Sherlock Holmes

by Keisuke Matsuoka

  But then Sherlock spotted a group of what appeared to be French citizens. According to his map, he was now in a neighborhood known as Motomachi. There was a so-called “foreign settlement” nearby with embassies and trading companies. It was far too dangerous to approach that area. He headed toward the railway station instead.

  At the side of the road he found a money changer. The Japanese bank notes were machine-printed and resembled Qing currency. Sherlock couldn’t be sure which bills were worth what. He thrust forward one of the less valuable-looking bills as a tip, but the clerk thrust it back with a smile, refusing to take it. Apparently tipping was not the custom.

  The money changer’s calculations were also extremely fast. Sherlock glanced at the rate written on the board several times to be sure the amount returned to him was right. It was. The clerk moved his fingers over the empty counter as he worked the sum, almost as if he were operating an invisible abacus. Were all money changers in Japan like this? So skilled at arithmetic they could rival mathematics professors?

  As he continued on, Sherlock glanced back and forth between his surroundings and the map he held. The two bridges spanning the river were the Bentenbashi and Oebashi. The station he was looking for was just beyond.

  The street leading up to the railway station was lined with gas lamps. The station itself was a brick building in the American style. It was surprisingly modern, fully Westernized even. In contrast to the British colonies, here in Japan, technologies from several countries were mingled together. It was incredible to think that all of this had been accomplished in the mere two decades that had passed since the Meiji Restoration.

  Sherlock was forced to ask passersby for directions to his platform. To his surprise, the people he spoke with were very friendly. They all smiled, concierge-like in their hospitality, and nearly all spoke English, if only in broken fragments. His height also seemed to be a matter of fascination to the Japanese—who stared as if he were an outlandish beast. Children and young women, in particular, approached him curiously. He faced no shortage of helpers as a result. As he went, Sherlock stopped to ask for directions several times. Each person responded with evident good will, answering his questions in their own stilted English. Not one demanded any gratuity in return.

  At this point, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel obligated to the kindness of strangers. He also was starting to realize just how difficult it was to get around in a country when one could not communicate. When he’d been invited by the French government to visit their country, on the other hand, he’d been provided with a translator. He had no prior notion that travelling through a foreign country on one’s own should prove this difficult. As galling as it was to admit, once again his brother’s judgment had been correct. If Sherlock had gone around the British colonies accosting strangers left and right as he was doing here, he would have attracted police attention in very short fashion.

  In Japan, however, he was even free to ask the police themselves for guidance. Next to the train station there was a small building like a guard hut with uniformed police officers constantly garrisoned inside. At first glance, they stood stiff and upright like the most unbending of sentries. And yet, when Sherlock approached to speak with them they removed their hats and smiled, eagerly giving him directions in their broken English. He couldn’t help but feel that the salaried thieves of London—the policemen in name only—might learn a thing or two by their example.

  Finally he boarded his train. Sherlock stared out the window as the motion of the vehicle jostled him to and fro. Of the people outside, he couldn’t see a single sword-wielding samurai or top-knot. The men’s haircuts were no different than those in the West. The women, meanwhile, wore their long hair in braids that hung down their backs and were tied off with ribbons. About half the people were clothed in suits and dresses, and the other half in kimonos, although to his eye there were slightly more wooden Japanese-style buildings than Western-style buildings.

  Everything he saw was bustling and lively, but orderly and safe. At one point he saw fragile-looking pottery dishes on display outside of one shop. This, too, would have been unthinkable in London—simply asking for destruction or theft. Nor did he see any children attempting to filch fruit from the various grocers. The houses of the commoners he saw were small, and from the outside their lives hardly looked affluent, but perhaps that was only how it appeared to his English perspective. Indeed, Sherlock saw no dissatisfaction on the faces of the citizens strolling along the streets. Only quiet enjoyment at the arrival of autumn.

  For by now it was September. He couldn’t be sure of the exact date: it was probably the first or second week of the month, or so the captain had said. Four months had passed since his death had become common knowledge throughout London. He wondered how the trial had progressed. Had Watson recovered at all from his friend’s passing?

  The train ride passed with Sherlock absorbed in such thoughts. An hour later, they at last arrived at Shimbashi. Descending from the train, Sherlock found this area was truly metropolitan. There was a stately three-story brick building, apparently the Imperial Hotel, which had been completed just the previous year. A number of foreigners could be seen coming and going through its doors. He slipped quietly away from the high street and onto a quieter, residential avenue.

  He followed the map as he walked. On either side of him were impressive mansions. Ito’s home was located at number 36, Takanawa Minamimachi. He headed there now.

  It proved to be a Western-style building, with an unusually spacious garden for Japan. But Sherlock felt a sense of misgiving at the sight of the nameplate affixed to the gate. They did not look quite right. He didn’t think they were the characters used to write Ito.

  An elderly woman passing by caught his attention. He stopped her and pointed to the nameplate. “Ito?” he asked.

  “Iwasaki,” replied the woman with a smile, before walking away.

  This was not good. The building was brand new. It looked as if it had replaced whatever stood there before. Had Ito ceded the land and moved elsewhere?

  The excitement Sherlock had felt at his first visit to Japan was steadily fading, and his underlying exhaustion rushed back in. He found himself tottering. Now would have been the time for cocaine, but he hadn’t brought any on his journey—it seemed unwise to carry narcotics, especially considering he might have been arrested at sea. Would he be able to refill his supply here?

  Sherlock shook off his tiredness and began canvassing the area, asking passersby for help. Unfortunately, it seemed Ito was a popular surname in Japan. Perhaps not as common as Smith and Jones were in England, but at least the equivalent of a Taylor or Davis, it seemed.

  While there was no one unfamiliar with the name of Hirobumi Ito, first Prime Minster of Japan, that brought Holmes no closer to Ito’s new address. In the end, he found himself making the rounds of several neighborhoods.

  While he walked, the sun rose high and then, as he continued to look, began to set. The streets began to grow dark. Sherlock hardly had the energy to be impatient; he was struggling to put even one foot in front of the other by now. The trunk he dragged behind him felt heavy as lead.

  Twilight was settling in by the time he finally arrived at a traditional, Japanese-style house. Though only a single story, the building was quite large in scale, with an expansive Japanese-style garden waiting beyond the gates. The nameplate read Ito. He had now seen the same characters on several other houses he had passed. There was no guarantee this was, at last, the right house, but Sherlock had reached his limit and could no longer care.

  There was no door on the gate, nothing to stop him from entering the property. In the garden, he found koi fish swimming in a small stream. He only took one glance at them, but found that after looking down he was no longer capable of lifting his head up again. His body suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

  He fell forward and landed face down in the grass.


  Later, he heard the sound of footsteps, but muffled, as though coming through a thick fog. How much time had passed? He lifted his eyes ever so slightly, and spotted a slender young girl in a white dress. She was Japanese, perhaps around 14 or 15. Her expression was innocent, her eyes wide with surprise. Frozen, she stared down at Sherlock.

  He attempted to speak, but only a groan escaped. The girl’s face changed to show her fright, and she stumbled back and ran into the house.

  Before long, he saw her returning with an older woman, who looked to be in her early forties. She was as slender as the girl, and dressed in Western clothes. The girl’s mother, perhaps? Her pastel-colored dress was simple and unostentatious, but evidently order-made. This was clearly a well-to-do family.

  Seeing Sherlock prostrate on the grass, the older woman looked astonished. She spoke in Japanese. She took the girl by the hand and pulled her into the house again.

  Stay, thought Sherlock hazily. I need but a moment. They were treating him like they’d just found a fox in the henhouse. How would he ever tell them the reason for his arrival if they did not stay?

  By the time the two women returned, this time with a man in tow, Holmes’ mind had grown distant once more. The man appeared to be around 50 years old and he was dressed in a hakama—the only one of the three dressed in Japanese clothing. He carried a wooden sword. Sherlock wondered if he had been in the middle of fencing practice. His expression was severe—it was clear he’d rushed outside as soon as he’d heard of the intruder. There was a mole on the right side of his nose.

  Sherlock recognized him. It was Hirobumi Ito. Ito, however, did not appear to immediately recognize Sherlock. Perhaps it was his overgrown beard that made him look like a stranger?

  But the Japanese man’s eyes soon grew wide. “Sherlock? Can it be you?” he asked in English. “Mr. Holmes, I should say! But what are you doing here?”

  At this, Sherlock was overcome with a flood of emotion. A bitter laugh escaped his lips, and tears welled into his eyes. The confusion only lasted a moment, however, before the world began hurtling away. The last bit of strength left him, perhaps because he knew he was finally safe, and his vision grew dark.

  8

  Sherlock returned to consciousness in spurts. First, he appeared to be leaning on someone’s shoulder. At some point he had been lifted onto his feet and was shuffling forward. Then he had the impression that the household kept multiple servants. Several men and women in a chaotic jumble were propping him up as they attempted to carry him into the house. The servants were all much smaller than he. It was like an episode from Gulliver’s Travels, he thought vaguely.

  He lost consciousness again. Eventually, his eyes fully opened. He was lying on his back. The wooden slatted ceiling above him clearly belonged to a Japanese-style room. The wallpaper, however, was Western in style. And lifting his head, he could see that the furniture and appointments were German in make. He was also lying on a bed rather than on the floor. The room was decorated with items gathered from throughout Europe, and yet it retained a sense of Japanese style.

  Sherlock sat up and put both feet on the floor. He felt carpeting. His feet were bare, without shoes. He stood up slowly, bracing himself against the dizziness. Through the window, it was dark outside. The Japanese garden drifted dimly beneath the pale light of the moon.

  He must be inside the Ito estate. Opening the door, he was greeted by a Western-style bathroom. It had both a shower and a bathtub. He turned on the faucet, and hot water instantly poured from the tap.

  Sherlock felt grateful. This had to be a Western room for guests. He removed his clothes and washed himself thoroughly. His earlier bath in well-water had been far from adequate in removing the filth that had adhered to his body over his grueling four months at sea. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than a bath.

  Afterwards, he returned to the room and dried himself with a towel, and realized his trunk was missing. His shaving things and other clothing were in that trunk.

  But there was a shallow wooden chest. He opened it and found a kimono. He draped it over his body, and further confirmed his earlier assessment: The kimono had certainly been provided for foreign guests. The sleeves were sufficiently long, and the hem reached his ankles. Sherlock had to rely on memory in tying the sash, trying to recall the knots on the kimonos he’d seen in town. He stood in front of the looking glass, peering at his reflection. It would have to do.

  He was interrupted by a woman’s voice, speaking in English. “Excuse me.”

  A portion of what Holmes had thought was a wall slid open, revealing a kneeling woman dressed in Japanese clothes. No, not kneeling. It was a sitting posture, known as seiza. She was the older woman he’d seen in the garden earlier. She delicately placed the fingers of both hands against the floor and bowed her head. She spoke again in English. “Thank you for coming so far to visit us. My name is Umeko. I am Ito’s wife.”

  Abashed, Sherlock attempted to imitate how she sat on the floor. He prostrated himself in the Moslem fashion he had once learned. A quiet, restrained laugh escaped Umeko’s lips. It seemed his pose was incorrect.

  Sherlock lifted his gaze and attempted to regain his composure. “I should be thanking you. You are very kind to welcome me in this manner, despite my abrupt arrival.”

  Umeko smiled at him. “My husband hopes you will join him for supper.”

  “It would be my honor.”

  “Please.” Umeko stood up gracefully. Her movements were like a dancer’s.

  Sherlock rose to his feet as well. She must have heard the bath running and timed her appearance to coincide with when he would finish dressing. Almost like a detective. What impressive sensibilities. He couldn’t help but mark the contrast with Mrs. Hudson, who made a habit of barging into his rooms while he was still asleep in order to prepare breakfast.

  They came onto a wooden slatted hallway facing onto the garden. According to a book he had once read on Japanese architecture, this area was called the engawa. It was a type of veranda, or exterior hallway. On the engawa, Umeko assumed the seiza posture once more. She muttered something in Japanese, before opening another sliding door at the end.

  She gestured for him to enter the room. Sherlock stepped through the door and immediately hit his head against the beam.

  When he recovered, he saw a girl dressed in Japanese clothing, sitting in seiza on the tatami. She giggled. It was the young girl from the garden. Another young girl, also dressed in Japanese clothing, sat beside her. This second girl looked to be in her early twenties, and resembled Umeko in appearance. She whispered to the first girl, reprovingly: “Asako!”

  So the first girl’s name was Asako. The two girls sat side by side, close to the wall. Hirobumi Ito was sitting near the front of the room, with his back to the sliding door Sherlock had entered from, rather than further in where he might be expected. In front of him there was a zen—a small, tray-like dining table which Sherlock had also read about, on which all courses in a meal were compactly arrayed.

  Deeper in the room there was a second zen, below an alcove hung with a decorative scroll. A sitting cushion had been placed before it. Apparently this was to be his seat. But in the West, such a prominent place was reserved for the head of the house. Was this where guests sat in Japan? Sherlock made his way to the table and attempted a seiza position in imitation of Ito.

  “Please, relax,” his host smiled. “You must find it painful to sit in that manner.”

  “Hardly. As they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans.” Sherlock bent his legs underneath his hips and sat upon his calves.

  “Well! You are very flexible, but you will lose feeling in your legs if you sit like that for long. If you will excuse me…” Ito shifted his position and sat cross-legged.

  True, Sherlock was already beginning to lose feeling in the tips of his toes. It wasn’t painful to the point of being unbearabl
e, but if the master of the house had suspended with formalities then it was pointless for him to suffer in pride. He crossed his legs as well.

  The girls, though, remained in seiza, and were shortly joined by Umeko, who took a seat next to Asako. The three showed no signs of discomfort. With some sense of obligation, Sherlock attempted to return to seiza as well.

  Ito held up a hand. “Please, stay as you are, Mr. Holmes. We Japanese are accustomed to the position. The ladies take no great pains, I assure you.”

  Sherlock re-crossed his legs. “I see. Then if you do not mind.”

  “I believe you have already met my wife. These are my daughters, Ikuko and Asako.”

  So the second young woman’s name was Ikuko. She and Asako bowed their heads deeply. “Welcome to our home,” Ikuko said in English. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

  Her pronunciation was impeccable. “Can you speak English as well, Asako?” Sherlock asked.

  “I can,” the girl returned, smiling. “I have heard many rumors about you from my father.”

  “Oh? Rumors of what kind?”

  “Well,” Asako began softly, and a mischievous grin lit up her features. “What can you deduce about us merely by looking?”

  “Asako,” Umeko cut in, frowning at the girl.

  “It’s quite all right,” Sherlock reassured her. “I won’t say anything rude. It is fortunate, though, that you remain here even after your recent move. If you had been at your other house, near the springs outside the city, I should have lost the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  Asako glanced at Ikuko, a twinkle in her eye.

  Ikuko stared, as if she could not believe what she had just heard. “We were told never to speak of our other home in Odawara. How could you know of it?”

  Sherlock smiled. “A simple observation. I see as well that your mother is an exemplary woman. Generous of heart, tolerant, and—”