“Indirectly, maybe. Essentially, the Russians mismanaged the Tsarevich’s itinerary. For instance, while in Siam, the military photographer was left aboard one of the ships, ignorant of the schedule. They failed to take even a single photograph.”
“Are you saying the Russians have no documentation of their time in Siam?”
“None! At the time, we almost didn’t notice, because all the international newspapers were relying on Siam’s local reporters, and no one disembarked.”
“So the press never entered Siam?”
“Siam is a unique situation. It is an independent country, not a European colony. We couldn’t get permission for the press in time to catch up with the Tsarevich. But the local reporters agreed to take photographs and notes for us. The rest of us loafed around the waters near the coast. When the Russian military photographer saw us all aboard, he must have assumed he didn’t need to disembark either.”
“It sounds as if it was you and the other reporters, then, who were responsible for this lack of official documentation.”
Borloo frowned. “No, it was the photographer’s fault. I remember specifically, he did everything correctly in Egypt, India, and Ceylon. When they later found they had no official documentation of the Siam trip, the Russian court approached all the international newspapers, including ours, to ask for our notes and photographs.”
“So they purchased newspaper records about Siam to cover for those the military had forgotten to take?”
“Yes. Both written and photographic. They only wanted a copy of the written notes, but as the photographs were to be used for imperial purposes, they asked us for the rights and film negatives. Our main office accepted. They offered us quite a sum of money.”
“And what of your own firm? You didn’t mind giving up your photographs?”
“At some point in the future I’m sure we’ll be able to run photographs in our papers, but not with our current printing technology. The best we can do now is run tracings. So generally, the photographs are of no particular use in writing our articles either.”
“Did Le Figaro take a great many photographs?”
Borloo nodded. “The times have changed. Photographers no longer need to carry around dry plates and toxic chemicals everywhere they go. Since three years ago, with Eastman’s Kodak camera, we can take photographs wherever we please.”
“Was the Russian court only interested in buying the notes and photographs from Siam? No other countries?”
Borloo shook his head. “No. After all, in Egypt, India, Ceylon, Singapore, Indonesia, Hong Kong, and Shanghai, the military photographer managed admirably enough on his own.”
“And what about in Japan?”
“The exact opposite than what happened in Siam. The Tsarevich brought only the Russian military photographer with them, and all the newspapers, including ours, were left in the cold.”
This struck Holmes as odd. “Why were you left behind?”
“It was almost Easter, and almost Tsarevich Nicholas’ birthday. We were told his itinerary was unclear. The Tsarevich was sneaking out on his own, of course, but we didn’t realize that until after the incident at Otsu.”
“So the press never accompanied Tsarevich Nicholas while he was in Japan?”
“Precisely. Including the day of attack. Our newspapers, that time, had to rely on Russian records.”
“Were there any photographs from the day of the incident?”
Borloo smiled wryly and withdrew two photographs from the envelope he had placed on the table. “This is all I have. I don’t believe these are from the day of the incident. They were probably taken around Nagasaki or Kyoto.”
One of the photographs featured a rickshaw, with Tsarevich Nicholas inside, dressed in a boiler hat, necktie and blazer. He stared at the camera with a solemn expression. His face was thin and mustached; he might almost have been a young international student. Sherlock studied the background. It looked as if they were near a temple or shrine of some sort.
The second photograph was also of a rickshaw, but from a different angle. Here, Nicholas was dressed in the same clothing as in the previous image, minus the hat, and was staring up at the sky leisurely. There was no cut on his head. Most likely the photograph had been taken before the attack.
Sherlock looked at Borloo. “There were no other photographs?”
“None. After the incident we had to hassle the Russians relentlessly before even acquiring just these. It took nearly a week for them to arrive.”
“And the notes?”
“Sparse as well. They contained very few details. There was no mention of the tattoo Nicholas had received on his arm, or of the several days he had spent in the company of geisha—those were all details that we uncovered later through our own reporting. All the Russians gave us was a brief listing of the official receptions that Japan had arranged.”
“And what is your impression, seeing these photographs?” Sherlock’s voice took on a clinical tone.
“My impression…?” Borloo considered. “Well, he seems to be in a much better mood than he was while in Egypt and India.”
“He appears to be in good spirits to you?”
“Yes. At the Nile River, for example, he scowled constantly. And in Hong Kong and Shanghai he did not like the Chinese. I suppose in Japan he was finally able to relax. Considering what happened, I can’t help but feel sorry for him.”
“And you were given no photographs after the Otsu incident, I presume?”
“No photographs, not even a few notes. We had to interview the Japanese government to get any details at all. Like how the Emperor visited the hotel to check on the Tsarevich, or the dispute over whether Sanzo Tsuda would be given the death penalty.”
“I see.” Sherlock placed the photographs on the table. “The Russians seemed set on stoking anti-Japanese sentiment. They reported that Prince George of Greece confronted Tsuda alone…”
“I don’t think that that was their intention,” Barloo countered earnestly. “Our first reports had it the same.”
“What’s that now?”
“Even though we never got any memo from the Russians, immediately after the Otsu attack we were able to speak with someone from the legation. They claimed that the Japanese entourage stood around doing nothing while Prince George saved Nicholas. Later the Russian court released Nicholas’ diary and it, too, said the same. He wrote his entry the same night of the attack.”
“Are you sure that it was Nicholas himself who wrote that?”
“Our correspondents in Russia saw the actual document. It was posted during a court press briefing. All the world’s press was present, all familiar with official documents signed by the Tsarevich. It was his own handwriting, without a doubt.”
Sherlock leaned forward. “Do you know what else was written in that diary entry?”
“Just a moment.” Borloo stood and walked to his desk. He deftly removed a packet of papers from within a towering pile of documents. He put the papers in front of Sherlock. “This is the English translation. The original, of course, was in Russian.”
He began skimming the first page.
* * *
—
“A great number of commoners crowded the road at the turn ahead. Just as the rickshaw turned the corner, I felt a heavy blow on my right temple. I turned and was affronted by the sight of a patrolman, with a grotesque expression, gripping a saber in both hands, poised to strike at me. ‘Are you mad?’ I shouted, leaping from the rickshaw. But that detestable face continued to follow me. I was in no position to stop him, and was forced instead to flee. I thought that I might take shelter among the crowd, but the Japanese had begun dashing away in a panic. As I ran, I turned to look over my shoulder, and saw George was close on the patrolman’s heels. I ran what must have been another 60 feet before turning to look once more, and saw the danger h
ad passed. George had knocked the savage down with his bamboo cane. By the time I doubled back to the rickshaw, the rickshaw drivers and the other policemen had seized the brute. One had grabbed the man by the lapels and thrust the confiscated saber at his neck. None of the Japanese commoners had come to my aid. Why were George and I left alone with that barbarian on the road? I do not understand.”
* * *
—
“Curious,” Sherlock mused. “This differs from the description of events Japan provided.”
Borloo nodded. “After the Russian court released Nicholas’ diary and these details were reported, the Japanese objected. We interviewed several people who were on the road that day. After piecing together several accounts, it seems the true heroes of the day were the two rickshaw drivers, who succeeded in capturing Tsuda. The first blow was from Prince George’s bamboo cane, but that seemed to have been ineffective.”
“Yes, I had heard as much myself.”
“However, this did cause Tsuda to turn around to look at Prince George, which created an opening. That was when the rickshaw drivers entered the fray. One of them picked up the saber Tsuda had dropped and used it to strike him on the neck and back.”
Sherlock returned his attention to the papers. “‘One had grabbed the man by the lapels and thrust the confiscated saber at his neck.’ That is written in the diary. The previous sentence mentions rickshaw drivers and policemen, but it does not state who struck Tsuda with the saber.”
“We ran a correction that Prince George had not confronted Tsuda alone. The Russian papers, however, have only avoided the topic afterward. They never admitted a mistake. The truth is probably still not well known among the Russian population.”
“Is it possible that Tsarevich Nicholas wished to apotheosize his cousin, Prince George, by writing this?”
Borloo shook his head. “There was no shortage of witnesses along the road. Surely he would have anticipated the lie would out. Either way, after writing his diary entry the Tsarevich himself seemed to realize the truth. On May 18, a week after the incident, he invited the two rickshaw drivers onboard one of the Russian warships. Nicholas awarded them with the Medal of St. Anna and 2,500 yen.”
Sherlock quickly calculated the amount in his head. It was astounding, to say the least. “143 pounds? That is nearly three times the yearly salary of a butler in England.”
“And they received pensions of 1,000 yen, as well. A tremendous windfall for two rickshaw drivers, I’m sure.”
“Did they pledge those pensions on the spot? No consultation with the Japanese government beforehand?”
“I believe so. Aside from the rickshaw drivers there were no other Japanese. Japan only had people observing from the shore. After learning that the medal ceremony was to be held on deck, supposedly they telegraphed the Russians to suggest they move the two ships to the rear for a view of Mt. Fuji. I imagine they were trying to be helpful.”
“The 18th. That was two days before the Russian ships left Japan, if I am not mistaken. It was after that, then, that the court released Nicholas’ diary?”
“Yes. The Russians paid the rickshaw drivers all that money without ever mentioning a word of it to the newspapers, and all the while they were backing a story in Russia that it was Prince George who saved the Tsarevich. Later, people figured out that the two rickshaw drivers had become wealthy from their extravagant spending habits. After the truth came out, the Japanese government awarded both of them with the 8th Order of Merit White Paulownia Leaves Medal, not to mention pensions of 36 yen.”
“Those two must be quite famous now.”
“In Japan, at least. For a while people even called them ‘the great decorated rickshaw drivers.’ Their names are Jizaburo Mukohata and Ichitaro Kitagaichi. But recently…”
“Their reputations have taken a fall?”
“Imagine if two London hansom drivers suddenly came into 200 pounds! The rickshaw drivers have acted as you would expect. Mukohata had a criminal record, and now he spends his days gambling and whoring. I heard he got flimflammed into some strange business venture, and has already used up his money. And Kitagaichi has supposedly purchased a huge plot of land in the town in which he was born.”
“Yes, economic prudence can certainly be a challenge.” Sherlock stood up. He had gotten all the most important information and there was no point in staying further. “Thank you, this has been most informative.”
“Yes. And Mr. Harding,” Borloo said, standing as well. “Please contact me as soon as a schedule is set for the palace reconstruction. We would like to be the first to break the story.”
“Without question,” Sherlock smiled. “Until then, I hope you will see fit to keep my visit private.”
4 Takamori Saigo was an influential samurai and one of the Three Great Nobles of the Meiji Restoration.
17
He walked down an avenue lined with crude street stalls that vaguely reminded him of London’s East End. As the sun began to set and evening approached, Sherlock was seized by a melancholy feeling.
He had been gallivanting around all day but with little to show for it. Having fallen for Shevich’s amateurish trap, he was now legally proscribed from approaching the man. In London he might be able to determine someone’s location by investigating details of the soil, but in Japan, he was at a loss. What good would it do him to uncover a discarded tobacco butt if he was unfamiliar with the domestic brands? Once, Sherlock had written a monograph on the 140 different varieties of ash, from pipe, cigar, and rolling tobacco—but none of those varieties were Japanese. Sherlock was now at a significant disadvantage. He needed to relearn the entire world.
In his dejected state, he passed a stack of familiar-looking small boxes at one of the stalls. They were labeled in English. Fortuitous. This was exactly what he needed, perhaps, to banish this despondency. Sherlock paid the man at the stall and flagged down a carriage, cradling a box in his arm.
There remained only a trace of the pearly grey of twilight in the sky when he finally arrived at Ito’s estate. He passed through the dimly lit garden and headed for the main door.
Before he got there, Ito appeared at the entrance. He was even dressed in a yukata. He must have returned much earlier.
“Your business kept you quite late,” Ito greeted him inquisitively. “Were you able to meet with the correspondent?”
“I finished at Le Figaro some time ago. I was merely taking in the sights.”
“I see.” Ito glanced down at Sherlock’s box. “What is that?”
“It is nothing.”
“Show me.”
“It is a personal article that I purchased in my own time. There is no reason for you to meddle with it.”
“There is if you are bringing it into my house.” Ito’s expression grew severe. “Does that say cocaine?”
“It is only a 7 percent solution, quite mild.”
“Give it to me.” Ito reached for the box.
Sherlock held it away. “Cocaine is legal even in England, a nation that is developed and civilized. I do not believe it is restricted in Japan.”
“But it is a narcotic.”
“Nonsense. It merely stimulates activity in the central nervous system.”
“It leads to progressive deterioration and morbidity of spirit.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale.” Sherlock hid the box behind his back. “It refreshes the mind and clarifies thought. It is as indispensable to me as rice is to the Japanese.”
“Cocaine—and rice?!” Ito made a grab for the cocaine, the veins on his face and neck protruding. “Give it! You will not bring that in here! I will see that stuff outlawed soon enough.”
“I thought you had no influence over the judiciary?” Sherlock struggled against Ito with all his strength, attempting to knock the other man’s hands away. “It is not your concern, leave me be.”
“Leave you be? To ruin yourself?”
“I might say the same of you and your geisha habit!”
“I returned home directly today. Your disappointment in me had hit home.”
“And if your forbearance lasts until tomorrow, I might find it more persuasive.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “One day, however, is not much to boast about.”
“Give me the box!” Ito shouted. “Give me the box—or you won’t be allowed through this door!”
Umeko appeared in the doorway—at a glance, took in the struggle and froze, her hand flying to her mouth.
Sherlock was distracted by Umeko’s appearance, and Ito grabbed his chance to jerk the box away.
He immediately dashed it to the ground. The box broke, the glass implements inside shattered, and fragments went flying. Small packets filled with dried leaves were scattered across the dirt. Ito began ferociously grinding the pouches into the ground with his wooden sandals.
“Stop that!” Sherlock leapt forward and grabbed Ito by the collar.
“Let go.” Ito grabbed the other man’s collar in return.
The jujitsu techniques Sherlock had learned from the London dojo had saved his life at the Reichenbach Falls. But Ito did not so much as budge from Sherlock’s attempts to throw off his opponent’s center of gravity. Rather, the Japanese man continuously shifted this very center, skillfully redirecting the force of Sherlock’s attacks. That Ito’s reflexes were still so sharp was surprising for a man of fifty. Their struggle grew even more heated as both desperately competed to prove their superior strength.
A shriek rent the air. Ikuko and Asako had rushed outside to intercede. Both were shouting in Japanese. Clearly, however, they were imploring the men to stop. Asako’s face looked wild, ready to break into tears at any moment. Ikuko’s expression, too, was beseeching.
Seeing the two girls, the fight in Sherlock instantly withered. He relaxed his arms and Ito fell back, short of breath. Sherlock could only stand, at a loss as to what to do. At some point Ikuko had latched on to him, full-bodied. And Asako was holding back Ito. The girls had thrown themselves into harm’s way together to stop the two men’s fight.
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