Ito reached into his pocket and retrieved a handful of coins. Four shillings and 10 pence, it marked the extent of the money currently at his disposal. He handed it all to the woman, speaking to her in English. It was a language he had only recently grown serviceable in.
“Another time. This is to help support you.”
Would she find his charity presumptuous? The woman’s eyes widened for a moment, but a smile immediately crossed her face. “Thanks awfully,” she said in an undertone, taking the money without offense. “You’re a gent, though. Where’re you come from?”
“Japan.”
“Eh, where’s that?”
“The farthest East. Even farther than China.”
“And do they all put a hand in the pocket for the ladies there?”
Ito smiled. “Maybe not all…”
“Right then,” muttered the woman, placing the money in her pocketbook. “Thank the mussies for ye. With this I’ll be after some bread ’stead of just currant cake and porridge. And with butter, not drippings.”
“Life is hard?”
“Ain’t it though. Everyone’s busted around here. You’ll want to keep clear of the metal hawkers. Costers, that lot, and set their wares too dear,” said the woman, standing up. “That’s me then. Thanks for the crack.”
The woman’s golden hair, which hung down her back in a braid, swayed like a horse’s tail as she walked away.
The proprietor cleared away the woman’s cup. She hadn’t taken a single sip. The proprietor evidently considered Ito a rube. He could read it in the man’s face.
Not that he was wrong. Ito stood up, feeling lighter, and walked away from the stall.
He glanced about. The fog, which a year or so earlier he had found romantic, he now knew owed half of its density to the coal burning from factories and homes. He was no longer so eager to breathe it quite as deeply as before. The walls of the buildings were also stained with soot, and the cobblestones on the street were significantly damaged. There were cracks and holes as far as the eye could see.
Half of London lived in poverty. Those living in the centrally located City and the West End were upper class. The other neighborhoods were located in the East End. Less prosperous areas, however, could also be found scattered, like the enclaves in East End, throughout the City and West End. Even the bustling commercial Strand district teemed with vagabonds in the side-alleys. Cheapside, too, was an example of such a place.
After Ito’s grueling voyage, which had lasted four and a half months, his first sight of London had been like the glimpse of a promised land: a stonework capital where steam-powered locomotives raced with the wind and lofty cathedrals pierced the sky. It was such a breathtaking sight that he had wondered if he had died at sea and was seeing the afterlife.
Now, of course, he knew better. Once he had believed that England was a land of dreams—but if there was much worth emulating here, there was also much that was not.
Suddenly the air was split with the cracking of hooves. A hansom cab drew up short just as it prepared to round a corner. Directly, a boy ran in front of the cab and dashed across the street. He looked to be around ten years of age. Unlike the other children Ito had spotted along the thoroughfare, this boy was dressed in high quality clothing. His cap, jacket, vest, shirt, and boots all suggested he was middle class or higher. Although the boy was thin, his complexion was healthy. His thinness clearly wasn’t due to malnutrition. There was also a maturity to his face, perhaps due to the proud jut of his hawk-like nose. The tremulous manner in which his eyes darted about, however, as if the world was still new to him, was in better keeping with his actual age.
An older, much heavier-set boy leaned out from the carriage—closer to a man, really, than a boy, perhaps in his late teens. He shouted frantically at the other boy. “Sherlock! Oi, Sherlock. Wait!”
But the boy named Sherlock paid him no mind, slipping between passersby before dashing across Ito’s path.
The older boy finished paying the cab and then alighted onto the street. He lumbered awkwardly as he moved, his bulky form nearly bursting from his frock coat. Although he gave chase, he was not very fast. The distance between the two boys only grew.
Sherlock glanced back at his pursuer several times. Not paying enough attention to where he was running, he collided directly into a stall lined with metal wares. The stall—a two-wheel pull-cart—was hurtled sideways. Pots and ladles careened across the cobblestones with a tumultuous crash.
Sherlock froze in place, a sheepish expression upon his face. The older boy finally caught up to him, now out of breath.
“Ahh…” He scowled, grabbing the young boy by the arms. “Have off. What’s the point of running, Sherlock?”
Sherlock shook the boy’s arm off. “If you want to go you can go without me, Mycroft.”
“You promised today you’d finally see to your lessons with Master Partridge.”
“I loathe Master Partridge. His lessons are a waste of time. He’s a know-nothing. I don’t see why anyone should sit for him.”
“You’re only angry that he scolded you for being disorderly.”
“That’s not true. He couldn’t even answer a simple question. I only asked him why oysters don’t cover the entire floor of the sea.”
“I’m sure he thought it was a silly question.”
“And what is wrong with asking a teacher to explain something I don’t understand?”
The boy was rather argumentative for his age. No sooner had Ito finished the thought, however, than he saw the two boys interrupted by a brash shout. “Hoy!”
Sherlock and his brother turned around. Three brawny, thick-necked men stood behind them. All three wore their hair cropped close. Their jackets and vests were coarse, even by working-class standards.
“We ain’t selling this lot now,” shouted one of the men, his eyes bulging in a rage. “You’re chucking up for them. It’s a tenner, right.”
The older brother seemed afraid. Sherlock, however, appeared unperturbed. He returned the man’s gaze and answered calmly.
“Naturally. If I might convince our parents, of course? After all, you are hardly engaged in a reputable trade.”
“Are you boshing us? You know how much we put down on this?”
“You put down not one shilling. The nails on the thumbs of your hands are splintered, and there are marks from bruising on the pads of your fingers, as well. This tells me that you possess not even a single pry bar, and are in the regular practice of prying open wooden cargo from the merchant ships with your bare hands. In the common parlance, I believe such acts are generally referred to as larcen—”
Sherlock was cut off mid-sentence. The man had struck him across the cheek with his fist. The boy was thrown bodily off his feet and landed on the street in a heap.
Mycroft quickly stepped between the men and his brother. “Please, you’ll have to forgive my brother for being rude. His schooling has been getting on poorly of late, and I’m afraid he’s begun to get in a way.”
“Right so?! You lot are trussed out in fine enough clobber! Let’s see if the older one ain’t gonna get his own shiner, neither!”
“Enough!” shouted Ito.
The entire street fell quiet. Even the carriages stopped short as the coachmen turned to look. There wasn’t a person nearby who was not now staring at Ito.
The three metal hawkers also stared at him, dumbfounded. Ito strode toward them quickly. Now that he was nearer, he could see just how large they were. Ito, meanwhile, was no taller than the two boys. The top of his silk top hat just barely reached the men’s chins.
One of the hawkers stepped close, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Oy, what’s this? Another godfer wants to empty his pockets, does he? Fancy I could do your coat up as a nursery jacket and turn it over for a penny. Give it over then, before—”
He reached out with both hands to grab Ito, as he spoke. Ito reacted instinctively. He grabbed the man’s lapels in both hands, and took a deep step backward. He planted his elbow into the man’s side, and quickly pivoted close. Turning his body, he threw the man backward, over his shoulder.
The crowd erupted in surprise. The man whistled through the air before striking the cobblestones on his back. Ito hadn’t meant to throw him hard enough to cause serious injury. The man, however, lay sprawled on the ground, spread-eagled. He appeared to be unconscious.
Ito’s top hat had tumbled to the ground. Retrieving it would have to wait.
The two remaining men stared at Ito with expressions of disbelief. The eyes of Sherlock and his brother were wide as well.
Finally, one of the men darted forward. “Damned Chinaman!”
Already he had closed the distance between them. Ito calculated quickly. The situation this time demanded karate, not jujitsu. He squared his arms to his chest and without dropping his shoulders delivered a lightning-fast rising punch. The man staggered backward with a groan as the punch connected squarely with his jaw. Ito pivoted the heel of his dominant foot toward the man, delivering a thrust kick with the edge of his other foot. The man doubled over, clutching at his stomach before tottering to his knees and collapsing.
Ito stared down at him. “I am not Chinese.”
The remaining man reached into the push-cart, prying free an iron bar. It was at least four feet long. He began inching toward Ito, brandishing the bar in both hands. His eyes were bloodshot with anger.
Just then, a woman’s voice called out to him. “Hoy, Mr. Japan!”
Ito glanced over only to see the prostitute from earlier. She tossed him a length of wood. It was merely a squared wooden plank, but it was as long as his opponent’s weapon and appeared sturdy enough. Ito gripped it in both hands, like a katana, and settled into a stance. He held the plank with one corner facing down, thus ensuring a downward strike would deliver considerable force.
The man rushed Ito with a whoop. Ito stepped forward without hesitation, parrying his opponent’s metal rod to the side and following with a full-weighted strike to the man’s brow. The man froze. His eye fluttered back in his head, his body went limp, and he crumpled to the ground.
The prostitute who had thrown the stick let out a cheer and clapped her hands together. As if to squelch her enthusiasm, the shrill sound of a police whistle immediately pierced the air.
The color suddenly drained from the older brother’s face. “Confound it, it’s the police.”
Ito helped Sherlock up, hurriedly. “Can you run?”
Sherlock nodded. Ito swiped his top hat from the ground and cut from the scene with the two boys.
While the scenery around them was for all intents identical to any street in the East End, they were in fact in Cheapside, part of the area known as the City of London. They needed only to slip through a side-alley for their surroundings to morph into those of an orderly metropolis. Ito ushered the boys into a Hamish restaurant he often went to. It was a small establishment, frequented by tourists and other foreigners. Here, even the unlikely combination of an Easterner with two English boys would not draw stares.
The restaurant was fairly quiet in this lull between peak hours. Ito sat down at the counter and ordered three lemonades from the bartender.
“Where are those four chaps you’re always mucking about with?” said the waitress, Enola, teasingly. “It looks as if you’ve finally found yourself some English mates. They’re a tender lot though, I’ll grant you that.”
“I thought I should make some friends my own size,” Ito replied with a grimace. “Enola, may I have a damp towel?”
“Straight away,” she said, dipping behind the counter.
Sherlock took the towel from her and pressed it against his cheek, which was beginning to swell. One eye was hidden behind the towel, but the other stared unblinkingly at Ito.
“Is something wrong?” asked Ito, curious.
“One of your four friends is acquainted with an English gentleman in Hakodate, but you yourself have never been introduced to the man. Your trip to England is also your first foray abroad. You have never been to America.”
Ito’s jaw gaped, despite himself. He stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back, unperturbed.
“I believe you forget to thank the man,” the older boy admonished. He turned to face Ito. “You saved us earlier. We can’t begin to thank you. My name is Mycroft Holmes.”
“My name is Shunsuke Ito. I am 22. How old are you, Mycroft?”
“Seventeen. My brother, here, however, is only ten.”
“And very mature for his age. He is clever.”
“You mean clever,” Sherlock muttered.
“What?” Ito said.
“Your C sounds like a K, and your V sounds like a B. If you aspire to smooth communication then you should apply yourself to proper pronunciation.”
A tinge of anger appeared in Mycroft’s face. “Sherlock!”
Ito smiled, waving Mycroft off with one hand. “It’s fine,” he said, taking a sip of the lemonade Enola had brought. “He is correct. The pronunciation of C and V is difficult for Japanese people. It is also very hard for us to distinguish between L and R.”
Sherlock seemed to be fast regaining his former confidence. “Like the Chinese.”
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, raising his voice. “Enough.”
Sherlock, however, continued to stare at Ito in fascination. “It’s something, rather, that a group of stowaways should be housed under the care of Professor Alexander Williamson and his wife. However did you manage such an arrangement?”
Ito broke into a coughing fit, choking on his lemonade. “How did you know that?”
“Professor Williamson and his wife both work,” Sherlock added, “but they take supper with you and the other Japanese men once a week.”
Mycroft shook his head. “Not once a week,” he said. “Once every three or four days.”
A sense of alarm stole over Ito. They had taken great care to keep their daily activities a secret, and now two young boys he had just met were describing those activities in detail. Accurate detail. It was unsettling. “Forgive me, but would you mind telling me where you heard such rumors?”
“Please, forgive our rudeness,” Mycroft interpolated apologetically. “There were no rumors. This is a poor habit of my brother’s.”
“A habit?” Ito glanced at Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed quietly, still holding the towel to his face. “You speak with a Liverpool accent. I read in the papers that the British legation at the international trading port of Hakodate was staffed largely by persons from Liverpool. Your pronunciation, however, is far from natural. Obviously you learned English from a friend who learned English from someone at the legation. From the manner in which Enola spoke of them earlier I gather that your four friends are all Japanese.”
“You’re awfully keen for a boy of ten,” Enola said, a look of amazement on her face.
“In America,” Mycroft said, suppressing a grin, “they refer to a sweetened carbonated lemon beverage as lemon squash, not lemonade. In America, lemonade refers to sweet lemon water without carbonate. I presume my brother noticed that you did not hesitate when ordering.”
Ito fidgeted restlessly, reaffixing his smile. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew the rest.”
“You were aware of which street to take without pausing,” Sherlock continued dispassionately, “which leads me to conclude that you have been in London for about a year. However, your sleeves are also stained with brill shrimp sauce and oyster soup. The fact that you are still unaccustomed to English dining manners after such a period of time tells me that you and your fellows are left to partake at your own liberty, with but few opportunities to dine with your hosts.”
Mycroft seemed exasperated
. “Sherlock, you are being terribly rude.”
“You are also wearing the pocket watch chain that London University presents to professors upon every five years of service,” continued Sherlock, his expression unperturbed. “I have read in a book that Japanese men are very proud, so I imagine the same gift was made to all five men. Even if the professor in question were appointed at the age of 30, allowing one more chain for the man himself, he would have to be over 60 now. To harbor stowaways for payment, such a professor would likely be retired and thus find himself strapped for—”
Mycroft quickly cut in. “What my brother means to say is that you appear to have received instructions in deportment, allowing us to deduce that the professor has a wife. Perhaps they are a couple with several children who have grown up and moved away, thus allowing them to furnish you with rooms.”
“The professor’s wife, however, works outside of the home,” added Sherlock. “Your laundry is insufficient, she lacks leisure to instruct you in British English, and cannot take meals with you every day. I have an interest in chemistry, and often read articles pertaining to Professor Williamson, who was awarded the Royal Medal. I couldn’t help but notice that the particulars of his career, his level of comfort, his domestic situation, and even the working habits of his wife coincide with these particulars.”
Ito leaned forward. “One more point. How did—”
“How did I know you were a stowaway? The scars on your palms have not yet fully healed. They show you had repeatedly wrapped rope around your hands. You were in charge of hoisting the sails for your entire journey, work which is usually relegated to the lowest members of a ship crew. The oil in the detergent used to polish the decks causes the hands to blister. There would be no reason for a mere impoverished laborer to stay with the professor and his wife. However…”
“There is more?”
“Despite your status as a stowaway, I presume you found your passage quite agreeable. After all, even after remunerating the captain and Professor and Mrs. Williamson, your funds were more than adequate to provide for yourselves in comfortable circumstances, were they not?”
Sherlock Holmes Page 3