by Mitch Cullin
So there were the letters postmarked in Asia, the subsequent invitation following months of genial correspondence, the eventual trip through the Japanese countryside, the days spent together—like father and son making quiet amends after living many years estranged. And if Holmes could provide no concrete answers, then maybe—by traveling a vast distance to join Mr. Umezaki, in sleeping at the family's Kobe house, finally embarking on the journey westward and visiting the Hiroshima garden where Matsuda had taken Mr. Umezaki as a boy—his very nearness might provide some resolution. What had also become clear was that Mr. Umezaki really cared little for prickly ash, or royal jelly, or anything else that those intelligent letters had discussed in detail. A simple ruse, Holmes had realized, yet effective—each topic well researched, articulated on stationery, and likely forgotten.
These children with missing fathers, Holmes had mused, imagining Mr. Umezaki and young Roger when trekking into the dunes. This age of lonely, searching souls, he'd thought as the fingers tightened on his arm.
But as opposed to Mr. Umezaki, Roger understood his own father's fate and harbored a belief that the man's death—while tragic on a personal level—was truly heroic in the grand scheme. Mr. Umezaki, however, could claim nothing of the sort, relying instead on the frail old Englishman he had accompanied into the sandy hills by the beach, clutching at his bony elbow, clinging to him, in reality, rather than guiding him along: “Should we turn back?”
“Have you tired of the search?”
“No, I was more concerned for you.”
“I believe we are too close to turn back now.”
“It's getting dark.”
Holmes opened his eyes now and looked again at the ceiling, weighing the problem's solution; for to appease Mr. Umezaki was to reveal something that must be conceived of as the truth beforehand (like Dr. Watson working out the plot of a story, he reasoned—the mixing of what was and what never had been into a single, undeniable creation). Yes, his association with Matsuda wasn't an impossibility—and, yes, the man's disappearance could be explained, though not without careful elaboration. And where had they first been introduced? Perhaps in the Strangers' Room of the Diogenes Club, at Mycroft's urging. But why?
“If the art of the detective began and ended in the reasoning from this room, Mycroft, you would be the greatest criminal agent who ever lived. Yet you are absolutely incapable of working out the practical points that must be gone into before a matter can be decided upon. I gather that is why you have called me here once again.”
He pictured Mycroft in his armchair. Nearby sat T. R. Lamont (or was it R. T. Lanner?)—a dour, ambitious man of Polynesian descent, a London Missionary Society member who had lived on the Pacific island of Mangaia and, as a spy for the British Secret Service, kept rigid police supervision over the indigenous population in the name of morality. Hoping to aid New Zealand's expansionist ambitions, Lamont, or Lanner, was under consideration for a more important role, that of British resident—a position which included negotiations with the Cook Islands' chiefs to pave the way for New Zealand's annexation of the islands.
Or was he known as J. R. Lambeth? No, no, recalled Holmes, he was a Lamont, surely a Lamont. In any case, it was 1898—or 1899, or was it 1897?—and Holmes had been summoned by Mycroft to give an opinion on Lamont's character (As you know, I can return an excellent expert opinion, his brother had written in a telegram, but gathering the details of someone's true value is not my métier).
“We must have our cards in the game,” explained Mycroft, well aware of France's influence on Tahiti and the Society Islands. “Naturally, Queen Makea Takau wants her islands annexed to us, but our government remains a reluctant administrator. New Zealand's prime minister, on the other hand, has his sights set—so we are obligated to be as helpful as we can—and seeing how Mr. Lamont is acquainted with the natives—and shares more than a few common physical traits—we believe he will be quite useful toward that end.”
Holmes eyed the short, uncommunicative fellow seated at his brother's right (looking down through his spectacles, hat in his lap, dwarfed by the huge form to his left). “Aside from you, Mycroft, who are the we you speak of?”
“That, my dear Sherlock—like everything else mentioned in my company—is of the utmost secrecy and is of no issue at present. What is required, however, is your counsel on our colleague here.”
“I see. . . .”
Except it wasn't Lamont, or Lanner, or Lambeth, that Holmes now saw beside Mycroft, but, rather, the tall stature, the long face, the goatee of Matsuda Umezaki. In that private room, they had been introduced, and almost immediately Holmes could tell he matched the position's proviso; from the dossier Mycroft had given him, it was evident that Matsuda was an intelligent man (the author of several notable books, one of which dealt with covert diplomacy), capable as an agent (his background in the Japanese Foreign Ministry attesting to that fact), an Anglophile disenchanted by his own country (willing to travel, whenever needed, from Japan to the Cook Islands, then to Europe, and then back to Japan).
“You think he's our man for the job?” asked Mycroft.
“Indeed,” said Holmes, grinning. “We think he is the perfect man.”
Because like Lamont, Matsuda would be discreet in all maneuvering and politicking—mediating the Cook Islands' annexation even as his own family imagined him researching constitutional law in London.
“Best of luck to you, sir,” said Holmes, shaking Matsuda's hand when the interrogation was finished. “I am sure your mission will go smoothly.”
As it happened, they would meet once more—in the winter of 1902—or, better still, in early 1903 (some two years after New Zealand's formal occupation of the islands began)—when Matsuda would seek Holmes's advice about the troubles in Niue, an island previously associated with Samoa and Tonga but seized a year following the annexation. Again, Matsuda was being sought for another influential position, although now on behalf of New Zealand and not England: “It's a most lucrative opportunity, Sherlock, I'll admit it—staying among the Cook Islands indefinitely, quelling Niue's protests and working to place the rebellious island under separate administration, while also managing the upgrading of the other islands' public facilities.”
They were sitting in Holmes's Baker Street drawing room, talking over a bottle of claret.
“Yet you fear your doing so will be viewed as a betrayal of Whitehall?” asked Holmes.
“Somewhat, yes.”
“I shouldn't worry, my good fellow. You have fulfilled what has been asked of you, and you have done your job admirably. I suspect you are now free to apply your talents elsewhere, and why shouldn't you?”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do, I do.”
And just like Lamont, Matsuda would thank Holmes, asking thereafter that their conversation stay between them. Then he'd finish his glass before departing, bowing as he stepped out the front door and into the street. He would return to the Cook Islands forthwith, traveling routinely from island to island, meeting the five head chiefs and the seven lesser ones, outlining his ideas for a future Legislative Council, then eventually extending himself to Erromango in the New Hebrides, where he was last seen journeying into its deepest region (a locale rarely visited by outsiders, an isolated, densely overgrown realm known for its large totems erected from skulls and its necklaces fashioned from human bone).
Of course, it was hardly an airtight story. If pressed by Mr. Ume-zaki, Holmes feared he might confuse details, names, dates, various historical specifics. Furthermore, he could give no proper explanation as to why Matsuda had abandoned his family to live on the Cook Islands. Yet as desperate for answers as Mr. Umezaki was, Holmes felt certain the story would suffice. Whatever other unknown reasons had impelled Matsuda into a new life, he figured, were of no concern to him (such reasons were, without doubt, based on personal or private considerations, ones that resided beyond his knowledge). Still, what Mr. Umezaki would learn about his father was not insig
nificant: Matsuda had played a pivotal role in preventing a French invasion of the Cook Islands, as well as suppressing Niue's revolt, and, prior to his vanishing within the jungle, had sought to rally the islanders into someday forming their own government. “Your father,” he would tell Mr. Umezaki, “was highly respected by the British government, but for the elders of Rarotonga—and those on the surrounding islands old enough to remember—his name is legendary.”
Finally, aided by the soft glow of a lantern burning by the futon, Holmes gripped at his canes and rose. After donning his kimono, he made his way across the room, taking care not to trip over his own feet as he went. When he came to the wall panel, he remained standing before it for a while. Beyond, in Mr. Umezaki's room, he could hear snoring. As he continued staring at the panel, he tapped the floor lightly with a cane. Then he heard what sounded like a cough from within, followed by slight movements (Mr. Umezaki's body shifting, the ruffling of sheets). He listened for some time but heard nothing else. Eventually, he found himself feeling for a handle, finding instead a hollowed groove, which helped him slide the panel open.
The adjoining room was a duplicate of where Holmes had slept—cast in the dim yellowish light of a lantern, a single futon centered on the floor, the built-in desk, and, leaning against a wall, the floor cushions used for sitting or kneeling. He approached the futon. The sheets had been kicked away and he could barely see Mr. Umezaki sleeping half-naked on his back, motionless and now silent, not appearing to breathe. To the left of the mattress—by the lantern—a pair of slippers had been placed, one aligned evenly with the other. And as Holmes lowered himself to the floor, Mr. Umezaki suddenly awoke, speaking apprehensively in Japanese, peering at the shadowed figure looming beside him.
“I must talk,” said Holmes, setting the canes lengthwise upon his lap.
Mr. Umezaki, still peering forward, sat up. Reaching for the lantern, he raised it, illuminating Holmes's stern face. “Sherlock-san? Are you all right?”
Holmes squinted in the lantern's glare. He rested a palm on Mr. Umezaki's raised hand, gently pushing the lantern downward. Then, from the shadows, he spoke: “I ask that you only listen—and when I am finished, I ask that you press me no further on the subject.” Mr. Umezaki gave no reply, so Holmes continued. “Over the years, I have made it a rule never—under any circumstances—to discuss those cases that were of the strictest confidence or involved national affairs. I hope you understand—making exceptions to the rule could risk lives and jeopardize my good standing. But I realize now that I am an old man, and think it's fair to say that my standing is beyond reproach. I think it's also fair to say that the people whose confidences I have kept for decades are no longer of this world. In other words, I have outlived everything that has defined me.”
“That isn't true,” Mr. Umezaki remarked.
“Please, you mustn't speak. If you just say nothing, I will be forthcoming about your father. You see, I wish to explain what I know of him before I forget—and I want you to simply listen. And when I am finished and have left you here, I ask that it never be discussed with me again—because tonight, my friend, you receive the first exception to the rule of a lifetime. Now please let me attempt to put both our minds at rest, as best as I possibly can.”
With that, Holmes began relating his story, doing so in a low, whispering tone, which had a vaguely dreamlike quality. Once his whispering concluded, they remained facing each other for a while, neither moving or saying a word—two indistinct forms sitting there like each other's obscure reflection, their heads hidden by shadow, the floor glowing beneath them—until Holmes stood without a sound, shuffling then toward his room, heading wearily for bed as his canes thumped along the mats.
20
SINCE HIS return to Sussex, Holmes had never dwelled much on what he had told Mr. Umezaki that night in Shimonoseki, nor had he reflected on his trip as having been hampered by the enigma of Matsuda. Instead—when locked inside the attic study, his mind suddenly carrying him there—he pictured the far-off dunes where he and Mr. Umezaki had strolled; more specifically, he saw himself heading to them again, walking the beach with Mr. Umezaki, both pausing along the way to survey the ocean or the few white clouds hanging above the horizon.
“Such beautiful weather, isn't it?”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Holmes.
It was their last day visiting Shimonoseki, and while neither had slept very well (Holmes slipping in and out of sleep before going to Mr. Umezaki's bedside, Mr. Umezaki then staying awake long after Holmes had gone from him), they proceeded in good spirits, resuming the search for prickly ash. That morning, the wind had ceased altogether and a perfect spring sky presented itself. The city, too, was vivified as they departed the inn following a late breakfast: People emerged from their homes or shops and swept the ground of what the wind had scattered; at the bright vermilion shrine of Akama-jingu, an elderly couple chanted sutras in the sunshine. Then moving along the seaside, they spotted beachcombers farther down the shore—a dozen or so women and old people rummaging through the flotsam, collecting shellfish or whatever useful items had drifted in with the currents (some lugging bundles of driftwood on their backs, others wearing thick strands of wet seaweed about their necks like ragged, filthy boas). Soon they had wandered beyond the beachcombers, stepping onto the slender trail that led into the dunes and then gradually widened, until becoming just the radiant, pliable terrain all around them.
The dunes' wind-rippled surface, dotted by wild grass, flecks of seashells or stones, obscured any view of the ocean. The sloping hills seemed to stretch endlessly from the coastline, ascending and falling toward a distant mountain range to the east, or toward the sky to the north. Even on such a windless day, the sand shifted as they trudged onward, swirling in their wake, dusting their cuffs with a salty powder. Behind them, the impressions of their footsteps slowly vanished, as if covered over by an invisible hand. Ahead, where the dunes met the sky, a mirage shimmered like vapors rising from the earth. Yet they could still hear the waves breaking against the shore, the beachcombers shouting to one another, the gulls crying above the sea.
To Mr. Umezaki's surprise, Holmes pointed to where they had searched on the previous evening, and to where he believed they should look now—north, near those dunes that sloped closest to the water. “You will see that the sand is damp there, creating an ideal breeding place for our shrub.”
They continued without stopping—screwing up their eyes from the glare, blowing sand from their lips—their shoes occasionally swallowed by deeper pockets within the dunes; at times, Holmes struggled to maintain his balance, only to be rescued by Mr. Umezaki's steadying grip. Finally, the sand hardened underfoot, the ocean appeared several yards away, and they came to an open area comprised of wild grass, various mounds of foliage, and a single bulky piece of driftwood, likely having belonged to a fishing vessel's hull. For a while, they stood together, catching their breath, brushing sand off their trouser legs. Then Mr. Umezaki took a seat on the driftwood—dabbing himself with a handkerchief, wiping the sweat that dripped from his brow and down his face and chin—while Holmes, having stuck an unlit Jamaican between his lips, began exploring the wild grass in earnest, studying the surrounding foliage, stooping at last beside an expansive shrub set upon by flies (the pests swarming the plant, gathering in large numbers on the blooms).
“So here you are, my lovely,” Holmes half-exclaimed, setting his canes aside. He gently touched the twigs, which were armed with short paired spines at the base of the leaves. He noted the male and female flowers on separate plants (inflorescent axillary clusters; flowers unisexual, greenish, minute—a tenth of an inch long, petals five-seven, white)—the male flowers with about five stamens, the female ones with four or five free carpels (each containing two ovules). He peered at the seeds, round and shiny black. “Exquisite,” he said, addressing the prickly ash as if it were a confidant.
Presently, Mr. Umezaki crouched beside the shrub, dragging on a cigarette, blowing
smoke at the flies and scattering them. But it wasn't the prickly ash that held his attention; rather, it was Holmes's enchantment with the plant—those nimble fingertips stroking the leaves, the mumbled words uttered like a mantra (“Odd-pinnately compound, one to two inches long—the main axis narrowly winged, prickly, leaflets three-seven pairs, plus a terminal leaflet, glossy—”), the pure contentment and wonder made evident by the old man's slight grin and beaming eyes.
And when Holmes glanced at Mr. Umezaki, he, too, observed a like expression, one he hadn't seen on his companion's face during their whole trip—a heartfelt look of ease and acceptance. “We have found what we wanted to find,” he said, spotting his reflection in Mr. Umezaki's glasses.
“Yes, I believe we have.”
“It is a truly simple thing, really—yet it affects me so, and I am at a loss to explain why.”
“I share your feeling.”
Mr. Umezaki bowed, righting himself almost immediately. Just then, it was as if he had something urgent to express, but Holmes shook his head, dissuading him. “Let us savor the remainder of this moment in silence, shall we? Our elaborations might do an injustice to such a rare opportunity—and we don't want that, do we?”
“No.”
“Good,” said Holmes.
After that, neither spoke for a time. Mr. Umezaki finished the cigarette and lit another watching as Holmes stared into and felt and probed the prickly ash while chewing relentlessly at the end of his Jamaican. Nearby, the waves curled in on themselves, and the beachcombers could be heard drawing closer. Still, it was their agreement of silence that, later on, formed a vivid impression within Holmes's mind (the two men there by the ocean, by the prickly ash, in the dunes, on an ideal spring day). Had he attempted imagining the inn where they'd stayed—or the streets they'd walked together, the buildings passed along the way—very little of substance would have materialized. Even so, he retained images of the sandy hills, the sea, the shrub, and the companion who had lured him to Japan. He remembered their brief speechlessness, and, as well, he remembered the strange sound wafting from the beach—faint at first, then growing louder, an attenuated voice and droning, sharply played chords—ending their mutual silence.