The Adventures of Sherclop Pones

Chapters

Inquiry and Deduction
Pones' Informant
Shyness and Theatrics
Our Problem of the Pathway
H.R.H.C.
Sparkling Cider and a Fine Riesling
The Next Day
Clopson: An Analsysis
One Last Problem
2: The Wonderbolt Incident
Miss Dash
One
Two
Three
Night Watch
Quick as a Flash
3. The Adventure of the Canterlot Colleges
Saddlesore
1. The Adventure of the Lion's Diamond
A Heart-Shaped Gem

Inquiry and Deduction

I rose and dressed swiftly in the morning, leaving my hotel room to roam the market stalls once more. I was in no mood for a hearty breakfast, instead opting for a small, delectable pastry from an elderly shopkeeper’s stall before I hailed a hansom cab. I paid the driver a few silver bits, and was soon underway, and after a brief journey across the city, I arrived at the address that Pones had given me.

On first glance, number 221B Baker Street was a very comfortable abode. It was a moderately sized thing that appeared to have been built for some gentlepony that I knew must live there no longer. The suburb in which Baker Street lay was called Woodrow, and I was somewhat unsure as I cast my inattentive gaze out the window of the hansom cab as it bumped along the road. Woodrow was renowned for being an extremely expensive part of town to live in, usually reserved for the rich and elite. In fact, many of the properties appeared to be quite large and luxurious – some were overly grand in that obnoxious way that always irritated me so, and I was unsure if Mr. Pones had understood my predicament, as I had wanted cheaper lodgings, not more expensive ones.

But, as the roads turned into streets, the majestic mansions that decorated either side of the road were replaced by avenues of trees and smaller, more appropriate houses that settled my nerves. The cab ground to a halt and I stepped out onto the cobbled pavement, where I first laid my eyes on my future abode.

It was, as I mentioned, very snug and cosy looking, a quaint red brick house with a dark tiled roof; two stories in height and not overly large, with white trimmings around the windows. From the iron front gate, I could see several lights on upstairs that shone from between silver-white curtains.

221 Baker Street was caught between two larger and more palatial establishments. On its left, there was a grand house dressed in classical Equestrian style, and on the other side, an unobtrusive yet elegant Tudor manor of grey stone and red wooden trimmings. Number 221 sported quite a garden, and the land must have undoubtedly cost a substantial sum of money, though overall the house paled in comparison to the far more luxurious residences that I had seen on my journey here. I breathed a sigh of relief, thanked the cab driver, and as I had already paid my fare, opened the chest-high gate with one hoof before strolling up a brick path towards the brown oak front door.

I had barely rapped on the door once before it swung open, and there before me stood a portly magenta pony. She had a pair of beady magenta eyes that I remember quite well upon reflection – one felt that as your eyes met hers, that she was attempting to bore through you, and it was quite uncomfortable to meet her stony gaze for any prolonged period of time. I suspected from the crow’s feet either side of her eyes that was in her mid-forties, and she wore the clothes of a wealthy lady. She surveyed me with some suspicion, even though I felt I was quite well dressed and presentable.

“Hullo,” I began politely. “I’m here to inspect the room along with Mr. Pones?”

As if the name of Pones was a key to her kindness, her face seemed to relax and she smiled at me, the corners of her cheeks touching the wrinkles around her eyes.

“Ah! You must be the good Doctor Trotson. Please, come in.”

A brief exchange of names took place. Her name was Mrs. Wilhelmina Emerald, and she was currently employed as the Mistress of the household of her husband, one James Emerald. James, as the surname might suggest, was a wealthy industrialist who owned a gem mine several hours to the north, near Hoofington. Travel to and from the mine every day, even though he was merely the owner and as such did not need to supervise, would have been taxing and expensive -- for while there were trains to Hoofington, they only ran biweekly, as she explained to me. Instead, he lived out of town, while she rented his room to let.

“I see you’ve taken up with Mr. Pones, then?” She inquired amiably, leading me beyond the doorway and down a long, spacious hall. I nodded my reply wordlessly as I scoped out the interior of the modest abode.

The walls were lined with paintings of the countryside in its different seasons; and though all were pretty there were none I recognised. Beneath my hooves, I felt the gentle tickle of a fine rug, and above my head there radiated the dull glow of a modest chandelier. I immediately took a liking to the place much more than I had my hotel – for while the house was well kept and aesthetically pleasing, it was not overly pretentious. There were no eastern vases on fine, hand crafted stands, or excessive trimmings on the walls as were to be found in the houses of other rich ponies that I had met.

Such was my distraction with the inner beauty of the place that I almost bumped into Mrs. Emerald as she paused in her stride. To her right there lay a few flights of wooden steps that led upstairs, and she turned to me.

“Mr. Pones is already upstairs – He's already set everything to his liking, so feel free to shift some of the decorations around as it suits you.”

“Thank you,” I replied courteously, and without a further word proceeded up the stairs.

I emerged into a shorter hallway, upon which there was one door to the left (which presumably lead to a guest’s room or spare room) and another one on the right. At the end of the hallway there lay a window draped with lace curtains, bathing the upstairs area with a soft glow of sunlight. I stood for a moment, earnestly gambling on which door to try, and at length chose the right-hand side. The door opened, and I poked my head in.

This room was quite different from the ones I had been in. It was small and square, and it had a polished wooden floor with a single, large, circular rug cast over it. Two tall, red armchairs were placed very deliberately in front of what appeared to be a large and well used fireplace, and a small hand-table lay between them.

This was obviously a study of some sort – and to confirm my suspicions, my gaze fell upon several wooden filing cabinets stowed in the corner of the room. To my immediate left was a long bureau, topped with leather and wood and boasting a fine gold inlay. Laid in the sunlight offered by a window, it appeared quite luxurious, and as I ran a hoof over its smooth surface, I wondered quite how wealthy my new roommate was.

Whatever inch of wall space that was not occupied by door, window, desk or cabinet, there were tall bookshelves that touched the ceiling, stacked high with immense volumes on anatomy, chemistry and history, some of which I recognised from my years at medical school. There was also an elegant cabinet of mahogany and crystal glass stowed away in the far right corner as one entered. On it, there stood many fine bottles of spirits and boxes of tobacco; with presumably more of the same inside; and to its left, a tall white door that lead to another room.

As my gaze fell upon the door, I saw its brass knob turned, and out from the room beyond stepped my strange companion.

“Ah, Trotson! On time, I see,” he said, nodding his greeting. He carried in both forearms a large stack of files, and he planted them beside the filing cabinet opposite the door before returning to all fours, and shaking my hoof once more.

After talking briefly, he showed me his room and mine, which had been across the way. Mine appeared to have been a guest room of some descript, and was fitted with a desk and several cupboards where my belongings might be kept, along with a large bed. His room appeared to be a slight smaller, but it did not bother him – ‘Homely enough’, he had said of it dismissively.

We then took our leave of the comfortable abode, and together we traveled back to the hotel and retrieved a portion of my possessions each. I was very grateful to Pones, and I spent the next day settling down and accommodating myself to my new surroundings, returning to the hotel only once to retrieve a final box of goods I was unable to carry. The day after that was spent furnishing my room, so that I might feel more at home.

We spent most of our time in the study area when we were not out, and soon I learned that Pones was a very easy fellow to live with. He was not a pony of creature comforts, as it were; and his habits were very precise and regular. It was highly uncommon for him to be awake into the small hours of the morning, retiring at around ten-thirty every night without fail, and rising extremely early, having breakfasted downstairs with Mrs. Emerald and departed before I had even woken up on most mornings.

On some days, he spent his afternoons at the hospital where I had met him first, sussing out a new formula or new ingredient. His works were mostly lost on me, and he did not speak of them unless I inquired of him as to his doings. Even then, he was not overly liberal in his details, claiming it was research into some kind of plant or mineral – not something I would be interested in at the best of times, so I did not pursue it.

As a few days went by and I became less busy with settling down, my interest in my strange companion piqued. He appeared to be full of a restless energy that was dissipated only by his work. Every now and again, he would lie on the sofa and murmur his thoughts to himself until he was taken by something, at which instant he would seize his coat, and, as if struck by a lightning, race off to the hospital once more, where he spent much of his time in the anatomy and chemistry department. Such strange behaviour accentuated his extremely unusual and almost striking appearance, but he did not seem to be bothered by it at all.

He was quite tall and lean – not quite a beanpole among ponies, but nevertheless he stuck out a little. He had small, brown eyes that possessed a rather hawk-like gaze not dissimilar to the one that Mrs. Emerald was capable of giving, though he was not as scrutinising as she. Instead, he gave the appearance of curiously examining whatever it was he was focusing on, and as such it gave him an air of awareness and sensibility that I had never found in any other pony before. His coat was silvery grey, and his mane of a fair auburn curl that was often concealed underneath a close fitting tartan cap when he went out. His preferred garb was a green, patterned waistcoat and a white open necked shirt. When he departed for some meeting or event, his dress was closer to formal, but still carried with it a Bohemian quality - often he would wear a single breasted frock coat with a waistcoat of dark green and gold flower patterned silk, and if it was cold enough, a scarf of the same material.

In fact, it was not until Saturday morning, almost four days after I had moved in, that I learnt of his occupation. I had asked many days earlier if he was a practitioner of medicine as Felicia had thought, and he claimed that he was not. His pattern of knowledge was so bizarre and uncommon that I could not guess what his career was, yet he possessed a certain zeal for whatever it might have been that amazed me. Such work ethic and dogged determination to achieve answers in every question that he had were very strange for a pony who did not appear to be a doctor or any other intellectual occupation, yet I was sure that he had at least some goal that motivated him.

Perhaps it was the exactness in his learning that drove him so, and I thought at one moment that he may have been a professor at one of the many colleges that littered Canterlot.

“Not so,” said he.

He had relatively frequent guests, sometimes several of them at once, though none of them appeared to convey any clues as to his identity or occupation, as they were as varied as he was – from old to young, male and female, and even on occasion members of the police, dressed in their dapper navy uniforms. During their visits, Pones would always ask of me for use of the study, to which I obliged out of politeness, but he never told me what it was that he discussed with the strangers that would so often come and go.

His mind held facts that baffled me, and concerned all manner of sinister dealings. He had no knowledge of literature or politics or philosophy – during one conversation I mentioned Hippocrates to him, to which he inquired who he was and what he had done. He had only a small knowledge of politics and geology, but knew a good deal about poisons and chemistry, as well as anatomy and, most worrying of all, famous crimes of the last century. My bemusement reached an astonishing highpoint on the Saturday that I mentioned, when I discovered inadvertently over a spot of morning tea that he had no idea who Princess Luna was, or any knowledge of how the sun rose in the morning, followed by the moon at night.

“You seem surprised,” he commented, smiling at my bewilderment. “And now that I know such a thing, I shall forget it almost instantly.”

I blustered some words, attempting to make reason out of his ignorance. “But whatever for?” I cried.

“It makes not a shred of difference to me,” he said, raising his eyebrows at my indignation, “Whether the moon rise or fall over sideways at night, nor would learning about the forces that cause it to do so. It would not make a difference to my work, and as such I have no benefit in remembering it.”

“And pray tell, what is your line of work?” I answered. He fixed me with a glare that I met with one of my own - I grew tired of simply guessing as to what his occupation was, and I was determined to get an answer from the enigmatic pony.

“I am a consulting detective, Trotson, if you can understand what that is," he replied, with just a hint of smugness. "Here in Canterlot, we have many detectives hired by the police, and just as many private ones. When they falter, they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right track. Hence my interests, which you find unusual, and my clients, who possess no common thread, to answer your other trivial bothers with me.”

I was again baffled by his clairvoyance of my questions.

“How in Equestria do you do that?” I commented.

“Do what?” He inquired, seemingly unaware of his own ability.

“You did it when we met, and again just now – how did you know I had been recently travelling, and how do you know now that I find your interests unusual?”

“Ah, that! That is just an intuition that I have,” he replied casually, returning to his slice of toast. “Many people find it useful, and so often I am presented with cases where the only things left to do are to use logic and deduction, and to point them in the right direction.” He continued, even though I had not inquired as to the specifics of what he spoke of. “For my knowing that you found me strange, it was not a case of anything specific – no, it was more due to the fact that I saw you reading the books that I had left lying around.”

He paused to wipe away a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “But as for the former, I used my brain to know that you had traveled recently.”

I snorted.

“Surely you were told.”

“Nothing of the sort, my good pony,” he said, a knowing smile forming over his face. “I knew that you had traveled by the simple power of observation, and I arrived at the conclusion quite easily. My thoughts began, ‘Here is a gentlecolt of a scientific nature, but he has the self importance of a well educated pony. Clearly he is a doctor then, which would be further suggested by his close acquaintance with the good Doctor Redheart. He has traveled recently, for his coat is quite light, even though his fetlocks are a darker brown, which suggests he has been abroad, and his appearance is somewhat too reserved to suggest that he did so in luxury.’”

I sat, stunned by the wave of information that had immediately occurred to me as quite obvious and telling.

“...Furthermore, he has been troubled by some strange detail lately, as could be seen in his weary face when he spoke to me, and,’” he added, to a horrid lurch of my stomach, “‘he was rather infatuated with the good Miss Redheart, as indicated by the tensing of his chin when she smiled at him, and the dilation of his pupils as his heart beat fas-’”

“I beg your pardon,” I snapped uncomfortably, “but I am aware of the function of the circulatory system.”

He paused and smiled at me, undoubtedly aware of the bind he had put me into.

“So as you can see, it is simple enough,” he concluded, taking another bite of his breakfast.

“Indeed,” I added, after a moment in which I composed myself. “It is quite simple. You remind me of a cunning wizard from the books I read in my childhood, appearing to know and see all.”

Pones swallowed the mouthful of his toast.

“I assume you are referring to Star-Swirl the Bearded?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Quite so,” I replied, still irritated. “In any case, what you did was a mean trick, and indeed you could not repeat it!”

He laughed and clopped his hooves together once, as he had when I had first met him – it was as if it was his way of showing great delight at some new discovery or problem. He rose from the table, and walked over by the window, pointing with a forehoof to a rather confused pony outside who was slowly turning on the spot, looking all around him as if quite lost. He carried a hefty saddlebag around his back and wore a faint red cap on his head, and sported very muscular features, accompanied by a great beard.

“Take that fellow over there, then, Trotson – what do you make of him?”

I squinted out the window, frowning. “He is the postman, no doubt.”

“Actually, this is not his first occupation,” said Pones, turning his glance away for a half-second before doing a double-take. “He was, up until recently, the first mate of a boat in the navy. In fact, here he comes now.”

I rose to answer the door, and Pones followed me. I opened the door, and there before me stood the muscular, squat figure of the postman. He smiled kindly, and bade us both good morning, before brandishing a letter.

“For Mr. Sherclop Pones,” he said, brushing past me and handing the letter to my friend. He smiled pleasantly and began to leave, but I called out to him as he trotted off the veranda.

“Excuse me, but may I ask what your occupation is?”

The postman turned, a look of confusion on his face.

“Why, I am a postman, sir.” he replied bluntly. He looked down at himself briefly, before looking back up to us as comprehension dawned on him. “Ah – I’m only new to the job, so I have not my uniform yet.”

“And what was your occupation before this?” I inquired.

“Why, I was first mate to a ship in the Royal Navy, sir.”

He threw a small salute, and departed as swiftly as he had arrived.

I turned to Pones. My irritation had given way to resignation, and I watched him as he opened and read the letter addressed to him.

“And what obvious clues were there to indicate all that?” I inquired.

“Indicate what?” Pones replied.

I snorted in exasperation and pressed him further. “How did you know that he was last employed as a sailor?”

“You are not aware?" he said idly, his eyes flitting over the pink note.

“No, I am not.”

“Why, it was easier to simply know it! Explaining it is quite difficult," He commented. He took his eyes off the note, and focused at a spot on the floor, his brow furrowed, as if explaining his deed required concentration.

“The conclusion runs thusly;” he began. “He is clearly a postman as indicated by his cap, but he lacks a uniform. He also appears to be quite lost. Together, these things indicate a new job – if one of his size and stature were to have a uniform made for him, it would have to be tailored, and what veteran postman would be lost in his own neighborhood? Additionally, he had a blue anchor and crown tattooed just above his hoof, which, combined with his large stature, suggested that he had been enlisted in the navy at one point. And then there was his beard, which in its trim and style suggested that he was a respectable sort of fellow, and therefore was a ranking officer of some description, though not high enough to prevent him from taking a second job upon his leaving the navy.”

He turned and looked at my again-shocked expression.

“...Incredible!” I said, in wonder.

“Not quite,” said Pones with another smile, “though I don't doubt it might appear so. It was just common application of logic and deduction.” He then thrust the letter at me. I accepted it with some surprise, as it was not mine, and my inquisitive look to him evoked a reply.

“The policeman who visited yesterday afternoon wrote this to me – his name is Inspector Lestrade, and he works for Trotland Yard.”

“Trotland Yard…” I repeated in a daze, thinking to where I had heard the name before. “Are you referring to the most elite investigative branch of the police force?”

“Yes indeed,” Pones replied, with a nonchalance that belied the importance of what he said. “Have a read of it, and tell me what you make of it.”

“What I make of it?” I replied incredulously. Surely, I reasoned to myself, there was nothing that I could see that his clearly staggering mind could not.

“Just so, my dear Trotson,” he said, clapping an amiable hoof on my shoulder. “You seem to be something of a thinker yourself, so perhaps you might enjoy the read.”

“But is it not confidential?” I asked.

“No, no,” he replied, removing the hoof from my shoulder and fetching his coat and hat from a rack by the door. “It’s merely another case for me to work on, and I understand you will be traveling that way to visit Miss Redheart later this evening,” he remarked.

I did as I was bade, opening the folded note between my hooves and looking down at it. It was written in neat, cursive letters, on a pink slip of notepad paper, and it ran as follows:

TO THE DESK OF MR. SHERCLOP PONES;

221B Baker Street, Woodrow, Canterlot,

I write to you in hopes that I might acquire your assistance regarding a certain case. It concerns the theft of several precious jewels from the premises of one Lady Rarity –

At this point, I looked up at my compatriot, who was still busy fastening his coat around his neck.

“Good Celestia,” I said with wonder, “Is this the Lady Rarity that I have read of in the papers? The beautiful and illustrious fashion designer?”

Pones gestured to the note. “Read on,” he said to me, and I did so.

…You may or may not have read about this in the papers already, of course. It's a cat burglar of some sort, we feel, though she has no known enemies and is well received in the small town of Ponyville, from which her designer’s shop operates. She received a shipment yesterday evening containing several precious gems, and, upon returning this morning, discovered the box in which the jewels arrived was pried open, and its contents missing. Having cordoned off the crime-scene, I have personally surveyed every square inch of the area, and there has only been one distinct clue – a rim of powder around the lock of the box, in which it is thought that an explosive charge may have been used to blow the lock open. I have also examined the garden, and I cannot discover any evident forced entry to the place, which, given that I must return to Canterlot in two days’ time to file a report - and I have been here for a whole one already - means that I must ask sincerely for your assistance in the matter.

Kind Regards, Inspector Lestrade of Trotland Yard.

My head turned back to my friend, whirling with the information.

“What a strange thing that is, then, that we are both due to be in the same place at the same time!”

Pones doffed his cap and looked at me expectantly.

“Yes – I was rather hoping I might attain your assistance on this matter, Trotson. Lestrade is not the sharpest of souls, and, while he is energetic, is prone to miss even the most obvious of conclusions.”

My puzzled expression did not change, and my companion still continued to fix me with one of his curious stares as he stood by the still open door.

“Well, are you coming?” he said, glancing at a clock on the wall. “The next train to Ponyville is at ten o’clock, and it is already quarter past nine.”

I nodded wordlessly; still somewhat dazzled by the fantastic nature of what I had just read, and what kind of work my friend chose to entangle himself in. He smiled another one of his strange smiles and turned, trotting out the door. I grabbed my coat and wallet and pursued swiftly after.

Pones' Informant

It was not until the instant that we had bought our tickets from the conductor, and settled ourselves into a comfortable compartment, that the vagaries of what had taken place that morning struck me.

There I was, a doctor with exactly zero experience in matters such as these, about to accompany the strange and exquisitely-minded Pones. He was, as I had come to expect of his fairly strange nature, unbothered by the troublesome events that had caused his calling out to the tiny town of Ponyville.

In fact, so nonchalant was he about the whole ordeal that no sooner had we taken our seats opposite each-other and closed the compartment door, then he folded his forehooves across his chest, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

“Pardon me, Pones, but do you think you could enlighten me on the intricacies of your work once again?” I inquired, wishing to discuss the matter with him.

He opened his eyes slowly and unevenly, as if he had been sleeping for hours – though in reality, he could not have dozed more than a minute. He did not look irritated, but instead fixed me with a stern glare from across the carriage, still not shifting from his restful position against the back of the leather seat.

“Is there anything you could not deduce from the headlines of the paper and the note that I gave you?” He said dryly.

“Well, a little more of an explanation about what exact role you fill would suffice…” I responded meekly.

Despite the fact that it was impossible; I felt that he was irritated for being awoken, but nevertheless, when I asked my question, I knew - or rather saw - his attitude change a slight. He sighed, sitting up a little from the reclusive depths of his dark grey jacket in which he had attempted to sink. Turning his head on an angle, he seemed to focus deeply on the question, his eyes resting on a point some way behind me. I had often observed such a mannerism when he lay on the couch back in Baker Street, staring vacantly at the ceiling and silently mouthing his own thoughts to himself.

“I am, as I stated before, a detective,” he began wearily, but something gave him pause as he prepared to undoubtedly regale me with a repetition of what he had said at our late breakfast that morning. “Or, perhaps, you might consider me a private investigator, even though I am far above those who call themselves by such a title.”

“Do you work for the police?” I inquired, bringing my hooves forth and together on the table that lay between us. I was eager to learn all I could about Pones.

“No.”

“And yet you have accepted the task before you.”

“So I have,” he replied calmly

“Why would you do such a thing if you have no obligation to the police?”

Pones moved a muscle, raising a hoof to his face. He ran it around the inside of his chin as he spoke steadily, eventually letting it come to rest on his cheek as if he were a bored student in his classes.

“Often, in times of leisure, a stallion may choose to pursue his own work for the simple thrill of self satisfaction - though as a medical man, I do not doubt that you know as much,” he said, affixing me with a reflective look from his tawny eyes. They had gone glassy again, and I had imagined that he would simply say nothing further, dropping into one of his meditative slumbers again. Instead, he continued to speak.

“Such is the case with myself. I am Lestrade’s advisor, and nothing more, and when all is said and done he will claim all semblance of praise and, if I am lucky, cast me a vague mention in the papers.”

I bristled at this knowledge. “The nerve of him!” I exclaimed angrily. How it was possible to remain as calm as Pones was in the news that the Inspector was stealing the credit for his work I knew not.

“Trotson," Pones said boredly, "If business were an issue I may indeed have it so that my name and face were on the corner of every street in Canterlot."

“Nevertheless, why not insist on your name’s publication?”

He smirked. “My dear fellow, what does it matter to me?”

“Well, evidently it does not – but he begs of you for assistance, and then does not give you credit?”

He gave a solitary, sagely nod. “Yes," he said, his eyes twinkling with a hidden delight. "Yes, I suppose it is true that he does not give me credit where it is due. But, he knows that I am better then he, and has told me as such many times; but he would sooner cut his own tongue out before whispering it to any other, in particular his compatriots at Trotland Yard. For me, the simple knowledge that this is so is more than enough.” He sniffed once.

I frowned as the cogs ticked over in my own head “So, you are doing this out of your own interest then, given that your reputation will not be bolstered?”

“It would seem so.”

“And are you paid for your troubles?” I asked. To this, Pones simply shrugged – the first time I had seen him do so.

“Often, I am, though neither of these things are the reason I pursue such ends.” He thrummed his hooves against the table. “Hum, how to explain it!” He voiced his question to the empty compartment.

At length he sat, the only noise being the long whistle and gentle clicking of the train as it pulled away from the station, combined with the patter of his two appendages on the leather table top. He remained that way until we reached full speed, and then, just as I assumed he had given up on the subject, he spoke once more.

“Consider this, Trotson,” he began very suddenly, and he leaned forward. So swift were his movements that I jumped, myself having faded into a lulled state of daydreaming. “There are basic principles which underline our actions. Money and Status are two of them.”

I nodded slowly, not entirely sure what he meant by the strange analogy, but eager to hear him out.

“If ponies in this day and age toiled simply for wealth fit for Princess Celestia herself, till they could fill themselves with the finest liquor and tobacco till they choked – then we would all be very miserable.”

“So we would be, yes.”

“And similarly the precept applies the other way round, in that if we moved only for our own self centred happiness, then we would be extremely poor.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding once more.

“Well, assume that I have discovered a third path in, which I may only fulfill requests for my own entertainment and nothing more, while remaining quite content for money," he said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do, but I’m not entirely sure that I follow why that makes you do things as you do,” I said, shaking my head.

Pones only sighed, and shook his own.

“It is, potentially, impossible to explain if you are not me,” He said with a laugh.

“And presumably just as impossible to understand.”

“Quite so,” he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing an old wooden pipe. With a deft flick of his spare hoof, he produced a lighter from thin air. No doubt it was a trick of sleight that fooled my eyes, but all the same I had to blink twice in order to make sure that the lighter was there. He lit the pipe and then put it to his lips, slipping the lighter and his hooves back into his pocket as the flames stoked the tobacco into life.

“I would not have asked,” I said as I watched him, “But it is just that even though this is the first time I have encountered a pony of your occupation, I would have imagined a similar role to have given the matter a good deal more thought.”

Pones laughed once again, cracking open the window with a hoof before blowing a wisp of smoke through it.

“Fear not, Trotson, I have given the task at hand all of my not inconsiderable attention,” he said, observing as the trail of smoke streamed by outside. “However, as you might conclude yourself, we are still in Canterlot.” He tapped on the window with the hoof that did not hold his pipe. “There is nothing I can do about it until the train arrives.”

“Well that is good to know, for now I will at least know that you are not as carefree as you seem.”

He looked over at me again, surprised.

“Carefree? Do not assume so readily that I have no obligation to my work, Dr. Trotson,” he said in a firmer tone. “My professionalism is unquestionable, even though I am obliged to work for whatever reason takes my fancy. Such is the luxury I have been afforded by years of private study.”

I would have opened my mouth to reply, but I saw that I had irritated him with my last comment. His eyes were now averted away from me, gazing out the window at the rolling green hills that passed us by. Clearly, he did not wish to converse anymore, but I still continued to look at him curiously as he puffed away at his pipe.

Eventually, I gave up on the strange grey pony, instead retiring to the copy of today’s paper that lay before me. The headlines were printed as the letter had said.

FASHION HOUSE ROBBED! HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF BITS IN GEMS STOLEN!

Underneath, in a hastily written column, there were very trivial details about the report that satisfied none of the questions that were in my mind. The inset picture was what drew my attention, though, for the unicorn mare that took the majority of the length and breadth of the page was extremely fetching. This was the Lady Rarity, I assumed, and indeed a small caption confirmed my suspicion.

She was, as I just mentioned, quite beautiful – there was not an inch of her that did not look pampered and preened, from her clearly manicured and polished hooves, all the way up to the top of her immaculate lavender mane. It was fashioned into a refined and elegant curl at its ends, forming long, curled locks that dangled over her brow. Between the locks, there sparkled a pair of half-lidded, astonishingly radiant blue eyes, paired with long lashes.

The picture, according to the paper, was taken some weeks ago at the grand galloping gala, and she looked well dressed for the occasion – I could just see the pointed tip of her polished horn from over a golden tiara, which was affixed with a diamond-shaped ruby where it tapered to a soft point. Either side of the ruby were two beryl stones, and about her pointed ears there were two equally expensive-looking and large rubies. They complimented the dress that she wore, a vast creation of pink and red silk, lined with what appeared to be fur.

On the whole she looked very sophisticated and wealthy, and as I passed over the front page photo to the full story, I found that a small recount of her life was given.

Born the only daughter of respected Caneighdian land baron Sir Charles Rarity, and Lady Sapphire (heir to the Sapphire family fortune), Penelope Amelia Rarity was educated at Oxford. Miss Rarity has worked tirelessly in starting her own boutique in the town of Ponyville, an establishment that has since become one of the most well-known houses of Fashion in Equestria. This morning, Miss Rarity was devastated to find that the gemstones she had ordered for the dress of a ‘very special customer’ (we were not permitted to know who this was) had been stolen the night previous.

I pulled my attention away from the story, and thought for a moment about the nature of the mystery. Assumedly, she was well-to-do and independent, and the supposed success of her business led all kinds of thoughts into my mind about the possibilities surrounding her stolen gemstones. But whether it had been a business competitor or a cat burglar I was not able to ascertain, my only knowledge about the theft coming from the police note that I still had folded in my pocket.

“Have you read this?” I gestured with the paper. Pones, whose vacant expression had not changed since we left Canterlot’s central station, remained unmoved.

“I perused the rag, though there was nothing there that I would call useful – far from it, in fact,” he said with disdain.

“Why is that so?”

“Lestrade will have removed everything relevant to the case so as not to tip off the perpetrator,” he replied calmly, tapping his pipe on an ashtray that lay on the table. “Or at least, he will have done so if he has a head on his shoulders.”

“Do you suspect anything already? You appear to possess the talent of seeing the unseen.”

My friend looked me once in the eye, and gave me the response that I would become accustomed to seeing many more times in my acquaintance with him.

“You will see in good time.”

I wondered, then, as he fell silent once more, what it was that drove him to work as he did. He was either fully committed, or strangely distant and uncaring about the task in front of him, and I thought a little longer about what conclusions had passed through his mind, surveying his thin face as the trees rushed by outside. His expression remained unchanged for the remainder of the journey, and he appeared to be lost deep in thought, though whether that was a result of what I had said, or the impending investigation, or perhaps something else, I could not say – I could no sooner ascertain what he was thinking now than I could at our first meeting.

“If you still wish to analyse me, Doctor, you will have your data soon,” he remarked, his gaze quite as still as it had been as he stared out of the window. “We have just arrived in Ponyville.”

We alighted from the train, and I followed Pones’ meaningful stride out of the train station and into the heart of a bustling little town.

Ponyville was as distant from Canterlot as one could be, despite being geographically close. It lacked all the cosmopolitan rush that seemed to drain one’s energy, instead replacing it with a slow and laidback pace of life, where time almost seemed to crawl. Ponies of all colours trotted past us and towards us in pairs or alone, but nopony was in a hurry. There was that delightful, comfortable slowness that seems to engulf every small town, which, when combined with the sunny blue sky and cool southern breeze, was a welcome and refreshing change.

The most noticeable change between the two places was the abundance of greenery in Ponyville, with either side of the steps that we now stood on flanked with a healthy garden of trees and shrubs. Visible ahead of us was a large, circular place, presumably the heart of the village. Around its edge, there were few shops and hansom carriages that did not appear very busy, and at its heart lay an extremely tall pavilion, encircled by a very large wooden porch. So large was the building, in fact, that it towered at least a good story above every other construction that I could see, even though it appeared to be some distance away.

“The mayor’s residence,” Pones said, answering my unspoken question.

“The town hall, you mean?” I replied inquisitively.

“Yes, but she lives there, too.”

Pones headed down the open stone steps that led onto what appeared to be the main thoroughfare for the town, turning to me as I turned my head left and right, absorbing the quaintness of the town. Pones appeared to be very familiar with the area.

“Would you kindly pass me the note from Lestrade?” He asked as we reached the bottom of the small flight of stairs. I rummaged in my pocket and held it out, the pink slip seeming to whip out of my hoof as he took it firmly, before opening and glancing at it.

“He has not left an address,” I said unhelpfully, but Pones did not appear too fazed by the comment, instead pocketing the note once more.

“We do not need one – I am familiar with this town, doctor, and I am quite aware of where we need to go,” he said idly. “It is not very far, so we shall walk and admire the scenery, instead of catching a cab.”

“And where are we bound for?”

“Carousel Boutique is the name of the shop, though I daresay you should recognise it as soon as we see it.”

With that, he set off once more, and I followed after him, and together we strolled down the road, giving me ample time to absorb some more of my surroundings.

The shops that we passed appeared to be quite well aged as I had suspected on first glance, though their interiors were new and fresh. The streets were adorned with exquisitely ornate iron lampposts and flowers grown in half-barrels and raised garden beds. The townhouses were decorated in a simple Tudor fashion that was quietly elegant, and such styling gave Ponyville a rustic feel to it. It was a feeling that was certainly quite accurate, as I had seen orchards of fruitful apple trees and fields of yellow wheat from the train as it pulled into the station. The steeply pitched thatch roofs and crossed gables of the houses seemed to give modesty to the intricate half-timbering that ran round their exterior, and I found the place to possess a certain beauty to it on which I could not place a hoof.

It was a place whose charms would grow on me the more time I spent there.

“You said you had visited here before?” I questioned my companion as we strolled along an avenue of shops.

“Many times,” said he, and at this he took a very uncharacteristic deep breath before sighing a little, smiling as he did so. I was surprised by this fragment of humanity from my companion, who did not appear to possess a great love for nature or anything outside of his work. But, such was the relaxing nature of this mysterious little town that I could not help but feel precisely the same way.

We walked for about ten minutes, and the shops eventually thinned into houses. We crossed over a small river that ran through the centre of the town, and passed by a large red schoolhouse. My companion paused as we walked by, looking back at the gate that marked the entrance to the schoolyard, where dozens of foals played, their shouts and laughter echoing towards us.

“Trotson – stay a minute, there is an old acquaintance here that I wish to visit, and I doubt we would be missed at the boutique,” he said. I was surprised – Pones did not appear to the sort of fellow that would keep track of old friends, though he clicked his tongue disapprovingly at my expression.

“An integral part of my business, and one that I enjoy quite a good deal more than others,” he said as he turned back to the front gate, “Is to maintain good relations with people that I meet. Besides that, she is somewhat of a gossip.”

I was confused as I followed Pones back to the gate. Surely, idle gossip had very little place in a proper investigation – the exaggerations of Redheart concerning various other things flowed into my mind.

“As supernatural as I appear, I can assure you that I am only a pony,” Pones continued. “I have many friends, who tell me many things, and I value the ability to keep an eye or an ear everywhere I wander, in case it might prove useful.”

I nodded, though again I had not asked anything of him.

“So, barkeepers, town gossips, doctors… anypony that allows you to know what’s going on underneath the veil of normality,” I said, following Pones through the gate. I shut it behind me with a soft snap of metal on metal, and we walked up to the oaken double doors of the schoolhouse.

“Precisely!” he said, giving another unusually merry grin. “You may make a fine detective yet, Trotson.”

I laughed and ran an embarrassed hoof down my mane, though I had no idea why this was so – in reflection, it was most likely the fact that Pones had complimented me on my ability in light of his own excellence.

Pones pushed one of the large doors so that it opened inwards, and in we strolled. Here, there were many desks lined in a row where the children sat, creating an aisle that led from the door where we had entered up to a vacant teacher’s desk, behind which stood a dusty blackboard. Scribbled on the blackboard were various sums and underlined words, but other than those signs of life (and the odd sheet of paper left on the desk) there appeared to be nopony here.

“Perhaps she is outside?” I commented, turning to Pones.

“Yes, she is!” said a bright voice from behind us.

I turned again, and immediately I struck with the idea that the voice was bodiless. But, as my vision adjusted, I looked towards my hooves, and noticed that there were three adorable little fillies who had entered into the schoolhouse behind us.

“Hullo there!” Pones said. “Is Cheerilee about?”

The filly on the left, who had hailed us, spoke again. She had bright orange eyes, and sported a very large pink bow in her red mane.

“Isn’t she supposed tah be Mrs. Cheerilee?” the little filly said with a curious drawl, eyeing Pones suspiciously.

The filly on the right turned and scowled at her. She had a shocking pink mane that looked a tad unkempt, and an orange coat.

“What are you saying, ‘bloom? Grown-ups don’t have to call her Mrs!”

“Are you sure?” asked the one in the middle, looking uncertain. This little filly had a coat of white, with bright green eyes. This, combined with her well-groomed mane, (which appeared to be a vivid mix of a faint lilac and light pink) reminded me briefly of somepony I had seen before, but I could not pin my hoof on who it was.

Pones laughed in good humour, shaking his head.

“Why, I do apologise, I mean Mrs. Cheerilee, of course. What is your name?”

“Applebloom,” she said, her face perking into a cute little smile.

“Well, Applebloom,” said Pones encouragingly. “Can you show me where your teacher is?”

“Sure thing!” she said enthusiastically, turning and leading Pones and I out into the sunlight and noise once more.
The little filly led us left around the side of the school, going off the well-worn path that ran from the front gate to the front door.

“She’s just over there,” she said, pointing with a hoof at a swing set in the distance. There, in the distance, was a Fuschia-coloured mare with a pink and rose mane, pushing another filly on a swing.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I said to her, kneeling a little and putting on my best smile. The little filly looked at me with some confusion.

“I told y’all my name’s Applebloom, not sweetheart!” She gestured to her friend with the pink-and-purple mane. “This is Sweetie Belle, but there ain’t no sweetheart around here,” she said.

I was confused by my mistake; not sure how to explain my error to her, but I was offered an immediate reprieve by the orange filly once more, who turned to her friends.

“Hey! Wanna try hula hooping?”

The three of them agreed unanimously and simultaneously that that sounded like a very good deal of fun, and they took off before I could even open my mouth. I turned back to Pones for some comfort, but he had already left me, and was halfway towards the purple mare at the swing set. I hastily trotted over to him.

We were still a good way from her before she recognised Pones, and stopped swinging, much to the dismay of the small foal in the seat.

“But I don’t know how to swing on my own…” I heard her say sadly as I approached with Pones.

“Well run along and find something else to do until your lunch is over, Ruby,” the Fuschia mare responded. The foal begrudgingly got out of the chair and cantered off to find something else to do, to which she turned to Pones.

“Pones, you rogue!” she said with a sudden burst of glee, throwing her hooves around him and kissing him on the nose. I was somewhat alarmed by this seemingly spontaneous outburst of affection, and doubly surprised by the way Pones returned the greeting, kissing her briefly in the same way and embracing her.

“How are you, Cheerilee my dear?” He asked as they separated.

“Very good, very good – but you didn’t send a letter in advance to tell me you were coming!” she said. “I would have taken the day off of work, and we could have had lunch!”

“Ah, well, I did not know that I would be here until this morning.”

“You mean you just got into town?”

“That’s right,” he said. “I got a message this morning asking me to come.”

Cheerilee covered her mouth with a forehoof, her eyes widening like deep green saucers. “Are you here about Rarity’s boutique?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“It was awful, wasn’t it – how many thousands had those gems cost her, one wonders!” She added, a genuine worry crossing her face.

“About three hundred, if the papers are to be believed,” I interjected, smiling warmly as she turned her attention to me.

"It wasn't you, was it?" added Pones rather suddenly. The mare turned back, thumping him in the chest playfully.

“Oh, you," she said with a hearty giggle, before glancing back to me once more. "Who's your friend?”

“My associate, Dr. Trotson.”

I nodded and offered a hoof, somewhat surprised by my upgrade in status to ‘associate’.

“Please, just call me John.”

“John?” Cheerilee exclaimed, looking surprised for a moment before she shook my hoof. “I’ve heard about you before, John.”

I was plunged into confusion, my mind racing for answers. Had Pones written to her? No, that was not possible, as she had just said that he should have wrote before leaving. Unless it was –

“Why, you’re that lovely stallion that Felicia was telling me about the other day!”

My stomach froze. Naturally, that was the only other logical option.

"Your reputation precedes you, doctor," Added Pones dryly from to my left.

“You know of her?” I inquired; my face not giving away my inner nervousness that Redheart had been discussing me in my absence.

“Do I?” she exclaimed incredulously, laughing a little as she did so. “Oh Celestia, we’ve been friends for as long as I can remember – before she even went to Medical school, we were in high school together.” Her eyes flew skywards as she sighed, happily and freely reminiscing. It was only a moment though before her eyes were back on me, scrutinising me closely, as if I were a fine vase; and she were a buyer inspecting me for faults.

I shifted uncomfortably. I wasn't exactly sure why everypony was so prone to looking me over recently, but maybe it was just my proximity to Pones that had encouraged such sensitivity.

“…Yes," she said at length. "Felly talked about you at great length the other day when I was at the practice just up the road!” she said happily. “She didn’t brag, but she spoke of you quite highly, and,” she paused for effect, as if pronouncing something important, “She said you were quite handsome, too.”

I stumbled for words, instead choosing to laugh and smile at the news that in reality set my heart racing. Pones then spoke up, saving me from responding.

“Please, Cheerilee, I need my companion intact – it will not do if he bursts into flame and turns into ash!” He said with a grin, and I became aware that I had blushed furiously. The schoolteacher giggled and nudged me gently, leaning close and putting a hoof to my ear.

“She loves roses,” she said to me quietly before giving me a knowing wink and turning to Pones. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Pones said with a meditative scratch of his chin. “Just checking for anything useful before we make our way over to the boutique.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, and her face became more serious. “No, I haven’t heard anything interesting about that.”

“Have you spoken to Miss Hooves the mailmare lately? She seems to get herself tied up in all sorts of trouble.”

“I have, and she knows nothing of it either.” Cheerilee shot him an apologetic glance. “I’m afraid you’re quite on your own, Pones, though I daresay others with their hooves in the right places might know a tad more.”

“I doubt it,” said Pones, and I noticed that he had resumed his reflective look of concentration. “Were it to have come from anypony else, I would have merely assumed otherwise, but you know a good deal more than I about several things, this town being one of them.” He turned his attention to the children in the playground. “You’ve been busy lately, I assume?”

“No more than usual,” she replied indifferently, following his gaze. “Or at least, not busy enough to keep me from my usual string of contacts. The only person I haven’t spoken to since the ordeal is Berry Punch, though I doubt she would know.”

“Where is she?” Pones said, cutting her off before she could continue. Cheerilee did not seem to mind his abruptness, instead immediately answering with a shrug.

“Well, I don’t know where she is now, but she was at the town lockup again last night,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Public drunkenness.”

Pones sighed, the first time I had seen him do so. “Still heavy on the bottle then?” he inquired, and I took it that this ‘Berry’ character was an alcoholic.

Cheerilee tipped a hoof this way and that. “Not as much as she used to be, which is always good. Only in the evenings now,” She said, a sad smile formed over her face.

“She?” I said, surprised.

“Yes, that’s right.” Cheerilee said, turning to me from her kids. “Husband was a forest ranger.”

I frowned. “Was?”

“Ursa Major.”

I nodded wordlessly. The inflection in Cheerilee’s words told me all I needed to know.

“Ruby is her daughter,” she said, pointing with a hoof over at the little filly that she had pushed on the swing before. She was now happily and obliviously talking to the three fillies that had assailed them in the schoolhouse just a few minutes earlier. “She shelters her quite a bit ever since he passed away. But, like I said, at least she’s sober in the day.”

She turned back to Pones.

“Sorry I couldn’t help more.”

Pones shook his head. “Not at all, my dear, though I will be getting in touch with Miss Punch.”

Cheerilee looked surprised. “Even though she was in the slammer for the night?” she said, a trace of scepticism in her voice.

“I distinctly remember a certain Magenta Pony once told me to ‘leave no stone unturned’ when I was looking for something,” he replied, raising his eyebrows. To this, she smiled and chuckled.

“Well, I’m touched and honoured that you remembered that,” she said, “But she was in the lockup for most of last night, so it’s highly unlikely that she knows anything.”

“Even so, my dear, even so.”

We stood for a while and watched the young ones play, the noises of their games and occasional gleeful squeals falling on us. I found my eyes falling upon the little white filly that I had seen before. She was singing a little song to herself while dusting a table with her extremely well-kept tail, an act that probably undid all of someone’s hard work in combing it.

“You should get going,” Cheerilee said, after a while. “The sooner you get to Rarity’s, the better – she was an absolute wreck when I saw her from afar this morning on my way here. I didn't go and talk to her, though." She sighed resolutely. "And I have to get these little rascals inside anyway.”

“Quite,” said Pones, turning to me. I sensed that he wouldn’t mind staying and talking more, and indeed he seemed regretful in leaving. “Come now, Dr. Trotson. We should leave Miss Cheerilee to her students.”

I nodded in reply, and we both turned to her and bid her good day before turning and departing the schoolyard. I found, though, that as I walked back around the outside of the schoolhouse I had left Pones behind. I turned, and he jogged to keep up with me, eventually drawing alongside.

“What was it? Did you forget something?” I inquired to Pones, and he shook his head.

“Concerning my work, no – I had already asked all that I could. But, as easy as her advice makes my work, I enjoy seeing her every time I come down here, so I took my time for a goodbye.” He looked quite put out about leaving the schoolyard so soon, his sharp eyes glassing over as he looked at the ground, his forehead tightened into a frown as if something troubled him. I sensed that there was some older and more affectionate bond between him and Cheerilee, but I chose not to ask him about it.

“Well, lead on,” I said to him, after the silence between us grew uncomfortable. “I know not the way.”

“Oh, of course!” He said suddenly, and it was as if for a moment that he had forgotten his own intelligent and guarded nature, and my words reminded him of it. “We are not very far off – It’s just a short walk over the hill.”

He opened the schoolyard gate and strode through, and I followed on. I cast a glance back at Cheerilee’s form as she ushered the last of her students inside. She was watching us leave, and, as she saw me looking back at her, smiled, waving briefly before turning and following the last student back into the schoolhouse.

Shyness and Theatrics

We left the schoolhouse behind and resumed following the road, making our way towards a large, sloping hill in the distance. Pones, who had resumed his bold strides that were at least one and a half times my own, gave no impression of faltering or doubt, but I had observed his reluctance to leave Miss Cheerilee. While I was certain I would not want to annoy Pones any further then I had on the train, I was feeling brave enough to attempt to uncover a little more about my enigmatic companion.

“So, who was that precisely?” I inquired, struggling somewhat to maintain Pones’ pace and speak as we reached the base of the hill. He turned to me with an incredulous look. “I am not referring to her name,” I said quickly, assuaging my companion that I was not wholly ignorant. “I merely want to know who she is.”

“She is the town schoolteacher, though that much is obvious,” he replied as the road began to tilt. “She is also somewhat of an old companion of mine – when I first lived in Canterlot I knew her quite well, you see, and that was several years back. She moved here, I stayed in Canterlot, though I came to see her often.”

He fell silent as the road uphill got slightly steeper. I thought quickly about how to ask about Pones’ past without offending him, and settled upon a very ambiguous statement as a test.

“She seemed glad to see you.”

“Indeed,” He replied, and I noticed his face had turned a somewhat darker shade of grey than usual. “She certainly is quite affectionate.”

“You did not seem totally untoward in returning it,” I teased. Pones scoffed, his amber eyes vanishing briefly as he closed them and shook his head, as if what he had heard had hit him lightly on the nose.

“A gentlecolt is always polite to a lady.”

“The way you two stood there and looked at the children, one would have thought that you were a little more than polite to her once,” I jested, continuing on up the hill.

It was a few steps before I realised that the crunching of my own hooves was the only noise that I could hear. I stopped, looked up and around, and noticed that Pones had stopped a short way behind. He had on his face the same ashen-faced sadness that had haunted him when he had left the schoolyard.

“Quite,” he said in his usual dapper manner, and he began walking once more, though his features did not lose their gloominess. I watched him pass me, quite astonished that my light-hearted joke could have had such an effect.

I had wanted to apologise to Pones, but as he drew level with me he did not give me eye contact, instead looking at his hooves as they fell before him. He did not speak further, instead pushing past me towards the crest of the hill. I was particularly unwilling to advance his mute sadness, so I followed him wordlessly.

It was not long before we reached the hill’s apex, and, as the other side of the hill came into my sight; I understood what Pones had meant by his ambiguous words at the train station.

Carousel Boutique was a tall and many-storied pavilion, not unlike the town hall. It was a dazzling array of colour when one first focused one’s eyes on it – an astonishing blend of mauve, lavender and rose, fashioned in the manner of a carnival ride. I shall describe it from the bottom-up for ease, for there is simply too much to say about the majestic building to be contained into a brief sentence.

Starting at its circular base there was elaborate purple half-timbering, reminiscent of the other houses that we had seen on our way here. It was very much different from thereon up though, with slender oval windows giving distant glimpses of mannequins dressed in stunning greens and reds.

From the very high angle that Pones and I approached it, it appeared to resemble a very large and many-tiered wedding cake – the smooth bluestone walls were adorned with white floral emblems and trimmings around the windows; with caramel-coloured shutters. The ground floor almost resembled a barber’s shop, in that there were several long, striped poles around the doorway, though their colours were of rose and violet, and not white and red. They held up a chequered sheet of canvas dyed in the same fashion, and this ran the whole way around the boutique. The canvas itself was attached to a sloping roof, so that the ground floor resembled a circus big-top, with said roof reaching all the way to the base of the second floor, where it appeared someone had placed a real-life carousel, complete with immobile magenta decorations.

Or at least, it would have been real, had the inner machinations of the carousel not been replaced by a slightly larger circular living-room, set with small crystal windows that faced each compass direction. This second floor tapered into a miniature tower, which was decorated with a streaming red pennant – Equestria’s flag. Overall, it was a sensationally grand and vivacious thing.

We descended the hill swiftly, with Pones resuming his meaningful stride as we did so, exiting off the road and making for the garden gate. A small path trailed out from the shop’s entrance, traversing a very small yard, which was scattered with a few bushes of colourful flowers. The path itself was a mixture of clay and gravel, and it was quite wet, for there had been rain last night. Our hooves crunched into it as we passed off the road and towards the front door of the boutique.

We were still a good five or ten paces from the door before it opened in front of us. A literal blast of noise immediately hit my ears, and in a horrid I had the idea in my head that something awful had happened, but after a moment of confusion, I recognised the sound as heart-wrenching sobs. Out from the door there then stepped a Pegasus the same colour as the crops of maize that grew in the rolling hills outside of town.

She had a flowing mane of gentle carnation, with three butterflies of a similar colour upon her flank—not that I would have looked else to mention it—and, as if attempting to sneak away from something, tip-toed away from the door as she faced it. As soon as enough of her body was outside, she closed the door as slowly and cautiously as it was possible to do – until I heard the lock snap shut, immediately silencing the cries.

She continued to back cautiously away from the house as we watched her, coming within about a pace or two of us. I heard her breathe a sigh of relief, and her shoulders seemed to relax, as if she had been hard at work. She then turned her body to swiftly walk away, and as such ran straight into me. She was not very large (thankfully), so she merely bounced off my chest before I could move out of the way. From her mouth came a frightened squeal and she jumped back in horror, a flap of her wings pushing her about ten feet into the air. I recovered from the impact almost instantly, averting my gaze skyward to see where she had gone, and there she hovered, surveying us both with a pair of soulful aquamarine eyes.

“Pardon me,” I said politely, but the words were hardly out of my mouth before the Pegasus rushed forward, landing with a skid at my feet and launching into a gushing tirade of apologies.

“Oh my, I’m so, so sorry – are you hurt?” She said nervously, lifting up my hoof and inspecting it for wounds before I could object. “I didn’t mean to hit you, honestly – Oh, I’m just dreadfully sorry. I am a total silly filly every now and then, and forget to look where I’m going, and then from time to time—”

I confess, I was totally overwhelmed. As a doctor, I was quite used this kind of vigorous inspection, but usually I was the pony giving it, and more importantly, my examinations were only ever voluntary. The mare was busy dusting off my coat and scrutinizing my hoof for injury.

Mercifully, Pones appeared to have the situation well under control. He came over and laid a hoof on the front shoulder of the mare, who was now busily into her third round of apologies, and as he did so, she fell silent almost instantaneously.
“My dear,” said Pones authoritatively, “Do calm yourself.”

As if his voice carried a hidden magic, the Pegasus froze, dropping my hoof. Her eyes were transfixed on Pones, and she looked as if she thought he might hit her.

“Now,” Pones continued. His voice adopted a much warmer tone, and he removed his hoof off of her shoulder, planting it back on the footpath. “What is your name?”

The mare was silent, her terrified eyes still locked on Pones.

“It’s alright – we’ve come to see Miss Rarity,” I said encouragingly, to which she seemed to stir somewhat, wrenching her gaze away from Pones and back to me.

“She’s… In there,” she softly mumbled to me, and Pones squinted at her, turning his head.

“I’m sorry?” He inquired.

“She said she’s inside,” I translated.

Pones nodded once and then abruptly left, leaving me outside with the stricken mare, though I knew not what to do with her. I watched Pones march up to the front door and slip swiftly through, the noise inside appearing to have dimmed in volume for the moment.

I looked back at the butter yellow Pegasus, and she looked at me. She seemed incredibly shy, and could not have been much younger than I, but I knew that I had to make an effort at conversation before the awkwardness of it all kicked in. I put on my best and most understanding doctor’s face, and smiled at her.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just a little forthright,” I said.

“Oh… Um… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run into you before,” she replied, as if her threefold apology had been insufficient.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ve had worse knocks before,” I said as I grinned, trying to inject some good humour into the conversation. Thankfully, she responded to my attempt, smiling weakly, and she seemed a good deal less afraid of me now that she saw that I wasn’t angry. I asked her for her name again, and she replied in a more confident voice.

“Fluttershy,” she said. An apt name for someone so frail, I thought at the time, though I would not have dared mention it.

“Call me Trotson,” I replied. I omitted the fact that I was a doctor on purpose – for I feared that she might lose her tongue again. “Are you a friend of Miss Rarity’s?” I inquired.

“Miss?” she said, with a soft giggle. It was a wonderful laugh. It sounded very much like the tinkle of wind-chimes in a gentle breeze. “I’ve never heard her called Miss before.”

“Well, I can’t call her by her name, can I?”

“Why not?”

The question took me by surprise.

“Well, I hardly know her – she might think it rude of me!”

“Oh, she’s not like that at all,” Fluttershy said. I knew that for her to have said meant a good deal, for she did not seem like the type to throw a casual comment out here or there. She smiled at me, and immediately (for what was perhaps the third or fourth time that week) I found myself being surveyed once more
.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said, peering closely at my jacket. “Is that a stethoscope?”

“Why, yes it is,” I said, looking down at where it had partially fallen from my pocket during our collision. “I’m from Canterlot.”

“You’re a doctor?” She said, her round eyes still locked on the stethoscope as I stuffed it back into my pocket. I grimaced internally, hoping that my title – which was mediocre at best – did not scare her into silence again.

“Correct.”

“Of… ponies?”

“Yes – what other kind of doctor is there?”

She looked at a forehoof nervously, as if being challenged had returned her to her shy nature.

“Well, um… I’m a doctor of animals, so…”

“Oh, you’re a veterinarian?”

“Yes!” she said, brightening visibly to see that I knew something so simple. Or maybe, it was the fact that whatever she had said had received a positive reply at all.

“…Rarity has animals?” I inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes, she does, but I’m just here on a little bit of personal business – I mean, um, as a friend.”

She had a very unusual habit, I noticed, of apologising or correcting herself whenever she made an assertive statement. I was almost sure it was because she was very wary of people she’d just met – but if that was the case, then how afraid had she been when she bumped into me?

“So you are a friend of… Rarity’s,” I said, forcing myself to skip the formality.

“Oh yes, for quite some time, now – um, since we were kids.”

“Did you know she was the victim of a robbery yesterday?”

She nodded furiously.

“I don’t know how someone could do that…” She said, her words trailing off.

“Well, that’s what my friend is here about.”

“Yes, he looked like a detective,” she replied.

I was surprised by her most pre-eminent observation. In fact, I was a little irritated, as I had spent the last four days trying to suss out exactly what Pones was, and even then I was not capable. In the meanwhile, a petrified vet had worked out who he was with hardly ten seconds of contact.

“His name is Sherclop Pones – as I said, don’t mind him. He’s not exactly a talkative fellow.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“The Sherclop Pones?” she asked breathlessly.

I was a little puzzled by this. Evidently, my companion’s reputation preceded me, though I did not know he was famous.
“You’ve heard of him before?”

“Oh, yes! – I mean, um, I’ve read about some of the things he’s done.”

“I had no idea that he was famous.”

She looked at me, surprised.

“You mean you haven’t heard?”

I shook my head, and she began to gush again.

“Oh, but he’s so talented – the secret of the Cloudsdale wind farm, the great train robbery, the recovery of Sapphire Shores’ coveted diamond bracelet –” She halted. “Are you a business partner of his?” She asked, a hopeful gleam in her eye. I could tell she was equally as keen to know as much about Pones as I was.

“I live with him, but I have only known him a very short while,” I said, my mind reeling in the light of these new and fabulous claims. “Did he really do all of that?”

“Yes, he did! I read about it, you know,” She said excitedly. “My friend is a librarian, and she has all kinds of books about him.” I made a mental note to try and track down this mysterious librarian so that I might acquire and read these ‘books’.

“Well,” I said, pointing with my hoof at the front door. “He is here at the request of the police, and hopefully he will clean up this mess.”

“Are you a detective as well as a doctor?”

“Err,” I stammered. “Not quite. Honestly, I am currently enlisted as Pones’ clueless accomplice and very little more,” I said, to which she brightened.

“It sounds so exciting,” she said, seeming to ignore my brutal honesty.

“Well, this is just a simple burglary, so one would imagine it to be quite plain,” I said with an apologetic grin. To this, Fluttershy let out a small sigh.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said resignedly, and I was overcome with an immense feeling of guilt for having stepped so carelessly on her enthusiasm. “Though, the way Rarity acts about it, you’d think…” She paused and put a hoof to her lips. “Um… Excuse me,” she said, and I realised that she must have been about to say something risqué.

“Is there some problem with the way she is acting?” I asked, but before Fluttershy could respond I had already come to a conclusion. “…The crying?”

Fluttershy nodded and leaned close, whispering to me as if she were communicating a great secret. I felt a shiver roll up my spine.

“She’s so upset about it… she cries whenever anyone tries to ask her about it.”

“Well, it was a lot of money,” I said, distracting my thoughts away from the possibility that I would have to deal with a tearful lady.

I had never been very skilful at dealing with upset ponies – more often than not in my childhood, the fault was not mine, or at least if it was, I had no idea what I did. Regardless of fault, I had no idea how to remedy their tears—which, as an idealistic young colt, is beyond awful for more than one reason. I often became quite teary myself in sympathy, and for whatever reason I found their suffering (imagined or not) to be most painful upon myself. I speculated at times that this shared sympathy was one of the reasons I became a doctor.

“Well – yes, that is true, but…” Fluttershy appeared to have descended into her extremely nervous self once again. “She’s, um… You’d think she’d, um…”

“Lost a hoof?” I added, helpfully.

She nodded furiously. I grimaced.

“Well, at least Pones has had a while to calm her down,” I said hopefully.

“Oh, um,” Fluttershy began, following my gaze. “I’ve been inside talking to Rarity for an hour now. The detective arrived and bossed her around, and she got quite angry at him, and went to her room, and refused to see him…”

“She sounds like she’s just upset and shaken over the whole thing. The thief was in her house, after all. It would put anyone on edge.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Fluttershy murmured. “I’m just glad she’s unhurt.”

I looked back down at her, beaming.

“What more could you ask for, really?” I said with a shrug.

She looked up at me, smiling peacefully.

At that instant, the door slammed open. Fluttershy jumped and squealed, and immediately took shelter behind the nearest solid object, which just so happened to be me. I noted, mercifully, as I saw Pones’ head sticking out of the doorway, that there were no sobs radiating from the heart of the boutique.

“Trotson?” Inquired Pones, “I require your assistance for a moment.”

I looked back at Fluttershy, who, having regained some of her composure, now stood some behind me. She seemed somewhat embarrassed about her fear, so I chose to ignore it, instead smiling at her once more.

“Well, I suppose I must go now,” I said cordially as I turned to her, taking one of her hooves in my own and kissing it gently. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Fluttershy.”

Fluttershy turned a very faint tinge of pink, and uttered some words that I assume must have been a good-bye, and with that, I turned and crossed the threshold of the boutique.

From the inside, the boutique appeared to be quite spacious. I had entered straight into the shopfront, which doubled as a waiting room and showroom, and encompassed the entire level. Lilac walls with the same floral emblems that I had seen on the building’s exterior caught my eye as I panned my gaze once around the store. On my right, there stood several fairly large full body mirrors, and in front of them was a comfortable sofa, where I imagined customers might try on shoes – indeed, the abundance of empty boxes near the seat was enough to verify my guess.

Continuing anticlockwise from the mirrors, there was a pair of saloon doors that lead into a very small dressing room, followed by a polished wooden desk with a cash register. Behind this desk there were several mannequins waiting to be dressed in next season’s fashions, and, as my eyes continued left, an antique sewing machine upon a wooden workbench.

That particular portion of the room appeared to be quite chaotic, for there were many dresses of varying design and style that looked as if they ought to be taken care of strewn hither and thither. There was even a piece of fabric that was halfway through the machine, its maker undoubtedly having abandoned work on it mid-inspiration. All about the wooden workbench there were balls of yarn and spindles of twine that appeared to have been either knocked to the floor or were placed there in a moment of organised madness.

But, further than the confines of the workbench, there was an incredible neatness, almost meticulous in its nature. Sheets of vivid material were bundled away tidily beneath colour coded dividers, and of such an incredible array were these that they spanned almost the remaining third of the room, though the ones closer to the door appeared to be slightly haphazardly arranged and messy. The one closest to the door, which contained bolts of a very vivid shade of red, was very much disturbed.

Between me and the bench there stood Pones some way away, and another fellow that I had not met. He was a very tall, white-faced pony, with flaxen hair and a notebook in his hoof.

I expected, as I entered, to see Pones surveying every nook and cranny of every room. Nothing appeared to be further from the truth, however, though whether it was because he was bored or whether it was just part of his usual disinterest I cannot say.

With an air of nonchalance which bordered on pretension he paced around the room, stopping every now and again to rest a forehoof on his chin or to idly turn one of the many sheets of fabric over. He gazed vacantly at the floor, the roof, out of the window, always ignoring the scene of the crime -- an empty box, its lock shorn off completely, upturned in the center of the room. The stranger was squatting near it, peering at it closely, as if it had yet to reveal some secret to him.

“Ah, yes, here he is,” said Pones calmly, and the figure, who had had his back turned to me, looked around and saw me.
He stood and swiftly walked to me, wringing my hoof with effusion before I could even offer it to him.

“It is indeed kind of you to come,” said he. “I have had it arranged so that Rarity will not have any more visitors for today except you.”

I was rather mystified by his attitude, for I felt was less integral to Pones’ success then the stray sheets of cloth that lay scattered about my feet. And what had he meant, 'except for me?'

“Pardon?” I inquired, to which the Detective rushed to introduce himself.

“You must be the doctor that Pones mentioned – My name is Inspector Lestrade.” He wrung my hoof very firmly once more. He looked quite haggard – rings of tiredness were under his eyes, and there was a certain sullenness to his face that appeared quite unnatural for such a tall and striking fellow. “Please, make good use of your skill in taking care of the ill, and try to soothe Miss Rarity,” he said in an imploring tone.

I heard from some way above me a series of thuds, and I knew that the sound of crying I had heard before was not merely one of my imagination, and that it had only changed location instead of going away. Immediately, my head snapped to Pones, who had acknowledged my presence.

“Pones!” I said hastily, resisting the detective as he tried to drag me over towards the counter by my hoof.

“Yes, Doctor?” He replied, raising both eyebrows.

“What is the meaning of this?” My voice grew somewhat more anxious.

“I have concluded that you would be the best pony here for the job, of course,” he replied genially. “You are a doctor, and thus you have the most pertinent abilities in bedside manner.” Lestrade nodded his agreement, and I gave way to his tugging, allowing him to lead me over to and behind the counter. I saw a flight of carpeted stairs ahead that I knew must have led to the living area, and I looked back at pones with horror.

“But Pones!—” I cried out in dismay, but already he had turned his back to me. Lestrade pulled me up to the stairs and then stood there expectantly, smiling the tired smile of a stallion that needs a good rest.

“Best of luck, doctor,” he said.

I took a small number of ungainly steps up the lilac coloured staircase. That Pones would have me attempt such a task made my heart race in nervousness. Pones, of course, could not have possibly known of my deep fear – though now as I look back on the whole incident, I don’t doubt that I was the only one seeking to learn more about my new room-mate when I moved into Baker Street. I am still uncertain as to whether he was merely testing me, or whether he actually did not know about my past at the time.

I arrived at the top of the flight of stairs with my heart in the bottom of my hooves. There was before me a purple door not dissimilar to the one that barred the shop’s entrance, and, despite my apprehension, I raised a hoof and knocked on it.

“Miss Rarity?” I inquired to the silence that followed my knocking.

“Are you the doctor I sent for?” cried a shrill voice from some way behind it.

“Yes,” I replied. It was only a half-truth of course, for though I was a doctor I had not the faintest idea what she might want from me.

“Good,” the voice said again, and I heard from the other side a great many chains and locks being unclicked and slid open, and then the door itself swung inwards.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the interior as the bottom floor had been. A rather obnoxious and flaring wallpaper embroidered with the Fleur-de-lis adorned the walls. Opposite the door was an equally showy white marble mantelpiece, within which sat the glowing remains of a small fire. On the middle of this there sat the bust of a very regal looking mare, and either side of the mantelpiece there were two of the windows that allowed a stream of light in to the otherwise rather dark room.

All these details I observed afterwards, for at present my attention fell upon the form of the gorgeous Lady Rarity.

She was about twenty-one or twenty-two, of a middle stature, but with a slim physique, as one might expect from a very self-conscious young mare. Her mane was a neat affair of flowing purple locks, and she looked as I had remembered from her photo in the newspaper. She was dressed in a very heavy nightgown that appeared to be woven out of purple wool, and it ran all the way down her slim form, halting halfway down a set of ebony white legs. Her hooves were very well kept, but her face was stained with streams of black mascara, evidently from tears that had been running down from a strangely familiar set of sea-blue eyes.

On her face there lay an expression of such sadness such as I have never seen before – her portrayal of misery only heightened by the way she sniffled a little as she opened the door. As a doctor, I have seen many upset patients for a good variety of reasons, but never have I been so afraid to ever conduct therapy than in that dark living room with that tearful and astonishingly pretty mare.

She did not wait to see who I was, instead returning to a very long red couch in front of the fireplace the instant she had budged the door open. She flopped down on her back and sniffed again.

“I am feeling quite ill, Doctor,” she said with an air of self-importance. “Could you diagnose me?”

I very nearly choked on my own tongue – her words combined with her attire and very lounging position did not help – but all the same, I withdrew my stethoscope and slowly walked over. There was a very fine and expensive-looking table that sat between the long couch and the table, and on it was perched an equally expensive bottle of wine, with glass of immaculate crystal. These I gingerly relocated before taking a seat in front of the mare, who was now gauging me with a pathetic look from her half-lidded eyes.

I decided to start my analysis from the most basic question I could think of.

“What exactly is the matter?”

At this, she burst into tears once more, her pouting face breaking into another bout of sobs. Immediately and painfully aware of my error, I rushed to try and calm her before she grew totally inconsolable.

“No, no, please don’t cry!” I begged. Amazingly, she halted, though my reprieve was short-lived, for she immediately burst into a complaint.

“Oh, Doctor,” she moaned, sniffing again, “It is simply the worst thing that could have happened!” Again, she was alluding to something that I had no idea of – but I assumed her comments pertained to the robbery.

“It will drive me out of business! I’ve been ruined! Ruined!” she wailed, and I saw the familiar crystalline trail of tears falling from the corner of her eyes.

“Come now, madam, at least you are quite well and in once piece,” I said encouragingly.

“Oh, but don’t you see!?” She cried. “Of all the worst things that could happen, this is just the worst possible thing!” On these last words she placed an increasingly loud and high-pitched whine, which tapered off into the beginning of another sob, and she cast a hoof over her brow.

Before she could begin her tears anew, however, I seized my chance, placing my stethoscope against the glimmer of white coat offered to me near her breast and pretending to listen intently.

“A moment of silence, please, while I listen for your heart,” I said.

I felt her shrink a little at the cold touch of the metal, but all the same she did not speak, instead allowing me to listen. I then glanced away from her, searching in my pocket for a thermometer to take her temperature with – an act that spurred her back into life once more.

“It was horrible, doctor!” she said dramatically, throwing herself further back on the couch so that the stethoscope was ripped from my ears.

“Now now,” I said cautiously, ignoring the stinging pain. I was determined to keep her calm. “I cannot diagnose you if you keep acting like that!” I chided.

She sniffed again and sat back up fully, affixing me with another of her sad frowns.

“I… am terribly sorry; sir, but I have misled you. I am not very ill, you see,” she said, and she sounded quite honest. I was quite taken aback by this – and, given her rather wretched attitude and appearance, somewhat disbelieving.

“Pardon?” I said blankly, needing some time to piece together an appropriate response.

“I am not very ill, doctor,” she repeated again, and she withdrew a kerchief from her pocket, dabbing at her face. I’m just a little in shock, is all. I apologise for wasting your time.”

Such a forthright confession could have not come as less surprise to me had she suddenly broken into song and dance. It took a moment for me to work out an appropriate course of action, for my pretence that I was ‘treating’ her was my only fall-back in the event she started to cry for a second time.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I replied sternly, shifting forward with intent. “Shock is a very real thing, Miss Rarity.” I placed the stethoscope to her chest once more and listened for about four or five seconds.

“Please, just ‘Rarity’ will do if you don’t mind, doctor,” she said quietly, crossing her forehooves over her lap.

“Very well, Rarity,” I said, removing my stethoscope. I remembered what Fluttershy had mentioned not a few minutes before, and was quite surprised at how correct she was. For all her grandeur and theatrics, she appeared to be quite sincere in her more rational moments.

“You are here with the detectives, are you not?” She said in a calmer voice. I noticed that in this state her accent was quite refined and eloquent – quite dissimilar to those that I had met thus far in this strange town, to whom my gentlemanly habits were a bit unusually polite and formal.

I nodded my reply. Undoubtedly she had seen me from the window, so I did not question her about it. She shot me a surly look.

“Are you really a doctor?”

“Yes – though I am not in league with the police. I am, for today, assisting the private investigator that Mr. Lestrade hired to solve your case.”

“Do you mean to say that Mr. Lestrade has no leads?” she replied, and I saw tears welling up in her eyes once more. I hurried to console her.

“No – but do not lose all hope, for my companion is quite apt in matters such as these,” I rushed. She did not reply, but instead sniffed rather loudly and blew her nose.

“And besides,” I continued more steadily, “As I mentioned before, you are in quite good health, so at least that means that nothing worse can happen from here on out.”

She sighed and reached to my left, retrieving her half-full glass of wine before taking a sip. “If only that were the case,” said she, and I knew at once that her melodramatic attitude had at least some basis in reality. She was a different creature then her first impression had given me, and she appeared genuinely concerned and worried about something – her tired eyes and the way she wrung her spare hoof told me as much.

“Would you care to explain it to me?” I said, aware that I had been presented with a small window to question her. She appeared quite surly at the proposition, though not untoward the idea
.
“I have already explained it to the detective, and he was rather brusque about it.”

“Consider it payment for you occupying my valuable time, then!” I replied speedily. She was rather taken aback by this, perhaps aware of her own embarrassing faux pas.

“Oh, err…” She stumbled, looking slightly bemused as how to remedy the situation. “Well, I suppose that is fair – but I don’t even know your name?”

“John Trotson, M.D.”

“Oh!” Her appearance brightened visibly. I was thankful for this, though I suspected the reason for her sudden revival long before she had ever opened her mouth –

“Are you that dashing fellow that Doctor Redheart was telling me about the other day?”

“I hope so,” I said with a forged smile, bypassing my own desire to leave my body temporarily. To this, Rarity seemed to become a little more relaxed.

“Well, any friend of Felicia is most definitely a friend of mine,” she said with an air of decisiveness.

She took a deep breath, and began to speak.

Our Problem of the Pathway

It was around three o’clock when Rarity had finished her story. I had painstakingly convinced her to come with me downstairs, assuring her that resumption of her daily activities was the best possible treatment for her emotional shock. I left and waited while she dressed, and together we departed from the upper floor. Our entry into the bottom floor together was met with some small shock from Lestrade, who had been standing exactly where my counterpart was when I had left him. Eagerly, he smiled at both of us before addressing Rarity.

“Ah, Miss Rarity! A pleasure to see you!”

“I wish the same could be said of you, Inspector,” the lady replied coldly.

The vicious counterattack seemed to catch Lestrade unawares and between the ribs, though he bravely ignored it, instead turning to me before speaking.

“I must make my report to the local police station on my findings,” he said.

“You have discovered something new?” Said I.

“Indeed we have!” he replied delightedly, and I noticed by the inclusion of the pronoun that it had most likely been Pones who had struck gold somewhere, and not he. In any case, he turned swiftly and strode over to where the box lay, lifting it up and aside with a grunt and kneeling on the floorboards.

“See here!” he said, pointing to a chip mark in a wooden board.

“Why, it must have been dropped from some height!” I murmured, observing the box’s reinforced steel edges and cylindrical lid.

“Quite so. And, do you see this singing around the lock here?” he said, pointing to the strongbox’s latch, which lay on the floor, completely broken off. I looked closely, and observed the burn marks around its edges.

“Yes – you said you suspected some sort of gunpowder charge before.”

“Ah, initially that was so – but thanks to some of Mr. Pones’ reagent for testing for traces of magic,” he said triumphantly, “We have determined that the box is coated in a very light magical residue.”

“Which means?” I inquired.

“Obviously, it means that the box had magic used on it.”

“And how are these two details related?”

“It tells us that the perpetrator was a Unicorn,” he replied.

At this point, Rarity interjected with another cold command. To me, it was as if she was addressing a dog or some unpleasant other that had dragged itself through the door.

“Where is Mr. Pones right now?” she said, seeming to disregard the Inspector as the legitimate authority despite his labours. “I wish to speak with him.”

“He is just outside, Madam – I will take you to him.”

We trotted outside, and there, much to our collective surprise, we found Pones squatting in the garden just to the right of the front door. He was, as he had been before, idly examining everything except for the details, and was at current busily scrutinising a small plant that stood beside the doorway. Rarity called out his name, but he held up a hoof for silence.

“Allow me a moment, Rarity, to examine a few things,” he said before any of us could inquire as to his strange actions.

Lestrade was stunned into a humility that even Rarity’s coolness had not managed to inflict, and she herself was highly unamused – though whether that was because of Pones’ less than energetic attitude or because she was being ignored, I could not tell.

“What does he think he’s doing?” She hissed angrily at me.

“Be calm, Rarity,” I assured her. “Though I have not known him long, this is indeed the manner in which he works.”

“But the crime is inside, and not out,” added Lestrade in an amused tone.

Having finished his close inspection of the plant, Pones did a swift turn on the spot, and he proceeded down the fringe of the path that we had walked up on, all the while peering down at the hoofprints that had been left there, his eyes darting all over the wet clay. Two times he paused in his close and careful stride, and I heard him murmur an exclamation of satisfaction - on one occasion, the faintest trace of a smile passing over his face.

To my eyes, there were many hoofmarks on the soil. They were doubtlessly from the stream of police and visitors to the Boutique that had come and gone, and so many were there that I doubted that my friend could hope to learn anything new from his observations. Nevertheless, such an extraordinary mental quickness he possessed that I did not doubt that he could see a great deal more than a rank amateur such as I could.

Finally, he returned to us, treading back up the grassy side of the path. He seemed fairly content in something, though what conclusions he might have made were a mystery to me.

“Pones, two things – firstly, the lady would like a word with you,” Lestrade said before I could speak, “and secondly, the crime occurred inside, not outside.”

Pones shot him an amused glance.

“You think I am unaware of this?”

Lestrade, who looked considerably braver since Rarity had not lost her temper at him for the second time, spoke again. “I mean to say, of course, that perhaps your attention would be best left inside. I have already had the leisure of examining the exterior of the building.”

“And what did you conclude?” Said my companion, with some irritation. “That a rampaging herd of buffalo committed the theft? For that is what this appears to be,” he said, gesturing over to the path. Such a wilting attack from Pones I had experienced firsthand, and I thought the Inspector would crumble under his questions, but Lestrade again demonstrated his experience, shaking his head.

“No, though I made a point of looking at the pathway long before anypony arrived, and I concluded that there was nothing of interest there.”

“What did you see?” I inquired curiously, to which the detective shrugged.

“Three sets of hoof prints approaching, and two leaving,” he said. “Undoubtedly one set of prints belonged to Miss Rarity, and another to the thief.”

“And what of the third?” I inquired, to which Rarity spoke out.

“That would have been Fluttershy, earlier this morning, if I recall correctly.”

The details of her story were not lost on me, though they were new to Lestrade.

“Fluttershy?” He said, cocking his head to one side. “Are you referring to the shy young lady who visited before?”

“Yes I am, Inspector, and she has visited twice today.”

“Well, I should have words with her,” he said, smiling proudly at Rarity, who affixed him with such a withering glare that he swiftly added, “I will speak to her after I send a letter by last post to the ‘Yard. I am sure you have told Dr. Trotson all that there is to tell, so I will return later for the details.”

He bade all three of us good day, and, stepping lightly to one side of the pathway, set off back in the direction from which we had come.

“He is not very skilful, is he?” murmured Rarity as she watched him retreating.

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” said Pones, and here he walked over to Rarity and introduced himself, for he had not done so already.

“But of course, where are my manners. I am Mr. Pones, and doubtless you have met and talked to my friend Trotson.”

“Penelope Rarity,” she said, offering a hoof. “Before I begin, I might apologise for my rather unladylike and childish behaviour.” At this, she looked fairly sincerely at Pones’ hooves, but my companion simply shook his head.

“Symptoms of an acute stress reaction – I trust the good Doctor has given you treatment for it?” He winked at me in a fairly non-discreet way, and I caught on.

“Why, yes – we must pardon her for such behaviour. I have prescribed her to resume with her normal life, however, so I think that should prove a sufficient remedy!” I said, and Rarity beamed. I am confident she knew that it was a trick, but one that she appreciated nonetheless.

“So, Rarity, you wished to speak to me?” Pones inquired, after a moment of silence.

“Rather, I wished not to speak to the detective,” she replied with a slight of resignation. “He does not appear to have such a firm grasp on the issue, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

“Not at all, for I agree to an extent, but do not count our dear Lestrade out yet. He is the most keen and energetic of his lot, perhaps with the notable exception of one or two others, and he is not entirely hopeless.” At this, Pones turned back to the path. “He said he had already viewed the untouched path this morning, a most important observation that any slapdash policepony might simply have walked over, as it were.”

“I don’t know what you can see there that I cannot,” I said, squinting at the pathway, trying to make out the vague shapes of hooves.

“Indeed, it is difficult, but when you have learned the art of tracking from the teachers that I have, then this mess is not altogether unsalvageable. But let us put the problem of the path to the side for a moment, and instead hear what Rarity has to say.”

Rarity nodded, and began anew the dialogue that she had already told me, though considerably abridged, presumably for Pones’ benefit.

“I took delivery in the morning of the chest from the postman. I remember that at that time the gems were in it, for I opened it with my silver key and looked inside.”

“And what, pray tell, was the content of the chest?” Inquired Pones. He had on his look the concentrated gaze that I knew to mean his mind was now at work; ticking away on the clues before him.

“Twelve sapphires and four rubies. The rubies were trivial - two carats each; cut in classical brilliant fashion and around an inch in diameter, and the sapphires were similar, but cut in the shape of a teardrop. The majority of the shipment’s value was in a Lion's diamond, cut in the shape of a heart, which was ten carats.”

“My goodness,” I murmured. I knew, though I was no jeweller, that such a stone would have cost several hundred thousand golden bits. “Who on earth would order such a thing sequinned to a dress? It is far too expensive for that.”

“The rubies and diamond were intended for a tiara,” Rarity said.

Pones looked up from something, and I became aware that he had been writing notes ever since Rarity had begun speaking.

“Who was the tiara made for?”

Rarity lowered her voice.

“You are familiar with the Bluebloods, correct?”

We both nodded our simultaneous confirmation.

“It was made for the eldest daughter’s marriage to a very wealthy client – intended as a proposal gift.” she murmured so quietly I could barely hear her, and she glanced around nervously, as if looking for somepony snooping around. Pones did not write this down.

"I assume that is a detail not yet known to the public?” He inquired.

"Yes, that’s right. But the content of the boxes were all there, and I inspected them myself.”

“You are a qualified jeweller?”

“It is my heritage, and I grew up a Jeweller’s daughter.”

“Your mother’s influence, I take it?”

“Why, yes! How did you know?” she looked quite surprised that Pones had already concluded much about her.

“I read it,” he said, smiling weakly.

“In the papers!” I added with a cry of joy. I was immensely pleased that I had arrived at a conclusion of my own that had not involved Pones walking me through it.

“Excellent deduction, Trotson!” He turned to Rarity and elaborated, for she was slightly puzzled by my sudden exuberance.

“Simply put, Rarity, your mother is of the surname Sapphire, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“Then her family must in turn be related to gems, correct?’

“Just so.”

“Then we may assume that she is a member of the profession, for the skill and eye for beauty required for such employment would place a well-to-do mare such as she in the most appropriate position.”

Rarity thought briefly, and then smiled, voicing her surprise.

“Why, that is all true, and yet your thoughts are so simple, I would have never thought to cast my own eyes on it in such a way!” She said, and I was forcibly reminded of the very similar thoughts that had passed through my own head earlier that morning.

At this, Pones took a few steps out along the trail. He pointed with a grey hoof to a set of small hoofprints that were firmly imprinted on the clay gravel. Beside them were set another larger pair that I recognised to be my own, and a similar, smaller set that had been very firmly imprinted into the ground.

“See now, I think this is that young Pegasus lass, for you can see her footsteps to the door and back, followed by your own Trotson, though you have not left yet, so we may rule those pairs out of the mess. And there in the same manner are mine, slightly smaller but more pronounced.” He then turned to Rarity, and, quite to her and my own conjoined surprise, took her by the left forehoof, holding it up to the light so he could see the shoe on it.

“Ah, I recognise this!” he said, releasing her and turning back to the pathway. “See, you are here and there; for you have left the boutique, and come back as well. The tracks that are going to the road are sufficiently fainter then those coming to the door, which suggests that you had been out during the rain.” He turned to Rarity with a small smile. “So, you see, Rarity, already part of your tale is revealed to me.”

Rarity, if she had been surprised before, was now quite astonished by his conclusions, and she shook her curled mane in amazement.

“That is true, for I had been out last night.”

“Where to, and with whom?
”
“I was at a bar, if you must know,” she said, and here she coughed politely, “with a friend of mine.”

“The name of this friend?”

“Does it matter?” She inquired, and I knew she was reluctant to tell Pones.

“Everything matters,” I said, turning to Pones, who cast his glance over to me. “She was at a bar with her friend Miss Dash, to who you alluded before, and the pair of them became quite inebriated.”

Rarity turned an awful shade of scarlet at my admission, but she did not object, instead choosing to stew in her own embarrassment.

“Not very sophisticated, am I?” she said sadly, and here I noted that her accent had dropped slightly; and that there was a much less highly-strung and sincere voice behind all of her charade.

Pones tutted disapprovingly, though much to my surprise, I found that it was directed at me.

“Good lord, Trotson, have you no subtlety or sensitivity?” He said.

I was astonished and outraged.

“Fine talk coming from you!” I cried, intent on lecturing him, but I refrained, for I saw that he was laughing.

“Oh, Trotson, you are an amusing fellow,” he chortled, turning back to Rarity. “My dear, I doubt that my companion or I could judge you less for your nocturnal habits,” he said. “In fact, if my friend would permit himself to be the butt of a second joke in such a short timeframe, then suffice it to say his own nights are far from dull.”

I snorted impatiently.

“Please, Rarity, ignore this buffoon and instead continue with your story without further interruption,” I said testily, glaring at Pones. I imagined, out of the corner of my eye, that I saw briefest glimmer of a smile on her face, but when I looked back to her, she appeared to be very placid.

“V-very well,” she said, and her stammering voice betraying her humour to me, despite a very well-practiced and stony face adorning her features. I fixed her with what I hoped was an admonishing stare, and she hurriedly finished her story.

“I had returned in the evening, and I tried to unlock my door, and for whatever reason my key appeared to have become stuck in the lock. But this was not the case. The door was already unlocked, and I could not turn the lock any further, so I tried the doorhandle, and it swung inward. And there, I saw a figure in the darkness of the room, attempting to load the lockbox onto his back!”

Pones nodded and scribbled the details down.

“Did you get a good glance at whoever it was?”

“No, for he was dressed in black.”

“He?”

“Well – I do not know the identity of the burglar, but I assumed it to be a stallion,” she said, her face forming into a thoughtful variation of the same pout I had seen before.

“Is there a reason for this thought?”

“Well, the chest is fairly heavy. I couldn't lift it, you see, and I had to ask the guard who came with the shipment to assist me in moving it inside, to which he did so with a grunt, and he was very broad and tall.” She looked over at me and then back to my companion, sizing me up for comparative purposes. “I would say that the robber was just a lightweight though, for he was smaller than you, Mr. Pones.”

“In which case, if he was only a slight fellow, how did he manage to lift the chest?” I inquired.

“Levitation,” said Pones simply. He reached into his pocket and produced a small, clear vial stopped with a cork. The liquid inside was what I recognised to be Pones’ agent that he had discovered the day I met him. The vial was not overly full, and it looked as if some of it had been used.

“But of course!” I said. “The Inspector mentioned that you had applied some of it on the strongbox, and the results were positive.”

“Quite so,” he replied, nodding before continuing to Rarity. “And then, seeing you in fright, the thief dropped the box?”

“Yes,” replied Rarity. “So startled was he – for ease, let us assume that he was a stallion – that he jumped in alarm, and the box fell to the floor with a clatter.”

“What happened then?’

“He rushed me, and pushed me to one side before fleeing out of the door.”

“Did you give chase?”

“Well – no.” She looked upset again. “I was so panicked that I simply lay there for a while, fearing that he might return.”

“Do not think less of yourself for it,” Pones said seriously. “It was a brave act to challenge him at all, but it was foolish – what if he tried to hurt you?”

Rarity faltered, and turned to me for some comfort.

“Again, Mr. Pones, I was not exactly…” here she paused, searching for the right word.

“In the right state of mind,” said I, and she nodded in agreement. “Adrenaline evokes the fight or flight response, Pones, and there is often very little and rational thought in the heads of those stricken by extreme fear, as Miss Rarity was.”

Rarity gave me a look of happy relief as I finished, and I smiled back warmly, but our attention soon fell back upon Pones.

“Presumably, you then called the police.”

“Yes, and their appearance comforted me. There were two of them, and they reassured me that I would be safe. One stood watch in my lower room during the night in case the thief returned, and the other left to dispatch a letter to Canterlot, and when morning came they had left and Lestrade had arrived.”

“And what of Fluttershy’s hoofprints that Lestrade found along with the thief’s and your own?”

“That was after. She had come by the road in the morning from her house on the way into town, and noticed the police outside. She came to the door, and peeked in, but the Policepony inside told her to leave and come back later, so she did, and she left for a second time at around the moment you arrived.”

“Indeed,” I interjected. “I had a conversation with her out on the pathway.”

“So, returning to our problem of the pathway,” Pones said, “We have three other pairs of hooves…” His quick eyes darted around the pavement, presumably tallying the ponies to have come and go.

“And nobody visited you besides these ponies?”

Rarity thought hard for a moment before summing it up.

“In order I was visited by; the burglar, the two policeponies coming, one leaving to dispatch a message and re-arriving, Fluttershy coming and leaving, Lestrade coming, the two policeponies leaving, and then Fluttershy once more. Then you came, and it ends with Lestrade leaving,” she said.

“You have not left the house?” I inquired.

“No, for at first I was too afraid, and the policeponies thought it might be best for me to stay inside, so I have not left since.”

“Then it is as Lestrade says, all the hoofprints barring the robbers are accounted for.” I turned to Pones. “Have you found the culprit’s tracks?”

“Indeed I have,” said he, and at this he kneeled and hovered his hoof over a faded, yet very deep and wide hoofprint.

“This print here,” he said thoughtfully.

“But,” I protested. “That cannot have been so, for the robber was of a light build!”

“I am aware,” said Pones pointedly. “But they are the only set of hooves left.” He glanced over at Rarity. “Are you definite that he was of a light build?”

“Positive,” said Rarity. “I remember very clearly, because I was not bowled over by his charge when he made a break for the door, merely shunted to one side, and it was more of my surprise that made my fall.”

For a while then, we sat and looked at the clay path. I was clueless, and Pones, it seemed, was in his peak of mental concentration. But, to my surprise, it was Pones who spoke first, breaking the silence.

“He was more than six feet high. He was also moderately-built, in the prime of his life, and he wore a set of very fine shoes.” He then looked up at Rarity.

“Did you strike your assailant?”

“I did, in fact,” said Rarity with some surprise.

“Ah, what excellent work that was!” I cried.

I had been something of a boxer in my schooling years, which gave me a much deeper and firmer appreciation for the fighting spirit than many would give me credit for, being the quiet soul that I was. Had I been so inclined, my coach once said of me, I could have had a bout in the semiprofessional circuit upon the completion of my schooling, but instead I chose the more immediate desire of being a doctor.

“Where did you hit him exactly?” I inquired, for I had since forgotten.

“I don’t remember,” Rarity said. “I just closed my eyes and swung wildly, and it connected."

My companion grimaced and rose to his feet.

“You have scrubbed your hooves since?”

“Yes, I have,” she said, to which my companion let out a small groan.

“Alas, for there might have been a scraping of skin or a snatch of blood I might have taken.”

“Oh no, there was no blood – of that I am sure,” said Rarity, though her features had again adopted one of her more pathetic looks from upstairs. “All the same, I apologise for being such a hindrance.”

“Think nothing of it!” Pones stated quite firmly. “You have been through more than enough for one day.” At this, he turned to me.

“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “We shall go and have a chat with Miss Fluttershy. Rarity, you should get some rest,” He said, spotting the mare let out a small yawn.

“But wait, what of the inconsistency with the hoofprints?” She said.

“I am not sure, though I have a hunch,” said he. “I must speak to this Fluttershy before I am to conclude anything.”
He turned to me.

“And I believe you have an appointment with Miss Redheart, do you not?”

I jumped. I had completely forgotten, of course, and I looked at my watch. Thankfully I still had plenty of time.
“Yes I do, but that is not for at least a few hours yet.”

“You’ll be cutting it quite fine if you want to make it to the Clinic from Fluttershy’s house,” interjected Rarity.

“That is a risk that I am willing to run!” I said, rubbing my front hooves together. “This whole detective business is fascinating.”

“Well, I must thank you so much for your help. I really do appreciate your enthusiasm!” She said with a smile, walking over to me. “Thank you for your kind words earlier,” she murmured honestly, kissing me on the cheek in farewell. I returned it in kind, and she repeated the act for Pones before we said goodbye, and set off towards the main road alongside the path.

We were a good distance from Rarity’ boutique when we arrived back at the main road. Here, he and I stood and discussed what we had learned earlier, as well as our plans for the immediate future.

“Rarity said earlier that Fluttershy’s was just up the road,” I remembered.

“Do you still want to speak to her?” Pones inquired, and my own mind started turning over in thought.

“I believe,” I said after a while, “that it may be for the best, for she knows who you are, and her temperament seems to be on the more cautious side of ‘wary’.”

“Is that so?” he said, though what part of my question he was referring to I had no idea.

“Yes to both – you did not tell me that you were famous?”

“Was there ever a need?”

“I should think that I had gained your confidence enough by now to be told as much.”

“I am not widely famous – this Fluttershy must be well read, for in passing and legend is the only place where I am mentioned.”

“In any case, I should really come with you.”

“Yes,” said Pones, affixing me with a very focused stare. “You seem to have a way with fillies, Trotson.”

“Years of study and practice,” I said, without thinking. My companion started to laugh, and I realised the confusion of my words. I turned to him incredulously.

“You remember your own words on studying you when we left the train? Well, I wish to say I have obtained one piece of data since we got off the train, and that is this: for someone so well-grown, Sherclop Pones is extremely juvenile!”

To this, he chuckled even harder, his deep laughs the most joyous emotion I had seen from him yet. For a while he sat there, until he caught his breath enough to speak.

“Ah, you entertain me so, Trotson,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye with a hoof. “Very well then, let us go to Fluttershy’s.”
“You don’t honestly believe that she was capable of such a theft from her dear friend?” I said incredulously. “Furthermore, she is a Pegasus. They cannot use magic.”

“All the same, I said to Cheerilee that I would not leave a stone unturned, and we should not simply cast her thoughts aside just because she is a good friend,” he said seriously. “I have known far less sinister in appearance to commit a crime then she.”

“You may change your mind when you meet her proper.”

“Be that as it may,” he said to me, “we should get moving.”

I agreed, and together we began walking down the sloping road that lead further still from the centre of town.

H.R.H.C.

It was a good twenty minutes’ walk down the main road from Carousel Boutique to Fluttershy’s cabin on the outskirts of town. My companion was in fairly good spirits, and prattled endlessly about musical instruments, particularly fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for I was in a state of puzzled dissatisfaction, having left Rarity’s without a solid answer.

“You amaze me, Pones,” I said as we crested another small hill. “All of those details back at Rarity’s – surely you are not as definite as you pretend to be of them?”
“I am one hundred percent confident,” he replied firmly. “The very first thing which I saw on arriving were the hoofprints embedded into the path, though admittedly my mind was on other things, and we carelessly trod over them – but no matter. The criminal’s trail was clear as day to me.”
“How are you aware of his height?” said I.
“The height of anypony, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from the length of his or her stride,” said Pones. “It is a simple calculation, though there is no use boring you with my trigonometry. I had this fellow’s stride on the clay, and I knew his weight from the indentation that he left when he stood there, and that is part of the reasoning for my pacing at the edge of the pathway.”
“What else did you determine?”
“That he was about my height and a good deal heavier, in much the similar build as you, but with much wider hooves.”
“I see. That seems simple enough,” I said, after some thought. “But what of his age?”
“If a stallion can stride four and a half feet with the smallest effort, he must be fit and healthy. That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently strode across.”
“So you deemed him to be very fit?”
“Yes, though I cannot be sure of his age – I would suspect around his late twenties, though you yourself are only twenty-four and yet you hold a similar stride to him.”
“But,” I interjected, “Rarity’s description of the criminal and your analysis do not match.”
“Perhaps she may have been wrong,” he said idly.
I frowned. “Come now Pones, I believe you know as well as I do the medical exactness of psychological recall while under duress.”
“True, true, and while it can be argued for the more extreme cases that the opposite holds true, this was not as overly horrifying as that. She also seemed quite adamant about her assailant,” he replied.
“Then what of the contradiction in facts and the account?”
“Ah, there is yet one more confirmation I have to make before the facts are quite clear to me, and the account may make sense.”
“Do you mean to say you know who perpetrated it already?” I said, quite incredulously.
“Not at all!” my companion said. “But, if I were to obtain such affirmation of my suspicion, then all the facts would be made clear to me, and then it is only a simple matter of whom.”
“So it appears that you are again aware of something that I am not?” I asked.
“Yes – the inconsistency bothers me, as you mentioned, but I have a theory as to a possible solution that satisfies it,” he said.
“And will you not share this theory?”

Here, my companion stopped on the side of the dusty road, turning to me in the afternoon sun.
“I’m not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You know as well as I do that a conjuror gets no credit once he has explained his trick, and if I show you too much method of my working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”
“That would be impossible,” I replied with a grin; “you have brought the profession of a detective as near an exact science as it ever will be.”
It seemed to me that he was sensitive to flattery on the matter of his work, for he flushed with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I spoke them.
“For your kindness, I will tell you something else,” he said at length.
“And what might that be?”
“There is no discrepancy between the account and the evidence.”
I was puzzled, though I grimaced and took a deep breath, turning my gaze back towards the road.
“Well, I hope your theory is correct,” I said. “Though it is beyond me to question you.”

We arrived at Fluttershy’s somewhat out of breath, for we had hurried. Pones had wanted to speak to Berry Punch before the afternoon was out, and I had to somehow make my way to Miss Redheart’s within whatever time was left over from talking to the shy mare.

Fluttershy’s cottage was a small and tidy looking house whose ceiling appeared to be formed out of tree leaves and thatched verdant branches. It was placed beyond a very quaint little bridge that ran over what I presumed to be the river we had crossed earlier, though now the powerful stream had dwindled into a tapering and winding creek, its crystalline waters burbling through rushes and reeds. The house itself resembled a cross between a stone farmer's cottage and a bush, and there were several trees and a line of hedges around it – the effect it gave was very natural and rather soothing, and the modern stonemasonry did not appear to clash with the greenery. There was, at its front, a little red door, a handful of windows with attached window-gardens from behind which a golden light was visible, and on the roof there was a pale, cream-coloured chimney-pot. It resembled a cosy warren more then a proper house, but that is not criticism, for I could imagine myself living in such a place quite happily.

The other detail that caught my eye as we crossed the bridge was what appeared to be a chicken coop with a low fence. There were also many finely crafted bird houses were nailed to the lower boughs of the trees, the chattering of their occupants the only indication that any other creature lived on the serene property.

We walked up the gravel turnoff that led to her front door, and Pones knocked upon it twice, and we stood and waited a while for a response. The door then creaked open, and Fluttershy stood before us. She was wearing an apron and had the dustings of flour upon her forehooves, and she recognised me before Pones, smiling. This was just as well, for she when she laid eyes upon him she turned a faint shade of white, not dissimilar to the powder that smattered her features. She apologised hastily for taking her time in opening the door, for she had been baking, and we were shown into a very spacious and eloquent lounge room, where she bade us wait ‘just another five minutes if that would be ok with you’.

She arrived, I noticed, almost precisely five minutes later, having removed her apron and tidied her appearance a little. She carried with her on a large silver platter a pot of tea with three cups, and a plate of shortbread; their wonderful freshly-cooked scent causing the very faintest of a rumble in my stomach. We were sitting on a very large and comfortable couch, and she took up a small armchair opposite us.

“It’s a good to see you again Doctor,” she said, looking at us kindly. “And you must be Mr. Pones – please, help yourself to some tea and biscuits.”
I happily obliged, taking a biscuit and a large mug, wondering how on earth someone so innocent could have possibly occurred in Pones’ mind as suspicious.
“We were just here to ask a few questions about the other day,” Pones said.
“Well, um, the Inspector came by before to take my report, but I would be happy to repeat it for you two gentleponies,” she said. I noticed that she had neglected to take a cup, instead putting both her hooves into her lap where she fiddled nervously. I glanced over at Pones, presuming that he had noticed the same, but he did not give the impression of having done so, instead smiling a little as he spoke.
“We thought that we should like to hear it from yourself, given that you are Rarity’s friend,” he said.
“Okay… From the beginning?” she asked softly, and I replied with an encouraging nod.

Fluttershy took a deep breath and creased her delicate brow in concentration, as though she was trying hard to not make a mistake.
“Well, I was up early feeding the animals,” she began. “About six or seven in the morning. I realised that I didn’t have enough seed for my chickens for the week, so I decided that I’d go into town to get some.”
“How do you carry such a thing?” Pones inquired suspiciously.

She faltered in her speech, and for a second my heart almost wilted with pity to imagine such a frail filly struggling with a very large and heavy bag of seed.
“Oh, I don’t – I have it ordered by mail cart, so I usually just send a message with a bird or go there myself, and then it gets delivered the next day.” She smiled sweetly. “I couldn’t possibly carry it all.”
“Then you just decided to walk into town,” I said quickly before Pones could ask another question. He shot me a sideways glance, but Fluttershy did not seem to notice.
“Anyway, I walked by Rarity’s boutique, and I saw that the door was wide open—”
“You did not fly straight into town?” Pones interrupted again, his eyes narrowing somewhat. I felt that the poor mare may have simply curled up into a nervous wreck under his questioning, but she answered somewhat confidently for someone so reluctant.
“No, I enjoy walking more these days,” she said thoughtfully. “I am a Pegasus, and I do fly, but I like the ground and the animals there a good deal more than the sky.”
I nodded, urging her on. “Please, continue.”
“Anyway, I was a little past the place, and I looked back only to see that the door was open. There was yellow tape on the front yard and a police cart outside, so I just thought I’d go over quickly to see what was going on. I went to the door, and looked through the open doorway to see if Rarity was alright.”
“And was she?” I asked softly, in a much less intrusive fashion to Pones.
“Yes, but there were also two policeponies there, and one of them noticed me as I entered, and he started yelling at me. He said that it was a crime scene, and that I needed to leave." She seemed somewhat happier and more comfortable talking to me than Pones, so I continued as the main correspondent for her story.
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No… Rarity must have been in her room.”
“Did you do anything else when he told you to leave?”
“Well, um, he scared me, so no, I didn’t.” She looked quite ashamed at her own cowardice. “I went back to the path very quickly, and then out to the orchards, where I placed my order with Granny Smith before coming back here again.”
“Did you stop by Rarity’s a second time on the way back?”
“No, I didn’t, but I trotted by from my house later, when they removed the tape. I didn't go up to look, though.”
“Why did you not stop back in then?”
Fluttershy turned a very faint shade of pink.
“The police-pony was still there, and I didn’t want him to yell at me again,” she said very quietly.
“And was there anypony there at that time other then the two officers?”
“I don’t know – I didn’t look in, I just passed by quickly on the way back to my house.”
Pones, who had kept his hooves together in front of his face, was watching Fluttershy intently. She noticed it, but would not give him eye contact, instead keeping her gaze on me throughout the entire conversation.
“And then what time did you go to see Rarity again?”
“At around noon today.”
Silence filled the room, and I turned to my companion, seeking approval. He still wore the same suspicious look that had adorned his features not previously, though it was less intense than before.
“She is telling the truth,” he said after a while, leaving the comment in the air. Fluttershy looked quite upset that she had been under suspicion in the first place, but she sounded relieved to be out of the spotlight again.
“Um…” She began to say something, but instead tapered off. “Okay.”
“Fear not, Miss Fluttershy, for we are of the hounds, and not the wolves,” Pones said. “You need not fear our questioning either, for I knew quite well that you could not have committed the crime.”

She seemed a little more relaxed by his reassurances, but all the same she still seemed uncomfortable about something. Perhaps it was just her way, I thought, for I did not want to confuse her discomfiture with Pones with suspicion of guilt, and my companion’s words solidified that thought in my mind.

I turned to him.
“See what I mean?” I said proudly. “She is far too kind to have done such a thing.”
Fluttershy blushed in embarrassment.
“Well, she is the element of Kindness,” Pones said very quietly indeed – almost so that I could not hear him.
“I did not know this!” I cried, smiling. I was familiar with the exploits of the six heroes, and as such I felt slightly ashamed that I had ever suspected her. “This was a waste of poor Miss Fluttershy’s energy and time, for there is no way the element of kindness would ever steal, let alone from a good friend.”
“Indeed, though her words have been of some use to me,” said Pones, rising to his feet.
“Why, have you reached a conclusion?”
“No, but a suspicion of mine has been confirmed.”
“And what might that be?”
He turned to me, his eyes flashing.
“I did say I would not repeat any more of it to you, did I not?”
“Even so,” I said, gesturing to Fluttershy, who sat silently, watching our exchange with intrigue. “She deserves to know of her predicament.”

I could see that Pones was torn between hiding his profound talent and the obligation to explain himself to the mare, who was watching him reproachfully with her dulcet aqua eyes.
“Oh, very well,” he said with resignation, and that was much to my relief, as privately, I was quite in the dark about what Pones had gained. I noticed that as he began to explain himself, Fluttershy smiled at me, but only very briefly.
“My conclusion is based in two parts. One is based on what you just said now – that this morning, you passed by Carousel boutique on your way to town,” he said. It was as if his own logic bored him, and he did not wait for a response before continuing. “That was when you said you went over to Rarity’s, and put your head in the doorway. But, you were frightened away from the scene by one of the constables that was there.”
“Yes,” said Fluttershy steadily, appearing to take much interest in what he said. “What is the other part?’
“The second I have not yet tested, and I felt I would not test it before I intended to leave –BOO!”

With this final word, he lunged forward with a shout, causing me to jump out of my skin, spilling some of my cup of tea. Fluttershy squealed in fright, and immediately took to wing, rising towards the ceiling rapidly where she hovered, her eyes wide and petrified.
“What in Equestria did you do that for?!” I spluttered indignantly. I had managed to not tip any of the boiling liquid onto my jacket or on the sofa, but I was more indignant that he had appeared to do it for no reason. Pones appeared quite neutral, his eyes resting upon the flying filly.
“That,” he said deliberately, pointing at the mare, “is the second part of my hypothesis.”

My head turned between him and the startled Fluttershy in bewilderment. Fluttershy, seeing that there was no danger, touched back on the floor again, her face a bright shade of scarlet. She did not speak, but watched Pones reproachfully as she had upon first seeing him.

“Well whatever your reasoning is, it had best be good,” I snapped at him. Already this frail young girl was terrified of Pones, and yet here he was jumping about like a hooligan, frightening the wits out of her.
“My dear Trotson, calm yourself,” he said authoritatively. “Unfortunately, I had to frighten you both to demonstrate my logic to you, for it is in her reaction that I am convinced she did not commit this crime.”
At this, he turned to me.
“Fluttershy did not go directly to Rarity’s boutique in the morning.”
His quiet and self-confident manner swayed me from my anger, somewhat. “What do you mean?”
“She did not walk,” he repeated. “She had already passed the boutique when she decided that she might visit, and as she mentioned, the pathway was cordoned off at the time, presumably for the benefit of Lestrade. She then peered in, and because she was shouted at by the constable, she took off back to the road. I have concluded this because she is quite shy by her very nature, and the fact that when she is quite frightened, she tends to take to wing – a phenomena we have observed twice, once outside the boutique when she bumped into you, and once again just now,” he added, with an apologetic glance to Fluttershy.

At this, I smacked a hoof to my head in amazement. I had neglected the logical possibility that she had flown at all, for I had not seen her in the air other than the two times that Pones had mentioned, yet her strong and supple wings told me that she was a regular flier. Fluttershy was still standing some way away from Pones, but she nodded slowly.

“Yes… I flew over to the front door when I noticed the strangeness, and then again away from the guard when he scared me,” she said quietly.
“And thus,” Pones added, “She did not set hoof on the wet path in either coming or going.”

My mind buzzed. Pones had clearly pieced it together as soon as he had seen Fluttershy jump in fear. But yet I was bothered still, for I recalled what Pones had said on the way to her house.
“Then how did you gain an idea that the hoofprints on the path made sense before speaking with her?” I said.
“Two reasons,” he replied. “One is Rarity’s statement, in which she described her robber as a very lightly built fellow, and two is that there was a pot plant next to the stone step and doorway. I was looking at it when you came outside with Lestrade – do you remember?” He glanced over at me, and I nodded.
“What did you see on it?” I inquired.
“I saw that one of the fronds of the plant had been broken, and that the damage was fresh, for the sap was still leaking from it. No doubt it was caused by somepony brushing by it,” and here he glanced to Fluttershy.
“Yes,” she said, “The tape was tied from the bottom of the path to two of those striped poles, and so I had to go from the side, which meant squeezing between the pole and the plant.”
“As thought,” said Pones. “This means, that in our grand tally of ponies who visited the boutique, there are two sets of hoofprints left unaccounted for.”
“And how do you know they were not made before yesterday?’ I enquired in amazement.
“It had rained the night that Rarity was out, and so all tracks older than yesterday would have been churned away,” he said simply.
“So we have two thieves, and not one,” I murmured.
“Perhaps,” he said with a curt nod of his head. “It could simply be another visitor who came during the evening, wishing to speak to Rarity about something, or it could be an accomplice.”

For a while, then, we sat in silence, basking in the new information.

"Now, Doctor, I must be off, for I must return to the Boutique and look at the path once more, and then I must catch Berry Punch before sundown.”
“Do you have an idea of where she might be?” I asked, to which he nodded his head.
“Yes, though I was not told. She will be at the bar by the time I arrive, as it is close to the evening,” he said, checking his watch. I frowned, but did not move from my seat.
“Are you not coming?’ he asked.
“I have a few more questions to ask Miss Fluttershy,” I said, and here the fragile mare interjected.
“Just Fluttershy will do, thank you,” she said quite happily, to which both Pones and I turned for a moment. I had thought it was quite unusual for her to be assertive around me, someone who she appeared to be comfortable with, let alone both Pones, who had just frightened her out of her wits.

My companion looked back at me briefly.
“Well then, perhaps it is best if we rendezvous tomorrow instead?” He glanced at a great grandfather clock that stood against the cream-coloured wall. “I must be gone a bit before you, and I doubt that I will be back early, but I have several places to stay, so I will work that out later.”
I agreed, and we worked out that we would meet again outside the train station at one o’clock.
“And where will you stay?” Fluttershy inquired, undoubtedly interested in our activities.

I admittedly had not given the subject much thought, my mind having been too busily turning over the strange mystery and my even stranger companion the whole day. I thought for a moment, and then reeled – for it had been plainly obvious. Felicia could not have possibly intended for me to travel back to Canterlot by train, for as I knew all too well, there were no trains after seven, so she had intended for me to stay the night. This did not bode well for me, for as I have mentioned I am something of a shy character, but I rationalised it by thinking that she had not meant anything so forward. I had made that mistake once before, after all.

“I’m seeing a friend in the evening, so I’ll stay at… hers,” I said after a while, halting the implications that lurked in the back of my head. Mercifully, nobody appeared to have picked up on the awkwardness of my predicament (I was always fairly lucky in that respect).
“Well then, until tomorrow!” Pones said, and he shook my hoof. Fluttershy then showed him to the door, leaving me in the parlour. I took another drink of my tea and ate quietly, thinking about the new information Pones had revealed to me.

I heard the sound of the door closing, and then Fluttershy returned to me. She seemed a good deal more relaxed now that the conversation was one-on-one, and, much to my surprise, took her seat right next to me on the settee instead of on the armchair. She did not seem to care much though, instead immediately talking about Pones.
“He is amazing,” she said breathlessly as she helped herself to the remaining, untouched cup.
“Yes, he certainly is,” I agreed.
“He’s just like he’s mentioned in the books – very thorough and efficient and unusual, and he didn’t speak much, either, though I’m very thankful that I didn’t have to answer too many questions from him.”
I nodded. “Yes, I agree, he is often a bit forward when he is at work - and actually, now that you mention it, that is what I had wanted to speak to you about.”
Fluttershy looked at me curiously.
“What do you mean?” she inquired. “His mannerisms?”
“Oh, no – I meant the books.”
“Oh!” she replied, immediately setting her cup of tea down on the table. “I have one in my bedroom, just let me go and get it.”

Before I could object, she trotted away, humming to herself lightly. I concluded, as I watched her turn the corner back towards the front door, that she was a very different creature when she was in her comfort zone, and I understood immediately how it came to be that she worked with animals – for who as timid as she could ever work with other ponies? Her animals were predictable creatures, and there was no doubt that her work gave her some degree of comfort. But it saddened me nonetheless to see such a pretty young mare so very isolated from the rest of her town.

Maybe though, I thought to myself, as she re-entered the sitting room with a small brown book in her mouth, that perhaps this was her attitude exclusively to important strangers, and she was more comfortable among her friends. She handed me the book, and I noticed its cover was quite faded.

Important Crimes of the Last Century, it ran in small lettering, and I was quite unnerved.
“Fluttershy, what interest do you have in crime?” I inquired politely, concealing my unsureness from her. Fluttershy had resumed her seat next to me and was now eating a biscuit, which she swallowed before turning and replying.
“It’s just so exciting! – all the things you get to see and do, and you get to see people like Mr. Pones make their fascinating conclusions.”
“I have been of that mindset myself,” I said with a smile. I was not referring to Pones in particular, for I had been a great reader of mystery books myself when I was a small foal -- but of course, Pones' more recent conclusions gave some poignancy to what was otherwise a very well read childhood.
“What do you mean?’

I recounted to her the story of this morning, where Pones had concluded from a single glance that the postman was a sailor, and that I had travelled recently. Her aquamarine eyes were wide open, and she hung on every word until I finished several minutes later.
“Wow…” she said, her voice in a dreamy state. “He sounds so clever.”
“I doubt that clever is the right word for it, for it does not do that kind of brilliance justice,” I replied in agreement.
“All that he could tell just from a single glance?” she said.
“It could not have been more than a few seconds for the postman, though he did get a fair opportunity to examine me.”
“Amazing!” she said, and I laughed, for I had remembered myself in exactly the same position.
“He does not seem to think so – he is, some would say, an extremely modest prodigy.”
“That’s the impression the book gives me,” she said, to which I opened it.
“Is he mentioned heavily?” I inquired hopefully. Pones had not been overly liberal about his past to me, and I had decided long before I met Fluttershy that I would be very interested in learning about it.
“Yes and no – not in that he is a main feature, but his name seems to pop up every now and again.” She reached over with a butter yellow hoof, turning the book on my lap to about halfway.
“I think he’s mentioned at most here,” she said, pointing at a small paragraph.
It appeared to be an aside and was written in a scratchy, yet refined and legible way.

Sherclop Pones, or so he was known to me at the time… is a very good detective and an exceedingly strange pony… he was observant, even though he seems quite vague, and his mind is very much unmatched.

I turned back to the front page, searching for an author, but I found none.
“Who is the author of this?” I inquired, flipping through the first few pages, looking for a publisher or note explaining the absence.
“I have no idea," she replied. "It was published under a Pseudonym.” She reached over and closed the book on my hoof, tapping at the cover. I squinted, and there, underneath the title, there were in faded gold-leaf written the letters H.R.H.C.
“Do you know where I can find more?”
Fluttershy nodded.
“At the library, which is back towards the centre of town, um…”
She looked around before standing again, walking to a small cabinet on the far side of the room and opening it. She withdrew an ink pot, a quill and a piece of paper, and scribbled on the note hastily before returning.
“Here’s the address, and a little map. She closes late at night, because she lives there.” she said to me. I thanked her and took it, pocketing it for later. If I had time, I would go and see her before she closed.
“She lives in a library?” I inquired. I had noticed the strange habit by which some of the town’s occupants tended to work out of home (the mayor and Rarity sprung to mind). I had seen similar occupancy before in Canterlot, where living space was expensive, and often people would live on the second story over the top of their cafes or businesses. But out here, where space was abundant, I wondered why it occurred. It was traditional, presumably.
“Well, it’s more of a tree,” Fluttershy said, interrupting my thoughts.
“A tree…?”
“Well, on the inside it’s a library.”
“I understand,” I said, though I did not.
“I like the idea lot,” she said, throwing a glance around at the leafy roof. “This house was designed like a bush.”
“I noticed that, actually,” I murmured, following her gaze. “I wouldn’t mind living in a place very much like this.”
“Do you enjoy nature as well?”
“Well, I am not legitimately from the countryside, but I did grow up in a very small town to Canterlot’s northwest, so I do love it,” I said. This was of course, all true – I was raised on a farm in the cold Northern Highlands near Canterlot, towards Cloplin, and I moved to the big city of my own volition.

Fluttershy and I sat and talked a little more about various things that are presumably of great disinterest to you, dear reader. We spoke about my family, and my childhood, and hers and how she had fallen from Cloudsdale as a foal, and all manner of things. The point of me saying so is to make an excuse - for, in my eagerness to talk with Fluttershy, I lost track of the time. I glanced at my watch after what only seemed to be a short while, and noticed, to my surprise, that I had already consumed more time than I had intended, and that I ran the risk of running late for my meeting with Felicia.

Fluttershy seemed alarmed, for it was she who had been talking the most between the two of us.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to have made you late!” she cried, and immediately she searched around for some way to hasten my leaving.
“No, no – I am not late, but I must go now, or else the person I’m going to see will be most upset with me,” I said, getting to all fours. She then proceeded to walk me to the door.
“Is it a date?” she asked me, when we were halfway down the hallway that lead to the front door. I felt embarrassed in what was a rather childish way, and I searched for an appropriate answer, though none was forthcoming.
“Erm, yes, something of that nature,” I said rather sheepishly, and I heard again that delightful, bubbling laugh from Fluttershy.
“Lucky mare,” she said, before she opened the door. I was quite stunned that her reclusive nature allowed her to say such a thing, but I tried my best to hide my own shyness, simply forcing a laugh and bidding her goodbye.
“Thank you again, Fluttershy,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. She was obviously the more confident figure now she felt comfortable talking to me, and to confirm my suspicion she returned the farewell quite amiably and happily before we parted.

I smiled a final goodbye before walking back over the stone bridge, exiting out and back onto the main road.

Sparkling Cider and a Fine Riesling

I felt slightly guilty as I walked back into town, for I knew that I had thought listening to Fluttershy would have been a waste of time. Nothing further could be from the truth, however, and as Ponyville’s houses and shops grew in closeness, I made a mental note to apologise to Pones. I knew that, were it not for his brilliance and his intense scrutiny of Fluttershy’s story, we might still be convinced that there was only a single perpetrator of the crime. Though perhaps with his earlier suspicions, he had assumed well before anyone else that there was a second present that night, and I wondered for a while how he might have arrived at that particular conclusion. Pones was a reserved character, almost devious in nature - his perseverance to keep his cards close to his chest at all times came off as less than agreeable at times, or at least I had learned as much in the brief time I had known him. But I felt that behind his well-masked personality, there lay a fragment of a very dark mind. It seemed he possessed a certain aptitude at thinking like a criminal, or at the very least there was some part of him that he used to see the extraordinary that I had not.

I passed back by the boutique, which was now evidently closed. The front door was shut and there were no lights on either upstairs or downstairs, and I assumed that rarity had retired early. My heart went out to her as I reached the top of the hill and looked back to observe the boutique in the evening light, for I became aware what a beautiful thing the building was. The vivid shades of mauve and rose that I had thought of as rather obnoxious had blended together with the ever-reddening sky. It was, I felt, reflective of her personality – seemingly brash, yet undoubtedly as natural and charming as it was possible to be, when put in the right light.

My approach to Ponyville was now downhill, and as the houses hemmed me in on my left and right, my mind came back to the task at hand. I paused, slipping a hoof into my jacket pocket for the address that Felicia had given me. On it was drawn a very rough map. I was thankful for this, for I still knew very little about the place, and using it I planned my route up a series of streets that led towards the east side of town. I began to walk once more, and my thoughts on the very strange day continued, as if they were a faithful hound, stopping and waiting obediently until I had begun my stride.

I had endeavoured as much as I could to keep up with Pones’ conclusions, but it seemed that I was merely his very mediocre student. He was a stallion of habit, but to a greater extent than I, and he appeared irritated by my lesser mind, which undoubtedly appeared to him to be slow. Still, I consoled myself as my hooves found the footpath of the town streets once more; at least I served as a whetstone for his mind. It seemed that my inquiry into each of his actions forced him to exercise his great brain as much as his extraordinary conclusions forced mine.

I rounded a corner, and found that in my absent mindedness that I had arrived back in the town square. Quite contrary to its casual laziness in the morning, the place was now alive with restaurants and bars to which there was a steady influx of visitors as the day drew to a close. I assumed, as I looked around, that Pones must be here somewhere, though I did not attempt to seek him out through the windows of the cafes and restaurants, for as much as his perusal of the unknown ‘Berry Punch’ piqued my interest, I had no time to waste. I increased my pace a little, and exited on the opposite side of the place, picking a path that ran right between two very crowded and equally as noisy bars, and up a street that wound its way in an easterly direction.

Eventually, I passed away from the bustling town centre, re-entering the endless avenues of houses and parks before arrived at the address to which I had been directed. It was a somewhat immodest manor built out of brick. I was somewhat taken aback, for though I knew Felicia well, I did not assume her to be particularly wealthy, even though I also knew that as rural doctor she must have been well to do. I opened the waist high fence and strolled through a delightfully prettygarden of tulips and daisies.

I knocked on the wooden door, and was answered almost immediately. Her familiar features approaching through the ornamental stained glass windows that stood either side of the doorway told me that she was expecting me.

The door swung in, and immediately she set upon me like she had not seen me in years, hugging me. Her overzealous affection was something I had always enjoyed, and it brought a smile to my features as we released our embrace, whereupon she spoke.

“You look well!” she said with some affection. I returned the compliment, though in reality she was far and beyond ‘well’. She had clearly gone to some lengths for tonight, as her mane– which I had rarely seen let out of its tidy bundle – flowed to her shoulders, a wave of strawberry blonde. She wore a modestly cut black dress that fit her perfectly; and a light necklace of gold around her neck, from which dangled a heart-shaped pendant.

She caught me looking her over, though, and I immediately confessed my guilt in the extremely sincere and childish way that I tended to do when I was somewhat nervous, apologising profusely. She laughed and shut the door behind her, turning a key in the lock before depositing it in a small black bag. I recognised it to be the one that she had worn at our last meeting.

“Oh, Trotson, don’t be so polite,” she said in her very straightforward fashion. I was confused by my own error, and wondered if she had meant to say formal instead, but immediately I found a pair of hooves resting on my chest, and her own silver-blue eyes to be very close to my own. Immediately my mind seized up, but again I had made the error of jumping to conclusions, as she then applied weight, giving me a friendly shove out of her doorway.
“Let’s go!” she said excitedly, cantering past me.

We walked back towards town along the way I had come, but we then followed a small dog-leg to the left so that we faced north. She led me up a few streets, and we chatted about our weeks. She seemed particularly interested about my impressions of Ponyville, of which she was five years in residence, and how I had got on with Sherclop Pones.

I was more than eager to talk about Pones, for thinking about him required me to draw on most of my logical faculties, which in turn distracted me from Redheart, who as we walked, leaned into me a little closer than I might have liked.
“Well, what can I say? He’s a very strange fellow…”
“Is that your usual polite way of saying something else?”
“No, I mean what I say!” I said. I was indignant, for her guess was correct, and had wounded me grievously, though I was too ashamed to admit it. She was quite intelligent, though all her forwardness and the way she possessed a certain zest for whatever (or whoever) was on her mind caused me to forget this fact, more often than not. In such a way she was similar to Pones, for he too possessed this unimaginable drive, though his was much quieter.

I told her about my first impressions of him, making a particular note of talking about his ability to seamlessly conclude just about anything, and she shook her head in amazement when I had finished.
“One would think you held him in as high a regard as that old stick-in-the-mud Lifeglow,” she said.
“If by that you mean that they were both extraordinary yet old-fashioned, then yes, I do,” I said with a trace of irritation. She had, in almost no time whatsoever, resumed her teasing, as she so often loved to do when we were together in college, bumping me out of my thoughts once more with a particularly hefty shove.
“Lifeglow was not extraordinary, he was dull.” She said.
“You wouldn’t know, you were asleep during half his lectures,” I shot back.
“Only because they were so boring!”
“As I recall, it was not boredom that kept you asleep, so much as successive hangovers.”
To this, she turned a tinge of pink in a mixture of embarrassment and irritation.
“Still in denial, I see?” I said, a triumphant grin on my face.
“Yeah, well, with the eyes of half the class on you, Mr. Perfect, I wouldn’t be surprised that you didn’t fall asleep,” she replied. “I know I can’t fall asleep if I’m being watched.”
“And what does that mean?” I inquired. I was confused, yet intrigued.
She scoffed at my bewilderment.
“Are you seriously telling me you never noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
She sighed, and steered me left with a guiding hoof into another street.
“Well, you were always getting good grades, and plenty of people took their notes from you rather than him, so that was a big part of it. But, I’d say it was mostly because there were more fillies there with a crush on you than… Than I don’t even know!”
“I doubt that,” I said, unwilling to believe either part of her statement.
“Well I don’t.”
“Name three of these fillies, then, if you’re so convinced.”
She sighed, and began ticking off names, much to my dismay. She was not bluffing.
“Well, there was Daisy, for a start.”

I was mortified, and turned a shade of pink. Of course, I had noticed her attention, though admittedly I had misconstrued it. She used to catch my eye around the university, and I imagined at the time that her little waves and shy smiles in the corridors were nothing more than friendliness.
“What rubbish!” I cried. “We were just friends.”
“And who would know better?” asked Redheart with a tinge of satisfaction in her voice. She was certainly capable of toying with my emotions, though I did not enjoy it.
“Not you, that’s for sure.” Again, an unsteady comment to defend myself.
“Well what about Aloe?”
I paled, remembering the foreigner who had once given me a card on Valentine’s Day. “Oh, that can’t be right at all.”
“Mistletoe.”
I gulped. I remembered the Christmas get-together I had attended with her quite well.
“No, no, no…”
“Now who’s in denial?” she said victoriously. She had gained the upper hoof once more.
“Well I never noticed them,” I said defensively. I was sincerely telling the truth here – the idea of however many fillies idly daydreaming about myself froze my blood with horror, and I was more than keen to dismiss it as an oversight on Felicia’s part. But, the more I thought about the instances on their own, the more correct she seemed to be.
“So, out of all those girls you could have had, what made me so special?” she asked after a brief pause.

I cringed a little at the question. Damnit, I thought. She had checkmated me.
“Why clearly it was your ability to tease a pony to death,” I replied nonchalantly.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she said sarcastically, with a very characteristic roll of her eyes.

(NB: As an aside; I might apologise for the inclusion of the very tiring banter, but I feel that it is important to defend my honour from such undoubtedly baseless accusations.)

Thankfully, I was offered a reprieve from the relentless assault on my character by our arrival at the restaurant at which we were to eat. It was a very light-hearted place, and for this I was glad beyond description. The brightness of the place, combined with the jaunty tune that came from a fiddler, told me that the evening wouldn’t be romantic.

We were shown to a table by a very dapper maître de, and he seemed to know Felicia quite well, embracing her with a huge cry and kissing her once upon each cheek. He had a very strong accent that I couldn't place, and he led us both through the small tables for two towards the kitchen, where the larger groups were seated. He came to a table and stood beside it, beaming, and I thought at first he had made a mistake, for there were already a couple seated there - a lavender unicorn with a very dark indigo mane, and a crimson-coloured earth pony. They were busily chatting amongst themselves, and as such did not notice our presence till we were right beside them.

“Oh, Redheart!” cried the mare with surprise, pushing her seat away and rising to greet my companion.
“Twi, lovely to see you!” Redheart said with a smile, embracing the unicorn.
The other occupant of the table stood, and waited his turn behind her. When the two fillies had broken their embrace, he spoke out.
“Doc,” he said politely, nodding his head.
“Hello Macintosh!” Redheart kissed him on the cheek, causing him to smile.
“I’d like to introduce a friend of mine,” she said after he released her, to which she turned to me.
“Twilight Sparkle, meet Doctor Trotson. He’s a University friend of mine.”
“Charmed!” I said, quickly taking the opportunity to shake her hoof. As she accepted the hoof I saw that she had a stripe of deep purple and pink that ran along the breadth of her dark mane, which was quite long and meticulously cared for.
“Oh, another doctor?” she said to Redheart, her violet eyes widening a little. I saw a small twinkle of interest from them as she turned her attention to me.
“Yes,” I replied, “But don’t listen to her, she’s an awful gossip.”
Twilight laughed.
"Well aren't you a charmer!"
I smiled and turned to the stallion, expecting Redheart to introduce me, but to my surprise he had already offered me his hoof, and I shook it. His grip was powerful, and indeed, he was an exceedingly large fellow, with a somewhat unkempt blonde mane, and I knew that he was no artisan or nobleman by the way he spoke.
“Big Macintosh. A real pleasure meetin’ you after all these words I’ve heard from Felicia.”

I smiled a little ingratiatingly, for his huge frame combined with very muscular features towered about half a foot over myself, and as such he struck a very intimidating appearance. He wore a very polite jacket with a loose collar, and I could see that his coat was very darkly coloured except for a few freckles on his cheeks, no doubt as a result of working in the sun so much.
“A pleasure indeed,” I replied.
“’Ere you are, Madame,” the maître de said, drawing out a seat for Felicia before I could. She smiled at him sweetly (I resisted the urge to scowl at him), and I took my seat opposite.

Admittedly, the fillies did most of the talking. I for one was more than happy to stay away from the spotlight, and Macintosh seemed quite content to do exactly the same, though we did exchange a few words throughout the night.

I discovered that she was the local librarian, and he was the owner of the apple orchard on the outskirts of town. A more curious mix of two ponies you might not have ever seen, for he was as big and burly as she was lithe and sleek, and though he was not uneducated, he paled in comparison to his more learned partner, who was busy talking about the recent goings on of Ponyville in a manner that might suggest that she was a bit of a know-it-all.
“Did you grow up here?” I inquired to Twilight, who looked over at me with some leisurely surprise. I imagine that she had thought me as mute as her partner.
“No, I grew up in Canterlot. I only moved here about two or three years ago,” she replied.
“So, I assume you were schooled in Canterlot?”
“Yes, and at a very high level – well, not to brag, but I am one of Princess Celestia’s protégés.”
I found myself amazed.
“You must be very talented!” I said, not hesitating to conceal my obvious surprise that such a distinctive student was sitting amongst us. She laughed nervously and ran a hoof through her mane in distraction, her eyes rolling in embarrassment.
“Oh, really, I’m just a very simple student,” she said, and I noticed her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “You know, element of magic and all that.”
“Really? You are a very skilled student of magic, then?” It was an obsequious question, for my eyes were already upon the floating glass in front of her. She seemed to notice my examination, though, setting the glass back on the table before speaking.
“Well,” she replied, “I do spend a lot of time on it. It doesn’t come naturally to me.”
“Oh, horsefeathers,” Macintosh said from my left, causing me to turn. “Your mark’s magic, you were meant for it.”
I noticed at this dismissal that he had a very strong southern accent, and that he must have been from far away originally.
“What kind of magic?” I inquired.
“Oh, all sorts of things!” Felicia said. “You should see it – conjuration, levitation, even teleportation!”
“Teleportation?” I cried incredulously.
“Well, only short-distance,” Twilight said, reddening once more. “And it takes a lot of focus to do. I haven’t got the hang of it yet.”

Eventually, the conversation turned to me, and Twilight engaged me in conversation, using her horn to levitate and sip at a glass of wine.
“So, what brings you to the smallest of small towns, Doctor Trotson?”
“Please, call me John, or Trotson, whichever so takes your fancy.”
“Very well,” said she. “You are a country boy raised though, or at least that’s what Felicia tells me.”
“Quite so,” I replied, and explained in brief how I had come to meet Felicia – a young lad in the country, and so on and so forth, including my University years and the time that I had spent travelling, working here and there as a labourer. Twilight was most intrigued in my travels, for she was a scholarly type who revelled in new places and experiences. Macintosh was mostly quiet, but as I finished he was curious. It seemed that now he had discovered I was not wholeheartedly a city-slicker, he was more open to speaking.
“Then what brings you here? Thinkin’ about finding a quiet place to settle from your travels?” He inquired.
“No,” I said, taking a drink of the glass of whiskey that I had ordered before replying. “I’m here with a friend of mine, who I currently share an apartment with in Woodrow, and together we’re investigating the burglary up at Carousel Boutique.”
Big Mac’s eyes widened and he looked rather surprised.
“Really, now?” He said, as if the revelation had caused him some interest.
“Indeed I am. Admittedly, I am little more than an accomplice to my friend, though.”
Felicia laughed from across the table.
“Oh John, don’t be so modest. Surely your companion is not as smart as you say.”
I was thinking of again describing his uncanny ability to deduce even the vaguest of conclusions from a single glance, but I noticed that Twilight had stopped mid-drink when I mentioned the boutique. I made sure not to let her notice, but I made a mental note of it all the same.
“He is as brilliant as it is possible to be,” I responded sincerely.
“What is his profession?” inquired Macintosh again.
“Well – that is rather difficult,” I replied, “for I have had some trouble pinning it, though he calls himself a detective.”
“So he works for the police?” Twilight said, and I turned casually to her, imagining that I had not seen her earlier slip.
“No, no, he is what he calls a ‘consulting detective.'” I explained what those where, and what they did. “It is strange,” I added as an afterthought, “for he only sees fit to investigate cases when he fancies. Such is the level of his skill.”
“And you are here assisting him?” asked Twilight. I could tell she was curious, though it was not the same sort of questioning that had come when the conversation revolved around me. There was no glimmer in her eyes that showed me that she was earnestly listening, and it appeared as if she had her mind on something else.
“Yes, I am,” and here I looked at her very seriously. “Though I am always his secondary, I have learned much from him.”
“What did you learn?” asked Macintosh. I turned to him, and was surprised to find that he was rather amused by the whole idea that I could be so enthralled by one pony’s skill. He struck a very different contrast to his partner.
“How to observe,” I said. I chose to repeat the tale in which he had analysed me in a heartbeat, knowing exactly where he was from, all the while keeping an eye on Twilight.
“And so, just by a single glance,” I concluded with a smile, “He knew just from my skin tone and my demeanour what I had been doing – just with a single glance!”

Twilight shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and in doing so revealed something that I might not have noticed. It was a very odd mark on her foreleg, black, and in the shape of a hollowed crescent-moon. She followed the trace of my eyes.
“Have you done yourself some injury?” I inquired, gesturing to it.
“Yes I did actually,” she said matter-of-factly, as if my question was very probing. “My Assistant Spike was handing me some heavy tomes on Equestrian history the other day, and it fell and hit me.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the main courses, and I allowed her to abuse the break in talk as we ate.

I don’t know what it was – call it Pones’ experience rubbing off on me – but the way she said it told me that it was obviously a lie, and internally I was unnerved. A bruised, magical unicorn of a light and lithe build, who grew nervous whenever I spoke of Pones (though not by name), with a companion of very large stature. If my conclusions were not much mistaken, I could be sitting at dinner with the two robbers themselves. But it seemed unlikely. She was almost too telling, and I was almost certain that there was some part of the equation that seemed wrong, though I could not pick what it was. All that I knew was that when I gazed over at Big Macintosh, who was hungrily eating and talking to Felicia, he did not appear to be fazed by what I had said. Felicia continued to eat obliviously, only looking back over at me to ask a few unrelated questions. Only Pones, Fluttershy and I were in possession of the knowledge that there were two burglars, and here the situation seemed so perfectly laid out in front of me – though for the life of me, I could not call myself convinced on the situation.

Surely, I thought, there was something missing, though as a pair of suspects the duo fit perfectly in the specifics that Pones had described. I settled into the dish that I had ordered, being careful not to act suspiciously. Naturally my intentions did not revolve around attempting anything – I could act later, of course – but I did want to try and work out this unknown kink that was in my mind before testing anything further.

Sadly, such an opportunity did not present itself as the night continued. My mind was, despite having plenty of time to work, unable to reach any sort of conclusion. I must have been very telling at this point, for I was often like this, only becoming aware that the gazes of the others had fallen on me during a very large lapse.
“Sorry?” I asked, assuming that I had been asked a question.
“No, it’s nothin’…” Said Big Macintosh, looking at me concernedly. “You just looked like you were a little out to it, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m just a little tired,” I said, thinking that I could use Pones’ habitual nature of rising at the crack of dawn as an excuse if I had to, but I did not. Big Macintosh shook his head.
“Used to work the fields myself, up early and asleep early, though since I inherited the farm I’ve had the liberty of setting my own hours,” he said, winking at me.
“Not anymore, sleepyhead,” said Twilight. “Your sister was all hot under the collar about how you slept till eleven the other day.”
Big Mac looked rueful, as if Twilight’s words had stung him into shame. “Well, to be fair to me, I was out late the last night.”
“With you as I recall,” said Redheart, which made the purple unicorn stutter a little in her reprimand.
“Well, all the same,” she said, adopting what was clearly a southern accent, “if ah see mah no-good brother lazin’ around again…”
The gigantic crimson stallion let out another deep chuckle.
“Eeyup. That does sound like her, all right,” he said. “All the same, we’ve taken on a whole load of new folk, and they’re all hard workers, so it takes a little off of me.”
“Well I’m not tired at all,” said Felicia pointedly, and Twilight agreed. I shrugged at Big Macintosh.
“I believe we just got outvoted,” I said rather cordially. He smirked and gestured across the table to Twilight.
“See her?” He murmured, half-whispering so as to irritate her. “You’ll never win any argument with her.”
“How strange!” I cried. “That’s exactly what I get from the good Doctor over here.” I looked over at Felicia. “Or rather, what I don’t get.”
“You’ll get an earful if you keep that up,” she said testily, and Big Macintosh chuckled to himself. It sounded like a grumbling bear, and Twilight giggled lightly.

I noticed that since the conversation had steered away from my doings without incident, she had relaxed considerably, and was now just as relaxed I had first met her. All the same, I thought, as Mac and I paid the bill and we departed the place; I would have to keep checking for any more of the obviousness that I had seen before.
“Business must be good, then?” I said to Big Macintosh as Twilight and Felicia took the lead, chatting quite obliviously in front of us.
“Ah, we’ve recently started a new label of cider.”
“Really?”
“Eeyup,” he said again, revealing his southern accent once again. “It were my old Granny’s idea an’ all, Celestia rest her soul.”
“Was business poor before that?” I inquired. To this, Big Macintosh seemed to adopt a serene look of thoughtfulness. He was quite the opposite of Pones, and not just in appearance, for his moments of pensive concentration did not appear to be a full body experience, as they were for Pones. Pones would pace, or play his fiddle, or show in his face the inner workings of his mind, but Big Macintosh was far too gentle for that. I sensed at once that he was a rather practical fellow, for his answers were often simple, though they occupied a great deal of thinking time.
“Not as bad as it could have been,” he said retrospectively, “though what with that new winery next door trying to compete with us, times got a little rough, but they're more then fine now. Things have improved lately. It started when I met her,” he said. I assumed he must be talking about Twilight, and I was correct. “She’s my good luck charm, and all.”
“So, how long ago was that?” I inquired.
“I’d say about three weeks to a month back now,” he said after another period of reckoning. He seemed fairly smitten with her, I thought at the time, though perhaps it was just his very relaxed nature with women set next to my own that made it appear that way.
“Yeah, she was in a real bad spot for a while, but we won’t talk about that,” he said.
“A bad spot?” I repeated curiously, though I saw through the darkness that now enveloped us the flash of his eyes as they darted to me. He then gestured to the two fillies in front of us. They were quite a way in front of us, talking amongst themselves. I for one would not have dared utter a syllable out of place within a mile of Felicia, for she had an ear and an eye for gossip that I felt would have put Cheerilee to shame, or any number of Pones’ countless acquaintances.
“Don’t you dare mention that to her now, y’hear?” he said rather menacingly, and I nodded hastily, for I had not meant to offend.
“Of course I won’t – but, it’s just that she seems quite happy as she is now.”
“Well suffice it to say, Doctor, that she was not once.”
Such an eloquent expression from the coarse figure I had not anticipated. I chose not to pursue the conversation. It appeared Macintosh had the same idea, for we both sped up a little to catch the fillies as we exited town.

The four of us arrived at Sweet Apple Acres, where we partook of a private tour and a sampling of this new apple cider that Macintosh had mentioned. It was, as he said, quite excellent, for though I am no expert, I found it quite delicious, and I was fascinated by Macintosh’s enterprising nature. He told us it was called Sparkle. To be honest, I thought that a bit of a hopeless cliché, but it caused Twilight’s cheeks to turn a such a brilliant shade of pink, that I had wondered for a moment if she had changed colour. In any case, his business sense revealed to me that he was a good deal smarter than he let on.

However, despite my pretension in enjoying myself, I could not help but scrutinise everything else that his partner Twilight said, and as the evening drew to a close, I felt disappointed. She had said nothing more suspicious, or acted guilty in any way. Incessant thoughts circled my head in quite a mix – an equal blend of positive affirmations that the two were criminals, and gaps in my logic. There was something about it that was not wholly innocent, but neither was it guilty, and I was quite sure that Pones needed to know.

In reflection, Twilight’s slip in the restaurant quite ruined the evening for me, though I was positive Felicia did not notice it or my focusing on her, for she chatted away quite happily about herself and I, and when we bade our goodbyes and left the orchard, she continued to talk to me.
“…Aren’t they just the most extraordinary couple?” She said.
I nodded, summarising my experience of the two quite well. “For their occupations, you are entirely correct. There is certainly something very intellectual about her, though as for him I cannot say.”
“Ah, he just never speaks a great deal, but he’s a little cleverer than he seems,” Felicia said quite dismissively as we turned back onto the road to town. I was inclined to agree, but the memories of what the two had said implored me to ask more of her, particularly about Macintosh’s words after leaving the restaurant.
“He did say one thing that confused me, though.”
“And that was?”
“He mentioned – swearing me to secrecy, of course – that Twilight had been in a bad way several months ago.”
“Oh,” Felicia murmured, and her pace slowed a little. “What exactly did he say?”
“Just that, and nothing more.”

There was a long pause from her. She appeared, though I could not make her features out very clearly, lost in thought, as if deliberating on something.
“Well, I suppose you should know,” she said after a while. She came close and took my head in both her hooves, and for a horrified moment I was under the impression that she might kiss me. Instead, she turned my head to the right for me. I could see Sweet Apple Acres in the distance, back the way we had came, though in the foreground there was a much more regal looking establishment. It appeared to be a vineyard.
“See that?” She said, and I did not nod, because I could not.
“Yes.”
“That is Riesling Winery.”
The thought clicked in my head as I recalled what Big Macintosh had said earlier.
“Ah, this must be the new winery next door?”
“That’s right.”
“Business rivals?”
“Love rivals.”
I was somewhat taken aback by her clear-cut statement.
“You mean the owner of the winery once…?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, cutting off my sentence before I could repeat the strange situation. “His name is Riesling, and he was the last ‘special friend’ of Twi’.”
“I’ll wager that strained neighbourly relations…” I murmured, thinking of the big crimson stallion. Something in that glare that he had given him when he had warned me outside the restaurant gave me the impression that he was more than formidable.
“Too right it did. They don’t speak to each other anymore.”
“Macintosh said it ended badly,” I said with a degree of animosity. “I assume the neighbour is to blame?”
“Yes, though neither he nor Twi’ has ever told me why.”
“Not even you?” I was surprised. “You seemed like you were all very good friends.”
“I’m not even sure if she’s told anyone about it ever, Trotson,” she released me, and a grimace passed over her face. “Except for him, one would imagine.”
We resumed walking.
“The only thing I’ve ever heard is the rumour – she’s his good luck charm, and he’s her knight in shining armour. And that’s true, from what I can tell, because he really swept her off her hooves.”
“Depends who you ask,” said a voice from behind us. We both jumped, and I span, very reflexively raising a hoof.
Up behind us there was walking now a very dark-coated stallion.
“Riesling!” Felicia gasped.
“Sorry to eavesdrop, Doctor,” he said, coming a bit closer. “Bad time to go for a moonlight walk, it seems.”

His features were evident to me as soon as he came close enough to allow me to see him. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, and he was quite tall, yet not very broad at the shoulders, presenting quite a lean figure silhouetted against the dark sky. He was quite well dressed, and he wore a rather sincere smile on his face that was both simultaneously apologetic and forgiving. In fact, it was this very expression that made me less cautious.

He did not shake hooves with Felicia, but instead halted when he reached us. His pale eyes fell over her, and then me, and I was immediately struck with the impression that he was being quite honest, though I was still suspicious.
“Riesling,” he said, offering me a hoof.
“Doctor Trotson,” I said somewhat warily.
“Oh, another Doctor, Felicia?” He said to her with an attempt at a conversation starter. I was, for a moment, bewildered by the identity of this second doctor, but then I realised how stupid I was, and I tried to show some warmth. Redheart, on the other hand, was less than amused by his comment, and her face had been fixed into a glare of such intensity that I was glad I was not its recipient. To this, he faltered, but he still continued to speak.
“…Oh, still not speaking to me, I see,” he said, rather awkwardly.
“Not after what you did to Twilight,” she spat.
I felt a little sorry for the stallion. He appeared quite genuinely upset by the reprimand from my companion.
“Felicia,” I said to her calmly. “A little politeness never killed anyone.”
She did not respond, but instead continued to affix the stallion with the most vicious of glares.
“I don’t think I could blame her, Doctor,” Riesling said with a grimace. “She has only heard the half of the story from her friends out at the Acres.”
“I haven’t, actually," Redheart snapped at him.
“Well why do you dislike me then?” He asked. I looked over at Felicia, in partial agreement with the strange vintner. Felicia mumbled something nondescript, but I failed to catch most of it.
“Sneaking up on us like that…” I heard her say.

The vintner shrugged and turned to me, offering another equally as sincere smile, as if he was painfully enduring my companion’s spite.
“I live in the orchard, so this is the way I go to town.”
I was quite satisfied by this answer, though there was one element of it that irritated me.
“It’s very late to be going for a stroll into town, isn’t it?”
He shook his head.
“No, I’m going to the town square on business. I sell my products there, you see,” and to this he reached into a dark silken jacket that almost blended with his coat, showing me some receipts that looked important. At this, he tried most affably to show Redheart another apologetic grin.
“Ah, but of course!” I cried, as if the sudden misunderstanding might clear the air of the foul attitude. “You are a provider of wine, obviously.” Here I looked over his shoulder, and was slightly puzzled. “But, you appear to have forgotten your goods.”
“Oh, no,” he chuckled to me, “I’m only going in to get some clients worked out and post a letter or two.” His eyes glanced back to Felicia once more. “I didn’t expect to run into you.”
“We’ve been at dinner with Twilight and Macintosh.”
“Oh.” At this his expression faltered, and he cast a glance away, back over the orchards from whence we had come.

There was a terrible silence while the persecuted figure stood, and I decided then that I had had quite enough. It was unfair of her to treat him the way he did, I reasoned, and as she was not aware of the particulars to which she undoubtedly shunned him for, she had no motive to be spiteful.
“Felicia, don’t be so rude.”
“Excuse me?” she looked at me incredulously, as if she had misheard me daring to take a side other than her own.
Unfortunately, I was quite beyond her theatrics, so I put my hoof down in a manner that, upon reflection, was most unlike me.
“Now look here, he’s just going for a walk. You said so yourself that you don’t even know what the history was between the two of them, so there’s no need to be so offensive.”

Felicia was more shocked and indignant then I had seen her. There were traces of anger in her quite unlike the fake indignant attitude she was so fond of, but after a moment it vanished. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and did something that I had never had the pleasure of experiencing before.
“I suppose you’re right,” she conceded quietly. I could not have sooner been surprised if she had suddenly turned into a dragon, but all the same I did my best to not show it.
“Thank you,” I said politely, before turning back to Riesling. His face was somewhat livelier now that the hostilities had been dismissed.
I accompanied the kindly stallion into town, with Felicia travelling some way in front, presumably unwilling to speak to him out of embarrassment or anger. It gave me a good opportunity to talk to him about his work. I kindly neglected to continue the matter of Twilight.
“I bought the label about six months ago,” he said, trotting alongside me as we re-entered town. “I used to be a successful businesspony in Canterlot, and then I moved down here.”
“Why the sudden change?” I inquired.
He sighed and rolled his head from side to side, as if the matter caused him some dilemma.
“I suppose I thought I would like the countryside better, and sure enough most of the people here are quite wonderful and polite.”
“Do you still own the business in Canterlot?”
“No, I sold it.”
“That seems quite risky – why abandon your success?”
He laughed.
“I am, happily, quite wealthy enough to afford it,” he replied. “Twenty years as a stockbroker will give you more money than you can lay your hooves on, but the need for a change in the atmosphere becomes something even more essential, if you take my meaning.”
“So you don’t mind the competition from the neighbours, then?”
“Oh, not at all, I’m doing quite well for myself, actually.” He smiled proudly and tapped his pocket where he had kept the documents. “Recent financial upturn, you see. And, before you ask, no -- I find Macintosh to be quite likeable.”
“He does not seem wholly convinced of you,” I said delicately. I knew Macintosh was a good deal more intense about that, but I did not want to scare Riesling away from giving his half of the story.
“Well, between our shared business and one other matter, that is most likely.”
“Do you refer to what Felicia and I were discussing earlier?”
“Yes, sadly.”
“May I be so bold as to ask what happened?”
Riesling looked surprised.
“She has not told you already?” he said, gesturing to the form of Felicia ahead of us.
“She doesn’t know the specifics,” said I.
He nodded, and began to explain. To me it seemed that he treated the whole matter of Twilight quite gingerly and delicately, as if it caused him great pain to discuss it.
“I had just moved into town, and I didn’t know a soul except for that lovely young fashion designer who lives on the other side of town."
"You mean Rarity?" I inquired, and he nodded.
"Yes, that's right. I've always ordered my clothes tailored from her. Anyway, I found myself wanting for a companion, though my fairly bookish nature did not permit me far from the library. To cut a very arduous story short, I met her that way, and I fell in love.”
“And did she love you back?”
“Yes, though it took some persuading. She is an awfully cynical filly at times, but she is easily convinced by flowers and wine – a bit of a hopeless romantic, you might say.”
I nodded my understanding, pressing with my inquiries. “So it was a harmonious thing?”
“Oh, yes, we were quite happy together.”
“It seems very odd then, that your departure from one another took place, and doubly so that it has been thrown under such a dark cloud.”
To this his winning smile faltered, and I saw from behind his face a glimpse of sadness.
“I often thought, Doctor, that she had eyes only for my neighbour.”
“Macintosh, you mean?”
“Yes, though I do not spite him for it.” He sighed a little before continuing. “I went over to his, for I had heard that his mother was ill, and he came to me, and I recognised the smell of her perfume on him.”
“So what did you do then?”
“I confronted her, and she admitted to it.”
“Alas! What then?”
“Why, I threw her out of my house!” He said quite viciously, and I was somewhat taken aback by his outburst. “I am a gentlepony and a scholar, but I will not be made a fool of. That little whore,” he said, these last words traced with barely restrained venom. I noticed that his hoof was clenched, and he glanced over at me, clearing his throat.
“I apologise. I let my anger best me.”
“Not at all – it must be a very sensitive issue for you,” I sympathised, though in reality my mind was far away. Could the shy and happy mare that I had spent the evening in the company of really be the lowlife of which he spoke? Such a refined gentlepony was he that I did not know who to believe, and his account seemed to speak true as to the attitudes of both Macintosh and Twilight at dinner – he uncaring, she nervous. While his story did not reveal the reasons for Macintosh’s fiercely resolute glare at me when I asked after Twilight’s history, I felt somewhat at ease over the issue. He was most certainly a cheerful fellow, though he did give the impression that he was carrying a very great burden.

At last, we came to the parting of our ways, and I shook hooves with him under the light offered by one of the wrought iron lampposts. There was nobody else about, save one poor drunken soul stumbling his way back up the other side of the street.
“I will bid you a pleasant evening here,” he said, taking my hoof in both of his own and smiling. “Thank you for your kind words earlier.”
I spoke my goodbyes (Felicia did not say a word, merely eyeing him aloofly as he strode away) and, after he left I went to re-join her.
“He seems kind enough,” I said. To be honest, I knew that Felicia did not want to speak about him – but I was merely testing the waters with one hoof.

They were, to say the least, most icy.

Redheart gave me such a cold and dirty look that it would have frozen me were it not for the high amount of alcohol in my system. For a while she simply watched me, her white face unchanging as she eyed me with contempt.
I sighed. “Felicia, please don’t.”

She turned and walked off back down towards her house, leaving my sincerity in her wake without so much as an acknowledgement. I did not go after her.

The Next Day

I returned back down the street, and retired for the night at an inn, feeling uncertain. Felicia must have been awfully angry with me, to not even say a word. It was usually in her nature to have the last say. I felt quite certain I must have done something else to irritate her, though I had no idea of what I had done. Perhaps, I mused, she really had known about Twilight’s past. But, as was standard, my mind was on other things - In this instance, Twilight’s guilt. I had been turning all the evidence in my head as I lay in my bed, for I did not sleep well, and I had decided that her actions qualified some suspicion. Even though Macintosh must have been an extremely good actor, I thought, what he had said about Twilight’s past – more specifically, asking me not to inquire into it – made me suspicious. I could see he did not want to talk about it, and that was as good as I got from him throughout the entire night, but her, on the other hoof...

The bruise and the nervous behaviour. Those were the two things that made my mind spring to her as the criminal instantly. I remembered that Rarity had struck out at the thief, and there was the bruise in my mind’s eye –as clear as day. But then at the same time, its appearance was suspicious – why not hide it? And it was not of the shape that a hoof might leave – it was far too slender and immaculately crescent-shaped, not unlike the waning moon. Hooves were thicker, and well-curved. But still, a bruise it was, and in the shape of a hoof it might have been… I had not much time to examine it.

I rose early, and paced my room in the manner of Pones, my tired mind hoping that the act would reveal some kind of inspiration to me. The fact she was a unicorn made me fairly certain. The fact that her height and shape matched Fluttershy, who we had originally expected to be the owner of the other set of hoofmarks outside of the boutique, made me quite definitely certain. And yet, something was clearly amiss, for as suspicious as she was, Macintosh was not.

In any case, I found at that point that I had been pacing for several hours, and that it was now eight o’clock. Needing something to do, I got up properly, dressed, and decided to visit Twilight once more. I had decided that I needed to see that bruise, with or without Pones, and I had the perfect excuse to do so.

The library was not hard to find – for as Fluttershy had said, it looked exactly like a very large house built into the hollow of a gargantuan oak tree. It was nestled, as if it were a perfectly normal place to live, in a more spacious area of town, opposite a handful of shops and houses, and it sported a balcony, equipped with a telescope and a table and chair, and some windows of varying shape and size. There was not much more to say, for other its brown bark walls and roof made entirely from leaves, it was just like a giant tree, though much thicker round its base where the door was. Around A hook beside the door there was a sign, with the opening times written in a neat, cursive script.

I rapped a few times on it.
“Coming!” said a familiar voice. Open it swung, and I was greeted once again by the excessively studious mare.
“Sorry, I haven’t quite opened ye-” she began, but I saw her eyes widen slightly as she recognised me. I put on my most earnest smile and looked at my watch.
“The sign says seven thirty!” I laughed, to which she seemed to regain a little bit of her composure. “Too much cider with Macintosh after we left?”
“Err… yes! I am a little hungover,” she said shyly. “What brings you so early?”
“I had wanted to look for some more books by this author,” I said, and at this point I reached into my breast pocket, producing from it the small leather-bound novel that Fluttershy had given me.
“Very well, I’m sure I can oblige you. What’s the author’s name?” Twilight asked, levitating the book away from my grasp and opening it.
“There is none – it is an alias.”
“H.R.H.C?” She inquired, glancing back at the title and then to me, to which I shrugged.
“I was hoping you might know.”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure, but maybe I have some more books. Come in, I suppose,” she turned and went inside, and I followed.

For me, books were my emotional universe when I was growing up. To read them… It was, simply put, like being loved for me. My mother had never shown me great affection, for she was often highly involved in her work as a surgeon, and my father was similarly occupied as the chief of staff at Cloplin hospital, which was almost a day’s journey away, so he was rarely at home.

I had only myself and my little sister to entertain me, and so reading became my pastime, and libraries like this one became my home whenever my mother was not around. I was not bookish by nature, but I fell into their fantastic spells that they cast: each book would act like a window into another realm of time and space – and not just into the fictitious landscapes they described. Though I liked novels a great deal in just this way, as I grew older, I came to remember them as snapshots in my own world rather then theirs, and they became connected to very specific memories in my life.

One very fine winter morning, the family began the usual pilgrimage we would make every year to Canterlot, where we would visit relatives over the wrap-up holidays. The very standard journey was bought to a halt when my sister, who had been ill from birth, fell sick halfway. We stopped and spent the night in Cloplin, booking in at an old inn in the heart of the town. Her condition was obviously not the best, as at one point there was nopony in the room of the inn barring me. I remember feeling quite afraid and alone – being nine years old at the time, such an experience was unusual and bizarre. So I curled up on the rather uncomfortable mattress with The Mystery of Canterlot Keep and dived into its noirish opening paragraph: “At the Police Headquarters in Canterlot, Equestria…”

Almost fifteen years later, I remembered nearly every detail of that inn room: the strange red stripe of the bedcover, the wooden cupboards, the curtains made of gauze that jealously guarded a path out to a wide veranda. I even remember the smell of damp outside, for it had been raining in a manner most unusual to the season – the sound of it pattering off the iron roofing, the darkness outside… And with it all, of course, I remember most vividly the comfort I felt. Even though such a thing is quite illogical for a learned doctor to understand, I felt protected. I was alone in such a strange and foreign room, and yet with that book in my hooves I was safe.

As I wrote this recount of Pones, it struck me, that as a writer, Doctor, and now detective, I’ve somehow managed to live my life as I had dreamt of as a child. The dream of following my parents in medicine, and the childish pursuit of becoming entangled in a world of mystery that, before I met Pones, I had believed to exist only in fantasy. Every step of the way thus far I had been privy to the joys of his extraordinary mind, and the strange intrigue of the work of almost fictitious mystery that I had been plunged into. My senses were attuned, and everywhere we went there awaited adventure and exploration, and the promise of curiosity and problem-solving.

Allow me to summarize by saying that it is a strange feeling to realise that you have achieved your own nirvana. At such a moment, one becomes filled with gratitude for life’s flexibility and variety, for all of the immeasurable twists and turns can now and again weave, without any falsehood, the dreams and happiness of the past with the very real present.

The interior of the Library was quite extraordinary, even if the exterior was not. It was hollowed out entirely, and was was quite large in size –and there were several majestic bookshelves that were literally carved out of the walls. Floral patterns and motifs were delicately crafted into their edges, and just to the right of me there was a ladder that led to a loft area, but my attention from hereon in was distracted, for all of the library's strange interior paled in comparison to the books.

I have never seen so many in one place! They were packed into every window-shelf and corner, and every possible nook and cranny was filled from top to bottom with as many novels and dictionaries and texts of every shape, size and colour as one could imagine. I stood for a moment, amazed at the sheer amount of them in front of my eyes, and then my eyes went further skyward. The bookshelves were vastly tall, and they scaled to high so that the walls themselves gave the appearance of being made of books, and where they touched the ceiling there was painted a mural of a sparkling sun.
“My word,” I uttered, for I was blown away by the enormity of the place.
“Why, thank you!” Replied Twilight perkily, as if she had read my thoughts. I looked back down to earth and noticed her milling about in front of me, levitating a small step-ladder.
“Spike!” She called loudly, and I heard from above my heard a rustling sound. I did not have time to look up, though, for in front of me onto the floor there fell a very small purple blur. It landed on all fours with a gigantic thud, but then stretched out, and I realised in my half-shocked state, that I was looking at a young dragon.
“Spike!” Twilight said again sternly. “Don’t jump from your bunk to the ground floor – I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told you not to do that!” She shunted him to one side and inspected the floor closely for marks in a highly fastidious manner.

Spike, who had appeared not to notice me, yawned.
“Jeez, Twi, what’s eating you?”
I coughed politely to attract his attention and avoid frightening him, but he jumped all the same. He spun around, surveying me with a good deal of surprise – it seemed that he was not used to having customers early in the morning.
“Doctor Trotson,” I said.
“Spike. Just Spike,” he replied before squinting at me a little bit. “Did you have dinner with Twilight last night?”
I was surprised and pleased that I had merited a mention to her little companion. Twilight, who had finished examining the floor, had resumed her search for my unknown author, tracing a slow, circular path around the edge of the room, mumbling to herself.
“That’s right,” I replied.
Spike yawned again. “Gosh, you’re up early.”
“I thought I’d look for more by this author before I forgot,” I lied.
The little purple and green fellow made a noise of complacency, shrugging.
“Are you, err…” I thought of how delicately to put this, for he was clearly not her son.
“Her assistant?” He inquired obliviously, and I nodded swiftly. Again, that had not been what I was thinking of – I was thinking along the lines of manservant, but she did not appear to have regarded him as such, so perhaps it was for the best that I had paused.
“Yup, that’s me!” He stuck his little chest out proudly. “I help her find everything. She’s so disorganised,” he said, casting a glance back at Twilight to make sure she could not hear us. Twilight was still tracing the spines of the books with her hoof, her gaze going up and down, and up and down – her hoof!
I had been about to suggest that he help her when I saw it first. As such, a little burble of astonishment came forth from my open mouth, for the bruise had vanished completely!
“What’s up?” Said Spike, looking back to me.
“Her forehoof!” I said quietly. I did not want her to hear me – after all, her innocence was still very much in doubt.
Spike appeared nonplussed by my evident surprise, “What about it?”
“Didn’t you see it yesterday?” I hissed. “It had the most awful bruise upon it!”
“Did it?” He said, and he turned his little head back to Twilight quickly, picking up on the issue’s sensitivity. “I think you must be mistaken, Doctor – I was with her all yesterday, and I didn’t see any bruise then.”

I scarcely had time to excuse myself for my ‘mistake’, even though in my mind it was far from it, as Twilight’s voice echoed out from the back of the circular hollow.
“Found one!”
We both cantered over for a look. Twilight presented, rather triumphantly, a rather new-looking book, done in much the same way as the old one was, except that its cover was green.
“Canterlot Crime, by H.R.H.C.,” she said proudly, thrusting the novel towards us with an outstretched hoof. I took the opportunity to confirm my earlier surprise – There was no bruise upon it. Not wanting her to notice as she had last night, I took the book from her.
“Is there an Author’s name for this one?” I inquired.
“No – but you were just after the books, right?”
“Yes, I was…” I said absentmindedly, pocketing the book. Twilight, apparently satisfied that I had been served, turned away and picked up a few more books with the intent of stowing them away in their proper place on the endless shelves.
“Now, where does this go?...” she murmured. I glanced back at Spike, bemused by her apparent enthusiasm for neatness over sociability, and we walked back to the entrance.
“Is that all you needed?” He asked, scratching his chin with a claw. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to get up so early in the morning for just one book.”
“Well, my early start is not entirely wasted, for I wanted to have a look around town before I go for lunch with my friend, who I am travelling with.”
“You’re not a local?”
“No, currently I live in Canterlot. I’m just down here on a little bit of business.”
Spike sniffed a little.
“Just like that Riesling.”
“Do you know of him?”
“Yeah, that was Twilight’s ex-coltfriend,” he said casually. “They broke up about a month ago.”
“Do you know anything about their break-up?” I inquired without thinking.
Spike fixed me with a suspicious squint once more.
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing! Some ponies just said it was very serious,” I said a little too quickly for my own liking. I would later scold myself for such a blunder, but for now the little dragon did not appear to notice.
“Well, I don’t even know anything about that. They spent evenings together, and ever since she started seeing him she’s been letting me off work early, so I never saw much of him.” He sighed a little. "Good thing she let me keep my evenings off when they broke up."
“What were your impressions of him?”
“Eh, he was nice enough,” he replied casually. “A little temperamental though, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I can’t say I do – I only met him for the first time yesterday, you see.”
“Oh – well, not that it’s anything bad, it’s just that he’d get stirred up pretty easily. Not one to joke around.”
From the way that he spoke, I doubted that the young assistant would have any real clue for me, so I said my goodbye to Twilight and followed Spike to the door. He opened it before me with a polite bow.
“Thank you sir,” I said with a smile. Such an affable gesture I hadn’t seen from such a young lad since I was in Canterlot, and it caused me to ask after him. “Where do you come from?”
“Canterlot,” he replied. “I grew up with Twi’, so she’s like my bigger sister in a sense.”
“Do you know Rarity, then?” I asked, hoping in a rather vain way that the little Dragon had somehow come to know the elegant and fashionable designer. His response took me somewhat by surprise, for it was both unexpected and quite enthusiastic.
“Oh, absolutely!” He replied eagerly, and a dreamy look fell about his features. “How could one not?”

I could see that he was quite taken with her, though their difference in years must have been about six or seven. He spoke for a while about her, but I will not include it for the sake of embarrassing him – and due to the fact that nearly all this polite conversation was overshadowed with what he said next.
“…Yes, ever since I’ve had the evenings off, I’ve been going to hers to help clean up after work.” He gave another little sigh of happiness. “Just spending time around her is good enough, and she even gave me a key because I was so helpful.”

The comment did not need repeating. I fear my face whitened, though I could not tell if the lad noticed or not, for he was still talking about Rarity distractedly. I made up my mind to go immediately to Pones and tell him of what I knew. When I told the dragon I had to go, he seemed a little put out. Presumably, somepony willing to listen to his monologue was a rare thing.
“Come again soon!” He cried. I mumbled a very forced goodbye before cantering away as swiftly as I could without being suspicious, intent on finding my companion as soon as possible.

I did not wait till one but instead went straight to the café where Pones and I had agreed we would eat lunch. Spike’s inadvertent confession had made me almost positive of Twilight’s guilt. It was a nervous thought, that made my stomach bubble in a sickly fashion, for so kind and happy was she that I could scarcely stand the idea in my own brain.

The café was quite full of ponies going about their day as I arrived and sat, some of them drinking coffee from small, perfect white cups set on equally pristine saucers. I did not order anything for as close to half an hour, eventually conceding not because I was hungry, but because I needed something to take my mind off of the information I had so ungainly stumbled upon.

We had agreed not to meet till one; but much to my relief Pones had strolled by the café front at almost eleven, whereupon I spotted him and hailed him.
“I have heard of being prompt, Trotson, but this is ridiculous!” He said jovially as he approached. But, as he came closer and saw the expression on my face, his cheerful demeanour vanished like a wisp of smoke from his pipe. He had read my mind through my own, and did not waste any time in speaking to me.
“You have seen something,” said he, his brow furrowed in concern.
I opened my mouth and began to explain, but he held up a hoof for silence.
“I know most of what you say before you speak, doctor, but here and now is not the place.” His gaze did not flicker as he beckoned me. “Come, follow me.”
I followed, my burning desire to tell all that I had known intensified twofold by his serious nature. We departed the cafe began to walk swiftly.
“Quietly, now, walk beside me and talk as you do," Pones hissed. "Do not look back. We are going straight to the police station before that fool Lestrade risks everything by arresting her.”
I did not bother to ask how Pones had reached his conclusion, but could not hide my amazement.
“Why are we moving?” I inquired as I came to him. “Have you seen something?”
“I have, and I have also attained other things. One of them is a client list from Rarity, but you will learn the meaning of it in good time. For now, talk.”
I did as I was bade, all the while forcing myself to stare straight ahead as we strode swiftly away from the cafe. I told of last night and this morning, mentioning in particular the bruise on Twilight’s foreleg that must have undoubtedly come from Rarity’s swing. Pones was focusing on a point on the road far ahead as I spoke, walking swiftly with his brow furrowed and small auburn eyes unblinking. It was a long while before he spoke, though I talked as quickly as I could, being careful not to miss any details concerning her or Macintosh.
“And you are sure it had vanished this morning when you saw her?”
“I am positive, or else I am no doctor.”
“And of Riesling – he said nothing of interest to you on the way into town?”
“Nothing other then what I’ve told you,” I replied, but then I faltered, for I realised that Pones could not have known who Riesling was.
“How did you-?”
“No time,” he replied. “But that is good to know. What of this Assistant fellow who has the key?”
“He is a young dragon who holds a key to Rarity’s boutique, and he is also her assistant. They grew up together - a little brother of hers, he said.”
“Good,” He said firmly, and with this conjecture, he yanked me to the left. “This way.”
We now were headed down a quiet street between two shops. Pones seemed to be hurried about something.
“We must be swift, before Lestrade blunders.”
I was surprised by his mannerisms. “But surely she is the thief? Unless you are simply determined to beat Lestrade to the punch, of course. ”
He clicked his tongue chidingly, which I came to know as a very common display of his elusive nature. “Firstly, I have already told you as much that I do not desire glory, and secondly, she is and she isn’t. I will tell you more when we get there.”

No sooner had he finished saying these words then there fell upon my ears the sound of wailing. Red and blue lights flashed by the end of the darkened corridor of brick, followed by the silhouette of a police cart.
“Blast!” Said Pones, halting in his tracks. “Lestrade has also learned of the key!”
“We should go to the Library quickly!” I said, turning to go back, but Pones caught me by the collar before I could.
“Don’t turn!” He hissed to me, pushing me forward. “We are being followed. Or rather, you are. Now go to the library the long way. Walk slowly, and I will catch up with you.”

I cantered forward a few soft steps, not daring to look back at my companion as he took a quick step to the left into another darker portion of the alleyway, vanishing almost instantly. Do not ask me how he melted into the shadows, for I will never know. As Pones said to me later, there were ‘arts far beyond the knowledge of many that proved useful in my line of work’.

I decided to route back to the library as fast as I could without being conspicuous, my head in a whirl about the details. I burned to learn of Pones’ doings, or why he had stopped and told me to go on, or who was following us, but I drilled all my determination into doing as he asked. Such a stallion of planning and action was he that I scarce doubted that he did not have a backup plan.

I arrived at the front gate of the library again having not looked back. It was not far from the café where I had waited to the library, and sure enough Pones had been correct. We had been beaten by the Police. Parked outside there were several wagons; the blue and white logo of the Ponyville police embossed boldly into the side, their brass wheels polished and gleaming. At the gate there stood a weary yet extremely burly Pegasus in a blue uniform, no doubt the driver of the cart. As I approached, he strode towards me.

“Sir, stay back. Police only.”
“Has she been arrested?” I inquired, peering over his shoulder. He appeared surprised by my deduction, for to him I was only a civilian, but he snapped the order back all the same.
“Stay back,” he repeated, snorting a little so that his great white mane shivered in the sunny morning air.
“It’s quite alright, constable, he’s the doctor Lestrade called for,” said Pones’ voice from behind me. I spun, and found that he had re-appeared as swiftly as he had left, and behind him, much to my surprise, was Riesling. My mouth began to form surprise that I quickly curtailed.
“That’s right,” I said, turning back to the constable. The constable, who appeared to recognise Pones, nodded and opened the gate before us.
“Very well, sir.”

I entered, and Pones did too, though not before he suddenly stopped and turned. So swiftly he turned that he thudded right into Riesling, who was looking rather confused and upset, and he jumped back a little in surprise.
“Riesling, stay here. I have bade you came because it is only fitting that you see the end of all this,” Pones said firmly, seeming to ignore the collision. Riesling swallowed and nodded.
“I don’t want Twilight to go away,” he said pitifully. “Of course, if what you said is true, then I cannot do anything, can I?”
“Fear not,” Pones said, brushing past the constable in order to gain access to the library door. He was focused, determined, and I nimbly dodged out of his way as he very nearly ploughed through me, opening the door. I, for one, was quite confused, for I thought I understood all that there was to be known, and I cast a quizzical glance over at Riesling, who nodded a wordless hello. No sooner had the door swung open then my attention snapped back to the task at hand, and I walked into the library.

As I entered, my eyes fell first upon two things. The first was the form of Macintosh, who was pinned to the floor by two exceptionally large unicorns, and Twilight, who was standing as far away from the three of them as she could get, tears streaming down her face without word. Lestrade stood between her and us, and he looked fairly triumphant. He had in his hoofs a pair of cuffs, and he slapped them on Macintosh’s wrists, which had been forcibly placed behind his head. Macintosh was not struggling, but was clearly frightened into silence by the whole ordeal. There was a certain ruthless efficiency to it that immediately struck me as cold and harsh, and the vindictive smile upon Lestrade’s face as he turned to me amplified this.
“Ah, Doctor Trotson and Sherclop Pones,” he said with a small cry of mirthful joy. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten in ahead of you!”

Pones did not bother with any trivialities spoke to Lestrade and with the same steely disregard that he had shown to me not minutes ago.
“You have arrested him, too?” Pones inquired, the edge of his voice as sharp as a knife.
“Yes. We first tried to arrest her, and he could not bear to watch it. Miss Sparkle screamed when I tried to cuff her, to which Mr. Macintosh took some offense and hit me.” To this, he nodded over at Macintosh. “He did not agree to come quietly.”
“I’m tellin yer,” Macintosh interjected from the ground, with a sudden heave of his great body that shifted the two heavy unicorns on top of him, “I didn’t do nothin’!”
“Oh come now, Macintosh!” Said Lestrade scornfully. “If you are going to make a liar out of yourself, at least make it convincing!”
Macintosh eyed him angrily from the ground where he lay pinned.
“I didn’t do nothin’,” he said again defiantly.
Lestrade turned to Pones, as if seeking his approval for a job well done. Pones nodded, and then pointed a hoof at twilight.
“And of her?”
“She will be taken in as his accomplice,” said he.
“What evidence have you to suggest that both of these two are thieves?”
“We have Rarity’s testimony, of course!”
My mind thought back to what Rarity had told me.
“You have seen her again since?” I said, recalling that Lestrade had left.
“Yes, I saw her again this morning, to which she described her assailant as a thin, lithe unicorn.”
“And at what point did you conclude that Mr. Macintosh falls under this description?”
Lestrade shook his head knowingly.
“Ah, Pones, I have discovered that there was an unmatched set of hoofprints that fit Macintosh’s weight and height almost immaculately.”
“And that is your only reasoning?”
“Not at all – in fact, I would not have known whose they were, were it not for the fact that Rarity mentioned that she had given a spare copy of the key to this little fellow here.” He pointed to my right, and I noticed that Spike had been standing by the door the entire time. He looked terrified.
“He had nothing to do with it, of course,” Lestrade continued idly, waving a hoof back at Twilight. “She simply took the key from him, abused her friend’s trust and easily stole the gems. As a friend, she knew that Rarity would be out that evening with one Miss Dash, with whom she is also a friend, and as such took the time to enact her plan most precariously. And indeed, she matches the description of the thief, and also explains one other important element of the crime.”
“And what might that be?” I asked.
He turned to me proudly. “Rarity was never harmed by the thief. Twilight was taken by surprise, but did not want to hurt her.”
"Tell me then, Lestrade – how do you then pin Macintosh to the crime?” Said Pones.
“They are lovers, are they not?” He inquired.
“Indeed they are,” I interrupted, “but that is not proof enough.”
“Ah,” said he. “But it is true that Mr. Macintosh’s business has suffered lately, thus giving him a motive and more than a good enough reason to be there.”

I could see Lestrade’s reasoning in determining Twilight’s guilt. Macintosh’s less so, but he was still the most likely suspect. It was Pones who then spoke next.
“How do you know it is not some other stallion and Unicorn?”
“How then would they have the key – as you know very well, the lock of the door was not forced.”
I jumped in alarm. I had entirely forgotten to examine the door or ask of it; though from the look on Pones’ face the opposite was true for him. He seemed to nod in acknowledgement.
“Indeed, it was not forced, and it was unlocked by a key.”
“Then it is indeed Miss Sparkle,” Lestrade said, to which he turned back to Twilight, holding a hoof out to her.
“Now, if you’ll come along quietly, Miss,” he said coaxingly. Twilight had been listening. She was hyperventilating, and the way in which she staggered as she took a step forward told me that she was very close to going into shock. She was shivering, and the poor thing even flinched at the soft touch of the detective on her foreleg, as if it had caused her great pain.
“And furthermore,” Lestrade said, “Rarity claimed she had hit her assailant, and I’ll wager…” at this, he beckoned to Pones. “I need to borrow that reagent of yours.”

Pones obliged, withdrawing the small vial. Lestrade withdrew a handkerchief before dabbing some of the liquid lightly on the cloth and then rubbing it on Twilight’s foreleg. The action made her wince and flinch once more, and immediately the area where he had rubbed turned a very dark shade.

“As I suspected, she has hidden the wound inflicted to her by Rarity!” He cried, jumping back with a shout.
Twilight could not handle this much – it was the straw that broke her back. She burst into tears. It was truly the most pitiable sight that I have ever had the misfortune to see, and Macintosh flinched to hear her soft wails of anguish.
“Pones,” I said audibly, and he turned to me.
“Yes?” He responded. He was busy filling his pipe with tobacco.
“Is this true?”
“Yes, it is all true.”
Lestrade smiled in a rather pleased way. He was undoubtedly proud of his efforts.
“There is one thing, though,” Pones added.
“And that is?” I inquired hopefully.

Pones was the centre of attention now. He did not seem to notice, however, starting his pacing around the room, while Twilight watched him, terrified.
“You do not know the story behind this case. I do," he mumbled as he lit the tobacco. "The mere knowing of this little tale is a small thing, however when coupled with the other details that I have observed, gives rise to another conclusion.”
Lestrade eyed him incredulously.
“Are you suggesting that she is innocent?”
“She is indeed.”
The silence was dead and total.
"You must hear the statement of her last lover to know the full truth,” Pones continued. “I have brought him here today.” At this, he turned to me.
“Would you fetch Riesling from outside for me?”
I obliged, leaving the place and calling his name from the front door. Riesling, who was pacing anxiously outside, jumped at his name being called.
“Yes?” He inquired.
“Pones calls for you,” I replied, and he followed me back in.

Re-entering the library, I found that Macintosh had been stood back onto his feet. The constables had not let him go, and he was still cuffed around the wrists, that same sad and melancholic look on his face that had been on it when I first met him.

Riesling followed after me with a somewhat unsure air, and strode up next to me, surveying the scene with evident surprise. At that instant, there was a sharp click, the jangling of metal, and Sherclop Pones sprang from our right.
“Sirs,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “Let me introduce you to the thief of the Lion's diamond!”
Riesling gave a start, and there was a simultaneous gasp of surprise and shock from all in the room. The winemaker looked down at one hoof, which had been cuffed.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Cried Lestrade as he took a few steps towards Riesling. Pones waved him silent with a commanding hoof.
“In solving a problem of this sort, Lestrade, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards.” he said, glancing over at Lestrade with indifference. The inspector’s puzzled face brought a smile to his own thin, grey features. “…No, I hardly expect you to understand. Let me see if I can make it clearer.”

He put his pipe to his lips – I had almost forgotten it in the excitement, but he appeared to have been complacent enough to let it linger in his grasp, even while half-cuffing the oblivious Riesling. A match appeared from nowhere, was struck, and the pipe burned into life.
“I begin early yesterday morning. I approached the boutique, as you know, on foot, and saw the details of the pathway almost immediately. Upon it were the marks of hooves, which I later ascertained by inquiry were left there during the night. I then walked over the pathway, but this was not a mistake, for I needed an impression. Having observed swiftly the sets of hooves, I needed a reference point to gauge them against – My companion and I were more than ideal for this task. My end result was a stallion of around my height and his weight. I satisfied myself that it was a large stallion by the width of his mark. This was then the first point I gained.”

He walked over to the bound Macintosh and put a hoof on the gentlepony’s manacled wrists.
“I then walked slowly down the side of the path, which was of a soft clay in composure – particularly suited, as you noticed, for taking impressions, and seeing as it had rained recently, even more so. There is no branch of detective science which is so important and so much neglected as the art of tracking steps. I spotted the heavy footfall of the constables, the light pitter patter of the lady Rarity, my companion’s, my own, your own, and one other set, which you initially - and rather foolishly - assumed belonged to Fluttershy. I suspected otherwise, and questioned her. It turns out, she had not walked the path – only flown over it in her anxiety, and as such there left room for two criminals.”

Lestrade was stung by this remark, and I could see it, but he still thought the better of his conclusion all the same.
“Does that not prove my point more?” He said curiously. I could tell he was not bitter for being reprimanded, and as such I knew that at his heart he was a stout fellow earnestly doing his best, but Pones ignored him all the same.
“I returned to the Boutique after I had seen fluttershy, so as to gain a second, uninterrupted look at the pathway. It was easy enough to tell that it was they who had been in the night, before any others, for their marks were wiped and blunted by both rain and other hoofprints. It occurred as strange to me, though, that the footfall of the thief built like fluttershy was not alone. Why do you need two thieves to do one’s job? I shall arrive at that point later.”

He turned his attention back to Macintosh’s manacled hooves, holding them up to the light

“I saw that the footstep of the heavy-set stallion was of a very fine shoe, if you recall me telling you as much, Trotson,” he said, and I became aware that he was addressing me. I was oblivious – I had not thought that the wear of his shoe was very important at all, though he was quite correct.
“So you did,” I replied. “And, as I found out later, Macintosh is not –or has not, until recently, done well in his business, and such a thing would be quite beyond his funds.”
Pones nodded, and continued.
“Indeed, Trotson. In this way, my second clue was formed. One of the thieves was wealthy – this I knew from the elegant impression of his shoes and that he was tall and broad from the imprint they made, and the other thief was shoed in a fairly plain and ordinary manner, though she was of a light and lithe build. They were both also young, for their strides were long.”

He let go of Macintosh and resumed his paces around the room.

“Upon entering the boutique, I noticed a few things. The chest lay before me, and I tested it to see if it had been opened by magic. It had; and yet the front-door had not, and there was no sign of the scrape of a pick upon the silver lock. By the door, there was a disturbance – many pallets of silk and fabric ready to be sewn into gowns, except for one particular pallet closest to the door, which was upset and disturbed. This, I later concluded, was where the second thief was in Rarity’s testimony. The second thief was hidden just out of sight, while the unicorn attempted to levitate the box. As for the chest itself, it had been dropped as if in surprise and horror, so clearly the thief was nervous or amateurish.”

He stopped at a bookshelf, idly brushing a speck of dust from his coat.

“I was not entirely certain, though, as to the identity of either. What was the reasoning for it? Money, clearly, for Rarity was unharmed. A business rival, perhaps? Not so, for Miss Rarity has no competitors on such a scale, and has a good background in suppliers, as guaranteed by her mother’s lineage as a jeweller. The answer then is personal gain, and so I understood that perhaps our thief might be ailing for money. Indeed, Inspector, all these clues might point to Mr. Macintosh over here, but from the way Trotson described him when I met him recently (and with my recent inspection) I can determine that he could not have been the fellow in question, as his business is faring quite well now, and he has no need of such wealth, so there is your theory quite in the dustbin.”

Lestrade objected.
“That is not what I have heard,” he said. “Up until very recently, Sweet Apple Acres was doing very poorly.”
“Yes, and up until very recently, Miss Rarity was in possession of some gems. A business does not become more successful from an overnight injection of money, Lestrade, not particularly when the profit is made on the quality of one’s orchards, which take seasons to grow,” replied Pones.

Macintosh breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
“So, I left the boutique for the second time, and met with an associate of mine to determine who it might have been. I had very little clues thus far, but I inadvertently came upon some news of a newcomer to town.”
Here, he gestured to Riesling, who was still looking wounded and offended.
“He came to the bar where I was, and I did not recognise him. That is unusual enough, for I know almost everypony in this town. I was told later by my associate that he was quite wealthy, and had started a vineyard in competition with Mr. Macintosh’s orchard. Anyway - he spoke to the barkeeper, went into the back room and returned a few minutes later looking a good deal angrier. I took a sip of the wine itself to sample it and found it quite poor, and a quick chat with the barkeeper determined just that. The wine was not as good as it could be. I thought nothing of Riesling initially - just another observation, but another crucial piece of information was revealed to me that was most important.”
At this, he turned to Twilight.
“Miss Punch informed me that he was your last lover – correct?”
She nodded silently. She had stopped her sobs, but instead continued to cry silent tears.
“And the end of the relationship was one full of vitriol and anger, correct?”
She nodded again.

“Well, now, as I thought, that was rather a strange thing, for he seemed a well to do gentlepony. He also seemed to deliberate heavily on where to go when he reached the door, which gave me cause to leave the bar and follow after him - to which he went straight to the library. It was there I was forced to leave him, for such was his attitude in approaching the place that he very nearly saw me. Even disguised, I could not risk it – but it provided my first inkling of something far more untoward, and later when he left for his home, he seemed ruffled by something.”

He then pointed at me.
“Now my companion enters into the story. He met Miss Sparkle later that evening – I watched her leave the library, and she seemed most strange in her stride, and walked almost with a limp.”
Macintosh blanched, his lips pressing together as he looked at his partner.
“You wouldn’t,” he said with a disbelieving tone. She said nothing, but averted her eyes from Macintosh. It was as good a consenting nod as he could get. He couldn’t find words to express his dismay, instead looking back at the floor. His confusion and anger had been replaced by one emotion, and I recognised that one very much – abandonment.
“I had already made up my mind that now there was something unpleasant happening. I went to Riesling’s vineyard on the outskirts of the town and there he almost caught me again, only on accident, for he was leaving to go back into town. There he met my companion, and, as I saw later, revealed one very telling thing that assisted in my suspicion, and that I had already seen at the bar. He is very quick to anger.”

I remembered the way that he had spoken of Twilight’s treachery, and realised that he was quite correct.
“If that had been all there was to it, then that would have made no difference,” he continued. “But unfortunately for him, Miss Twilight made a telling mistake.”
At this, he snatched the vial of magical agent and the handkerchief that he had used back from the surprised Lestrade, and strode over to her.
“You see her foreleg now, that my companion informed me of this morning. It is clearly a bruise – one that is recent. Doctor, do you find it to be so?” He looked at me.
“Yes, it is most certainly two days or so – that section of the foreleg is mostly muscle, and the bleeding that caused the bruise has since stopped.”

He nodded, pausing to take a pull of his pipe.
“And, tell me, is it plausible that a lady of Rarity’s size or stature could inflict such a blow?”

A sudden spark appeared in my head. Where it trailed I did not want to think, but my mind teetered on the very edge of the thought, and it caused the essence of my soul shrink in disgust. Pones turned back to Twilight.
“Now hold still, my dear, this won’t hurt at all,” he said comfortingly, dabbing the formula onto the cloth and then using it to wipe away her tears.

As he did so, I became certain there was some error to my eyes. Twilight’s face blackened in splotches and dabs, and as Pones ran the kerchief around her face, I noticed distinctive patterns. Crescent-shaped ones. Very much like...
“Hidden by magic in the perfect shape of the hoof that laid it,” he said quietly, tenderly wiping the last tear from Twilight’s cheek before stepping away.

I am a doctor, and I was mortified. Let us say that much of my own horror. But fie upon my own concern for her, for it paled in comparison to Macintosh’s. At the sight of the bruises his voice broke in a cry and his legs gave way, and I could scarcely blame him. There were two, large, hoof-shaped marks on her face that were most distinct, where undoubtedly she had been hit around the eye and cheek, and one around the neck as well.
“As one might assume, the work of some treacherous villain,” Pones said. “Rarity only struck once, and they were not as severe as these were, which gives question to their appearance now. Why are they there? Why would this be done to such a lovely young mare?”

Here, he turned back to me finally. His eyes were filled with a cold, deep spite that I had not yet seen, and his lip was almost curled. I thought that he had looked at me, but I found that his gaze passed me and went to Riesling. “How well you succeeded, Riesling, in keeping her quiet and forcing her to do the thievery herself.”
Riesling scoffed.
“Are you suggesting that I did this?” he said, gesticulating to Twilight’s bruised face.
“I do not suggest, you lecherous fiend,” Pones replied calmly. Immediately, I saw a flash of rage sear through Riesling’s features, but he controlled his anger well, as he had the previous night.
“Explain yourself,” he said coolly.

“To begin, we think of you. The bitter breakup gave you prior knowledge as to her timidness. You saw your chance in her infatuated assistant – he does not so much as let it slip that he helps her in the evenings so much as shouts it at the top of his lungs. You were able to go to her house and simply beat a key from her; as it were. Forcing her cooperation in the theft was a simple matter of the same, plus reinforcement to keep her quiet, hence your visit to the library last night. You knew that the police were about, and you wanted to make sure that Twilight didn’t say a word. But she made a slip. So terrified of she was you that she hid all the bruises that you gave her, save a partial glimpse of one, which my companion noticed. He told me that it looked strange and unusual, and then it had vanished altogether – as if the attempt in hiding it had been rushed, and then, as she had realized her mistake, meticulous.”

He gestured to me, and beckoned me over.
“Look at the arm-wound, for that is the one you observed, Trotson.”
“It appears to have been inflicted by a very hefty blow,” I remarked, turning my gaze back to Riesling.
“Indeed. But, back to the theft itself. You were not interested in the chest so much as its contents, which you took as soon as it was unlocked. You then thought you might rid yourself of the evidence, and tried to take the chest, which you could not lift. Rarity’s early entrance took you by surprise, and you were lucky to be in the shadows, though you fell back in fear and disturbed the cloth there. The theft was simple enough for you, and you thought that none might remain the wiser.”
Riesling spat angrily, losing his temper once more.
“What trash! I have no reason to steal or hit a lady at all!”
“Ah, but you do,” Said Pones. “Your business is suffering Riesling, and I know it is.” He took a step towards him. “The wine, as I observed last night, is poor. Your winery is going much the same way as your grapes - very sour - and you needed a sudden amount of money not to release yourself from your business, but to relieve yourself of your large debt."

With this last word he placed a curious emphasis. Riesling flinched, and he smiled.
"You are a greedy spender, Riesling. I can see this, because you are customer of Rarity’s,” he said, producing from his breast pocket a small paper list. “I have a list of customers that I obtained from her upon my second visit last night. You are mentioned a few weeks back ordering a brand new suit made of one hundred per cent pure silk, followed by a cancellation a few days later..”
“And what does that prove?” Riesling said angrily.
“Well, for one, it proves you are prone to poorly managed funds, and two, what excited young mare wouldn’t talk about the most important sale of her career coming up to a trusted customer?” Upon these last words Pones placed special venom. Riesling snorted derisively in laughter.
“That’s an outright lie! My business is still quite capably managing. The quality in my wine is due to a poor grape harvest, and that is all. I cancelled my suit from Rarity’s because I had since changed my mind, and,” he spat, “you have no proof of any of your wild fantasies.”
“It is a fact, not a lie,” said Pones, completely emotionless. “Sadly, your pride was your own undoing, Riesling. You are a wealthy and respectable fellow, and, you are quite right. All of this would not be enough to convict you. My observations came completely out of suspicion, but it was your pride that made you pursue Twilight even after you left her. It was your pride that allowed you to conduct the crime with Macintosh as the perfect perpetrator. How fitting that the man who 'stole' her be punished at your hooves?”

A stream of smoke passed from his mouth, and briefly he was as he had appeared on the train -- though his eyes were wild and alight.
“It was your pride in your own appearance that finished you! Particularly, you were ashamed that you might be losing to a simple farmer like Macintosh. So much was this so, that you carried the letters of loans and debts about with you everywhere, didn’t you?”
I started as Pones mentioned this.
“Oh! – the letters!”
Lestrade looked over at me.
“Whatever do you mean?” he inquired.
“When I was speaking to Reisling yesterday, he waved letters at me and said he would go into town to post them.”
“Quite so, Trotson, and so you told me yesterday. It is very fortunate that he did not, though I doubt they would have gone anywhere, for they are addressed to him and him alone,” remarked Pones dryly. Riesling looked down into his jacket, as if peering for something, and then his eyes fell on Pones.
“You bastard!” he hissed. I followed his gaze, and saw Pones, producing with a flourish, a set of immaculately signed and sealed letters. I knew the emblem that the letters were sealed with, for I had dealt with it before – Canterlot Bank.
“Letters requesting the extension of loans,” Pones said to Lestrade, handing them to him. “Relieved from Mr. Riesling just outside this very door. The very last error of his pride, and the convicting piece of evidence, as it were.”

My mind lurched for the second time in a minute, as I realized what Pones bumping into Riesling had meant. The documents in his coat were the very hinge of the mystery.
“His arrival here today is a result of many things, the foremost of which is my companion’s unplanned meeting with him. He thought he saw something at his orchard last night, and came out to try and find whatever it was. He heard his own name being discussed by my companion here, and crept up on them unnoticed, but saw they were not the strange thief or thieves that he had thought he heard. No, that was me – I had since left Twilight’s and gone to inspect his orchard’s fruit myself. Thus came my conclusion that the wine was his, and that he was angry about its sales, presumably, for the grapes were sour and unpleasant. He was drawn into a conversation with Dr. Redheart and Dr. Trotson, and was forced to lie so as to avoid suspicion, and walked into town with them, where he left them. There I doubled back around so as to approach from the other direction. I did not want to walk up behind him – I am sure that he knew he was being watched.”

I was startled by his revelation; for I had not understood how he had been present to witness Riesling depart from us. Observing my expression, he smiled at me.
“Knowing a few drinkers myself; it gives one an inadvertent talent for acting drunk, Trotson,” he said with a wink, and I gasped. I realised that he had been the straggler approaching from the other side of the street, and I had not thought anything of him, so different was the well-clothed Pones to the drunkard I thought I had seen.
“I followed Riesling to confirm my suspicion. He waited for Trotson to leave, made sure he was not seen, and then went to the Library once more.”
He sniffed.
“Presumably he noticed what you had noticed, doctor, and Twilight had confessed to him as much. Presumably there was damage done there as well, though those bruises will not show just yet. But, he learned of you, and he sought you out this morning. He was quite out of luck, though – Felicia had since dismissed you without a word, and you had gone to the inn. He spoke to Felicia, and she told him you would meet me, today, at a café for lunch.” he said. “I staked out the café, and saw him arrive and take a seat at the back. His intentions were presumably less than pleasant, Trotson,” he continued, eyeing me with a good deal of bemusement. “No doubt he takes you for a lightly built fellow, though the truth is far from it. In his mind, perhaps you too could be forced into silence. I walked by the table idly, pretending not to have seen you, and forced you to follow me here.”
“But what of the momentary split-up in the alleyway?” I said.
“Simple,” he replied with a shrug, and for a moment I saw a snatch of the seemingly passionless character, whose lack of caring had previously led me to believe he was a lazy drunk. “I doubled into the darkness and followed him, caught up to him, explained the crime from Lestrade’s point of view, and ushered him here.” With this, he released another torrent of smoke from his mouth and nose. He then took a few steps towards Riesling, threw out a lighting-fast hoof to his collar and pulled it harshly away, the buttons from Riesling's jacket flying free with sharp twangs. The coat fell open to reveal a small, circular bruise.
"And that is where Rarity hit," he said, springing away. Lestrade was dumbstruck - as I watched his eyes pan through the letters, I saw them widen in surprise, and then narrow in harsh determination. I was also struck incredulous by Pones' conclusion, which had made a good deal of sense to me, though I was could not have come to such a conclusion in a million years.
“Now, Riesling,” said Pones, turning to the cuffed and now shabby-looking vintner. “Come along quietly.”

Riesling had other ideas.

At the proposal from my friend, he gave an inarticulate roar of fury and threw himself at Pones. Pones stepped nimbly out of the way, but soon discovered that the target was not he, but Twilight. There was now only me between him and Twilight, and Pones realised his mistake the instant he had moved.

Being a doctor, I possess a very widespread knowledge of anatomy that comes in a rather intrinsic fashion to the line of work. I knew the name of every major muscle and bone in Riesling’s body. I could see them all like his skin was made of glass, tensed in anger and hate as he tore at her, his eyes filled with rage at her mistake and his own pride, which had inadvertently caused him his end.

Clopson: An Analsysis

I find it most interesting when people I meet are much more than they seem. It provides some level of stimulation for my mind that I won’t bother putting in words, because that is irrelevant to you, reader. Suffice it to say that I don’t believe I’ve ever been scrutinised as much by anyone as that strange Doctor, or found anyone quite as strange to survey.

He is a very effusive and warm fellow, and his company is most enjoyable. He seems to be surprised by all my conclusions, and that is strange enough for me, for he is highly intelligent. One might imagine a stallion of his wit might be sly enough to stay close to my own thoughts, though not in his case -- he appears to possess an unusual lack of mental swiftness, in fact, and I find him to be painfully indecisive, though it seems even he has profound moments of fecundity in which he does a million things at once. I will touch on one of those instances later.

I must admit that I was a little puzzled at our first meeting. Placing him as a person was not hard, but his background was far more difficult to ascertain. Fairly light hair and dark skin is not very common among those from close to Canterlot. His coat was not black, though. Closer to the darker side of brown. A tan from work in the sun. He was a labourer, I had initially assumed, for he was not afraid of getting his hooves dirty – they were coarse to the touch. This was not so -- his grasp was gentle and precise when he shook my hoof, and he was well spoken, though he did talk with a strange accent.

He clearly mingled in the upper crust of Canterlot society. This, and his interest in chemistry pointed him as a medical stallion to me. A surgeon. But his background was hinted at by his accent… Trottish. No, Irish. He was from Cloplin, I reasoned. I was sure of that. He had that curious way of turning his 'i' and 'e' sounds with the classic Irish drawl, though it was mostly obscured, no doubt a result of his interaction with his wealthier and more blue-blooded patients. He was also successful - this I could tell at a glance at his clothes. The stitching on the black jacket he wore was immaculate, albeit well-worn.

I have chosen to pen this because I feel that Trotson’s storytelling falls into the bounds of fiction - though he himself laughed when I suggested as much. He is quite convinced that what he has written is the truth, but to me he seems to skim crucial details most lightly, and gives me the most irritating unpleasant manner of being impersonal – but that is beside the point, for he requested that I analyse him. It had come as a result of me reading his first tale, to which I put down the book and noted that he had not bothered to speak of himself, aside from various snippets of emotional input.

“See!” he cried, showing me his imperfect recall of our first adventure. “I told you that I would put it to pen, and even if that Inspector Lestrade has all the praise, you will be able to take your quiet pleasure.”
“And what of you?” I asked back, to which he paused, puzzled.
“Myself?”
“Indeed.”

He thought about it for a while, and came upon the idea of me writing about him. The concept seemed to entertain him, and I believe he has me picked as a novelist. Indeed, I am not. I am just a simple pony. I will say this of his own efforts, though - he has followed the path of the riddle which encountered us so close to our meeting quite well. So without further ado, I shall speak of him.

Of his traits, I shall mention only two of the many that I noticed, and one is not entirely relevant. Or at least, it wouldn't be relevant, were it not for the fact that he insists upon my description of him as precisely as I could.

He peers over my shoulder as I write, so I have had to remove him from the study. He is most anxious to obtain my opinion of him, though it is unfathomable that he should be as such– it is against his very pleasing nature that he be so nervous about it, though I believe that is his exclusive attitude towards me. Anyway; of his traits:

One is his awfulness with women. It is highly irritating, for he is entirely and blissfully ignorant to their advances, and just as unaware of his own conduct around them. I don’t even think he knows precisely how much that Felicia girl adores him – or at least, not up until I clued him in about her clear adulation.

When we left Miss Sparkle’s library and returned to the police station, we chatted idly about other details of Trotson’s evening with Miss Felicia. Or rather, he did the talking and I did the listening.
“…And I cannot think of what I have done so as to make her so furious with me,” he said, finishing his tale about his own night out, and its disastrous end with Felicia.
I just shook my head.
“So, allow me to repeat the real story of your dinner last night,” I said. “You spend the entire evening not talking to your date and eyeing off the other mare at the table, ignore her advances to spend some time with you in talking to Riesling, and then tell her to stop being so rude?” Good Celestia, he was truly oblivious.
His eyes widened and a little bit of colour seeped from his face, so that he turned quite pale. I’d wager he hadn’t thought of such a thing.
“Oh, how stupid could I have been?” He said in a most ashamed voice, and I could see by his expression that he was instantly overcome by regret. I had learned of this little mannerism of his – he took his mistakes very much to heart, and was prone to learn by them.

Truly, ignorance must be bliss. The way Trotson seemingly resists all advances from mares would tell me as much, for he is quite happy at the best of times with himself, trotting around and taking care of his patients. The least of my frustrations is that he seems to be content in the face of such blindness!

He is well-spoken, though again he is merely too shy around women, instead reverting to the rather quiet and introspective person that he seems most comfortable as whenever they are around. I can see how he and that young girl Fluttershy get along marvelously, though unlike her, his attitude with complete strangers is more than effusive – his mastery of the English language is exceptional. He is also extremely well-educated, and seems comfortable talking about a range of things with some authority.

I assume that Trotson will want me to elaborate on what exactly took place at the library, for he assures me he cannot. I believe I can understand why – it is highly difficult, in moments of intense adrenaline, to remember such intricate details with which to write about, and indeed the whole incident was over in a flash, so I doubt that he would recall as much as he would have liked.

As he mentions in his last chapter, I took a step back. Having not cuffed him fully, I expected violence to take place. I did not make the mistake of assuming that I was the target as my dear stallion suggests, though - I was in fact preparing to lash out as he went by, but... he got in before me.

Call me surprised. I don’t think I’ve been surprised by someone in a long time, but I had not had him picked yet as a fighter. He had a timid nature and vivacious temperament, and he was a doctor. Naturally, I assumed that he abhorred all sorts of violence.

Not so.

The Riesling fellow had scarcely taken a step towards twilight when Trotson threw something at him. I would not have known what it was, were it not for the fact that it was in Lestrade’s hoof five seconds previous – the bank letters. Trotson had snatched them and hurled them in a great white fan.

Riesling threw a jab through the sheets of paper. Trotson immediately shifted the blind aside with a deft flick of one hoof, and then countered with the other, smashing a mighty cross to Riesling's right cheek.

A point, then, to be made about Trotson - perfect tactics.

The blow was so fierce that Riesling grunted in pain. I remember clearly, I saw one of Trotson's forelegs move in and out in a v-pattern. he was indeed a fighter of some practice, but of what sort I could not yet tell.

Riesling threw a much wider punch. The first jab had been precise and well-aimed, but the skilful block and retaliation from the doctor had thrown him off guard. This blow was hazardous and risky. Bad for him, as Trotson simply absorbed the blow with a bent forehoof before shifting the same right hoof that had struck at his jaw and driving it into the winemaker’s exposed stomach.

Attacking the exposed areas.

Riesling was wild now – he threw a ferociously feral left hoof. Trotson simply mirrored the tactic of blocking the blow and attacking the exposed side, though this time he drove his own left straight into Riesling’s nose.

Riesling staggered back, his forehooves falling away for just half a second, to touch at the blood that surged forth from his face. That was half a second too much, for Trotson was swiftly in his face, striking again at the weakened jaw.

Capitalising on the damaged bone structure.

Riesling had already lost the fight at this point, but still the onslaught continued. A swift one-two of punches into Riesling’s solar plexus to weaken the cracked ribs. Another mocking blow to the chin, and this time I heard the jaw dislocate entirely. But it wasn’t over at that point.

Riesling reared. He had been totally overwhelmed, and his mind was struggling to make sense of the incoming blows. So fast was the confrontation that the paper had just scarcely fluttered to the ground. Trotson swiftly turned and struck with both back legs, his granite-hard hooves smashing the staggered Riesling in the chest. If his ribs weren’t broken already, then they most certainly were now. And that made it very much over.

The foul villain crumpled like a sack of potatoes, where he lay on the ground groaning.

As a medical summary – Jaw dislocated, bridge of nose fractured, two ribs cracked, three broken, diaphragm haemorrhaging.

Physical recovery: six weeks.

Forced psychological recovery: six months.

Ability to hit mares: Neutralised.

I have added a new note to my thoughts on Trotson. Boxer of extreme prowess. Most likely several years in the ring. Instructor was from the army. Has since retired, though six seconds of observation was not enough to ascertain why.

When all was said and done, the constables pounced on Riesling. There had only been a brief moment throughout the whole ordeal, and, having observed my companion’s surge of lightning-fast, calculated punches, no danger whatsoever.

And now, I will politely pass the book back to Trotson. But before I do, a summary of him, to the best of my ability.

Rational, intelligent, dictated, purposeful, filly’s stallion. Dislikes affluence. Brown coat, blonde hair, black jacket. Well-dressed, highly nervous around subjects of importance, examples include Rarity; Lestrade; Redheart; etcetera. Fastidious, oddly precise. Slightly compulsive. Not one you would expect to manage a crisis well, yet capable of intense surges of action. He writes extremely affluently, even though his tales seem to radiate more fancy than fact. I find myself to tire very quickly from just trying to express my thoughts at all, though he seems to be able to do so with the greatest of ease...

A very likeable character.

One Last Problem

Our prisoner’s furious resistance carried with it all of his hate. He had come forward before I could judge what was taking place, and took me by surprise, but I raised my forehooves and struck him solidly, and eventually laid him out. I do not remember a great deal from the instance – the snapshot was not exceptionally vivid in my mind, though I recall well the adrenaline that surged through me when I realised that I was the only one between Twilight and the cornered Riesling, and the dull thud of blood in my head as he lay curled on the ground afterward, spitting curses at us.

Despite my general haziness about what followed, I hark back to that instant in the particularly dank and musty study quite clearly. The two constables from behind surged forward, immediately falling on the unfortunate Riesling, though I could not say that my mind was filled with sympathy for him. The Pegasus slammed through the door, searching for the source of the disturbance.

Pones darted in front of me and kneeled, swiftly cuffing the stunned Riesling. The rough jingle of metal on metal and a snapping sound told me that he was under lock and key, and so I relaxed a little. The two constables either side of him attempted to pull him to his feet, but he seemed dazed by his ordeal and could not do it on his own, so he leant on one of them for support. That a villain so foul could have the luxury of such a thing made my stomach turn.

I took a few steps back for the sake of gaining distance, and was seized by two things – one was the clap of a hoof on each of my shoulders, yanking me back fiercely, and the other was a very familiar flash of pain through my left foreleg. It ran in a jagged stripe from the top of my shoulder to just above my hoof, and I could not help but wince in pain.

“Easy now, Doctor!” Cried Lestrade’s voice from just behind my left ear. I felt slightly irritated by this, for I had not followed up by attempting to hit Riesling any further. Later I would come to understand the swiftness with which events took place, and thus know the reasons for his urgency in restraining me. In his eyes, I might have very well simply started beating the villain as he lay on the ground.

I turned my head around. Lestrade’s worried face filled my vision to my immediate left. He was giving me an exceptionally strange and surprised look from behind his beady eyes. Seeing that I was not struggling, he released me rather quickly and took a rather tentative and nervous step back. Ultimately, I chose to ignore his behaviour, for upon reflection it was not untoward and more out of concern for the wellbeing of Riesling. I would learn of his injuries later, though a simple examination of his bloodied face as I glanced back could tell me that I had at least broken his nose.

In my mind, growing up to be stallion of the house had meant two things. One was that I was always, always, always meant at all times to be my father’s son, and the second was that I should always strive to achieve. Though the ideas were more creations of the stringent social society that my parents lived and dwelled in, I chose to follow them all the same - for my father’s pride and my mother’s delight. As a young colt I was doted on by friends of my mothers, who would always try without success to pair me off with their daughters, all of whom (save a few) were rich, snobbish and arrogant. The same company that I never chose to keep handed me a need to refine my Cloplin accent. For an established stallion like my father, the accent was worn more as a badge of pride, but my mother sincerely believed that it was ‘for the best’ that I be drilled in the ways of formality and the upper-class behaviour that I would come to loathe as I grew older.

The people I knew and the way I spoke got me into trouble, you see. Between my quiet nature, Cloplin charms, and adulation by many of the young fillies that I met, I became target for the school bullies. To say it was jealousy, though, would be ignorant of me – who knows why children act as they do?

Regardless, I was once on the receiving end of a hoof to the face. Obviously it was not a pleasant experience, but it was an event that would change my life for the better. My mother frittered incessantly over the wound, which was little more than a bloody nose, but my father seemed to show some nonchalance to it. He seemed convinced that I should learn how to fight, for as he said at the time, ‘it would come in handy every now and again’. My mother was disapproving, but conceded when she saw that my father could not be stopped. Ironic, when you consider the effect she had over him – there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the love of his life, and he doted on her bossy nature, though he often complained of it.

But he was adamant that I become capable of hitting back, and thus it was that I began to learn how to box. My instructor was a mean old Pegasus called Lightning Strike, though to me he was simply ‘sir’. His accolades were impressive, and I realised as I grew older that he was not the bawdy talker that I had thought when I first met him. He was an old soldier, and champion boxer - a friend of my father’s through the ring. My father had fought him briefly and only for sport in his youth, but Lightning Strike persisted with boxing past his teens. Even though he had enlisted in the army at the age of nineteen, he continued to train in "the gentleman's sport" (as he so called it) well through his service, and so avid was his passion for it that at twenty-five, he quit the army, recruited my father as his personal doctor, and turned professional.

He won a cruiserweight title and an open weight division title, and defended them both up until his retirement aged thirty-nine, which was quite old for any sportsman, let alone a boxer. His face was grizzled and rough – repeated blows throughout his career had slurred his speech slightly, though he still carried himself like a true champion. He had, I remember, the very deepest and hottest fire in his eyes when he danced around the ring in the manner of a ballet dancer, hooves fizzing through the air like rockets.
“Ay!” he would bark at me as we drilled. “My grand-filly hits harder than that, ‘n she’s about your age as well!”

Such jibes would beggar me into fighting harder, and I would retire each evening exhausted. To my continued disappointment, there were never any congratulations or pats on the back for my efforts. I soon concluded that this was then a task that I was not supposed to take joy from, and in a way I was right.
“Fighting’s control, m’lad!” Lighting Strike would yell at me. “You have to be strong enough not to start the fights, just to end them with precisely the right amount of force!” He would often accompany his advice with insults, drawing close to me and roaring mere inches from my face.
“Not like you’d be one to need control, eh! You can’t hit to save yourself!”

I loathed the old stallion, though he undoubtedly taught me very well.

I was returning home from school one evening when I noticed the bullies (who shall remain nameless) harassing one of my weekend ‘friends’. Usually, I avoided getting involved in these instances, as their cruel games were only teasing and nothing more, and thus I kept my head down. But, on this occasion, as I strolled by the mouth of the alleyway where they could usually be found, I heard a scream. This was different. It carried with it traces of some new and familiar emotion that I had not seen before, and I would recognize it to be fear.

My head snapped over, and I saw that a filly was running towards me, crying. For the sake of embarrassment on the bullies’ part, I would rather she remain nameless, though undoubtedly her identity will become clear in time for those of you that can read between the lines. She is the daughter of a Canterlot industrialist, whose wealth and affluence could probably have the boys thrown away in a prison cell for as long as he felt inclined. She appeared out of breath, and collided with my startled form as she blindly fled from four figures. I do not know what startled me more at the time – the concept that I had had the misfortune to be her saviour, or the fact that no sooner had she recognised me then she clung to me desperately.

“Help!” She said weakly. I could feel her shaking knees and thudding heart against my coat.
Call it the beginning of my dislike for upset mares. Call it the reason why I had affection for her as I possessed for no other in our later years. If Pones were analysing this, no doubt he would draw my actions in the library as a flashback of that day. Call it a clear-cut instance of the flashbulb effect, for that it certainly what it was – that one instant where she clung to me was a teetering moment of absolute terror on my part; one where I was forced into making a choice that I did not want to, and I remember fragments of the moment as intensely as if it had been yesterday.

There were four of them. I remember the foremost bully cracking a grin as he strolled towards me. He made an utterance about my appearance, and it caused a ripple of laughter from his cronies. Ever-closer they came.

They never said it out aloud, but it became apparent to me that they were after something a little more than money or jewels. There was an awful fervour about the way they moved – a certain hunger in their eyes and in the grins on their faces for something much more significant. For a very long time that gaze haunted me. Such animalistic instinct. It was burned into my mind, and for months afterwards, every time I slept I could not help but shiver as the memory washed over me. All I remember is being petrified, and despite the quivering form of the white filly next to me, quite alone.

The next few moments I have never successfully recalled. I imagine that my mind must have shut it out. Three things I do remember, though. The first was the sight of them beginning to quicken their pace, and the leader lunging forward. Instinctively, I stepped between him and her. The second thing I recall was the slice of his knife as it tore down my left foreleg, though it was little more than a sting to me, such was the adrenaline that coursed through me. The third was the ear-splitting scream from behind me that gave me nightmares for years to come.

My instructor beat me about the ears when I returned to training, a month later.
“Haven’t you learned nothin’ boy?” he shouted at me. “Heroes die fast!”
I tried to explain to him that I had simply been in the wrong time and the wrong place, though such an explanation was insufficient to truly express what had happened. I said that I was not, as my instructor and mother had imagined, showing off or trying to be heroic, and that I had merely stepped into the blow as he swung, not having time to think. My explanation must have been sincere enough, for he refrained from further attacks on me, instead resuming his pacing about the ring.

I had, though I remembered little of it at the time, been slashed viciously with a knife. The unicorn who wielded it was not an overly large character, and was quite a coward, for he did not expect such an intense flash of fear from the girl. He fell back, dismayed by his actions, and paused for a moment. That was better for me, because I hit him hard. Regardless of my injures, I was overcome with that other awful primal desire – to survive, and nothing else.

I knocked the ringleader to the ground with a well-placed buck, and in my frenzy I fell upon him, raining blows down on him with both forehooves. Partial recollections of the incident are the best I can do, for it all passed before me so quickly. I remember his companions standing far back, looks of terror on their faces as they stared at me, blood pouring from my foreleg.

After the incident, I did not pursue boxing for anything outside exercise. I was too afraid. Before the incident, the girl had been a quiet soul, much like me. Now, though, she became outspoken and a little arrogant, overly cheerful and extremely bossy. I don’t doubt at all that her newfound attitude was some strange way of her mind repressing whatever had occurred before I had arrived, and what took place after. She didn’t speak to me at all until I met her once again at medical school, five years later.

The sudden and vivid upset of my usually slow-paced life hardened my resolve to become a doctor, and I never hit a soul again - right up until the moment Riesling charged across the room. Twilight had screamed, and I had simply stepped in without thinking.

It was in fact Twilight who I sought after now. My eyes fell upon her, and immediately my heart was wrenched in two. She was cowered into a corner behind a pile of books that she had upset in her haste to get away from Riesling. A purple scattering of legs and bruises curled into as tight as ball as she could manage. I walked over to where she lay and knelt, laying a hoof upon her velvety soft mane. I felt her twitch to the touch, and she whimpered slightly; to which I hushed her and spoke gently.

“Hush now, it’s all over,” I repeated a few times, tracing the back of her neck.
After a while, she shifted to a more upright position, allowing me to scoop her into my arms and hold her there.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I said quietly. “Just let it all out.”
She did. Initially they were nothing more than silent tears, and she made no indication of crying. I would not have known that she was at all, were it not for the warmth that seeped into my jacket as she buried her head into me, her eyes closed tightly. But eventually there came stuttering breaths, and after about a minute or two, fully fledged sobs of pain and anguish.

A shadow came over me, and I looked up. It was Macintosh. He had been unmanacled in the few minutes that I had to console her by Lestrade. He was clearly distraught, and I knew that he would want to be with her. Quickly then, I murmured a few final, soothing words in Twilight’s ear, before gently raising her to all fours and coaxing her over to Macintosh.
“Don’t make her talk if she doesn’t want to,” I said, looking up at the farmer. “Just let her be for a while.”
He looked at me sadly, and I was hit with a pang of guilt. My inhumanity had carried over from the fight, and I realised all too well that though he was no doctor, he knew how to treat her. I mumbled an apology, and made my way back over to the door. I could see Riesling being ushered into the police cart from where I stood, and Pones and Lestrade out on the footpath.

Pones turned to me, and I noticed that one of his eyebrows was raised.
“An interesting revelation, Trotson!” said he. He had not even for a moment lost his veneer of cold decisiveness that I had come to know him for, but he appeared intrigued about something that I had done, and I smiled at him in puzzled confusion.
“Pardon?” I inquired.
“I had not seen you in such a nature before,” he remarked dryly. “You are quite the boxer.”

We were joined by the two constables on the footpath, which saved me from responding. I turned a hoof absent-mindedly on the pavement, making some half-hearted remark about my own ability as a brawler rather than any skilful fighter, and they exchanged glances as if they had both thought otherwise.
“Well done all the same, Doctor,” said one respectfully. I just nodded. Often it was much simpler to reply without speaking.

Lestrade spoke up next. He sounded rather irritated, and I could not blame him. Between myself and Pones, we had stolen all of his work, but he smiled painfully and praised Pones all the same.
“Why don’t you ever join the force, Pones?” He said modestly. “If there was a vacant position for the Chief of Police, I reckon you would be the perfect soul for it.”

I could have sworn that I saw Pones smile at the prospect, though perhaps it was merely a twitch of his mouth. I didn’t quite see his expression fully, for he had lifted the pipe to his lips again and was busily relighting it.
“No, Inspector, I would rather retain my freedom,” he said jovially, lowering his hooves as the flame of the lighter caught. “As far employment goes, I am quite happy with my lot, and provided I have good company, I doubt I shall need any more.”
“And yet you still continue to elude me with every further mystery,” the inspector replied. “I thought for sure that I had come to the very bottom of it.”
“You are not to be blamed, my dear fellow. We all make mistakes and errors of judgement.” I saw his gaze flicker over to my own for a moment. “Myself included. Had it not been for Trotson’s observation of Miss Sparkle's rather carelessly hidden bruise, Riesling may very well still be at large.”

The inspector smiled meekly at the amiable words.
“Indeed. It was the perfect crime, and I could not have known. All the evidence pointed to one conclusion.”
“Not quite perfect, but you are right – the mystery itself hinged on seemingly irrelevant knowledge, which you overlooked. That is where you tend to fall short, Inspector.” He lowered the pipe from his lips. “Observation and deduction, my friend.”
Lestrade bowed his head humbly and drew his jacket a little tighter around his thin form, as though it gave him some discomfort.
“I thank you, Pones. Before you arrived I was without much of an idea.”
“Do not count yourself out!” my companion cried, seizing the inspector around the shoulders with a hoof. “You did your job well, and had the good foresight to seek help when it was needed. Acknowledging that you needed help was by far the wisest of your decisions this weekend.”
Though double-edged the comment seemed to me, the Inspector cheered up somewhat, his eyes straying over to a gathering crowd of Ponies behind shepherded away from the police cart.
“Thank you for your kind words, Pones. But if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a statement."

I knew that he wanted to release some kind of story to the public. We bade him goodbye, and Pones watched him as he left the gate, brushing past the two constables and clearing his throat audibly.
“Poor fellow,” I said, airing my grievance about his plight.
“A good soul nonetheless,” Pones replied. “He tends to stumble across parts of the truth - and then, he gets right back up and keeps on going again.”

It took a moment for his words to sink into me, but when I understood him I was buzzed by the pleasant comfort of his once-again blasé attitude. I was relieved to have seen the ordeal done and dusted, for the mental exertion of thinking about the mystery in nearly every spare moment had worn me out. My weariness was not assisted by my recent lack of sleep, and I yawned contently. Together, we slipped out of the yard quite unnoticed, and while there were a few glances towards our rather well-dressed attire, we managed to pass by the growing hubbub without being hailed by anyone.

“Well that is all good and done, then!” I said happily, as soon as we were out of earshot of the crowd.
To this, Pones shot me a quizzical glance, but he did not lecture me over my very general statement as I had anticipated. Instead, he said something that took me by surprise.
“Indeed, my own business is very much concluded, but yours is not, my friend.”
“How do you mean?”
“You have an apology to make,” he replied curtly. I walked for a while longer, attempting to reach the same conclusion he had, and it was not until I tried to turn left – to which Pones pushed into my side, steering me in an easterly direction – that I realised what he meant.

2: The Wonderbolt Incident

The Wonderbolt Incident

It was not until late November that I began to chronicle Pones once more. My own wedding was set to be on the 17th of that month, though I successfully managed to talk Felicia into putting it to after Christmas before we told any of her relatives. This was much easier for me, as it gave me a spot of breathing room, and similarly gifted her some more time to organise it, as she insisted that everything be perfect. To be truthful, after the intensity that bore my proposal, I was more than happy to simply sit in my comfortable abode at 221B Baker Street and let her plan, and more importantly enjoy the glow of the fire with a drink. The weather outside had been growing colder since late September, and the very first dustings of powder-snow were visible outside of the lattice window, though the air was bitter cold, as if it were late December already.

Neither frosty weather nor impending marriage stopped me from working, though, and I found myself pre-occupied. My weekend away had set me a few days behind, and I found that as I returned to the private clinic where I worked, that there was a backlog of patients waiting to be seen, and complaints needing to be remedied. For about a week I left from my home early, at about six-thirty, and worked long hours, often returning to a late dinner. It was on one of these chilly mornings that my next adventure begins, though at the time I had no idea that I was set for another one of his thrilling escapades.

Mr Sherclop Pones, who was himself an early riser, was seated at the breakfast table downstairs, reading the paper. The paper was propped up on the table, and his glasses were laid upon the table next to him, the crystal lenses just barely visible in the early morning light. I sat and drew myself a plate of porridge from the iron pot that rested table, and he did not greet me, nor did I feel awake enough to start a conversation. In a way I was thankful, for he knew well that I loathed early mornings just as much as the next pony.

So it was to my complete and unabated surprise when he asked a question of me.
“Well, Trotson, what do you think?” I heard him say.
I looked up from my bowl in surprise. The way he had asked was in his usual (or rather, unusual) manner of carrying on a conversation that never existed, and I was clueless as to what he meant. I simply stared at him blankly. He had lowered the top of his paper and was looking over it at me expectantly, with both of his brown eyebrows raised into his mane.
“Pardon?” I asked.
He did not reply, but instead gestured to the left with an idle hoof. I looked over expectantly, anticipating someone or something to have been there that I had missed in my sleepiness, but it was not so. The dining room was empty, aside from the two of us. My gaze turned back to him, and I felt slightly irritated.
“I have told you about my dislike for thinking so early, Pones.”
“The glasses,” he said, obliging my reluctance to use my brain.
“What about them?” I said, looking down at them. They were armless, slender and gold-rimmed, and I recognised them to be Pince-nez. They looked quite expensive, and boasted fine crystal lenses as I mentioned before.
“I do not use glasses, so they belong to someone else,” he said, returning to his paper. “An easy mistake to make for one as tired as you.”
I ignored him, reaching across the table and gingerly picking the glasses up by the bridge of the nose.
“They are not Mrs. Emeralds?” I inquired, though I knew the answer.
“No. She does not wear them either, and nor do you.”
“So to whom do they belong?”
“That is what I am asking you, Trotson.”
I sighed.
“I think,” I replied wearily, “that we have had a visitor or guest.”
“Precisely,” said he, putting his paper down on the table and crossing his forehooves. “We both missed him yesterday, for you were at work and I was away."
“He appears to be old,” I said absent-mindedly. “These glasses are expensive, such as a pair that someone well to do might buy, so it is also obvious that this strange visitor is also quite wealthy.”
“Good!” said Pones. “Excellent!”
“I also think that he is some kind of refined upper-class gent.”
“Why so?”
“Because the glasses are used for reading,” I said, putting the spectacles on my nose and squinting through the lenses.
“Really, Trotson, you excel yourself, even in your more tired moments!” Said Pones, reaching into his pocket for his pipe. “I feel obliged to say that in your writings, you have underrated your own ability. It may be that you are not luminous, as it were, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius, have a remarkable power of stimulating it, and with that in mind, I confess that I am very much in your debt.”

He had never said so much before, and I could not help but feel a spark of happiness ignite in my stomach. His significant acumen was what gave the praise most of its weight, but my pleasure was also heightened by his historic indifference to my admiration, and similarly my attempts to publicise his methods. I was proud to think that I had so far garnered even a sliver of Pones’ deductive ability, though I was equally confused at the time, for I did not know what I had done to deserve such a compliment. Pones held out a grey hoof for the spectacles, and I passed them to him gingerly.
“You are not entirely right, though,” he said with a smile.
“But what you just said...”
“Was true, but you are still erroneous in some regard. When I mentioned that you stimulated me, I merely meant that you occasionally guide me towards the truth.”
My heart fell a considerable distance, and Pones must have taken pity on me, for the next thing he did was indulge me with what he knew so far.
“Her name is Meadowsweet.”
I started to my hooves, swiftly looking about in case I had missed her a second time. I was desperate to see her, after all.
“M-mother?” I stammered. Pones laughed at my alarm.
“You need not fear your lack of attention,” he continued, reading my reaction perfectly. “But really – how did you not recognise them as belonging to your own mother? The glasses belong to a Doctor,” he said, tapping the bridge of them with a hoof. “The inscription.”
He held them up to the light, and there upon the bridge was an extremely small engraving that I had missed. R.C.H, it read, though I did not need Pones to explain the meaning of the abbreviation to me.
“Though I know nothing of her, I know those initials to mean Royal Canterlot Hospital,” he said. “The lens themselves are far too frail for a stallion to wear, don’t you see? And here, see how the glasses have never been broken? The owner is meticulous. We may draw from these two points that said pony is a doctor or nurse, though what nurse could afford something so dear?”
I resumed my seat, my heart having settled somewhat. He continued to speak as I did so.
“No, the owner is most certainly a doctor. And a lady. From the vague description and the glasses that I received from Mrs. Emerald before I retired last night, I would guess her to have some relation to you. Our visitor had a refined northern accent, she said. Though I was not present to hear it, I assumed it matched yours, and I asked as much, to which she confirmed my thoughts. She has a very fair mane and the most astonishing pair of deep blue eyes.”

He suddenly tensed his hoof tightly, and there was a small snapping noise, further alarming me. I cried out and reflexively reached for the pair of golden spectacles, but when he opened his hoof once more, I could see that they had merely folded in half.
“A new hinge,” he added. “No doubt it has been recently replaced, the old one having worn out from overuse. These glasses look new, but they are in fact very old. The style of glasses would have put the owner at the height of fashion, say, thirty years ago now.” He shook his head. “But you were right. She is well-to-do.”
Even though he spoke as if his words were of some irrelevance to me, as my heart was alive and racing. I was now fully awake.
“What time was she here?”
“Around four in the afternoon.”
“And did she leave a message?”
“She did, in fact,” Pones replied, and at this he reached into his pocket and withdrew a note. I took it from him and noticed that the red wax seal upon it had not been broken.
“I appreciate that you do not continue to read my mail,” said I.
Pones had returned to his oats, apparently satisfied with his own conclusions, and as such did not seem to regard my statement with much thought.
“Well, ever since your dust-up with Riesling, I thought it better of me to stay on your good side.”
I rolled my eyes. Such a jibe from Pones was to be expected, after all, and it caused me very little effect. My mind and heart were more focused on the scroll, and I opened it quickly. I recognised my mother’s handwriting instantly and fondly, and it ran thusly:

I missed you! – still hard at work, your landlady tells me, and she also says you’ve gone and got up to some mischief since I saw you last. What kind of mischief she wouldn’t say, but she mentioned that you’ve teamed up with a detective, no less! I should very much like to hear from you – I was only in town for the day, you see. Your father was upset you couldn’t join us for the Summer Sun Celebrations up in Cloplin, but I cajoled him into enjoying himself anyway. He might hide it behind a stern face, but he misses you dearly – though as I mention it, not enough to hide it behind a few pints of Quills! It was the girls from the neighbourhood who were more broken hearted to hear you were getting married, I think!

You will come home for Christmas, won’t you? We’d love to hear from you. Haven’t had a good letter from you in a while.

Love, mum

I put the letter down and meandered over what I would say in response. Pones had not looked up from his bowl, and was hungrily devouring his breakfast (and whatever else lay in front of him) with great vigour.
“Another all-nighter for you?” I inquired.
“Indeed,” he mumbled from behind a mouthful of the honey and oats.

Pones was not a great eater, though I knew that he was at his hungriest when he had been thinking. On some occasions, he did not retire to bed at all, instead choosing to sit at the darkened table through the night and well into the morning, his rear legs propped up on the table’s edge and his cap tipped down over his sharp eyes, folding his slender grey forehooves across his chest. I was sure this was merely another way for Pones to enter one of his meditative trances, for he smoked as he did so. More than once upon returning late from the clinic, I had been startled by the eerie red glow from his pipe as I passed by the entrance to the dining-room. From out of its red ashes I would often catch a glimpse of his sullen, half-hidden face – a rare glimpse at the darker side of my companion.

My reminiscences were interrupted by the gentle bumping of footfalls on the landing, followed by a rap at the door. My ears immediately pricked; for I thought the hoof steps might belong to my mother, and I rose swiftly to answer the door.

When I opened the door, however, my hopes were washed away. It was a large Pegasus who stood there, and so broad and muscular in stature was he that I immediately became aware that the heavy thuds could not have ever been my mother. It is hardly necessary that I describe him, so well-known was he, but I shall all the same. He was a tidily dressed Gentlepony, and he introduced himself as Lieutenant-Colonel Flash. My first impressions of him were very pleasant ones – he had a very honest personality, and a rugged yet handsome appearance, and he seemed familiar to me, though I could not think of where I had seen him. His mane was of a sandy blonde, and his coat and wings were of a pale shade of grey-blue, which gave him the rather uncanny resemblance to the skies in which he flew. His face was broad and clean shaven, and he had an extremely pleasant and mellow voice. He spoke with a Cloudsdale accent - that much I was instantly sure of - though as was the case for myself it had long since been drowned out by the upper class rigours of Canterlot. He bore an immaculately clean stovepipe hat and a dark frock-coat, and indeed, every detail of his dress spoke of the extreme attention to which he carried himself. From the tips of his silver shoes that I could barely see beneath his fetlocks to the golden timepiece chain that peeked from his breast pocket, there was not a single hair of him out of place.

We returned into the dining room to find it clean. I was dazzled at the speed of my companion in clearing away the table, but then again he had eaten with such voracity that I doubted that such swiftness was impossible for him. He smiled as the big aristocrat and I entered the room.
“Ah, here’s my good friend!” Cried Pones, springing from his chair with surprising alacrity and greeting the stranger warmly.
“Pones,” Flash said with a smile. Evidently the two knew each other, and I inquired after him.
“A fellow lodger from when I lived in Cloudsdale,” came the reply from my companion. I had known that Pones had lived in Cloudsdale for a while, though I do believe this the first instance where any sort of history of Pones’ at all has been written onto paper. The three of us sat at the clean table, and immediately came onto the topic of business. Flash did not seem like the kind of Pegasus to be kept waiting.
“I received your note yesterday,” He said hurriedly. “Is it alright if we speak in front of the good doctor here?”
Pones did not bat an eyelid. “I would sooner prefer it if all that were to be known on the matter was shared with my friend,” he said, folding his hooves and resuming his lounging position on the chair. The colonel gave me a sideways glance to see if I was listening (I was, most intently) and began to speak.
“Of course, I was prepared for your companion, too,” he said courteously. “His assistance may very well be necessary, for we are dealing with a murder.”
My heart skipped a beat as the last word escaped his tightly-pressed lips.
“Murder!” I repeated incredulously, and he nodded gravely.
“Aye, murder,” he repeated slowly. “And no doubt, a murderer most foul.”
I had never dealt with murder before, though I had seen death. It was part of my occupation – the part I liked the least, and I daresay such a sentiment was shared among my colleagues.
“You have need of a coroner?” I said.
The soldier scratched his chin reflexively.
“Yes, and no. The coroner has already filed his report. What I have need of Pones and you for is to conduct your own investigation.”
Pones had been listening intently, and I noticed that he had leaned forward onto the table, his hooftips perched together.
“You should start from the beginning,” he interjected. The Colonel caught himself and smiled falteringly.
“I really should, shouldn’t I?”
He turned to me and spoke.
“You know of the wonderbolts, do you not?”

I nodded. The Wonderbolts were a collection of Pegasus Royal guards and air force veterans alike, who, either having retired from their service duties or having been promoted, became the most elite squad of fliers known in Equestria. They were show ponies, and they performed such stunning aerial acrobatics and feats of bravery and daring that I scarce could not have heard of them, for they were photographed at every event they went to, whether they were the main attraction or not. I did not know of their numbers, but I had heard tell of the strictest discipline among them that paralleled Celestia’s personal guard.

I had had the pleasure of being a physician for a Pegasus known as Soarin earlier last year, and he was so battered and bruised by his own training regime that I was became concerned for his health. I ordered him to take a week off of flying. I was ignored, as I found out later that he had returned to his training in secret.
“Well I am their instructor, as it were,” said Flash.
I suddenly realised where I had recognised our stranger from. Lieutenant Colonel Flash, better known by his moniker as The Flash, was an ex-wonderbolt himself, and I recognised the rugged shape of his face by the posters that I had seen of him plastered on every colt’s wall when I was a young lad. He did not sport the same skin-tight blue suit that was familiar to his flying team, and so I did not recognise him at first. I let out a gasp of surprise.
“Dear Celestia!” I cried. “I did not recognise you with your goggles off!”
He smiled. Presumably my reaction was one that was most familiar to him, and his response confirmed it.
“That’s what everypony says,” he replied meekly. “I suppose that is more of a blessing than a burden. My teammate Spitfire gets more attention than she can handle.”
Spitfire was one of the other wonderbolts, just a touch older than I. To my knowledge, she was legendarily flirtatious and promiscuous. If the Colonel were to every young colt their first childhood hero, then Spitfire would be their first experience with the more hotblooded side of the fairer sex. I had seen before lurid posters—not that I had sought them out, of course—and various papers and columns featuring her tied up in several shameless scandals. Thus, I had obtained some earlier confirmation of the Colonel’s words.
My thoughts were interrupted by Pones.
“Please, continue with your story.”
The stout Pegasus nodded gravely before obliging.
“As you might know, there has been a vacant slot in the wonderbolts for a while now, ever since I retired. We, and by ‘we’ I mean the team as a whole, have been looking over a list of promising young fliers to fill the space.
At this he paused and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a small colour photograph, and set it down on the table.
“This little filly is probably the most earnest of the lot,” he commented. Pones and I peered over at the photo.

I recognised the Colonel in the photo immediately – there was no mistaking that square jaw and his beaming features, even from behind his flight goggles. He was in his wonderbolts uniform, and stood with a foreleg around the face of a young girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen. She had on her face a look of such happiness that I did not doubt that she was clearly a fan of the wonderbolts, and indeed, she was starstruck in a way that only a member of the wonderbolts could inflict. This much I could recognise in her features very clearly, for her prominent aquamarine coat had turned a very deep shade of pink around her cheeks, and her wings were clenched tightly to her sides, as Pegasi were inclined to do when nervous. Her wild mane drooped slightly over her forehead, and appeared on first glance to resemble a shocking lick of orange, though upon further inspection it was actually composed of all the colours of the rainbow - red, orange and yellow at its top, and as it ran down her neck, darker shades of blue, violet and green were visible. Between her coat and her mane, the visual assault was almost overwhelming, but she also sported a pair of incredible rose-coloured eyes. I couldn’t see her frame from the picture very well, but I estimated that she must have been about up to my chin in height, with a very lean physique.

“…Miss Rainbow Dash,” he said, after allowing me a moment to study the picture. “The photo was taken about a year ago now, and she carries it around with her everywhere. She gave it to me to give to you.”
“Rainbow Dash,” I repeated meditatively. I shot a look over at Pones, who had ignored the photo, and begun to smoke once more. He spoke to my glance, though I had not asked any question of him.
“You would remember her better as Rarity’s friend. She’s also the element of loyalty.” He withdrew the pipe from his mouth and exhaled, causing a small stream of smoke to spiral away towards the ceiling. “You would call her a bit of a wild one, Trotson, but then again you are used to fillies of good breeding, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
The Colonel nodded.
“She is quite the handful at the best of times, but that is beside the point.” He tapped the photo, and resumed his story earnestly. “She’s been in our training squad for about a month now, very keen to get in. She’s young, earnest, and fits in well with the team, both in attitude and ability.” At this, he seemed to hesitate, as though reluctant to speak.
“Last Monday, she was arrested by the police in conjunction with a murder,” he said with a grimace, withdrawing another photo. This one was of a single, cream-coloured Pegasus stallion, with a mane of fiery red. He was not so tall as he was muscular and squat – in much the same way that the Colonel was. He had struck a heroic pose for the photo, though I could see that behind all his fake seriousness a smile that belied a great deal of hidden mirth and happiness. “This lad, right here. Peregrine Feathers was his name. Together, they were our top two rookies.”
He sighed a little, and dropped the photo wearily onto the table before putting his head into his hooves. It was odd, for up until then he had seemed extremely energetic – but I knew all too well that expression, for I had seen it many times before. It was a sapped look, a mixture of weary bereavement and silent dismay that comes only as a result of witnessing the unthinkable.
“A policepony was on the beat late last week, and he saw lights on in a house at around two to three in the morning. This would not have been unusual, but he peered in past the fence and saw the front door was ajar. It was Peregrine’s home, and he was found in the sitting-room, sprawled on the floor, face-down, and dead.” There was a moment while he recuperated, and I could tell that the issue caused him some pain to speak about.
“A good kid,” he said at length. The simplicity of his statement belied the depth of his emotional injury, and he closed his eyes and mumbled what was no doubt a blessing.
“There was nothing in the room other than him, there was no robbery, he had his wallet with all his money inside. I went to see it to confirm the body. He had a knife in his back, and there was blood everywhere…”
Our guest closed his eyes and took a deep breath, running a hoof through his mane.
“Rainbow dash and he were not heavily involved with each other outside of training, or at least not that I knew of, but they competed most viciously in the training squad. They fought often, and argued even more often. The team decided, after a long time, that we’d put him in instead of her. He was the more skilled of the two, we thought – there was just an element of quickness that she lacked. And then this happened. The police believe she came to his house in a fit of anger, and killed him.” He fell silent after this, and stared at the photo of the ecstatic filly on the table.
“Call me in denial, but I don’t believe a word of it. She’s far too nice to have done such a thing.”
Pones, who had been lazily thinking about something else during the story, snapped to attention at this last comment.
“And this is why you need our help.”
The stallion nodded. I noticed by Pones’ words, and his earlier, that I was assumed as some sort of accomplice. I was happy for springing to Pones’ mind as an essential component of his work, but confused nonetheless, for I could see no way in which a simple doctor could help.
“I don’t mean to be so forthright, but what do you need me for?” I inquired. “If the coroner has made his report, then I doubt that I will be necessary.”
Pones seemed rather indignant at my concerns.
“You would not help a damsel falsely accused?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Some gentlepony you are!”
I baulked at the proposal.
“Though I am ever the subject of much of your good humour, I fail to see how I could help.”
“I doubt she could have done it, Trotson,” my companion replied. He gestured at the two pictures on the table. “For starters, she is just a perfectly ordinary young mare, if her tomboyish nature is not counted. Secondly, their difference in size suggests a great degree of improbability in such a brutal method of attack, and thirdly, the nature of the crime itself is far and beyond such a pony.”
How he had reached such points lay well beyond me, though I was used to such long strings of logic arising from little more than a single glance. That is not to say that I was unsurprised – Pones’ conclusions could never cease to amaze me – but it was our guest who was more unaccustomed to Pones’ intricacies, and he saved me the trouble of expressing my astonishment.
“How in Equestria did you know that?” he asked, looking again at the picture. “You have not met either of these ponies before, correct?”
“I have known Miss Dash only by name and no more; and no, I have not heard before of this other fellow,” he replied indifferently as ever.
“Then what makes you say that? I do not disagree, of course,” he added swiftly afterwards. “I know her all too well to know that such an act was far beyond her. Rival or not, she would never kill. But you have nothing to judge their height or personality by.”
Pones cracked his neck and yawned.
“A simple look at her photo tells me much,” he began, stretching out the last of his morning stiffness. “The cut of her hair and her coat, and her interest in you as a fan, most of all, tells me that she is a girl more interested in her sport than her appearance. She does not fawn over you as she might my dear friend here,” he said, waving a hoof in my general direction, much to my embarrassment. “She is happier that she has met her idol than any other girlish fantasy. You can see it, because she has that curious grin about her face, and she is not looking at you. Furthermore, she looks quietly pretty, but she does not preen herself as is typical for girls her age.” He raised his eyes to the Colonel. “Twenty years old?”
“The photo… it would be about fifteen months ago, when I first met her.”
“So, she was about nineteen at the time,” he said thoughtfully. “Very unlike the rest of her friends from ponyville. Young, and boisterous. The polar opposite, in fact, of many of her friends. Rarity springs to mind.”
I thought to ask of their relationship, but Pones continued to speak without pause.
“At any length, I can tell you that she did not kill him. You are correct – I have nothing to judge their height by, but that is not what I said. I said they were different in size, and this much is true - a simple glance at the young fellow’s bulk makes him unlikely to be overpowered by her. A flier though she is, she is not muscular.”
“And what of the crime itself?”
“Stabbed in the back by the element of loyalty?” Pones replied. “I should think not. It is far beyond her calling to do such a thing.”
The ex-Royal Guard clapped his hooves together once in delight.
“Ah, I did not think of it that way. I can see I have come to the right ponies, then!” he said, and his appearance brightened visibly. I was more wary against making promises that I could not keep, but Pones appeared to have very little doubt in his mind, for he backed up his statement with a promise.
“Rest assured, my companion and I will not return until the job is done,” he said decided. I opened my mouth to object, for I had quite enough on my plate already, but at this he turned to me.
“Isn’t that right, Trotson?”

I fumbled momentarily for an excuse, but failed to find one. In retrospect I had far enough to do already, the least of which involved tagging along with Pones to be useless once again, but the sincere expression on the Colonel’s face stole my nerve from me, and I agreed by way of a silent nod.

The kind gentleman then took his leave after exchanging some addresses with us. He very firmly shook my hoof, and I was upset that we had promised him of such a victory, but nevertheless I did not show it. Instead, I led him to the door, and only when it had closed did I let my irate mood seize me.
“Now you have done it,” I said as I re-entered the dining room, slightly irked.
“Done what?” Pones inquired. He had been looking back at his paper, apparently having given the matter lesser precedence than more breakfast – the pot was now back on the table.
“I have quite enough to do already without… this!” I replied.
“Like what?”
I could have choked on my words in irritation.
“My marriage, perhaps?” I replied. “Or my job at the clinic?”
“You need a holiday,” he said with a frown. “From both the fairer sex and your job.”
“I most certainly do not.”
“Yes you do. Your stress is showing.”
I snorted. “What stress?”
“Dilated pupils from lack of sleep, red rings around your eyes, loss of appetite…”
“Pones, I am a doctor, I think I would recognise stress when I see it –”
“ – heightened blood pressure, slightly emotional–”
“Pones,” I said warningly.
“– you seem restless as well – when was the last time you and your wife—”
“PONES!”

His eyebrows rose at my sudden outburst, and I knew that to mean a great deal of things, but I did not care. I had had more than enough. For too long I had been the subject of his intense study, and I was angry. He simply kept his auburn gaze upon me, unflinching from his meditative look.
“I do not object to your strangeness,” I said after a while. “I do not object to the intense scrutiny you put me under, and I do not object to the way you conduct yourself. But I don’t think in all my explorations of your complexities have I found something as irritating as your total negligence of anyone but yourself.”
“What do you mean?” he inquired. “I consider a great list many things before I work.”
“And at what point do I enter into that list?” I snapped back. For the first time since I had known him, he was speechless, though as I reflect upon it, I am sure that was more out of choice than because of the weight of my words. “I would be happy to assist you at the best of times, but this is not the time or the place."
“No, now is the time and place for a holiday,” said a voice from behind me, and I turned. It was Mrs. Emerald. She bustled into the kitchen carrying a silver tea-tray in her mouth, and set it down on the table before turning back to me.
“Sorry to be interfering with your own business, John, but you'll not listen to him, so perhaps you'll listen to me.” She chided me in the manner of an elderly schoolteacher, her thin eyebrows furrowed to a point.
“When’s the last time you had a rest?” She asked politely, sitting on one of the chairs next to me. I was on my hooves, having risen in frustration at Pones, but I sat back down reflexively.
“Why, just last weekend I was on holiday.”
“Dear, that was in mid-August.”
“And?”
“Today is the 29th of November. 'Tis nearly winter,” she said pointedly, pouring from the silver pot into an ornate teacup.
“That cannot be right,” I said, shaking my head.
“Time escapes the busy,” she replied sympathetically. “You’ve been working twelve-hour days, six or seven days a week, for the last two months.”
It was at that moment that I reeled, and put a hoof to my head. Two months? Had my work really been that time-consuming? The elderly landlady pursed her lips and put her teacup and saucer down again. It did not even clink when it touched the table, I noticed in some still-observant corner of my mind. Years of practice and experience, no doubt.
“Close family and friends you appear to have forgotten,” she said idly. “Your mother called upon us yesterday. Did you know you haven’t spoken to her since April?”
I shook my head and admitted that I had not.
“And when was the last time you actually spoke to your wife-to-be?” She said. I had forgotten the date, though I could remember the event as fondly as if it had been a few minutes ago. I could not forget a single touch from Felicia, even if I tried, for it made so many sparks coarse through my veins like some sort of blood-based lightning.
“Last time I had a break,” I murmured. Felicia had come up to Canterlot for the day to retrieve medical supplies, and had stopped by. We had not yet sussed out what we were going to do in terms of living, and seeing as how I did not have a house, I seriously considered moving to Ponyville.
“Six days,” she replied. And, though he is away often, I can guarantee you that I see my husband more than once a fortnight!”
“You have taken every spare inch of your time with writing, too,” she said. “I have often stood behind you as you write. It’s as if you’re lost in your own little world. At one point, I even stood in the doorway watching you for a while.” She tilted her head slightly and fixed me with one of her trademark stern looks. “Sometimes, you’d struggle to think of something – a word or a phrase Mr. Pones said, no doubt, and your head would just drop down. You’d stare at the desk, or the typewriter, or whatever was in front of you for a little while, and then your eyes would close, but before you fall asleep you would jerk yourself awake with some kind of super-pony effort, just to type another line.”
She reached over and put a forehoof on my leg.
“You need a rest, dear. You’ll burn out at this rate, and I think you’ve fizzled out after so much effort. Your passion for your work keeps you caring for all but yourself.”

I sat in silence, half-tempted to rebel against her kind words. I had genuinely not felt any of what she said up until that point, after all, and I felt quite indignant that I could be classified as ever needing a rest. Do not ask me why – my own thoughts were as scrambled and hard to put to pen, but they did circulate around the things that I had neglected the most those past few weeks. But as I said, my mind was on other things. The patients of mine that needed prescriptions were foremost, followed by my list of ponies that I needed to give check-ups or examinations to, and even one or two instances of surgery.

But the more she spoke more of my quiet serenity, and the blissful way that I sat at my desk writing, my weariness struck me like a freight train. Her voice was so oddly soothing and motherly for a woman who I had not known half as well as I should have liked. The way she spoke – it was not overly sweet, just very… familiar would be the best word to describe it. As she mentioned the need to rest, though, some part of my mind raised a small cry of alarm, and I realised that I my eyes had lost their focus on her, and that my head had started to droop.
“Well that settles it,” She said decisively, looking me once over as if to check for spots or a visible sign of tiredness. “You need a good rest. I’m going to go and send an eagle to your wife, and you are going to go to Cloudsdale. That way, the two of you can go and spend some quality time together.”
I felt annoyed that my own body had betrayed my mind so readily. Though Pones was more than enough exercise for my mind, sometimes leaving me mentally drained, I found myself unable to think of a sufficient reason why I should be incapable of working further. Maybe, a very small part of me conceded, that that in itself was the tiredness speaking. In the end, I just shrugged.
“Whatever,” I said.
“That’s the spirit!” said Mrs. Emerald with a smile. “Go for a moment’s break. That will do you a world of good.”

I actually smiled at the prospect of getting to see Felicia more, but immediately I was recalled by the urgency of the current task in an extremely irritating way. There are very few feelings more unpleasant than remembering that you have to do something, and that it will lie between you and any rest.
“Ah, but I cannot rest,” I groaned, rubbing a hoof over my eyes. “I agreed to help this friend of Pones, and I am bound to it.”
“Then why not make it a rest without Felicia?” Pones stated simply. I had to admit that the idea of spending time away from my work without my future wife had not occurred to me. Not entirely different from nearly all of his conjectures, now that I recall it.
“Come to Cloudsdale with me.”
I sighed.
“Your adventures do not seem like holidays,” I said reproachfully. Pones somehow took this as a compliment, and smiled.
“You have numbed your body to your own senses. I garauntee that once you have rested today,” he said, “You will be more aware of your need to take a break.”

I did not doubt that he was true, and so it was that I decided to take the day off. I was effectively my own manager at work – the perks of working such long hours gave me relative freedom to pick and choose when it came to taking a day or two off. I doubted that today would be very busy, though I don’t recall giving this thought any rationale. Logically, the clinic would have been busier closer to this side of Christmas then ever before, and increasingly so, but perhaps, to my tired mind, the prospect of a good sleep was far more attractive.
“Fine,” I said after a while. “I’m sure I have some spare time owed to me.”
“Absolutely, you do,” replied the magenta landlady flatly.

So it was at the behest of the two that I took a while off work. Felicia was due into town the next day, and she thoroughly agreed that a break was precisely what I needed, though she herself seemed rather harried. I urged her to relax a little bit, but she would have none of my advice. She claimed playfully that she was far too well-rested as it was, and that she needed something to fuss about while I was away. How odd it was to my tired mind that another pony could have had my best interests at heart, and I was thankful for it.

It was for these reasons that the following day I found myself in the basket of a hot-air-balloon in the green fields just outside of Canterlot.

Miss Dash

It was another cold morning. The wind was low, and spirits were high, and by eleven o’clock we were well upon our way to the old Pegasus capital. Pones had been buried in the morning papers for almost the entire journey – even as basket of the balloon rose into the air he continued to read. I myself was quite familiar with flight and the journey, having treated several citizens of the floating city in my career, but all the same I held a steady hoof against the side of the basket, and willed myself to not look down. The pilot pulled hard on the flame, and with a steady hiss of gas we rose higher into the brisk morning air.

It was not until we had risen far above the city of Canterlot that Pones threw the papers down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal day - a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining quite brightly, and yet there was a savage nip in the air that reminded me that it was still close to winter. I dared a peek over the side of the basket, and the little red and grey roofs of the farms peeped out from amid the light green of the fields and grass far below.

“Gorgeous!” I cried with enthusiasm. Compared to the murky, misty Baker Street, it was a welcome change, but nevertheless Pones shook his head gravely.
“Do you know, Trotson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind like mine that I must look at everything so very analytically? You look down at these farm-houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought that comes to me is a feeling of their isolation, and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.”
“Who would associate crime with these quaint little homesteads?”
“It is my belief, Trotson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleyways of Canterlot do not hold a candle to the sin in the smiling countryside."
“Really?”
“Quite so. The pressure of the public can do in the city what the law cannot accomplish. There is nowhere in Canterlot where the scream of a tortured foal or the thud of a drunkard’s blow is not heard by a kindly neighbour. And from there, the whole justice system is ever so close that a simple complaint can set it going. But look at these lonely houses… filled, for the most part, with poor, ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and nopony would be the wiser.”

My heart fell a little. Even the bitter winter air that left me short of breath had failed to dampen my spirits, but Pones had done so with the merest statement. I could see that he too was in a discerning mood, though whether or not his point was said out of his malice for injustice, or simply because he was irate, I could not say. He then looked up at me and smiled, and I convinced myself that it was the former, and not the latter.
“Fear not, Trotson, there is plenty time yet for us to nab many a fiend between us,” he said happily, as if the idea of his work made him smile.
I agreed, though my attitude did not change until we reached Cloudsdale.

It was an old place, and I had seen it many times before. Those of you that are Pegasus will need no further introduction, but I assume that somepony might not have been to the city before, so I will describe it as best I can.

Cloudsdale is a city in the sky, built entirely on a base of very solid cloud. Do not ask me of the particular mechanics as to how the city stayed afloat, for I am not an engineer – but the impression it left upon first glance was most intriguing. The cloud base looked frail, as if the city might perilously fall through at any moment, and indeed walking on this special cloud was a feeling akin to treading on cotton wool. Nevertheless, it was quite strong, and the buildings in Cloudsdale were tall and grand, and much in the same design as Canterlot, though more crowded (if that was possible) due to the limited space. At a distance, it resembled a hive of many multi-coloured bees as Pegasus tore hither and thither. Below, there was a street for those who preferred walking, and I found that as I disembarked from the basket onto the pavement, that it was very solid. It was always a relief to note how firm the ground was underneath one’s hooves after having flown, I thought.

We stood in front of an immense white marble archway that acted as a gateway into the city’s main thoroughfare. I waited until Pones had disembarked, and then he and I made our way to the local constabulary, strolling through the marble entryway and into a bustling road, set on either side by shops and market-places.
“Are we to have the pleasure of consulting Lestrade on the matter?” I inquired.
“We might, we might,” my friend replied meditatively. “More likely it is his Pegasus counterpart Bradsteed that we might see around, but remember. We are not here at the behest of the police. It is therefore most advisable to keep our noses away from places where we might attract too much unwanted attention.”
I thought about his words, and they struck me as rather glaring and obvious. Though Cloudsdale was not bare of land-dwellers, two strangely-dressed earth ponies in a city full of Pegasus still stuck out more than usual.
“Do you think we are expected?”
“I do not think anything just yet, but it never hurts to throw a pinch of caution to the wind, as it were.”
The idea made sense to me, and I inquired whether or not removing our jackets would have the better effect. Pones hesitated.
“No. You should stay as you are for now, and I will change out of these stuffy clothes.”

Before I could question his motives, he zipped left into an alleyway. Hardly a few seconds had passed before he reappeared; bearing quite the different figure to the capped, jacketed figure that had left Baker Street that morning. He had removed the jacket entirely, and his undershirt was rolled up at the sleeves so that it came up to his upper forelegs. His face was seemingly very different – brighter perhaps - and I had no idea how he had managed the transformation with just a simple removal of his chequered Deerstalker. He stuffed the clothes into my forehooves, and I carried the garments over my back for the remainder of the journey to the station.

It was not very far from the landing to the station, and we entered swiftly through the stone door. Being a police station, it also doubled as the local jail, and as such was structured somewhat like a fortress, though clearly separated into two parts – the part where the officers worked, and the cells that were dug into the underground below. We steered ourselves through the gates, and I hung Pones’ garments up on a wooden rack as we entered through the stone doorway of the station. We were shown quickly to Bradsteed’s office.

“So what is our plan of action?” I inquired. “To ascertain some knowledge from Bradsteed before viewing the scene with our own eyes?”
Pones nodded his approval.
“Yes, though hold off on your questions for now, Doctor. More may be revealed to you by listening to Bradsteed.”
I was surprised, for I had entertained the fancy that Pones thought all of the law’s officers to be clueless. I was about to inquire after Bradsteed when the stallion himself appeared from out of his office.

He looked in his mid-thirties, but the sun and wind had taken its toll upon his face. I have never been to the mid-west, but I hear ponies over there suffer similarly – years of toil in extreme weather, rain or shine, tends to give one a rather aged appearance. He appeared well built for toil too, and boasted quite a muscular physique, with a tight-fitting blue coat bound around his upper body and bulky forearms. His coat was very tanned, a deep, dark shade of maple-leaf brown, and his eyes were a keen and bright shade of green. He spotted Pones, and beckoned to him, holding the door open as we strode in.

“Pones, you old devil,” he said fondly. He shut the door behind us with a soft click, and took his seat in a comfortable leather chair, placed behind a rather regal looking oak desk. “What’s the misfortune that’s dragged you up here to-day?”
I had not expected Bradsteed to address my friend so casually. So revered was he by other members of the police, and in particular Lestrade, that I had been taken quite aback by his greeting. Pones did not seem to mind, though, and took the warm reception with a smile.
“I’ve been hired by a certain gentlepony to inspect the circumstances regarding the murder of Peregrine Feathers,” he replied. Bradsteed groaned a little, and I saw his great shoulders fall a little in either irritation or surrender.
“I’m not at my wits end with it, though I grow tired of hearing about it. It seems to be a very simple thing, at least to me, anyway.” He reached down out of sight and rummaged in one of the drawers of his desk.
“Farrier, Falkirk… Ah, Feathers.” He produced a small file. “Just got the coroner’s report yesterday,” he added, licking his hoof before flipping it open on his desk. He read of the details briefly, and then looked up at Pones, his eyebrows raised in an inquisitive and earnest manner.
“No doubt you have something else to say about her evident guilt.”
“What kind of detective would I be if I did not?” Pones replied. Bradsteed shrugged. I gathered that he was used to Pones, and had worked with him on more than one occasion.
“Well, as always, you have my assistance if you need it,” he said, sliding the open file towards us. “Here is our report.”
I reached out a hoof to pull it towards me, but a nagging thought held me back.
“I didn’t think it was legal to see police records,” I said cautiously.
“It is if I show them to you,” Bradsteed replied curtly. “I am the officer in charge of the investigation, and I am obligated to assist justice.”
I was not wholly convinced by his words, and he saw it, for he leaned forward and gazed at me very earnestly.
“Between you two and I, the prosecutor’s office wants a conviction. I believe that we should be more interested in ascertaining the truth,” he said.
“So you cannot come to any conclusion other than Miss Dash’s guilt?” I asked. He chuckled a little and raised his forehooves in surrender.
“The evidence points to her in a very strong way,” he replied honestly. “And her arrest did not go well either.”
“What do you mean?”
He gestured to the file with a flick of his head.
“It’s all in there, but I’ll save you the trouble of reading it.” He cleared his throat and began to speak. “At around 2am one of our chaps was down on the beat in Wyndham street. Spotted the door open, and the lights on, stuck his head in and there he was, face-down on the parlour floor.” He shook his head, as if the issue was one that caused him great disappointment. “Coroner said the time of death had been less than an hour before he arrived. But anyway, we did not look into Miss Dash until after we had the coroner’s report.”
“For what reason?” I inquired.
“Well, the two had been known to fight,” he replied. “Now, usually we don’t pay attention to that kind of thing, but perhaps fight is the wrong word for it.”
“Brawl, then?”
“Nigh on close to doing each other some serious harm,” Bradsteed said. “You might imagine that she couldn’t hold her own, but she could alright. We had words with friends of Feathers and some other Pegasus from the wonderbolts, and we found out that they were both competing for the same spot in the wonderbolt's flight academy.”
“Surely this is not enough to prove murder?” I said incredulously.
“You'd be surprised what murderers will do. We searched her house in Arrow Plaza.”
“And did you find anything of interest?”
“More than just ‘of interest’,” Bradsteed said sadly. “We found the knife that was used in the murder. Big old serrated thing. There was a hint of his blood on the handle, but the blade looked like it had been cleaned. It matched the coroner’s report as to the murder weapon.”
He gritted his teeth and hissed a little, as if the matter caused him great pain to discuss.
“So, we detained her. Poor girl. Pretty young filly. She was devastated when I put the cuffs on her, and she just sat there in shock for about a minute, but then she got a little upset.” Here, he gestured with a hoof to his chin, and I saw that there was a small cut there.
“I said she could hold her own, and I wasn’t simply using it as an expression. She screamed blue murder until we bundled her into the police cart, but then she quietened down.”
“Does she plead innocent?”
“She does.”
“It does not bode well for her, then,” I replied morosely.
“Quite so, and it becomes more ill by the day,” Bradsteed replied. “As much as I would entertain the fancy that a young filly could never do such a thing, I learned yesterday that she was the last to be seen with the deceased.”
“How do you mean?”
“The two left a bar together at around midnight. They were celebrating, according to a witness.”
“Celebrating? That does not sound like something a pony with intent to murder would do.”
“The barkeep tells me that they were… erm…” He paused, narrowing his eyes as he searched thoughtfully for the right word.
“Soused,” my friend said, looking up from the report.
“Legless,” I said simultaneously.
“Err… Yes, quite,” Bradsteed looked at us both, unsure of whom to address. “I do not know why they were celebrating, but I don’t believe that such an act would be beyond a murderer.”
“You mean to say that she got him drunk on purpose so as to lower his guard?” I said, horrified.
“It is a possibility,” the inspector replied grimly.
Pones had been slumped into the seat next to me, watching the conversation bounce back and forth with that ever-familiar gaze. At this lull, he took the opportunity to speak.
“She did not kill him.”
Bradsteed was not surprised by his conjecture, and neither was I. Presumably we were both used to such wild conclusions being plucked from thin air. He cast a sideways glance at me, and smiled.
“Quite the piece of guesswork,” he said, though I think he understood that Pones’ conclusions were something more than just educated guesses. “Will you lend the good Doctor and I a hoof in understanding?”

I looked over at Pones, and was surprised. His good humour had vanished. It was not at what Bradsteed had said – indeed, the comment had appeared to miss him altogether. He was staring down at a large picture of the crime scene, his eyes fixated on a winged body in the centre. I recognised it to belong to Peregrine.
“Not right now,” he murmured. The inspector and I exchanged glances again, though this time they were of a more apprehensive nature.
“I’ll give you directions to the crime scene,” Bradsteed said, reaching into his desk once more and producing a quill and ink pot. Pones nodded.
“Very good, Bradsteed, but first I think I should like a word with this filly.”
Bradsteed was not surprised, but a little taken aback by Pones’ decision.
“You don’t want to examine the body and room first? As I recall, that is where you often see things that elude us all.”
“No.”
I sat, waiting for him to elaborate. His brow was furrowed, and a hoof was on his chin, and at that instant he was in every respect the incredible mind that he appeared to be in his more intense moments. He spoke no further though, and it was not until Bradsteed rose from his chair that the uncanny silence within the dusty office was broken.
“Well, I will take you to her, then.”
We rose solemnly as a trio and left the detective’s office, departing by the door by which we had come. I did not take Pones’ things with me, and a brief explanation to Bradsteed had him in approval of the idea that Pones should try to avoid sticking out, if not donning a disguise altogether.
“I am quite sure he is capable of that,” I said as we marched across a wide courtyard towards the holding cells. “I have seen his capacity to disguise himself before.”
“And I, too, Doctor,” he replied. “By the way – I do not believe we were ever introduced proper, for I knew who you were before you arrived, and undoubtedly Pones has told you something of me.”

I dismissed the social faux pas as a mistake, and we exchanged greetings as we entered through the jailhouse door. Here, there was a small reception room. There was very little in it barring the windows, and a large desk guarded by two very heavy-set Pegasus, similar in stature and nature to the Royal guards that I had seen before in Canterlot, except that these Pegasus were lounging around. When they saw Bradsteed, though, they snapped to attention smartly.
“Bring me Miss Dash, and gently, if you don’t mind - Put her through the back of room one.” he said to one of the two Pegasus. Immediately the two departed to fulfill his wishes, and Bradsteed addressed us.
“We’ll have use of one of the interrogation rooms,” he remarked, walking up to the desk. Here there sat a female Pegasus with deep black hair.
“Just need to borrow room one real quick, love.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Not ‘Miss Keys’ today?”
He winked at her.
“No, just love.”
She fawned over his warm remark for a moment, before reaching behind her and drawing a set of iron keys off a wallrack. She led us through a door behind the desk and into a very narrow and brightly-lit corridor, with several bulky iron doors. We stopped at the first, and the receptionist unlocked the door and let us in.
“After you,” she said, turning to Bradsteed with a sweet smile.
“Thank you, Miss Keys, but it will just be these two gentlemen going in today,” the inspector replied.

I took a few tentative steps into the room. I had not seen the inside of an interrogation room or a jail cell before, and I became immediately aware of how sterile and cold the room was. It was made entirely of a dark, smooth stone, with lights powered by magic rather than gas sparkling overhead, giving the room an alien-like blue glaze. It was perfectly square in shape, with all four walls save one made of a dark, smooth stone. The wall that was an exception had a large, rectangular glass panel in it – presumably an observation room from which proceedings might be observed. The room had two doors – one on the other side of the room that led to someplace else, and one that led back to the light and warmth of the reception area. There were a few chairs in the middle, set next to a polished steel table that was bolted into the floor. The other thing that I noted was that it was cold as ice – no doubt the room’s walls were thick and well insulted, and, being below a metre or so of stone, chilled for extra discomfort of the prisoner. It was a horrible place, and I would rather not go back anytime soon.

The door clanked shut behind us, and I felt my heart give an uncomfortable lurch. Pones strode forth (he did not appear to be bothered by the place) and drew himself a seat on one side of the table. I joined him, and no sooner had I done so then the door opposite us opened with a creak, and in stepped one of the two guards we had seen before. Behind him was his fellow, and in between them, almost dwarfed by their sheer size, was the cyan filly that was to be our client.

She looked rather similar to the photo that Colonel Flash had shown us, though her features were far more sullen in person, doubtless an unavoidable effect of her circumstances. Her youthful face was weary, and her pale rose eyes that appeared to spark with life and energy in the photo were dulled, with dark rings of tiredness underneath. Her mane, despite its natural untidiness, was incredibly out of place. She appeared to sway a little as she walked, and her wing-feathers were ruffled out of place on one side. I must admit I had some reservations at first as to whether such a feral looking child was not capable of the deed which she had been accused.

When she spoke, though, my rationality ebbed away and was replaced by pity. So afraid and quiet was she that I could hear the fear in her voice.
“W-who are you?” She stammered, her squeaky voice echoing out in the box-like room. Pones made a gesture for the guards to leave, and waited until they had done so before responding.
“My name is Sherclop Pones, and this is my associate, John Trotson.”
Her nervous eyes flitted from my companion to me. We must have presented a strange and fearsome sight to her, and my companion’s next observation did little to settle her nerves.
“Flash tells me that you’re good at heart, Dash.”
“How do you know who I am?” She said quickly. “Are you with the police?”
“No,” I replied with my warmest smile. The two rose points shot over and locked on me as if I presented some great threat, and I felt that even my most sincere and polite attempt at bedside manner was lost upon her. Nevertheless, I continued, in some vain hope that my words might cause her to be less fearful.
“I am a doctor, and he is a private detective. We were hired by your instructor to investigate the rather unfortunate mess you’ve got yourself into.”

She paled a little at the mention of her dilemma, and continued to eye me with some suspicion for a while thereafter. Pones was examining her in his curious manner, looking her up and down, and occasionally offering her a small smile when she glanced his way.

After about ten seconds of exchanged scrutiny between her and my companion, she became convinced that we were friendly.
“D-doctor?” she said, stammering again.
“Yes?”
“I think my wing is broken. Can you look at it please?”

I rose from the table and walked round it, immediately arriving on her right side, which I had observed as ruffled earlier. A brief and ginger inspection of the wing revealed that it was indeed broken, though in what manner I could not have guessed. She flinched a little to the touch, and I was forcibly reminded of Twilight Sparkle when she did so. Such a reflex was the result of something having upset the fragile balance of her mind. In Twilight Sparkle’s case, it had been the hooves of her lover Riesling, but in Miss Dash’s case, the delicate equilibrium was a psychological problem. Claustrophobia was a particularly prevalent problem for Pegasus. They were used to flight, you see, and in her case, something or somepony had brought such horror to her that she could not bear to be held.

“Why, it most certainly is,” I said calmly, not letting on that I had concluded so much from a simple touch. “How did this happen? Does it hurt?”
“N-no…” she said. “I didn’t notice it until I came here. I think I broke it on the way in.”
“Into prison, you mean?’
She nodded a wordless reply.
“You poor girl,” I said. I was not even close to her elder, and had no right to be calling her ‘girl’ at all – Pones had staked her at about nineteen or twenty, after all, and I myself was only a few years older than that, but I knew the value of such words to an aggrieved mind. I laid my hands upon the wing again and pressed in a few places, checking for other injuries, and the location of the break. As I laid my hooves upon a certain spot, she flinched harder than she had at my first touch, and whimpered a little in pain.
“A break between the third and fourth flights of feathers,” I said to Pones. “It is just a fracture, but it needs to be splinted.”

The aquamarine Pony seemed a little upset by my conclusion, and carefully tested both of her wings. I saw her pupils shrink in adrenaline as another lightning bolt of pain struck through her again, and immediately she tensed, pulling both wings back in and close to her body, causing her to yelp in pain.
“Now stop that!” I chided, holding the wing slightly loose as she tried to tense. “You’ll only do yourself more injury."
It took a while before she could control her breathing, but once she had, she passed me a weak smile.
“Thanks, doc.”
“You don’t have to call me doctor.”
Soon afterwards, Bradsteed entered carrying a few medical supplies. I splinted her wing, and she seemed a good deal more comfortable thereafter – now, at least, she knew that we were here in her best interests.
“So, Coach Flash asked you to help me?” she asked as I re-took my seat. Her voice had regained some of its boldness, and it was not unpleasant. Grainy would be the best word to describe it, though I’m not sure if that was because she was a little hoarse at the time.
“Yes,” my companion replied. “I am a Private Detective for him.”
“Does that mean he believes that I didn’t do it?” she pressed. I could see her eyes light up with excitement at the possibility that somepony believed her.
“Again, yes.”
She breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It must have been a feeling to rival the most powerful happiness in the world to know that somepony believes in you, even in your darkest hour.
“Thank Celestia,” she sighed.
“…But, the evidence is quite overwhelming, if I do say so myself.”
Rainbow Dash arced up, her happy dream having being shattered. “What?”
“They found the knife in your apartment, Miss Dash.”
“I don’t know what knife that is! I mean – I’ve never even seen it before!”

Pones’ expression changed from one of intense observation to pure curiosity. This was as close to ‘surprised’ as he ever came – never fazed, he simply basked in the astonishing and the unbelievable, making sense of it all with all the precision and finesse that his honed mind would allow.
“It is not yours?” He inquired.
“NO!” she repeated more urgently. “I’ve never ever ever owned any knife before!”
“Fascinating,” he said nonchalantly. “So you are just a schoolfilly, correct?”
“No, I finished school a while ago.”
“And you have trained for the wonderbolts ever since.”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“So you were never in the army?”
“Not even for a second.”
Her words did not seem to bother him, and he instead broke off on another tangent altogether.
“And what is your relationship to Feathers?”
She opened her mouth to say something immediately, but faltered and closed it again. Tears began to well up in her great rose-coloured eyes.
“I didn’t do it,” she repeated weakly.
“Rivals, the Colonel tells me. Combatants, the inspector who runs this case says.”
“Friends.”
I was a little taken aback. She was clearly upset over the demise of what had been drawn out to me to be her mortal enemy. The fact that she labelled him as a friend was even more interesting.
“Friends?” I repeated. She nodded.
“Yeah, we were good buds…” her voice trailed off. “You know, until he…”
Pones did not leave the conversation hanging on the poor filly.
“Your behaviour would not suggest you were friends at all,” he said. I think he knew perfectly well that he was wrong, and was merely testing the water. He was scalded, though, as Dash flared her wings, her voice escalating to a high-pitched yell.
“No way! I’d never kill him! Never!” she bellowed at us. Her angry blaze left us in a stunned silence, and she retreated meekly into her seat, perhaps aware of the impression she had given off. She looked more miserable than ever, and she slumped forward onto the table, burying her face in her forehooves.
“You were the last pony seen with him,” I said quietly. “If you didn’t kill him, then tell us what you saw.”
She sniffed a little, and wiped a tear away from the corner of her eye with a dragging hoof.
“Ok, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

One

“We were celebrating. At a bar near the centre of town. I think it was called the Rosy Mare.”
“What was the occasion?” I inquired.
“Oh, no real reason. We’d… just finished our trials for the wonderbolts for the year, and he asked me if I’d like to have a drink with him, and I couldn’t think of any reason not to.”
My eyebrows raised at this statement.
“He asked you to the bar, then?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that punctures a fair enough sized hole in any theory that suggests you got him drunk.”
“We weren’t drunk,” she insisted. “We were just having a good time.”
“But you left at around twelve?” Interrupted Pones.
“Um, I think the landlady had thought we’d had enough.”
“And where did you go thereafter?”
“Well, we walked around for a while, and then…” she appeared apprehensive.
“Then what?”
“He did something dumb. It wasn’t like him. I guess he was drunk,” she said, pausing. I wondered if she had reconsidered telling us all, but I was wrong, for it was not long before she began to speak again. “Well, we reached his street, and we’d been talking about some stuff for a while, and then he kinda drunk-kissed me.”
“Drunk-kissed? What does that mean?”
“Well… He took me by surprise, and just kissed me before I could do anything. He was drunk, after all,” she said quickly. “He wasn’t really into me. Not… Like that.”
I changed the subject quickly for her benefit.
“And what happened then?”
“Well, um, I hit him.”
“Ah. I see.”
“No, no, I mean, not hard or anything, just… y’know,” she said, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Just a friendly whack.”
“And then?”
“I told him that I wasn’t into him. And then… I think I just left him there. I went home,” she said, shaking her head so that her rainbow-coloured mane swayed a little.
“What was his reaction?”
“I… Don’t think he was expecting to get rejected.”
“He was put out?’
“Well, I don’t really remember what his face looked like, but he didn’t say anything.”
She ended on that rather poor note, and looked at me once more, as if her explanation had proved her innocence.
“So you see? I couldn’t have killed him. I wasn’t even there.”
“Did you see anypony on the way home?”
“No, and I wasn’t looking either.” She smiled a little. “Other things to think about. You know how it is.”
I must confess that I knew precisely what she spoke of, but I neglected to say as much. Pones was busily at work, frozen stiff on his chair, his hoof touching his lip in his classic meditative pose.
“Did you do anything between the time that you left Peregrine and the time you got home?” He inquired.
“No, I just went to bed. Didn’t even try to drink some water, I just went to bed. I was dog-tired, anyway.”
“Tell me, what time did you sleep to?”
She seemed a little surprised by the odd question, but responded anyway.
“Um, about twelve the next day. And I had a hangover, too,” she added thoughtfully.
“I see.”
My companion stood, and circled the table to stand beside her.
“Here now, could you stand up for me?”
“Huh?”
The aquamarine filly shot a confused glance at me. I shrugged, and she accommodated his strange request, standing. She was not overly tall, I noticed, and drew level with about Pones’ chin.
“What about on two legs?” he inquired. Dash reared a little, with an effort – she had no wings to balance herself – and held the position for a few seconds. In this way, she was about equal to his height. I wondered what on earth he could have wanted from her, but he appeared to be satisfied one he had examined her standing for a couple of seconds.
“And finally,” he said, holding out a hoof, “Please watch here.”
She looked down expectantly, and immediately turned a paler shade of aqua.
“You’re bleeding!” she said, slumping back into her chair with surprise.
“So I am. But, thank you. That will do for now,” he replied, and with this he wiped his hoof against his flank, swiftly turned and made for the door.
“I am just going to get a copy of that file from Bradsteed, and then we shall be off,” he said quickly. Dash and I were rather alarmed at his strange mannerisms, though I was more used to it than she. He had hardly left the two of us together before she voiced her confusion.
“What’s he doing?” she said.
“Learning,” I replied, drawing myself up onto all fours again. “Trust me when I say that everything he does is for a reason. No doubt it will be made clear to us as soon as he has discerned any hint of truth.”
“Are you going?” She asked, puzzled.
“Yes – did you mishear?”
“Well, no, it’s just…” she gave another bitter look to her side again. “I was enjoying the company.”
I smiled and reached forward, taking a hoof in one of my own. I was closer to her than ever before, and I could see behind the tired features and devout stubbornness the pretty face that I had seen in the photo.
“We might be back. Until then, you must remain positive.”
She smiled weakly.
“I’ll try,” she said halfheartedly. I was not convinced of her optimism.
“Come on, now! A cloudy day is no match for a sunny disposition,” I said.
“You know I’m a weather pony, right? I make the clouds go away.”
“Then make them go away up here,” I said, gesturing to my own forehead.
She nodded, and I could see a glint of resolution in those strange pink eyes that satisfied me.

We then left the station. Pones was still lost deep in thought, and I chose only to ask one question.
“What have you gathered so far?”
He appeared unbothered by my question, though I knew all too well that such trivial questions bothered him.
“I have gathered a few things, though they are merely disjointed at this time. I might say that it is highly unlikely that she killed him, for a number of reasons. Some of those were evident in the coroner’s report, and some in what she has told me. Indeed, what she said confirmed a few things in my own mind, as well as presenting a new avenue down which we must direct our thoughts.”
“And that avenue is?”
He halted, and turned his fiercely bright brown eyes to me.
“If Rainbow Dash did not kill him, then who did?”
“Well, I cannot say – does Peregrine have any known enemies?” I inquired back.
“The file says none, other than her, to which almost everypony questioned raised her first and foremost. How interesting that he may have longed for her, then? You would not expect vitriol to give way to deeper feelings.”
“Ah, but you do not consider the fact that both were still young, and that it was a childish crush. It was not true hate that they harboured for each other, just a small amount of frustration at the other. Not dissimilar to your prior relationship with your fiancé, I might add.”
“How so?”
“Teasing, gentle poking, prodding, halfhearted jokes, sometimes fighting,” he replied. “Anger is just another expression of frustration. Frustration, sexual or otherwise, is a key catalyst to the feeling of longing after somepony, particularly at a young age where embarrassment or pride might keep them from being more direct.”

I coughed politely at his last statement. His comment about the nature of my own relationship was correct (it was fairly childish, at least on my part), and I admitted that some of what she had said rang true to me.
“But,” I added, “Do you construe the ‘brawls’ that the detective described with just vague fancies?”
“She was fiery enough to explain such dust ups as nothing more than a way for her to get rid of her spare energy. And often, ponies exaggerate the nature of simple quarrels.”
“So, it was all playfighting, then?”
“I believe so,” he replied. “At any rate, it is not a key point, more one of interest. Their relationship has nothing to do with the murder other than providing a good reason for her to leave him at the corner of the street where he lived, instead of following him home.”
I nodded to show that I understood, and we then caught a hansom cab up-town to where Peregrine had once lived.

The suburb where Peregrine's house was called Pilot’s row. It was close to the arena which the wonderbolts called their home stadium, and where the famous Cloudsdale Derby was run yearly. The house that he lived in was small and modest - perfectly acceptable for a young bachelor, and was in every way an idyllic slice of Cloudsdale, barring the yellow police-tape that had been stretched across the garden gate, and the police wagon that was parked outside. The garden itself was bordered by a three foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was the tall driver of the wagon, surrounded by a few loafers, who peered around in hope of catching a glimpse within. The driver saw us and gestured with a hoof over his shoulder, and Pones and I nodded our hellos.

We opened the garden front gate and took a few steps down a cobbled pathway. We were not halfway to the open door when a constable emerged from the front door and hailed us.
“Hullo!” he cried as we approached. “You must be the detectives that Inspector Bradstreet has given us advance notice of.”
“That we are,” my friend replied before I could object to my new occupation.
“Right this way, sirs,” he said, leading us inside the home.

Passing between two stained glass windows and through the oaken doorway, we walked a little down a carpeted passage before coming to another room. It too was open, and looked out onto the front garden – thus solving the mystery of how the constable saw us coming. Pones walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling at the bottom of my stomach that only death can inspire.

It was a large square room, semicircular at the garden’s side by the addition of a half-circle extension. In the extra space that was created, there was a long, similarly shaped couch of velvet. There was a soft wallpaper of cool blue, and, opposite the door where we had entered, a modest fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. Upon it were placed the many trophies of the renowned flier to whom they belonged.

All these details I observed afterwards. At present, my attention lay upon the single, grim, frozen body that lay before us, his wings stretched out, face-down on the floor. He was twenty, as I later discovered, and I could see that he was middleish in his size, but very broad shouldered and muscled. He was dressed in a heavy black frock coat, though on his back, the coat’s dark features were made darker still by the spread of blood, deep and crimson. I recongised the liquid by its smell more than by its colour – that was not something one forgot quickly, working in a hospital. His hooves were clenched, and his back was arched a little, but his lower limbs were not contorted as though his death had been prolonged. There was a single, horizontal cut in his coat, and as this was where the stain of blood was most heavily concentrated, I assumed it to be the killing blow.

I looked at his face. In my years working at the hospital, I often tried to avoid doing that. Stallions and mares, dead or alive, gained personality when I looked into their eyes, and on an occasion like this, where the person had died an ugly death, my revulsion of death becomes very vivid, as their eyes tend to express their pain in death. His face was strained, but not twisted in pain, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Suffering, past or present, was not something I could abide by, and it gave me some relief to know that he had at least died swiftly.
The policepony that had shown us in was standing by the doorway.
“Death by knife in the back, sir,” he said swiftly.
My companion had stooped low over the body, and was examining it closely.
“A grim end,” he murmured, reaching down with a hoof and spreading apart the fabric in Peregrine’s coat.
“Indeed, sir. It beats a lot of things I’ve seen, and I’m a five-year veteran in the force, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Sergeant Colt,” he replied.
“Ah, I remember you from that case – the missing jewels of Lady Bellevue, if I am not much mistaken.”
The sergeant appeared pleased that he had been remembered.
“Quite right, sir. I daresay this’ll make as much of a stir when the presses catch a whiff of it.”
Pones paused in his rather mechanical examination of the body and glanced up at him. “Pray tell,” he inquired, “Where is Bradsteed?”
“He has some other business to attend to, so we have requisitioned Inspector Manes Gregson from Canterlot.”
“Ah! Gregson,” Pones replied. “The most earnest of the lot.”

I believe that I had heard the name mentioned once before, but that was an afterthought. I was still standing beside the body, looking down at it, my mind distracted by the cruelty of the crime rather than the details.
“He was involved in the same case as you and I, was he not?” the Sergeant inquired from the door.
“Yes, he was. A most singular and interesting case, as I recall,” he said. As he spoke, his hooves were touching various points on the dead Pegasus body, lifting up his wings and lowering them, inspecting the wound itself, all the while the vague, glazed look that was often confused by others as disinterest upon his face. He ran a hoof around the Pegasus’ neck, and drew up a shimmering ring of dog-tags.
“Corporal Peregrine Feathers, 3rd Battalion, Light Fliers,” he said. “He was in the air force, then.”
He released the silver tags and stood, taking a few steps back.
“Has he been moved at all?”
“No, he was found that way.”
Pones squatted behind the body, holding out a hoof in-line with the way that it lay. He drew it upwards for some time, following up the walls, until he came upon what he sought, and gave a small murmur of satisfaction.
“Stabbed in the back, certainly, and that is the only way that he died,” Pones said. “There is nothing else to suggest otherwise.” He reached reflexively into his coat-pocket, but realised that he lacked his journal, and I tossed him mine instead. He scribbled into it briefly before tossing it back.
“That is all for me,” he said.
“What, so soon?” Inquired the Sergeant. He had been watching the whole process with considerable intrigue, but failed to appreciate the fact that Sherclop Pones’ smallest actions were all directed towards an end.
“Yes. We may learn nothing more of him, and you may take him to the mortuary now.”
“So what do you think of it?” He inquired.
“I think,” my companion began to say, but something gave him pause. I watched him intently while he deliberated on what to say. “I think that it is time for lunch.”
He beamed. I sighed. The sergeant laughed.
“Very good, sir,” the police pony replied. “Do you want me to leave a message for Gregson?”
“Yes, I do. Would you be so good as to write it down for me, Trotson?”
I took my book back out once more and wrote the following very hastily:

Gregson;

I’ve combed the room. There was nothing here that was out of the ordinary. The dog-tags interest me the most.

Sherclop Pones.

I ripped the note off, and handed it to the sergeant. He tipped his hat and left us, ducking out of the doorway.
“What now?” I said, turning my head back to Pones. As he re-entered my vision, though, I was surprised. I had not known Pones to smile so happily.
“Now, we must go and free Miss Dash, because the facts are quite singular enough to do just that.”
No sooner had he uttered the words then the pounding of hoofsteps reached our ears. They were fast-paced, and with a clatter the Sergeant re-appeared at the door, a look of horror on his face.
“There’s been another killing, sir.”
I looked back at Pones. The smile that had occupied his features not moments before had vanished, and had been replaced by a look of wide-eyed intensity. He did not reply, and the Sergeant continued uninterrupted.
“I have just received a message from Gregson. He was intercepted by Bradsteed at the station, who gave him the news, and he went there instead. A neighbour gave the alarm to his death around twenty minutes ago. He calls for you.”
Pones wasted no time in formalities.
“Name of the victim?”
“Flight Captain James Fletcher, 3rd Battalion, Light Fliers.”
I jumped in alarm.
“Why, Pones, they are from the same regiment!”
“Yes, Trotson.”
“What was the manner of death?” I inquired to the Sergeant. He swallowed, and replied.
“Single blow, back of the neck. Serrated knife.”
“And the murder weapon is missing?” Added Pones.
“Correct,” Colt replied.
“This is no coincidence, surely!” I cried.
“You are right,” said Pones, springing to life from his meditative mood. “I must see this body with my own eyes, Sergeant!”
“Here is the address,” Colt said, reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing a slip of paper. “Give it to Swifthoof outside, and he’ll soon have you there.”

Pones swiftly strode and seized it from him. He turned to me with a glimmer in his eye. It was not a merry expression that his face bore, and I knew better than to ask more details of him now.
“Come, old boy! We have no time to spare.”

We burst out of the house. The crowd of visitors had dissipated somewhat, but those who remained watched, alarmed, as Pones hailed the tall cart-puller from afar. The puller, noting that something was wrong, opened the gate in anticipation, but he soon realised the urgency of the situation when he read the note shoved into his hooves.

Immediately, then, we set off at a cracking pace. Swifthoof pulled the cart with the greatest of ease, and we thundered down the cobbled road.

Two

It was not a great distance to our next destination. The carriage raced through the streets, and we escaped the overgrown terraces that made up Pilot’s row. We passed between buildings of red brick and cast iron - great and towering machinations of Cloudsdale’s booming steelworks industry - and after about five minutes, skidded to a halt in the bustling city centre. Pones had already leapt from the carriage before I was even to my hooves.

We had come to rest outside of a small block of apartments. The door was wide open, and an officer was running a length of cord along the front footpath, so as to block the area off to the public. Only one busybody was there, looking - a rather large gray pegasus. He was dressed in a long, brown coat, and looked as though he might be a reporter. I clambered out of the carriage and stepped up the small flight of stairs that ran into the building, and as I reached the Officer, he looked at me, slightly bemused by the figure that had just raced past him.
“I’m with him,” I said, gesturing inside. The policepony nodded wordlessly, and returned to his task of guarding the doorway, and I strode through the door, following voices to what appeared to be a kitchen area.

How eerily alike the two dead Pegasus were. A broad, tall, proud body, once great and mighty in its own right, now little more than a lump of feathers and bones in the middle of the shag pile carpet where he lay. He wore the same uncomfortable expression that radiated no pain, but more the dreadful and fleeting sting of the knife as it entered his back. The awful iron like scent of blood that stings one's nostrils with acridity hung dully in the air, and his blue coat was matted together by uneven clots of blood that had surged forth from the vicious wound in his back. He was not wearing any overcoat, and he lay in the same face-down position that Peregrine had assumed.

There was one key difference to the scene, though, and it was one that assailed my eyes as soon as I entered. There was blood everywhere. It was splattered all over the wall behind, and on parts of the wooden floor. It was as if the murderer had taken joy in his victim’s demise, and it was only then that the true horror of what had taken place struck me - the strange unevenness to the blood on his coat - clearly, a hoof had been pressed to the wound at one point, and swept around his back like a painter’s brush… Flicked left and right in a maddened, savage glee.

I was pushed out of my unpleasant reverie by a harsh voice, some way off to my right.
“Doctor?” It said. I shook my head to clear my vision, and looked around for the culprit. A rough, white hoof was stuck towards me, and my eyes followed the limb back to its owner.

The stranger appeared to be some kind of detective. He wore civilian’s clothes – a heavy brown duster was draped over his frame, and it nearly ran to his hooves. Such dress was fairly common amongst stallions, and were it not for the glimmering badge that adorned his lapel; I would never have suspected that he was a member of the Yard. He was a unicorn – the tip of his glimmering horn just protruded from beneath a tidy, coffee-coloured mane.

“Inspector Manes Gregson,” he said, as I grasped his hoof out of pure reflex. I murmured a pleasantry, but I cannot recall what it was, for my focus had not yet fully recovered from the sight of the body before me. I cast a swift look around the room, and caught sight of my companion. He had been out of sight in the adjoining pantry, and had re-emerged looking very solemnly at the floor, taking long, slow strides towards the body. He murmured to himself absent mindedly as he did so, and I was reminded forcibly of a fox hound as it hunts for the scent of its prey. As was usual, he had seemingly ignored all other ponies in the room other than himself, and he kept up a steady train of approving hums, whistles and cries of hope as he began his inspecton.

“He was quick to the chase,” Gregson said, seeing that my gaze had fallen onto Pones. No sooner had he said so then Pones broke from his trance like state with a sudden start.
“Trotson, I will need your measuring tape for a moment, and I will also borrow your magnifying glass, Gregson.” There was no hint of a request in his voice, but the Inspector did not seem to mind his rudeness, reaching into the deep back pocket of his coat and producing a steel handled magnifying lens. I reached into my breast pocket and withdrew my measuring tape, tossing it to him. He caught it deftly between his teeth, mumbled a ‘thank you’ and returned to his work.
“Such feverish energy,” I remarked.
“I wonder where he gets it from?” Gregson murmured in curiosity. He did not appear unduly bothered by the presence of the body, and was quite happy to stand to one side with me, while Pones went through what must have been a well practiced routine. I could no sooner understand most of what he was doing, for my knowledge was mostly medical and concerned the body, but I could see the white flash of the measuring tape as it was pressed against various invisible points. Occasionally, he examined the floor, kneeling and sweeping small amount of something into an envelope, and most absurdly, leaned down to the dead stallion, sniffing him.
“There cannot be putrefaction yet,” I said to Pones. “He has not been dead for more than a few hours.”
“How do you know that?” Inquired Gregson to me.
“There’s still colour in his face,” I replied. “I’d give it three to four hours ago that he met his end.”
“And I agree with you,” Said Pones from the floor, “but rot is not what I seek.”

He then got to all fours and trotted towards us, and I noticed that the amazing intensity that had moments before filled him with such agitation had subsided somewhat. He had not returned from his aspect fully, though, for there was no smile about his lips that might linger if all was clear to him. He returned my tape-measure and the glass.
“I have good news and bad news,” said he.
“Well, let us hear of both in due course, Pones,” said Gregson warningly, gesturing to the body on the floor. “First, what do you make of him?”
“He has been murdered by the same pony as the Pegasus who you were on your way to visit.”
“You are sure that they were of the same killer and not just similar in death?” Gregson said.
“It pleases me to see your sharp mind at work, Gregson,” Pones said. “Indeed, I checked for this much.”
“Well what makes you so certain?’
“Multiple things, but not so much the method of the murder, identical though it is. No, there is something far more obvious than that.” Here, Pones drew close to Gregson, putting a foreleg around his neck and guiding his head, pointing with his free hoof to a spot on the wall behind the body.
“See there, now?” he said, and Gregson nodded.
“The nocks in the wall I had already seen.”

I had to squint to make sense of what they spoke of, but Pones was right. There were, in the wall, six equally-sized marks. I would not have known what to make of them had I seen them, for they were not very large – about an inch each, and they were arranged in a pattern. There were two vertical cuts above three more, similarly-aligned. They were deliberately set apart into two distinct groupings, and between these was a horizontal slash. This cut was much deeper than the others, and looked as if the swing had been full of energy.
“They are the marks of the killer.”
“A signature?”
“No,” said Pones, and a stern look fell about his features as he released Gregson. “It is a body count.”
A deathly silence fell in the room. Even the wind outside seemed to respect the horror that Pones’ statement inflicted on me. Gregson took a deep breath.
“A serial killer,” he said, looking grave. I have to admit that my own feelings were in tandem with his. As I mentioned, I had seen death before, but I had never seen murder done before this day, and the horror that I had twice visited on that bitter winter morning did not soon leave me. The concept of somepony exacting such senseless murder made me sick, and I turned away so as not to wretch at the sight of the body, focusing my gaze on the clean, pure white of the wallpaper.
“No, I do not think so,” Pones' voice said.
“What makes you say this?” inquired the voice of Gregson back.
“It is a running tally,” he replied. “Do you see the groupings? They are a score.”
There was the tapping of hoofsteps on the floor, and then they were muffled by the shag carpet. Then, there was a distinct pause.
“…Two out of three?” Gregson asked again.
“Precisely.”
“I take it there were similar markings at Feather’s body?”
“Yes.”
I turned back to face the grim scene, my ill feelings having subsided. The two had walked over to the cuts on the wall.
“Where were these other markings?” I asked
Pones sniffed. “The marks were scratched into the painting on the wall,” he said nonchalantly. “Did you not see the direction in which the body lay? It was the last thing he clapped eyes on.”
I let out a small utterance of surprise, for I had not thought to look high, only low. My own incompetence was swiftly pushed aside by a second, more pressing thought.
“Then there is one more yet to be murdered,”
“That is the bad news.”
“Indeed, it seems that way,” Gregson confirmed. “The only question is who, and where.”
Pones did not reply. He had resumed kneeling next to the body.
“Where are his dog tags?” He inquired.
“I have them here,” Gregson replied, producing the metal necklace from his pocket. “I have had the luxury of time to determine his background.”
“He is a member of the same battalion as Peregrine,” I said, and Gregson raised an eyebrow.
“That definitively proves that the murders were connected, then, and I think that it may point us toward our next victim.”
I took a sharp breath.
“You know who is to come next?”
“No, but we can find out,” Gregson replied, turning to Pones.
“Is your analysis complete?” he asked, to which Pones nodded. “Good. I have his file on-hand.”
“You have a file on him so soon?” I asked, a little incredulous that he had achieved such a feat. He smiled, and with a glow of his horn, levitated a small brown dossier off of the kitchen table, and over to me.
“Yes, but it is not mine. I arrived around half an hour ago, and I sent for his military record as soon as I saw his tags.”
“You have read it, I presume – did you find anything of interest?”
The Inspector faltered a little at the question. “Well… No. The only thing I could see was that he was a seasoned flier in his squad, and an ex-wonderbolt.”
The last point struck me as interesting, and I frowned a little upon hearing it.
“Ex-wonderbolt?’
“Yes, it says he toured with them around Equestria about five or six years ago. A bit of an old hoof among them,” Gregson said.
“I don’t suppose that he would be congruent with Peregrine Feathers – he was an experienced flier also.”
“Is that so?” the Inspector replied. “Well then, we may assume that the third victim may also be of the army.” Here, he nodded his horn at me, and the file in front of me opened to about halfway, stopping on a two pages. Both were encompassed by an extensive list of names, ranks, and identification numbers.
“On the left page, if I recall correctly, there is the complete list of his Company.”

I scanned the page until I located his name, and then searched up and down the columns, hunting for Peregrine’s name amongst the clutter. I soon found it, though my heart was no lighter for the confirmation of my suspicion.
“Here is Peregrine!” I uttered. “He was in the same Platoon, so that is a plus - but alas, I fear that we will need more than just his Platoon and rank.”
“Why is that?” Gregson asked, nonplussed.
“There must be at least… forty, no – four dozen other names in the Platoon,” I replied, panning the list briefly up and down. “We need some second point by which to draw a conclusion.”
A grey hoof suddenly appeared over the top of the file, and then dossier dipped and was yanked away. I was a little alarmed, for my focus had been on it and not the room around me, and indeed it was Pones who had taken it. His sharp eyes swept down the list and back up again, and it was not a few seconds before he looked up, a resolute glint in his eagle-like gaze.
“We already have a second point, Doctor,” he said. “That is the good news.”
“Where?” I asked confusedly, striding over to see what he had seen. He surveyed me with some amazement for a second, and I became embarrassingly aware that I had evidently missed a very plain detail. He jabbed at the page in front of him in a particular spot and held it there for a moment while I read the name.
“That’s the pony who’s next on his list.”
I remember being so shocked by the name that I did not even try to maintain any pretence of composure.
“You are sure?” I said, and he nodded solemnly.
“Definite.”
Gregson, who had meandered over, peered over Pones shoulder.
“Ah, but of course,” he said with an air of understanding. “Peregrine Feathers, James Fletcher, and the lady of the arena, Lieutenant Spitfire.” He sniffed. “They are all wonderbolts, after all.”
“Future, past, and present,” Pones replied. “Two points of data is more than enough to determine his next victim, though Peregrine's death alone was not enough for me to know that this beast would strike twice in such a short time.” For an instant, I heard the vitriol and anger in his voice that gave away his utter contempt for murder, but he swiftly rallied himself and pressed the file into my forehooves before turning to Gregson.
“You must not order anything to hers,” he said, “or else the game will be up.”
“Then what would you have me do?” Gregson pressed. “I agree that in order to catch the villain we must take him in the act, but we cannot risk her safety.”
“Do not worry. I have a stallion I can trust to oversee her tonight. He is not known well enough around here to appear as anything outside of a surprise visitor.”
“And who might that be?”

Silence filled the room, and I looked up from the file to see what the disturbance had been to cause such a break in the conversation. It was to my regret that I did, for both Pones and Gregson were looking at me most curiously, and it only took me a moment to figure out their intentions.
“Are you sure?” The police-pony asked, looking me up and down.
“I would do it myself, but undoubtedly I have been seen coming and going, and he will be watching for me tonight.”
“How do you figure this?’
“Our murderer is also an army stallion,” Pones said with regret. “Of fair strength and size, with an Irish accent, and undeniable skill and finesse – one need only look at the manner in which his two victims were taken to know this.”
“An Irish stallion, then?” Gregson said. “How can you be so sure?”
“He smokes a very heavy cigar. Most likely far too masculine a thing to smoke for any lady,” said Pones, producing the envelope filled with floor-dust from his pocket. He tipped a small amount onto his hoof, and showed it to Gregson.
“Here now, there are ashes from the ground around the body.” He took a pinch and put it on his tongue before spitting, and then sniffed some of the ash. “Cloplin-made, and of a rare type smoked almost exclusively by those who hail from there.”
“How are you sure that it was not smoked by our deceased Captain?’
“He does not smell of cigar smoke for one, and this kind of cigar is a very bold one - for seasoned smokers and those who would appreciate the art. Our dead friend here shows no signs of the smoking gentlepony. But, there is a more singular reason for my conclusion.” Here, he strode back over to the body and knelt next to it, mumbling his string of conclusions with such rapidity that I was scarcely able to catch all of it.
“The blade was a calculated thrust between the third and fourth vertebrae on both occasions. Spinal cord severed instanteously. Death was similarly swift. Seeing it twice tells me that the blow must be the work of a trained professional. Both figures were turned away from the murderer at the time, which suggests either that he came upon them by surprise, or more likely, given that here our man smoked prior to murdering the Captain…”
“Was known to the victim,” I finished quietly.
Gregson and Pones, presumably unaware that I had continued to exist, looked over at me in unison once more.
“Quite so, Trotson. And, given that the murders are linked, we may assume that he knows Peregrine in the same way.”
I swallowed in my nervousness, and then looked back down at the list of names.
“So he is also a member of their platoon, then?”
“It is not a certainty, but it is highly likely.”
“And you want me to stop this trained killer?”

I heard the swift tapping of hooves on the polished wooden floor again, and looked back up from the document to be startled once more by Pones. He had come very close – closer than I was comfortable with, and I backed off a little in my surprise. It was no trick or test, though – his face was of the same seriousness that I had seen when he was informed of the second killing. He seized me by the shoulder firmly.
“I shall be nearby, and so shall Gregson and his officers. I promise you that you will come to no harm.”
I could not help but swallow again, and I began to say something about his reassurances (which were less than comforting to me), but already he had turned his attention away, pacing back and forth before me like a sergeant inspecting his troops.
“…Yes,” he said after a while. “I think you will need a gun.”
“I had better!” I cried. “I don’t intend to go hooftip to hooftip with this trained assassin.”
Gregson nodded.
“I shall see that you get one, Doctor – I assume you carried one already.”
“What?” I said incredulously, struck by the remark. looking back at him. “Why would I carry a gun?”
The Inspector shot Pones a dirty look.
“His plans usually tend to get whoever he’s working with into a good deal of trouble, intentional or otherwise.”
Pones waved a hoof dismissively, brushing the underhanded blow away as if it had not bothered him.
“Data, data, data!” He murmured to himself. “I need it! I cannot make bricks without clay. Where will he come from? Will he make himself known, I wonder?”
“We shall just have to try and cover all the exits,” Gregson replied.
“Indeed.”
“Pones?” I inquired, eager to resume the questioning about my role.
“Trotson.”
“Why me?”
He looked at me, startled. The memory was extremely clear-cut – my comment had bewildered him. I had flummoxed the great Sherclop Pones.
“Why you?” He repeated.
“I am about to be married and perfectly happy, for the first time in a long time. I am contemplating starting my own practice down in Ponyville with my fiancé soon enough. And this,” I said, tapping a hoof testily, “Is supposed to be my holiday.”
He gave me a puzzled look of indifference.
“Nopony asked you to follow me.”
I bristled at the statement, and was about to give him a piece of my mind when Gregson stepped in between us. In retrospect, he had most likely anticipated such an irritating response from my companion from his own experience with him.
“Now now, you two,” he said, turning to me in particular. “Doctor, you will be perfectly safe, I assure you. Now come, you must see Spitfire, and convey our messages to her.”
“Your promises mean more to me than his,” I said to the former half of his statement, glancing over at Pones. Again, I was surprised by my companion’s actions. He seemed wounded by the words, and one corner of his thin mouth twitched. He looked at me with his usual searching stare, though unlike other instances where there had been a curious fire in his eyes, it was a blank and unfocused look.

With the atmosphere significantly dampened, we departed the apartment, and boarded the drawn carriage once more.

Three

My colleague’s period of inaction and silence did not break, even as the cart rumbled forward once again. For a quarter of an hour after we had set off, the rattling hoof steps of our driver and the tapping of the carriage wheels over the pavestones were the only noise. Pones was reclined into one corner, facing backwards, and opposite him was Gregson. I myself was tucked away into the opposite corner, determinedly staring out of the window, and it startled me slightly when Pones spoke once more. He always launched onto various topics of conversation without any introduction; and in this case the subject was our client. His stern voice rattled out a command for Gregson.

“I think it would be best if you waited to free Miss Dash, else our friend might catch on.”
I, admittedly, had forgotten all about the cyan filly whose optimism had been sworn to me just earlier that day.
“Is that the suspect in Peregrine’s murder?” Gregson asked. “I would have a better idea, but I only got up here this afternoon, and then I was whisked from the station to the very scene of the second murder, so I am not familiar with the accused.”
“Yes, that is her name. Bradsteed did not exercise the greatest caution in arresting her, and she made a scene. While such a thing is poor for his policing records, it will prove invaluable to us. The farther this fellow believes us away from his trail, the slower he might act, and the more time we have to prepare.”
“A little bit of time,” the harried Inspector mumbled, “would be welcomed. I still have a few too many questions for my liking.”
“Well ask them out loud, and I will do my best to remedy that.”

This was the first instance in which I had seen Pones offer to explain things. Usually, one was left guessing – particularly when he was seized by a thought and entered one of his dream-like moods, as he had back in Pilot’s row. I was still annoyed, and had no questions, but all the same I was forced to listen.
“The report for the girl that Bradsteed gave me says the knife was in her home.”
My companion swayed a little as the cab lurched over a small pothole, but all the same he raised his hooftips to a point in front of his chin and spoke precisely, closing his eyes.
“She came home in the early hours of the morning, and slept till noon, upon which she woke with a hangover.”
The Inspector looked at him, unsure.
“You mean to say, the weapon was planted as she slept?”
“It is not unlikely."
“Then you had already suspected something was ahoof from the start?”
“Yes – though, it is my job to chase her innocence, and as such I was almost bound to by duty. But never completely. You must ever be careful, Gregson, in making assumptions and theories before obtaining evidence, or else one finds one’s self adjusting the meaning of the latter to satisfy the former. In any case, Bradsteed was most accommodating in allowing me to speak to her, and, though her story was quite trivial, I was able to determine two key things.”

Here, he straightened up, and held out a hoof, tapping it with the other as he counted off his conclusions.
“We start at her height and weight. I had only to observe the coroner’s report to know that this was a strange crime for a young lady to commit, so I thought I must see her physique first. She is not overly tall, which casts doubt over whether she was able to kill him. When she rears onto her hind legs, she is the correct height, though the angle of entry for the blade to sever the spine would have been incorrect. In fact, the method of killing itself was what most caught my intrigue. How to correlate a young filly with no formal military training with this kind of execution, one wonders – and the answer is that there is no correlation. Such a manoeuvre would have been at the hooves of a skilled fighter. Furthermore,” he continued, his eyes shooting open to reveal his intense and dark irises, “She has an innate fear of blood.”
“How did you-?” I began to ask, but I stopped myself mid-sentence, for I had understood, and had no desire to involve myself in the conversation. I was still disgusted at being nominated for the dangerous task that stood before us without my consent. Pones glanced over at me.
“The slightest prick of a hooftip was all it took to elicit the reaction. I kneaded out the wound to make the blood spill a little freer, and then used my cursory examination of her as a distraction. Did you see the way she fell back onto the chair when I showed her?”

I did not respond, though I did indeed remember Dash taking a seat when she saw his bloody hoof, her face white. I chose instead to look out of the carriage window as we trundled into another leafy suburb, having resigned myself to my fate. It was only his gravelly and swift voice that I heard when he spoke next.
“You have the grand gift of silence, Trotson,” he said sincerely. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.”
I laughed a little to myself, incredulous. Had he really assumed that my unwillingness to speak came as a result of my respect for his ways? I did not honour the compliment with any other remark, and the uncomfortable silence that had filled the Captain’s apartment overcame the small, four-seater cab.
“So, in summary, then;” Pones continued, and it was to my irritation that he did so, as the way he spoke gave no indication of sympathy or understanding at my annoyance. “Too short, wrong weight, no training in the method, disposition towards blood.”
“A shame that your conclusions were all wasted,” Gregson said with a sniff.
“Not entirely,” replied Pones. “Colonel Flash will be most delighted to hear that his student is innocent, and that is the job that I was hired to do.”
“But the real job is not over. We must prevent him from striking again.”
“Correct.”
As he spoke, the carriage ground to a halt, and I descended from the cab in front of what could only be described as a comfortable and well-decorated manor-house.

It was fashioned in the traditional Canterlot style, with high arching roofs, and ivy twisting its way up the grey brick like so many verdant snakes. It appeared to have started small and been added onto over the years – such was the hereditary nature of property in both Canterlot and Cloudsdale, as land was very expensive to purchase in the big city. There was a well attended front lawn with a small skirting of green trees around a driveway where carriages might arrive, and a very large and foreboding brick fence topped with black spikes. It ran in a ring around the property, and so my view was constrained to what I could see through a pair of iron double-gates before me. A swift glance around at the neighbouring houses revealed similarly large and cosy properties, and I recognised the suburb as Richmond, famous for harbouring the rich of Cloudsdale in much the same way that Woodrow did for the wealthy of Canterlot. I had, as I mentioned earlier, attended patients in Cloudsdale, and some of them did indeed live around here, but this house did not belong to one of them.

I heard a click from behind me, and turned to see that the carriage door had closed, and that I was the only one who got out. The faces of Gregson and Pones were hidden well within the darkness, and I had to squint to make them out at all.
“We must not be seen, Trotson,” Pones said hastily. “Do you know of your role?”
“No,” I replied curtly. It had not been explained to me, of course, and I had expected it in a sense. Pones, in all his brilliance, was inclined to notice every small detail bar one, and that was that otherponies did not often arrive at the same conclusions that he came to so swiftly and easily.
“We need you to explain the situation to Miss Spitfire.”
“Obviously,” I said. “And then?”
“I had not finished—” and here I felt a lecture coming on “—but there is little time to waste. Gregson will return late with reinforcements, and watch the front-gate.”
“And you?”
“I will be vigilant over the back, and other entries.”
Suddenly, a white hoof that I recognised to be Gregson’s shot out of the window. In it was clasped a lightweight cloth parcel.
“Take this, but do not open it now,” the voice said warningly. “It is my service revolver and badge, as well as the military files. You will need the latter two to convince her of your trustworthiness, and we must pray that you do not need the former. I take it you are familiar with guns?”
I had, among other things, fired rifles and shotguns for hunting in the Cloplin countryside, where I grew up. This gifted me with a familiarity with some weaponry – though not highly extensively, and I had not held or shot a gun since I had left home. My experience did not leave me unwise in this instance, though, for safety and maintenance was something that my ever-strict father would unrelentingly drill into me. If I left a gun dirty, I was often forced to polish his entire selection, among which there were many fine pistols.
“It is a regular Eley’s Number 2,” Gregson said. I replied that I was familiar with it, and slipped the bundle under my foreleg.
Pones’ voice echoed out from the darkness of the carriage. “We will be watching,” it said.
“How comforting,” I answered dryly. “I’m sure you can tell my fiancé all about how you make me risk my life when we get home.”
There was a distinct pause from the carriage.
“…Good luck, old boy,” said the voice, and with that, the carriage took off once more. I watched the carriage retreat down the street until it had rounded the corner, and I felt a slight hint of remorse. Unfortunate though my circumstances were, they were entirely necessary to ensure that we catch this fiend. Arguably, I had been right to be angry, as I had not agreed to be a bodyguard or to risk my life, but simultaneously I knew that I had no choice. Upon reflection, the vote of confidence I had received from Pones back in the flat of Captain Fletcher was probably the grandest compliment he had paid me yet, but I was too irate to see it at the time.

Regardless, I did not shrink from the task at hand, for in front of the lady’s house I now stood, and I could not voice my disapproval now. I strode up to the gates and examined them. As I had expected, they were shut and locked by a padlock of considerable size, and instead I walked left until I came upon another smaller gate. It was of the same black iron that the driveway gate was made out of, but it was not locked, and I swiftly entered onto the crescent-shaped path that ran towards the house.

No sooner had the gate shut behind me with the soft clink of metal on metal, than a mare’s voice reached my ears.
“Can I help you?”

I looked around for the source, my attention having been distracted by the weight of my own problems, and saw a honey-yellow Pegasus cantering down towards me. She wore a light summer dress of sea blue, and it complimented her well, particularly due to her wild and vivid mane. It was as if her head and neck was on fire at first glance – her mane was a great two-toned shock of orange. Darker strands mixed in with lighter ones as the gentle breeze pushed it about, and she walked down the path towards me. It was easy to recall such a strange and flaring colour, for it had seemed familiar to me at the time.
“I was looking for Miss Spitfire, if she might be around,” I said in my most cordial voice. I had had plenty of practice with unknown relatives of the sick and wounded, and it proved most useful at times – but not enough, evidently, for she laughed at my proposition.
“Yeah? And what do you want with her?” She said as she came within a few lengths of me.
“I’m afraid,” I replied, “that it is a private matter, and that I will discuss it only with her.”
The mare smiled back, her pale orange eyebrows raised.
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“Pardon?”
She shook her head.
“You have any idea of how you look right now, loverboy?”
It was then that I realised who I spoke to, and I would later berate myself for not realising sooner. Pones would have laughed at how much of a blunder it was, though in my defence, she was scarcely recognisable without her sea-blue bodysuit and goggles. The pictures I had seen of her featured her mane ruffled by the wind, and almost on end, but in person it fell loosely to either side of her youthful face. I opened my mouth to explain, but she cut me off.
“Uh-huh,” she said sweetly, looking me up and down.
“I didn’t recognise you at first,” I said apologetically. “I would have mentioned it sooner, but I’m here with the police.”
Spitfire laughed a little. “You don’t look like any policeman I’ve ever seen,” she replied, gesturing to my dress. I half-opened the bundle that I held under my arm and produced Gregson’s badge, being careful so as not to show the gun to her. The triumphant smile vanished from her lips as her gaze fell over the badge.
“I thought I told that Inspector Bradstreet, or whatever his name was, that I don’t know anything about Dash, and I’m not saying a word against her.” she said. All trace of good humour and her own merriment had also disappeared, and her fiery, sienna-coloured eyes seemed to ignite me with a sudden and vivid intensity.
“That is just as well,” I said, pocketing the badge once more. “I am not here to collect a statement.”
“Then what are you here for?”
“…Perhaps I could tell you inside?” I hinted strongly, cocking my head on an angle. I saw her frown and start to object some more, but I cut her off quickly. I knew that if the killer were watching us, that he would have some suspicion as to my identity.
“In-side,” I repeated, my gruff reply catching her before she could complain. She appeared a little taken aback, as up until then I had been nothing but polite, and indeed until a few moments ago she had possessed the upper hoof. She accommodated me anyway, leading me back up the dusty path, and through the door of her home. No sooner had she closed the door behind me than I turned to her.
“Firstly,” I said, “I am not a policeman.”
She nickered nervously, taking a cautionary step back against the door. “Who are you?”
“My name is Doctor John Trotson, and I’m here at the behest of the Inspector in charge of Miss Dash’s case,” I replied, sitting back on my haunches and raising my forehooves to show I meant no harm.
“What do you want?”
I did not waste time in cutting to the chase.
“She is innocent,” I said simply, and Spitfire let out a gasp of amazement. The moment of surprise gave way to happiness, and an infectious grin came about her face, the orange-topaz eyes glittering as she beamed at me.
“That’s amazing news!” she cried.
“The murderer has struck again since she was imprisoned. He is still at large.”
Her look turned to horror.
“Oh, sweet Celestia,” she murmured, putting a hoof to her lips.
“I do not know if you know his latest victim very well,” I said. “Captain James Fletcher.”
She let out a shuddering gasp of horror.
“Oh, Celestia,” she repeated. “Oh god…”
“And, it is our belief, that as a squad mate of the two victims and a current wonderbolt, that your life is now in danger,” I finished.

The expression of surprise did not drop away from her face instantly. Instead, the reality of my seriousness dawned on her as she surveyed my face, and her skin paled visibly. Her face drained of the life that she had shown moments before. It was not a reaction akin to finding out that the condition of a loved one had worsened, and indeed, the way she leaned against the door for support reminded me of many of my bereaved clientele over the years.

“I am sorry I had to deceive you.” I said, and I was – I had ever made the poor liar, and as such it was scarcely on my repertoire when dealing with others.
“Why?... What?” she said, clearly struggling for words.
“Perhaps there is someplace more comfortable that you could sit, so that I might explain it all to you in full?” I suggested helpfully. It took a moment for my words to register, and she had averted her gaze from me, glancing all around as if she was searching blindly for some explanation.
“…Yes,” she replied, taking a few tentative steps away from the door, and brushing past me. She led me down a corridor past some closed doors, a flight of stairs, and into a luxurious living room that adjoined a kitchen. If the house had appeared modest and traditional from the exterior, than its interior was anything but – glass vases chandeliers hung from the ceiling, with fine Persian rugs tickling my hooves underfoot, but there were no other antiquities of the old and refined wealth that I was used to.

The living room was broken away from the kitchen by a partition, where a set of screen-doors could be drawn shut in the event that she wanted to entertain. It had a high ceiling, which I noticed upon entry still possessed some of its original decorative markings, though other than that, the room was fairly modern. Black and white photos hung around the walls, and crowded a nearby table. All of them were Spitfire with various ponies or groups of ponies. Some of these I recognised to be famous figures, and I wondered how much they might have been worth - but the strange lack of family or personal effects around the room bothered me. On the opposite wall to the couch (which ‘backed’ onto the kitchen, was it were) there was a vast array of books – some of them biographies, some of them old history, but all of them slightly dusty and unread. In various nooks and crannies around the room, there were vases filled with some delicate flowers, but other than that, the room gave a distinctly stale and lifeless impression.

The couch that she showed me to was a settee of black leather, and there were a few similarly-coloured poufs scattered on it. These she cleared very briskly with a push of her hooves before literally falling onto the couch. I was not sure whether to sit myself or draw up a chair beside her, so as to hold her hoof and utter soothing words.
“I need a drink,” she said. I nodded, and stepped towards the kitchen, intending to fetch her a glass of water. “No – behind you,” her grainy voice came again.

I turned, and was surprised to find a mahogany liquor cabinet set into a nook in the wall. I opened it and, from among various other liqueurs and spirits withdrew what appeared to be a very old bottle and expensive bottle of spiced rum – just the thing to soothe a nervous soul. There were glasses atop the decanter and I removed two, though I had no intention of drinking. Then, pulling up a small and ornate hand-table from beside the couch, I set the glasses down and poured her a drink.

No sooner had I done so then she picked up the glass and drank it with such speed that I was almost alarmed. I decided to pour one for myself so as to seem pleasant, but no sooner had I finished doing so then it too vanished in a flash of yellow. She gulped the fiery liquid almost greedily, and though my mind was on other things I was bewildered by her ability to imbibe the strong drink as if it were water.

I refrained from pouring any more, instead setting the bottle down on the table gingerly and turning my attention back to her. Aside from the paling of her skin, she was shaking slightly. I put a hoof to her forehead, and her amber eyes snapped over to me as I did so.
“I’m fine,” she said, reading my thoughts, though she was clearly suffering from intense anxiety.
“Your pulse a hundred and twenty beats per minute at rest, and you’re burning up,” I replied, giving her a stern gaze. “That is not fine, particularly not for an athlete, where the resting-rate of the heart is lower than normal. You should be running in the Derby right now.”

She appeared a little flustered for words, and was briefly overcome. Up until that point she had simply lain on her back and stared at the ceiling, but now she sat up, away from the comfort of the cushions, so that her back legs touched the floor. She then put both forehooves over her mouth and breathed heavily. I could hear the labour in her breath.
“Oh Celestia…” she muttered again, and I could see tears developing in her eyes. She made an attempt to wipe them away, but she could not prevent their free flow down the sides of her face. “Excuse me,” she said a little hoarsely.

I shunted the little table with the bottle on it to one side and sat on the couch next to her, and drew a leg tight around her. For a while, then she took her grief, and I consoled her to the best of my ability. How odd it was for me to be of some small comfort to the Pegasus who was almost renowned for her attitude and spunk, both inside the arena and out. I could never have imagined that I might be the one that bore any grave news to her, nor imagine the circumstances which took me to her door that fateful day in early December. For years she had been a raw object of desire for countless colts and the epitome of the party-girl, but I had gained not a shred of evidence to support such a theory, barring the way she had drunk the rum moments before. She dressed normally, her house was as orderly as could be, and, in the horrible moment where she leaned her head onto my shoulder and wept, I realised quite painfully, dear reader, that she was of course just a regular pony, just like you and I. If I might walk away with a lesson from this whole incident, it would be never to take somepony’s impression from hearsay and the words of others, and always to take your own evaluations.

I forget how long it took her, but I became momentarily convinced that time slowed purposefully to drill the lesson into me. Finally, though, I realised that her sobs had stopped. I looked down to my shoulder, a kind smile on my face.
“Feeling a little better?” I asked the distraught flier. She sniffed and drew her flame mane off of me, and I saw that the tears were still flowing freely, though her face was bravely smiling back.
“A little.”
“Good.”
For a while we sat, speechless, and she took the time to re-compose herself a little, wiping away her tears on her summer-dress. Finally, though, she took the great step of asking after her comrade’s death.
“How did he die?”
“Quickly and painlessly, I can assure you,” I said quietly. This was no lie. The severing of his spinal cord meant that his death, while grizzly, was instantaneous. I did not mention the aftermath. It had sickened me, and I am a seasoned medical practitioner, so I thought it best to neglect the grim detail to her so as to not upset her once more. “In the same manner as Peregrine.”
She breathed a sigh of relief at my former comment, though her grief was still evident.
“Well then, at least it was painless,” she said, blinking away another few tears.
“I was the attending physician,” I added. “I will no doubt give testimony to his death once we catch the stallion responsible.”
She looked up at me again, her eyes radiating sadness.
“…And now he’s after me?”
I grimaced and retrieved my bundle from the left.
“That is why I’m here.”

I then explained in great detail why my presence was not accompanied by police, and exactly who I was, and why I was placed in the uncomfortable position of being her momentary bodyguard. I will not bore you with the details twice, but her expression remained unchanged throughout the entire detail.
“I know you,” she said, almost twenty minutes after I had begun speaking. I shook my head, and told her that she must be mistaken, for I had never met her prior to that afternoon.
“Yeah, I do,” she insisted more eagerly. “You were Soarin’s doctor once.”
She was right. As I mentioned before, my brief encounter with the Pegasus had resulted in him resuming his intensive training a long time before I had recommended, much to my dismay.
“I’m surprised that I got a mention,” I said honestly, and she shook her head.
“I only know because he re-injured himself about two days later. Sat around moaning, saying he should have listened to the doctor.”
I smiled at my prediction having come true, and she picked up some of her spirit.
“Yes, he did seem a little… hasty,” I replied. “I wish he had listened.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Soarin’ for you.” The smile faltered from her face, and I could tell that she, like me, had greater things on her mind – not the least of which was her mortal peril. The small talk was pleasant enough to keep her mind off of it, and I decided, that, now I was here, that there was no need to rush or hurry the details. She could learn them in her own time, if she so decided.
“…You weren’t in the force ever, were you?” she asked.
“No, what makes you think so?”
She reached out and touched one of the gold buttons on my navy coat.
“Dunno, you just remind me of someone I used to know. Maybe it’s the jacket.” She smiled.
“Who is that?”
“The head honcho at the Cloplin hospital,” she replied. “Came and saw me while we stationed up there. Nice old geezer.”
“Maybe he wasn’t that old,” I said meaningfully. “Perhaps you were just too young to have been in the army.” She sighed and leant back a little into the soft couch, resuming the lounging pose that she had been known for assuming for all the wrong reasons.
“Too young to do a lot of things,” she said sadly. I decided to not pursue the comment.
“Actually; it’s your military past I wanted to ask about.”
“Shoot.”
I put my hooftips together. It was not a conscious decision, and it was not until the time of writing that I noticed that it was a most Pones-ian habit to have acquired.
“I don’t suppose you made any obvious enemies?”
She shook her head.
“Not that I know of.”
“What about the other two?”
Spitfire paused and racked her head thoughtfully.
“I don’t really know,” she said after a while. My spirits fell. “I wasn’t the only filly to have passed basic training that year,” she continued. “It was about fifty-fifty colts and fillies, and we all got along.”
I informed her that we had determined that the culprit was most likely a Clopliner and a stallion, but she grimaced at me, clearly displeased she was unable to help.
“Nopony I know. Sorry.”
I winced.
“It does not change the nature of my job,” I said resignedly, and here I began to unravel the bundle on my lap. Inside was the dossier from Gregson, and I put that to one side, for what was underneath it was of my more immediate focus.

It was a strangely familiar sight to me to see a gun. It appeared well-worn around the grip, but maintained quite immaculately. As one might inspect of a weapon used by a policeman, the thing was well crafted and polished, and in the light I was able to read the name of its maker. It was unloaded, but there lay a hoof-full of bullets beside it, presumably for me.
“An Eley’s number two is an excellent argument for any murderous fiend with a knife,” I said, becoming aware of Spitfire’s eyes on the revolver. She let out a very dry laugh.
“I don’t suppose you are armed, being of the services?” I inquired to her, glancing up.
The Pegasus shook her head. “Not since the glory days,” she said wistfully. “You sort of have to give up the looks and the lifestyle of the army if you want to look good on the cover of a magazine.”
I nodded slowly, though I understood little of the transition from soldier to star.
“Well then, I shall just have to follow you. You live alone?” This last afterthought was perhaps something I should have asked earlier, though I knew she was not married.
“Yes,” she replied. “The house is mine.”
I slid six brass-cased bullets into the wheel of the gun, closed it shut and spun it till it clicked.
“It is for the best,” I said stiffly, putting the weapon into my coat pocket. “And, err, no visitors?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Right.”
I then stood and took a stroll around the abode, observing the locations of the windows and shutting the locks on them. She followed me as I did so, watching me with a mixture of worry and interest as I addressed every possible point of entry.
“Tell me,” she asked as I deadlocked a very high lattice-window, “why is he after me?”
“I do not know,” I admitted, not pausing from my efforts. “I was hoping before that you would be able to give me some reason for that.”
“I cannot think of any reason,” said she. “Are you positive that he… wants to kill me?” This last explanative sounded forced and reluctant.
“Madam,” I began, stepping off the chair and turning to face her. My next words faltered a little, for she looked fairly forlorn and afraid, and so I pressed with a softer tone. “Spitfire. There is no certainty, but I do not think my good friend Sherclop Pones would have sent me here without his own conclusions.”
“You are sure he is right then?” she asked.
I hesitated, for I knew that she wanted to be cleared of the unhappy thought more than anyone else. “I have not known him to be wrong yet,” I said carefully.

She smiled bravely once more. Later I would admire the monumental strength of character that it took to do so; but for now my heart radiated sympathy.

“I have also never known him to be outwitted," I added. "The police will be hidden out the front awaiting his signal. The odds of him even getting to you are next to none.”
It was a tactful addition, for her features brightened.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. I finished examining the house and locking the doors and windows, all the while under her watchful gaze as I wandered from room to room.
“There,” I said, snapping the lock on her upstairs bedroom window shut. “I think that is the last of them.” I then gave a brief once-over of the window to make sure that it was shut, and it was as well that I did so, for I spied a figure trotting up the path towards the house. I beckoned Spitfire over and we both looked, though from a distance we were unable to determine who it might have been.

We went back down-stairs and into the hallway, but stayed out of sight of the blurred glass that would have betrayed our silhouettes.
“If you open the door,” I said quietly, “then I will wait behind it.”
She looked at me, panicked.
“What if it’s him?”
“Let me worry about that,” I said, and, crouching low, I took my spot behind the door. Total silence filled the house and hallway, and in my hoof was the revolver that I had loaded earlier. My heart thudded in my ears like a booming kettle-drum, and so nervous was I that I jumped a little when there was a series of loud raps upon the door. Spitfire came down the hallway, her dark almond eyes flickering once to me. She pulled the wooden front door open, and I saw her face gave way to a mixture of relief and enthusiasm.
“Ah, Coach!” she said gladly.
“Hello, Adrianna,” wafted a familiar voice. “How are you?”
“Ah, could be better,” she mumbled.
“Did you go out last night? You look a little hungover.”
I blanched at the comment, for whoever it was might have suspected something, but Spitfire’s acting was immaculate. She hung her head.
“Just a few drinks with a friend,” she replied modestly. “A quiet night.”
There was a chiding tut of a tongue on teeth.
“Come on,” the voice implored. “I know what a ‘quiet one’ means to you, Spitfire. You really have to cut that party-girl attitude out, and I’ve already asked you once to try.”
“I am trying,” she replied somewhat indignantly. “Anyway, do you want to come in?”
“Oh, I only want to talk to you very quickly, but if that’s alright with you,” it said. Spitfire leaned in, opened the fly-screen door, and took a few steps back. I readied the revolver and raised myself a little from the ground. The figure strode through the doorway, and immediately the gun was on him. I pulled the hammer back with a soft click and cleared my throat.
“That will do.”

The figure froze mid-step. He was dressed in a jet-black coat and matching stovepipe hat that radiated wealth, and underneath his arm he carried a pace-stick.
“Hooves on the wall,” I commanded, and he obeyed almost instantly, dropping the cane and rearing before pressing his forehooves against the wall.
“Spitfire,” the stranger said cautiously, and it was of some surprise to note that his voice was quite calm. “What have you done?”
I patted his coat-pockets down and felt upon his breast the shape of a gun.
“He’s got a gun,” I said, reaching into his coat with my spare hoof and retrieving it. I tossed it to one side. “Now, turn around,” I commanded, and the figure did so. As I gained sight of his face, I realised with a start that the familiar voice and clean dress belonged to Colonel Flash, the very stallion who had hired my friend and I. He seemed as surprised by my identity as I was by his, and for a moment we exchanged incredulous glances.
“Doctor,” he murmured.
“Colonel.”
“What exactly is going on?” He asked. I relaxed a little bit, and lowered the revolver.
“Perhaps it would be best to start from where you left us,” I replied.
I retrieved the Colonel’s service revolver, and he his stick, and we returned to the living-room. I had my eye on him and stood between the two Pegasus, and when we had sat, I explained all that there was to be known.
“So you are saying that Dashie is innocent?” he said, after I had finished. Such a casual euphemism of the young filly I had not expected from someone so formal and well-dressed - though his face was washed with relief, so perhaps in light of his happiness he had let slip his fondness of her. “I knew that it could not have been her. As I mentioned to you before, she is far too kind for such a heinous crime. But if not her, then who?”
“I thought it might have been you at first,” I said.
He looked puzzled. “Myself? But I am your client!”
“You are also a stallion known to all three victims, with a military background and training enough to perform the deed, and certainly wealthy enough to procure the cigars that he smoked.”

The Colonel’s wings flittered in anxiety as I outlined the details for my suspicion, but he was ever the gentleman, nodding his confirmation.
“I see. I take it that this is also the reason you have not returned my service revolver.”
“Correct.”
Having long since removed his hat, he ran a hoof through his sandy mane.
“ You are bound here until Pones contacts you, then?”
“Yes. He has gone back to the station to gather reinforcements to help watch her tonight.”
“Well that leaves me in a bind,” he replied. “I would happily stand with you against this fiend, but then I cannot be trusted with a weapon. So that you might trust me fully, here is my other concealed tool.” Here, he presented his stick to me, and I was baffled by the action until he pressed a small ivory button in its side. The bottom half then slid down to reveal a dazzling, smooth-edged rapier, such as was issued to veterans who fought in the Midwest.
“You may stay still,” I added hopefully. Any help was better than no help, I reasoned, and even if I could not trust him entirely by my own knowledge, it was highly unlikely that anything untoward would come from him.
“Only if you would permit it,” he said boldly to Spitfire, and I saw his chest swell a little with pride. “I’d never dare leave you to your fate.” To this he reached forward and seized the hoof of Spitfire, looking at her intently. “I was never your commanding officer, but I’ll sooner face him and spin the wheel than live a coward,” he said.
She looked humbled by his pledge of loyalty, and was a little overcome, her gaze turning to the ceiling.
“Thanks, coach,” she mumbled, dabbing the warmth from her eyes with a hoof.
“Then I will leave your pistol with her, and you may keep your sword,” I added as an afterthought. We all agreed that this was a fitting idea, and, as night-time fell without further impression or signal from Pones, we split our attention. She went upstairs to her room, and the Colonel stood watch at the stairs. I myself took my place on the inside of her bed-chamber.
“I know it is futile,” I said to her as she changed into bedclothes behind an oriental fold-out screen, “but you should try to relax.”
She stepped out in a light violet nightgown and clambered into her bed.
“I will read,” she said to me, squinting into the darkness to where I sat on a chair. “He’ll be watching for me to sleep, right?”
“Maybe.”

The cold night outside pressed in at the drawn windows, a glimpse of the half-moon shimmering in through the window and onto the wooden floor in front of me. Other than this, though, the room was deathly quiet and dark, shy of a single gas lamp on Spitfire’s bedside table.

Night Watch

It was hours until she fell asleep. Tired though she was; the anxiety of her danger kept her awake, so that even when she dimmed the lamp, she rolled and fidgeted uncomfortably in her bed for some time. I said nothing. Perfectly concealed next to the door, my eyes fell upon her as she finally succumbed to her weariness, and I turned up my collar to avoid the same.

How could I ever forget that dreadful night vigil? I couldn’t hear a sound. Every single breath that I took was slow, purposefully noiseless. Until my night vision came to, I was blind and deaf, and even when it did, my vision was restricted to the black outline of the four-poster bed, its curtains drawn and occupant dozing in a restless slumber. The silken curtains of her windows cut off all but one slender ray of moon-light, and I waited in perfect and absolute blackness.

From outside, the soft hooting of the night-bird occasionally set my nerves on edge. Far away from the city centre I heard the deep; sombre chimes of a bell. Midnight came and passed in a small eternity. Then, the hour of one struck. Two and three passed similarly. My limbs were wracked with stiffness, but still I sat, frozen in place, waiting silently for whatever or whoever might come. I did not dare move. I felt that if I were to move it would be my undoing – it might distract me from the only warning sound of the murderer I would get.

Suddenly, there was a momentary gleam of light from underneath the doorway. It vanished almost immediately, but I was sure of what it was. There was no other possible confusion to be made. My heart was set on edge. I heard a gentle tap of movement up the stairs, and then all was silent once more. I smelt that unmistakable scent of paraffin wax. Yes - a candle had been lit, and extinguished nearby. For half a minute or so I sat, straining my ears and eyes to catch the faintest whiff of trouble.
Without warning, there was a stampede of hoofsteps from outside, followed by a cry.
“Have at you!” It came. It was the voice of the Colonel, and there was the sound of a blade being drawn. The instant I heard it I got to my feet and raced to the door, laying my hoof upon the doorknob –
There was a crack, and then all noise ceased for a moment.
“Coward!” came the Colonel’s voice once more. It was different to the challenge that he had issued before. It was strained, if a word could be used to describe it. And then, the thud and tumble of an unmistakable, heavy weight hitting the ground reached my ears. The light shone freely once more, penetrating the blackness underneath the door.
How that strange series of noises nearly stole my sensibility. My soul stood still. My heart froze. My mind raced in anxiety. In fear I backed away from the door and back towards where I was sitting. It was a reaction that most likely saved my life, as in the next instant the door exploded inward with a mighty crash.

At the moment the light struck my eyes I heard the thudding of more footsteps, but the sudden glare of light blinded me, and the door itself was between me and him. I pointed my revolver at the heavy wooden shield, and fired twice - there was another shout of pain. I saw from the shadow that was cast upon the floor that a large, bold figure was silhouetted in the doorway. There then came a crack of his own pistol, but I was quicker - I seized the moment of his injury to turn and buck the door shut. The blow shook my legs with a wobbling pain, but the speed with which it crashed into the pony standing at the door was great, and it threw him off balance. Then, there was a loud clang, and the light vanished, followed by a cry of alarm, and the rolling thudding of something as it bounced down the stairs. It slammed into the floor at the bottom, and there was an earthly cracking noise, followed by a shriek. It rose, louder and louder, a yell of pain and fear mingled into one, till it shrank and died away to a whimper.

I ran to the bedside of Spitfire, who was drawn back against the covers, cowering with fear, her pistol untouched on the bedside table. She screamed a little as I opened the curtains, but I seized her by the shoulders.
“It’s me! Up!” I cried, hauling her out bed. She did so, but she fumbled for her own pistol. I had scarcely got her to all fours when I heard a swift pattering sound. Thinking it might be the assassin, I turned, making my own pistol ready again.
“Trotson!” barked the voice of Pones. “I am coming up. Do not shoot.”
I lowered my pistol, and the room was illuminated by a sudden and intense light of several lanterns, as well as the sound of many hooves pounding up the stairs.
Pones’ face was illuminated from beyond the doorway. He glanced from huddled Spitfire to myself.
“Neither of you are hurt? That is good to see." he relaxed visibly. "It is all over,” he added. “Come and look for yourselves.”
I did as I was bade; advancing forward cautiously still, for I knew by the small cry that my shots had not killed him. However, as I came out of the room there laid a figure whose presence left me crestfallen.

Colonel Flash was over to the right of the doorway. He had been shot in the chest, and there was a damp streak down his chest where the blood had stained that wonderful jacket of his. He had fallen to one side, though as I exited the bed-chamber a policepony picked him up, propping him against the white bannister of the stairway before tending to his wounds. Flash passed me the briefest and most forced smile as his eyes fell upon me, and I noticed that the razor-sharp sword was still tensed tightly in one hoof.
“Blighter had a pistol,” he said with effort. I nodded, and then peered down the stairs to where the attacker lay. All I could see of him was a mop of a red mane, but he was either dead or unconscious.
“He is knocked out for the moment,” Pones said from next to me. “I came when I heard the cries, and met him coming down, as it were.” With this, twirled a police baton before my eyes. “Gave him a broken leg to remember me by – so tender sweet was our brief meeting that I could not help but give him a parting gift.”
I remember asking as to his identity.
“All in good time,” he replied, smiling at me. It was, with some relief, the knowing smile that I had become accustomed to, and my heart was glad to see it etched into his thin, grey face. That particular moment I remember quite well, for the adrenaline was causing my head to thud in an almost painful way.

Spitfire had regained her composure, and obstinately refused to leave my side, even to the point point where we were all hustled into the back of a police cart. The Colonel was bundled into another cart and rushed to hospital, we had no injuries, but there were statements to be taken.

There I lost track of time for a moment, or at least, that is the end of my clear memory of that night. I apologise for being so awfully vague and undoubtedly very inaccurate with the details, but I struggle at the best of times to recall all. I don’t think there was much said. What was there to say, after all – and who would be willing to say it?

The tapping of hooves on the flagstones returns to me as I write this, and I cannot help but wonder if I fell asleep sitting in the back of that Black Maria cab while listening to that rhythmic tune, in-time with the jingling of the driver’s harnesses. I had the vilest feeling of nausea overcome me at one point... I had shot a pony, I thought. With worry and weariness wracking my mind and body, I forced my eyes shut and prayed for sleep. At one point I remember the faintest scent of Spitfire’s mane as she still leant into me, her grasp so unforgivingly tight around my foreleg that it tingled with pins and needles. That made the sick feeling recede a little, and I was lulled into resting for a while. It seems strange, given what had just transpired, but no sooner had the adrenaline worn off than I was overcome by weariness.

Very brief and disjointed details are all I can recall until the next morning. There were the bright lights of the station, and then blur of questions, faces and voices all rolled into one gigantic mess. A doctor checking up on me. The stern voice of Pones in my ear, and my own replying, seemingly weak and bleary by comparison.

I must have been weary beyond measure, for I slept quite deeply, though I do not recall lying down anywhere. In fact, I awoke with a frightened lurch as my head slipped off whatever comfortable pillow I had laid it on.

My reactions were still a little dim, and I fell off my chair as a result. Thankfully it was not far to fall, and the ground was a little softer for an unknown reason, but as my lucidity returned to me I began to make sense of where I was. And who I had been leaning on.

Spitfire looked down at me with some fright and alarm.
“Huh?...” she mumbled, raising her hooves to her face. I opened my mouth and said something, but unfortunately my brain not reached the point where I could speak in complete sentences. I stared, in earnest hope that whatever I had said made some sense, but she returned my gaze blankly.
“Sorry, did you say something?” she asked, puzzled, rubbing her eyes against the sleep. “I think I dozed off.”

I did not reply, but gazed quickly around the room. It was small, white, and square, and had no windows barring one that was very high up. Through it the light of day shone, though it was a dim half-light that filtered between the gaps of a thatched iron grate. There were long, wooden benches placed on each wall, and it was on one of these that I had been sitting, head drooped down.
“You’ve been like that for hours,” said a voice. I looked behind me, and noticed the figure of the inspector in an open doorway. He looked like he’d had a rough night. Dark circles encroached underneath his eyes, but a relaxed look dwelt on his face. “Flash’s just fine. The bullet missed all of his vitals, I’m pleased to say.”
Behind me, Spitfire half-laughed and half-choked on her relief. I was overcome similarly, and I took a wonderfully deep breath. Like a stallion who’s been caged up all his life, the news was liberating – it lifted the giant weight that lay upon me, and I felt immensely more alive.
“You were all dog-tired, so we put you up for the night in a holding cell.” The unicorn peered once around the room. “Looks like Pones is already gone, though.”
“What time is it?” I inquired, getting to all fours before yawning raucously.
“Eight o’clock.”
“And what of our stallion?”
The detective grimaced.
“He’s in hospital. You did shoot him in the stomach, after all.”
“Will he live?”
“Yes.”
“The shot was poor, then.”
His expression cracked into a grin.
“Now now, Doctor. He is in custody. The hangman's rope will have him yet.”
“I should hope so. What is his name?” I asked.
“Major Sebastian Moran.”
I glanced over at Spitfire, but to my surprise she was unmoved by the announcement of the murderer’s identity.
“I’ve never heard of him,” she said.
“You are sure?”
“Positive.”
I looked back at the inspector. He was just as puzzled as I by her revelation, and he blinked his tired eyes once or twice before raising his hooves in defeat.
“Well then, his motives are beyond me,” he said, stepping through the doorway and taking a seat on the bench opposite me. “Perhaps he is merely insane,” he added, kneading the tiredness out of his face with his hooves.
“No, I do not think so.”

I looked up; for it was not I that had replied, and there in the doorway stood my elusive friend Pones. I jumped a little, for I had not noticed his appearance. He leant casually against the doorway, the smoke trailing from the tip of his pipe and his green jacket cast about him once more. He was still missing his cap, and from where it should have sat on his grey forehead there spilled the untidy mess of brown that might have been called bedhair. It was a strange moment to remember, and I would not have but for the striking realization that now Pones seemed far more real to me. Without his cap he was not the pony I had known him to be - the logical, and sometimes cold genius, almost machine-like in precision. I wondered if he had been standing behind Inspector Bradsteed for the few minutes that the tired policepony had been speaking to us, and simply chosen to let his invisibility linger a little longer. Bradsteed himself looked back at the doorway for the source of the voice, but was not surprised by its owner’s appearance.
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
“Just getting my possessions,” said Pones.
“You’re missing your hat,” I observed.
“Lost,” said Pones. Here, he looked down his nose at me. “You must have dropped it.”
“No, I hung it on the clothesrack here,” I replied indignantly.
“Then it was stolen;” he replied. His face grew stern and he looked at Bradsteed. “Bradsteed, send out every stallion you have. We must recover my hat.”
“Oh?” Said Bradsteed, acting concerned. “Well where did you last see it, sir?”
“It was stolen from a police station.”
The two of them burst into laughter. I had quite missed the joke, and was thusly sure that it was at my own expense, but again I ignored it, for there was another flash of energy through Pones.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and that's quite true. Pones’ eyes were more like the windows in the cell– high up, they appeared to let the world through, but strong bars stopped anything from getting out. I had never noticed it before, but his eyes lit up when he laughed. A little spark of mirth and uncharacteristic naturalness that peeked out from behind his closed mind. Perhaps there was some further joke to be understood – something of the way that Bradsteed sat, his tired eyes scrunched shut, the low, deep rumble of his laughter filling his room, and Pones’ own merriment – the dry, short laughs of the intellectual who has found something entertaining - told me that they had worked together for a very long time, and that the joke extended beyond any real humour. Laughter for laughter's sake, simply to lift the spirits.

The laughter soon died away, though Pones was still grinning at Bradsteed.
“Yes, I have retrieved my kit, and now I am here to retrieve my companion.” Here, his gaze switched to me.
“Shall we, Trotson?”
“Certainly, but I have a few questions first.” I looked back at Spitfire, who had silently watched the exchange, a look of concern on her face. “And, seeing as how they are relevant to her, I thought we might have it all out in the open.”
The lady of the arena nodded her head in agreement, and Bradsteed murmured his own confusion. Thus pressed by us all, Pones showed signs of irresolution. He came into the small room and began to pace, his head sunk onto his chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.
“I would have asked for you to wait until he is awake. But he was still sleeping last I saw him – still under the anaesthetic they used when they removed the bullet from his chest. But, you are quite right. Miss Spitfire does deserve an explanation, and so do you for risking your life.”
Here, he stopped and faced me abruptly.
“You know of his name?”
“Yes.”
“And his squad?”
“No.”
“The fifth light cavalry.”
I stared my confusion at him. He looked back at me as if he had told me something of great importance – in the manner of a teacher trying to force a particularly obstinate student to answer a question.
“That does not tell me much,” I said finally.
“Exactly!” he replied happily. “He has no link with the victims.”
“So was this character a hired brute, then?”
“No. And though his killings were indeed patterned, the murderer is not mad.” Here, he gazed wistfully at the beams of light and warmth that shone onto the floor. “He is the most brilliant soldier of his lot.”
Such high praise I had not expected, though I knew them to be more words of contempt from a stallion like Pones.
“It is a very strange backstory,” he continued. “A veteran flier of nine years. He joined the airforce when he was young and battled his way up through the ranks. He is a native of Fillydephia.”
“A Midwesterner, then?”
“Yes, though he has lived here long enough that he does not have any accent. Anyway – he joined when he was twenty-one. Straight out of college and into the flight school, he was. But he retired after a particular incident known as ‘Operation Firestone.’” Here, Pones looked over my head and to Spitfire.
“You have heard of it?”
“Only that it was a bloody massacre,” she replied gravely. I was quite alarmed by her response, and I looked back to see that a shadow had fallen across her face.
“Yes, quite so, quite so,” my companion said. “A most unpleasant event.”
“What happened?” I inquired, being lost as to the details.
“A dragon.”
My eyes widened in shock and horror. A dragon hadn’t been seen in Equestria for several decades.
“How did I not hear of this?” I asked. Spitfire was the one to reply this time, her grainy voice speaking into my left ear.
“It was classified,” the Lieutenant said. “I remember hearing word of it on the grapevine, though that didn’t last long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they discharged the guy that told me, and threatened to do the same to me if I breathed a word of what I’d heard to anyone. I hadn’t found anything out – just the mere mention of what happened in the mess hall one day – but still, that was enough to get him booted out of the airforce. Later when I joined the wonderbolts, I asked the Colonel what it all meant, and he knew, so he told me.”
“The Colonel?... Flash, you mean?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“So... what happened?”
“The dragon had to be dealt with.” Pones interrupted our musings, and we both turned our attention back to him. “And a squad of the finest young fliers in Equestria were deployed to 'deal with it', as it were.” He paused for breath, putting a hoof to his chin. “And they were summarily dealt with.”
My jaw dropped in horror.
“You mean they were all killed?”
“No, no, though two died, and one was seriously injured. He lost his wing. It was a mistake in the order of commands, the post-action report says. His fire team engaged the dragon at the wrong time.”
“And was the commander held responsible?”
“He was court-marshalled, but he was found innocent.”
Spitfire’s eyes flashed.
“How did you get your hooves on information like that?”
Pones did not enjoy being challenged at the best of times, but his answer to her was surprisingly polite.
“Time and patience,” he said meekly. Spitfire did not look satisfied, so he elaborated. “I asked the Colonel.”
“Oh. I suppose he would have a copy. He was in command, after all.”
“What!” I cried, looking up. “We are discussing the Colonel himself? I thought he might have known, but I did not know he was in charge.”
“He was in charge, and he did know the murderer,” Pones replied pointedly. “The Colonel is also of the 5th cavalry. That should tell you something.”
I shook my head, still unsure.
“I don’t quite follow how that has led to this,” I said. “How did Moran know the murder victims, and why did he do what he did?"
“Ah, that is why I was hoping that we might wait for our friend to be conscious before talking.”
A fourth voice rang out from the corridor.
“Well you are in luck!” It said.

We all turned and looked again. A few seconds passed before Gregson appeared in the doorway, smiling tiredly. Behind him stood the aquamarine Pegasus known to me as Rainbow Dash.
Spitfire gave an excited gasp of happiness, and got to all fours.
“Dashie!” she cried, and the two embraced. ‘Dashie’ had shunted Gregson to one side of the doorway in her haste to meet her friend, and there he stood, his confused expression swapping between myself, Pones, the two fillies and his fellow Inspector.
“Where’s the party?” he said, peering around the now cramped room.
“We were just discussing Moran,” Pones replied. “You have news of the Colonel’s recovery? His input would help clean this whole debacle up.”
“Yes,” Gregson replied, still bemusedly looking at the two fillies. “They know eachother?”
I glanced over at Rainbow Dash. Her eyes were screwed up tight, and her head was buried in Spitfire’s golden-orange mane. I cleared my throat.
“Maybe it would be best,” I said, “If the stallions left for now. We'll meet outside, and take cabs to see the Colonel.”
There was a simultaneous understanding between all four of us, and we stood to leave. Being the furthest away from the door, I was last to leave and Gregson waited for me, but before I could leave, Dash called out to me.
“Hey Doc, could you stay for a second?”
I was distracted by the use of my name, and I caught Gregson’s eye.
“I’ll be a minute.”

He smiled, nodded briefly, and vanished off down the corridor after Pones and Bradsteed. I gave my attention back to Spitfire. Rainbow Dash had pulled her face from where it had buried in Spitfire’s fiery orange mane, and I noticed that her eyes were a little pinker than usual. Indeed, now that she stood next to her friend, I noticed how strangely similar the two Pegasus were. They could have been sisters. Maybe it was the many-toned nature of their manes. Maybe it was because they had the same die-hard fierceness in their eyes.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s nothing,” she replied quickly, though her haste gave away her true thoughts. “I just wanted to say... Thank you.”
I shook my head.
“You need not thank me,” I said modestly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Spitfire added, her eyebrows rising. I have to admit, I had warmed greatly to her, and couldn't stifle my grin.
“Yeah, you really did a lot. Not just for her, either. You splinted my wing, and that worked out pretty nicely, if I do say so myself.” Here, she flapped the appendage loosely, and I noticed that the swelling had much reduced, and that it looked much better.
“A pleasure,” I said with a grin.
“…And thank you for what you said the other day, too,” Dash continued. "You remember, right?"

It seemed like an eternity ago that it had occurred. Personally, I felt as if had I'd lived an entire year’s worth of weariness between yesterday and today, but indeed, I remembered my words quite well.
“Yes, I do.”
She smiled at me. Again, I felt myself transfixed by her irises, sincere and fierce.
“Thanks.” She paused. “It meant a lot.”

I wondered briefly if she meant her wing or what I had said. But there was little time for me to think, for she then she trotted forward, and before I could object, planted a passionate kiss on my nose. I burned from head to flank in surprise and embarrassment, flustered for words.

“O-oh…Well… It wasn’t anything… It was just, um, perfectly natural for me to….”
A rogueish grin came about the filly’s features, and she looked wickedly at Spitfire.
“He’s cute when he's flustered,” she said, her grainy voice having resumed its full rowdiness.
Spitfire rolled her eyes.
“And engaged.” She gave me an apologetic glance, putting a hoof on her friend’s back. “Reel it in, Dashie.”
“Huh? Aw..." Her ears drooped noticably. "Wait, how do you know?”
“Mr. Pones told me,” the older Pegasus replied sternly.
She looked quite dejected, but so self-possessed was her nature that she rebounded quickly. She turned to me.
“Sorry, Doc,” she said, though the grin on her face still kept me on edge. “She must be pretty good-looking to compete with the one and only Rainbow Dash!” here, she shook her mane in an attempt to appear picturesque. Instead, it flopped into her face, and I laughed. I was not offended. She could not have possibly known that I was engaged, I reasoned, and besides, she was a few years younger than me. Fillies might have been alright for the younger, travelling me, but unfortunately for her I belonged to Redheart, and that was that.
“Yes,” I replied with a foolish grin, reaching into my coat-pocket and withdrawing a fluttering photograph. Dash recognised the fluttering piece of paper instantly, frowning.
“He keeps a picture of her?” she said, irritated. “Alright, that’s too cute for me.” Her expression remained that way for a moment - until she suddenly realize who the pony in the photo was. At this, her head lurched away in surprise, and her eyes shot open fully.
“Wo-o-oah, you’re that stallion she keeps talking about?” her voice reaching an incredulous squeak.
“Wait, you know her?” Spitfire said, peering over at the picture.
“Oh yeah, that's Doc Redheart. She runs the clinic in Ponyville. You know I live there, right? Anyway, I go in there for my monthly checkup, and for like, the last three months, all she wants to talk about is this one guy called John. He’s coming to stay, blah blah blah, he's so insensitive, blah blah blah, we’re getting married…” She stuck her tongue out and mimed gagging. “Who would even wanna get married? Why tie yourself up like that when there’s so many great gals and guys out there?”

I ignored her last words. I was simply happy at the knowledge that I had been talked about.

Quick as a Flash

NB: You might want to re-read the last Chapter. It’s been a while since I’ve updated, after all.

The precession to the hospital was as follows: Gregson and Lestrade at the front of the cab, chatting idly, and Pones, the two ladies and myself in the back. I was pleased – it gave me time to ask questions, but Pones would have none of it.
“My dear stallion!” he cried as the cab rushed past a group of startled pedestrians. “If you do not know my methods by now, then you are a poor student indeed. A magician never reveals his secrets.”
“But it is not your magic I wish to learn, only what you have learnt!” I replied.
“Ah, but then the knowledge would seem disjointed and out-of-place. Be patient, Trotson.”
Rainbow Dash, who had been eyeing us with a degree of curiosity and uncertainty, spoke up.
“So… what did he just say?”
“He said he won’t be answering questions just yet, dear,” Spitfire said, reaching over and laying a comforting hoof on her leg. “Just sit tight, I’m sure the Colonel will be able to explain everything.”
She turned to Pones with a hopeful smile, but he was already looking away and out of the window, brow furrowed in concentration.
“There is only one thing that remains to be seen, and we will know if he talks,” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?” I replied.
He gave me a glare.
“Alright, alright!” I said, surrendering.

We arrived at the hospital, and alighted from the cab in an untidy rush. A large crowd of press had gathered at the tall, large double doors, and no sooner had I stepped out then they hurried towards us. They continually yammered Spitfire’s name, each of them shouting questions.
“Spitfire! Is it true there was an attempt on your life last night?!”
“Were you seen drunk at Berry’s?”
“Who’s the new friend?! Come on, give us a moment!”
There was an awkward moment where we were hemmed in by them, unable to reach the doors.
“Alright, that’s enough of that!” Yelled Bradsteed over the hubbub, shoving the nearest photographer back. “Move it!”
We jostled and pushed our way through the mob, though going was slow. I felt a few hooves tugging at my jacket, and turned, surprised, only to be suddenly blinded by several flashes of pure-white light.

I stood there for a moment, blinking and dazed while stars flashed before my eyes.
“That will do!” said the voice of Pones from behind me, and with a hard push I was shunted forward. One unfortunate soul was unlucky enough to be stuck between me and the double-doors, and he fell to one side as I half-fell, half-stumbled through the doorway. The rest of the press seemed to care little for his plight, stepping on him and attempting to squeeze by me, but again Bradsteed was in his element, butting and shoving any and all that came near the doorway with shoves of his broad hooves.

No sooner had we all been hustled inside than the doors were thrown shut, dimming the sudden blur of noise.
“What on earth?” I panted, gesturing at the door.
“Photographers,” said Pones, turning down the collar of his jacket.
“I know that. How did they get wind of it so quickly?”
“You’d be surprised how fast news gets around when you’re a Pegasus,” Spitfire said, appearing unbothered. “And you get used to it after a while.”
“I know I could,” Dash chimed in gleefully. “That was pretty cool. I feel like a celebrity!”
“Speak for yourself,” I grumbled. “I feel like the last piece of meat in a roomful of starving bears.”
“Seems about right,” Spitfire added, smiling meekly.

Without further ado we hastened to the reception, where the orderly told us that the Colonel was awaiting our arrival anxiously in room 304.

No sooner had the words left her lips then Spitfire was off like a rocket. She nearly bowled over a pair of frightened-looking interns as she burst through a wide set of double-doors, and with a hasty apology she flew left and up a flight of stairs.
“Wait!” The receptionist cried. “You have to sign in!…”
Her words were lost to Spitfire. She instead turned to the rest of us, eyeing us fiercely.
“Sign in,” she commanded, jabbing the paper.
I hastily signed and hurried after her, leaving the four in my wake. The rest of them were quite happy to meander slowly behind (with the possible exception of Rainbow Dash).

Either side of the staircase were more unfortunate ponies who had not had the good grace to move out of Spitfire’s way, and they looked slightly dazed and wild-eyed.

We arrived at the third floor to hear an argument taking place. One voice was Spitfire’s, though it was oddly coarse and squeaky, and the other was a gruff-sounding baritone.
“…He’s sleeping. You can’t see him,” said the low voice sternly.
“Don’t you tell me who I can’t see!” Spitfire replied haughtily.
I rounded the corner to see an extremely distraught Spitfire. Her wings fluttered with frustration, and a look of panic was about her face. She was desperately trying to weave around a Doctor, who blocked her with a lazy hoof.
“He needs his rest.”
Spitfire made a furious growling noise, an angry scowl flickering across her face.
“Move. Now.”
The medical pony gulped. Suddenly the pretty young mare in front of him was twice as intimidating, and he felt half as tall. He stepped to one side gingerly, and let her stalk by him, tail swishing in agitation.
I walked up to him, and saw that he was standing by, peering into the room, puzzled.
“Hello there,” I said amiably, to which he jumped.
“Who are you?” he said, sounding a little less gruff and a little more worried.
“I’m a doctor,” I said. “There will be two policeponies, the patient's student, and a private detective coming up in a moment. Would you be so kind as to direct them in here?”
He gave no look of comprehending what I said, instead simply opening and closing his mouth in disbelief.
“There’s a good fellow,” I added with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder with a hoof before pushing my way into the room.
I closed the door behind me, and, turning back, immediately saw the Colonel.

He was not as youthful as he had been before, and his face reflected it. He was quite pale and gaunt – even against the white bedsheets of the hospital. He looked in equal parts pained and pleased to see me and spitfire, and he looked up from where she clung to his neck, gasping at me as I entered.
“Alright then, Doctor?” he wheezed.
“Spitfire!” I said hurriedly. “I think you’re choking him.”
Spitfire immediately relaxed the vice-like embrace of the hug she was giving him, and the colour rushed back into the Colonel’s face, restoring his handsome features.
“Phew! Thank you, Doctor…” he said, gasping a little. “I don’t know how much more of that I could have taken.”
Spitfire glowered at him, and I drew up a seat for myself. Spitfire, I noticed, hurried to shift her seat alongside Flash’s bed, taking the Colonel’s blue-grey hoof in both of her own. He gave her a nervous smile, and the two stared at each other.
We sat in silence for a moment, before I felt obliged to ask the obvious question.
“How are you feeling?”
“A little hollow, if you’ll forgive the expression,” The Colonel said, turning his pale grey eyes towards me. “Did you get the blighter?”
“Twice,” I replied.
His shoulders relaxed somewhat.
“Good, good…” he murmured, and I saw that a greater weight had been removed from his shoulders then he had let on. “Then it’s all over.”
“I should say so,” said Pones, as he opened the door behind us, causing all three of us to jump. Rainbow Dash was following him, her eyes lighting up as she set her eyes on the Colonel. She gave an excited squeal and swiftly brushed by us both to hug him, but she paused at the edge of the bedside, looking down at him morosely.
“Would you stop doing that?!” I said to Pones, bristling.
“Doing what?” he inquired.
I made a resigned noise, and, without further challenge, he drew up a seat for himself.
“Where are the others?” I inquired.
“Bradsteed and Gregson chose to wait outside,” Pones said.
“Uh, Doc,” Rainbow Dash’s voice asked from to my left.
“Yes?” I replied, turning and seeing her still standing by the side of the Colonel’s bed.
“Am I allowed to hug him?”

To be honest, I had no idea what his surgery entailed, as I was not his physician, but I was convinced that she could do no harm, so I smiled and nodded. After all, if the poor stallion was not choked to death by Spitfire, then what were the odds that the energetic filly could do any worse?

Quite high, as it turned out. She did not so much hug him as let out a great whoop of delight before savagely seizing him around the midriff. The Colonel winced in pain for a second time, but made no show of it. I opened my mouth to scold Dash, but the Colonel caught my eye, and I too said nothing.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Coach,” Rainbow Dash said. Her words was muffled from beneath the tuft of fur on the Colonel’s chest, but unlike her usual coarse and brash manner, they were rather squeaky and quiet.
“You too, Dash,” her instructor said, patting her on the head with his spare hoof.

The cyan Pegasus raised her head and wiped her eyes quickly with a forehoof, as though she did not want to be seen upset. It was only a moment before she released her hug, taking a seat at the foot of the bed.
“Something in my eye,” she muttered to herself, rubbing them with balled-up hooves.
I looked away to the Colonel, not wanting to attract attention to her obvious anxiety. He gave me a faint smile, before glancing over at my friend.
“Pones,” The Colonel said cordially, nodding his head.
“Very good to see you alive and well, Colonel,” Pones said. The mention of his mortality set me on edge, but I knew from the very serious expression on my friend’s face that he meant every word.
“Yes, well, at least it’s all done now.”
“Not quite.”
The colour vanished from the Colonel’s face once more.
“How do you mean?” He said.
“I mean that you must now explain yourself to those present,” Pones replied sternly.
I looked confusedly from one to the other before realising what my friend had said before.
“What is there to explain, exactly?” I asked, puzzled.
“We shall start, as always, from the beginning,” said Pones. “And hopefully, with the Colonel’s input, we shall put this little saga away under lock and key.”
The Colonel objected almost instantly.
“Must I? Come now, my friend, surely there is no harm done by leaving history out of it!”
“You owe it to everypony in here to fess up.”
I felt the blood rush to my face.
“What are you saying?” Spitfire added, glancing at her commanding officer. The Colonel shifted uncomfortably in his bed.
“I am saying that Mr. Flash has not been entirely honest,” Pones replied, touching his hooftips together pensively and staring at the Colonel.

Everypony in the room then watched the Colonel, expecting an explanation. He looked dejected, miserable, and then, as he gave up, totally defeated.
“Alright then,” he said with a deep sigh. “But before I begin, I want to make one thing very clear.”
“And what would that be?” Pones said.
“I did not do anything wrong.”
“The ponies whose lives you’ve so carelessly risked will be the judge of that,” he replied.
The Colonel winced again. I found it exceedingly unnerving to watch him and the profound effect that Pones was having on him.
“It all starts with Firestone.”
“I have already explained to them how you were in Charge.”
“O-oh?” His voice shook a little. “Well, I don’t know where I should begin…”
“Maybe you should start by saying how you know Moran.”
Dash butted in loudly, glaring fiercely at her coach.
“Wait – you know this psycho?”
The Colonel shrunk a little under her intense gaze.
“Yes,” he replied.
“How?”
“He was in Firestone with me.”
“And…?” Pones said, waving a hoof expectantly.
The bedridden Pegasus looked around for an escape. Finding none, he stared at his lap.
“He was the one maimed by the dragon. It tore his wing off at the shoulder.”

I turned inwardly. For a Pegasus to lose a wing was devastating. I had mercifully never had to amputate one before, but it was the mere sympathy within me that such an injury conveyed. Pegasus were majestic, proud, and brave. For one to lose the ability to fly - it would be akin to the deepest and most anguished torture to look at the sky every day and not be able to soar through it.

Spitfire gasped a little and turned a faint shade of cream. Even Rainbow Dash’s usual bravado was punctured by the announcement, and she turned blankly to the Colonel, mouth slightly open.
“W-what does that mean?”
“It means, Miss Dash,” Pones replied,“That–”
“Wait!”
I turned away from Pones, surprised. The Colonel was sitting fully upright, holding a hoof out. The other was still being tensed tightly by Spitfire. He gave her a guilty look and pried it loose.
“I’ll tell the story, if you don’t mind.”
Pones nodded, and he cleared his throat.
“There was an error.”
“An error?”
“A mistake. My mistake. He lost his wing because of it.”

He continued to stare at his lap, though now he had stopped fidgeting. All trace of nervousness had gone, and in its place was sadness. There was a long silence.
“I called the shots. I didn't give the order, but I got him hurt,” the Colonel said. “Clear as that.”
“B-but… you were cleared,” Spitfire stammered, reaching out to comfort him.
“No!” He said, flinching away from her grasp and speaking surprisingly firmly.
Spitfire looked as though he’d slapped her.
“It was still my fault. Accidents happen because ponies make mistakes, and it doesn’t matter if they did it on purpose or not. I did a bad job of training him.”

He took a deep breath, and shifted his gaze to the window. Outside, the morning sun had given way to a slight veil of grey cloud.
“I did it, whether I meant to or not,” he said. “I did it. I killed those two foals, Pones, and ruined Moran's life.”
The silence was total, utter, deafening. A solitary tear found its way down the officer’s usually handsome features.
“And now, I've killed my best student. I killed feathers.”
“Don’t be like that…” Spitfire said comfortingly. “The report clearly says that you didn’t give the order, and we know for a fact that you didn’t kill Feath–”

Something in the Colonel snapped. He gave no sign of anger, but in a moment of swiftness, he seized a glass from a nearby table and hurled it at the wall, where it exploded into a million pieces. Dash flinched in fright, as did Spitfire. Pones did not even bat an eyelid.
The silence returned for a moment, before the door opened behind us. The doctor stuck his head in, unsure.
“What was that?”
“Oh, just a glass,” I said.
There was an awkward pause, and I saw the Doctor’s eyes fly to the indentation left in the wall, and the splattering of the water there.
“Right. I’ll come back later and clean it up.”
The stallion retracted his head, and the door closed with a soft clink of metal on metal.

I turned my attention back to the Colonel. He continued to look out the window, though his jaw was set, his cheeks were forced into an expression of nothingness. Tears still continued to stream from his face.
“Feathers used to say that I was hard to know. Like a closed book. All he saw was my exterior.” He paused, releasing a shuddering breath. “Celestia, I loved those kids,” he muttered. “I killed them. I didn’t do it. But I didn’t do enough. That’s why they died. Because of me.”

The Colonel glanced at us, one by one, trying to read our faces. There was nothing to read. Everybody was too stunned and shocked to say a word.

Except for Spitfire.
“That doesn’t make you a murderer.”
Flash scoffed, an incredulous smile coming about his features.
“That’s probably the worst part of it. It doesn’t. And neither does this ordeal.”
He grinned at me. I could see through the forced expression that he burned with anger and self-hated.
“I should be the one with no wing, no career. Everything I have, I owe to them.”
His jaw trembled.
“And now, by not acting sooner, I've killed feathers.”
Rainbow Dash stood up angrily, glaring at her Instructor.
“You didn’t do anything!” she shouted, bringing the noise in the room to deafening levels. “You didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it, and none of us did it! So just shut up!”
Her face crumpled with those last words, and she broke into small sobs. Immediately Spitfire rose, coming over to the side of the bed and coaxing her with a hoof.
“Hey now, Dashie, don’t cry…”
She hustled the distraught filly into her own seat, and I hastily gave up my own, coming to stand at the end of the bed. Spitfire immediately drew the seat close together, allowing the bereaved Pegasus to lay her curious multi-coloured mane on her own shoulder, where she made motherly sounds.

Flash was forced to watch the pitiful sight of the ever-Loyal Pegasus breaking down. That was too much for him.
“I knew he’d want to get back at me.”
“You mean Moran?” I asked. I did not enjoy asking the questions, but somepony had to do it, and the two mares should not have to.
Here, he looked guiltier than ever. He averted his eyes to his lap once more.
“Yes. I talked to him. He hated me. He blamed me for what happened. And then, when I was acquitted, he would not even speak to me, but he said that he would have his revenge. ‘I’ll take your life apart piece by piece’, He spat at me.”
He shuddered.
“He was an angry foal. Parents hated him. Life hated him. And, when he signed up, for the first time in his life, he’d finally got a bit of happiness in the army. He was good. Real good. Would have made a wonderbolt, maybe. Losing his wing was like losing everything he’d ever had, and more.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t pull the trigger. But I should have trained him better. I should have made my orders clearer. He made a basic mistake. And that’s my fault, because I was his teacher.”
“You can’t change what somepony else does. You are blameless.”
“But I did!” the Colonel snapped.
I said nothing. He continued to watch me from behind angry, watery grey eyes.
“I changed him when I met him. He idolized me, and he signed up just to emulate me. He used to be a deadbeat, and then, a year later, he was one of the academy's top fliers. Until he lost it all doing something stupid. I know if I’d changed him a little harder, he mightn’t have lost his wing.”
“So he got even,” Pones said quietly.
“Yes. It took him years, and I managed to press his threats to the back of my mind. And then, when he finally came for me, I wasn't fast enough on the uptake. Again, ponies died because of my slowness."
"How did you know it might be Moran?"
"It didn't occur to me until after I went to see Fletcher."
"Your second-in-command, you mean?" Pones clarified.
"Yes. He was my senior in every way but rank, and I looked up to him immensely."
"You were not sure it was Moran at the time," Pones said. "You went to Fletcher's house to talk the matter of your pupil's death over with him, but you were rebuffed by the constable at the door."
My ears pricked at the thought.
"Do you mean to say that you were that stallion in the brown coat...?"
"Yes, I was. I saw you as you ran past, though I did not hail you." He looked at his clasped forehooves instead of addressing me directly.
"And then what did you do?" I pressed.
"I went and mourned in the park," he said flatly, staring at the wall opposite the bed, where drops of water had pooled with the shards of glass. "I thought about who would do such a thing. I was torn in my grief. My two greatest friends in the world, who I had loved and cherished as brothers..." He paused. "And it was that very thought that sparked the memory of Moran. The military style, the brutal execution... It fitted. I wasted no time in going to the police - instead, I flew home, got my service revolver, and flew straight to Spitfire’s.”

The room was deathly silent as the Colonel paused to draw breath.
“I could not be certain if she was to be next, but I knew that whoever it was, they had already taken my student and my best friend...”
The Colonel looked over at Spitfire.
“I would sooner die then let them take the love of my life.”
Dash’s head perked up from Spitfire’s shoulder. She was still upset, but it did not stop her surprise.
“W-what!?” she stammered, her voice still hoarse.
“Yes, Dashie. I had hoped to keep it on the backburner, lest the press got wind of it. But it is true, and I was prepared to risk my life to save her.”
The bewildered cyan pegasus looked over at her surrogate sister. Spitfire was biting her lip, a solitary tear falling from one eye. The Colonel smiled weakly.
“It was a good guess,” I said.
“It was an assured guess,” he replied, looking over at me. “It was clear to me that this murderer was truly after me. Piece by piece.”
“So you stood outside and waited?...” I asked timidly. I gulped down the black fear that had engulfed me during my own night vigil, and imagined the sheer strength of will that must have kept the Colonel glued to the staircase, hour after intermidable hour.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Spitfire asked, her own voice raspy.
“...I was going to,” he replied. “When I arrived at the house, Doctor Trotson was already there. I knew then that I could act in concert with him, and that your safety would be garaunteed.”
“But... why didn’t you tell me?” she repeated her question more insistently.
“It was for the best,” he replied. “Better to put both you and the good doctor out of harm’s way.”
“But he had a gun,” I objected.
“Aye, and he had his banded knife too. He put it away when he saw me, and went for his gun, but it did not matter to me. Once I clapped eyes on Moran, there was no more question of it. It was either him or me, and what we killed eachother with was of little concern.”
“It was a brave thing you did,” Pones said dryly. “Brave, but dishonest.”
“I would sooner have died than lived with the knowledge that I had had the chance to do something and did nothing,” the Colonel replied. “And yes, it was dishonest. I only hope that it has been enough to admonish me in your eyes. It has done nothing to assuage my own guilt.”
The wonderbolt Captain gazed wistfully out of the window. Outside, the light rolled in, though the warmth it brought was marred by the sad scene before us. Dash continued to hiccup every now and again.

It was Spitfire who broke the silence.
“You can’t do this to yourself,” she said simply. “It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”
The Colonel opened his mouth, gasping in invisible pain. I knew that pain all too well. Like a stone stake driven through one’s heart, it burns hotter than any dragon fire.
“But if I had been quicker...”
She moved swiftly. I saw merely a flash of discipline she had. A vague fragment of the loyalty, found in the lifetime of servitude and training, and a hint of steely resolve in her eyes, flecked with tears of compassion. She hugged the Colonel and wept openly, cutting him off.
“Don’t!” she sobbed. “Don’t say you could have done anything. Because you couldn’t have.”
I could see the seasoned veteran struggle to keep a straight face.
“Do you still... Do you still love me?” he asked.
She gazed up at him, golden eyes still filled with crystalline dew.
“More than ever,” she returned shakily.

He let out a deep sigh of relief and embraced her, nuzzling her silently, his tears mingling with hers. As I sit writing this, my chest burns merely to think about how much pain he must have been in, but he obviously cared nothing for himself.

Dash, who wore an expression of pure misery, began to bawl, and immediately flung herself upon the pair.
“S-stop it, you guys!” she wailed, hugging them both. “Y-you’re making me cry a-hic!-again!”
It was at that point that I took my leave. Pones had already left.
“Time heals all wounds,” Pones said, smiling at me as we exited the back-door. “You need not worry for our dear friend, the Colonel. His self-blame has no solid hoof to stand on, and he will realise that in the end, provided Spitfire is there to remind him.”

I felt half-inclined to ask him how on earth he had divined my concern for the unfinished tale. But we were not on actually on the earth. Up here in the clouds, where Celestia’s sun shone brightest, anything might have been possible.
“You may consider the matter settled,” Pones said.
I felt my face turn into a smile for what felt like the first time in weeks.

Why does every adventure with Pones consume so much time, one wonders?

* * *

We returned home via the next available balloon. I never thought I’d be so pleased to just go home, or to see the people I hold dear!

...It’s a shame that my wife couldn’t say the same for me.

She sat in the doorway of my Ponyville home-to-be, forelegs folded, and an extremely cross look on her face. When I asked what was wrong, she threw a magazine at me.

It was one of the many rags containing all the latest celebrity news. Hot off the Cloudsdale presses, the front page boasted. Unfortunately for me, this was quite literal.

“What’s wrong!?” she said, her voice reaching an incredulous squeak.

‘Spitfire has a new boy toy! More inside...’ the gossip rag read. Upon the front was a big picture of yours truly... (No, I’m not going to put it here. Go find it yourself!)
“...Horsefeathers, the mail gets around quickly,” I mumbled.
Felicia stormed inside.

Thankfully, by the end of the day, I had explained all there was to be explained (and become sufficiently practiced in catching thrown crockery in my teeth).

I don’t recall ever being paid in the matter, but as always, I cared little. I did recieve a rather interesting envelope in the mail, though, and I have had it framed and set upon Felicia’s mantle-piece. It was a thank-you card, signed by the entire wonderbolts team. Mercifully, Redheart failed to notice the little hearts that dotted the ‘i’ in the name of wonderbolt’s newest recruit...

She was slightly disapproving of the way I had so recklessly endangered myself, but it was with a good heart that she endured me. Not that I blamed her at all, of course.

She had less tolerance for Pones, though. She swore she’d wring his neck the next time she saw him for risking my life like that.

(He’s yet to come round for dinner.)

3. The Adventure of the Canterlot Colleges

The Adventure of the Canterlot Colleges

It was a bright, crisp December morning, and the snow of the previous day still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the winter sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown, crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and on the edges of the footpath it lay as white and pure as when it fell. The pavement itself had been scraped clean, but it was still perilously slippery and icy. The fact that it had been raining that morning turned the road into slush.

The cart that bore me to number 22 that morning skidded to a halt. The driver gave a nervous snort as he pulled up, his hooves kicking up a small spray of white as he fought for traction on the ice-laden cobblestones. The steel capped workshoes that most tradesponies wore around Canterlot were not well-suited to ice at the best of times, let alone the black sort that had melted and refrozen in the rather sunny winter we were having. It was for this very reason that I stepped from the cab with caution - after all, it would not do to slip and end up on my rump like a newborn foal, least of all on a busy thoroughfare where my error might be noticed the most.

Having succeeded in keeping on all fours, I paid the apprehensive cabpony, and as he trundled away I found myself on the embarking point of many of my adventures - the oak doorway of my temporary, and soon to be former residence. It was exceedingly strange to me, looking at that door from the outside, and thinking that I might not pass through its homely threshold after today...

I had not stood there for longer than a moment when suddenly, the handle of the door turned and swung inward.

Before me stood a well-dressed mare. In fact, it was her dress that I noticed first, for it was such a gorgeous blend of deep blue and pink silk that it struck me as most beautiful. It ran from the tip of her jet-black hooves, finely-shoed and barely visible beneath the hem of the great gown, up to the top of her chest, where it formed a deep V-neck. It met around her back in a slender, rose-coloured bow, and was sequinned with fine buttons of navy blue. She also wore a pink petticoat over the top of the ensemble so as to keep out the cold, which she wore from the waist down, and flowed down her back legs. Juxtaposed against her dress and her very own coat (which was a similiar, yet darker hue of rose) she struck me as someone well to-do, and to reinforce my thoughts, around her neck hung a rather ostentacious gold chain. It was not the flash of the metal that attracted my eyes, though, so much as the enormous fire-red ruby that hung from it, cut in an elongated oval.

Her attire must have cost a small fortune, I thought to myself!

In my few months with Pones, I have learned a few of his more curious methods of observation. He reminded me of them so frequently that they could not help but be burned into my mind, and as I gazed at that dress, the words taught me well. Always observe the shoes, then the cuffs, and then their coats. I saw, in my momentary glance, that the hem of her dress - despite its long and luxurious nature - was completely dry, as if no snow had fallen upon it, and that her sleeves bore no salt marks from touching the powder either.

I did not think much of it at the time, for my brief examination lasted only a split-second, and my attention became drawn wholly to the pretty face the dress belonged to. I had not seen it at first, for she had over her eyes a fascinator of the same deep blue as her dress, set with a tricolour of roses. The hat tilted up when she realised that somepony was in her way... And immediately I was help captive by her stare.

My fiancee sits behind me making disapproving noises as I write. Jealously, thy name is mare indeed - though who among us, stallion or mare could not be envious of such a set of eyes!

I was almost confident she gave me a once-over, as if sizing me up. Her irises were a light forest-green, though her eyes were half-lidded and shaded with mascara. I should have thought the look to be very sultry and flirtatious were it not for the fact that a snap-second later, they widened a little, and she let out a small gasp of surprise.

"Doctor Trotson! How are you?"
So enthusiastic was her greeting - and indeed, she leaned in and kissed me on both cheeks in the manner of a good friend - that I instantly broke into a state of nervousness. I had absolutely no idea who she was, though her wealthy attire and the whiff of a Prench perfume on her neck made me think she might have been a client of mine.
"Very well, and you yourself?" I replied, deciding to play my bluff.
"Ah, well, I have just been up to see Pones." here, she crinkled her nose momentarily in a gleeful smile. "Did you know he has not had a case for almost a month?"

Admittedly, I had visited Pones several times since the conclusion of our last mystery. Every time, he had been either drunk or sleeping, and his room was in such a total state of disarray it disgusted me. It did not take a genius like him to see that he had fallen into a slump.
"Yes, he's been a little quiet lately, though it is nothing unusual for him. Often, his lack of work is of his own choosing, and he merely waits for the right opportunity to come by." Here, I could not help but frown a little at the thought of my companion's idle mind.
"He waits for life to kiss him on the lips," the stranger replied with a wry smile. I was somewhat confused by the analogy, but smiled politely and nodded in agreement. She was quite correct.
"And when is the wedding?" the mare added sweetly.
The smile dropped from my face. This, then, was somepony who knew me personally, and I had done her the discourtesy of forgetting not only her name, but her face too.
"Uhh... The twenty-third of January."
She let out a small cry of disappointment.
"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, but I'm in Dodge Junction all weekend for work." Her face fell into a frown. I was quite stunned, and my mind still raced to place her in my head.
"Oh, that's alright," I replied with a small wave of my hoof. Perhaps she was one of Felicia's colleagues, I reasoned to myself. But then why would she need to travel all the way to Dodge Junction?
"I'll send a gift," she said sincerely, as though she had not believed my pardon. "Really, I am truly sorry to miss Felicia's dream-come-true." She sighed a little, drawing her coat tighter around herself.
"I've heard that before," I said with a smile, rolling my eyes a little. Aha, I thought to myself. She knows my wife. I don't have to remember her name, and therefore am in the clear. My internal monologue was given some reprieve.
"Anyway, I'd love to stay and chat," she said, her gaze unfaltering, "But I've got to canter off to some other business in Whitechapel. Can you tell her I said hello?"
Horsefeathers.
"Certainly," I lied. "Do send a letter if you can suddenly make it, won't you?"
"Absolutely I will, dear!" She kissed me on both cheeks again. "Do take care of yourself, won't you?"
"I'll try," I jested, stepping aside as the Mare walked out onto the snowy porch. Before she could take more then a few steps, though, she turned her keen green eyes to me again.
"By the way, do you know if Pones will be in Ponyville for your wedding?"
"I most certainly hope so."
"Excellent!" she said, and I noticed her features brighten visibly. "Good day, Doctor!"
"Good day," I replied, smiling and nodding.
The mysterious mare then departed, leaving me alone once more, feeling immensely confused.

_____

I trudged up the carpeted stairs to my familiar room. There was not much more to be done, and today marked the final day I would need to fully remove my belongings from my solitary abode.

It took some convincing on Felicia's part to seperate me from Pones. While Canterlot was not particularly dear to me, and indeed the charms of the small country town were something I longed for in my life, I was not entirely willing to say goodbye to my dear friend.

The adventures we'd had were by far some of the most interesting things I'd ever done, and I knew I would miss him dearly for all his queerness. Not that Ponyville was particularly far from Canterlot - as he and I had discussed, a casual visit was only ever a few hours away. He had looked morose when I told him of my intentions to join my fiancee in Ponyville, though he nodded and smiled bravely at the news.
"As expected, old boy."

He had been excited about attending the wedding at first. I could tell that he was so, for the restless energy that he poured into his studies and cases increased twofold in the November and early December since he heard. But as the impending date of my departure drew nearer, I could see in him a slight resentment for her. I did not ever entertain the thought that he might have been jealous of her, but I knew that my own acquaintance to Pones had endeared him to me, and I hoped for him to feel similiarly.

I had decided long ago that this would be my last instance in number 22 as his roommate, and it embittered me to rap twice on the study door. It was an unusual reply that greeted me, though - not one of the usual, solemn command of 'enter', or complete silence. Instead, there was a loud clanging sound, followed by the soft utterance of an oath, and then, a hastily spoken welcome.
"Is that you, Trotson? Come in, come in!"
I did as I was obliged, pulling the door open a little and sticking my head in. This was a precautionary measure on my part - unusual noises from Pones' room could have meant any number of things. Usually they were thanks to Pones testing some of his more ingenious inventions - some of which were fascinating, and others of which were more lethal.

It was not a scene of total disaster that greeted my eyes as I panned them once around the room. Pones was sitting comfortably on the leather recliner, smiling politely at me. All around there were scattered the vague intricacies of his creations, though none of them were smoking, buzzing or crackling - a good sign. In one of his hooves was a steel poker for the fire, and I guessed that his surprise was what had made him drop it, though I knew not why he would be alarmed at my presence.

Indeed, it was I who was first astonished - primarily because there seemed to be nothing amiss, and secondly because the room looked a good deal less messier than when I had last seen it. I expressed my surprise succinctly.
"Did Mrs. Emerald finally get tired of your junk and throw half of it away?"
"None of this," Pones said, gesturing around with a hoof, "Is junk. It is organised. Everything is exactly where I want it."
I came into the room fully, and was a little disheartened to see that my companion did not rise to greet me. Instead, he continued to sit on the recliner.
"Come to get your things then?" He asked coldly, his auburn stare penetrating me. I understood straight away why he had not risen to greet me.
"Yes. I just had the cutlery left to collect," I replied. My eyes strayed to the scene immediately in front of Pones idly. It felt bad to hold his gaze for more then a moment.

And that was when I saw it.

"Is... that my bowl?"
Pones had pretended not to hear me. It was impossible, of course - I knew well that his hearing was incredibly keen.
"Hmm?" he asked, looking inconspicuous.
"That," I said, pointing at the shallow, square dish between us. It was a rather expensive gift that I had recieved from a friend of mine in celebration of my wedding. It was oriental by design, and I was somewhat irritated that my friend had been using it to eat nuts out of. Upon reflection, that was probably its original intention, but all the same, my room had been locked, and my indignance was well-placed.
"Did you get that out of my room?" I pressed. Pones shook his head, a thoughtful frown on his face.
"No, I did not get it out of your room," he replied earnestly, shifting his weight slightly on the couch.
Something jingled behind his back. It was only at this point that I realised that he had been making gestures one-hoofed, and that his other hoof was concealed behind his back.
My eyes narrowed.
"...What are you doing back there?"
"Testing."

I was not sure which particular combination of elements clued me into Pones' unfortunate position, but I glanced around curiously once more. I was expecting something to detonate or somepony to jump out at me, but instead my eyes fell upon something much more conclusive.

On top of Pones' desk was a bold, colour daugerrot type photo of a mare. She was an almost complete replica of the stranger who had greeted me at the door, and whose name had eluded me, but her attire had changed. Gone was the magnificent blue gown - it had been replaced by a short-cut black negligee. She wore the same enticing look that she had before, but she had undone her mane, letting it sprawl behind her as she laid back upon a long crimson settee. A sly grin was on her face as she smiled at the camera.

As I saw it standing on the desk, I noticed two things - one was the colour of her mane, which I had not noted, for it had been tied back underneath her hat when I had seen it, and the second were the words that ran underneath

To Pones. Mwah. Xoxo, C-L.

"C-L" I repeated meditatively. Pones' ears pricked a little in slight alarm. "Is that?..." I gestured to the desk, where the framed photo of the lilac and rose-maned mare stood. Pones turned a slight shade of rose himself.
"No, it is not," he said, no longer even trying to hide his attempts to free himself from the cuffs that bound his foreleg.
A malicious grin spread across my face.
"Alright," I declared, after a moment's thought. "What's going on here?" Pones paled a little at my announcement, and picked up the poker, holding it to himself as though it were a sword, and I meant him harm.
"I will say nothing."
"Then you will be stuck there quite a while!" I said with glee, strolling over to the desk and picking up the small brass key that lay in front of the photo frame.
He glared at me sternly as I twirled the keychain on one hoof, lazily slumping onto of the red armchairs. It did not take him long to realise the futility of resisting (and how much I was enjoying it), and he subsequently caved.
"I knew there was something more to you two," I said as he sighed, resting his head on his spare hoof. "I chose not to press it, but her turning up here proves it."
"It proves nothing, dear Trotson," Pones replied wearily. "She has a job for me."
"I'll bet she does."
"Don't be so crass."
I snorted.
"You're the one who's cuffed to the furniture."
"As I said before, I am testing."
"Testing without a key?"
"I am practicing a very ancient method of escaping handcuffs," he said, twisting his hoof awkwardly. "It was simple enough to do with the old model, but these new spring-loaded ones can be somewhat difficult to defeat."
I affixed him with a cynical glare.
"I think we both know that is a lie," I said.
"Certainly not," he replied, unblinking. "The spring-loaded model is by far superior to the old design."
"Pones."

Sensing impending defeat, he held the poker out warningly. The tip of the metal rod swished before my nose, where it remained, quivered a mere inch away from me in feigned menace. I screwed up my snout in irritation, impassive and unflinching.
"Get that out of my face," I said, attempting to brush it aside. The end of the poker did a neat U-turn around the top of my forehoof, coming back to rest at the tip of my muzzle.
"It's not in your face, it's in my hoof."
"Get what's in your hoof out of my face."

He paused. For a moment, the poker waned, and then it fell away altogether as Pones dropped it, beginning to savagely wrestle with the cuffs once more.
"You have no way of proving anything," he added hastily, still trying to extricate himself from the shackles.
"The defense of the guilty stallion!"
"A perfectly legal defense."
"And you are not a lawyer."
Here, we both paused, locking eyes across the small hand-table.
"You broke into my room and took my bowl," I said quietly. He grimaced, and gave up trying to free himself.
"No, that was she."
"I could have sworn that I left it locked."
"You did."
I blinked stupidly at this revelation.
"Do you mean to say that a schoolteacher broke into my room?"
Pones laughed at my statement, slapping the spare hoof on his knee in mirth.
"And here I thought that you had worked it all out for yourself, Trotson!"
"What do you mean?"
"She is obviously not a schoolteacher," he said, his tongue escaping to the corner of his lips as he fidgeted with the cuffs on his wrist. "What sort of schoolteacher wears clothes like that?"
I picked up the small wooden frame that encased his dismay, and waved it at him.
"I assume you are referring to her appearance today, and not in this... photo of yours?"
Pones paused from his task, his eyes flickering to the lascivious picture for the briefest of moments before returning to me.
"Of course."

Here, I got to all fours briefly once more, walking over to the desk and retrieving a small slip of paper. Returning to the imprisoned Pones, I laid it down on the ornate hand-table before him, retrieving a small pencil from my coat-pocket and putting it down on top of the parchment. He looked upset at the sight of it, presumably aware of what I wanted from him. A slight frown came over his face as he looked at me.
"How much do you require me to tell?" He asked quietly.
"Everything," I replied insistently, pushing the table towards him.

Saddlesore

I had been dozing lazily in front of the fire.

Confound myself for doing such a thing! I am a heavy sleeper, but I could not help but fall prey to the soothing warmth on my face, particularly after a drink or two. Fire is an exceedingly strange catalyst. I should have observed its effects on weariness long before, I thought to myself. I lay still for a moment, allowing the tongues of light to dance before my eyes, massaging my limbs with warmness, so deeply gratifying…

...Sod it. I shall do it later.

My recliner claims me as a victim once again.

I must be more cautious in future. Perhaps it was the smoothness of the leather that was so comfortable, or maybe it was my combined weariness from the past few days finally catching up with me.

No matter. Whatever the reason, I slept for quite a while. That much was apparent, for when I came to, it was daylight outside.

Snick, clink.

That noise was irritating. It stirred me, but I did not open my eyes. Something very warm and soft had been draped around my shoulders, and I felt a longing desire to sink into it and ignore whatever the trivial noise was. In my semi-lucid state, I did not realise that I had fallen asleep without a blanket.

Snick, clink.

My ear twitched. ‘What was that sound?’ I remember thinking to myself.

It was like a soft rustling, followed by a high-pitched snap, followed by the soft ping of something as it hit something else. Possibly, the latter noise was porcelain. The former was like that of a twig when stepped on, except that did not make sense, for I was not outside.

Hum, I thought to myself. What could it be?

I lay half-awake for a few moments, allowing my sleepy mind to turn over the problem in my head. It was not a natural sound, though it came at regular intervals – and what of the pinging sound?

I decided that it must have been a nut of some kind, cracked by somepony and dropped from a reasonable height onto some china. I felt much chuffed with my prowess of deduction, and smiled to myself, sinking a little deeper into sleep, and snuggling against whatever had been wrapped around me.

But we don’t have any nuts.

There were several obvious indicators that should have woken me up before that one. For one, I knew quite well that Trotson was moving his things to Ponyville, and would not return until this afternoon. Furthermore, the curtains had been drawn before I fell asleep. Even the strange warmth around my shoulders could and should have tipped me off.

Nevertheless, it has been said by greater scholars then me that the mind works in mysterious ways – and, in this instance, it was that particular thought that struck me as most odd.

My eyes flashed open.

The fire in front of me was the first thing I noticed – it was freshly built and lit. There were merely a few charred embers in the pit when I had lain down, and now there was a fresh pine log cast onto the black grill, merrily spitting every now and again.

“Canterlot is so bleak this time of year,” a feminine voice said from behind me, and I heard the rustling of a dress as somepony moved.

Of course, I knew who it was.

“Not that I pine for somewhere sunnier, of course. I much prefer to travel in the winter,” the voice continued. Hoofsteps came round my head. I had had my back to the stranger, and shut my eyes quickly as she came round, trying to pretend I was still asleep.

The light over my eyelids darkened. She had knelt, leaning just a little closer to me, and blocking out the sunlight…

Something wafted into my nostrils. It was the scent flower of some kind.

Not lilac.

Hmm. Not lavender. Maybe it was sunflowers?

No, wait. Rosaceae. An English Rose. She always wore rose. At least on her neck, anyway. It couldn’t be anyone else but her.

She smirked a little as she bent down. I didn’t need to have my eyes open to know that much. She always had been keener than I at detecting falsehoods (somehow!), so I did not think for a moment that I had fooled her - but I might as well try, I thought. After all, I never particularly enjoyed her visits, brief or protracted.

“It’s highly rude,” the voice said again, “to fall asleep while someone’s talking to you.”

I did not so much as dare tense a muscle. Perhaps she would just leave me and go away, I thought.

Not quite.

She attacked quite suddenly, and took me off guard.

I felt a gentle wetness on my eartip. I was somewhat alarmed and confused - but then the pinpricks of her teeth followed, her tongue tickling me as she tried to force a reaction.

I nearly twitched. I silently caught my breath in surprise, but held strong for the moment.

"Huh," she murmured, dissatisfied.

My charade didn't last. Her next trick was far more devious. She inhaled deeply before releasing herself in a long, blissful shudder.

“Mmm… Pones…”

I kicked a back leg.

My companion glowers at me as I write this, though I can assure you that it was quite literally a knee-jerk reaction. Purely out of surprise at her sly and underhanded ways, and nothing more.

Anyway, she giggled a little, drawing her head back to survey me properly. I sighed, and opened my eyes.

“Guess I still know how to push your buttons,” she said, smiling and kissing me on the nose.

I rolled over uncomfortably. The sequinned blanket that often resided on my bed fell from about my shoulders as I did so.

“Go away.”

My eyes fell on a small china bowl, set upon the small hand-table that usually held my customary glass of scotch. Almonds.

The cracking noise came from behind me again, and a hoof hovered over my mouth, slipping something into it. Unwittingly, I had left my gab open, and I sat up quickly, preparing to spit, thinking it to be poison –

But actually, it was just an almond.

I love almonds.

My eyes looked back down at the china bowl. She had taken that from the cupboard in Trotson’s room. It had been a gift for his wedding from a friend. Dozens of the auburn-coloured nuts lay in it, and all of them were shelled. An entire bowl’s worth, without managing to wake me. I must have been more tired than I realized, or she had become twice as stealthy. Whatever the case, I ate the nut thoughtfully, and she paced back round to the other side of me, taking a seat where my head had been.

“I bought you them. All the way from Appleloosa.”

“How thoughtful,” I replied dryly. “Perhaps you could bring back the emeralds you stole from Lord Canterbury next time, too?”

She gave me an offended look. I could feel it on the side of my face as I stared resolutely out of the window, trying not to eat another nut.

“Why so brusque, Sherclop? I’m only here for a friendly chat.”

“You said some very nasty things last time I tried to have a ‘friendly chat’.”

She sniffed.

“Well, I was supposed to be married at the time. I had to act the part, you know.”

She held another almond under my nose.

I was not going to have another.

She freed her mane a little from its tight bundle with a spare hoof. It fell over her shoulders in long, luxurious strands, each wave its own delicate shade of mauve. The scent was in her hair, too. She shook her head a little to let her locks tumble, stirring the sweet smell up into my nose.

I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I know I didn’t flare my nostrils. It took all of my concentration to avoid that much.
But then I felt the touch of something on my tongue, and I closed my mouth in surprise. In my intense focus, I had not noticed that my lips had parted to help me fill my lungs. She had taken the advantage of my sensory arousal to slip the nut into my mouth.

Very well, I thought. Another point to her. No more, though.

“What did you do with him?” I asked wearily, rubbing a hoof on my forehead.

“Which one?”

“The cotton investor.”

“Ugh, he was such a bore.”

A beat passed, and I tried not to open my eyes or enjoy the almond in my mouth. Both feats were impossible, and she knew that quite well. I glanced over at her, and noticed she was watching me with a smoky gaze, her pale green eyes peeking from under the blue fascinator that she wore, boring into me. I swallowed and replied.

“I take it the ring wasn’t to your liking?”

She smiled playfully, holding a magenta hoof up to me. Around its very edge was the small tan-line where I knew she must have worn the wedding band. Or rather, where she hadn’t been wearing it – the pale fur that would usually announce a married mare was barely visible.

“No. Not that I care for such things.”

“Ah, a shame,” I uttered, with the driest sarcasm I could muster. “Another broken heart to your name.”

“Oh, I don’t think it bothered him,” she said sweetly. “He had his eyes and hooves on his secretary – a dear little filly from Hoofington. The way I see it, I did him a favour by leaving him." She sighed, and scooted an inch closer to me, nuzzling my neck. “Mmm. Tell me, Sherclop, why are all stallions so greedy and stupid?”

“Why, thank you.”

She giggled.

“Of course, you’re the obvious exception to the rule.”

I chose to ignore the jibe, and concentrate on polite conversation.

“So you took his money?” I said, still staring straight ahead.

“He was jealous. And I was bored. Do you think I would do anything else?”

I blinked at the blue wallpaper that had only recently become my preference. Perhaps not, I thought.

“Why do you keep returning to me between husbands?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re just a side interest. More like jobs,” she said vaguely, shuffling a little closer and turning side on, clasping my right hoof in both of hers.

While such a comment coming from any other woman would have seemed facetious, I could believe her.

She had… a somewhat illustrious career as a thief. I met her during a little investigation of my own. I would have said she had met me, but I had the good fortune to take her by surprise. I know a good deal about her, and I have an extensive file on her doings and whereabouts – I find her to be an equally intriguing criminal and mare. Usually the two (and here I refer to her sex and criminality) do not go hand-in-hand, or at least in any degree of success, though if her years-old vocation could be measured in wealth, it would surpass my own by several notches.

She had been about to ‘acquire’ a bracelet of freshwater pearls from a client of mine. I found that to be quite unacceptable. Instead of turning her in, though, I had talked to her, so as to gain a clearer understanding of her motives. That much is nothing unusual, of course – I always try to understand the methods of the common criminal.

Except that she wasn't a common criminal. Oh no. She was so much more than just a common criminal.

Her responses to my questions were direct and straightforward - admittedly, that took me off guard. Usually, criminals had to be subdued or cuffed before they would... lend me their secrets. She simply confessed to her doings in such a clear-cut and nonchalant manner that it intrigued me, and we... hit it off, as Trotson might say.

Stallions who longed after her good looks were just another facet of her repertoire. While she did not say so, she seemed to take some small glee in depriving the greedier ones of their wealth, leaving large, lump anonymous donations to charities in the forms of money or food. Though admirable, I do not know why she does this. She truly is a criminal without motive – or rather, her motive is not one that is measurable in golden bits.

I would have understood more of her, but she then chose to depart, on the condition that she would give the pearls to me. I laughed, and guaranteed nothing, but agreed to release her into the hooves of a then-young policepony. He shall remain unnamed to save his embarrassment – for when I came back to speak to her (the pearls having been to their rightful owner), she had escaped.

From thereon, though, she developed a rather strange fascination for me that I found (and still find) quite… unsettling. Perhaps it’s because I caught her in the first place, and inadvertently became a rival of some description. I would be lying if I said her professional interest was unrequited. Indeed, I find her to be a… fascinating example of a criminal.

An intellectual – merely bored, seeking entertainment as I do. Quite unlike any other mare I have met before, and indeed, we share many things.

Her more sincere feelings, though...

She tugged on the leg she held, pulling me a little closer. Slowly, she traced her hoof up and down my own as she lightly kissed her way along the line of my neck, trying to catch my gaze. As she reached my cheek again, the kisses became a little more longing – still quick to the touch, but slowly-paced, so that all I could feel was the warm tickle of her lips.

I shuddered a little as I felt her hot breath in my ear for a second time.

“I don’t suppose you’re busy this weekend?”

“I’m not, but I don’t intend to spend it with you.”

She let me go with a huff, sinking back onto her side of the recliner, where she eyed me sulkily.

“You never even gave me a chance to ask.”

“You’re not a foal, so don’t act like one. You know why I won’t.”

The petty expression vanished, only to be replaced by her smouldering half-grin.

“Fair enough, but I happen to know that you just finished your last job, so you have no reason not to.”

She handed me the copy of The Canterlot Times that Trotson had left a copy of on my desk.

The desk!

Underneath was my safe. In it, my personal affections. My eyes flitted over to the rug that covered it. It was well-concealed beneath the floorboards. Perhaps she had not noticed it yet. I did not want her opening it and gaining the wrong impression, after all.

“Your companion is very interesting,” she said, leaning forward to scrutinise Trotson’s youthful face in the photograph. “Is he a permanent fixture of your life now?”

“He’s a good friend.”

Her eyebrows rose a little. “And your chronicler, or so I’ve read.”

“I assure you, he inflicts such a chore upon himself.”

Her hoof grasped the paper and lifted it a little closer.

“He’s very, very interesting…” she said, a tiny smile playing about her lips.

“Don’t get any ideas.”

She glanced up, fixing me with an innocent, surprised expression.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He is married.”

“Now, why would I be thinking about something like that?” she said, that ever-so-slightly sweet edge back in her voice.

“Because you are immoral and wicked?” I replied curtly.

“Just the way you like it, then?”

I blanched a little. Here, her smile widened into a grin, and she began to knead my hoof slowly in her own.

“I need a favour.”

I could not help myself. My ears pricked a little, and my chest stirred.

“And pray tell, why should I help you?’

“Hmm... Consider it repayment for me tipping you off about that burglary at the Royal Museum a few months ago,” she said. The kneading became somewhat more insistent.

“Can’t you find somepony else to help you out with that?” I asked flatly.

I admit freely, I made a mistake here – and in my defense, I am only a stallion. Had I been of the fairer gender, I would have seen straight through her charms. It was a cheap and ambiguous trick from her, but I knew she never minded cheating. It was just another one of her underhooved methods, not dissimilar to the ones she used on her husbands.

There was a short pause, and after it had passed, I glanced over at her. The smile had widened into a smug grin. Her eyes had not lost their hot stare, and were a little wider than before, as though she was pleased at what she was hearing.

“Actually, I just wanted to ask about something else,” she said, her expression placating back to its usual radiant self. It’s lovely to know your mind is still in the gutter, though.”

My stomach did a somersault.

“My mind is not in the gutter!” I objected. “I merely assumed –”

“That you’re all I seem to think about these days?” She finished, blinking at me innocently. “Certainly not. Now, the question is, why would you be thinking about that?”

Another cutting blow. I chose not to reply.

“It’s not really a favour,” she continued, ignoring my determination to deny her affections, as... unwanted as they were. “More like… A referral. I know somepony who needs your help.”

I glanced over at her.

“Who?”

“A friend of mine. A young filly who I taught at school.”

“I find it most interesting that you call those foals your friends.”

She smiled softly again.

“She’s not that young. College age, at the least. But you know that doesn’t bother me. I’m a teacher. Some of my students are merely foals, yet I count them amongst my friends.”

“Yes, yes, yes. That, and the thieving is just a side interest. You’ve told me all this before.”

A pensive pause filled the air. The fire crackled, casting spindly shadows that danced across the walls.

“You still consider me more of a criminal than a normal pony?” She asked.

“Perhaps.”

The silence continued to deafen me.

She let go with of my leg with one hoof and twisted in the light before us, observing where the pale band had once been.
“…In any case, I think I’d like to be myself for a while,” she said nonchalantly, turning the hoof this way and that. “Being a trophy wife is a little dreary, particularly when they have uninteresting last names.”

“What’s it to be this week then? Just the usual cover of Irene Saddler, master thief?”

“No. I wouldn’t mind being… Me. For a while, at least.”

That was surprising to me. I had not expected that she had wanted to assume her real identity.

“Thinking of quitting, then?”

“Perhaps,” she said, resuming her pressing into my hoof once more. “Depends if I can get you to move.”

“I don’t think so.”

She sighed. The massaging stopped.

“Why?”

“Because of the nature of my work.”

“I could see you more often.”

“I couldn’t.”

“And you couldn’t just move it down there?”

“I could.”

“So why not do it?”

“I might.”

“When?”

“Whenever the fancy takes me.”

Here, she tugged a little on my right hoof once more. I turned to face her as she did so – I had grown tired of being played with, and felt much like putting a hoof between us if she tried. But it was unnecessary. Instead of her usual antics, she had removed her hat, putting it on the table in front of me. I glanced up at her face, slightly confused. Gone was the enticing, playful attitude that had drawn her here in the first place, and in its place was a frown.

Her silk dress shimmered grey-blue in the morning light as she sat, staring at me, with those big, dulcet, emerald eyes...

“You’d be happy,” she murmured softly, her voice having slunk to barely above a whisper. Her tight grip still on one hoof, she ran the other over the back of my neck. “You know it, and so do I. You’d make me happy, too. We'd be happy...”

Gone was her coquettish attitude. I couldn’t help but remain transfixed in her imploring gaze.

“Just think about it,” she said. “We could just vanish somewhere.”

I wrenched myself away from her, looking out of the window, and onto the paved street below. It had begun to rain lightly.

“Please?” she said insistently. So pitiful was the request that I almost caved and looked back to her…

Almost.

She was just playing another game, surely, a sobering voice in the back of my head said. There’s no part of you that wants her. She’s trouble.

I agree that she’s trouble, I replied to the voice rather sternly. All the same, I’d better put her down gently.

I closed my eyes.

“You’ve asked me this before, and my answer remains unchanged.”

With a tired exhalation, she sighed. Then, she did something quite unexpected. She slipped her forelegs underneath my own, and hugged me.

I was quite used to her amorous advances, and equally skilled in resisting them. She was aggressive in that sense – presumably because she thought she had control over the situation. To her, playing with stallions was just another way to get what she wanted.

But this was different. Her hug was warm, and gentle. Her mane was beneath my nose, and so I could not help but catch another whiff of rose as she embraced me.

That was what she was more like. Gentle, soft.

…Exquisite.

I have to admit, at that point, I did lose track of my rationality for a moment.

“Maybe.”

She looked up to me, surprised.

“Really?”

I couldn’t help but notice that her voice was tinged with the edges of excitement.

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Never steal again.”

Saddler sighed. For a moment, her embrace tightened around my midriff, and she lowered her head onto my chest.

“Why do you always have to make it so difficult?” she said, a trace of sadness in her voice.

Silence reigned. I could hear the occasional metallic clip-clop of hooves on the pavement, and the distant rumble of carts carving a path through the watery road. The clock’s ticks seemed very loud and slow. After a while, I felt her breathing in time with mine, the rise and fall of her chest becoming rhythmic and slow as she held me. I could even feel the beating of her heart as she pressed against me.

I couldn’t help but feel very guilty for thinking of her as trouble. She was so innocent and unassuming when she meant no harm. And kind.

…And warm.

I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to console her, a smaller, quieter voice at the back of my head said.

I draped a foreleg around her shoulders.

Usually, such a victory would have resulted in gloating. She loved my affection, and vied every moment of her visits to acquiring it. But this was different. She didn’t even seem surprised. I suppose she just knew she won at every turn, but... I don’t think she felt like gloating, for once.

I stroked her mane a little.

I don’t know how long we stayed there. I suppose I just lost track of time. Eventually, though, she pulled away from me, getting to her hooves.

“Leaving so soon?” I asked.

“Sadly, yes,” she replied, replacing the elegant hat back upon her mane. She then stooped down, kissing me on the nose. As she straightened up, she gave me a forlorn smile. “I’ll get you yet, Pones.”

Usually, I’d have minded. Or at the very least, pretend I minded. Instead, I smiled back.

She reached into her dress and withdrew an envelope and a small black bag, tossing them onto my lap.

“Maybe some other time,” she added with a wistful tone. “Here is the envelope with her details.”

“I didn’t say I’d take the case.”

“Well, consider it a wager that you will.”

I went to reach for the letter, but something yanked at my right hoof with an ever-familiar jangle.

It was nothing I hadn’t expected, after all. I looked over thoughtfully, tugging softly at my own handcuffs, bound around my foreleg, and the very solid leg of the recliner.

“Did you really have to?” I asked, looking back to her. But my gaze fell upon an empty room. She had gone. Vanished, like a puff of smoke, without even so much as a sound.

I glanced over to my desk. Propped up was a picture on my desk. I simply sighed as my eyes fell upon its contents, for I knew well that it was far out of my reach. I made no attempt to break free until I realised Trotson would be arriving momentarily...

And that is how I came to be sitting in my study, cuffed to the furniture, with almonds, money, and a card in my lap.

1. The Adventure of the Lion's Diamond

The Adventure of the Lion's Diamond

(Or; The tale in which Mr. Pones and Myself are Introduced)

It must have been many years back that I took my Doctorate of Medicine from the University of Canterlot. I studied under a unicorn known as Lifeglow, who had forty years’ medical experience, and lectured of his own accord. He needed not the money, for he was a very well-established practitioner, and as such had considerable time to pass on his knowledge. Such a committed student of his was I, that as I came to know him better, he started to draw me aside for private lessons, in which he taught me his own personal knowledge of physiology and medicine.

My admiration for the old stallion was so that I did not baulk at the opportunity to progress my studies further, despite the huge workload, and least of all in his presence - and so, he tutored me throughout my latter years at university. Looking back, I find that the whimsical lessons in life that he peppered his tutorials and lectures with stuck to me.

He claimed that it was best to travel far and learn while you were still young, and encouraged me endlessly to leave the city and start my own practice. Thus, when I completed my studies, I duly traveled in all directions from Canterlot, attempting to find a place where one might settle down and begin anew – a place with friendly locals and a warm atmosphere, which might promise me a fair share of business and esteem.

Certainly, the search was diverse and took me to faraway places, though my adventures were not always wholly in the spirit of my initial reason – I fear that I spent more time sightseeing and living for the moment than house hunting. In my many travels I was fortunate enough to meet many wonderful people that would have happily rented me lodgings, but I was unwilling to burden them while I sought work. Where I could, I attempted to pave my way by doing menial tasks, so as to make the experience last just a little longer, and indeed such a way of living was very beneficial to me – I learnt much, and grew a good deal stronger and wiser. But alas, eventually my funds dwindled, and I was forced to return to Canterlot to seek employment.

I obtained a job as a local doctor, just a small way away from Canterlot castle. The job was at a private clinic, not a hospital, and as such there were some hours not consumed by my work that I was free to spend on my own leisurely pursuits. Naturally, I gravitated towards the centre of Canterlot – that great cesspool into which all the idle folk of Equestria are drawn – and there I stayed at length in a hotel, spending quite a slight more money than I earned in a rather irresponsible fashion. I realised, after a lazy month, that my finances were quite unsustainable, and thus I decided that I needed to leave the hotel and seek cheaper and less pretentious lodgings elsewhere.

It was at this time that I met Sherclop Pones.

- - -

Not a full day after I had chosen to leave the hotel, I was perusing a paper on a park-bench, hunting for houses that were for rent or sale. My eyes had just fallen upon a rather dapper looking house down towards the markets, when I felt a brisk tap on my shoulder. I turned, and immediately was overcome with joy – Felicia Redheart, an old flame of mine and fellow scholar at the University.

She was a white earth pony – much like myself, in that all of my colleagues were unicorns, and she and I were not. I had regarded her as being among my closest friends, though we had once shared something much greater than that. In any case, in times such as these, a friendly and comforting face was a welcome invitation to escape one’s woes, or so it was for myself. She appeared delighted to see me, and after exchanging greetings, I bade her to sit and have lunch with me, to which she agreed.

“So what have you been up to, Trotson?” she asked me, as we strolled through the crowded streets. “You look quite fit – been working out, have we?” She giggled in a way that set my heart aflutter. I shook my head, and for the next hour, I regaled her with tales of my adventures as we picked our slow path through street and park trail. It was invigorating, talking to her – she was a breath of nostalgia and happiness into my otherwise weary mind, and her cheerful smile and scented pink-red hair seemed to cajole my woes away.

“Oh, so you didn’t get to start up your own practice like you imagined you would? That’s too bad, sweetie,” she said, and she seemed genuinely crestfallen at my tale. “But why are you here then?”

“I’m on the hunt for a house,” I replied solemnly. “Something cheap and cheerful, if such a thing exists.”

“Hah! Is that right!” she said, looking at me suspiciously. “You’re not the first person today to have told me as much.”

“Is that so?” I inquired. “Who else is searching?”

“Oh, an old friend of a friend who I just happened to pass by on the way back from the clinic.” She flashed a grin at me as I opened my mouth in surprise. “Yes, I work in a clinic too – though it’s a way away from here, about an hour by train. It’s in a town called Ponyville, and I’m just in the city for the day to pick up some medical supplies.” She paused for a moment, and we halted our stride while she turned and rummaged in her leather saddle-bag. Shortly after, she pulled her hooves out, producing a few small bags of ingredients.

“Just some medicinal herbs and antivenins,” she said casually. “But, this pony was also in the laboratory where I picked some of this stuff up, and he was moaning because he couldn’t find a roommate to share some costs in a nice house in the south part of the city.”

I nearly hugged her in joy, but I fell just short of embarrassing myself, instead doing a happy little dance on the spot.

“Amazing!” I cried, “if he’s looking for a roommate, then I’m just the stallion. I wouldn’t mind the company, of course!”

She eyed me with a degree of scepticism and bemusement.

“…You might take that back after meeting him,” she said cautiously.

“Why, what’s wrong with him?”

“Oh, nothing untoward – he’s just a little odd, do you know what I mean?” She cocked her head and rolled her silvery-blue eyes a little. “I don’t know him too well, but some say he’s a little cuckoo, if you catch my drift.”

“How do you know him? Was he at medical school with us?”

“No, not at all, though he did study some chemistry and anatomy, and that’s where I knew him from,” she replied. “Same classes.”

“Well, in any case, I’d very much like to meet him,” I said. “I’ve had enough of travelling, and even if he is a little queer, I wouldn’t mind so long as it meant a comfortable bed.”

She laughed her little tinkling laugh that shattered all the nerves in my ungainly smile.

“Oh Trotson, you’re so down to earth now. Very different to our times at university, hmm?” She smiled, fixing me with a knowing gaze.

I alluded to the fact before, but I should explain at this point that Nurse Redheart and I were once an item – and were for quite some time, at least on her part. I was always far too shy to ever show my affection, and that was what I think drove us apart. But that story is beside the point. Suffice it to say our departure was not a bitter one, and we had remained friends as she ran off to chase her own dreams, and I ran off to chase mine.

My expression faltered; and she saw it do so. She winked broadly, and I blushed right to the core of my stomach. She never seemed to stop having that very strange effect on me that no other filly ever did.

“I seem to remember quite a different young Trotson from our time together at med school – what, did your travels take all that fiery charm out of you?”

“No,” I replied after some time, smiling weakly. “And sadly, I can see that a stable job hasn’t taken it out of you, either.”

She frowned in mock disappointment and hurt, and a small grin inexplicably spread across my face.

“You’re awful,” she said, and resumed her canter forward, leaving me to follow on after. “Come on, I have to get going soon enough, and we won’t be able to have lunch and for me to introduce this gentlepony to you if you hang back staring at my flank all day!”

I blanched, but caught up to her swiftly. We walked the rest of the way to a nearby café that I had eaten at three days previous. There prevailed between us a silence that was not uncomfortable, and I felt rather pleased with myself, though I could not pin down exactly why. We took our seats, she ordered some dishes, and I resumed drilling her over my would-be roommate. However, she was less than keen to oblige me with the details of this mysterious stranger, instead diverting the topic until our food arrived. I ate quickly, continuing my harassment between bites.

“You’ll see in time,” she said, over a mouthful of her hay salad. “To be honest, I don’t know a huge amount about him, but I hear he’s nice enough…”

“Well, do you know anything about him? What kind of pony is he?” I pressed.

She swallowed before replying.

“His name is Sherclop Pones. I’ve only met him a few times at the laboratory, where I get the medical supplies I need from time to time – he is a scientific soul, very precise and definite.”

“Good! I should like for a companion of studious habits.”

Her brow furrowed and she cast an amused glance towards me.

“If that was a jab at me from when we shared the house during our graduate year, then ha ha.”

“It wasn’t, actually,” I replied with a sarcastic tone. “Surprisingly, the earth revolves around the sun, not you.” I sniffed a little and smiled wryly. “Though I daresay you believe as much.”

She scoffed in horror.

“You… you’re a wretch!” She cried, after a moment of grasping for an insult suitable for her mock indignation.

Together, we laughed for a moment, and the rest of lunch carried out in the same way – teasing one-another, until our stomachs were quite full and our plates quite empty. I paid and we left, and she led me up back the way we come, past the bench where I had been sitting and towards what I knew to be Queen’s Road, a main avenue filled with markets selling all kinds of exotic herbs and spices.

I followed Redheart through a series of stalls until she came to a small square, where the cobblestone road fanned out into a large square of brightly-coloured canvas and loud voices. Amongst them we walked, the sweet aroma of Arabian spices stinging my nostrils, until we came to a thin, red brick building. It was a shopfront – though from this angle, it appeared to be extremely tall, with a very large extension on the back that rose in front of us, towering above the stalls and markets. It was quite old, and front windows were dusty and uncleaned, but the sign that was painted onto a large placard above the doorway was recent and fresh, and it read quite clearly:

MILLER & SON APOTHECARY, EST. 1842

“This is where he is?” I inquired, peering into the dusty windows, unable to see any further.

“Just a small way beyond, most certainly—” Redheart said, opening the door before me. “He’s usually in here buying things, or in the lab testing something.”

“Testing what?”

“I’ve no idea, I’m afraid,” she said, ushering me through the doorway. “Come in, you will be able to form your own impression of him soon enough.”

She led me to a small counter, the door-chimes jangling cheerfully. The shop’s atmosphere was dustier then the windows had been, and all about the walls there lay strange vials and flasks filled with substances all categorised by their effects. Before I could fully take stock of any significant number, though, the frizzy mane of a zebra poked from behind a curtain, followed by a very surprised set of eyes.

“Oh, Miss Redheart! You are back very soon, Ponyville must be quite sick this month, yes?” He laughed, revealing a dazzling array of white teeth.

Redheart shook her head. “Oh, I’m not here because I’ve forgotten something – I’m here looking for Mr. Pones, is he in at the moment?”

“Certainly he is!” Replied the zebra cheerfully, flipping a section of the countertop over to allow her behind the register. “He’s just in the laboratory across the place, if you wanted to see him – though I believe he is busy, and I know he won’t take kindly to being disturbed.”

Redheart turned to me with a smile.

“Well, I’d better show you to him, then,” she remarked, cantering forward and behind the counter.

Gamely I followed up a small flight of wooden stairs, and into a large back area filled with various sacks of medical supplies. We did not stop there though, but continued forward, and eventually the passages lead back out into the daylight on the other side of where we had been. It was only then, as we exited into another extremely tiny and busy square, that I realised where we had traveled to.

“The Celestial Royal Hospital?” I replied incredulously, looking up at the majestic building that had formed part of my vision not five minutes ago.

“You didn’t recognise it from the back, did you?” Redheart said with a smile. “This is just the fastest way to the laboratory – if we go in by the staff entrance, it’s a lot quicker then having to sign in as a guest.”

She led me obediently through a service entry door, though I needed no guiding as we entered the polished stone doorway of the great hospital. It was here that I had been placed in my first year out of medical school as an intern, and I still knew my way around. We descended down a staircase or two, and walked along some corridors, the open doors of the patient’s rooms allowing fragments of noise to flow out.

Near the end of one of the wards, there was a low archway that sat over pair of wooden double-doors. A small sign dangling from the door-handle indicated it to be the laboratory, and Redheart pushed her way through.

This was a very large chamber - almost deceptively so from the outside - though the hospital was very large. Low tables were strewn with beakers and stands under which magical flames burned with varying degrees of intensity. There was only one other pony in the room aside from myself and Redheart, and he appeared to have not noticed our entry initially, entangled in his own work. At a slight cough from Redheart, he turned his head and, upon noticing her, clapped his hooves once together in pleasure.

“Aha! Miss Redheart, how lovely to see you again so soon – come and see, for I have created a compound that acts as a magic detector!” He proffered a hoof to her, and Redheart shook it before introducing me.

“That sounds wonderful! But first, –” and she turned to me at this point – “Mr. Sherclop Pones, meet Dr. John Trotson.”

“A pleasure to meet you!” he said cheerfully, shaking my own hoof with a degree of viciousness that I would not have expected from such a slim figure. “You’ve travelled lately, I perceive.”

“How on earth did you know that?” I exclaimed.

“Never mind, never mind,” he said, laughing to himself. “Come and observe this new discovery of mine!”

Still somewhat bemused by his actions, I followed him back over to his table, where he dived back into his work with all the vigour of a diamond dog chasing a jewel.

“What is it?” I inquired, peering curiously over his shoulder at the beaker.

“A reagent that reacts in the presence of unicorn magic – and nothing else, mark you!” He appeared excited, as if he had stumbled upon some Archimedean epiphany, though I failed to share in his exuberance.

“It sounds interesting for scientific purposes,” I replied. He scoffed, and turned back to me, beaming.

“Why, my good pony, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don’t you see – it gives us an infallible test for magic residue.”

“Under what circumstances would one want to test for the presence of magic?” I asked, puzzled. The strange pony appeared to ignore my statement, instead demonstrating his experiment.

“Now, if we just get a fresh supply of magic,” he said, looking around for something. “Ah, here it is – Luna’s Tears”.

Luna’s Tears was a deep blue-coloured flower, renowned for its ability to amplify unicorn magic. It also possessed some magical properties of its own. Pones took a small one from a sealed jar to his right, before turning back to the contents of the table. He crushed it between both hooves roughly before holding it over the beaker, which was half filled with a clear mixture that presumably he had prepared earlier.

“Observe!” He cried, and he dropped the crushed petal fragments into the beaker. Immediately, the clear liquid turned a deep red, and a precipitate floated to the bottom of the beaker.

“What do you think of that?” He exclaimed, looking delighted with himself, as if he were a small foal with a new toy.

“Impressive,” I remarked simply. I was somewhat taken aback by his abundant enthusiasm over the strange experiment, and had lost track of anything reasonable to say.

“This test is quite a good deal more efficient than its predecessor – there cannot be more then a very small concentration of magic in these small flowers, and yet we are left with a very clear reaction,” he said. “Ah, if only I had found it sooner! There might have been many a criminal who would have been jailed had I tested this theory of mine only a little while ago.”

For a moment, he looked woeful, as if the idea that the anonymous criminals walking free was somehow his own dilemma.

“Indeed, Sherclop," Redheart said comfortingly, "But come now, don’t fret – I’m sure your invention will come to use in the future. And at any rate, I didn’t drag Dr. Trotson here to look at your new inventions.”

“Oh?” replied Pones with genuine surprise, and again I was taken aback. Was he really surprised by the idea that Redheart had led a complete stranger into his midst for reasons other than to observe his science experiments?

“No," She said. "Dr. Trotson is here to inquire about the rooms you were lamenting about not earlier than this morning. He needs a place to stay, you see, and, seeing as how you could find nobody to pay half the rent, I thought I might help both of you at the same time. Oh, and he’s an old friend of mine, of course,” she added, smiling sweetly at me.

Pones seemed quite delighted at the idea, though again he could have hardly known me for more than a few minutes. He looked over at me and nodded his head once, which caused his mane – which was like a brown paper mat – to flop limply from side to side.

“I have examined a small apartment in Baker Street which would fit both of us quite comfortably,” he said. “Do you mind the smell of tobacco?”

“No, no, I’m not fussed,” I said. “I don’t smoke, though I used to.”

“I also have a habit of conducting a few experiments every now and again – would that annoy you?”

“Again, no,” I replied.

Pones scratched his chin with a hoof meditatively. “Well then, I believe that just about covers it. I tend to get a bit sulky from time to time, and I won’t speak for a while – just leave me be, and soon enough I’ll recover. But come, what about yourself? It’s just as well for us both to know the worst of one another before we share lodgings.”

“Well, I tend to rise early, and I can be extremely lazy,” I responded.

“Too right he is,” murmured Redheart to my left, and I sighed.

“Other than that,” I continued, shooting her a nasty glance, “I don’t have any particular odd habits, though I am looking for a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Would violin-playing upset you?” He inquired.

“Ah, that would depend on the musician,” I answered. “I’m not impartial to a well played violin at the best of times, but—”

“Very good then!” Pones cried merrily, cutting my sentence short. “I believe that is settled, then – I will be at the residence at around twelve tomorrow, if you wanted to settle your things.”

“All right, then, I shall see you at noon tomorrow.” I replied.

I smiled and shook him by the hoof once more, before leaving his company and returning back out into the corridor from whence we had came. As we left the hospital and made a beeline for my hotel via the back passage of the apothecary, I turned the strange image of the pony that I had just met over and over in my head, trying to pick what it was that set him apart from other eccentric fellows that I had met. As I did so, a thought shifted into my otherwise occupied mind.

“Ah! I forgot to ask him,” I blurted out, turning to Redheart. “How did he know that I’d been travelling?”

Redheart smiled enigmatically. “Oh, that’s just a little thing he does,” she said dismissively. “It’s not uncommon for him for him to make such observations, and you wouldn’t be the first to ask him how in Equestria he learns such things.”

“So he is a very strange character then!” I said with some glee. “Excellent, I shall have much time to study him!” I turned to my long-time friend and looked at her through her earnest Cerulean eyes.

“Thank you, Felicia,” I mumbled again. I had lost my tongue somewhat, presumably a result of being alone with her in the dark passage.

“Oh, it was nothing at all,” she said, shaking her head so that her mane swayed slightly. We walked back into the sunlight past the counter and the little door, and there we stood in the marketplace, facing one another.

“Well, enjoy your new room-mate, Trotson,” she said playfully. “I daresay he’ll learn a bit more about you then you learn about him, no matter how much you study him.” The statement vexed me slightly; but I pushed it to the back of my head – there were other things on my mind.

"Listen," I said, fumbling for my nerves. "I don’t suppose you were busy on the weekend?”

A surprised look came over her face, and she shook her head once again.

“No, not unless work steals my time away from me.”

“Well, I... I don’t suppose you’d... Like to have dinner with me sometime?”

I pawed at the ground with a forehoof. I felt a bit sheepish asking her, and then I felt embarrassed at my own timidness.
The comforting knowledge that we were both little older and wiser these days did not stop the blood from rushing to my cheeks, and her from teasing me about it. She laughed, and brushed a hoof through her hair in a carefree way.

“Hah! And here you were telling me you could keep me out of your head not half an hour ago,” she said, surveying my nervousness. I shrugged - it was all I was capable of doing - and she continued to speak. “Oh, but I couldn’t refuse you, Trotson.”

My heart did a little bit of a double-take; even though her answer was already well-solidified in my mind as something of a certainty.

“Excellent!” I said, regaining some of my composure. “Shall we say, Saturday at seven?”

“Your place or mine?” She inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Admittedly, I had been thinking of where she might like to eat dinner and not anything else, and I almost choked on my own tongue in her forwardness. For a while I simply stood there, thinking of what to say – and believe me, I tried earnestly not to. Felicia was (and always had been) the only filly that was capable of leaving me tongue-tied as she did. Nevertheless, after a while, I managed to string together a legible sentence, and spoke.

“I’ve not yet seen ponyville or where you live, so I’d love to, of course…” I began, but my words trailed off.

“Sure! We can go out and grab a bite to eat at a lovely little restaurant – It’s run by a friend of mine, and it makes a pumpkin pie to die for.” She was smiling as she spoke, and I believe that she was unaware of the effect she was having on me.

My reply was slightly jarred, as my mind had immediately jumped to conclusions of another nature, and it took a while for me to regain my senses.

“Oh, yes! Dinner.”

I coughed politely to mask the mistake I made, though I had no idea what doing such a thing might achieve. Mercifully, Felicia did not seem to notice, instead remaining lost in the countless list of things we could do.

“…And then afterwards,” she said, seeming to wrap what was undoubtedly a lengthy spiel, “we could go to the nearby orchard for a drink. Does that sound alright?”

I nodded swiftly, keen to cover my own foolishness. Regardless of whatever she had planned, I theorized, I would be eagerly accepting anyway. At any rate, I could simply ask again at a later stage, so there was no harm done by it.

“Then I’ll see you at seven on Saturday – here’s my address, so you don’t get lost. It’s a very small town, and the locals are friendly, so I doubt you will, but, just in case – oh, no doubt you’ll be fine – you know the right train to catch? – You do? Never mind, then.”

This sudden gush of words startled me to some degree. Perhaps it had been a figment of my imagination, but I had thought for a brief moment that she was nervous. I had no time to analyse her statement, however, and she bid me farewell. We exchanged kisses on the cheek, before she turned and walked off into the crowd, leaving me alone in big city once more.

“Good bye,” I murmured to nobody, before walking back to my hotel room. I was in equal parts intrigued and mystified by my new companion, and I felt a little ashen-faced about my brush with Felicia. But, on the whole, I was pleased at having made as much progress as I did that day.

A Heart-Shaped Gem

I had to force him over to Felicia’s house. He looked uneasy all the way, and I do not doubt that he disliked his own predicament, but knew just as well as I did that he should say something to her.

His fear appeared quite strange to me. It is a most unusual thing that he fails to notice the way she looks at him. It is almost as if he has given up on women altogether, so oblivious is he. Of the ending of our adventure he refused to write, and thus I must act as my own chronicler, so as to avoid confusion for you, dear reader.

He fidgeted uncomfortably when he arrived at her door. He raised one of his brown hooves to knock on the door, but before he did so he turned to me and spoke.
“Pones, I know I am a coward before women,” he said, “And that you think me childish for it, but I will talk for myself. I do not need you to goad me from my silence.”

I smiled at the confirming glimpse of his boundless inner drive. I did mention he was not a stallion to make a mistake twice, and he was cruel to his own faults, but determined to do well nonetheless. I inquired if he would like me to stay or go, and he bade me to stay.
“It is important to me that you see that I am no coward,” he added, knocking on the door.
It opened almost instantly, and there his adoring filly friend stood.

She was beautiful, I had decided long before, in a very modern way. Once she had left her mane naturally long, but since she had become a doctor she had had it tied back. She wore no makeup or fancy robes today, barring the heart-shaped pendant that she seemed to wear everywhere, and as it was Sunday, presumably she was relaxing on her day off. She was the epitome of her own ideals – simple, yet elegant and successful. Coupled with her inspirational drive that rivalled my friend’s, I could see how she might intimidate a lesser stallion into silence. She was bossy to him and only him, but polite enough to me, and she greeted me with a cheerful smile.
“Good morning!” she said to me, and I nodded. “You,” she said to Trotson, her voice adopting a more savage tone.
“I have bought him here before you for you to forgive him, Felicia,” I said simply. She jerked her head over to me.
“And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?” she quipped.

Oh, how I loathe it when people force me to explain myself.

“It is simple enough to me,” I began to say, but Trotson cut me off.
“No,” he said, putting a hoof on my chest. “I said I would do the talking.”
I was somewhat taken aback. Of course it was natural to assume that he would be in a more commanding position given his previous words, but I had not expected such a change in demeanour. His eyes were fixed on her. He had consoled himself in some strange way, and his voice spoke without the hint of fragility that it had possessed when he spoke of her in the past. She looked as surprised as I did. I knew very well that she enjoyed her dramatic little effect on him, and that its sudden removal was slightly unnerving. What mare wouldn’t enjoy a stallion to toy with, after all? Cruel intentions or not, the idea was appealing to her very uninhibited nature.
“I think I owe you an apology,” he said.

It was noon of what was thus far a lovely day, but there was a tension in the air reminiscent of the depths of winter. She did not respond, just eyed him sulkily.

“Whatever for?” She said, flicking her mane back over her neck. To my surprise, Trotson lost his temper slightly. Perhaps his innermost feelings were easier to access from behind his careful veneer because he had tapped them so many times earlier that weekend. He stamped a hoof.
“Oh for Celestia’s sake!” he cried with dismay. “Will you stop sulking, or teasing me, or whatever it is you enjoy doing to me for your own amusement?”
She did as he asked, becoming more relaxed, though no doubt her change in attitude came down to her own unabated surprise at his outburst.
“I never meant to be rude or ignore you,” he began, and he spoke without pause of the things he had observed that night. His confession was most earnest and quite pitiable, but he did not stop once he had explained himself. Maybe he felt like he’d stop talking altogether if he let her get in a word edgeways, or perhaps he felt like he had some other things to explain. More often, when one is talking about difficult subjects, it is easier to point one's self down the hill and let the gravity of the conversation draw you - to take it out of your own hooves, as it were.

As the lengthy apology dragged on and on, I realised that it was taking on a tone of a different nature.

“I… never talk about things like this. Not as freely as I want to, anyway. I’m sorry I'm awful at talking to you, and talking about relationships, and... Just talking really. I think that was the reason… we never worked.” He ended his sentence fairly lamely, though he was merely consolidating his resolve. I could see it in his eyes, for he was gazing directly at her – something he would usually not have dared do if he was to speak so solidly. “...And, I don’t know exactly what you expected from me after knowing me for all these years, but I thought you… might be still be interested in me.” His voice lost a slight of its edge, and I saw his shoulders relax a little bit. He’d clearly given into her.
“Ah, the mistakes I make,” he said reflectively. “For me not to have seen that you were merely playing me for your own entertainment twice, now. Though mercifully for me, I caught onto your game a day later, and not months.”
Felicia looked deeply hurt, but she tried not to show it. I saw the twitch of her frown briefly before it vanished underneath a coat of indignance.
“Hah! Easy for you to say!” she said. “You were the one that never wanted to talk about us. You were always so damn concerned for your own appearances and your stupid studies.” She shook her head in despair. “It was always 'Lifeglow this, Lifeglow that', and you never wanted to focus on me! I was just your token filly, wasn’t I? You were the one playing me!”
My companion reeled.
“Rubbish!” He replied angrily, perhaps more loudly then the situation warranted. She flinched a little under his gaze. “You know that I couldn’t.”
“And why not? You had your pick of the lot Mr. Perfect,” she sneered. “And you never had to worry constantly about whether or not he was busy looking up other fillies’ skirts or getting with them at gatherings, or—”
“I’d never do that!” he shouted at her.
Felicia looked at him as if he had slapped her.

It seems I was wrong about Trotson on two consecutive occasions.

I know what I said before. I haven't been wrong for a long time. I am, on occasion, wrong, as is anypony else, of course, but... Twice in one day?

I was wrong about his physical capacity, and now, thanks to this newfound surge of heart, his emotional capcity. I had never heard him even so much as speak angrily, so timid was he, and yet here he was, tipping the scales of his own very quiet nature.

He struggled to summon up the courage to speak again. I could tell that he was being torn apart with every word, and he had to force himself to stand there and fight her.
"I couldn’t,” he said quietly. “You’re the only one I could ever find lovely.”
She did not return a blow at this compliment.
“I... I just thought I might linger on your mind like you played on mine," he continued. "And yes, you did, and still do. And clearly I do not. I still feel like the most stupid foal for telling you as much, even though it’s the second time I’ve said it to you, but I need to say it now, before I scare myself quiet. I came here to apologise to you, but there was something bigger on my mind.” The briefest flash of a grimace passed over his features. “I can’t let history repeat itself.”
He looked away from her. I could tell the pain was too great for him, and that he was losing the struggle. Such was the expression in his so utterly vivid blue eyes that I felt pity for him.
“Again, I don’t know what you ever wanted from me. Whenever I make a mistake, you back off and treat me so coldly. But as 'perfect' as I am, I can assure you that I know nothing about love other than that you are supposed to show it, and you have never shown it. You are quite happy to lead me cluelessly, every step of the way, but you will not tell me what you want me to say or do, and you will not show me it, only tease me." He winced slightly, though he was wounded far more deeply. “Tease me, just forever out of my reach, and always determined to keep me out of your life, even after I saved it.”

I did not know what his last words meant at the time. Their significance would become known to me when I read of Trotson’s testimonial in the library. It was easy to see why he was upset.
“What are you saying?” Felicia said, and I could hear hoarseness in her voice. She looked miserable. He looked resolute. I felt horribly out of place.
“I am saying that I give up,” he said simply. “I have nothing. I... I have no knowledge left of what to do. I never had any. I can’t continue to walk along blindly, for fear of making you unhappy as I did yesterday, regardless of my intentions. I love you, and you will not even so much as show me it. So take my heart. You win.”

And with that, he turned and left, trotting away as swiftly as he could. For once, I found myself following in his shadow. An unpleasant lump had developed in my throat, and I felt certain that some great history had swept me by. It was not often that I was left in the dark by lack of prior research, though Trotson had never spoke of his childhood or his past, and she had never told me of hers either. The fact that they were 'old friends' should have tipped me off then and there, but alas, I did not see that conclusion for what it was at the time. My mind was more on the curious actions of Trotson. He had come to apologise, and had done a good deal of accusing instead.

We had scarcely reached the gate when I heard the galloping of hooves behind me. I turned to see what it was, and was unceremoniously bowled over by something, hurtling into the garden.

It took me some time to extricate myself from the greenery, plucking my cap gingerly from a clump of thorny roses, but when I did I was met with the most strange and happy sight I’d seen in years.

She was angry. Whether she was more upset with herself or my companion, I could not say, but tears were streaming down her perfectly white face. She hit him in the chest once or twice, and, as I removed a few thorns from my neck and hoof, I came to hear that she had been speaking for some time.
“…And I’ve been trying to show it somehow, but I couldn’t! I just couldn’t, not after what happened… I cared for you, but I didn’t want to scare you! You never told me that you loved me, and so I was never sure… but I don’t care now!” Her hooves thudded into him. The blows were not malicious. She was frustrated, and needed a way to vent. Her voice began to shake as she continued. “You never said you loved me. Not as a foal, not in medical school, where every other filly had their eyes on you. I was so afraid of losing you, I just forgot. I thought you forgot... I thought you might have forgotten about me... Or that you might not have l… Lo...” I saw those pale grey opal eyes screwed as tightly shut as was physically possible. Clearly, finishing the sentence was too much for her.

My companion had been forced onto his back haunches by her assault, and there he sat for a while, surveying her with those sad, intense pools of blue.
“Never,” he said after a while. "I could never forget you."

Such an odd whirlpool of emotions in once face. She was still crying, clearly upset, yet exhilarated and happy - she hugged him tightly. It did not appear to bring my companion much pain. He was oblivious to his own reality, her sudden outburst causing him to look down at her, mouth slightly ajar in shock.

And then, she kissed him.

It would not be an event worthwhile of paying attention to, for it was not my business – and indeed, I would not have noticed it at all were it not for Trotson’s previous shyness in such matters. I could not imagine at the time what had brought him so close to Redheart, but as I write this, the intricacies are known to me, so I shall describe it as best I can in the hopes that you might gain some understanding of their love.

Initially, it was a hesitant thing. She reached up to him, and pecked him on the lips once, retreated about an inch, and then returned again almost instantly. The brief moment in which she was uncertain was overruled by her passion for him. Clearly, it did not take her long to connect the dots that had clued me in to his acceptance long ago.

But, perhaps she already knew that. Perhaps there was a meaning lost even to me.

As an outsider to their past lives, I could not speak for the emotional entanglement into which the two of them fell, but it must have been of the deepest and most burning love, for the way she kissed him was unparalleled by any kiss, acted or otherwise, that I had seen before. She loved him so fervently and fiercely that one might have thought she had very nearly lost him forever. She very nearly had. She had to stand on the tip of her hooves, and hug him around the neck to hold her weight, but she didn’t seem to mind, and neither did he. Trotson wasn’t even surprised. His stern face had softened into a look of resigned happiness, and he kissed her back. I saw a wash of relief flood over both of them, and I silently blessed the magical moment when two sweethearts finally figure out they love the other. My companion's shoulders slumped, and she pushed even harder. His quiet acceptance, or rather his lack of resistance, was more than she would ever need. Both of their eyes were closed.

It was at that point that I took my leave, returning to the station and boardind the next train to Canterlot. The scene was touching, and I was sad to go, but for once it was no business of mine. It was simply the strange zeal of their sudden love that kept me there for as long as I have recorded, and indeed, it warmed the depths of my heart to see that Trotson had finally laid his hooves on his beloved. How strange that it had come so close to tragedy - all because two ponies were so timid of each-other's affection. Nevertheless, I smiled at the thought that it, like my assignment, was very much over.

I did not see Trotson until the following day. I had retired to my preferred armchair in the study once more, and he walked through the door without knocking.
“I have left your share of the money upon the dressing-table in your room, friend Trotson. The jewels were found in Riesling's cellar, and he has been jailed for an exceptionally long time.” I looked up from the book I was reading. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the strange plant known better as Poison Joke?”

He admitted that he had not, though the way he looked at me from the door told me that something else was on his mind. He had about his features a strange and infectious grin, and he had brightened somewhat. He was still the quiet soul that I had known him, but he now had enthusiasm and zest for life that is not wholly uncommon in those that have recently come upon something fortuitous.
“Well,” I said after a while. “I find it strange enough that you would do so, but it is not my place to question such matters.”
“Pardon?” Said he, not fully understanding.
I got up and walked over to him, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing the lump that I had seen. It was a small, red velvet box, and I twirled it before his eyes.
“I did detect some strange history to you two, though I must confess I know little of it.”

He nodded in his usual solemn manner, his clever plan having been revealed. For a while he simply stood and said nothing. I disliked it when he did that. Trotson must have known this, for he broke into a little grin as I continued to stare at him.
“I will share the story with you, now that that problem has been dealt with,” he said, brushing past me and taking a seat in one of the two armchairs next to the fire. I resumed my seat, and he told me about his extremely long and strenuous past - in more particular detail, the events that had facilitated his long-held love for Felicia, including that vicious assault.

“Well, that clears up a mystery or two,” I said as he finished. "For one, how you came to know her so well, and two, why you have jumped to that so quickly."
He nodded, and together we sat and drank a little from the crystal
“And will you include it in the book you are writing?” I inquired, gesturing to the red box that I had lain on the table. He smiled slightly, and reached over before pocketing it once more.
“I may,” he said. “I must appear such a fool to you. I cannot imagine ever explaining it to another."
I laughed at that. "Old boy, you could not have come off as less of a fool. But you have benefited for it, and learnt a valuable lesson in the process."
He sighed. "It is a hard enough love to explain, and I am not sure if I could explain it in writing, though I understand it better myself now.”
“You had best understand it!” I said incredulously. “You and her go so well together that I wouldn’t doubt you the better for it. Both of you were so worried about the other, you couldn't see the forest for the trees!"
"Yes, well.." My companion grumbled. I realised that I had put him down, and apologised.
"I didn't mean that in a bad way. I'm pleased you both worked out that you loved each-other."
I put down my glass on the hand-table.
"But it is for life, you know.”
He grinned. It was the first time I had seen him do so.
“I am quite sure,” he

We paused for a moment, and he mulled over his drink a little. I broke the silence.
“Only the element of generosity would have given you such a thing!” I said vaguely.
“She did not give it to me, she showed it to her, and then gave it to me.”
He must have picked up on my incredulousness, for he raised an eyebrow.
“You are surprised by Rarity?” He said.
“Not at all. Aside from that titbit of information, I know all too well that she has a penchant for drama, and is hopelessly convinced in true romance. But, all the same,” I said, gesturing to the ring box in his pocket. “One would imagine that the surprise would have been worth keeping quiet about.”
“Well, she wanted to run it by Redheart first. Not that it would have mattered, of course. Do you think that Rarity would be able to keep a secret that big?” I smirked. He was correct. “And besides," he continued, "She was as much involved in Felicia’s own worries as I was.”
“How so?”
Trotson grinned.
“Rarity told me that they were old friends. Remember when you so carelessly pushed me up the stairs? That was the day I found out.”
“I see - but steady on, now. That was Lestrade doing the pushing, not I.”
“You were a consenting party.”
“I said nothing.”
“Last I checked, ignorance was not a valid legal defence.”
“And you are not a lawyer.”
Trotson sniffed.
“You speak as if you are jealous,” he said impetuously. I laughed.
“How so, sir, how so!”

He gave no answer, but merely grinned and returned to the topic of Rarity.
“An old, old, friend, Pones. Old money seems to create two kinds of people -- those who are snobs, and those who are not, and more often those who are not have a hard time fitting in with those who are. Rarity, as I'm sure you know, happens to be a member of the Canterlot Aristocracy. In this way, she's known Felicia for a few years now."
"Indeed, I know as much," I replied, nodding. "By the way, have you seen her latest catalog?"
My companion looked a little surprised.
"No, what of it?"
I reached into my pocket, withdrawing the white paper envelope that it was contained within.
"She sent me a copy. She thought you might like to read it, after all. She mentioned something about a gift."
Trotson pulled out the small book that was inside the envelope and opened it.
"Another gift?..." He murmured. His eyes ran over the first few pages before he saw what I spoke of. He laughed and looked back up at me, an incredulous smile on his features.
"You cannot be serious?" He said, half-questioningly.
"Read it aloud," said I, and he obliged me.

"...I saw that he disliked stuffy people, stuffy houses, stuffy societies. The clothes he wore said much about him. Discrete, intelligent, rational. Though he spoke softly and walked with the footstep of the hunter, he was no seeker of game-fowl, and the cap he wore seemed to fit him immaculately as he scrutinized the scene of the crime, one hoof over his chin. The Private Eye. An outdoors-pony's cap, suited for the adventurer and the urban soul. Drop-down flaps protect your ears if you so please, while the fore and aft brims shield your eyes from that glaring autumnal sun, so that you might catch sight of your prey. Practical. Comfortable. Hardly Criminal. 100% Cloplin Wool. Colour: houndstooth."

I could not help but feel oddly fond of Rarity's description. Though it was merely for the sake of selling clothes... I took some small delight from it. Trotson guessed at my hidden pleasure, though it must have been a bluff, for I had not shown any hint of it.
"Quite accurate, if you ask me," he said thoughtfully as he gazed at me intently.
"And what of yours?'
He looked pleasantly surprised, and looked back down to the brown paper catalog in his hooves.
"Oh? There is one for me? That is strange, for I did not see any 'Doctor' here."
I shook my head.
"You were not so much of a doctor on this particular outing," I said, watching intently as his eyes caught hold of his own description. I was keen to see his reaction, after all.

Trotson took a deep breath and began to read.

"Modeled after a naval officer's greatcoat, it was a long and dashing thing. It fitted his quiet and gentlemanly temperament. The sleek, slimming profile it cast over him promptss a host of romantic scenes. Fond farewells when he leaves his sweetheart at Canterlot Station, sprinting alongside the train. The quiet moment during his work in far-away places, where he turns up his collar before reading her letters. The joyful reunion when he reappears by the alley gate. The Gentlepony's Overcoat. Made of 95% wool. Leather buttons, whipstitched notched collar. Double-breasted sixbutton front. Calf-length. Buttoning epaulettes at shoudlers. back belt with two buttons. Fully lined. Two interior pockets at chest for safeguarding what is most dear to him - on the left, his heart, and on the right, a photo of the mare who it belongs to. Wearing one fills you with warmth; like a goodbye kiss from your special someone that lasts a little too long. Stallion's sizes: 38 through 48, colours: grey, black..."

He winced as he finished reading it, and that gave away his surprise and slight embarrassment. I saw his jaw move slightly, and he was no doubt about to utter some kind of dismissive thought, but he gave up before he had begun. Instead, he quickly stowed the paper book back into the envelope and tossed it to me.
"It's not bad," he said quickly. "Clearly, bits of that were from recent memory."
I took his conceded tone as a confirmation of my thoughts. It often gave me great humour to watch Trotson flummoxed by his shyness, though on this occasion it seemed he had resigned to his own shortcomings.

"...The stone is a fragment of the diamond that Riesling stole, you see," he said, continuing the conversation we had began earlier. "Rarity made an excuse about how the original looked fashionable after it had been cut from, and that her client wouldn't know - but I think she might have cut a piece of the diamond and paid for it herself."
“Ah! How generous of her," I remarked. "And indeed, your heart is as of great in size as the animal that inspired it." I spotted another flash of his old embarrassment at my compliment. “Cut in the shape of a white heart, no doubt?” I added, expectantly.
“Indeed.”
I sighed a little. Such a cliche I could only expect from him. And her, too. Redheart; white coat; diamond heart - it was so utterly fairy-tale-esque that he might as well have proposed to her wearing a set of shining armour. He looked at me with a curious blend of his own happiness, and suspicion.
"You are jealous, aren't you?" he said.
“I could no sooner be jealous of you then Riesling,” I replied drolly. "She is wealthy, and you are happy."
"How facetious!" He stated. "You know all too well that I care not for her wealth. I think you crave a good woman!"

That much was true. My enjoyment of women was more of a vivid engagement of my mind then anything else. Often, they were the hardest to guess or judge. But I was not about to concede another point to Trotson, and so I continued to entertain him.
"Even so, I am not jealous."
“Oh, come now Pones!" Trotson said, shooting me a dirty look. "I was only teasing. I have no doubt that you are not jealous. If she was your wife, she would poison your coffee.”
“If I was her husband, I would probably drink it,” I replied, before draining the last of my glass. Trotson snorted into his drink with mirth.
“So did she say yes, then?”
He looked over at me, staring at me intently with those very blue eyes of his.
“What do you think?”
“I think you've bruised a little; just around your neck where she hugged you." I said, pointing out what I had seen earlier. He did not reply, but smiled, and loosening the collar of his coat where it pained him, staring into the centre of the crackling fireplace, and thinking over his own happiness with his glass in one hoof.
"So she took your heart after all, it seems," I added thoughtfully.

It took a moment for him to work out what I meant. His warm grin broadened.
“The wedding is in December. I shall expect you to be present.”
“I would not dream of missing it,” I said quite happily.