Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

  ‘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, Holmes-san?’

  ‘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 toward 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 toward 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 forever 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 toward 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? Arima-san 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 hallucinogen 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 holding 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 th
e 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 reported 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’ 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 today.13

  Arima-san was the perfect host. Our stay at Kinkaku-ji allowed us 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 soon dock into Yokohama. 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 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.

  13Enquiries have been made in the year 2014 by the office of the publisher of Poisoned Pen Press to trace the painting in the vast archives of the Kinkaku-ji temple. The curator first indirectly confirmed the existence of such a painting but has thereafter declined to provide further details. The secrecy is mystifying.

  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.

  My first impression of Tokyo as the train entered the city at about five o’clock in the morning was of a crowded and congested city. We were received at the station by the Japanese lady that Sherlock Holmes had spoken of, Miss Masako Nohara. I was struck by her extraordinarily confident demeanour and the manner in which she carried herself. She was attractive but not overly so. There was no question of being deferential; she spoke to us as equals. Her English was fluent, without the slightest trace of an accent. It was evident that she was very well travelled and knowledgeable.

  ‘I am delighted to see you again, Mr. Holmes,’ she said, as we settled into our carriage. ‘I was never in doubt that you would arrive here unharmed, but I gather it has been quite an adventure.’

  ‘Yes, a long and interesting journey, Miss Nohara. Dr. Watson and I have certainly had some interesting experiences. And how is Mr. Oshima now?’

  ‘He has recovered. He sends you his regards and hopes to receive a complete report soon. Tell me, though, why did you come through Kyoto?’

  ‘We thought we had been compromised. It made sense to seek a different access point. We sheltered at Kyoto for a time.’

  ‘I am sure you were involved, somehow, in the recent incident at the Kinkaku-ji temple. I heard from my sources that two Englishmen had helped the police there deal with a rather delicate problem, concerning the suicide of a senior priest.’

  ‘An opportunity to glean another insight into the workings of the human brain.’

  ‘Well, we could do with you here, Mr. Holmes. The police are not—shall we say—adequately progressive and scientific in their methods.’

  We reached the guest house to be greeted warmly by Jiro Hamada, the former sumo wrestler and bodyguard who had helped Holmes earlier by introducing him to Japan and its language and culture. While I refreshed myself, Holmes and Miss Nohara spoke on many matters for a couple of hours and she then excused herself, promising to be back by noon. Holmes then turned his attentions to his preparations, playing a few snatches on his violin while referring to the sheet music he had brought with him. In the midst of a singularly serious situation, it is remarkable that he could turn to music and keep his mind occupied.

  Miss Nohara then escorted us to the Office of Intelligence Research. Sherlock Holmes took with him several sheets of paper on which he had made copious notes.

  We reached Oshima-san’s office and were escorted inside by his aide, Mr. Suzuki. Hamada-san sat outside, on guard, on Miss Nohara’s instruction.

  Oshima-san bowed.

  ‘It has been too long, Holmes-san, too long, ne! Two years! I am delighted to see you well and back again in Japan.’

  He turned toward me. ‘This is a great honour, Dr. Watson. I have heard so much about you. I am hopeful that we shall have time to discuss some of the many cases that you have chronicled so admirably. Perhaps one day the story of the services rendered to our nation by Holmes-san and you will be made known.’

  ‘Miss Nohara mentioned that you had been ill but I did not expect to see you this pale and weak. You seem to have lost weight as well,’ remarked Holmes thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, an unexpected illness. I had a delicacy, a fish called fugu, which requires great care in preparation because it is very poisonous. Perhaps the cook erred. Nevertheless, I am quite well now.

  ‘You did well not to communicate till you actually reached the shores of Japan, Holmes-san. We are unsure of so many things now. Professor Moriarty’s reach is deep inside Japan as well. I cannot imagine your struggles in reaching Japan. We received news of you last from Bangkok. Then you seemed to have given everyone the slip. Most commendable.’

  Holmes sat back in a large chair with half-closed eyes. Oshima-san’s attendant opened the door to enquire if he could bring in some tea, but Miss Nohara waved him away impatiently and asked him to return in fifteen minutes. The door was shut. Oshima-san, Miss Nohara, and I waited, expectantly, for Holmes to speak.

  Holmes stood abruptly and shook his head.

  ‘No, Mr. Oshima. What I have to say must be presented to the entire group that is familiar with the objectives of Operation Kobe55. The ramifications are so extreme that we simply cannot afford to keep this information with us any longer. Japan will be at war with every European power. Diplomacy will be stood on its head—no one will trust the other. A rot has set in that needs to be savagely excised, without delay.�
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  Oshima-san was silent for a moment. ‘I can certainly bring in the ministers and the chief of police. Sugiyama-san reached Tokyo from Switzerland yesterday to attend to some matters. Of course, you may perhaps not be aware that the list of eleven has been reduced to eight over the past three months, with the unfortunate deaths of Nishikawa-san, the minister of Finance, Takenaka-san, our ambassador to France, and Kasama-san, our consul in Shanghai.’

  Sherlock Holmes spun around. ‘Really? I was not aware of this. A singular coincidence—three deaths in the past three months! What were the circumstances?’

  ‘Nishikawa-san had a heart attack at a cabinet meeting. Takenaka-san died in his sleep in Paris and Kasama-san slipped in his study in Shanghai and suffered a fatal concussion when his head hit the edge of a table.’

  ‘Did you not find that unusual?’

  Miss Nohara spoke. ‘Certainly, when you look at it in totality, it does seem peculiar. I personally looked into the deaths of the ambassadors, but the police and medical reports appear to be above reproach. There was no poison detected in the first case and the injuries in the second were consistent with the shape of the object that caused the concussion. Nishikawa-san’s death was not unexpected as he had long suffered from a weak heart. And—’

  ‘No!’ Holmes shook his head, disagreeing vehemently. ‘No! I am afraid I must insist—insist!—on a meeting this evening at five o’clock—three hours from now—of the remaining members. There is absolutely no time to lose. These deaths are not mere accidents or isolated events. The matter is converging by the second. Anarchy is mere days away. Our lives are in serious danger. I must insist further that Dr. Watson be present at the meeting. The time for action is now. The Kobe55 Committee must meet immediately and that must include the emperor!’

  Oshima-san shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘An immediate audience with the emperor? I am afraid that is impossible. There is protocol and it would take days for his palace officials to grant us an audience. I can convey your message to the emperor’s private secretary in a sealed envelope if you insist on secrecy, but I—.’