favour an old friend instead of grumpy Lestride prevents you from better achievements!”

“What about your ‘minor duties’, Sherlock?” I gnarled. His habit to always speak with his own ruthless candour could be fairly annoying and arduous sometimes.

“You said it, some minor duties. I’ve settled them for now. And since I knew you’d start at Clover’s I ventured to pick up the more promising end, namely Palace Court.”

Now a fortiori, I was keen to prove the worth of the information I had gotten from Sir Treatwell and flashed my friend a daring smile. 

“Well”, I began. “I find my results promising too, Sherlock. Want to hear what I found out?”

“Why not. It can never hurt to cross-check the clues.” 

And so we went to a small, Veneightian styled café on Main Street for lunch. As it has always been Sherlock’s habit, we didn’t waste one word about our case during our meal. Instead he pontificated about the tonal feature of the violins manufactured by Stradivari and then seamlessly changed the subject to his recent studies in theoretical magic. For an earth-pony he has always shown an unusual interest for the mechanics of spell craft; but along with countless other unusual topics. I had gotten used to the uncommon being common with Sherlock Hooves.
However, the moment my friend had finished his meal and put down fork and knife, he encouraged me to share my insights of	today’s research with him. I whipped out my notebook and told Sherlock what I had written down, careful to not omit a single little detail in case it might be essential.

“See, Sherlock”, concluded my report. “I found out a lot at Saint Clover’s Hospital. Not bad, don’t you think?”

Sherlock just shook his head and flashed me a lenient smile. “Oh, Trotson, when will you learn that the way of least resistance seldom is the best? Of course you prefer a talk to your old mentor to a talk to Lestride, who’d never even admit the he needs our help. But everything you told me, I knew it already, because Palace Court has got all of the reports from Sir Treatwell. And Lestride could show me the reports from the forensic laboratory, too. You see, if I hadn’t wanted to pass you by at the hospital, in this case I could have spared the way to Saint Clover’s completely and have saved quite some time. So obviously, the criminal laboratory at the Court would've been the better point to begin your investigation.”

Luckily, he didn’t go on with lecturing me, but started to supplement my results with his own. At Palace Court he had obtained the following new insights:

Mr. Inchworm, the employee had been killed by an expanding bullet. It had been so deformed that it could only be identified by reference to fouling residues on the stallion’s perforated overcoat. The gun powder had been a unique mixture dubbed ‘cocoa’, used mainly for that heavy, long-barrel pistols made in Gryphonia, the so called ‘Blitz T11’. No money had been found with him except for a single ancient silver-coin. He however had some personal papers, a check book and a member card for the Bagatelle-Card –Club.
And then there was a letter, found in a pocket of the coat. It read:

Worthwile,
When you get this letter, I’ll be dead. 
The papers I took with me are in my room.
I had been in boiling hot water and had
no other choice.

Of course, Inspector Lestride (I recall my friend naming him a mule in that context) concluded from that farewell note that Mr. Inchworm must've committed suicide. It had taken Sherlock quite a while to eventually convince him that Inchworm had been an earth-pony, and that it thus surely would have been difficult for him to shoot himself in the back. Without being able to use magic…

But back to topic. An identical coin as the one from Mr. Inchworm had been found alongside with shipping papers in Hightide’s reefer. One of the bullets removed from his corpse was matching to a small wheellock revolver. The second bullet - the one in his shoulder- had been unusually small.

Point Blank was a disappointment. Nothing notable had been found with him, he hadn’t even been dressed.  

Ms. Balance, however, had been killed by an equal weapon as Inchworm: Probably a Blitz T11, conducted from the ‘cocoa’, and a expanding bullet. Her body was the only one that wasn’t discovered in the river itself but near to it. And next to her, another remarkable thing had been found: It was a so-called ‘Pepper Box’, a teeny six-shot gun, fancy and very rare. Not the most logical construction, with a very low effective range. This one had been fired three times, and – much to the amazement of Lestride who only right now had realized it - the bullets matched the one found in Hightide's shoulder.
Whatever else interesting Libra Balance might have carried, it had been taken from her corpse.

About the last murder, about Mr. Star Trail: He had no personal belongings with him, no badge, no wallet, nothing. Yet Inspector Lestride mentioned a strange detail from the report that had gotten his attention: The overcoat and the frilled shirt he had worn were terribly mismatched in colour, the one violet and the other green. Lestride, always favouring the sober dyes, had of course remembered that faux pas. But, at that time, I wouldn’t attribute too much importance to Mr. Trails taste of fashion…

“So we have a connection. At least between Inchworm and Star Trail”, I stated after Sherlock had finished to fill me in. 

“Apparently so, yes. They both were members of the same club. Not the strongest link, I admit, but I dare say they at least knew each other. And the identical silver-coins also indicate a connection between Hightide and Inchworm.”

I went further into it: “And the sailor killed the lawyer?” 

Sherlock made a move, half nodding and half shaking his head. “We have no proof, but a strong clue. Yes, I think we can assume for the moment that –for whatever reason- Miss Libra Balance shot at Mister Hightide and got killed by him in return. Though I hate to admit that we haven’t yet established a motive for the crime as such.”

It has always been Sherlock’s manner to remain almost completely silent about his presumptions and thoughts until the point where he was assembling the clues, evidences and proofs to a consistent picture. This was one of the few occasions where I had been able to educe a conclusion from Sherlock while he was still collecting the pieces. In my mind a strange compare appeared: I saw this case as a snake, twisting and winding at our hooves and Sherlock trying to describe its pattern. Indeed I was asking myself what to do next. My head was spinning from all these nebulous traces in front of us, each of them seemingly leading in a different direction.

“Maybe we should examine the crime scenes”, I half-heartedly provided, mainly because I couldn’t make a better suggestion. Maybe it was because he had been absent during the first murders, mayve it was because I had somehow interrupted his trails of thoughts, in any case, Sherlock’s reaction was fiercer than I expected.

“That wouldn’t get us anywhere, Trotson”, he grimly exclaimed. Then, noticing my confused expression he added in a more calm tone: “Six days! The first murder happened six days ago! The clods from Palace Court manage to mess up and ruin a crime scene in a much shorter time than six days. All these ponies passing through, walking over every possible clue, no, no, that doesn’t do our investigation any good. And we don’t even exactly know where the ponies have been killed. At least as far as their bodies have been found in the Brightwater. As matters stand, they could’ve been murdered anywhere in Canterlot and then thrown into… Wait a minute!”

Sherlock had suddenly jumped to his hooves. A certain blaze shone in his eyes, the blaze he always had when having a sudden, new inspiration. “Sweet Celestia, why did I fail to see that until now?” he muttered to himself. “Of course, it’s a shot in the dark but maybe, if we assume that was the purpose of…”

His muttering turned inaudible as he turned away to leave the café. He had almost went through the door when he noticed that I wasn’t following. During our first cases I had accepted his oddities uncomplainingly, but by now had come to the conclusion that Sherlock every now and again needed to be abated. For a stallion who frequently complained about other’s low intellect he too often demanded his trains of thoughts to be divined by his followers. 

“Trotson, come on!” he called back to me. “We have work to do!”

“But what… Where are you going?” I wanted to know, quickly and confusedly glancing between him and our table. We both hadn’t even finished our coffee, let alone had we paid our meal!

“To Pleasant View Street 3, North West of course!” was the answer.

In Pleasant View Street 3, North West stood, as I was just about to learn, the mansion of late Mister Star Trail.


> The Brightwater Murders - Chapter II
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter II – On Star Trail's last Tracks

Pleasant View Street, for those who aren't familiar with the townscape of Canterlot, is a loose collection of estates, located high on the western side of Canterlot Mountain, with free-standing manors and mansions in various colours, shapes and sizes, each of them in relative solitude from the other. When Sherlock and I went there to investigate in the case of the Brightwater Murders there had been a total of seven local residents from high society; the now famous Cloudsdale-styled holiday home of the Rainbow family was still being built back then.
The two cart ponies who had drawn our hackney up to Pleasant View Street – the street leading there is quite long and bold- were fairly out of breath, exhausted and thus quite ill-humoured as my friend Sherlock told them to wait for us because he wanted to visit the Bagatelle Card Club right afterwards. A fact which I hurried to remedy by hooving each of them generous gratuities and holding out an even bigger one. I know how arduous and wearing it can be to work for Sherlock Hooves…

As for Star Trail's manor: It was one of the smaller mansions, almost humble with its long-established frontage, yet very appealing because of its large blinking windows and the finely crafted, decent ornaments. The house was in fact one of the oldest in Pleasant View Street, it had been built about a century ago and featured the back then fashioned half-columns on both sides of the entrance-portal. They were made from polished sandstone, like the rest of the façade. The door itself however, dark wood, teak maybe, provided a strange and unsettling sight: It had been damaged, large chips of wood had been broken out of the mouldings and the door lock had been completely demolished.
“Interesting, Trotson”, Sherlock stated. “Now, how does this look like to you?”

“Like somepony had knocked in the door to force his entry…?”

Sherlock nodded. “Blunt and brute force, no burn marks and no other sign for the usage of magic. So I dare say you’re right, Trotson.”

He rang the doorbell and almost immediately, the broken door was opened. In front of us stood a middle-aged earth-pony in livery. We introduced ourselves and the butler –seemingly deeply impressed and honoured by the visit of the great Sherlock Hooves- bid us in and lead us to the rooms of Mister Star Trail. It was clear Trail hadn’t advised the built of the house, because different from it’s veneer, the rooms were furnished very luxuriously. But everything was neat, clean and tidy. Sherlock explained the reasons for our visit and asked his questions and we got to know that Grey Sweep –that was the butler’s name- had been in commission for Start Trail almost six years and wouldn’t have minded to carry on his duty for some time longer.

“Of course I’d be glad to help you, sir, I’ll do whatever lies within my possibilities! The police mentioned you might drop by during the day. I usually am a stickler for details but I’ve complied to their will and left everything as I found it in the morning.”

“Very well”, Sherlock applauded. “Maybe you could first tell us something about the front door. Did it happen last night?”

“I think so, yes. This sight was the first shock of many I got here today.”

Sherlock nodded, I took a note and then he continued with his next question: “Did you see Mister Trail the last evening?”

“I fear, no. But I saw him before. Master Trail left for the Bagatelle Card Club at about 4 o’clock. He gave me instructions for the evening meal for him and his guest; he said for about 11 o'clock. But I wasn’t here when he returned, because I only occasionally stay when he has guests that late. Let’s see… I think I left about half past ten.”

But Sherlock had lost the interest in the butler’s remarks right after the first sentence and instead had turned his attention towards the leftovers of Star Trail’s last material meal on the dining-room’s table. “Oats and carrots”, he muttered. “So much for the containing of his stomach. I think we’re done here, Mister Grey Sweep. I will see the other rooms now.”

We left the dining room and entered the study room to our right. The first thing to catch my eyes was the weapons collection that adorned one whole side of the room. I was unwillingly delighted by the beauty of the displayed items immediately. And yet to imagine the ingenuity that must’ve been laid on to invent such a variety of deadly tools was somewhat unsettling. The Razorbeak-crisis about 40 years ago had been the first conflict where Equestrian soldiers had been equipped and trained to deal with muskets. And now Star Trail’s collection consisted almost a hundred different exhibits, wheel- and flintlock guns, pistols and revolvers. The best of the best and very elaborately crafted.
“It’s disturbing, don’t you think”, I gave vent to my concerns. “How much effort ponys nowadays put into creating fire weapons. To think that a hundred years ago, black powder wasn’t even used for guns!”

“It’s logical”, Sherlock replied. “From all sentient beings on this planet only unicorns are able to use magic (excluding Princess Celestia and some dragons). As I’ve already discussed in one of my papers, this leads to an imbalance of powers. And while dragons possess the ability to spit fire, the others –pegasi, earth-ponies, griffons, and so on, cannot access any comparable measure when it comes to an armed conflict. The invention of long ranged weapons was a logical step. And now weapons labour under the same progress as every other tool does.”

“There’s a gap in your argumentation, Sherlock”, I gave back. Did I mention that it could be annoying at times to work with Sherlock? The simple fact that there was hardly any scientific or psychological topic where he hadn’t written one or two essays about did a big part of that. “Unicorns can use crossbows and guns as well as pegasi, earth-ponies and griffons, while actual damage spells are hard to learn and even harder to master. That’d mean an increase of the crime-rate, wouldn’t it?”

“But the balance of powers is remained. Firearms don’t boot anypony. If the gun is properly made, only skill and training determine the results.”
One of the more prominent traits of Sherlock is the fact that he seems to care very little about something so ‘unimportant’ like moral degeneracy. Or at least he doesn’t show his concern. All crimes are of equal importance for him, a problem to solve, a challenge to meet. There is just one thing he takes personally and that is a culprit that escapes his just punishment. He has, well, let’s say, an interesting concept of moral and ethics.
And right now my try to discuss an ethical matter with him split like a ship on a cliff. The increased criminal use of exotic and elaborate weapons meant nothing more to him than he had to broaden his horizon to solve the ‘problem’…

Which in this case had also to do with weapons. With all the guns on the wall Star Trail could’ve equipped his private army; from Blitz alone he possessed three models, a T10-pistol, the successor T11 and a Havoc, which was a bizarre crossing of a wheel-lock revolver and a heavy musket. But it wasn’t the T11 that drew Sherlock’s attention. Even I could see it was brightly polished and unused. No, Sherlock’s interest was applied on the one weapon that wasn’t in place: The hooks above a brass shield spelling ‘Royal 2K’ were empty.
“Oh, yes, the Royal 2K”, the butler nodded after I had asked him about the missing pistol. “It was Master Trails favourite. Look, sir. It’s over there, on the writing desk.”

Said weapon, it was lying on a cotton cloth, was a chromed light-calibred revolver with an ivory inlay at the grip. ‘Royal’ was inscribed in cursive on the shiny barrel. Sherlock carefully fetched the gun from the table and snuffed at the weapon’s muzzle. Then he checked the ammunition.

“The Royal has been fired a short time ago, the stench of powder still is very strong”, he stated. “Three bullets are missing. And…” He hesitated for a moment and then waved me nearer. “Trotson, my friend, now what would you take THIS for?”

I looked at a small pile of papers lying on the desk next to an elegant violet top hat. “Looks like letters of credit to me”, I replied. Then I took a closer look. “Sweet Celestia, Sherlock! These papers must be worth many thousand bits in total! Where did he get that much money from?”

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders but I could almost see the gears turning behind his forehead. Trail couldn’t have possibly earned that much money with playing Whist. Or could he? This question still circled in my mind when we visited the last station of our investigation at Star Trail’s house: The sleeping room.
It was set apart from all other rooms because of a very simple fact: It was a complete mess. The bed wasn’t made, the toilet table was smashed. The wardrobes’ doors were opened wide and pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere about the floor. Among other things, we found dress handkerchiefs, a green jacket, a violet frilled shirt and a silk collar with a brilliant needle. The review of the belongings on the commode revealed a wallet with 110 bits, a new program of the ‘Elephant and Castle Theatre’ and an unused ticket for last night’s performance.

After we had finished our examination, Sherlock again turned to Grey Sweep, who had patiently followed us through all the rooms: “Just one last question: Can you tell anything that could bring light into this case of murder? Do you know who he had welcomed last night?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know that. And the only thing, at least as far as I know, that has been stolen is a Saddle-Arabian carpet from Master Trails sleeping room. Don’t know why anypony should steal a carpet, though…”

Sherlock, although he had strained his ears, quickly stifled Grey Sweep’s flow of speech. “Yes, yes, yes, we thank you for your cooperation!”

“Oh, you’re welcome, sir. I hope you’ll determine the murderer soon. And if you happen to hear of somepony, who’s in need of a butler, please remember me. Good day, sir.”



-<0>-



Sherlock was in a very peculiar mood as we sat in our hackney on our way to the Bagatelle Card Club. His expression kept changing between a varieties of satisfaction, reflection and even slight anger. He ignored whatever I would ask or mention, he didn’t talk at all, but kept slightly clopping his front hooves together. It was a state of close cerebrating I occasionally observed. This case had thrilled him and he’d keep his muzzle on the tracks like a hound until he had unravelled every single thread of this crime-series…

To my luck, my friend had told me about his further plans before we had gotten to Pleasant View Street and before he had sunken into his current state, though he had only mentioned we’d meet a friend at the Bagatelle Club. Until that moment I didn’t know he had friends that frequently attended high-society clubs. Or many friends at all, for that matter… On the other hoof there were ponies, of all social classes who owed him one or two. And after all, he had until back then investigated at least once for the crown!
Be it as it may, the stallion Sherlock wanted to meet this evening, in a way our ominous informant at the club, was indeed a pony who considered himself or at least claimed to be his friend. A rather snooty concierge informed us, as we named our names, that our host would await us. And for over fifteen minutes, as he added condescendingly. 

A valet then accompanied us to the spacious game room. On the left side of the room was a large bar, ornamented with carvings. The white unicorn-barkeeper was busy mixing cocktails and serving drinks for about half a dozen guests. Apart from a living room suite there were only gambling tables set up in the room. Their green felt-covering gave the room an almost rural touch, which was enhanced even further by the maintained silence. Ten of the thirty tables were occupied, and the hush of the gamblers was only now and then interrupted by their announcements and the clapping of their cards.

As I let my eyes wander throughout the room, they eventually hit the living room suite. And I at once knew, why Sherlock hadn’t told me who he wanted to meet here: In one of the armchairs sprawled a slender unicorn with a golden vest, an impeccable violet mane mane and a mauve coat. 
“Mister Hooves, Doctor Trotson, my dear friends”, cheerfully exclaimed Coup de Coeur, Canterlot’s most famous (or infamous, that depended on who was asked) celebrity reporter, worst muckraker on this side of Manehattan and, much to my regret, well-known to us. I’ve already written my about reluctance against Coup de Coeur before. He’s egomaniacal and narcissistic… But let’s drop that subject! It’s a certain fact, though I hate to admit it, Coup de Coeur appears more often in my stories than I would care for. I’ve had the doubtful pleasure to hear his ‘expertises’ about the high society before. His information had always been shockingly accurate and often quite useful for our investigations, though… 

“Good evening, Mister de Coeur”, I greeted him back with a saturnine look.

“Oh please, it’s Coup for my friends!”

“Mister de Coeur”, I insisted and Sherlock and I took a seat as well. “So I presume you can tell us something about the late Mister Star Trail?”

The journalist nodded happily. “Why, of course! That’s why Sherlock Hooves wanted to meet me here! The so called Brightwater Murders… Not quite my desk but nevertheless very thrilling… And shocking, of course! I knew Star Trail and also Inchworm, he was a good stallion, a bit boring maybe, but…”

“So you knew them personally?” Sherlock interrupted de Coeur. He always seemed to get along better with the journalist than me, but on the other hoof showed always little patience for small talk. So it was in his interest to bring Coup de Coeur back to track as soon as possible.

“Yes, yes, of course I knew them personally”, de Coeur confirmed. “When I became a member of the Bagatelle Card Club, they were already on-board.”

“I never pictured you as a gambler”, I couldn’t fight a slightly barbed remark. But the mauve unicorn just flashed me his broadest and whitest smile. “Doesn’t whist require anticipatory thinking, a calm mind and most of all to remain silent?”

“Oh, touché, my dear Trotson. But as a stallion with no vice, I simply thought it'd be time to get me one myself”, he said with a wink. “But where was I? Oh yes, right: I’ve made some plays with Inchworm, for a year or so.” 

Suddenly de Coeur turned serious in a way I hadn’t seen him before.

“He was my friend, gentlecolts. And I mean that. He was a talented player, not as good as he thought of himself, but anyway… In the club almost every evening. A good party of whist inspired him, he used to say. Star Trail was also here most of the time. They knew each other, but I wouldn’t say they were friends exactly . It was no secret Trail earned his living with the cards… And Inchworm simply hadn’t enough money that it would have paid off for Star Trail to play with him. Well, usually, I should say…”

“Usually?” Sherlock asked. “So it changed lately?”

“All I can tell is that during the last month Inchworm was playing with Star Trail almost every evening. With him and his friend Ironwing.”

“IRONWING???!” Sherlock downright yelled that name. Angry glances from all around were shot at us making me fidget around uneasily in my armchair. Sherlock and most of all Coup de Coeur didn’t seemed bothered at all.

“Yes, Ironwing”, the muckraker nodded, a bit surprised by Sherlock’s sudden outburst. “Colonel Ironwing. He and Star Trail were as thick as thieves. I’ve often been Inchworm’s partner against this dangerous duo. Together they were a real dare for every club member.”

“And you passed that dare?” I teased unbelievingly and wound up my brows. This time I got an evil glare from Sherlock and immediately shut my mouth. Mister de Coeur continued:

“At first we did. But then our luck turned and it seemed we would never be able to win again, no matter how good our cards might’ve been. Come to think of it, nopony has that much luck… I think they cheated...”

Sherlock’s eyes had begun to shine. I myself by now had also a pretty good idea, where this story was headed: “So you played for money.”

“Yes, sort of. I always bet only small amount, though. You know, my friends, a gentlecolt should never set more than he can afford. At least a gentlecolt like I would never do that.” De Coeur smiled and narcissistically checked his hooficure.

“And what about Mister Inchworm?” Sherlock pressed on. “Did HE set more than he could afford?”

“Why would I know? The bet is never spoken about among gentlecolts!” the journalist objected with feigned indignation. Then a sly grin appeared on his lips. “But I am a pretty good observer myself, it’s part of my business, you know? And you’d be surprised how much one can divine from a pony’s way to take his drink!” (Sherlock sombrely nodded; I knew he had written an essay on that topic already, but no professional journal would publish a paper about ponies’ drinking habits.)

“As for my friend Inchworm: He wasn’t drinking like he was just frustrated because we kept losing, if you understand what I mean… Last Thursday, when went to the bar –we had lost once again- he knocked back two glasses of gin as fast as the barkeeper could pour out. Then the Colonel came to him and the two of them seemed to have an argument. And after Ironwing had gone he really had a skinful, like they say…
The next evening, the evening Inchworm was murdered, I myself happened to have a drink with Colonel Ironwing. He said he was waiting for Mister Inchworm, but he didn’t show up, and that made the Colonel pretty nervous. He waited until, let’s say, 8 o’clock and then left, rumbling like a thundercloud…”

“And Mister Star Trail? When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday. I arrived at 4 and he came some time later. We took a drink or two and then made a game with two other takers. At first Trail said he could only play a few hours because he had theatre tickets for eight. But fortune favoured us. Star Trail and I reaped quite something that evening. Our opponents kept rising their bets to make up for their loss. And that’s exactly the kind of gambler, Star Trail approved: The more they lose the more eager they seem to lose even more. Trail, all incarnate gambler, then decided to not go to the theatre. ‘I’ve seen the performance for six times already. I can play until 10, and will still be able to make it for my date’, he said.
We played on and won. At half past eight –I recall the time because I happened to look on my pocketwatch that time- Trail received a telegram.  He immediately jumped off of his chair and apologized himself. ‘Sudden duties’, he said. And then he left, much to the anger of our opponents who had lost 150 bits to him by now. That’s important, isn’t it? Murder because of frustration or envy, perhaps?”

As much as Coup de Coeur wanted to read from Sherlock’s face what he was thinking, the great detective’s expression remained absolutely unmoved. But he slightly leaned forward, his hooves put together. “And you can’t think of any other motive to kill Star Trail? Who else could have a motive?” he stressed.

Coup de Coeur chuckled. He had been at least half-way serious until now, but as we got to gossip, ‘his desk’ as he had called it, he was at once back to his old, mincing behaviour.

“Ha-ha-ha, my dear friend”, he laughed. “The question isn’t who wanted to kill him but who managed to actually do it; half of Canterlot’s husbands will sigh in relief now that he’s dead. And half of the wives will cry, but that just by the way. He was quite a charmer and a great entertainer. Could make you laugh even the very moment when you had to hoof him over your money… 
But lately, a low had come upon his love life. Most of his attention was turned towards that little actress, Light Prance. Star Trail always liked the southern beauties, the San Palomino types. In Star Trail’s life there had always been two kinds of mares: The ones he loved and the ones that loved him. They rarely had been the same.
He had been liased with Lady Sandgem, but I hear they broke up recently. Or rather she got rid of him.
And he was often visiting Lady Priceless, of course. You know, the widow of Argent Rapide form the famous international investment firm? But as far as I know they weren't liased.”

“And do you know anything about Miss Light Prance?”

“Oh, my dear Sherlock, I fear she didn’t seem important enough for me to know details about her.” He was honestly afflicted. “But if you'd give me a few days, I could dig-up some!”

“That won’t be necessary”, Sherlock Hooves objected. “You don’t happen to know anything about Point Black or Hightide, do you?”

Mister de Coeur wound up his brow in confusion. “Who’s that?”

I let out an angry sigh: “The names of two other victims! It was in the newspapers!”

“Oh, Trotson, Trotson, Trotson”, he smiled at me. “I happened to hear about the Brigthwater Murders just because it's city-talk! Of course, I don’t read these cheap-written, sensationalist articles about crimes. I only read what I write myself!”

I fought hard to withstand the urge to strangle Coup de Coeur right away and grinded: “And what about Libra Balance? Was SHE important enough for you to know something about her?”

“Oh, the hedge lawyer you mean? I met her once, yes. She was friends with Star Trail. Again, not THAT kind of friend. I don’t think he was her ‘type’, if you understand what I mean…” He made quotation marks with his hooves and lewdly winked at us. “Oh, I didn’t like her, the juristic spirit lacks  of any beauty, any creativity, simply everything I’m interested in! At least Miss Balance did… So she’s dead as well… Not a surprise. I've heard she was bribable, knocking criminals out of court for money. And not always the legal way, you know? Really, not a great loss… But, my dear friends, I fear I can’t help you with her death either. But again if you’d give me some days…”

“That won’t be necessary”, Sherlock repeated. “I think we’ve taken enough of your times. Mister de Coeur…”

My friend nodded at him and rose from his seat. I hurried to follow suit. The sooner I got away from Coup de Coeur the better. It often was worth while to talk to him, as he was  but whenever we had to I got the strong sensation I’d need a very, very long and thorough bath afterwards…

> The Brightwater Murders - Chapter III
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter III – The Final Pieces


“Come on, Sherlock”, I addressed my friend as we sat in a carriage back to Baker Street. “Spill! What is it about this Colonel Ironwing that you were so thrilled to hear his name?”

Sherlock Hooves, who had dug out some pieces of paper and a pen from the mystical depths of his overcoat and now was hastily scribbling down something, rose his head with the pen in his mouth, and looked at me with slight admonition.

“I thought you’d know him. You were in the army after all!”

I sighed: “Not this again! Just because I’ve been in the royal army doesn’t mean I can recall every single officer; or that I even knew them in the first place!”

Sherlock mirrored my sigh and put away his fountain pen. He said: “Alright then, let me fill you in: Ironwing, Colonel off duty, was commanding officer of the third Wonderbolt squadron under Admiral Fairweather and served during the war in Yakyakistan. He was decorated for his part in holding the Icecrown-pass and he’s a well-educated sports-stallion and a prized sharp-shot. There was never an open scandal, but rumour has it he was obliged from his duties because of the recklessness and even ferocity with which he pursued his aims. Today, I dare say, Ironwing’s the second most dangerous pony in Canterlot; he’s downright infamous in the city's underworld, though he manages to keep up a respectable veneer.”

“The second most dangerous?” I wondered, oblivious what trails Sherlock’s thoughts once again had taken. “Who’s the most dangerous then?”

“Well, that would be Moriarty, of course!”

And there we went again: Professor Moriarty, the own personal bugaboo of Sherlock Hooves. I was familiar with this idée fixe, he had fancied the thought of somepony pulling the strings behind each organized crime in Canterlot –maybe in whole Equestria- for quite some time. A genius of the first water, an opponent whose intelligence and skills equalled Sherlock’s, at least, if they weren’t even above. His theory was based upon how elaborate, well-planned and almost artful, some recent capital crimes had been executed. Sherlock came to the conclusion there had to be a highly skilled manipulator trying to unite the whole underworld under one flag and had developed various theories and suspects. I don’t know how he managed to do it, but recently he had managed to give this master-manipulator an actual name: Professor Moriarty. There was just one problem:
“Sherlock”, I said. “You have no proof that this criminal mastermind you’re after exists!”

“Moriarty does exist if I may remind you”, he objected very sanctimoniously. “She teaches applied mathematics and astronomy at Canterlot University. She even is in the 'Who is Who'! But what’s more important”, he said and now sounded very serious.
“Ironwing is friends with the Professor. In fact, rumour has it that the Colonel is Moriarty’s number one, the first in command in her criminal organisation. We have no proof, of course, as we haven’t for each of Moriarty’s illegal activities. Up until now, that is! But if we handle this matter dexterously… and with a little portion of luck… We may finally be able to change that!”

I said nothing more, I knew how much the chance of finding a proof for Moriarty’s criminal activities would mean to him. Don’t get me wrong, my faithful friends, I’ve always trusted Sherlock’s judgement. He wouldn’t suspect anypony without evidence, even if his evidence not always bear legal force. But this conviction on the verge of obsession was a weak point: It wasn’t just a competition of one genius against the other: Sherlock took this clash of minds – if this clash existed - personal! If my friend was right, Moriarty was evading his just sentence for years now and thus Sherlock would do all in his might to bring the criminal mastermind down…

“My dear friend”, Sherlock addressed me suddenly and absolutely out of context. “Would you mind if we dine out tonight?”

“What are you up to, Sherlock?” I wondered, because he could develop quite dubious ideas about a suitable diner.

“I have to do some procurements, to lighten up some of the last dark corners in this case; I’ll meet you at the Old Trunk Inn at, let’s say 9 o’clock?”

Suspicions confirmed, the Old Trunk Inn was a louche tavern and drinking hole in the Lower District. And gathering place for burglars, thieves and shady ponies of all kinds. Of course, Sherlock was a regular guest in that dive… In disguise he often visited the Old Trunk Inn, the innkeeper was, in a fashion, the Coup de Coeur of low lives, knowing about almost everything what was going down. Ironically I got along with him much better than with the mauve muckraker. For a stallion so close to crime, Apple Pie was astonishingly honest and heartfelt. But his impressive orange figure and resolute demeanour made clear he’d never allow any quarrel to happen within his own four walls.

As I entered the inn at shortly before nine, dressed in my oldest and most tattered coat and with a grey cloth around my neck, I at once noticed the familiar auburn mane of Mister Apple Pie; it always looked like the stallion had been struck by lightning. I trotted through the dim room, past some miserable ponies hanging low over their mugs, the scent of dead cider hung in the air, accompanied by the smell of cheap tobacco.

“Gran’ evenin’, Doc”, Apple Pie greeted me with a broad smile as I stepped to the bar and sat down. “Mayflower towl me yer were comin’ along.” 

I looked to the right, to the only other pony sitting at the bar. The stallion wore an eroded marine uniform and a skipper’s hat. It was my friend Sherlock Hooves in his frequently used masquerade as the old river-boat-captain Mayflower. He was disguised beyond recognition, his clear-cut features turned into a weary face with grey sideburns, tanned by wind and weather. Once again I was astonished what he could achieve with make-up and fake fur.

Sherlock blinked at me and lifted his hat for a greeting. “I took the freedom of ordering two bowls of Apple Pie’s stew and cake for dessert; I know how much you’re fond of them.”

Well, that was true, and I was at once reconciled with my friend’s choice of a place for diner when the innkeeper placed a bowl a steaming bowl in front of me. Apple Pie made best chestnut stew in the whole town. And, appropriate to his name, the best apple-pie... He watched with pride as I dug into my meal. Sherlock followed my example, though with less speed. Eventually, after he had served a few other customers, Mister Pie turned back to us:
“Neigh tell me, gentlecolts: Yer didn’t jist come for my ‘otpot an' cake, didya?”

Apple Pie very well knew who we were, he had figured that out over a year ago. Even if his thick accent didn’t indicate it, he wasn’t dumb at all. However, Sherlock remained always Captain Mayflower and I was simply the Doc. And Apple Pie would happily trade information with us; he was an admirer of Sherlock's art of deduction. All in all, Apple Pie wasn’t a half bad stallion but just had happened to open a tavern in the wrong borough…

Sherlock nodded at Mister Pie’s comment, slid a silver coin over to the innkeeper and then told him frankly, yet in a low voice: “Ever heard about the Brightwater Murders, Mister Pie?”

“Quite somethin’, aye. One of the victims, Mister Point Blank, was a regular guest ‘ere. Always stuck together wi’ dis other fella, Twig’s ‘is name, I tink… One as class as de other!” 

“Twigs?” Sherlock asked, his voice began to tremble with excitement. “Not perhaps Hightide?”

“Hightide? He was another victim, aye? De name’s not familiar”, the innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. “But maybe yer stallion was ‘ere, too. What’s his Cutie Mark?”

“Why, a log and a knife”, I said, checking my notebook.

Apple Pie started to laugh a rumbling laughter: “They got yer 'oaxed gran', gents! That's Twigs, as sure as a smile!”

“No way!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Earth-pony, brute ratbag, a scar right across his forehead? Yep that’s Twigs all over. He and Point Blank were partners. Sum say they were Ironwing’s gurriers, his ‘eadsmen. Cutty Knife an’ Crosshairs we called dem, Twigs was specialised in thrust weapons, Point Blank in firearms. A really evil pair.”

Sherlock’s face expressed a quite inappropriate happiness. This time I could follow his line of thoughts. The sailor pony didn’t fit the picture in total. Why would a sailor from Trottingham, be it even on shore leave, linger around in Canterlot. That was a contradiction. But if Hightide wasn’t Hightide but in fact a local criminal dubbed ‘Twigs’, it all made much more sense.

“Did something get to your ears, why they’ve been killed?” I chased up, keen to know what else the innkeeper might be able to tell us. But Apple Pie shook his head.

“Naw, nathin’. After Point Blank’s death the Colonel let it be known he would root for Twigs. But he didn’t tell why. Doesn’t need ter either. But let me think: At de evenin' Point Blank got murdered, he an' Twigs sat at their regular table an' drank their supper. Aboyt 8 o’clock, Colonel Ironwing showed up, talked ter dem for a minute or two an' den lef again. They 'astily drained their glasses an' den lef as well.”


-<0>-



Well, so far this evening had been fairly prolific and the mysterious series of murders wasn’t so mysterious anymore. Yes, there were still some loose threads to knit, but I was confident to soon be able to close the case. On the other hoof, Sherlock strangely seemed less contend than rather focused and worried.

“My dear friend”, he called from his dressing room. We had arrived back in Baker Street and he was busy emerging his respectable self from the raddled masquerade. “This is no good at all.”

I sat in my armchair and had the evening newspaper unfurled in front of me, only. “What do you mean?”

“I need another approach, Trotson”, he called. “And complete new one I fear.”

“Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t work. My theory doesn’t work, Trotson!” Sherlock exclaimed with frustration. 

Of course he didn’t bother with a nothingness like explaining his theory to me. So I had to make my own guess: “It’s not Moriarty, huh?” I muttered, still half-way focused on my lecture of the evening paper. The flu epidemic from last month had gotten me some extra fund and I had made two or three minor sports bets. I don’t remember how much and on which competitions in detail, but I will never forget that one particular bet. As I write this story, my notebook is lying in front of me and note tells me I had placed a bet of fifty bits in favor of a hoof fighter called Lead Step. And now I was eager to get to know the results of this long expected title bout. And of course, if my investment would pay off…

“Oh, come one, you can’t be serious!” I scolded as my gaze fell upon the sports page. The headlines announced that the grand fight had been called off. Due to ‘impairments of health’ by Lead Step, his manager had withdrawn the challenge. Thus for him the fight was lost. And so was my precious money…
“They can’t do that”, I thought. “They have to give me refund.” I wasn’t really believing in it, though. And then I saw something. It was just a marginal note, a half sentence, nothing more, but it was enough to catch my attention: The article mentioned that Lead Step had a fillyfriend, a mare with a name we had only recently heard.

“Sherlock”, I rose my voice because I could hear him rummaging back in his dressing room. “Miss Light Prance is in the newspaper!”

I can’t recall to have ever seen Sherlock crossing the room faster. The door to the boudoir was pushed open so fiercely that it banged against the wall and within a blink my friend stood next to me. One could have been scared witless by his sight: His grey eyes were torn open and flashing. He was half done with removing the make-up, his face was partly covered with white crème and fake grey fur still hung from his cheeks. He looked like his own ghost.
“Where? Quick, tell me, Trotson! What’s in the news?”

I was to some extent shocked by his hefty reaction and read out the paragraph in question:
“… Malevolent tongues see the real cause of Lead Step’s so called impairments in a drama of relationship. His long lasting and ambivalent affair with the actress Light Prance has always…”

“Yes, yes, YES! OF COURSE!” Sherlock yelled and pried the paper away from me. “I’ll be damned if this isn’t the key to this sinister riddle!”

He developed a frenzy of activity, threw the newspaper onto the cocktail table, galloped back to his room to snatch a towel and bolted over to the bookshelf that occupied a whole wall in our living room. He fetched a table of addresses, but then halted and resolutely rubbed off his face with the towel to free himself from the defacing rest of his masquerade. The towel was chucked into a corner before he turned back to the address register. Sherlock skimmed through the pages with incredible speed, and before I knew what was even happening, my friend had dropped the book on the floor and stood booted and spurred at the door.

“Come on, come on, dear friend!” he exclaimed, trembling with excitement. “This ugly case has already claimed five lives and if we don’t hurry, it might well claim another one!”

Even though I hadn’t thought that to be even possible, the things were going to overturn even more.


-<0>-


> The Brightwater Murders - Conclusion
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Conclusion – Four Murders plus One


Sherlock payed a ludicrously high tip to a hackney cab and yelled an address I had never heard of before. The chaise and pair virtually raced to this mysterious destination, a not too wealthy, grey street in southern Canterlot, with dull houses full of keen rental flats. The cab had only barely stopped, when Sherlock already darted out of the vehicle and towards a green painted door. He hammered his hoof against the door, a hasty staccato that expressed utmost urgency. 
But unfortunately also drew attention: Before somepony could open the door, a young constable in scratched light plate stepped onto us. She was a rather colourless pegasus, suitable for this borough. The constable expressed a dutiful suspicion as she approached Sherlock and put her hoof on his shoulder, probably to hold him back from knocking in the door. But Sherlock just shoved one of his business card's into her face. I watched as her face now passed through the whole spectrum from confusion, dismay and curiosity. 

Then the peeled-off door was opened and Sherlock barged in as soon as he could squeeze himself through the gap, dragging a very, very confused constable with him. I tried to follow them on the hooves, muttering an apology to an intimidated donkey who had opened the door. Sherlock, the bewildered police-mare still in tow, rushed up the creaking staircase to the upper floor, where he started to knock on the door as well.

“He’s not opening”, Sherlock grimly said to the constable as if she could do anything with it. The pegasus just blankly nodded. It took a while and some endeavour to close up to them – my old wound at the left foreleg sometimes still is sensitive to abrupt movements, especially under stress. Sherlock had already begun to try and kick in the door. And I knew, if Sherlock resulted in such drastic methods, a life had to be at stake. 
He reared up and smashed the door.

CRACK!

Sherlock doesn’t regularly practise physical training, but he has been a well-versed hoof fighter and fencer during his time at the university. After the first futile attack, he at once changed his tactics and started to buck the lock with his hind legs.

CRACK!

Against the well-placed hoof kick of an earth-pony, no ordinary deadbolt stood much of a chance.

CRACK!

The third hit finally broke the lock and almost knocked the door off of its hinges. Sherlock tossed the broken door aside.

“Quick now, Trotson”, he panted. “He might need your medical assistance. I just hope we aren’t too late already!”

Utmost startled by his words, I hurried to get into the flat. The rooms were ill-lit and stifling. From somewhere back in the in the apartment I heard a chink like from breaking glass and a muffled and indistinct swearing. Then suddenly, the wretched figure of an earth-pony appeared in a doorframe to my left. When I write wretched, I mean the only impression he made on me: He stumbled and his smell of alcohol hit me like a battering ram. The weak light painted deep shadows on his face and underlined his dark under-eye circles. But despite his miserable appearance, he had an impressive stature: At least fifteen hooves tall, a back like a plough pony and muscular beneath his dark-red coat.

“You ain’t gett’n me ‘live, darn pigs!” He roared at me. He was completely drunk and apparently dangerous. The booze and maybe too many saltlicks had made him fearless. Now he was launching an all-out attack. 

ON ME!

I had no time to brace myself for the impact before the sturdy stallion crashed into me. We both hit the floor and my head painfully stroke a dresser. Of course, I couldn’t equal his physical strength at all, but at least I was sober. That advantage, even if it only was a little one, probably saved me. As we bowled over the carpet, I managed to curl myself up to provide him with a smaller target. In his state the logical consequence of his furious, rash attack was disorientation and the loss of his balance; he swayed like reed in the wind. And right at that moment, my hooves hit him and knocked him back. My opponent blinked, trying to focus his blurred vision on me but before could even make one more move, his skull made intimate acquaintance with a wooden chair. 

Perhaps not Sherlock’s favourite weapon of choice, but he had no time to pick a better on before getting to my aid. However, crashing the chair on his head sufficed to render the furious stallion unconscious. His eyes twisted upwards, then he plunged to the ground like a chopped tree.

“Trotson, my dear friend, are you alright?” I heard Sherlock asking. I had an annoying ringing in my ears, but I could make out the worry in his voice. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine”, I grimaced and sustained my head. Somepony helped me up to stand up. I turned my head, slowly to avoid any further damage to my ailing bones, and I saw the young constable. She by now seemed hopelessly over-challenged with the recent events. 
As soon as I was on my hooves again, I pointed accusatorily at my friend and grinded: “But I demand an explanation, Sherlock! If I get beaten up, I at least want to know who by or why! Don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Who is that stallion anyway?”

Sherlock Hooves chuckled. “My dear friend, it’s good to hear that the little blow on your head has neither affected your grit nor your curiosity. Yes, yes, Trotson, you deserve an explanation, though it means to admit that I’ve been foolish enough to make an incorrect assumption not only once, but twice. But, my friend, I fear this will have to wait until tomorrow morning, because I still need to wait for the answers of the telegrams I sent earlier this evening. And I dare say our client from Palace Court, Inspector Keen, should be keen to hear that, too. Meanwhile, I will answer your second question: The gentlecolt on the carpet who now forcibly sleeps it off is Mister Lead Step. And I must now ask the constable to arrest him.”

“What for?” The question unanimously came from mine and the police-mare’s mouth. Sherlock Hooves flashed us a triumphant smile.

“For the murder of Mister Star Trail”, he said.


-<0>-



A word and a blow, Lead Step was arrested and put in custody; and Sherlock and I returned to the Baker Street. A glass of brandy helped to calm down my aching head and my spinning mind. Exhaustion did one last thing and I slept well until the next morning.

After an abundant breakfast, at ten o’clock, Inspector Keen appeared in person again. And with him came, a bit to my amazement, Chief Inspector Lestride. He had wanted to hear himself how Sherlock Hooves had solved this case that had left him absolute clueless. And thus, the elite of Palace Court took place on our couch.

“Very well”, Sherlock said and slouched on his armchair. “Now, that we’re all gathered around, we can begin.

A very interesting and stimulating case with some hooks and shanks I hadn’t expected. Let’s begin with the first victim, shall we?

Mister Inchworm. His story can be summed up about thusly: Inchworm, in everyday life a hard working employee, had a passion: Whist. Whist is quite a pleasurable amusement, at least whilst you don’t gamble with ponies like Ironwing and Star Trail for money. By chiselling Inchworm at the card table, Ironwing manged to force him into contribution to the planned abstraction at Argent Rapide & Co. The answer on a telegram I sent yesterday to Mister Rapide’s widow, Lady Priceless, confirmed my suspicion that Mister Star Trail’s good friend Libra Balance was her lawyer. And as such she had access to all documents of the company. And so Ironwing had everything he needed for his plan: Somepony who could attain the intern company documents – Libra Balance- and an insider who could make use of these information –Inchworm.  Altogether a good plan, in which however one flaw came to light:
Mister Inchworm himself.

As his farewell letter reveals, a change of heart had occurred with him. He had realised that embezzlement would solve nothing but instead just lead to new unsolvable problems. And so he saw only one way out: Suicide. At the evening of the sixth he was supposed to deliver the stolen stocks and securities to Colonel Ironwing who waited for him in the Bagatelle Club. But while Ironwing waited, Mister Inchworm only wrote his suicide note and left behind the papers in his room for a certain Worthwile to find them. Mister Worthwile, as I learned, is the general manager of Argent Rapide & Company.

However, as Inchworm hadn’t shown up for his appointment with Ironwing, the Colonel sent two of his henchponies, Point Blank and Twigs to search for him. Admittedly, we can’t know which orders he had given them. But I think we can deduce from the old silver coin found with Inchworm’s body – and the identical coin later found with Twigs – they had the order to murder Mister Inchworm. This crime was used as a warning for the underworld: That’s what happens to those who dare to betray Colonel Ironwing. Point Blank, the gunslinger, shot Inchworm dead and then he and Twigs threw the corpse into the Brightwater. After that, they returned to Inchworm’s room to get possession of the stolen securities. All this money on the hoof –round twenty thousand as Mister Worthwile was so kind to impart me – was a sore temptation for Twigs. He stabbed his former partner, took the documents and the Blitz T11 and went underground. In other words, he used documents he probably had stolen or bought on the black market that now identified him as the sailor Hightide.
Of course, Colonel Ironwing wasn’t pleased in the slightest, but he was unable to intervene in person. Too high was the risk somepony would be able to connect him to these crimes, if he did. So Libra Balance now tried track down Twigs and to her misfortune she was successful. She couldn’t bring him to hoof over the letters of credit and therefor tried to shoot him down with her Pepperbox. During the resulting shootout, she couldn’t measure up with Twigs. He shot her with the gun he had taken from Point Blank.

The evidences in Star Trail’s house, the securities, the Blitz and the Royal 2K on his desk strongly indicate that he has been the murderer of Twigs in the end. And so on thing leads to another – an all too everyday story of dishonour and fraud. Among thieves there is no honour.”

Chief Inspector Lestride jumped to his hooves in excitement. “Then Ironwing must’ve murdered Star Trail! We finally got him!” he exclaimed. Sherlock apparently wasn’t the only one who was keen to see the Colonel behind prison bars.

“Sadly not, Lestride”, Sherlock Hooves replied and he looked more than only a bit considerate for a moment. But then his good mood reappeared.
“The circumstances of his death follow logically from the evidences found in his home. Indeed the progression of events was so obvious it awhile blurred my vision for how the death of Star Trail fit in with the other murders. As he had been the last victim, this scent was promising to be the hottest; and that’s why a comment from my friend Doctor Trotson led me to commence my investigations at his manor. It supplied us with evidences in great numbers. The letters of credit on the desk, the money and the jewellery, they all indicate that a robbery couldn’t have been the motive for his killing.  
– You see, Lestride”, he addressed the Inspector. “If Ironwing or one of his ponies had killed Star Trail, the papers would have been taken, too. If you ask somepony at Argent Rapide & Co, you’ll ascertain that those securities are the missing papers.

No, I fear we can exclude Ironwing or his criminal organisation.

Star Trail’s death wasn’t a consequence of his criminal but of his romantic wrong ways. There should be no doubt what happened in the night of his death. The course follows clearly from his retained clothes. 
After Star Trail had murdered Twigs, he still had time for another arranged appointment. According to Coup de Coeur, who apparently must know it, his date was Miss Light Prance. He picked her up after the show and took her to his home. First he went to his study room, took of his overcoat, freed himself from the burden of the gun and threw the papers on the desk. The following dinner was successful for him, because soon he had routed Miss Prance up to his sleeping room. But then the evening ended with a different climax than he had intended: Somepony kicked in the door and stormed up the staircase.”

“And do you know who?” Inspector Keen wanted to know.

“I think, we are allowed to assume it was the hoof fighter Lead Step. My dear friend Trotson, whose assistance is always invaluable for me, was so kind to bump my muzzle on something I had surely missed otherwise. Mister de Coeur doesn't know anything about Miss Light Prance. And because I never read the sports news, I would’ve never learned about the romance between Lead Step and her myself as it was mentioned just there. 
An old, well-known drama had happened, the fight over a mare, of course, and Star Trail lost both the fight and his life. The cheated lover dressed Star Trail again, but -as Chief Inspector Lestride so splendidly has noticed- he didn’t evince the same accuracy as the particular Mister Trail. Then he rolled the corpse up in the carpet, in the carpet that had lain in front of the bed. And as he was a strong and sturdy pony he carried the body down to the river. The murderer didn’t know the irony of this last rest for he knew nothing about Star Trail’s role in the other murders.

Now we get to the part of the story that should explain my frenzy of activity from last night. This is probably the part that my friend has the biggest interest in. As Trotson presented me Star Trail’s murderer on a silver plate, the choice of words in the relevant article extremely alarmed me. Lead Step’s title bout had been cancelled due to ‘impairments of health’! He is known as a jealous hothead, and he’s a hoof fighter, a stallion used to force. But now he had taken a pony’s life; that had to afflict him, even harder since he obviously was a very emotional type. 
And the stallion he had killed had mighty friends. When the fight was called off I feared that Colonel Ironwing might try to revenge Star Trail or that Lead Step might even try to end his own life. I got to the conviction we had to hurry because his life was in danger, and if it was only to finally get certainty about the circumstances of the last crime.

But once again, I was wrong: It turns out that Ironwing has left Canterlot two days ago. He probably doesn’t even know about Star Trail’s death yet. And as we forced our entry into Leas Step’s flat, my friend Trotson had to painfully experience that the pony fighter indeed was hopelessly drunk but far away from killing himself.”

I nodded sombrely and at the curious and questioning looks of the two inspectors I added a little unwillingly: “Long story short, he wanted to beat his way out. My head still hurts because he had tried to smash a dresser with it...”

“That was a miscalculation on my part”, Sherlock admitted. “My deepest apologies for that, Trotson. I allowed my obsession with Moriarty’s putative activities to cloud my judgement. In the murder of Star Trail, Trotson would have done far better than me… Nah! Every pony at Palace Court would have done better than the great Sherlock Hooves! This shall be a lesson for me. By now I’ve never been happier to be able to close a case. And given the circumstances it’s the imaginably best conclusion possible.”

“I guess you’re right”, Chief Inspector Lestride agreed hesitatingly. Then he sighed: “Although of course, we still have no evidence against Colonel Ironwing, let alone Moriarty. Unless you have some second to none proof hidden up in your sleeve, that is…”

Sherlock Hooves receipted Lestrides chuntering with a heartfelt laughter: “I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, no aces up my in my sleeves, I fear. But no need to be pessimistic: The youngest events have shown us that Ironwing is getting sloppy. There’ll be another day and another crime. Sooner or later even Ironwing and Moriarty will make a mistake. And that day, gentlecolts, Sherlock Hooves and his faithful friends will be there to bring them down, come what may come!”

We all rose for this extolling moment, we, the sworn in alliance against the organised crime, higlighted dramatically by the golden light of Princess Celestia's sun, Sherlock suddenly cleared his throat.

"Oh, and somepony should impart that constable from last night my apologies as well. I think I kind of overstrained her..."




FINIS.


> Revenge of the Sphinx - Prologue
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Revenge of the Sphinx



Prologue – The Scholar’s Complaint

“What a rubbish, what a complete and utter nonsense!” I gave vent to my anger. “I can’t belief how the newspapers cash in on the superstitions of ponies!” I emphasized my indignation by vehemently throwing the papers on the ground. “And then the Times! Of all newspapers the Times had to start this! D. Trail… What a pen pusher!”

Sherlock Hooves watched me pacing over to the chimney. My spell levitated my pipe from the mantelpiece and I began to fill it resolutely with tobacco from the Saddle-Arabian slipper.

“Allow me, Trotson”, said Sherlock turning back to his microscope, a slight grin on his face. “You must be indeed boiling with indignation if you abjure your precious Arcadia tobacco in favour of my stronger Shag. What is it that’s so agitating to you? It’s this issue about the mummy’s curse, I presume?”

I grimaced. “Yes, you presume right, but it appears to me you should rather use your talent for deduction to solve that issue, not that of assumption. It has put the whole town into a flurry. Two stallions die, and we are made to believe a four thousand years old mummy is the murderer! I’m surprised you can stay so calm, Sherlock!”

I think, my faithful readers, this matter might need a further explanation: During the late 880s, an extension of the diplomatic connections to the kingdom of Saddle-Arabia had allowed archaeologists from the Royal Scientific Society to first undertake excavations along the river Neighle, where the pyramids of the extinct Coltypian Empire are located. Those pioneering achievements on the field of archaeology had not only unearthed secrets of a lost culture of ponies and other fabled beings, but entailed a string of magic-theoretical and historical, as well as magic-etymological studies and researches. Among the non-academic people, the fair and beautiful art treasures of that long gone era full of gold and gemstones had started a downright 'Coltyptomania', may my readers excuse my word coining. Coltyptian talismans and amulets, no matter if authentic or not, and furniture in old Saddle Arabian style, there were little items more sought these days, and who fancied himself owned at least one antiquity of Coltypian origin.
The most recent archaeological expedition had been discussed over and over in the newspapers all the more for it was crowned by an overwhelming success. The expedition of Royal Scientific Society’s Professor Apocrypha had discovered a tomb deep down in a chasm in the Valley of Royals. After long and tough work, they had eventually bored their way to the central chamber only recently; the archaeologists had been fascinated by the excellent condition of the stone coffin, the grave furnishings and finally of the mummy of pharaoh Katebet itself. This mummy was the really sensation, because unmissable, the ancient queen hadn’t been an alicorn like Princess Celestia, and neither a unicorn, in fact she had been no pony at all. The queen had been a sphinx, the first one to have ever been discovered. 

News had gone head over heels about the sensational discovery, but soon grimmer events had overshadowed the extraordinary finding: 
Professor Apocrypha had been found dead in the tomb. The expedition had only a few more weeks of work to do, when the calamity occurred. According to the newspapers Professor Apocrypha had worked till late in the night and thus remained behind alone in the chamber, as all other members of his expedition retreated for the night.
His lifeless body was discovered on the next morning by Doctor Adder Stone, a fellow archaeologist. The professor had been strangled, and mummy bandages were found around his neck. Following the news of Apocrypha’s death, superstitious ponies, foremost the Saddle Arabian ancillaries had started to blame supernatural forces for the professor’s murder…
Indeed, it appeared that the expedition had been cursed from the very moment they had broken the seal: On their return to Equestria, the Professor’s assistant, a pony named Scriptoria succumbed to a similar grim fate. Setting for his inexplicable death was the steamer Eastern Star; he was found in the forehold, dead, just in front of the crate in which the pharaoh’s coffin was shipped.
Of course, it was in the nature of things the gutter press leapt at these incidents like vultures, with a certain D. Trail leading the way. He was the Canterlot Times’s self-announced expert for history and archaeology. 

Don’t get me wrong my friends, I do believe there exist things in our wide world far beyond the knowledge of our schoolbooks, and maybe I do also believe in some stories that are generally derided, such as those about vampire and wolf ponies, but as an academic unicorn I know the limits of magic very well. Though often enough tried, rising the dead isn’t among ponies’ capabilities… And the withered corpse of a three thousand years old queen rising from its coffin to seek bloody vengeance on those who disturbed its eternal rest? That sounds quite melodramatic, doesn’t it? 
No, at this point even my ‘facileness’, as it was often scolded by Sherlock, was stretched to its limits…

“I find these articles rather interesting than upsetting”, Sherlock calmly replied to my outburst. “From a certain scientific point of view, of course.”

“You can’t actually believe in all the stupid talk that some kind of curse would be responsible for the death of these two stallions, can you?”

Sherlock Hooves indulgently shook his head. “My dear friend, since the beginning of time there exists the curse feral for us ponies, and I don’t arrogate myself to get to the bottom of that curse. And after all, there is a whole discipline of magic dedicated to death: The dark art of necromancy. But since you are a unicorn, you probably know better about that matter than me, anyway...”

“I’m physician, not a sorcerer”, I said ungraciously. “And as you very well know, they don’t teach necromancy in university. It’s just a myth, there’s no evidence something like the ability to awake the dead ever existed in the first place.” 

“Or so they want you to think”, Sherlock replied with an uninterpretable look, but I had little time worry that my friend could have mixed with the conspiracy theorists lately, because at that moment my thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.

“Do we expect a visitor, Sherlock?” I wanted to know.

“Not that I’m aware of”, my friend replied and stretched himself. “But I’m sure, if this visitor is of any interest for us, knowing our diligent Mrs. Herdson, she’ll inform us in... Say, thirty seconds.”

Maybe I took Sherlock’s statement a bit too literally, but I must admit that I indeed counted the seconds. Anyway, he was right, exactly twenty-nine seconds later, our landlady knocked at the door.

“Mr. Hooves, Doctor Trotson”, Mrs. Herdson said. “Here’s a young lady who wants to speak with you. She says she has a vital case of utmost importance and needs you to investigate it; her words not mine. I’ve told her that you don’t see any clients without appointment, but she ‘insists’…”

“Well then”, Sherlock turned to me with an expression between be- and amusement. “We shall not let her wait any longer and hear what she has to say, don’t you agree, Trotson?”

Of course, I agreed. Sherlock took a seat in his favourite armchair and chafed his hooves. And I fetched a new scrap book from my desk, because I had filled the last pages of my old one during our investigations of the Brightwater Murders.

When I turned back to the door, Mrs. Herdson lead in our newest potential client: She entered the room with an outward composure of manner and a firm step. She was unicorn of a –I dare say- pretty remarkable colour: Her coat was of light purple, it could be described as lavender, and her mane, worn in a bun, was a darker shade of the same tone. Her features were clean-cut and her matching dress was of an almost admirable simplicity. From her violet eyes shone a keen intelligence.
But I couldn’t help but observe that her eyes twitched slightley, and she generally showed sign of inward agitation as she introduced herself as Miss Midnight Star. Sherlock Hooves welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked at her in the minute and yet abstracted manner which was typical for him. 

“Don’t you find,” he then said. “That with your short sight it is a little trying work with all those faded characters on antique fragments?”

“I did at first,” she answered. “But with these new glasses it’s all better.”

Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her face. 

“You must’ve heard about me, Mister Hooves,” she exclaimed. “How else could you know all that?”

“Never mind,” I said, laughing. “It is his business to know things. I recall him deducing half the history of the Eastern World from a Saddle Arabian slipper…”

“Maybe I’ve trained myself to see, what others overlook” interrupted Sherlock, with his put hooves together and his eyes turned to the ceiling. 
“Actually, it’s quite simple”, he then reluctantly explained. “All it needed was two quick glances, one at your face, and one at your dress. There is the dint of a pince-nez on each side of your muzzle and there’s a certain kind of dirt on the seam of your right sleeve. It’s a unique yellow-red dust which cannot be found in Equestria. It’s in fact the same kind of dust I once happened to observe on the very slipper Trotson mentioned; dust from the deserts of Saddle Arabia. Now, the most likely way to get in contact with this particular kind of dirt here in Canterlot is to work either for the museum or the university, but in any case with archaeological findings.
So I ventured a remark about short sight and archaeology and you seemed to be surprised. Quite simple, isn’t it?”

Miss Star looked like she had seen a ghost. That was this certain impact, my friend had on many ponies at their first meeting. Though I had often seen this astonishment turning into annoyance once a pony got to know Sherlock Hooves a little better… 

“I see, Mister Hooves”, Miss Star drawled. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d indeed hold up to your reputation. Now I see that I’ve been wrong. That is... That is good. It warrants my decision to consult you, even against the will of my adviser.”

“We’ll see if your decision was wise”, Sherlock impatiently discounted her words. “But since you seem to know about my ‘reputation’, Miss Star, and since you already uttered your matter would be of utter importance, please go ahead and tell us about your cause!”

“Yes, yes of course…” Miss Star took a deep breath, then she said: “I presume you have already heard about Doctor Adder Stone?”

We confirmed that. Doctor Adder Stone had just been mentioned in today’s Times. He was an expert for magical history and etymology, and had been a member of Professor Apocrypha’s fateful expedition. Now, as he was the only of the expedition’s Royal Scientist who was still alive, he had inherited the task to organize the forthcoming exhibition in the Equestrian Museum, in memoriam to his late colleagues Apocrypha and Scriptoria.

As things should turn out, Miss Midnight Star was a doctoral student of the Royal University, and Doctor Adder Stone was her thesis adviser. As against Doctor Stone, who apparently had decided to ignore all the gossip of a curse, and who had even refused to give any comment to the newspapers, his student very well was worried:
The rumours about that murderous mummy which admittedly yet lacked any scientific proof, but couldn’t be belied either, these rumours inflamed the public opinion and casted a slur on the scientists who seemingly were unable to stop the curse. And since her mentor kept idle, Midnight Star had decided to take action herself. 
The troublesome incident had to come to an end and who would be more suitable to uncover the truth than Sherlock Hooves, the best detective in Equestria?

This was, in short, the concern Midnight Star had for us. 
With this request she spoke right from my soul, and I would have happily assured her of our help, but my friend seemed reluctant. Maybe he resented her for having doubted his skills, yes, maybe she had offended his vanity with her disbelief. I, however, decided to stick to his statement that this case would pose ‘hardly a challenge’ to him. 

“What are you afraid of?" exclaimed Miss Midnight Star. "You can’t actually believe this stupid talk about some kind of curse, can you?”  Little could she know she was almost exactly repeating the sentence I had hurled at Sherlock Hooves not fifteen minutes ago.

“I could tell you something about the ‘impossible’ and the ‘unlikely’, which my dear friend Trotson likes to quote so much, Miss Star”, replied the detective, who encountered Miss Star’s agitation with a stoic serenity. “But instead I’ll tell you the following: I believe the reasons for these murders are closer to us than an ancient mummy.”

The hint of a smile played on his lips, as he turned to me.

“And before Doctor Trotson will be mortally offended with me for the next week because I refused to help a pretty young lady, this case really doesn’t require my assistance. I’m sure, the Doctor will agree with me once he has solved it.”

“Me, Sherlock? I am supposed to solve this case?” I was dumbfounded, understandably I believe.

“Yes, of course, Trotson. I have complete confidence in your abilities, my friend. Why don’t you attend to this matter? Maybe you’ll find something interesting. Investigations regarding the death of two scholars are a yet deplorable, but nevertheless worthwhile cause to enter into realm of research and teaching.”

> Revenge of the Sphinx - Chapter I
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


1st- The Mummy Strikes Again


To be send on any kind of errant by Sherlock Hooves I surely was used to. To what I however wasn’t used to at all was that I now was supposed to solve Sherlock’s cases for him. Get a load of that!
Surely I was as doubtful whether I was able to fulfil his expectations in me, as Miss Star was. My readers might remember that I have sometimes before expressed my astonishment about the functioning of Sherlock’s mind, his outstanding knowledge on certain domains on the one hoof and on the other hoof the complete lack knowledge on any domain he considered unimportant. But though I think myself a stallion with a broad general knowledge, I had to admit that my knowledge on the matter I was asked to investigate could be called fragmentary at best. Yet I had the strange feeling that behind this whole mummy-nonsense was more than just distraction. But If I wanted to actually help Miss Midnight Star, I needed to extend my knowledge. Maybe we both needed. It took some persuasion, but in the end I was able to convince Midnight Star to consult somepony, who might be able to help us.
Luckily, I didn’t have to seek for long; just across the street happened to live a pony, who was street-smart in both archaeology and superstition, a pony who was familiar with cults of all kinds.


-<0>-


Cattycorner from Baker Street 221 B, clearly in line of sight from our living room windows, is an antique store labelled a bit unimaginatively ‘Needful Things’. About three years ago, somepony had eventually bought the long vacant wine and spirits’ shop across the street, and then moved into said premises. This had happened about at the same time as, according to his own opinion, Sherlock Hooves had first foiled the plans of the mysterious Professor Moriarty. The new owner, an earth pony stallion named Silver Blaze turned out to be a former military officer. During his time in the army he has been promoted captain, which can also be deduced from the ‘Capt.’ on the letter-heads he uses. He was wounded in action, and he took that for a reason to take his honorable discharge from the crown’s service. Silver Blaze surely could have gotten by fairly by his pension alone, but he seems to be the kind of swashbuckler for whom standstill and idleness are hard to bear. Insofar the he surely is akin to my friend Sherlock Hooves…

So our first, and still quite hesitant steps in this case lead Miss Star and me to ‘Needful Things’, from which’s shop windows already the dangerous, golden grin of an Coltyptian jackal-headed mask smiled at us. To my mind, this creepy mask with its empty eye-holes was conductive to business only for a chamber of horrors, but my academic companion at once was keen as mustard for it.

“That’s impossible”, she exclaimed. “A priestly mask, death cult, Third Dynasty, on top of all in best condition! I can’t believe something like that got into free trade! It’s a masterpiece!”

“Save that it is sadly not real”, there an amused voice barged in. “And thus not up for sale, I fear. Just meant to attract customers.”

Silver Blaze nonchalantly leaned against the doorframe, and he didn’t really look like one would imagine an antique vendor: A light-grey stallion with his dark mane dressed just negligently enough it could have been on purpose. As usual, he was wearing a black eyepatch over his left eye. An adventurous figure like him seems to fit better into the southern jungles or on a pirate ship, or phrased with bad grace, into the dive bars  rather than into the finer quarters of Canterlot, but that was gladly overlooked for an officer of noble origin like him.

“The Twelve be with ye, neighbour”, Silver Blaze greeted me. “Do ye not want to introduce milady to me? I am always pleased to meet somepony who shares this hobby horse with me.”

Well, a fable for old-fashioned manner of speaking has always been one of his quirks. 

“I am Miss Twilight Star”, Miss Star greeted him. Then she corrected: “And it’s not only a hobby. Archaeology is my profession, Mister... um?”

Silver Blaze introduced himself with a scrape and asked us in. As mentioned before, he seemed a little out of place, in this shop that looked like a weird crossover between a pawnbroker’s and a charm peddler’s shop. Nevertheless he undoubtedly has a flair for business. Cunning and smart, he well knows to earn his living with the collector’s passion and superstition of the upper class.

“Well, Doctor Trotson”, Mister Silver said and took a seat behind his counter. “As much as I would like to believe that it was my valuable display that brought you here, I fear I know better. Therefore, how can I be of service, today?”

“You’ve guessed right, Blaze” I said. “Without any doubt you’ve heard about the …” 

I hesitated, searching for the right words but I simply found no better way to reword it: “The mummy’s curse?” 

Miss Star huffed unwillingly and I as well felt ill at ease to make use of these terms, after all we wanted to stand aloof from the ponies’ superstition, but how else should I have better pointed out our concern in a nutshell? And indeed, Silver Blaze’s face expressed understanding.

“Of course, of course. The mummy’s curse. And now, Mister Hooves wants ye and the lady to find out whether I possess an evil black magic artefact in my shop that allows me to become a vile necromancer who sends out the undead to fulfil his sinister will!”

I can’t say how shocked and scandalised Miss Midnight Star looked as she heard Silver Blaze’s words. I cringed internally and hoped she wouldn’t take him seriously. I had to explain that matter to her later:
Silver Blaze hinted at certain, and not very pleasant circumstances: Shortly after the opening of his shop, Sherlock had tried to prove for quite some time that the former officer was involved in criminal activities, including but not restricted to dealing in stolen goods and smuggling. As far as I know, he has never been able to find any proof, though. 
It’s true, Mister Silver Blaze behaves  suspiciously curious at times, but that’s about it… ‘Naturally’, I would like to add, but after all, we’re talking about Sherlock Hooves who was mistaken this time; and that’s all but naturally. Be it as it may, Silver Blaze’s secrets, if he has any, stay uncovered, and if he has ever taken offence at Sherlock’s accusations, I can’t tell. However, he likes to tease us a bit with this incident time and again. 

“Mister Blaze”, Miss Star scolded, once she had figured out the antique vendor was just joking. “It’s a serious matter! Doctor Trotson thinks you could be able to help him to figure out why somepony uses the ponies’ superstition as cloak for murder.”

Silver Blaze tilted his head.

“Superstition”, he drawled, tasting the word like it wouldn’t be to his liking. “I think ‘superstition’ might be not the right word, Miss. Maybe there indeed was a curse inflicted on the burial chamber, who knows? I personally think it could have been the curse of gold…”

“You mean...?” I began, but I was cut short by Silver Blaze who fished out a necklace made of tarnished, thin golden platelets from under the counter.

“Look here! Has come in just today, my friends. This little precious has realized five hundred bits at Sotheby’s. A friend asked me to monetize it for her, and though it is only brazen I hope to sell it for a thousand. Yesterday morning, I have told Mister Hooves the same: Do you have an idea, how much even the smallest piece of jewellery from a real royal tomb would be worth on the market? 
Believe me, murders have been committed for far less…”


-<0>-


Avarice, what a plain motive for undergoing the effort of strangling somepony with a mummy bandage, I thought. And even if Professor Apocrypha had been killed because the murderer wanted to steel something from the tomb, then why the second murder? 

“A strange fellow, this Silver Blaze”, Miss Star remarked, once we were back on the street. She seemed to share my concerns. “Is he trustworthy?”

I explained that there indeed existed a black market for art objects, needless to say with anything but fine ways of behaving. In the past, Silver Blaze had preferred to go treasure hunting himself, but he had also admitted that it was necessary for his profession to tinker with the current situation on the black market. That would be better for health in the long run... So Blaze’s theory wasn’t made up out of thin air. But, as Midnight Star fittingly put her hoof on the problem: His theory didn’t explain the second murder, the one of Doctor Scriptoria.

“Except maybe if the murderer couldn’t get what he was looking for”, I objected. 

It actually made sense if I thought about it. A thief enters the chamber, in search for a certain artefact. He doesn’t know that Apocrypha is still in there and thus is caught red-hoofed by the professor. He kills Apocrypha on impulse, or to silence him, or for whatever possible reason else. But whatever he is looking for, it’s no longer in the tomb. So the killer has no choice but to wait for a chance to try it again. And this chance had come on the way back to Canterlot. And Scriptoria had to die as well because he had gotten on to his track...

“But if so”, Miss Star said unhappily. “Then it’s of no use, the murderer now has what he wanted and is over the hills and far away!”

I actually wouldn’t have been so sure about that. The killer probably was part of the expedition. To tell Midnight Star that I suspected her mentor to be a cold-blooded murderer was likely no good idea but Adder Stone was the one pony who had both the opportunity to kill Scriptoria and Apocrypha and enough knowledge about Coltyptian artefacts to have a motive. This of course would explain why Doctor Stone did nothing to allay the rumours about the mummy’s curse.

I would need to step into the lion’s den, but I was sure it would be worth to feel Doctor Stone out. To Miss Star, I said:
“We should check the inventory list for the Coltyptian exhibition. If something on the list is missing, we have our motive. We can take it from there.”

“Alright”, she confirmed. “Then we need to go to the Equestrian Museum next. Doctor Stone’s preparing the exhibition for the opening tomorrow, he should have the list there.”

To go like a bull at the gate wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I could reconcile with that idea. Sherlock Hooves had adapted this tactic sometimes. And the sooner I got to know my main suspect, the better!
What should await us at the museum, however, I would have never expected!


-<0>-


I got a bad feeling right from the start, when I saw two constables in uniform standing in front of the museum’s entrance: Two young lads, ashen-faced and timid, like they had seen a ghost; that didn’t contribute to my reassurance either. 
And as we entered the museum, my look at once fell on a certain stallion who was standing amidst a group of uncertain ponies that were nervously talking across each other, lean and ferret-like. I saw my worst concerns confirmed!

“What a disaster, Doctor Trotson”, Inspector Lestride addressed me without ceremony, signing over the crowd to another constable who was just as little successful in calming the ponies down. “So Sherlock Hooves has been right once again! There he writes me to keep my eyes glued to this Adder Stone, and now this… Ugly situation…”

“Wait!”, exclaimed Miss Star. “What’s wrong? Did something happen to Doctor Stone?”

Only now Lestride seemed to notice the mare standing by my side: “And you are, Miss?”

“I’m Midnight Star”, she replied and it sounded like an accusation. “I’m Doctor Stone’s assistant! And I demand to know what’s going on!”

Inspector Lestride gave her a sour look and said: “Then I’ll have to ask you some questions, too, Miss…”

Before the two of them could get into a stalwart contention that would yet lead nowhere, I decided to barge in and turned to Lestride:
“Inspector, could we defer that until later? Of course, you need to ask her some questions, but if you fill us in what’s going on here, maybe we’d be able to help you better.”

Lestride grimaced. “Alright, alright. You actually might be able to help us, and since Sherlock’s technically already involved… But I must ask you to continue to be available, Miss!”

“Oh, you can bet that I won’t leave your side, Inspector”, Miss Star assured him grimly. 

Inspector Lestride nodded. He didn’t look very happy, but he signified us to follow his lead.

“You know, Doctor, I’ve been ill for the last week and had to lay up in bed. And when I enter my office this morning, there’s this telegram from Mister Hooves, lying on my desk for Celestia knows how many days: Matter of life and death, stop. Observe Adder Stone, stop. Sherlock Hooves, stop.
I barely had the time to feel angry about Mister Hooves commanding me around, when the report came in that… 
…But see for yourself!” He downright shoved us into the room. 

In the middle of the room stood an antique sarcophagus. The gilded surface reflected the daylight falling in from the transom windows. 

A high-pitched scream escaped from Miss Star’s mouth; over the edge of the coffin protruded a stallion’s hoof!

“The janitor has found him”, Lestride said. “When he was making his round this morning. He thought the mummy was trying to leave its last rest, and so he called us. After all this mummy-talk, ponies are getting pretty nervous… When I arrived, I at once ordered to open the sarcophagus and we found Doctor Adder Stone inside. Just like… chrm, chrm… Like this. No pleaseant view, I can tell you.”

I forced myself to take a closer look at the body, or rather the bodies. Lestride was right, it was no pleaseant view, like death never was:

Clearly visible beneath his white fur, Stone’s face was discoloured blackish-blue, a mask twisted with pain; his wide open eyes stared brokenly up to the ceiling. Half buried under his corpse lay a second lifeless body, in form of Katebet’s mummy. In a macabre way, it looked like the sphinx was about to embrace the unexpected bedfellow for its eternal slumber with its bandaged, withered paws. The golden death mask -it showed a face of unfamiliar and dangerous beauty- was sprinkled with red drops of blood that had dripped from Adder Stones mouth corner.
As grotesque as this sight was, as clear seemed the stallion’s cause of death. Adder Stone’s corpse showed all signs of suffocation, he had been strangled to death, no doubt. Around his neck, were wrapped the same kind of bandages that had belike been found with Apocrypha and Scriptoria. I had to admit that, one the first glance at least, everything pointed towards Katebet’s mummy as culprit. On the first glance, mark you!

Over the shoulder, I turned to Lestride, who was a little clumsily trying to console Miss Midnight Star. All of this was almost too much, even for her. She didn't cry but she looked like she would feint any second.

“Was anything moved in this crime scene?” As you might notice, I was trying my best to adapt Sherlock’s strategy. At my words, Lestride looked even more uncomfortable than before.

“At least not by us, Doc”, he sombrely replied.  “The forensic ponies... Well, they simply refuse to come; they’re afraid of the curse, they say. And as long as they aren't done, we can't send for the medical examiner. But since you’re already here, and you’re a physician as well, AND you aren’t afraid of evil undead mummies…”

“You want me to do the examination?”

“We don’t have much options left, have we?” One hadn’t to be Sherlock Hooves exactly to tell that Lestride’s laughing was fake. “Time’s ticking’ on and we’re stuck with no results. So maybe you could lend us a hoof?”

Maybe Lestride thought it would be better to let ME spoil the crime scene than if he or his constables did so. If Sherlock decided to show up, he would give me a piece of his mind instead of him for a change…
But that was fine with me. Though I didn’t know exactly why, I knew Sherlock had decided to not deal with this case. 
And should he change his opinion for whatever reason, I wanted to present him as much information as possible. 

I had a lot of work to do.


-<0>-


> Revenge of the Sphinx - Chapter II
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


2nd – Take away the Superstition


“I can tell this much”, I said after my improvised but nevertheless careful examinations of the body. “Rigor mortis is fully formed, so Doctor Stone is dead for at least six hours.”

Midnight Star unhappily glanced between myself and Inspector Lestride; to look at the coffin she avoided at all cost, understandably. The Palace Court Inspector had with unusual empathy offered to accompany her outside, but she had been adamant to attend the examination. And as much as I wanted to, to nurse her wouldn’t benefit for the cause.
Yet I tried to deliver the information as sober as possible. “Cause of death was strangulation, at least that’s what the evidences suggest: Strangulation marks on his throat, discolouration of the facial skin beneath his fur, swelling of the tongue. He has almost bitten it off in his mortal agony. That’s where the blood comes from… Chrm, chrm…” 

I had to clear my throat, even after my years in the army, it still is never easy for me to stay calm at death’s door… 

“So, Doctor Trotson.” I was fairly surprised that it was Midnight Star who spoke up now. “The main question preying on all our minds: What about the bandages?”

I’ll admit that I enjoyed being the centre of attention for once, despite the situation. And unlike my genius friend, I was happy to share my knowledge. I casted my magic to carefully levitate said yellowed, linen bandages in front of our eyes.

“These were wrapped around his throat. Even without a proper assay I can tell they’re very old; and that’s the essential point here.”

My magic tore at both ends of the bandages. Under the shocked looking eyes of Inspector Lestride they ripped up right in half.

“Time has made them bitty. This bandage would’ve never stood the force necessary to strangle somepony.” I nodded at the coffin. “Not that her majesty would have needed a weapon to kill her victim in the first place. Not with this paws…”

“So it wasn’t the murder weapon?” the Inspector broached the subject again. The emotions playing on his face ranged between bewilderment and actual relief.

“Adder Stone’s voicebox has been downright mashed”, I explained. “And see those characteristic marks on his throat? They suggest that a strong rope was used to kill him. As far as I can tell, those bandages serve no other purpose than to distract from the true murder weapon.”

As shocking and unfortunate Doctor Stone's violent demise had been, the insight from my examination was certainly a step into the right direction. He hadn’t been strangled by mummy bandages and neither by lion’s paws. Unless the sphinx queen in the coffin had a shady fable for mooring ropes, we had to look for a culprit otherwise… 

Adder Stone’s death of course meant I now had lost my main suspect as well, not that I would have had much evidence against him, that is. 
But my thoughts circled around my previous reflection about who had the motive and the opportunity to kill both Apocrypha and Scriptoria. To this list I now had to add another murder. So we were looking for a pony with foremost a motive to kill this illustrious trio of archaeologists. Does that ring a bell? Well, it didn’t with me at that moment, but I told Lestride the theory we had worked out after our conversation with Mister Silver Blaze – redacted regarding my main suspect, of course.

“So you assume a member of the expedition is the culprit, yes?” Lestride scratched his chin. “Wouldn’t lack a certain logic. I will have a constable compare the labels on the exhibits with the inventory list later. But first…” 
He built up himself in front of Midnight Star.

“I still have some questions to ask, Miss Star!”

“Inspector!”, I tried to intervene, but the young lady just rose her hoof and silenced me. She shook her head.

“It’s alright, Doctor.” She was looking faint, but determined. “I understand that you have to ask these questions, Inspector Lestride. I have nothing to hide, so right beforehoof: No, Inspector, I have no alibi. I was at home last night, but since I live alone and am neither married nor liaised I fear nopony can bear testimony. Although I belief somepony would have noticed if I had left my apartment. The stairs creak terribly…”

“With all due respect to your zeal, Inspector, but Miss Star couldn't possibly have killed Scriptoria and Apocrypha! She wasn’t even part of the expedition, am I right?” 

That interjection of mine was actually a shot in the dark, but to my relief, she nodded.

“Draw it mild”, complained Inspector Lestride. “I won’t harm a hair on her. You seem to take me for a bigger mare-hater than even Mister Hooves, Doctor! I don't supect her any more than any other pony in any way related to the victims; but it is a fact that Palace Court knows next to nothing aboot Doctor Adder Stone, and the most obvious thing to do is ask somepony who knew the victim. Why not start with the mare who prides herself in being his assistant?”

“I will help if I can”, Miss Star confirmed. She was visibly struggling to retain her composure. Considering the situation, and though her unsteady eyes revealed her agitation, she did great so far. As physician, however, I could by no means support her to undergo Lestride’s interrogation. A glass of cognac and some hours of rest is what I had rather prescribed instead. Well, I do admit in hindisght (Sherlock would hold that against me forever, if I didn’t) my sympathy for Miss Star might have clouded my objectivity a little at that point and I was willing to let slip a possibly important testimony, just to spare her from an inconvenience; but be it as it may, I nevertheless voiced my advice.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary”, Miss Star modestly objected.

“Miss Star, as a physician I must insist…” I tried my luck again, but the lady cut me short:

“Doctor Trotson, I appreciate your concern about me”, she clamoured. “But I’m no weak little doll who needs protection. I may be in shock - no, I most definitely am in shock and I have no doubt his face…” She tilted her head towards the coffin. “Will haunt me in my nightmares the very moment I close my eyes tonight. But now I’m wide awake and … I’m alright… Even if it’s only for now…”
Her cracking voice revealed how at the breaking point her nerves actually were, but during her last words she somehow gained back her composure. 
“If I had taken the matter in my own hooves earlier, Doctor Stone might have been still alive. I could never forgive myself if I now wouldn’t do anything in my might to help to bring the killer to justice.”

“Then please tell us about the members of the expedition”, Inspector Lestride said. “That’ll do for the moment.”

“They were good ponies”, Midnight Star replied. “And good scholars. Their loss is the biggest tragedy that has ever struck the Royal University. When I heard about Professor Apocrypha’s death in Saddle Arabia, it at once occurred to me this expedition was ill-starred…
So, what can I tell you about the members of the expedition? 

Oh, yes: Apocrypha was a real do-it-yourself-stallion. He had lead several expeditions to the farthest parts of the continent and had made some sensational discoveries. And once he was back from an expedition he was busily planning the next one…

This had been the second time he was working together with my doctoral adviser. Adder Stone is… Oh, I mean he was more a theorist. He spent more time in lecture halls and libraries than actually on-site. But maybe that’s why he and the professor had been working together so well. They kind of completed each other. The expert treasure hunter and the master of extinct languages, that’s what all used to call them.  They were very popular and many of their prime students had been keen to accompany them on this field trip…”

“You too?” Inspector Lestride asked and narrowed his eyes. So much for he didn't suspect Miss Star...

“I know what you mean,” she declared with shining eyes, apparently completely unaware that Lestride was trying to set a trap for her. “What an opportunity, wasn’t it? But sadly there was no way for me to participate in the expedition. As irksome as it was, it simply was impossible to abandon my studies at the university. We’ve finally been sent the fragments of the hieroglyph slabs from the Monolith of Abydos-Olim, the paperwork has costed me almost a year! If I can decipher these missing hieroglyphs it might revolutionise our understanding of the Coltyptian geomantism!” 

Excitement made her voice speed up and her eyes shine as she spoke about her work at the university. Needless to say neither Lestride nor I knew what she was so excited about. The Inspector took a wary try to bring her back on track again:

“Miss Star, if you would…?”

The unicorn blinked in confusion.

“Excuse me…?” she wondered, but then apparently recalled what Lestride meant. “Oh, oh yes… So, the point is, because of this very expedition the whole Coltyptian Department was in turmoil. There was bad blood on all sides because they all wanted to go to Saddle Arabia.”

“Sounds like half the faculty would want to kill the professor”, I interjected,  and my comment earned a bitter laughter from Inspector Lestride. That would make how many suspects? Fifty? 

“Oh no, Doctor Trotson. Doctor Stone and Professor Apocrypha didn’t take the easy way out in choosing the last member for their expedition”, Miss Star objected to my words. “It was near and dear to them to have everypony know that when they eventually choose Scriptoria for the lucky one… Oh, excuse me… Come to think of it, he hasn’t been lucky after all, has he?”

“Considering he’s dead: Not at all, no”, Lestride bone-dryly commented. And there his newfound sense of tact was lost again… He vainly tried to cross-check the hopeless bits of paper that was his notes before he eventually addressed Miss Star again:
“I fear this one’s a dead end. Or should I say there’d be too many turnings on this street? Do you recall anything in particular? Did somepony stay in your mind for… uh, I don’t know… Being especially livid or so?”

“No, I don’t think so… Or, maybe…” Miss Star’s chewed on her lip as she thought back. “Wait, I actually do recall one incident, Inspector. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the murders, though.”

The scene Miss Midnight Star described to us had taken place the day before Professor Apocrypha and Doctor Adder Stone had left for Saddle Arabia. Miss Star, who was on her way to the library to look something up (She didn’t elaborate that point in particular but I divine it had something to do with this monolith she had mentioned earlier). In any case she happened to overhear part of a conversation, or rather an argument Doctor Stone had had with another stallion in his office. The other pony, as far as Miss Star could gauge it, proffered his muddled theories about how the sphinxes had discovered the secret of immortality and about ever-living wards that guarded the royal Coltyptian tombs. Yet of course he remained short on giving a proof for his half-baked thesis, and ostensibly Doctor Stone told that to his face.

These kinds of controversial discussions are daily fare in the archaeological faculty, so Miss Star thought nothing more of it. She hadn’t paid any closer attention to the argument and hadn’t recognized the other stallion either. But since all Canterlot seemed to have to deal with a murderous mummy now, she wondered, if it hadn’t been an ordinary scientific debate at all.

“Sounds like somepony was trying to sow superstition even before the first murder had happened”, Lestride snorted. “What a shame we don’t know who that makebate was. I’d like to have a few words with him!

Blasted, my first day back on duty, the whole city’s full to the brim with superstition, we have a murder case at hoof and Mister Hooves will certainly give me a piece of his mind for not preventing this from happening!”

“Inspector, you can’t have shot your bolt yet!” I scolded. I wasn’t at all liking the way this situation seemed to be headed. A self-pitying Inspector Lestride was serving none of us! So I thought about a telling-off to bring him back on the track again: “You stand for law and order in Canterlot! It can’t always be Sherlock Hooves who does what actual is YOUR duty to do!”

Inspector Lestride looked like an éclair was stuck cross in his throat. Quite understandably, usually it was Sherlock who gave him this kind of scolding, and now, even as the detective wasn’t around, he still was getting his comeuppance; from old me, Doctor Trotson! But in matter of stubbornness the Inspector was very well neck and neck with Sherlock; now this stubbornness would hopefully rekindle Lestride’s ingenuity, a gift that was -according to Sherlock- all too rarely used!

His actual reaction, however, came a bit unexpected: He started to laugh.

“I never cut a fine figure in your stories, Doctor, do you really expect me, the unimaginative, stubborn and always wrong Inspector to save the day? But when you’re right, you’re right... Until now, I had no time to thoroughly investigate this case and that’s exactly what I’m going to do! Take away all that superstition and you’re left with some plain old murders, although they’re probably connected to each other.
So motive and opportunity, it all comes down to these two questions, doesn’t it?”

“So we figured, yes.”

“Then that’s exactly what we need to discover. And as for the second question: Would you care to find out aboot who had an opportunity to kill at least Professor Apocrypha and Mister Scriptoria? Then I know exactly, where we need to go.”


-<0>-



The offices of Seven Seas Shipping are located at the docks on the navigable part of the Brightwater River, just below the waterfall. Among a dozen other ships, the ill-fated ship of our case, the Celestial Star is part of this company’s fleet. For this afternoon, Inspector Lestride had arranged with the manager of the shipping company to meet the Star’s current first mate, an earth pony stallion with a broad Green-Isle-accent and even broader blue sideburns who quite tellingly was called Briny O’Blue. He told us that he had been the unlucky pony to discover the body of Scriptoria in the hold. When Lestride opened up his inquiry, O’Blue rose his hooves in a baffled way and uneasily fidgeted around in his chair.

“Grim, dis journey, sir, very grim! Rough sea an' storm for de whole passage, de whole cargo dat had ter be secured over an' over again, a sour crew an' a bunch of weord passengers who alwus girn an' argue wi' each other. Oi tell yer, dis murder, an' even if a four-thousand-years-auld mummy 'as done it, wus only de last link in a whole chain of misfortune.”

It was written all over Lestride’s face that he had to struggle to keep calm when O’Blue started to ramble on like this. Such talkative witnesses are said to the curse of an Inspector’s profession, especially when they just won’t and won’t come to the point of their story. And as much as I can tell for myself, I believe Lestride was exactly as keen to get to the case’s bottom on his own and before Sherlock changed his mind and upstaged him.

“Leftenant O’Blue”, the Inspector gritted. “Would you kindly tell us aboot what you saw when you found Mister Scriptoria.”

“Ah, of course, I’m sorry”, the officer apologized. He collected his thoughts and continued: “Let me see… Aye, it 'ad been windless for once, an' de captain sent me ter de forehold ter yet again check de load. oi 'eaded ter de Coltyptian artworks at once cos Doctor Stone seemed ter be especially worried aboyt dem.
Oi foun' scriptoria next ter de coffin’s box, wi' pieces of de mummy-wraps roun 'is throat. De box 'ad been opened an' de casket lid wus seated on all askew. Scriptoria wus lyin' dead, next ter sum kind of chest. Oh wait, dat’s strange: Cum ter tink of it, oi 'enny seen dis chest later. Don't nu wat 'appened ter it... However, Oi reported ter de captain immediately an' he tasked me wi' de investigashun.”

“So, there was a something taken away from the crime scene, hmm? And your Investigation? What did you find out?”

“Nothin' much, I’m afraid, sir. Yer nu, it wus aboyt 8 glasen, that’s 8 o’clock for yer, on de turd day on 'igh sea. A storm 'ad been blowin' al' noight long, that’s why de crew 'ad continued on their post. So they al' 'ad an alibi. De passengers, Scriptoria too, 'ad all stayed on their cabins, at laest as far as Oi cud ascertain… So nopony 'ad seen or learned anythin'.” 

“You didn’t come upon anything suspicious or uncommon?”

“Just a minute, oi didn’t say dat. It started wi' de crew. Sailors are superstitious from de first an' our crew wus it al' de more. De noshun ter 'av an auld mummy on board 'ad shuk dem al' stiff. An' dis journalist, dis Dusty Trail, also didn’t exactly chucker us a favour wi' al' 'is chatter aboyt ghosts an' immortal being. He an' Doctor Stone were arguin' aboyt dat topic al' along, an' de crew got wind of it. We almost got involved wi' a blasted mutiny, for cryin' oyt loud! 
Oh, excuse me, sir…”

Briny O’Blue interrupted himself, because we all got up to our hooves, all together like on a concreted sign. Maybe he thought we had upset us because he had drifted into his rambling again. Yes, indeed, we were in a hurry to take our leave, but for a different reason than Leftenant O’Blue might have figured: Unknowingly the officer had unveiled to us a delicate little detail, one to. I had looked over Sherlock’s shoulder long enough to take notice of it, and luckily Miss Star (and also Inspector Lestride) were quick-witted enough to perceive it, too. 
The true events behind these three murders I had meanwhile given the working title Revenge of the Sphinx, this morning they had been shrouded by superstition and a stour of lacking facts and possibilities, but now the truth seemed a lot more within reach.

We so bid goodbye to Leftenant Briny O’Blue, not without evincing him our gratitude and headed out for our next target, and if luck was on our side, it would be the last place we’d need to visit. Today and for this whole case.


-<0>-


> Revenge of the Sphinx - Conclusion
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Conclusion: Katebet’s Chosen One


To the curious bystanders at the Coltyptian department of the university a peculiar scene presented itself: Under utmost physical effort two constables dragged out a unicorn stallion enchained with cuffs and a magic-restraining bracelet screaming bloody murder at all the surrounding ponies. It took the constables almost five minutes to bring him under control and a helping hoof from Inspector Lestride himself to dump the raving stallion into an urgently called paddywagon.

But while the crowd was just making big eyes as the wagon’s barred doors were slammed shut, there was one stallion who wasn’t watching out of sheer curiosity. Sherlock Hooves flashed a grim yet satisfied smile, tipped his head over his eyes so he wouldn’t be recognized so easily and trotted away. There was nothing for him to do at the university anymore…


-<0>-


“Well”, Sherlock welcomed me when I returned home. He had aligned his armchair to face the door so he could catch me right when I entered the room. “That got a little out of hoof today, wouldn’t you agree, old sport?”

My friend knew the score, so to speak, as he near always did. No ‘good evening’, no ‘where have you been all day, Trotson?’ and no ‘how’s the investigation doing?’ either. And I knew Sherlock long enough that I shouldn’t have been bothered by his greeting anymore, or better the lack of such a one. Just him calling me ‘old sport’ somewhat bugged me for I figured it as a slight jibe that I had run a little out of form lately.

“To you this murder investigation may have been a game, Sherlock”, I thus replied. “But to me this wasn’t just some kind of exercise!”

Sherlock didn’t let himself get worked up by my words, after all we used to have more hot-tempered contentions already during breakfast. “But it was”, he smiled. “An exercise for your brain, Trotson. And one you’ve excellently mastered, I want to add. Not as efficient as possible but, given how circuitous your mind at times works, it nevertheless was a remarkable accomplishment.”

“Only you manage to make a compliment sound like an insult, Sherlock”, I sighed. Then I added to winkle out of him how his own approach at this case would have been: “We’ve talked to Silver Blaze this morning and he told us you had consulted him about a possible motive? So I take you’ve solved this case from out of our living room. And, of course, very much quicker and better than Lestride, Miss Star and me, haven’t you?”

To my not inconsiderable surprise, Sherlock slowly shook his head.

“No, my dear friend, this time I have to admit my defeat. I indeed was ahead of you, but I’ve made a curcial mistake, and I fear that costed me the victory now. If I had taken the observation of Adder Stone in my own hooves instead of delegating it to Inspector Lestride, he could still be alive and the culrpit would've been arrested much earlier. But who could expect Lestride to be ill all week? However, I’m gentlecolt and sportstallion enough to accept it without complaint… If you agree to share with me the last part of the story I couldn’t get to know, that is.”

My friend took a seat in his usual armchair and looked at me invitingly. I went over to the mantelpiece to fetch our pipes and tobacco.

“And what would that be?”, I wanted to know.

“What happened when you confronted the culprit? I was lucky enough to observe the outcome, nevertheless, it’s what happened before that would interest me.”

“Alright”, I said and took a seat while Sherlock turned back his own armchair to its usual position. “Let me shed some light onto the latest and -hopefully- last incidents in the case of the Revenge of the Sphinx.”


-<0>-


In the end, our way naturally led us back to the Coltyptian Department. Under the pretext of being journalists wanting to consult him for his opinion on the latest ‘mummy-murder’, Inspector Lestride easily managed to get in contact with Dusty Trail. With good reason he withheld his position as Inspector, though.

Dusty Trail appeared as a hoofsome, slate-grey, young unicorn stallion with all the enthusiasm of youth. He really seemed to enjoy the interview with us – we were his audience.

“So you’ve read my articles in the Times. What do you think of them?”

Inspector Lestride and Miss Star visibly struggled to keep calm. Knowing why we really were here, it wasn’t easy to control my temper either, but I managed to bring forth a half-hearted “They are interesting.”

“Oh, thank you!” Dusty Trail exclaimed. “I’m glad they receive so much approval. Under the pledge of secrecy: I’m not a real journalist, you know?”

“You don’t say…”, Miss Star grinded. It very much spoke for Mister Trails ego that he somehow misinterpreted this barbed remark for disbelief.

“Unbelievable, I know, but it’s true. I’ve studied archaeology, Coltyptology as a matter of fact.” He pointed towards a framed university degree on the wall. “And that’s most likely what distinguishes my articles from the ones of the other journalists: They convince through the power of truth!”

“And what is the truth, Mister Trail?”

“The truth is, Miss”, he replied to Miss Star’s question enthusiastically. “That the old Coltyptians had discovered the secret of eternal life! What we call magical science isn’t but a foal’s play compared to the knowledge of the Coltyptians.  Just compare the Royal Palace and the great temples of Abydos-Olim; of course there can’t really be any comparison in the first place!”

Trail paced over to the big desk in this room laden with old books and antiques. On the tabletop, several occult items, mixed with a pool of jars and flasks and several small, mummified objects and canopic jars outclassed even the chamber of horrors in Silver Blaze’s display. The scientist fetched one of the preserved specimen from the desk and presented that macabre burial object to us. 

“This is the mummified body of a cat”, he exclaimed. “It’s a matter of fact that the old Coltyptians were able to bring the dead back to life. The task to which I dedicated my life is to rediscover these secrets. We have to find the key to the old secrets, the key that will bring these souls from the past back to life!” 

The would-be journalist fetched a bundle papyrus papers with strange hieroglyphs from and placed them on the desk, then his magic unearthed a small, inscribed chest from a drawer of his desk, golden with an eye-symbol on the lid. He opened the chest and placed the Colytptian necklace from inside around his neck. The golden pendant showed a stylized pony’s face with ruby eyes.

Next to me I heard Miss Star inhale sharply, she seemed to have noticed something. Inspector Lestride looked at her, but said nothing. Mister Trail, who apparently hadn’t noticed anything strange, started to crumble tannic leafs into a jar and blended them with green and yellow liquids which he heated under constant occult mumbling. He seemed to be uncertain, though, how he was supposed to drench this reviving brew to the ancient cat mummy. Despite our tension, we were a patient audience but we futilely waited for the cat to mew. However, this failure didn’t really discourage the passionate searcher Trail:
“Well, let’s call it a quit for now, I will find the correct composition yet. I’m on the right track, I know it. It’s only a matter of time. After all, this secret has been buried for thousands of years. I’d have to expect that it will still take me a lot of time to unearth it. But I know this is my mission, I’m the chosen one!”

“Mister Trail”, Lestride now piped up before Dusty Trail could gush any more about his passion. “I believe this is enough.” He turned to Midnight Star: “Miss Star, your opinion?”

“I’m no expert similar to Doctor Stone”, she said, pointing towards the chest.  “But, Inspector, if you’d look here, next to this golden eye, we can see the same symbols on the lid of the chest as on the sarcophagus. No doubt, chest and necklace belong to Katebet’s treasure.”

“Inspector?”, Dusty trail remarked, looking up from the papers. The realization made his facial features slip. 

“Inspector Lestride, Palace Court, Department for Murder, to be precise”, Lestride confirmed with a lopsided sneer. “Mister Dusty Trail, you are under arrest for suspected art theft and threefold murder of Professor Apocrypha, Mister Scriptoria and Doctor Adder Stone!”

“No!” Mister Trail screamed with a snapping voice. “You can’t arrest me! I didn’t steal the necklace! SHE bestowed it to me!” His eyes almost literally sprayed sparks while he shouted at us. It became clear he wasn’t conscious of any guilt. “I’m Queen Katebet’s chosen one, she WANTED me to have her magical necklace, to uncover the secret of immortality!”

“And what about the three stallions you’ve murdered?”, Miss Star shot back before the Inspector or I myself could stop her.

“Murdered?” Trail laughed at her. “Murdered? They were but insolent fools who were a bar for my queen’s divine plans! They had to be eradicated! It was nothing but a minor sacrifice for the incredible power I’ve been granted! I will be a god among mortals!”

At this moment, two constables the Inspector had brought along charged into the room, alarmed by Trail’s outburst. He was wrestled down and arrested on the spot, although I should add: Not without a fierce fightback. But whatever power he thought to gain from Katebet’s necklace, it didn’t help him against two guards and Inspector Lestride… 


-<0>-


“After all”, Sherlock stated after I had ended my report. “The murderer did have at least one thing in common with the mummy: They were the only ones present at every murder – except the victims, of course.”

“Certainly, Sherlock, but with that you’re just stating what is openly visible”, I replied. “But now that you know my part of the story, I would like to hear how you solved this riddle.”

“To perceive the very same thing, namely what is openly visible, is just the most important, Trotson. Alright, I will tell you how I approached this case: From the start we had two circumstances that yet simplified the case essentially.”

“And they would be…?”

“First, we don’t find in the modus operandi any indications that more than one culprit was involved. And second, given the first two crime scenes themselves we are able to narrow down the number of suspects, don’t you think?”

I nodded. “Opportunity and motive. The murderer had to be a pony that was both at the excavation site and on the ship.”

“Precisely. As consequence I next requested a list of the passengers that had boarded the Celestial Star in Coltypt. From this list I took that among Adder Stone and Scriptoria, Dusty Trail also had been a passenger on this passage, the very stallion responsible for all that annoying gossip about the mummy, and the one who had reported about the murders. Well that made him suspicious, but naturally, it didn’t make him the murderer yet. But at this point and lacking any further information, I had a certain theory: Did you know Her Majesty’s secret service is on the track of a smuggler ring that on a large scale sells Coltypt’s cultural heritage on the black market?”

“No, of course not!” I exclaimed. “While the secret service apparently includes you in their investigation, they certainly don’t include me… So they really suspected Doctor Stone?”

“Him and Professor Apocrypha, yes. Time will show if Equestria has lost two great archaeologists or just two savvy traffickers… Where the one doesn’t necessarily exclude the other, of course… However, it won’t surprise you that I at first assumed a smuggling-related motive, an opinion, by the way, which was shared by our friend Silver Blaze. That’s why I wanted Palace Court to have a close eye on Doctor Stone.
And while his death (a third murder in exact the same manner) made clear that Dusty Trail had to be the culprit, I still was in the dark about the true motive. Smuggling or maybe rather a personal one? I went to the Royal University earlier to get things straight. But you’ve beaten me, my friend; when I arrived Trail was already being arrested.”

Sherlock casted down his eyes and turned his attention towards his pipe that had gone out meanwhile.

“As for his motive”, he eventually continued, still half in his own thoughts. “Did he really think to fulfil the will of Queen Katebet? That’s interesting. Was he really insane? Maybe Silver Blaze was right and the treasure is cursed after all: To drive a weak mind mad on sight, and to force them to slay all other grave desecrators. Or maybe it was the perspective of all the riches and all the fame he now would never get that drove Dusty Trail to murder, more knowledgeable ponies than us two will have to determine that, now.”

“But either way”, I added because I had the feeling that I had to contribute something to his trail of thoughts. “I think it is safe to assume that Dusty Trail has never overcome that his theories have always been derided and that in the end they had chosen Scriptoria over him. I believe the base of a motive is established therewith, don’t you agree, Sherlock?”

“I do, my friend, entirely even.” Amusement was playing in my friend’s eyes as he raised his head. “You’ve completely seen through this case. As I told you: You really didn’t need my assistance, did you?”

I withstood the urge to object and took the compliment as it came. It had been a day full of intellectual effort for me and I was glad I could shelve the case for now; so I replied what Sherlock wanted to hear from me:

“Agreed, Sherlock”, I sighed. Admittedly, the case had been solved quite simple, after all…


-<0>-