Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

  ‘We—Mr. Fletcher and I—infer that Mr. Hashimoto was assassinated by someone from the organization, whatever it is, and for reasons we do not know.’

  ‘Quite plausible. As I mentioned earlier, someone had slipped a note with a similar inscription under the door soon after we began our voyage and Mr. Hashimoto was subdued after that.’

  Simon Fletcher joined us at that moment.

  ‘Dr. Watson, I happened to hear you as I came up. So someone slipped in a note with those numerals—’

  ‘Yes. How does it happen that you are familiar with Japanese numerals, Mr. Fletcher?’

  ‘A banker who deals in foreign currencies, as I do, must know of other numeral systems. That should not be a surprise.’

  ‘True,’ I admitted.

  ‘Now please recall—was the note slipped under your door before Marseilles or after Marseilles?’

  ‘Before.’

  ‘Now that is very interesting, very interesting indeed. The Japanese joined us at Marseilles. It may mean that they are not involved or that there is another angle of inquiry that must be investigated.’

  ‘Did you tell Dr. Watson of your discovery?’ Mr. Singh asked Simon Fletcher.

  Fletcher shook his head. ‘No, we did not get a chance. Well, let me tell you, Dr. Watson, that I have a theory which I explored and validated. I found a small piece of fibre, most probably part of a hemp rope caught in the shards of glass.’

  ‘Yes, I recall you mentioning that.’

  ‘I wondered how it got there. The porthole is a good fifteen feet below the level of the deck. On Mr. Singh’s suggestion, I went up to check and examined the railings just above. I happened to have a magnifying glass—I am a philatelist and always carry one—and I saw clear evidence that someone had tied some strong rope to the railings, clambered down the side of the ship, broken the porthole, and committed the crime. A piece of fibre was left behind in the glass as the murderer entered or exited the porthole. I leaned down the side as far as I could and searched for further evidence. The paint on the metal had been scratched—clearly by someone who scrambled up after the attack, and who had pieces of glass embedded in the soles of his shoes. In addition, there were a few very small pieces of glass on the deck, which I then matched with the glass of the broken window. There was no doubt at all.’

  ‘Astonishing!’ I cried. ‘Your methods are admirable!’

  ‘Thank you. I am a mere amateur. Now, what I conclude is that someone of light build and weight—and considerable daring and courage—tied this rope to the railing and executed this audacious plan.’

  ‘The Japanese?’

  Shamsher Singh shook his head. ‘No, they are not slim and the hemp rope would not have supported their weight. They could not have entered the porthole.’

  ‘Have you reported this to the captain?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Mr. Singh. ‘The fewer who know, the better. We thought of confiding in you. I suppose it is for the police to investigate and ask us. If they do not do so at Aden, I shall inform the captain.’

  The information was unsettling.

  Mrs. Andrews and Colonel Burrowe came in for some tea and we stopped our conversation.

  We walked onto the deck and watched the western side of the canal—at a distance, in the haze, our fertile and agitated minds persuaded us briefly that we could actually see some of the famed pyramids of Giza, resting places for the royal dead. There was something eerie about the mirage, given our recent experience.

  Soon we slipped into the Red Sea and the North Star made rapid progress in the deep waters as it headed toward the historic port of Jeddah. The bright sun lifted our spirits a little. We saw dolphins jumping in the sea at one point; it was a most pleasant sight. Slowly the feeling of darkness was lifting.

  As we drew closer to Jeddah, I visited the library. I wanted to find a map of the area just to get my bearings right. As I searched in a quiet area, tucked away from sight, I heard a woman whispering in a strange language. Peeping through the books, I saw Miss Bryant having an animated discussion with the two Japanese men. I managed to prevent myself from exclaiming out loud.

  Due to the unfamiliarity of the language, I could not catch most of what was said. But I heard words like ‘Shanghai,’ ‘Yakuza,’ ‘Paris,’ ‘Nippon,’ ‘Sumiyoshi-kai,’ and ‘Joyce-san.’ It seemed clear from the strong and sure way in which she was expressing herself that Miss Bryant was in command of the conversation. The Japanese did not speak as much and generally responded with ‘Hai’ and nodded vigorously. They left shortly, leaving me quite intrigued.

  The halt at Jeddah was brief and without incident. The ship loaded a few supplies and was soon on its way to Aden. I decided to confront Mr. Shamsher Singh.

  I sought him out shortly after breakfast. He was sitting by himself on the deck.

  ‘Ah, Dr. Watson,’ he nodded affably.

  ‘Holmes, there is no need to carry this charade any further.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  I smiled. This time I was a step ahead.

  ‘Holmes, you do me an injustice. An old friendship such as ours—is it necessary to deceive me day after day in this manner? Especially given the circumstances?’

  ‘I am afraid I don’t understand you, Dr. Watson. Are you all right?’

  ‘You, Sir, are a fraud!’ I declared with vehemence, smiling, feeling extremely smug.

  Mr. Singh started violently. ‘A fraud? A fraud! What do you mean by this conduct, Sir? You are certainly either mistaking me for someone else or are deliberately insulting me! How dare you call me a fraud? I demand an apology, Sir!’

  ‘Tut, Holmes! My dear fellow, the game is up! “Mr. Shamsher Singh” indeed! Quite clever! Quite clever! But you have forgotten that I have seen you as an old woman, a beggar, a horseman—this disguise has worn thin now, Holmes. The turban, the beard, the swarthy complexion and the complex Indian accent—well, well, keep it if it makes you happy and if there is a need for it. You will no doubt tell me, by and by, why you are doing what you are doing. But know, my dear fellow, that I have seen through your little game! A most remarkable disguise indeed! But enough! Please accept that John Watson MD recognizes the great Sherlock Holmes conclusively!’ I laughed loudly, attracting the attention of a couple of passengers nearby, who turned for a moment and then resumed their business.

  Shamsher Singh’s face had become a deep red and the veins on his forehead were throbbing. He clenched his fists and stood up, then controlled himself with an effort.

  ‘Dr. Watson. Listen to me very carefully. I would like you to know that I am a man easily provoked to violence. You have been a gentleman thus far and I shall hold back one more time. I do not know who Mr. Sherlock Holmes is and I do not care. I am Shamsher Singh, an aide to the maharajah of Patiala. I am not in any kind of disguise and have no need to be. I strongly suggest you seek medical attention—Englishmen are not used to the heat and humidity of this part of the world and have been known to suffer nervous breakdowns. I can call the physician, if you like. Otherwise this interview is at an end and I must demand that you leave or I shall report this outrage to the captain!’

  Simon Fletcher came by just then. ‘Gentlemen, is everything all right?’

  I realized that I had made an unfortunate mistake and that it would be better to make amends and close the matter quickly.

  ‘I apologize, Mr. Singh! It certainly was a most unforgivable lapse in judgment. I was quite sure you were a close and dear friend in disguise. Your reaction is conclusive. Do excuse me.’ I bowed, quite red-faced with embarrassment.

  ‘Your apology is accepted, Dr. Watson,’ said Mr. Singh, suddenly gentle and most solicitous. ‘These things happen to all of us. Whoever Mr. Sherlock Holmes is, well, he should be honoured to have such a fine friend as yourself. Think no more of it, Sir. If you will sit here—no, no, I insist!—I shall be back in a
moment with a whisky and soda. No doubt the voyage and the recent events have had a regrettable effect. You are a doctor and undoubtedly know about such conditions and how they may be addressed medically. I shall be back, Sir.’ His magnanimity left me even more embarrassed at my conduct.

  ‘Did you mistake him for the late Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective?’ asked Fletcher, quite amused at my discomfiture.

  ‘Yes. I do not know what came over me,’ I said, mortified. ‘Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Fletcher?’

  ‘Of course! Who hasn’t? He is quite well known in banking circles as the one who solved the cheque forgery case at the Standard Norwich Bank. The reputation of the bank would have suffered irreparably if not for his intervention. Yes, we—and I—know the name.’

  Shamsher Singh came back with drinks and the three of us sat together to review matters.

  ‘We have a murderer on board, gentlemen,’ said Simon Fletcher, gravely. ‘All of us are suspects. Let us take the time to look at all the names and their antecedents.’

  He wrote on a sheet of paper.

  1. Hashimoto—dead

  2. Samuel Groves—Captain

  3. Col. James Burrowe—Royal Horse—Penang

  4. Simon Fletcher—banker—Bombay

  5. Mr. Shamsher Singh—Aide to the maharajah of Patiala—Bombay

  6. David Joyce—who is he?

  7. Dr. James Israel—Physician on board

  8. Dr. John Watson—Yokohama

  9. Japanese Gentleman 1—who is he?

  10. Japanese Gentleman 2—who is he?

  11. Miss Clara Bryant—Shanghai

  12. Mrs. Edith Andrews—Aden

  He crossed out Mr. Hashimoto’s name.

  ‘We do not know anything about anyone. If I say I am a banker, can you prove or disprove it? If you say you are an aide to a maharajah, can we prove or disprove it? The answer is no and further, you are not obliged to respond to the question.’

  ‘I believe, gentlemen, that it is quite possible that another incident may occur and therefore we should be careful.’

  ‘Why do you feel so?’ asked Mr. Singh.

  ‘Well, I do not know why Mr. Fletcher feels that way, but I certainly feel it is possible. This is why.’ I told them about the conversation I had overheard in the library.

  ‘Most unusual,’ murmured Mr. Singh, stroking his beard. ‘Certainly suspicious.’

  Fletcher shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. There is some reason why they choose not to be seen in each other’s company. The only name that we recognize from that conversation is Joyce. That could mean he is a fellow conspirator or a victim or someone of interest.’

  ‘The reserved Irish gentleman who joined us at Marseilles?’

  ‘Yes, not very communicative. Keeps his distance.’

  ‘Assuming the reference was to him, what does it mean?’

  ‘I think he is a plainclothesman,’ remarked Shamsher Singh.

  ‘Is that so? And do I recall seeing you speak with him at the dining table a few days ago?’

  Shamsher Singh nodded. ‘Yes. I did speak to him quite casually. Mostly about the voyage and the weather along the way. I did most of the talking, though I have to admit he was pleasant enough with me. These men have certain characteristics. I am familiar with them because I have handled the security of the maharajah of Patiala in the past and have used such individuals. A certain confidence, a taciturn manner, their alert eyes, the manner in which they walk, their efforts to be inconspicuous, their nondescript attire—if you consider the matter, you will see that it is quite easy to detect them, defeating the very purpose they are intended for! But of course, there are exceptions and you have to know what you are looking for.’

  ‘I see your point.’

  Simon Fletcher turned toward me suddenly and spoke aggressively. ‘And you, Dr, Watson? Why should we not suspect you?’

  I was taken aback. ‘I—’

  Shamsher Singh interjected ‘Quite fair, since we are all suspects. You shared the room with the victim. You claim that you slept soundly and never heard the window being shattered and the agony of a man being done to death violently not thirty feet away! Why should we believe you?’

  I was silent for a moment. ‘Yes, that certainly is something to think about. All I can say is that it is the truth. I slept very soundly that night.’

  Shamsher Singh turned toward Simon Fletcher. ‘A banker en route to Singapore? Very interesting. What is your alibi?’

  ‘None, except that I had never met Mr. Hashimoto before—and I cannot prove that either. I am heavy. I could not possibly have come down the side of the ship and entered the cabin that way.’

  ‘But you could have entered the cabin the regular way by picking the lock and staged everything while I was sound asleep,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Possible, but not probable. The porthole, the Japanese numerals scrawled on the paper by Mr. Hashimoto—no, a good try, but I think I pass.’

  ‘I have nothing specific in my defence,’ said Shamsher Singh, pre-empting us. ‘I spoke to Mr. Hashimoto only a couple of times, introducing myself once and asking about the weather the next time. I do not know how to swim and would not have rappelled down the side of ship. My size again rules out entry.’

  ‘So, do we, three intelligent men, assert that only a very light and lithe person is likely to have entered the porthole by rappelling down the side of the ship, killed a person twice his size, and disappeared quietly without alarming Dr. Watson? Barely credible,’ said Simon Fletcher, a trifle cynically.

  We halted our conjectures at this point as Mrs. Andrews came up excitedly.

  ‘Another day! Just another day and I can stretch my legs at Aden! I am so happy! The end of this horrible voyage! Won’t the three of you come up to the governor’s residence to see us?’

  ‘Perhaps on our return, Mrs. Andrews,’ I said, politely.

  We had a rather quiet and solemn dinner and retired to our cabins quickly, locking our doors securely.

  We reached Aden at dawn. The British outpost would have been an opportunity to step outside and refresh ourselves in relatively familiar conditions. But we were all still a little apprehensive, unsure about what to expect and so chose to stay on board. Mrs. Andrews disembarked after saying good-bye. It was a pleasure to see her joy on sighting her husband, a man of some forty summers and an excellent specimen of the kind of expatriate Englishman that is spoken of so admiringly at the highest levels.

  And so we moved on quickly. Our next stop was to be Bombay, which I had visited once many years ago while a young doctor in the British Army.

  There was now, on the North Star, one less passenger.

  Three days after sailing from Aden, several nautical miles from the shores of Yemen and in the heart of the Arabian Sea, David Joyce vanished.

  At breakfast, we did not remark upon his absence because we knew he was a man of irregular habits, usually given to eating in his cabin. At lunch, Simon Fletcher remarked upon his absence as did Colonel Burrowe. The captain promised to inquire if Mr. Joyce’s health was a concern.

  Shamsher Singh, Simon Fletcher, and I were in the lounge reading old editions of The Times when the captain rushed in, very upset.

  ‘Missing! He is missing!’

  ‘Who is?’ enquired Simon Fletcher, his manner alert, limbs quivering with nervous tension.

  ‘David Joyce! The gentleman we picked up at Marseilles! I went to his cabin to check on him, but he was not there. I alerted the crew and everyone has looked for him, but he has vanished. Gone!’ The captain’s face was red with agitation.

  ‘He can’t just vanish!’ I said, trying to calm him. ‘Let us see! Perhaps the library? The lounge? Maybe the deck?’

  The captain was once again a nervous wreck. ‘Thorough search! Looked everywhere! Missing! Nothing but t
rouble!’

  The four of us rushed to David Joyce’s cabin. The bed looked as though it had been slept in, with the blankets half on the floor. We looked around for a clue to his whereabouts.

  ‘Here!’ exclaimed Shamsher Singh, pointing under a mat on the wooden floor. ‘Look! Those stains—blood?’

  There were several irregular patches on the floor. Fletcher and I bent down to look closely.

  ‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘This is blood and it has not dried yet. You can see stains on the mat too. It was placed there to cover them up.’

  The four of us looked at each other. A cold chill had crept into the room.

  Dr. James Israel rushed in, summoned by the captain. With a practiced eye, he took in the scene and raised his eyebrow. ‘Man missing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the captain, his voice trembling.

  Simon Fletcher spoke with great deliberation. ‘I think he was woken up in the morning and killed when he opened the door. No sign yet of a struggle. The cabin is only ten feet from the railings. I suspect he was stabbed and thrown overboard. I do not think we will find him.’

  The captain sat down heavily on the nearest chair, his face ashen. He said nothing, too overwhelmed to express himself. The nightmare simply refused to end.

  The rest of us examined the room for any other indication of what might have happened.

  ‘Not a clue, but I think you are right, Mr. Singh. He was from the police. Take a look.’

  On a little table were some of David Joyce’s effects: a pen, some money, a Scotland Yard badge, and a blank sheet of paper showing clear impressions of writing on a separate sheet.

  ‘Interesting…interesting,’ muttered Simon Fletcher, holding the paper up against the light from the cabin’s porthole and squinting.

  ‘Ah! It seems that David Joyce was drafting a telegram to one Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Let me read whatever I can.

  Yakuza members clearly under the control of…it’s indistinct…can’t tell what it is…

  Hashimoto killed in the manner suspected and described to you earlier. Inform Consul. H. is safe.