Sherlock Holmes

by Keisuke Matsuoka

“It’s not nonsense. Major General Soroku Kawakami was watching from the shore. He suggested advising the Russians that they would have a view of Mt. Fuji if they moved the two ships in the back.”

  “Major General Kawakami? Stop making up stories.”

  “No, I heard it from the man himself.”

  “Perhaps we are remembering wrong,” Kitagaichi interrupted, his voice faltering. “It must have been after the ceremony that we saw Mt. Fuji. Isn’t that right, Mukohata? It was after, wasn’t it?”

  Ito seized on his words, too. “I thought that you were celebrating on board after you got medals? It was late at night by the time you left the ship.”

  Kitagaichi’s eyes darted back and forth. He was clearly uncomfortable.

  “You keep messing with us, old man, and we’ll toss you in a ditch,” Mukohata growled.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you…I must be a little deaf.”

  “I’ll kill you!” Mukohata grabbed a beer bottle and staggered to his feet.

  Ito didn’t hesitate to grab Mukohata by his lapels. He lifted his hips, pivoted his body and swung his arms upward. He extended a knee and threw the rickshaw driver backward, over his shoulder. Mukohata traced a parabola in the air before crashing bottom-first against the next table. The table fell over. His body rolled across the floor like an empty bottle.

  Ito had released his grip on the driver at the last possible moment, so as to soften the landing. There would be no bruising, but the mental shock would likely last some time.

  The entire room instantly fell quiet. Kitagaichi stood up, panic coloring his face. Inoue, however, had already unsheathed the sword hidden in his cane in a swift horizontal slash. The blade touched the other man’s throat. Kitagaichi froze in fear.

  The sound of police whistles reached their ears. There was a loud clamor from outside. The public house’s proprietor was nowhere to be seen. He must have run off to call the police.

  Inoue sheathed the blade back in his cane. “Shake your rag!” he shouted at his friend, and with a deft turn of his heel, raced out of the shop.

  Ito scrambled after him. A mob had already begun to collect at the door. He shoved his way through and burst onto the street.

  The two ran as fast as they could along the Sumida River. Though lightfooted in their workmen’s trousers and tabi, they quickly grew winded. Ito developed a stitch in his side.

  But his friend’s face betrayed evident enjoyment. “That was something!” he shouted, the smile on his face bigger than any Ito had seen for some time. “Wasn’t it, Shunsuke? Just like when we were young!”

  Inoue’s smile was infectious. Ito couldn’t help but return it. “Without a doubt, Monta!” His voice was hearty and hale. “Just like when we were young!”

  20

  That evening it began to rain. But with no wind, even with the sliding doors to Ito’s estate open, not a drop fell inside. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the tatami, staring out at the veranda and into the misty garden beyond. It was a sublime evening, wet and twilit.

  Ito had changed into a yukata and was sitting near the low table, but his expression was far more troubled. Inoue, also in yukata, sat against one of the outdoors pillars, his knees drawn up to his chest.

  After listening to their report, the detective had involuntarily snorted. “A smashing show.”

  Inoue furrowed his brow. “Smashing?” he said. “The only thing that’s been smashed are our plans to use the rickshaw drivers to contact the Russians. All because Shunsuke…Excuse me, because Chairman Ito lost his temper.”

  Ito’s expression grew a shade darker. “We would have never gotten any information from those two. Their ears have been stuffed with money.”

  Sherlock nodded. “Ito is right. I am more interested in the unusually lavish reception the rickshaw drivers seem to have received. As I understand, it was largely circumstance that allowed them to set on Sanzo Tsuda when they did; Prince George was the one who created the opening, moments earlier.”

  “That’s right,” Ito agreed. “The only reason the onlookers from the road didn’t come to Nicholas’ aid was that their heads were bowed. They could hardly notice the disturbance at first—they hadn’t even seen it.”

  “Nicholas likely bestowed the drivers with medals because of how it would look internationally,” Inoue conjectured. “Particularly to British eyes. He wanted to avert suspicion from his secret plans to take a hard stance on Japan.”

  “That may be so, but still, their reward remains far too large,” Sherlock disagreed. “Besides, a lifelong pension is usually beyond the discretion of a crown prince. Not to mention the Russian court allowed Nicholas’ diary to be published as is, even though it credits Prince George far more than it does the two drivers. This is very strange, indeed.”

  Inoue glared at Ito. “Perhaps if we had questioned the drivers more carefully, rather than tossing them around the room, we might have learned something. You let your temper get the better of you.”

  “You’re the one who drew a sword.”

  “I was protecting you! I didn’t want the other one to try anything.”

  “You’re speaking as though our time was wasted. Mr. Holmes just said we made a smashing showing!”

  Sherlock smiled. “You may not have achieved our original objective, but you did come away with something. A commendable effort. We now have testimony that they saw Mt. Fuji that day.”

  Ito glanced at him. “It’s true that Mt. Fuji was more distinct than usual that evening. That was what prompted Major General Kawakami to make the suggestion for the better view.”

  “If Mt. Fuji was not visible from the ship deck, we must conclude they left the ship at some point. They must have gone to a location offering a better view of Mt. Fuji, whether at sea or on land.”

  “During the medal ceremony?”

  “From what you described, it sounds as if the rickshaw drivers became quite distressed when you attempted to question them about Mt. Fuji. Why else would they have reacted like that?”

  “The Pamiat Azova is a large vessel,” Inoue observed. “And Major General Kawakami was on shore. So if a smaller boat had been let down the ship’s starboard side, he would not have noticed. And if the boat first headed offshore before turning back, there would be no way to know who had launched it.”

  Sherlock agreed with this apt assessment. “No one but the Russians were aboard the ship. It would have been a simple matter to abscond with the drivers.”

  The door to the room slid open. Umeko bowed once, sitting in seiza in the hallway, and then stood and entered the room with a tray. “Would anyone care for some tea?”

  Inoue rose and approached the low table, and sat down again. “Thank you. I will take some.”

  Umeko laid the table with ashtrays and Japanese teacups. Sherlock took up his pipe and went over as well. Asako and Ikuko entered the room. Ikuko struck a match and Sherlock bent the pipe in his mouth toward the flame. A graceful smile lit up Ikuko’s face when he said thank you.

  Asako held out an English newspaper. “Would you like the paper?”

  Sherlock gave a gentle nod and took the newspaper from her. Articles from England arrived in Japan via wire with only three days’ delay. Compared to how long he’d spent at sea, the speed at which information travelled was astounding.

  “It’s unacceptable that these two drivers are receiving their pension directly from Russia,” Ito muttered, holding his cup in one hand. “The Japanese government ought to step in.”

  “True.” Inoue took a sip of tea. “If our relationship with Russia sours any further, it is important the government be able to cut those pensions off.”

  “The way they conduct themselves, we should even consider revoking their Orders of Merit.”

  Sherlock puffed at his pipe. “Now that the rickshaw drivers are no longer a viable option, we will need to make
contact with the Russians some other way.”

  Ito acquiesced meekly. “I will try Chekhov first; he seems amenable. I expect little will come of it, though.”

  “Yes. He was attached to the younger brother after all, Grand Duke George—not to the Tsarevich. He says he accompanied the Grand Duke on official duties, as well. Though I would like to know what those duties were.”

  Inoue glanced at the detective. “His activities are quite well known in financial circles. For the past several years he has involved himself in labor disputes at the coal mines, lending an ear to the concerns of the peasants.”

  “The concerns of the peasants, you say?”

  “After the Emancipation Reform 30 years ago, Russian peasants began to work in factories and mines. But the woeful mining conditions have proved contentious—and of course, Russia is an absolute monarchy. For the peasants, no amount of hard work can improve their circumstances. Who would apply themselves to such grueling and dangerous work, if there were no prospect of recognition or advancement?”

  “If Grand Duke George is involving himself in labor disputes, does that mean he foresees the introduction of capitalism to Russia?”

  “Many businessmen in Japan thought it might, and were looking forward to new investment opportunities. However, it seems Grand Duke George is genuinely interested in the plight of the peasants, and has been petitioning his father, the Emperor, to improve their working conditions. The financial world lost interest when it learned there was no actual talk of privatizing the coal mines.”

  “And you have heard nothing since?”

  Ito snorted. “Inoue is uninterested unless profit is involved.”

  “Did I not risk my life with you today for the sake of our country?!”

  “You enjoyed yourself.”

  “Yes…” Inoue admitted. “But so did you!”

  The two had to grin at each other. Umeko and the two girls smiled discreetly.

  If Ito refrained from his dalliances in the future and returned home like this more frequently, Sherlock thought, he might look forward to such domestic happiness more often. And Ito, for his own part, seemed to have rediscovered the joys of family.

  And Sherlock had begun to feel the promise he and Ito had made last night was for his own benefit as well. Internally, he had resolved to never try cocaine again. Though he did feel a little restless from time to time, he was already beginning to regain a sense of composure he didn’t know he had lost.

  He glanced absently through the English newspaper. Then one of the articles had caught his eye. As he read, Sherlock swallowed, hard.

  “Is something wrong?” Asako noticed.

  “No…” Sherlock said, but his dazed voice belied him. “I happened to spot my name in one of the articles, that is all.”

  “In an article?” Asako leaned forward. “What is it about?”

  Umeko frowned. “Asako!”

  Ito put on his reading glasses and extended his hand. “Let me see.”

  Sherlock handed him the paper with a morose face.

  Ito took the paper and perused the front page, muttering as he read aloud. “The greatest point of contention in the civil suit into the cause of death of James Moriarty, who is believed to have fallen to his death from the Reichenbach Falls, Switzerland, in May, is the relationship between Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, Esq. Mr. Holmes is believed to have fallen to his death together with Mr. Moriarty. The suit was brought forward by James the Younger, Moriarty’s brother. Unconvinced by Scotland Yard’s conclusion that the two men argued verbally and had tussled before falling together, Mr. Moriarty has argued before the criminal jury that Mr. Holmes murdered his brother. Opinion is also divided over whether Moriarty or Holmes initially invited the other to the scene of the incident. In related court matters, the younger James Moriarty has begun additional defamation proceedings, arguing that allegations of his brother’s involvement in a myriad of crimes before his death are unfounded…”

  Ito’s voice trailed off. He fell silent, and removed his reading spectacles.

  Sherlocks stared wordlessly at the tobacco smoke floating before his face. As far as London was concerned, Japan may as well have been the afterlife. Sherlock’s reach did not extend to the world of the living—he could only watch events unfold from afar. He was powerless even to help the one true friend he had left behind.

  21

  The rain grew stronger as night fell. Sherlock lingered quietly on the veranda, staring out into the darkness of the garden. He crossed his arms and leaned against the pillar, remaining in that pose for a long time.

  He was not currently exercising his logical capabilities. Try as he might to focus, his emotions continued to run amok, interfering with his ability to analyze the attack on Nicholas. For the moment, fruitless though it might be, he preferred to give in to melancholy and grief about London. He searched for some sense of proportion. If he gained some perspective, he might at least approach the Nicholas case better in the morning.

  Though they were concerned, the members of the Ito family had since retired to their respective rooms. No one had spoken to him for some time. But now he heard footsteps approach from the hallway.

  Those footsteps proved to be Ito. “Mr. Holmes,” he whispered. “You should rest.”

  Sherlock let loose a sigh. “I’m afraid Morpheus has yet to visit me this evening. I accomplished very little today. Since I cannot sleep, I would rather absorb myself in this rain, and the darkness of the night. Perhaps I will hit upon a method by which we can meet with Tsarevich Nicholas.”

  “Is that really what you’ve been thinking about?”

  The sound of raindrops could be heard bouncing off the eaves. “It is not,” he admitted soberly.

  Ito’s tone was solicitous. “Mr. Holmes…I stopped reading part-way through the article, but the second half…”

  “I read.” Sherlock nodded. “In both the criminal and civil cases, the only person to rebut Moriarty’s brother’s claim was Dr. John H. Watson. Though I have allies among the police and barristers, they do no more than their jobs demand…Watson alone insists my conduct was honorable.”

  “If a defamation suit is brought forward, Dr. Watson will be quite busy. Hopefully it will not interfere with his practice. You do not fear that Moriarty’s brother will make designs upon his life, do you?”

  “The younger Moriarty is a mere stationmaster in the West Country. He lacks his brother’s cunning mind and propensity for action. Perhaps he is simple enough to even believe the elder Moriarty’s innocence.”

  “You must be desperate to know how the trial unfolds.”

  “Me? No, I am but a dead man. What could I do?”

  “But you worry for your friend. Am I wrong?”

  Sherlock stared out into the darkness, into the garden. “I have caused him much misery.”

  “Come now,” Ito replied gently. “Do you remember the day we first met? When I read in the paper that the Choshu Clan was on the verge of being annihilated?”

  “Yes. I think I can now understand how you felt. If only I could dash over the sea and return home now, I would not care what became of me. I can think of nothing else. Did you feel the same?”

  “If I were to fall before achieving my goals, I still had compatriots to carry them on. You are alone, however. I cannot imagine what you are suffering.”

  Sherlocks dropped his gaze, agitated. “If only my own brother were more capable.”

  “He helped you escape. He seems quite capable.”

  “Moriarty’s brother shows more dedication than mine does. I see Mycroft’s name nowhere in the papers. He allows Watson to expose himself like this while he reclines on a bureaucrat’s chair.”

  “He supports you from the shadows.”

  “No. He is an opportunist by nature. I am sure he has already forgotten his dear, departed brother.”


  “I think, perhaps, that you yourself would rather not believe that.”

  “But I make a habit of only speaking the truth.”

  They were silent for a moment. Finally Ito spoke again. “There is a tanka by Shinsaku Takasugi, written when he was very ill. ‘If you die, catch up to Buddha and Confucius, so that you can finally ask them the way.’”

  Sherlock’s laugh was without mirth. “Very witty. Now that I am dead, I suppose I had better apply myself to finding God.”

  Ito smiled, relieved that the detective could joke. The atmosphere lightened a little. But soon Ito’s expression grew serious again.

  “Mr. Holmes. If you decide you wish to return to London, by whatever means, know that I can prepare a ship at a—”

  Sherlock raised a hand.

  “I assure you that I have no such wish,” he proclaimed. “I owe you my life, and as payment I intend to rescue this country from its crisis of war. I promised as much. I will not renege on that oath, regardless of what may come.”

  He turned his eyes again to the darkness outside. The raindrops seemed clearer than they had earlier, and the sound of the drops were more distinct in his ears. He felt as if his faculties had been honed back to sharpness.

  He turned his back on Ito. “All the clues point to Nicholas. Our only choice is to meet with him directly. If we do not have an intermediary, then we must push through by force.”

  “By force? The harbor is swarming with Russian troops, and he is housed in the very middle of nine warships. It would be more than foolish to sneak onboard.”

  “I doubt the Laskar is our destination. He was only there to facilitate negotiations with Siam. Likely he has long since snuck ashore, and availed himself of more congenial surroundings.”

  “You believe Tsarevich Nicholas is no longer aboard the ship?”

  “If the rickshaw drivers were able to abscond from the ship, there is no reason to assume Nicholas could not do so in secrecy as well. Our problem to consider now is whether he is on Japanese or Russian shores. If he has returned home then our fight is with ghosts. But luckily, the probability of that is small. Nicholas is preoccupied with Japan. Surely he has taken up lodgings somewhere nearby.”