Still, Sherlock never felt fatigue when in pursuit for a case, no matter how great the distance travelled. The train passed through Shiruchi Station, before finally arriving at its final stop, Aomori.
He exited the wooden station house and passed through a throng of travellers, before entering an area swarming with livestock and freight wagons. The atmosphere immediately felt more laidback than in Tokyo. Sonoda had arranged for escorts from both the Aomori Prefectural Police Department and Kushiro Police Department to meet him at the station. Included in the group was a Captain Saito, of the Kushiro Police. Captain Saito spoke English. Sherlock was grateful that they’d be able to communicate; he left for Kushiro with them directly, on one of the police ferries.
Though it was only September, it was so cold that a layer of ice had formed across the sea. The cold was a reminder of how close they were to Russia. A misty haze filled the air, through which gradually floated into view a gray mass of land. Hokkaido. Charles Scott Meik, a British engineer working for the prefecture, had recently advanced plans for the construction of a port at Kushiro. The project had only recently gotten underway. At present there was no more than a provisional wharf. There was no modern port town in which they could disembark, but the police had arranged for a carriage. Once they descended on land, they boarded without a moment’s delay, heading overland for the nearby town of Shibecha.
The sun was now setting for a second time and they were emerging from a forest, when Sherlock finally caught sight of a massive facility, located beyond the trees. It looked like a small town: Several dozen buildings were arranged at regular intervals. The carriage pulled up alongside one such building, which from the outside looked like a Western-style mansion. It was equipped with sash windows and possessed a protruding arch over the main entrance.
This was Kushiro Prison’s administrative building. Inside, Sherlock met with the warden, or director, of the prison. He was a nervous man in his early thirties, named Teruchika Oinoue. For a man in a position of power in such a cold environment, he seemed more naturally solicitous than might have been expected. Apart from basic introductions, however, he spoke no English. A second man, in his late twenties and dressed in what resembled a priest’s cassock, was also present. He was the Christian chaplain of the prison, Taneaki Hara, and he did understand English.
Oinoue led the way, and the group was shown to Tsuda’s old solitary cell. “Before, it was the same here as at other prisons,” Hara explained as they walked. “The prisoners were forced to carry out grueling labor to develop the area. There were many senseless practices, like abandoning prisoners who collapsed to be eaten by wild animals. Since Warden Oinoue’s appointment, however, the prison has been remodeling itself in the Western fashion, with respect for the humanity of those incarcerated.”
The lone building they arrived at resembled a mountain cabin. The exterior consisted of stacked logs. The door had been left half open. Sherlock stepped inside. There was nobody here. The floor was made of hard concrete and the interior walls were covered in wooden boards that left no gaps exposed. It looked very sturdy.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock murmured. “I see you spoke the truth.”
“Pardon?” Hara inquired.
“I said you spoke the truth earlier. In prisons where the inmates are treated poorly, the cells are in an atrocious state. And it’s clear you did not clean this room just for my arrival; otherwise, the smell of solvent would still be lingering. There is no smell, therefore the room has been regularly kept clean.”
“I see. Well…”
“When did Tsuda arrive?”
“July 2. He was transported from Otsu Prison to Baba Station on May 31. He was then sent by train to Hyogo Karyukan. On June 27 he was transported to Hokkaido with 119 other serious offenders, via a Japan Mail steamer called the Wakanouchi-maru.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock took a look around the cell. “The note, the one that appears to be a will? It was found in this room?”
“That’s correct. After Tsuda was transported to the sickroom, Warden Oinoue searched the room and discovered it.”
“Where did he find it?”
Hara asked Oinoue a question in Japanese. Oinoue replied, and Hara turned back. “It was hidden in that corner, beneath a blanket.”
Sherlock leaned down to inspect the floor. There was a visible stain, probably from when Tsuda had been coughing blood. He lifted his head. “Where is the will, now?”
Captain Saito answered. “Earlier, it was sent to Kushiro Headquarters for keeping as evidence, but they sent it back once it was determined that Tsuda died of illness.”
“It is now stored in the sickroom,” Hara added. “The one where he was housed.”
Sherlock stood up. “Please, show me there now.”
The sickroom was even cleaner than the cell had been, and differed very little from patient rooms at any ordinary clinic. The bed, where Tsuda had breathed his last, had been preserved in its final state.
Sherlock had very little interest in the bed, however. The mat was covered with marks as if it had been clutched at and torn. A quick glance at it told him all he needed to know.
The officers gave him Tsuda’s will. He glanced at the piece of paper. A few brief lines had been scrawled in Japanese. “Where did he acquire the paper?” he asked Hara.
“It was handed out during English lessons in the chaplain’s office. He must have snuck one of the sheets out. Same for the brush and ink. We do not use Western pens. Anything with a point could be used as a weapon.”
“This is very interesting,” Sherlock said, staring at the note. “I cannot read Japanese, but that allows me to better focus on the penmanship. There are six locations where the characters are particularly disordered. It appears as if he suffered a coughing fit at each. The pressure and tilt of his hand changes several times throughout the note, indicating that he shifted from side to side as he wrote. He would have been searching for a position in which his breathing was more comfortable. This is exactly indicative of acute pneumonia.”
Hara nodded. “He had a fever of nearly 40 degrees Celsius and slept poorly. His breathing grew difficult, and his lips turned purple and blue. The doctor said there was no doubt that it was acute pneumonia.”
“Where is the body?”
“In the mortuary.” Hara glanced to Oinoue. Oinoue ushered them toward the door.
Without heating, the prison would have been freezing. These were excellent conditions for a mortuary.
Tsuda’s body was well kept.
It was laid out on a wood slab, as on a bed, with a white kimono draped over it. Uncovering the body was a simple affair. This is much more efficient than how things were done at the London morgue, Sherlock thought. He inspected the body thoroughly, his face mere inches from the dead man’s skin.
Compared to the photograph he’d seen of Tsuda, his face in death appeared drawn and wasted. The same was true of his body. Sherlock observed bits of string and rusted metal beneath the fingernails. They matched the marks on his bed.
“I see now why you never doubted Tsuda’s illness,” he murmured. “I am surprised you did not tie him to the bed, considering how much he must have writhed. From the marks and scratches along his body, I assume that his hands were left free.”
“To be honest, it was impossible not to sympathize with him toward the end,” Hara sighed. “His suffering was difficult to watch.”
There was a scar on Tsuda’s neck. “What caused this injury?” Sherlock pointed it out.
“That was left by the rickshaw driver, when Tsuda attacked Tsarevich Nicholas. Apparently it was quite painful. He would often double over and press his hand to the scar.”
“He wasn’t always kept in solitary, was he? Did he interact with the other prisoners?”
“Certainly there was some interaction, but Tsuda spoke very little. And the others seemed to find him o
ff-putting. Warden Oinoue and I took pains to engage him in conversation, and he had just been starting to speak very slightly more. His comments, however, did not differ much from what he wrote in his will. He’d ask us to send his money back to his family, or obsess over the future of Japan.”
“There are marks on his neck and ankles, as if from restraints. And there is a hole in his ear.”
“Prisoners are required to wear collars and shackles. There are no exceptions, even for simple work such as straw making. The shackles are attached to a round weight. The hole in the ear is connected to the legs via a chain. It is called a tagane, and is used to cause pain to prisoners who attempt to escape.”
“So is this what you meant earlier, when you said you respect prisoners’ humanity?”
“We take pains to treat them humanely, but the prisoners here are serious offenders. Relaxing all of our methods immediately would be difficult.”
“Doubtless.” Sherlock straightened up. “Tsuda was a simple and unskilled man. Judging from the range of scars along his body he had been involved in several life-threatening battles throughout his career. He was likely proud of his life as a soldier, and I imagine he took it poorly when his Order of Merit was revoked. Judging from the color of his skin his liver was failing. Did he drink?”
Hara shook his head. “Not very much.”
“Then it is possible he used sedatives heavily. They would have decreased the functioning of his liver and depressed his immune system, which in turn may have led to acute pneumonia.”
Saito nodded. “The Shibecha Prison medical chief kept detailed daily notes. He wrote comments to that same effect. It seems it was a series of unfortunate coincidences.”
“We must not be hasty, however,” Sherlock said softly. “There is no guarantee his death was accidental. If someone had commissioned the attack on Nicholas, we must allow for the possibility that this person learned that Tsuda’s constitution had been weakened through his psychiatric treatment, and took advantage of it.”
“How could a third party have learned of such a thing?”
Sherlock’s thoughts came together quickly. “Would you wire Police Chief Sonoda?” he requested of Saito. “Tsuda was admitted to the hospital several times for mental illness. Inquiries will need to be made with each of the hospitals he was at. We must look into how their records are kept, and who in the hospitals would have access to them.”
Saito took out his notepad and began writing with a pencil. “Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Foreigners residing in Kanto, engaged in private commercial trading. Inform Police Chief Sonoda that I would like a list drawn up. Two young Russian men working together must be particularly suspicious, but it is possible they have falsified their nationality.”
“Are you referring to the two Russians who were seen with Tsuda? But why commercial trading?”
“A string of trivial thefts has occurred recently throughout Tokyo prefecture. Until lately the thefts focused on pottery, dolls, and woodblock prints. The culprit has now moved on to paper fans, kimonos, and sandals. These are common household items with no particular value. No particular value, that is, to a Japanese person.”
“You believe the thief is a foreigner?”
“As a Westerner, to me it makes immediate sense. Japan has only been open for 20 years, and goods imported from here are the fashion now in Europe. Russia is very close, and smuggling ships could be sent back and forth quite frequently. Such a haul would prove a feast for any commercial trader. Popular demand would likely begin with furnishings and decorations before moving on to personal items and clothing.”
“You believe that someone is sourcing goods from Japan in response to Russian demand?”
“The thief strikes repeatedly, moving from location to location throughout Kanto. He would need to lay low somewhere in the country, and support himself with money garnered from his thefts. It is highly possible that one of the young Russians is a man known as Olgert Bercerosky.”
Saito’s eyes lit up. “I will send a wire immediately.”
Sherlock silently looked down at Tsuda’s face. It was puckered and drawn, like a dried fish. One act of violence, at Tsuda’s hand, had created a network of cracks in the foundation beneath the relationship between Japan and Russia. Thanks to Russia’s forbearance, they had averted a serious conflict. But was the danger truly over?
28
Ito and Minister Mutsu walked along the red carpeted floor of the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce annex. The spacious hall, which faced the corridor along which they walked, was lined with rows of desks at which some 100 professionals were busy at work.
The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences had 80 chapters. Each individual chapter had been divided into further sections, with translators assigned to each. In addition to familiarity with the Russian language, the translation also required a range of specialist knowledge. Translators from universities throughout the country had been invited to join the effort.
“With 100 translators on the job,” Mutsu reported, “progress is proceeding swimmingly.”
Ito nodded. “This large-scale approach is very effective.”
“I was inspired by how you handled the railways. At this rate we will soon make up any gaps in our understanding of the natural sciences.”
“But I was told you had something specific to tell me?”
“Yes, if you will allow me. Kubo, the project director, should be joining us soon…Ah, here he is!”
A man about 30 years in age, a batch of papers bundled under either arm, scurried towards them. “Minister Mutsu, Chairman Ito,” he wheezed. “Welcome. Welcome. This is amazing. The Russians have nearly proven that a mother’s breast milk contains immunological properties. In Europe they are only just beginning to research this!”
Mutsu held up a hand to calm him. “Slowly, Mr. Kubo. I understand that all this new scientific knowledge is very exciting, but we must prioritize items that most affect the national interest. Do you believe the Complete Work will be of use?”
“Without a doubt,” Kubo affirmed, smiling broadly. “In Russia they have demonstrated that when the feeding hierarchy in a river or other body of water is disturbed and a single species increases inordinately, that same species will also suddenly die off in great numbers. This explains the recent mass deaths of ayu fish.”
Ito smiled. “I see. Has there been anything else?”
“Near certain volcanic chains, trees have been withering in huge patches. The Ministry of Home Affair’s Hygienic Bureau has been at a loss to explain it. According to this book, however, the cause appears to be the influence of underground lava activity. The lava robs the soil of the nutrient- and water-retention abilities that such plants require to grow. Seeds can fail to germinate, or, even if they do germinate, they will wither soon after. In Russia, this phenomenon is known as…vastock…er…vin…”
Mutsu frowned. “Never mind what it is called. At any rate, it sounds as if we can expect significant progress to be made in the natural sciences?”
“By leaps and bounds! We also have an indication as to why rice in the paddies near hot spring regions can wither. Spring water with high levels of hydrochloric acid has likely surfaced nearby and contaminated the rice paddies. If we redirect the waterways we can avoid this crop failure. In short, we expect we will now be able to solve many issues we have been struggling with!”
Ito was somewhat overwhelmed by his enthusiasm. “Indeed. Well, thank you for your report.”
Kubo bowed deeply, his excitement clearly unabated, and quickly returned to the great hall.
“That is a relief,” Mutsu said, a smile teasing at his lips. “After all the money we spent hiring translators, it would have been my head on the chopping block if the book had proven useless.”
“Come now,” Ito laughed. “Surely the expense was less than we barga
ined for. After all, we acquired The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences free of charge.”
“That was indeed a surprise. As far as I was aware, our relationship with Russia has grown cold. I wonder what explains this windfall.”
Ito didn’t say anything. Only a limited number of people knew the truth of the attack against Tsarevich Nicholas. In the cabinet, that included only Prime Minister Matsukata. Mutsu was almost certainly unaware of the truth.
Police Chief Sonoda approached from the opposite end of the corridor and greeted them. “Chairman Ito. Regarding the list of foreign commercial traders…”
Ito had already received word that Sherlock was on his way back to Tokyo. Police headquarters had received the detective’s telegraph and were already working to identify anyone in the prefecture who might match his description. Ito glanced at Sonoda. “Do you have a list of names?”
“We do. In fact…” Sonoda’s voice brimmed with pride. “We have already narrowed it down to one suspect.”
“Come again?!”
Ito was confident that Japan was the equal of other nations when it stubbornly hunted down perpetrators. Of this he had no doubt—and yet, he had feared that they were not as sophisticated with modern investigative techniques as they might be. But the fact that the police had found this suspect without any assistance from Sherlock was very reassuring. Assuming, of course, that they were correct.
* * *
—
Ito sat in one of the meeting rooms at Police Services Kajibashi Secondary Facilities, listening to Sonoda’s briefing. A map had been spread out on the table, and the police chief was explaining, with great relish—and considerable showmanship—precisely how they had managed to narrow down their suspects for the Russian thefts.
The room was crammed with top police officials and investigators. Ito, however, was most interested in the reaction of one man. Sherlock Holmes had only just returned from his trip to Hokkaido. He leaned back in his chair in the corner of the room, puffing away at his pipe. His long legs were crossed, one foot suspended languidly in space.
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