Sherlock Holmes

by Keisuke Matsuoka

  Suddenly Ito interrupted, as though he had realized something. “That is enough for today,” he told his wife and children. “You may leave.”

  Asako balked. “I want to hear more about London…”

  “Asako,” Umeko restrained her daughter again. “Enough.”

  The dissatisfaction was apparent on Asako’s face. “Now, now,” Ito started in an appeasing manner, “you can speak to Mr. Holmes tomorrow morning. That is, if Mr. Holmes is willing.”

  Sherlock gently lifted his shoulders and lowered them again. “Naturally.”

  Asako lost her glum expression. The three women bowed deeply, rose solemnly, and disappeared through the sliding door.

  Once they were gone, Ito released a heavy sigh. “I didn’t realize it was you at first, with that beard.”

  “You agree with me, I assume, that your wife is very generous-hearted. I gathered as soon as I observed your daughters’ noses. Ikuko is your wife’s legitimate daughter, yes. But Asako is not. You may dote on her, but your wife displays considerable patience in enduring such a situation.”

  Ito grimaced. “From whom did you learn of our house in Odawara?” he whispered.

  “From Umeko and Ikuko. By observing their faces I could discern they have been in poor health these many years. As a politician of great stature, it would hardly do for your family to take the waters at a public inn. The most suitable solution would be the springs close to Tokyo.”

  “You are correct—as always. It seems the people in my family are fated to poor constitutions. I am the rare exception. My father did not manage to have any other children besides myself, and my first daughter with Umeko died when she was only two and a half years old.”

  “My sympathies. But surely a lack of sons is no cause to sport with other women.”

  “I believe I told you once that I admit to my own faults. Despite appearances, Umeko, too, was formerly a geisha.”

  “Then she is a wife of many talents. Indispensable, I should think, to a household with such complicated affairs.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” Ito said abruptly, and his face grew serious. “You will forgive my rudeness but I have inspected your belongings. Our residence in this house is temporary, and our presence here is not public knowledge. Though you may be an acquaintance, for a foreigner to suddenly appear at our door…It was necessary that I ensure you brought with you nothing dangerous. I hope you understand.”

  Sherlock started. “Surely you did not report my presence—” he said, staring at Ito.

  “No,” Ito shook his head. “There was a letter in your bag from Mycroft…from your brother. I have grasped the situation.”

  His heart sank. “As Prime Minister of an entire nation, of course you are under no obligation to shelter a dead man.”

  Here Ito stopped him. “I am no longer the Prime Minister. I abdicated my position to draft our constitution. I now head the Privy Council.”

  “The Privy Council are the Emperor’s closest advisors. You are a man of position, after all. I am but a common citizen. And assumed dead, at that.”

  “We are the same. If the Bakufu had found me when I had come to London I would have been put to death. It was thanks to Professor Alexander Williamson and his wife, whom I know you respect, that I and my four comrades survived. I am only grateful that I can now repay my debt to England.”

  Sherlock openly stared, only to meet the other man’s calm gaze.

  His chest swelled. He was at a loss for words. He had never been very good at handling emotion. “I can’t thank you enough,” he murmured.

  “Nor I, you,” said Ito, taking a small vessel from his zen and lifting it into the air. “Shall we toast?”

  Sherlock recognized the vessel. It was a cup used for drinking rice wine. He lifted his own. In response Ito tipped the saké bottle over in his hand, filling his cup with a clear liquid.

  Ito glanced down at Sherlock’s hands as he poured. The scars from where the ropes had been wound about his hands were still obvious. It would be some time before they faded. And Sherlock had not forgotten that Ito had sported those same scars while in London.

  A look of sympathy crossed Ito’s face, now that he had perhaps inferred how difficult Sherlock’s journey had been.

  They were silent for a moment. Ito filled his own cup with saké and raised it into the air. “To second lives.”

  Awash in emotion, Sherlock raised his own cup in response. As he brought it close to his lips he detected an exuberant, banana-like aroma. He tipped the cup back and swallowed. It was warm, he thought, near body temperature. As a result, it diffused readily through his stomach. The drink had an attractive profile, with a smooth sweetness accompanied by refreshing acidity. A mellow richness, different from wine, spread over his tongue.

  At last, here was a meal fit for human consumption. Just the thought was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He spoke unguardedly. “I thought I should never actually find you.”

  “This villa belongs to the Arisugawa-no-miya household, but I was given free use of it. It has been some time since I have been able to enjoy such a traditional Japanese lifestyle. It is impressive that you managed to find this place.”

  “The search gave me an opportunity to familiarize myself to some extent with the geography of the prefecture and city of Tokyo. I have the safety and orderliness of the streets, as well as the kindness of the people, to thank for my success. The design of the city is quite efficient. The gas lamps in Yokohama reminded me of London.”

  “I arranged for those lamps.”

  “You did?”

  “My time in London left a deep impression on me. If we are to have trains, I thought, we must have gas lamps fronting the station. It was foolish of me, perhaps.”

  “Certainly not.” Sherlock laughed, but there was a tightness in his chest. “The truth is…you were right.”

  Ito’s face twisted up in confusion. “About what?”

  “On the way here, our boat passed through Shanghai. My brother had told me not to leave the boat, but I could not resist being curious.”

  “Ah,” Ito smiled. “There were a great number of Indian street performers, I presume?”

  “It was just as you said. Snakes have no eardrums, only an internal sound organ known as the inner ear. While not entirely insensible to sound, it is doubtful they could distinguish the notes of a flute as a mammal could. And on top of that, they are carnivorous. They do not drink milk.”

  “I remember that Dr. Watson was worried you may have been entirely mistaken in your conclusions…”

  “No. The long and short of the case held. Roylott believed he was controlling the snake with his flute and milk. What actually happened is likely that he thrust the snake into the vent headfirst, so it could only crawl forward. As Roylott’s room was moist and dark due to the other animals he kept, the snake returned readily to it in search of its nest. Indeed, his assumption that the snake was under his control likely caused him to be careless and thus fall victim to the creature’s fangs himself.”

  Ito listened to this explanation blankly, but once Sherlock was finished he smiled. “I do not know the particulars of what you are speaking of, but I am glad that you arrived at the truth.”

  The detective could only shrug his shoulders. “It is my brother who placed the treatise on snakes in my bag. I suppose he had read Watson’s story and wished to point out my mistake.”

  “You are lucky to have a brother who is so astute.”

  This pricked his ire. Ito didn’t know about his antagonism towards Mycroft. Sherlock sipped from his cup. “Speaking purely in my own capacity, the significance of my individual existence is greatly injured by the existence of a brother. I may be unique, but the presence of a brother, identical in blood and greater in experience and years, cuts my own value down by half.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t so.”


  “You do not have brothers and would not know.”

  “I have children. They are brothers and sisters.”

  “Perhaps then with different mothers there is no desire to compete. They may be brothers, but they are also half strangers.”

  “Mr. Holmes. As collected and rational as you may be, you can be possessed of the strangest notions. Did your brother not help you to escape the country? He seems very dedicated to you.”

  At this, Sherlock could only fall silent. He would have liked to agree with what Ito said, but could not shake his feelings of distrust. He was inclined to cynicism. Mycroft was likely only feigning solicitude as an excuse to better parade his own problem-solving skills before his younger brother.

  He had to admit, at the end of the day perhaps it was petty jealousy on his part. But if Mycroft felt himself to be even slightly superior to him, that then was reason enough for him to be irritated. In the end, Sherlock was simply incapable of seeing eye to eye with his brother. He simply could not accept him.

  Ito grasped his chopsticks. “Shall we?” He indicated a small bowl. “That, Mr. Holmes, is stewed warabi.”

  Sherlock lifted the small bowl. It was difficult for him to manage the chopsticks. He immediately recognized the stuff in the dish, however, as the same bracken-root that grew in the highlands of Scotland. Wasn’t bracken a weed? No one ever ate it in England, of course.

  Once he had taken a mouthful, however, he found the texture pleasant—soft but with enough bite. The overlay of sweet and sour in the broth was likewise exquisite.

  Ito seemed to guess his thoughts. “When we adhere to preconceptions, we miss the opportunity to enjoy very many delicious things. Don’t you agree?”

  This made Sherlock frown. He was beginning to worry that if he agreed too readily with everything that Ito said his own dignity might suffer in consequence.

  But of course, this was Hirobumi Ito’s country. The culture, the affability of the people…Sherlock was forced to admit that he had met with much to defy his expectations.

  He placed his chopsticks on the tray and glanced down. “What am I to do now?”

  “There is no need to worry,” Ito reassured him gently. “As long as you accompany me all will be fine.”

  “I am afraid that might lead to a spectacle. I drew the attention of quite a many Japanese as I made my way here. A lanky Englishman earns many stares in this country. People will think it strange to see me always in the company of the head of the Privy Council.”

  “No, so long as you are at my side all will be fine. When Piggott Wilson Johns came to Japan to advise on constitutional matters, we could be found in discussion nearly every hour of the day.”

  “Ah, the son-in-law of MP Jasper Wilson Johns.”

  “Yes. Our lords of parliament do not speak English very fluently, and so they tend to keep their distance when foreigners are concerned. I doubt there will be any problems while the two of us are together.”

  “Is that so…It’s possible that I might meet other foreigners here as well, is it not? Even other Englishmen?”

  “If that should happen, all you need to do is play along and make conversation. Mr. Holmes, I understand your misgivings. When I was first in London I felt the same. As time passes, you will grow more bold. Perhaps as bold as I was, when we met in Cheapside!”

  Sherlock had to laugh, despite himself. “I do not know that I am quite as brave as you,” he murmured. His voice sounded lifeless to his own ears.

  “But of course you are. And a good deal more clever.” Ito raised his cup once again. “So then, welcome to Japan, Sherlock Holmes.”

  9

  Sherlock had never been so grateful for a bed that didn’t rock. He slept soundly for the first night in four months, awaking most agreeably in the morning. When his eyes un-shuttered themselves, he found himself gazing upon neither the ever-looming ship hold nor his rooms in Baker Street, but at less recognizable settings. He soon remembered, however, that he was currently a guest at Hirobumi Ito’s estate.

  Shortly a servant entered and led Holmes to another room, in which a barber was waiting—one in the service of Ito and his family, it seemed. Once Sherlock’s hair had been cut and his beard shaved, he finally recognized his familiar, dapper self in the mirror again.

  Back in his bedroom, he noticed that his trunk and leather case had been restored. His clothes, too, had been removed and hung up in the closet.

  His hosts were very thorough in their attention. One couldn’t call anything less than this a civilized life. Sherlock dressed himself in a shirt with starched collar and his morning jacket. He put on his silk top hat. Then he stopped. His leather shoes were nowhere to be found. But one did not wear shoes indoors in Japan.

  In the mirror, other than his bare feet, his reflection matched how he had looked on Baker Street down to the last detail.

  The bedroom’s furnishings included a low table, upon which his breakfast had been laid out. He sat down at the table alone, cross-legged. The table had been arranged with a great number of small bowls, each filled with a minute portion of something different. He saw fish, he saw mountain vegetables, but everything else was alien.

  “Excuse me,” a girl’s voice called. The sliding door opened, and Asako showed her head. She was wearing a brightly colored dress, likely one of her finer articles. Her hair had been tied up neatly as well. She held a newspaper in her hand.

  The girl looked upon Sherlock with evident happiness. He didn’t understand its cause, but perhaps she was reacting to his change in appearance after his haircut. She approached and sat down next to him.

  “Good morning. Would you care to take the morning paper?”

  “Thank you.” Sherlock took the paper from her, but found himself perplexed on the front page. It was written entirely in Japanese. “While I possess considerable powers of deduction, I suspect it will take several months until I am able to read the language. I know, of course, that kanji are a type of pictograph.”

  Asako leaned over him. “Here, look at this character. This is ki. It means tree.”

  “Ah, I can see how it would mean that.” The character did look somewhat like a simplified tree.

  “And now look at this one.” She pointed to a character that looked like two ki side by side, and then to another character that looked like three ki in a bunch. “This means forest. And that one is mori. It means woods.”

  Sherlock smiled. “Quite straightforward. There are more and more trees.”

  “And this character is hi. It means fire. It sort of looks like it is burning, doesn’t it? Two hi lined up vertically makes the character for honou. It’s like a bigger, hotter fire. A blaze. And you can even use the two characters together to spell kaen. The more hi you use, the hotter it looks.”

  “Undoubtedly. This article, then, is about an arson case that occurred near a station in Tokyo?”

  Surprise flashed on his tutor’s face. “Can you read it already?”

  “No, but considering the frequency with which the character for fire is used, and the placement of the article, I assumed it must be a fairly serious incident. And yesterday I became quite familiar with the characters for Tokyo and station.”

  “So that’s what it is! You are very perceptive.”

  “The article on this page must be about some accident or crime. The headline is very large. What does it say?”

  “Hmm…Thefts of miscellaneous articles continue. A string of cat burglaries have struck homes throughout Kanto, targeting items such as pottery, dolls, and woodblock prints. Over 100 cases have already been reported, and police are in a heightened state of alert.”

  “Pottery, dolls, and woodblock prints. Are these items of value?”

  “No. They were all hina and ichimatsu dolls, which are worth almost nothing. The rest were amateur prints and things like common flower vases used to dec
orate the alcoves in people’s homes. It’s all pretty worthless. A pawnshop probably wouldn’t even take them.”

  “Most interesting. None of the items were rare, then?”

  “You can find them in almost any home. The kind of junk that gets left over in open-air markets.”

  The sliding door opened once more. This time Ikuko bowed, sitting in strict seiza. She wore an even finer dress than Asako, and a glossy ornament in her hair. Her makeup had been carefully applied.

  Upon raising her head, Ikuko seemed to notice Asako’s presence for the first time. “What are you doing in here?” she said in English, her expression severe. “You shouldn’t bother our guest.”

  Asako stood up. “Well, what about you? Why are you bothering Mr. Holmes?”

  Before Sherlock could stop them, the two began arguing in Japanese. Then their mother, Umeko, appeared. Like the two younger girls, her dress was fit for high tea. Her hair was tied up neatly, and her makeup was meticulous. By London standards her attire would have been slightly behind season, but here in Japan, Sherlock recognized, it represented a level of sophistication only available to the most privileged classes.

  Umeko furrowed her brow. “Why are you both here? Your father is ready to go. Outside now, hurry.”

  Asako, who had been putting on ladylike airs earlier for Sherlock’s sake, made a face at her sister. Ikuko immediately retreated to the hallway, her own expression unamused. Asako ran after her. Umeko gave an embarrassed smile and lowered her head. Sherlock stood as well. It seemed he had missed his chance to take breakfast.

  Approaching the front entrance, he saw that the servants had lined up in the garden. Umeko was waiting as well, along with Ikuko and a fidgeting Asako. In all their finery, it looked almost as if they were preparing to leave for a ball.

  Ito appeared next, dressed dapperly in a frock coat and bow tie. Sherlock donned his shoes, which had been laid out for him, and joined him in the garden. A bellows camera had been set up on a tripod on the lawn. The lens was pointed toward them. Behind it, the photographer was busy making preparations.