The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard

Chapter One

Experience teaches us that curiosity is responsible for a great many of the ills that beset mankind.

In my own case, it had brought me to an undistinguished mortuary at one of the lesser London hospitals. The tiled chamber was heavy with the smell of old blood and fresh coffee, the former eminating from a sheeted corpse on a low table, the latter from the steaming cup held by the attending doctor. The scene had a touch of the macabre, but then so did the mystery that had brought me here on this late January afternoon in 1878.

"Mr Michael Harding," said Inspector Lestrade, his chin sunk low on his chest as he surveyed the covered remains. "Or at least what's left of him."

The police surgeon, an elderly man with thick spectacles, wild grey hair and twitchy mannerisms, made no attempt to offer us assistance in revealing the unfortunate gentleman's face. His assistant too, a dark-eyed moustachioed young man, sat on a stool by the washbasin, methodically chewing his way through a meal of liver and bacon from a metal specimen tray with the help of a scalpel. I assumed crockery was hard to come by in this quiet corner of the hospital, since no one would surely choose to drink their tea from a flat-bottomed glass flask had a cup been to hand.

Add to this a rather large black-and-tan dog, chewing on a bone in the corner as he watched us with wary eyes, and it was no wonder that my first doubts were starting to take root. I had been lured here with the promise of a case somewhat out of the ordinary, only to find myself in the close company of men unmoved enough by gruesome death to be put off their food and who improvised table settings from the surgical instruments they found at hand. I could only hope that the dog's meal had come from a reputable butcher and not from some unfortunate who had gone to his grave missing part of his leg.

Lestrade was somewhat more squeamish about the whole business, however, and had the decency urge the police surgeon, Dr Warwick, from his lethargy to uncover the late Mr Harding. He duly obliged and we stared down at the grossly mutilated corpse.

The last time I had the dubious pleasure of coming into contact with a dead body, it had been that of an elderly former trapeze artiste, who had fallen to his death after committing a series of murders at a theatre in Hoxton. The injuries had been severe enough to render the man almost unrecognisable. We had been spared the grim reproach that comes in the eyes of the newly-dead before someone has the good grace to close the eyelids on the world forever. We had been unable to identify the strains of agony in the withered lines of the face, produced in that last minute of impact. We had been able to cover him quickly and not have to witness the sight of broken bones that protruded through ripped skin or the line of shattered teeth behind the bleeding lips.

In this case, however, we were to be spared none of this. The late Michael Harding, a young man of about twenty, had met his end in full knowledge of the fate that awaited him. The eyes were still open, clouded now by death and locked in a skyward stare, as if in silent appeal to his maker for the swift release of his soul. The teeth were bared, the lips bloody and his left cheek bore a red smear where he had bled copiously from his mouth.

The face was terrible to behold, but worse was the throat, or rather what remained of it. Something had ripped across it with such savagery that head and body were attached by little more than skin and few stringy tendons. Blood vessels hung listlessly like party ribbons after rain. A section of the windpipe was missing, sliced through by something sharp enough to remove it in one blow. Whatever it was had also broken the spine, leaving its two severed ends sitting at a peculiar angle to each other.

Forcing my gaze to the bare torso and ignoring the incisions made during the post mortem examination, I saw it was marked all over by great scratches where something had torn and cut his flesh. The marks extended down both his arms, and ended in one large cut on the back of his right hand. Above, the livid flesh showed the mottling of bruising around the wrist, a state that was replicated on the other arm.

If I was to believe what Lestrade had told me, this unhappy man had met his end by being mauled to death by a leopard. That was a rare enough occurrence, but coupled with the fact that it had happened in a respectable club in the centre of London and the leopard in question had been deceased for some time, my interest had been naturally piqued. As I say, curiosity has much to answer for.

"Nasty, eh?" mused Lestrade. "You hear stories of people having their throats ripped out by wild animals, but I never thought to see it in Piccadilly."

Somewhere in the background, the assistant let out a loud belch. I felt my insides tighten and tried to stifle a rising wave of nausea.

"Oh, but that isn't what killed him," said the police surgeon lightly.

Lestrade stared at him aghast. "You mean he was walking about as right as rain with half his throat missing? What are you trying to tell me, Doctor? That he was careless enough to get himself run over by a horse and cart?"

"How did he die, Dr Warwick?" I asked.

The doctor regarded me quizzically. "And you are?"

"The Chief Constable's nephew," Lestrade said quickly before I had a chance to reply. "On his mother's brother's wife's sister's husband's side, twice removed."

I took it that the Inspector did not want this inquisitive fellow to know the real reason I was here. After having presented him with the answers to the Music Hall murders, for which I had since learnt from the Daily Telegraph that he had taken full credit, Lestrade had then approached me with the notion of my giving him some unofficial help from time to time in my role as consulting detective. I had agreed and he had wasted no time in informing me of his present difficulties.

Any misgivings I may have had about demeaning my skills in the arts of observation and deduction for the glorification of others had been brushed aside by the singular nature of the case and the fact that Lestrade had been generous enough to offer me some financial assistance when my need was great. I still had the remnants of the two pounds he had given me in my pocket, a good deal more than he could afford to be doling out to feckless young men with a penchant for living beyond their means.

I had resolved to pay him back, since the old saying that never a borrower or lender be is as true as it ever was. I was now obliged to help him and he would probably be going without a square meal for several nights. The situation was not satisfactory. I meant to return the favour with interest, when I was able, even if it meant begging money from my elder brother, a personal indignity I reserve for the direst of occasions. In the meantime, I had hopes that other avenues of financial advancement might present themselves before I had to resort to such measures.

With this in mind, I decided it was not my place to contradict the Inspector in public and so blithely assumed this tentative kinship with one of his superiors. I was not entirely sure that the relationship as he had described it would hold up to close scrutiny, so wisely did not give the police surgeon a chance to question me too deeply.

"The Chief Constable?" said Dr Warwick. "You wish to follow in his illustrious footsteps?"

"Something like that," said I. "Although I find your work much more interesting, Doctor, which is why I asked Inspector Lestrade if I could accompany him today. I hope I have not overly intruded."

The art of flattery is a skill to be cultivated, for it can produce the greatest results from the most unlikely of men. It is fair to say that Dr Warwick fairly blossomed under such praise. He rose up on his toes, straightened his glasses and his old eyes twinkled.

"Oh, I say," said he with delight. "No, it's no intrusion at all, young man. On the contrary, you are most welcome. We don't get many visitors down here. Well, well. Bless my soul. You must forgive the state we're in. We've had a busy day and only just had time to snatch our lunch. We aren't usually in such a mess, are we, Inspector?"

"The nature of Mr Harding's death?" I prompted.

"Ah, yes, well, you'll find this most interesting. To give it its full medical name, he died of a condition we call pneumothorax."

"You mean he had some sort of disease?" said Lestrade.

"No, Inspector, he suffered a penetrating chest injury prior to his death, what you might call a 'sucking chest wound', due to the nature of the sound it makes," explained Dr Warwick. "Air collected in his pleural cavity and caused his right lung to collapse. You see, normally, the pressure in the lungs is greater than that of the pleural cavity which surrounds them. If air enters that cavity, the pressure situation becomes reversed. As a result, the lung is unable to expand properly and collapses."

He indicated four marks on Harding's chest and pushed his little finger as far as it would go through the largest of these to demonstrate the depth of the wound. Lestrade blanched and turned away, retching into his handkerchief as he did so.

"This is the one that caused the problem," said he, wiping his finger on his already soiled apron. "I dare say he might have survived had someone not tried to help by covering the wound. Unfortunately for him, this had the result of trapping the air within the pleural cavity. With every breath he took, his heart and major blood vessels became compressed under the pressure and finally gave out."

"How can you be sure this caused his death?" I asked. "His other injuries are severe."

"Because his lips are blue. Had his throat been intact, I feel sure you would have seen the distension of the jugular veins which is further evidence of the condition. Also, there was very little blood either around the body or on his clothes, which, had his throat been attacked first, would have resulted in extensive exsanguination."

"What caused the wound to the chest?"

"Something long, sharp and pointed."

"Teeth," offered the assistant. "Big ones."

"Ah, yes," said Dr Warwick tolerantly. "The leopard theory. We examined the beast in question at your request, Inspector, and I am happy to confirm that it is quite dead. A fine example of the taxidermist's art, I must say, although it does appear to have a moth problem, which needs immediate attention."

I glanced at a sheepish Lestrade. "It was the Chief Superintendent's suggestion," he said. "Personally, I don't believe a word of it."

"Here is it," said the doctor, removing the sheet from a mound on the opposite table. "Quite magnificent, isn't he?"

In life, I could imagine that the beast had been a sight to behold; in death, it was rather less so. Balding, faded yellow fur, peppered with a scattering of spots, had been stretched over a frame and overstuffed to the point of distortion. The front limbs had been positioned into an attitude of attack and the lips pulled back into a permanent snarl, revealing four great fangs now daubed with the blood of its alleged victim. I tested my finger against the one said to caused the fatal wound, only to have Lestrade catch my arm and pull my hand away.

"Careful, he might bite," said he, in a manner that was only half joking. "He's still our chief suspect, remember."

"Lestrade, this leopard is long dead. It could give me mange, but nothing more."

"All the same," said Dr Warwick sagely, "there's nothing wrong with being cautious. It's why I brought Basil with me today." He gestured to the dog. "Just in case," he said with a knowing wink. "Dogs know about these things. There's stranger things in heaven and hell, isn't that right, Lestrade? Look at that business last year with the unicorn man."

Listening to the Inspector and Dr Warwick, it was as though the age of enlightenment had never happened. Those men of science who had fought to free the modern mind of medieval superstition must have been turning in their graves to hear this conversation.

In this spirit, I attempted to bring the discussion back to a more rational footing.

"The unicorn man?" I inquired sardonically. "I must have missed that case."

Lestrade did not fail to miss the tone of irony I had injected into my voice. "You would have had to have been there to understand. A man was found on the Thames foreshore by London Bridge by a couple of kids. He had a long, twisted horn sticking out of his chest and, on account of that, the papers called him 'The Unicorn Man'."

"At your suggestion, as I recall," said the doctor with some amusement.

A high colour rose to the Inspector's cheeks. "I was misquoted. I was still in uniform at the time and this reporter fellow asked me how the man had died, so I jokingly told him that he'd been run through." He hesitated. "I told him a unicorn had done it. The Chief Super wasn't too pleased when he read the papers the next morning. It took me another year to get my promotion to Inspector after that fiasco."

"No wonder," said I. "Was this man's throat also savaged?"

"Now I come to think of it, I believe it was," said the doctor. "I can consult my notes on the case if it would be of any use to you."

"It would," I confirmed. "Could he too have died from pneumothorax?"

"Hard to say. There was extensive damage to the chest on account of the impalement." He gazed at me expectantly. "Was there anything else?"

"May I see Mr Harding's clothes?"

The assistant dragged himself away from his dinner and returned with a bundle that he dumped onto a table. I sorted through the blood-stained items until I found the man's shirt. Rips and tears corresponded with similar marks on the body, except there was something curious about them. Of the four parallel tears, one was clean cut in the manner of a slice, while the other three were ragged as though the instrument that had inflicted the wounds had been blunted. Red stains had gathered around the straightest of the four, suggesting that that at least had been done while Harding was still alive.

To the doctor's interest, I checked my findings on the body itself, where again I found that pattern of one slice and three gouges. He even offered me his magnifying glass to better observe the wounds, which he then graciously suggested I keep. Imagining himself to be in the presence of the Chief Constable's nephew as he did, presumably he was hoping that a gift might oil the wheels of favour.

I finished my examination and pocketed the glass. Mr Harding had been young, in good health and had died in the most agonising manner. I could bear to look upon his eyes no longer. With the doctor's permission, I closed the lids over his unfocused pupils, and pulled the sheet back over his head.

"You will release the body to the family now?" I asked.

"He has none," said Lestrade. "As far as we can tell, he was alone in the world."

"Then who gave permission for the post mortem?"

"The Chief Superintendent. He said it was necessary."

"I don't disagree with him. Well, good afternoon, Dr Warwick. Thank you for your time."

I tried not to flinch when I shook his outstretched hand. "A pleasure to meet you, sir," said he. "I trust you won't mention our somewhat unprofessional appearance this afternoon to your uncle? We don't usually take our meals down here, you understand."

"Indeed no," I reassured him. "In fact, he disapproves of my being here, so if you'll keep my visit between ourselves, I'd be grateful."

With the pleasantries over, I took myself outside and cleared my lungs of the oppressive odour of the place while I waited for Lestrade. When he did finally join me, his expression told me that he knew what was coming.

"This case is something in the manner of you redeeming yourself in your superior's eyes, isn't it, Inspector?" I said accusingly.

He nodded glumly. "I'm afraid so, Mr Holmes. Commissioner James wants this talk of supernatural goings-on nipped in the bud and he's putting pressure on the Chief Superintendent for results, fast like. What with the unicorn thing last year and the ghost slaying six months before that, he says he wants this case wrapped up quickly before the people start getting restless."

"What ghost slaying?"

"A ghost threw a man out of a third floor window over in Maida Vale. He landed on the spiked railings below and was killed outright. Well, that's what they say anyhow."

"Another chest injury?"

Lestrade glanced up at me. "You think there's a connection?"

"Three people dead, all with similar injuries, killed by culprits far beyond the reach of the law? I would say something was rotten in the state of Denmark, wouldn't you, Lestrade?"

"Don't talk to me about Denmark," he grunted. "I've enough trouble on these shores."

I let it pass. "So why have you been given the case? Surely one of the more experienced Inspectors would have been a better choice."

His manner changed abruptly. "You don't get promotion to Inspector if you aren't good, Mr Holmes," said he indignantly. "I was the best of the bunch and I'd earned it, even with that misunderstanding about the unicorn. It stuck in the old man's craw to have to give it to me, and he was put out I did so well with that Hoxton Hippodrome business."

"You did?"

"We did," he conceded with a shrug. "Truth is, he's looking for a good reason to give me the heave-ho and he hopes this business will do it. Couldn't come at a worse time, either, what with the missus expecting her third next month."

I already felt bad about taking the man's money to clear my debts. Knowing his family situation only deepened my feelings of guilt. I delved into my pocket and held out the remaining pound note to him.

"Lestrade, take it back. I'll manage. You clearly need it more than I do."

He refused it in the strongest terms. "No, sir. We agreed it was a loan. Besides, I consider it an investment. I can't afford to lose my job because some fool has had a run-in with a stuffed leopard. A couple of quid is well worth it, to get your insight on this one."

"Very well," said I. "What can you tell me about this Michael Harding, aside from the fact that he is an orphan, did not smoke and worked as a steward in the club where he died?"

Lestrade blinked. "However did you know that, Mr Holmes?"

"His teeth were excellent and showed no staining of tobacco. Amongst his things, I found a pair of white gloves, such as are usually worn as part of a steward's uniform. The waistcoat too, in black ribbed satin was more than he could ordinarily afford, therefore it must have formed part of his working clothes. Where else should be wearing such attire but in his place of employment?"

"Well, you are quite right. Harding was a junior steward at the Tankerville Club. That's where he was found early this morning, just as you saw him, laid out in the Trophy Room with that leopard lying at his side, and the both of them covered in blood."

"The Tankerville? I'm not familiar with it."

"It has a large membership. Applicants wishing to join have to be military men, serving or retired, who take an active interest in the hunting of big game. In order to be considered, prospective members have to submit one of their prize pieces to the club's collection."

"The leopard, I take it, was one of these trophies?"

"Their pride and joy, given to them by some Major or other. They want it back too."

"They aren't concerned by its more murderous tendencies?"

"You may laugh," said Lestrade in all earnestness, "but there's some people take all this talk of the dead coming back to life very seriously."

"What do the members of the Tankerville say?"

"Misadventure. One of them said it must have fallen on Harding when he was cleaning it. To be honest, Mr Holmes, they clammed up as soon as they saw me. Them and the staff. I'm sure something fishy is going on there, but what it is for the life of me I can't guess."

"And this is where I come in."

"Exactly. I've persuaded the Head of the Club's Committee to take you on as a member of the staff. I told him it would be in his best interests to agree, otherwise he'd have a lot of coppers in their hobnail boots stomping all over his precious parquet flooring. He's promised to keep it a secret from the other club members."

I noted Lestrade had made these arrangements before consulting me. He must have been sure of his powers of persuasion.

"You see," he went on, "I don't think Harding was the intended victim. He was insignificant, a nobody. What we have here is a warning meant for someone else."

I shook my head at this version of events.

"Then what's your theory, Mr Holmes?" he asked.

"I believe Michael Harding was tortured to death. The bruises on his wrists indicate that he was held fast while this was done to him. When they had what they wanted, his chest wound was covered and the air trapped within, effectively killing him. Scratches were applied to the body to conceal the damage caused by his ordeal and the throat wound inflicted to give the death a touch of the bizarre, in keeping with the thinking of a murderer who would have us believe that spirits and mythical creatures are responsible for his crimes. That Harding was left at the Tankerville Club is significant. Either the murderer is confident he will escape justice or he no longer cares about capture. The Tankerville is clearly where we must concentrate our efforts. Therefore, I am willing to accept your proposal, however unappealing the notion of domestic service might be."

Throughout this explanation, Lestrade's jaw had been dropping ever lower until he was positively gaping with sheer horror.

"Are you sure about this?" said he. "If you're right, that's an abomination."

"Murder is, Inspector. That is why it carries the harshest penalty the law can devise."

"Forget the whole idea, Mr Holmes," said he firmly. "It's too dangerous. I don't want what happened to Harding happening to you. I don't need your death on my conscience."

"I will only be in danger should I discover what it was that Harding knew. Take heart, Lestrade. It may have nothing to do with the Tankerville after all. In which case, we'll have to find another way to ensure your continued tenure at Scotland Yard!"

Ooh-er, I've got a really bad feeling about this. Don't you know curiosity killed the cat, Mr Holmes – look at what happened to that leopard!

We'll have to find out how he gets on in Chapter Two!