“Hey Copper! Copper copper copper!” Jon Quill tried rattling his cup against the bars of his cell again. It was a paper cup. The result was quite unsatisfactory.

“Hmm? Something I can do for you Mr. Quill?” The unicorn who poked his head around the corner had a perpetually cheerful disposition. His coat and mane were coppery, with a hint of green to them – more so in his mane and tail – and his cutie mark was some sort of hammer. While most ponies would be inclined to suspect it represented a judge's gavel, given the fellow’s profession, Jon couldn't help but think that it was actually a croquet mallet. Jon also found that his train of thought had hit a slight bump and his tongue stumbled along with it.

“Uh … ah … sorry Officer Pennyfarthing. I … uh … wasn’t calling for you in particular …” Jon trailed off, a little embarrassed.

Officer Pennyfarthing took a nibble from a muffin and smiled brightly. Even the color of his magic was coppery. “No worries, Mr. Quill! I’m used to it. The ‘copper Copper’ as it were. Do you need anything?” He grinned.

“I was hoping for another cup of coffee, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Jon did his second best puppy-dog eyes. While he might break out his best puppy dog eyes for Pennyfarthing, it wouldn’t be for coffee.

Pennyfarthing nodded, “Black with two sugars, right Mr. Quill?”

Jon grinned, “Better make it four! That liquid tar you have in the break room is strong! Also …”

Officer Pennyfarthing had already ducked away to get the drink. A nice kid, Jon found himself thinking. By far the nicest of the local constables here in Whitstable. Part of that, Jon found himself thinking, was because Officer Pennyfarthing was an avid reader of the Star.

When Pennyfarthing came back, Jon picked up right where he had left off. “Also, I was going to ask, do you have any tin-cups rather than these flimsy paper ones?”

“Tin cups? I don’t think so, Mr. Quill. If you like, I could pick one up for you on my way home and bring it by tomorrow. Assuming you’re still here tomorrow. I’m sure they will have cleared up this business by then, though!” Pennyfarthing blinked. “Er, why do you need a tin cup?”

“They rattle better against the bars of my cell.”

“Oh! That makes sense.”

“I’m surprised you're still here Pennyfarthing. Wasn’t your shift supposed to end an hour ago?”

“Two hours ago, sir. And that’s being generous.” Pennyfarthing winced. “The wicked don’t rest, and so neither do Whitstable’s finest.” Pennyfarthing lowered his voice conspiratorially, “There was a series of break-ins and a small fire this afternoon. Lots of trouble. And, you’ll be interested in this, most of it was within a block or two of the graveyard. I heard some talk, sir, that they had to pull the guard from the mausoleum for about half an hour … and that right now the Chief is spitting nails because it looks like somepony else got in there while our guard was away.”

Jon perked right up. Unfortunately he didn’t have his pad and pencil. The Chief had confiscated them yesterday.

“That’s fascinating, Officer Pennyfarthing! Do they have any idea who it was?”

“They think it might be that Cantor fellow but they’ve no real proof that I’ve heard of. Oh, and Mr. Quill, right now it’s just Pennyfarthing.” The young unicorn grinned mischievously, “As of ten minutes ago, I’m off duty. Which, from what I understand, means that I’m not technically acting in the role of a constable.”

Pennyfarthing assumed a faux serious expression, “Lots of things constables aren’t allowed to talk about with you, you know.”

Jon’s grin grew wider, “Things like the Trotting Dead?”

Pennyfarthing nodded, “Exactly! Not that I have any first-hand information about it. It was another young officer, Beatrice Blythe – we called her ‘Bea’ – who found the ongoing disturbance. She got a look at the thing inside and promptly started adding to the fire. Poor dear was rattled something fierce! Afterwards, she talked to some reporters – Chief said not to, but she did anyway – and next thing you know she’s been dismissed. Anyway, Bea’s the one who might have seen or known something about what happened that night.”

“Thank you Pennyfarthing! I thought you had said you couldn’t discuss the matter with me?”

“Officer Pennyfarthing is forbidden from doing so, Mr. Quill, sir. Citizen Pennyfarthing, on the other hoof, is a big fan of the Star … and its shining the golden light of truth on amazing secrets hidden throughout Equestria. And, as I mentioned, for the moment I’m more Citizen than Constable. If you like, I can get you Bea’s address for when you’re released.”

Jon blinked a couple of times. Even with how well it sold, it was rare to meet a genuine fan of the paper. Rarer still to meet one who admitted their enjoyment. And Pennyfarthing was the rarest of the rare – a true believer. Jon wanted to pat the unicorn’s adorable, naive little head and tell him not to trust everything he read. It was because of ponies like him that Jon was always careful not to embellish his stories too much … in spite of everything, there were ponies who accepted the strange tales Jon printed.

Pennyfarthing’s voice dropped, “So, have you turned up anything interesting about the Trotting Dead?”

Jon opened his mouth, and then closed it abruptly. That look of hope on Pennyfarthing’s face was painfully familiar. For Jon, it was like looking into a mirror. Pennyfarthing wanted a story. He wanted something extraordinary. Jon suddenly found himself without an easy answer for the first time in a long time.

“Uh. Yes and no.” Jon Quill thought furiously. What would Cantor say? Jon brightened, then gestured for the young officer to lean in closer. “There’s pushback on this story, Pennyfarthing. I’m not sure how high this business goes, but it could be big. Some ponies want it covered up. I’ll try to get what details I can into the paper, but you’ll have to read between the lines to really understand my scoop on Whitstable’s Wight. They want me to say nothing’s going on here. And regardless of what I actually write, that may well be what winds up getting printed.”

Pennyfarthing looked scandalized. “They wouldn’t do that, sir, would they? Not to the Star!”

Jon Quill nodded, “Yes, especially to the Star. You understand about the article?”

“Yes, sir. I do! When it says there aren’t any Trotting Dead, I’ll know better. And don’t worry sir, I’ll let the other true believers know as well.”

Jon blinked in surprise. “Others?”

“Oh, yes sir. Most folks think of the Star as amusing rubbish, but there are some of us who can see that you’re secretly publishing those truths that are stranger than fiction.” Pennyfarthing’s smile lit up the otherwise empty cell-block. “We’ve got a newsletter! And pins!”

Officer Clarissa stepped into the cell block and growled, “The Chief will stick a pin in you if you don’t stop talking to the prisoner.” She looked tired, and smelled smokey.

“Right you are, Clarissa! Ta Jon!” Pennyfarthing went trotting off. Clarissa rounded on Jon Quill, “I swear, Jon, if you get that sweet kid in trouble …”

“Clarissa, love! You know I’m not interested in making trouble for anypony!”

“You don’t have to be interested in making trouble. You are trouble.” She tapped the bars of his cell for emphasis.

“Point,” Jon conceded. He then raised an eyebrow. “Busy day? How are you holding up? Things at the cemetery staying quiet?”

“Yes. Poorly. And I can’t talk about it. Is that coffee?”

“It is. There's a pot in the breakroom.” Jon took a sip. “Any word on my lawyer?”

Clarissa sighed, “Yes, a bit. We finally got word back from the Lunadun office of the Yellow Star. They’ve confirmed that you are, indeed, one of their field reporters. And that poking around graveyards sounds exactly like the sort of ‘investigative journalism’ that they pay you for. They’re arranging legal representation. They sent over a form. With check boxes. Who has a form with check boxes like ‘In jail because of a) changelings, b) pookas, c) breezies, d) ancient curse?’ They had to tick ‘other’ this time around. You’ll probably be out of here by tomorrow.”

Jon groaned. “Another night behind bars?” The second this occasion. He’d lost count of exactly how often his particular researches resulted in a brief stint of confinement. Jon suspected he might be more familiar with filling out the paperwork for his incarceration than some of the officers who had arrested him over the years.

Clarissa, bags under her eyes, still managed a slightly naughty grin. “Well, if you need a little something in there to keep you warm …” Jon’s eyebrows shot up and he smiled. She wasn’t as adorably cute as Pennyfarthing, but she was quite attractive in her own way. “… I’ll get you another blanket.”

Jon stuck his tongue out at her. “Tease!” he said.

“You have no idea, Mr. Quill.” She turned to go.

“Hey, Clarissa.” She looked back. “Are you doing o.k.?”

Jon was genuinely concerned. She gave a little start and looked around. He knew exactly what sort of horror she had seen that night. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and she knew it showed.

“I’m … I’m managing. Thanks. And thanks for not telling the Chief all the gory details. Leaving it at ‘saw something unnatural in a magical disturbance’ was a huge help for the paperwork I’ve had to do on the incident.”

“If you get a chance, I suggest a long talk with Cantor … over a cup or two of tea. If anypony could set your mind at ease about the whole mess, it’d be him.”

“I rather doubt that, Jon.” Clarissa paused, “Also … I’d get ready for some very pointed questions. You’re going to have visitors shortly. They’re meeting with the Chief right now.”

“Anypony I know?”

“I hope not, Mr. Quill. I really do.”

“We’re here to ask you some questions about Cantor Mortalis.”

Jon was glad of Clarissa’s warning. It hadn’t been quite enough to prepare him for the two hulking earth ponies who the Chief let into his cell. Twins, in matching coats. The only difference Jon could find between the two was that one had a brass stud on his left lapel, the other had one on his right.

“I say, weren’t the two of you at the Airport?”

“Yes, Mr. Quill. We were. We are assisting Dr. Fether in his work.”

“I see! Well, I must say you have the advantage of me. Shouldn’t we start with introductions? I’m Jon Quill, reporter for the Yellow Star.”

“You may call me Mr. Knott.” It was the twin who had been doing the bulk of the talking thus far. The other one was busy with a briefcase. He was sorting papers and folders. He was taking notes.

“How nice to meet you, Mr. Knott! And your associate?”

The other pony, without looking up from the folder he was perusing, answered, “Mr. Knott.”

Jon tried not to let his expression waver too much. This didn’t look like it was going to be fun. It brightened a bit when he considered the lapel studs. Already, in his mind, he started thinking of them as Knott-Right and Knott-Left. There was certainly something not right about the pair! One could only hope when they were done, there would be naught left to worry about!

“Mr. Quill. We understand that you are in considerable trouble because of Mr. Mortalis.” Knott-Right continued.

“Am I?” Jon looked surprised.

“You’re in jail, Mr. Quill.”

“I’m a reporter for the Yellow Star. Exotic events division. I wind up in jail rather a lot.”

Knott-Left snorted as he flipped to another page in the paperwork. Jon thought he saw a picture of Cantor attached to the paper.

Knott-Right continued, “Do you often wind up in jail for the desecration of tombs, Mr. Quill? Breaking and entry? Unlawful taking? Grave robbing? It is a rather serious offense, I hope you know.”

Jon grinned. He sipped his coffee. “You might be surprised at the sort of things I’ve spent time in a cell for! And all of that is nonsense. The door to Admiral Fairweather’s tomb was already open when I got there. And I never set hoof inside. So there was no ‘breaking and entry.’ Just trespass, which is barely a misdemeanor worthy of a fine and a stern talking to. It’s a lecture which I could recite for you verbatim, I’ve heard it so often. As for desecration, I never touched anything inside. Which also makes accusations of unlawful taking and grave robbing both simply ridiculous.”

“There is the matter of a signet ring.” Knott-Left spoke up again. Jon winced in spite of himself. That had been his own fault. He had gotten to the pub far too late in the day. The bar-keeper had already contacted the authorities about that bit of antique jewelry. Jon was actually more saddened that he wouldn’t be able to return it to Cantor than he was that he had been snatched up by the constabulary because of it.

“Ah, yes. That. Again, in the absolutely worst case, that falls under receipt of stolen property or, at the outside, an accessory charge of some sort. The Star is quite used to its field reporters occasionally requiring and acquiring the odd piece of evidence outside of the usual channels of commerce. Again – we’re speaking of minor fines. Assuming that I’m found guilty, which I strongly doubt would be the case, we have money for fines in our budget, Mr. Knott.”

“The only thing truly inconvenient and worrisome about my present circumstances, Mr. Knott, is that the beds here are not exactly what one would call comfortable. And the room service leaves much to be desired.”

Knott-Left pulled a sheet of paper from one of the other files in the briefcase, he showed it to Knott-Right, who frowned.

“Dr. Fether would like to extend an apology. He … regrets … that he was dismissive of your offers of assistance regarding Mr. Mortalis when you last spoke. He would like to hear more about what you know.”

“And why, given the way in which Dr. Fether treated me, would I wish to talk to any flunkies he might care to send? Why would I care to speak with Dr. Fether at all?” Jon didn’t have to fake indignation.

“There are several reasons.” Knott-Left spoke up.

“Such as?”

“Mr. Mortalis is almost certainly delusional.” Knott-Right contined, “At best, his hallucinations are such that he suffers considerable personal distress and the actions they lead him to commit range from the unlawful to the personally hazardous. At the moment, he is a clear danger to himself. And while an in depth assessment of his prior committals makes it unlikely that he is currently an active danger to others, his condition is also deteriorating and so we must, in the interest of public safety, also consider that he may be driven by his delusions to act out of his ordinary character.

“So, Mr. Quill, perhaps you would choose to help us because you care for Cantor’s well-being. Or perhaps you would choose to help us because you wish to help prevent the slim, but growing, risk of his bringing harm to others through his actions. Harms worse than involving reporters in misdemeanor offenses.”

“Felonies. At least.” Knott-Left added.

“Indeed.” Knott-right nodded. “And, if neither concern for Cantor nor concern for the public good will sway you Mr. Quill, Dr. Fether has an additional inducement to offer.”

“Two,” Knott-Left broke in, showing another form to his brother – carefully indicating a section circled in red. Jon Quill was a little disturbed to realize that the file they were consulting was apparently a series of notes about he, himself. Dr. Fether had amassed a surprising amount of information in a very short time.

“Ah yes, two inducements in your case, Mr. Quill. The first, of course, is the monetary reward for information leading to Mr. Mortalis’ detention and delivery to Bedlam.”

“The other?” Jon’s curiosity was piqued.

“Answers, Mr. Quill. Answers. It says here you asked Dr. Fether for information regarding Mr. Mortalis’ condition. Dr. Fether has information. Information about the true nature of Cantor's association with the Trotting Dead. Your precise words, as Dr. Fether recalls them, were ‘Our readers want to know.’ Do they? … Do you?”

Oh shit, Jon thought, as shivers suddenly raced up and down his spine, Dr. Fether is good. Jon wanted that information. He needed that information like a drunkard needed his next bottle. Jon almost had the shakes just thinking about it.

“We only require the information to allow us to find and detain Mr. Mortalis.” Knott-Right said.

“He will be detained eventually,” Knott-Left added, with quiet conviction.

“By others, if not by us,” Knott-Right continued.

“Others less inclined to be understanding,” Knott-Left’s tone was carefully bland.

“Or gentle,” Knott-Right’s tone was a perfect match for his brother's.

“There is no need for Mr. Mortalis to know precisely who provided us with the information which leads to his … admittance.”

“To his recovery, Mr. Quill.”

“You would be doing him a great favor, Mr. Quill.”

Jon swallowed hard. He did have questions. And judging from the thick stacks of papers, all meticulously ordered, sorted, and filed which the twins had at their hoofs, Dr. Fether had access to all sorts of information. What did Jon really know about Cantor, anyway?

That he was kind. And not just to Jon. That he had been a good friend when he had nothing to gain by it. That he had stood face to face with horror and did his best to make something bad into something better.

For the moment, that was enough … barely enough … for Jon Quill to choke out his reply.

“Sorry! I’m afraid I can’t help you, gentlecolts. I don’t know where Cantor is right now.”

Jon was sweating. He had so many questions, and right now he had to keep them bottled up. If he started asking, then the next thing he knew he’d be answering Dr. Fether’s own questions in return … and Jon thought that it wouldn’t take too much of that before Fether had enough information to capture a particularly dear and sweet mad-pony and drag him off to Bedlam.

But what, a voice seemed to whisper in the back of Jon’s head, what if Dr. Fether was right? What if Cantor really did need psychiatric help? What if he was mad?

There was a pause. Knott-Left began to repack his briefcase.

“I see. This is unfortunate, Mr. Quill.” Knott-Right sounded unsurprised, with just the right touch of sadness.

“Most unfortunate,” Knott-Left’s tone was a near perfect match.

The two stood and one banged on the bars of the cell. He hadn’t struck the metal with anything like his full strength, Jon could tell, but the whole door rattled. The Chief arrived and let them out. As he did so, the twins continued, “We apologize for any inconvenience our visit may have caused you.”

“Any discomfort.”

“No … no trouble at all, Mr. Knott. Er … and Mr. Knott. Sorry I couldn’t help.”

As the Chief relocked the door, Knott-Right turned back to Jon.

“Dr. Fether would still enjoy enlightening you as to the precise nature of Mr. Mortalis’ condition. For the interest of your readers. And as a gesture of apology.”

Jon froze. He felt exactly how he imagined a mouse must feel when an owl’s shadow passed over it.

Knott-Right was holding out a business card, passing it through the bars.

Jon stared at it as if it were poison.

Knott-Right let it fall. It fluttered to the floor of Jon Quill’s cell. “You will be welcome to visit Dr. Fether in his office any time you wish.”

“Any. Time.” Knott-Left settled the briefcase more comfortably beneath his foreleg.

For long minutes after they left, Jon stared at that small piece of paper.

It was a trap. Jon knew it was a trap. It was bait. Promises. Designed for the sole purpose of drawing him in to Dr. Fether’s parlor to be drained of any information Jon possessed which could help the good doctor find and detain Cantor.

Dear, sweet Cantor.

Jon picked it up.

I must throw it away. I must burn it. I must flush it down the drain. I must eat it. I must destroy it … I must, I must, I must …

Jon Quill’s hoof moved, as if of its own volition, to tuck Dr. Fether’s business card into his hat-brim.

“That went as well as could be expected,” Burl Knott said to his brother.

“Do you think we should have Mr. Quill watched?” Horst Knott asked, glancing back towards the police station.

Burl shook his head, “If Fether wanted him followed, he would have said so. He thinks of everything, does Fether. If Mr. Quill returns to Mr. Mortalis, we can follow his trail then. Assuming that the reporter doesn’t flush Cantor out of hiding. And you saw his face. It’s only a matter of time before we’ll be showing Mr. Quill into Dr. Fether’s office for tea and biscuits.” Burl was frowning.

“What’s the matter?” Horst knew something had been troubling Burl ever since they had talked to the police chief.

There was a pause, then, slowly, Burl said “This afternoon. That second break in.”

“Mr. Mortalis?” Horst’s tone was slightly hopeful.

“No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t fit.” They walked along in silence for a bit. Then Burl sighed, “I wish Dr. Fether was here. He’s the clever one.”

“Too clever by half, sometimes.” Horst sounded amused, as if such mysteries didn’t really bother him. Which they didn’t, at least not as much as they did his brother. Burl was the smarter one of the pair, not that this was saying much. Horst had always been more comfortable letting others do his thinking for him. “Still, a good day over all. We’ve some tidbits to report. And we can catch one of the earlier trains back to Lunadun. We’ve even got a solid hour to spare.”

“It’s good to be ahead of schedule. Dinner?” Burl’s tone said that he had put his worries behind him for the moment.

“I could murder a curry,” Horst agreed.

“Excellent! I think I saw a shop just a block over.”

“Ooo! Think we could stop and grab a copy of the Yellow Star? The Sunday Edition should be out now.” Horst was excited.

“Oy! You and your gossip,” Burl laughed indulgently. “Sure, why not? You do know it’s all lies, yes?”

Horst answered with quiet, slightly affronted, dignity. “Not all of it, Burl. Not all of it.”

Author's Note

The Author would like to note that Equestria's "Yellow Star" would appear to be very similar to a publication found on his own world -- specifically The Sun which, along with its competitor The Weekly World News, were sensationalist publications which advised their readers to "suspend belief for the sake of enjoyment." A useful qualifier for this Author's own tales.

The title of the Equestrian version of this "news"-paper is not intended as a direct homage to either the British tabloid The Sun (as this particular publication is far too mane-stream for the sort of stories a reporter of Jon Quill's caliber would write); nor is it intended as a direct homage to Blueshift's most excellent story The Star in Yellow nor to its haunting character Yellow Star. However, the Author would like to recommend the aforementioned story as being one he quite enjoyed and found well worth reading.