“But how can we find out where?”
“And I am forbidden to approach Ambassador Shevich,” Sherlock sighed. “We will need help from some more benevolent Russians.”
Just then, they heard footsteps from beyond the estate. A silhouette appeared at the gate and walked swiftly across the grounds, holding a lantern aloft in one hand.
“Who’s there!” Ito shouted.
The stranger approached the veranda and stopped, raising the lantern. The light revealed a man cloaked in the mantle of what appeared to be a uniform. His face was illuminated in the weak glow, showing a man of about 30, with a mustache and a cap in the French military style.
Sherlock immediately deduced that this man felt respect and loyalty toward the master of the house. The wetness of his mantle suggested he had arrived by carriage but had parked a distance away, so as not to disturb them with the sound of hooves. And it was also apparent from the mud on his trousers that he had rushed here from the carriage as quickly as possible.
“Ah,” Ito said, still in English. “Sonoda. Why have you come at this hour? Mr. Holmes, this is Yasukata Sonoda, chief of Police Services for the Ministry of Home Affairs.”
So this was the man who headed Japan’s police force. Sonoda, however, betrayed no reaction upon hearing Sherlock’s name. He began speaking in a rapid string of Japanese.
Ito looked irritated. “In English please, Mr. Sonoda, so that Mr. Holmes may understand.”
Sonoda bowed to Sherlock in apology, and then began again in English. “Excuse me. Chairman Ito, we’ve had a telegram from the Teshikaga sergeant’s outpost. Sanzo Tsuda has died. Suddenly, while in custody at Kushiro Prison.”
“What?!” Ito shouted.
Sherlock felt a chill run down his back. It was as if his arteries had frozen. The situation had just turned dire. This was no time to let emotion get the better of him—his powers of deduction were desperately needed!
22
Despite it being the middle of the night, a steady slew of visitors came one after the other to Ito’s estate. The chief secretary and department heads from police headquarters all made their appearance. The Japanese they spoke to each other was unintelligible to Sherlock, but he soon recruited Ikuko to listen from the next room and translate for him.
The situation was delicate. There was a strict news blackout in place. Nothing would be reported in the morning papers. But Sanzo Tsuda was most certainly dead. The cause was under investigation, but for the time being appeared to be acute pneumonia.
They discussed the developments leading up to his death in great detail.
Kushiro Prison had been established six years ago, during a time of public instability and a spike in crime rates, and a corresponding increase in the number of incarcerations. Many prisons were built in Hokkaido, not only to make it more difficult for the criminals to flee but also to take advantage of convict labor for land development. Kabato Prison was built in 1881, Sorachi Prison the following year in 1882, and Kushiro Prison three years later in 1885. Only serious offenders with sentences of ten years or more were transferred to these new institutions. They were drafted from prison houses throughout the country.
Of the nearly 1,000 convicts at Kushiro Prison, around half were, like Tsuda, serving life sentences. The majority were assigned to construction work outside, building roads from Shibecha to Kushiro or Atsukeshi. The work—clearing roadways through thick forests and wilderness—was grueling. The remaining convicts worked in the factories inside the prison, with duties ranging from construction and metalwork to mechanics, soy sauce processing and straw goods. Other work included farming, forestry, and woodworking.
Tsuda, however, was assigned only simple tasks such as straw making, filling out prisoner name badges, and work charts. Though reports indicated some concern over his poor health, there was, in truth, no other work he could be assigned. None of the supervisors wished to furnish him with anything that might be used as a weapon.
One might assume conditions at Kushiro were atrocious. But the complex had many features besides its cell house: There was a mess hall, baths, an infirmary, a sick ward, and even a chaplain’s office where prisoners could read the Bible and take English lessons. In late May, when Tsuda received his life sentence, the Russians had even complained the prison conditions were too lenient in comparison to Siberia.
As an inmate, Tsuda made no trouble and was not prone to outbursts. But he did act and speak in odd ways, and the guards and other prisoners avoided him. He was in constant poor health, and often didn’t eat. Some worried that he might be trying to starve himself to death.
In late August, a single-page “Will and Testament” was discovered in Tsuda’s solitary cell. The document included a request that any money he possessed be sent to his family in Iga-Ueno, and listed his concerns over the future of Japan. Nail and hair clippings belonging to him were discovered folded inside a separate paper.
The details of the will were reported to the Hokkaido commissioner. The commissioner feared that if Tsuda committed suicide, joui sentiment might be rekindled. He ordered that Tsuda’s watch be strengthened.
By September, Tsuda had grown thin and emaciated. His appetite was erratic—he would go three days with nothing, only to eat regularly the next. On the 7th, he complained of a severe chill and was transferred to the sick ward, where he seemed to have a slight fever. The prison doctor diagnosed him with a cold. At the time he was eating rice porridge three times a day.
But his fever did not improve and his appetite faltered. The following week he was given sugar, chestnuts, sweets, pickled plums, milk, and other delicacies, but he still could eat nothing. He grew weaker and weaker.
The previous day, Tsuda began having trouble breathing. His face grew pale and sickly, and his body was covered in sweat. He complained several times of pain in his chest. In the morning he vomited about a cup’s worth of blood, and by afternoon his vomiting had increased.
As of today, Tsuda had been bedridden. He lacked the strength even to heave up blood. The doctor had been forced to use strips of paper to drain the blood that still pooled in Tsuda’s mouth. As his condition grew critical, the warden, the secretary, the head of the guards, and several others assembled in the sickroom. They all looked on as Tsuda passed away.
After his death, authorities reached out to his immediate family, relatives, and even acquaintances, but no one was willing to take his body. The law stipulated that if no one came forward to claim him, he would be buried in Kushiro Prison’s graveyard.
The prison was thoroughly examined down to the last screw, but no one discovered any signs of poison. At present, there was nothing to contradict the diagnosis that Tsuda had died of illness.
But the timing couldn’t be worse.
The commotion Tsuda’s death might cause in Japan was worrying enough, but even more concerning was how Russia would react. What if the Russians assumed Tsuda had been assassinated because he could not be executed? It might look to international eyes as if Japan had turned to cowardly, barbaric measures to avoid war or demands for compensation. International trust would etiolate, and it would be more difficult than ever to establish Japan as a nation governed by law. And any hope of revising the unequal treaties would fade to a mere pipe dream.
Police Chief Sonoda’s voice grew faint, and ended in a whisper. “There is something else. As of now, the details are still unclear, but…”
Ikuko pressed her ear against the sliding door, desperate to make out what was being said. Sherlock brought out a cup and showed her how to hold her ear against the base so she could hear better.
This seemed to do the trick. Ikuko began translating again. A colleague who had worked with Tsuda at the Shiga police force had testified that before Nicholas had even visited Japan, Tsuda had already apparently met several times with some Russian personages.
Since March, Tsuda had been leaving w
ork as soon as his shifts ended. The colleague stated he had often witnessed two men, Westerners, greet Tsuda in the streets near the police station. Both men were tall and slim, perhaps in their twenties or thirties. One spoke in what sounded like Russian, while the other translated into Japanese. The colleague had not been sure what the men were discussing. The three would usually depart together, on foot.
Kushiro Prison only permitted visits from family members, and the two Russians never visited Tsuda after he was incarcerated. The Shiga police attempted to track the two down after the incident, but had been unable to identify them.
Ito spoke very little throughout the briefings divulging all this information. Finally, the leaders of the police force began discussing how best to inform Russia of Tsuda’s death.
Sherlock, meanwhile, fell to his own deliberations. He still did not fully comprehend the temperament and daily habits of the Japanese people, and yet his powers of deduction were needed for the very same. The situation was a conundrum. Although this case differed greatly in character from the crimes he’d encountered in the West, time was of the essence. The Far East faced its greatest danger yet. The situation brooked no delay.
23
Gentle afternoon light streamed over Tokyo, alighting on a stagecoach rumbling through a side street of Ginza. The buildings in the area were a mixture of Japanese-style structures with tiled roofs, and Western red brick buildings. The shop signs shared their spaces with rows of weeping willows. Sherlock was fast becoming used to such sights.
He and Ito sat at a table in a Western café, staring at the street through the open-air shop front. Although average Japanese citizens were turning out more and more to the entertainment centers, in Ginza at least the sight of a 50-year-old Japanese man in frock coat, in the company of a peculiar Englishman, was not so very out of place. Or so Ito claimed. Indeed, the ratio of foreigners passing by in this area seemed quite high. Fortunately, at this time of day it was not likely that anyone from the British legation would happen by. Sherlock wanted to avoid dealing with the authorities or having his identity called into question at all costs—particularly at this juncture.
He was still legally prohibited from approaching Ambassador Shevich, and the meeting with Chekhov and Anna had been only a one-time offer. Since the two Russians were acquaintances with Minister Mutsu, however, he and Ito had reached the two through the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce to arrange a meeting. Naturally, they had not divulged their identities.
A portly man with red hair entered the café. He was immediately recognizable. Chekhov seemed to notice Ito first; his attention then shifted to Sherlock. His round eyes filled with apprehension.
He wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief as he approached. “Chairman Ito. Mr. Holmes. You put me in a very difficult position. I was told very clearly that I was not to speak with Mr. Holmes again, even if I happened to encounter him in the street.”
At this point Anna entered the shop as well, and her face immediately blanched. “As…we were contacted by your Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce, I assumed it was related to The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences…”
Sherlock was unfazed. “But the two of you are here now, at any rate. Please, have a seat. It was very important we meet with someone from your side, and you two are the only ones available to us at the moment.”
Chekhov and Anna sat down across from them, their expressions uneasy. Chekhov leaned forward and whispered, “The Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce has always pursued the natural sciences, and is inherently peaceful. That is why we have done everything in our power to help. To have our friendship taken advantage of in this manner…”
“Your feelings are understandable,” Ito soothed him. “But in the interests of peace, Mr. Holmes and I had no other resort. None of Tsarevich Nicholas’ advisors, with the exception of yourselves, are willing to meet with us.”
Anna’s uncertainty grew. “Advisors? I told you before, we generally attended on His Royal Highness Grand Duke George, not on the Tsarevich himself.”
“In that case,” Sherlock said quietly, “would you telegram to Paris on my behalf, where Grand Duke George is now vacationing, and inquire as to whether his brother Nicholas has truly docked a warship in Japan so he can negotiate with the King of Siam?”
Chekhov and Anna winced, exchanging nervous glances.
Their reaction settled it. Sherlock had been entertaining several possibilities, but they had suddenly been narrowed down to one.
Confused, Ito turned towards Sherlock, bemused. “Mr. Holmes, what have you discovered?”
Sherlock was silent. He needed some time to organize his thoughts.
The waiter approached with a menu in hand. Chekhov and Anna fussed over it. They held the menu close to their faces before finally ordering only black tea.
The waiter departed with a dubious expression. Sherlock addressed Chekhov. “Tsarevich Nicholas currently resides in the Russian legation. I desire to meet with him. Is there any possibility we could enter the building without drawing the notice of Ambassador Shevich?”
Chekhov’s eyes grew wide. Anna stared, too, completely caught off guard.
“Wh…” The blood rushed into the man’s cheeks. “What are you saying? Nicholas, in the legation? His Imperial Highness is aboard the Laskar…”
Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “I would thank you not to waste our time. I am already aware that the Tsarevich is in the legation. His Highness may be a crown prince, but sneaking ashore in this manner violates international laws of entry. While in the Russian legation, however, he is protected by extraterritorial privilege. He is safe and at his own leisure, so long of course as he is not apprehended while travelling between the two locations.”
Chekhov and Anna seemed to reach the same realization at once. Chekhov’s shoulders slumped. He spoke timidly. “Your powers of perception are astounding, Mr. Holmes. It is true, Tsarevich Nicholas is at the legation.”
Ito’s expression clouded. “He entered our country without permission? Without even discussing it with us? How shameful!”
“Yes…” Chekhov appeared thoroughly deflated. “However, that was not originally His Highness’ intention.”
“The Laskar is only a medium-sized ship and is susceptible to the waves,” Anna explained, in distress. “It is not so comfortable as the imperial flagship…Tsarevich Nicholas became terribly seasick. That was what caused him to sneak ashore in secret, and take a carriage to the legation.”
“I believe I asked for you to be truthful with me,” Sherlock reproved quietly. “In fact there were difficulties in getting a certain artisan to Tokyo and aboard that ship. That is the truth, is it not?”
Chekhov lowered his gaze in defeat. Anna reacted in a similar manner.
Ito, alone, was confused. “A certain artisan? What do you mean?”
But the truth was out. “Whatever resentment the Tsarevich has formed for Japan, someone must inform His Highness that when a young man in his position runs away from home it can bring great chaos to the world,” Sherlock said. “I propose we deliver that message immediately.”
“Run away?!” Ito exclaimed.
Anna sighed deeply. “You seem to have grasped the situation fully, Mr. Holmes. Everything you say is true. I’m afraid, though, that after everything that has happened, all attempts to reason with His Highness have been in vain…”
“Wait.” Ito stared. “You do not mean that Tsarevich Nicholas wishes to defect…”
Only a politician would ask that, Sherlock thought. “No, not defecting. He has run away, that is all, like any wayward boy who is uninterested in his parents’ advice and is itching for a fight.”
The waiter brought over the tea. Chekhov and Anna appeared to have recovered a modicum of composure. Chekhov stared at the steam rising from the pot for a moment. Eventually he lifted his eyes.
&nb
sp; “I would be grateful for anyone who might persuade His Tsarevich,” he said. “If that person is you, then I will assist in any way I can.”
Sherlock turned his piercing gaze on Anna. Her mind, too, appeared made up.
“At least tell me one thing,” Ito begged. He was still in the dark. “When you say he is ‘itching for a fight,’ do you mean war?”
“Come now,” Sherlock dodged. “If I told you now that Nicholas intends war, you would be forced to take immediate action. Humor me until tonight. Then all will be made clear.”
24
An exquisitely ornamented table clock announced 6:00 P.M., chiming a barrel organ version of the melody to Stenka Razin.
The room was decorated with furniture in the Russian Modern style. The décor would not have been out of place in the salon of a typical aristocratic home. But the Russian legation had different standards. The room was not a social space but a barber’s salon: there was a reclining chair, shampooing bowl, and, on the wall, a hanging mirror. The metal mesh hampers were filled with towels, and a wagon in the room held scissors, combs, and other tools of the trade.
The various tools and accouterments implied this was a place of business, but it was no public shop. Not even the legation staff came to have their hair trimmed. The room was reserved for the sole use of the imperial family.
The door opened on schedule. Tsarevich Nicholas entered.
Instead of the overly ornate military uniform he wore for ceremonial events, the Tsarevich was wearing a simple double-collared shirt. In this simple garb, he looked for once his age, a young man of 23. Though short for a Russian, he was slim and fit. His hair was cropped, and his mustache neatly trimmed. He certainly didn’t look like he needed a barber. Clearly he was visiting this room for some other purpose—just as Sherlock had expected.
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