Sherlock Holmes and the lost tiger (1)

“Really Lestrade, this is not a case I can help you with.” 

 

“I thought it was right up your alley.” Lestrade’s moustache twitched when he was thinking, as if it was an essential part of the thought process. “An escaped tiger, a mysterious hole in the ground. As soon as the Home Secretary plonked this case on my desk I thought ‘this is one for Holmes’.”

 

“Really Lestrade, I’m a connoisseur of the criminal mind, not a lost cat agency. There are lesser private detectives who specialise in that line of work.”

 

“But this is a big case Holmes, it would be a real feather in you cap if you could help. The Home Secretary is desperate about the escaped tiger, the whole of London is in panic, and with this hole in the ground … well it feels like the end of civilisation. Frankly I don’t know where to start.”

 

“I’m sorry Lestrade. If I could help you I would, but tigers are beyond my realm of expertise. Watson could probably of more use, he knows all about tigers from his time in Afghanistan.”

 

Lestrade turned to me for confirmation. “I know something of tigers,” I agreed. “Frankly I can’t see the problem persisting, tigers are averse of human contact, it will get out of the city as soon as it can. You should be looking for the tiger in surrounding villages, not the city centre.”

 

“Very sound advice Watson, but it’s right in the middle of Holborn High Street that the hole in the ground has appeared, and everyone’s blaming the tiger.”

 

“Well that’s nonsense,” I said. “I know about tigers, they’re ferocious killers, humans, livestock, anything on legs, but you can hardly blame a tiger for a hole in the ground.”

 

“It’s what they’re saying Watson. Reports from the highest reaches of government, all saying the tiger is behind it. Which is why I need Holmes here to help me.”

 

“I’m sorry Lestrade, if I could help you I would, but there are more pressing, criminal matters to concern me. Mrs Hudson will show you out.”

 

This was my first visit to Holmes for several months. I had joined my wife on a visit to her cousins in Sleaford and an unexpected medical emergency had led to me staying in the area for an extended period. You may have read accounts of the incident in certain medical journals.

 

Baker Street was largely unchanged, Mrs Hudson’s housework limiting the extent of Holmes’ tendency to live in total havoc. In my absence Holmes had taken to smoking the weed ganja, otherwise known as cannabis, and the rooms were thick with accrued ganja smoke, which left one feeling woozy.

 

However, if I expected the drug’s known soporific effects to have daunted Holmes’ energy I was wrong. No sooner had the door closed behind me than he sprang from his seat, full of energy.

 

“The Times, Watson, Mrs Hudson has taken to keeping it in the lounge area.”

 

I obediently fetched the paper from the lounge, wondering as I did so why Holmes hadn’t chosen to replace me with a dog, for despite my medical training and military expertise Holmes frequently regarded my skillset as being limited to the role of ‘fetcher’.

 

“Here it is Watson, ‘Escaped tiger blamed for Holborn High Street Horror Hole’.”

 

I had already read the article, which frankly I regarded as ridiculous. The tiger had escaped from London zoo the previous day, as was easily established by the panic that had gripped the city. Mary had even cautioned me to abort my practice until the tiger had been caught, but I am not a man of such unbounded means that I could abandon my trade, nor indeed would I leave my patients to suffer.

 

The hole in the ground had appeared suddenly, as if the earth had been eaten away. Several shops and businesses had collapsed into the pit that had opened up, along with cabs, horses and pedestrians. A large number of people had been injured, along with four fatalities. For reasons that were quite beyond my comprehension, the tiger had been blamed for the sudden appearance of the hole.

 

Holmes scanned the article without comment, shushing me when I tried to impart my views on the unjust accusation being levelled at the tiger.

 

“We’ve no time to discuss the case now, Watson, we must make haste,” he had, as he was speaking, grabbed his coat and boots. “Come, Watson, we have little time, the scene will be reduced to muddy incoherence by the pack of inquisitive dullards who are doubtless at the scene even as we speak.”

 

Mrs Hudson was waiting outside the room with my coat and hat, trained to anticipate the rapid-flowing whims of her long-time lodger.

 

“Where are we going Holmes?” I asked.

 

“The zoo Watson. You are coming too, aren’t you?”

 

“Of course,” I said. “So you are taking on this case?”

 

“Not officially Watson. Something tells me the best way for me to tackle this case is in an unofficial capacity. Officialdom is a cage Watson, and not so easy to escape from as a tiger’s cage.”

 

A hansom cab took us to the zoo. “Off to the scene of the great escape,” the driver said cheerfully. “Just be careful none of the other animals break out while you’re there. I hear those penguins have pretty sharp beaks.”

 

We had no problem finding the tiger’s cage, it was surrounded by a pack of curious Londoners of all types. Holmes pushed his way to the front of the crowd with such authority nobody thought to challenge him. In no time he was prowling inside the cage, inspecting every detail with his absurdly keen eye. It required no great detective to establish how the tiger had escaped, there was a tiger-sized hole in the side of the cage, which was the main focus of Holmes’ inspection.

 

After several minutes Holmes raised himself and smiled a satisfied smile. “It’s a clever tiger, Watson, who can operate a hacksaw.”

 

He gestured to the severed bars.

 

“Cut through. Then you mean it was no accident?”

 

“It could be many things Watson, but an accident is not one of them. There may be an animal on the loose, but there is a man behind it.”