A Slight Trick of the Mind

by Mitch Cullin

  “The woman's hand slid from the knob, her fingers curling into a fist, and she seemed on the verge of striking me. As I have said, she is a large, sturdy German, and I have no doubt that she could easily overtake most men. Nevertheless, she restrained her hostility and said, ‘The warning is mine, Herr Keller. You go and never come again. If you bring the trouble around another time, I can have you arrested!” Then she turned upon her heels and entered her flat, slamming the door on me.

  “Badly shaken, I left at once and headed home, with the full intention of castigating Ann upon her return. I was sure she had heard me arguing with Madame Schirmer, and I was rather upset that she had remained hiding in that woman's drawing room instead of showing herself. For my part, I had no reason to deny I was spying on her; she was, by that afternoon, fully aware of that fact. However, to my complete and thorough amazement, she was already home when I arrived there. And this is what I cannot figure out: It would have been impossible for her to leave Madame Schirmer's before I did, especially since the flat itself is on the second floor. Yet even if she had managed it somehow, she would hardly have been able to have my supper cooking by the time I arrived. I was, and still am, baffled by how she pulled it off. During our meal, I waited for her to make some mention of my argument with Madame Schirmer, but she said absolutely nothing about it. And when I asked what she had done that afternoon, she replied, ‘I started a new novel, and earlier I took a brief stroll through the Physics and Botanical Society's grounds.'

  “‘Again? Haven't you tired of it by now?'

  “‘How could I? It's such a lovely spot.'

  “‘You haven't encountered Madame Schirmer on these strolls of yours, have you, Ann?'

  “‘No, Thomas, of course not.'

  “I asked her if she might be mistaken, and, seemingly annoyed by my assertion, she insisted otherwise.”

  “Then she is lying to you,” I said. “Some women have a remarkable talent for making men believe what they already know to be false.”

  “Mr. Holmes, you do not understand. Ann is incapable of uttering a meaningful lie. It isn't in her nature. And if she had, I would have seen right through her and confronted her at that moment. But, no, she wasn't lying to me—I saw it in her face, and I am convinced she has no knowledge of my row with Madame Schirmer. How that is possible is beyond me. Yet I am positive that she was there—just as I am positive that she has told me the truth—and I am at a loss to make sense of any of it. This is why I urgently wrote to you that night and asked for your advice and assistance.”

  Such was the puzzle which my client had presented me. Trifling as it was, however, there were several points about it which I found engaging. Drawing then upon my well-established method of logical analysis, I began eliminating rival conclusions, until only one remained, for it seemed very few possibilities could determine the reality of the matter.

  “At this book and map shop,” I asked, “did you, to the best of your belief, notice any other employees aside from the proprietor?”

  “I recall just the old proprietor, no one else. I am of the feeling that he runs the place by himself, although he doesn't appear to be getting on well.”

  “How so?”

  “I meant to say that he appears in poor health. He has an incessant cough, which sounds rather severe, and his eyesight is clearly failing him. When I first went there and asked the whereabouts of Madame Schirmer's flat, he used a magnifying glass to view my face. And this last time, he didn't even seem to realise I had entered his shop.”

  “Too many years hunched over texts by lamplight, I suspect. All the same—while I am extremely knowledgeable of Montague Street and its environs—I will admit that this particular shop is unfamiliar to me. Is it an amply stocked place, do you know?”

  “Indeed I do, Mr. Holmes. It is a small place, mind you—I believe it was a family's household once—but each room contains row upon row of books. The maps, it appears, are kept elsewhere. A sign at the front of the shop requests that customers take their map enquiries to Mr. Portman personally. In fact, I don't remember seeing a single map in the shop.”

  “By chance, did you ask Mr. Portman—for I assume that is the proprietor's name—if he had seen your wife enter his shop?”

  “There was no need to. As I said, the man's eyesight is quite horrid. In any case, I observed her entering the place myself, and my eyesight is more than adequate.”

  “I do not question your vision, Mr. Keller. Still, the matter itself is unremarkable, yet there are a couple of things which should be settled in person. I will go with you to Montague Street at once.”

  “At once?”

  “It is Thursday afternoon, is it not?” Tugging at my watch chain, I soon determined the time to be approximately half past three. “And I see that if we depart now, we might make it to Portman's before your wife does.” Rising to fetch my overcoat, I added, “We must be circumspect from this point on, for we are dealing with the emotional complexities of at least one troubled woman. Let us hope that your wife is as reliable and consistent in her actions as my watch here. Although it may weigh in to our advantage if she chooses once again to be late upon arrival.”

  Then with some haste, we ventured out from Baker Street, and promptly found ourselves mixing amidst the crowded din of London's busy thoroughfares. And while making our way towards Portman's, I became keenly aware that the problem which Mr. Keller had offered me was, upon pondering its details, of little or no importance. Indeed, the case would surely fail to stir even the literary musings of the good doctor. It was, I realise now, the sort of minor affair which I would have jumped at in my formative years as a consulting detective, but which, by the twilight of my career, I mostly saw fit to send elsewhere; more often than not, I referred these sorts of matters to a choice few of the younger upstarts—usually Seth Weaver, or Trevor of Southwark, or Liz Pinner—all of whom displayed a degree of promise in the consulting detective trade.

  I must confess, however, that my own regard for Mr. Keller's dilemma was not found at the conclusion of his long-winded account, but instead rested solely on two unrelated and yet private fascinations: the musical wonderment generated from the ill-famed glass armonica—an instrument which I had often wished to experience for myself—and that alluring, curious face I had glimpsed in the photograph. Suffice it to mention, I can explain the appeal of one better than I can the other, and I have since decided that my short-lived predisposition for the fairer sex was aroused by John's oft-stated belief concerning the health benefits derived from female companionship. Aside from assuming such about those irrational feelings of mine, I remain truly at a loss to make sense of the attraction which was summoned by the common, unremarkable photograph of a married woman.

  4

  WHEN ASKED by Roger how the two Japanese honeybees came into his possession, Holmes stroked the length of his beard and then—after some thought—mentioned the apiary he had discovered at the center of Tokyo: “Pure luck finding it—would have missed seeing the place if I had gone by car with my luggage, but being cooped up at sea, I needed the exercise.”

  “Did you walk far?”

  “I believe so—yes, in fact, I am certain I did, although I cannot accurately recall the exact distance.”

  They were in the library, seated across from each other—Holmes reclining with a glass of brandy, Roger leaning forward with the vial of honeybees sandwiched between his clasped hands.

  “You see, it was an excellent opportunity for a stroll—the weather was ideal, very pleasant—and I was eager for a look around the city.” Holmes's manner was relaxed and effusive, his gaze on the boy as he recounted that morning in Tokyo. He would, of course, omit the embarrassing details—such as the fact he had gotten lost in the Shinjuku business district while searching for the railroad station, and that as he wandered the narrow streets, his normally infallible sense of direction abandoned him altogether. There was no point in telling the boy that he had almost missed the train for the port city of K
obe, or that, until finding relief at the apiary, he had observed the worst aspects of postwar Japanese society: men and women living in makeshift huts and packing crates and corrugated iron lean-tos in the busiest parts of the city; housewives with babies on their backs lined up to purchase rice and sweet potatoes; individuals crammed into packed cars, sitting on coach roofs, clinging to engine cowcatchers; the countless hungry Asian bodies moving past him on the street, those ravenous eyes glancing every so often at the disoriented Englishman walking among them (carried forward by two canes, his muddled expression impossible to read beneath the long hair and beard).

  Ultimately, Roger learned only of the encounter with the urban bees. The boy remained thoroughly fascinated by what he heard nonetheless, his blue-eyed stare never once straying from Holmes; his visage passive and accepting, his eyes open wide, Roger's pupils stayed fixed on those venerable, reflective eyes, as though the boy were seeing distant lights shimmering along an opaque horizon, a glimpse of something flickering and alive existing just beyond his reach. And, in turn, the gray eyes that focused sharply on him—piercing and kind at the same instant—endeavored to bridge the lifetime that separated the two of them, attempting to do so as brandy was sipped, and the vial's glass grew warmer against soft palms, and that seasoned, well-lived voice somehow made Roger feel much older and more worldly than his years.

  As he journeyed deeper and deeper into Shinjuku, Holmes explained, his attention was drawn to worker bees foraging here and there, buzzing around the limited patches of flowers beneath street trees and in the flowerpots left outside of residences. Then, attempting to pursue the workers' route, sometimes losing track of one but soon spotting another, he was led to an oasis within the city's heart: twenty colonies by his count, each capable of producing a sizable amount of honey every year. What shrewd creatures, he found himself thinking. For surely the foraging sites of the Shinjuku colonies varied from season to season. Perhaps they flew greater distances in September, when flowers were rare, while traveling much less distance while the summer and spring flowers bloomed, for once the cherry blossoms came out in April, they would be hemmed in by a food-rich environment. Better still, he told Roger, the shorter foraging range increased the colonies' foraging efficiency; thus, considering the decreased competition for nectar and pollen from poor urban pollinators like syrphid, flies, butterflies, and beetles—more profitable food sources were evidently located and exploited at a closer range in Tokyo than in the outlying areas.

  Yet Roger's initial query regarding the Japanese honeybees was never addressed (the boy being far too polite to press it). Even so, Holmes hadn't forgotten the question. The answer, however, wasn't forthcoming, lingering instead like a name suddenly caught at the tip of the tongue. Yes, he had brought the honeybees back from Japan. Yes, they were intended as a gift for the boy. But the manner in which they had come into Holmes's possession was unclear: maybe at the Tokyo apiary (though highly unlikely, since he was preoccupied with finding the railroad station), or maybe during his travels with Mr. Umezaki (for they had covered a lot of ground once he had arrived in Kobe). This apparent lapse, he feared, was a result of changes in his frontal lobe due to aging—how else could one explain why some memories stayed intact, while others were substantially impaired? Strange, too, that he could recall with complete clarity random moments from his childhood, like the morning he entered the fencing salon of Maître Alphonse Bencin (the wiry Frenchman stroking his bushy military mustache, gazing warily at the tall, lean, shy boy standing before him); whereas now, on occasion, he might check his pocket watch and find it impossible to account for previous hours of his day.

  Still, as opposed to whatever knowledge was forfeited, he believed a greater degree of recollection always prevailed. And on subsequent evenings following his return home, he sat at the attic desk and—alternating between work on his unfinished masterwork (The Whole Art of Detection) and revising his thirty-seven-year-old Practical Handbook of Bee Culture for a new printing from Beach & Thompson—invariably turned his mind toward where he had been. Then it wasn't impossible that he might find himself there, waiting on the railroad platform in Kobe after the long train ride, looking for Mr. Umezaki, glancing at those moving about him—a smattering of American officers and soldiers wandered among Japanese locals, businessmen, families; the cacophony of dissimilar voices and swift footsteps resonated across the platform, heading off into the night.

  “Sherlock-san?”

  As if materializing from nowhere, a slender man wearing an alpine hat, a white open-necked shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes appeared beside him. In his company was another man, somewhat younger, dressed in exactly the same attire. Both identical men stared at him through wire-rimmed glasses, and the older of the two—possibly in his mid-fifties, Holmes assumed, although it was difficult saying for sure with Asian men—stepped in front of him, bowing; the other promptly did likewise.

  “I suspect you must be Mr. Umezaki.”

  “I am, sir,” said the older one, remaining bowed. “Welcome to Japan, and welcome to Kobe. It is our honor to meet you at last. We are also honored to have you as a guest in our home.”

  And while Mr. Umezaki's letters had revealed a keen grasp of English, Holmes was pleasantly surprised by the man's British-tinged accent, suggesting an extensive education beyond the Land of the Rising Sun. Yet all he really knew of the man was that they shared a passion for prickly ash, or, as it was called in Japanese, hire sansho. It was this equal interest that had initiated their lengthy correspondence (Mr. Umezaki having first written after reading a monograph Holmes had published years ago, entitled The Value of Royal Jelly, with Further Comment Upon the Health Benefits of Prickly Ash). But because the shrub thrived mostly near the sea of its native Japan, he hadn't actually experienced it firsthand, or tasted the cuisine made with its leaves. Furthermore, during the travels of his youth, the opportunities to visit Japan were never seized. When Mr. Umezaki's invitation came, he realized time might not afford him another chance to explore those glorious gardens he had only read about—or, for once in his life, to behold and sample the unusual sprawling plant that had long fascinated him so, an herb whose qualities he suspected might prolong one's life in the same manner as his beloved royal jelly.

  “Let us say a mutual honor, shall we?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Umezaki, becoming upright. “Please, sir, let me introduce my brother. This is Hensuiro.”

  Hensuiro continued bowing, his eyes half-closed: “Sensei—hello, you are very great detective, very great—”

  “Hensuiro is it?”

  “Thank you, sensei, thank you—you are very great—”

  How puzzling the pair suddenly seemed: One brother spoke English without effort, while the other brother could barely speak the language. Shortly thereafter, as they went from the railroad station, Holmes noticed a peculiar sway in the younger brother's hips—as though the weight of the luggage Hensuiro now toted had somehow given him a feminine swagger—and concluded it was of a natural disposition, rather than an affectation (the luggage, after all, wasn't that heavy). When finally reaching a tram stop, Hensuiro put the bags down and offered up a pack of cigarettes: “Sensei—”

  “Please,” Holmes said, taking a cigarette, bringing it to his lips. Illuminated beneath the streetlight, Hensuiro lit a match, cupping the flame. Leaning toward the match, Holmes saw the delicate hands flecked with red paint, the smooth skin, the trimmed fingernails, which were dirty around the edges (the hands of an artist, he decided, and the fingernails of a painter). Then savoring the cigarette, he peered down the dark street, spotting in the distance the shapes of people strolling an intimate quarter aglow with neon signs. Somewhere jazz music was playing, faint but lively, and between drags on the cigarette, he breathed in the fleeting scent of charred meat.

  “I imagine you're hungry,” said Mr. Umezaki, who, since their going from the station, had kept silently beside him.

  “Indeed,” Holmes said. “I am rather tired, as
well.”

  “If that's the case, why don't we get you settled in at the house. We'll have supper served there tonight, if you'd like.”

  “An ideal suggestion.”

  Hensuiro began talking, speaking in Japanese to Mr. Umezaki; those dainty hands gestured wildly—for a moment touching his alpine hat, then repeatedly indicating a shape like a small tusk near his mouth—as a cigarette bounced precariously on his lips. Afterward, Hensuiro smiled broadly, nodding at Holmes, bowing slightly.

  “He wonders if you brought your famous hat,” said Mr. Umezaki, looking slightly embarrassed. “The deerstalker, I believe it's called. And your big pipe—did you bring it along?”

  Hensuiro, still nodding, pointed simultaneously at his alpine hat and his own cigarette.

  “No, no,” Holmes replied, “I am afraid I never wore a deerstalker, or smoked the big pipe—mere embellishments by an illustrator, intended to give me distinction, I suppose, and sell magazines. I didn't get much say in the matter.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Umezaki, his face registering disillusionment—the expression quickly mirrored by Hensuiro when the truth was relayed (the younger man promptly bowing, seemingly ashamed).

  “Really, there is no need for that,” said Holmes, who was accustomed to such questions and, truth be known, derived a modicum of perverse satisfaction in dispelling the myths. “Tell him it is quite all right, quite all right.”

  “We had no idea,” Mr. Umezaki explained, before calming Hensuiro.