With criminal activity at an all-time low and the papers uninteresting with headlines of a royal wedding, it is no wonder Sherclop Pones longs for a case. To his utmost delight, one had been presented to him—that is the disappearance of Rainbow Dash
Based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Sgt. Sprinkles
Being a reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watcolt, M.D., late of the Wonderbolt Medical Department
In glancing over my notes of the hundreds of cases in which I have during the years studied the methods of my celebrated friend, Sherclop Pones, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the infamous case of Pinkie’s Cupcakes. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Pones, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by Princess Twilight Sparkle upon her coronation as the Ruler of the Equestrian Monarchy, desiring for this particular case in which I am about to narrate to be at last be known to general public (much to the Caballus Club’s objection.) It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the disappearance of Rainbow Dash of loyal reputation, which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.
It was, as I remember, the third week of April during the first year of my association with Pones. The bright rays of the sun had shown down upon the streets of Canterlot. From the Monday to the Saturday, there had been a perceivable idleness of criminal activity—much to my friend’s dismay. As a remedy to this boredom in which his ever-active mind deems an intellectual disease, he had to search for other forms of mental stimulus to act as an alternative to his usual private sleuthing.
The first day Pones had spent cross-indexing his huge book or reference. In the second he had spent it reading a volume entirely consisting of various biographies of the greatest criminal minds that had once plagued Equestrian society. On the third, he spent it on reading a treatise upon the subject of criminal psychology. On the fourth and fifth he had been patiently occupied upon a subject which had recently made his hobby—the music of the Pre-Equestrian period, and had played the compositions from that period on his violin, its sweet and melancholic sounds resonating across the flat for hours on end which even reach till the break of dawn (much to our landlady’s frustration). Though, in spite of these beautiful melodies, I can’t help but feel that my friend was in the brink of a nervous breakdown from this depravation of the profession in which he mainly takes his pleasure in. But when, for the sixth time (that is on the Saturday), after pushing back our chairs from lunch we saw the bright rays of the sun of the spring season shining through the window-panes and the continuous absence of consulting clients, my comrade’s impatient and active nature could endure through this drab and monotonous existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his hooves, tapping impatiently upon the furniture, and chafing against inaction. Then, with an exhalation of frustration, he turned to me.
“Anything of interest in the paper, Watcolt?”
I was aware that by anything of interest, Pones meant anything of criminal interest. I then picked up the latest edition of the day’s paper from the floor and proceeded to recite its contents. There was the news of an upcoming royal marriage in which had been scheduled take place in the next few days or so; but these did not come within the horizon of my companion. He had merely let out a dry laugh.
“My dear Doctor,” said he, shaking his head disapprovingly. “as you may have forgotten, events such as that do not come in my line of profession, not unless a very serious crime were to be committed in that wedding, to which then and only then shall I be interested. Otherwise, I shall not pay an ounce of heed. Perhaps you should discuss these trivialities to the likes of the Yard or the Club, for that is more in their line than mine.”
“What would interest you, then?” said I, vainly attempting my best to cheer him up. “You clearly need something to lift your spirits, my dear fellow! Perhaps an afternoon ramble, or a visit to the Museum?"
Pones shot a glare at my direction.
“A crime, Watcolt.” said he, waving a long, impatient hoof. “Either it be case of robbery, forgery, blackmail, or—” A mischievous twinkle shined in those thin grey eyes in which I knew so well. “a murder..."
He paused in a languid tranquility. He then continued.
"No, my dear fellow; I have grown tired of these recent days of inactivity. The days of the great cases are past. The criminal has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency of recovering lost lead pencils, or laying superficial interest in some royal wedding. I think that I have touched rock bottom at last, however—” he scoffed. “—this dead monotony is simply intolerable!”
But I could see nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Pones groaned and resumed his restless meanderings. “The Equestrian criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” said he in the querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. He then teleported to the bow-window and, in the similar fashion of a hawk, proceeded to pry upon the beings below.
“Look out this window.” said he, miserably. “See how one walks about, ignorant of the dangers that lurk unbeknownst to them. The thief or the murderer could roam Canterlot on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim, whence shall he blend amongst the bushes once more.
“Look at this young stallion, Doctor—” he continued, motioning me towards him. “what do you make of him?”
Acquiescing, I thus endeavored to apply the methods in which he is so famous for upon the specimen below us. He was an Earth Pony, with a clean-shaven face, flaxen mane. Adorned upon his head was a shiny top hat; by which, below these, were a pair of gleaming green eyes like that of a cat, with a golden pince-nez in front of them. He wore a very fine grey tweed suit with a golden breastpin pinned to it, and had, mounted upon his back, a saddlebag which I had observed to contain a lady’s dress which sparkled by the noon sun. He walked with a refined stride so characteristic of the Equestrian gentlecolt; yet this delicateness had been, to a certain extent, marred by his perspired appearance, as his proud chest seemed to heave at every stride, and his forehead drench itself in profuse perspiration.
“I see nothing.” I confessed, conceding in the attempt.
“On the contrary,” said Pones. “you see everything, but you, however, fail to observe—you are too timid to draw inferences from the information presented before you.”
I scoffed my asperity.
“What do you see, then?”
Pones had assumed the air of the scholarly professor who addresses the intricacies of his study before his eager students. He heaved a forlorn sigh, while his stern eyes dreamily lingered upon the meandering pedestrian. He then chuckled.
“I too know nothing,” said he. “besides from the obvious facts that he is an individual of a considerable amount of fortune; engaged in a relationship with a lady of rather expensive taste; works for my brother; and an asthmatic.”
I laughed incredulously.
“Of course,” said I; “there is surely an absurdly simple explanation on how you came to these conclusions; though, until now I confess, I fail to see how you did so.”
“Regard his eyewear—his pince-nez, what is it made of? It’s gold! I have read articles that elaborated on the certain shimmer which gold yields when subjected to the rays of the sun such as what we are bearing witness to. You can have my word that this fine fellow wears something of such delicate and wealthy refinement. With this, therefore, it is safe to presume that he is a pony of fortune for one that is not cannot possibly afford to purchase a golden pince-nez. His suit too, further corroborates this notion, as I perceive it to be a Saddleworth.”
“How about the relationship?”
“Equally childish; he has in his bag, as you may observe, a lady’s dress—a dress which is not commonly found among the working class. It is quite expensive, as you may perceive, for it is lined with gems. It may, however, be for some other individual to whom he is affectionate. It could be for his sister, cousin, mother, aunt, or some other feminine relative or associate. But the fellow is young and handsome; it is very much within the realms of reality for he to attract the members of the fair sex...under the light of the pretense of romance, shall we say. Thus, this certain string of logic stands out more than the rest. Only an inquiry upon this fellow's character, however, shall settle our doubts to rest: an endeavor in which, at the present moment, we cannot dispense. ”
“How about the acquaintance with your brother?”
“Ha! His breastpin—it is only worn by the most elite members of dear Myclop's organization—the trademark symbol of the Caballus Club: the outline of an umbrella. Curious folk, I tell you; very curious indeed. They meddle with the most curious of affairs." He gave a pause; "Though, I wonder why is he here..." He then waved off whatever incredulity he had in his mind with a growl. "Pish-posh..."
“And the asthmatic trait—how you did you deduce that?”
“In glancing over the state of his clothing, I observed that crystalline silica could be found upon his clothing. Where does one receive such stuff? From a construction site, for it is found in materials such as concrete, masonry, and rock. I have had the advantage of knowing Canterlot like the back of my hoof to deduce that trait. I am, as you may now know, always updated on the ongoing constructions on each and every street of this great city of ours. Now, I know a diner that is being constructed not far from here—in Prancington Street, which is where, I believe, you had set up your medical practice, Doctor. The state of his clothes suggests he hasn’t departed from his place of residence that long, for they are still neatly pressed and ironed: no doubt conducted by his sweetheart; yet he is panting as if he had participated to run in a marathon, thus showing signs of irregular breathing in which could only be found on the asthmatic: signs in which we are bearing witness to.”
“How absurdly simple!” said I, vaguely kicking the wall.
Pones glared at me with a rather annoyed look.
“The world is full of obvious things which nopony by any chance ever observes, my good Doctor.” said he blandly, as he continued watching the dozens of figures below us. “Either it be the dirt found on the stallion's hooves, or the scent emitting from the fashionista's mane, or even the tiny speckle of dust found upon one’s clothing; these tiny details—these seemingly insignificant trivialities—their being observed could decide the fate of a people. Remember that, Doctor, remember that; it is mathematical law!—Halloa, halloa! What do we have here?”
A mare of common bearing (a countrymare, no doubt, judging from her clean, unassuming features which is so unlike to those of the metropolitan vagabond): with blonde mane done in a sort of haphazard ponytail, and a cloud-grey coat had just crossed the street in an almost daze-like state, whence she had been examining the brass name plates posted upon the wall below our flat.
“Who is she, Pones?”
A sharp ring was heard behind us, which preliminarily heralded the entrance of the mare. Sherclop Pones then rubbed his long, thin, nervous hooves furiously together; a massive grin unfurling upon his staunch, aquiline features.
“Do you not see, my dear Watcolt? Examining the brass plates--perspiration upon her hair and face--the ringing of the doorbell--surely it is obvious! The fair mare before us is undoubtedly the remedy to the harrowing ailment in which my poor, wretched soul is, as of the present moment, bearing subject to, known as mental stagnation; for she, my dear fellow, is a client!”
Upon receiving Pones' word to grant the mare admittance, our pageboy: Billy, a young lad of twelve, left our rooms to tend to the client. Presently, he returned. Hanging from his mouth was a small, rectangular piece of paper, to which he had promptly presented to my friend. It was a card.
Pones read it closely.
“Hum. Kindly show her in.”
With characteristic devilish speed, he sank upon his favorite armchair and assumed a poised yet lethargic mien, while I courteously stood near the doorway as duty in greeting the guest. Presently, the grey mare entered.
Her blonde mane had been done in a ponytail, which spoke of the countrymare's simplicity of fashion and unassuming beauty. Graceful and innocent. Yet, this trait was spoiled by the unkempt state of her mane, the furs of her coat; while feathers of her wings (for she was a Pegasus) were as equally frazzled and agitated. Seeing her in perturbance, I then endeavored, after the fashion of my friend, to read the indications which may account for it.
She had carried a brown and worn-out saddlebag in which a symbol of a key was printed. She bore a Cutie Mark consisting of the symbol of bubbles of various sizes. The most remarkably notable characteristic of her appearance was her condition. She had strabismus—a medical disorder in which causes one to go wall-eyed. Save these remarks, I had once more ended in futility.
“Which one of you is the detective?” said the mare meekly in a rather dazed state, glancing at either of us.
Pones smiled. “I am Sherclop Pones, Ms. Hooves” said he, placing a sententious hoof to his chest. He then waved towards my direction. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watcolt, whom you could speak freely as before myself.”
He then motioned her to the settee in front of us, whence he, perhaps regarding her flustered demeanor, using his horn's telekinesis, offered her a cup of tea. The mare, however, in her fragile state, was caught off-guard with this gesture and had accidentally knocked the contents of the beverage and had so consequently deluged the carpet. Her absence of apology truly spoke the severity of her troubles. Pones no doubt shared this observation, for he swiftly disposed the offer and its remains to his much-clustered table of chemical conundrums behind us.
"Ms. Hooves," said Sherclop Pones in a gentle voice, as was his custom to employ upon troubled clients. "you seem rather alarmed with what may be safely presumed to be the object of your consultation upon my services. Pray, might I kindly ask, my dear lady, for you to kindly enlighten me so that I may guide thee amidst the darkness which shrouds you so dreadfully?"
He had often a hypnotic, fatherly air when situations call for.
Ms. Hooves seemingly failed to hear the question, for she stared blankly in dubious askance. Her walled-eyes, though in much difficulty finding focus, were very much fixated upon my companion with an almost awe-like essence. It was only when Pones had repeated the question when she returned to realms of reality and thus answered.
“She’s missing, Mr. Pones!” cried the mare, raising her hooves frantically in the air. "Sweet Celestia!--she's missing!"
Pones had momentarily glanced at my direction, from which I gleaned the command to listen ever-so carefully to the following narrative, which begs, in lieu of its rather peculiar beginnings, our unalloyed attention.
“Who is this ‘she’ of whom you speak of, Ms. Hooves?” said Pones, leaning forward in intricate interest.
“Rainbow Dash!”
At first Pones had been taken aback by the answer, but then raised a brow. It was some time before he spoke. In this silence, he had languidly relapsed back into the depths of his favorite armchair, whence, in common fashion to his judicial moods, promptly reached for his pipe and lit it. Then, as his brows furrowed and his eyes remained fixated upon the ceiling above him, he used telekinesis to fetch himself the index in which held the records and biographies of ponies whom he deems of importance and placed it onto his lap. He then turned over its pages with a listless air: a procedure in which, in brief intervals, shot glances at our agitated client with keen eyes.
“‘D’ Hum. Let’s see, let’s see—ah! here it is! ‘Dash, Rainbow—born in Cloudsdale, currently residing in Ponyville—22 years of age—Member of the Mane Six—represents the Element of Loyalty’ etc. etc. etc.. Pray correct me if I were to prove mistaken, Watcolt, but I believe Ms. Dash—along with her honorable friends--have saved the Monarchy on already three separate occasions, have they not?”
“Yes, they have indeed done so,” I answered, with some thought, recalling the countless headlines in which had flooded the paper. “A couple months back, they had vanquished the dreadful Nightmare Moon. A few weeks succeeding that they had successfully persuaded the dragon, that had decided to take a little nap in a mountain near Ponyville, to sleep somewhere else where its snores shan't engulf anything in flames. And not so long ago, they had subjected the Lord of Chaos back into stone after a millennium of His being incarcerated in it.”
“Excellent, Watcolt, excellent—now, Ms. Hooves,” said Pones, turning to our client with that familiar ready gleam of mischief in his eyes; “what has happened to the loyal Rainbow Dash of great societal importance, and how are you connected to her disappearance?”
Ms. Hooves then produced a piece of foolscap from her saddlebag. She cleared her throat before she spoke. “Mr. Pones,” the client began, reading from the foolscap; “my name is Derpy Hooves, a citizen of Ponyville. I am a big fan of muffins—I eat them at breakfast—I eat them at lunch—I eat them at dinner. I keep an entire stash of them, in fact, at my house. Not so before, this stash has ran run out. Therefore, I had set off to Sugarcube Corner—”
A gentle knock upon the door had abruptly interrupted the client.
“Mr. Pones?” came the muffled voice of our landlady from outside.
The door opened and Mrs. Hudcolt came trotting into our rooms, to which my friend wasn’t too fond of. He truly resented a needless interruption of his concentration, particularly in occasions such as a consultation.
“Yes, Mrs. Hudcolt?” said he, desperately attempting to conceal his annoyance by giving a cold smile.
“I trust that you may forgive me, Mr. Pones,” said the landlady apologetically. “but I could not but help hear the mention of Sugarcube Corner.” Her voice was the usual motherly voice, calm and gentle. But nevertheless, I was able to detect a certain uneasiness in it, as if she were holding back a secret.
“Yes, yes; our client here,” said Pones, motioning towards the direction of Ms. Hooves. "But why had the mere mention of it had such an effect that it compelled you to needlessly interrupt this interview?” He had said this with a certain tone of contempt, but had retained his gentle demeanor when addressing the landlady.
A dark expression came over Mrs. Hudcolt's elderly face.
“Because, sir, a terrible tragedy had just occurred there!”
Our client seemed to at last break away from her dreamy reverie, for she turned her head to face the utterer of the strange remark.
"Sugarcube Corner, you say?" said she, curiously; though a certain taste of tenacity could be perceived in her tone.
"Why, yes, Miss's," answered the landlady, cordially turning to her.
"A tragedy?"
"Yes, Miss'us"
Ms. Hooves then reverted back to her curious, melancholic reverie, leaning back on the settee as she continued to stare at the carpet below her hooves.
Though impatient, Pones took some interest over this brief interaction between the mares. He then returned to the subject at hoof.
“What is this terrible tragedy in which you speak of, Mrs. Hudcolt?”
“An illness—a very serious illness, in fact, has befallen upon the Cakes!”
“Cakes?” said I with some confusion. “What a queer way to put a sentence I dare say, Mrs. Hudcolt! Why should cakes ever fall ill?”
Mrs. Hudcolt frowned at my remark. She then turned to me. “Why, you misunderstand me, Doctor—Cakes! The Cakes—Mr. Carrot and Mrs. Cup Cake!”
“Who are they, then?”
“Pinkie Pie’s employers!”
This seemed to interest Pones, for he smoked heavily and leaned forward.
“Pinkie Pie, eh? Hum. Curious; curious. When, may I ask, did this occur?” said he, making a gesture with his hoof.
“Well, if you say so, sir,” said she; “it was about a day ago.”
It was evident the landlady’s remarks had a certain effect upon Pones, for he reclined back and remained silent for some time, fixating his gaze at the headline of the newspaper in which I had tossed to the floor.
“Watcolt,” said he, without taking his eyes of the paper. “when did the Captain propose to the Princess for her hoof for marriage?”
“About yesterday,” said I with some bewilderment at this sudden interest in the mainstream media. “Why did you ask?”
Instead of answering, Pones continued to stare blankly at the newspaper, his grey eyes seemingly unmoving.
“How peculiar!” he began at last, breaking his gaze as he turned to the landlady. “But why must you be concerned for the well-being of this unfortunate couple that resides all the way down the country?”
“Well, because, Mr. Pones, they were in perfect health just the other day when I paid them a visit in order to refill my supply of flour for my cupcakes.”
“Was it yesterday when you did so?”
“Why, no, sir—it was a day before the Cakes suddenly fell ill.”
“‘Suddenly' you say?” said Pones, raising a brow.
Mrs. Hudcolt nodded. “Indeed, sir.” said she; “So severe their, illness was, that they had to be rushed to the nearest hospital. To my relief, they are alive, but in a critical condition.”
“Did you notice anything peculiar during your visit there” said I, curious. “Anything off?”
She thought for a moment. “There is one, though.” said she; “On that day I went to Ponyville, just as soon I’ve purchased the flour and was about to acquire with the sprinkles as well for the cupcakes, chatting about the type of tea they were drinking, when there entered a heavily built, middle-aged Pegasus of forty, or thereabouts. He had hazelnut mane and a rather cruel moustache. He wore a pea-jacket, wore an opera hat, and had carried with him a bag that seemed to contain a stick-like object and had walked with a certain type of swagger. He had smoked heavily in the cigar in which he held in his mouth, filling the shop with its fumes. I didn’t like the looks of him, Mr. Pones, not one bit I don’t, for he, upon entering threw the cigar to the ground and had glared at me with an extreme look of ominousness and spoke in the harshest of voices as he confronted the Cakes at the counter.
“‘Are you Mr. and Mrs. Cake?’ says he with a mixture of a growl and a rasp. Oh, Mr. Pones, if only you have been there, he would too impress you as a cruel creature!
“‘Yes, we are’ said Mrs. Cake: sipping her cup of tea. “How may I help ya’?’
“‘Flour,’ said the Pegasus. ‘need it.’
“‘That can be easily arranged.’ said Mr. Cake, placing his cup; 'We have an entire stash of them here! Please, step aside, sir—'
"'You, mare;' drawled the Pegasus, turning to my direction; 'leave...'
I was caught quite off-guard there. What authority did he have in commanding me to leave the shop when I have not yet finished my purchases? What, did he see himself as the colonel and me the foot soldier whom he can boss about as haphazard as a serf to his master?
“‘But, sir—” I protested, but he had cut me off by pointing his stick-like object directly at my forehead, pressing it hard against it. Oh, Mr. Pones, how he frightened me!
“‘Now,’ he drawled in threatening fashion.
“I then did as he told me, despite not getting the sprinkles I needed, for I did not want to spend another second around that fiend. That is my singular experience, Mr. Pones, that had occurred before the Cakes’—”
She trailed off.
“Then, upon the following day, they fell suddenly ill, as you say?” said Pones.
The landlady nodded.
"Hum. Queer, quite queer..."
“If I may interject,” said I, raising a hoof. “may I ask, Mrs. Hudcolt, if you could describe to me the traits of their illness? Perhaps I may give a little say by diagnosing their illness, whatever it may be.”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Pones form a proud grin, while Mrs. Hudcolt considered on what to say.
“Well,” she began. “first of all, it was Pinkie Pie who had discovered them...late in the night, it was. She had been roused from her sleep upon hearing what sounded like violent coughing. She then endeavored to trace its origin and found the two Cakes on the ground: vomiting out a horrifying amount of blood. In an instant, she called an ambulance and they were immediately taken to the Ponyville Clinic.”
“Then, if they were already confined there, Mrs. Hudcolt,” said I. “how did you to come to hear what had befallen upon them?”
“Well, on the day following my strange encounter with that queer Pegasus, I had returned to Ponyville intending to purchase what I had forgotten on my previous visit: the sprinkles. Upon arriving at Sugarcube Corner, I found that it was only inhabited by Pinkie Pie and her employers’ twins. There, Doctor, I had learned what happened, and soon left.”
“What did their fur look like?” interposed Pones, raising a judicial hoof to his mouth as he did so.
Mrs. Hudcolt looked at him curiously. “I beg pardon, sir?”
“Their fur—the Cakes’ fur—what were they like when they were found on the floor?”
“Well, according to Ms. Pie, she said they were of a greyish, pale color.”
“And were they, upon your first visit, found eating a dish, or consuming any type of beverage? Tea, coffee?”
“They were both drinking tea at that time sir.”
“Were the cups on the same counter in which this strange pony you speak of had approached?”
“Yes, sir.”
He remained motionless, in absolute silence, while none those present in the room dared break it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudcolt,” said Sherclop Pones, rising. He then persuaded the landlady to disappear from our rooms. After doing so, he proceeded to lean upon the door with a clouded expression. There he remained motionless, once more, in complete and utter silence, while I, being well accustomed to his habits, dared not intercept his line of thought. It was only when our client, whom I had observed to be in a state of nervousness (in which I daresay to be bordering near a breakdown for her entire form shook in great agitation) during the interview, called my friend’s name that broke it.
“Ah, yes, Ms. Hooves!” said he, with a violent start; “Do forgive me—I've nearly forgotten of your existence...”
He then teleported himself to sit upon his armchair. “I have been daydreaming,” said he, smiling to himself; “It does indeed seem suggestive, yes; very suggestive—but I pray, Ms. Hooves, to resume your narrative which has been so rather needlessly interrupted.”
But right before she could do so, Pones raised a hoof. “I trust,” said he; “that you will, I’m sure, forgive me to ask you to start off from scratch, for I have forgotten certain points of it.”
Ms. Derpy Hooves glared at him. “Alright, then,” said she in sardonic contempt; “Mr. Detective.” She then proceeded once more to recite from the foolscap.
“Mr. Pones,” began our client; “my name is Derpy Hooves, a citizen of Ponyville. I am a big fan of muffins—I eat them at breakfast—I eat them at lunch—I eat them at dinner. I keep an entire stash of them, in fact, in my own so as to have a sufficient investment of my rations.nNot so long before, however, this stash had run out. Therefore, I had set off to Sugarcube Corner in order to refill it.
“While on my way there, I crossed paths with Rainbow Dash. She seemed to be troubled of something for she was in a hurry when she flew past me, furiously flapping those athletic wings of hers.
“‘Hey,’ I cried, calling for her attention; “hey, Rainbow Dash, hey!’ But she didn’t seem to hear me. I then decided to follow her, in hopes of being of assistance on whatever may be troubling her. But due to my strabismus, however, I was forced to walk slowly, in order to prevent myself from tripping. But I had kept my eye on her so that I may trace her movements as I did so. As I slowly trotted on to the confectionary, to my delight, I discovered that we shared a common destination: Sugarcube Corner. I even saw her enter it, despite my being a few hundred yards away.
“Upon arriving at the shop after five minutes seeing her enter it, I had expected to find an extremely agitated Rainbow Dash, but didn’t. Instead, I only found Pinkie Pie!
“Due to my condition, however, I was unable to make a proper image on what I saw, but I was able to make out a number of things—
“I saw, upon my entering, Pinkie near the green circular carpet which was folded up upon the wooden floorboards. It may be a mere trick in the eyes, Mr. Pones, but she seemed to merge into one with ground bellow in a way that gives the impression of her sinking into some plot of deadly quick sand. But as soon as I entered—in feverish speed, it was, thus leaving a mere pink swirl at her wake—she swiftly "emerged back to the ground with all hooves as quick as she was merging into it. I then heard what seemed like a slam of some sort of wooden material. She then, after doing so, unfolded the green circular carpet, and then stood upon its center.
“‘Hey, Derpy,’ said she, with a big smile on her face as she scratched her mane. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Where’s Rainbow Dash?’ I asked, looking around me.
Pinkie didn’t seem to understand the question. ‘Say what now?’
I thought to myself they must be playing a prank on me. Maybe a game of hide-and-go-seek? After all, she and Dash are quite famous in pulling off pranks, and I thought that maybe they were playing one on me. So, I searched for her, playing their little game. While doing so, I saw upon the floorboards, near the carpet, a bitten cupcake. When I pointed this out to Pinkie, she rushed towards it, and crushed it. When I asked why, she ignored the question. I then continued my search. As I did, I saw upon the counter a number of baking materials. I approached them, but Pinkie came in in front me, and stood in front of the baking materials, as if to hide them. I asked her what was she doing, but she waved me off. But as she did so, something fell on the ground with a sharp clink. It was a tiny bottle, but I didn’t have a good look at it for Pinkie had swiftly hid it in her mane. I then continued my search. I searched upstairs, but found no Rainbow Dash. I searched everywhere and found nothing. I then came to the conclusion that my eyes were playing tricks on me. Pinkie then, with a big smile, reassured me that this was the case, for she herself hadn’t seen her all day. I then left.
“Then, after walking for a couple yards, I remembered the original object of my visit. Therefore, I returned. But when I did, there was not a mare in sight—no Pinkie Pie, no Rainbow Dash, no nothing! What I only saw was that the green circular carpet which I had previously remarked, was, once more, folded. I then left, thinking that Pinkie’s just in a break. I had an intention of coming back for I have not got my muffins yet.
“An hour later, I did, but without another peculiar experience. What happened was this:
“When I returned, I had caught Pinkie so off guard that she actually dropped the silver tray she held and spilled its contents. I then, naturally, helped her retrieve them. The contents in which she spilled were small, metallic objects. I could not, due to my condition, make out what were those, but I assure you, Mr. Pones, they are extremely sharp. I even received a wound from them. Once having helped her, I noticed that the carpet was once again folded. When I had pointed this out, Pinkie simply swiftly unfolded it. As she did so, I heard the same sound of a some kind of wooden material slamming from earlier: a door slamming shut. I asked why she’s acting so weird, to which, instead of answering me, gave me an entire basket of muffins almost frantically.
"'Here you go! Just take this!' said she as quite shoved it into my face.
"Pinkie then begged me to leave, pushing me towards the door. As she did, I asked if she had seen Rainbow Dash, to which she said she had not. "'Hey, have you seen Rainbow around here yet?" I said.
"'Nope! Nuh-uh! Please, just leave; I'm really busy right now!' This Pinkie said as she thrusted me onto the doormat.
With this response, I then went home, with my brand-new supply of muffins, but with a feeling of uneasiness for Rainbow Dash hadn’t been seen by anyone yet, which utterly baffles me. I then, that night went to bed, with the question ‘where’s Rainbow Dash’ playing in a constant loop in my head. I even had a nightmare that she was taken by some monster from the Everfree Forest! The following morning, I went to Rainbow Dash’s house, thinking that perhaps she'd be there. But she wasn’t there, Mr. Pones, she wasn’t! Her house was empty! I tried calling out for her name, but was only replied by silence. This had me most worried, Mr. Pones, it really did. Until now, even, I confess, but not as much as the events that occurred right after my visit to her condominium.
“I had intended to set off inquiries about the whereabouts of Dash by paying visits to her friends, I had first went to Fluttershy. But to my surprise, she wasn’t at home. I then visited Twilight at the Library, but she wasn’t at home either! Nor was either Applejack, Rarity—nor even Pinkie Pie herself! I calmed myself somewhat by convincing myself that they were all at some kind of picnic and that Rainbow Dash was with them. But I couldn’t be sure of it, therefore I went to the police station in order to continue my inquiries on her whereabouts. But when I had arrived there, I was surprised to see all of them—all of Rainbow’s friends, though with exception of Pinkie for some reason—there, all crammed up as they jostle for the attention of the receptionist and local constable. They were all talking frantically at the same time, so I was unable to pick up a single word from them. I then tapped Twilight at the back, and asked her what were they all doing there. She looked at me with some slight confusion.
“‘Haven’t you heard?’” said she. ‘She’s missing!’
“‘Who is?’ said I, fearing the worst.
“‘Rainbow Dash!”
“She then showed me an advertisement with a picture of a mare with a sky-blue coat and rainbow mane—it was Rainbow Dash.
“I nearly fainted, Mr. Pones when I laid my eyes upon that poster. I then snatched it from her and came straight to you, for I know of your extraordinary powers in which you use to help troubled individuals such as I. Please, I implore you, Mr. Pones to use them now, in finding out whatever in Equestria happened to Rainbow Dash and come with me to Ponyville as you do so.
Sherclop Pones, who had listened to this peculiar statement—peculiar in both its contents and the way they were presented—seemed to be deeply interested in the matter, for he sat down in his armchair, lit the foulest of his pipes, and smoked it heavily in silence for quite some time. With drooping eyelids, he lazily opened one eye and fixated it on the gazette upon the floor.
“So,” said our client upon concluding her narrative. She leaned forward on the settee. “what do you say?”
Pones had shot a glare at her direction.
“Kindly step outside, Ms. Hooves,” said my friend timidly, as he continued to stare upon the paper.
Derpy Hooves stood up.
“But, but” stammered our client with a desperate expression. “the case!”
“Yes, yes, I assure you, I am considering to consider to take it or not.” said Pones indifferently. “It does certainly have features of interests. If you wish for me take it, however, please leave me be in my reverie.”
“But, but—”
But Pones raised a warning hoof.
“Ms. Hooves,”
“But, look!” said our client as she produced a folded piece of paper from her saddlebag. Ms. Hooves then unfolded it and presented it to my friend. “Here,” said she with her hoof upon it. “here’s the advertisement.”
There, upon the leaf, was indeed what our client previously alluded to during her narrative—it was an advertisement with a photograph of the missing pony in question: Rainbow Dash, a young athletic mare with a complacent countenance. There were, too, written in bold red letters, printed above the mare, was the word “missing.”
Pones, to my slight confusion, as a reaction, simply stared at it with a look of absolute confusion and amazement equally blended upon his aquiline features. Then he smiled.
“As I have said,” said he, taking the poster from the Pegasus’ grasp (with an apology.) “I shall, once I am left to myself and had smoked a good amount of tobacco, think the matter over. Now, if you could do so kindly, Ms. Hooves, disappear.”
His eyes then swiftly darted towards the direction of the door, in which was followed by the jerk of his head.
Our client with some protesting, stood outside with a great amount of nervousness in her. Billy, our page, with a wave of my friend’s hoof, then closed the door behind her.
“I trust that you don’t intend to leave me, Doctor?” said Pones when I had half-risen from my chair.
“But I thought you said—”
“Your presence, my dear fellow, may prove to be extremely invaluable to me in clearing matters up.”
He then proceeded to take me back to my chair opposite his. I was about to question him, but he placed a hoof to his lips. “Well, Watcolt,” said Pones, relapsing languidly upon his armchair. “what do you make of it?”
I glanced at the door.
“It is a rather peculiar business—even she is, I confess,” said I. “for why would a client need to recite from a paper to state her narrative? She had said it so quickly that she didn’t give you chance to even speak!”
“Ha! You do too think so, eh?” said Pones; “Well, perhaps the client does not have a capable memory, therefore a form of a memorandum is required. And as for the hurried fashion of stating her narrative, it maybe because of the nervousness caused by her experience. You shan't blame the client, my dear fellow. Nevertheless, Watcolt, you can’t deny the peculiarity of its contents. It is almost as if—” He trailed off as he stared once more at the newspaper upon the floor. He then, with the use of telekinesis, picked it up and had simply stared at the day’s biggest headline.
“Yes, it is peculiar,” Pones remarked with his brows knitted together.
Laying the edition down, he proceeded to examine the poster in which he had obtained from the client. Minutely, he did this with the help of a powerful lens. He did this for some time—examining the advertisement from the consultation from inch to inch, showing it up against the light, sniffing and even licking it. Then he chuckled.
“Tut, tut, clever, clever,” remarked Sherclop Pones to himself, smiling. “but not clever enough.”
“What is?”
As an answer, he handed over the poster. I then endeavored to do examine the article in a similar fashion as to my friend’s, but had discovered barely anything worthy of note. The paper was, judging by its texture, of regular print, though it did strike me peculiar that it somewhat differed to the posters in the typical advertisements used. It had a very smooth texture, while the ones used often were coarse, rough, and had a certain sandy texture. This particular specimen had not. Other than that, I perceived nothing. I then handed it back.
“Do you have a pen and paper?” said Pones, cramming the poster into his pocket.
I provided him what he requested. He then proceeded to write upon a telegram form while I stood behind him. It ran thus:
Have you ever been consulted upon the matter of a disappearance in the past week?
-Sherclop Pones
Pones then ringed for the page and had ordered him to deliver the message to the telegraphic office and whispered something to him.
“To whom was that for, Pones?” said I, once Billy had dashed out of the room.
“To Cloudsdale Yard—" said he." —well, at least to a branch of theirs. I had set off an inquiry upon the subject of a certain—pony—well, it may be just a mere fancy of mine—but still, it may be worth a shot."
He seemed to be talking more to himself rather than to me. He then slipped into another reverie, his mind no doubt, embarking into an unknown line of though. He then said suddenly—
"How do you define the word 'grotesque, ' Watcolt?"
“Strange—remarkable.” said I
“There is surely something more than that,” said he. “some underlying of the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of the case of the Rich-Family League. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt of robbery upon the estate of the Rich Family. Or, again, there was the grotesque affair of Orange Pip, which led to a murderous conspiracy of a young colt. The word puts me on the alert.”
“Yes, indeed, but what are you, then, implying here?”
“I am implying here, my dear Watcolt, that I have quite made up my mind and that I shall take Ms. Derpy Hooves’ grotesque case which was presented to us in so peculiar a fashion. There may something in it that may be worth my attention, and I'm inclined to ascertain on whatever it may be. Now, pack up your old kit-bag, my dear fellow, and come along!"
I then gladly did what he requested for there is a promise of an adventure in this matter, and nothing gives me keener pleasure than to partake in my friend’s investigations and jock down notes about his extraordinary powers of deduction. My experience of camp life in the Nightmare Moon campaign had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveler. My wants are few and simple, so that less in a minute, I was fairly ready to embark on this little adventure. Pones in the other hoof, however, spent quite some time in his bedroom. As he did, Billy came back with a small piece of paper in his possession.
“The reply-telegram for Mr. Pones, Doctor,” said the page, giving me the reply. I thanked him as he speedily darted out of the room. I then waited for Pones so that he may read the reply-telegram, but he seemed to be quite occupied in a strange business in his bedroom, for the sound of whisking of leaves could be distinctly heard from within it. Growing rather impatient, I knocked upon his door.
“Pones?”
“Wait a bit, Watcolt!” said he.
I then stood at the bow-window. I had observed during this, that an entire legion of Royal Guards marching across the street below us. It had stroke me as extraordinary for why could they be here? There was clearly something amiss, and I could conceive no idea what that something may be that would produce such an effect upon them that they would dispatch an entire legion!
Once they were out of view, Pones was still within his room. I then, out of curiosity on the reply of my friend's peculiar inquiry, endeavored to read whatever was written upon the reply-telegram. It ran as follows:
To Mr. Sherclop Pones,
No, sir, I have not, nor has anyone stationed in this particular branch in that matter. On the contrary, not a single constable or inspector had been conscious of any form of criminal activity for the entire month!
Stanley Trotkins
Suddenly, a joyous cry came from within Pones’ room.
“I’ve found it!” cried his muffled voice, triumphantly; “By Jove, I have got it!” He then violently exited his room with a look of excitement upon his face. He held a newspaper as he did so. I had a glimpse of the interior of his room, and was horrified on what I saw: papers—an absurd amount of papers littered every single square inch of it.
“Good Heavens, Pones, your room!” said I. “Surely, Mrs. Hudcolt will be enraged by that!”
But Pones had merely laughed at my remark. "My dear Watcolt," said he in an animated voice. “I have, as you may know, my dear fellow, the habit to horde every single addition of the daily papers for any future references that may, in the future, be of use. Now, I have consulted the editions of the past week, including today’s edition and searched in the agony columns and the headlines, hoping maybe that there may be something in them that may assist us in the case, and had ended with a very interesting discovery.”
“What, then, is your discovery?”
“Nothing!” said Sherclop Pones. “Nothing—absolutely nothing in relation to our current business! Does it not strike you as remarkable? Look here—”
He then grabbed my hoof and took me into his room. Amongst the cluster of countless editions that had littered the bedroom, there stood out a bundle of newspapers consisting of six editions. I, then, at Pones’ request, examined one individually by looking first at each edition’s headline, then the agony column.
The first one I had examined was last week’s edition, and its headline consisted of the announcement of the National Dessert Competition. Then I had examined the agony column to which in turn consisted of ponies quiring for advice on how to bake the proper cake for the upcoming competition. I then moved on to the second.
Its headline depicted that the Pegasi of Ponyville had successfully delivered this season’s water to Cloudsdale where it shall be duly manufactured into rain. Then I had examined the agony column and found nothing but the unfortunate cries of what I perceive to be a nurse begging for medical assistance with the recent outbreak of Feather Flu in the same town.
The third edition depicted the dog Cerberus, who guards the gates of Tartarus, running loose and his eventual recapture. The agony column of the same edition consisted nothing but questions asking anyone if there were any sign of trouble found in their area of residence.
The fourth and the fifth passed as nothing of interest, that is, until the sixth, where the major headline of that day’s paper depicted the announcement for the same royal marriage in which is depicted in following edition to be scheduled to occur the following day. The agony column consisted of nothing but the groom himself with his honorable name filling the column with pleads for advice for the proper wedding gift for his bride-to-be.
“Now, Watcolt,” said Pones, after I had laid it down. “Let me recite to you the contents of this day’s edition, and you shall see for yourself how nothing of importance is depicted. The headline of the upcoming royal marriage between the good Captain and the Princess we already know, but the agony column—it consists of nothing but mares who had been bestowed upon the task of being the bridesmaids of the upcoming marriage pleading for advice. Have a listen—
“‘Does anypony know the duties of a bridesmaid?' says Twinkle Shine.
“‘What’s a bridesmaid? I need to know what it is because I’ll be acting as one for the upcoming royal wedding, and I don’t wanna look dumb or anything...’ says Minuette.
“‘Lyra Heartstrings says: ‘Can anyone offer me advice on being a good bridesmaid? I’ll soon be one for the upcoming marriage of Princess M’— bleat, Watcolt—unmitigated bleat!”
“But, Pones,” I interjected. “surely the announcement of a royal marriage counts as being of importance!”
“Ah, yes,” said Pones sardonically. “you are right, my good sir, when it comes to the aspect of politics—the marriage does bare of some importance there; but to the case of Rainbow Dash’s disappearance—no, it does not. But these mainstream headlines and pleads of romanticism, however, do positively provide me aid in this case.”
“In what way?”
“Ah, I see I have received a reply to my telegram!” cried he, taking the telegram from my grasp. Once he read it, he glanced at me and fell into a reverie.
“As you may remember.” said he. “Detective Inspector Stanley Trotkins is the youngest officer of the entire Yard, whom I have high hopes for rising in his ranks. He has, if my memory serves to be correct, made his way into your records.”
“Yes, indeed, he has,” said I, recalling the adventures in which the young Trotkins had partook action in. “But what is the object of your inquiry to the good official?”
Pones had already opened his mouth to speak, when Ms. Hooves suddenly entered our rooms with an imperative air of impatience.
“Ah, Ms. Hooves,” said my friend, turning to the mare.
“Are you going or not?” said she irritably.
“I was about to propose in doing so.”
I saw a great withhold of excitement in Ms. Hooves’ eager expression as she grinned from ear to ear and pranced from the back.
“So, you’ll take it?” said she eagerly. “You’ll take the case?”
Pones looked at her keenly with his grey eyes. “Indeed, I shall do so,” said he, disappearing into his room briefly and emerging from its clutter with a saddlebag in possession. As he did so, I had noticed the familiar twinkle in his eyes that is forever associated in one of his devious moods when hot upon a scent.
“Come along now, Watcolt,” said he, as he wore on his ear-flapped travelling-cap; “the game is afoot!”
There was a one o’clock train to Ponyville that day, and we had ought to catch it, for, upon glancing over the timetable, there won’t be another till three. Once Pones had locked the door to our rooms, he called for the page.
“Yes, Mr. Pones?” said Billy, rushing up the stairs.
“I’d like for you, young lad,” said Pones, turning to him. “to keep any letters that may be addressed to me until I and the good Doctor have returned. Is it understood?”
The boy nodded and Pones patted him upon the back. We then left the flat.
As our small party took the route to the station, I had observed a dramatic increase of security. Royal Guards could be found in every single corner, street, and avenue of Canterlot, each of them seeming to interrogate every single individual that crossed their path. We too, were interrogated, when we had barely paced a hundred yards. A staunch, masculine guard had approached us and spent no time in imposing the most impossible of questions.
“What was the deduction you had made upon Dr. Watcolt when you first met him?” interposed the Guard to Pones gruffly as he recited from the clipboard which he had carried.
My friend frowned upon hearing the question.
“That he was a retired Wonderbolt Medic whom had served in the campaign against Nightmare Moon during her return.” said he as he eyed the guard.
“By how?”
“He had the air of a Wonderbolt, and the admirable intellect of a doctor. You add that together, you receive the sum of a Wonderbolt Medic.”
“And the campaign?”
“He had recently received an injury, and I happened to know that the Wonderbolts had no recent campaigns other than the one against Nightmare Moon.”
The guard had then muttered the words on the clipboard, ticking off boxes with a pen as he shot occasional glances at the sleuth.
“Very good, sir,” said he, concludingly. "You check out just fine." He then turned to me. “And as for you, Dr. Watcolt,” said the guard in an intimidating fashion. “if that is whom you claim to be,”--he had stared into my soul before he continuing.—“what’s the name of your Batch?”
“I beg pardon?”
“Your Batch, Doctor—what was its name?”
His authoritative voice had awakened the military instincts that had remained dormant for quite some time.
“John Hamish Watcolt of the Northumberland Batch, sir.” said I in same youthful attentiveness as if I were still a cadet at the Academy.
“Your call sign, I understand, is ‘Med-Head?’” the guard asked, adding emphasis on the latter. I had remembered my days as a rookie and the years in which I had spent resenting that name.
“Indeed,” said I, slightly bothered on how could he have possibly known that information.
“How did you receive that exact call sign?”
“For Captain Spitfire criticized the overuse of my medical knowledge upon every occasion I find myself in, thus ultimately leading to gain such a name.”
“Why were you deployed in Ponyville during that night?”
“For Colonel Cumulonimbus of the Cyclone Batch had been defeated, and my batch were the backup.”
The guard stared in amazement for a minute or two. He then recomposed himself.
“How did you come into acquaintance with Mr. Sherclop Pones?” said he, firmly.
“I was, after I was relieved of my duties, searching for a cheaper estate to take my residence in for I found myself in financial ruin. Clopford, a crony of mine, introduced me to a certain Mr. Sherclop Pones, who shares the common need. Soon, we found ourselves sharing rooms and rent in our small yet humble abode.”
“And where is that?”
“221B Baker Street.”
“What was the first case you had partaken action in with Mr. Sherclop Pones?”
“‘A Study of Magic’”
“Who gave it under that headline?”
“I did so.”
“Do give the recapitalization of the events that occurred in that particular case... "
I then did so. As I remember, the case was concerned about the accusation of the Great and Powerful Trixie of committing a fraud, to which, with my friend’s swift deduction of the message written upon both the victims, proved to be utterly false. Thus, leading to the clearing of the illusionist’s name, and the arrest of the so-called ‘victims’ who had attempted to destroy their rival’s reputation by framing her for a crime she didn’t commit.
“Why did you decide to document the cases of Mr. Sherclop Pones?”
I glanced at Pones.
“I feel as I’m doing him a great justice to dock those extraordinary cases, for he refuses to take the credit he well deserves in bringing justice upon the ponies involved in those cases.”
My dignified friend had scoffed at my remark. “My dear Watcolt,” said he, irritably. Though I could detect a faint indication of flattery.
The guard had then once again, in whispers, read the clipboard as he shot occasional glances. He then nodded.
“I’m very sorry for these seemingly unnecessary questions; but I assure, they are not.” said he, taking my friend’s hoof and shaking it. “It is indeed an honor to meet you. Surely, with your extraordinary powers, you can deduce that the actions I have taken are part of protocol? I have direct orders to specifically question you.”
Pones squinted his eyes. “Protocols ordered by—” said he, writing a name upon his sleeve.
The guard stared at it and gaped at my friend with an expression of mystification and reverence. “Sweet Celestia, Mr. Pones!” said the guard. “How could you have—”
“I trust,” said Sherclop Pones, glancing at my watch; “that we may proceed to our destination?”
“Yes, you may do so, but first,” said the guard, turning to our client. “who is the mare accompanied with you?”
Ms. Hooves—who has been violently shaking, grinding her teeth, and gnawing her hooves during the protocol (likely caused by the anxiety of the current case at hand and its staking weight), flinched at the guard’s question.
“Me?”
“Ms. Hooves is our client,” said Pones; “who appears to be mixed in some trifling matter in which I desire to clear up. Now, if you please, dear sir,”
He gestured the guard to step aside.
“You’re not going to the wedding?” remarked the guard once we had paced a couple yards away. “It would not only be an honor, but also further increase the security of the entire event.”
Pones shook his head with a laugh. “That would be quite unnecessary, sir, for, as I observe, you have already quite made the precautions that would, if I were to ever agree to attend it, render my services of providing ‘security’ rather useless.” He then pointed at the sky. Curious as to what he meant, I glanced up at the sky and was quite astonished on what I saw—
The city seemed to be entirely enveloped by what it appears to be some kind of giant pinkish bubble. So large was it that it had not only covered the entirety of the city, but the entire sky as well, it is like the city had been swallowed by some kind of pink balloon of sparkling translucent material.
“No, my good sir,” continued Pones. “I shan't attend. Not unless the bride or groom were to be” he paused briefly as he shot a quick glance at Ms. Hooves. “murdered by an unknown someone amongst the attendees—there! It is then and only then I shall attend it.”
Ms. Hooves laughed hysterically.
"Let’s hope not.”
We then left the scene, leaving the guard in awe.
Once we had finally arrived at the station, it was filled with a comically large number of crowds, which, upon inquiry, was learned that they have come to attend the royal event that is yet to occur.
Once the crowd had cleared, we sat at the benches, waiting for the arrival of the Express, and pondered on what just recently occurred.
“Pones, what is that?" said I, looking up.
“My dear Watcolt,” said Sherclop Pones. “do you not find it ironic for you, one who is more knowledgeable towards royal marriages, possesses considerably less knowledge than I do upon it? That pink bubble”—he pointed at the sky—“is only employed when a royal wedding—such as the one in which had made it to the headlines—is scheduled to occur. It is to assure the protection of the wedding—as well the entire Monarchy from exterior threats.”
I nodded my understanding. “Furthermore,” I added. “What do you fancy could be the possible object of those questions? They seemed so bizarre to ask! How could he possibly know such private information?”
“They are part of Government protocol, Watcolt due to this event that had been ordered by a certain—” Pones paused. “—someone…”
“Yes, evidently,” said I, remembering how the guard had reacted when Pones had written something in his sleeve. “But that still doesn’t explain the object! By the way, whose name did you write upon your sleeve which had such an effect upon that guard?”
Pones, who had been listening intently for the whistle of the train, glanced at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “The name of my brother,” said he.
“Your brother?” said I with some astonishment.
“Why, yes! My dear Watcolt, have you actually forgotten what Myclop is?”
I was about to answer, when an unexpected event occurred—
“Mr. Pones!” cried a familiar boyish voice, followed by the sound of galloping hooves; “Mr. Pones, sir!”
It was a young colt with a piece of paper in his possession, running towards our direction in feverish speed..
“Mr. Pones,” said the boy after having caught his breath. “a message for you, sir!”
He then took the paper from his mouth and presented it to Pones. It was an envelope.
Pones then took it from him. It was of the typical type material of an envelope that one receives. Though, something stood out from it in which I had noted to be quite queer—there was no a postmark that indicated its origin.
“Hum,” said Pones, examining the envelope with minute attention, no doubt perceiving my observations as well. “How, may I ask, did you receive this letter?” said he, turning to the page.
Billy, whom had already opened his mouth to answer, seemed to have refrained himself, and stared at our client with a look of utter bewilderment.
“Sweet Celestia!” said the lad, as he pointed at our client’s flank, stammering incoherent ejaculations of surprise.
Ms. Hooves, who appeared to be in a trance-like fugue: simply smiling and staring at the pink bubble ever since we took our seats, glared at the boy with a look of annoyance upon her features.
“Breathe, young lad,” said Sherclop Pones in the soothing voice he applies to troubled individuals. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing when he wished. He then placed a long, thin, nervous hoof upon the troubled page. "What troubles you?”
My friend’s soothing way of words evidently had an effect upon Billy, for the lad had regained his composure.
“Oh, it’s trivial, Mr. Pones,” said he, glancing at our client with narrowed eyes. “It’s really trivial.”
“To a great mind nothing is little,” said Sherclop Pones; “Now, my dear lad, kindly tell me what troubles you.”
Billy glanced at the direction of our client before he ever answered. “I’ve come in such a hurry, sir, for I hoped I hoped to catch you before you catch the train for a package arrived not long after your departure, and that it was addressed to you, sir.”
“But why the pointing of your hoof at our dear client here?” said Pones as he darted his eyes at the direction of Ms. Hooves.
A dark expression came over the page’s face. “Well, because, sir, I had the most bizarre of experiences.”
Pones pricked up his ears. “Would you be so kind to narrate that experience?”
Billy thought for a while. He took another nervous glance at Ms. Hooves, before looking back at Pones with certain kind of searching expression. The page then motioned him to lean closer, to which the latter obliged. They then had a long conversation in which was spoken in complete whispers.
I had attempted to at least catch a snatch of it, but was only able to get Pones’ occasional interjections and Billy’s quick glances at our client. The page seemed to do most of the talking while my friend did the listening. There were several remarks or sentences, however, in which luck itself permitted me to catch. Those being—
So much alike, sir!
Or—
A twin or some sort
And—
At Ponyville Delivery Service
Our client, Ms. Hooves, took naturally an interest upon the whispered conversation, leaning forward to be in a better ear range. At some point in doing so, she had evidently caught something I overheard, for her eyes widened, and had let out a gasp, in which seemed more like of hiss. I, in turn, took a quick look and found the Pegasus in a clear state of great discomfort for her form seemed rigid and clay-like.
The conversation, as it seemed, had eventually come to an end, for the whispers had ceased.
Pones, who had been listening with the utmost attention to the page’s statement (whatever it may be), had turned to the client and was about to say something. Whatever it was, I may never know for Pones had refrained himself and turned back to Billy.
“Well, your theory does quite settle it, does it not?” he remarked. “But it does not, however, explain the excitement...”
Billy thought for a while before answering. “Well, Mr. Pones,” said he, hesitantly as he motioned yet once more to lean closer.
Pones, who had seemed to be himself troubled, obliged.
Another conversation spoken in whispers then ensured, only that this time they were both answering an equal amount of questions and answers.
I had only caught a single part of it. It was Pones'.
“Her Mark?” said he, inquiringly.
Billy nodded. They then continued their conversation.
Leaning even closer, I had heard Billy remark something, though I wasn’t able to make it out. But I was certain he did indeed remark something, for almost immediately, Pones had remained motionless for some minutes with a vacant expression. He then, like the page, stared at our client. While I, who sensed something of importance in doing so, endeavored to follow suit. I followed Pones’ gaze and found out that it was directly upon Ms. Hooves’ Cutie Mark. In glancing at Pones’ expression, I was able to deduce that whatever was arresting his attention was found in the Mark. I then, despite not knowing what to look for, did the same, vainly attempting to note for anything that may be of importance.
I was about to ask what seemed to amuse him, but the blow of a whistle broke me off.
“The train!” I cried, tugging my friend’s sleeve as the train slowly came into view.
“Billy,” said Pones, rising from the bench and turning to the page; “quick, swear upon the fact that the mare whom you had conversed with shares the same Mark to that of Ms. Hooves here!"
“I swear, sir.”
“Excellent! Now, run along, my lad. Watcolt, we may at last embark upon our adventure...”
As I watched the lad run off and eventually disappear amongst the forming traffic of crowds, the train pulled into a grating stop, its hot steam smoldering our faces.
My friend had remained silent as he stared vacantly at the window with the envelope in his possession, while I on the other hand, turned over in my head the whatever could have the page and Pones conversed, and why was it spoken in whispers. I thought on what could my friend had possibly seen from staring at the client’s Mark, and how much importance does it bare. I thought of Ms. Hooves' queer demeanor. I sensed that she was concealing something—something important, though I have little to no idea on what that may be, I knew there must be at least something that she withholds. I then endeavored to come up with a competent theory, until it had piled up into a dozen, each being more absurd than the last. I then conceded in doing so, and then endeavored to come up with an explanation of Pones’ queer actions, then I tried to form a theory on our client’s grotesque narrative, to which I have nearly forgotten about. I thought of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Rainbow Dash’s disappearance; the queer actions of Pinkie Pie upon Ms. Hooves—all of these I had attempted to find a definite explanation, but failed miserably in all. Once more, I conceded, and had intended to ask Pones if he himself if had formed one, but by a single glance at the contortion of his aquiline features refrained, fearing the drastic consequences of daring to intercept his thoughts. I then lit a cigar, as a means of passing the time. Then, with an unsure air, I leaned himself back lazily upon the cushions of the bench as I heaved a sigh. I then glanced at Pones. His eyes met mine as he let out a grin.
"Oh, Watcolt," shaking his head to himself. "this case..."
I then took advantage of this communicative mood.
“Have you yourself formed any theories yet?” I whispered, taking a short glance at Ms. Hooves. “About the case, I mean.”
“Several, but only one seems definite.”
“What is it, then?”
Pones didn’t answer. Instead, he simply stared at the envelope which our page had some problems in delivering. He then opened it and took out a very thin epistle. He read it and raised a brow.
“Oh, dear," said he. "dear, dear me—clever little miscreant, aren't you now?"
He then handed me the epistle. The first thing I had noticed was watermark on the top corner of the paper—it was the outline of some kind of umbrella. There had been something strikingly familiar about the queer symbol, it is as if I had seen somewhere before. I had paid no heed it however, for my eyes then rested upon the queer message in which had been printed before me. I had noted that it was typewritten, rather than written. It ran thus:
The Her Majesty State of Unicorns at Pony Parliament stake and skate come at concert to listen Mendelssohn’s Wedding March today now.
As I glanced up from this enigmatical message, I saw Pones chuckling at the expression upon my face.
“You look a little bewildered.” said he.
“Good Heavens, Pones, what an absurd message!” said I, handing back the paper; “I fail to see anything clever about it.”
“No, no; it’s the case, Watcolt—the case! It’s the case that is.”
“The case?!”
“So, Mr. Pones,” said Ms. Derpy Hooves, interrupting my friend, much to my frustration. It is as if Fate itself wishes for me to remain in the dark.
Pones turned to her.
“Yes, Ms. Hooves?” said he, giving a beaming smile. Though, despite this, used as I am to his nature, I could detect that there was something cold beneath that superficial benevolence.
“Made any progress?” said the Pegasus, wriggling in her seat.
A dark expression came across my friend’s face. “I have already formed a theory or two concerning your remarkable case, Ms. Hooves,” said he in a serious tone. “and that I desire to make a few inquiries once we arrive at our destination so that I may confirm them.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Ms. Hooves with a smile as her pupils dilated in excitement. “Good, very good.”
And so ended the conversation. We three then sat in silence for the rest of the journey, as I watched the scenery slowly change from the metropolitan to the beautiful countryside. The whistle blew and the train’s acceleration gradually slowed down, signaling that we are drawing near to our destination. The train then pulled to a complete stop, with its noisy breaks upon the rails.
“Ponyville!” declared the stationmaster; “Ponyville, everypony, Ponyville!”
We then alighted the train, and entered the Ponyville platform, with the country air filling my nostrils as I admired the simplicity of the small town.
It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with fleecy white clouds drifting from east to west. The sun was shining brightly, and yet there was exhilarating nip in the air, which set and edge to one’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills of the town, the little hay-like roofs of the citizens peeped out from amid the light of the sun.
The citizens are equally nice as the town the take their residence in. They are extremely polite and friendly, a great contrast to the ponies of Canterlot. So homely they were, that little to no comment was made when an actual zebra purchased spices from a vendor. To me, however, there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this peculiar quest upon which we are engaged.
“Is it not lovely, Pones?” said I, as we trotted around the town. “The peaceful serenity of it all?”
But Pones shook his head gravely.
“Do you not think, Watcolt,” said he; “that it is one of the curses of a mind like mine that I must look at everything with the reference to my own special subject. You look at these houses, and you are impressed by their utter simplicity. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of isolation and of impunity with which crime may be committed there.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these humble folk?”
“They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watcolt, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of Canterlot do not present a more dreadful record than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
“You horrify me!”
“But the reason is very obvious—the pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbors, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these humble houses, with its naïve inhabitants who know so little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Now, I may proceed to set off my inquiries.”
“Wait!” cried Ms. Hooves, pulling my friend’s sleeve. Pones and I then glanced at her, startled at the sudden burst. She apologized and collected herself.
“Mr. Pones,” said the client; “I’m going to Sugarcube Corner.”
“For what particular reason, may I ask?” said Pones, raising a brow.
“Because Pinkie and I had agreed to bake muffins!”
My friend eyed her carefully.
“How strange; how strange indeed! When did she propose to you this idea?”
Ms. Hooves thought carefully with her eyes wondering off to seemingly random places. “Just yesterday!” said she. “When I had received my muffins.”
“What did she say to you exactly?” said Pones.
“She said, just right before I was about to leave, ‘Hey, Derpy, do you wanna learn how to bake?’
"‘Bake what?’ I said.
"‘Muffins!’
"But then I said, ‘But I already know how to!’
"But Pinkie was having none of it.
‘"Well, at least help me make some!’
"‘When?’ said I.
"‘Tomorrow!’ said Pinkie. “Here, at Sugarcube Corner.”
"I then agreed to this, Mr. Pones.”
“But why did you suddenly remember it now?” said I, curiously.
Ms. Hooves had shot a rather annoyed glance at my direction. “Well,” said she. “I was probably too busy thinking about Rainbow Dash that I forgot about it. But having arrived here, I was reminded of it!”
I conceded with a nod of the head.
Pones glanced at me with a pair of roguish eyes before addressing the mare.
"What do you intend to do now, Ms. Hooves?"
The mare sniggered at either of us with a certain glint of malevolence found behind her unassuming eyes, which is so unbecoming of the common countrymare such as herself. Turning her rear at us, Ms. Hooves then broke into a gallop; leaving a cloud of dust behind her. The mare was on the run.
“Follow her, Watcolt!” cried Sherclop Pones, as he and I too broke into a chase.
We had eventually lost track of the Pegasus. We had searched everywhere, but to no result. It was only at the town's square we had ascertained the direction in which she had went. We had questioned the zebra (to which I had previously noted) where could Sugarcube Corner be, to which she, in a rather curious form of dialogue spoken completely in rhymes in a rather curious accent, directed us to a building in which had seemed to be built of entirely out of confections. We thanked her and then resumed the chase.
We then hurriedly galloped towards the odd structure. Once we were upon its doorstep (which was lined with candy canes) Pones rasped upon the door.
“Ms. Hooves!” he cried. There was no reply. Pones then called again, and again, each attempt with no reply. Commanding me to stand back, he kicked the door open and went in. He then motioned for me to come in.
The interior of Sugarcube Corner, to which the majority of my readers may be already familiar with, bears resemblance to more of an actual shop, as contrast to its flamboyant exterior. As I entered the shop, I stood upon the welcoming mat, and admired its interior, while my nose slightly tingled for the state of the shop was rather dusty. So dusty was its state that impressed me as if the shop was left untended to for quite some time. I will now proceed to give a brief description of it—
Upon entering, you will find yourself, as I have already previously remarked, standing upon a green rectangular welcome mat; to your right there is a wooden counter with a shelf used for showcasing sweets; to your left is a wooden staircase leading to the second floor; and straight ahead is another staircase.
The floorboards were relatively made out of wood. It is of the paramount importance to mention that these floorboards during this affair, I had observed to be remarkably dusty. Amongst the dusty floorboards, there could be found, marked upon them, a track of hoof-prints.
I traced where it had originated and found out they came from the door. Then, I traced where it led—
Doing so had led me to a half-consumed cupcake, and beside it was a folded carpet—a folded green circular carpet; and right next it was a mare with a blush-pink coat and curly mane and tail of hot pink, staring at us with a pair of defiant eyes of sky-blue.
We had caught Pinkie Pie so off-guard that she flinched at the sight of us, and fell upon her back.
“Ah!” she exclaimed creating a loud thud in which had sounded like a door slamming shut.
I then naturally endeavored to assist her, but Pinkie Pie had refrained me from doing so with claw-like hoof threatening to strike at me
“Get back!” the mare snarled viciously. “get back, I say!”
Pinkie Pie then proceeded to swiftly unfold the green circular carpet. So swift was she that it was just a pink blur.
“Oh,” said she as she realized whom she is addressing to. “Sherclop Pones!”
She then collected herself and faced us with a bright smile upon her face in an almost comical fashion. Pinkie Pie’s smile grew even wider, though I could sense that it was out of nervousness she did so.
Sherclop Pones’ expression had been an amused one when we first entered, but it had changed into an urgent dread dramatically when the pink mare addressed him. Despite this, he gave a friendly smile.
He tipped his hat.
“Ms. Pinkamena Diane Pie” said he with a drawled emphasis of the name.
“What brings you here?” said Ms. Pie as she stood upon the centre of the carpet, looking at either of us with a nervous gaze.
Pones eyed her keenly.
“I’ve come upon the plead of my client, Ms. Derpy Hooves, to solve the disappearance of your friend Rainbow Dash—" he gave a brief pause for dramatic effect. "Perhaps, Ms. Pie, you yourself may know something of the matter that may greatly assist me and my dear associate—the good Doctor here—upon our investigations?"
“Rainbow Dash?" said Pinkie Pie, glancing swiftly below her. "Haven’t seen her all day!”
Pones’ gaze followed that of the baker’s, and rested upon the green circular carpet that covered a huge portion of the floorboards of the shop. He stared at it for quite some time with a clouded expression. Then he smiled. “I know you haven’t.” said he at last as slowly approaches the mare. “But what about Derpy Hooves? She had been last seen entering here.”
Pinkie Pie then hurriedly picks up the bitten cupcake and proceeded to smash it into atoms, with some its residue splatting upon my face.
“I don’t know about her either!” said she, heading to the counter.
There were various materials used in baking upon the counter—there was a ceramic bowl with an eggbeater in it; a tray of eggs; a metallic molder; a sack of flour—and all that one uses when baking. There is, however, one stood out amongst these materials upon Ms. Pie’s counter—it was a small phial of Sleep Drops—the famous sedative used by the insomniac. I thought of it to be quite queer for a soporific sedative to placed so near to baking materials. I was about to point this out to her, but Pinkie Pie then proceeded to grab the bottle and had attempted to place it in her saddlebag, but had dropped it out of her haste. It then fell upon the floorboards with a sharp clink. The bottle then rolled and rolled until it hit my friend’s hoof. He then picked it up and examined it.
“No, don’t!” cried the pink mare, extending a hoof as if to retrieve it despite being a few meters away. “don’t!”
Having thoroughly examined the bottle, he handed it back to her. He then let out a laugh.
“Oh, do forgive my amusement.” said Sherclop Pones, wiping his tears. “it is really an extraordinary case. I confess that I have seldom come across one that posed more unique traits such as this. Indeed, it is new in the annals of crime. I look forward in doing future business with you, Ms. Pie.” He paused. Pones' smile had vanished from his face as quick as it came. He looked at the mare with a fixated gaze. Then, in a voice void of his usual tranquility, he said:
"Ms. Pie, would you be so kind to tell me the exact amount of sprinkles in which you had sold to my dear landlady, Mrs. Hudcolt?”
This queer question had seemed to have a drastic effect upon Pinkie Pie, for she was quite unable to answer it, claiming that she had never chatted with anyone of that name, nor sold any sprinkles. Pones nodded, with a beaming expression that, with my experiences of my acquaintance with the great sleuth, I had learned to associate that he was quite satisfied with his inquiries. But that expression of satisfaction had quickly disappeared from his aquiline face.
His grey eyes had fixated themselves intently upon the dusty sacks that littered every single inch of the shop. I trust that readers may forgive my omission to mention that upon our entrance, I had observed that dozens of dusty—extremely dusty sacks of flour littered every single square inch of the shop. It was only during the aftermath when the urgency of pursuing are elusive client had drained off that I had only began to appreciate our surroundings.
The twinkle his eyes still remained, but his features contorted into an expression when one makes when he foresees an impending danger. Pones then took out his lens and took the liberty to examine the dusty sacks with a worrisome expression written upon his face. So dusty were they that upon examining them, he actually had let out a sneeze. 1Without so much of a warning, he darted across from room to room, beating the walls of the shop with his hoof as he does so, thus creating such a ruckus that had resonated across the entire place.
“Pones!” I retorted.
But he had heeded not to my complaints.
Then, he had darted to the staircase and ascended them, continuing to beat the walls above.
I followed him.
He had ascended to the top most floor, and, by the use of his hoof, had beaten the ceiling above him.
“Pones!” I cried. “What exactly are you—”
He did not permit me to finish my sentence, for had unexpectedly descended the stairs with frantic energy. I, then, confused as to these queer actions, followed him, crying out his name as I do so.
Once I had descended, I found Pones standing upon the green circular carpet and beat it repeatedly. He seemed to be ascertaining what would be the sounds resonating from this, for he tilted his head towards it as if to hear it clearer. A sort of muffled sound of strange ringing resonated from it.
At first, a look of satisfaction came upon his face, but that had quickly vanished and what replaced it was look of horror. Upon doing so, he stared at the carpet intently. Then at Ms. Pie, whom appeared to quite pleased with herself. She smiled at him rather deviously.
“This is bigger than I had originally thought,” said he in a foreign, almost-mechanic tone, which I am not well-acquainted with. It was very rare of my friend to be troubled of something in such an extent that it is perceivable by noting his voice.
He stood in utter silence as his thin grey eyes darted from the dusty sacks of flour, to the floorboards below him, to Pinkie Pie, and then on me.
“So,” said the pink mare as she approaches him, breaking the silence. “You’re looking for Dash, eh?”
I had observed a change in Pinkie Pie’s demeanor. As a great contrast to the expression she had earlier, where she was nervous and was obviously attempting to conceal something, Ms. Pie had now a certain devious twinkle in those blue eyes of hers, and a certain type of languid air as she approached Pones.
Pones, taking his eyes off the cluttered group of dusty sacks, turned round to face the mare. He eyed at her keenly. “Indeed,” said he.
“Made any progress yet?” asked Pinkie Pie.
Pones considered for a moment. “A considerable, amount, yes,” said he.
“Maybe I could help you find her?” the mare suggested, leaning towards him, smiling widely as she does so.
Pones, whom I expected to be delighted to this remark, simply smiled blandly. “Indeed?” said he. “Why is that?”
“Well,” said the mare, still smiling. “I think I know something that may help you find her.”
“Indeed? Do you care, Ms. Pie, to elaborate on what that something may be?” said my friend, very much interested now, for he stood up and approached the baker. “It may be very handy.”
As their muzzles nearly touched one another, Pones, with his extremely tall figure, still looked down upon the pink mare before him.
As an answer, Pinkie Pie simply widened her already uncanny smile. There was something definitely unnerving in the grotesque features of that fiendish smile that was a great contrast to the strange case in which we are investigating.
“Oh,” said she, giggling in delight. “I won’t be telling you what, silly—not now, at least.”
“Then, when do you propose to do so?” said Pones, evidently amused as to the mare’s own eccentricity.
“And you shall share to me information concerning your friend’s disappearance?”
Ms. Pie nodded.
“Yes, indeedy!” said she jovially, her form shaking in a great withhold of excitement.
It is at this particular moment, I had, though quite vague, conceived a rather plausible thought.
“But why?” I interjected, following suit of my friend by eying the mare as keenly as I could. “Why tomorrow? Is it not possible, Ms. Pie, that you can do so now? Time may be of the essence.”
She then turned to my direction. “Well,” Ms. Pie began as she swiftly approached me, adding a long emphasis on the well. “I am a little busy right now, you know? I may not have the time to give to you anything yet.”
She had said this as she tapped my chest with her hoof in rather jesting manner.
“Well,” said Pones, arresting both mine and the mare’s attentions as he crammed his lens back into his bag. “that quite settles it, does it not? If the lady insists for our little appointment to take place tomorrow, it shall be assured to be so. A lady's fancies, after all, must be always met.”
The pink mare then shook in delight. But as she did so, I could’ve sworn I saw a certain kind of gleam emitting from her bright sky-blue eyes that greatly contrasts from their hue. I thought it to be quite queer, but had shrugged it off as a mere reaction of her eyes upon the lighting of the room.
“Alright, then!” said Pinkie Pie, smiling at Pones. “8 o’clock tomorrow?”
“8 o’clock it shall be, Ms. Hooves.” said he, smiling.
It is at that moment I had perceived yet another change in the pink mare’s queer demeanor upon hearing my friend mistaking her name with another.
But before she could correct my friend, the latter with his long hoof grasping upon my sleeve and with the use of his species’ powers, took us out of that strange scene.
With the blink of an eye, we were in a completely different location. Judging by the number of ponies in which were present, I assumed we were back in Ponyville’s town square.
“Pones!” I cried as we swiftly walked through the gathering crowd in which had quickly identified whom my friend was. “Pones, would you care to explain on what had just occurred?”
“Such as what?”
I scoffed. “Why, your actions!” said I. “For one, what did you see in those dusty sacks? You had evidently foreseen something there of importance. Why had you beaten the walls, the ceiling, the floorboards of the shop so violently? There’s evidently a reason behind that! Why had you put up such a queer question regarding our landlady’s purchases to Pinkie Pie? And most importantly, where is our client? That last time we had seen her Ms. Hooves remarked that she was to meet an appointment in which she had agreed to attend. That place in which where it was scheduled to take place was Sugarcube Corner. Don’t you find it a bit odd, Pones, that she was never seen since, where, by coincidence, is the same place in which the mare—Rainbow Dash whose strange disappearance we are investigating, was last seen there as well?”
Pones shot a rather inquiringly look. “What could you possibly be suggesting here, Doctor?”
“I’m suggesting that an element of crime may be present in the matter.”
Pones had let out a dry chuckle. “You are right, in a certain sense,” said he. “But what makes you say so?”
“Well, first of all,” I began. “It’s the similarity of the circumstances surrounding each mare’s disappearance.”
“Such as?”
“Pinkie Pie’s queerness! Well, now, look at this—when Ms. Hooves had encountered Ms. Pie on the day of the disappearance, the latter had shown several acts of queerness. Such as the unfolding of the carpet, her standing upon its centre, the bitten cupcake upon the ground (in which she had inexplicably reduced to atoms), and the overall queerness of her manner towards Ms. Hooves every time they had interacted.
“Now, let us see ours with hers—she had unfolded the carpet, stood upon its centre, reduced the bitten cupcake to atoms, and had shown a certain amount of queerness towards us interview. Now, my dear Pones, you could not deny how striking this amount of uncanny similarities are, can you? It is almost they are connected—no, Pones, they are! I stand on my ground that this so, though I still fail to see how they are. Nevertheless, with this, and the fact that both client and the disappeared had set an appointment under a certain pretense, it does strike remarkable, does it not?”
I looked at Pones for at least a sign of approval of my theory. But instead, he broke into a burst of hysterical laughter. I was quite annoyed.
“Pones!”
“My dear Watcolt, you are scintillating today! But the similarities are indeed peculiar—grotesque, even—but I can tell you this—assure you, my dear fellow, Rainbow Dash is not the only reason why I had decided to partake upon this devious case."
“What!”
“Yes, that is so.”
“But—what about the—”
“Let whatever you are about to say lay aside for the moment, Watcolt—an explanation shall come in time. But for now, I can tell you this, the Cakes, Pinkie Pie’s employers—they are the real ones whom we must bring justice upon.”
“For what?”
“For being the victims of a crime.”
“A crime?” I gasped. “But I thought they were victims of an illness!”
“As it seems, Watcolt—as it seems, for they have been artificially poisoned. Someone had purposely poisoned them—once I knew their fur were of a pale greyish hue, I knew they had fallen victim to a strychnine poisoning...not a 'sudden illness' as our dear landlady mistaken to put it as."
"Sweet Celestia!"
"It’s a crime, Watcolt—a crime that functions as the subordinate that shall, once committed, directly contribute to the success of another crime."
“Good Heavens, Pones! What is that crime? Is it concerned to the disappearance of the mares?”
“I can’t tell you what, I’m afraid, for these are just mere speculations. But in order to know if these rather fantastic surmises are indeed the truth, I must first confirm them, and perhaps, in the process, bring the devilish miscreant behind the Cakes' so-called 'illness' to justice.”
“By how?”
“By visiting the Ponyville branch of Cloudsdale Yard, where, upon inquiry, young Stanley Trotkins is currently stationed at.”
“I hold no recollection of you setting an inquiry.”
“The telegram I had sent—its reply—it was written in the distinct writing of the young inspector. This, I believe, is the branch.”
This conversation had taken place as we walked to that branch Pones had alluded, and once it had ended, we were already upon the doorstep of a cottage with a wooden signage reading “Cloudsdale Yard: Ponyville.”
Pones rasped on the door and out came a young stallion in his thirties with a thin moustache, a brownish coat, hazelnut mane, and cladded in an official uniform, stared at us with a pair of amazed green eyes.
“Mr. Sherclop Pones!” cried Stanley Trotkins, shaking my friend’s hoof cordially. “What brings you down these crimeless parts? It is indeed an honor, sir, to meet you once more. And of course, you too, Dr. Watcolt. Do please, come in, and have a cup of tea.”
But Pones waved him off.
“I am indeed sorry, Trotkins, for having to decline your humble offer, for I have come for a delicate matter.”
“Oh," said Trotkins with anticipation being read in his youthful eyes. "What kind of matter?"
“I intend to bring justice upon a criminal that is currently residing in this town.”
A dark expression came across the official’s features. “Here, sir?” said he, a little shocked. “Here in Ponyville?”
Pones nodded.
“What is the crime?” said the young official in a business-like tone.
Pones considered for a moment. “If I were to point out the miscreant,” said he. “would you assist me in bringing justice upon it?”
“Why, yes, sir,” said Trotkins, slightly confused to pronoun of 'it'. “but we need a warrant in order to do so, sir.”
“Could you make one?”
“With pleasure, sir,” said the official, darting to the desk behind him and grabbing a pen and a piece of paper. “but, to whom are we using it for?”
Pones grinned. “Now, Inspector,” said he. “you will, I trust, forgive me if I were to keep you in the dark for not revealing what are we against with. I must not reveal the criminal’s identity if a successful arrest were to be made, but when the time comes that I shall call upon you to arrest it, will you not hesitate to do so?”
Trotkins thought for a moment. “But we still need a warrant!”
“Yes, yes, of course, make one, if you please—but will you do what I ask?”
Trotkins hesitated. “What is what you want for me to do, sir?”
“I want you, my good Trotkins, to make that warrant, then—”
“What is the criminal charged for?”
Pones then whispered something in the official’s ear.
“Star Swirl’s Beard!" cried Trotkins.
“As I was saying, once you made it, you must, inspector, keep it until I call upon you to use it. Is it understood?”
Trotkins nodded. “As you say so, sir.”
Pones patted him upon the back. “Splendid!”
“But when will that time be?”
Pones thought for a moment. “How long, may I ask, is your shift?” said he after some consideration.
“From midday to eight in the evening, sir.” said Trotkins.
Pones, to my surprise, had uttered a curse of frustration.
“What time is it now, Watcolt?” said he, turning to me.
I pulled out my watch.
“Half-past two.”
“Half-past two?!” he exclaimed, placing a hoof to his forehead. He then fell into a reverie. Then, as his expression had slightly lightened up, he finally broke his silence with a joyous cry. He turned to the inspector. "Who comes in after you?”
“Mr. Antheley Jones, sir.”
“His shift?”
“It starts when mine ends—8 PM till 4 in the morning, that'd be.” said Trotkins.
“Who takes after him?”
“That would be Mr. Tobias Gregcolt, sir.”
“Then, as I understand, his would end when yours has begun, that time being midday?”
“Quite right, sir.”
Pones had yet fallen into another reverie. He seemed to brewing some plan as his eyes darted from me to the young inspector then to my watch then the papers at Trotkins’ desk.
“My dear Trotkins,” he had begun, turning to the youngster. “would it be too much to ask if I were to ask you, under a special pretense to do so, to remain stationed even after your shift has ended?”
Stanley Trotkins was rather taken aback by this question.
“For what object?” said he.
“To catch the criminal in which I had spoken of.”
The young detective had considered this for a moment. Then, after his face had contorted to torn expressions, he looked up at Pones.
“How long do you wish to retain me?” said Trotkins, in a decided tone.
Pones had placed a hoof to the youngster’s shoulder.
“I greatly appreciate your compliance, young Trotkins,” said he. “Now, as for the time, it would be around eight in the following morning.”
“But under what pretense? Jones and Gregcolt would question my further presence…”
“You would say that you are currently working upon a case in which was presented to you by me.”
“But what would that case be?”
“They would know what it is you’re currently working upon by glancing at the warrant in which I desire for you to sign.”
“But what if they don’t believe me?”
Pones smiled. “Ah, but that is the plan! They may not believe you, which they are assured to not for the object of the warrant would surpass the capabilities of their imagination. Which would consequently lead them to not mind you doing your duty, and thus resulting for you to remain detained in that station. Now, quick, Trotkins get that warrant signed this instant!”
With that command, the young detective darted off to the magistrate.
Chapter 10: The Peculiar Expedition of Dr. Watcolt
“Now, Watcolt,” said my companion, taking my hoof. “as the young official gets it signed, we may proceed to the next phase of my plan.”
“What phase?” said I.
“By booking an inn for, as you may remember, I have agreed to an appointment with Pinkie Pie in the following morning, in which is scheduled to occur at eight. Therefore, we must find a temporary place of residence if we wish to see the resolution of this entire business.”
“But that is an entire day!”
My friend nodded his head gravely. “Indeed, unfortunately.”
“But why?”
“Pinkie Pie—" said Sherclop Pones. "—ah, that local over there seems well acquainted with this town. Let us ask her if she knows where the nearest inn is in, shall we?”
A bit resented to Pones’ actions, I nevertheless followed as he did, asking the mare with a purple coat with a Cutie Mark consisting of berries (who appeared to be in some drunken state as she drank from the flask in which carried). She then directed us to an inn.
We spent no time in booking a room and paying a night's rent. The room was, specifically ordered by my friend to be so, to be located at the ground floor and with a view. We have had barely settled in when--
“I have found a way to extract the true meaning of this affair.”
“How, might I ask?”
Pones considered for a moment. Then his eyes sparkled. “Are you athletic?” he asked, turning to me.
“I used to be a good flyer.” said I, glancing at my left-wing.
“Yes, yes—but are you good runner?” said Pones.
“Well, I suppose—”
Pones rubbed his hooves. “Then, you have no objection if were to tell you to run across town at the top your speed?”
“My dear Pones, what possible purpose could that serve?”
“To bring justice, my dear Watcolt—to bring justice.” said Pones in a very serious voice. “Now, will you do so?”
Despite its queerness, I notwithstanding, for I knew this would have a worthy reason, acquitted as he requested.
“I thought I knew my Watcolt!” said my friend.
“What am I to do?”
“You will, as I have already said for you to do so, run to certain locations in Ponyville at the top of your speed—at the top your speed, mind you, and as you do so, you shall, with the help your watch, measure how fast you reach those said locations. Is it understood?”
I nodded to show that I did. “Yes, yes, but what are these locations in which you speak of?” said I.
“The Ponyville branch of the Yard, and to Sugarcube Corner.” said Pones; “You will first, starting from this inn, run at the top of your speed to the branch; once arriving there, you shall pause to see how much time has passed since the inn. Very good. Now, once having done so, you will once more, run at the top of your speed to Sugarcube Corner. Once having arrived, you shall, once again, note how much time has passed by glancing at your watch—how much time has passed from your departure from the station to the confectionary. You will then, return to the inn and show me your results. Is it clear?”
I nodded to show my understanding.
“There is one point, though, however, that is not—” said I; “Why do you not do it yourself?”
Pones laughed. “Excellent, Watcolt—well, it is because, my dear fellow, the solution to this grotesque problem depends upon your compliance.”
“My compliance?”
“Yes, your compliance. Now, off you go—time is of the essence!”
I then, upon my friend’s request to do so, glanced at my watch, and proceeded to run—run as fast as my hooves could carry me to my given destination. I must have turned some heads at the speed I was at. So fast I was that the local’s houses were all but just mere blurs to me, while I in turn must had just been a blur to them.
It is indeed fortunate that I had remembered the Yard’s branch location, for if I hadn’t my findings would have been inaccurate. Once I had at last arrived, Inspector Trotkins was found snacking upon the porch. When he laid his sight upon me, he gave a gasp.
“Star Swirl’s beard!” said he, with an air of concern. “have you been participating in some kind of marathon, Doctor, just to get here? Is there some kind of trouble?”
I then gave an excuse, to which the detective believed. Honoring the promise in which I had made to my friend, I glanced at my watch and had noted my findings upon a piece of paper. I then planned to head off to me next destination but I had found myself too exhausted to do so. Therefore, with the official’s permission, I sat upon the porch, so that I may regain my strength before resuming on my strange errand. With the official’s generosity of offering a glass of milk and some biscuits, I was quite ready to fulfill my duty. But then, just as soon as I was about to depart—
“Oh, before you go, Doctor,” began Trotkins. “when you come back to Mr. Pones, do inform that I have had successfully got the warrant he wanted signed.” He waved in his wing a piece of paper. “Though, I do find it quite odd,” said he, reading it. “to think that there is some kind of homicidal lunatic running about in such a populace such as this and for the local force to remain ignorant of it. Well, I trust Mr. Pones, but I still find it quite odd for such a thing to occur. You will tell him this, Dr. Watcolt, will you not?”
I had simply nodded, for I already begun finding myself once more at the top of my speed, with the next destination being the ominous place that is Sugarcube Corner. But the effect of Trotkins' words had lingered on me.
I had nearly fainted of absolute exhaustion if I were not determined to fulfill my promise to Pones. An image had briefly flashed upon my mind of returning to the inn, reporting the failure of a very simple, yet exhausting of one’s energies, of a task, with Pones, in a state of absolute disappointment. I shuddered at the thought of it.
Something odd had occurred once I had arrived. Upon noting my findings, my curiosity had gotten the best of me. Trotkins’ words. What could he mean by “homicidal lunatic?” Was he possibly referring to—well, her actions did seem queer.
I took upon this opportunity to perhaps clear some matters up by taking a brief glance at the interior of the ominous shop. It did not take to possesses the mental faculties of Sherclop Pones to know that there something a bit—off of Pinkie Pie. She was clearly hiding something, and I was determined to assist Pones in whatever I can to clear it up. But it had dawned on me that this is not what Pones would have wanted. If he had needed to pry upon this shop, I would have done so. Therefore, I had retreated back to the inn, eager to report on my findings.
“Pones!” I cried, upon returning to the inn. “What had you exactly ordered to be written in the warrant?”
Pones, whom had carried a glass of water, was rather taken aback by this question.
“I suppose it has been written?” said he.
I told my encounter with Trotkins.
“Well,” began Pones. “I had ordered for it be signed in order to bring justice upon a certain kind of crime.”
“That being?” said I.
“Murder.”
It had been my turn to be taken aback.
“Murder?”
Pones nodded.
“Sweet Celestia! What could—”
“I understand that you wish to bring justice, Watcolt, is it not so?”
“Well, of course I do! Pones, who has been murdered?”
Pones smiled. “You look quite exhausted, my dear fellow,” said he. “feel obliged to refresh yourself.”
He then used telekinesis to hand me over the glass of water.
It was quite a long walk back to inn, either that, or I was too exhausted. Whichever way it shall be, I had felt that as if every ounce energy had been drained from undertaking upon the task bestowed upon me, for I had not gotten to flex my muscles for quite some time. I, then, therefore, was grateful for this act of kindness. Upon consuming that glass, I distinctly remembered feeling a little lightheaded and had felt that I was in desperate need of some sleep. I had no explanation for this sudden drowsiness other than that I had exhausted upon myself too much from my little expeditions. Therefore, to rid myself from it, I had sat upon the inn’s couch and had immediately fallen asleep. I had distinctly remembered that as I did so, I could undeniably perceive Pones was somewhat pleased of my sudden drowsiness, as if he had been counting upon it.
I had awoken from a joyous cry of triumph from Pones. As my eyelids slowly opened, I saw him writing in a frantic fashion at the inn’s provided desk.
“Pones,” said I as sat up, still feeling a little lightheaded. “what is—”
“I thank thee, my dear Watcolt!” he cried, without taking his eyes of the book. “You have no idea how invaluable your services have been in clearing this absurd matter up.”
“Meaning that you have solved the mystery? Or mysteries?” said I, well-awake now.
“Correction—mystery—singular, Watson; it is only a mystery and always has been.”
I got up.
“What? What about that of the disappearance of Rainbow Dash and of our client?” said I as approached him. I had taken a quick glance at what he was writing and found that he was taking notes from my discoveries, to his own notebook and finding the sum of each discovery.
From the inn to the station is eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds, and from the station to the shop is nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds. The sum in which is eighteen minutes and thirty-four seconds. He seemed to know its difference from the number of thirty minutes (with the word “Sleepy Drops” mysteriously written above it), to which he received the result of eleven minutes and twenty-seconds.
“What is that, Pones?”
“The solution to this mystery in which has bothered us for too long,” said he, closing the notebook. He then handed me my watch. I glanced at my hoof and found the indentation upon my hoof's coat in which it used to occupy. I then strapped it back in. Upon taking a glance, I had discovered it was a quarter to four.
“Pones,” said I. “how long have I been asleep?”
“About half an hour.”
“I don’t what had come over me.”
“It is perfectly understandable, my dear fellow—you had been exhausted from your errands, and in consequence, resulted to you refresh your energies by taking a little nap.”
I comprehended.
“But the solution you speak of—”
“The solution, my dear Doctor, we shall we see the following morning.” said Pones sternly, facing me. “But for now, let us find means to pass the time until it comes.”
Having said this, Pones, taking his saddlebag, had proceeded to disappear into the room’s lavatory, remained there for a few minutes and presently came out a drunken-looking stallion, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod, he bid his goodbye as he left the inn, declaring that he is on a little expedition as means of passing time, while I had opted to do so instead by reading a novel.
But all the inn had to offer were the latest editions of A.K Yearling’s “Daring Do,” and the Shadow Spade mysteries. The latter, no matter how intriguing the protagonist’s adventure may be in clearing a mystery, it still had managed to bore me, for why would one such as myself need to be invested in a fictious story of a fictious detective solving a fictious crime when I am already working upon actual crime--clearing up an actual mystery in which has already garnered much of my investment. I then threw the book across the room, and had decided to help in the matter by thinking the matter over, but had failed to come up with a coherent explanation for the ominous warrant, the nameless murderer and his victim whomever they may be, and how may justice be brought upon them. I thought of the object of my errands, and the mystery of my sudden drowsiness. I thought of the mysterious ominousness surrounding Pinkie Pie. This I had done till I had quite given up on the matter, and had decided to read through Shadow Spade and the Mystery of the Rainbow.
I found it rather amusing on how the detective solved the mystery which such simplicity of her deductions, if only the reader had appreciated certain facts and found the link that binds them. Like a jigsaw puzzle.
When I had finished the story, Pones had returned. I had observed that he was not so much in a communicative mood, for he had immediately sat on the basket-chair and smoked a pipe.
When night had come, I greeted Pones good night and laid down on the inn’s bed. Once more, I found myself in dreamland. There, I had a vision of myself approaching Sugarcube Corner, intending to clear up matters once for all by extracting the truth straight from Pinkie Pie’s mouth. Once I had entered the shop, I had immediately approached the mare and demanded the truth. But before I could ever do so, a voice called out my name. It was masculine. It had called out my name on repeat with each attempt growing louder and louder, which made me quite unable to hear what was Pinkie Pie saying.
“Dr. Watcolt,” said the masculine voice. “Dr. Watcolt, sir.”
I felt something tugging at my right sleeve. I then opened my eyes and found the clean-shaven face of the inn’s porter. “Wake up, sir!” said he.
I then sat up and rubbed my eyes. “What seems to be the matter?” said I.
The porter bowed. “Very sorry to knock you up, Doctor,” said he apologetically. “but I had orders from to do so at this precise moment.”
I glanced at my watch, but it was missing. Seeing this, the porter had answered the question (or rather the question I was about to put) that it was eleven minutes past eight.
“But why at this precise moment?” said I.
The porter shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno, sir,” said he, pursing his lips. “maybe you should put that question to Mr. Pones for he was the one who gave this order.”
I looked at where I had seen Pones. The chair was empty.
“Where has he gone?” said I, standing up and glancing round the room and finding his bed unslept and empty. I then confronted the porter. “Did he mention where perhaps?”
The porter shook his head. “I am sorry, sir, but he did not. But he did tell me to give you this—”
He then produced from his pocket a piece of paper. I then took and was surprised by its contents. It was a note written by Pones! It ran thus:
Deliver letter to young Trotkins. It is of the utmost importance for you to act immediately.
As an answer to my looks, the porter had handed me another letter, to which I knew immediately what it was. Upon reading it, I had let out an exclamation of surprise. In an instant, I had dressed up, and had ran from the inn to the police station in a similar fashion as to what I did the previous day.
Upon reaching there, I found Inspector Gregcolt (whom had been involved in some of my friend’s cases) seated at his desk and had demanded for Trotkins.
“Oh,” said the obese detective indifferently. “You’re in luck, Dr. Watcolt—the youngster had been claiming for the entire day yesterday that he is hot upon a scent and had been here since. Though, quite frankly, I don’t quite believe it! If there was actually a devious criminal such as he depicts in his absurd warrant of his running about in such a place as Ponyville, the entire branch would be conscious of it, would we not? Do you wish for me to call him? TROTKINS!”
With this, the young Stanley Trotkins had come out from the room and came to me attentively.
“What is the matter, Doctor?”
I then handed the letter and we read it together.
Am about to be murdered at Sugarcube Corner. Use the signed warrant to arrest her.
Upon reading it twice, we exchanged looks. Then, in a frantic fashion, he attained the warrant from his desk, placed on an official attire while I, leaving him to this, had already begun galloping towards the direction of the ominous Sugarcube Corner: ignoring the calls of Gregcolt.
“Pones!” I cried as the bakery came into view, with the young official struggling behind me. I could see the electric lights in the shop illuminate its interior, whilst the dark silhouette was rendered even more foreboding by the morning sun rising behind it and thus casting a shadow. Having arrived upon the doorstep, I had intended to kick the locked door myself, but I chanced to lay my eyes upon an object which refrained me from doing so—it was a torn page with absurd hieroglyphics written upon it. It had consisted of various symbols of what appeared to be smiling faces.
“What’s happened, Doctor?” said Stanley Trotkins, standing beside me as I examined the message posted on the hinges of the door.
“What on Equestria does this mean?” cried the official, placing a hoof to his forehead. I must confess, that I was too, confused as the meaning of this hieroglyphics. But then, a thought occurred to me.
“It’s a code!” I cried, taking the paper.
“What!”
“I remember—the Adventure of the Smiling Faces! Yes, yes, of course! Pones, you clever, clever fellow.”
“You can read it—how?”
I then gave Trotkins a quick summary of the Adventure of the Smiling Faces, where Pones and I deciphered the code of the Smiling Faces, where each symbol represented a letter. If my memory serves, my friend deciphered its meaning by searching for the most common symbol and assumed it to be the letter “e,” for “e” is the most common letter of the alphabet. He then searched for the most probable word that contained “e” which eventually led him to the discovery of the meaning of the code, and what each symbol represented.
Remembering what Pones wrote to decipher the Smiling Faces, I endeavored to decipher the message presented to us on that faithful day.
I had deciphered every symbol until I had reached the following results:
THE GREEN CIRCULAR CARPET
Having done this as Trotkins stood beside me, I then, without hesitation to do so, kicked the door open. My eyes instantly fell upon the green circular carpet to which my friend desired to concentrate our attention upon. I fell upon the floorboards on my knees, and proceeded to unfold it: paying little heed to the gathering crowd outside, which had been peering in curiously as we teared down the shop. What I discovered, after doings so, was the most bizarre thing I have had ever seen—
It was a wooden door.
Everything at that precise moment everything had been cleared out before me. It did not take to share intellectual powers of my friend to deduce the true meaning of affairs—
1) Rainbow Dash, was late for an appointment in which she had set with Pinkie Pie at Sugarcube Corner. This would then explain the former's hurried manner in which Ms. Hooves had noted during her narrative. What was that appointment for? Obviously: baking, for that would explain the materials in order to do so which the client had observed upon the counter.
2) Ms. Dash was, then, drugged by a soporific sedative disguised in a dish. Upon taking a bite, she had fell instantly a victim. Hence the bitten cupcakes and the bottle of Sleepy Drops.
3) Ms. Pie then proceeded to take her to a basement, but was interrupted by the sudden intrusion of our client, who, in turn, however, was unable, due to her condition, to get a full image of Ms. Pie in the process of entering the basement along with her victim. Hence Ms. Hooves mistaking to see Pinkie Pie blending into the floorboards, and Ms. Pie’s actions to conceal her crime: that is, slamming door shut.
4) There, Ms. Pie did her way with Ms. Dash. Which could only mean murder, for that would explain her prolonged absence.
5) This method of committing murder she had applied it upon Ms. Hooves, hence her prolonged absence. Which would explain the uncanny similarities between Ms. Pie's queer actions the previous day when the client had been last seen and of Ms. Dash’s last sight. But for what motive? For silencing the only witness of her crime.
6) She had not only preserved this method to that of Rainbow Dash and Derpy Hooves, but had also to my friend in order to silence the last pony who could know her secret.
“I don’t believe it!” said Stanley Trotkins as I fully unfolded the carpet, thus revealing the entrance to a hidden basement. I then tried to open it, but it had been locked from the inside. Then, with the assistance of the inspector, we had successfully forced our way in and broke the wooden door. Doing so had revealed a flight of stairs—stairs in which led to darkness. I looked at Trotkins, whom had seemed to understand perfectly on what to do. But before we could descend upon the stairs, Gregcolt, followed by two police constables, entered the shop behind us.
“Oi, what’s going on here?” said he, approaching us as he gave orders to the two constables to fend off the gathering crowd. But the persistence of their curiosity had overcome the them and entered the shop. Gregcolt then turned to them, and with his bullying voice, commanded them to back off. Leaving him to this, Trotkins and I took this opportunity to enter the basement.
“Pones!” I cried as darkness drowned my vision. I had eventually, as it seemed, reached the bottom: with my hoof clopping upon it and resonating across the basement. Trotkins’ hooves soon followed. I then, like a bat in the night, navigated my way blindly calling my friend’s name as I do so.
Then, I heard something that had sent down a chill down my spine—
It was a laugh—a feminine laugh! I had immediately recognized to whom did it belong to.
“Star Swirl’s beard!” cried Trotkins. “What was that?”
I then heard the rattle of chains and the sound of great restraint. A cry followed it. “Watcolt!” said it. “Watcolt, get these bounds off me!”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” said the familiar high-pitched feminine voice. “we’ve still won!”
“Pones!”
We then ran towards the direction of the voice.
I then heard what sounded like the flick of an electric switch. What followed was a bright white light illuminating the entirety of the basement. So bright it was that I might as well have been blinded by its luminous ferocity.
When vision had cleared, I had found my friend—Sherclop Pones bounded against his will on what appears to be some sort of wooden rack: his eyes full of devastation; and right next to him was Pinkie Pie raising a knife to his throat. I stood petrified upon the sight. She had turned to my direction, whence she flung the weapon at me. I heard the knife whisk past my head by inches. Turning around, I found it struck against the wall behind me.
“Watcolt!” cried Pones as he continued struggling in his bounds.
I then spun back round and found, to my surprise, the pink mare had been nowhere to be seen. Trotkins seemed equally confused. I looked round me, worrying where could she strike next. My eyes then rested upon the wall in which the knife had struck—it was missing.
“Never mind her, Watcolt!” cried my friend. “quick, release me before it’s too late! Oh, what have I done?”
I then looked round me and found a tray of knives upon a small wooden coffee table. I took one of them.
“Sweet Celestia, Pones!” I cried as I attempted to break the chains with one of the knives. “What on E—”
“Hark!” cried the voice of Trotkins. “Doctor, behind you!”
I heard the swift galloping of hooves.
I spun round and found Pinkie Pie with the missing knife in hand pouncing upon me, with murder being read in her sky-blue eyes. With the agility in which I had gained through the days of my Wonderbolt service I had used the only weapon within my grasp (that being the knife in which I had tried to liberate Pones with) and used it to outmaneuver the murderous mare, and had, with the use of my medical knowledge, targeted where it shall be assured to disable her, striking the tendon of her left hind-hoof. I had done this almost unconsciously. I heard the mare scream in agony as she dropped onto the ground with a harsh thud.
I had no time to admire my work for I heard what seemed to sound like the breaking of chains and the snapping of wood. I spun round and found Sherclop Pones, accompanied by Stanley Trotkins.
“Pones—”
He had not let me finish my sentence for he grabbed my hoof, and led me to direction of the neutralized mare, while Trotkins produced a pair cuffs from his saddlebag. He approached the downed mare as he recited his lines—
“Pinkamena Diane Pie, I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of—Sweet Celestia!" There was a cold shock from that utterance. "What on—”
“Quick!" cried Pones, his eyes lavished with lustful determination. "I had almost got the entire thing out from it—ha! So it is! look!”
He had pointed a long thing hoof at the direction of Pinkie Pie.
I had expected to find a pink mare: a baker, a vile murderer writhing in agony before us; but it was something else—something much more horrifying—something that voyaged beyond the realms of one’s imagination.
What had been once the hot-pink form of Pinkamena Diane Pie, was now of a midnight black. Upon a closer inspection, I had noted that, whatever was the thing before us, it had no longer been covered by a fur coat, but rather what seemed like some sort of shell of a bug. I may add, in fact, that the creature bore very little resemblance to an actual equine but that more of a beetle and a fly. Its eyes were that of the latter—dichoptic: giving the feeling of unnerving discomfort. It had the horn and wings of a rhinoceros beetle, complete with a rounded convex back that seemed to house its wings. It appeared to carnivorous, for it had the teeth of a vicious cat. Its hooves were sporadically punctured with holes in random order. So many were they that if one were to lay his eyes upon such a fiend, doing so would trigger one’s trypophobia.
I was at a loss of words on what to say, but it was Pones who took the initiative.
“Now, look here,” said he kneeling down. “what is the Queen’s exterior source? Speak up!”
The creature had looked at both each of us with its vindictive fly-like eyes.
“Like I would ever tell you!” it drawled with a very distinct rasp of a masculine voice. It thus spat at Pones.
Pones, took this as an insult, and so proceeded to plunge the knife deeper into the creature’s tendons, whence it, in turn, had let out a jittery wail.
“I need a name, you see, if I am to prevent it,” said he with ice. “Now, what is the name of the exterior help?” Pones then took the knife out of the fiend’s hoof and proceeded to threaten to plunge it into its heart.
The creature, in turn, hissed upon the sight of it, and revealed a forked tongue. But it had read the danger in my friend’s eyes and realized that the latter had absolutely meant it. Then, as it flinched in fear, it finally gave in.
Pones seemed to freeze in place, his eyes staring blankly at those of the fiend before him. While I could clearly perceivably see the latter, despite its grotesque features, enjoy the confusion and horror upon the former’s expression.
“Yeah,” said it with a smile, revealing its vicious set of teeth. “it doesn’t really make a difference, does it?”
Pones had opened his mouth, but he had not the opportunity to utter a single word for, at that precise moment, the ground below us shook with great intensity. So intense was it that we had actually fell upon the hard cobblestone ground, the dust of the wooden ceiling (or the bottom of the shop) filling our nostrils. I distinctly heard the cry of voices of the gathering crowd and the bullying voice of the gruff Inspector Gregcolt above.
“Sweet Celestia!” I cried, once I had regained my balance. “What on Equestria was—”
“Behind you!”
I spun around and found him pointing his hoof at my direction. I had immediately recognized what he had meant. I once more spun around and discovered the place in which the creature used to occupy was now a small puddle of blood. I then heard what had sounded like the unnerving sound of the swift wings of a beetle’s taking flight. It had come from above. I followed it and found the creature flying towards the direction of the flight of stairs. Then, with the blink of an eye, it had seemed to simultaneously combust in a ball of bright greenish light. Then, at the same moment, when the light had dissipated, what once was the foul creature took upon the form of that of a Pegasus—the form of our client, Ms. Derpy Hooves. Then it was gone.
Following his training, despite how bizarre the situation in which he finds himself in, Stanley Trotkins had regained his composure, and took chase upon the creature. He thus ascended the stairs, whence I heard the commands to the constables above.
“Did you see that, Pones?!”
When I had turned to him, I found him, already on his hooves. Like Trotkins, he had regained his natural cold and practical composure. Though despite this, I could still detect a sense of devastation in those grey eyes. He then ran past me in an athletic sprint. He ascended the stairs in devilish speed.
“Come, Watcolt!”
I ran after him.
Once I had remerged from the basement and into once more the actual shop, I run past the police tape in which had withheld the gathering crowd, and exited the ill-fated Sugarcube Corner. I had spotted my friend attempting to catch up with the young Stanley Trotkins as the latter does so in turn with the creature which seemed to perfectly take the form of Ms. Hooves. I then followed them all across Ponyville. We ran from alleys, bridges, and even the famed Golden Oaks Library. Soon, Pones had run past the inspector (much to the latter’s surprise) and tackled the mare (or rather the creature) to the ground. It then squirmed and snarled viciously at its captors.
“Let me go!”
Trotkins and the two constables that followed had attempted to assist him, but they had been pushed back by the mare’s ferocious kicks. But I had let this not prevent me from securing this fiend.
I tackled its upper part, while Pones tackled its lower.
“Pones!” I cried. “What is—"
This, he did not answer—well, at least in words. As we had struggled to secure it, he grabbed my hind-hoof while his horn had emitted the familiar yellow aura. Then, all was darkness.
─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉
When I had opened my eyes, I was in a different scene entirely. Gone were the earthly sounds of the peaceful countryside of Ponyville and the sound of friendly village gossip. Instead, what had replaced it, were the familiar sounds of the metropolis. I was back at Canterlot. But there was an addition to these—instead of the sound of busy lifeforms, it was the horrific sound of chaos and anarchy. And amongst it, was the sound of someone calling my name. It was Pones.
“Watcolt!”
His voice was in somewhat of a muffle. I had felt as though a bomb detonated right beside my ear: with agonizing rings resonating in it.
“Watcolt!”
It grew louder.
Then I felt my entire form lift from the ground with what seemed like a yellow aura surrounding me. It was my friend’s telekinesis levitating my form. It was at this moment that I realized I lied face-down upon the harsh Canterlot pavement.
“Sweet Celestia, Pones!” I cried, squirming uselessly in the air. “Put me down!”
This he did rather harshly. Once my hooves were safely upon the ground, I was about to question Pones on the meaning of this entire business, when he directed my attention to the current state of the capital. Oh, how should I ever forget such a sight when its horror is forever engraved in mind? Is it not—the strange case in which my friend and I had decided to partake in not already exhausting upon one’s energies and that the scene in which my attention had been dictated to is even more so?
Scores—hundreds, even thousands of the same kind of the fiendish creature’s kin had been found wreaking havoc upon the streets of Canterlot! I daresay, these fiends had swarmed—SWARMED the entire capital like flies latching themselves upon a carcass. The pink bubble was nowhere to be seen. The Guards in which had been stationed in their posts just the preceding morning were now bounded up in ropes or swarmed by these foul creatures; ponies ran for dear life, some were brave enough to fight back, but to no prevail, they were too much!
I stood petrified by this sight, and it was Sherclop Pones who had brought me back to the planes of reality. He pulled my hoof and led me to a dark alley. His knowledge of the byways of Canterlot was extraordinary, and on this occasion, he passed rapidly, and with an assured step, through a network of mews and alleys the very existence in which I had never known. We emerged at last into what appeared like to be a dark alley.
“We shall be safe here,”
“Pones!” said I, out of breath. “What is this inexplicable horror?” I waved my hoof in the air, as the sounds of the ensuing chaos could still be distinctly heard.
He did not answer, instead he had continued to stare blankly. It was not in my friend’s nature to act so strangely disoriented of the events, when he was usually grounded into the basis of reality and its recent on-goings. Especially at times of crisis such as that we had found ourselves in. But he wasn’t acting practically, in fact, he wasn’t acting at all! He looked at me with a certain kind of desperateness in his eyes, and what seemed like—I was quite unsure at the time—regret.
Then, before he could answer, there could be heard the distinct horrific sound of insect wings. It was coming closer. Pones then grabbed my hoof and took we shelter by hiding behind a pile of used rubbish. It had slightly bothered me why hadn’t we simply teleported our way into somewhere safer, but it had been evident my friend had done this on purpose. We had hidden ourselves well enough but also permitted us to have area of vision to peek through. Then, it had slowly came into sight.
“Sweet Celestia!” I cried. “It’s one of those—things!”
“They’re Changelings, Watcolt,”
I stared at him.
“Changelings?”
Then, I began to see vaguely the true meaning of the matter. Pinkie Pie—the creature below the basement of Sugarcube Corner. This, however, provided more questions than answers.
“What shall we do?”
Pones had considered for a moment. Then, despite the desperateness still being read in those grey eyes of his, he had conceived of an idea.
He formed a trumpet with his hooves to whisper to my ear.
“On the count of three, Watcolt, we shall know everything.”
“What?”
“We shall pounce upon that one right there and extract it all out of it! After all, if the Queen is involved, surely her drones must have some knowledge of it.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I knew we were going to do a dangerous deed. I looked at the Changeling with a nervous expression, pondering upon the worst outcomes. But as I did so, I had noticed a perceivable sort of anxiety in the creature’s grotesque features. It may be my exhausted mind, but it had seemed it particularly did not want to be here—like it was reluctant in causing this chaos. There was not that kind of fiery hatred in its eyes like that of the one below basement, instead they were more of a gentle blueish color. Like it was innocent. I had sort felt hesitant when Pones had concluded the count.
On “three” we sprang out from the rubbish and overpowered the creature. I had secured its fore hooves while Pones had stood upon its hind. I had nearly forgotten my friend's capabilities in physical combat, where he himself is a very much able boxer and tackler. Where his mental faculties fail, it is where his physical ones succeedes. Especially in occasions when dealing with a criminal of brute force, he held the knowledge of the proper procedures in which to take.
The Changeling, to my slight surprise, instead of resisting with violent energy, it had squirmed in fear.
“Hold its hooves tight, Watcolt; we’ve got it!”
“Please don’t hurt me!” it begged in a rather gentle masculine voice.
This had come as surprise to both Pones and I, and we stared at it for how much of contrast his demeanor was to his other compatriots. It begged again with a sort of scared gaze...as if it were powerless.
“Please, don’t! I’ll give anything you want!”
“We only desire a certain confirmation upon a point.”
“ALRIGHT! A-alright, as you wish. S-shoot...”
Pones considered for a moment. “Am I right in thinking that your leader had received help from an exterior force in order to assure the success of this attack?” he said this as he waved a hoof round the air. “An exterior source only known as the Professor?”
A look of surprise came across the creature's countenance. “You’re him!” said it, stammering incoherently as it stared at Pones with both amazement and confusion. “You’re the guy he’s been worrying about—you’re Sherclop Pones!”
Pones slammed a hoof to the ground, missing the creature’s equine-like head by inches. “Is he?” he demanded. “Is 'the Professor' indeed behind this attack?”
“You really do know everything—”
“IS HE?!”
The creature was truly frightened by my friend’s masterful manner that its form shook in fear.
“Y-YES!”
“And that in order to assure its success, a murder case had been needed to be presented to me?”
I uttered an exclamation of surprise. But he waved a hoof to silence me.
The creature was at a loss of words for a minute, before it had garnered enough strength to answer him.
“Y-yes!...
Pones seemed to freeze in place upon hearing that answer, while my mind took some time to comprehend it. The disappearance of Rainbow Dash had been presented to us for this chaos’ success? It’s all bizarre—and yet, the creature confirmed the testimony.
Pones remained motionless, staring into the void for quite some time, while the creature in which we pinned down squirmed in fear. It was it who broke the tense silence.
“Could you please let me go? I promise I won’t hurt anyone…”
Pones, to my surprise, had let it go. The creature then hurriedly left the scene, but for some inexplicable reason, it had looked back with a pair of sympathetic eyes, like it had been concerned for us. Then it left.
“Pones!” I retorted as I waved at the direction of the retreating thing. “What shall we do?”
I heard the continuous sounds of the ongoing chaos—the destruction of buildings, screams—it was horrible.
“Pones!”
Then, without even bothering to answer, he grabbed my hoof, whence, once again had teleported the both of us into a different scene entirely. When I had opened my eyes, we found ourselves in the midst of the chaos of the attack: thousands of Changelings surrounding us. I looked round us, and found out that we were at the gatehouse of Canterlot Castle itself! They stared at us with a thousand pairs of hungry eyes, as their forked tongues licked their lips with malicious intent. I had actually let out a scream, which had seemed to trigger them for they charged at us like a swarm of vindictive bees.
I closed my eyes, accepting my fate and bracing for the worst, but to my surprise, when I had opened them, I found a protective forcefield immersing both me and Pones. It was the latter’s doing.
“What are we doing?!”
The Changelings attempted to break the protective barrier.
“To act, Watcolt!” said he, paving the way to a white building by using his horn to blast the attacking Changelings. “We are going to stop this attack!”
“WHAT! How?”
Pones shook his head. “The Elements of Harmony—the Mane Six, Watcolt, they shall ought to know how to put an end to this! If my surmise proves to be correct, they are still within the castle's domain—and if we fight our way through, we could reach them! We must reach them, Watcolt! Quick march!”
But there was no need for such an act, for at that precise moment, there, within the interiors of the castle, was a visible swirling pink aura emitting from them. Like the illumination of a lighthouse. Then, like a great explosion, the pink swirling aura seemed to immerse not only the entire castle, but the entirety of Canterlot as well. When I had opened my eyes, I found Pones standing gapingly as he gazes at the direction of the path of the gatehouse before us—it was empty! There was not a single Changeling that defied us! In fact, not a single one could be found in the entirety of the city! It is like they had been wiped off from the face of the planet. It was a miracle. Though, at that time, I held not the vaguest idea on what could have brought it—neither did Sherclop Pones.
I looked all around me and stood amazed and confused, while Pones had betrayed his cold and emotionless nature, and showed his more equine side. He conveyed an immense amount of joy and relief, prancing as he did so.
“Sweet Celestia, Pones” I cried. “What could it mean?”
Pones, then approached my direction and had unexpectedly, wrapped his hooves round me!
“It means it is all over!” he cried. “We have been saved!”
“By what? And what was that pink aura? Surely you must’ve seen it too!”
“Yes, it is certainly remarkable,” said he, breaking off from the embraced. He then, like magic, had regained his usual cold and practical composure. He then grabbed my hoof and led me into the castle.
“Come, Watcolt; we have much to thank the Mane Six!”
As we had learned later, the Equestrian Monarchy had not just a single group of individuals to owe its continual existence, but to the newlyweds of the scheduled royal marriage as well—Captain Shining Armor and Princess Mi Amore Cadenza. But I find no need in giving a detailed explanation to the events in which they did so to which the vast majority of my dear readers may be already so well acquainted with—the events in which had been given under the memorable title of “A Canterlot Wedding.”
Despite my previous entry, I will, nevertheless, give a brief summary of the events so that my readers may understand the following events that occurred after the one in which he had witnessed—
As it has been long known by—well, everyone, Twilight Sparkle—perhaps the most memorable and most prominent member of the Mane Six, had been wise to trust her feminine intuition to reveal that her brother—the honorable Captain—his wife was, in fact, being posed by a Changeling! But it wasn’t just a Changeling, it was their leader herself! As we had later ascertained from Myclop Pones, her name was Queen Chrysalis. Ms. Sparkle had liberated the real bride—the Princess of Love herself—from the forgotten caves below Canterlot and united her with Her Highness’ soon-to-be-husband. Doing so had then the direct consequence of ridding the fiendish Changelings by the use of their combined magic. In which was the previously noted pink swirly aura in which Pones and I had seen immersing the city.
The aftermath is relatively wholesome—the damage inflicted by the attack had been easily repaired by the magic of the good Captain and Her Highness, little to no casualties had been reported, and with the Changelings gone, ponies had begun to prepare the ACTUAL wedding. But that is what the public generally knows. What I am about to enter is purely confidential information in which Myclop Pones desperately desires nothing but for it to not revealed to the media if we wished to not be involved in a scandal. But I had decided to take up a pen and write this extraordinary experience, I had made a promise with the Caballus Club that I shall publish this particular adventure when the time is just ripe where absolutely no scandal shall arise upon doing so.
When the Changelings had been ridded off, we had proceeded to enter the castle and found it in a tip-top condition, like there had been no attack at all! And yet, ponies had only just begun to recover themselves. Here we had ascertained on what had happened by questioning a stallion that appeared to be one of the groomsmen.
The bride had turned out to be a Changeling Queen, stole the groom’s love to gain power in which she shall use to overthrow the Equestrian Monarchy. We then headed for the abbey section of the castle—in which the wedding had been supposed to take place—in order to ascertain the fact by ourselves. My mind was too busy in comprehending what I had just witnessed, that I had not the time to put questions concerning the disappearance of Rainbow Dash, nor how her case evolved to that of a potential murder—then from that to the potential murderess to be a Changeling, then from that to an all-out Changeling attack upon the capital. I had felt that they were somehow connected to one another—but what was that connection? It all seemed dark to me!
But as we wondered through the halls, we had been approached by a stallion in an official black attire. He then asked us if we were indeed Sherclop Pones and Dr. Watcolt,, to which we apprehended. Upon doing this, the stallion had given the former a letter—a letter in which dictates Pones to go to Buck Mall, to which he, with an expression in which one makes when bracing for an impact, obliged. I had intended to follow, but the official had refrained me from doing so, saying that the business is purely confidential. Pones, right before he followed the stallion, apologized. They then left me, standing cluelessly in the middle of Canterlot Castle. It was at this moment that the questions in which I had desired to put to Pones had come back—
How could partaking upon a case of a disappearance evolve to a coup? It just didn’t make sense! And what happened to the actors of that case? Where was the real Pinkie Pie—the one who had not been posed by the Changeling, and whom I theorized to be the murderer—where is she? Did she run off and is currently in hiding? Where is she, then? Where was Derpy Hooves? And most bafflingly, where is Rainbow Dash? Whatever in Equestria happened to them?
Then, what could be the possible explanation behind Pones’ grief—he was clearly upset of something. Most importantly (well, to me at least) who is “the Professor?” During the time below the basement of Sugarcube Corner, the Changeling there answered Pones’ question if their exterior source was indeed the Professor. An exterior source in what? Then the question in which he had put to the scared Changeling in which we had pinned down in that alley…it bothers me. What does it—the Professor was behind the attack? I thought it was the Changelings! How could he control such beings—he must surely be an all-powerful being to bend them to his will. But what was his motive for doing so? What kind of twisted individual would wish the destruction of Equestria? This begs the question—who is the Professor? Is he some sort ancient entity like Nightmare Moon or Discord—or is he something else entirely—something much worse. I shiver at thought of it.
These mysteries had been overwhelming just to think. I then, decided to attempt to clear them myself, independent from my friend’s assistance. My first step, I planned, was to confirm what the stallion had told us, then, from there, I would reason backwards (like what would Pones do in my situation) in order to find the connection between these absurd points. I then continued the journey to the abbey.
After ascending numerous staircases, drew up my old rank in order to get an official pass, I had finally arrived at the vast and magnificent Canterlot Abbey. As I admired it, I tried searching for any traces of evidence that may corroborate with what we had ascertained—sure enough, there were the downed banners, the faint traces of a fight, charred marks and all that sort of stuff. I then spotted a Royal Guard and had once more inquired what had happened—he said the exact same thing we had learned earlier. I then thanked him and continued to walk aimlessly about the abbey. I came up with a dozen theories on what could be its connection with the case in which Pone and I partook. But after each theory seemed more absurd than the last, and had piled up in an inexplicable mess, I conceded in the attempt. I puffed up my cheeks in frustration. But as I did so, I had chanced to glance up and found a Pegasus mare with a sky-blue coat and mane of fantastic colors hovering above me as she had replaced the broken-down banner. Imagine my surprise when I had identified her to be the missing pony in question—the famed athlete—it was Rainbow Dash!
I stood flabbergasted, and stared gapingly her, as a dozen questions for an explanation of her presence had filled my head. Impossible, I thought. She had paid no heed to me, however for someone had called her name. The voice had a striking familiarity in it—in which I had recently associated it with murder and cupcakes. It was the voice of Pinkie Pie!
I traced its origin and found the pink mare waving an enthusiastic hoof to Ms. Dash in an energetic fashion, motioning for the latter with a “come here” gesture. Rainbow Dash then did so. She flew right past me and had immediately walked alongside Pinkie Pie, as the latter walked in the familiar “Pinkie Pie Fashion” of giving a playful hop in each step. I—I was truly—at a loss of words. How could they act as if nothing sinister had happened back in Ponyville, where the foul suspicion of murder had been detected?
Then, even much more to my surprise, the two mares had not come alone—in fact, the Mane Six were there! There was the mare whom the Monarchy’s continued existence gave its pledge too—Twilight Sparkle, accompanied side-by-side with her juvenile Dragon—Spike, dressed in a ring-bearer’s attire. There, too, was the industrious Applejack—the ever so kind Fluttershy—the generous Rarity. Then who soon joined them were the previously alluded mares—Ms. Pie and Ms. Dash. It had appeared that the centre of attention was Ms. Sparkle, for they interposed questions such as—
“How did you know she was a fake?” and such.
But as they chatted and joked about, I had merely stood petrified as I stared at them with a gaping mouth, unable to believe on what I had been seeing before me. Perhaps I had been staring a bit too long—and I knew it, for one of the young mares—Pinkie Pie, had grown conscious of my presence.
“Hey,” said she, acknowledging it. “have you been standing there the entire time?” She had said this in a rather joking approach, letting out a giggle.
This had caught Ms. Dash’s attention, and she turned to me. She looked at me with a certain kind of expression of surprise. Perhaps the sight of a one-winged Pegasus such as myself staring in utter bewilderment had slightly startled her.
“Hey,” said she, approaching me with a slight expression of concern with a hoof lifted. “You okay there, bud?”
I had opened my mouth to speak, but words had failed me, and instead stammered incoherently as I waved a quivering hoof at her (rather rudely, I confess) with words such as “you” and “missing”
Rainbow Dash had slightly tilted her head with a sympathetic expression, as if encouraging for me to speak more clearly.
“Um, what?”
But more incoherent words merely came out from my mouth, as I was unable to define my position. As I attempted to do so and Ms. Dash in turn failed to understand, Pinkie Pie had joined in, curious as to what was going on. She looked from one to the either of us.
“What’s with all the stammering?”
I turned to her and stared at her in even more bewilderment. After some various attempts, I had been finally able to state a somewhat clear question.
“You—” said I, turning to the athlete as the latter gave an inquiring look. “—you’re supposed to be—” I paused. –“missing!”
Rainbow Dash frowned, while Pinkie Pie, despite still retaining a beaming smile, looked as confused as much as her friend.
“Missing?” said the former, leaning her head forward. “Why should I be missing?”
My mind flashed back to green circular carpet.
“You’ve been murdered!”
Ms. Dash had been taken aback by this. So much so that she had taken a few steps back, as she looked at me with a bewildered expression. It had been her turn to fail at words.
Perhaps it appeared to be such an absurd situation in which she and I found ourselves in, for Pinkie Pie, whom had perhaps thought this was all some sort of joke, laughed good-humoredly.
“Ha, good one!” said she, wiping a tear from her sky-blue eyes as she glanced at her friend. Perhaps she had detected the matter to be one of seriousness, for there had been a slight change of her usually bubbly demeanor.
Then she turned to me, retaining a smile, hoping perhaps that I had not been serious. “Who did it, then?” said she, participating in the "joke."
I looked at her gravely, with my eyes scanning her form from top to bottom, as to reassure myself that she had been indeed right there in front of me.
“You,”
I directed a quivering hoof at her.
It was Pinkie Pie’s turn to be taken aback, with a frozen look on her face, as she had been unsure on how to respond.
She and Rainbow Dash had exchanged looks before turning to me with expressions that seemed to question whether or not I had been sound in mind.
Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash had shaken their heads as they took several steps back.
The latter shot a glance at the former and scoffed in disbelief.
“Dude, are you taking your meds?” said she. “Also, why in the world would she do that?”
“Yeah,” the pink mare concurred. “why WOULD I do that?”
“But you did!” I persisted.
But she shook her head.
“Nuh-uh, I didn’t!” said she as she glanced at the direction of Rainbow Dash. "We've been here since yesterday!" Then she looked at me with a doubtful expression. “Is this some kind of joke? ‘Cause even it is, it sure isn’t funny!”
“BUT YOU DID!” I persisted with an even more aggressive tone.
This had certainly attracted a good amount of attention, for those present at the abbey turned their heads towards my direction. Perhaps they wondered how could a madpony get mixed amongst their midst.
Realizing that I had been making quite the scene, I had swiftly exited the abbey, leaving the mares bewildered, and took the time to mentally digest on what had just occurred.
They had, then, no idea on what I was talking about. How could this be? Everything they said had contradicted everything I had been told. What about the case—what about Dash’s disappearance? If the either them appeared to be completely innocent—then, was there even a case? Was there ever any presence of foul play? Well, Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie beg to differ. We have only the client—Ms. Derpy Hooves’ own account that anything happened at all. Was it all a lie—was it perhaps all one fabricated lie? But why—why this rigmarole of lies? And the Changeling whom had posed as Pinkie Pie—did he do so to give the impression that she had committed a devious crime? It certainly did that—and what of Ms. Hooves—where is she then? She had not been since when we had alighted off the station and proceeded to leave Pones and I in the dust as she headed to the bakery. And when we followed her, we had met the Changeling—was she—Ms. Derpy Hooves, and Pinkie Pie, one of the same pony? Were the both of them being posed as by the same thing? Then if so, what could be its object? What could that Changeling possibly gain from inventing a case with certain actors that had never been associated with it for there had been not a case in the first place? Why had they been chosen to involved?
Furthermore, where had been the actual ponies involved in the case—Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash? Where had they been this entire time? Was it possible that they have be somehow involved in it? Then, if so, how? I had felt that they were someway indeed, therefore I decided to ascertain whatever it may be by remaining within the background and gather information.
When the Changelings and their Queen had been blasted off the land, preparations had been immediately set for the REAL marriage of Captain Shining Amor and Princess Mi Amore Cadenza. I had been one of those who participated in the activities of repairment. I had done my part by providing medical aid to those injured by the attack. I had set up in a small portion of the castle a sort of small clinic, where ponies came for temporary medical assistance until more ample aid comes. And from my patients—which the majority consisted of the Royal Guard—I had been able my desired information.
Though my readers may already be well-acquainted with the following, I will nevertheless state it—
As it turns out, Twilight Sparkle and her friends had received invitations to the wedding had been bestowed upon certain tasks just previous morning.
Twilight Sparkle was the bestmare; Fluttershy had been bestowed upon the task of providing the music with her bird choir; Pinkie Pie on hosting the reception; Applejack on the catering; Rainbow Dash was to perform the famed stunt—the Sonic Rainboom once the bride and groom had finished their vows; Ms. Rarity was to design the dresses. And all of them—yes, all of them, mind you—including Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie—the Guards had sworn of them being so, remained doing their designated duties since then, and never had left the city during the entirety of their stay. This contradicts greatly on what I had seen, for yesterday, as you may recall, Pones and I encountered Pinkie Pie in Ponyville. Now, how could she be in two places at once without the involvement of a Changeling? But why had been she involved in the matter? Why had been Rainbow Dash? Why had been Ms. Hooves? And what had been the case’s entire purpose? Unfortunately, the answers to those questions I had been quite unable to gain for the entirety of the day.
I had attended the wedding (in which I had received its invitation from my acts of kindness); I had bear witness to the royal couple’s vows; I had witnessed Ms. Dash’s Sonic Rainboom; Her Majesty—Princess Celestia had commends the acts of heroism in which Twilight Sparkle and her friends and emphasizes upon the former to always place one’s trust to one’s instincts.
There had been held at the courtyard an evening wedding reception, where the newlyweds danced to a waltz as the fireworks illuminated the night sky. It was also where, as I dined to a meal of scotched egg, attempted to come up with a definitive explanation to everything. I accounted the bogus case, the Changeling, the Queen’s attack, Rainbow Dash, Pinkie, the talk about the Professor—but even in doing so, I still failed miserably.
I slammed a hoof at the table, as the utensils clattered unto the ground. I had perhaps caused to turn a few heads, for it appeared to be the only one who was quite unhappy in such a happy event.
“But why?” said I, gripping my hair. “Why can’t I seem to solve it?”
I had felt like I was at a complete loss on what to do with this damned mystery and had wondered where in the Equestrian Monarchy could be the only stallion who could solve it. Yes, I had thought, he could definitely solve it. But this had brought in a new line of thought—what had he been doing this entire time?
Then, as if an answer to my prayers, I heard the familiar trot of certain hooves.
“I owe you a thousand apologies, my dear Watcolt,” said the voice in which I knew so well. “for retaining you in darkness for so long.”
I then, in surprise, had spun round my chair and found the frail form of Sherclop Pones, looking haggard and exhausted, with his usual neat hairstyle looking messy and disorganized.
“Pones!” I cried as I stared in amazement. “Sweet Celestia, never more have I been grateful to see you!”
Pones nodded and proceeded to do a certain hoof gesture, asking if he may take a seat.
“By all means!” said I, eager to ask him a million questions.
As he sat down, I saw a certain kind of resentment in his eyes, like he was angry. But it didn’t seem to hold that anger on me, but rather to himself. The lips in his aquiline face had pursed themselves, and his brows closely knitted. Nevertheless, he retained his usual cold and collected demeanor. He nodded his head as raised his brows as if to greet me.
“Pones,” said I, taking the initiative to engage upon a conversation. “Where have you been?”
I saw a dark expression loom over Pones’ face.
“With my brother at Buck Mall.”
“With Myclop?” said I. “Why—what for?”
I vividly saw Pones’ face flush up.
“I was scolded,” said he, reluctantly. “scolded for my foolishness…”
I stared at him.
“Foolishness in what?” said I.
“For allowing this to happen!” Pones had said this as waved a hoof in the air.
I frowned. “The wedding?” I scoffed.
Pones shook his head. Then, he said dreadfully with a long face:
I felt I must’ve fallen out of my chair, unable to comprehend on what I just heard.
“Oh, no, surely you must be joking” said I. “you don’t mean the Changeling attack?”
Pones nodded
“Indeed,”
“Sweet Celestia; but, Pones, how could you possibly be responsible for allowing such an evil deed to happen?”
“For I had agreed to take Ms. Derpy Hooves’ case.”
“But how?” said I. “How are they connected?”
Pones then turned to me with both fore-hooves clasped together upon the table. Then, he proceeded to speak in unemotional tone, with his eyes full of resentment.
“What if I were to tell you, Watcolt,” he began, menacingly. “that the case in which had been presented to us had been artificially designed specifically in order to divert my attention away from interfering with the Queen’s devious plan to take over Equestria.”
I placed a hoof to my forehead, finding myself once more at a loss of words. Despite my surprise to this information, I had been somewhat expecting for such an answer. My surprise came from the reveal on how the case and the attack had been connected, but I had not been surprised by the fact that they are connected for that I have already suspected. Nevertheless, I had still been taken aback by this.
“Sweet Celestia—then, the case had been bogus the entire time?” said I.
Pones nodded.
“But how did the Changelings fear that you’ll bring destruction upon their plans? Furthermore, how do you come to know this?” I said this with my hoof raised above my head. “I have seen what you have seen, yet I could barely make anything of the matter.”
Pones spun round his chair, then, with an air of a professor addressing to his class, he began to narrate a long and yet fantastic statement—
“I will come to that, presently, my dear Watcolt, but first I must explain my line of thoughts throughout this wretched case and how I had eventually uncovered the fantastic truth—
“It began when Ms. Hooves—or rather whom we had been fooled to believed to be Ms. Hooves (more on her later)—had presented to us her peculiar tale in which had definitely something of interest, as you may have also perceived, due to its extremely, though also vague, suggestive circumstances in which seem to suspiciously lead to crime.
“If one were to pay close attention to it, it really does seem so. Rainbow Dash is declared missing, and the last pony whom had last seen consults us in order to ascertain her whereabouts. Now, it is a grand rule of mine, when solving cases such as this when the results have been presented to you first, to reason backwards. That is a very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but ponies do not practise it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful to reason forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty who can reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically.
“Most ponies, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically. Allow me to present to you an example—
“If one were to reason forwards, it is like adding the addends in order to receive the sum, where the addends had already been presented to you, and it is up to him find the sum himself. But in the case of reasoning backwards is the exact opposite—
“The sum, instead, had been already presented, and it is up to you to find the addends that led to that sum. Hence, reasoning backwards.
“In solving cases such as a murder or a disappearance, therefore, I am compelled to reason backwards for only the sum had been presented to me, and it is my task to learn the addends that lead to the murder or the disappearance. The addends could be found within the facts surrounding the murder or disappearance, then, piecing them together with order and method, I would attain the truth.
“Now, in the case presented to us by Ms. Hooves—may I ask, what is the sum?”
“The disappearance of Rainbow Dash.” said I, comprehendingly.
“Yes, precisely; and the addends in which led to it are within the facts of the client’s narrative. And since we are dealing particularly with a disappearance case, we must, if we were to achieve our goal of solving it, follow the rules when solving one.
“The grand rule, in which I have learned over the hundreds of cases of the past in which under a similar category, is that there is always something—something that is of the utmost importance that may solve the matter in the last sighting of the missing individual in question. If he or she had been last scene drawing a cheque or buying clothes, or at a train station, or being accompanied by someone in a carriage—there is always something there that may lead somewhere—in which that somewhere is often the truth. In the first example, he/she might’ve drawn a thousand Bits before leaving, which means that he/she had done this for she had wanted to immigrate to somewhere else. Now, where had been Rainbow Dash in the narrative, at least, last seen by a living person?”
“The client,” said I.
“Excellent, Watcolt. Now, where are those facts?”
“In her narrative.”
“Good; now, bear in mind that the possibility the solution to the mystery lies somewhere cleverly hidden amongst the circumstance provided by it. The fact that, as the narrative blatantly suggests, Ms. Dash had been not seen after she had been sighted by our client (proven by the fact that Ms. Dash’s friends had been seen in the police station inquiring for her whereabouts by setting up advertisements)—we may infer that whatever theory we may form from the facts in the narrative must always—ALWAYS result to Rainbow Dash disappearing. Now since the facts are somewhat dimly stated, we must piece together certain points that may lead to a potential fact.
“Now, what are the initial deductions we may draw from it, as we remember that the sum is the disappearance? Let us first start from the beginning of Ms. Hooves’ experience—
“She had seen Rainbow Dash in such a hurried demeanor as she headed for Sugarcube Corner, ignoring the world around her. Now, can we infer from this?”
“That she had been late for something—like an event or some sort?”
“Exactly—she had, then, been eager to arrive at Sugarcube Corner for she is terribly late for something that is to occur there. This, then, brings us into the next point—what had she been late for? It could be safely deduced from what had Ms. Hooves seen upon entering the shop.
“Despite her strabismus, she had been able to note various objects upon the counter— such as an egg beater, a bowl, a sack of flour, eggs, an egg timer, a cupcake molder, potholders, sprinkles. Now, in what instance could these materials be used in? Baking. Therefore, with this inference, we may gather that Ms. Dash had agreed to appointment with someone at Sugarcube Corner on the topic of baking, and that she had been late for that said appointment. Very good. But who is that someone? One of the inhabitants of the shop. In order to ascertain whom, we must first consider Rainbow Dash’s nature.
“I am going to ask you, Doctor, does she seem the type who holds an enthusiasm in baking?”
I looked at Rainbow Dash as she danced along with a stallion in a similar athletic build as hers.
“Certainly not!” said I with confidence. “She is of an athletic nature—she could not possibly hold a single ounce of fascination on it. Then, why—”
“For it is not the baking she is after for, it is the pony whom she is baking with.
“Now, who is that pony that compels her to hang out in an activity in which she shares no fondness of? Obviously, a friend. But who amongst the residents of the shop is her friend?”
“The Cakes are immediately eliminated, for they are not the type. Therefore, it is Pinkie Pie whom she had agreed with to that baking appointment.
“What, then, became of her—what became of Rainbow Dash upon entering that shop? As proven by the narrative, Ms. Dash hadn’t been seen since Ms. Hooves had noticed her do so. Though, it is indeed possible, due to the client’s condition, she could have misinterpreted the act, and Rainbow Dash had gone off to a completely different location. If this were the case, it would impossible to determine where she had went and who was the last to see her. But if in the case if Ms. Hooves had indeed interpreted properly, and that Ms. Dash had indeed last seen entering Sugarcube Corner, it is a different game entirely.
“If this, then, were the case, whatever had caused her disappearance occurred INSIDE Sugarcube Corner. What, then, was it? Only by judging what had Ms. Hooves seen could ascertain it.
“Upon entering, as it is remembered, Ms. Hooves, despite her condition, had seen Ms. Pie seemingly blend into the wooden floorboards below her, then unblended. A sound that had sounded like a wooden door slamming shut was heard. Pinkie Pie then proceeded to unroll the green circular carpet below her and stood on its middle with a very nervous demeanor. What could this possibly mean? Let us first state the obvious…
“Pinkie Pie is clearly hiding something beneath that carpet. What could it be? I could ascertain it by judging what had Ms. Hooves first seen upon entering. Ms. Hooves had seen Pinkie seemingly blend into that spot the folded carpet covers and had unblended. Upon doing so, a door was heard being shut. Now, what could be possibly cause one to blend into the floorboards, undo the process of blending, and in doing so causes what sounds like a door slamming shut? A basement.
“Now, what could be the possible explanation on why Ms. Pie had been so eager to conceal this basement by refusing it to show Ms. Hooves by unrolling the carpet that conceals it, and standing upon the middle? Not only that, but had attempted to hide the baking materials upon the counter from Ms. Hooves! But before answering the former, the latter must be answered first. Pinkie had wished to hide away any evidences of an appointment being set. But why? Why had she wished to conceal it with the said appointment being the last place Rainbow Dash had been last seen? It is almost as if she has a certain say to the disappearance. No, with the balance of probability, no! She must be responsible for the disappearance of Rainbow Dash! If so, this would explain her absence But, in what way? It could only be ascertained, whatever it may be, by answering why Pinkie Pie had been so eager to hide the existence of a basement.
“If we were piece together the facts of Ms. Pie desiring to hide the fact that she is responsible for Ms. Dash’s disappearance, and the fact she desperately attempts to conceal the existence what do we get? She was in the process of placing the body of the athlete below the basement! But how did she—Pinkie manage to place the athlete’s body below the basement? Obviously, she couldn’t simply ask Ms. Dash to enter it, nor force her, for in doing so would create a fuss. A fuss, in which, despite her condition, Ms. Hooves would still be conscious of. But that didn’t happen. Instead, Ms. Pie had placed Ms. Dash’s body below there. But how? She could only do this when the latter is unconscious. But how did Ms. Dash fall unconscious. That we could know by judging what was the activity in which she agreed to participate with Pinkie Pie. That activity being the appointment of baking. Now, what could’ve happened to the Pegasus that resulted to her losing her conscious? Obviously by a soporific drug. But one can’t simply agree to be drugged, especially in such an activity as baking! Ms. Dash could have only been drugged without her knowledge? Obviously, a drug cleverly concealed in some kind of dish. But what could that dish be? A cupcake
“But why a cupcake? Well, what is the appointment about? Baking cupcakes. Therefore, Pinkie Pie had presented to her a cupcake in a soporific drug had been cleverly concealed. Which would explain the bitten cupcake. Rainbow Dash then consumed it and fell unconscious. Pinkie Pie was in the process of placing her body below the basement where she plans to do Celestia knows what when she had been interrupted by the unexpected intrusion of Ms. Derpy Hooves. Pinkie was then forced to swiftly hide the body, close the basement door, conceal the basement by unfolding the carpet, then stand upon its centre to assure its safety.
“There, Rainbow Dash remained, which would partly explain her prolonged absence. But what happened to her then? Whatever did Pinkie Pie do to her? I could only ascertain it by remembering Ms. Hooves’ third return to the shop. In it, as it is remembered, Ms. Hooves had caused Ms. Pie to spill the contents of the metallic tray in which she had carried. The contents being knives, for what else could fit the description of ‘small shiny metallic objects that are sharp enough to inflict a wound upon an individual.’ During that same visit, Pinkie had swiftly unfolded the green circular carpet and the sound of a door slamming shut was heard. This indicates that she had planned to re-enter it but had interrupted by yet another intrusion. But what could that reason be? With the tray of knives, I could safely deduce that she had planned to do so with a diabolical intent. That intent being murder. This, then, would explain everything. Including Rainbow Dash’s disappearance. With this, I could construct a coherent narrative.
“Rainbow Dash had agreed to an appointment with Pinkie Pie about baking. But she had been late for it. To make up for lost time, she rushed to Sugarcube Corner. Upon arriving there, Pinkie Pie had presented to her a cupcake, most likely to be a taste test, for they had not even begun yet. Unbeknownst to the young athlete, that cupcakes cleverly concealed a hidden soporific drug. Upon consuming it, Ms. Dash immediately fell unconscious. Ms. Pie then folded the green circular carpet that conceals a hidden basement, where she had intended to place her victim. But as she was in the process in doing so, Ms. Hooves had made a very unexpected intrusion, consequently forcing Ms. Pie to swiftly hide any evidence of her deed. She swiftly placed the body below the basement, closed that basement, concealed that basement by unfolding the carpet, then, upon doing so, stood upon its centre. When Ms. Hooves had begun her search for Rainbow Dash, Pinkie had feared that she may discover the last damning piece of evidence in which she had forgotten to hide—the cupcake. She, then, reduced it atoms. In doing so alerted Ms. Hooves’ attention which caused the latter to search for that area. That area being near the counter. Pinkie Pie then attempted to hide any evidence of an appointment being sent by hiding the baking materials upon the counter by standing in front of them. When Ms. Hooves had left, convinced that her eyes had played tricks on her, Pinkie had resumed her business. She then entered the basement.
“Now, one may begin to ask how did I come to the conclusion of a soporific drug instead of a poison that kills the victim instantly? Well, it is the fact that Ms. Pie had brought instruments of torture an hour well after the drugging, which indicates that she had waited for Ms. Dash to awake before committing the murder, for if she had not, she would’ve brought the murder tools along with her upon the drugging, not an hour after it. Now, in this case, this states that Pinkie Pie takes pleasure in inflicting pain upon her victims before she goes for the kill, indicating a psychopath.
“Now, when Dash had regained her conscious, it is when her long and painful death had begun. Pinkie Pie, with the tools needed to inflict a sadistic death, did so by slowly killing her unfortunate victim, likely bounded up. This, then, would explain her prolonged absence. Rainbow Dash had been ruthlessly murdered by murderous mare who takes pleasure in inflicting pain upon her prey. Such are my initial deductions upon hearing the narrative, which, you, my dear fellow, have reached a similar light to some extent.”
Sherclop Pones paused as he wiped his brow, while I stared at him with amazement. But I had remembered something—
“But, it’s all too convincing! I myself had even succumbed to this pack of lies!” said I. “How could how could you possibly see through such a deception?”
“I had already begun from the start to question whether or not the events that depicted in the narrative to ever have occurred due to one simple factor—the lack of fuss. Fuss in which is sure to be made, that is, if Rainbow Dash had ever disappeared.
“Consider the fact, Watcolt, that such an important societal figure such as Rainbow Dash, who had gained some fame partly from her contributions to the Monarchy and representing the Element of Loyalty, would go missing; be reported to the police; and yet no a single fuss resonates from it?
“Where are the big headlines in the paper? They are sure to be made for just as soon Cloudsdale Yard is involved in the matter, gossip would soon come out, which would consequently lead that gossip to reach the printing press’ ears. Thus, major headlines depicting the disappearance. And yet, as you may remember, nothing of the sort happened. Instead, what had been shown was the announcement of the royal wedding of Captain Shining Armor.
“Then there was too the absence of raging advertisements in the agony column—they are too sure to be made, for Ms. Dash’s friends, according to the 'narrative', have already been inquiring for her whereabouts—creating posters and consulting the police. If they have already done this, they are bound to advertise in the agony column, in which, as I have remarked, not a single advertisement that depicts a disappearance had been made. Instead, the entire section consisted of bridesmaids asking for advice.”
My mind had casted back to the bundles of newspapers in which Pones had wished me to direct my attention to just the previous day back in Baker Street—where I read the headlines and advertisements.
“Oh, that was it, was it?” said I. “What did you infer from this, then?”
“That the case presented to us, and everything in it, however suggestive and convincing, is nothing but a mere fabrication. And addition to this, when Ms. Hooves had presented to us the so-called advertisement of Rainbow Dash—instead of eliminating any doubt the case’s authenticity, it had further increased it. The poster, as you may remember my examining it, was forged!”
He then produced from his saddlebag a paper-like object and presented it to me.
“Note that the picture is merely pasted onto the paper and not printed on it; the material to serve as the printing medium is not of the typical medium in which advertisements are manufactured in—this all spoke of forgery. She wished to convince me that the case was authentic by presenting an advertisement. Which, consequently, further supports my inclination that the case is false—”
“As well as the fact that Ms. Hooves had to recite her so-called ‘experience’ from a piece of foolscap for it never happened!”
Pones smiled.
“But this just a suspicion.” said he. “Therefore, in order to confirm my surmises whether to deem it correct or otherwise, I must set an inquiry at the Ponyville branch of Cloudsdale Yard.”
I had suddenly recalled something.
“What a blind bat I have been!” I cried, staring at Pones. “The telegram you had sent to Trotkins—that was its object?”
“Indeed; and do you remember the reply? No? Well, allow me to recite it to you—”
Pones then shoved a hoof into his pocket and produced a crumbled piece of paper.
“‘No, sir, I have not,’” said he, reading from it. “‘nor has anyone station in this particular branch in that matter. On the contrary, not a single constable or inspector had been conscious of any form of criminal activity for the entire month!’
“This, then, Watcolt, completely dismisses any remaining doubt that the case is authentic for this—a solid and absolute fact, further supported by my surmises, greatly contradicts everything stated in Ms. Hooves’ narrative, where we only have her word for it ever happening. It contradicts her statement that the police have been consulted upon a disappearance (Rainbow Dash’s) while my factful inquiry proves otherwise. Therefore, the case and everything in it—the disappearance, the potential murder is nothing but a great fabrication.”
“A lie!” I cried with vehemence. “It is all a great big, thumping, obtrusive, uncompromising lie—from the start to finish! She never said a single ounce of truth to her story!”
"Which, as you may remember noting, is further supported by the fact of the overall peacefulness in Ponyville once we had alighted the train, for if Ms. Dash were indeed be missing, the citizens would buzz about like an overturned beehive: setting out inquiries upon those that merely cross their paths—and yet, they do not.”
“Excellent!” said I. “But, even with this knowledge, why did you still agree to take it?”
“For I wanted to know the object of this elaborate deceit—why had she done this? Why the lie? Is it a practical joke, for, as you know, there are some ponies out there who have nothing better do in their lives but to joke around with the law—or individuals such as I who represent it—with their cases. That, was at the least of my worries, for amidst of this farce, there is sometimes an element of the criminal hidden within it. I feared, Watcolt, that there was something criminal about this lie, that may be more than just a joke. Though, it could still be one, I had no way to ascertain it but agree to take upon the case and learn for myself.”
“But why hadn’t you simply said that you knew the client was lying? That surely is much simpler task and less—exhausting…”
“For if I were to do as I say—in the occasion that there is indeed something criminal, Ms. Hooves would snap shut like an oyster and never reveal her devious secrets. Therefore, I had no choice but to agree to take it, and gather the facts myself to form an opinion upon the matter.”
“But how did you know that the Changelings are involved in the matter?” said I.
Pones glanced at me before he proceeded to light a cigar.
“Billy.”
“Billy?”
“Yes—at least, his narrative did. Let me explain—
“Do you recall, Watcolt, that the young lad and I had engaged upon a conversation spoken in whispers—have you ever wonder why? For Billy did not wish for Ms. Hooves to hear what he has to say for it directly concerned her.”
“What was his narrative, then?”
“As you may remember, we had sat waiting for the arrival of the Express, while I pondered on a possible explanation of my previous discoveries, Billy came into the scene and had delivered a letter in which had been addressed to me. Then, he wished to tell me his bizarre experience. It is thus—
“Billy, as you may remember, had been instructed by me to handle any letters that may be delivered during our absence. Not long after we had left him, as Billy devoured upon a muffin offered by Mrs. Hudcolt, he received one. Someone had tapped a hoof upon his back, and turning around, to his utter bewilderment, found a mailmare whom had looked so much like our client. She had the same blonde mane, grey coat, and most notably, the same condition—strabismus. The only difference is that she wore the Ponyville Delivery Service uniform, complete with the cap. Seeing her name tag, it was indeed the client! ‘D. Hooves.’
“Ms. D. Hooves, then, produced an envelope from her saddlebag and asked Billy if he was Sherclop Pones.
“Billy responds by saying that wasn’t she supposed to be with him. A look of confusion then came across her face and asked what did the lad mean by that. Billy, still thinking that the mare is our client, reminds her that she IS our client and asks why isn’t she with us. The mare asks who is this him in which the lad says Sherclop Pones
“She scratched her head as even more bewildered expression came across her face. The mare then responded by that as much as she wants to, she never met him.
“The lad was in an even greater state of confusion upon hearing those words. He thought it may be some form of a prank until a thought occurred to him—
“Had this mare who shares the same initials, and possessed the same features as that of our client might actually just been an identical twin? That would certainly explain everything—her unfamiliarity with me and her employment at the Ponyville Delivery Service. Billy, having had convinced himself that this was indeed the case, takes the envelope and asks the assumed twin who was the author, to which, to Billy’s bewilderment, Ms. Hooves knows nothing about. All that she knows that the envelope had been received from Canterlot Delivery Service, whom, in turn, received it from a pony in an official attire, instructing the letter must be immediately delivered to a certain Mr. Sherclop Pones of 221b Baker Street, which is in Canterlot, which where this letter came from.
“Despite finding this a bit odd, Billy ignored it and ran off, hoping to catch us before the latter could catch the train. To which he did.”
I then thought of the snatches of conversation in which I heard.
So much alike, sir
A twin or some sort
At Ponyville Delivery Service
This would then explain these. But something bothered me—
“Yes,” said I. “But that does not quite explain the agitation in which he had shown upon seeing Ms. Hooves for he already convinced himself of his theory—but why?”
“Her Cutie Mark, Watcolt” said Pones. “It was her Mark! He had noticed that, upon arriving, that it had consisted of the same symbol in which the mailmare had! A Mark consisting of seven bubbles varying in sizes.
“This completely contradicts Billy’s twin theory for it is impossible for two ponies, not even twins, to share the same Cutie Mark! But why, does client Ms. Hooves and mailmare Ms. Hooves do?”
I then thought of Pones mysterious parting words to the page—
quick, swear upon the fact that the mare whom you had conversed with whose Cutie Mark is identical to as to that of Ms. Hooves here!
I swear, sir.
I then had a realization.
“This makes you, then, suspect the presence of a Changeling!” said I. “For Changelings have the capability of making themselves a perfect facsimile of anything they wish! They can copy a pony’s form to the letter! Their appearance—their coat, their mane, their eyes, their voice, and even their Mark! Pones, this is remarkable!”
Pones had let out a chuckle.
“Yes, you are quite right; this had indeed brought in the possibility of a Changeling, but I was left in quite the dilemma—which is which? They both hold an equal amount of possibility—is it the mailmare or is it our client? I have no way to determine which but to continue upon the case and gather the necessary facts that shall either confirm or dismiss this theory.”
“But how did you uncover their plot?” said I.
For an answer Pones had gently placed another crumpled piece of paper upon the table. He then with the use of his hoof pushed it towards me.
“That,”
I then help it up with my remaining wing, and to my surprise, it was the same letter with the enigmatical message.
The Her Majesty State of Unicorns at Pony Parliament stake and skate come at concert to listen Mendelssohn’s Wedding March today now.
“I confess,” said I, looking up at him. “its meaning is still dark to me as ever!”
Pones then gestured for me to hand it back to him, to which I obliged. Then, after writing upon it with a pen, he handed it back to me.
“How about now?”
I uttered an exclamation of surprise. He had highlighted every third word beginning from the first. The results are thus:
TheHer Majesty State of Unicorns at Pony Parliament stake and skate come at concert to listen Mendelssohn’s Wedding March today now.
“Sweet Celestia!” said I. “Pones, it’s a message.”
“Not just a message, mind you, but a plea for help.”
“From whom?”
“From Brother Myclop,”
“But how could you tell? There’s no postmark that could indicate its origin!”
“Not so,” said Pones as he directed my attention at the paper with a hoof. “no postmark, yes, but there is distinct watermark in the paper. Have a look.”
“It’s the outline of an umbrella—” I had trailed off. Then I stared at him. “The Club—the Caballus Club—your brother’s Club—it’s its symbol—he sent this?”
Pones nodded.
“That is not the only indicator. This code” said he. “—the Gloria Scott code, is a form of communication invented by my dear brother and I back when we were still colts, so that no one else but the Pones Brothers could understand. Now, I had, then, with this begun to suspect criminal activity.”
“How?”
“Since Myclop had sent this—and had written it for himself, already spoke volumes of trouble. For Myclop would only communicate with me in this absurd fashion when he is in desperate position and desires for my help.
“But what is that position? Well, as it is clearly stated, it is this alluded ‘Wedding’ in which he does so. But whose wedding? We could only ascertain it by noting what my brother is—
“Myclop is of government employ by profession, and everything he handles is consequently political. Therefore, this ‘Wedding’ is something of political bearing. In what occasion does a wedding become political? When it is a royal one. Therefore, with this, I am able to deduce that the wedding in which he speaks of is none other than the royal wedding in which we are now bearing witness to—”
Pones said this as he pointed a hoof at the royal couple dancing gaily to the upbeat music.
“the wedding of Captain Shining Armor and Princess Mi Amore Cadenza.” He continued. “And with this, I was able to know that Myclop wished me to solve some sort of crisis in which is to occur at that wedding…as it may be driven from ‘state at stake come to wedding now.’”
“But how does this deduction reinforce your suspicion of criminal activity?”
“Consider this, Watcolt—a false case had been presented to me on the same day—on the very same day in which Myclop desires for my assistance to solve some crisis at the Royal Wedding. It had almost seemed like its sole purpose was to divert my attention away from solving it. It had begun to smell suspiciously of the foul odor of crime. But all this could just be a coincidence, after all. A prank upon me on the same day Myclop needs me. But I had no way to know but to continue upon the case and to either confirm of dismiss.
“As you may remember, we took chase upon Ms. Hooves for she claimed that she had ‘set an appointment’ with Pinkie Pie. It was when we encountered the latter at Sugarcube Corner that I confirmed both my suspicions of a Changeling’s presence and that of criminal activity.”
“How?”
“I will begin with the former—do you remember being conscious of the state of the shop?”
“Yes, it was rather dusty. Almost everything had been covered by dust. The furniture, the stairs, and even the floorboards.”
“Do you remember noting a track of hoofprints?”
“Yes, I did. There was just one though—found upon the dusty floorboards. But how—”
Then it hit me. I pound my hoof upon the table.
“By Jove, Pones!” said I. “How did not I notice it—I remember now, yes—a single track of hoofprints had originated from entrance, meaning that someone had entered. And by a solid account from the zebra, only Derpy Hooves had entered it! Therefore, those prints were hers! But how came those same prints led to the very same place we had seen Pinkie Pie standing—a totally different mare from our client. It is almost like she morphed into her. Sweet Celestia! This, then, lead to the confirmation of a Changeling’s presence! Derpy Hooves was Pinkie Pie and Pinkie Pie was Derpy Hooves!”
Pones laughed good-humoredly. “You are shining tonight, Watcolt!” said he. “Yes, you follow me wonderfully—those tracks did indeed confirm that suspicion—”
“Then,” said I. “to further reinforce it, you asked her—Pinkie Pie a question in which only the real Pinkie Pie could know—the amount of sprinkles she had given to Mrs. Hudcolt, to which that Pinkie Pie didn’t know either sprinkles nor Mrs. Hudcolt for she ISN’T the Pinkie Pie whom Mrs. Hudcolt knows! Pones, this is brilliant! But how did you confirm the suspicion of crime?”
Pones grinned. “The sacks of flour,” said he.
I stared. “The sacks of—how?!”
Pones took out the cigar from his mouth before answering.
“Do you recall them distinctly?” said he.
“Yes; they littered almost every square inch of the shop—”
“How did they impress you?”
“They were very dusty and quite damp.”
“Is that all?” said Pones.
I considered for a moment.
“Well, they did seem out of place,” said I. “it is as if they didn’t belong there.”
“Exactly, Watcolt, exactly—they are out of place for they DON’T belong there for they were taken away from their appropriate place. I deduced it to be so.”
“How?”
“In order to know their origin, I must ask myself this question—where do bakers usually store their supply of flour? Obviously not in the main shop. Perhaps in a room or some sort. But what kind of room? In order to ascertain this, I must note the condition of these sacks of flour—dusty and damp. Therefore, they must be from somewhere where objects in which inhabit it are prone to dust and dampness. Combine this knowledge with that of my previous knowledge where bakers usually store their flour— a hidden place. And since nowhere in the shop could that amount of dust and dampness could be obtained, a concealed room becomes more likely. This brings in three possibilities on what could that hidden room could be—a secret room concealed within the walls, an attic or a garret, or a basement.
“Now in order to determine which, I must frisk the entire place from top to bottom, as you may remember me doing so. In order to determine any of them, I must, from the walls, the ceiling, and the floorboards, search for any indication that may lead to the existence of a hidden room—typically the resonation of hollow sound.”
I remembered Pones’ queer actions at Sugarcube Corner. Pones paused briefly, reading my expression, then eventually continuing—
“Yes,” said he. “those seemingly meaningless actions—they all have a meaning. A good beating upon all sides of the shop, and was met by hardness. Then I ascended the stairs and beat the ceiling. While there was indeed an attic, it did not impress me to be dusty or damp for it was inhabited. Now, it is an old maxim of mine that when one eliminates all that is impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the TRUTH. Now, in this case, the impossible have been eliminated—that being the possible explanations for hidden spaces that keep the supply, the attic or a hidden room—and what remains is a basement, therefore, remaining from what had been eliminated, the basement must be the missing link. Now, where could that basement be located? Where I would have deduced it to be if I had ever believed the authenticity of the case presented—below the green circular carpet. I then confirm its existence by beating upon the carpet’s centre, which the consequence of doing so lead the sound of hollowness resonated. Therefore, with this deduction, I was able to solve the mystery of the origin of the dusty sacks of flour—the basement.”
“Pones,” said I. “However brilliant, how did this deduction confirm the suspicion of crime?”
Pones glanced at the direction of Pinkie Pie as the latter danced along to the music.
“Put yourself in the schemer’s situation, Watcolt—” said he. “--you want to present to me a concocted case, and it must be very convincing that it gives one the impression that it is an actual case. Therefore, what do you do? You do the necessary procedures to make it authentic as possible. You include the criminal, the victim, the crime, and the unsuspecting and naïve witness who shall present to me the facts in which I shall piece together in order to form a coherent narrative. Now, for this, you would need to also design a convincing crime scene. And since this particular crime in which we are solving involves a basement of some sort, you need an actual basement! And since the crime takes place in Sugarcube Corner, you need its actual basement. But you don’t own Sugarcube Corner, for it is owned by the Cakes, therefore it can’t be left to you freely. Nor can you ask for the owners’ consent for that would surely attract unwanted attention. But you still desperately need the convincing impression to deceit me. But, knowing that this would attract unwanted attention (for if one were to ask its inhabitants to leave the shop to him freely for some days is sure to do so,) he must find another way to use the shop freely without the knowledge of its inhabitants—the Cakes, their children, and their employee Pinkie Pie. What, then, would this someone do to leave the place uninhabited? What did the schemer do? He took it by force—or in other words, through criminal means.
“Now, obviously, the murder of the entire household would consequently lead to unwanted attention, therefore other means must be found to ensure their elimination. What could this schemer do? Poisoning them. If one were to do so upon the unsuspecting household with a non-lethal drug, they would fall ill and cause them to immediately sent to the hospital where they shall remain confined there for the entirety of the business, ultimately leaving the shop for free use.”
A revelation had struck me.
“The Cakes!” I cried. “Their unexpected illness—Mrs. Hudcolt’s narrative—that would explain it!”
Pones nodded. “Yes,” said he. “This would, then, explain the mysterious illness that had befallen upon the shop’s owners. But, how was that poison administered? This could only be answered by Mrs. Hudcolt’s previous narrative of her encounter with the very strange pony with a cruel moustache. In accordance to it, this pony had approached carrying some sort of pouch as he approached the counter of the Cakes, who had placed their cup of coffees upon it. This is, presumably, where the poisoned had been set. But why hadn’t the real Pinkie Pie been poisoned? That would be quite unnecessary for she would leave the shop and depart for the royal wedding in which she had an invitation from. Which brings us to next point of the positivity of criminal activity.
“If one were to deliberately drive my attention away from solving a political crisis that requires my presence in the political event—the Royal Wedding—in which that crisis is to occur by concocting an entirely false case and then presenting it to me so that I may be too preoccupied to pay heed to Myclop’s plead. And in the process commits an actual crime in order to give the impression of authenticity to persuade me that there is indeed foul play such as murder—it all reeks of the foul odor of crime.”
“My next step,” said Pones. “Was to ascertain what is that political crisis in which this Changelings desires for me to not interfere. To do so, I must extract a full confession out of him. But in order to do that, I must catch him so off-guard in a situation in which he least expects that it shall force him give me a confession. But what is that situation? The situation in which I would be in if I were ever to believe for a second the authenticity of the case. In other words, I must deceive him that he deceived me.
“How, then, would matters turn out if I did believe it—if I had never found the peculiarity of the lack of fuss and I had stuck with my original deduction—that Pinkie Pie had murdered Rainbow Dash. I would set off to Ponyville in order to prove my theory…to which Ms. Hooves had thought my reason of doing so was. Once we had arrived there, she had, under pretense that she had appointment set with Pinkie to bake muffins, suddenly left us. We then followed her to Sugarcube Corner. Upon arriving there, expecting find our client, we instead find Pinkie Pie seemingly blend into the floorboards, and then immediately “unblend.” She then swiftly unfolds the carpet and stood upon its centre. This raises some questions. Questions such as what happened to Derpy Hooves? Why are Pinkie Pie’s actions so eerily similar as to that she made when Ms. Hooves had encountered her yesterday as so you have noted? Actions that she did in order to commit a theorized murder. This could mean one thing—Pinkie Pie had applied the same method in which she had previously used upon Ms. Dash’s murder upon Ms. Hooves! The setting of the appointment, drugging the victim, placing the victim below the basement, then eventually murdering him or her. This would explain the appointment in which Ms. Hooves spoke of, her absence from the scene and Pinkie Pie’s queer actions. And that we had intruded at the exact moment during this process of murder. But why did Pinkie plan on murdering Ms. Hooves? Well, by studying the psychology of a homicidal psychopath such as herself, in committing a risky murder, he or she must get rid of all witnesses. They could do this with ease for their blatant disregard of pony life. Is it too much to say that the same applies on this occasion for in Pinkie’s eyes, Ms. Hooves is a witness? It is a most natural course to take!
“What, then, would I do about this? Pinkie Pie is now under the suspicion of being responsible of not just one but TWO murders of completely innocent individuals! And the fact that she could do this in such as ease further supports the far shot speculation of her being a serial kill—the entire case is entirely black upon her. The only thing in which I could confirm it all is by testing a number of theories.
“First, I would first ascertain the existence of a hidden basement below the green circular carpet in a similar fashion as to how I did so in real life—beating upon it and listening for a sound resonating hollowness. To which, as it has been made in reality, it must.
“Now, how would I confirm my surmises of foul play? I would take advantage of the feminine psychology—I would threaten destruction of the very thing in which they hold most dear. Let us say, as an example, when a fire alarm had been raised—what would be the natural feminine reaction? She would look for her most precious valuable in order to secure its protection posed by the fires. The mother to her infant child; the Duchess to her jewelries; an instrumentalist to her instrument. Now, in the case of Pinkie Pie—what is her most valued possession? Her innocence. So, how would I endanger it in order to prove her guilt? In order to answer that, I would ask myself—where does her innocence rely upon for its continuous existence? The further concealment of where she committed her murders—the basement below the green circular carpet. Having done this, how do I endanger her innocence and prove that she is actually guilty for both charges of willful murder? By inquiring for the whereabouts of her theorized victims, for, upon doing so, she would, if she was innocent, she would stare cluelessly at me. But if she was guilty, she would glance at the location where her victims are now, for she knows exactly where they are. That place being what lies below the green circular carpet. Thus, proving her guilt. To which, as you may remember, she did—well, at least, the Changeling who posed as her.
“Now, having done this, my next step would to stage her arrest, but that would prove quite difficult mainly of these reasons—
“If I were to go straight to the police and tell them to arrest Pinkie Pie, they would merely laugh at me and demand solid evidence. And even if I present the evidence of the carpet and convince them that she did the murders, they would not only place her guilt upon her, but also too her innocent employers, whom, as far as I would make out have no say in the matter, for they would be charged for being the murderess’ accomplices. So, what would I do to stage Pinkie Pie’s arrest without dragging the innocent Cakes into the matter?
“I must remember that this is a case in which the criminal could only be arrested—and only the criminal and no one else—by either solid evidence that she did it with no accomplices, or a full confession in which is needed to be heard by the police’s ears at that precise moment. How do I execute this? I would have purposely fallen victim in a similar fashion as to how Pinkie Pie did away with Ms. Dash and Ms. Hooves—agree to an appointment, get drugged in it, wake up below the basement, and get murdered. But right before I would get murdered, she shall be caught red-handed in the act by the police whose perfectly timed appearance I would have carefully orchestrated. Thus, convincing them that she is indeed the criminal and no one else for they saw with their own eyes the process of the murder without any outside assistance.
“But how would I employ this? I must first agree to an appointment; but that was easily arranged for Pinkie Pie would have already set one (as to what happened in reality) at 8 in the following morning.”
“But why did she do that?” said I.
“In understanding the criminal psychology once more, Watcolt, a criminal such as herself would do whatever it takes to eliminate all that may pose a threat to her innocence…such as myself. Therefore, what does she do? She plots out my demise in the exact same fashion as to she plotted others’—by setting an appointment. But only in my case did she alter the object of that appointment knowing that baking won’t attract me—”
“Therefore, she had set it on the pretense that she would offer you advice on the possible whereabouts of Rainbow Dash!” said I.
Pones concurred.
“Precisely; but that was just the first step—8 o’clock. Therefore, the time of her arrest must take place around that time period. The second step was to ascertain how long does a non-lethal dosage of Sleepy Drops—the soporific drug in which is used in the crimes—last—what is its duration? Since it is a sedative used only upon the insomniac, it may have a drastic and possibly lethal effect upon those who aren’t. And yet it used upon the victims to knock them out. Therefore, Pinkie Pie must’ve used a non-lethal dosage of it. Typically, a minimum of 2 drops would put a non-insomniac to a hospital bed, but half a drop would do no harm—therefore a single drop would do just the trick. To ascertain how long its duration, as you may perhaps vaguely remember, I drugged you—”
I stared at him in surprise. “I don’t recall such an act—”
“Very likely not, you were quite tired and needed a rest, so I offered a glass of water.”
I then recalled the afternoon at the inn. I had felt a mysterious drowsiness upon consuming that glass. I then retorted at Pones, saying that my life had been risked for this outrageous experiment. But Pones reasoned that he knew this attempt was safe and could not possibly result to death, and deeply apologized for this.
“I sincerely apologize, my dear Watcolt,” said he. “but it was quite necessary.”
I waved at him. “Furthermore,” said I. “why had you wished me to go upon those exhausting expeditions of running across town?”
“You bring me, then, to my next point—once I had gathered that the duration of the drug is thirty minutes, this gives me a new time limit in the given time period. The arrest, then, must take place in under precisely half an hour. We then come to next problem—the police’s timed appearance.
“I would need in some way predict the timing within the given time limit. The police must be informed of the matter (in which takes time), then rush to Sugarcube Corner (which too takes time.) How do I, then, ascertain those alluded? In answer to this, I must answer how will the police be informed—which is you. But where would you come from? The inn. Why? Since the appointment is scheduled at 8 in the following morning, we would have to remain in Ponyville till then. Therefore, a temporary place of residence is needed—i.e. an inn, I need to measure how long does it take for you to arrive at the station from the inn, then from the former to Sugarcube Corner. You need to ascertain accurately as possible—therefore you run at the top of your speed for it would be quite similar as to what you would have the following day—for who wouldn’t run at one’s top speed when told to prevent a murder? And results are thus:”
Pones then handed me his pocketbook in which he had been writing just the previous day at the inn. The entries upon it were written in the familiar precise and methodical writing of my friend.
Drug duration: 30 minutes
Inn to station: 8 minutes and thirty-seven seconds
Station to Sugarcube Corner: 9 minutes and fifty-seven seconds.
Difference: 11 minutes and 34 seconds
“Sweet Celestia!” said I, handing it back to him. “That was its purpose?
Pones nodded. He then continued—
"Having written this, I dressed up, as you may remember, disguised as an ill-kempt stallion and went on a little expedition to spy on our future base of operations without creating much of a fuss about.
“I then return to the point of the police’s timing,” said he. “if the police were to informed by you to arrest a certain someone, at precisely 8, only 18 minutes and 34 seconds had passed, and would not witness no attempted murder for I hadn’t awoken by then, which is also at the time when Pinkie Pie hasn’t raised a strike yet. Thus, leading to no arrest. As a solution, in order for the police to witness it precisely at that moment for one to be made. In order for it to work, upon arriving at the appointment, I need a certain amount of time to elapse before you would be informed to inform the police…i.e. to complete 30 minutes from the 18 minutes and 34 seconds, 11 minutes and 26 seconds.
“Therefore, I would need to instruct the inn’s porter to rouse you from your slumber precisely 11 minutes and 26 seconds passed 8 o’clock. And prior to this, I get drugged precisely at 8. You then receive an urgent letter; you run to the police station at the top of your speed; you arrive there, 8 minutes and 37 seconds elapsing.
“You then inform the police; you, accompanied by them, at Sugarcube Corner, 9 minutes and 57 seconds elapsing.
“They then uncover the secret of the green circular carpet and what lies beneath it; they enter the basement; then catch Pinkie Pie perhaps raising a knife to my heard while I, at that precise moment, regain my conscious. They then lay her arrest.
“But in order to get the police’s involvement, I must get a warrant signed under the charges of two willful murders to legalize the arrest. But I ordered the warrant to be only used when called upon.”
“But why did you ask for Stanley Trotkins to remain behind well after his shift ended?”
“For I needed to take advantage of his youthful naivety.”
“In what?”
“He is, compared to Gregcolt or Jones, dare I say, gullible and inexperienced in the field of detection. If I were to present either Gregcolt or Jones to a warrant of some sort of serial killer, they would not believe me, for they are experienced and could identify if there is indeed such a criminal running about. But in Trotkins’ case, he could believe me, and I would use it as my advantage to detain him long enough, until I need him to catch a non-existent criminal.”
"That's rather manipulative on your part, I daresay, Pones,"
"It is my trade..." said Sherclop Pones.
I nodded my comprehension. Then something hit—these were the same procedures in which he had taken!
“But these are same exact same procedures in which you had employed today!” I cried. “You already knew that there had been no murder of Rainbow Dash, no criminalized Pinkie Pie—but why had you still done such work upon a completely fabricated case? Furthermore, why did you even still work on it?”
“As I have already said, Watcolt, I wanted to play along with the game, where the Changeling would least expect for me to know what it truly is. I had planned to catch it so off guard in order for it reveal to me its true form as I fooled it fooling me. I planned at the basement phase, where I would be regaining my consciousness, to say that I knew what it truly was thus revealing its true form out of surprise. Then, upon doing so, taking advantage of his surprise, demand what was the political crisis in which it wishes for me not to interfere with. It was here, upon executing this, Watcolt, I realized the gravity of the situation in which I found myself in.”
“What is it, then?”
“I have committed a great blunder, Watcolt.” said Pones gravely.
I frowned.
“How—in what way?” said I.
“For I had still fallen victim to the master schemer! Look—as it had been previously deduced, the sole purpose of this manufactured case was to retain me in Ponyville solving a non-existent crime for an entire day in order for the crisis—whatever it may be—to occur without my interference. And wanting to know what it is, I had still waisted an entire day in doing so, instead of simply going to Canterlot and ascertaining the crisis myself and saving not only myself from trouble, but to also prevent a possible catastrophe.”
“But why have you had to wait for the following morning? Was it not possible to alter the appointment’s occurrence? It would certainly save you a lot of trouble and perhaps even prevent the attack!”
“For if I were to do so, Watcolt, it would rouse Pinkie Pie—or the Changeling’s suspicions that I’m onto it, which would cause it to call it off. And thus, ruining any hopes for capture. I was, therefore, compelled to accept if I wished to extract a confession—”
“But doing so led you to neglect your brother’s urgent plead and had nearly caused the demise of the Equestrian Monarchy!”
Pones pursed his lips as he concurred the remark with a grave nod.
“Sweet Celestia, Pones!” I cried. “Why had you done this?”
“For I have been to conceited—too sure of myself—I wanted to make a big splash of the dramatic. It is my most fatal flaw, Watcolt—to be dramatic—I couldn’t resist employing it! I wanted to install fear upon the Changeling and extract a confession of the truth instead of simply going to the very place itself! Thus, ultimately, leading to the result of the crisis to still take place! I had still wasted an entire day, as it had been originally planned by the schemer. That is why I had been called by Myclop, to lecture me upon this point that if I hadn’t been too foolish, the entire fiasco could’ve avoided entirely, and that the Monarchy had been blessed by Twilight Sparkle for acting the way she did. He had done certain alternatives to snuff the Queen out and guaranteeing the protection of the Monarchy while waiting for my appearance—such as the Royal Guard’s protocols in search for a Changeling (in which we had been ourselves questioned), dispensing his most elite members to participate in the search, and ordering for a protective barrier to be cast in order to prevent any Changelings either entering or exiting. These, unfortunately, all was for naught. Though I was pardoned, I made a vow to refrain myself from ever revealing this to the public if I wish to avoid a public outrage.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“But who is this master schemer?!” I cried.
“When I had gotten a confession from the Changeling that it is indeed one—much to his surprise—and demanded what awaits me at Canterlot, this is where I realized my grave error. The Changeling had probably seen the look on my face as I reeled in fully to the horror of my situation, for it gave a hearty laugh. Then it mocked how I still practically lost to them. This then had me thinking—whoever designed this ingenious case, knowing that my taste for the dramatic would betray me and benefit him for his plot. But what is that plot?
“Since I had confirmed the presence of a Changeling and of criminal activity, it is safe to say that whatever the plot may be involved the Changelings. And since Myclop contacted me to deal with speaks its severity. But in order to assure its success by preventing my interference with it, another plot is schemed to divert my attention. But who schemed that other plot?
“Their leader—the Queen, I thought, couldn’t be the designer of this ingenious device of the red-herring case, for in order to do so, she must be well acquainted with my methods and traits in order for the appeal of the concocted case to work. But in order to be well acquainted of my nature, she would have to study my previous cases. But before she could do so, she would have to learn of my existence. But due to fact that she is a Changeling and that her kin remain isolated in the outskirts of Equestria, she couldn’t possibly know of me. And yet, she employed this ingenious device to drive my attention away from what they have in stored for the Monarchy--that is, if she were indeed the one who had crafted this device. With this doubt, I surmised the possibility that they received assistance from an exterior source from Equestira—one whom is actually well-acquainted with my methods.
“As I heard yours and Trotkins’ steps from above, I asked if they did indeed receive assistance from one, to which it admitted. I nearly learnt who that exterior source was till you and the young D.I came in.
“But when you had it pinned down, I was, at the last minute, got it out from it—”
“The Professor,” said I.
“Precisely; upon learning this, as you may remember, taking advantage of the earthquake, the Changeling escaped the scene. I then followed it with my intention of bringing it to Canterlot via teleportation in order to reveal the plot himself to me. And as you remember, we arrived there well disoriented—partly because teleporting from Ponyville to Canterlot is quite the Herculean task, which proved to be exhausting upon my powers. Due to our disoriented state, the Changeling chanced it and escaped. And once we regained our mental ground, we had only begun to realize full horror of the situation—a Changeling attack—that was plot in which they desired for me not interfere.”
I shivered upon recalling those memoires.
“But how?” said I. “I mean, why do they fear that their plans will come to naught if you did interfere? And how they did they fear you would do so?”
“I had thought of that,” said Pones. “In order to ascertain it, my first step was to confirm my theory that they—the Changelings had indeed received help from an exterior source known so romantically as the Professor in order to assure success of the ongoing attack.”
“That would explain why we tackled that Changeling down that alley!” said I, well-remembering its affirmation. "But why had you let it go?”
“For if I were to detain him long enough, we would waste time in doing so instead of spending it in making up for my mistakes by collaborating with the Mane Six. Therefore, I did what I did and released him. We then arrived at Canterlot Castle for the purpose in which I already stated—and to give answers to the question how came I to be mixed up with the matter. But as we fought our way through the horde, it was when Twilight Sparkle saved us and the Monarchy as well from our troubles—” He waved his hoof round the air and gestured it at the heroine, adorned in youthful feminine grace so prominent in the academic.
“How did you learn it, then?” said I, after a long pause.
“By the account of the Guard, as you may remember, we learned about the Queen’s plot—pose as the bride, steal the Captain’s love in order to gain power in preparation for the attack; but when she had gained enough power, she would be powerful enough to overthrow the Sisters and feast upon everyone’s love. Now, in order to understand where do I come to this, we must understand once more who had originally wished to direct my attention to this plot—my brother.
“As it had been previously stated, Myclop had sent for me this letter”—he raised it in front of me—“in order to direct my attention in solving a crisis in which he foresees at the upcoming marriage—that crisis is at it seems is the Changeling plot. But how does he expect me to help? There was not much specifics in his wire, but we could easily ascertain it by knowing what exactly is Myclop’s Caballus Club.
“He is, as I have already told you, of government employ. But I had never told you what position does he hold in it. Myclop Pones is the founder of the Caballus, a secret Government society. Its purpose is to detect any activities made by the Equestrian Monarchy’s most ancient enemies—Discord, Nightmare Moon, the Changelings, Lord Tirek, King Sombra, etc. etc. And if there were any indeed detected activity, that information would duly be reported to the Princess, whom, in turn, shall find a solution to the problem. Since its foundation, it has only found a purpose since the return of Nightmare Moon, when a slight anomaly was detected in the moon, which had brought suspicions of the worst. It was then reported Princess Celestia, and in response, had orchestrated events that led the future wielders of the Elements to meet one another’s acquaintances. As it is well known, the future band of heroes under memorable title of the Mane Six defeated the evil Mare of Darkness. A similar procedure had been used during the return of the Lord of Chaos, when activity had been detected in a specific location at the Sculpture Garden, which could only mean one thing. The Mane Six had then been summoned, and, despite some difficulties, managed to eventually return Discord back to stone after a millennium of being incarcerated in it.
“Now, if ever in case of the Changelings’ detection (like one right now), it is here where the Club encounters some difficulties. The Radar, the device in which they use to detect, has its limits—it could only detect activity within the borders of Canterlot, and nowhere else in the Monarchy. If a Changeling was detected within it, its exact location and its presence is only detected. But it is quite unable to detect what form exactly is it posing as. Let us say, for example, in a Government meeting, in it, a Changeling’s presence is detected amongst those present. The Club would, then, be left in quite the dilemma—who amongst them is the imposter? Therefore, it is up to them to ascertain which. They have, as it seems, come across a similar situation in the case of Queen Chrysalis’.
“When she had been detected, the Club was unable to detect that she was indeed the Queen, but just the presence of her being a Changeling. But they were able to locate where she was—amongst those present at the wedding preparations. Therefore, amongst the attendees, is a Changeling. This, then, brings us back to Myclop.
“It is no coincidence that Myclop had sent for me a letter at the exact same day when the Queen should have been detected in the wedding. Therefore, it is safe to say that his reason for wiring was to call attention to find amongst those present at the upcoming royal wedding who is the Changeling. Knowing my famous reputation, I more often than not solve a problem. So, the exterior source (whomever it may be) has come across quite the dilemma—how could he prevent me from attending the wedding. Something that must drive his attention away from it. Hence the “case.”
“Now, due to this fact, it becomes more impossible for a Changeling to know the existence of such a device as the Radar, and further reinforces the possibility to the presence of an exterior source that knows of its existence and found a loophole to counter it.
“And with this deduction, I was able to form a coherent narrative of events—
“The Queen had concocted a devious plan, perhaps one that been years and years of hard work, that is taking advantage of the upcoming royal marriage of Captain Shining Armor and Princess Mi Amore Cadenza in order to overthrow the Equestrian Monarchy and feed its love to her subjects, by posing as the former’s the gaining power by stealing the latter’s love until she is much powerful to stage her coup. It was here that she had received the help from an exterior source named “the Professor.”
“For some reason quite unclear, she and him had struck quite the relationship, and the former had placed her confidence entirely upon the latter to ensure the success of her plan in which the Professor spotted a fatal flaw in. That fatal flaw being the existence of the Caballus Club.
“The Club would, upon the Queen’s action of posing as Her Highness and imprisoning the latter—her presence as a mere Changeling would be immediately detected under the watchful eye of the Club. Its leader—my brother, as a solution to this problem, would send for me to snuff out the imposter amongst the attendees. Thus, ultimately ruining years of hard work on the Queen’s part.
“It may be perhaps that some attempts were made to find an alternative plan to avoid such a detection, but looking at how matters turned out, the Queen had insisted upon her original plan. The Professor, then, concocts plan on how counter this dilemma—maybe he had thought of intercepting the wire, but that would be quite the Herculean task for the Club would never permit for anyone to simply intercept a wire; perhaps the idea of silencing both parties—both me and my brother—in order to save the trouble, but that would cause unwanted attention. Therefore, that too has to be eliminated. If the Professor can’t intercept the wire, nor silence either of the Holmes, what remains is the younger one—me. How could the Professor prevent me from receiving the wire and interfering with the Queen’s plan without causing much of a fuss. By keeping me too busy to pay heed to the plead. And what keeps me busy? By the presentation of a case. Hence the “disappearance” of Rainbow Dash.
“Now, for this procedure to work, the case in which the Professor shall present to me must have the basic elements in which the typical case that the latter finds appealing. Now, what kind of case does Sherclop Pones find appealing?
“Looking back at previous cases, each one had shared at least one thing common—the element of mystery—the bizarre, the peculiar, the grotesque—one in which promises the game—one in which shall challenge my intellectual powers and act as mental stimulus, and often just for my mere pleasure. And often, that mystery element often leads to a serious crime. Now, if this case possesses this element, this shall compel me to accept it. So, what is that “mystery element” in which the case that shall be presented to me? As it was seen, the mystery element are the mysterious circumstances surrounding the queer disappearance of the famed athlete—Rainbow Dash.
“We then move on to the point in my deductions—
“Since the vast majority of the cases in which I partake action in more often not conclude with a criminal revelation with certain vague but suggestive clues that may lead to it. Therefore, the case must be a criminal one. What, then, are the elements of a criminal case? In dissecting the elements that make up the average case, they are as follows—
- The devious crime - The devious criminal - The innocent victim - The unsuspecting and naïve witness - What had the witness witnessed
The crime, the criminal, the victim—bringing justice upon all of them is what shall keep me too occupied from interfering with the coup. The criminal had committed a seemingly flawless crime upon his or her unsuspecting victim in which—the crime—had left several damning pieces of evidence that hints its existence and if pieced together with order and method, one may be able to deduce what happened. Now, how would I would be presented to this? Often by the unsuspecting and naïve witness (whom is in some way or another concerned for the victim’s well-being), whom had witness just enough to trouble him or her, but not enough to suspect criminal activity, and mysterious enough that it compels him or her to consult upon my services. He or she would do so in the form of a stated narrative. The clues in which shall lead to the clearing up of the mystery—like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—lie hidden and scattered across the narrative, being unknowingly the clues. And it is up to me to put them together and form a coherent explanation for it by the applications of mg methods—deductive reasoning and reasoning backwards. I would then depart to the place where the witness had witnessed something in order to confirm my theories, and if they are, he shall orchestrate events that shall end in the criminal’s arrest. That is the typical case.
“Now, in this case—well, at least the one presented to us, where are these alluded elements? They are within Ms. Hooves’ narrative, with its contents being the pieces of the puzzle.
“This is where my initial deductions come in
“Pinkie Pie murdering Rainbow Dash for her own sadistic pleasure is the crime
“Pinkie Pie is the criminal
“Rainbow Dash is the victim
“Ms. Derpy Hooves is the unsuspecting and naïve witness
“Her narrative is what contains the clues of the mystery
“In Ms. Hooves’ narrative they seem to hint out, though extremely vague but extremely suggestive at the same, to foul play. Now, the Professor designed this specifically to toy with my imagination in order to arouse my interests and then eventually compel me to take up the case.
"Having formed my deductions, I am thus compelled to set off inquiries to confirm them. Thus, also leading me to leave for Ponyville where he shall spend the majority of my time solving an entirely fictitious case as the crime—the coup—is in contemplation.
“Now, this brings in a new question—why had the actors of this drama had been specifically chosen for it? Why had, for example, Pinkie Pie been chosen specifically to be the devious murderer? Then again, why had Rainbow Dash been chosen to be her victim? Why had been Derpy Hooves chosen to be the naïve and unsuspecting witness/client? Why had the crime scene need to be specifically at Ponyville? We could only ascertain the answer by judging the actors—in other words, studying their characters and find something that may appeal to the Professor’s object.
“Why had been Ponyville chosen to be place of the crime? To answer it, we must ask ourselves again why had been the fake case been presented to us?”
“To drive your attention away from the upcoming wedding.” I answered.
“Where is the wedding due to take place?”
“In Canterlot.”
“Where does Sherclop Pones takes his residence in?”
“221B Baker Street.”
“Where is it?”
“Canterlot?”
Sherclop Pones clasped his hooves together.
“Now,” said he coldly. “if the fake case were to take place in Canterlot, if I were ever to grow suspicious, I would be such in an easy distance to the one place in which is desperate for my presence—that is the royal wedding. The Queen’s plan and the Professor’s assistance would all be for naught. Therefore, it must take place as far from Canterlot as possible—but is also an ideal place for a serial killing to take place where it is reasonable for such a thing to occur. Now, let us analyze Ponyville—it is a relatively peaceful countryside, mostly devoid of crime, has a relatively far distance from the capital—there it is! It is the last place for such devious acts to be committed due to is low crime rate and it is distant enough from Canterlot for me to interfere.
“Now, why had been Pinkie Pie chosen for the role of the devious criminal? To know, we must ask ourselves who is Pinkie Pie—what is Pinkie Pie’s nature? She is a happy-go-lucky individual, without a single care in the world. She has a bubbly personality. She cares for the well-being of others by bringing happiness to their lives, no matter what circumstance. She is practically the most wholesome citizen of the entirety of Ponyville! But why had she been chosen to be the criminal? It is such a contrast to her bubbly nature and to be this cold-blooded sadistic homicidal psychopath.
“But, why?” said I. “Why indeed? She isn’t the ideal figure to be the criminal for she is the least to be associated with such horrific crimes!”
“But, there!” said Sherclop Pones. “—there is the answer. She was chosen because she is who she is—she is too innocent to be associated with such sinister deeds that she is the ideal criminal to appeal to my imagination, and compel me even more to take up the case.”
“And as for Rainbow Dash?”
“What is she, then?
“Well, she has a reputation of being a worthy individual. To be the victim of a devious crime is such an of injustice upon her part for she does not deserve—”
“There it is! That is the answer—because the Professor needed someone who is totally undeserving of such a demented treatment—and Rainbow Dash is the result, for she is the most ideal heroine of that small town.
“Now as for Derpy Hooves—why had she been chosen to be the naïve and unsuspecting witness? Now, in order to answer this, we must not draw our answer from studying the character of the Derpy Hooves that spent the majority of her presence in the case, for that Derpy Hooves is a Changeling, therefore we can’t judge her character from an imposter. Instead, we judge from the real one. I had just one limited exposure to the real Derpy Hooves—that is what Billy portrayed on what she had looked like. Well, from what we could ascertain from the young lad’s narrative, Derpy Hooves is a kind-hearted individual, but at the same time, a blundering idiot. Now, the Professor needs for the client in his concoction to be in some way concerned for the victim’s well-being, but also stupid to not notice the significance on what she had witnessed. Therefore, Derpy Hooves is the ideal figure he needs for she is a blundering idiot, but a kind-hearted individual.
“Now, why was the case the way it is—why does the crime needed to committed in such a fashion. Two reasons—
“The vague yet suggestive clues of it appeals very much to my’ ever-active imagination, and two—a very cruel crime gives me a sense of duty. If a case were to possess both elements, I am bound to partake action in it.
“Now, having explained this, we come to the next question—why had been a Changeling needed? Why had it posed as the actors of this particular fabricated drama? Well, in order to ascertain their answers, we must put ourselves in the Professor’s shoes—
“You, Watcolt, wish to drive my attention away from the real crime in which its success you assured by presenting to him an entirely concocted case that bears not a single ounce of truth, but it must give an impression upon me that it is not so and that it is worth my undivided attention. Therefore, you design it to be authentic as possible—you thought of the crime, the criminal, the victim, the dumb witness, the clue etc. etc. But these are all in paper—now here comes the real problem—how do you convert the written into reality? There must be actors in this case! But you can’t have Pinkie Pie murdering Rainbow Dash and Derpy Hooves witnessing it—that is an absurd notion! That is certain to attract unwanted attention! Nor can you commit an actual crime for that would have the same effect. Therefore, you are compelled to stick to your original plan—but the problem still remains—the actors! Then, you realize something—your clients—they are Changelings—they possess the capability of taking on different forms into absolute perfection.
“So that’s that! The problem is solved! A Changeling shall pose as both the client who shall present the case and the criminal. There is no need to pose as Rainbow Dash for she had already been murdered. All the Professor has to do is to ask for a volunteer Changeling from the Queen.
“Now, doing so leads to the suggestion that some sort of deal had been made between each party—the Changeling Kingdom and the Professor—where both benefit from one another in both their expeditions. Either willingly or unwillingly, the Queen obliged by offering one of her subjects—as the results show.
“And thus, it was decided—the plot is ripe for execution—
“The Queen was to imprison Her Highness—Princess Mi Amore Cadenza below the forgotten caverns of Canterlot, while the former poses as the latter; she then gains the necessary power in which she shall use for the attack by stealing the Captain’s love over his wife.
“Myclop detects this and directs a wire to me via coded telegram; before I was to receive it, the volunteer Changeling consults upon my services, posing as the “client;” it presents to a nearly-convincing narrative; it then takes me to Ponyville in order to confirm my “deductions”; it directs me purposely to a prearranged “crime scene;” I then work my way to bring justice upon Pinkie Pie (whom is being posed by the same Changeling) for an entire day;
“Meanwhile at the Royal Wedding, the Queen slowly but surely gains power—she does this until the big event—then the attack commences, destroy the protective barrier (which the earthquake in which we had felt indicated its destruction), and their kin benefits greatly with the feast before them. Thus, not only giving profit to the Changeling Kingdom, but sharing it with the one whom had contributed greatly to its success—"
“This, then, brings us a new question—who is the Professor?”
Sherclop Pones, upon concluding on his long and extraordinary and fantastic statement, leaned back upon his chair, and blew a large puff of smoke. There he remained silent, smoking his cigar, as we watched the Captain join his wife in the carriage, and as Twilight Sparkle watched it depart. Here I watched them and the other five of the Six absent-mindedly, as I thought how much Equestria owes its continual existence to this little band of young heroines. Ms. Sparkle seemed to remark something, for her mouth moved, but I was quite unable to hear it despite being in a near distance. The sound of detonating fireworks and the upbeat music drowned her words.
Her juvenile dragon that had rested on top of Ms. Pie’s curly-maned head seemed to tell a joke, for upon uttering a statement, the Six broke into laughter.
Then, breaking me from my reverie, Sherclop Pones, in a voice of his cold-blooded and reserved demeanor, said once more—
“Who is the Professor?” He gave a dramatic pause. “What kind of cruel monster could ever commit such an act of treason just for his own selfish benefit—and in the process, was willing to sacrifice the millions who live under the Monarchy in order to do so? It speaks volumes of unmitigated evil. And with that evil had been infinitely rendered more dangerous by his talent of ruthless mathematical efficiency in which he employed to ensure the plot’s success, who knows the extent of it! How many more ponies would suffer under his grasp? He had nearly succeeded in his plans, if Twilight Sparkle hadn’t placed her confidence upon her feminine instincts to act—Sweet Celestia, imagine the horror! Who is he, then?”
“Who indeed,” said I. “It seems impossible to name him. We know not a single slither of his identity!”
“Yes, indeed we do not,” said Pones coolly as he disintegrated the remnants of his cigar into thin air with his horn. “We may not, Watcolt, know who he is, however, but can know WHAT he is.”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean by that?”
“We can form a vague outline image of his malevolent character by the knowledge we know. And in doing so, we may, to a certain sense, determine who the Professor is. Let us begin by reasoning forwards with our information—
“He has a great intellectual mind of ruthless mathematical faculties—that point is absolutely certain, for the way in which he employed this wild goose chase speaks volumes of his extreme mental powers that, I daresay, may be in par with my own intellectual field. He had intercepted my nature and my traits and found a way to counter it and use it against me in order to achieve his ultimate goal…who’s to say that he isn’t a great intellectual?
“He is a great evil—he committed an act of treason just for his own and (and unknown) and selfish benefit. And in the process of doing so risked millions of lives just for it. It radiates of his unhinged and unsympathetic wrath.
“The next point in which I am about to state, Watcolt, may impress you to be too fantastic to believe—the Professor, as I sense, runs an organization—”
“My dear Pones!”
“Why, yes, do you not yourself see it? Committing such a diabolical act surely couldn’t benefit just ONE individual. There are other benefactors at play...”
“But how did you come to this?”
“By returning to the suggestion that some sort of deal had been between both parties in which enable them to benefit from one another, I questioned in what way could this Professor benefit from it? The Changelings we already know—they feast upon the love of the Monarchy, but how does ensuring their success of doing so benefit the Professor? He has to, in some way or another—but in what way is that way? We can only ascertain that answer by going back round to how the relationship of both parties started—
“The Queen had listened to the Professor’s reasoning, and agrees to assist her in the plot. But in order for her to agree upon it, she must’ve placed her full trust upon him. And in doing so, the Professor attains an ally in his part.”
“A very powerful ally indeed,” said I. “But how—oh! Of course! That was his reason—to attain an ally! But how does that lead to your deduction that he runs an organization?”
“By attaining such a powerful ally (which further reinforces the idea of a win-win negotiation) provides him the opportunity to use her to his own benefit in future expeditions—”
“Expeditions in what?”
“Power, Watcolt—that is the driving force of all that is evil.”
“Power for what?”
Sherclop Pones shook his head gravely. He then continued—
“This, then, further supports the idea of running an organization and reject the one of single individual of the driving motive of his acts. For what could an Equestrian such as himself (as he previously deduced to be) benefit from attaining such an ally unless he was running organization?”
“Sweet Celestia!” I cried, placing a hoof to my forehead. “What conclusions do you form from this, then?”
Sherclop Pones turned round his chair, curling himself up in it with his knees drawn up to his hawk-like muzzle, as his eyes remained motionless, he said in his cold and analytical fashion:
“The Professor possess unpaired intellectual capabilities and a ruthless talent of mathematical efficiency in which he employs to manage and even strengthen a mighty organization that runs deep into society, and that he is willing to take the most extreme of measures to achieve his goal—”
“But what is that goal?”
“That, we may never know until we know for ourselves who the Professor is.”
“But WHO is he?!”
Pones shook his head with a grave expression.
“I do not know, I’m afraid,” said he. “It is, as you remarked, impossible to know for we do not know a slither of his identity, and yet we know WHAT he is. Nevertheless, he is as mysterious and unknown as his motives.”
He trailed off and entered yet into another reverie. His mind embarked on another unknown line of thought.
Sherclop Pones, who had remained utterly in silence during this strange event, merely continued to stare blankly at the Six as they danced along amongst the crowd. It was clear that he was equally unnerved as I had been of our adventures, for, using his pea-jacket like a warm blanket, he wrapped himself in it. He then heaved a sigh as he looked up at the night sky. He looked at my direction, but his eyes seemed to look far into the future.
“Who is he, Watcolt? said he. “Who truly is the Professor? Is he some ancient entity such as the kind of Discord, or Grogar, or Lord Tirek? Or is he something much—worse? Is he a being of pure and unhinged evil that he takes pleasure in tormenting the lives of millions; does he wish to bend the will of the Monarchy to his own bidding; or is he—well, whatever he may be, Watcolt, justice shall be brought upon him. However clever, I’ll bring it to him!”
“But how?!” I cried. “With his power, as you say he has, it is impossible to beat this king-devil!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, my dear Watcolt. He may be all-powerful, but he isn’t unbeatable as you say he is. How do you expect we are still here where we are now? He may have concocted the ingenious case to divert me—and divert me it did—”
“But you saw through his lie!”
“And the attack still happened, did it not? Nevertheless, Watcolt, it still resulted to a complete and utter failure for he made a very tiny blunder—that is neglecting to account a very vital factor—that this the existence of Twilight Sparkle. He had never appreciated the point that if a Changeling were to take on a form and steal one’s identity, that the associates of the one whose identity is being theft may find something a bit off in his friend’s demeanor—like it isn’t his friend at all—and eventually came to conclusion that he is an imposter. Thus, doing this, resulted to everything coming to naught—his concoction and the Queen’s plot—they were all for nothing. You see, he isn’t unbeatable—like how I am. I had let my conceit get the best of me, while his neglect for equine nature and perhaps, dare I say, the value of friendship, did to his. Just give me time—just give me time, even it may cost my neck, and I shall deliver him into the doorstep of justice...”
“No, my dear fellow,” said I. “We shall do this together—till the bitter end.”
Sherclop Pones, whom had conveyed more emotions in this night more than within the entirety of our acquaintance, looked at me appreciatively. He then extended a hoof, while I accepted it. His expression beamed expressively, as if to thank me: his thin grey eyes twinkling.
We then sat in silence, smoking our cigars as we admired the illuminated night sky and languidly reposed in the immersion of the sound of music and jubilation: uncertain of the future that lay ahead of us.
