The urgent summons roused Chief Inspector Sanderson from a deep sleep in the early hours. Inspector Grey’s report left little doubt trouble was brewing at the racetrack. Trouble that had royal connections, it seemed. Grey had been his right-hand man for many years on high-profile cases, and he knew he wouldn’t wake him without good cause. Sanderson rose begrudgingly, unstiffening his legs, reminding him of his age. With a weary sigh, he threw back the bedcovers and swung his feet onto the floor with joints creaking in objection. He lumbered down the creaky stairwell, instinctively avoiding the squeaky third step. Henry’s door eased open; his sleepy face peered out as Sanderson paused at his grandchildren’s rooms.

  “Where are you going, Grandpa?”

  “Go back to sleep, son. Grandpa has to go out for a bit.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s all fine. It’s just work calling. You know how it is sometimes? Go on, back to bed now.”

  Henry yawned. “Okay, Grandpa. Don’t be gone too long.”

  Sanderson couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be back before you wake up.”

  He leaned in to kiss Henry’s forehead. “Sweet dreams son.”

  Henry shuffled back to bed as Sanderson continued down the stairs, feeling guilty that his movements had disturbed his grandchildren’s rest. The tender exchange with Henry had provided a brief ray of warmth against the gathering pressure of the case. Entering the drawing-room, the last remnants of moonlight immersed the long, tall windows onto old wooden floorboards. Meanwhile, Blair, his Cocker Spaniel, snored in his tartan dog bed in the corner undisturbed. Dread descended upon him as heavy as a dead weight. Grey’s words caused Sanderson’s mind to disintegrate into paranoia.

  “Trouble at the track. We think there’s a royal mole!”

  An overstuffed armchair beckoned, tempting him to sit and ponder how to proceed. But he knew deep down any details the Royals provided would be meticulously sanitized and scrubbed clean of anything incriminating. Nearly two decades serving the Yard had forged his resolve against doubt and fatigue, tempering it cold and blunt. Still, Sanderson felt no peace.

  He approached an old filing cabinet across the room, opening the bottom drawer, shuffling through folders until finding one labeled ‘Royal Household Staff’. With the folder in hand, he slipped on his spectacles and lifted the black phone receiver, dialing the private number. After several rings, an unfamiliar voice answered.

  “Royal Household…”

  Sanderson’s spine stiffened. This was not the usual warm baritone of Sir Charles he was used to.

  “This is Chief Inspector Sanderson of Scotland Yard. I must speak with Sir Charles immediately.”

  There was a long pause. “He’s currently indisposed,” the voice replied stiffly.

  “How may I assist you?”

  “With whom am I speaking?”

  “Chief of Staff Robinson.”

  “Robinson? I do not believe I am familiar with the name.”

  “I’ve recently been promoted to take over all of Sir Charles’s duties. I have full authorization to discuss any matters with you.”

  Despite being wary of this unidentified voice, which he had not been informed about, Sanderson continued anyway.

  “I must discuss a confidential matter regarding Inspector Grey’s ongoing investigation into the Aintree tragedy.”

  “The Royal household is already aware of the initial investigation report. An internal review has already reached its conclusion. We have found no credible evidence to substantiate further investigation. The matter has been closed.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Robinson, people have died. We cannot close this investigation prematurely based on the Crown’s internal review.”

  “The decision has been made, sir. If Scotland Yard discovers any credible evidence warranting a response from the Royal household, we expect to be informed through the official channels. Goodnight.”

  The line went dead. Sanderson slammed the phone into its cradle, nearly toppling it from the rickety table. Several biting retorts came to mind, ones he now regretted holding back on. Something about the brief call felt spurious. The representative’s brusque dismissal lacked the usual diplomacy of Sanderson’s previous dealings with the Royal Staff. Standing at the window, Sanderson stared out at the darkened countryside. Perhaps he could appeal directly to cabinet members, emphasizing the potential scandal if foul play was being covered up. It was a risky gambit; it could also backfire if his suspicions proved unfounded. But something wasn’t adding up, and Sanderson couldn’t shake the feeling he was being shaken down from his rank.

  Lost in thought, he almost missed Blair stirring from his sleep. The old Spaniel stretched and padded over, nosing at Sanderson’s knees. A faint smile crossed Sanderson’s face; bending down, scratching behind the beloved dog’s ears. He had always been a man of the countryside, and he liked to dress the part. Pulling on his sturdy hiking boots, a thick wool sweater, and a waxed cotton jacket, he prepared for the brisk outdoor walk. Blair wagged his tail as Sanderson wrapped him in a warm coat made from an old blanket.

  Outside, a faint glimmer of light cracked on the fringed skyline when Sanderson greeted the two police bobbies guarding his front door with a good morning. They returned the sentiment as they always did in their understated professional way. Sanderson breathed in the scent of damp earth and distant wood smoke, feeling the pressure of Scotland Yard slip from his shoulders, if only briefly.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Blair bounded ahead, nose to the ground, tail wagging. They left the country road, stepping into the forest. Sanderson listened to the sounds of nature waking around him; the rustling of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the first stirrings of birds. Blair’s ears suddenly perked up at the sound of the familiar creek bubbling below the wooden bridge. He quickened his pace, then hesitated. A low growl vibrated in his throat, the fur along his neck bristling. Sanderson instinctively tugged at Blair’s leash.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Only for the Spaniel to pull forward, leading Sanderson onto the bridge. Thorny branches brushed against him; crossing the clunky wooden planks. Blair was stiffening at something over on the far bank, fur standing on end. Then Sanderson saw it—a dark figure standing motionless among the darkenss of the trees. Before he could make out any details, the figure moved behind a trunk, vanishing from sight. Blair let out a short, sharp bark. Sanderson’s police instincts kicked in. Something wasn’t right. He blank-stared again towards the woods, only to see nothing. Had the stress of his job started to make him hallucinate? A shiver of apprehension ran down his vertebrae.

  He kneeled to comfort Blair. As he did so, he noticed more movement in his peripheral vision. There—another figure, half-hidden behind an old rotting stump. And another one beyond, nestled in a patch of ferns. Sanderson’s blood ran cold. How long had they been watching?

  He straightened up, making direct eye contact with the closest. It didn’t move. Blair let out a low, continuous growl now. Slowly, Sanderson began to back away from the path they had come, never taking his eyes off the figures in front. Blair’s leash was taut like a coiled spring. They stepped onto the bridge’s wooden planks. Six figures now surrounded him, three advancing stealthily from the trees on the far side of the bridge. A thrill of fear shot through Sanderson, realizing the odds of escape becoming slimmer from the gathering of men trapping him. The cloaked zealots began to advance together from all sides. Some moved with grim, deliberate purpose to the tributary at the edge of the brook, others hung out as spectators, to witness the foul play about to commence. Sensing the imminent threat, Sanderson unclasped Blair’s metal lead. Though their faces were hidden, he felt their murderous intent like a blade against his neck. He swung the lead with violent intensity. But the bridge was too narrow, impeding his full range of movement as an effective deterrent.

  “Stay back!”

  Blair barked frantically, teeth-baring at the attackers whilst trying not to get whipped by the lead himself. The men crept closer until there was no escape. They uncloaked themselves, revealing muscular forms, and hollow detached eyes; leering at Sanderson through disturbing skull masks. Silent and deadly. Leather-gloved hands revealed rusted sharp daggers. Sanderson swung the metal lead, mustering up as much centrifugal force as he could summon. It pinged off the railings in circular momentum. Blair nearly got slapped.

  “I warned you. Stay the fuck back!”

  Two of the larger brutes marooned by the tributary began tossing small pebbles tauntingly toward Sanderson and Blair. The pebbles stung off Sanderson’s legs and shoulders, narrowly missing Blair’s nose. The brute’s eyes gleamed with sadistic delight, enjoying toying with barrel-chested laughs. Though Blair was willing to fight to the death for his master, both he and Sanderson knew they were no match for these many attackers. One of the men moved forward from behind, callously side-kicking Sanderson’s lower calf, sending him crashing to the ground. Then he snatched the weaponized lead from Sanderson’s grip. Incapacitated, Sanderson raised both hands into a defensive position.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  A low, gravelly laugh came from the large henchman. “Horses for courses, Chief, we know exactly who you are.”

  Cold dread flooded through Sanderson. The man’s words confirmed his deepest fear. This was about the Grand National; the phone call with Robinson. He had become a pawn in a dangerous chess game, ready to be taken out by the king. And these ruthless henchmen had been sent to silence him. The skull-masked man began singing an eerie rhyme:

  “The noble steed lay broken and spent, Sanderson’s body twisted, his spirit bent…”

  “I beg you, show mercy. We are no threat to you. Let us go. Please!”

  He waved his dagger menacingly in Sanderson’s face, continuing to sing.

  “The horses of royalty, once so grand and fleet, now cower in terror at the dark deeds they’ve seen and the secrets they keep.”

  Sanderson pleaded again, desperation intense in his voice. The others stepped in even closer, daggers glinting. The first flickers of dawn danced off Sanderson’s terrified face.

  “All the crown’s secrets and lies so profuse couldn’t fix the damage or right the abuse.”

  They chanted in unison like a deranged choir.

  “Justice will come, blood will be spilled…”

  The leader stomped on Sanderson’s temple. “You stick your nose where it does not belong, Chief!”

  He signaled for the others to act. Sanderson readied himself for what was to come. Rough hands wrenched his arms behind his back. Another hard boot slammed into the base of his skull. White-hot pain erupted as Blair’s furious barks echoed distantly in his ringing ears. Through a haze of agony, Sanderson saw his hound’s teeth sink into an outstretched hand. Then another boot caught the dog hard in the ribs, careering Blair off the bridge, sending him yelping into the bushes. Fury surged through the Chief, momentarily dulling the pain. Wrenching a free hand, he threw a wild punch, landing solidly on the jaw of one of the mob. But his brief triumph was fleeting. The blunt end of a dagger doubled him over on the floor. Then another blow sent him into agonizing delirium. Flying fists pounded down, until he curled limply into a fetal position. His final breath struggled from his lungs, a sound that only prompted cruel laughter from the figures leering over him. They lifted his battered body, sending him toppling over the edge into the shallow brook several feet below.

  He clobbered into the murky water with a mighty splash, decaying leaves, and muck swirled from the disturbed bottom; limbs splayed lifelessly on the surface. Bright crimson bloomed in with the general slime. Chief Inspector Thomas Sanderson’s honorable career ended right there, Blair’s mournful howls faded into the still predawn air. Their leader stepped off the bridge; wooden slats now slick with the morning’s catch of gore. He knelt beside the body, shutting Sanderson’s swollen eyes.

  “Justice has been served,” he intoned quietly. “May you now find peace.”

  The men filed into the woods, keen to leave the murder scene behind. One stopped, addressing the leader directly. “Asp?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not happy with the way its happened here. It’s too messy. It’s too high profile. The entire Yard will be looking for Sanderson’s killer—the poem was cool.”

  “Thanks—I know it’s not the most elegant of killing solutions. Trust me, Dante, they will be looking for us, but they will be looking for the wrong people.”

  “Still, his murder will put a spotlight on us. Think of the consequences if were discovered?”

  “Fear not, bro. The crown’s secrets protect us as much as they condemn others. Let them chase shadows. Now come, we must move away from this place.”

  Dante shook his head, following Asp into the foliage of the woods, leaving Sanderson’s body for the buzzing of the flies.