“But Honourable Father His Majesty get very—” He paused for another consultation. “Very agitated. Wants to go looking immediately, go to Tokyo and see if the book safe. His Highness have to call in doctor to calm him. Pill, you know? But then sent doctor away again, and say to Honourable Father, book very safe, locked away in personal vault, fire not harm it, nobody possibly steal it, absolutely secure where it is. Much better to leave it there than to travel with it across the roads to show it to His Majesty, neh? And His Majesty agree, and feel less agitated—drugs, neh? But before he go to sleep, he tell His Highness a story about this book. About how Ninkō Emperor see the gift and think it a good place to hide away a document. Tempō era very filled with unrest, rebellion, famine. Only thirty, forty years after French revolters cut off King’s head. Dangerous to have a document like this that can be discovered. So hid it away inside the book.
“There it stay. Ninkō to Komei, Komei to Meiji, and now His Majesty. Hidden secrets, as letter say. I do not know what those secrets are. Not even sure if His Highness know—even His Majesty himself. All I know is, Emperor’s book first given by accident, then stolen. Have to get it back.”
“This letter,” Holmes said. “The one received in November. Who was it from?”
“English Lord Darley.”
“Really? Darley put his name to an open demand for ransom?”
“Ah, so—not open. Only say: here is book with hidden truths. You want it back? It for sale. Here how much.”
I spoke up. “Is it possible that Darley doesn’t know what the secret is, either? That he only heard a rumour about the book, indicating that the Emperor of Japan might not wish the thing to become public?”
“Possible,” Sato-san agreed. “But how he know?”
One tended not to criticise the ruling families of host countries, so neither Holmes nor I voiced aloud the main scenario that came to mind: that their somewhat erratic Emperor had carried on a conversation he should not have done, which was overheard by someone who sold secrets. Three years was plenty of time for that conversation to work its way to England, there to find a man who could figure out how to lay hands on a pretty artefact in a cluttered Palace.
“Letter say that this lord was coming to Japan, and he want to sell the book back to His Highness.
“Very, very fortunately, the Prince Regent knew how to find Sato clan. One week after talk with Honourable Emperor Father, His Highness permitted himself a visit to the baths of Mojiro-joku, to the onsen run by the old man whose tricks made him laugh as a child. A man his grandfather had helped after a fall ended his career as acrobat.
“And so, the Sato machine begins to turn. We have friends with ears in England, yes? They find the earl and his wife already left England, sailing here. Other friends find them in Bombay. I telegraph to my daughter: hurry to Bombay by any way she can, money no matter. We wait to hear: has she made it? Or will she go on to meet their ship later, in Singapore, Manila? While we wait, another word reaches us. Two other English travellers, also an older man and younger woman, are about to sail for America.
“I have heard, long ago, about these other two people. One has a brother in the British government. They interest me. If my daughter can make friends with them, they could be help. To delay them for a day, even three, is no great problem. And as it happens, my daughter does reach India in time to join the English lord and his wife.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Between bribes and aeroplanes, my daughter’s travel cost me more than raising my three children. However, my ancestor who asked the Meisho Empress for nothing but a private audience, two hundred and eighty-four years ago? He was given the money as well. Turned out good at investing.”
He smiled. After a time, Holmes spoke.
“It’s more than the money. You went to huge effort to bring us into contact with your daughter. She spent weeks drilling us in Japanese language and customs. At the end of it, you arranged for His Highness the Prince Regent to tell us himself that you are to be trusted. So, what is it you want of us?”
Our host leant back like a fisherman who’s just managed to hook a wily trout. He shot a quick glance at Haruki-san, eyes sparkling.
“My daughter will tell you, sometimes I tell her to do a thing that seems strange, then later say, ‘an exercise.’ Perhaps this an exercise for her. Perhaps is to sharpen a tool, for use one day. Or perhaps,” he said more deliberately, “old Sato-san look into his future. Perhaps he see that there will come a day when my country and yours need a private friend behind a public face.”
Slowly, Holmes nodded. “The tides of international pressures being as they are.”
“American law against Japanese immigration, plus our earthquake stopping most Western visitors, together make for a perilous time. Time for thoughts of isolation and resentment. And if it comes to choice, England will choose America, not Asia.”
I thought it was time to bring things down a bit closer to earth. “All that is far off, and the future can change a dozen times. Today, in this village, your English guests want to know: why are we here?”
He gave Holmes a wide grin. “Your wife is a fine woman, Mistah Holmès.”
“She has a knack for getting to the point,” Holmes agreed.
Sato-san turned his sparkling eyes on me. “A party, Miss Lussell. I wish you to go to a party.”
Something told me I was not going to like this. I sighed. “You’d better call me Mary.”
Sleek black too-large car
Slips down the ancient post road.
Time to speak of death.
The party would not be Sato-san’s affair. It was to be hosted by Lord and Lady Darley, on behalf of the friend’s porcelain-ware company that the earl had agreed to represent, with a guest list that included the highest-ranking financiers and aristocrats in the country—and the Prince Regent. It was the sort of thing that Prince Hirohito would find difficult to attend once the golden bars of the Emperor’s Palace rose up around him, but as Prince Regent, he still had a degree of freedom, to attend the theatre, travel for a soak at his favourite hot springs along the Kisokaido, or stand with a drink in his hand while Westerners vied for his attention.
There would be few Japanese there. Even many of the servants would be British, since the event was intended to be a showcase of the best England had to offer, down to the gloved hands on the silver trays. It would, Sato-san declared, be little problem for two English people to obtain invitations, particularly when they had shared a recent voyage with the host. Western visitors were thin on the ground, these days.
“And you believe Lord Darley intends to exchange his stolen object at this soirée?” Holmes asked.
“His Highness has been … instructed to bring money.” Sato-san’s genial features turned stony at the thought of a foreigner issuing instructions to Japan’s Prince Regent. “Bearer bond,’ ” he spat.
“For how much?”
“Twenty thousand pound sterling.”
The number dropped into the room and sat there for a while. On the one hand, it was a considerable sum for a picture book, even one with its unique provenance. On the other, if one accepted that the future of the Emperor—if not the Empire—rested on it …
“One does wonder if Darley knows just what he has,” Holmes mused.
“I only care that the English lord has the book.”
“And I suppose there is no plan to have him arrested afterwards?”
Sato-san left it to his daughter to reply. “There can be no question of scandal touching His Highness,” Haruki-san said.
“Particularly,” I ventured, “since questions would be asked regarding the book itself.”
“Is shameful enough that His Highness will have contact with this man.”
Incredulity slowly dawned. I looked from daughter to father. “You do not intend for Darley to walk away from this!”
“His Highness would find the memory … unpleasant,” Sato-san replied.
My eyes sought out Holme
s. He looked almost as troubled as I felt. It was one thing to detest a blackmailer, but to condone cold-blooded murder …
“We will find an alternative,” he said in the end, his voice tight.
Sato-san excused himself shortly after that, limping away to join the Prince Regent while Haruki-san supervised the conversion of dining room into bedroom. We walked down the hall to the communal facilities and brushed our teeth, then down the outdoor walkway to visit the benjo. We succeeded in changing our footwear the correct number of times, and stepped back into our quarters without hearing the suck of embarrassed breath that came when one of the maids was witness to some major faux pas.
Holmes and I settled beneath the bedclothes, and blew out the lamp. After a time, I became aware of a play of light on the roof, a stone lamp reflecting off one of the garden pools. I could hear voices, too: once, the laughter of Haruki-san’s father. Later, a different voice raised in anger, followed by a slamming screen and footsteps in the courtyard.
Holmes was not asleep, no more than I was. “How much of today’s talk are we to believe?” I asked.
“Rather a lot of it, I should think.”
“But not all.”
“Verisimilitude may be woven from lies.”
“So what if we just say we’re not going to help them?” I said.
“Do you want to refuse?” Holmes asked in surprise.
“Not necessarily. But one can’t help thinking that Westerners who are privy to a dangerous secret are not in the most secure of positions.”
“You think Sato-san would pull out his sword and behead us if we turned him down?”
“I think he could. Don’t you?”
“I know he could.”
“Reassuring.”
“My dear Russell, our host is not about to leap in and murder us before we’ve had a chance to refuse him.”
And with that, Holmes turned on his side and was soon snoring.
Sleep took somewhat longer, for me.
The next morning, His Highness left the village, climbing into a gleaming Rolls Royce that I would have thought too large for the roads. His guards closed in around the frail, stooped figure with the dark suit and the mask of obedience. The entire staff of the inn lined up in deep obeisance, including the inn’s two English visitors, but His Highness walked past as if we were not there. He seemed oblivious of anything but his motor—or, was his neck stiffer than it had been, his lack of a parting glance deliberate? Had last night’s angry voice been his?
When the sounds of the engine had faded to nothing, Sato-san eased back onto his heels; with the sound of a breeze through standing wheat, the others rose to scatter in all directions. Haruki-san put her hand on his arm, but the innkeeper shrugged her off, turning his dark gaze on Holmes and me. The previous night’s good cheer was gone: the man appeared to be aching, although whether the pain was from his back or from drink, I could not have said.
“The time has come, for me to ask.”
“We will help you,” said Holmes.
“Why?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Do you need to know why?”
“A man must understand the tool in his hand, before he trusts it not to break.”
Holmes nodded, not in the least offended at being compared to a tool. “I am sure your Emperor and his Prince Regent are fine men; however, I have less interest in helping them than I do in stopping a wicked man.”
“So you do not see this ransom as mere business?” Sato-san asked. “Until we are certain that Lord Darley is unaware of the book’s hidden contents, we need to regard this as extortion. Blackmail, not merely fencing stolen goods. The earl has a history of blackmail, and to my mind, there is nothing more evil. Such a man preys on the vulnerable. He turns morality back on itself. To rid the world of one such, I will take your case.” Our host’s eyes shifted to follow a small naked child, wandering down the road in pursuit of a chicken. Then he stood—allowing us to follow his example, to my relief. “My daughter tells me that you understand honour. This has not always been my experience with outsiders.”
“The English gentleman’s code of conduct is little different from bushido,” Holmes replied.
“Although in all fairness,” I pointed out, “one can’t assume that all Englishmen are gentlemen.”
“Granted,” Holmes said. “But in this case, Russell and I understand the duties one has to a client.”
I clarified: “We will do all that we can for your Emperor.”
“Would you die for him?”
Holmes answered this one. “We’d prefer not to. However, that is a part of one’s commitment to a client.”
“Would you make a fool of yourself?”
Holmes laughed. “It would not be the first time.”
Haruki-san spoke up. “Would you kill?”
Three sets of eyes converged on me, but when it came to that question, I was far from untried. “My hand will not hesitate. What about yours?”
I might have touched a live wire to the young woman. Her chin snapped up, her face went dark, but her father merely looked amused.
“There comes a time to test one’s tool,” he said. “That time is now.” He added something to Haruki-san, and walked off.
“Come,” she told us.
We had seen something of the village the previous afternoon, since the onsen was at the northern end of it. It was busier now, either because it was earlier in the day or because it was drier. Businesses lined the road, with greengrocers’ displays of the familiar and the unknown, shops with pots, shops with rolls of bright fabric, shops with farm implements. The women’s clothing was more subdued than in the city, and fewer men wore Western dress, although even here, a number of them had bowler hat and brogues above and below their traditional garb.
The village shrine lay on a narrow street behind the main thoroughfare, a small, simple wooden structure that appeared to have grown from the earth. In typical Japanese fashion, it was an easygoing composite of Shinto and Buddhist, with a torii gate rather in need of paint, an upright slab of mossy granite carved with flowing characters, and half a dozen statues of local kami spirits and Buddhas in the lotus position.
Next door to the shrine stood a wooden building that might have been built at the same time, although it was considerably larger and lacked the statues. The wooden doors along its deep verandas were drawn shut, but for one. A curious glance revealed a simple rectangular expanse of rather worn tatami with no inner walls.
I recognised it, although I had not until that moment realised how pale an imitation my one in Oxford was. “This is a dojo,” I said.
“Jujitsu and karate are national sports,” Haruki-san said. Two sports she had claimed, back on the Thomas Carlyle, to know nothing about.
Was this Sato-san’s idea of testing each other’s mettle? Well, there’s nothing like throwing a person around to cement a friendship.
Haruki-san led us past the structure to a smaller building at the back. This one was far more heavily built than the usual Japanese posts and beams. Its walls were of closely fitted stone and its door was on hinges, rather than sliding. It had one of the few locks I’d seen in the country. She drew a key from the sleeve of her kimono and worked the mechanism. We followed her inside.
High, narrow windows revealed a storage room with stone floors, wooden cabinets covering two of the walls. The third wall was hung all over with weapons: spears, axes, vicious little sickles, maces with barbed ends. The wall on either side of the door seemed to be draped with body parts—which, on closer examination, became sections of armour, from chain mail waistcoats to heavy leather arm protectors.
Haruki-san started pulling open the armoury’s cabinets, revealing yet more objects of mayhem: wood, steel, bamboo, leather; small to massive; dull to bright. Some of them were chained together.
I stood gazing down at a drawer filled with flat metal stars possessing from three to six points, each of which resembled a double-sided razor. I had handled shuriken—ging
erly—in my Oxford dojo, but there was no way to sheathe them, and throwing them always seemed to me a great way to lose a finger, if not a hand.
My contemplation was interrupted by a voice from the door. One of the inn’s maids knelt there with an armful of dark blue clothing, very like the pyjamas Haruki-san had worn on the night we caught her walking the ship’s Marconi wire. On top were tabi of the same cloth, large enough for Western feet. She bowed, separated the clothes into two piles, bowed again, and left.
Haruki-san finished opening the cabinets, bowed, and went to the door.
“You have six minutes to choose your weapons and change your clothing. When you hear the knock, enter the dojo through the door directly in front of you.” She pointed towards a slid-back panel at the large room’s corner. “Your task is to walk out the door at the front.”
I narrowed my eyes at her voice, which had become a little too eager, a bit too pleased with herself. She intended to make me pay for questioning her commitment to death. Would she kill? I could hope she didn’t decide to demonstrate her capabilities on me.
She paused at an odd contraption I had dismissed as a kind of Oriental decoration: a length of heavy bamboo in a frame, suspended over a wooden bucket of sand. She filled a scoop with the sand, levelling it off precisely before she poured it into the open end of the bamboo tube. When she let it go, it sank on its hinge. A dribble of sand began to leak out.
When it was empty, the length would tip and knock against a crossbar.
“Six minutes.” She bowed, and walked away.
I looked at the trickle of sand. I could always just block the hole …
No, that was an unworthy thought for an English gentlewoman. Strictly speaking I was neither—but the shoes were mine to step into.
Dreaming Spies: A novel of suspense featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Page 17