Sherlock Holmes In Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

  We said our goodbyes and departed for our hotel around midnight, very satisfied with our day. Mr Bose and Holmes promised to be in frequent touch and he wished us well with our plans to engage with the Yakuza, once again advising us to concentrate not on the apparent but on the implied and exaggerated.

  ‘A boastful enemy is your best friend sirs, since he is given to overconfidence,’ observed Mr Bose as we shook hands.

  Neither of us felt like speaking. We were suffused with contentment. Music and science had enriched this strange journey and we felt refreshed as never before, ready to take on the formidable dangers ahead.

  By mutual agreement, Mr Sen came to the hotel the following morning and spent all day guiding Holmes in the nuances of Indian music. Holmes told me later that he knew quite well it would be impossible to learn anything of significance of the vast ocean of Indian music in a few hours, but he was satisfied that he had had an excellent introduction. His violin-playing somehow became more emotional and subtle. Many years after his formal retirement, when he took up bee-keeping in Sussex, he would often invite me to visit and would invariably play charming little tunes that brought back memories of those two remarkable days in Calcutta.

  Angkor Wat – Saigon – Nagasaki

  It seems only yesterday that we played in the forests of the

  Hakko mountains. The trees smiled when we laughed and

  shouted and hit each other with love. Today, our

  grandchildren do the same. I have already started seeing

  the ghosts of my ancestors in this house.

  We departed from Calcutta for Singapore on the Isabella as planned, without incident, boarding the ship at separate times. Holmes was in the garb of an affluent Bengalee baboo, wearing the local dhoti, while I pretended to be an English planter returning to my rubber estate in Sarawak. Nothing could be ruled out. The game of chess was being played furiously across continents. The past three days had been extremely interesting, what with Holmes’s newfound mania for the classical music of India. Our encounter with Mr Chatterjee had been inspiring as well. (‘Mark my words,’ Holmes had said, ‘we will hear more of him soon.’) But now we had to move rapidly to Tokyo to meet Mr Oshima. We had equipped ourselves in Calcutta with the clothes and medicine we might need for the residual part of the journey. Holmes was quiet and non-communicative and was not interested in the voyage itself; we moved to our first-class cabin and, in due course, it was filled with the acrid smoke of tobacco mixed with a local narcotic, ganja, derived from cannabis. I busied myself with the accounts and with updating my diary.

  We were informed that the passage to Singapore would take approximately ten days, with halts at Rangoon, the port of Myeik towards the south of Burma and George Town in the State of Penang, Malaysia. The journey was uncomfortable for the most part, with the monsoon in full force. We were buffeted by gales and strong waves and the occasional heavy shower. This suited us quite well as we were confined to our rooms and thus avoided contact with fellow passengers.

  But Sherlock Holmes was soon pacing the rolling floor of our cabin furiously.

  ‘There is no doubt, Watson. Moriarty would have anticipated our every move. He would certainly have the port of Singapore watched. In a day or so, he would have checked the passenger manifest of the Isabella and become suspicious about two men travelling to Singapore and sent a wire there.’

  He took out a map of the area and placed it on a table. ‘Watson, our objective is now two-fold. Get to Yokohama and thence to Tokyo as soon as possible and also evade the traps of Professor Moriarty. There is one option, though dangerous, especially since you have only now recovered from malaria. And that is to completely avoid Singapore. We can do this in one of three ways. Get off quietly at Rangoon and travel to Siam. Or at Myeik, which appears closest to Bangkok. That journey will be the toughest, given the terrain and the mud and slush we can expect. Finally, we can get off at George Town, but we would have given our adversary far too much time to prepare. No, we must take our chances at Rangoon or Myeik.’

  ‘It should be Myeik, Holmes. There appears little option. Those disembarking at Rangoon would also likely be watched. Myeik appears to be a small port.’

  ‘Capital! The matter is settled. I see that we are to arrive at Myeik at about six in the morning. Let us feign sickness and get off. The ship will weigh anchor after only fifteen minutes at the port. That is our window.’

  We reached Rangoon but kept to our cabin. A number of passengers disembarked and a handful embarked. I watched from the porthole for any sign that we were being sought. I did see two Englishmen standing at the passenger gate beyond the Customs shed, looking carefully at everyone who exited. There was no way to determine their purpose.

  We were soon on our way to Myeik, a distance of some three hundred nautical miles. The Myeik archipelago is known for its breathtaking beauty, we were told, but we were too preoccupied to take particular note; in any case, Holmes was not a man to consider Nature’s pulchritude even at the best of times. We had no idea how, but we knew we had to shake off our pursuers here. And as the Isabella eased into Myeik’s harbour, we feigned acute sickness and prevailed upon the captain to let us disembark, promising to resume the journey the following day on the next ship.

  Our plan worked. We disembarked at the sleepy little port just before dawn, clutching our stomachs and our luggage, escorted by a concerned captain. Except for a couple of porters and an official, the place was deserted and quiet and not very used to visitors. The Burmese are a friendly people and, as the Isabella weighed anchor and moved away in the direction of Singapore, we recovered our health miraculously and made enquiries as to how we could move swiftly to Bangkok.

  The Burmese official, Mr U. Mya Sein, very courteously offered us breakfast and said that the fastest, if rather arduous, option would be to travel by mule through the mountains which, he informed us, were experiencing heavy rains. The jungles were thick and dangerous but the path was known and he would put us in the hands of a good guide. We agreed and were equipped for the journey in a couple of hours.

  We entered the jungle right outside the port. Again, our journey went as smoothly as one might expect while going through a tropical forest. Our guide had thoughtfully provided us with a thick oily cream that had a distasteful smell, which would deter insects, as well as provided us water. But nothing could have prepared us for the sweltering, stifling heat and the intermittent cloudbursts. Holmes was a picture of equanimity as always and discussed various cases from the past to pass the time. He was unusually garrulous and even rather gay.

  ‘Certainly you will recall, my dear Watson, the case of Sir George Hastings and his encounter with the blackmailer Charles Milverton. You know my methods – I tried to put myself in Milverton’s shoes and imagined what options he would consider. He squeezed the last drop from his victims but occasionally miscalculated the limits of tolerance; when that happens, a person enduring blackmail may be perfectly content to endure the consequences of not succumbing. And then when you consider the case of the naval attaché of Sweden and the missing engineering blueprints, you wonder how careless people in positions of responsibility can be – leaving those documents on his table right next to an open window, accessible to any passerby. Let it be said, Watson, that a certain class of criminals are extraordinarily creative, deriving energy from the finer things in life – authorities on Anatolian kilims, connoisseurs of Shiraz wines, experts on Ming vases – do you remember that rogue philanderer, Baron Adelbert Gruner? Artists, sculptors, violinists, pianists, poets. It is a matter of profound interest and deserves scientific analysis. Perhaps such men view sophisticated crime as another art form. They go from success to success, pleasantly surprised by the naiveté of men who literally suggest ways in which they could be taken advantage of, until they finally meet their match. Their Achilles heel is their growing arrogance and over-confidence – I referred to that earlier in the case of Colonel Sebastian Moran and the manner in which he lied on board th
e North Star.’

  And in such manner Sherlock Holmes carried on, unperturbed by the strange odours and sounds of the tropical jungle, the jerky rhythmic movement of the mules, the insects that came to enquire, the oppressive humidity and the noisy presence of the monkeys and birds all around us.

  The lush flora of the jungle was a pleasant distraction; colours and shapes that I had not imagined. Holmes advised me not to touch anything. ‘Looks are deceptive, Watson. You certainly recall the case of the Vanishing Horseman, in which so many perfectly intelligent members of a reputable family in Norwich were collectively convinced that horsemen were marching through their house during the day – a striking case of mass hallucination, reminding us of how suggestible our minds are. On investigation, we found that the family was being given doses of Datura stramonium, or Devil’s Trumpet, by the cook. That plant you see there, Watson, is the culprit. The purple bell-shaped flowers and shoots contain a hallucinogen that could quite easily prove fatal. And there is the lovely castor bean plant, otherwise known as Ricinus communis. The flowers are attractive and fuzzy and the large leaf pleasantly purple. A single bean can cause nausea and disorientation and the accumulated toxin causes a painful and lingering death. But of course, you are a man of medicine, and you may already know this.’

  Holmes collected several leaf and flower specimens along the way, saying – to my exasperation – that he hoped to someday write a scholarly monograph1 for private circulation, titled The Flora of the Malay Peninsula. We also had a couple of minor encounters with the snakes of the region and I may be excused for mentioning an incident where I possibly saved Sherlock Holmes’s life.

  As we rested at one location, Holmes sat on a large boulder by the side of the narrow path near a running stream and smoked his pipe. I walked about – it was getting on in the day, we were still about two hours from the village where we were to spend the night and my limbs were stiff. At Holmes’s feet was a large accumulation of dead leaves. As I walked towards him, I noticed a slight rustling and a movement in the heap, barely two feet from Holmes. I shouted out a warning.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Holmes jumped right up on to the boulder in a single fluid movement. We saw a large brown snake with black triangular markings raise its head in enquiry, look at Holmes disapprovingly and then move slowly away.

  ‘A Malaysian pit viper, Watson! Calloselasma rhodostoma, if I am not mistaken. A single bite would have kept me in a state of acute agony for days if untreated. Necrosis and possibly death. My dear fellow, I owe you my life!’

  ‘Holmes, I have lost count of the number of times you saved me from fatal consequences. Think nothing of it. Let us move on.’

  We crossed the mountainous terrain by and by, once sidestepping an enormous sedentary Burmese python along the way, and entered Siam. The journey ended soon after at the outskirts of the large city of Bangkok where we dismissed the guide. Holmes was in no mood whatsoever to break the journey unless absolutely necessary. So once again we consulted our map.

  ‘The most judicious course, Watson, is to avoid large cities, where there is every likelihood of a mishap. It would be better to move eastward into areas where the British Empire has minimal influence, though that by itself guarantees nothing, given Professor Moriarty’s reach. Our best course is therefore to travel to the French Protectorate of Cambodia and then into the other French territories of Indochina. From there, we take a sea route to Macau, a Portuguese colony where we shall perhaps find friends and then onwards to Japan.’

  We passed through the town of Bangkok where I visited the post office to send a brief letter to my wife. Holmes went back to his disguise of a Bengalee baboo. I too reverted to my rubber planter guise, but we took no chances and avoided being seen together as far as possible. Though the city seemed lush and interesting with many Buddhist pagodas, which I would otherwise have liked to visit, we simply had no time. We hired a coach to take us from the city to Siem Reap, a town of some antiquity in Cambodia. The road was in surprisingly good condition and we passed through pretty terrain. I made note of various sights, while Holmes kept to himself, smoking the local brand of cigarettes, the quality of which he derided quite often.

  After a long journey, punctuated by frequent changes of horses, we finally reached Siem Reap in the evening, where we decided to rest for a day, given that we had had no break in our journey since we had started from Calcutta.

  We took a room at the only (and rather primitive) lodgings in town, where the manager, Mr Suvann Chea, spoke some French, a language that Holmes and I spoke tolerably well. Mr Chea was most hospitable and insisted on serving us some tea and surprisingly fresh – and unexpected – croissants as light refreshment.

  We understood that the city was the gateway to a much larger complex that was the foundation of Cambodian culture. The manager recommended that we visit the ruins of the local temples about three miles away, collectively called Angkor Wat, the next morning, while he arranged for our onward journey. Holmes readily accepted the suggestion.

  ‘Is this wise, Holmes?’ I remonstrated. ‘Speed is of the essence! Is this the time to set out on an expedition to admire the local architecture?’

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. ‘I appreciate your spirit and dedication to the pursuit, Watson, but I would like you to consider several facts. One: that we are sorely in need of rest and mental distraction. A jaded mind and tired body are unequal to the challenges that lie ahead. Two: that we are in a place of extreme historical significance that we may never visit again. And three: we have no choice since transport will be available only in the afternoon.’

  I was not entirely convinced, but I withheld comment. Holmes proceeded to make a rather sharp and hurtful remark. ‘You seem to resemble, in certain ways, precisely the same kind of reader whose flippant attitude you have deplored on countless occasions. I can see that you hope to chronicle this adventure some day, in the event we survive, and you wish to entertain and provide a sense of restless action, desiring perhaps that the average citizen in Birmingham, Glasgow or Norwich has a jolly time. We do not live in a book, Watson. This is real life where practical considerations must prevail over petty excitement.’

  ‘You do me a grave injustice with your cruel taunt, Holmes!’ I cried, my face flushed. ‘My literary efforts may be modest, but will one day be regarded as a tribute to you and your intellect. I was merely anxious about the possible loss of time and its effect on your mission.’

  ‘Indeed, Watson? In that case, I withdraw my unnecessary remarks. In the meanwhile, have some of this excellent Darjeeling tea and this fine croissant.’

  We slept well and after an early breakfast left for Angkor Wat on fresh and sturdy horses. We settled our accounts with Mr Chea and asked him to keep a couple of carriages ready for us to travel (‘Back to Bangkok,’ said Holmes smoothly). Mr Chea assured us that arrangements would be made and we should not worry.

  We spent a couple of hours visiting the magnificent temples in the complex and taking in the sights. ‘You doubtless see the marked influence of the culture of India extending into this country,’ said Holmes, ignoring my restlessness. ‘The temples have inscriptions in Pali, in which I have had some interest in the past, as you may recall. One inscription said that the temple had been consecrated with the waters of the Ganges. What do you think of that, eh, Watson?’

  ‘Admirable, Holmes, but I would rather keep moving on towards Japan, if I had the choice!’ I said, quite agitated now.

  ‘Tut, Watson! You typify the restless, anxious Englishman far removed from his bowler hat, his club, cricket at Lords and The Times, unable to appreciate the beauty of the moment of heathen cultures. I frown upon your attitude.’

  ‘And I frown on yours, Holmes. Perhaps the heat of this place has reduced our perceptual acuity. I am uneasy and wish we were elsewhere, instead of commenting on Pali inscriptions and the Ganges.’

  After another tortuous climb up the main temple at Angkor Wat and then a frightening almost-vertical d
escent, I sat down on one of the granite slabs at the base with my back to the temple. I wanted to remove my hat and the sweat off my brow and catch my breath. The agile and sure-footed Sherlock Holmes had already reached the bottom several minutes ahead of me and was walking about.

  He sensed my arrival and turned towards me and the temple, looking up at the remarkable structure.

  His face froze with a look of absolute horror.

  ‘Watson!’ he cried and sprang towards me, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me away. As he did so, a massive boulder thundered past, passing straight through where I had been sitting and smashing against the steps and pulverizing a few smaller rocks lying at the base.

  Holmes pointed upwards and shouted, ‘Watson, there! There! Do you see him?’

  I got a second’s glimpse of a dark face peering down from the very top. Then it disappeared.

  ‘Not a moment to lose Watson! That was no accident. We have been discovered. We must leave immediately.’ Holmes was in his element – every protective and aggressive instinct at its height, nostrils flaring, every sinew of his body taut, in an absolute state of readiness for any eventuality.

  Climbing quickly onto our horses, we galloped away at top speed from Angkor Wat. From behind, we could hear shouts and the pops of revolvers being discharged. The distance was too great however, so we were never in any real danger. We rushed back to Siem Reap.

  ‘We have at best a twenty-minute advantage – the time they need to descend and give chase. Speed is of the essence!’ shouted Holmes as we galloped away.

  At our lodgings, Mr Chea came out to greet us as we rushed in.

  ‘Ah, messieurs, vos amis de Bangkok vous cherchaient! Vous ont-ils trouvés?’

  ‘Je crains que non, Monsieur Chea, pourriez-vous les décrire? ‘

  ‘Deux messieurs – des Anglais, je dirais. D’une trentaine d’années, environ. Ils étaient accompagnés par un jeune garçon Cambodgien. Ce n’était pas plus de trente minutes après que vous soyez partis. Ils ont dit qu’ils arrivaient de Bangkok et avaient hâte de vous voir.’