Forelock Holmes
A Pony in Pink Part 2
Part two, please enjoy. Hopefully things will go as planned this time. *eyes cell phone suspiciously*. This one took forever to do, it's not easy ponifying a scenes that are barely changeable.
And, in case anypony needed a refresher on who is what, Forelock=Sherlock=Unicorn and John=Earth Pony.
"Aren't you going to put one on?" John asked. Forelock gave him a stern look as if to say, "Nope!"
"So, where are we?" he asked.
"Upstairs," Lestrade replied. And so, with their blue coverall suits and gloves on, with the exception of Forelock that is, Lestrade led them up the spiral staircase to the top floor.
"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade instructed as they trotted upstairs.
"May need longer," Forelock answered casually.
"Her name's Jewel Song according to her ID cards. We're running them now for contact information. Hasn't been here long, a couple foals found her." They had reached the top floor, top room, it was empty except for a battered old rocking horse in the far left corner. A few pieces of scaffolding equipment were holding up portions of the wall where large holes had been knocked out. The dead unicorn mare, Jewel Song, was lying in the center of the room.
She was wearing a bright pink dress and heels, looked expensive, but the one for her front left hoof was missing. Her coat, skin not clothes, had once been a dark pink-red and her mane was messy and maroon, her dress was hiding her cutie-mark from view.
They entered the room. Forelock glanced at the body, his mind already galloping full speed. John did the same, but he wished he hadn't a moment later. It reminded him of-
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything," Lestrade replied, startled.
"You were thinking, it's annoying." Forelock stepped forward, towards the corpse. He knelt down next to it and began to do what he did best. Deducing by what he saw.
First thing that caught his eye, a message scratched into the floor, RACHE. (why mess with the original?) Done with her left hoof, chipped away at it. Rache, a word from one of the tropic regions, word for revenge. Rache, that message didn't fit right. Forelock thought of a word that was spelled like that, Rachel, just needed an L at the end. Died before she could finish writing it.
The back of her dress shimmered slightly, he felt the fabric, wet. He searched her pockets and pulled out an umbrella, dry. Checked under the dress collar, that was wet too. Was in heavy rain, lots of wind, too much for an umbrella.
Forelock pulled out his miniature slide out magnifying glass and began to check her jewelry. Earring, clean. Bracelet, clean. Necklace, clean. Wedding ring, dirty. Unhappily married, the ring was at least ten years old, unhappily married 10+ years. He pulled it off her horn and examined it. Cleaner inside than outside, regularly removed.
Add all the pieces together, the result: Serial Adulterer.
"Got anything?" asked Lestrade after a moment.
"Not much," Forelock replied, putting the ring back and standing up.
"She's from the coast," Bunsen said, now standing in the doorway, "Rache, means revenge." He didn't say anymore because Forelock had just closed the door in his face.
"Yes thank you for your input," he said pulling out his mobile.
"What, she's not costal?" asked Lestrade.
"No but she's from out of town," Forelock continued, checking the maps on his mobile, "Intended to stay in Hoofdon for one night," he smiled, found the information he needed. "Before returning home to Cardhoof." He pocketed the phone. "So far, obvious."
"Sorry-obvious?" asked John.
"What about the message though?" asked Lestrade. Forelock ignored him and glanced at John.
"Doctor Trottson, what do you think?"
"Of the message?"
"Of the body, you're a medical stallion."
"Wait, no!" interjected Lestrade, "We've got a whole team outside."
"They won't work with me," Forelock replied stubbornly.
"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here!"
"Yes… Because you need me." Lestrade sighed, defeated.
"Yes I do… Celestia help me."
"Doctor Trottson," Forelock repeated. John glanced at Lestrade, "Oh fine, do as he says, help yourself," Lestrade said exasperated. He left the room, telling Bunsen to keep everypony out for a few minutes as he did. They walked over to the body, Forelock crouched down, John lowered himself painfully onto one knee.
"Well?" asked the detective.
"What am I doing here?" whispered the doctor.
"Helping me make a point," Forelock whispered back.
"I'm supposed to be helping you pay rent."
"Yeah, well this is more fun."
"Fun? There's a mare lying dead," Trottson said, no longer whispering.
"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." John rolled his eyes and crouched even lower so he could get a closer look at the dead mare. He leaned in close to her head and took a whiff. Nothing. He straightened up, and pulled off her other front high-heeled shoe, tossing it aside so he could see her skin. After a moment, he put her hoof down.
"Yeah… Asphyxiation, probably," he concluded, "Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell anything on her. It could've been a seizure, possibly drugs-"
"You know what it was, you've read the papers," Forelock interjected.
"Or she's one of the suicides," John finished, "the fourth."
"Forelock, I said two minutes, give me anything you got," said DI Lestrade re-entering the room.
"Victim was in her late thirties," Forelock explained standing up, "Professional pony going by her clothes, something in the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardhoof today intended to stay in Hoofdon for one night. It's obvious by the size of her suitcase." When Forelock talked, he was very animated. Walking all about and waving his hooves for emphasis, pointing and gesturing to what he was talking about.
"Suitcase?"
"Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lover but none of them knew she was married."
"Oh for Celestia's sake, you're making this up!" Forelock pointed to her horn, and the ring on it.
"Her wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned except for her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier inside than outside- that means it is regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her horn.
"It's not for work, look at her hooves. She doesn't work with her hooves, so rather what or who does she remove it for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."
"That's brilliant," John complimented, causing Forelock once again to shoot him a surprised look. "Sorry."
"Cardhoof?" inquired Lestrade.
"It's obvious isn't it?"
"It's not obvious to me." Forelock looked at both of them, "Oh my, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turned back to the corpse. "Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain the last few hours. No rain anywhere in Hoofdon in that time, under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left hoof pocket but its dry and unused, not just wind strong wind- too strong for an umbrella.
"We know from her suitcase she was intending to stay overnight, but she couldn't have traveled over two or three hours because her jacket still hasn't dried. So, where has there been wind and rain in that travel time?" he pulled out his mobile and held it up for the DI, "Carhoof."
"That's fantastic," John said. Forelock looked at him, then said quietly, "D'you know you're saying that aloud?"
"Sorry, I'll shut up."
"No, it's… fine."
"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" asked Lestrade. Forelock spun around, looking for it.
"Yes, where is it? She must've had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."
"She was writing Rachel?"
"No she was leaving an angry letter nopony could read, of course she was writing Rachel," Forelock replied sarcastically, "Question is, why did she wait till she was dying to write it?"
"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" asked Lestrade.
"Back right hoof, tiny splash marks on her right leg not present on the left," Forelock explained pointing at the small spray of mud, "She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her on her right side. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case going by the spread. Small case, mare this clothes conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she intended to stay one night." He knelt next to the corpse again, "Now where is it? What've you done with it?"
"There wasn't a case," Lestrade replied. Forelock slowly looked back up at the DI, "Say that again."
"There wasn't a suitcase, there was never a case." Forelock leapt back up and ran past Lestrade, "Suitcase! Did anypony find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"
"Forelock there was no case!" Lestrade yelled, also coming out of the room, John following. Forelock slowed down but he kept going down stairs.
"But they take the poison themselves; they chew and swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs even you lot couldn't miss them!"
"Right, thanks, and?"
"It's murder!" Forelock replied, stopping on a landing one floor down, "All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides they're killings- serial killings." He smiled, "We've got ourselves a serial killer! I love those, there's always something to look forward to!" Forelock continued down the stairs.
"Why are you saying that?" called Lestrade. Forelock stopped again and called up to them: "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Somepony else was here, and they took her case!" The quietly more to himself he added, "So the killer must've driven her here, forgot the case was in the coach."
"She could've checked into a hotel," John offered, "Left her case there."
"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never leave any hotel with her mane still looking-" he stopped. "Oh." Then it hit him, "Oh!" He jumped up in delight, smiling like crazy.
"Forelock?" called John.
"What, what is it?" asked Lestrade.
"Serial killers are always hard," he muttered, "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."
"We can't just wait!"
"We're done waiting!" Forelock cried as he rushed down the stairs, "Look at her really look. Hello, we've got a mistake. Get on to Cardhoof, find jewel Song's family and friends, find Rachel!" Forelock ran off the stairs and disappeared from view.
"Of course, but, what mistake?" Forelock ran back to the base of the stairs and yelled: "PINK!" before running of to Celestia knows where. The forensics team, which had been waiting for quite some time, trotted up the stairs and began to do their job, Lestrade followed them, leaving John standing at the top of the stairs.
John Trottson left the house five minutes later, no longer wearing the blue coverall but back in his brown jacket. He limped outside and looked around for Forelock Holmes, but the consulting detective was nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Donovan noticed him looking around and called: "He's gone."
"Who, Forelock Holmes?"
"Yeah," Sally replied, "he just took off. He does that."
"Is he coming back?" asked John.
"Didn't look like it." John nodded, "Right." He looked around, unsure of what to do. He turned back to Donovan, "Sorry, where am I?"
"Brixton," the sergeant replied.
"Right, uh, do you know where I could get a cab?" he asked. Donovan stepped over and lifted the police tape.
"Try the main road," she suggested. John nodded his thanks and ducked under the tape.
"But you're not his friend," she said, John turned to look at her. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"
"I'm… I'm nopony," Trottson replied, "I just met him."
"Okay, bit of advice then, stay away from that guy."
"Why?"
"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything, he likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he enjoys it. And you know what? One day, showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Forelock Holmes will be the one who put it there."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because he's a psychopath," she replied simply, "And psychopaths get bored."
"Donovan!" somepony called from the house.
"Coming!" she yelled back, she turned and walked away. Not before warning John for a third time to stay away from Forelock Holmes. He turned, and started to slowly walk towards the main road. But, as he passed a red public call box, it started to ring. John ignored it and kept walking.
When he reached the road, he tried to hail a taxi. Three times, but none of them pulled over and let him in.
"Taxi!" he called again, for a fourth time. The black coach just drove on by. John groaned in frustration and kept walking. Suddenly, a ringing caught his attention. A payphone inside a nearby café was ringing, right as he passed by. He watched, a worker in the café tried to pick it up, but it stopped ringing. John shook of the slight unease and continued walking.
He passed yet another payphone, and it started ringing. Finally, John's curiosity peaked and he opened the red phone box. He stepped inside and pulled the silver phone off.
"Hello?"
"There is a security camera on the building to your left," a stallion's voice said, "Do you see it?" John frowned, "Who is this? Who's speaking?"
"Do you see the camera Doctor Trottson?" asked the voice. John rolled his eyes, then looked up at the building, spotting the white camera instantly.
"Yeah, I see it."
"Watch." The camera twitched, then looked away from the red phone box.
"There is another camera on the building opposite you, do you see it?" asked the voice. John spotted the camera, just in time to see it swivel away. "And finally, at the top of the building opposite you." The third camera turned away as well.
"How're you doing this?" asked John. A black coach, not a taxi, pulled up to the curb.
"Get into the coach Doctor Trottson. I would make some kind of threat but, I'm sure your situation is quite clear." John put the phone back onto the machine, and looked outside. He sighed, what had he gotten himself into?
John Trottson did get into the coach, it immediately drove off at full speed. There was another pony in there, a unicorn mare entirely focused on her mobile phone.
"Hello," John greeted, trying to make the situation feel less threatening. The mare glanced up at him, "Hi," she replied before returning to her phone.
"What's your name then?"
"Uh… Anthea," she replied, not taking her eyes off the mobile.
"Is that your real name?"
"No," she said with a smirk.
"Any point in asking where I'm going?"
"None at all… John."
A while later, the coach rumbled into a warehouse. The lights were dim and flickering, but it was enough light to see. A unicorn stallion was waiting for them, his black umbrella leaning casually against his side. This stallion, had black hair neatly combed, a light grey coat, silver-blue eyes, and was wearing a fancy and probably expensive suit. His cutie-mark was a medal, an official government medal one would win for exceptionally good deeds.
There was also a chair in that room, metal, straight backed, chair.
The coach stopped, and John Trottson stepped out. He walked forward, towards the stallion.
"Have a seat John," he said kindly.
"You know, I've got a phone," he said, "You could've just phoned me, on my phone. He walked straight past the chair and stopped a few paces in front of the stallion.
"When one is avoiding the attention of Forelock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place," he smiled at John, "The leg must be hurting you, sit down."
"I don't want to sit down," John replied stubbornly. The stallion looked at him curiously, "You don't seem very afraid."
"You don't seem very frightening."
"Ah-ha-ha yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" he looked at John sternly, "What is your connection to Forelock Holmes?"
"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" He thought for a moment, "Yesterday."
"Hmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together, might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
"Who are you?"
"An interested party."
"Interested in Forelock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend Forelock Holmes is capable of having."
"And what's that?"
"An enemy."
"And enemy?"
"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." John rolled his eyes, "Thank Celestia you're above all that." Suddenly, John's phone trilled, text message. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the message:
Baker Street.
Come at once
if convenient.
FH
"I hope I'm not distracting you," the stallion said. John pocketed his phone.
"Not distracting me at all."
"Do you plan to continue your association with Forelock Holmes?"
"I could be wrong… But, I think that's none of your business."
"It could be."
"It really couldn't." The stallion levitated a red leather notebook out of his pocket and opened it.
"If you do happen to move into, uh, two hundred twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of bits on a regular basis to, ease your way." He closed the notebook and put it back into his pocket.
"Why?"
"Because you're not a wealthy stallion."
"In exchange for what?"
"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel.. uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?"
"I worry about him, constantly."
"That's nice of you," John replied sarcastically, and a little stalker-ish.
"But I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call, a difficult relationship." John's phone went off again, another text from Forelock.
If inconvenient,
come anyway.
FH
John slipped the phone away and looked back up at his captor, "No."
"But I haven't mentioned a figure."
"Don't bother." The stallion chuckled, "You're very loyal very quickly."
"No I'm not, I'm just not interested on spying on somepony for another I don't even know." The stallion pulled out his notebook once again.
"'Trust issues' it says here," he read.
"Excuse me?"
"Could it be that you've decided to trust Forelock Holmes of all ponies?"
"Who says I trust him?"
"You don't seem to be the kind to make friends easily."
"Are we done?" asked John, annoyed. The stallion looked up from his notebook and met John's eyes, "You tell me." John nodded, then turned, and began to limp back to the coach.
"I imagine ponies have already warned you to stay away from him but I can see from your left hoof that's not going to happen." Trottson stopped dead in his tracks, he turned back.
"My what?" he asked, suspicious and defensive.
"Show me," the stallion insisted calmly, nodding towards his good hoof. John planted his hooves and lifted his good one, leaning heavily on the brace for balance. The other stallion walked towards him, swinging his umbrella. When he leaned in for a closer look, John pulled his hoof back defensively. But, eventually, he let the stranger take a look.
"Remarkable," he muttered. John pulled his hoof back and set it on the ground, steadying himself.
"What is?" John asked. The stallion turned and slowly walked away.
"Most ponies blunder around this city, and all they see are shops and coaches. When you walk with Forelock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned back to John, "You've seen it already, haven't you?"
"What's wrong with my hoof?" Trottson demanded.
"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hoof," the stranger explained, "Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by your time in the Royal Guard."
"Who the hell are you?!" demanded John Trottson, furious, "How do you know that?"
"Fire her," he continued, "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and you're completely stable. You're not haunted by the war Doctor Trottson, you miss it." He winked, "Welcome back." Then turned, and walked away, casually swinging his umbrella as he did. John's mobile text signal trilled again.
"Time to choose a side Doctor," the stallion said before vanishing.
"I'm to take you home," Not-Anthea said, she was waiting by the coach, eyes still riveted on her floating mobile phone. John turned, but before he entered the coach; he pulled out his mobile and checked the third and final text from Forelock.
Could be dangerous.
FH
He slipped the phone back and his pocket, and trotted back over.
"Address?" asked Not-Anthea.
"Uh, Baker street," John replied, "Two two one B Baker street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."
He stopped off at the tiny flat he used to live in, had to grab something before he returned to Baker Street, like Forelock had texted, it could be dangerous. John took his old pistol out from its place in the desk drawer and checked the clip. Yes, fully loaded.
After grabbing the gun, and two extra rounds, they headed for Baker Street. Soon, the coach was pulling up in front of the building.
"Listen, your boss- any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?" asked John as they stopped.
"Sure," Not-Anthea replied, briefly glancing up from her phone.
"You've told him already haven't you?"
"Yeah." John sighed, then stepped out of the coach. The door was shut immediately and the coach took off, leaving John coughing in a cloud of dust. And when the dust had settled, John Trottson marched right up to the door of 221b Baker Street and knocked briskly.
Me: and part two is finished. No texts from Sherlock so that's a good sign. Thanks to all of you reading, I can tell this archive isn't very popular unlike everything else. So thank you and until next time.
