Sherclop Pones and the Cloudsdale Crimes

by A Sherlockian Brony

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Mystery, Adventure, Derpy Hooves, Spitfire, Sherlock, Crossover, Dark, Death
Length: 25088

Still engrossed over the year-old case of Pinkie's Cupcakes, Sherclop Pones receives a consultation from his illustrious brother to retrieve the vital 10th page of the documents concerning Cloudsdale's Weather Production.

THE EQUESTRIAN DAILY PAPER

The Pegasi of Cloudsdale have been rudely aroused from their slumbers to the news of the discovery of two crimes taking place last night at the Cloudsdale Weather Factory. A murder and a robbery both taking place simultaneously.

Fred Porlock, a secretary working for the head chemist behind the production operation, upon taking his post to start his shift earlier around 6, he found that the door, which led to a confidential office that housed the Factory’s vital documents, stood ajar. Fearing that something might have occurred, he entered the office to assure himself. To his horror, he found, upon opening the safe which kept the aforementioned documents, empty, robbed from its contents.

He then immediately reported this to his employer, the head chemist Dr. Icarus Hayfield, whom Mr. Porlock thought had already taken post at his study. Upon entering it, however, he found the unfortunate chemist lying upon the floor, dead, his head horribly mutilated by what appears to have been caused by a bullet.

Cloudsdale Yard had been immediately called upon the scene who in turn dispatched their most reputable officer, Detective Inspector G. Lestrot to handle this dastardly crime. He has conducted a most minute study and has come to the conclusion that the chief guardian of the vital documents themselves, Cloud Sweeper, is indeed the culprit.

The suspect has been arrested a few hours after this discovery, in fact; Sweeper had been found at Charlie Cross Hospital, where he tended to his maimed sweetheart, Pearl White whom had been hospitalized last night due to being mugged by villainous blackguards.

Despite such satisfactory discoveries, Mr. Lestrot encounters another dilemma which has very much left the entire Yard at their wit’s end…

The Factory’s documents comprise of 10 pages—only nine have been recovered from Sweeper’s person, and the tenth, it is said, being the most vital amongst the bunch, is missing.

Our readers must be assured that Cloudsdale Yard’s most ardent and tenacious of officers are hard at work to resolve this conundrum.

Published 2023-04-05 03:40:00 UTC
Last updated 2023-06-02 23:11:12 UTC

Chapter 1: Mr. Sherclop Pones

“Really, Mr. Pones!” our landlady retorted as she brought in the morning tea. “You’ve been depriving yourself from precious sleep for the past six days—oh, you poor, poor creature—”

Without taking his eyes off the powerful lens in which he had been so engrossed over in examining a certain specimen, Sherclop Pones waved off Mrs. Hudcolt’s concerns with a long, thin hoof.

“I am perfectly fine, I assure you, Mrs. Hudcolt,” said he. “I have consumed my 30th cup of coffee; I’m perfectly well off for the rest of the day, thank you…”

“‘Perfectly well off?’ TUH!” our landlady repeated with incredulousness. “For one such as yourself so intellectually pleased over murders, you’ll be solving your own one of these days with the way you treat your health, young colt!”

With an air of feminine indignance, she left the room as Pones languidly spun around his stool to light his pipe.

“She’s right, you know,” said I, setting aside the treatise upon surgery in which I had been reading. “You really indeed ought to get some sleep, my dear fellow; you’ve been fruitlessly pursuing this laborious case for nearly an entire week! Look at yourself, how it has drained you…”

But my companion stubbornly refused to pay heed to my medical remonstrances. Shooting a mischievous glare at my direction, he resumed upon his minute study.

“To reiterate the statement in which I have been reiterating time and time again, I shall not, my dear Watcolt, receive a wink’s rest until I solve the Dilemma of the Tobacco Ash…”

“‘The Dilemma of the Tobacc—’ My dear Pones, do not tell me you’re still at it! It’s been nearly a year; a lot has happened since then!”

From the immense clutter of our chambers, I produced the day’s noon paper. I here continued my lecture.

“Twilight Sparkle has announced the first Gala since Her Highness’ coronation as the Princess of Friendship; it’s the first Equestria has ever had for a while in so short a time period then—while you are still entrapped over—” I chose my words carefully. “—this incident!”

Pones gave a hearty, yet very much cynical laugh.

“Oh, my dear fellow,” said he, increasing the resolution of the glass. “how wrongly you have stated it! Rest assured, I have accepted the errs of my ways during the whole Pinkie’s Cupcakes fiasco and have moved on from it like an obscure memory. However, one of its many aspects promise something rather grim, I fear, for the near future…”

I raised a brow.

“A simple flask of tobacco ash?” said I with a tone of irony.

“Yes,” said Pones firmly.

“In what way, might I ask?”

Here I saw Pones, for an instant perceivably tense up; his aquiline jaw clenched, his stern, grey eyes seemed to stare fixatedly upon nothing, and his long, thin and claw-like hooves froze upon their actions. Gone was the cold, and often machine-like expression; what had replaced it was a more equine, and much more emotional one, as if the question had caught him off-guard.

“Pones?” said I concernedly.

Presently, he regained his collected and phlegmatic demeanor and politely turned to my direction.

“Do you recall Mrs. Hudcolt’s narrative on how she practically witnessed a crime being committed right before her?”

Forlorn memories were brought back to me with that interrogative question.

“Indeed, yes,” said I with a slight scowl. “that this mysterious individual had administered, unbeknownst to her and the couple, strychnine to the unsuspecting Cakes into their coffee as a means of progressing, in both a direct and indirect fashion, the Changeling Coup.”

Pones nodded.

“It was genius, Watcolt, pure mathematical genius to conceive such a scheme,” he remarked, his eyes gleaming with a reminiscent and nostalgic glimmer. “To employ such a ploy and to toy with my own shortcomings—despicable, yes, but one couldn’t deny the whole ingenuity of it.” Here he took note of my worried expression and smiled. He then continued.

“Returning to Sugarcube Corner; do you also recall a key aspect of this assassin?”

“I remembered that he carried a sort of gun with him—as it could be deduced with the fact that he used this ‘stick’ in a threatening fashion which could only mean a weapon—he was moustached, and—”

“And that he smoked a very foul cigar, very good,”

He then directed my attention over at the table. Obliging, I had finally obtained a closer look over what he had been dedicating his energies. It was just as he said, a pile of smoked tobacco ash.

“This, as you may deduce, came from the crime scene itself.” Pones explained, bringing back the lens to his eyes. “I had obtained it through Myclop, who, during the Club’s whole clean-up of the mess caused by the Changeling who posed as Derpy Hooves and Pinkie Pie, after some pleading on my part, sent whatever peculiarities could be found remaining upon the scene. One of them being the ash, having arrived just six days ago, which I deduce to be of the same origin as our criminal smoker, as it is remembered him dozing some of its contents off during Mrs. Hudcolt’s narrative.”

“But what bearing could it have to induce to deprive yourself from sleep?!”

“The Professor,” said Sherclop Pones with a weight upon his voice. He continued. “This pony is directly tied in with the Professor’s enterprise (as it is deduced to him having), probably one of his goons for who would participate in such a risky endeavor when you have a minion to do the dirty work yourself? I have lamented, as you may remember my doing, over the fact that we have not single chance in tracing the ominous entity that is the Professor, but we are fully capable, logically, to do so upon his associates. In this instance, the goon who administered the poison. If we persist, once we identify one of them, it could very potentially lead us to the mastermind himself. Not so much of terrible of a plan, is it, Watcolt?”

“But what is the relation with that and this?” said I, pointing to the blackened contents before us.

Sherclop Pones promptly produced a spare lens for me to use. He then directed my attention to the ash.

“Observe, my dear fellow, what peculiarities does this particular specimen strike you? Anything familiar, perhaps?”

Frowning and failing to understand, I vainly attempted to do so.

“It looks like any other tobacco ash to me, Pones,” said I, conceding.

“Ah, tut, tut! I have written several monographs upon the subject of identifying all the 160 types of tobacco found upon Equestria; with such ease I could identify this specific one. You, however, possess no such knowledge, but could assuredly remember its familiarity to you…”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow—”

“Examine it a bit closer—no, no, not with your eyes, try your other senses! Try your nose, for example…”

I then did so. I was confounded with my revelation.

“Pones,” said I. “this is the same type of cigar I use!”

Pones rubbed his hooves together.

“Very good,” said he. “now, what kind of tobacco does it use?”

“Lunarian Tobacco; yes, of course, I remember discussing it with Stamford during the Campaign.”

“With this discovery, what, then, do you deduce from its being found upon Sugarcube Corner on that faithful day?”

I stared at him.

“Pones, how audaciously treacherous of you!” said I with an accusing hoof. “You mean to seriously imply that I committed such a heinous crime?!”

Pones had been clearly caught off-guard with this.

“No, no, not at all! Such thoughts are blasphemy. I do apologize for this, my dear fellow; I would not imagine for worlds that you’d do it; not my Watcolt. Besides, you were writing the adventure of the ‘Prench Diamond’ here in Baker Street by the crime’s occurrence. Now, let me explain it in a more meticulous fashion--Lunarian Tobacco is often used by military belligerents of the Monarchy, specifically the Wonderbolts, which invariably means—"

“That the criminal had been a Wonderbolt too…”

“Excellent! However, that’d be too broad and vague a deduction if we wish track this shady individual down for there are hundreds of Wonderbolts in service. No, we need to be more precise. Reciting from my monograph—“ Using his magic, he materialized a piece of parchment. “— ‘there is a wide variety Lunarian Tobacco used amongst the Wonderbolts—to jock them down in simplified manner, they are thus: Type A, Type B, Type C and Type D.’ Now, gathering the information from our specimen, I was able to identify that it is of the Type C type, which is the rarest amongst the other three. With this, therefore, we’re able to say that this particular Wonderbolt in which we are pursuing belongs to a certain regiment who smokes this very rare type of Lunarian Tobacco. I shall now ask you this--what are the Wonderbolt regiments who could only smoke this type?”

“As I remember, only my own—the Northumberland Batch and the illustrious batch of the famed markspony, Colonel Cumulonimbus’ Cyclone Batch…”

“Good, we are narrowing the field down to these two groups—we are left, however, in another conundrum; which of these groups’ members did the crime? The task, fortunately, is made easier for us by the fact that only SURVIVING members could do the crime for there were a lot who lost their lives during the Nightmare Moon Campaign and are thus unable to work for the Professor. And is a male individual for Mrs. Hudcolt distinctly remembers a stallion. To begin with your own regiment, excluding yourself for you already have a valid alibi, kindly narrate them for me.”

To make it easier for the reader to follow, I herewith reproduce the list:

My own batch (excluding myself and the deceased):

Sgt. Thunder Wing

Bouncer (Brigadier General)

Stallion Stamford

Silver Spirit

The Cyclone Batch:

Colonel Cumulonimbus

General Steam Worth

Major Sea Striker

“Splendid,” said Sherclop Pones. “Now, to have an exact pin-point accusation of the culprit, we must first judge the character of the poisoner, then, if any of his points check out the same with any of these alluded in the list, we have our potential lead. Now, what do we remember of the stallion?”

“An ardent smoker, that is clear.” said I, recalling the ill-fated narrative. “He was a heavily-built, middle-aged Pegasus of forty or thereabouts; had hazelnut mane and was cruelly moustached. And most prominently, wielded a rifle that bore resemblance to a stick as a means of concealing its true form…”

“Indeed, it is so,” said Pones with an approving nod. “Now, is it common for the average Bolt to wield such an ingenious device?”

“No! Only the highest of ranking members could do so, such as a Colonel or a Major.”

“With this, and combining it with the characteristics of our criminal, who amongst those in your list fits this devious character?”

Thoroughly intellectually enjoying myself in partaking upon my friend’s investigations, I conducted a minute examination upon my old comrades.

Bouncer, I had my suspicions, for he held a high rank and was of 45 years of age and wielded himself such a weapon, (but not in the form of a stick) but was not a smoker. In fact, he abhorrently resented the very existence of cigars. He was therefore eliminated from the equation. The rest, as I remember, were smokers, but were all quite young and had either blonde or white manes.

“The Northumberland Batch, is henceforth eliminated. Very good.” said Pones upon analyzing my results. “We then move on to the Cyclone Batch.”

This proved to a rather more difficult task for all that remained from the Campaign were all high-ranking. But I still had the previous discoveries to fall back upon. Recalling the medical reports from the paper, General Steam Worth lost his right lung during the battle and thus eliminated for, being a pony so meticulous upon his health, I doubt that he’d risk his one and only remaining lung to tobacco.

It was only Colonel Cumulonimbus and Major Sea Striker who remain. I had the honor to meet the latter in person when my batch was sent to relieve them (or what was left of their batch), and had once again when I had been hospitalized upon losing my wing. We shared the same room and often chatted, despite an opaque curtain dividing our beds, to while away time as we recover. But upon the Major’s discharge from the hospital and the curtain had been finally drawn, I was horrified to see what has become of this heroic pony. His eyes had been gauged out from their sockets and what only had remained were two black holes.

I was shocked by my following revelation.

“He’s blind, then,” said Pones, conclusively. “Which, logically, ultimately leads us to the last factor—”

“It can’t be!” said I, reeling from the pile of tobacco ash. I stared into Pones’ eyes, to which the latter merely nodded gravely.

“Indeed, it is,” said he. “The most notoriously prestigious, heroic and chivalrous member of the Wonderbolts—an intellectual graduate of Oxford, the Tiger of the Bolts, the author of ‘Heavy Game in the Artic North’ possesses a direct affiliation with our dear mysterious and ominous Professor…”

“Colonel Cumulon—Sweet Celestia!”

It was at this moment that a hurried knock came upon our door, making me jump from my seat and breaking our focus from our dastardly revelations. Presently, Mrs. Hudcolt came in with a card upon a salver.

“There’s a certain visitor who wishes to see you, Mr. Pones,” said our landlady, still eyeing my companion with a precarious glare.

Thankfully dismissing her, Sherclop Pones examined the card. A look of the utmost bewilderment came across his face.

“Well, this is rather unexpected…” said he as cleared the settee and our armchairs from the immense clutter of various papers. Leaving the tobacco ash in which he we inconceivably ascertained so much from, I approached him.

“Who is coming, Pones?”

He looked at me with a cognitive expression, as if attempting to digest on what had just occurred with the card.

“Myclop,”

Without even a second’s passing from uttering that illustrious name, the stallion himself entered our humble threshold.

Chapter 2: Mr. Myclop Pones

A moment later the tall and portly form of Myclop Pones was ushered into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame, there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance, one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind. At his heels came our official friend Detective Inspector Lestrot, of Cloudsdale Yard—thin and austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest. The detective shook hooves without a word. Myclop Pones struggled out of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.

I had observed a striking resemblance between either of the Pones; though much bulkier and stouter, Myclop had the same listless and resigned yet commanding presence about him which is always characteristic of his brother. He had the same aquiline nose, the same soul-piercing gaze and the wateriness of those stern grey eyes.

“A most annoying business, Sherclop;” said he, wiping his brow. “I extremely dislike altering my habits…”

“Judging from your presence and that of the detective inspector here I could say the matter at present is of a particular societal and criminal bearing…” observed my companion.

“Societal and criminal, indeed, my dear Sherly, one in which causes me a good migraine. Alas, the powers that be would take no denial. In the present state of the upcoming Gala, it is most awkward that I should be away from the office. But it is a real crisis nonetheless. I have never seen the Princess so upset. It is, I daresay, a state matter of the utmost importance, yet Her Majesty desires its resolution to be as swift as possible. As to the Club, it’s buzzing like an overturned beehive. Have you seen the morning papers?”

“I confess I have not,” said Sherclop. “I’ve been occupied upon the intricate study of the Lunarian Ash in which you sent…”

In the same hawk-like oscillation as to his brother’s, Myclop Pones studied the state of the flat, taking note of the most minute of details. His eyes rested upon the ever-increasing mount of coffee cups that lie at the side of Pones’ desk.

“Another obsession, eh?” said he good-heartedly. “Do notify once you’ve turned something up—”

Myclop then extracted the day’s newspaper amongst the clutter (which had been respectably set aside) and began skimming through its pages. Stopping over a particular leaf, he then tossed the gazette over to my companion. Standing behind the latter, we read the following heading in bewildered interest.

ROBBERY AND MURDER AT CLOUDSDALE

The Pegasi of Cloudsdale have been rudely aroused from their slumbers to the news of the discovery of two crimes taking place last night at the Cloudsdale Weather Factory. A murder and a robbery both taking place simultaneously.

Fred Porlock, a secretary working for the head chemist behind the production operation, upon taking his post to start his shift earlier around 6, he found that the door, which led to a confidential office that housed the Factory’s vital documents, stood ajar. Fearing that something might have occurred, he entered the office to assure himself. To his horror, he found, upon opening the safe which kept the aforementioned documents, empty, robbed from its contents.

He then immediately reported this to his employer, the head chemist Dr. Icarus Hayfield, whom Mr. Porlock thought had already taken post at his study. Upon entering it, however, he found the unfortunate chemist lying upon the floor, dead, his head horribly mutilated by what appears to have been caused by a bullet.

Cloudsdale Yard had been immediately called upon the scene who in turn dispatched their most reputable officer, Detective Inspector G. Lestrot to handle this dastardly crime. He has conducted a most minute study and has come to the conclusion that the chief guardian of the vital documents themselves, Cloud Sweeper, is indeed the culprit.

The suspect has been arrested a few hours after this discovery, in fact; Sweeper had been found at Charlie Cross Hospital, where he tended to his maimed sweetheart, Pearl White whom had been hospitalized last night due to being mugged by villainous blackguards.

Despite such satisfactory discoveries, Mr. Lestrot encounters another dilemma which has very much left the entire Yard at their wit’s end…

The Factory’s documents comprise of 10 pages—only nine have been recovered from Sweeper’s person, and the tenth, it is said, being the most vital amongst the bunch, is missing.

Our readers must be assured that Cloudsdale Yard’s most ardent and tenacious of officers are hard at work to resolve this conundrum.

“Sweet Celestia!” I cried. “Such absurdity!”

“A most gratif—grotesque an account!” remarked Pones, lying the article down. “How could I have missed such a pleasing problem. Do remind me, Watcolt, no matter how bleak the days would be, to always check the paper. For all we know, even the most uninteresting of articles could possess a rich vein to strike. What were the documents?”

Myclop Pones looked grave and very much dismayed, but had nonetheless answered the question with admirable collectiveness.

“The Weather Factory Plans…” The Pones spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the importance of the subject. “…they contain dictations which are necessary for the Pegasus weather production. They are so technical that only the head chemist could discern its scribbles. Every day, he takes the Plans out and dictates to the workers on what procedures they must take to produce the day’s weather. You see the importance of their disappearance, Sherly? With the Pegasi deprived from their societal role as Equestria’s weather distributers, what evil shall befall upon our great Monarchy? All because of this wretched treasonous youth!”

“Dear me,” said Sherclop, reclining back upon his armchair. “this certainly does seem grave. The case does somewhat possess some points of interest, despite just being a mere retrieval case. If we omit the societal factor and everything that hangs upon it, it’d be like any other textbook crime. Well, well, it can’t be helped, the great cases of the past are long gone; my profession has once again degenerated into mere retrieval cases. Kindly hand me my pipe, Watcolt. Now, gentlecolts the facts…”

Producing a tattered notebook from his trench coat, Mr. Lestrot, whose impatient ferret features grew more impatient by the minute, then began reciting its contents.

“I have listed down the facts in systematic order, just as how you taught us, Mr. Pones, to start with the parties concerned,” he began almost cynically, glancing at my companion. “Right, this fellow, Dr. Icarus Hayfield, as the papers and Mr. Pones—er, Myclop Pones—have placed it, is the head chemist behind the entire weather production of Cloudsdale. He oversees the ingredients that make up all sorts of weather stuff—clouds, rain, snow, what have you—and dictates to its procedures all throughout the day…and night. A very learned fellow, this Hayfield was; unmarried and middle-aged, but very much the gentlecolt admired and respected by his colleagues, one who’d always get the job done and done right. The entire factory practically functioned like cogs in a clock with his management.

“Fred Porlock, the one who initially discovered the robbery and the murder, is—or rather was in Hayfield’s employ for the better part of 2 months now. From his records, he seems efficient enough. A straight and sort of stand-up individual, this colt is. His duties grant him daily contact with the Plans, for narrates its contents to Hayfield for sight wasn’t as good as it once was, who in turn shall discern what they mean and then dictate. His duty normally starts early, around the same time as that of the chemist’s.

“Next up we’ve got Cloud Sweeper, a dashing young stallion of 27; he’s the chief guardian assigned to protect Hayfield’s Plans. Cloud keeps them in a safe, which is located in a confidential office, which it in turn is located within the Factory’s arsenal. He’s got all the keys necessary to access the Plans, as a contrast to Hayfield, who only has one. Sweeper’s duties comprise of assuring the Plans’ security, managing surveillance, commanding guards, etc. He has a sweetheart, as also mentioned; a certain Pearl White, nice girl, I’d say, love’s mutual on both sides, that sappy stuff. Looked into her, her record’s clean as a pipe, not so sure about that of the chap’s anymore though…”

“How severe are her injuries?” I inquired.

Lestrot shook his head.

“Bordering upon mutilation, doctor,” said he. “every bone she has, knacked and cracked like barbwire. Sweet Celestia, absolute brutes, whoever did this vile act were. By my word, we’ll get ‘em. By her account, while she was awaiting Sweeper’s return last night, a gang pulled up to her own house, wrecked the entire place, stole some jewelry and beat her up like she had been—” his words failed him. “—you know the rest, gentlecolts, a caring neighbor spotted her and sent the poor lady to Charlie Cross and wrote a telegram, which compelled the young Sweeper to hastily depart from his offices. Trotkins is currently looking into that, however, while I deal with the 10th page.”

While being the embodiment of practicality and collectiveness who rarely conveyed his emotions, Sherclop Pones held sympathy towards those who are undeserving of such horrible treatment. For a flickering moment, I read the determination in his eyes.

“What exactly compelled you to conclude with Sweeper’s guilt?”

Lestrot gave a dry chuckle.

“I wasn’t compelled, Mr. Pones, for it was in front of me—plain as a pikestaff, it was. Upon answering Fred Porlock’s call, I naturally checked surveillance if there’d be anything fishy in it. Lo and behold, something fishy indeed. But before I tell you about it, here’s a rough sketch of the geography surrounding the Plans—”

A copy is here reproduced.

Lestrot then continued.

“At 8:10 PM, a knock is heard at the arsenal door. Sweeper exits the office and answers it, greeting a mailmare. A telegram is delivered to Cloud Sweeper, which had a drastic effect upon the young Pegasus. He was absolutely frantic, he hastily departed, shoving the mare aside. I had a look at the telegraphic service near the area, and had ascertained that that telegram was the telegram in which Pearl White had sent.

“8:20 PM, Sweeper returns with his eyes filled with malevolent intention. He heads straight into the office, as seen by the two cameras. A few minutes pass, he remerges with the actual Plans in possession as seen by the camera that directly overlooks the office, that one there, at the left. Normally, you’d expect him to presently be seen by the other, but you’d be wrong, for he doesn’t! It took a whole five minutes, then he appeared again and exited the arsenal at 8:30. Now, this is where I draw his guilt from—

“Why the five-minute interval, I thought. What if, he was the murderer? There was the ample opportunity, he could easily commit it while being out of frame! But I had to look for a motive—so I found one…

“Looking into this fellow’s current financial state, I hear that he paid a lot from his pocket to supply the necessities of the upcoming marriage with Pearl White. With this, I conjecture that he was in a dire need of money and so the idea of stealing the Plans floated around his head with intention of perhaps of trading it with some blackmailer or some sort, for a handsome price that would cover his debt. And, conclusively, what had triggered him to commit the murder, if he did indeed which I’m sure he did, was the attack upon his sweetheart. He thought that the medical bills would drown him in even more debt and the very prospect of it had compelled him to commit this act of treason and homicide. It’s perfect! Only when the noble chemist confronted him was when he encountered an obstacle, and so dealt with it with murder…”

“What evidence do you have to support this, Lestrot?” interposed Sherclop Pones, very much engrossed over the official’s narrative. The latter, evidently pleased with the effect he has made upon the amateur, smiled almost mockingly at the question.

“I knew you’d ask that, Mr. Pones—there was a revolver found, in fact, just outside Dr. Hayfield’s study—a discharged one, mind you. Upon extracting the bullet from the unfortunate chemist, it matches exactly with the gun. Most damningly, in the footage, when Cloud Sweeper reentered the arsenal after answering the telegram, there gleamed by the moonlight the reflection of a gun.

“The rest, as you know, is history. We paid Charlie Cross a visit, in hopes of still catching our miscreant…which we did, almost effortlessly! The fellow, standing next to Ms. White, of course, denied our accusations, but upon presenting the facts, he fainted. I believe that’d enough for a jury. How’d that be, Mr. Sherclop Pones?”

“Good, Lestrot, very good!” chuckled my companion heartily. “A most intricate of analysis; my applause…”

Lestrot, his ferret cheeks blushing in flattered delight, bowed in a pompous fashion.

“We don’t need any of your fancy theories and whatnot, as it proves, Mr. Pones; all we need is what’s commonly up here—” he knocked his forehead.

“Indeed, it as you say, my dear Inspector; one’s common sense typically resolves any a problem,” said Pones rather jovially. Underneath that jubilating expression, however, I could detect a sense of cynicism, and a tinge of uncertainty, as if his mind were elsewhere but here: embarking on a foreign train of thought. “I deduce that your need of me is to locate the vital 10th page, is it not?”

“Quite so, Sherly…” said Myclop Pones, putting down his monocle which he used in examining my hat (which had lie strewn upon floor before him and thus took upon the liberty to stimulate his mind) during the narrative. “Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the police-court. It’s a vital international problem that you have to solve. Locate the final page and you will have done good service for your nation.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself, Myclop?” queried Sherclop. “You’re just intellectually capable as me, if not even more so. I’ve seen you deduce the entire life of an old soldier—his regiment, his particular role in it, why had he been relieved, his current familial affairs—while I was only able to perceive his tobacco addiction. You could easily bring this confounding affair to a swift close if you so wish—”

“I could, Sherly, I most definitely could! But, alas, it is a question of getting details. I am simply not built for physical exertion. Regard the size of this old belly! Give me your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye—it is not my métier. No, you are the one pony who can clear the matter up.”

“Very well, very well, we shall begin right away. Watcolt,” he sprang up, his eyes glimmering in sinister excitement. “the game is afoot once more! Pack your necessities and possibly your old Wonderbolt attire. We shall first visit the scene of the crime itself—Cloudsdale…”

Chapter 3: Shattered Window

Pegasi had the particular ability to maintain afoot standing upon a cloud instead of plummeting from thousands of feet to death. Such was the dilemma Sherclop and Myclop had faced, for they were Unicorns, while myself and Lestrot were, in turn, Pegasi. Fortunately, however, Myclop had come prepared for such a hindrance—

Casting a spell that shall suit non-Pegasi to enter Cloudsdale land by granting them the ability to walk upon clouds, presently, we ascended via balloon and had alighted at the mobile city.

Though I have very much found a comfortable home in Baker Street, I felt a particular melancholy nostalgia as we trotted about the city of clouds. The glaring rays of the sun, the breezy atmosphere of the stratosphere, and the gentle touch of the lofty clouds beneath our hooves all seemed to greet their old resident in its welcoming embrace. I recalled the days of my service and how I took it to pursuit my medical career, and how I had been labeled by fellow Wonderbolt cronies as “Med-Head,” due to my relentless lectures upon my regiment’s medical safety as we to our exercises. I smiled at the reminiscence, but then remembered Pones’ discovery that one of the mysterious Professor’s pawns is in fact one of our own—then the quest which had immediately followed, I forced myself to pivot my attention to the task at hoof.

Myclop had long since departed (for he opted to remain in Canterlot to attend to the problems which his Club faced and requested us to inform us of our progressions), so our small party merely comprised of myself, the Cloudsdale Yard inspector and Pones.

The Factory itself had its entrance strapped by the foreboding blue of police tape. The facility’s lack of usual fumes told of the drastic effect in which last night’s drama had wrought.

Entering, the facility was filled with officers, inspectors, questioning employers as the former jotted down notes.

“With your permission,” said Sherclop Pones, breaking his sombre silence since the balloon. “may I see the surveillance footage, Inspector?”

The official scoffed.

“I don’t say any point in that, sir; I’ve already exhausted of what it has to offer and had ascertained what is there to ascertain—”

“Nevertheless…”

Shrugging his shoulders, Lestrot, pulling up his badge to the guard, we were granted admittance to the control room.

“Wonderfully helpful contraptions, these things are,” remarked Lestrot as he stood in admiration at the glowing screens. “The Yard has found these to be exceedingly easy in catching even the most cautious of criminals. We’ve got your brother to thank, Mr. Pones. Alright, operator, kindly show Mr. Sherclop Pones here last night’s damning footage…”

The operator, a courteous, sun-burned fellow, after jabbing buttons and winding wheels, two screens to the utmost right garbled up static before coming to life.

“These are the cameras in the arsenal, gentelcolts,” said the operator dictating to them.

The left one, Camera A, commanded view to a lobby which had been illuminated by yellowish florescent lights. Camera B, conversely, commanded one to a set of metallic doors. To the corner of each of the screens had been a timestamp at exactly at “09-07 Fri 20:10:10”

Pressing a button, the operator played the following footage.

It was indeed as the papers had described. A knock came upon the door, and soon enough, arriving upon the scene, there answered a handsome young stallion of a thin and gracefully lithe structure, with silky caramel mane and a coat of the sky itself. This, according to Lestrot’s dictation, is the alleged culprit of both crimes, the chief guardian of the Plans, Cloud Sweeper.

A Pegasus, a mailmare with a storm-grey coat and blonde mane, was promptly received who in turn handed over a telegram. Cloud Sweeper, taking it, then read its contents by holding it by his right wing. He was left with a gaping mouth. With his eyes widened, his grip upon the paper tight, he shoved the poor mailmare aside as he left the facility, the word “PEARL” slowly fading into the distance.

“That’d be the time Sweeper received the telegram,” commented Lestrot. “Forward a bit, operator…”

The screens’ timestamps now showcased “20:20:05,” ten minutes after the youth’s sudden departure. Presently, sure enough the Pegasus returned, his face covered almost forebodingly by the shadow of his cap. Despite this, however I could perceive a drastic change upon his person—he now seemed paler. His usual sky-blue coat now had greyish tinge to it. Quite peculiar, I thought, then I remembered the deed in which he had been contemplating to commit. Such paleness could be expected. But what I had felt certainly odd was the state of his clothing…

Barely any trace of perspiration, which should be expected especially venturing upon such a fast flight. I then shrugged it off as a mere illusion. Pones, however, regarded it under a different light.

“Hmm, how odd…” said he, his brows furrowing, which made Lestort glance at him. “…how odd indeed…”

Despite this remark, the keen interest had passed out of Pones’ expressive face, and I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had departed. There still remained a retrieval to be affected, but what were these commonplace crimes that he should soil his hands with them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has been called in for a case of measles would experience something of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes. Yet, whatever he noticed in the surveillance footage was sufficiently strange enough to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

We then continued.

Disappearing momentarily, Cloud Sweeper reappeared in Camera A, whence he went straight to which I assume to be the confidential office. Presently, he remerged with Factory’s documents carried under his left wing. He then disappeared from sight again, only this time, expecting him to reappear in Camera B, he didn’t. An eerie silence then ensued, from which I could only assume the worst.

“This is where I infer the murder from, Mr. Pones, for he had such a perfect opportunity to do it! And, the perfect motive too!” cried Lestrot.

Pones merely glared at him before resuming.

At the timestamp of 20:30:15, Cloud Sweeper reappeared once more with the documents tightly tucked under his left wing while the menacing glimmer of revolver at the other. The latter clattered upon the floor as its wielder hastily left the scene.

The footage then came into a warbled garble before the operator had shut it off, leaving us in silence for a moment.

“The Plans were actually found Cloud Sweeper’s person, upon your tracking him, were they not?” inquired Pones.

“Quite right; though he denied them. Incredulous, if you ask him. We have all the damning evidence to convict him!”

“May I see the Plans—or rather, the place in which used to house them?” said Sherclop Pones, turning round.

“Of course, you may, Mr. Pones, whatever pleases you.” cried Lestrot with an insolent smug, patting my companion on the back. “Though, I warn you, you may get nothing out of it. This way, gentlecolts…”

The Factory’s arsenal had been exactly as depicted in the surveillance, though now there were various officers surveying every inch. At our entrance, some faces were either relieved or confused upon the sight of my companion. Lestrot then led us to the office, which its door remained ajar as it had been found this morning. At its center, was a safe. This Pones stooped down and examined it with a lens.

“Three keys necessary to access the contents, eh?” said he without breaking his concentration.

“Quite right; that of the arsenal, the office and this safe…which paints Sweeper in an even graver position for only he could have all three keys as it is job to do so…”

“Indeed, it does,” said Pones, concluding his examination. “Nothing much to ascertain from this; I think I would like a stroll round, that way I could personally understand the geography.”

Standing in a corner like interested students who observe the demonstrations of his professor, Lestrot and I followed every step of the amateur’s meticulous geographical analysis. He had particularly dictated our attention to the positioning of Camera A and B, which were perched at a pillar, and how one could easily stand out their view between their gaze and merely stand still and not be detected.

“Or commit homicide…” mumbled Lestrot.

“I think we’ve had enough of the robbery,” said Pones. “shall we move on to Dr. Hayfield’s own murder?”

The unfortunate chemist had remained crippled there, motionless in a grotesquely mangled state. To tell the truth I ought to be more case-hardened after the Nightmare Moon Campaign. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces without losing my nerve. But I confess the sight of the mutilated head of Dr. Icarus Hayfield had utterly shaken me. What kind of weapon could inflict such horror? Adorned upon the wall was a photograph of the chemist himself, a humble pony with a warm smile and benevolent features. But what had lain before us hardly possessed any of what remained. His brains painted the wall, a smoldering hole marred the entirety of his skull while what little remained of his mouth remained forever open.

“Oh, dear…” muttered Pones. “I revolver caused this, you say?”

Lestrot then handed him a Webley.

“This was the revolver seen in the footage, and was found just at the doorstep. The bullet found on the victim matches with what it uses…”

Pones emptied the chamber and examined each of the 5 remaining cartridges with his telekinesis. Taking note of my friend’s expectant face, Lestrot handed him the extracted bullet which had been incased carefully in a plastic bag.

Returning the other five to their respective chambers, he examined the other.

“Queer; for such a relatively small weapon, it’s rather strange for its bullet to be so deformed.”

“Yes, but the Webley is a powerful gun…” I remarked.

“Quite so, Watcolt, but not to this extent; this particular specimen seems to be reduced into a two-dimensional being! Have a look…”

Indeed, it was strange. During the years of extracting bullets from the wounded, never have I encountered a mere bullet round to be so deformed and inflict so much damage upon a pony, especially those originating from a Webley. The typical specimen would yield an ovular shape; this particular one, however, was deformed into an almost coin-like shape. I then handed it back.

“Well, well, it could easily be explained…” said my friend shrugging resignedly. “the fellow might’ve modified the gun’s power, or—” he trailed off, staring over the corpse’s position. Then, a mischievous smile unfurled across his hawk-like face.

“By Jove,”

Teleporting himself to the position of the corpse, I had expected him to examine it, but instead, surprisingly, his attention had been directed at what was above it. A shattered window.

“How do you account for this broken window, Lestrot?” he asked imperatively. “How could you omit such an excruciating detail? Star Swirl’s Beard, this shall certainly change everything. What do you observe here?”

“Perhaps by the gun’s velocity, upon firing, its sound shattered the window!” suggested Lestrot, whose expression grew more perplexed.

“Perhaps, perhaps; but to shatter all of it that little remained of the actual window? Very strange, very strange, my dear Inspector. One might expect some cracks or minor shattering issuing a hole; not an erasure from its existence. Come, doctor, what do you observe through here?”

The window commanded a view to sea of clouds beneath and a direct view to the distant Pegasus Colosseum, a giant piece of architectural beauty of Commander Hurricane’s Pegasi during the infancy of Equestria.

I failed to perceive anything significant about it, but judging the effect upon my friend, it must be significant indeed.

“Why, whatever do you see, Mr. Pones?” said Lestrot, who followed suit.

“A lead.” said Sherclop Pones. “Come, Inspector, I should like you to accompany us as we question the motive of this crime herself, Ms. Pearl White.”

Just as we were about to leave the facility, I collided into a pony and had knocked down the papers in which he had been handling so delicately. Apologizing, I promptly picked them up for him.

“Why, isn’t it Fred Porlock!” cried Lestrot.

“Dr. Hayfield’s secretary?” said Pones, staring at the disoriented pony.

Regaining his composure, he faced him.

“The same one, sir,” said he in the familiar professional stance a secretary would employ.

Fred Porlock appeared to barely be over the age of twenty-three. He was red-headed, a freckle-bespattered youthful face, and had a slender yet lithe build. These were marred, however, by violent reddish spots found upon the colt’s grey coat.

“Oh, my; you’ve broken into a terrible rash, my boy!”

Fred Porlock flushed red at the remark and, despite itching to scratch them, maintained his professional bearing.

“Allergies, sir, nothing more;” said he. “I’ve added on… some of the new beauty products found recently on the market, and apparently, I have an aversion to them. Learn something new every day, eh? Now, Inspector,” he turned to address Lestrot. “I merely wish to inquire, have you retrieved the missing 10th page?”

“That is what Mr. Sherclop Pones of Baker Street here is currently trying to accomplish…” said official, waving at Pones’ direction.

The secretary raised a brow.

“The Sherclop Pones?” said he dubiously as he tucked the papers under his left wing.

“At your service,” said my friend. “this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watcolt, to whom you could address just as freely”

“Indeed?”

We then shook hooves.

“I have intended to fulfil my late employer’s duties for the day, for the Factory could never go dull without at least something going on and had hoped that you have already retrieved the Plans. It’s indeed a pity, out of all ponies, Cloud Sweeper should prove treasonous. Well, do inform me once you have made progress. Good day, gentlecolts.”

With that, he took flight to the opposite direction as we departed to Charlie Cross.

Chapter 4: Pearl White

What monster—what vile beast shall commit such a heinous crime? Such were the thoughts which had crossed our minds that day as we laid our eyes upon the mare that lie motionless before us, incarcerated in a prison of bandages.

From the picture that lie erected in frame upon the table in which was besides her bed, sharing a loving embrace with Cloud Sweeper, I could see Pearl White was an exceedingly charming young lady. There was a certain subtle play of beauty about her simple yet delicate feminine complexion. She had a coat of a beautiful pearl color, hazelnut mane that embellished her already fine head, and eyes that harmoniously complimented each feature. Looking at her invalid state in comparison to what she had once been truly devastated me. How heartless could the villains be?

She sat erect upon the inclined bed, her eyes, filled with fear and bewilderment staring through the slits of her bandages. To her left sat the caring neighbor, Cassie Windy, who had brought the unfortunate lady safely into the confines of the hospital that faithful night. A plump yet pretty middle-aged mare with greying brunette pigtails. Next to her stood a gaunt nurse, who had been stationed to manage the patient’s initial medical needs. To Pearl White’s right, a quivering hoof rested upon a call bell, which, according to the nurse, was the poor lady’s only medium of communication.

“She couldn’t speak,” said the personnel. “only through the bell, sirs. If one asks simple yes or no questions, a single ding means yes, while none means no.”

“But what if we wished a statement?” asked Lestrot.

“I have to show her the alphabet—” The nurse then indicated the clipboard which she held. Scribbled upon it was the Ponish Alphabet. “I point a letter; she rings till we form phrase.”

“Whatever happened to her?” I asked, medical instinct overriding my thoughts.

“Trauma at Broca’s area, doctor; Ms. White had been attacked at that specific area. It’s a miracle she’s conscious…”

I nodded my understanding. Broca’s area, located in the left inferior frontal cortex of the brain, can cause muteness when inflicted trauma. I stared at the rest of her state and just realized the sadistic extent which the ruffians had absolutely broken her. Only her head remained at least partially free from wrappings.

“Good day to you, Ms. White,” said Pones in the usual congenial way in which he employs when addressing those in dire need of help. “My name is Sherclop Pones,” he then waved a hoof at mine and Lestrot’s direction. “and these are my companions: Dr. Watcolt and Mr. Lestrot of Cloudsdale Yard, whom you’ve met this morning.”

The eyes merely blinked and stared glaringly at the official. Pones continued.

“I know that this may be rather difficult for you; we’re investigating the matter of the Weather Factory Pla—”

DING DING DING

Tears forming around those tortured eyes as her bandaged body, the mare violently rang the bell, its rings filling the room with its tattering resonance.

Seeing the clear distressed state of her friend, Cassie Windy stooped down to comfort the agonizing patient.

“Oh, dearie, ssh, ssh, it’s alright…” she cooed with an almost motherly benevolence. “They’re here to help, I’m sure; no harm shall befall upon Cloud, and they’ll clear his name…”

Lestrot had begun to retort that statement, but a simple glare from Pones silenced him.

“She is right, Ms. White;” promptly said Pones as he sat beside the bed. “I’m rather inclined to deny the official narrative that your good stallion is guilty upon these horrid crimes. Justice shall be brought, and evil shall be set right, have no doubt of that…”

The sad, tearful eyes looked up as the quivering remained hovering over the bell. Her caring friend stood up, whose features, though marred by the grief wrought upon by this tragedy, remained determined and optimistic.

“You really think so, Mr. Pones?” said she. “You really think Cloud’s innocent of all this?”

Pones raised a hoof.

“I have not yet come to an official conclusion yet, my dear lady; but there is a certain alternative thread of thought which I’m currently pursuing which may lead to some more hopeful light…for all parties concerned. After all, the laws of the collateral nature of deduction dictate that it is just as worth to regard the alternatives when giving an explanation for one may never know what may turn up.”

DING

We all looked at the invalid, whose bandaged expression beamed at my friend’s remark.

“Oh, thank Celestia!” cried Cassie, who wrung her hooves round Pones’ long, thin limbs. “Any theory is better than what we have currently established. It’s preposterous, blasphemy, to even hint the suggestion of Cloud Sweeper committing treason over the state in which he so patriotically values. You’ll find poor Pearl here to share the same thoughts, she’s told me so. You must save his honor, Mr. Pones!”

“For that to happen,” continued Pones. “I must reexamine, even it means reiteration of the facts, every single point of this confounding case. I must begin with what you and this unfortunate young lady have to say with the matter. May I have your permission, Ms. White, to reiterate the facts surrounding your awful experience? Forgive me if I trouble you with them—”

DING

I perceived the fiery will behind those beautiful eyes and the subtle message that they conveyed. Her love over Cloud Sweeper was truly admirable. Pones nodded in affirmation, then signaled the nurse to present the clipboard containing the alphabet.

“Cloud Sweeper is now your fiancé, recently, I perceive…”

The eyes widened in surprise. It was by ease to follow my friend’s line of deduction by the fact a ring lied at a stool beside the bed.

DING

Pones nodded.

“And to be married soon; when, might I ask?”

Pearl White’s eyes fell upon the clipboard, to which the nurse promptly started pointing. The patient responded thus:

YES NEXT WEEK

“A loving and chivalrous sweetheart?”

DING

“Patriotic to one’s nation as one could be?”

DING

To save redundant reiteration, I summarize this initial interview by stating that Pones had satisfactorily corroborated, through a series of DINGs per question, what he learned from what had already been known from the papers. That a gang of ruffians had came to her home that night, robbed her of her belongings, and mutilated her. Only by Cassie’s kindness that she had been saved. She swore that Cloud, upon arriving at 8:10 PM, never left the room and was with her and Cassie throughout the established timeline.

Upon concluding, Lestrot silently remarked to me:

“Doesn’t seem to improve the situation for Sweeper to me…”

I was forced to acquiesce. Indeed, there was the motive itself—the upcoming marriage, and the sudden tragedy that shall certainly result to a horrendous bill. As for the alibi, it could easily be explained away by delirium caused by her injuries and the desperation and denial of the prospect of her beloved to devolve himself in treason. It seemed grim, yet Pones kept his devotion.

“I shan’t impose any further tax upon Ms. White’s patience and time;” said he, rising. He then turned towards her companion. “May I have your own account to the matter, Cassie?”

The plump mare halted in her nervous knitting.

“Oh, I haven’t much to say, Mr. Pones,” said she with a sad smile. “Pearl has already stated much—”

“Every perspective matters, Ms. Windy. There might be something extra in what you have to say that may or may not clear the entire fiasco up. Come, now, fear not, my dear lady…”

Cassie thought carefully for a moment.

“There’s one bit, though,” said she. “Prior to all of this, for two months, there’s this fellow, who’s just…standing there, not moving at all…”

“What, what’s this?” interjected Lestrot. “You’ve mentioned nothing of the sort when I first questioned you!”

“You hadn’t given me the chance! All you did was get what Cloud knew when he had only just arrived. How’s he supposed to know? You just presumed and took him!”

“Do continue, Ms. Windy—” said Pones, waving a dismissive hoof at Lestrot. “You say that there’s this ‘fellow,’ standing still and never moving…”

“Yes, and all he does is stare...as he sits on that bench across Pearl’s home, he just stares, for two months…isn’t that right, dearie?”

DING

“You’ve seen him, too?” said I.

DING

Pones rubbed his hooves together. Then waved a hoof for her to continue.

“From the early hours of the morning till the creeping of the twilight, all he does is observe the lady. Pearl has reported him to the local constable, but he failed to get anything on him. So, none was done and the stallion continued to stare. This all suddenly stopped, however…yesterday morning it was. I drew the curtains, expecting to find him there, yet, he wasn’t! He just went poof !”

“And that night, the attack happened?”

Cassie nodded.

“Could you describe what he looked like?”

“He had a grizzly moustache, as I remember. Brown mane and—”

“And a stick-like object in his possession?” Pones completed.

“Why, yes, sir; it was just like that.”

Pones fell into a silent reverie, his eyes fixated upon the call bell. Then, breaking himself from it, he regained his composure.

“Tell me about the attack itself, Ms. Windy…”

A shadow seemed to be casted upon Cassie’s features. She gripped her knitting as her jaw tightened. With great effort, she gained the courage.

“I was preparing the evening tea, Mr. Pones, when I heard the nearby sound of a window shattering. I thought it came from Pearl, for we’re next-door neighbors, so I decided to check on her.

“When I came to the lawn, I found these…ruffians!—these absolute beasts ransacking her entire house as—oh, poor Pearl—was held in gunpoint by one of the masked stallions as the rest of his cronies were inside.

“I was about to scream when I felt the cold touch of the snout of a gun. One of them managed to get behind me.

“‘Scream, the both of yer’ll be found in that dumpster yonder’ snarled my captivator. Though he was masked, I could tell, from the same glint of his eyes, that it was the same stallion who has harassed us for the past two months.

“He then socked cloth to my mouth as I was forced to watch the horror unfold before me.

“Once they filled the sacks with their spoils, the villains—the utter villains!—dropped their bags then produced their individual bludgeons from their pockets and—”

Cassie faltered to continue, sobbing. Pones then approached her and placed a comforting hoof upon her back. He then produced a piece of white cloth, to which she used to wipe with.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Pones—I don’t know what came over me. But you know the rest, gentlecolts; I watched, petrified, as I heard every bone of her body breaking amidst the wails of her hellish agony. They left, leaving Pearl all mangled up. I called for the ambulance and sent a telegram to Cloud, saying that we’re on our way to Charlie Cross. He’s innocent, I tell you, Mr. Pones! Oh, please believe it; he never left the room during what this—” she pointed at Lestrot. “calls ‘the timeline of the crime.’”

“In all fairness, Ms. Windy, the papers themselves are found in this room itself. How isn’t that evidence?” said the official.

DING DING DING

“Oh, please, dear lady; it’s plain as a field. Papers missing, your fiancé himself found in the footage carrying the plans, and the documents found here.”

Pones continued to pat her back.

“Thank you, Ms. Windy,” said he. “You and Ms. White could have my utmost assurance that justice shall be brough upon these blackguards of society. This shan’t go unpunished! With your accounts, I shall do so much speedily.”

Though what he said was certainly genuine, I could tell that my friend’s thoughts were elsewhere. His stern grey eyes curiously wondered towards those of Pearl White’s, whose watery expression shared her companion’s own sentiment.

“Is this what happened, Ms. White?” impaired Lestrot, with a tinge of indignity.

DING

Conceding, the official then took out a notebook and began scribbling.

“Regard the importance of proper questioning, my dear Lestrot,” cried Pones, springing to his hooves. “It is folly to immediately jump to conclusions when one doesn’t hear what the other party has to say for one might omit a vital detail that may lead to a solution.” He then leaned towards the patient. “Do not fret, young lady; have hopes for there is light just beyond the tunnel. Come, gentlecolts, we must take our leave. I wish you a speedy recovery, Ms. White, and a soon prosperous marriage…”

Tipping his hat, we left the whitish greenness of the room and into a hallway of even more of the invalid, awaiting treatment in their chambers. Lestrot, with annoyed disapproval, shook his head.

“I am ashamed of you, Pones,” said he with dignity. “Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.”

“I think I see my way in clearing the fellow’s name,” queried Pones. “there are some missing points which the Yard has failed to churn up, and I intend to find them.”

“But how could you? The timeline, the missing papers, and the surveillance! All are enough for a jury to condemn him.”

Pones raised a hoof.

“Cassie Windy wrote a telegram to the nearest telegraphic service—where is it?”

“You mustn’t worry about its validity; Trotkins has since confirmed its authenticity, and a telegram of that nature did indeed arrive—”

“Take me to it,”

Shrugging his shoulders, dictating to an address, we remade an acquaintance.

Chapter 5: Muffins

It was a strange feeling indeed, to officially reestablish an acquaintance with an individual, when in actuality, you have never met it in the first place. Such were my thoughts upon receiving a vigorous hoofshake from Derpy Hooves at the telegraphic service. Wearing the issued Ponyville and Cloudsdale Delivery Service uniform, she greeted us with a beaming smile and channeled a congenial warmth; a stark contrast to what her Changeling charlatan was.

“It sure's an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Pones!” said she, staring in gaping amazement at my companion.

“Likewise, Ms. Hooves,” said Pones with a tone of uncertainty. “I perceive that you’ve only just finished a light snack of raisin muffins…”

The mailmare gave a squeal of delight.

“Oh, my gosh! I’m taking part to one of Sherclop Pones’ deductions! This is so cool!"

Pones smiled at the remark.

“Elementary, my dear lady; crumbs could be found round your lips and upon your desk. And upon it, are the remnants of wrappings—to which I infer the recent consumption of muffins…the raisins found nearby state its kind…”

The mare bit her lips as her wings flapped in delight.

“You’ve got it just right! You really are a genius! I’ve only just bought them last night. I still have some left; would you like some?”

Pones politely declined with the wave of a hoof.

“I’m afraid, Ms. Hooves, that our presence is strictly upon business. I believe that a certain telegram in which you have sent—around 8:00 to 8:10—has a direct involvement to the crimes at the Weather Factory last night…”

Ms. Hooves’ ears drooped.

“Oh, my; really? I had no idea! A telegram, you say?”

“Indeed; might I have a look at the records?”

The mare then eagerly assisted us to the office of the station. Mumbling to herself and occasionally oathing against her strabismus, she rummaged through the various clutters of drawers.

As she worked, I had observed the remaining muffins stored inside a plastic container that sat half-pried open upon her desk. Beside the desk, was a bin, which contained, I presumed, to be the original cardboard housing of the pastries. Judging by its outlines, I could say that Ms. Hooves hadn’t enjoyed no ordinary muffins. They were of an exquisite and expensive nature, which I infer from the gold linings of the box, the delicateness of the products themselves, and the company that made them—Pegasopolis Pastries.

This had stricken me rather odd, for how could such a mare of so meager a disposition could afford such aristocratic delights? Surely, I thought, she must have had other means, such as saving a fortune to get it. I shrugged it off, but I caught Pones exceedingly captivated by it.

“Here it is!” announced the mailmare, turning to us with a smile. “I sure do hope that Pearl's okay right now…”

She handed it to us. Scrolling through its various entries, Pones found one that was made precisely at 8:02 PM last night. An image of a hurried Cassie, with a mangled Pearl in her hooves, struggling to write the few vital lines of aid flashed through my mind.

Pones stroke his chin.

“May I have a map of the local geography?”

The mailmare then produced one out of her pocket, to which she placed on the desk.

“I am not well acquainted to the byways of Cloudsdale; might I have some assistance, Ms. Hooves, in pointing the exact location of Pearl White’s residence?”

“Sure thing! She’s here, in Daedalus Avenue—”

“Which is 5 blocks away from this station. Very good. Where is Charlie Cross?”

“Here, about 3 blocks away. Hey, isn’t that where you just came?”

Pones stared at the mare’s expectant, and innocent features as a grim shadow seemed to be cast upon his aquiline features. Gone were the homely warmth of his grey eyes, replaced by a steely glare, to which even I, his closest comrade, feared.

“How much were you paid, Ms. Hooves?” said Sherclop Pones.

Derpy Hooves stepped back.

“I—I beg your par—”

“How much were you paid, Ms. Hooves?” Pones repeated, eyeing the mare with a deadly glare.

“I don’t unders—” The mare’s ears drooped, her eyes glimmering in an odd mixture of oblivious yet guiltily knowing fear.

Pones shoved the map across the desk as he slowly, menacingly approached her.

“How much were you paid, Ms. Hooves?”

His tall, gaunt figure now towered over the cornered and cowering mare. Ms. Hooves, shaking, futilely attempted to shield his gaze with her cap.

“I swear, I didn’t kn—”

“How much?”

“A thousand Bits—”

“Who was he?”

“I didn’t have—”

“What did he look like?”

“Uh, a twirly moustache, and brown maned—”

Pones paused.

“How long did he instruct you to delay the delivery?”

“Precisely at 8:10, sir—please, I didn’t—…”

The mare began to sob.

Regarding the distressed state of the mailmare, Pones eased upon his imperativeness. He regained his composure.

“Of course not;” said he apologetically. “I am…sorry…”

He then extended a hoof to assist her on hooves.

A silence then ensued, one in which was spent where Pones merely fixated his gaze on the telegraphic record upon the desk, while Ms. Hooves, having now regained her stance, still quivered in bewildered fear. It was she who broke the silence.

“Mr. Pones; what did I do?”

Fixing his hat, Pones clasped an apologetic hoof upon those of the mailmare.

“I apologize, Ms. Hooves; you couldn’t have known of what consequences it could’ve entailed. Do forgive this ungracious conduct…”

The mailmare looked at him with a confused expression. Pones continued.

“We must be in our way; time may be of the essence. Good morning, Ms. Hooves; I hope you enjoy the rest of your muffins…”

Taking my hoof with his, we exited the office and stepped into the loftiness of Cloudsdale clouds.

“What on Equestria was that, Pones?” I cried.

“A confession to a crime in which she was utterly oblivious in committing…or rather indirectly aiding. Ms. Hooves had been bribed to purposefully delay the delivery of Cassie Windy’s telegram…”

“Sweet Celestia! How—”

“The muffins, Watcolt; you must’ve regarded their expensive nature…”

“Pegasopolis Pastries—yes, but what does that have to do with—”

“At first, I found it rather interesting for a mere minimum-wage worker such as herself to possess such delectables. Of course, she could’ve saved till its purchase, but why waste your time in doing so when you could easily afford a Waffer’s or a Tina’s, which are exceedingly cheaper? I thought nothing of it, then; that is, until I perceived an oddity concerning the geography—

“As you may remember, according to Ms. Hooves, the distance covered starting from Pearl White’s area of residence to the telegraphic station is 5 blocks away, Cassie actually delivering the message at 8:02. Then, from the latter to Charlie Cross, 3 blocks. Why should it take 8 minutes for the message to arrive when it could easily have taken a mere five? The Equestrian delivery service is well-known for its speedy delivery; why should it faulter here?”

“Some natural letter traffic is always to be expected, Pones…”

“Yes, but it was at a time when, especially around these parts where there isn’t much of a populace, there isn’t much of a flow of messages. Why should there be a delay, then?

“The idea may seem like a long shot for its fantastical nature, but it was rather suggestive. Supposing that she had been bribed to purposefully delay the delivery of the telegram, that would certainly explain her sudden purchase of the Pegasopolis Pastries for she would’ve had that extra cash, as the youth place it, to purchase it on…to which I proved on my being right…”

“But what could it mean?”

“That there is a grand ploy—a carefully crafted conspiracy surrounding the Weather Factory Plans and its robbery, one in which I intend on uncovering. Come, my dear fellow; much awaits. Our next quest lies with Cloud Sweeper, Lestrot’s culprit.”

Chapter 6: Cloud Sweeper

The Atlas Jail held Cloud Sweeper till the inquest. Drawing his card which had always given a command of respect to officials, Sherclop Pones gained admittance to have half an hour of chat with the prisoner.

Cloud Sweeper proved to be an exceedingly handsome specimen somewhere around his thirties. But by glancing at his records, he was in actuality a mere 26-year-old. A lithe, yet stern figure, with a hint of athletic agility and a tempestuous wit behind those emerald eyes, he addressed us with certain indignant air, but was compliant enough to answer our inquiries.

We reiterated and confirmed what had already been known—his duties as chief guardian of the Factory’s documents, his close association with Dr. Icarus Hayfield and, naturally, with his secretary, Fred Porlock.

Cloud had lamented the murder of the unfortunate chemist, but vehemently denied his culpability, as well as the alleged robbery. He won’t deny how “damningly conclusive” it is for the actual documents to be found on his person, but claims to have been framed.

“I just don’t know by whom…” said he. “…like I would ever do such a thing!”

He won’t deny Cassie Windy’s telegram and his arrival at Charlie Cross to tend to his sweetheart, but had stuck to his narrative of remaining there throughout the entirety of the crimes’ timeline.

“But the facts, sir,” Pones pointed.

The stallion uttered a curse.

“Damn it all, Mr. Pones; why do they have to be so convincing? Even I, Mr. Pones, question my own innocence. But it’s impossible, I tell you, for that fellow in your so-called ‘surveillance’ to have been me. The tape must’ve been tampered by magic or something—”

He turned away from us.

“—and now I’m here, away from Pearl, when she’s there, not even able to speak…who could’ve done such crimes, Mr. Pones? Old Hayfield, a good friend, dead. And to top it all off, I’m here, impossibly accused for his death. And treason, to make matters worse. I’ll get them villains, once I get out of here—”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Sweeper,” my companion cooled. “contemplating on another crime won’t do you any good—”

“Another? But I’m innocent—”

“Loathing won’t either. You’re in a very black position, Cloud, that’s certain. But I’m inclined to pursuit an alternative thread for there are certain points of your ‘case’ that I find rather odd in nature. If you wish the wrong to be set right, I implore you to not do anything rash and do as I tell you. So far, you’ve given me exemplary account of your doings last night, now I must ask you: what are the respective shifts, that of your own, the late doctor and his secretary?”

The guardian bit his lips.

“My own starts from 7 PM, up to 4 in the morning, where I do the usual stuff—checking surveillance, monitoring guards, assuring the security of the Plans safe in their safe. Then, I go home, I couldn’t say the same for old Hayfield, however.

“The Factory has a very specific system in managing their employees’ shifts, you see, and the old doctor had his own. Characteristically, he has two shifts; his day shift and night shift. It’s rather necessary for the position in which he so delicately holds. From 6 to noon, where he dictates the morning to afternoon’s weather, then won’t return till 6 PM which lasts until midnight, where he shall dictate the evening to sunrise’s weather.”

“Hmm…” said Pones, stroking his chin as he took down notes upon his pocketbook. “What of Fred Porlock?”

“Ah, being the secretary, just like Sky Scraper before him, Fred’s practically the same as Hayfield—”

“I beg pardon—” interposed Pones with a raised hoof. “Sky Scraper?”

“Yeah, poor fellow; his murder never was solved…”

“Murder?”

Cloud Sweeper looked at Pones.

“Surely you’ve heard of him; he was an old mate of mine, and Fred’s predecessor—”

“Dr. Hayfield’s secretary, you mean…”

“Quite right.”

“Murdered?”

Cloud nodded.

“Ah,”

Pones became rigid, his features contorted in immense thought. His eyes darted round corners as he mumbled incoherently under his breath. A new line of thought, perhaps. A smile then slowly unfurled across his face.

“And, upon Sky Scraper’s murder, this Fred Porlock hastily filled up his position…”

“Yes,”

“How long has he been in the doctor’s employ?”

“For the past year or so, not so long, perhaps, after Princess Twilight’s coronation. Sky was murdered somewhere in May, and, ten days later after some advertising, Fred came along.”

“How has he proven?”

“Eh, he’s alright, I’d say. Meets his ends, effectively assists Hayfield like a good assistant would. But he’s no Sky, I tell you that. But Porlock has his traits; good on making a laugh, I tell you that. He’s become close friends with the doctor, always cracking up jokes concerning work.”

He gave a sad smile.

“And now I’m accused over it, and—poor Fred, can’t blame him, though, with all the evidence—testifies my culpability. What would you do, Mr. Pones, if you were him, and actually found the body of Hayfield, lying there. You wouldn’t do any different…”

“If the facts would align, yes…” mumbled my companion.

A brief silence ensued, in which was broken by a correctional officer behind us informing that our time is up.

“Well, well, we’ve got all that we can from your account, my dear sir,” said Pones, bowing to Cloud. “Rest assured, Dr. Hayfield, and yourself and Ms. White shall be done right.”

We turned to go, but Pones stopped and addressed the prisoner.

“Raise a hoof, Sweeper!”

Cloud Sweeper did so, raising his right limb.

“Why—”

“Now, your wing!”

Cloud then complied.

“Thank you, my dear sir.”

With that, we left the facility as Cloud Sweeper watched our departure with a sort of desperate confusion in his eyes. Pones opted to ignore my questions.

“An employment that quickly succeeds an unsolved homicide, Watcolt…very strange, is it not?”

“Why, what do you see in it, Pones?”

“A sign for us to pay a visit to the records of Cloudsdale Yard. I shall have no stone left unturned till I ascertain the meaning of this conundrum. To do so, we must reopen the case of Sky Scraper, the late secretary of the late Dr. Icarus Hayfield…”

Chapter 7: Gunpowder

Mounting upon the balloon in which we came, we promptly descended back to Canterlot and had hailed a coachman to take us to Cloudsdale Yard, whose main precinct is situated in the heart of the Equestrian capital.

A weary receptionist greeted us, and, upon our request, rang for an official. Presently, the bulk form of Detective Inspector Toby Gregcolt emerged from a door.

“Ah, good afternoon, gentlecolts,” said the official as he devoured upon a donut. “to what do I owe the honor?”

“The accounts surrounding the death of a certain Sky Scraper,” said Sherclop Pones.

The Inspector choked at the utterance. Clearing his throat by shoving a flask of brandy in it, he regained his composure.

“Ah, that bloke, I remember” said he, thumping his chest. “was he the numbskull who's got 'is head blown off?”

Pones raised a brow.

“I was hoping you’d tell me, Inspector,”

The official gave a hearty laugh.

“Of course, anything for you Mr. Pones. Don’t see any harm in it, for all we know you’d actually bring it to a proper close, since it never had been solved. Right, follow me, chaps…”

Gesticulating at the receptionist, we were admitted into the interiors of the facility. After walking through various corridors and descending flights of stairs, we had eventually reached an undercroft, where a singe gate had. Producing a ring of keys from his pocket, Gregcolt opened it which paved way to a network of various shelves, which mewled at the weight of the immense content.

Picking a particular folder from the category of “Cold Cases,” he brushed off the dust from it and handed it to us.

“Have your fun, gentlecolts,” said he with a smile, revealing teeth marred with donuts and tobacco. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything…”

As the resonance of the clops of his hooves slowly faded into the distance, Pones sprawled the contents of the manila folder using his Unicorn telekinesis. Leaning towards him, we read the initial reports in silent yet intricate interest.

It ran thus:

On the morning on the 12th of August, 18—, as the milkmare delivered the daily consignment to Dolphin Street and noticed Scraper’s flat, No. 16’s door ajar, barely hanging from its hinges. Sensing something wrong, she took the liberty to investigate.

The house was a mess; books, valuables, and desks tampered and scattered. Eventually, the milkmare stumbled upon Scraper’s room and found the latter dead, his head mutilated nearly beyond recognition and his brains painted upon the wall. Right next to the corpse was the shattered window.

Officials naturally arrived upon the scene and concluded, by the state of the house and the clearly missing articles, the motive of this dastardly crime is a common robbery, and upon extracting the bullet, they conclude that it was done by revolver. The police weren’t able to quite make out why the window had been shattered, but G. Lestrot, the detective tasked upon the murder, theorized that the criminal wielded such a powerful revolver that, upon shooting Scraper, the sound alone shattered the window. This is further borne out of by the sheer violence of the murder, which could only mean a powerful gun…a modified revolver, perhaps, which would explain the extreme violence upon Sky Scraper’s person. But Toby Gregcolt alternatively proposes that, prior to Scraper’s murder, there had been a scuffle between him and the criminal which resulted to the window’s shattering. This in turn is further borne out by the absolute disarranged state of the flat.

The surgeon arrived and declared death occurred sometime around midnight. The police scoured for witnesses and examined the place top to bottom for any clues but ended futile. The closest thing they could determine was by several neighbors stating that they heard a violent shot ring out around the same time Scraper died. Queerly, after it, a neighbor claimed to have witnessed a shadowy figure enter the house and then come back out. The police tried to trace it down, but ended once more futile.

At the end of it, Pones remained lost in thought, his eyes in a constant loop rereading certain paragraphs.

“Window…” he had constantly murmured. “…window…”

“Yes, he was found dead near a window…” said I curiously, following his gaze.

“By Jove, could it be true?”

Shoving the floating documents aside, he moved on to the photographs taken at the scene.

One was that of Sky Scraper himself, a lemon Pegasus with a strip of white running down his brown mane. Following it was what had remained of him—

His head had been obliterated into a bloody red mass of what had been once his brain. Only his mutilated nose and forever gaping mouth were of resemblance to the secretary.

Judging from what I’ve seen in the photographs, rigor mortis had already been put into the body’s effect, for there suggested by the body’s position a certain rigidity. Sometime had already indeed passed upon its discovery. I said as much to my companion who nodded in affirmation.

As he flipped to the next image, something had fallen out from the folder. Picking it up, it was a plastic bag labeled EVIDENCE.

Pones carefully extracted it and placed it upon my hoof.

“What do you make of that, Watcolt?”

I was momentarily confounded.

“It’s a Webley bullet…”

I frowned.

“But, Pones, isn’t that the same type found upon Dr. Hayfield?”

Pones lifted a shushing hoof to his lips as a mischievous gleam glimmered in his eyes. He vigorously rubbed his hooves together and replaced the bullet back into the bag. He then moved on.

The following photograph depicted the state of the corpse’s surroundings. Valuable articles and furniture littered about the house, a window, right next to the corpse, was shattered.

“My, my, these all are very suggestive, my dear Watcolt;” said he, shoving the contents back into their respective folder. “It is indeed fortunate that Cloud Sweeper should have mentioned him, otherwise we would’ve missed such an important detail.”

“Do you have a lead?”

“More than a lead, a theory. Fret not, my dear fellow, the 10th page to the Plans is close at hoof. Our quest now lies at Dolphin Street, the residence of the late Sky Scraper.”

With that, grabbing my hoof, we ascended the stairs and various byways to the top, without a single allusion to that mysterious errand left behind us.

I wondered, indeed, what line of thought could my friend possibly be pursuing. The quest of retrieving the vital 10th page seemed like a distant memory. However enigmatic and often maddening Pones’ methods were, I’ve always left myself convinced that they all served to a common end. But I still felt a bit detached from the connection between the two crimes of Cloudsdale—a hideous murder and a baffling robbery—the so-called ploy surrounding Pearl White’s injuries, Cloud Sweeper’s continuous denial of his culpability, and now our investigation of an outlandish crime that occurred a year ago.

Parting a goodbye with Gregcolt, we boarded the balloon once more and ascended into the stratosphere.

Alighting upon a port, we headed for the location indicated.

Dolphin Street proved to be lonely yet homely multi-terraced domiciles, which, situated just across it, was another set of terraces.

Though emptied from its previous owner’s belongings and much repaired from the damage of the horrid crime that took place, No. 16 remained uninhabited, a solitary and rusted “FOR SALE” sign posted upon its brick wall. A sort of haunting and melancholy air hung about the place.

Pones teleported to the door and pried it open. We entered and, instantly, our senses had been harassed by the extreme stuffiness and immense accumulation of dust that we had awoken. Once it had cleared, Pones immediately began a systematic search.

He was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Ponies who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently, he made his way to the study of the deceased, a room which ran through the living room.

It was a bare room, dust and various cobwebs littered the corners which tingled our noses. His attention had been particularly arrested by the single hung window, which had been originally shattered by the crime’s occurrence.

He shoved his lens back inside his pocket and lifted the window. He poked his head around and stopped to stare fixatedly at the series of flats across it. He motioned me towards him.

“What do you observe here, my dear fellow?” said he.

Though uninhabited just like its neighbor across, the particular flat across us—No. 17, was much more in a ruined state and seemed to be abandoned long before No. 16 was.

It was discolored into a dirty brown, its hinges rusted and windows shattered, and the lawn that sprawled below it had been reduced into a plot of withered vines.

Behind me, Pones devolved into a fit of laughter.

“The case is practically solved!” he cried. “Follow me!”

With that, he climbed over the window and into No.16’s lawn (for the study was merely situated in the first story). With cries of confusion, I followed suit.

Pones sprinted to No. 17 with characteristic devilish speed and proceeded to kick the door open. We ascended the stairs and entered a space which, amongst the various abandoned articles and relics of its previous inhabitants, lie a bow window, which, in turn, commanded a direct view of No. 16.

Pones went down upon his knees and examined the sills, like a hound upon a scent. Presently, he uttered a cry of excitement.

“Come, Watcolt,” said he, his eyes livid. “bend down a bit and observe—”

With his telekinesis, he placed something in a plastic bag, which he produced, and handed it to me. It was a sort of black, powdery substance.

“Pones, this is gunpowder…”

My friend clapped my back.

“Indeed, it is, my boy—”

I remained in confounded silence.

“But what could it mean—”

“Don’t you see? Regard the positioning of this window to that of the flat across the street—surely you perceive a connection?”

My eyes widened at a revelation.

“That the criminal positioned himself here, shot Sky Scraper with a Webley, and robbed the dead of his belongings. Is that it?”

Pones bit his lips.

“Not quite, I’m afraid, Watcolt;” said he. “There is, however, some levity in your statement which isn’t that far from the truth. It’s only a matter of proving, now. Come,”

In somber silence, we descended the stairs in stepped out into the beaming rays of the Cloudsdale sun.

As curious eyes started peering through the half-drawn curtains of the surrounding flats, we hastily left Dolphin Street.

Pones decided that we satisfy our hunger first before any future proceedings, for some time had already elapsed after 12 and our stomachs growled. We had a hasty lunch of hayburgers and soda at the Monarchial Burger, which sat a couple yards past Dolphin Street. Once we had been sufficiently filled up to the brim, we promptly returned to business.

“My dear Watcolt,” began my companion. “would you be so kind to do me a favor?”

“What kind?” said I, curious.

“Oh, it’s just a mere errand, nothing more. I would like you to climb the top of the Pegasus Colosseum…”

I nearly laughed at the notion, but Pones didn’t seem to share the sentiment.

“A lot may hang on it,” he warned. “it is of paramount importance that you do so for it is in direct correlation with the case in hand…”

I sat up.

“What am I to do there?”

“You would position yourself various times at the various gaps of the structure until you command a sufficient view of the Weather Factory. Upon doing so, you shall report to me your findings—the gauge of the wind, the comfort one would have if one were to put one’s self in such an absurd position—and, most importantly, if you find any gunpowder—”

“My dear Pones, how absurd!”

“But, yes, absurd—that’s the word. But isn’t science and laws of collateral nature absurd? The solution to the murders of Dr. Hayfield and his secretary and the retrieval of the 10th page hangs upon your errand.”

I recalled listing minutes and timelines during the whole affair of Pinkie’s Cupcakes.

With some reluctance, I finally agreed.

“I knew you wouldn’t shrink at the last,” Pones said, gripping my hoof. “Here’s a pen and paper if you need it. Do meet me at Buck Hall, once you’ve returned; I shall be with Myclop then where we shall discuss matters.”

Tipping his hat, he teleported, leaving some Bits for the waiter. Paying the bill, I prepared myself for the strange quest ahead.

─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

Having lost my left wing during the Campaign, I was thus compelled to ride via balloon to reach the top. In gradual ascension, as the August sun with its beams nearly blinded me, I stood in austere anticipation as the figure of the great relic of architectural beauty slowly came into view.

Serving as a historical symbol of militaristic might of Commander Hurricane’s Pegasi and as an amphitheatre for the gladiatorial stunts that had been once hosted there, it had remained there, relatively intact, after a millennium since its completion, though there were some slight indications of deterioration, evident by the occasional cracks found upon its edifices.

Having once alighted at my desired location, that is, upon the up most section of the Colosseum’s elliptical structure, I walked through its entirety.

Its circumference, from an architectural perspective, was nearly a mile long. It was with some difficulty, then, coupled by the continuous Cloudsdale wind that had nearly whisked away my hat and cane, to locate the desired view of the Factory which Pones had put such an importance on.

At long last, however, I prevailed! There it was, with its somber and grim state with absence of its industrial fumes, the distant Weather Factory lied several kilometers away.

Uttering a cry of jubilation, I promptly produced a pair of binoculars and camped at my position.

It was just as Pones had described; a direct view of the facility. I had observed the same shattered window of Dr. Hayfield, its background blackened by the puniness of its distance. Though, I did see several figures darker than the rest of the shadows which presumed to be Lestrot and his constables.

I jotted my discoveries in a small notebook, then proceeded to scour my surroundings for any black powdery substance.

Presently, I found one.

There, by the corner of the arch which I found myself under in, were the vague exhausted remains of gunpowder.

Chapter 8: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.”

“Excellent, Watcolt!” cried Sherclop Pones upon my return. “Now, all we need is Myclop…”

We sat opposite to one another at the lobby of Buck Hall, a government facility situated in the heart of Canterlot, where the Caballus Club was located in. An illustrious establishment with posh wooden flooring, chandeliers which provided a yellowish illumination upon the rims of the portraits of the various members that adorned the walls. They seemed to be illustrious figures of Equestrian society, judging from their poses and countenances that spoke of prominence. There were portraits of figures great academic importance to the wizardly world, some of which were long gone or currently somewhere else in some unknown errand.

Bearing similar builds to Myclop Pones with their stout, portly forms, ponies with smug grins or the most poutful of expressions were found deeply sunk upon their respective armchairs which had littered the lobby, omitting each other’s existence as they listlessly flipped through the pages of their gazettes.

Then I remembered what Pones had told me about the queer customs of the Club, wherein none of its members, under no pretext, shall be granted to speak to one another and merely acknowledge his own existence and business as they meticulously manage the ongoings of Equestria.

“To do this,” explained Pones. “they must hold the records of every single subject under this Monarchy; if they were to ever uncover one of them conducting some shady exercises that may potentially pose a threat to Equestria by acting as a direct confederate to one of its enemies, Myclop and his boys would be there on the scene. Even yours and my own, my dear Watcolt, they hold records to. This is the exact reason why we are here you see. While you were on your little errand, I alighted by balloon and inquired the receptionist over there for the papers for all the parties concerned in this confounding case. Now, since most of the ponies here are of government employ, it requires the direct supervision of my brother, for he is himself one. Ah, if it isn’t stallion himself. Good afternoon, Myclop, we were just discussing that current Cloudsdale matter at hoof…”

Emerging from a room opposite, the stout, bulky form of illustrious Unicorn official stood before us.

“It is essential that you do so, brother mine,” said the other Pones with jovial smile as several manila folders levitated beside him. “I have done as you requested; here are the papers concerning the varying histories of those involved…”

Tossing them unto the table before us, we buried ourselves into a devolvement of prosaic work.

As the dongs of the distant clock resonated hourly across the hall, constantly reminding us how much time had elapsed, we’ve learned and reiterated various facts and records.

Dr. Hayfield’s long and reputative chemical career of note and how he has been in the field in which he held so close to his heart for the better part of a few decades and how he gained his employ at the Factory sometime around his thirties.

Following him was his new secretary. As previously ascertained from Cloud Sweeper, Fred Porlock, not so long after Sky Scraper’s unfortunate death, answered to an advertisement and hastily filled up his predecessor’s post. They found nothing odd concerning his records. He was clean. He was of legal age, young, and had a clear and concise mind.

We then went through once more to those of Sky Scraper and Cloud Sweeper, and to save the reader from such tedious reiterated facts, I hitherto omit their mentions.

Having once completed this examination, Myclop Pones, having finished his tenth cigar, heartily chuckled at the heap of tattered papers before us.

“Where do we go from here, Sherly?” said he, heaving a sigh. “It seems a long shot from missing technical papers to devolving ourselves to an all-out investigation of hours’ worth. Of course, there is something inevitably logical behind it all; but up until know, I confess, I fail to perceive any such notions…”

Sherclop Pones, whose haggard, yet determined complexions grew more determined by every passing minute, turned to the latter with a cynical and rhetoric glare.

“If only you’ve seen the vital point of the gunpowder, my dear brother…”

Myclop raised a brow.

“‘Gunpowder?’ Dear me, when does that come into play?”

“You and the entirety of Cloudsdale Yard shall know soon enough, I assure you. Well, well, I think we have exhausted all that we can from here. I believe, gentlecolts, that we must request an audience with a certain employee at the Factory which shall bring, I hope, an end to all of this—”

“What?” said I. “With whom?”

“Cloud Sweeper?” clued Myclop, raising his monocle.

Pones shook his head.

“With Dr. Hayfield’s reputable secretary, Frederick Porlock of—wherever he lives; it is queer, is it not, that it is never mentioned once where does he take his lodgings? Well, well, we’ll let it slip for the moment. Come, Watcolt, let us recruit Lestrot at the Yard to join our quest to the clouds of Cloudsdale Yard. I suggest you come along, Myclop, for I fear that your expertise may be needed…”

With Myclop Pones’ massive weight hindering the ascension of the afternoon balloon, we nonetheless reached the top with relative ease. (Though the pilot, a cherry pink coat, casted occasional glares as she maneuvered the flight.)

Lestrot was found back at Atlas Jail, where he questioned imperatively the alleged culprit, Cloud Sweeper. Though, in spite of the stoic expression of the official, it was clear he was at his wit’s end on what to do.

When he heard of our presence, he betrayed his stoicism and heaved a sigh of relief. Upon learning of our intentions, he expressed his utter delight and feverishly shook hooves with Pones.

“Thank you, Mr. Pones,” he cried. “whatever it takes to end it all! I just don’t seem to get it; it’s that confounded window, I tell you; I could never conjure up an explanation for it…”

“That is all fine, my dear Lestrot,” said my companion, placing a reassuring hoof at the official’s shoulder.

“And the sheer velocity of the bullet—is it ever conceivable for a Webley to inflict such—mutilation?”

Pones shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps, perhaps…”

“And the Papers! Where could they be?”

“Only demonstration upon Mr. Porlock’s part could show us that, Inspector;”

“A demonstration upon what exactly, Sherly?” inquired Myclop.

“Why, how the entire production works, of course! How else would I locate this elusive murderer and the vital 10th page in which he stole if I were to not understand how the system in which all of this revolves around works? It is but a logical procedure; I am bound to do it. Perhaps there is some technical point in which I may have so unfortunately overlooked, which may or may not, upon me regarding it, guide me to the answer. Only the reputable Mr. Porlock could show it. Now, Lestrot, where have you last seen this fine fellow?”

“At the Factory, when I left some hours ago when I took care of the unfortunate Doctor’s body. Said he wanted to bid a proper goodbye to the bloke…”

Pones rubbed his hooves.

“Splendid; now, we go…”

─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

“Of course, gentlecolts, as you wish…” so complyingly said the slim and lithe form of Fred Porlock at our entrance. “Anything to resolve this matter…”

We found him sorting the papers of his late employer in meticulous order, his youthful face somber and gaunt.

“Where do I start?” said he, directly addressing Pones.

“With the chemical process of—” the latter considered for a moment. “—clouds, for example. Surely, having such close personal ties of Dr. Hayfield you yourself at least possess a sufficient level of knowledge upon Weather Production…”

The secretary frowned, but then hastily replaced his confusion with a flatteringly appreciative beam.

“I thank you, Mr. Pones; very well, follow me, gentlecolts…”

We were then led to varying labyrinths of the melancholily empty Factory, constantly evolving as we passed certain sectors from personal lockers, to offices, and, at last, to the chemical labs. In it, I studied in awe as I observed the empty stalls in which Pegasi chemists from all backgrounds carefully and caringly designed snowflakes for the coming winter, the actual specimens themselves lying temporarily abandoned in jars. There were also the fantastically colorful goos of rainbows, and the machines which converted buckets of water into variants of clouds. The latter most of which our attention dictated to as Porlock performed its chemical production.

With his left wing, he produced from a drawer a labeled flagon of water, to which he promptly poured into the machine.

Both the Pones brothers and official watched in interest as the machine’s whirring chugged a white puff of cloud with a shoof.

Once the demonstration was completed, Porlock chased the rogue cloud (which had begun to blow by the wind’s direction) and presently shoved it into an empty jar with his left hoof. With an eccentric gesticulation of it, he explained that clouds could only be manufactured, when necessary, not for mere showcasing.

“A most intriguing and precise presentation, Mr. Porlock, I commend you;” said Pones, clasping and unclasping his hooves. “Would you mind indeed if were to tax upon you a few more questions?”

Fred Porlock keenly analyzed the amateur before agreeing with queer acquiescence. He nodded.

“You mentioned during our first encounter, that you used certain—” he waved a hoof as if searching for the proper word. “–beauty products, which had actually caused you a terrible allergic outbreak of rashes! How is it for you, might I ask?”

At the mere mention of it, as if on que, the secretary scratched the reddish marks, though they were much subdued to what they were no so long before.

“Eh, ample,” said he.

Pones smiled.

“Would you mind showing them to me?”

“Really, Mr. Pones!” retorted Lestrot. “I don’t see the relevancy of—”

But the other Pones silenced him with the glare of his monocle.

“Patience, Detective Inspector;”

“Would you guide me to them?” said Sherclop, turning his gaze back at the frowning secretary. The latter nodded.

“We’ll be back shortly, don’t you worry—” said Pones, disappearing from the facility with Porlock alongside him.

Presently, they reappeared; Porlock carrying the same brown saddlebag earlier this afternoon, and beside him, Pones with a levitating miniscule bottle containing a powdery blue substance.

“You mentioned beauty products; I’ve imagined gel or something of the sort, not makeup. Whatever could you use it for, Mr. Porlock?”

The secretary visibly flushed red at the remark.

“I play at the theatre in my free time, sir,” he explained, reddening even more as my companion further examined the bottle.

“Ah, indeed?” he commented with a certain glimmer. “A secretary to the famed Dr. Hayfield of worthy chemical note, and the other, an actor! My, my, you are certainly one talented individual, my dear Porlock; I commend you once more…”

Porlock bowed.

“Thank you, sir; really, it’s just a mere hobby—”

“Acting is assuredly no mean feat, I tell you.” He pondered for a bit. “An allergic reaction…” he repeated.

“Yes, you’ve already said that—” said the secretary, bewildered increasingly becoming more prominent upon his features.

“Quite right, quite right; what plays do you normally perform? The Hamster? Pear and the Apple?”

The secretary had been evidently taken aback by this, for he took a step back, but quickly regained his composure.

“Yes, I do Shakeshoof from time to time. The Hamster, to be precise—”

“Which character, might I inquire? As I recall, there’s over a dozen of them—”

“Ponieius—”

“Indeed? Mind if you give us a little demonstration—a line, for example?”

Lestrot was about to utter a retort, but Pones waved a dismissive hoof at his direction. He then turned back to the secretary.

With reluctant and bewildered compliance, the colt then did so. Reciting Shakeshoof’s famous line with the expected theatrical flair. It was however, I confess, rather amateurish. Then I remembered that acting was just a mere hobby of his and was then therefore natural that some lack of professionalism in the art was present.

Pones, however, seemed to be rather left…unsatisfied upon the concluding the quotation. He gave a slow clap.

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, Mr. Porlock;” said he, ignoring the impatient grunts of Inspector Lestrot and Myclop’s ticking watch. “But I seem to recall that Ponieius was of a bluish color, in terms of his coat—”

“Mr. Pones, really,” the secretary began to riposte. “I hardly see the relevancy of my hobbies here—”

“So it seems, my dear sir; rest assured that all this seeming farce shall reach a conclusion soon enough. Now, I must ask you forgive me for the following request I’m about to impose: would you mind applying some this blue makeup?”

“Why, whatever for?”

“Ponieius, as stated, had a sky-blue color on his coat. You play as him in plays; but to do so, you must bear resemblance to him. But you are of greyish color. Hence the blue makeup. To fully flesh out your portrayal, I must ask you to kindly put it on…”

He then tossed the bottle to Porlock, who clumsily caught it with his left wing.

Perhaps it was the compelling presence of the figures around him, or my friend’s commanding air and the certain glare in his stern eyes, young Porlock hastily complied to his wishes and smudged his face with bluish substance, knowing full well the allergic reaction that shall ensue from it.

He flinched as he did, but once it was complete, I perceived the translucency of the makeup and how it queerly blended its owner, emitting a strange contrasting combination of bluish grey. He then quoted Hamster.

“Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't” Fred Porlock cried.

A pregnant silence then filled the room for few moments, one in which was spent both parties exchanged befuddled glances from one another. It was the secretary who broke it.

“What—”

Pones had cut him off. He wretched off the saddleback from the colt and emptied its contents upon the ground.

“It is final;” declared Sherlcop Pones approaching the ever-shrinking form of the secretary. “Inspector, arrest this pony—”

Pens, notepads, pictures and various papers consisted of its contents. Amongst the clutter that littered the floor, was the 10th page of the Weather Factory Plans.

Chapter 9: Sherclop Pones explains

“Why, you little runt!” bellowed the infuriated Lestrot as he managed to deliver a blow upon Fred Porlock’s youthful face. “How long have you had this?”

The wretch attempted to flee, but Myclop Pones’ bulky form projected itself in front of the secretary. Desperate, Porlock produced a collapsible baton from his jacket and raised it at the blocking Pones. But the latter’s brother intervened and welted it off from the former’s grasp with his cane.

“Not a wise decision, my dear sir;” drawled Sherclop Pones in a menacing fashion which had sent a shiver down my spine. He then jerked his head at Lestrot. “If you please, Inspector…”

Producing a pair of cuffs from his pocket, the ferret form of the Cloudsdale Inspector then obliged, approaching the cornered, shrinking form of his prey.

“Frederick Porlock, I place you under arrest on the charge of theft and the murder of—”

“I wouldn’t be so quite sure on that latter point, I warn you, my dear Inspector—” interjected Pones approaching the cuffed culprit and placing a cold, gripping hoof upon the latter’s shoulder. “He does, however, deserve the full culpability of the robbery and as a direct subordinate of not only the murder of the notable Dr. Icarus Hayfield, but the murder of the latter’s old secretary, the old undeserving Sky Scraper, as well as the mutilation of the unfortunate Pearl White.”

Lestrot’s eyes widened.

“Sky Scraper?! Why, isn’t that the same bloke of Dolphin Street?”

“The same one…”

“But what does he bear here with this damned youth’s—”

“I shall explain soon, enough, Lestrot; if only you’ve delved a bit deeper into Webley bullets and shattered windows—for now, I ask you to put Mr. Porlock down somewhere safe for a moment; I would like to hear, from the own criminal’s mouth, how did he exactly pull of his amazing robbery…”

With prideful reluctancy, the Cloudsdale official obliged and violently shoved his catch into a stool, where four shadowy towering figures before him could cast down menacingly picturesque silhouettes. Right next to him was window, which he tried to pry open, but I had been hastily halted him by whacking his wing with my cane.

Recognizing the hopelessness of his situation, Fred Porlock’s lithe form slouched into a miserable slop of guilt.

“How did you find out?”

Sherclop Pones smiled.

“Your explicit left-hoof and wingedness, my dear sir; those characteristics alone are incriminating enough to arouse the most dangerous suspicions…

“When I first heard the Inspector’s initial deductions—which are, I admit, admirably logical and sound down to the minutest of detail, but excruciatingly lacking in imaginative flair—I had the whole murder case practically closed. There lie Dr. Hayfield, murdered—mutilated, and by regarding motive and opportunity—and most conclusively, the surveillance—with relative ease, Lestrot was able lay his grasp upon the only logical culprit, the honorable Cloud Sweeper. His upcoming marriage and the money needed for it could elicit a motive, and his unaccounted absence up to 8:20 last night could amply suffice for an opportunity. Even the common peasantry could convince a jury that the case looks absolutely black against the chief guardian. However, no matter how logical Mr. Lestrot’s theories were, he was still unable to elicit that 10th page. As a solution, I must see for myself the facts and see where it leads, free from any prejudice and foreign interference and see whether or not it leads to a different conclusion, even if means some reiteration of Lestrot’s points.

“But even as I did, there was this notion that had beat the back of my head like a hammer that something—I was uncertain at the time—something was definitely wrong. Well, whatever theory I may draw up, it must account for Cloud Sweeper’s ardent denial of guilt, and the missing paper’s location.

“My first step was to conduct an examination of the surveillance, which had been the final point which ‘concluded’ the whole murder business, for in it, we actually see Cloud Sweeper committing the crime…

“Already, by my first viewing, I had perceived some peculiarities worthy of note—”

“When Pearl White’s telegram arrived, I regarded Cloud Sweeper’s explicit inclination to use his right hoof and wing. Why? Because he was right-hooved. He used his right limb to receive the parcel. That is clear. You could view it for yourselves, gentlecolts, just to prove it.

“Upon his return, I observed, queerly, that, suddenly uncharacteristically of him, he was left hooved and winged! In doing tasks where he would’ve normally naturally used his right, Cloud Sweeper did so, using his left. Such as robbing the plans, as it is remembered, he tucked them under his left wing. He wielded the gleaming revolver with it as well. And opened the door with left wing! Odd, is it not?”

“Oh, this is preposterous!” cried Porlock. “not everyone could use their right-hoof in all tasks—”

Pones shrugged before continuing.

“Quite so; some tasks vary in preference. Such as my own inclination to wield a small firearm with my left hoof, but to write with my right. One’s inclination could easily be explained away by this notion. But it could, however, do so to the oddity of the illogical pristineness of his clothing!

“Picture this, gentlecolts: you are a young, amply athletic fellow; impulsive, emotional, and affectionate to those you love. You are informed that your beloved fiancé was met with a terrible accident…what do you do? You rush to her aid, neglecting your duties and departing at full speed to a hospital, which is quite the distance from the Factory. You come back at the same speed to enact, despite its noble and heroic motif, a treasonous deed, with all these wild thoughts in constant rotation in your scheming mind. You are stressed; under pressure. How does the body react to these combined activities? Perspire—sweat! Any clothing upon your body must be consequently drenched as well. Do you observe the peculiarity?”

“He lacked those traits…” I answered.

“Very good, Watcolt! Cloud Sweeper lacked them—to which I ask myself: why? How could impossibility occur?

“Then, there the was the odd coloration of Cloud’s blue coat—why did he seemed to be a tad paler? Naturally, the recent tragedy upon Pearl could explain it, but his paleness would be a reaction upon receiving it, not when he’s about to act upon a crime. On the contrary, he must be livid with color for the increased blood flow. Still, he might feel a bit ill when committing a literal act of treason, a certain amount of paleness is to be expected—but not to this extent! The typical sky-blue coat of his has degraded into an almost greyish color, with a very slight hint of blue as if it had been a poor attempt to mimic the original color.

“I then design a theory that shall serve as, by the information I had back then, a sufficient explanation—

“An imposter had posed as Cloud Sweeper and who had, in full actuality, committed the robbery. This imposter had deliberately waited for ten minutes to pass before entering as a means of giving the impression that it had been indeed Sweeper himself who reentered for that is around the same amount of time one would take to reach both destinations at a hurried pace. In the meantime, the imposter had waited out of sight, which would explain his the pristine and perspiration-less appearance of both his own person and clothing. The paleness would be explained by the application of makeup as a means of mimicking Cloud Sweeper’s color to properly pose as him. The left-handed preference, too—the imposter theory would explain that as well, for the original was right-handed. Conclusively, Cloud’s ardent denial of his “guilt” could be explained as well for the crime had been done by someone who posed as him. If this were true, then I would need to reconstruct the entire crime from this newly conceived working hypothesis that Sweeper is innocent, and that something else much more malignant lies beneath this. If is true, then the possibility that this imposter committed Dr. Hayfield’s murder is as equal as his guilt over the robbery. I needed to reconstruct the case from an entirely new perspective with the new imposter premise by reexamining all the facts and see where does it lead me. If what I discovered from the reexamination denied his claim and further supported Lestrot’s own, then I am forced to accept Sweeper’s guilt…but if it were to prove otherwise—

“So much had I theorized, but answers to questions still remained to be affected, granted this hypothesis to be true—who was this mysterious poser and where is the vital 10th page? Why had he done this, why did Hayfield need to be killed, why the need to frame Sweeper? But I have exhausted all that there is to be exhausted from the surveillance, I then move on to the scene of the robbery to see if any clues had been left. Without even a moment’s passing, I had already perceived an oddity—

“I had observed that for one to gain access to the Plans, one must be in the same relative league as Dr. Hayfield or Cloud Sweeper—as it could be inferred from our own difficulty to access them. You remember, Watcolt, that we had to possess three keys—that of the arsenal, the office and the safe. Only the highest officials could access them with ease…”

I remembered Pones asking of this when we were at the arsenal this morning. He then continued.

“You could imagine the deduction I procured from this and the vague outlines of the miscreant’s image which had started to form in my mind. He worked, as stated, in the same position as Cloud Sweeper and Dr. Hayfield, for they themselves are in possession of these keys. But I had to put this thought aside first, as I moved on to the murder of Dr. Icarus Hayfield—

“The first peculiarity that had strike me was the violence of it all. How could such a relatively small gun inflict such horror, if the gun as depicted is indeed the same weapon that killed the chemist. Why would it not? The gun found was discharged of a single round, and the bullet extracted from the corpse corresponds with those in the chamber. The velocity in turn could be explained by supposing that the gun had been modified to do such damage. Lestrot’s reasoning upon this point was permissible…but then I saw the shattered window…

“Why the shattered window? Was it logically necessary, by the play of the events, for it to break? The bullet had actually been found upon Hayfield’s person—so why the window? The good Inspector suggested the gun’s modified velocity and the sound ensuing from it shattered it—which is all well and good, I confess, but could not it also be explained by supposing that the gunman fired from outside? This would assuredly explain the window, but that would consequently render useless the entire narrative of Cloud Sweeper (or his poser, rather) reentering the facility, armed with a Webley, mind you, and then murdering Dr. Hayfield out of cold blood! How could he do so, when he is actually seen in the surveillance—how could have he be two places at once? Committing the theft, the resulting murderous ‘scuffle’, and doing the latter deed while standing right outside the chemist’s study. Unless, of course, he had a subordinate! A subordinate who wielded a particularly modified Webley.

“But this latter statement just nabbed me the wrong way for I don’t recall any statement of the gun to be modified in any sort of way. Watcolt, you’re a military ordinance, certainly you could tell if a firearm had been mechanically tampered with by mere sight?”

“Quite right;”

“Had you perceived anything?”

“No;”

“How about you, Lestrot; how did it prove to be?”

Lestrot casted his head down with a rueful glare.

“Negative, Mr. Pones; the gun proved clean…”

“Precisely—so why the grotesque mutilation? That was left unexplained. But then I regarded the strange perfect geometrical alignment of the great Pegasus Colosseum from the study window; it had directly overlooked in a nearly-perfect straight line. With this, I propose a most absurdly fantastic, yet perfectly logical explanation—

“What if Dr. Hayfield’s murder had been done by a markspony whose weapon was specifically designed to use revolver cartridges as a means of diverting attention to the actual murder weapon, for if the police were to examine the marksman’s victims and extract a cartridge bullet from it, who in their right mind would suspect a riflepony? This theory explains a lot of things—

“The shattered window; if a marksman did it from a distance and shot through the window, it’s bound to be shattered.

“This is further corroborated by what had the window directly commanded a view of—a geographical and geometrical alignment that would enable a markspony, with careful and distant positioning, pull the trigger. That was the Colosseum.

“Then there was the sheer violence from the bullet; if a rifle had done it, such mutilation would be naturally expected, but not from a revolver, despite the Webley rounds in which it takes in.

“Then there was the unnatural disfiguration of the bullet itself, only a rifle could do such a thing.

“With this, that means that the imposter had an accomplice. But who could that be?

“I then move on to the next on my list—the parties concerned, starting with the very ‘motive’ of the crime herself, Pearl White.

“But as were about to depart for Charlie Cross, as you may remember, Watcolt, you had collided with the secretary himself to the late chemist, Mr. Fred Porlock, to whom, by a single glance alone, I had already had my suspicions…

“The previous deduction alone of the culprit being in the same league should have incriminated him, but my mind at that time had been too occupied over the whole absurdity of the matter. Porlock was of the same league, you see, with Dr. Hayfield and Cloud Sweeper—he could have easily laid access to the keys. But my suspicions had been aroused by other factors…

“I had immediately observed that dear Porlock here had almost the same exact bodily build as that of Cloud Sweeper. There was the same height, the same youthful litheness and was roughly of the same age. How old are you, sir?”

“Twenty-three…” drawled our criminal

“See? With this, I thought how simple it could have been for Porlock to act essentially as Cloud’s body double…then it dawned on me. What if, he was the imposter—what if he acted upon the substitution? He could have easily done so—the similar body build could easily substitute that of Sweeper’s; since Porlock had a greyish coat, the imposter’s own greyish-blue coat could be explained by, presuming Porlock to be the culprit, by Porlock adding blue makeup, which would result to the greyish tinting of the Cloud’s supposed blue coat, thus rendering him a palish color. Does it not sound familiar, Mr. Porlock?”

He glared at the secretary before continuing.

“In my mind, there was something else that could perhaps further incriminate Porlock’s criminality: the outbreak of rash for, just as it was said by the secretary himself, he has an aversion to certain products. His reasoning was beauty products. Supposing however, that what if it wasn’t, in fact, beauty products, but an allergic aversion to makeup? Hence the rash.

“Presuming he was the culprit, Porlock had the perfect opportunity for, to my knowledge at that time for no mention of it was said in the accounts and that of Lestrot’s, no one saw him when he left. But what was the motive?

“Then there was the lack of historical background of the fellow—so far by this point, I’ve heard nothing in the papers. His records, his life prior to the current employment, etc. … which certainly paints him in a suspicious light, for it seemed like his identity merely popped into existence just for the sole purpose of being employed as Hayfield’s secretary. Which we’ve seen as much, as you remember, Watcolt, when we were at the Club inquiring certain records. Porlock strangely bore none prior to his life as a secretary. But it may or may not prove either even more incriminating, therefore I must include him in his reexamining list. But if there is, then there’d be potential motive. By then, I had put him aside at the moment as we departed for Charlie Cross.

“I wanted to see if there was anything with Pearl White’s story that may either work with or against my current theory. I learn from her what had already been learned—last night, around 8, she was attacked by a gang of vicious thugs, who robbed her of her belongings and mutilated her. Her caring neighbor, Cassie Windy, upon hearing Pearl’s call for help, right after the thugs left, then tended to her hurt unfortunate neighbor. Cassie called for an ambulance and wrote a telegram to Cloud imploring the latter to come as quickly as possible to Charlie Cross. Since then, Pearl remained in bandages, every bone of her body broken, while its severity brought upon muteness which had compelled her to only communicate via the dings of a desk bell.

“She still had insisted Cloud Sweeper’s innocence, for during the crimes’ occurrence, he had remained with her from 8:10 to 8:30 until Lestrot came.

“I then needed to interview Cassie, to hear her own account of the incident. I learned of the continuous presence of the stalker and suspected that this was no ordinary and unplanned robbery—it was a deliberate, premeditated and carefully-coordinated attack that served as a subordinate to something even more sinister. The suggestion is interesting—however fantastic; supposing that this were indeed the case, then it seemed to solely function as a ploy to lure Cloud away in order for the poser to be enabled to commit his crime and lay the blame on him. For whatever reason, this poser had a rifle-wielding subordinate who had Hayfield killed.

“I then investigated the telegraphic service that night. The mailmare situated there—Derpy Hooves—affirms from the Trotkins’ own account that a message written by a Cassie Windy did arrive that night and nothing had been discovered to deny the official theory. But then I had observed something queer…

“You remember my observing, Watcolt, that it was strange for such a speedy delivery service to have such a crucially fatal delay in delivering Cassie’s telegram. You made the naturally assumption that some previous parcels caused some traffic, which is perfectly logical…but at that time of day? Peculiar, is it not for the telegram to arrive at ten minutes when it should have taken a mere 3, considering the location from the telegraphic station to the Factory. As you may remember, of course, as inferred by the muffins upon her plate, I discovered that poor Ms. Hooves had been bribed, by a handsome price, oblivious to the consequences of her complying might entail, to deliver that particular parcel precisely at 8:10.

“With this discovery, I then surmise a theory that this cruelly-moustached fellow (who had bribed the mailmare) is connected with the crimes at the Factory and had, with the criminal subordinate (whoever he was) within its own constitution, deliberately gave this order to further provide authenticity to Cloud’s culpability for it led to the direct result of his arriving precisely at Charlie Cross to see Pearl, thus supporting the official narrative. Why 10 minutes? Because that’s the amount of time an ambulance from Charlie Cross would journey to and fro. If Cloud were to arrive time later or earlier, because of the timing of the telegram, it could totally shake the effect of the concocted case. Hence 10 minutes. Now, gentlecotls, you could hardly blame my consequential proposition of this damning discovery—there is a grand conspiracy afoot…

“Supposing that this theory of some great farcical ploy surrounding the Plans were factual, and that these events are connected—this notion proved more likely considering such great lengths were taken to ensure the authenticity of Cloud’s culpability by forcing the narrative of a money motive and the substitution made for the robbery. But a list’s reexamining remained to be affected, therefore we departed for Atlas Jail, where Lestrot’s culprit was kept.

“I then interview Cloud Sweeper to see what shall he bear to the crimes. Save from what has already been established—his role, his duty, his close association with the late chemist and ultimately, the latter’s secretary, his so-called “culpability” of the crimes and his ardent denial of them—I learned nothing. His story agrees with that certain part of the footage and Pearl’s story up until the delivery of the telegram and his arrival at Charlie Cross, but denies the rest. But his denial further and my own experiment reinforced my notions.

“You remember, Watcolt, when I had inexplicably commanded Cloud to raise a hoof—”

“Yes, he had raised his right forelimb,” said I, recalling our departure from the jail. “and that you also commanded to raise a wing—”

“To which he replied by doing so with his right one—very good. This seemingly little farcical experiment of mine proved that Cloud Sweeper was indeed a right-hooved and right-winged individual. But that was not all I got from him…

“When I asked him of his personal account and knowledge of his colleagues, he happened to mention Fred Porlock’s predecessor, the late Sky Scraper, who once was commemorated for his reliability.…

“Naturally, my attention had been grappled by this for the peculiarity of it all. It is curious, is it not, for Mr. Porlock, whom I suspect of being a direct player of this grand ploy, to immediately succeed the position of Sky Scraper, whose murder had remained unresolved; I then conducted my own investigation and reopened his case.

“We headed for Cloudsdale Yard and indulged ourselves in very interesting study as we examined the records of Sky Scraper’s murder, which I had immediately perceived uncanny similarities with that of Dr. Hayfield’s own murder.

“There was the same grotesquely unnatural mutilation; the same Webley round found upon his person and the cartridge contorted into a coin-like shape; and, damningly, a shattered window.

“I began to suspect that the same subordinate who had killed Hayfield was responsible for Scraper’s as well.

“To further support this, I must examine the crime scene itself and had regarded the same possible commonality with Hayfield’s murder—the abandoned flat across Sky Scraper’s own. It seemed to be the perfect place for the markspony to set up shop and commit his murder.

“I confirmed that this was no ordinary robbery-turned-murder by hearing the account from a neighbor that after the shot, he claims that someone had entered the house, made a wreck of the place, and left, which is the wrong order of how a robbery-turned-murder goes—for the entry, wreck goes first, then the shot, finally the swift exist, not this jumbled up version of it. I theorized that this crime had been deliberately made to have Porlock in Hayfield’s employ so that, later on, upon attaining the ranks of his colleagues, the new secretary could enact upon the robbery—

“Presuming that the substitution theory to be true, that is,” interjected Porlock.

Pones chuckled.

“I had no idea that my theory to be true back then, but I had compelled myself to set that aside first as I had further reinforced this the markspony theory by visiting the abandoned flat which directly overlooks Scraper’s own, which I found, sure enough, remnants of discharged gunpowder at the window sill, which had a direct geometrical alignment with Sky Scraper’s study.

“To further support this notion, I had ordered Dr. Watcolt to ascend to the Pegasus Colosseum and find a position where he has a direct view to the Factory as a means of reconstructing the markspony’s position. There, as I had expected, he found the same discharged gunpowder, thus confirming my theory. So far, my perception of the grand conspiracy is thus:

“There is a master schemer behind all this, one who had particularly designed this inexplicable plot with such mathematical meticulousness and precision to absolutely ensure a successful robbery. This master schemer wanted, for whatever reason to get his hooves on the Weather Factory’s technical papers. But he couldn’t do it for himself—no, no, for that would undesirably attract attention—our specimen appears to an extremely cautious, and shadowing being who very much prefers to shroud himself as a faceless anomaly.

“What does he do, then? He sends one of his pawns to infiltrate the very constitution itself. This pawn must know the technicalities surrounding the Plans—its security, its own technicalities, and the geography it is in. To know these, the pawn must be in close ties with the most prominent figures of the facility. What better role could that description fit than a secretary employed under the head chemist himself, Dr. Icarus Hayfield.

“It is perfect—so perfect, you perceive. The pawn gains a level of confidentiality and friendship with Hayfield and his closest associates (such as the chief guardian, Cloud Sweeper, for example)—which consequently enables the fellow to learn the necessary knowledge in which he could use to enact the perfect robbery. He would know the technicalities on Weather Production, the varying levels of security housing the documents, and most importantly, once the time comes, he could navigate his way through the factory without so much as a scruple thanks to the familiarity of the entire facility in which he had gained throughout his employment and the level trust given by his prestigious colleagues. Furthermore, with the friendships in which this pawn has cultivated, once the crime had been enacted, it would be preposterous of notions for his colleagues to accuse him of it, for he already won over them. It is indeed a marvel, this ingenuity posed by this master schemer’s masterful intentionality! But for this secretarial plan to work, he must deal with Dr. Hayfield’s already existing secretary, Sky Scraper. Herein enters the markspony subordinate.

“With a rifle deliberately designed to throw pursuers off track by cleverly only firing Webley rounds, this subordinate successfully manages to entail the entirety of the Yard a red-herring in which they shall never solve. They merely suspect a common burglary-gone-wrong. Scraper was orphaned and unmarried, and very much a recluse—none shall miss him once he’s gone.

“It was night, most of his neighbors were asleep; who were there to oppose the official theory of a robbery when the poor fellow’s house had been ransacked and the stallion himself dead. But as you know, gentlecolts, this is simply untrue…

“Here comes the pawn, whom we know is actually Fred Porlock, to replace the late Sky Scraper as Dr. Hayfield’s secretary at the Weather Factory. There he remained till a sufficient amount of time has elapsed whence he established confident relations with the chemist and Cloud Sweeper and learned everything there is to learn. It was only a matter of time before he at long last enacted the robbery and all its necessities.

“Porlock, by purposeful deliberation, had Dr. Hayfield distracted over something which compelled the latter to remain inside the Factory till his murder came. What was it, exactly, my dear sir?”

“It was precisely at 8 PM; told him that some papers were needed on his checking—”

“Which had served its purpose, for he had actually stayed there 2 hours beyond his usual shift, which is almost exactly as your own. From the early hours of the day to noon, and the dawning twilight to midnight. You left Dr. Hayfield, Mr. Porlock, in his study where your subordinate waited for the exact moment to enact upon the murder and for you to enact the robbery. During that time, I suppose, you had applied makeup, obtained facsimiles of the keys, and adorned yourselves the necessary clothing to imitate Cloud Sweeper’s own appearance.

“At the same time, your master schemer orchestrated a false ‘robbery’ on Pearl White’s property, which had sadly led to the result of her unjust mutilation—”

“Sweet Celestia!” cried Lestrot. “How—”

“Monstrous? Quite right, my dear inspector; I fear, however, that would rather undermine the sheer malignancy of this vile act. Evil seems more appropriate, eh? This whole farce served only one purpose—to lure Cloud Sweeper from his duties which shall support the image in which the master schemer wishes to convey—that Cloud had committed the robbery to sell the Plans for his upcoming marriage and the medical bills, and had murdered his close friend in a resulting scuffle. His departure to heed the needs of his sweetheart would seemingly convey the desired image that it was that exact moment where the decision to commit treason had hatched.

“As you know, the caring neighbor Cassie Windy sent out a telegram, which its arrival had been bribed to be postponed for a few minutes and had actually arrived at the Factory at 8:10, when it should’ve arrived, at least, at 8:05.

“Cloud Sweeper receives this and hastily departs for his sweetheart not so long after the telegram’s arrival. At 8:20, herein enters a readied Porlock to enact the substitution and robbery.

“As you may remember, gentlecolts, it was rather foolish for the supposed “Cloud Sweeper” to been seen by surveillance right before he committed his crime, when he could have easily found other means to avoid security and capture while attaining the same results…to which we know, he did not, because it wasn’t Cloud Sweeper. But it didn’t matter for Porlock for the desired point had already been conveyed—to frame the guardian.

“You must remember my remark, Watcolt, when I said that one could easily be out of frame from Camera A and B, since they were attached at both opposing corners of a pillar, to stand in between them and how one could easily merely stand there and do nothing. Well, that’s exactly what Porlock did. He stood there, until the proper time came to commit the robbery, with a gleaming dud Webley in hoof. Ten minutes had elapsed and the doctor was murdered by the subordinating markspony, which gave the cue for Porlock to do his part. He was seen by Camera B, which had directly overlooked the study, with the Webley and the Plans as he made his exit.

“That blank portion between the cameras led directly to Dr. Hayfield’s study. Since no once couldn’t have guessed what goes on in there, coupled by Porlock’s substitution ploy, we naturally made the quick and immature conclusion that it was Cloud Sweeper who did the crimes. But also because of the blank portion, it is equally fair for me to theorize this notion of mine.

“Porlock departs with the Plans safe in his possession from whence he shall…do what, exactly?”

“Make copies of the originals…” answered Porlock.

“Indeed; and were you to send those said copies to send to your leader?”

Porlock nodded before Pones continued.

“And were you to plant originals in Cloud Sweeper’s person to frame him of the deed and to play along with your concocted narrative?”

Porlock nodded again.

“Ha,” said Pones, rubbing his hooves. “the plan was flawless—absolutely flawless. The Plans stolen and copied, and the blame logically on Cloud Sweeper. Tell me, why had it been necessary for Dr. Hayfield to be murdered? As far as I know, all you and your little cronies needed were the Plans—”

“Because he knew too much, Pones,” sneered the vindictive youth.

“Ah, is it so? Your master schemer wanted, if ever in the undesirable case that your malignant history and plot ever comes to light, a direct witness would be Dr. Hayfield. So you had him dealt with, which in doing so served a dual purpose of laying the culpability of your theft upon Cloud Sweeper by having him framed for murder as well. With this, you had cleverly made your crimes untraceable to you, your subordinate and your master. I must say, my dear Porlock, I commemorate your ingenuity.

“But you had unexpectedly encountered a little hindrance, did you not—one in which had cost you dearly and had eventually led you into me—that a certain page of the Plans themselves proved a little too difficult for you, a mere secretary, to copy. It was too technical, despite your time of employment, to translate into paper, and that the same level technical knowledge in which Dr. Hayfield has, is a requirement for your endeavor to prove successful. A travesty, this must have been for you, eh? I could not imagine for worlds the panicked thoughts that had crossed your minds upon this revelation. You were under pressure, as your schemer’s plan was moving in a fast pace and copies were needed quick to be delivered to your subordinate. What do you do? You kept the tenth original page, no doubt intending to meticulously study its contents till you sufficiently had copied it, which you had been doing throughout the entirety of this day. The other nine, however, were still planted on Cloud’s person, for it didn’t matter if they discovered ten or eight them—the same idea would nonetheless be conveyed—the treasonous pony bent on greed. It didn’t matter if the police went looking for it, all you had to do was copy the last page then you’d be on your way. The copies of the 9 ended up with your subordinate, did they not?”

“Yes—”

Pones looked grave.

“Oh, dear. I believe we still have to affect a search of those nine. Now, we return to my procedures; all that remained to confirm all of this is to employ a pressing interview with the main link of it all—Fred Porlock, which, gentlecolts, recall my succeeding. The left-hooved and left-winded inclination; the bluish-grey hue resulting from the application of blue makeup to his grey coat; and most conclusively, the actual documents found in his person.”

There had been a momentary eerie silence, one in which we all stood there expectant for the dreaded account. As Lestrot readied a pen, I had always observed Porlock, with a worried face to cast subtle, yet very much indiscreet glances at the window beside him and had always shifted upon the stool in which he sat. It was Lestrot who took the initiative.

“I’m tired of your melodrama, boy,” he silently drawled. “just tell us what this damned mess is all about—who’s your boss, your ‘subordinate’ and either confirm or deny what Pones here poses— and maybe, just maybe, I could sooth your sentence…” He then threateningly whacked the baton at the chemical flask next to him, breaking it. With this gesture, the secretary obliged.

“It’s true, what he said, all of it,” said Porlock, refusing to look any at the eye. “The damned 10th page—it was too much mumbo jumbo, barely intelligible writing. I thought taking it with me for a while as I scavenged the old bloke’s study for any clues. I thought no harm might come it since the Yard was all over Sweeper. Heh, turns out it proved fatal after all.” He then looked at Pones. “Though, you did miss some points—”

“Oh, pray do enlighten me,” queried my friend with a languid smile. “Let us start, for example on your master’s strange choice to separately employ a professional thief and murderer when he could have easily done so with one who is both? It would certainly save the effort—”

“It was because I was his scapegoat, Sherclop Pones. He exploited my lack of historical background, as so you put it, to his own benefit. If the theft were to ever be traced back to me, they would be quite unable to trace my affiliation with Master. It just so happened that I excel in thievery; I was the perfect pawn. All they’d find is blank spot in my records.”

“How come?”

For the first time, Porlock appeared as strained as we were as he rather unable to come up an answer. He shrugged his shoulders.

“That I don’t know,” he confessed. “I suppose I came into the whole game when I was a child of 8 or 9. I was young, but I remembered my parents abandoning me, a mere homeless urchin begging in the streets; so he took me into his care and raised me up. I had no name, no records or anything that may affirm my existence. He maybe thought that that would come in handy one day. He gave me a name, Porlock, and never even bothered to fill up that empty portion of my life.”

Pones smiled.

“That would explain why couldn’t find anything about you,” said he. “how about Pearl White? Had it been necessary for her to be mutilated the she had been?”

“Absolutely; you see, Master wanted her to be a bait to lure Cloud, but not in a position where she could compromise the entire operation, but would also benefit it as whole. If she were merely injured, she would have been capable of cognitive thinking and would strongly defend Sweeper’s alibi, which would be detrimental to our narrative. So, we had every bone of her body broken and deprived her from the capability to speak. She would lure Sweeper, and, since she’s mute, she would be unable to provide a defense for her boyfriend. All the Yard would have is Sweeper’s account. But I hadn’t expected her blasted neighbor to actually remain with her. Guess she was helpful to you, eh?”

“Yes, yes, it has; but what had been purpose of stealing the Plans? It’s of no practical use to anyone, save blackmailers. Whyever, would one deprive the Pegasi’s societal role in weather production?”

Once more, Porlock was unable to draw a coherent explanation.

“Master was rather vague on that point, I’m afraid,” said he. “he said it was to serve a greater purpose. Though, quite frankly, I fear this whole talk of ‘harmony’ he gives is a mere bee in his bonnet. But who was I to dismiss his beliefs?”

Pones nodded, whose gesture the secretary returned by nodding back with defeated acceptance.

“All that remains is to name these subordinates of yours;” began Pones. “who was the markspony?”

“Just some middleman; an ex-Wonderbolt, so I’ve heard. As you say, he carries along this rifle designed by some Griffon engineer who goes by the name ‘Herder’.”

My mind flashed to the flask of Lunarian Ash. My friend seemed to share this sentiment, for his expression grew grim as he tightened his jaw.

“Does he have name, this markspony of yours?” I asked.

He glanced at the window with a worried expression.

“Only as an alias, doctor,” said he, turning to me. “we call him the Colonel. Nothing else.” He then turned hastily at Lestrot and Pones. “Oi, could I change my—erm—position here? I have a little thing against windows—”

Lestrot raised his baton.

“Indeed, not!” said he. “You may do so once we’ve finished with you—”

“But—”

“Mr. Porlock,” interjected Sherclop Pones, defusing the tension. “who is this ‘Master’ of whom you speak?”

The criminal shifted in his seat, taking bit off a distance from the window beside him.

“Who is he?”

We were unprepared for the tragedy. From that day, I could, try as I did, never seem to drive my thoughts elsewhere to its sheer violence—its mutilation. Was it Fate? Could have I done better to prevent such evil?

There was a distance crack of a blast which echoed ominously through Cloudsdale’s nocturnal heavens—like a bottle of champagne whose cork had been popped off. Without even a moment’s passing, the window shattered and a quiet yet distinct schluk sound ensued from the shrapnel of splintered glass. It happened all too quick. When I had reopened my eyes, I found Myclop Pones writing profusely at his magic messenger book as the Cloudsdale Inspector ran through the door.

“Forbes, MacPherson—where are you twats? Call the surgeon and get in here!”

I looked out at the window, and found indeed that the great figure of the Pegasus Colosseum lie distantly before us, whose silhouette was rendered foreboding by the night sky. But all these details had only struck my attention afterwards, for my thoughts were entirely absorbed by the dark, vague, and distant outline of a coated Pegasus taking flight from an arch of the great structure and never to be seen again.

“WATCOLT!” a voice behind me cried.

Turning to it, I found Sherclop Pones, undoing his tie, kneeling before the bloodied form of Frederick Porlock.

The secretary chocked from his ever-gurgling blood as he vainly reached for his throat, eyes tearing. He tried to speak, but had been only able to utter gargled gibberish. My medical instincts compelled me to reach into my case and look for anything to help a dying pony, but Pones forbade me.

“It’s too late, Watcolt,” said he as the he carried the secretary’s head lie in his bloody hooves. “Who was he, Mr. Porlock?”

Fred Porlock, momentarily reopening his eyes, which locked into those of sleuth’s. Then, with a great strain of effort, he raised his head to the latter’s ears.

“The Professor—”

With that final utterance of breath, Fred Porlock’s once youthful and lithe, his bloodied, disfigured form expired before us, his once ambitious now empty eyes gazing forevermore into the abyss.

Chapter 10: Cumulonimbus

An investigation upon the mysterious death of Fred Porlock promptly took place. Efforts were made to track down the assassin, but it only proved futile. What had only remained as positive evidence would be my own witnessing, and the fresh batch of discharged gunpowder found in a particularly geographically aligned area of the Pegasus Colosseum…as well as the Webley bullet extracted from the corpse.

He and Dr Hayfield received proper funerals the following week, after Sherclop Pones and Lestrot gave their statements during the court proceedings of the entire affair.

Soon, the Plans, complete with its vital tenth page, had been returned and whose security has been doubled to ensure such scandal shall never occur again. Cloud Sweeper had been released from Atlas Jail and reunited with Pearl White, who was relieved to see her beloved sweetheart once more. Because of this reunion, Ms. White’s jubilated spirits found themselves in speedy recovery. Soon enough, she regained the ability to speak and even move a limb. The doctors of Charlie Cross are of the opinion that she’d be back to her old self (though with some slight modifications of her bones) within a year.

Cloudsdale found immediate replacements to their chemist and secretary, but took up a week of leave to pay respect to old Hayfield. Once it returned to operations, Cloud Sweeper retook his position.

We sat our breakfast table back within the humble walls of Baker Street as I narrated the latter most entry from Equestrian Daily. My meal had remained untouched as grotesque memories recalled to us. When I look at the bottle ketchup, I think of the gargling stream of blood of Fred Porlock and how he spent his terrible final moments. I pushed the plate of spaghetti and sincerely apologized to our landlady. Sherclop Pones seemed to share this sentiment for he left his ham and eggs and consoled for his pipe. He turned his back round us, omitting our presence, and lit its embers.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudcolt,” said I apologetically. “we shall devour your fine cooking later—I’ve been feeling rather a bit worn down these days.”

Mrs. Hudcolt casted sad and almost concerned looks at the either of us before slamming the door.

“A tedious week this has been, has it not, my dear Watcolt?” said Sherclop Pones quietly. “An organized, yet chaotic case—one in which I took an immense pleasure in.” He gazed distantly at the glowing embers of our hearth. “‘Pleasure’—hmph, a subjective word. Here we have resolved both dilemmas—the retrieval of the Plans, and justice upon old Hayfield. Yet, we seem to have paved way into something much more sinister than this plot, for once more, we have crossed paths with the Professor, who we have seen twice, mind you, orchestrating the most heinous of crimes. Yet, I can’t help but feel a bit exhilarated by all of it—”

It had always been a queer characteristic of Pones to be pleased over something that poses a challenge to his ingenuity. And this Professor fellow seemed to provide him with just that. But that had, once more, brought up the question—

“Who is he, Watcolt?” said Sherclop Pones, breaking my reverie. “He had already proved himself to pull off the most damning of schemes and had nearly succeeded in doing so—” he trailed off here, as his stern grey eyes seemed to glimmer the words “if hadn’t it been for Sherclop Pones”.

“We are left in rather similar dilemma in which we had been during our preceding encounter with him during the fiasco of Pinkie’s Cupcakes—we are left to ponder, once more, who could this ominous and seemingly omnipresent entity be? We know that he has a brain of the highest order, as inferred from the sheer mathematical construction of both his plans to stage a Changeling coup, and to commit a scapegoat robbery…all of which, one observes, to all work against Equestria. Why—why must he do this? What grudge—what gripes does he hold against the Monarchy?”

Shaking his head, he placed his pipe down and walked about the room with an air of a troubled professor who has discovered a problematic specie.

“It had been only for sheer luck that we managed to foil his plans, Watcolt, sheer luck…”

“Certainly not—”

“Why, yes; observe how we only have the rules of collateral nature to thank our success for. In Pinkie’s Cupcakes, by the Changeling’s consequential mistake to falsify evidence of Rainbow Dash’s so-called ‘disappearance’ by forging advertisements, which led me to inquire the authenticity of her claim by sending a telegram to our Cloudsdale Yard friends over Ponyville. Here over these Cloudsdale crimes, Porlock’s plot had only been uncovered by lucky mistake of his forgetting to account the possibility of failing to understand the utter technical knowledge imposed by the documents, which compelled to leave the tenth page behind, which had also consequently led him to me. How long shall we rely on our luck before the inevitable happens?”

A pause.

“To ensure that whatever malignant plans in which this Professor has in stored for us, it is of imperative importance that we exploit whatever sliver of identity he has in hopes that we bring him before a jury’s dock. That sliver, we begin with his invaluable subordinate—the Colonel.

“We know he’s a precise markspony, as proven by our own witnessing of Fred Porlock’s own murder before us. Perching upon a structure at an incredible distance from his prey and actually hitting it with remarkable precision shows his formidable level of skill. Combine this knowledge that the Professor was willing to kill his own trusty thief, we infer that the Colonel shows unwavering loyalty to his master.

“Now, combine this knowledge with what we have deduced from Colonel Cumulonimbus’ flask of Lunarian Ash, we get very interesting indications indeed. Incredible marksponies, cleverly designed rifles, criminal records and—”

“They’re both retired Wonderbolts—” I finished. “My dear Pones, all we need to do now is to get a hold of the fellow’s records, trace anyone associated with him who may match the description of the Professor, and—”

“We’ve got him,” said Pones with a smile.

“Then, what are we waiting for, Pones? To the Wonderbolts—”

“Same old Watcolt, always the pony of action and tenacity. There’s no need, for I’ve already done so. I sent a telegram inquiring just that to the captain of the Bolts herself and had actually received a reply—"

Igniting his horn, he materialized a leather bag whence he procured several manila folders. A named had been pinned into each, printed in bold red letters—

Colonel “Stormy” Cumulonimbus.

Next to it was a picture of a middle-aged Pegasus. If he had been painted in a more positive light, I would have seen him as a hero. But because of what we have learned, I now saw a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a sensualist below, the equine must have started with great capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals. Whether he had guilty and malignant agenda or not, we were yet to determine. If it were to prove to be the latter, we would be one step closer to ring the lawful noose round the neck of the Professor.