Chapter 4 Chief Of Scotland Yard

The urgent summons roused Chief Inspector Sanderson from a deep sleep in the early hours. Inspector Grey’s report left little doubt that trouble was now brewing at the racetrack. Trouble that had royal connections. 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, his joints creaking in objection.

He lumbered down the creaky stairwell, tracing each banister groove, avoiding the squeaky third step from memory born of long practice in the darkness.

Henry's door eased open, and his sleepy face peered out as Sanderson passed his grandchildren's rooms.

"Where you're going, Grandpa?" he mumbled.

Sanderson paused on the landing. "Go back to sleep, son. Grandpa has to go out for a bit."

Henry rubbed his eyes. "Is everything okay?"

Sanderson's face softened. "It's all fine. It's just work calling."

He gestured toward Henry's room."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 said.

He leaned in to kiss Henry's forehead. "Sweet dreams."

Henry shuffled back to bed as Sanderson continued down the stairs, guilt rising that his movements had disturbed his grandchildren's rest - even if only for a moment.

The tender exchange with Henry had provided a brief ray of warmth amidst the gathering pressure of the case.

Entering the drawing room the last remnants of moonlight bathed the long, tall windows onto old wooden floorboards. While Blair his Cocker Spaniel snored in his tartan dog bed in the corner, undisturbed.

Grey's words caused Sanderson's mind to churn at the gravitas:

"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 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. A pall of dread descended upon him as heavy as a winter coat.

He approached an old filing cabinet across the room, opening the bottom drawer, and shuffled through folders until finding one labeled 'Royal Household Staff Contacts'.

With the folder in hand, he slipped on his spectacles and lifted the dusty black phone receiver, dialing the long-memorized private number.

After several rings, an unfamiliar voice answered.

"Royal Household Staff, Deputy Chief speaking."

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

"This is Chief Inspector Sanderson of Scotland Yard," he said cautiously.

"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, Sir?"

"With whom am I speaking?" Sanderson demanded.

"Deputy Chief of Staff Robinson."

Sanderson frowned. "Robinson? I do not believe I am familiar with that name."

"I've recently been promoted to take over all of Sir Charles's duties. I assure you I have full authorization to discuss any matter with you."

Sanderson was suspicious of this unknown voice that he hadn't been informed about but pressed on 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," Robinson said.

"An internal review has been carried out. We have found no credible evidence to substantiate further investigation. The matter has been closed."

"With all due respect, Mr. Robinsion, people have died. We cannot close this investigation prematurely based on the Crown's internal review."

"The decision has been made, Sir," Robinson replied coolly.

"If Scotland Yard discovers any credible evidence warranting a response from the Royal household, we expect to be informed through official channels. Goodnight." The line went dead.

Sanderson slammed the phone back into its cradle, nearly toppling it from the rickety table. Several raging retorts came to mind that he now regretted holding back.

Something about that brief phone call seemed amiss. The representative's brusque dismissal lacked the usual diplomacy that characterized his many previous interactions with the Royal Staff over the years.

Sanderson stood in front of the windows overlooking the silent country vista.

The moon had sunk behind the forest trees, casting the room in faint darkness. Perhaps he could appeal directly to cabinet members, highlighting the potential scandal if foul play was indeed covered up.

It was a risky gambit, one that could backfire if his suspicions proved unfounded. But Sanderson sensed something wasn't adding up.

As these thoughts spun in Sanderson's mind, Blair stirred from his sleep. The old Spaniel rose, and ambled over, nosing at Sanderson's knees expectantly. A wan smile crossed Sanderson's face bending down to scratch behind Blair's ears.

He had always been a man of the countryside, and he liked to dress the part.

He put on his sturdy hiking boots, a thick wool sweater, and a waxed cotton jacket, while Blair wore a warm coat that Sanderson had made himself from an old blanket.

When they left the house, Sanderson exchanged a brief greeting with the two police bobbies, who guarded his front door befitting his high-profile position. They nodded at each other but didn't say anything more.

Sanderson liked to keep to himself, appreciating the quiet professionalism they kept.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Outside, the darkness was still thick, with a faint glimmer of light on the horizon. Sanderson breathed in the crisp, cool air smelling the damp earth and the faint hint of woodsmoke from a distant chimney. Blair bounded ahead of him, sniffing the ground, wagging his tail.

They bounded into the forest off the country road. Sanderson listened to the sounds of nature waking up around him. Feeling a sense of peace and contentment from the pressures of Scotland Yard.

He heard the rustling of leaves. The distant hooting of an owl, and the faint chirpings of birds beginning to stir.

Blair's ears perked up, identifying the familiar creek bubbling gently below the wooden bridge. His steps quickened. He began to growl softly, the nerves raising in his neck.

"What is it, boy?" asked Sanderson, instinctively tugging at Blair's leash.

But the Spaniel pulled forward, leading Sanderson onto the bridge.

The thorny branches overhead brushed against him whilst they crossed the time-worn planks, accompanied by creaking groans from aged wood.

Blair was sniffing intently at something over the far bank, hackles still raised. Fur standing on end.

Then Sanderson saw it - a dark figure standing motionless among the shadows 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 scanned the tree line but saw nothing else.

Yet a prickling unease crept up his neck. He kneeled to comfort Blair. As he did so, he noticed movement in his peripheral vision.

There - another figure, half-hidden behind an old rotting stump. And another beyond that, 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. He gripped Blair's leash tightly.

They stepped onto the wooden planks of the bridge. Three more figures emerged stealthily from the trees on the far side behind him. A thrill of fear shot through Sanderson, realizing the odds of escape became 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, while others cornered him off from both sides of the bridge.

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!" he warned in a stern voice.

"I will not go down without a fight."

Blair began to bark frantically at Sanderson's front, teeth-baring at the attackers while trying not to get whipped by the lead himself.

The men paid him no heed, closing in till there was no escape. They uncloaked themselves, revealing muscular forms and skull masks that leered at Sanderson in stone silence through hollow detached eyes.

Sanderson spotted rusty daggers in leather-gloved hands. He swung the metal lead even more violently now.

"Stay the fuck back!"

Two of the larger brutes stationed by the tributary began tossing small pebbles tauntingly toward Sanderson and Blair.

The pebbles pinged off Sanderson's legs and shoulders, narrowly missing Blair's nose. The brutes' cold eyes gleamed with sadistic delight, enjoying toying with their prey with barrel-chested laughs.

Though Blair was willing to fight to the death for his master, both he and Sanderson were no match for these many attackers.

One of the men moved forward tauntingly from behind, callously side-kicking at 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.

"Damn you to hell!" he cried. "Do you know who I am?"

A low, gravelly laugh came from the large henchman.

"Horses for courses, Chief," he sneered.

"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. It seemed he had become a pawn in a dangerous game of chess 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 favorite Noble Steed lay broken and spent, His body twisted and broken, his spirit bent..."

Sanderson listened in horror at the thinly veiled threat.

"I beg you, show mercy. We are no threat to you. Let us depart I am no trouble you no!"

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 harshly. 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.

The King's enemy was silenced that day,

for stumbling on truths that should've stayed away."

They chanted in unison, "Justice will come, blood will be spilled...."

Their voices echoed like a deranged choir.

The leader stomped Sanderson in the temple.

"You stick your nose where it does not belong Chief!"

He signaled to the others to act. Sanderson readied himself for what was about to come. Rough hands wrenched his arms behind his back. Another hard boot slammed into the base of his skull. White-hot pain erupted through his head 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. He growled, wrenching a free hand, throwing 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. Fists rained down, pounding him until he curled limply into a fetal position.

He let out a choked, wet cry, his final breath struggled from his lungs, a sound that only prompted cruel laughter from the figures towering over him.

They lifted his battered body from the wooden planks sending him toppling over the edge into the shallow brook several feet below.

He hit the filthy, murky water with a splash, decaying leaves, and muck swirled up from the disturbed bottom.

His limbs splayed out lifelessly beneath the brown-green surface.

Bright crimson bloomed and swirled from his misshapen form into the stagnant water, staining it briefly red before diffusing into the general slime.

Silence fell but for the buzzing of flies drawn to the fresh body.

Chief Inspector Thomas Sanderson's honorable career ended right there, as the last echo of Blair's mournful howls faded into the still predawn air.

Their leader stepped off the blood-spattered bridge planks; the wooden slats were now slick with the morning's catch of gore.

He knelt beside the body, foul waters swirling brown and burgundy around perforated flesh. He shut 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," he said.

"I am not happy with what we have done here. It's too messy. Too high profile. The entire Yard will be looking for Sanderson's killer. Gulag leaves us too exposed."

Asp turned to face the other man.

"I know it was not an elegant solution," he replied evenly.

"Trust me 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?"

Asp laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Fear not, brother. We have friends in high places who ensure this matter never rises above our station. Now come, we must move away from this place."

The man shook his head regretfully, following Asp into the foliage of the woods, leaving Sanderson's body behind to be discovered by the patrol officers.