Nicholas broke off mid-sentence. Sherlock looked at Nicholas quietly. The Tsarevich stroked his face forlornly.
“Your Highness,” Sherlock whispered. “In the end this was all about your brother, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t you have a brother? No one else was born to the same parents, no one else understands me, but George. He is my other self. No one is as thoughtful or full of care for others as he is. Anyone who could attack someone as innocent as George must be dealt the retribution they deserve. It is my duty as an older brother.”
Sherlock was unmoved. “Were you aware of Grand Duke George’s public service?”
“Public service? Why bring that up?”
“I asked whether or not you were aware of it.”
The young man began pacing the room nervously. “If you are speaking of his visits to the coal mines, then yes, I was aware of them. Labor disputes, or some such, are on the rise.”
“Russia’s rapid industrialization has made its working environments inhospitable. The peasants sent to the mines and factories suffer, while the Russian government levies heavy taxes against them and pushes to raise foreign currency by exporting crops. The peasants are being exploited to the point of starvation. Your brother was concerned for them.”
“That is very much like him.”
“Yes. But are you at all interested to know why the working conditions of the peasants were so poor?”
“Not in the slightest. My brother’s duties and my own are—”
“Pollution. Sickness caused by pollution.”
Nicholas froze. He was perhaps overcome by a sense of foreboding. “Pollution…?”
“The peasants suffer from pollution-related diseases. Just as Grand Duke George suffered from them, after having visited coal mines throughout the country.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. George has been sick ever since he was a child.”
“I had Ambassador Shevich telegraph the palace. The court physician denied it at first, but in the end he admitted that pollution was the main cause of the Grand Duke’s illness. That is why he developed tuberculosis symptoms last year, and then bronchitis in Bombay. His weak constitution simply made him more perceptible to the polluted air of the coal mines.”
Nicholas took a step backward. He staggered against the wall and then collapsed, holding on to the closet to support his weight.
“You have always thought of Grand Duke George as a friend, someone sociable and cheerful. He is the brother who fished and hunted with you. But your brother was aware of his responsibilities to society, as well. You loved your brother for your own sentimental reasons. You never appreciated him for his true worth.”
“My brother’s public service has nothing to do with this. A complete stranger could never understand the affection we shared. Especially not a stranger such as yourself…”
“You are the one who does not understand,” Sherlock insisted. “The pollution now hurting the health of the miners is an issue that should have been dealt with by your father, and as the crown prince, by you as well. Your brother listened to the peasants because you and your father refused to. You are the ones responsible for his illness.”
“You’re lying.” Nicholas’ eyes grew wide and bloodshot. Tears began to trickle down his face. His voice was shaky. “You’re lying. My brother. George…”
“How many times did he try to talk to you about this issue? You remember him broaching the subject, I’m sure. But you were uninterested. You preferred to have fun, not to discuss public nuisances.”
“What else could I have done?”
“As his brother, you ought to have shared his burden. You said your brother is your other self. That he is your closest companion in this world. I imagine your brother, however, looked to you not only as a playfellow but also as his best confidante. You would have been stronger together than alone…”
Sherlock trailed off. Nicholas was sobbing. Sherlock had realized several moments ago that the Tsarevich was no longer listening. For whose benefit, then, was he speaking?
The answer, of course, was obvious. For his own. He finally realized the truth. Superficial fellowship was meaningless. It had no worth. The bonds that held brothers together were located elsewhere, at a deeper, more spiritual level.
Nicholas collapsed against the wall. He slid to the floor, cradled his head, and continued to sob.
Perhaps this would motivate a change in the prince. One could only hope.
The Russian palace had informed Shevich that George was not expected to live very long. Perhaps he would never regain consciousness, and his death would be announced in a few years’ time. The cause, of course, would be kept secret. How would Nicholas grapple with the truth if and when that time came? What sort of emperor would he become?
But as of now, there was nothing left for Sherlock to say. He opened the door slowly, and left the room.
37
A cool breeze glided over the ocean, creating ripples of shadow and light. The water’s gentle blue surface reflected the brittle autumn sunlight, a sparkling and clear deluge.
An enormous, brand-new ship pulled into the harbor at Yokohama Port. Sherlock bent his neck back to see the soaring mast. A far cry from the ship in which he had travelled to Japan, this was a first-class luxury liner headed for Hong Kong. On board, a special-class cabin had been reserved for him.
The night before, Sherlock had asked Ito if there would be any problems with his travel arrangements. Ito had answered with an enigmatic smile. “Leave it all to me,” he had said.
The sky, endlessly clear and high, was streaked with feathery white clouds. It was invigorating, but also dizzying. Sherlock lowered his eyes and placed his head in his hands.
“Mr. Holmes,” Umeko asked, “is something wrong?”
Sherlock lifted his head. Hirobumi Ito’s family had assembled along the pier. Ito was dressed formally in a frock coat. Umeko wore a kimono, and Ikuko and Asako wore dresses. They looked concerned at the possibility he might be sick.
He smiled wryly. “It’s nothing. I must still be feeling some of last night’s saké.”
A look of relief spread across their faces. “Shall I bring another bottle for you to take along?” Ito asked.
“No, I believe I’ve had enough. You are fortunate to prefer beer. This saké is so easy to drink, that it is easy to overindulge. Particularly when the celebrations last for days.”
“One should never stand on ceremony when there is drink available.”
“Unacceptable for someone in my position. It is necessary that I keep my intellect sharp.”
“Indeed, last night you made a rare error, though you seemed to handle it well.”
“That may be the case, but my inebriation is no excuse. What I said was dreadfully rude. Considering how thin and pale he was, coupled with that flamboyant military jacket he wore, I assumed he was just an over-decorated, bureaucratic general.”
“His Grace found it amusing.”
“It was inexcusable. I have learned my lesson and will henceforth abstain from all drink.”
“Truly? That seems to be overdoing things.”
“No,” Sherlock said exuberantly, “I have drunk enough for a lifetime. From now on, I shall preserve my mind in its natural state, so that my faculties shall be ever ready to serve. If I may be so abstract for a moment, I feel as if I have entered a new stage in my career. I have you and your family to thank for this.”
Ito smiled. “As unsentimental as ever, Mr. Holmes, even during farewells. You are a paragon of reason.”
“Sentiment?” Sherlock surveyed his surroundings.
The simple, well-apportioned streets around the harbor were quiet—not that he could see them. From a distance, a great number of policemen surrounded the port. Police Chief Sonoda and his men had come out en masse, escorting Ito in uniformed formation. Ordina
ry passengers glanced over their shoulders uneasily as they approached the wharf.
“Being sent off by someone of your stature leads to too much extravagance. It limits the emotion.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Ikuko said, drooping her head. “I am sad to see you go.”
She said it so simply that he could only assume it was mere flattery. He thought to answer her with self-deprecating sarcasm, but then Ikuko withdrew a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. He hesitated. The young ladies of Japan were very refined. They were not as apt to display emotion as the ladies of the West. Sentimental or not, Sherlock felt somewhat melancholy as he realized Ikuko’s true feelings.
Asako, however, was more open than Ikuko. She beamed at Sherlock, but fat tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. As they broke, they trickled down her face in streams.
“Mr. Holmes,” she said shakily, “I guess this is goodbye. I wish you could stay longer.”
“Asako,” whispered Umeko, her expression pained. “Don’t be unreasonable.”
She bowed impulsively to Sherlock. She seemed to consider her reproof of her daughter as an indirect rudeness. Her considerate attention was astounding. But beyond that, Sherlock could see how deeply she cared for Asako—even without the bonds of blood.
He withdrew his pipe from his frock coat pocket and placed it in Asako’s hand. “Would you do me the honor of setting this upon the table when you take your meals? I hope you will imagine I am still with you as your guest. You must continue to take your meals together as a family, and you and Umeko and Ikuko must all get along. Just the same as when I was here.”
Akiko looked up at Sherlock, still crying. She cupped the pipe in both hands, holding it as if it were a priceless treasure. Her pure expression convinced Sherlock she’d keep this promise. He nodded silently.
“Shozo Tanaka, an MP from Tochigi, has begun advocating for a written opinion to be presented on the Ashio Copper Mine conflict,” Ito reported quietly. “I suspect Japan will address the issue appropriately and soon change course.”
“And how good that the courts judged the sinking of the Russian ships at Daiba was an accident so quickly. And even more fortunate that there were no casualties, thanks to the speed of the rescue.”
“It is all thanks to you, Mr. Holmes.”
“No, it is thanks to your strength of conviction, Chairman Ito. You know your path. It makes me envious.”
“Envious?”
Sherlock brooded. “Even if I manage to get to British Hong Kong, I will likely be arrested in the harbor and extradited immediately to England. And yet there is no other country at which I can legally disembark.”
“What then do you plan to do?”
“While in prison, I shall reflect on my past cases and write my memoirs. Watson has often urged me to write for myself.”
Ito broke into a smile and drew forth an envelope from his breast pocket. “Mr. Holmes, I hope your memoirs may wait a little while longer.”
Surprised, Sherlock took the envelope. It was thick, fine-grained, high-quality paper, sealed in wax with a distinctive coat of arms. A personal letter from Buckingham Palace!
Inside the envelope were several documents in addition to the letterpress. He unfolded the letter first. He gasped. It had been signed by Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Royal prerogative. The words at the top of the page made him stare.
“The Queen’s authority is immense,” said Ito. “All trials in England are carried out under the monarch’s name. Justice comes from the sovereign, who provides the right of trial to her subjects.”
Sherlock glanced at one of the papers included with the letter. The prerogative of mercy: nolle prosequi. A voluntary suspension of prosecution.
He was speechless. He stared at the sky, willing himself to regain his composure, sighed, and glanced down at the papers once more. “When the royal prerogative of nolle prosequi is invoked, all legal proceedings against an individual are suspended. The prerogative is not subject to judicial review.”
Ito nodded. “Her Majesty did not decide alone. I was told the Minister of the Home Department agreed. The Prime Minister, Third Marquess of Salisbury, had a great hand in it as well. It seems he owes you a favor.”
Yes, he had served the Marquess before—a case in which the presence of a second blood stain had proved integral. Sherlock looked at the chairman. “Did you write to Her Majesty?”
“The letter was not from myself so much as it was from the collective people of Japan. After all, no one in this nation would object were they to know the truth of what occurred. The evidence was only circumstantial, but it was enough to convince us that you had faced off against one of London’s most dangerous villains and were only forced to kill him in self-defense. Hence our very heartfelt request for nolle prosequi by way of royal prerogative. It was a mere request, from a country of laws in the Far East, to the monarch of the British Empire.”
The joy Sherlock felt was so great it was almost like grief. He was beset with waves of emotion. He struggled to maintain his composure. His voice sounded shaky in his own ear. “This means then, that I…”
“You are no longer a dead man. Nor are you a suspect in the Moriarty trial.”
Sherlock let out a long, deep sigh of relief. He had to close his eyes.
The first time they had travelled to Meiji Palace together, Ito had told Sherlock that he did not desire the death penalty for Sanzo Tsuda. Though he’d been unsure at first, he later resolved his doubts. But Sherlock had never heard why. Ito had also resisted stabbing Denikin, out on the water that night in Tokyo Bay.
Ito seemed so determined that Japan should become a nation of laws. Sherlock finally understood why. The chairman had planned all along to petition the British Royal Family on his behalf. It was vital to show that Japan was a nation with a deep understanding of the law if he was to request a special measure that superseded it. Ito’s strength of conviction had been for Sherlock’s sake.
And England already knew of Japan’s success in avoiding war with Russia. Rather than using this episode to leverage renegotiating an unequal treaty, Ito had chosen to come to Sherlock’s aid.
“Mr. Holmes,” Ito said. “Scotland Yard is working in secret to round up Moriarty’s men. They expect to have the whole gang in two years’ time.”
Sherlock smirked. “So until then, I take it the London police consider me a nuisance. If Sherlock Holmes were known to have returned, my enemies would take to hiding once again.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Ito said gently. “Please look at the other documents, as well.”
Each document in the envelope used its own kind of paper. Unfolding a thin page folded into four, Sherlock experienced his second shock of the day: the seal of the Qing Dynasty Foreign Office.
“That is permission to enter Tibet. The personal letter underneath is from myself, not Buckingham Palace, requesting an audience with the Dalai Lama. It also secures your entry into the Ottoman Empire, and your personal safety. The Ottoman Empire and Japan are on friendly terms, and our discretion carries weight there. The Caliph, it seems, would like to meet the Englishman responsible for averting war between Japan and Russia.”
Sherlock was nearly speechless. “Ito, how…”
“I knew what you wanted to do. It was written in your brother’s letter.”
Sherlock had no words to describe what he was feeling. But he couldn’t help but have some doubts. “I am sure your letter will be taken as authentic, but proving that I am the friend you describe within may prove more difficult.”
Ikuko stepped forward. “Perhaps this will be of use.”
She held a photograph in her hands.
It showed the Ito family in their garden. Umeko, Ikuko, and Asako, dressed as they were today. With them was Hirobumi Ito, surrounded by his family, a smile on his face. And of course Sherlock, dressed in his usual somewhat genteel fashion.
> It felt as though they’d taken that photo eons ago. The memory already felt nostalgic—a sensation of comfort, like the one he had felt on that faraway day, mixed with a longing that tugged tightly at his chest.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said to Ikuko. She returned his gaze with wet eyes, but nodded, smiling.
The steam horn sounded a long note. After it trailed off, silence filled the space, leaving only a loneliness like that of falling leaves.
“The ship is ready to depart. This is farewell,” Ito said to Sherlock. “Though—I almost forgot. You will keep your stay in Japan a secret between us, I assume.”
“I did enter the country on the sly and stay illegally, after all.”
“Please keep it a secret from your friend, Dr. Watson, too. Now then, Mr. Holmes. I shall not forget you. Godspeed.”
A swirl of emotions filled Sherlock’s chest. He extended his hand silently. Ito gripped it in his own. Faint tears welled up in the man’s eyes. Sherlock could not help but notice now how much his friend’s eyes resembled Ikuko’s and Asako’s.
At some point, Umeko, too, had begun to cry. She bowed her head deeply, as if she was embarrassed by her tears. Sherlock wondered if all the bowing perhaps served to hide one’s face and display of emotions.
He climbed the gangway with the other passengers and stood on the deck. The sky, clear and blue as the sea, drifted past his face. He stared down at the pier, which sparkled under the halcyon light. The policemen bowed together. Ikuko waved her handkerchief. Asako waved with even greater force, and raced after the ship as it began to depart.
Ito and Umeko remained rooted, waving their hands. Even after Sherlock was too far away to see their faces, the Ito family continued to wave, with their hands high in the air.
The sunlight broke over the ocean’s surface and reflected back into the air, spreading a soft undulating light over the shore. The clouds above, ephemeral and white, created patches of shadow and light below them as they drifted across the sky.
Sherlock had no doubts that Japan would become a great nation. He was now leaving behind this doughty archipelago in the magnificent Far East. The nation’s people, simple and sublime, grew smaller and smaller as the ship carried him away. The trees along the shore swayed with the wind. Pale autumn leaves fell to the rich brown earth. This peaceful, almost ethereal silence banished the fear and hesitation that had dogged him for so long, and sent them far along their way.
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