Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

  We enjoyed our spicy and appetizing meal. Mr. Singh told us that he was leaving Bombay for Delhi and then going on to Patiala in the evening. ‘It has been a long time away from home, gentlemen. I do miss the food and lively culture of my people, as you must your own by now.’

  ‘The English are not known to be gregarious and spontaneous, Mr. Singh,’ remarked Holmes, with a thin smile.

  We spoke at length about our strange voyage from Liverpool. He expressed anguish about the two deaths on the North Star and the strange murder of the Egyptian in Alexandria. ‘We must always be on our guard. Who can say when we shall be attacked and for what reason? The atmosphere here in India is deceptive. You may imagine we are a peaceful people steeped in gentle mysticism, but nothing could be further from the truth. Violence is around every corner. Trust no one.

  ‘I hope you have a pleasant trip to Japan, Mr. Fletcher and Dr. Watson. I have always wanted to visit that country. Perhaps on your return you will do me the honour of visiting me in Patiala. You will enjoy the experience thoroughly, I assure you.’

  ‘What time is your train, Mr. Singh?’ enquired Holmes.

  ‘At six o’clock this evening. The hotel kindly procured the ticket for me this morning.’

  ‘I should like to see you off, if you have no objection. It would also give me an opportunity to see the city.’

  ‘If that does not inconvenience you, I shall be delighted to have your company.’

  I was baffled by Holmes’ expression of warmth. Why would he take the trouble to accompany a relative stranger to the railway station? But I was too tired to think and instead concentrated on the meal. Sherlock Holmes and Shamsher Singh spoke about various matters such as the Cawnpore question, Governor-General Lansdowne’s recent pronouncements, the ongoing military campaign in the Frontier areas, the turbulence created by A.O. Hume and other political issues rife in British India. I wondered how Holmes always had a reservoir of information on just about anything. We were finally done and walked back to our rooms. It was only about two o’clock in the afternoon, but I decided to rest briefly on a bed that would not, for a change, rock.

  I woke with a start and realized that my brief nap had extended for a good three hours. Holmes was not present. He had left a note on the table: Will see Shamsher Singh off and return shortly.

  I opened the windows and looked outside at the city. The pigeons had quietened down but the streets were still busy. It was noisy, dirty, and quite enchanting. Horse-driven carriages, women walking about in bright saris, dogs lying about disinterestedly here and there, cows standing and chewing indifferently—it was so very different from London.

  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’ existence still needed to be cloaked.

  I suddenly heard a very subdued scratching. I turned toward 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 believe I have one, but I must think a while longer. We have limited 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 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.’ He said, ‘We can’t risk dinner here, Watson.’

  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 men 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.

  ‘What is he doing?’ I whispered to an Indian gentleman sitting next to me.

  ‘He is a famous classical singer, Sir, and he is singing,’ he responded with a wide smile, in a tone of great admiration, while the man in question roared in a blood-curdling manner.

  I sat back, in some c
onfusion; there appeared to be some dissonance, figuratively and literally.

  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. I had developed a blinding headache.

  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.

  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. Burrowe 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?’ I noticed that 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 the 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 good-bye.’

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

  Burrowe 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 Burrowe. ‘He died some time 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 most 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, then 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 Burrowe 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 good-bye. 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 chan
ged 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, the Colonel, Dr. Watson,’ said Atwood, returning to the present. ‘I wonder what became of him.’

  5The name is merely a curious coincidence.

  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 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.’