Mini Mysteriesby AcologicChaptersThe StranglerThe BlackmailerThe Straw ManThe PhotographThe PedagogueSpineless the OwlThe Dead DoctorThe Family MatterThe Big DealThe Dead SingerThe ScuffleThe Dead LawyerThe Stolen UniformThe Lazy WitnessThe PaterfamiliasThe Reverse RiddleThe Slow RaceThe WagerThe Dead FriendOne Frosty DayContentsThe Last GigliaroThe FugitiveThe Angry MonarchThe Scholar's MateThe Missing PersonThe Fire FetishOne Frosty MorningThe Dead MareThe Lucky MurdererThe Dead HoofballerThe Shot In the DarkThe Submerged TreasureThe Strangler‘There’s no need to stick your snout in, Slippy,’ said Inspector Wormstead, the cocksure flatfoot with a healthy contempt for private investigators. ‘We’ve got our man.’ ‘He confessed?’ ‘Not exactly, but I’ve a witness – a post pony who claims to have watched Spinner strangle our stiff to death with a garrotte. He’d just delivered magazines when he saw Spinner “pull open the door of his house and enter”. Shortly afterwards he heard a scream and, rushing over to investigate, saw Spinner through the open window, dispatching his wife in the manner previously described.’ ‘Ah, but the witness,’ said Slipstar. ‘Can he not lie?’ ‘Ruddy devil’s putting on one heck of an act in that case. He seemed as genuine as the ice and snow.’ ‘Is he to testify?’ ‘Surely.’ ‘I strongly recommend that you arrest him on suspicion of murder.’ Why? Slipstar realised that the ‘post pony’ was lying. He claimed he saw Spinner pull open the door of his house. Private-house doors open inwards – a fact that any real post pony would know. The BlackmailerCrimson Quill, the Canterlot Journal’s long-suffering editor-in-chief, pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Let’s hear it again,’ he said to Miss Ivory. ‘At around ten o’clock yesterday morning,’ began the excitable Miss Ivory, ‘I walked to the kiosk in West Badham Street to purchase my tabloids. On the way, I passed a mare and a stallion, both of whom were whispering urgently. I paid them no mind at first, but then I heard the girl say, “I know you were with her that night. Pay me the money before April thirty-first, or I’ll tell your wife!” Then it clicked. The stallion was Colt Bolt!’ Quill raised an eyebrow. ‘The model?’ ‘The very same! I don’t suppose you read the tabloids, Mister Quill, but Colt Bolt and his wife are going through a bit of a bad patch. I think the girl must have caught Colt Bolt with another mare! I think she was blackmailing him!’ ‘I think,’ growled Quill, ‘it’s time I showed you the door.’ ‘And quite right, too!’ remarked Slipstar when he heard of his friend’s latest ordeal. Why? Quill knew that Miss Ivory, a notorious gossip, was trying to bag a headline. She claimed that the girl had demanded the money be paid before April thirty-first, thereby proving her account false. April has only thirty days. The Straw Man‘Gully Barns, that smug-faced criminal!’ ranted Inspector Wormstead. ‘He’s slipped through our hooves again!’ ‘How so?’ inquired Slipstar. ‘We received a tip-off earlier this week, warning us that Barns is moving stolen goods to a safehouse in Canterlot. 'Three days ago we caught him acting suspiciously – skulking about the alleyways at five in the morning, fitted out in his Sunday best. He wasn’t carrying anything, so we demanded he turn out his pockets, which he did. And by jingo, his pockets were crammed with drinking straws! Hundreds and hundreds of drinking straws, and all of them practically worthless. Of course, we can’t arrest a pony on suspicion of smuggling drinking straws, so we had to let him go. 'The next day, he’s back, strolling through the alleys, garbed in another high-end suit. We stop him. He turns out his pockets. The same! And today! Stopped and found in possession of a case – a case chock-full of drinking straws! What do you make of this business?’ Slipstar smiled. ‘My, what a crafty fellow this Barns is.’ What was Barns smuggling? By bringing with him such copious amounts of drinking straws, Barns created the perfect distraction. The police, baffled, did not realise that Barns was smuggling stolen suits – those which he wore when travelling to his safehouse. The Photograph‘I think I’ve been had, but I’m not sure how.’ Cecil Andrews drained his mug, then recounted his latest escapade. ‘Last night I attended a housewarming hosted by my friend Whorl. I messed up big time on the tables, but Whorl gave me a chance to win back my losses. He handed me a saucer and a drawing pin, then showed me a photo he’d taken earlier that evening. Somehow he’d balanced the drawing pin on its sharp end, in the middle of the saucer. “Do that,” he said, “and I’ll double your money.” Well, naturally, I tried.’ ‘But could not replicate what was shown in the photograph?’ suggested Slipstar. ‘Nail on the head, old boy. I left his house skinter than a beggar!’ ‘Yes, my friend – you were had.’ How? Have you ever tried to balance a drawing pin on its point? Undoubtedly, Whorl cheated. The clue is the photograph, which tells only half the story. Yes, the pin was balanced – but only because it was spinning. The Pedagogue‘What is it this time, Miss Ivory? Scheming landlords? Thieving clerks?’ ‘The games mistress,’ said Miss Ivory at once. ‘Pamela Hope.’ Crimson Quill snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that rubbish about her caning pupils?’ ‘It isn’t rubbish, Mister Quill! It’s all over the tabloids! What’s more, that she-devil struck a filly before my very eyes! ‘On Friday afternoon, I popped along the school for a chat with my friend Margaret, who works as a janitor. At half-past twelve the clock on the wall went off, and Margaret left to clean the hallway while I helped myself to tea. After ten minutes or so, I heard a scuffle outside. Then the door burst open and in marched Miss Hope, dragging a student by the ear! She mustn’t have noticed me, because she thwacked the girl a blighty one! I cried out, and she froze. Then, without a word, she stormed off, taking the poor girl with her!’ ‘Off you storm, then, Miss Ivory,’ said Quill brusquely, ‘and take your nonsense with you!’ ‘Some ponies just can’t take a telling,’ sighed Slipstar, holding the door wide. What was wrong with Miss Ivory’s story? Quill knew that Miss Ivory was fishing for a headline. She claimed the clock on the wall went off at half-past twelve. Unfortunately for her, wall clocks aren’t alarmed. Spineless the Owl‘Last night’s pitch was a beauty!’ Cecil Andrews, the luckless skirt-chaser who had yet to seduce a mare, told Slipstar. ‘I met a bombshell at a merrymaking in Ponyville. We got chatting, and our conversation turned to pets. I noticed she owned an owl, so naturally, I cooked up a tale there and then. ‘Spineless was a barn owl who lived near a pie factory in Vanhoover, feeding on rodents attracted to the waste. He was well liked by the workers, who petted him and fed him treats. ‘Early one morning, Spineless was perched on a branch and making ready to sleep when he smelled smoke. Flying over to investigate, he realised the factory was ablaze! ‘Spineless wasted no time. He flew as fast as he could to the closest town. Only by hooting repeatedly at pictures of fire did he manage to convince the fighters that something was wrong. They followed him to the factory and quenched the flames enough to rescue from the inferno those who were trapped inside. Grateful, the workers jokingly named the owl Spineless after hearing from the fire chief how he had saved their lives.’ Cecil stared glumly at the fire burning in the hearth. ‘Once I’d finished,’ he concluded, ‘she gave me her drink and stomped off!’ ‘This bombshell of yours knows what she’s about,’ said Slipstar, shaking his head. What was wrong with Cecil’s story? Spineless the barn owl could not have smelled smoke. Owls have no sense of smell. The Dead Doctor‘Doctor Holiday was stabbed to death in her practice late last night,’ Inspector Wormstead told Slipstar grimly. ‘We’ve got a suspect. The porter admitted a suspicious-looking fellow whose profile matches that of Billy Jakes, a small-time crook.’ ‘Let’s hear him out,’ said Slipstar. Jakes was shepherded through the door and made to sit. ‘What’s the big idea?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I haven’t done anything!’ ‘Ever make the acquaintance of Jack Holiday?’ asked the inspector. ‘Who?’ ‘Doctor Holiday has been murdered,’ Wormstead explained, ‘and we know a stallion answering your description was granted entrance to the clinic that day.’ ‘That wasn’t me!’ protested Jakes. ‘Do you have an alibi?’ ‘I was at the pub, playing cards. Ask anyone.’ Wormstead glared at Jakes and growled, ‘We will.’ ‘Look, I’m telling you! I didn’t kill her! Now if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave.’ ‘Close the door, Inspector,’ said Slipstar sharply. ‘He’s lying!’ How did Slipstar know? Despite acting as though he’d never heard of Jack Holiday, Jakes knew the doctor was a mare. The Family MatterTrotting through Lower Canterlot, Slipstar decided to drop in on his father. At the latter’s home, he was not surprised to find the doors locked and bolted. Doubling back, he spied a figure moving quickly up the road. Even from this distance, he recognised the lurid jumper – his father’s favourite. ‘Slipping out, are we?’ said Slipstar a few moments later. Cardow spun round. His face fell when he saw who had spoken. ‘I was going for a walk,’ he grunted. ‘To the pub, no doubt.’ ‘Cheeky young imp! All right, if you must know, Mary Flick phoned. Her cat’s climbed that blasted pine again and can’t get down. I told her I’d help, got dressed and left the house. I’m on my way there now.’ ‘Lying to your own son,’ said Slipstar sadly. ‘You really are shameless.’ How did Slipstar know? If intending to help a cat down from a tree, no pony in their right mind would be wearing their favourite jumper. The Big DealSlipstar licked his spoon clean with relish. ‘This honey is excellent!’ ‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Bartholomew Switzer, the retail magnate, with whom Slipstar was on friendly terms. ‘Our host, Henry Allerton – he’s looking for investors. ‘Allerton claims to be a beekeeper from Dodge, but I haven’t had time to check him out. This honey of his is something, though – it keeps better than most, he says. He wants to open a factory in Barton.’ ‘You are interested?’ ‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew tersely as he watched Allerton ingratiate himself with the local aristos. ‘I wouldn’t be where I am today without having taken risks. And you’ve tasted the product – it’s a safe bet, no?’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Slipstar, ‘I suggest you keep your wallet shut!’ Why? Slipstar knew that Allerton was a con man, not a beekeeper from Dodge. Honey, regardless of its quality, doesn’t go bad. The Dead SingerSlipstar was shaving in his flat when he heard the doorbell ring. After rinsing his face, he was most surprised to distinguish through the peephole the troubled expression of Inspector Wormstead. ‘Albeit painful to admit, Slippy,’ began the inspector once inside, ‘I need your help. Wide Range committed suicide at his Canterlot home two days ago.’ ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Slipstar, aghast. ‘Range was being treated for depression,’ explained Wormstead. ‘His sister, Warren, with whom he lived, claims he confided in her that he wished to kill himself. ‘On the eve of his death, Range practised alone in the patio for two hours. “Not the usual repertoire,” Warren said. “Beautiful – but sad.” She called him to dinner the moment he’d finished, but Range did not reply. Impatient, Warren strode outside and found him dead on the floor. Beside him lay one of these.’ He held out a pretty pink flower. ‘The coroner’s report,’ concluded Wormstead, ‘confirms that Wide Range died of rhododendron poisoning.’ ‘Yet you are not convinced it was suicide?’ Wormstead puffed out his cheeks. ‘Perhaps I’m being stupid.’ Slipstar shook his head and said, ‘Not this time, Inspector.’ How did Slipstar know? Had things transpired as Warren claimed, Range could not have sung beautifully. Symptoms of rhododendron poisoning in equines include hypersalivation, loss of coordination, paralysis and seizures. She called him to dinner ‘the moment he’d finished’, remember? The ScuffleCrimson Quill grunted as he dropped his pen and stooped to pick it up while Slipstar opened the curtains to let in some light. Miss Ivory was petting her cats, crooning softly as she scratched the ears of each of them. ‘Right, Miss Ivory,’ said Quill, rubbing his eyes. ‘We haven’t got much time.’ ‘I was just feeding Titus here,’ she began, ‘when I heard a commotion outside. Now, I couldn’t tell exactly what was happening from the kitchen, but before I so much as thought to find out, somepony cried for help!’ ‘Glade Tyler, yes,’ said Quill, sucking his teeth. ‘He’s badly injured, but the doctor thinks he’ll make a full recovery.’ ‘And I’m proper glad to hear it, you know!’ said Miss Ivory, nodding earnestly. ‘I heard a banging noise, then some shouting and ran in here for a better look. ‘And lo and behold!’ she said impressively. ‘There he was, cudgel in hoof, towering over poor Mr Tyler like some feral monster! He whacked him over the head once more, then looked up and saw me staring at him through the window. I screamed, and he turned and ran! I called the police, who arrived at once, twenty minutes before you did. ‘Of course,’ she finished, ‘I’d be more than willing to describe the suspect for you, Mr Quill. That evening paper of yours would still be taking submissions, yes?’ ‘Try it in court,’ snapped Quill angrily as he got to his hooves. ‘I’ll be sure to report your perjury.’ Slipstar held the door. What was wrong with Miss Ivory’s story? Quill knew Miss Ivory was pining for a headline. She claimed to have witnessed the incident through the window of the very room whose curtains Slipstar had just pulled open. The Dead LawyerSlipstar was passing through Canterlot’s Tops District when, all of a sudden, he heard a bang. Seconds later, a young stallion hurtled out of one of the offices, panting. ‘Quick!’ he shouted. ‘The boss just killed himself!’ Slipstar ran after him into the flat and up the stairs. On the desk in the study lay a pony face downwards, bleeding from a wound in his head. Beside him were a gun and scrap of paper. Slipstar telephoned the police at once. I regret to announce this is the end, my dear Nathan. Such slanderous remarks as those published in the Journal leave a pony of my age little choice. It pains me to so suddenly abandon one who I care about. Please forgive an old coward. Slipstar read the note again and, as Inspector Wormstead and his men established the crime scene, turned with questions to the young stallion. ‘You are Nathan?’ ‘Nathan Coote, yes,’ he replied. ‘I am – was – Mr Brown’s secretary. It was that bloody paper! The bloody Canterlot Journal and their witch hunts! Last month they published an article claiming the Tops branch was corrupt and took bribes from the Workers’ Union. The boss became a target of death threats, but I guess that doesn’t matter now.’ He blew his nose. ‘Was Mr Brown a good lawyer?’ asked Slipstar. ‘The best. He loved his work, wrote documents so sound you couldn’t find a loophole if you tried.’ Slipstar nodded. ‘I see.’ ‘Well, it’s clear as day, this one,’ said Wormstead an hour later, once the body had been removed. ‘Poor devil. Still, life goes on.’ ‘You think it was suicide?’ Wormstead frowned. ‘Am I missing something?’ ‘Yes,’ said Slipstar, ‘you are.’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar knew Nathan Coote was involved somehow – he claimed Mr Brown was a lawyer of considerable ability, yet his suicide note contained several errors one such pony would never make: a) slander/libel confusion, b) a split infinitive and c) incorrect usage of ‘who’, implying heavily it was forged. The Stolen UniformAs was his custom during the weeks before Hearth’s Warming, Slipstar dropped in on his old friend, and well-liked Wonderbolt, Fleetfoot; as was hers, the latter had, of course, prepared the usual game of ‘get him to look stupid in front of the lads’. A pot of tea brewing on the table, mugs in hooves, Fleetfoot grinned and began, beckoning in the assembled: ‘I’ll tell you a strange thing,’ she said. ‘Just last week this happened, and I’m not too happy about it. Spitfire gave me hell, but there it is. ‘It was one of those open days, you see. You know, when all the kiddies come up, the budding wannabes, that sort of thing. We showed them around as usual and put them through a couple of drills. I was busting the cirrus clouds with a group of them, and it was all well and good until one little filly decided she’d have herself a nosey about the gale equipment – didn’t turn anything on, thank goodness, but she got stuck behind the heavy machinery, and I spent a good twenty minutes pulling her out. ‘Well, of course, by the time she was free, the clouds we’d been trying to shift weren’t dealt with and we got soaked in the deluge. I brought the snivelling lot into the mess hall for some cocoa, which cheered them up. Dash took over, but my uniform was filthy, covered in oil from the breeze enforcer and heavy with rain.’ She paused to glance at Slipstar, who smiled automatically and nodded for her to continue. ‘I reached the laundry, stripped off, threw the mess into the drum and took a shower. As I was walking back, wrapped up in my towel, I heard a noise somewhere behind me – something moving fast.’ ‘Oh?’ said Rapidfire, raising a brow. ‘I know!’ Fleetfoot sipped her tea, her bright eyes eager. ‘I turned and had a look – no one there. And back in the laundry, I opened the drum door and found it empty as a cookie jar! Can you believe it?’ The Wonderbolts around her winced, bearing smiles of sympathy. ‘And we all know how Spitfire is when it comes to your uniform. “Missing” doesn’t even constitute an excuse. She shouted me to pieces and had me tidy the mess hall once the juniors were leaving. But I’ll say this – one or two of the rascals had a guilty look about them when I started mopping, and I don’t mean that as normal. They knew something – I only figured this after the fact. That sound I heard – you don’t think one of them walked away with my uniform, do you?’ With practised speed, all eyes flicked to Slipstar. He finished his tea and nodded thoughtfully. ‘As captivating a tall tale as any, my dear Fleetfoot, but invalidated by one embarrassing error.’ What was Fleetfoot’s blunder? Slipstar realised very early on that, while trying to feed him a phoney case, Fleetfoot made an elementary mistake. Cirrus clouds cannot produce anything remotely close to a deluge, a fact which any smart-aleck Wonderbolt should be ashamed to forget. The Lazy WitnessFleetfoot’s pre-Hearth’s Warming parties yielded habitually the latter’s whacking together a riddle or two, and Slipstar knew that, in so doing, she was out to trap him again. As the Juniors’ Derby unfolded on the other side of Observation, Fleetfoot bade everyone sit down, mugs in hooves. ‘You’ll like this one,’ she said, smiling knowingly. ‘Deep Purple’s actions were never explained. ‘Purple lived with his wife and children and was pretty happy about that. He’d spent his days laying bricks and liked nothing better than coming home to the family after a hard day’s work. His wife, she had a well-paid job herself, so it wasn’t long before Purple could retire, which he did. ‘One day, though – and this here’s what no one understands – one day he’s sitting around, not doing much, and this pony comes in. His wife screams because this pony has a knife! Heck, he’s coming at her, laughing. And Purple? Doesn’t move! Doesn’t care! ‘The pony chases after her, lunges for her. The knife connects. Purple? Doesn’t move! His wife’s injured, bleeding, but trying to protect the kids. Well, the pony goes for them and gets them all. Soon the wife’s dead and so are the children. Purple? Couldn’t care less! He just sits there, watching, and does nothing! Eventually, the police arrive, find the bodies and that’s that.’ Fleetfoot shook her head as though in disbelief, but Slipstar felt the smirk. ‘Explain that,’ she said, ‘why a happy family pony would let that happen.’ The other Wonderbolts shrugged and turned to Slipstar. ‘An excellent story, dear Fleetfoot,’ he said, bowing his head politely, ‘but not a real case, and therein lies its solution.’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar realised Purple’s wife was an actress. Purple watched the entire scene on his television set, from the comfort of his own home. The PaterfamiliasWalking in Lower Canterlot, Slipstar decided he ought to visit his father. Upon his arrival he was disappointed to find that the doors to the house were locked and bolted. He sighed and doubled back, scanning the road. He spotted a familiar figure, limping quickly away. ‘Wait!’ called Slipstar as he ran to catch up. Cardow’s face, aged, was sullen. ‘Huh,’ he grunted. ‘It’s you.’ ‘Where were you going?’ asked Slipstar sharply. ‘The pub?’ ‘Must you accost me with your accusations each time we meet? I’m going to the library! Happy?’ ‘Show me what’s in the bag,’ demanded Slipstar. Cardow scowled as he showed Slipstar a book about card games, a packet of nuts, his keys and his library card. ‘You’re walking?’ said Slipstar. ‘To the bus stop, yes.’ Slipstar sighed again and shook his head. ‘Each time we meet must you lie to me?’ How did Slipstar know? If he were travelling to the library, the aged Cardow would bring his entitlement card so as to ride the bus free of charge. The Reverse Riddle‘Fleetfoot!’ said Slipstar, smiling as he bumped his friend’s hooves. She beamed at him. ‘Good to see you made it! The derby’s nothing without its celebrity guests, or so they tell me. Listen, I can’t speak for too long; I need to give my team the talk, but quick – tell me your plans. We could meet up for a cuppa if you’re free!’ ‘I’m staying at a hotel not far from the castle,’ said Slipstar. ‘You can call on me any time you like, and I’ll boil the kettle. Or we could go to a café, a restaurant. I’m flexible.’ ‘We could sit in Observation! We’ve such a great view!’ Slipstar smiled. ‘Not concocting another of your tall tales for my sake, are you?’ Fleetfoot laughed and said innocently, ‘Wouldn’t dream of it!’ ‘You know,’ said Slipstar, ‘I have one for you. A riddle. Very brief. Would you like to hear it before you go?’ Fleetfoot checked her watch. ‘OK, go on, then. A riddle for me? I’m curious!’ ‘Blaze dies in Canterlot, and Equestria mourns. Sting dies at sea, with whose death Equestria is far happier. Why?’ ‘So, that’s how it feels,’ said Fleetfoot, nonplussed, running a hoof through her mane. ‘Honestly? I haven’t a clue.’ Why? Blaze and Sting were hurricanes. The Slow RaceCecil Andrews, the perpetually single mare-chaser, did not greet Slipstar enthusiastically, which told the latter he was mourning yet another love-life-related failure. ‘I’m lost with this one,’ Cecil said as Slipstar watched him sulk. ‘Pretty Petal – she’s toying with me. ‘Petal’s a dazzler. If I’ve tried to woo her once, each bachelor in Canterlot has tried a hundred times. She strings us along, but I can’t help myself. As it stands, a stallion called Prince and I are battling for the right to court her. She said the one whose car enters her drive last will win the date. So, both of us are sitting around, feeling rejected. I bet she feels pretty smart.’ Cecil stared gloomily into his empty glass. ‘Well,’ began Slipstar, chuckling, ‘if you’re willing to bend the law, you could win that date quite easily.’ He smiled as Cecil worked it out. ‘You’re right!’ said Cecil suddenly – and, having leapt to his hooves, he ran to Prince’s house. Why? Cecil realised that, if he were to ‘borrow’ Prince’s car, he could drive it to Petal’s and, in so doing, ensure that his own car arrived last. The WagerSlipstar was eating dessert at his hotel when a young, well-dressed stallion dropped without preamble into the chair beside him. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ said the stallion brusquely. ‘Name’s Whorl. I live around these parts.’ Slipstar remained cordial and said, ‘What can I do for you?’ ‘I was thinking… we could have a bet.’ ‘A bet?’ ‘Yes. You’re a clever pony. Famous for it. How about we test that brain of yours? A bit of fun. You’re game?’ Slipstar smiled. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You swindled my friend Cecil Andrews at a party.’ Whorl was not put out; on the contrary, his face lit up. ‘You know Cecil? Well, that’s a pleasant surprise! Ah, good old Cecil, poor chap. Quite gullible. But you must realise it’s all good-humoured. Just a bit of fun. You’ll avenge him, then? And I don’t expect you to play for nothing! Five-hundred bits say you can’t beat me at my game. What do you think?’ Slipstar deliberated. Then he nodded and said, ‘For Cecil’s sake, I’ll take you on.’ ‘I’m going to give you a sieve. By the end of the night, it must hold water. You can’t do anything to the sieve. If you can’t hold water in it but I can, then you lose.’ Slipstar agreed to the terms. Once Whorl had given him the sieve, he rose and walked to the kitchens, whose staff he asked a favour. Two hours later he presented the sieve to a disgruntled Whorl, who paid up on the spot. How did Slipstar win the bet? Slipstar asked the kitchens to freeze some water. Then he placed into the sieve the ice and showed it to Whorl, thereby winning the bet. The Dead FriendAt half-past one the telephone rang. Slipstar was alarmed to hear the panicked voice of Bartholomew Switzer, the wealthy retailer, whose friendship he enjoyed. ‘It’s me,’ said Switzer. ‘I need your help. I need you to come now. To my manor.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ exclaimed Slipstar. ‘Tell me!’ ‘I can’t say. Not now. Not – just... please come. This can’t wait. I’m in danger.’ Slipstar left his flat at once, boarded a taxi and was driven to Gladbrand, Switzer’s estate. As he arrived, he saw an ambulance and a small crowd. His heart sank. ‘Out of my way!’ he shouted, running through ponies and up the stone steps. He crossed the threshold and span around, searching for Smoky, the butler. ‘Sir?’ ‘Where is he?’ ‘I’m afraid Mr Switzer is dead, sir. They have just moved his body.’ Outside, Slipstar recognised his late friend’s secretary; she wiped her snout, sniffling loudly. ‘What happened?’ he asked her. ‘Mr Switzer returned home three hours ago. He asked not to be disturbed. He was served lunch at one, ate, and then I heard him telephoning you. He sounded upset, so I asked him whether he was OK, but he dismissed me. I ate my lunch alone, and when I returned to my desk, I saw that the door to Mr Switzer’s study was open – I saw him dead! Stabbed! Who could have done this?’ ‘Perhaps you could tell me!’ snarled Slipstar. Why did Slipstar mistrust the secretary? During the telephone call, Switzer did not use Slipstar’s name; therefore, his secretary could not have known to whom Switzer was speaking. One Frosty DaySlipstar had been worried: the forecast had said there would be no snow come Hearth’s Warming Eve. The drive to Cecil Andrews’ handsome manor was, however, well endowed – white like a swan’s feathers. His hooves touched the cold ground with a merry crunch as he exited his vehicle and thanked his chauffeur. His suitcase he dragged behind him, its wheels having sunk in the fall and vanished from sight. Delicate flakes floated down and latched themselves onto his mane. He smiled and, looking up, waved. ‘Glad to see you made it, old chap!’ called Cecil, waving back, from further along the path. ‘Let’s get you inside for a drink and a natter!’ The snow-covered evergreens were beautiful. Slipstar sighed contentedly and allowed himself to be escorted up the steps and through the door. ‘Who’s here?’ asked Slipstar as Cecil poured the tea. ‘Small turnout, truth be told,’ replied Cecil, grimacing. ‘Crimson Quill we’re waiting on. Maisie’s not been back in a couple of years. A shame. I thought I had something there. Anyway.’ ‘So, you mean to settle down?’ ‘Well. I don’t know,’ Cecil managed – and, though his friend was smiling, Slipstar detected sadness. ‘It’s something of... Well, let’s not talk about that now, eh?’ Slipstar patted him gently. ‘Chin up,’ he said and changed the subject. ‘I see your crackers are back.’ ‘What? Oh! Yes. Yes, I remembered you liked them.’ Cecil grinned. ‘Fancy a riddle?’ ‘Go on,’ prompted Slipstar, wondering idly whether it was time for him to settle down as well. They pulled a cracker and laughed as Cecil placed around his ears its purple paper crown and then read aloud its riddle. ‘What two things can you never eat for breakfast?’ He scratched his head and looked to Slipstar for help, who chuckled. ‘Short and sweet,’ commented the latter, smiling. Do you know? Lunch and dinner, of course! (Merry Christmas.) ContentsTHE CASE OF . . . I. The Strangler The Blackmailer The Straw Man The Last Gigliaro The Photograph The Fugitive The Pedagogue Spineless the Owl The Dead Doctor The Family Matter II. The Angry Monarch The Big Deal The Dead Singer The Scholar's Mate The Scuffle The Missing Person The Dead Lawyer The Fire Fetish The Stolen Uniform The Lazy Witness III. The Dead Mare The Lucky Murderer The Paterfamilias The Reverse Riddle The Slow Race The Dead Hoofballer The Wager The Shot In the Dark The Dead Friend The Submerged Treasure Stand-alones One Frosty Morning One Frosty Day The Last Gigliaro‘My pitch last night was glorious!’ lamented Cecil Andrews, the hopeless mareboy whose woeful chat-ups were yet to bag him a lass. ‘How on earth did Lucky Lane catch on? ‘Lucky’s father collects paintings,’ explained Cecil, ‘and he’s well known for it. She’d douse a fellow with her drink if he let slip his apathy for art, so I was careful to spin a yarn about a Gigliaro I own. ‘Rossetti Gigliaro was a watercolourist who passed away in the frozen north eighty years ago. A keen mountaineer, he led an expedition to the peak of Mount Kazan, where he died of a heart attack. Rumour has it that, hours before his death, Gigliaro painted one final portrait – a likeness of his daughter, Ruby, who was stillborn. The story goes that Aims, Gigliaro’s best friend, brought the portrait back to Gigliaro’s wife, who stowed it away. ‘The existence of such a painting has been much disputed, of course – but twenty years ago it was reportedly sold at an auction. I told Lucky I’d paid a great deal of money to trace, authenticate and restore the painting and offered to show it to her father.’ ‘At which point she doused you, no?’ ‘Yes. It was a load of hot air, of course, but how did she know?’ ‘Though most captivating,’ said Slipstar, ‘your story is as easily invalidated as that painting.’ How come? Gigliaro’s portrait could not exist. No watercolourist could paint at the peak of Mount Kazan, in the frozen north, where the temperature was lower than that at which water freezes. The Fugitive‘This is most irregular!’ cried Octavia, the celebrated cellist, after a dozen or so police ponies had barged into her concert hall, panting. ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ said Inspector Wormstead, ‘but we have reason to believe that one of your guests is a fugitive. No one leaves till we’ve caught her.’ Octavia bristled. ‘But the concert –!’ ‘Can still take place,’ said Slipstar gently. ‘Inspector, kindly instruct your men to wait by the exits.’ As the organist on stage began to play, Slipstar spotted a rosy-cheeked mare, the seat beside of whom was empty. ‘May I?’ he asked. ‘Of course,’ she replied, and Slipstar sat. ‘You are musical?’ ‘Oh yes,’ said the mare. ‘I’m a pianist. I’ve performed at venues across Equestria, everywhere from Cavendish to Constantine. I love my work very much.’ The music, a slow lament, ended on a major chord. ‘Do you like the Picardy?’ asked Slipstar. ‘I’ve never been.’ ‘All right, Slippy,’ sneered Wormstead a minute later. ‘You’ve had your fun. With or without your help, we begin searching now.’ ‘No search is required. I have found her already.’ What gave the mare away? Were the rosy-cheeked mare who she claimed to be, she would have assumed that Slipstar was referring to the Picardy cadence performed seconds beforehand and not to another music venue. Also, Slipstar’s suspicions were initially aroused by her appearance – he knew the fugitive’s face would be flushed. The Angry MonarchArriving at Canterlot’s infamous Speakers’ Corner, Slipstar watched Roquefort of the Anti-Alicorn League launch into his latest tirade on the subject of despotism. ‘When Princess Apraxia ruled,’ he told the assembled, ‘protesters were condemned to the stocks!’ A round of head-shaking followed these words, as well as the exclamation, ‘Our princess never would!’ ‘So you think,’ sneered Roquefort, ‘but she’s as wicked as the lot of them! ‘Barely four months ago,’ he began, ‘I telephoned her office. Sunrise that day had been a minute overdue. Naturally, those cads cut me off, but I refused to lie down! Braving gale-force winds, I reached the castle after dark. ‘I found the princess in her study, reading by candlelight. Before I could so much as mention the word irresponsible, she went berserk! Her first spell missed and splintered the wardrobe. So did her second, which shattered the window. I dodged her third and ran for the door. ‘Unfortunately, several guards drawn to the commotion prevented my escape. I listened in horror as the princess accused me of vandalism and exacted a heavy fine! Then she went straight back to her reading, and I was booted from the castle!’ To Roquefort’s dismay, the crowd burst into peals of laughter. ‘He hasn’t improved,’ remarked Slipstar, amused. What was wrong with Roquefort’s story? If the window had shattered, the princess could not have simply resumed reading. Gale-force winds would have blown out the candles, leaving her study dark. The Scholar's Mate‘I can’t believe it!’ Cecil Andrews, the lousy Casanova, exclaimed as Slipstar poured his tea. ‘Lily Norris – she saw through last night’s beauty as if it wasn’t there! ‘Lily’s a bird of high society, and her father owns quite the nest. They threw a party in his name last night, and I was drinking at the bar when she entered the picture, all dolled up and pretty. ‘Now, Lily’s father’s into chess, and he’d invited some big shots who were playing each other halfway through happy hour. I figured she was a heavy hitter herself because I watched her humble a fair few of them.’ He took a sip of tea and grimaced. ‘Go on,’ said Slipstar. ‘Well, I waited another half hour or so, then approached her, claiming I could play eight games of chess simultaneously and notch a favourable result to boot. No one else seemed awfully interested at first; all drunk, but they livened up when I sat down to prove it. Very soon I had the whole place watching as I knocked bits out of eight reputable grandmasters. In the end, I broke even, losing at four tables but beating the other half. Naturally, I got a round of applause.’ ‘But not the affections of the girl in question?’ Cecil sighed. ‘Bang on the nose again, old boy. She just laughed and shook her head!’ Slipstar smiled. ‘My commiserations, for it was a clever move.’ How did Cecil beat the grandmasters? Lily spotted what no one else did – Cecil simply mimicked the moves of his opposition, who were, in effect, playing against themselves. By pairing off each player with another, Cecil ensured he would finish the night with an even number of wins and losses, as four grandmasters would win/lose against the other four. The Missing Person‘Samantha Spring hasn’t been seen for seven days,’ said Inspector Wormstead in a low voice as the milk pony drove by, whistling. ‘We’ve searched the house from top to bottom, but there’s no sign of anything fishy. What do you make of it?’ Slipstar puffed out his cheeks and stepped over the threshold. The next half hour proved fruitless, however, for just like the police, he found nothing out of the ordinary. ‘She’s out-and-out vanished,’ Wormstead remarked once they were back outside. ‘I can’t think why, though. Word on the street says she’s a quiet woman who keeps to herself. Wouldn’t know trouble if it ran up on her from the front. You don’t think it has, do you?’ Slipstar crouched to pick up the forgotten mail on the otherwise empty doorstep and gave it a riffle-through. ‘Just bills,’ he muttered, frowning. He scanned the garden absent-mindedly, thinking hard. ‘Still nothing?’ Wormstead asked the constable stepping through the swinging gate, who shook his head. ‘No leads, I’m afraid, sir.’ ‘I might be able to help you there,’ said Slipstar quietly. What did Slipstar notice? The fact that after seven days the only thing present on the doorstep was Samantha Spring’s mail – had the milk pony not known of her disappearance, he would have left milk at least once. The Fire FetishA productive morning behind him, Slipstar detoured the busy streets via Canterlot Park and thus the city’s infamous Speakers’ Corner. As luck would have it, Roquefort of the Anti-Alicorn League had taken the stand, and Slipstar watched him launch quickly into his latest verbal assault on the powers that be. ‘And to top off the sordid affair,’ he shouted as the boos grew in number, ‘the princess squanders cartloads of your hard-earned bits on big-ticket whimsies and turns violent when confronted!’ A round of disapproval followed the claim, but Roquefort merely sneered. ‘Believe whatever you wish, but I stand before you as both witness and victim of such behaviour! ‘Only two weeks ago, I paid the castle a visit, bearing four hours’ wait for just a glimpse of her! The guards would let none of our party anywhere near the upper floors, but I slipped away and followed the princess to a room marked by rows of cabinets bursting with trinkets, one of which contained a small brass fetish in the shape of some many-headed animal. Pinned to the spot by such brazen misuse of funds, I was spotted. ‘The princess went berserk! She fired a spell, which missed and shattered the cabinet! The fetish flew through the air and struck sparks off the wall, igniting the drapery! To save her own skin, the princess cast another spell, banishing the flames, then accused me of vandalism and exacted a heavy fine! She went back to her collection, and I was booted from the castle!’ The crowd roared with laughter, and Slipstar grinned. ‘One of your poorest efforts yet,’ he said. What was wrong with Roquefort’s story? The fetish could not have ignited anything, for brass cannot spark on impact. One Frosty MorningThe wheels of Slipstar’s suitcase clipped the stone steps as he climbed. Cecil Andrews’ handsome manor house sat atop a raised stretch of flat, kempt grass, only today the estate played host to a thick blanket of snow as well as other guests. The door opened before he could reach to ring the bell. ‘Glad you could make it, old boy!’ Cecil clapped him jovially on the back. ‘Come inside and let’s have a drink! ‘Things are finally on the up,’ said Cecil happily as he drained his glass. ‘Maisie Luck arrives tomorrow afternoon! Poor girl. No family left, you see, but she’s made quite a name for herself in publishing. I hope to strike gold.’ Slipstar was admiring through the window the dense wood of snow-covered evergreens. ‘You’ve quite the view.’ ‘Oh yes.’ Cecil nodded, his face smug. ‘And not just out there. I’m counting on my rooms to do some talking. Maisie’s suite’s the best in the house. And a corridor from mine.’ ‘Who else has arrived?’ Cecil bit into his toast and, as he chewed, mumbled, ‘Your friend Crimson Quill, he’s up in the attic room. And my sister Barbara. Oh, and Mason Joy, our old landlord! As grouchy as ever.’ Slipstar smiled. Cecil shook his head, chuckling. ‘I know that smile too well. Come on, then, let’s have a cracker. These old things have riddles in them, might keep your brain occupied.’ ‘“A pony dressed all in black walks down the road”,’ began Cecil after they’d pulled apart the cracker and picked the little slip of paper off the floor. ‘“There are no lights anywhere and no moon. A car with no lights comes down the road and manages to avoid the pony. How?”’ Slipstar smiled again, and this time he meant it. ‘How simple.’ Cecil snorted. ‘To you, perhaps.’ How? It was daytime. The Dead MareSlipstar, though he was experienced, disliked the sight of blood, and the desk was coated in it. The pony to whom it belonged had been rushed to hospital and, shortly thereafter, pronounced dead. Inspector Wormstead puffed out his cheeks. ‘Not a pretty scene.’ ‘What happened?’ asked Slipstar, feeling light-headed. ‘Swift Snow and Tango had a fight, and the latter came off worse.’ ‘You have Snow?’ ‘Yes, and we questioned him. Something isn’t right,’ Wormstead added, frowning. ‘Snow claims that Tango suspected he was cheating on her. They had been arguing for weeks. An office romance turning sour, you know. ‘Snow says Tango was paranoid. Today she asked him the usual, and when he admitted to her that he’d danced with a pony at a club, she cracked. Pulled open the drawer there, took out a knife and charged. He tried to wrestle it from her, but the blade caught the poor devil in the neck.’ Slipstar opened the drawer carefully and saw that it was empty. ‘Has anything been touched?’ he said. ‘Nothing. Snow says he ran to get help the second he realised she was cut.’ Wormstead waited, but Slipstar was quiet. ‘What do you think?’ he prompted. ‘I think,’ said Slipstar slowly, ‘that Snow is lying.’ Why? If Snow had run for help as he said, the drawer would not have been closed when Slipstar inspected it. Who, when she is attempting to stab a pony, would close the drawer once she has taken from it the knife? The Lucky MurdererSlipstar had barely sipped his tea when Fleetfoot started spinning her latest yarn. Today, Observation hosted several high-profile Wonderbolts, and the opportunity to stump in front of them the great detective she could not resist. ‘Of course, murder’s a nasty business,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘A very nasty business – and Slipstar’ll tell you that, often, a pony you know is the one to look out for.’ Slipstar drank some tea and nodded politely. Fleetfoot grinned. ‘Now, it’s not that I’m at all pleased about it,’ she said, ‘but there’s this case I heard about a while back. A real sad story. ‘Gem, Lily, Twinkle Toes and Wintersong live in the same house. Twinkle Toes and Wintersong are a couple, and they like to eat out. Romantic, you know – fancy restaurants, good food, roses and candles, the works. Gem and Lily – well, let’s just say they don’t get on. Now, one day Twinkle Toes and Wintersong go out for their meal; they have a swell time. Gem and Lily’s evening is very different, and that’s what their housemates find out when they get back.’ Fleetfoot paused to aim a little smirk at Slipstar, who remained impassive. The Wonderbolts beside him leaned toward the storyteller, interested. Fleetfoot cleared her throat. ‘Gem’s dead. Murdered by Lily. There’s blood. The carpet’s soaked. There’s glass. A heck of a struggle. It’s a nasty, nasty business. Here’s where it gets even nastier: Lily isn’t prosecuted. Lily isn’t even punished. Can you believe that? Twinkle Toes and Wintersong keep it quiet. Why would they? And why would Lily murder Gem? Nasty business.’ Though she shook and lowered her head respectfully, Slipstar knew she was smiling. Customarily, the Wonderbolts shrugged and stared, awaiting his opinion. ‘I am familiar with this case,’ said Slipstar eventually, replacing his cup upon its saucer. ‘And nasty though it is, only a fool would expect Lily not to have wanted to kill Gem. Wouldn’t you agree, dear Fleetfoot?’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar inferred that Lily and Gem were pets. Lily was a cat; Gem was a goldfish. The carpet was soaked not with blood but with water, and the glass was that of a broken fishbowl. The Dead Hoofballer‘It happened barely an hour ago,’ the parkie told Inspector Wormstead as Slipstar paced up and down, listening. ‘After the cup final, in which Star was sent off. Of course, the Colts couldn’t play nearly as well with only ten ponies, so they lost the match.’ ‘Get to the point,’ said Wormstead. ‘How did he end up... like that?’ Star’s body they had found sprawled on the grass. The left side of his jaw was badly misshapen, and he was missing teeth. The blood on his lips was not quite dry. His eyes Slipstar had closed before the ambulance had driven him away. ‘I’m not sure why,’ said the parkie, leaning on his fork, ‘but after the game Star stayed behind. Perhaps he wanted to be alone. I came out onto the pitch to check the turf and saw that Star and a big stallion were brawling! I shouted at them, tried to make them stop, but Star got distracted. The stallion saw his chance and swung a murderous left. Caught him square in the face, and that was it. He scarpered as I ran to Star. It was too late.’ ‘This stallion – who was he?’ asked Wormstead. ‘What did he look like?’ ‘He was dark-coated. Big. Mean-looking, you know. A hooligan. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be an angry fan who wanted revenge.’ ‘Spare me the theorising,’ muttered Wormstead – and, turning to Slipstar, he asked: ‘What’s your verdict, then? How do we catch this ruffian?’ ‘You’ll struggle to,’ said Slipstar, ‘though the answers may be close.’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar realised the parkie’s account was false. A ‘murderous left’ would have connected not with the left side of Star’s jaw but with the right. The Shot In the Dark‘A liar,’ Slipstar told the assembled at his talk on criminal psychology, ‘must be very careful when he tells his story. So often have I found within the details of even the least suspicious account an inconsistency that proves fatal. ‘Take the case of Straight Marks, who killed his friend Pebble for money. Marks and Pebble frequented the Everfree. Marks claimed that, on their last outing together, Pebble went searching for mushrooms but did not return. The forest grew dark. Marks became anxious and tried to find Pebble, but neither the stars nor the moon were out – he could scarcely see. The situation worsened when Marks dropped his torch; he struggled to return to the campsite. ‘Eventually, Marks stumbled upon the path and felt his way down it. Then he noticed a pair of eyes, shining at him in the dark. Terrified, he raised his rifle and called for his friend. When he received no answer, he fired, thinking it was a wolf. He heard a yelp and realised he’d hit his target. He managed to reach the campsite and resumed his search in the morning, only to find that he’d mistakenly shot Pebble the night before. ‘What was wrong with Marks’s story?’ Slipstar asked the crowd. ‘Pebble would have responded when he called,’ said one pony. ‘Marks could not have found the path without his torch,’ suggested another. Slipstar nodded. ‘You’re going about it the right way, but the opposite of neither of these statements is impossible.’ What was wrong with Marks’s story? Marks could not have seen Pebble’s eyes; equine eyes shine by reflecting light – in Marks’s story there could not have been any once he had lost his torch, for ‘neither the stars nor the moon were out’ and he ‘felt his way down’ the path. The Submerged Treasure‘This is sterling silver!’ said Crimson Quill, the Canterlot Journal’s ever-sceptical editor-in-chief. He passed the tarnished candlestick to Slipstar, whose inspection confirmed it. Miss Ivory looked delighted. ‘I told you, Mister Quill! I told you, didn’t I? I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but I told you!’ She launched into her story. ‘My nephew loves to fish. The weather was perfect last Thursday. Heavy rains, exciting the minnows. He took his rowboat out and, just as he was about to start, spotted a bag sitting on the bottom of the lake. And he was lucky: the water there was relatively shallow – neck-deep, I think he said – so he waded in bravely, dipped his head under and got it! And inside he found silver! What do you make of that? Worthy of a feature, I think!’ ‘I think,’ said Crimson Quill as he returned to Miss Ivory her candlestick and opened the door, ‘that I’ve heard enough.’ Slipstar showed her out. Why? Miss Ivory was fishing all right – for a headline. Her nephew could not have found the silver in heavy rains, which would disturb even the clearest lake to the degree wherein one could not see a bag sitting on its bottom.
The Strangler‘There’s no need to stick your snout in, Slippy,’ said Inspector Wormstead, the cocksure flatfoot with a healthy contempt for private investigators. ‘We’ve got our man.’ ‘He confessed?’ ‘Not exactly, but I’ve a witness – a post pony who claims to have watched Spinner strangle our stiff to death with a garrotte. He’d just delivered magazines when he saw Spinner “pull open the door of his house and enter”. Shortly afterwards he heard a scream and, rushing over to investigate, saw Spinner through the open window, dispatching his wife in the manner previously described.’ ‘Ah, but the witness,’ said Slipstar. ‘Can he not lie?’ ‘Ruddy devil’s putting on one heck of an act in that case. He seemed as genuine as the ice and snow.’ ‘Is he to testify?’ ‘Surely.’ ‘I strongly recommend that you arrest him on suspicion of murder.’ Why? Slipstar realised that the ‘post pony’ was lying. He claimed he saw Spinner pull open the door of his house. Private-house doors open inwards – a fact that any real post pony would know.
The BlackmailerCrimson Quill, the Canterlot Journal’s long-suffering editor-in-chief, pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Let’s hear it again,’ he said to Miss Ivory. ‘At around ten o’clock yesterday morning,’ began the excitable Miss Ivory, ‘I walked to the kiosk in West Badham Street to purchase my tabloids. On the way, I passed a mare and a stallion, both of whom were whispering urgently. I paid them no mind at first, but then I heard the girl say, “I know you were with her that night. Pay me the money before April thirty-first, or I’ll tell your wife!” Then it clicked. The stallion was Colt Bolt!’ Quill raised an eyebrow. ‘The model?’ ‘The very same! I don’t suppose you read the tabloids, Mister Quill, but Colt Bolt and his wife are going through a bit of a bad patch. I think the girl must have caught Colt Bolt with another mare! I think she was blackmailing him!’ ‘I think,’ growled Quill, ‘it’s time I showed you the door.’ ‘And quite right, too!’ remarked Slipstar when he heard of his friend’s latest ordeal. Why? Quill knew that Miss Ivory, a notorious gossip, was trying to bag a headline. She claimed that the girl had demanded the money be paid before April thirty-first, thereby proving her account false. April has only thirty days.
The Straw Man‘Gully Barns, that smug-faced criminal!’ ranted Inspector Wormstead. ‘He’s slipped through our hooves again!’ ‘How so?’ inquired Slipstar. ‘We received a tip-off earlier this week, warning us that Barns is moving stolen goods to a safehouse in Canterlot. 'Three days ago we caught him acting suspiciously – skulking about the alleyways at five in the morning, fitted out in his Sunday best. He wasn’t carrying anything, so we demanded he turn out his pockets, which he did. And by jingo, his pockets were crammed with drinking straws! Hundreds and hundreds of drinking straws, and all of them practically worthless. Of course, we can’t arrest a pony on suspicion of smuggling drinking straws, so we had to let him go. 'The next day, he’s back, strolling through the alleys, garbed in another high-end suit. We stop him. He turns out his pockets. The same! And today! Stopped and found in possession of a case – a case chock-full of drinking straws! What do you make of this business?’ Slipstar smiled. ‘My, what a crafty fellow this Barns is.’ What was Barns smuggling? By bringing with him such copious amounts of drinking straws, Barns created the perfect distraction. The police, baffled, did not realise that Barns was smuggling stolen suits – those which he wore when travelling to his safehouse.
The Photograph‘I think I’ve been had, but I’m not sure how.’ Cecil Andrews drained his mug, then recounted his latest escapade. ‘Last night I attended a housewarming hosted by my friend Whorl. I messed up big time on the tables, but Whorl gave me a chance to win back my losses. He handed me a saucer and a drawing pin, then showed me a photo he’d taken earlier that evening. Somehow he’d balanced the drawing pin on its sharp end, in the middle of the saucer. “Do that,” he said, “and I’ll double your money.” Well, naturally, I tried.’ ‘But could not replicate what was shown in the photograph?’ suggested Slipstar. ‘Nail on the head, old boy. I left his house skinter than a beggar!’ ‘Yes, my friend – you were had.’ How? Have you ever tried to balance a drawing pin on its point? Undoubtedly, Whorl cheated. The clue is the photograph, which tells only half the story. Yes, the pin was balanced – but only because it was spinning.
The Pedagogue‘What is it this time, Miss Ivory? Scheming landlords? Thieving clerks?’ ‘The games mistress,’ said Miss Ivory at once. ‘Pamela Hope.’ Crimson Quill snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that rubbish about her caning pupils?’ ‘It isn’t rubbish, Mister Quill! It’s all over the tabloids! What’s more, that she-devil struck a filly before my very eyes! ‘On Friday afternoon, I popped along the school for a chat with my friend Margaret, who works as a janitor. At half-past twelve the clock on the wall went off, and Margaret left to clean the hallway while I helped myself to tea. After ten minutes or so, I heard a scuffle outside. Then the door burst open and in marched Miss Hope, dragging a student by the ear! She mustn’t have noticed me, because she thwacked the girl a blighty one! I cried out, and she froze. Then, without a word, she stormed off, taking the poor girl with her!’ ‘Off you storm, then, Miss Ivory,’ said Quill brusquely, ‘and take your nonsense with you!’ ‘Some ponies just can’t take a telling,’ sighed Slipstar, holding the door wide. What was wrong with Miss Ivory’s story? Quill knew that Miss Ivory was fishing for a headline. She claimed the clock on the wall went off at half-past twelve. Unfortunately for her, wall clocks aren’t alarmed.
Spineless the Owl‘Last night’s pitch was a beauty!’ Cecil Andrews, the luckless skirt-chaser who had yet to seduce a mare, told Slipstar. ‘I met a bombshell at a merrymaking in Ponyville. We got chatting, and our conversation turned to pets. I noticed she owned an owl, so naturally, I cooked up a tale there and then. ‘Spineless was a barn owl who lived near a pie factory in Vanhoover, feeding on rodents attracted to the waste. He was well liked by the workers, who petted him and fed him treats. ‘Early one morning, Spineless was perched on a branch and making ready to sleep when he smelled smoke. Flying over to investigate, he realised the factory was ablaze! ‘Spineless wasted no time. He flew as fast as he could to the closest town. Only by hooting repeatedly at pictures of fire did he manage to convince the fighters that something was wrong. They followed him to the factory and quenched the flames enough to rescue from the inferno those who were trapped inside. Grateful, the workers jokingly named the owl Spineless after hearing from the fire chief how he had saved their lives.’ Cecil stared glumly at the fire burning in the hearth. ‘Once I’d finished,’ he concluded, ‘she gave me her drink and stomped off!’ ‘This bombshell of yours knows what she’s about,’ said Slipstar, shaking his head. What was wrong with Cecil’s story? Spineless the barn owl could not have smelled smoke. Owls have no sense of smell.
The Dead Doctor‘Doctor Holiday was stabbed to death in her practice late last night,’ Inspector Wormstead told Slipstar grimly. ‘We’ve got a suspect. The porter admitted a suspicious-looking fellow whose profile matches that of Billy Jakes, a small-time crook.’ ‘Let’s hear him out,’ said Slipstar. Jakes was shepherded through the door and made to sit. ‘What’s the big idea?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I haven’t done anything!’ ‘Ever make the acquaintance of Jack Holiday?’ asked the inspector. ‘Who?’ ‘Doctor Holiday has been murdered,’ Wormstead explained, ‘and we know a stallion answering your description was granted entrance to the clinic that day.’ ‘That wasn’t me!’ protested Jakes. ‘Do you have an alibi?’ ‘I was at the pub, playing cards. Ask anyone.’ Wormstead glared at Jakes and growled, ‘We will.’ ‘Look, I’m telling you! I didn’t kill her! Now if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave.’ ‘Close the door, Inspector,’ said Slipstar sharply. ‘He’s lying!’ How did Slipstar know? Despite acting as though he’d never heard of Jack Holiday, Jakes knew the doctor was a mare.
The Family MatterTrotting through Lower Canterlot, Slipstar decided to drop in on his father. At the latter’s home, he was not surprised to find the doors locked and bolted. Doubling back, he spied a figure moving quickly up the road. Even from this distance, he recognised the lurid jumper – his father’s favourite. ‘Slipping out, are we?’ said Slipstar a few moments later. Cardow spun round. His face fell when he saw who had spoken. ‘I was going for a walk,’ he grunted. ‘To the pub, no doubt.’ ‘Cheeky young imp! All right, if you must know, Mary Flick phoned. Her cat’s climbed that blasted pine again and can’t get down. I told her I’d help, got dressed and left the house. I’m on my way there now.’ ‘Lying to your own son,’ said Slipstar sadly. ‘You really are shameless.’ How did Slipstar know? If intending to help a cat down from a tree, no pony in their right mind would be wearing their favourite jumper.
The Big DealSlipstar licked his spoon clean with relish. ‘This honey is excellent!’ ‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Bartholomew Switzer, the retail magnate, with whom Slipstar was on friendly terms. ‘Our host, Henry Allerton – he’s looking for investors. ‘Allerton claims to be a beekeeper from Dodge, but I haven’t had time to check him out. This honey of his is something, though – it keeps better than most, he says. He wants to open a factory in Barton.’ ‘You are interested?’ ‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew tersely as he watched Allerton ingratiate himself with the local aristos. ‘I wouldn’t be where I am today without having taken risks. And you’ve tasted the product – it’s a safe bet, no?’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Slipstar, ‘I suggest you keep your wallet shut!’ Why? Slipstar knew that Allerton was a con man, not a beekeeper from Dodge. Honey, regardless of its quality, doesn’t go bad.
The Dead SingerSlipstar was shaving in his flat when he heard the doorbell ring. After rinsing his face, he was most surprised to distinguish through the peephole the troubled expression of Inspector Wormstead. ‘Albeit painful to admit, Slippy,’ began the inspector once inside, ‘I need your help. Wide Range committed suicide at his Canterlot home two days ago.’ ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Slipstar, aghast. ‘Range was being treated for depression,’ explained Wormstead. ‘His sister, Warren, with whom he lived, claims he confided in her that he wished to kill himself. ‘On the eve of his death, Range practised alone in the patio for two hours. “Not the usual repertoire,” Warren said. “Beautiful – but sad.” She called him to dinner the moment he’d finished, but Range did not reply. Impatient, Warren strode outside and found him dead on the floor. Beside him lay one of these.’ He held out a pretty pink flower. ‘The coroner’s report,’ concluded Wormstead, ‘confirms that Wide Range died of rhododendron poisoning.’ ‘Yet you are not convinced it was suicide?’ Wormstead puffed out his cheeks. ‘Perhaps I’m being stupid.’ Slipstar shook his head and said, ‘Not this time, Inspector.’ How did Slipstar know? Had things transpired as Warren claimed, Range could not have sung beautifully. Symptoms of rhododendron poisoning in equines include hypersalivation, loss of coordination, paralysis and seizures. She called him to dinner ‘the moment he’d finished’, remember?
The ScuffleCrimson Quill grunted as he dropped his pen and stooped to pick it up while Slipstar opened the curtains to let in some light. Miss Ivory was petting her cats, crooning softly as she scratched the ears of each of them. ‘Right, Miss Ivory,’ said Quill, rubbing his eyes. ‘We haven’t got much time.’ ‘I was just feeding Titus here,’ she began, ‘when I heard a commotion outside. Now, I couldn’t tell exactly what was happening from the kitchen, but before I so much as thought to find out, somepony cried for help!’ ‘Glade Tyler, yes,’ said Quill, sucking his teeth. ‘He’s badly injured, but the doctor thinks he’ll make a full recovery.’ ‘And I’m proper glad to hear it, you know!’ said Miss Ivory, nodding earnestly. ‘I heard a banging noise, then some shouting and ran in here for a better look. ‘And lo and behold!’ she said impressively. ‘There he was, cudgel in hoof, towering over poor Mr Tyler like some feral monster! He whacked him over the head once more, then looked up and saw me staring at him through the window. I screamed, and he turned and ran! I called the police, who arrived at once, twenty minutes before you did. ‘Of course,’ she finished, ‘I’d be more than willing to describe the suspect for you, Mr Quill. That evening paper of yours would still be taking submissions, yes?’ ‘Try it in court,’ snapped Quill angrily as he got to his hooves. ‘I’ll be sure to report your perjury.’ Slipstar held the door. What was wrong with Miss Ivory’s story? Quill knew Miss Ivory was pining for a headline. She claimed to have witnessed the incident through the window of the very room whose curtains Slipstar had just pulled open.
The Dead LawyerSlipstar was passing through Canterlot’s Tops District when, all of a sudden, he heard a bang. Seconds later, a young stallion hurtled out of one of the offices, panting. ‘Quick!’ he shouted. ‘The boss just killed himself!’ Slipstar ran after him into the flat and up the stairs. On the desk in the study lay a pony face downwards, bleeding from a wound in his head. Beside him were a gun and scrap of paper. Slipstar telephoned the police at once. I regret to announce this is the end, my dear Nathan. Such slanderous remarks as those published in the Journal leave a pony of my age little choice. It pains me to so suddenly abandon one who I care about. Please forgive an old coward. Slipstar read the note again and, as Inspector Wormstead and his men established the crime scene, turned with questions to the young stallion. ‘You are Nathan?’ ‘Nathan Coote, yes,’ he replied. ‘I am – was – Mr Brown’s secretary. It was that bloody paper! The bloody Canterlot Journal and their witch hunts! Last month they published an article claiming the Tops branch was corrupt and took bribes from the Workers’ Union. The boss became a target of death threats, but I guess that doesn’t matter now.’ He blew his nose. ‘Was Mr Brown a good lawyer?’ asked Slipstar. ‘The best. He loved his work, wrote documents so sound you couldn’t find a loophole if you tried.’ Slipstar nodded. ‘I see.’ ‘Well, it’s clear as day, this one,’ said Wormstead an hour later, once the body had been removed. ‘Poor devil. Still, life goes on.’ ‘You think it was suicide?’ Wormstead frowned. ‘Am I missing something?’ ‘Yes,’ said Slipstar, ‘you are.’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar knew Nathan Coote was involved somehow – he claimed Mr Brown was a lawyer of considerable ability, yet his suicide note contained several errors one such pony would never make: a) slander/libel confusion, b) a split infinitive and c) incorrect usage of ‘who’, implying heavily it was forged.
The Stolen UniformAs was his custom during the weeks before Hearth’s Warming, Slipstar dropped in on his old friend, and well-liked Wonderbolt, Fleetfoot; as was hers, the latter had, of course, prepared the usual game of ‘get him to look stupid in front of the lads’. A pot of tea brewing on the table, mugs in hooves, Fleetfoot grinned and began, beckoning in the assembled: ‘I’ll tell you a strange thing,’ she said. ‘Just last week this happened, and I’m not too happy about it. Spitfire gave me hell, but there it is. ‘It was one of those open days, you see. You know, when all the kiddies come up, the budding wannabes, that sort of thing. We showed them around as usual and put them through a couple of drills. I was busting the cirrus clouds with a group of them, and it was all well and good until one little filly decided she’d have herself a nosey about the gale equipment – didn’t turn anything on, thank goodness, but she got stuck behind the heavy machinery, and I spent a good twenty minutes pulling her out. ‘Well, of course, by the time she was free, the clouds we’d been trying to shift weren’t dealt with and we got soaked in the deluge. I brought the snivelling lot into the mess hall for some cocoa, which cheered them up. Dash took over, but my uniform was filthy, covered in oil from the breeze enforcer and heavy with rain.’ She paused to glance at Slipstar, who smiled automatically and nodded for her to continue. ‘I reached the laundry, stripped off, threw the mess into the drum and took a shower. As I was walking back, wrapped up in my towel, I heard a noise somewhere behind me – something moving fast.’ ‘Oh?’ said Rapidfire, raising a brow. ‘I know!’ Fleetfoot sipped her tea, her bright eyes eager. ‘I turned and had a look – no one there. And back in the laundry, I opened the drum door and found it empty as a cookie jar! Can you believe it?’ The Wonderbolts around her winced, bearing smiles of sympathy. ‘And we all know how Spitfire is when it comes to your uniform. “Missing” doesn’t even constitute an excuse. She shouted me to pieces and had me tidy the mess hall once the juniors were leaving. But I’ll say this – one or two of the rascals had a guilty look about them when I started mopping, and I don’t mean that as normal. They knew something – I only figured this after the fact. That sound I heard – you don’t think one of them walked away with my uniform, do you?’ With practised speed, all eyes flicked to Slipstar. He finished his tea and nodded thoughtfully. ‘As captivating a tall tale as any, my dear Fleetfoot, but invalidated by one embarrassing error.’ What was Fleetfoot’s blunder? Slipstar realised very early on that, while trying to feed him a phoney case, Fleetfoot made an elementary mistake. Cirrus clouds cannot produce anything remotely close to a deluge, a fact which any smart-aleck Wonderbolt should be ashamed to forget.
The Lazy WitnessFleetfoot’s pre-Hearth’s Warming parties yielded habitually the latter’s whacking together a riddle or two, and Slipstar knew that, in so doing, she was out to trap him again. As the Juniors’ Derby unfolded on the other side of Observation, Fleetfoot bade everyone sit down, mugs in hooves. ‘You’ll like this one,’ she said, smiling knowingly. ‘Deep Purple’s actions were never explained. ‘Purple lived with his wife and children and was pretty happy about that. He’d spent his days laying bricks and liked nothing better than coming home to the family after a hard day’s work. His wife, she had a well-paid job herself, so it wasn’t long before Purple could retire, which he did. ‘One day, though – and this here’s what no one understands – one day he’s sitting around, not doing much, and this pony comes in. His wife screams because this pony has a knife! Heck, he’s coming at her, laughing. And Purple? Doesn’t move! Doesn’t care! ‘The pony chases after her, lunges for her. The knife connects. Purple? Doesn’t move! His wife’s injured, bleeding, but trying to protect the kids. Well, the pony goes for them and gets them all. Soon the wife’s dead and so are the children. Purple? Couldn’t care less! He just sits there, watching, and does nothing! Eventually, the police arrive, find the bodies and that’s that.’ Fleetfoot shook her head as though in disbelief, but Slipstar felt the smirk. ‘Explain that,’ she said, ‘why a happy family pony would let that happen.’ The other Wonderbolts shrugged and turned to Slipstar. ‘An excellent story, dear Fleetfoot,’ he said, bowing his head politely, ‘but not a real case, and therein lies its solution.’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar realised Purple’s wife was an actress. Purple watched the entire scene on his television set, from the comfort of his own home.
The PaterfamiliasWalking in Lower Canterlot, Slipstar decided he ought to visit his father. Upon his arrival he was disappointed to find that the doors to the house were locked and bolted. He sighed and doubled back, scanning the road. He spotted a familiar figure, limping quickly away. ‘Wait!’ called Slipstar as he ran to catch up. Cardow’s face, aged, was sullen. ‘Huh,’ he grunted. ‘It’s you.’ ‘Where were you going?’ asked Slipstar sharply. ‘The pub?’ ‘Must you accost me with your accusations each time we meet? I’m going to the library! Happy?’ ‘Show me what’s in the bag,’ demanded Slipstar. Cardow scowled as he showed Slipstar a book about card games, a packet of nuts, his keys and his library card. ‘You’re walking?’ said Slipstar. ‘To the bus stop, yes.’ Slipstar sighed again and shook his head. ‘Each time we meet must you lie to me?’ How did Slipstar know? If he were travelling to the library, the aged Cardow would bring his entitlement card so as to ride the bus free of charge.
The Reverse Riddle‘Fleetfoot!’ said Slipstar, smiling as he bumped his friend’s hooves. She beamed at him. ‘Good to see you made it! The derby’s nothing without its celebrity guests, or so they tell me. Listen, I can’t speak for too long; I need to give my team the talk, but quick – tell me your plans. We could meet up for a cuppa if you’re free!’ ‘I’m staying at a hotel not far from the castle,’ said Slipstar. ‘You can call on me any time you like, and I’ll boil the kettle. Or we could go to a café, a restaurant. I’m flexible.’ ‘We could sit in Observation! We’ve such a great view!’ Slipstar smiled. ‘Not concocting another of your tall tales for my sake, are you?’ Fleetfoot laughed and said innocently, ‘Wouldn’t dream of it!’ ‘You know,’ said Slipstar, ‘I have one for you. A riddle. Very brief. Would you like to hear it before you go?’ Fleetfoot checked her watch. ‘OK, go on, then. A riddle for me? I’m curious!’ ‘Blaze dies in Canterlot, and Equestria mourns. Sting dies at sea, with whose death Equestria is far happier. Why?’ ‘So, that’s how it feels,’ said Fleetfoot, nonplussed, running a hoof through her mane. ‘Honestly? I haven’t a clue.’ Why? Blaze and Sting were hurricanes.
The Slow RaceCecil Andrews, the perpetually single mare-chaser, did not greet Slipstar enthusiastically, which told the latter he was mourning yet another love-life-related failure. ‘I’m lost with this one,’ Cecil said as Slipstar watched him sulk. ‘Pretty Petal – she’s toying with me. ‘Petal’s a dazzler. If I’ve tried to woo her once, each bachelor in Canterlot has tried a hundred times. She strings us along, but I can’t help myself. As it stands, a stallion called Prince and I are battling for the right to court her. She said the one whose car enters her drive last will win the date. So, both of us are sitting around, feeling rejected. I bet she feels pretty smart.’ Cecil stared gloomily into his empty glass. ‘Well,’ began Slipstar, chuckling, ‘if you’re willing to bend the law, you could win that date quite easily.’ He smiled as Cecil worked it out. ‘You’re right!’ said Cecil suddenly – and, having leapt to his hooves, he ran to Prince’s house. Why? Cecil realised that, if he were to ‘borrow’ Prince’s car, he could drive it to Petal’s and, in so doing, ensure that his own car arrived last.
The WagerSlipstar was eating dessert at his hotel when a young, well-dressed stallion dropped without preamble into the chair beside him. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ said the stallion brusquely. ‘Name’s Whorl. I live around these parts.’ Slipstar remained cordial and said, ‘What can I do for you?’ ‘I was thinking… we could have a bet.’ ‘A bet?’ ‘Yes. You’re a clever pony. Famous for it. How about we test that brain of yours? A bit of fun. You’re game?’ Slipstar smiled. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You swindled my friend Cecil Andrews at a party.’ Whorl was not put out; on the contrary, his face lit up. ‘You know Cecil? Well, that’s a pleasant surprise! Ah, good old Cecil, poor chap. Quite gullible. But you must realise it’s all good-humoured. Just a bit of fun. You’ll avenge him, then? And I don’t expect you to play for nothing! Five-hundred bits say you can’t beat me at my game. What do you think?’ Slipstar deliberated. Then he nodded and said, ‘For Cecil’s sake, I’ll take you on.’ ‘I’m going to give you a sieve. By the end of the night, it must hold water. You can’t do anything to the sieve. If you can’t hold water in it but I can, then you lose.’ Slipstar agreed to the terms. Once Whorl had given him the sieve, he rose and walked to the kitchens, whose staff he asked a favour. Two hours later he presented the sieve to a disgruntled Whorl, who paid up on the spot. How did Slipstar win the bet? Slipstar asked the kitchens to freeze some water. Then he placed into the sieve the ice and showed it to Whorl, thereby winning the bet.
The Dead FriendAt half-past one the telephone rang. Slipstar was alarmed to hear the panicked voice of Bartholomew Switzer, the wealthy retailer, whose friendship he enjoyed. ‘It’s me,’ said Switzer. ‘I need your help. I need you to come now. To my manor.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ exclaimed Slipstar. ‘Tell me!’ ‘I can’t say. Not now. Not – just... please come. This can’t wait. I’m in danger.’ Slipstar left his flat at once, boarded a taxi and was driven to Gladbrand, Switzer’s estate. As he arrived, he saw an ambulance and a small crowd. His heart sank. ‘Out of my way!’ he shouted, running through ponies and up the stone steps. He crossed the threshold and span around, searching for Smoky, the butler. ‘Sir?’ ‘Where is he?’ ‘I’m afraid Mr Switzer is dead, sir. They have just moved his body.’ Outside, Slipstar recognised his late friend’s secretary; she wiped her snout, sniffling loudly. ‘What happened?’ he asked her. ‘Mr Switzer returned home three hours ago. He asked not to be disturbed. He was served lunch at one, ate, and then I heard him telephoning you. He sounded upset, so I asked him whether he was OK, but he dismissed me. I ate my lunch alone, and when I returned to my desk, I saw that the door to Mr Switzer’s study was open – I saw him dead! Stabbed! Who could have done this?’ ‘Perhaps you could tell me!’ snarled Slipstar. Why did Slipstar mistrust the secretary? During the telephone call, Switzer did not use Slipstar’s name; therefore, his secretary could not have known to whom Switzer was speaking.
One Frosty DaySlipstar had been worried: the forecast had said there would be no snow come Hearth’s Warming Eve. The drive to Cecil Andrews’ handsome manor was, however, well endowed – white like a swan’s feathers. His hooves touched the cold ground with a merry crunch as he exited his vehicle and thanked his chauffeur. His suitcase he dragged behind him, its wheels having sunk in the fall and vanished from sight. Delicate flakes floated down and latched themselves onto his mane. He smiled and, looking up, waved. ‘Glad to see you made it, old chap!’ called Cecil, waving back, from further along the path. ‘Let’s get you inside for a drink and a natter!’ The snow-covered evergreens were beautiful. Slipstar sighed contentedly and allowed himself to be escorted up the steps and through the door. ‘Who’s here?’ asked Slipstar as Cecil poured the tea. ‘Small turnout, truth be told,’ replied Cecil, grimacing. ‘Crimson Quill we’re waiting on. Maisie’s not been back in a couple of years. A shame. I thought I had something there. Anyway.’ ‘So, you mean to settle down?’ ‘Well. I don’t know,’ Cecil managed – and, though his friend was smiling, Slipstar detected sadness. ‘It’s something of... Well, let’s not talk about that now, eh?’ Slipstar patted him gently. ‘Chin up,’ he said and changed the subject. ‘I see your crackers are back.’ ‘What? Oh! Yes. Yes, I remembered you liked them.’ Cecil grinned. ‘Fancy a riddle?’ ‘Go on,’ prompted Slipstar, wondering idly whether it was time for him to settle down as well. They pulled a cracker and laughed as Cecil placed around his ears its purple paper crown and then read aloud its riddle. ‘What two things can you never eat for breakfast?’ He scratched his head and looked to Slipstar for help, who chuckled. ‘Short and sweet,’ commented the latter, smiling. Do you know? Lunch and dinner, of course! (Merry Christmas.)
ContentsTHE CASE OF . . . I. The Strangler The Blackmailer The Straw Man The Last Gigliaro The Photograph The Fugitive The Pedagogue Spineless the Owl The Dead Doctor The Family Matter II. The Angry Monarch The Big Deal The Dead Singer The Scholar's Mate The Scuffle The Missing Person The Dead Lawyer The Fire Fetish The Stolen Uniform The Lazy Witness III. The Dead Mare The Lucky Murderer The Paterfamilias The Reverse Riddle The Slow Race The Dead Hoofballer The Wager The Shot In the Dark The Dead Friend The Submerged Treasure Stand-alones One Frosty Morning One Frosty Day
The Last Gigliaro‘My pitch last night was glorious!’ lamented Cecil Andrews, the hopeless mareboy whose woeful chat-ups were yet to bag him a lass. ‘How on earth did Lucky Lane catch on? ‘Lucky’s father collects paintings,’ explained Cecil, ‘and he’s well known for it. She’d douse a fellow with her drink if he let slip his apathy for art, so I was careful to spin a yarn about a Gigliaro I own. ‘Rossetti Gigliaro was a watercolourist who passed away in the frozen north eighty years ago. A keen mountaineer, he led an expedition to the peak of Mount Kazan, where he died of a heart attack. Rumour has it that, hours before his death, Gigliaro painted one final portrait – a likeness of his daughter, Ruby, who was stillborn. The story goes that Aims, Gigliaro’s best friend, brought the portrait back to Gigliaro’s wife, who stowed it away. ‘The existence of such a painting has been much disputed, of course – but twenty years ago it was reportedly sold at an auction. I told Lucky I’d paid a great deal of money to trace, authenticate and restore the painting and offered to show it to her father.’ ‘At which point she doused you, no?’ ‘Yes. It was a load of hot air, of course, but how did she know?’ ‘Though most captivating,’ said Slipstar, ‘your story is as easily invalidated as that painting.’ How come? Gigliaro’s portrait could not exist. No watercolourist could paint at the peak of Mount Kazan, in the frozen north, where the temperature was lower than that at which water freezes.
The Fugitive‘This is most irregular!’ cried Octavia, the celebrated cellist, after a dozen or so police ponies had barged into her concert hall, panting. ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ said Inspector Wormstead, ‘but we have reason to believe that one of your guests is a fugitive. No one leaves till we’ve caught her.’ Octavia bristled. ‘But the concert –!’ ‘Can still take place,’ said Slipstar gently. ‘Inspector, kindly instruct your men to wait by the exits.’ As the organist on stage began to play, Slipstar spotted a rosy-cheeked mare, the seat beside of whom was empty. ‘May I?’ he asked. ‘Of course,’ she replied, and Slipstar sat. ‘You are musical?’ ‘Oh yes,’ said the mare. ‘I’m a pianist. I’ve performed at venues across Equestria, everywhere from Cavendish to Constantine. I love my work very much.’ The music, a slow lament, ended on a major chord. ‘Do you like the Picardy?’ asked Slipstar. ‘I’ve never been.’ ‘All right, Slippy,’ sneered Wormstead a minute later. ‘You’ve had your fun. With or without your help, we begin searching now.’ ‘No search is required. I have found her already.’ What gave the mare away? Were the rosy-cheeked mare who she claimed to be, she would have assumed that Slipstar was referring to the Picardy cadence performed seconds beforehand and not to another music venue. Also, Slipstar’s suspicions were initially aroused by her appearance – he knew the fugitive’s face would be flushed.
The Angry MonarchArriving at Canterlot’s infamous Speakers’ Corner, Slipstar watched Roquefort of the Anti-Alicorn League launch into his latest tirade on the subject of despotism. ‘When Princess Apraxia ruled,’ he told the assembled, ‘protesters were condemned to the stocks!’ A round of head-shaking followed these words, as well as the exclamation, ‘Our princess never would!’ ‘So you think,’ sneered Roquefort, ‘but she’s as wicked as the lot of them! ‘Barely four months ago,’ he began, ‘I telephoned her office. Sunrise that day had been a minute overdue. Naturally, those cads cut me off, but I refused to lie down! Braving gale-force winds, I reached the castle after dark. ‘I found the princess in her study, reading by candlelight. Before I could so much as mention the word irresponsible, she went berserk! Her first spell missed and splintered the wardrobe. So did her second, which shattered the window. I dodged her third and ran for the door. ‘Unfortunately, several guards drawn to the commotion prevented my escape. I listened in horror as the princess accused me of vandalism and exacted a heavy fine! Then she went straight back to her reading, and I was booted from the castle!’ To Roquefort’s dismay, the crowd burst into peals of laughter. ‘He hasn’t improved,’ remarked Slipstar, amused. What was wrong with Roquefort’s story? If the window had shattered, the princess could not have simply resumed reading. Gale-force winds would have blown out the candles, leaving her study dark.
The Scholar's Mate‘I can’t believe it!’ Cecil Andrews, the lousy Casanova, exclaimed as Slipstar poured his tea. ‘Lily Norris – she saw through last night’s beauty as if it wasn’t there! ‘Lily’s a bird of high society, and her father owns quite the nest. They threw a party in his name last night, and I was drinking at the bar when she entered the picture, all dolled up and pretty. ‘Now, Lily’s father’s into chess, and he’d invited some big shots who were playing each other halfway through happy hour. I figured she was a heavy hitter herself because I watched her humble a fair few of them.’ He took a sip of tea and grimaced. ‘Go on,’ said Slipstar. ‘Well, I waited another half hour or so, then approached her, claiming I could play eight games of chess simultaneously and notch a favourable result to boot. No one else seemed awfully interested at first; all drunk, but they livened up when I sat down to prove it. Very soon I had the whole place watching as I knocked bits out of eight reputable grandmasters. In the end, I broke even, losing at four tables but beating the other half. Naturally, I got a round of applause.’ ‘But not the affections of the girl in question?’ Cecil sighed. ‘Bang on the nose again, old boy. She just laughed and shook her head!’ Slipstar smiled. ‘My commiserations, for it was a clever move.’ How did Cecil beat the grandmasters? Lily spotted what no one else did – Cecil simply mimicked the moves of his opposition, who were, in effect, playing against themselves. By pairing off each player with another, Cecil ensured he would finish the night with an even number of wins and losses, as four grandmasters would win/lose against the other four.
The Missing Person‘Samantha Spring hasn’t been seen for seven days,’ said Inspector Wormstead in a low voice as the milk pony drove by, whistling. ‘We’ve searched the house from top to bottom, but there’s no sign of anything fishy. What do you make of it?’ Slipstar puffed out his cheeks and stepped over the threshold. The next half hour proved fruitless, however, for just like the police, he found nothing out of the ordinary. ‘She’s out-and-out vanished,’ Wormstead remarked once they were back outside. ‘I can’t think why, though. Word on the street says she’s a quiet woman who keeps to herself. Wouldn’t know trouble if it ran up on her from the front. You don’t think it has, do you?’ Slipstar crouched to pick up the forgotten mail on the otherwise empty doorstep and gave it a riffle-through. ‘Just bills,’ he muttered, frowning. He scanned the garden absent-mindedly, thinking hard. ‘Still nothing?’ Wormstead asked the constable stepping through the swinging gate, who shook his head. ‘No leads, I’m afraid, sir.’ ‘I might be able to help you there,’ said Slipstar quietly. What did Slipstar notice? The fact that after seven days the only thing present on the doorstep was Samantha Spring’s mail – had the milk pony not known of her disappearance, he would have left milk at least once.
The Fire FetishA productive morning behind him, Slipstar detoured the busy streets via Canterlot Park and thus the city’s infamous Speakers’ Corner. As luck would have it, Roquefort of the Anti-Alicorn League had taken the stand, and Slipstar watched him launch quickly into his latest verbal assault on the powers that be. ‘And to top off the sordid affair,’ he shouted as the boos grew in number, ‘the princess squanders cartloads of your hard-earned bits on big-ticket whimsies and turns violent when confronted!’ A round of disapproval followed the claim, but Roquefort merely sneered. ‘Believe whatever you wish, but I stand before you as both witness and victim of such behaviour! ‘Only two weeks ago, I paid the castle a visit, bearing four hours’ wait for just a glimpse of her! The guards would let none of our party anywhere near the upper floors, but I slipped away and followed the princess to a room marked by rows of cabinets bursting with trinkets, one of which contained a small brass fetish in the shape of some many-headed animal. Pinned to the spot by such brazen misuse of funds, I was spotted. ‘The princess went berserk! She fired a spell, which missed and shattered the cabinet! The fetish flew through the air and struck sparks off the wall, igniting the drapery! To save her own skin, the princess cast another spell, banishing the flames, then accused me of vandalism and exacted a heavy fine! She went back to her collection, and I was booted from the castle!’ The crowd roared with laughter, and Slipstar grinned. ‘One of your poorest efforts yet,’ he said. What was wrong with Roquefort’s story? The fetish could not have ignited anything, for brass cannot spark on impact.
One Frosty MorningThe wheels of Slipstar’s suitcase clipped the stone steps as he climbed. Cecil Andrews’ handsome manor house sat atop a raised stretch of flat, kempt grass, only today the estate played host to a thick blanket of snow as well as other guests. The door opened before he could reach to ring the bell. ‘Glad you could make it, old boy!’ Cecil clapped him jovially on the back. ‘Come inside and let’s have a drink! ‘Things are finally on the up,’ said Cecil happily as he drained his glass. ‘Maisie Luck arrives tomorrow afternoon! Poor girl. No family left, you see, but she’s made quite a name for herself in publishing. I hope to strike gold.’ Slipstar was admiring through the window the dense wood of snow-covered evergreens. ‘You’ve quite the view.’ ‘Oh yes.’ Cecil nodded, his face smug. ‘And not just out there. I’m counting on my rooms to do some talking. Maisie’s suite’s the best in the house. And a corridor from mine.’ ‘Who else has arrived?’ Cecil bit into his toast and, as he chewed, mumbled, ‘Your friend Crimson Quill, he’s up in the attic room. And my sister Barbara. Oh, and Mason Joy, our old landlord! As grouchy as ever.’ Slipstar smiled. Cecil shook his head, chuckling. ‘I know that smile too well. Come on, then, let’s have a cracker. These old things have riddles in them, might keep your brain occupied.’ ‘“A pony dressed all in black walks down the road”,’ began Cecil after they’d pulled apart the cracker and picked the little slip of paper off the floor. ‘“There are no lights anywhere and no moon. A car with no lights comes down the road and manages to avoid the pony. How?”’ Slipstar smiled again, and this time he meant it. ‘How simple.’ Cecil snorted. ‘To you, perhaps.’ How? It was daytime.
The Dead MareSlipstar, though he was experienced, disliked the sight of blood, and the desk was coated in it. The pony to whom it belonged had been rushed to hospital and, shortly thereafter, pronounced dead. Inspector Wormstead puffed out his cheeks. ‘Not a pretty scene.’ ‘What happened?’ asked Slipstar, feeling light-headed. ‘Swift Snow and Tango had a fight, and the latter came off worse.’ ‘You have Snow?’ ‘Yes, and we questioned him. Something isn’t right,’ Wormstead added, frowning. ‘Snow claims that Tango suspected he was cheating on her. They had been arguing for weeks. An office romance turning sour, you know. ‘Snow says Tango was paranoid. Today she asked him the usual, and when he admitted to her that he’d danced with a pony at a club, she cracked. Pulled open the drawer there, took out a knife and charged. He tried to wrestle it from her, but the blade caught the poor devil in the neck.’ Slipstar opened the drawer carefully and saw that it was empty. ‘Has anything been touched?’ he said. ‘Nothing. Snow says he ran to get help the second he realised she was cut.’ Wormstead waited, but Slipstar was quiet. ‘What do you think?’ he prompted. ‘I think,’ said Slipstar slowly, ‘that Snow is lying.’ Why? If Snow had run for help as he said, the drawer would not have been closed when Slipstar inspected it. Who, when she is attempting to stab a pony, would close the drawer once she has taken from it the knife?
The Lucky MurdererSlipstar had barely sipped his tea when Fleetfoot started spinning her latest yarn. Today, Observation hosted several high-profile Wonderbolts, and the opportunity to stump in front of them the great detective she could not resist. ‘Of course, murder’s a nasty business,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘A very nasty business – and Slipstar’ll tell you that, often, a pony you know is the one to look out for.’ Slipstar drank some tea and nodded politely. Fleetfoot grinned. ‘Now, it’s not that I’m at all pleased about it,’ she said, ‘but there’s this case I heard about a while back. A real sad story. ‘Gem, Lily, Twinkle Toes and Wintersong live in the same house. Twinkle Toes and Wintersong are a couple, and they like to eat out. Romantic, you know – fancy restaurants, good food, roses and candles, the works. Gem and Lily – well, let’s just say they don’t get on. Now, one day Twinkle Toes and Wintersong go out for their meal; they have a swell time. Gem and Lily’s evening is very different, and that’s what their housemates find out when they get back.’ Fleetfoot paused to aim a little smirk at Slipstar, who remained impassive. The Wonderbolts beside him leaned toward the storyteller, interested. Fleetfoot cleared her throat. ‘Gem’s dead. Murdered by Lily. There’s blood. The carpet’s soaked. There’s glass. A heck of a struggle. It’s a nasty, nasty business. Here’s where it gets even nastier: Lily isn’t prosecuted. Lily isn’t even punished. Can you believe that? Twinkle Toes and Wintersong keep it quiet. Why would they? And why would Lily murder Gem? Nasty business.’ Though she shook and lowered her head respectfully, Slipstar knew she was smiling. Customarily, the Wonderbolts shrugged and stared, awaiting his opinion. ‘I am familiar with this case,’ said Slipstar eventually, replacing his cup upon its saucer. ‘And nasty though it is, only a fool would expect Lily not to have wanted to kill Gem. Wouldn’t you agree, dear Fleetfoot?’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar inferred that Lily and Gem were pets. Lily was a cat; Gem was a goldfish. The carpet was soaked not with blood but with water, and the glass was that of a broken fishbowl.
The Dead Hoofballer‘It happened barely an hour ago,’ the parkie told Inspector Wormstead as Slipstar paced up and down, listening. ‘After the cup final, in which Star was sent off. Of course, the Colts couldn’t play nearly as well with only ten ponies, so they lost the match.’ ‘Get to the point,’ said Wormstead. ‘How did he end up... like that?’ Star’s body they had found sprawled on the grass. The left side of his jaw was badly misshapen, and he was missing teeth. The blood on his lips was not quite dry. His eyes Slipstar had closed before the ambulance had driven him away. ‘I’m not sure why,’ said the parkie, leaning on his fork, ‘but after the game Star stayed behind. Perhaps he wanted to be alone. I came out onto the pitch to check the turf and saw that Star and a big stallion were brawling! I shouted at them, tried to make them stop, but Star got distracted. The stallion saw his chance and swung a murderous left. Caught him square in the face, and that was it. He scarpered as I ran to Star. It was too late.’ ‘This stallion – who was he?’ asked Wormstead. ‘What did he look like?’ ‘He was dark-coated. Big. Mean-looking, you know. A hooligan. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be an angry fan who wanted revenge.’ ‘Spare me the theorising,’ muttered Wormstead – and, turning to Slipstar, he asked: ‘What’s your verdict, then? How do we catch this ruffian?’ ‘You’ll struggle to,’ said Slipstar, ‘though the answers may be close.’ What did Slipstar mean? Slipstar realised the parkie’s account was false. A ‘murderous left’ would have connected not with the left side of Star’s jaw but with the right.
The Shot In the Dark‘A liar,’ Slipstar told the assembled at his talk on criminal psychology, ‘must be very careful when he tells his story. So often have I found within the details of even the least suspicious account an inconsistency that proves fatal. ‘Take the case of Straight Marks, who killed his friend Pebble for money. Marks and Pebble frequented the Everfree. Marks claimed that, on their last outing together, Pebble went searching for mushrooms but did not return. The forest grew dark. Marks became anxious and tried to find Pebble, but neither the stars nor the moon were out – he could scarcely see. The situation worsened when Marks dropped his torch; he struggled to return to the campsite. ‘Eventually, Marks stumbled upon the path and felt his way down it. Then he noticed a pair of eyes, shining at him in the dark. Terrified, he raised his rifle and called for his friend. When he received no answer, he fired, thinking it was a wolf. He heard a yelp and realised he’d hit his target. He managed to reach the campsite and resumed his search in the morning, only to find that he’d mistakenly shot Pebble the night before. ‘What was wrong with Marks’s story?’ Slipstar asked the crowd. ‘Pebble would have responded when he called,’ said one pony. ‘Marks could not have found the path without his torch,’ suggested another. Slipstar nodded. ‘You’re going about it the right way, but the opposite of neither of these statements is impossible.’ What was wrong with Marks’s story? Marks could not have seen Pebble’s eyes; equine eyes shine by reflecting light – in Marks’s story there could not have been any once he had lost his torch, for ‘neither the stars nor the moon were out’ and he ‘felt his way down’ the path.
The Submerged Treasure‘This is sterling silver!’ said Crimson Quill, the Canterlot Journal’s ever-sceptical editor-in-chief. He passed the tarnished candlestick to Slipstar, whose inspection confirmed it. Miss Ivory looked delighted. ‘I told you, Mister Quill! I told you, didn’t I? I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but I told you!’ She launched into her story. ‘My nephew loves to fish. The weather was perfect last Thursday. Heavy rains, exciting the minnows. He took his rowboat out and, just as he was about to start, spotted a bag sitting on the bottom of the lake. And he was lucky: the water there was relatively shallow – neck-deep, I think he said – so he waded in bravely, dipped his head under and got it! And inside he found silver! What do you make of that? Worthy of a feature, I think!’ ‘I think,’ said Crimson Quill as he returned to Miss Ivory her candlestick and opened the door, ‘that I’ve heard enough.’ Slipstar showed her out. Why? Miss Ivory was fishing all right – for a headline. Her nephew could not have found the silver in heavy rains, which would disturb even the clearest lake to the degree wherein one could not see a bag sitting on its bottom.
