Amazing Grace

by Silver-Spirits-and-Ales

Chapter ten: The backroom backstabber

Thunderhoof's memoirs

I'd be lying if I told you that I firmly believe Whinnston's whole conspiracy theory. But it seems crazy enough to be plausible (if that makes sense), and Whinnston seems to actually be convinced of it. He promised to resign if I uncover the pony behind it, and he has a reputation for honesty. Getting him out of office and into retirement is what I'm getting paid for, so I’m prettty sure Celestia will be pleased with it.

He seems convinced that whatever this conspiracy is, his deputy Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary Anton Gardener has something to do with it. Gardener has been in Whinnston's shadow for a long time, and it's common knowledge that he wants to be the next PM. If I knew no better, I'd say that it's a good enough motive for him to be a suspect, but he doesn't seem to be the sort of stallion to conspire. He's suggestible, if not outright gullible, and weak. Physically and mentally. I don't think he is the conspirator I'm looking for. Or at least if he is, I am sure that he isn't acting alone.

---

"POINTLESS PERIODICALS: FEELINGS FOIL FACTS," read the tag-line of the Trottingham Times.

"With the controversy about the Special Court for Kudanda monopolising the press as of late, it can be healthy to take a step back and poke fun at a convenient target: People and Lifestyle magazines.

Since 'The Weekly Beak', a Manehattan-based fashion and lifestyle magazine, was taken over by Sangbleu Publishing, it has been pumping out more and more obscene, offensive, and downright shocking material than any other periodical of the same genre. Among its most controversial articles are ones such as "The whore of the East Coast", which slandered the mayor of Manehattan, and "Pumping Armor", which made very intrusive and personal remarks about Princess Cadance
and her consort's private lives. Both articles' contents were very damaging to the ponies involved

The mayor of Manehattan and Princess Cadance, although initially upset by how the articles had treated them, were ultimately indifferent to them. In an official statement some time ago, the mayor stated "what can I say? Free Speech is a double-edged sword after all."

"There's that name again," thought Thunderhoof. "Sangbleu..."

An earth pony wearing a tweed suit and flat cap sat down next to Thunderhoof, who was sitting on a bench, muzzle buried deep in a newspaper. "What you sayin' mah G?" he asked.

"'Ite, bruv, you been doin' bits?" answered Thunderhoof. He folded the newspaper. "What you sayin?"

"Pone's got yer info," said the earth stallion. "Pone heard your stallion's in 'hospital."

"Is he ill?"

"Stallion's got bare illness, yeah," said the informant. "Reckon he won't be back for a while. "

"Do you have his address?"

"Yeah, stallion lives in the endz. West endz." The informant got a piece of paper out of his pocket and gave it to Thunderhoof.

"Alright," said the PI. "Here's your payment." He got a bag of coins out of his suit jacket and gave it to his informant.

" 'Ite mah G, gotta go. If the fuzz ask we never met, yeah?" The informant trotted away.

Thunderhoof checked the paper, and took notice of the address. Anton Gardener lived in a big house on Haysington boulevard, in the west end.

---

Thunderhoof's objective was to intrude into the Foreign Secretary's house, and find a clue as to why he would want Whinnston Chestnut out of office.

Unlike the rest of Their Highnesses' government, Anton Gardener lived away from Praetorian Street, where he could be shielded from the prying eyes of the journalists. His poor health, which was even worse than Whinnston's for that matter, was known of throughout the population and had attracted a lot of unwanted attention. He was also known to be Whinnston's successor. Now that Thunderhoof thought of that, it didn't make much sense that the princesses were trying to give Whinnston the axe because he was unwell. Whinnston's thesis started to make a lot more sense.

Thunderhoof sat on a bench, and observed Anton's century-old house from across the street. The Foreign Secretary's mansion had been built between two others, and his stuck out as the biggest. It had three floors, and Thunderhoof knew exactly what to expect on each one. Having been to several statesponies' homes before, he knew that the ground floor (first floor to continentals) was the house's atrium, and the place where most of the care goes. A living room, a dining room, a trophy room and maybe a music room somewhere. The first floor (second floor to continentals) was where the statespony usually worked: an office, and probably a few other rooms that are of no interest anyway. Finally, there was the second floor (third floor): that was where Anton Gardener slept.

The two floors that were of any interest to Thunderhoof were the first and second. Entering would be relatively easy. A single, almost token policecolt was standing guard in front of the door. However, the investigator couldn't enter through the front door or one of the balconies. He couldn't risk being seen breaking into a house in broad daylight. Least of all the Foreign Secretary's house.

Therefore, Thunderhoof had two options: either he could wait until the fall of night to enter, or he could find a more discreet way of entering. As he didn't want to leave Octavia alone at the hotel for too long, he decided on the latter. He went into a secluded alleyway, and took off into the sky. Once he was above the clouds, he dove down to the roof of the minister's house, aiming for one of the chimneys. Just as he was about to go through the hole, he slowed down, placed his forelegs forward, and slid right inside.

Soon enough, the investigator found himself in the middle of a spotless hearth. He brushed a bit of soot of his jacket, and stepped onto a handsome crimson rug. A grandfather clock was ticking, and two comfortable-looking chairs were facing the fireplace. The whisky-filled decanter, the tumblers that were disposed around it, and the military medals that were on display indicated that this was Anton Gardener's living room. A half-empty cup of cold tea on the coffee table indicated that the maid wasn't there and hadn't been there for a while. If one was scheduled to come in today, Thunderhoof would hear her enter.

As nothing really was in his way, the private eye made his way up the stairs to the first floor. Once there, he found a large door, which had a plaque on it that simply read "office". Carefully, Thunderhoof pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.

Gardener's office was just as Thunderhoof had pictured it. The Foreign Secretary's desk was placed perpendicularly to the balcony's French window, and on the mantelpiece behind the desk were pictures of Princesses Celestia, Luna, Cadance and Twilight. A framed picture of a mare that had at a time been on the mantelpiece (judging by the gap between two of its' ornaments) lay discarded atop a pile of month-old periodicals. A more discreet (and unframed) picture of a different mare lay on the desk.

If any evidence of the Foreign Secretary's sycophancy existed, it would surely be within this very room. So Thunderhoof had a look around. Not at all concerned with time, the investigator arrogantly went around the room, taking note of every detail.

"Now, now, Anton, what are your secrets?" thought the investigator, almost sarcastically, taking in the diverse papers that littered the desk. Before focusing on the top of it, Thunderhoof elected to search the drawers, to see if he'd find something interesting. He opened the top drawer, and found a carved wooden box, which was sitting on top of a set of files. Curious, the detective extracted the box, and gently opened it. Inside were two syringes, full of a pale white liquid.

Thunderhoof wasn't surprised. Stories of Gardener's substance abuse were pretty common after all. However it did bring back the question of how Gardener could possibly be judged as healthier than Whinnston. Thunderhoof turned his attention to the letters on the desk.

Most of them had been piled and set in a corner of the desk. In the middle was an unfinished letter addressed to 'Daisy'. Many a mare was called Daisy, and the letter seemed to be a heartfelt one, so Thunderhoof elected to stay out of it. However, a cleanly opened envelope had been set aside from the rest, and put in the corner of the desk, stocked under a paperweight, meaning it was important somehow. Intrigued, Thunderhoof picked the envelope up, and extracted the letter from it.

"Dearest Anton,

I really do not wish to seem too insistent, but I think it would be best for you and for Equestria if you moved onto W.C sooner rather than later. He has caused countless scandals already, and his health is worsening from day to day. Make no mistake, I look up to the stallion, but when one has to go... one has to go! Equestria needs a refreshing and dynamic Prime Minister, who can still stay true to principle and to the Fieldist Party's ideal, and I think that you can provide this balance.

Speaking of which, somepony working in the Stableist party's office told me that the leader of the opposition will be calling for a vote of no confidence if W.C doesn't step down soon. It is therefore a matter of national stability that you gain access to the office before the radicals do. Alternatively, my contact told me that some stallion has been put on the case, with the goal of taking him down. He might be in touch. You've been in Chestnut's shadow for too long, Anton. It's your time to shine.

If you wish to discuss methods and tactics directly, I am in Trottingham until the end of the month. I have a room at The Prudence Bathhouse, you can meet me there.

Warm Regards,
H. Sabot"

The contents of the letter were disturbing. They confirmed what Thunderhoof had thought. Anton Gardener was involved in a conspiracy to oust Whinnston Chestnut, and there were other ponies involved in it. First and foremost was 'H. Sabot', whoever that was. Moreover, the letter referenced someone who had been 'put on the case', presumably with the aim of taking Whinnston down. Was the letter talking about Thunderhoof himself? It seemed likely.

Thunderhoof now had to discover who 'H. Sabot' was and why he wanted Chestnut out of office. The letter by itself could explain the endgame of all of this: get Whinnston out of power in favour of Anton, who, in spite of everything, was younger and more diplomatic than the current fieldist leader. But H. Sabot was not a congresspony or a noble (that Thunderhoof knew of anyway), and that meant that somepony could have a private interest in the deposition of Whinnston Chestnut, which in any situation was never good.

All in all, Thunderhoof decided that he had to get to the bottom of this. And the worst part of this whole letter, to Thunderhoof at least, wasn't that Whinnston was at the centre of a conspiracy or that he might have been on the brink of participating in it at some point. It was simply the place where H. Sabot was staying: the Prudence Bathhouse.

---

Brothels seemed to naturally grow around the distilleries of Trottingham. Or was it the other way around... no-one truly knew. But one of them seemed to compliment the other. These two were the flour and yeast of Trottingham.

Just past Sadler Street, a stone's throw away from the Blackwood Bottler's company, stood the pinnacle of all debauchery in Trottingham. The place where gangsters, policecolts, and politicians found something in common. The place where virtue died by the minute, if not the second. The place where many a pony would enter to satisfy their urges, without ever confessing to doing so. The end of the East End: The Prudence Bathhouse.

In a way, the bathhouse was an island of wealth in an archipelago of poverty. Unlike other brothels in the East End, only the rich could afford Prudence's services. The crème de la crème of Trottingham. Did that somehow make the place better than the other brothels around town? That wasn't very likely. The personnel that staffed the corridors of the bathhouse couldn't be more different from the ponies that came to buy their services. Colts or fillies, mares or stallions, unicorns, pegasi or earth ponies, in the end their biology and characteristics didn't account for much. In the end, they were all the same under the surface: ponies out of options. Fillies and colts from distant farmyards. Mouths that couldn't be fed. In the end, they were all victims of someone. They'd all somehow arrived at Prudence's, and had been whipped into meekness, into submission.

Even "The Right Honourable" Thunderhoof had bathed in Prudence's debauchery, at a time. Several working mares were standing around Sadler Street, showing off their worn-out yet beautiful features to the passing investigator, who was trying very hard not to pay any mind to them.

"Streetwalkers," thought the detective. "Only rats can spread disease faster than them."

He was wearing his newsboy cap and a grey tweed suit, trying to look inconspicuous. For the first time, he wasn't entering to be serviced. Instead, he wanted to get in, meet 'H. Sabot", whoever that was and get out again.

An abnormally large amount of policecolts were hanging around Small Heap's favourite brothel on that particular day. Thunderhoof, who had at some point been a regular of Prudence's, had never seen more than two constables there. Thunderhoof reasoned that they were probably under the wing of some notable who was taking care of his urges inside. Probably Sabot.

Thunderhoof looked around to check that no-one was looking, and sneaked a peek at the upper floors of the bathhouse. More policecolts had been deployed on the balconies and terraces.

"Like what you see, darlin'?" asked one of the courtesans, showing off her curves to a police officer.

"I am very sorry, Miss, but I am on duty," answered the constable, courteously.

"Are ya sure, darlin'? Don't you want to sneak away to have a bit of fun?"

"And risk losing my job? Shove off!"

"Well I'm sorry," said the courtesan, visibly offended. "I'm just doing my job!"

"As am I," responded the policecolt. "Now go away."

As he walked by and heard that conversation, Thunderhoof started wondering whether or not the city of Trottingham could be saved from the vice held within her.

Soon enough, Thunderhoof found himself in front of a pair of familiar wrought iron gates, with a sign running next to them:

Prudence Bath House and Massage Parlour
A sophisticated Establishment for sophisticated ponies
Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, all year around!

Underneath that charming introduction was a list of rules that Thunderhoof knew very well. He just strode through the gate, and entered the building proper.

The décor of Prudence's was rather charming in its classicism. It was fairly elaborate, with several paintings, a red and crimson colour scheme, with some comfortable red velvet furniture, and a handsome industrial-era clock that had just chimed.

The investigator walked towards the front desk, and knocked on the redwood surface to catch the receptionist's attention.

"Good day, sir," said the receptionist, adjusting her glasses as she came to the desk. "What service can we provide you with today?"

"One hour, one pony," said Thunderhoof, drily.

"Can we interest you in our Frustration package? It includes-"

"No."

"Very good, sir. Which worker and room will you choose?" she asked, getting the ledger. "I'm very sorry, but the second floor is out of bounds until next moon."

"Spring Quill," answered Thunderhoof, immediately. "And that's okay, I'll take the silver room."

"Very well, she'll be there shortly," said the receptionist. She called a bouncer over, who accompanied the major up the stairs, and to the handsome door of the silver room. As they climbed up the stairs, Thunderhoof caught a glimpse of the other set of steps that lead to the second floor.

Two beefy policecolts were standing guard at the foot of the staircase. But they weren't just any kind of policecolts. Those two had a special insignia stitched to the foreleg of their tunic. It read "RTCSR" or "Royal Trottingham Constabulary Special Reserve". That unit, just like the defunct RCCSR in Canterlot, were a special branch of the Royal Trottingham Constabulary, was in charge of large-scale riot response, response to threats, and assistance in case of invasion. In effect, they were more like a paramilitary force than a branch of the constabulary. The fact that they had been deployed to protect the bathhouse's special guest was most intriguing. Close protection jobs were usually given to the Escort desk of the RTC, if they weren't already being hoofed by privately hired bodyguards.

"Make yourself comfortable, sir," said the bouncer, holding the door open for the major, who stepped in. "Spring Quill will be with you shortly."

Thunderhoof looked around at the room that was so familiar to him. At some point, this room and its comforts had almost been a second home to him. Unlike some of the more expensive rooms in the brothel, the silver room retained the overall style of the building itself, but the furniture had been built upon that style to make it look nice. It was circular, and its balcony had a nice view onto the ocean. If one had a good eyesight, they could just spy the eastern beaches of the Celestial Sea.

Figuring that he'd be in the room for a little while, the investigator got rid of his jacket and newsboy cap.

The door opened. A frail earth mare entered, yawning. The sound of her hooves gently tapping the floor was like music to the investigator's ears. She had a flaming red, curly mane, a turquoise coat, and eyes that went through different shades of grey. It saddened Thunderhoof to see that she was still there, to see that beautiful face and that beautiful body, which had both been abused beyond imagination, standing there.

"Hello," she said, smiling. She'd always been very sweet to the customers of the brothel. The makeup that covered her face also masked the bags under her eyes.

Thunderhoof looked squarely at the courtesan, and gave her a courteous smile.

"Thunderhoof?" asked Spring Quill, surprised beyond measure. Her smile changed to a face of concern. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Neither was I, to be honest," answered the investigator.

"Well, it is what it is," said Spring Quill, before locking the door, advancing towards Thunderhoof, gently pushing him onto the bed, and sitting down next to him. She seized the major's left foreleg and started massaging it. "You paid for an hour, right?"

"Yeah," answered Thunderhoof. "It's been a while."

"Well I'll say," answered Spring.

"Have they been treating you well?" asked Thunderhoof.

Spring Quill looked up at her customer, shooting bolts out of her eyes. "I already told you, I don't need you to care for me."

"Just asking for an update," retorted Thunderhoof defensively.

"It's been alright," said Spring. "What about you? You're a lawyer now, aren't you?"

"Private eye," Thunderhoof corrected.

Spring Quill snorted. "Yeah, you always had a thing for other people's business."

"Yeah," admitted Thunderhoof. "That's just me, innit?"

"What took you so long?" asked the courtesan.

"Huh?"

"It's been years."

Thunderhoof looked down at his non-massaged hoof, trying to avoid any vision of the courtesan's body. He didn't answer.

"I'd assumed that you were dead," said Spring. "Where were you?"

"Scattering my sorrow in the heartless sea."

"What?"

"It's not important."

"It is to me," retorted the worker. "You promised to come back for me. To get me out of this mess."

"I thought you didn't need me."

"I don't," said Spring. "Not anymore. I've learnt to... fend for myself."

Thunderhoof stayed quiet. He didn't want to know what Spring Quill meant when she said that.

"But why did you come back?" she asked.

"Because I need something," answered Thunderhoof, frankly.

Spring Quill didn't know what to say. She was a little upset that the client who hadn't kept his promise would come waltzing back in after so many years, not to apologise but by interest. At the same time, she couldn't really blame him. She had her problems, he had his. And, when all is thought about, Thunderhoof always paid well for whatever he bought. "I'm listening," she said.

"I've heard that you have a special guest staying here," said Thunderhoof.

"Yeah, we do," answered Spring Quill. "The madame hasn't talked about anything else for at least two months. And he's rich enough to get a whole floor reserved. For a whole month, nonetheless."

"And do you know who he is?"

"Nah. Reckon he's just some rich guy killing time. I know I've seen him here before, though," Spring Quill answered.

"Had any visitors?"

"He was supposed to have one today. Tea, cakes, the whole shebang. But the guy didn't show up, so he's alone for now. Why?"

"I want to talk to him," answered Thunderhoof. "Help me or don't, your choice."

Spring Quill stopped massaging the investigator's hoof, and looked up at him. "I can help you. But it's gonna cost you."

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. "What do you want?"

"That depends entirely on what you need."

"I want access to the second floor."

"Why do you need me, then? Why don't you go ask one of the policecolts to let you through?"

"I saw the coppers on the second floor balconies, and there's no way these lumps are letting me through."

"I still don't know what you want."

"You know the layout of the second floor, and you've probably seen what's there. Also, I need to get there undetected."

"The coppers are barring the exits. That means the stairwells and the balconies. But they aren't anywhere on the floor, unless they're moving from one place to the other. If you want to get there undetected, you can use the private stairwell. There's a bathroom that connects the main structure to the stairwell, you can use it. I've got the key. I can give it to you, but you'll have to pay me first."

"What'll it be?"

Spring Quill looked at Thunderhoof, rubbing her right leg with her left hoof. She looked at the ground, then at the ceiling. "Why did you leave?" she asked, finally. "Why did you leave me here, when you promised that you'd come back for me?"

"Very well," said Thunderhoof. "I suppose you have a right to know."

"So?" asked Spring Quill. "Tell me."

"The war happened," said Thunderhoof. "It did something to me. I became... violent. And that... was that. I just couldn't risk hurting you. You couldn't see me like that. And the more time I spent away from you... the more I thought I didn't deserve you."

Spring Quill stayed silent for a few seconds. She felt sympathetic towards the stallion, but she was also angry. What sort of excuse was that? She got the key from her belt, and chucked it at Thunderhoof, who caught it. "Take it," she said. "Take it, and never come back."

"Fine," said Thunderhoof. "Goodbye," he added, as he gathered his clothes and went through the door to the main room. Looking to his left, Thunderhoof found the bathroom, and made for it. He entered, and immediately found another door, to his right. He was about to unlock it when he heard hoofsteps on the other side. Thinking that everything would be better if no-one saw him, he rushed to one of the old-fashioned cubicles, and pulled the curtain back, leaving a small gap between the fabric and the wall to peep.

Two courtesans entered, one slightly younger than the other. The older one locked the door behind her. They went to a sink on the other side of the room, and looked at themselves, putting on some more makeup.

"I don't even know where I am anymore," said the younger one, before opening a bottle of medicine and shoving a few pills down her throat. "Hurting all over."

"Don't worry, you get used to it," responded the older one. Then, looking at her coworker, "you've got a black eye, lass."

"I know. Nothing some makeup won't cover."

"Good girl."

"So what's that Sabot stallion about, then?" asked the newbie, covering her injury with foundation that matched her coat.

"Well he's rich, and... mostly clean, so that's a good thing. And he's polite too," answered the older courtesan.

"Whitelock told me that all she did was massage his hoof and talk about politics with him."

"There are some in this place who really do get paid for no work. Like those coppers. Three days, they've been here, haven't seen one move an inch."

"Mmh-hmm." The younger courtesan dabbed at her eye one last time, blinked into the mirror. "How do I look?"

"Like an angel. Come on, let's get to work."

Thunderhoof saw the two mares leave the room, and got out of his hiding spot. He went to the door that lead to the stairwell, unlocked it, and accessed the staircase itself. He went up one floor, and entered the bathroom that was just above the one below. Then, he went over to the main room.

As Spring Quill had said, the floor was completely deserted. The detective slowly went around the room, inspecting the different doors and making sure to avoid the windows. As he was about to stick his ear against the door to the Gold Room, however, the french window to the balcony opened, and two custodian-helmeted stallions emerged. Thunderhoof ducked behind a conveniently-placed thin screen.

"Do they have a bar, here?" asked one of the Specials.

"I know a good pub down the road," said the other. "They've got some good ale. Do you think the boss'll mind if we go for a pint?"

"Nah, it's fine. It's lunch time, innit?"

"Guess you're right. Sabot hasn't left that damn room anyway."

"So what's he doing here anyway? Doesn't he run mines or sommat?"

"Got a cousin who's made foreman in one of his silver mines, down in Griffonstone. Says they're almost dry."

"Huh. Can't say I blame 'im. I'd be drinkin' and shaggin' if I knew my wallet was aboutta go bust."

"Guess that's the plan. Wait out the end 'ere, and throw 'imself into the river once it's done, eh?"

"Yeah."

Thunderhoof waited until the two coppers had disappeared down the stairs, and went to inspect the door to the room. He could hear two voices, one male and one female. But some chamber music was playing, so the investigator couldn't make out what they were saying. Thunderhoof realized he would have to get inside physically if he wanted to know more. He went over to the newly deserted balcony, stepped out onto it, and trotted around to the room's backmost french window. It was closed and the curtains were shut. However, just above it was a smaller window that was open.

Thunderhoof leaped up, and silently squeezed through the opening. He landed on the soft carpet behind the bed, and peeked around at the two ponies.

There, wearing a waistcoat and shirt, a watch's chain sticking out of the pockets, was an earth stallion. He had an undercut brown mane that was waved to the side, and a beige coat. Standing in front of him was one of the courtesans.

"Who should I be today, sir?"

"Ugh," said the stallion, in an upper-class Manehattanite accent. "The archbishop of Canterford-Upon-Crowhaven, for all that it matters."

The courtesan giggled. "Some have compared me to Princess Cadenzia, Sir."

"Cadance," said Sabot, a tone of hatred in his voice. "I too would be laughing about now if I'd been hooved some barren, crystal-rich lands to mine. I wouldn't be having to sell all my belongings and fire my servants."

"I didn't want to offend you, Sir," apologised the courtesan.

"No, it's alright. Tell you what, that's actually a good idea. I'm going to teach her a lesson," he said, maliciously.

"Do you want me to dress up, Sir?"

"Yes, do that. Wear a crown, or something."

The courtesan curtsied, and left the room.

Thunderhoof took that opportunity to confront Sabot. He pulled his hanky out of his breast pocket, tied it around his muzzle, and walked over to Sabot.

"So you're Sabot," he said, in an intimidatingly deep voice.

H. Sabot spun around, and faced Thunderhoof. He seemed shocked, but his expression turned back to normal within seconds. "Oh," he said. "Yes. Who are you?"

"Someone," answered Thunderhoof. "Someone who's trying to get to the bottom of your little scheme to oust the PM."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's not what your letter to the Foreign Secretary says," said Thunderhoof.

"What? How did you? That isn't-"

"Come on, don't insult me," said Thunderhoof. "Now you're gonna answer my question: why?"

Sabot gulped. "I... would you believe me if I told you I didn't know?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Look, I'm not the one who wants Chestnut out of office. It's all... it's bigger than me. It's bigger than you... whoever you are."

"Then tell me, what's your interest in all of this? Why are you even here? What's the endgame?"

"I was coerced into all of this," answered Sabot. "Some stallion came to me, told me that he knew my mines were running dry. It's no secret, after all. But he told me that if I helped them get rid of the PM, they'd give me lands, full of untapped resources. All I had to do was motivate Anton Gardener into taking over."

"So that's what you're doing."

"Look, I didn't want anything to do with this. But they threatened me."

"How so?"

Sabot shook his head and sighed. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"So it's blackmail, then?"

"Yes."

"I'm willing to believe you," said Thunderhoof, cautiously. "But you're going to tell me who is blackmailing you."

"No."

Thunderhoof was about to threaten Sabot, but he thought it'd be better not to antagonise him. "I'm not about to threaten you, to be clear," he clarified.

"Oh, how kind," chuckled Sabot. "But, ya know..." Sabot went over to a decanter, and poured himself a tumbler of rye (Thunderhoof could tell by the smell), and dumped an ice cube in the amber liquid. "I suppose getting killed is preferable to getting my whole livelihood ruined. So go ahead, knock yourself out if you so wish."

"There must be something you know about them. If you help me, I can get you out of this mess."

"I don't know where to start," responded Sabot. I don't even know their name. But I can... take you to them."

"Deal," Thunderhoof said. "Do that."

Sabot lead Thunderhoof to the desk. "The police guarding this place, they aren't here to protect me. They're here to make sure I don't leave. One of them acts as a courier between me and... them. If you follow him, he'll take you to them."

The tycoon got a quill, and as he was about to put it to paper, there was a knock on the door. "Sir?" said the courtesan. "I'm ready."

"Just a minute," said Sabot. "Can you get the policecolt by the front door?"

"Yes, sir."

Sabot hurriedly wrote a letter, shoved it in an envelope, sealed it, and waited for the policecolt to arrive. "Well I suppose it's the good time to tell you that if you get me out of this mess, I'll be extremely grateful to you. Also, it'd be better if you left before they see you."

"I know," said Thunderhoof. "Until we meet again. Which, and I mean this in a very professional way, I hope we never have to."

"Likewise."

Thunderhoof flew off the balcony, and landed in an alleyway. He trotted over to the front of the establishment, and sat on a bench, discreetly surveying the front door.

A few minutes later, a Special wearing a saddlebag left the building, and trotted through the front gate and down the street towards the distilleries, checking his six o'clock every so often. Thunderhoof flew up to the rooftops, and followed the constable from there. He went through some dingy alleyways, and once or twice he looked up to the sky, but saw no-one there, so he continued his trek. It was around lunch time, and most creatures in the city were either getting a lunchtime pint or simply weren't anywhere to be seen, making Thunderhoof's job much easier.

After about ten minutes, the copper arrived in front of a pub, dumped the saddlebag at the hooves of an earth filly, who picked it up and raced down the street. The filly skipped all the way to Trottingham Bridge, and gave the bag to a griffon. The griffon flew up into the air, across the river into Central Trottingham, and dropped it near a suited unicorn stallion. The stallion loaded the bag onto his back, and went all the way to John Cantering Boulevard.

Thunderhoof was very intrigued. It seemed that whoever was to receive the letter, and ostensibly put up this entire courier network, was obsessively precise with what they did. "Haven't had this much fun in ages," the investigator thought to himself, observing the suited unicorn from his newest rooftop.

The unicorn stopped at the end of the boulevard and entered a generic upper-class tea house, the sort that seemed to grow out of the cobbles in West Trottingham.

Thunderhoof flew down, walked to the tea house, and arrived just in time to hear the unicorn say, "delivery for mister B," before leaving.

The investigator had struck the core. He waited for a few minutes, before entering. He removed his cap, and adopted his upper-class manners again.

"Good afternoon, Sir," said the receptionist, once Thunderhoof had attained the front desk. "Do you have a reservation?"

"No," said Thunderhoof. "But Mister B is waiting for me."

The receptionist bowed. "Ah, of course, your Lordship. Your brother is waiting for you down there."

Surprised, Thunderhoof managed to smile courteously at the receptionist, who lead him to a tea room. He opened the door, and bowed again as Thunderhoof entered, closing it behind him.

Sitting on the sofa was none other than Haysley Butterscotch. Thunderhoof was mildly surprised that his own brother would be involved in the plot. But after a bit of reflection on the matter, this was the sort of thing that the investigator expected him to do.

He looked up from the very letter that Sabot had hurriedly written. "Ah, brother dear," he said. "You're a bit late, but I see that you received my letter."

"Yes," lied Thunderhoof, who was more confused than surprised at that point. "What do you want?"

"Unsurprisingly, I am in charge of monitoring your progress with that Royal Mission," said Haysley. "What have you gathered thus far?"

"Uh..." said Thunderhoof. "Nothing workable, thus far, I'm afraid."

"Mmh, I see," responded Haysley. "Well, you are carrying out a very important mission, I'll leave you some latitude in how you schedule your work." He chuckled almost heartily, in a way that just didn't seem his own. It rubbed Thunderhoof the wrong way. "If worst comes to worst, I can have the Foreign Secretary lend you a hand."

"I'll be fine," said Thunderhoof. "I do have a question for you, though."

"Alright," said Haysley.

"What's your interest in this?"

"Excuse me?"

"Come on," said Thunderhoof. "We both know you wouldn't touch this with a six-feet barge pole if you didn't have something to gain from all of this."

Haysley folded the letter and placed it on the table. "Well it seems that I've underestimated you again, brother dear." He started wiping his glasses. "And I won't insult your intelligence by denying it. Yes, I will be profiting from all of this, in ways that are... simply beyond your comprehension."

"How beyond?" asked Thunderhoof.

"This whole affair is beyond your comprehension, and I will not waste time explaining how and why," retorted Thunderhoof's elder brother. "You have your part to play in it. Play it good, and you get paid. That's all you need to know."

"Fine," said Thunderhoof. "I'll... keep you posted." But as he was about to make for the door, he put an ultimate question to his brother. "One last thing," said Thunderhoof. "Whatever this scheme is, it seems... ingenious. Did you put this all together yourself?" he asked, faking an impressed tone.

"Oh, please," said Haysley, too flattered to realise that he was playing into his brother's trick. "No, no, I didn't come up with this. You could say that... certain ponies just wanted my talent."

"I see."

---

"Prime Minister?" asked Thunderhoof, walking into the PM's office.

Half-slouched over his desk, two bottles of brandy sitting next to his papers, one empty and the other half-full, was Whinnston Chestnut. "Ah, Thunderhoof, old boy," said Whinnston.

"I've come to report my findings."

"Fill us in, old boy," said Whinnston.

"You were right, Sir," said Thunderhoof. "Someone is conspiring against you, and as you thought, Sir Gardener is involved."

"Ah," said Whinnston, getting a fat carrot. "So my... hunch was right."

"I'm afraid so," said Thunderhoof."I inspected Gardener's house, and found this letter addressed to him." He placed the letter from Sabot on the desk, and Whinnston read it. "I went to find this Sabot stallion, who claimed to have been coerced into influencing Gardener to take over."

"Coerced by whom?" asked Whinnston.

Thunderhoof hesitated, before finally saying "my brother, Haysley, among others."

Whinnston Chestnut looked up at Thunderhoof in disbelief. "Really?"

Thunderhoof sighed and nodded. "I'm afraid I had to... break a few legal barriers to get this."

"I can imagine," remarked the Prime Minister. "But never mind, this won't be a matter for the courts."

"Haysley did say that he had been approached by somepony else to do this," said Thunderhoof.

"So, to summarise," said Whinnston. "Some unknown party, through Haysley, is trying to get me out of office, for the benefit of some mystery guest we know nothing about."

"Sounds about right," said Thunderhoof.

"Mmh, yes..." grunted Whinnston. "But at least it isn't all doom and gloom," he added. "We know they're after me, and whatever... ignominious plot they're preparing, having me out of commission is important for it to work. That means that I can slow them down by refusing to resign. At least for now."

"In the meantime, I'll try to get to the bottom of this," stated Thunderhoof.

"Be careful, now," said Whinnston.

---

"Thunder, is that you?" asked Octavia, as she heard her coltfriend walk into the suite's spacious living room. She was playing her cello, back to the door.

"Yes, it's me," answered Thunderhoof.

He sat down on the sofa, opened one of his suitcases that had been lying around, and extracted a bottle of gin. Its label read "Butterscotch Family Gin: distilled for the curation of seemingly incurable sadness." Thunderhoof ripped the cork off.

Octavia sniffed the air. "I smell juniper," she said, before spinning around. "Are you going to share?"

"Sure," said Thunderhoof. The investigator poured two glasses of gin.

"Cheers," said Octavia.

Thunderhoof downed his glass of gin, while Octavia delicately sipped hers. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"No," lied Thunderhoof. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" asked the cellist.

"Yes."

Octavia considered her coltfriend for a few seconds. "Look, you can lie to the other mares that you've dated, but I can see you aren't well."

"What makes you say that?"

"I just know it, alright?" Octavia placed her hoof on her coltfriend's arm, and stroked it gently. "You can tell me when you're not okay. Don't be afraid, alright?"

"It's far beyond my understanding," retorted Thunderhoof. "Let alone yours."

"But I can try to understand," said Octavia.

"Tavy, I..."

"Please?"

Thunderhoof sighed. "Fine," he said. He went on to recount everything that he'd learnt thus far. Octavia listened to him with baited breath, her eyes wide.

"So your brother is leading the conspiracy?"

"No, he said that he'd been approached by somepony to do all of this," answered Thunderhoof.

"And that thing with the judges? It's related?"

"It could be."

"Oh, dear..." said Octavia. She took another sip of gin. "What are you planning to do?"

"I don't know," answered Thunderhoof. "Haysley is my only lead. And if I ask him too many questions he'll get suspicious."

"I understand," said Octavia. She stayed silent for a few seconds. "You could try... you know... squeezing it out of him?"

Thunderhoof looked up at his marefriend. "What do you mean?"

"You could try confronting him with what you have," said Octavia.

"I don't have any solid proof, just an eyewitness account from myself," responded Thunderhoof.

"Or you could... blackmail him?"

"With what?"

"Come on, you've known him for almost thirty years, surely you have something!"

Thunderhoof thought about that last statement. Octavia was right. There had to be something that Haysley didn't want known, or something he wanted more than anything else...

And then, it clicked.