Sherlock Holmes In Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

  I busied myself with my accounts and wrote out a letter to my wife informing her of my arrival in India, avoiding the mention of the phoenix-like appearance of Sherlock Holmes. It would have disturbed her and I realized that Holmes’s existence still needed to be cloaked.

  I suddenly heard a very subdued scratching. I turned towards the door; the sound was certainly from that direction. I saw the handle being tried very gently in an attempt to push it open.

  ‘Who is there?’ I cried out.

  The sound ceased immediately and I heard the patter of feet running in the corridor. I rushed to the door, opened it and stepped out. No one was to be seen. I examined the lock on the door – there was clear evidence of fresh scratches on the metal.

  I locked the door from the outside and went downstairs to report the matter to the young manager, Charles Atwood. He was extremely embarrassed and apologetic and came up to the room himself with a couple of staff. They examined the door and concluded that an attempt to break in had indeed occurred. He apologized again. ‘A thousand pardons, Dr Watson. I am shocked, extremely shocked! First time such a thing has happened at Watson’s Hotel! I intend to institute enquiries …’ He assured me that a guard would be placed outside for the remainder of our stay. I stepped inside and locked the door again, quite disturbed, hoping Holmes would return soon.

  Holmes returned at about seven o’clock, after having seen off Shamsher Singh.

  ‘What of the man outside, Watson?’ he asked as he entered and shut the door.

  I told him about the incident.

  ‘Well, we certainly are not wanted by persons unknown, though I imagine I know who the persons are,’ he said. ‘I should have given you my spare revolver, Watson. Nevertheless, there is little likelihood of a recurrence, with both of us here now.

  ‘I saw Shamsher Singh off at the Victoria Terminus, Watson. We had a very interesting conversation. He is, as you would agree, a most well-informed person. And the maharajah has an unusual interest in cars and a passion for polo, apart from having a large harem.

  ‘I am fairly sure we were followed from the hotel for a short while. Once the pursuer – whoever he was – saw us at a safe distance, he perhaps assumed the room was without an occupant and tried to open the door. Did he want to search the room, perhaps? Do we have anything of value here except my Stradivarius? Well, we shall never know.

  ‘I got an opportunity to see the city and make certain enquiries. There is no question of it now. We must not board the North Star and we must take the next ship to Yokohama. But we need a plan – I think I have one, but I must think a little more. We have very little time.’

  ‘We are to be on some kind of a tour of the city tomorrow, arranged by the hotel,’ I reminded Holmes.

  ‘Interesting. Now that gives me an idea. I feel that it is unlikely that an attempt will be made on us in Bombay. An attempt to delay us by engineering an upset stomach by mild poisoning is one thing. But yet another murder is a different matter. If we come to harm, their own plans to travel to Yokohama would be in jeopardy and the captain would have the right to refuse them passage on definite grounds of suspicion and safety. In fact, I am quite sure he would. I went by the North Star just now to see how things were moving along with the repairs and saw him conferring with the police. He told me he had reported the matter in detail and had hired some guards to take along for the remainder of the trip. I hinted that you were unwell. He suggested – with some enthusiasm – that if you continued to be in the same condition, it might be advisable to break journey in Bombay and take the next available passenger ship. I think he prefers to travel without passengers now and would be quite content with only cargo!’

  We closed that eventful day with a thorough look at our accounts and made several entries in our personal diaries. Holmes had thoughtfully brought dinner for us from what he referred to as an ‘Irani restaurant’. ‘We can’t risk dinner here, Watson,’ he said.

  Atwood knocked on the door and insisted that we come down to the lobby for a special concert he had arranged. He was very sorry about the attempted break-in and trying to do everything possible to make up for it.

  ‘A concert of Indian music and dance just for you, gentlemen, compliments of Watson’s Hotel. I feel you will enjoy it thoroughly. And I shall have two guards stationed here, fear not!’

  Holmes was never one to decline an invitation to listen to music. We acknowledged Atwood’s gesture and went down to the lobby. A few other guests had assembled, though Colonel Burrowe, Miss Bryant and the two Japanese were absent.

  A small number of Indian musicians came in and sat down on a raised platform. Then, for an hour or so, we listened to a gentleman sing in a most peculiar way, waving his arms in the air from time to time, while keeping pace with a percussion instrument called the tabla. Sometimes he roared, sometimes he whispered. He grimaced, frowned, laughed, wept, leaped up in the air, bent backwards and held his hand to his ear as though he could not stand his own singing. There was another bowed instrument called the sarangi which was being played by an old man who seemed to have fallen asleep, hunched over it. The sound of the sarangi was shrill, hideous and positively alarming, if not devilish. The gentleman tried in vain to follow the hysterical outbursts of the singer, but failed repeatedly. A young man was enthusiastically striking the tabla with vigour and smiling repeatedly at us in the audience, hoping to elicit our appreciation. At one point the singer seemed to point at me menacingly and his voice rose to deafening heights, almost as a threat, only to be followed by some kind of cajoling whisper; the audience seemed very appreciative, but I was mystified and even a little apprehensive. I could make nothing of the chaotic formulation of sounds and near-violent singing, but Holmes seemed to enjoy it immensely. There was no sheet music and yet the troupe seemed to carry on and on, with a particular sequence being some kind of a refrain. I found it a bit tiresome, while Holmes was spellbound. After the concert, he went up to the musicians and engaged them in conversation, asking about the instruments and the music. I was glad when we finally returned to our suite, where our guards were waiting for our return. Much later, I was told that the singer was famous for a musical form known in India as ‘thumri’ and the exposition was essentially romantic, an explanation I found bewildering. I had developed a blinding headache.

  The next day promised to be eventful. Holmes discussed his plan and I agreed that it seemed daring and viable.

  The following morning, having packed very carefully, we went down to the lobby of the hotel and joined our fellow passengers in the dining hall. The two Japanese were at another table in deep conversation. Moran had not yet arrived. Clara Bryant was at her charming best, greeting us effusively and speaking of a shopping expedition she had been on the previous evening.

  ‘A colourful city, Dr Watson. Full of interesting sights and markets. I visited a place called Crawford Market and picked up quite a few antiques. A very fascinating country, don’t you think?’

  I appreciated the fact that she was so full of energy at her age and stage of life. ‘It certainly seems so. You do enjoy your shopping, Miss Bryant! I remember our little adventure in Alexandria.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she said, with a most attractive smile. ‘But where have you been, Dr Watson? I saw you at lunch yesterday, I thought.’

  ‘A delicate constitution, Miss Bryant. Something I ate seems not to have agreed with me.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ She shook her head with genuine concern. ‘That’s India and the tropics, you know. You can never be too careful. I always carry some bicarbonate of soda with me – would you like some?’ She had the most expressive blue eyes.

  ‘I have already had some, thank you. Still a bit woozy but I do need to recover and make sure I travel on the North Star this afternoon.’

  ‘You are a brave man, Dr Watson!’

  Holmes spoke. ‘That he certainly is. Did you know we had an attempted break-in at our suite last evening? Dr Watson here had the presence of mind to thwart the attempts of th
e scoundrels. Didn’t I warn you about the natives? Just can’t trust them!’

  ‘I’m shocked! But that’s rather uncharitable, Mr Fletcher. I think the people here are quite nice,’ said Miss Bryant warmly. ‘How do you know it was a native?’

  Holmes shrugged. ‘Who else could be so audacious? Mr Singh warned us too, just before he left.’

  ‘He left?’ exclaimed Miss Bryant, surprise in her eyes. ‘What a charming gentleman he was. I never had a chance to say goodbye.’

  ‘Yes, he left yesterday for Delhi. Almost an Englishman, I thought. His language, his manners – quite elegant,’ I remarked.

  Moran joined us at the table and expressed happiness that we would be moving on in the afternoon. ‘Can’t wait to get to Penang and kick back in a hammock!’ he said.

  Conversation was desultory. We were to take a brief tour of the city before returning and departing for the dock. I grimaced occasionally and held my stomach and everyone looked at me sympathetically. I refused to eat much and sipped a little tea.

  ‘Your name is very familiar, Dr Watson,’ said Miss Bryant suddenly. ‘Why do I feel I have heard it before?’

  ‘I could not say. But perhaps you have read my chronicles of the adventures of my late friend Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ said Colonel Moran. ‘He died two or three years ago, didn’t he? A bad business in Switzerland, if I recall.’

  ‘Quite so. We were close friends. A most astute and intelligent individual.’

  ‘Was his body ever found?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. It is a very tragic situation.’

  ‘Ah, I see the coaches are here. It is time for our little tour of Bombay. Will you be joining us, Dr Watson?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I said, with a forced laugh.

  We boarded the two coaches the hotel had arranged for us and were off. The two Japanese and Colonel Burrowe were in one and Holmes, Clara Bryant and I were in the other.

  We went to various points of interest – Juhu Beach, the Mumba Devi Hindoo Temple (just from the outside), the Haji Ali Mosque (again, from the outside) and many more. At Chowpatty beach, a number of vendors suggested we partake of a local delicacy called bhel puri. Only Holmes and the Japanese were willing to take the risk (the process of preparation appearing unsanitary to the extreme) and were quite appreciative of its merits. Meanwhile, I continued groaning and clutching my stomach.

  I finally declared, in a weak and feeble voice, that I would go back, rest for a short while and head straight to the North Star. It was already about half past ten. The expedition was to take another hour, it appeared. Miss Bryant was dismayed that we were leaving for the hotel just when we had reached the fascinating Chor Bazaar (a place where thieves resold their ill-gotten acquisitions furtively at a modest profit and which, I was alarmed to discover, was a place where some of Queen Victoria’s stolen violins had resurfaced – but I digress). Holmes was most solicitous and helped me climb back into the coach and we made our way back to the hotel. As the horses galloped away, he looked back for a second. Clara Bryant was speaking with the colonel, while the Japanese had disappeared into the market.

  ‘Colonel Moran is no fool, Watson,’ said Holmes, his face set and grim. ‘He knows who I am. Having me around was comforting for him; in our absence, he will sense that there is some game afoot. Your histrionic abilities are quite remarkable, by the way. I must recommend your talent to the Shakespeare Theatre when we return to London!

  ‘Now we rush to the hotel and take a coach to the North Star. Every second is of importance!’

  We reached the hotel and brought our luggage down to the lobby. As we settled our accounts, we informed Atwood that we were leaving early for the North Star.

  Atwood was anxious and solicitous. ‘I hope your brief stay was pleasant, Mr Fletcher. I am so sorry for the incident yesterday. Dr Watson, are you sure you wouldn’t like to be examined by a doctor? I can arrange for one immediately.’

  ‘Thank you but I must decline. This voyage is a must, I’m afraid. I shall rest on board. Thank you again.’

  We moved on and the coach reached Bombay port where we alighted. We tipped the coachman after our luggage had been offloaded and bade him goodbye. We busied ourselves in examining our effects, while Holmes covertly watched the coach’s departure.

  ‘The coachman is out of sight now,’ said Holmes. ‘We must act!’

  He engaged a much humbler local contraption, a horse-drawn tonga, onto which we loaded our effects. Then we moved on quickly in a direction away from the port, with no chance of being intercepted. A note: Some years later, I ran into Atwood at the Reptile Gallery of the Natural History Museum in London. He had not changed much and was as ebullient as ever. He remembered me quite well, and recalled the way Holmes and I left for the port.

  He said that the other group returned shortly to Watson’s Hotel after a tour of the city. As they alighted, they enquired about us.

  He told them that we had insisted on departing for the ship for Dr Watson preferred to rest on the ship. Miss Bryant asked him to check if the coachman had indeed dropped them off at the port. She seemed very pleased on hearing a confirmation. For some reason, Colonel Moran was not equally enthusiastic.

  Atwood said to him that it was always a pleasure to see such camaraderie amongst passengers. He supposed such long voyages fostered friendships.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Colonel Moran grimly, walking into the hotel.

  ‘A queer bird, Dr Watson,’ said Atwood, returning to the present. ‘I wonder what became of him.’

  A Journey through India

  So old is that land, that soul of humanity, my friend,

  that we must ask the stones and the breeze if they know

  its age. Pray to the Buddha in Kyoto and he will tell you

  to travel to India and pray to him there as well. Shall we go?

  ‘Not a moment to lose, Watson!’ shouted Sherlock Holmes, as we raced away from Bombay port. ‘Check our luggage again, I beg of you. There is a train to Calcutta from the Victoria Terminus in forty minutes. I purchased the tickets last evening when I went to see off Shamsher Singh. We must leave before it is discovered we are not on the North Star!’

  We had slipped away from our inquisitive and rather malevolent fellow passengers. I imagined that Colonel Moran would be chagrined by our deception and would suffer from a bout of apoplexy. ‘But the man is clever, Watson. It is never a good idea to underestimate him or Professor Moriarty. Let us see what happens.’

  Holmes was entirely undisturbed by the chaos, noise and smell about us. As for me, India was overpowering even at that tense moment. The tonga-wallah found space in front where there was none. Dogs, cows, other tongas, the yelling of the rickshaw drivers, the endless shouting and click-clacking of vehicles, the extraordinary mass and swirl of humanity, the absolute unconcern of people as they crossed the narrow roads, seconds and inches away from certain death – it was overwhelming. I saw some holy men sitting right in the middle of a pavement ignoring the pedestrians who in turn went past them without complaint. Even though I had seen action in Afghanistan and was minimally acquainted with Karachi and Lahore, I had never really seen this side of life in India.

  But during the mad dash to the Victoria Terminus, Holmes was the picture of equanimity. The violent shaking of the tonga left him unperturbed. He sat regally, his chin sunk in his chest, in a classic position of repose that signified he was thinking. He could as well have been sitting in a hansom cab in London or in his chair at 221B Baker Street. His acute mind was processing facts, finding solutions, eliminating worthless information, determining the best and most optimum course of action.

  ‘Pray hold on to my Stradivarius firmly, my dear fellow,’ he remarked over the babble of noise about us. ‘It is a delicate whimsical instrument unused to such chaos, heat and humidity.’

  ‘With my life, Holmes. Lead the way, I shall follow, violin in hand!’ I shouted, almost thrown off the tonga as we
briefly descended into an oversized pothole.

  ‘Do you have any view of the classical music of India, Watson?’ he suddenly asked just as the carriage passed over yet another large pothole with a sharp jolt and complete indifference to our well-being. ‘I found the concert most enchanting.’

  ‘I have no idea, Holmes,’ I yelled, holding onto my hat and my sanity. ‘I don’t understand their music and followed nothing last night. All they seemed to do was shout!’

  ‘An unfortunate conclusion, Watson. I have quite the contrary opinion,’ said Holmes in a disapproving tone.

  ‘An unusual country, Watson,’ he continued, in his normal tone. ‘The music is an acquired taste, but is quite enchanting. The Hindoos have mixed religion and melody and created a powerful concoction. I hope to research this matter and write a monograph once we conclude our journey and of course, to try their melodies on my violin soon. Then again, there is the little challenge of reaching Tokyo in one piece as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Holmes!’ I cried, exasperated. ‘How can you think of monographs at a time like this?’

  ‘There is no time, my dear Watson,’ said Holmes in an even voice, unperturbed by the annoyed neighing of the horse as it passed by a cow emptying its bowels desultorily in the middle of the road, ‘when I do not think of monographs. Knowledge must be captured and liberally distributed. That is my chosen means for the dissemination of whatever I glean from my experiences.’

  The tonga-wallah was shouting at the top of his voice, demanding space. Other, equally choleric individuals shouted back. I could barely hear myself. Next to me was a man considering the musical notions of the natives.

  We reached the Victoria Terminus and while Holmes paid the fare for the tonga, I collected our effects and proceeded to the platform where our train, the Bombay-Calcutta Mail, was waiting to depart. The station was absolutely choked with humanity and the streets of Bombay looked deserted in comparison. We pushed and shoved our way through, ignoring the beggars who had seen us and hoped to benefit from our munificence. Holmes moved quickly, not perturbed in the slightest. In a few minutes, we found the first-class carriage and our coupé and settled down. Holmes shut the windows even though the weather was sultry. ‘A precaution, Watson. Who knows who is watching us?’