The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard

Chapter Thirteen

As dogs go, this was one of the largest I had ever had the misfortune to encounter. It was also possibly the most savage. The eyes were soulless, stripped of life by countless beatings and untold cruelty. It saw in terms of threats, and we, like the master who had shaped its character to his own ends, were fair prey.

On it came, one determined foot after another, all the while emitting that low rumble of a growl like the forewarning of an oncoming storm. Part of its jowls had been torn in previous fights and poorly healed, from whence a long dribble of drool dropped in bootlace length tendrils to leave a foam trail on the floor to mark its progress towards us.

What I needed was a means of dissuading the beast from its murderous intent upon our persons. A revolver would have been my weapon of choice, or failing that, a sturdy chair to fend it off. Unfortunately, I had neither.

I had a young frightened woman and a puppy that was showing too much interest in the intruder for his own good. As to myself, I must admit that I was woefully out of practice when it came to wrestling dogs the size of small lions with my bare hands. As such, I did not rate my chances very highly. I suspected that the next few minutes were going to prove very interesting and very painful for all of us.

"Heavens above, Mr Holmes," cried Miss Rush, clinging to my shoulder with such force that her nails dug into my flesh. "Whatever is it?"

"It's a fighting dog, and it does not mean us well."

"But where did it come from?"

"It belongs to Mr Campbell. He keeps it in the stables."

"Then what's it doing here?"

Good question, I thought. If we got out of here alive, Campbell would have some explaining to do.

"What are we going to do?" she persisted.

Another good question, but equally lacking in an answer. The dog stood between us and the door, and, I imagined, was agile enough to latch his teeth into any fool labouring under the delusion that he could slip past unnoticed. If I went one way and Miss Rush the other, at least we would be divided targets; however, I could not guarantee which of us the dog would attack. I had no objection to offering myself up to save the lady, but the dog might reject my noble sacrifice and go for the slower choice of Miss Rush instead.

There was also the problem of our escape. I had heard the door slam shut. The other night when I had broken my knees and chapped my hands polishing this floor, the door had remained open through the period of my ordeal. Therefore, it did not have a natural tendency to close. Someone had closed it, trapping us within. It was a very slim chance indeed that this person had then neglected to turn the key in the lock.

What this meant, looked at logically, was that we were in for a mauling. Come the morning, we would be found torn to shreds, our limbs scattered the length and breadth of the gymnasium and our blood daubed up walls and floor. We could try dodging the devilish fangs for a while, but sooner or later, our concentration would slip, the dog would attack and our end would be bloody, brutal and agonising.

I, for one, did not relish the prospect of those yellow fangs clamping around my jugular. Admitting defeat is not in my nature, and if I had managed to face off my brother, a formidable opponent if ever there was one, then a savage dog should give me little trouble. At least, that is what I told myself. If it came down to my trying to strangle the beast, I had a fair idea who would emerge victorious from that encounter.

I was about to find out whether I was right than I would have preferred. The dog had advanced to within several yards of where we stood, now backed up against the far wall. Any movement in either direction met with a growl and a leap closer towards us. Its ears were laid flat against its head and the ruined lips were peeled back, treating us to a close view of the vicious, sharp teeth.

I recognised the signs of an imminent attack when I saw them. I pushed Miss Rush behind me, putting myself between her and the dog.

"When it comes at us," I whispered to her, "run as fast as you can."

"What about you?"

"I'll be right behind you."

"Oh, Mr Holmes, I'm so scared."

I was not entirely confident myself, but I sensed that that was not what she wanted to hear. Nor would I have admitted to such a failing; on such occasions, in the face of certain death, a man is expected to adopt a noble sang-froid. Having been brought up on tales of gentlemen calmly smoking while a crocodile chewed on their leg or taking tea whilst under heavy enemy fire, I was about to find out if I could summon up a similar sense of composure. To my immense relief, it came quite naturally.

"Courage, Miss Rush," I assured her. "We are many and this beast is but one. We will carry the day, have no fear."

As impromptu speeches went, I thought it was rather good. Sheer nonsense, if ever I had heard it, but sometimes that is all that is required.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," said she. "I've got every faith in you. You'll get us out of this, I know you will."

This was rather pleasing to hear. My confidence soared.

"But even if we do get eaten alive," she went on, "I won't hold it against you. I just wanted you toknow that."

"Most gracious of you," I muttered. What she had given with one hand, she had promptly taken back with the other. "I can but try."

In the event, I never had to test my mettle against the beast. Another took the task on with a bravery that put a grown man to shame.

Toby sailed between us and the dog, yapping and prancing before the beast like a knight taunting a dragon. The mastiff's interest turned to this new nuisance and away from us. It snarled and lunged at the puppy, who darted with inches to spare away from the dripping jaws. He returned, barking his defiance, leaping out of the way of as the lethal teeth sliced the air before him and toying with the bigger dog in a match worthy of David and Goliath.

I blessed his brave little soul for the opportunity he had given us to make our escape. I gestured to Miss Rush that we should slip away, with all due care, and she nodded in understanding. Together, we took one step to the right. Immediately, the mastiff's head snapped in our direction. It growled and the muscular body tensed, ready to pounce. Then, once again, Toby came to our rescue.

As the sharp little teeth latched onto his opponent's leg, the mastiff let out a yelp of pain. In its anguish, it swivelled and snapped at its tormentor. This time, Toby was not quick enough to escape. The big jaws closed on his back and he was plucked into the air. The mastiff shook him like so many wind-tossed rags and threw him back to the ground. There he lay, paws twitching, whimpering miserably and horribly wounded. He had courage enough to raise his head to growl at his attacker, who was back on him in an instant. Its teeth bared and its mouth opened, ready to rip out the puppy's throat.

Taking my cue from Toby, I intervened. A well-aimed kick full in the side of its head sent it reeling away, stunned and dazed. A moment later, it was back up on its feet, shaking itself. I could have wished for longer, but it was time enough.

By then, I had swept up the injured puppy, grabbed Miss Rush by the hand and made the mad dash to the double doors. I gave her Toby and tried my strength against the lock. The doors shook, but would not budge. A quick glance through the keyhole revealed that the key was still in place. Given time and patience, I could have retrieved the key and opened the door from our side. Again, we had neither, for the mastiff was bounding towards us, more determined than ever to do us harm. He had tasted blood, and now he wanted more.

Unless I wanted it to be mine, I had to act and quickly. Beside the door was a rack of fencing foils, a poor weapon to use against a dog that weighed nearly as much as myself and was armed with more teeth. I grabbed the uppermost and affected the en garde pose, more through force of habit than out of respect for my opponent, who I sincerely doubted would be willing to play by a gentleman's rules.

The swish of the blade before his face did stop the dog in his tracks. He backed up, eyeing me warily. I advanced, driving him back further, glad to have the advantage in this deadly game. This brute was as bold as he was cunning, however, and suddenly he sprang at me. With a deft stroke, I cut him across the nose. Against any other dog, this might have been reason enough for an admission of defeat and a quick retreat with the tail between the legs. But the mastiff was battle-hardened. The cut was as a flea bite on the hide of an elephant.

The next I knew he had clamped his teeth on the blade and wrenched the foil from my hand. The dog tossed it aside with the utmost of contempt and turned his malevolent gaze back on me. I read in those wild eyes murderous intent. His bloodlust was up and we both knew I was at his mercy. For him, this would be revenge against every human who had kicked and tormented and forced him to fight his fellows.

For me, it was a terrible way to die and a bitter pill to have to swallow in acknowledgement that my brother had indeed been right. I could only imagine what he would say when he was informed of my unhappy end. Out of sheer spite, I could see him putting 'Told You So' on my gravestone, which, considering the circumstances of my imminent demise, would not be wholly inappropriate. One lives and learns, or in my case, simply learns, although what use it would be to me in the few minutes of existence that remained was questionable.

The dog growled, backing up so that it could run at me and spring at my throat. I steeled myself and determined to go down fighting, even defenceless as I was. A step back brought me into contact with the rack of weapons, jarring them from their frame with my clumsiness. As they clattered to the floor, the mastiff charged. I looked away for an instant and saw the stronger blade of a sabre amidst the jumble. I reached for it and raised it at the same time that the dog sprang.

Momentum backed by twelve stone of solid canine muscle forced the blade through the dog's chest, impaling its heart and finally emerging through its back in a great gush of blood. Time seemed to slow as I felt the sabre snap at the hilt as the wounded creature let out a long, death-weary sigh, fanning my face with the noxious rotted meat fumes of its breath. We hung there, man and beast, suspended in deadly combat. Then, suddenly everything speeded up again.

One moment I was upright and the next I was falling to the floor beneath the dog's dead weight. I hit the boards hard and the dog's lifeless body sprawled spread-eagled on top of me, its blood seeping out to soak my clothes. I did not intend to emulate the example of the butcher who had slaughtered the massive Derby ram and then drowned in its blood, but for all my effort, I could not free myself from beneath its mighty bulk. I pushed at it, heaved for all I was worth and remained as trapped as ever.

"Here, let me help you," cried Miss Rush, hurrying to my side.

Between us, we succeeded in hauling the dead mastiff to one side. Thus free, I sprang to my feet, feeling more than a little shaken by the whole encounter.

"You killed it," said she, nudging the corpse with her toe.

"Not intentionally. How's Toby?"

He was worryingly still, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. He had bled heavily, and the white fur of his coat was red and matted where the mastiff had sunk its teeth into his back. I touched his muzzle and felt the chill breath of air against my fingers. At my touch, he roused enough to open pained eyes and reach out with dry tongue to try to lick my hand.

My heart lurched. This little stout-hearted had thrown himself into the fray to give us the time we needed to escape. The price of his selflessness should not be his life.

I tore off my shirt-sleeve and bound it around his middle. He whined pitifully as I tightened it, staunching the flow of blood. Despite all that had happened to him, the trust I read in his eyes was devastating.

"Good boy," I said to him, gently stroking the sodden ears. "You stay there and I'll find a way to get us out."

"Can you?" asked Miss Rush. "Get us out, I mean. The door is locked. Won't we have to stay here till morning?"

"I'm not waiting that long," I replied.

"I can't afford to neither. If I don't get the washing done, there'll be hell to pay."

"Then, escape we must."

The method I had in mind was an old one, simply involving my getting the key from outside the door to inside, where we were. For the task, I had in my pocket a small notebook. I tore a leaf from it and inserted it under the door. Taking a foil, I used its slim blade to nudge the key from the lock. It clattered to the floor, bounced and missed the page by inches.

"Is that bad?" asked Miss Rush, noting my muted expression of displeasure.

"I had hoped for so much more," I said with annoyance. "However, we are not without means to remedy the situation."

The gap beneath the door was large enough through which to pass the blade of the foil. Pressing my head hard against the floor, I could just about see the key in the dim light of the corridor beyond. Time and again, I lunged for it, missed and succeeded only in pushing it further from reach. Finally, a kindly fate prevailed and I managed to get the blade behind it and with the greatest of care drew it towards the door. I caught my breath as for one moment it seemed that it had become stuck, but with a little wriggling, I pulled it through. Thoroughly satisfied with my efforts, I picked up the key and brandished it in triumph.

"You are a clever one, Mr Holmes," said she with delight. "However did you know to do that?"

Saying I had read about the technique in an adventure novel when I had been laid up in bed as a boy with chicken pox took a certain shine from the success of my labours. As it was the truth, however, I felt obliged to own up. This admission did not diminish my achievement in Miss Rush's eyes.

"Well, I'd have never thought of something like that," said she approvingly.

"I have an excellent memory. Now, shall we leave? I've had my fill of this place."

I picked up Toby with the greatest of care and carried him up to my room. The pain of his injuries and his loss of blood had sapped the fight from his soul, so he offered no resistance when I laid him on a towel on my bed and undid the makeshift bandage to examine his wounds.

I do not profess to be an expert in treating such injuries, in either human or animal species, although perhaps I am a little more qualified than most. In my younger days, I had nursed a fox cub mauled by an adult badger back to health with great success. The day I released it into the wild was one of those burnished memories amidst the general torpor of childhood. That it had nipped my hand before it departed and left me with a festering wound was not something I held against it; one must act according to one's nature. Indeed, a little contempt in one's dealing with others I have always thought was to be preferred over fawning gratitude. It is an admirable quality which I have sought to cultivate ever since.

What this encounter had also taught me was that the messiest of wounds were not necessarily as severe as they might appear. The injuries I saw on Toby's back and side now were similar in appearance to that of the bitten fox cub. He had been plastered with blood over nearly all of his body, although the bites had been largely superficial. A quick examination revealed that this was likely the case for Toby too. If so, he had had a very lucky escape.

I dabbed at the blood with a little water, washing away the worst of it, until I could see the tears in his flesh. Thankfully, the bite marks had not been deep enough to penetrate his major organs. His thick unruly coat had probably saved his life, warding off the mastiff's teeth to some extent. What he needed was rest and warmth, for his body was cooling rapidly even as I worked.

"I need another blanket," I said to Miss Rush.

"Where from, sir? I doubt there's one to spare what with it being so cold out at night."

That I had not considered. However, I did know of someone who was not in need of blankets tonight.

"Samuel Finsbury," I said. "Take his."

"Won't he mind?"

I shook my head. His shift had ended hours ago and I imagined him now sitting before a blazing fire in Lestrade's house, warmed by a good meal and decent brandy. Miserable wretch that he was, at least he was out of danger, unlike Miss Rush and myself, who had barely escaped with our lives from our recent brush with death.

With this assurance, she hurried away to find what she could in Finsbury's room. I had expected some protestation about venturing out into the corridor alone in case there were any more savage beasts lurking in the darkness, but she appeared to have set the events of night behind her without a further thought. As such, one had to admire her sense of composure. Either she was either possessed of an extremely strong spirit or woefully lacking in imagination.

Considering what she had told me of her life, I was inclined to believe the former. With that in mind, I did not mention to her that I thought our misadventure not to be an accident. The evidence was strong enough on that point. Dogs do not escape from bolted stables of their own accord, nor do keys turn in locks by magic. A human hand had had a part in this. If I had been a betting man, my money would have been on Major Handyman as being the culprit, since he was staying at the premises and knew that Campbell would have had his dog close at hand in anticipation of the now suspended fight.

What I could not answer was why I should have been singled out for this particular treatment. To my knowledge, no one knew who I was, except Finsbury, and he would have been unlikely to reveal this fact to the others. It was true I had made enemies. The Major had thought me objectionable enough to burn my hand with a heated coffee pot, but turning a fighting dog on me seemed a little extreme.

Either then, someone knew who I was and knew of my reason for being at the club, or I had not been the intended victim. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as it dawned on me that the dog had been let loose after Miss Rush had entered the gymnasium. And I had just sent her out to find blankets on her own.

I rushed out into the corridor in time to hear her frantic screams. The door to Finsbury's room was open and I hurried inside, expecting to find her struggling with an attacker. Instead, I found the room dominated by what appeared to be a massive pendulum, swinging back and forth before the window, allowing brief glimpses of the new moon. Miss Rush stood to one side, her hands over her face, batting away the feet that every now and then swung back to brush against body.

"He's dead," she cried. "I came in here and found him. Look at him, Mr Holmes, he's dead!"

Her statement bore the mark of truth. In death, the man's head lolled in an unnatural position and the hands with its nails torn from scrabbling at the strangling noose hung limply by his sides. The suspended body slowed as the rope snagged against the bars of the window, turning the swollen face with its grossly protruding tongue around for me to see. Bile rose in my throat as I recognised him.

Samuel Finsbury had not made it out of the Tankerville alive after all.

What a nasty place this is. Another death? Well, two if you count the dog.

Heads up, the police are coming in Chapter Fourteen!