“Then unfortunately, unless that man is apprehended, you have no hope of returning to society. I don’t expect you have a mind to turn yourself in.”
“Moriarty was a dangerous criminal. I included all necessary proof in the letter that I passed to Watson.”
“The fact that he is a dangerous criminal does not give you the right to kill him. Sherlock, I understand that you were willing to barter your own life to dispatch this man. But you survived. In society’s eyes, meanwhile, you are dead. To be plain, then, though you are alive, you must consign yourself for the time to the indignities of death.”
Another peal of thunder shook the cabin. Sherlock waited.
“Law and order are absolute,” Mycroft intoned softly and soberly. “That, more than anything, is the meaning of civilization. And that is why you must flee to a country beyond the reach of the British police. Watson insists that your actions were heroic. Only with yourself and the deceased Moriarty do his words carry any weight. There are legal questions as well. Moriarty’s younger brother has also launched a defense of the professor.”
Sherlock started. “His brother?”
“He hopes to prove Professor Moriarty’s innocence and restore his good name. He insists his brother was murdered, by none other than Sherlock Holmes.”
“There is a brotherly resemblance, I see.”
“Or perhaps he learned what occurred from the man atop the cliff.”
“Until after Moriarty’s fall, I had no notion that there was another man atop the cliff. I chose to hide and affect my own death under the belief that there were no witnesses.”
“That was a miscalculation. Not only was there a witness, but this witness is a member of the syndicate you face.” Mycroft stared off into space with a grave expression. “I must confess I myself am not entirely satisfied. Did Moriarty truly make an attempt on your life?”
Another flash. Sherlock inhaled sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked flatly.
“One of Moriarty’s own agents lay waiting atop the cliffs, and even now his brother acts feverishly to restore his good name. Was this criminal Moriarty truly as isolated, as driven to desperation by your pursuit, as you say?”
“The evidence I had collected would have made things quite impossible for him. It was the gallows for him, without a doubt.”
“If that is the case, then you had no need to kill him. You could have seen him put in custody, and left the courts to decide his fate.”
“Had he been allowed to live, he would have used his genius to devise some elaborate means of escape. He even bragged to me that he possessed intimate knowledge of the lost reaches of the South American continent. Eventually he would have returned to London to resume his criminal endeavors.”
“Perhaps, but he must not have been as pressed as you say if he had liberty still to flee. This means he might have turned his hand to crime again at a later date. Certainly this is a more consistent way to look at it. Likely Moriarty believed he could overturn whatever evidence you brought against him. He only feigned being rounded off in order to arrange a private meeting with you. In fact, it was he who planned to kill you. It may even be that it was Moriarty who first thought to pass himself off as dead.”
Sherlock shook his head. “Impossible. Watch how the trial unfolds, and you will admit that Moriarty would have been convicted.”
“We are of different minds. But no matter. You will have your way.”
Mycroft’s comment stuck in Sherlock’s throat. He rounded on his brother sarcastically. “Indeed, eminent older brother, how very wise you are to see your younger brother’s mistakes and yet cede the point! You were always patronizing when we were children, and I see you are still.”
“Come now, Sherlock. Let’s not be cross over something so minor. We do not know the truth yet, that is all.”
“Minor? Indeed, the subject at hand is only my very fate. But I see you care only for appearances.”
“I?”
“Yes. You are eager to see me gone from the shores of England. If your brother, a murder suspect who has faked his own death, were to be arrested in country, who knows what consequences it might have for your auditing position.”
“Don’t be unpleasant. It is for your sake that I have taken such extreme measures.”
“No. I am sure what steps you have taken, you have taken for yourself.”
The ensuing silence was accompanied by the incessant rain. The draft that came in through the cracks in the walls made the candle flame flutter, and the light of the cabin flickered.
Sherlock stared at his feet. Where else could he look? As an adult, he was proud of how he’d learned to respect his brother’s intellect. He had believed he could face his brother as one adult to another. But perhaps this had only been true so long as he still felt an advantage in some area other than sheer intellect, to even the ground between them: Sherlock prided himself on being a man of action, whereas Mycroft detested social interaction and preferred the comforts of home. He was even a member of the Diogenes Club, which was frequented by the most solitary of men. Sherlock, on the other hand, was ceaselessly on the move. He prided himself on being the more active one, at any rate.
But recently Mycroft had changed; now he seemed to have more of a sense of the pleasures of being of use to others. Perhaps it had been after coming to the aid of the Greek interpreter. And only a few days earlier, when Sherlock had asked for Mycroft to arrange for a carriage, he had been astonished to find Mycroft had driven the carriage himself—sallying forth to meet Watson in person. It was a level of activity from his brother that would have been previously unimaginable. And now here he was, having come all the way to Italy with only a moment’s notice.
Without his worldly advantages, Sherlock would once again be forced to compete with his brother on intellectual grounds. Mycroft for his own part might not have had any intention of competition, but for Sherlock this was a matter of gravest import.
To begin with, Sherlock was not particularly fond of his brother. Mycroft was seven years older and possessed a wealth of experience that Sherlock lacked. As the older brother, his parents had expected him to be the one to carry on the household. As a child, Sherlock’s clothing and personal articles had of course been hand-me-downs. Since there were no two people more alike in person and in temperament than the two brothers were, it was impossible for their egos not to clash. And they were far too similar to become playmates or confidantes.
Mycroft tossed the leather case to Sherlock. “I am returning the money you put in my care. Mostly the payments you received from the King of Scandinavia and the French government. It should be more than enough, however, for you to live in seclusion.”
Sherlock placed the case into his trunk with a certain morose air. “Enough, at least, for whatever meager life I may find in the Far East.”
“Be rational, Sherlock, and try to think more positively. When Lord Ito was forming his cabinet, he welcomed Piggott, the son-in-law of our own MP Jasper Wilson Johns, as a legal advisor. They may have adopted a German constitution, but there is also a degree of respect and understanding for the English style of governance there. You may rely on Lord Ito.”
“Am I to spend the rest of my days as a nameless Englishman in Japan, polishing Lord Ito’s boots?”
“If I am correct in my assessment, which I think I am, the trial in London shall not go as well as you plan. Of Moriarty’s remaining men, I expect that two of the major players, at the very least, shall go free.”
“You still insist the evidence I prepared is incomplete.”
“I do. Either way, England will have need of you again. The fieldwork may prove difficult for me, but as you said, we won’t know unless I try. I will contact you when things look favorable for your return.”
“How long will that take?”
“Ten years? Twelve? More? Let us say, around the time whe
n the statute of limitations should expire on those suspicions that should fall upon your head when it becomes apparent that you are still alive. That would be the most pragmatic view.”
Sherlock pursed his lips. His brother’s reasoning was more than valid. Though he didn’t want to accept his prognostications regarding the trial, Mycroft otherwise had a point. Few figures of state other than Hirobumi Ito would likely be willing to sympathize with, much less shelter, a wanted dead man such as himself.
“The younger Moriarty deserves credit for his brotherly devotion and loyalty,” muttered Sherlock, unable to stop himself. “It is certainly more than I should aspire to.”
“Oh? And what of ‘brotherly resemblances’?”
“In our case there is no resemblance,” Sherlock returned quickly and indignantly.
“You are, as ever, thankless. If you do not agree to this plan, then you are at your liberty to tear up the letter of introduction I have provided.”
A childish provocation! Sherlock seethed. Mycroft only said such things because he knew that Sherlock had no choice.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft added quietly. “Thankfully you had not enrolled in a life insurance plan. Had you listed Watson or I as the beneficiary, we would have surely been charged with fraud.”
“As parting words go, those were abominable.”
“I thought you would prefer it to trite condolences.” Mycroft withdrew his pocket watch and glanced at its face. “The boat will be leaving shortly. It is a small cargo vessel, docked at wharf number 17. Do not be late. Farewell, Sherlock. It is better if we do not write.”
Sherlock was startled to sense a hint of affection behind those ironic words. It was too late now, though, to confirm that. Their conversation was over. Mycroft turned his back to Sherlock, opened his umbrella, and stepped outside.
The younger Holmes remained rooted. The claps of lightning that pierced the window were diminishing. Distant thunder reached his ears. He could see the puffs of his own breath. Finally the weight of realization fell upon him. He and his brother, too, were now separated. It was lonely being a ghost with no place left in the world.
7
During the interminable days of the hellish sea voyage, the same thought occupied Sherlock’s mind: He should have just fallen from that cliff.
His circumstances onboard were far from dignified. He had no cabin, only a corner of the decrepit cargo ship’s hold by the sails and steam engine. Rather than there being a proper partition, his space was corralled off on four sides by barrels. He shared the hold with a throng of Asian passengers, all of who were likely stowaways. Sherlock suspected they were Chinese rather than Japanese, but as he did not speak their language there was no avenue for communication. He was laid up for days on end in a stupor of seasickness. The most he could stomach was a few crumbs of bread and a bit of soup.
Not that he was idle. From the first day on deck one of the swabs succeeded in shoving a bucket and mop into his hands. He also helped with hoisting the sails. On windy days the rope would be wound so tightly around his hands that he worried his fingers would be torn off.
Even the grueling physical labor, however, was nothing compared to the terror at night, as the boat pitched violently in the waves. For several days in July they were lashed by hurricanes, and the hold started filling with water. Several Chinese passengers were ordered to rush to rein in the sails, but fell from the mast and were injured. Sherlock could hardly stand by and watch. He spent his waking hours frantically scooping water from the ship with buckets; every hand beside the captain’s was likewise busy in bailing out the ship.
The troubles continued. In August, as they approached the Indian Ocean, a cyclone reared its head and the boat was blown off course. Every night they could hear angry shouts from the captain’s chamber.
Sherlock approached the captain several times to discuss improving the working conditions, but his efforts were for naught. Every day Captain Cartlett drank like a fish. He was constantly inebriated. When he learned of the captain’s proclivity for drink, Sherlock began to genuinely fear for his and the other passengers’ lives. He considered attempting to orchestrate a mutiny, but as he was unable to communicate with the other passengers there was no opportunity for him to enlist any allies. The sailors were all Spanish or Italian, and the stowaways were all Chinese.
He had no idea what course they were charting, but their progress seemed exceedingly slow. Even the slowest would have arrived in Yokohama within fifty days, but theirs continued to flounder in the Indian Ocean even after three months.
Sherlock’s strength and spirits waned. Above deck or in the hold he spent his days in a listless haze. His hair grew wild, and he found no leisure even to shave his beard. Being on board was like working on a slave ship. And yet it was precisely because this ship was not fit for long journeys that they were so easily able to falsify their route and evade inspections in each country. It was only after visiting several ports and seeing how deftly they passed, unimpeded, between the warships, that Sherlock realized this.
His head ached and spun. His reality grew phantasmal. He was wracked with nausea, hunger, and dehydration. Then, one day, as Sherlock lay barely conscious, a flurry of footsteps descended into the hold. The captain made an announcement. They had arrived!
He staggered up the stairs along with the Chinese stowaways. They emerged like the defeated remnants of a tattered army. On deck, the sky above was tinged in blue. Judging by the crispness and slight chill of the air, it was early morning. The Chinese passengers lined up along the starboard. Everyone shouted in excitement.
He shuffled toward the balustrade on unsteady legs. He cast his eyes down at the waves and gasped instinctively.
Countless flat barges and tiny fishing boats floated upon the water. Stout, half-naked fishermen, as small in stature as, yet clearly distinguishable from, the Chinese men surrounding Sherlock, swayed to and fro as they pushed their long oars through the water. The scene was just like that of woodblock prints.
Day had broken. Beyond the port rose a range of mountains, and a hazy, cone-shaped silhouette floated far in the distance. As the sun rose, the clouds that hung about the skirt of the mountain were bathed in red. The peak towered high above those clouds, limpid and glassy. Mount Fuji.
Sherlock’s weariness vanished in a heartbeat. They had arrived in Japan, the fabled country of the Far East.
The ship docked in Yokohama port. Captain Cartlett ushered the group onto the pier without offering even a word of farewell. No one was there to meet Sherlock. He teetered off the ship with his heavy trunk in his hands, and alighted onto an empty dock.
But even so he had to stop a moment, awestruck. Rows of Western-style buildings lined the docks. Their architecture was similar to the British colonial style, as might be seen in India or another of the empire’s territories.
This made him set off cautiously. No sooner did he maneuver down one of the side streets than the scenery around him changed. There were lines of wooden houses with tiled roofs in close profusion. Men and women dressed in kimonos bustled to and fro across a bare earthen road. A two-wheeled cart, pulled by a man instead of a horse, passed. The inhabitants were shorter, and likewise everything else—the façades of the buildings to the size of the vehicles—was designed more compactly. The signs on the storefronts were covered in letters he could not read. In addition to recognizably Chinese characters, there were other symbols that resembled squiggling worms. As far as the eye could see the whole street was full of loud confusion, and yet one glance was enough to see that the streets were hygienic. Unlike in London, there were no puddles of sewage by the side of the road. Everywhere was clean.
Sherlock opened the case Mycroft had given him. In addition to English currency, it was stuffed with notes, maps, and other papers. He had already checked its contents while on the boat.
The English-language maps were a priceless co
mmodity. From them, he learned that the ship had not docked at a wharf for foreign vessels, but at a district reserved for passages to the outlying islands. This had allowed the passengers to enter without going through immigration procedures. Despite the harsh trials he had faced at sea, he was forced to admit that Mycroft’s judgment had been correct.
By now Sherlock had been wearing the same soiled blazer for far too long. And with his unkempt hair and current ragged appearance, there was no telling when the police might stop him. His attention was caught by a narrow alleyway, in which half-naked fishermen drew well-water up in pails and upended them over their heads. Apparently they had just finished their labor. The fishermen glanced oddly when Sherlock approached, but made no move to stop him. It seemed the well was accessible to any who wished to use it.
He stripped down and began washing himself off. He would never have behaved so immodestly in London, but in this place it seemed of little consequence. The men surrounding him were already in varying states of undress.
Finished, Sherlock re-attired himself in a white shirt and ascot, a frock coat, brightly colored trousers, and leather shoes. He tucked his long hair underneath his silk top hat. His beard had, too, become prodigious in volume, but perhaps in Japan they might assume he was from some country where such beards were customary.
As he changed, several children rushed toward him and surrounded him. Had they come to steal his luggage? But no, they didn’t make any moves to do so. Even after he finished changing and started walking away from the alleyway, the children followed, smiling. Were they beggars? They didn’t seem to be beggars.
He realized they were simply marveling at his strangeness. Eventually the children ran back in the direction from which they had come, to a group of women who appeared to be their mothers. The children pointed at Sherlock and jabbered to the women, who craned their heads upward to stare at him. Judging from their expressions, they were flabbergasted by his height.
Such naïvete. Could this truly be the country that some 20 years prior had been loudly crying for joui?
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