Sherlock Holmes

by Keisuke Matsuoka

  The steamboat slowed abruptly. There was something else in the water. Unsurprisingly, it was yet another sailor, this one floating face up. His chest was stained red.

  “Poor devil,” Ito groaned.

  The two must have been the guards on Nicholas’ lifeboat. They were headed in the right direction. “Lieutenant Colonel, don’t slow down. They came this way, there is no doubt about it.”

  Kanevsky gave the order and their speed increased. The steamboat swiftly hurtled through the dense fog.

  “I see them,” Ito cried.

  Sherlock peered into the murk. A small shadow bobbed into view. It was a boat. Its oars were still. Someone stood inside of it—a young Caucasian man, dressed in a frock coat. His clothes made him appear thin, but judging from his stance he was robust and physically well-conditioned. It had to be Denikin. He was waving a Japanese katana in the air. He gripped the hilt in both hands, staring down, ready to strike.

  A man-shaped shadow sprawled at the base of the boat. One arm was thrust forward, and he was clearly begging the other man to stop. He wore a red army coat. He’d probably thrown the coat on in a rush during the evacuation, so that he would be easily recognizable as the crown prince. Nicholas’ terrified face came into focus with the light from their ship.

  It was obvious why Denikin had chosen a katana. Clearly, he meant to stage the attack to make it seem as if Nicholas had been assassinated by the Japanese.

  A third man, sitting in the bow, turned to face Kanevsky’s boat. He was fat, with red hair. He stood up in a panic, pointing in their direction.

  No, not pointing. He held a pistol.

  There was the crack of a gunshot. The sailors crouched low, taking cover. Several more shots followed before their surroundings suddenly went dark. He’d shot their lights out.

  Blast it! A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine. How could they return fire with no light? They might hit Nicholas by accident.

  Just then he felt something shift behind his back. Then there was a splash in the water. Ito was gone! He had just dived into the water. Inches below the surface, a darker shadow sped, porpoise-like, toward the other boat.

  Such recklessness! Sherlock barely had time to register shock before a glaring light flared into existence. He could see again. One of the sailors had lit a torch. The light was bleached and white—made from a mixture of sulfur, saltpeter, and ash, to ensure it would not be extinguished when it touched the sea. The sailor threw the torch onto the waves, between the two boats.

  Now they could see their enemy clearly. The sailors began shooting. They aimed their rifles high. With Nicholas held hostage, they could provide cover fire at best.

  But Chekhov had no such restraints. He fired, and hit one of the sailors. Kanevsky crouched low behind the balustrade. The other sailors took cover as well. Sherlock, too, was forced to crouch low.

  Standing atop the lifeboat, Denikin brandished his katana once more. Nicholas attempted to shrink away, but he was already at the edge of the boat and had nowhere else to go.

  Then there was another splash. A shadow rose from the surface, like a fish leaping into the air. Ito boarded the boat, dripping wet, and grabbed Denikin by the leg. He pulled, hard. Denikin lost his balance and fell.

  Ito was the first to his feet. The boat rocked violently left and right. Chekhov, bent low, grabbed the boat’s edge. Ito’s skillful sense of balance, however, allowed him to maintain his own footing.

  Denikin stood up. He glared at Ito, eyes wide, and took aim with his sword.

  Ito still held the cane. He drew the hidden blade, gripped the hilt in both hands, and squared off against Denikin, his sword brandished high and center. He met Denikin with cold, steady eyes.

  The Russian man struck quickly. Ito’s sword flicked side-to-side in response. The boat rocked so it was difficult to use footwork, but Denikin had the same limitation. Sparks lit the darkness when their blades clashed. Their struggle seemed intense. The swords crossed and it soon turned to a contest of strength, each attempting to push the other backward. Denikin, who was in better physical shape, seemed to be winning.

  The lifeboat began to regain equilibrium. Chekhov resumed firing at the steamboat.

  It was no use crouching at the bottom of the boat forever. Sherlock leaned over the edge. “Lieutenant Colonel, your assistance!”

  “Wait, Holmes,” Kanevsky shouted. “What are you—”

  Sherlock did not hear the rest. He was already in the sea.

  Underwater, he might as well have been blind. But he had expected this. He could hear the sound of gunshots, muffled by the water. The ocean was frigid, but his clothes helped to keep him buoyant. He followed Ito’s example, swimming close to the surface while propelling himself forward with his legs. The current flowed from the side. Sherlock swam quickly, fine-tuning his course as he progressed. There was no time to even take a breath. If he broke water he would surely be shot.

  His head bumped against something hard. He stretched his arms out. It was the hull of the boat. He swam around to the other side, reached up, and grabbed onto the edge.

  As he broke the water’s surface, sight and sound were restored. The first thing he saw was Nicholas, cowering at the foot of the boat. His face was alive with terror. The piercing sound of metal clashing against metal filled the air. Sherlock looked up. Ito and Denikin were still engaged in their fierce swordplay.

  Chekhov sat near the bow. He seemed to have regained his composure, realizing that with Nicholas hostage the steamboat was unable to return effective fire. He redirected his pistol, aiming it now at Ito, who stood mere feet away.

  Sherlock used all the strength in his arms to pull himself up and roll into the lifeboat. Chekhov appeared startled. The boat shook dramatically, and his aim was thrown off. Sherlock chopped him in the arm. The pistol dropped into the sea.

  As the boat continued to rock, Sherlock rose to his feet. Chekhov stood as well, drawing a knife from his pocket. The blade moved threateningly in the air. Sherlock recoiled and the boat nearly capsized.

  The footing here was much more precarious than it had been upon the rocks of the Reichenbach Falls. Denikin, too, lost his balance. Ito, however, was much more adept at maintaining his. Completely unfazed by the unevenness of the boat, he swung again. The tables had been turned. Denikin dropped to one knee. Ito struck from above, again and again. It took all of Denikin’s strength to defend against the blows.

  Chekhov glared. Sweat trickled down his face. “You’d do well not to interfere in Russia’s affairs, Mr. Holmes.”

  “It’s over, Chekhov! Anna Luzhkova and Jacob Akhatov are dead. The Okhrana’s duplicitous plans end here.”

  Chekhov gasped, his lips trembling slightly. “You think I will let the British have Japan? I won’t allow you to take this foothold in the Far East.”

  “Japan has chosen its own independence. Your plot to sabotage and destroy the country is a travesty of international law.”

  “Be quiet!” Chekhov charged, knife-first.

  Sherlock grabbed Chekhov by his lapels and, maintaining his balance despite the heaving of the boat, took a step backward. He jammed his elbow tight into Chekhov’s side. Remaining close, he twisted his body round quickly and threw Chekhov backward, over his shoulder.

  Moriarty’s lanky frame had seemed to almost float in the air when Sherlock had executed this throw on him. The portlier Chekhov traced a parabola instead. He landed against the waves with a smack, creating an enormous splash.

  Chekhov’s body sank, leaving only bubbles before it disappeared from view.

  Or so Sherlock thought—but the man resurfaced immediately, his face barely thrust above the surface and both arms gesticulating wildly.

  “Help!” he sputtered, barely afloat. “I can’t swim, help me!”

  Sherlock hesitated. He glanced at the floor of the boat. The sight of Nicholas’ terr
ified face greeted him.

  Ito delivered another downward blow, followed by an upward cut. Denikin’s katana hurtled into the sea, and he landed heavily on the boards, rump-first. Ito thrust the tip of his sword directly before the man’s eyes.

  A look of fear crossed Denikin’s face. “Kill me then,” he cried unsteadily. “Do it quickly!”

  Ito did not move. He stared down at the Russian.

  Denikin shouted defiantly. “Kill me! Kill me you damned foreigner-killing monkey savage!”

  “Silence!” he roared. “Japan is a nation of laws. You weren’t defeated in the name of joui today. You have trespassed against men of all races, and you will be judged under the law. We are not savages and we are not monkeys!”

  Denikin trembled and went stiff. A moment later he sighed. He slumped his head in resignation.

  Sherlock looked at Nicholas. The Tsarevich seemed half-senseless, and rolled over. Perhaps he had heard the word “monkey.”

  Chekov continued to sputter in the water. His voice, as he shouted for help, was beginning to grow panicked. “Help! I’ll do anything! Dear God, please!”

  The image of Moriarty hurtling down the falls flashed now in Sherlock’s mind. He had watched as Moriarty grew smaller and smaller, bouncing against the rocks before disappearing into the waters below. His conscience had remained untroubled at the time. Was there any difference, now?

  Ito had already sheathed his sword. He stared down at Denikin silently. The Russian seemed to have fully surrendered. He showed no signs of further resistance.

  A nation of laws. Even under their current circumstances, faced with the very blackguards who had plotted Japan’s downfall, Ito remained dedicated to order.

  But it was clear that Ito’s was the ethical choice, and undoubtedly the correct one.

  Still Sherlock could not help but hesitate. So long as he continued to possess the capacity for thought, such doubts would likely always persist. At some point one must stop thinking and act.

  He bent forward. He removed the small life preserver attached to the side of the boat and tossed it to Chekhov.

  Chekhov clutched at it desperately. His head continued to bob vigorously in the water, but it remained now above the surface. He seemed to calm down. His breathing grew less frantic. He stared off into the distance, and then sighed, low and deep.

  Sherlock couldn’t help but snort. He turned back toward Ito. The chairman stared back at him, nodding slightly.

  Their steamboat drew near, its sirens blaring. The water was illuminated by the white glow of the torch. As he was rocked back and forth by the turbulent ink-black sea, Sherlock felt he was drifting through nowhere.

  36

  Nicholas’ cabin aboard the Laskar was elegant. Without the round port window, it would have passed for a mansion’s fine drawing room. But many of the expensive-looking furnishings looked of a different style than the equally expensive upholstery and finishing, and the room felt strangely unbalanced. Nicholas had probably brought in items originally on his flagship—like a child who brings all his precious toys with him when he runs away from home, Sherlock observed.

  The detective stood in the middle of the sumptuous room, with a blanket draped over his sodden self. But he did not feel particularly cold. Nicholas sat on the sofa, his face buried in his hands.

  No one else was present. Ito and Kanevsky waited above deck. Nicholas wished to hear what had occurred from Sherlock alone.

  Sherlock had already finished his debriefing. Nicholas had been lost in silence for some time.

  “Your Highness,” Sherlock said quietly. “As I explained, Soslan Chekhov and Anna Luzhkova were members of the Okhrana before they ever joined the Ministry of State Property. Although His Majesty the Emperor ordered them to spy on you, they were also conspiring to circumvent his plans.”

  Nicholas gave a listless groan. “I can’t believe it. Father was right all along about the Japanese. But the behavior of those two was outrageous. They tried to kill me!”

  Sherlock paused in fury. “I see you still do not understand. It is absurd to say that your father’s actions were correct.”

  “George was a victim of rioting savages, of the Japanese and their beloved joui.”

  “Akhatov and Denikin were the ones who manipulated Sanzo Tsuda into attacking.”

  “But it was Tsuda who actually attacked,” Nicholas snapped pettishly. “He had cruel and barbaric impulses. He was motivated by his naked hatred of the Russian Empire.”

  “He was mentally ill.”

  “As are all Japanese, then. On the surface they smile and act politely, but deep down they are violent savages, no different from monkeys.”

  “Your Highness,” Sherlock said cuttingly, “look out that window. A great number of Japanese have congregated on the waters, officials and commoners alike, to rescue your Russian sailors.”

  “They are only feigning submission to us, as we are a greater power, until they become advanced enough to strike. Once their military and economy might grows stronger, their true natures will be revealed.”

  “You are next in line to become emperor. Such prejudices will serve you ill.”

  “Hardly prejudices. When I become emperor I will be hard on the Japanese. It was Father’s true intention all along.”

  “You plan to go to war with Japan?”

  “I doubt it shall ever come to that. China will crush a small country like Japan.”

  “You are mistaken,” Sherlock said briskly. “From what I have seen so far, if Japan and China were to go to war I expect Japan to win. And not only over China. If you are to become emperor, I imagine they should crush Russia as well.”

  Nicholas jumped to his feet in a temper. “You insolent Brit!”

  “I urge you to remember, you only stomp and rage in this manner now because Chairman Ito and I risked our own lives to save yours. By all rights you should be lying senseless at the bottom of Tokyo Bay, Your Highness.”

  “And if I was, Father would have sent the entire army to Japan’s shores. I only wish I was dead.”

  Sherlock snorted. “Do you truly mean that?”

  Nicholas glared angrily at him. But Sherlock was unfazed, and met his eyes. After a few moments, the Tsarevich blinked. He lowered his eyes, seemingly less confident than before. He sat down again upon the sofa.

  “If the Okhrana have started a rebellion,” Nicholas mused absently, “my father will be hard-pressed to suppress it. There will be civil war in Russia.”

  Sherlock shook his head. “It won’t get that far, Your Highness. If the revolutionaries expand their influence, it would be a threat to the court. Right now the Okhrana keep them in check. The moment your father attempts to purge the secret police, the empire would be capsized. Though he knows the Okhrana work with revolutionaries in secret, he can do nothing to stop them. The Romanovs’ influence is waning.”

  “What would you know?”

  “You don’t believe me? Let me ask you a question. How many of the Russian people would stand up in your defense? Forget the citizens. How many of the soldiers? When you fled the Laskar in your lifeboat, not one of the sailors in the water had any idea which way you had gone.”

  “Those were unusual circumstances. This would never have happened on the Pamiat Azova.”

  “Because your father looks after you and has ordered those men to protect you. But would anyone follow you, without your father? Yet the Japanese people believed it was you who had been attacked, rather than Grand Duke George. They sent letters of concern and prayed for your well-being.”

  “They knew they would be crushed if a war broke out.”

  “And what of Russia? Did your own people show any of the same concern?”

  “By the time I returned home,” Nicholas said despondently, “my safety had already been widely reported. As far as the people of Russia wer
e concerned, my injuries were only minor.”

  “The Japanese people continued to express concern even after seeing those same reports. Shall I tell you why? They respect their Emperor. It seems only natural to them to show that same respect to the royal family of another country.”

  “Are you implying that the Russian people don’t respect the royal family?”

  “The Japanese royal family has existed in harmony with its people for 1,500 years. Even now, the Emperor places trust in Chairman Ito and the other members of his cabinet. But what of the Romanovs? Your family rarely interact with the common people. The citizens are attached to the land, and title in Russia is synonymous with authority. Only those with title may rule. The only relationship is one between the ruling and subjugated classes.”

  “Father has a close relationship with the government and military.”

  “Perhaps, but he is unconcerned with the peasants. It is no wonder that the revolutionaries grow in influence.”

  “No. Father is not mistaken.”

  “If you do not reexamine these beliefs of yours, the Romanov line will surely end with you.”

  A tense smile strained the corners of Nicholas’ lips. His eyes flashed with anger. “I may become Emperor, and I may lose to Japan, and the royal line may fall. But don’t forget, Sherlock Holmes, that we are currently aboard my warship, of the Imperial Russian Navy.”

  “Is that a threat? You mean to suggest that I won’t be allowed to leave alive. If you ordered the sailors aboard this ship to kill me, do you believe they would even listen?”

  “This is the kind of impertinence one expects from an Englishman. But not even Britain is safe from Russia’s might.”

  “Have you forgotten the Ottoman Empire?”

  Nicholas jumped to his feet again. “Who cares about the Ottoman Empire?! It is Japan I won’t forgive. And if Britain sides with Japan then they are just as guilty!”

  “Guilty of what?”

  “Of what they did to George!” The young man’s eyes suddenly welled up with tears. “My brother is in a coma. He is at death’s door…”