Sherlock Holmes In Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

Mr Holmes stepped up to the painting and studied it and the frame very carefully with a magnifying glass. Then he attempted to lift it and gave up after a couple of tries.

  ‘So you say that this painting is new.’

  ‘I have not seen this before. It may not be new, but I know he never displayed it. I am quite sure of that.’

  ‘Ah. The painting may be old. But I see that the frame is new.’

  ‘The face is somehow familiar,’ said Kurosawa-san, frowning. ‘I have seen it recently, but I do not recall where.’

  Mr Holmes examined the late priest’s effects and the account books very closely. He removed a slip of paper from the pocket of the priest’s kimono, which had been kept folded on the bed after the funeral.

  He handed it to me and asked me what it was.

  ‘This is a ticket to a recital by the great koto player Yatsuhashi Miyagi at the Minamiza Auditorium, a place used for kabuki and musical performances. This was on the day prior to his demise.’

  ‘Was he in the habit of attending concerts?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘He was a great connoisseur of music. He had a deep unspoken passion for its spiritual significance and was himself a brilliant koto player.’

  ‘Did he perform in public?’

  ‘No. Music was, to him, a personal matter. But I know that he was extremely gifted.’

  Mr Holmes’s eyes moved to the koto with the broken strings, still lying where it had been found. He bent down and looked at the cut strings and the metal cutter very carefully and nodded. His eyes were reflective as he stood.

  ‘Why would he cut the strings?’

  ‘I do not know,’ I replied. ‘It seems an impossible thing for him to do. Practically sacrilegious.’

  ‘Not necessarily, not necessarily. There is an element of finality in the act.’

  ‘Did he maintain a personal diary?’

  ‘I could not say. Let me look.’

  I went to his desk to look over his documents. Finding nothing, I looked behind the desk and saw a crumpled piece of paper.

  ‘Ah, here is something!’

  I picked it up and smoothed it out.

  ‘This is in Hayashi-san’s handwriting. Let me translate it for you.’

  ‘Music is nothing but heaven itself. When I play, I touch heaven.’

  ‘Miyagi is inferior, yet people applaud. This too is an illusion.’

  ‘I am a mere monk who no one knows. And he – utterly amateur and worthless as a player – he is worshipped. How can he play thus?’

  ‘He always knew I was better. His father threatened my poor mother and forced her to make me a monk. What option did she have?’

  ‘Emiko! Emiko!’

  ‘I have spent a life in contemplation and music. To what end?’

  ‘The entries appear disconnected,’ I remarked, ‘though I get the impression of a man in the grip of a negative emotion. This is strange because I do not recall seeing him upset. Of course, we have a very set routine and spend a lot of time in meditation. It is possible our ability to observe worldly events has dulled.’

  ‘Perhaps we get a glimpse of the psychology of the man, in spite of what you believed him to be,’ murmured Sherlock Holmes. He paced the room, frowning, head bent.

  ‘What does “Emiko” mean?’ Dr Watson asked. ‘Is that a name?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A woman’s name. Though I could not say who she might be.’

  ‘I just remembered something! I attended the same concert last night,’ interjected Kurosawa-san suddenly. ‘And now I recall why that painting seemed familiar. I saw an older woman there in the front row who had some resemblance to the woman in this painting. I am sure of it. I never forget a face.’

  ‘Capital! This opens a new line of thinking,’ murmured Mr Holmes. ‘Mr Kurosawa, may I ask you to please check on a couple of points?’

  He scribbled something on a slip of paper. Kurosawa-san glanced at it, nodded, rewrote the text in Kanji and passed it on to an aide.

  At this point, another detective entered the room in a hurry and spoke to Kurosawa-san.

  ‘We have made a breakthrough. Three witnesses claim to have seen Hayashi-san and Miyagi-san after the concert. They overheard Hayashi-san inviting him for tea!’ Kurosawasan was excited.

  ‘From this you conclude …?’

  ‘We must hold Miyagi-san immediately on suspicion!’

  ‘What is the case?’

  ‘A ticket to the concert. Three witnesses who overheard the invitation to tea. Two tea cups. The death appearing to have been caused by poison.’

  Sherlock Holmes looked dubious. ‘Well, well, I am not completely convinced, but I do not have much more to go on. Something does not seem quite right. Every instinct protests. Meanwhile, when do you expect to know about the contents of the tea cup?’

  ‘By this evening.’

  ‘Excellent. Shall we meet again at eight? Is it possible for you to avoid detaining Mr Miyagi till we have had a look at the results?’

  ‘Yes. That is not a problem. I shall be back.’

  Kurosawa-san and his aide left the monastery after sealing the room again.

  ‘This would be sensational, of course,’ I said. ‘Miyagi-san is a very accomplished and famous koto artist. For him to be arrested on suspicion of murder …’

  ‘Yet something is not quite right.’

  ‘If the scrap of paper showed that he was jealous of Miyagisan, why would he invite him over for tea? Why would he even attend his concert?’ Dr Watson enquired.

  Sherlock Holmes halted in mid-stride. ‘Watson! Now that is a remarkably astute observation. A musical monk visits the koto concert of someone he believed to be his inferior, uncharacteristically invites the artiste to tea, writes apparently incoherent sentences suggesting jealousy and depression and is found poisoned. Inexplicably, his koto has broken strings. And what of the discovery of a hitherto unknown painting of a woman? Is a picture emerging? No? Well, let us withhold judgement. We may be close to the answer.’

  We waited in my office for the report to come in. Sherlock Holmes sat back in a chair, lost in thought, his eyes far away. Dr Watson looked at the ancient manuscripts and objects of art and history that were on the shelves. We discussed the history of the temple and the kinds of studies that the monks pursued. I was pleased to note the gentleman’s interest in our religious beliefs and in our temple.

  Kurosawa-san came in precisely at eight.

  ‘Well?’ asked Mr Holmes eagerly. ‘Was I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Kurosawa-san. ‘Perfectly right. We checked. Miyagi-san and Hayashi-san were students of the same koto teacher at the same time. Miyagi-san belonged to a prosperous Samurai family, while Hayashi-san was of much humbler stock and was raised by his mother who was very poor. They knew each other well but were not friends and, in fact, disliked each other intensely. Hayashi-san was considered superior, but he abruptly chose the life of a monk, perhaps because Miyagi-san’s father spoke to his mother and, in those days, absolute obedience to a Samurai family was taken for granted. Miyagi-san pursued a career in music. He married his teacher’s daughter, Emiko, and she was at the concert last night.’

  ‘That answers many questions. And the tea cups?’

  ‘A confirmed mixture of arsenic and an unidentified chemical suggesting a hallucinogenic in one cup. Nothing in the other.’

  ‘The other being the half-empty cup?’

  ‘Yes. How could you have guessed?’ Kurosawa-san gasped in admiration.

  ‘Nothing but logic, Mr Kurosawa. In itself, the case is now quite clear, gentlemen, and provides yet another odious glimpse into the sinister workings of the human mind. So, Mr Kurusawa, do you have a better view now?’

  ‘No, Holmes-san. In fact, I am even more confused now.’

  ‘Let me help you. But may we take another look at the painting?’

  ‘The painting? How is that relevant at this time, Holmessan?’

  ‘Oh, I think it is very relevant. If nothing else,
it will confirm my conjecture.’

  The painting was brought in.

  ‘Permit me to remove the frame,’ said Mr Holmes, his eyes shining.

  With a pocket knife, he gently removed the painting from the frame.

  Behind were several small packets of papers, tied together with a string. He handed them over to me.

  ‘Please read the papers, Mr Arima. I think they are connected to the matter and I would like your confirmation.’

  ‘How did you know these papers would be there?’ asked Kurosawa-san, shocked.

  ‘I guessed, but was not entirely sure. I noticed the fresh scratches on its sides, showing that the painting had been newly framed. When I tried to lift it, the painting seemed slightly heavier than what I would have expected, with a slight but definite tilt towards the right. I saw some paper coming through the edges there. Someone had been trying to hide something and not done a clean job. Let us review the contents. I may be wrong, but even if I am, it should not alter the facts materially.’

  I untied the strings and opened the papers. In a moment, it was clear that these were letters. These were expressions of love from Hayashi-san towards Emiko. I shall give only two examples, because the love of a man for a woman is private and must be respected as much as possible, even after his death. Here is a small extract from one, which I translated into English and read out for the benefit of Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.

  Emiko,

  These words will never be read by you and yet I must write them. I have painted you and I feel you here. It is enough. I am now just a monk and my life is slowly passing by. Why did you marry Yatsuhashi? You knew that my koto sang poems of love for you. You knew that he was inferior. Yes, I was poor but I thought you did not believe that to be important. But was it?

  To paint you and to play the koto … music and colour and love …

  I have composed a beautiful tune in your memory. I shall never play it. The world shall never hear it. But it is my masterpiece. I have never conceived of anything more pure. If I meet you after we die, I shall play that piece for you. The heavens shall be silent for ever after.

  And here is an extract from another.

  Emiko,

  I turned sixty-two today. Forty years have passed since I last saw you. Every day I look at your painting. Every day you look different. I share your life, unseen. Did you have children? Should they not have been mine? The clouds in the painting are quieter today; perhaps it means that you are at peace. But a few days ago, I felt you were upset about something and the clouds were very restless. I asked you what the matter was, but you looked away again and did not reply. You have not spoken to me for forty years. Will you speak to me tomorrow?

  All of us were deeply moved upon hearing the tragic, searing tale of unrequited love. Finally, Mr Holmes spoke.

  ‘And so, gentlemen, I hope the matter is now clear. Mr Hayashi was not killed – he committed suicide, but wanted it to be seen as a murder. How and why? For this we must consider the psychology of the man.

  ‘Mr Kurosawa says that Mr Miyagi and Mr Hayashi learnt the koto from the same teacher and were not well disposed towards each other. His notes point to a feeling of extreme jealousy over the fact that a less-accomplished artiste who was his musical rival made a name for himself, while he was perhaps forced to become a monk. He joined this temple and was anonymous for the most part, at least as far as the outside world was concerned. And even more significantly, he loved a woman – Emiko – who rejected him and married his rival. Over a lifetime, jealousy and bitterness consumes him. He visits a concert and sees the woman he has loved all his life. Rage finally overwhelms him and reason is discarded. This is his only chance to act and ruin the career and life of his adversary – by staging his own murder and making it appear that Mr Miyagi had something to do with it.

  ‘He goes to the concert and later asks his adversary to visit him for tea. Why, when there was no question that Mr Miyagi would accept the invitation, given their past animosity? Arimasan specifically said that he always spoke softly. Yet he, quite incongruously, invites Mr Miyagi in a loud voice. Why, Watson?’

  ‘I cannot imagine why, Holmes, unless there was someone within earshot he wanted to inform.’

  ‘Precisely! Because he wanted people to hear him. He wanted people to remember that there was an invitation extended to Mr Miyagi! The man has made lightning plans and wants to seize the moment.

  ‘Now he returns to Kinkaku-ji in a ferment and continues with his routine but with his mind clear on what is to be done. He brings out his painting and frames it, after inserting his love letters behind. He cuts the strings of his koto in a gesture of closure – there is symbolism there; remember that he is at heart an artist with an enhanced appreciation for the dramatic. He pours tea in two cups, so that it would appear that someone had tea with him. He puts arsenic in his tea cup and none in the other and drinks from his own. Then he lies down and lets the poison takes its terrible course. He probably calculates that the police will not find arsenic in the other cup. A scrap of paper is conveniently found – I would even conjecture it was placed there deliberately – hinting at a long festering streak of extreme hatred and the fact that Mr Miyagi’s father manipulated his career. The ticket provides further clues in the direction of Mr Miyagi. He ensured that his invitation to Mr Miyagi was heard by several persons. The cut strings of his beloved koto, something no one could imagine that he would do, to suggest a vicious spiteful rival. It does not take much to conclude, based on circumstantial evidence, that Mr Miyagi murdered him. He will, at the very least, be harassed severely and will be looked at with suspicion till he manages to clear himself, if at all, because I do not know the nature of the laws that protect the alleged accused here in Japan. His career will be ruined. In Mr Hayashi’s mind, killing himself is worth the cost and would bring about some kind of warped closure.’

  ‘The half-cup?’

  ‘Evaporation over the period of a day, nothing else. The full cup of tea became a half-cup!’

  ‘The look of terror on his face?’

  Mr Holmes shrugged. ‘I imagine it was the hallucinogenic or a realization that he could not reverse his action. We shall never know.’

  ‘Excellent, Holmes-san!’

  Kurosawa-san bowed. ‘There is no doubt about what you have said, Holmes-san. We have no basis for withholding Miyagi-san. A man’s reputation has been saved just in time.’

  I was distressed, however. ‘Holmes-san, in one way I am glad that an innocent man has been exonerated. But it is a matter of anguish that a close friend orchestrated his own death with such cruel intent. We at the temple are contrite. His action has brought dishonour to us. How can anyone accept the idea that a monk with such a great reputation would be consumed by the desire to harm someone else?’

  Mr Holmes was reflective. ‘An idea may take a lifetime to mature. Jealousy grows over the years and can consume you, as I have seen. A motive for murder may be completely irrational. We eliminate the most obvious ones and then the bizarre and improbable become likely. A man hides behind the cloak of a respectable priest at a famous temple for years. His mind is preoccupied by the whats and whys of a life gone by. A glorious musical career. The love of a woman. He could have neither. The seeds of bitterness lie within, waiting for exactly the right time to germinate. I have seen this again and again and you may even recall, Watson, the time we were engaged to handle the case of the attempted assassination of the Prince of Bavaria. Contrary to what one may think, the majority of premeditated crimes are committed by people over the age of fifty. They have spent years nurturing a certain bitterness about past events and people and have rationalized their plan of action. I believe such was the case here.’

  We were in a sombre mood at dinner. There was no feeling of satisfaction. I knew it would take me a long time to reconcile to the fact that a close colleague had a side I knew nothing of. A brilliant priest, able administrator, outstanding musician and painter – he was now gone, in such an
awkward way, fumbling to bring down another talented man, who he believed had thwarted him in music and in love. He may have succeeded if not for the intervention of this gifted Englishman. I am grateful to Fujimoto-san for having introduced him to us.

  The newspapers did report that Hayashi-san had committed suicide and there was some talk about it, but it died down after a few days. The real reason for the suicide was kept secret; no real purpose would have been served by revealing it anyway. Miyagi-san went his way without knowing how close he had come to disgrace. Neither did Emiko ever know the role she had played in Hayashi-san’s death. On Holmes’s advice, it was decided that the beautiful painting of Emiko be wrapped, sealed and stored in the archives of the Kinkaku-ji temple and unsealed only after one hundred years; that is where it is today1.

  Arima-san was the perfect host. We stayed at Kinkaku-ji for a few days to consider our situation. Meanwhile, the priests began a fairly elaborate set of rituals for the departed soul and I sat through the ceremonies, looking on with fascination.

  Sherlock Holmes was busy preparing for the short trip to Tokyo. Kinkaku-ji had been a safe haven in one way, but we could no longer afford to wait. It was time to leave. The North Star would surely dock into Yokohama in a few days. We could still be apprehended before we completed our mission; it was impossible to tell who on the ship was Professor Moriarty’s man.

  Then finally, one evening, with the generous assistance of Arima-san, we were on our way to Tokyo on an overnight train. Holmes first took the unusual step of sending a wire to Miss Masako Nohara, the private secretary to Oshima-san, requesting her to meet us at the Tokyo Central station the next morning, on the eighth of August.

  Tokyo

  Why do we like each other, my friend? Simple: you did

  not complain when I threw snow at you. You smiled at

  my happiness as the rain fell on my face. When the salty

  breeze from the Sea of Japan whistled through

  our hair, we laughed together.

  The train journey from Kyoto to Tokyo took several hours. We saw the heartland of Japan at close quarters and passed Mt Fuji, a most majestic and imposing sight. Sherlock Holmes looked carefully through his notes, while I busied myself again with my diary and accounts.