The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard

Chapter Twelve

My encounter with Mycroft had left me smarting. All the same, I should not have taken out my frustration on the nearest wall. Angry sores opened on my fingers and wept blood until the fabric of my glove was more red than white. After that, I vented my annoyance in a few well-chosen words.

I had every right to be angry, although perhaps more so with myself than my sibling. I could have handled the situation better, I told myself. I had allowed myself to be backed into a corner and forced into making a choice that pleased neither of us.

It would be a lie to pretend that we were close, but there was a comfort in knowing that he was there, a last bastion of defence in troubled times. To be estranged over what might be considered a trifle was absurd.

Except it was much more than that. We had met as immovable objects and fought from our intractable positions. Now we were strangers and I was destined to join the ranks of the destitute, unless I could carve a worthwhile living from the cases that I hoped people would bring to my door.

The problem would come if and when I lacked a door for these people to knock at. I told myself that if that day ever came, I would not go begging to my brother. I would rather perish in the gutter than admit that he was right.

For the next few days at least, I had bed and board. My clumsiness with Mycroft's drink would have been noted and would be used against me. I did not doubt that another fine or another evening on my hands and knees polishing floors awaited me.

It could not be helped. I had been cut off from my brother's financial mercies and thrust into the ranks of those who had to work for a living. For the first time, the enormity of my situation struck me. One day, the time might come when I was glad of such a position as this, glad to groom irascible horses and happy to eat rancid meat. After all, beggars may not be choosers.

Unfit to return to my duties, I absented myself and went down to the kitchen. The fire had been allowed to dwindle to a miserable few flames under the care of the Salisbury twins, who were trying to make the best of a bad situation by buttering as many slices of bread as they could find. With Mr Warboys languishing in a prison cell and Mrs Warboys still weeping, the only thing for certain was that there would be no meal tonight, not even ones where the principle ingredient was stringy horsemeat bought cheaply from the local knacker's yard.

I bathed my hand in a basin of warm water and consoled myself with a slice of bread, the first decent thing I had had to eat since I had been at the club. Even this conspired against me. I bit down hard on something that jarred my teeth. I was sure I felt something give. Spitting the half-masticated food into my hand, I saw an ominous gleam of white. A quick investigation with my tongue found the broken spar of a left upper molar.

It was not deep enough to cause pain, but it did nothing to improve my mood. I had entered this accursed establishment in fine physical condition. A day later, I had a broken tooth, a bleeding hand, and housemaid's knee. I was half-starved, had been tortured with hot coffee pots and berated by elder brothers. On top of that, I was starting to question my sanity. Mycroft was right, curse him. This was no place for me.

Unfortunately, I am burdened with a stubborn nature. Nothing would induce me to abandon the case. Mycroft could throw a hundred objections in my path and seek to stifle my investigation by withholding what he knew, but I would never be dissuaded. I would go my own way in this, even if whatever was left of me by Sunday could fit comfortably in an envelope.

The Salisbury twins were picking their pimples again, which made my stomach revolt at the thought of what I might have ingested, so I took my broken teeth and aching hand out into the fresh air. Coming through the door, I met the head steward. As ever, he wore the expression of a man chewing on something unpleasant and his mouth further creased into a knot of displeasure when he saw me.

"Holmes, I've had a complaint about you."

"Oh, fine me then," I said abruptly. "I'm past caring."

For that, I got a slap around the face. Had I not been so completely taken by surprise, I would have retaliated and knocked him flat on his back. Fortunately for both of us, Mr Fraiser had experience in dealing with temperamental underlings.

"Watch your mouth, young man!" said he. "I'd put you out the streets this instant if we weren't so short-handed right now. Lucky for you the gentleman didn't want to make a fuss about it. Said it was an accident. Is that right?"

I silently thanked Mycroft for his consideration. "Yes, it was."

"Good. Make sure it doesn't happen again. You're fined a shilling. Get your lazy backside over to the stables and groom Major Handyman's horse. When you've finished that, you've got the night shift. Well, what are you waiting for?"

I had a smart answer to that, but thought better of it. The prospect of facing Satan again was enough to dampen anyone's spirits. I took myself over to the stables and was in the process of unbolting the closed stable door when a hand laid itself flat against the wood.

"I wouldn't open that one, if I were you."

Campbell had appeared from the shadows, where he had been having a quiet cigarette. The tobacco was cheap and noxious, as though prepared from the scrapings from someone's boot and mixed with old socks for good measure.

"Mr Fraiser told me to groom Satan," I said.

"Ah, well, he's in the other stall," said Campbell, gesturing behind him. "Got me dog in here. Don't want him getting loose."

"Your dog? I didn't know you had a pet."

He grinned, his yellow teeth showing the residue of his last meal at the gum line. "This ain't no pet, Holmes. He's a mastiff, not a purebred, mind; got a fair bit of wolfhound in him. He's a champion all right, won every fight he's ever had."

When you imagine you can sink no lower into the mire of human depravity, then comes the realisation that there are depths still to plumb. Dog fighting, along with bull-baiting, had been banned over forty years ago. Those who believed that a piece of paper and a statute enshrined in law meant an end to the lowest forms of so-called entertainment were sorely deceived.

"Aren't you worried about being caught?" I asked.

"What, here at the Tankerville? Who's gonna tell? The members like to see the fur fly."

"I bet they do," I muttered.

"You want to put down a small wager, Holmes?" Campbell asked. "I know you're a betting man and my dog's a sure thing."

What I would have dearly loved to do was to send for the police without delay and have him arrested. Having to tolerate the man's presence was increasingly loathsome. Unfortunately, it was necessary for the next few days. Then Lestrade could arrest the whole lot of them and close the club down for all I cared.

"I have no money," I said. "Besides, I should be careful, if I were you. I heard that police inspector say something about keeping the place under watch."

Campbell's expression became serious. "He did? Why?"

"Evidence against Mr Warboys. I believe he wanted to apprehend the person who was supplying him with suspect meat."

Campbell swore violently, threw down his cigarette and ground it under heel. "We're going to have to call it off tonight if the coppers are out there. I'd better send word to Charlie, tell him to keep his distance. Thanks for the tip-off, mate. I won't forget this."

"I'm sure you won't," I murmured, watching his back retreat into the darkness. "And I'm not your mate."

There was some small sense of satisfaction in knowing that I had succeeded in halting their objectionable entertainment for the evening. It soon evaporated when faced with the daunting prospect of a malicious horse and his array of sharp teeth. I had learnt my lesson, however, and kept him on a tight rein while I groomed the dirt and sweat from his coat.

From what I could tell, he had not been ridden far. The mud on his legs told of city life, with the usual array of animal excrement, sand and the finely-tilled soil of many a park and square. In one hoof was the squashed remains of a flower, its petals now robbed of colour and devoid of shape. Along with it was what looked like a torn shred of cabbage, although I was willing to accept the evidence of my eyes on that point and not trust to taste, considering where it had been.

Add to that the dried foam of masticated carrot at the sides of the bit, and I was led to the inescapable conclusion that Handyman had been near a fruit, vegetable and flower market within the limits of the city. The nearest was Covent Garden market, home to street traders, matchstick sellers and ladies of ill-repute.

The Major did not seem the type to have any particular interest in fresh produce, nor the faded charms of the women who plied their trade for a few pennies. My suspicion was that he had been passing through, somewhere not too far away, where his horse had had a chance to chew its impromptu meal thoroughly while its master saw to his business. Suspicious of nature I may be, but I could not help thinking that nearby was Hatton Garden, where traded diamond dealers.

Like Gregson, I had little faith in the doctrine of coincidence. Dead diamond cutters with a link to the Tankerville Club and one of its members visiting gem merchants was stretching the bounds of chance to breaking point. It needed thought, did this business, best aided by a quiet room and a pipe in my hand. Fortunately, I had access to both.

I finished my work in the stable, collected my pipe and tobacco from my bedroom, and made myself comfortable in the small room set aside for the night steward. A small brazier kept out the worst of the chill and I was able to settle down in the patched armchair for the long shift ahead, only occasionally disturbed by the needs of those members staying the night at the club. As the clock chimed out the small hours, I finally had the place to myself and the quiet I needed to apply myself to the matter.

Harding was the key, binding the disparate threads together. But I had to go back further, for this business had started long before his arrival on the scene. John Sommers, a failed musician, who had found a way of making money and had then died about the same time as a famous gem had been stolen. Six months later, a supposedly penniless diamond cutter from Southwark died, leaving a tin of money and a note implicating someone at the Tankerville Club. If Major Handyman had visited diamond dealers, as I suspected, then this would be confirmed or refuted by the watchful Wiggins and his band of brothers.

If one cut away all the extraneous detail of the manner of the murdered men's deaths, it seemed clear that simple thievery was at the bottom of this. Handyman was involved, I was sure of it. I had not forgotten that peculiar tinkle, not of coins, but of something much more delicate, from the pouch he had laid down as his bet at the gaming tables.

Taken to its logical conclusion, I could envisage a situation where Handyman had impecunious lackeys like Sommers stealing precious gems, which he then passed onto crooked cutters, who were willing to ask no questions and keep their mouths shut when it came to the re-cutting of certain famous stones. Once their original form was lost, who could say from whence the stones came?

The only weakness in the plan was the involvement of other people. Sommers had talked of 'easy money'; had he tried his hand at blackmail? If so, he had been killed for it.

Fanshawe too might have had the gall to ask for more, but in his case another thought occurred to me. His father had cut the Marquise Ruby for the King of Bohemia. What if, six months after it had been stolen and the police investigation had cooled, Handyman had delivered to Fanshawe the very stone for which his father was famous? Had he balked at the prospect of destroying his parent's work? Every man has their limits and I had to wonder whether some terrible stroke of ill fortune came to bear upon Fanshawe to test his.

That only left Harding. Everything the man had done pointed to his desire for justice for his dead brother-in-law: scouring the papers for similar crimes, teaming up with Finsbury and bribing the doorman to get work at the Tankerville. Why then had he gone to Major Prendergast and demanded money? It did not fit with what I knew of the man. I was ready to put a wager on the fact that he had not been a blackmailer; therefore, he needed the money for some other purpose.

What I was certain of was that he had indeed been in possession of information about the dealings at the club. Looked at from the criminal's perspective, what was one to do with purloined jewels? Handyman had had people to steal for him and re-cut them for him. All he needed then was a buyer.

It was so blindingly obvious that I was surprised I had not seen it sooner. He was doing his business openly at the card tables. The members of the Tankerville were wont to turn a blind eye to anything from torturing the staff to illegal dog fighting. Why then should they question that Handyman was laying his bets in something other than money? I thought back to the two guests playing cards with Handyman. The pouch with the gems went to one man, while his partner paid for the ill-gotten gains by losing hand after hand.

One had to admire the man's audacity. To a casual observer, he was simply a lucky player. Prendergast had been sharper of eye than the rest, although he had not deduced its meaning. He had noticed the unusual pattern and Handyman had flown into a rage. No wonder then that the situation was engineered to make it appear as though Prendergast had been cheating. He had been drummed out of the club, and Handyman had continued unhindered.

This must have been what Harding had discovered. What I had deduced in so short a time had taken him two months. Not that I held that against him; I had had the advantage of being pointed in the right direction, while he had had precious little at the start. No matter, for we had both arrived at the same conclusion. But this was where we would go our separate ways. Harding had been killed for knowing too much. I intended to live to see Handyman go to the gallows for his crimes.

Before that, I had to prove any of this. All I had was conjecture and surmise. Finsbury's testimony would help our case – and I fervently hoped he was currently pouring out his heart to Lestrade – but we still lacked concrete evidence. A good defence would tear Finsbury to shreds. The screams he had heard could have come from anyone. What proof was there that Harding had been killed on the premises?

While I pondered this problem, it occurred to me that I had at hand the perfect tool for the task at hand. That this device, a wet black nose, was attached to the skinny body of a playful puppy was all the better. Toby had proved his credentials in tracking the source of Mr Warboys's illicit meat purchases. I had every faith that he could find the place where his previous owner had met his end.

Upstairs, I found that my room was host to an unexpected visitor. Emily Rush glanced up with those big doleful eyes of hers that reminded me irresistibly of Toby and hurried to rise from my bed.

"You said you wouldn't mind if I fed the little mite, Mr Holmes," said she apologetically.

So much had happened since then that our arrangement had quite slipped my mind. Toby was gleefully devouring the chicken scraps that his visitor had brought and was leaving greasy streaks on the floor as he played with his food.

"If you want me to go—"

"No," I said. "Please, stay, Miss Rush. Although I do require Toby's services."

I went to the wardrobe and took out a singlet left by Harding. I sniffed at it, wrinkling my nose as I detected that unwashed smell that I hoped Toby would find distinctive enough to track. When I turned back, I caught Miss Rush looking at me strangely.

"Is that for washing, sir?" said she.

"No, this belonged to Mr Harding."

"I know. I saw him wearing it—" She paused, realising what she had said. "Oh, I mean…"

"I know what you mean, Miss Rush," I said soothingly.

"No, you don't, Mr Holmes. It's like I told you. He weren't like that. He said we were to wait. We just talked and… had a bit of cuddle, like."

"Did he promise to marry you?"

She lowered her eyes and started to twist her apron between her fingers. "He did. We were engaged, though he couldn't afford a ring." A tear trickled down her cheek. "He said he wanted to take me away from this place. Me and me little sister, Alice. She's ill."

"What's wrong with her?"

"The coughing disease."

I nodded, knowing full well the condition which she described. Consumption, exacerbated by the damp and dirty conditions endured by the urban poor. I had my answer as to why Harding had needed money from Major Prendergast. Fifty pounds, little enough for a gambler who lost twice that much in an evening at the tables, but everything to a man with a desire to make a difference. In every respect, Michael Harding had been that rare entity in this troubled world, a good man.

"What of your mother? What would she have said about you wanting to leave the laundry?"

Miss Rush shook her head. "She's been dead these five years, Mr Holmes. I've been doing the washing. I couldn't afford the soap, so I've been using—"

"Yes, I know," I said, thinking back to my encounter with the pot of stale urine in the kitchen.

"Michael, I mean, Mr Harding, he said that I should be working in a shop, all smart like, instead of having me hands in cold pee all day."

"He was right."

She sank down on the bed, weeping bitterly. "I don't know what I'm going to do now. Alice, she needs her medicine and I ain't got the money. She gets right ill without it, and I don't know what I do if I lost her. She's all I've got."

It seemed to me that I had taken on a good deal more than simply a room when I had taken over Harding's position at the club. I had inherited his friends, his concerns, his problems and his best intentions. I could almost feel his baleful spirit at my shoulder, urging me to do the right thing.

I delved into my pocket. I had the last of the money Lestrade had loaned me, a pound note and a few pennies. My brother called me feckless where money was concerned, but even he could not have disapproved of this good cause.

I held the pound note out to her. "Here, take it. I want you to have it."

She looked up, wiping her runny nose on the back of her hand and sniffing heavily. "What've I got to do for it?"

I bridled at her suggestion. "Nothing. It's yours. Get your sister her medicine."

She looked uncertain. "You sure? I don't want to be accused of stealing or nothing."

"You have no worries in that respect." I picked up Toby. "Good night, Miss Rush."

I left her there, needing to find space away from the misery that seemed to be coming at me from every quarter. Whatever it was about this place, it felt like it was sapping my will and destroying my identity. I was forgetting what it was like to immerse myself in the rigours of study, to dine in restaurants where the food did not break your teeth and to have one's room to oneself and not to be invaded by the wretchedness of others. In desperation, I tore off my glass and ruffled my hair. I needed to be myself, if only for a short while.

Setting Toby down, I offered him the singlet. He sniffed and snuffled at it, whining in remembrance of the man who had worn it. I removed it and immediately his head went to the floor. He sailed away, his flagpole of a tail with its bald tip waving enthusiastically.

The members' rooms he ignored, save for the Trophy Room, where he paused briefly over the bloodstain where Harding's body had lain. Onwards he went, seeking for where the scent was strongest. I followed him down the stairs into the gymnasium where he made much of sniffing at a particular part of the floor. Then, he laid himself down, placed his head on his paws and turned sad chocolate eyes on me.

I got down on my hands and knees and inspected the boards. They seemed clean enough, thanks in part to my own efforts of the night before. Toby's nose, however, had detected what I could not, the lingering smell of death. He had done well, but it would never satisfy a court of law.

I gave the dog a consoling pat. "You did well, boy." A long sigh racked his little body. "We'll make it right," I promised. "Harding will have justice."

Behind us, a floorboard squeaked under someone's weight and I glanced round to see Miss Rush heading hesitantly towards us. She had followed us, for what reason I could not guess, and her presence roused my suspicious nature. I rose to my feet as she arrived at my side and met her confused expression with a questioning stare.

"What are you doing, Mr Holmes?"

I took the view that there was no point in distressing her further. "Looking for something."

"Did you find it?" she asked.

I shook my head. The murderers had been thorough in cleaning up after their grisly work.

"Why are you here, Miss Rush?" I asked.

She essayed a brief smile. "You didn't give me a chance to thank you upstairs. For your kindness with the money, I mean. Ain't no man ever given me nothing that didn't want something in return."

"We aren't all like that."

"I know," she muttered. "You're like Michael. He never wanted anything neither. You… put me in mind of him."

To my surprise, she reached out and slipped her hand in mine.

"Miss Rush," I said, trying to withdraw from her iron grip.

"Emily. Please call me Emily."

She stared up at me, her face slightly flushed, the guileless eyes sparkling and wide. I was painfully aware of how close she was standing, of the warm brush of her breath, of the hand that came to rest on my chest.

"I'm not Michael Harding," I said gently.

She nodded. "I know, Mr Holmes, but you make me feel safe when I'm with you. You make me forget who I am. You don't treat me like a dirty laundry girl. You make me feel like… like a duchess or something."

Compliments come and go over a lifetime, and few are remembered but for a second. Emily Rush's words that night were to stay with me for much longer. I fancy it was the sincerity with which she spoke them, which in turn provoked in me the greatest need to reach up with my free hand and gently wipe away the tears from her face. Beneath my fingers, a smile started to spread, making her cheeks plump out and bringing a little warmth into her sad eyes.

"You know," she said shyly, "you're not half bad-looking without them glasses."

"I'm not who you think I am," I said.

"You're not Henry Holmes?"

"Not entirely."

This admission did not repel her. She accepted it for what it was and seemed more intrigued than indignant at the deception. "Who are you then?"

I never had a chance to tell her, for suddenly my ears caught the scrape of something sharp skidding across polished boards followed by the harsh bang of a closing door. I whirled round to find that we were not alone. By the door, a large tan dog was looking about warily, sniffing the air and getting its bearings. If I was in any doubt that this was Campbell's dog, I had only to look at the torn and ruined muzzled and the huge body laced with old scars and bare patches.

Slowly, its blood-shot eyes came to rest on us and a growl rose up from the back of its throat. Then it started to advance.

Help! Big dog on the loose. Sounds like a job for a lion tamer!

Let's see if young Mr Holmes gets out of this scrape in one piece in Chapter Thirteen!