When I awoke, I had three questions.
Who was he? How did he die? And what was I doing here?
One at a time.
The stallion. Under the white sheet he looked young, but his attire suggested wealth and distinction, matching the office. Bronze-framed paintings of him, a mare, and a pair of foals dotted our surroundings.
Death. He sprawled behind a desk and an upturned chair. Blood pooled on the hardwood. A knife stuck out between the barrel and the elbow, its tip surely puncturing the heart. A quick, expert method.
Me. My heart was beating. My lenses fogged with every breath. My head was full of holes. And an upside-down badge hung over my chest. I didn't belong here.
One door in the room was closed, the other open. I went through the open one.
A hall. Two uniformed ponies were waiting, tired and smelling like cigarettes. The mare turned, looked at me twice, and asked, "... Detective?"
My badge did seem to say 'detective' on it. I nodded.
The two of them nodded back, and the stallion stood up, gesturing for me to follow him. We moved up a flight of stairs and through an ornate doorway into a firelit loungeroom, circled by tall chairs, where four ponies were waiting - including the mare from the office paintings. The uniform shut the door on its way out, leaving me alone with the group. Eyes that noticed me lit up, and a hush fell over them until they were all watching me, waiting for me to speak.
"My condolences," I said, first, to the wife - now the widow. She nodded in appreciation, but a poorer mare next to her broke into tears. Then I asked, "Where are the children?"
Silence at first, but an angry-looking stallion answered, "With the Chevaliers - friends of the family," he added, for my benefit. "We've sent word." He sounded not angry, but professional. A guard?
"Good," I replied. "I'm sure, at this point, you all know why you're here. Why I'm here."
A murmur of confusion rose among them, but the widow spoke clearly, gravely: "We're suspects." This shook the murmur into a roar.
The widow's hoofmaid cried, "She can't be!" - gesturing to the widow - "She loved him! We-we all loved him!"
"It's ridiculous," argued a fat stallion in a white apron and beret; the picture of a chef, I thought. "We all have alibis. And none of us wanted him dead, besides."
The guard, on the other hoof, spoke calmly: "But we're still suspects, Pepper, because we haven't been ruled out." He turned to me. "Right, Detective?"
"That's right," I said.
My heart was still pounding. I swallowed nothing.
"I'm here mainly to gather information, but I also aim to reduce our list of suspects."
Nopony spoke. I was hoping they would volunteer information, fill me in on what they knew, and I could do my job convincingly enough. Or at least help them.
An idea: "Where were all of you at the time of the murder?"
Nopony spoke, still, but they looked between each other. The guard-stallion asked, "What was the time of murder, precisely?"
The hoofmaid added, "We only learned, like, ten minutes ago…"
They didn't know any more than I did. That was beautiful. But, as I wondered how to formulate a convincing lie, unknown knowledge sprang to mind. Considering blood coagulation, lack of lividity, warmth of the body…
"Time of death was within the last hour," I told them. "Likely closer to half an hour."
The hoofmaid and the chef blanched, while the widow seemed to freeze in place. The guard's reaction, on the other hoof, was subdued. He stated: "So we were all here."
The chef replied, "Well, I was in the kitchen. The help can attest to that."
"Yeah, or get fired," the hoofmaid mumbled, rolling her eyes.
"Excuse me?"
The hoofmaid barked at him, "Yeah, they'll say you were there, or they'll get fired, right?"
Through teeth, he barked back, "You've got some idea, filly-"
"Don't call her that," said the widow. Though it was quiet, it snuffed the argument. I suddenly realized that I didn't know any of their names, except maybe for the belligerent chef - 'Pepper'.
The guard-stallion sighed, and continued, "I mean that we were all in the manor when this occurred. Doesn't clear anything up, unfortunately." He glanced at me, and I took that to mean he wanted me to speak next.
I nodded, and showed them the knife I'd extracted. "This is-"
"Aaah!" shrieked the hoofmaid. The others looked similarly horrified. I didn't understand why.
So I continued. "This is the murder weapon."
Some of them calmed down. The guard apologized, "Sorry, we're just a little on edge. For obvious reasons."
"Do any of you recognize it?"
They looked at each other, then eyes fell on the chef. "What?" he said.
"It's a kitchen knife," someone suggested.
"Yeah, that's where knives are kept. The kitchen."
This started another round of bickering, which didn't seem relevant.
But I focused on the knife. I could learn something from it, surely. Solid construction, well-balanced, satisfying heft. The blood on it was smeared from my saddlebag, and the leather handle-
Tooth marks.
Whose?
The leather smelled familiar. Tasted familiar. Hair stood on end.
Why did I remember the taste?
Experimentally, I bit the handle, felt my teeth sink into their respective positions. A perfect fit.
Heartbeats. Burning muscles. Memories.
"Detective, what are you-..."
Just then, the uniformed mare I'd met earlier burst through the loungeroom doors, shouting, "The detective's been mur-!" - until her eyes settled on me, then on the knife I plunged into her throat.
As she collapsed there were sounds of panic from the others, but they barely registered beneath the roaring noise. Even piercing screams, impacts in my jaw, and hot spray on my face was swallowed in the pounding exhilaration.
When I awoke, I had three questions.
Who were they? How did they die? And what was I doing here?
