Sherlock Holmes In Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

  We had long since discarded our Chinese disguises. Holmes, however, took care not to wear his close-fitting travelling cap and cloak as he would have certainly been conspicuous. We appeared to be two European gentlemen going about our business in a town not unused to foreigners.

  We presented ourselves at the gates of the Kinkaku-ji temple and sought an audience with the chief priest. This proved fairly easy – cards were not necessary. It was clear, however, that the events of the past few days had cast a pall over the occupants. Dozens of monks of all ages were walking about at that time, perhaps right after scheduled prayers. But their manner lacked the exuberance I would have expected to see in a group of acolytes. They were whispering, their brows creased with worry. Not one was smiling.

  We entered the grounds of the exquisite temple, which we understood was almost six hundred years old and was built to honour the Buddha. The fourteenth-century temple was gold-plated and located in the midst of sylvan settings, with a beautiful lake as a counterpoint to the main structure. The temple was also referred to as the Golden Pavilion and lent itself to a certain serenity; the reflection in the tranquil lake, Kyôko-chi, was visually soothing. The three storeys each had separate significance and the monks’ quarters were adjacent to the main building. Certain relics of the Buddha added to the temple’s perceived sanctity.

  We were escorted to a large room for an audience with the chief priest, Akira Arima, and asked to remove our shoes and take off our hats. I was struck by the room – there was absolutely no sound. Several priests sat motionless in postures of contemplation against the walls and large drapes hung down from the ceiling. There were several Buddhist motifs. The overall mood was sombre.

  The elderly priest presented a picture of dignity and intelligence. His English was excellent with only the slightest Japanese accent.

  ‘Gentlemen, I welcome you to our temple,’ he bowed.

  ‘We are greatly honoured, Sir, and thank you for this audience,’ replied Holmes, bowing low. I followed his example. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and confidant, Dr John Watson.’ I was surprised by Holmes’s unexpected candour, then realized that the letter of introduction probably contained our real names anyway, so it made sense to be truthful.

  ‘We are presently in a state of mourning, as you may perhaps know. I regret we cannot extend even normal courtesies to you.’

  ‘Yes, we have heard of the event and would like to express our condolences.’

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps you are from a newspaper. I do not have much more to add to what you have read –’

  ‘No, we are not. We have just arrived from India and have a letter of introduction from Mr Akira Fujimoto, who is affiliated with your temple and who we met at Bodh Gaya.’

  ‘So desu ka? Indeed?’ responded the priest and accepted the proffered letter from Holmes. ‘I am pleased to hear that.’

  At this point, I shall transliterate the elegant words of the chief priest (busso), who later kindly gave me his written notes and reflections on the events that transpired after we met him.

  From the Notes and Reflections of Busso Akira Arima:

  The suddenness of the passing away of my good friend Hayashi-san certainly shook me. Even though we teach our acolytes about the transient nature of life and the need to accept the inevitability of death, I must confess that I was deeply grieved, in particular because his death was unnatural and seemingly without cause. I spent long hours contemplating the Buddha and reciting the Amitabha Sutra, as did the other monks and acolytes.

  Hayashi-san was an exceedingly fine man with the perfect balance between spiritual pursuits and the need to navigate the material world satisfactorily. He had the keys to all the safes and cupboards that housed our invaluable scrolls and artefacts, going back six hundred years. He was responsible for accounts as well and handled our treasury with diligence and scrupulous honesty. He also took care of our properties elsewhere in Japan. Never had a word been whispered about him in any manner that was not respectful. He was quiet, reserved and always spoke in a soft and gentle voice. He sought neither recognition nor reward and gladly accepted any assignment I asked him to undertake. Indeed, I recall sending him to Mongolia as a representative of the temple to a conference on the interpretation of the Ratnakuta Sutra, which expounds the advantages of the Middle Path. He was a great scholar and mentor with absolutely no worldly ambition. And so he had become respected and gained influence without seeking it. He was my best friend and advisor, though I did not see him as a natural successor since he did not have that rare element of authority and ambition required in a leader.

  And how can I ignore his musical virtuosity? Hayashi-san was a brilliant koto player, with a remarkable knowledge of Buddhist music and of the instrument too. His music helped all of us meditate with greater focus; we were often in a trance as his sublime notes caressed our souls and delivered us to the feet of the Buddha. The notes from his wonderful koto skimmed the waters of this lake, feeding off the moonbeams, asking us to chant our holy sutras with care and love instead of as an exercise in mindless repetition, thus savouring the essence of the teachings. His music added even greater dignity and grandeur to this most respected temple, Kinkaku-ji. It was said that had Hayashi-san not been a monk, he would have become a renowned koto player.

  Like so many extremely gifted and creative people, he loved colour, form, substance and shape. He believed with sincerity that repeatedly painting the Buddha in various states of blissful contemplation was in itself an evolved form of meditation. He was in charge of the painting classes and very gently taught students the subtleties of colour-mixing, the use of brushes, the introduction of light, the selection of the medium and so on. The hesitant, self-conscious but eager student, unsure of his abilities; the mature, gifted student with deep knowledge of dimensions and aspects; and the dilettante – Hayashi-san had something for everyone and gave them a gift they were always grateful for. Alas, I myself never had any talent in that area, so I cannot say more except that the evidence of his brilliance can be seen on every wall of this temple. The Buddha – the peaceful, closed eyes, the clear forehead touched by Nirvana, the gentle compassionate smile, the fingers, the life-like hair; many dozens of Hayashi-san’s paintings will live here forever, inspiring the seeker, calming the troubled mind and guiding the artist. In blue, in red, in orange, in black – each different and each the same. Each exemplifying perhaps one or the other sutra. The gold you may see in this temple is merely real. The true gold is in the essence of his wonderful paintings; he has created an astonishing legacy that future generations of Buddhists in Japan shall cherish. His life seemed so complete and rich. Perhaps you can understand why I never wished to burden him with the additional ugly responsibility of leadership; his was a beautiful soul and his destiny was to spread the message of the Buddha through his music and painting.

  I had prophesied many years ago that a calamity would strike Kinkaku-ji, though I was unsure of its nature. And so it did. One fateful morning, many young acolytes created an unprecedented disturbance outside my quarters. I emerged and questioned the boys. One of them said that Hayashi-san was not responding to knocks on his door and they were concerned. Would I give permission to enter his room, they asked; the door was not locked in any case. I rushed to Hayashi-san’s quarters, knocked and called out loudly. Finally convinced that there was a problem, I pushed open the door.

  Hayashi-san was sprawled in the middle of the living room, dead. He was lying on his back and his face was contorted in a terrible grimace. His eyes stared at the ceiling in utter horror, with froth encrusted on his lips – it was a terrible sight. Beside him was his beloved koto, its strings inexplicably cut and a wire-cutter placed alongside.

  I ordered that no one touch his body and sent word to our resident physician, Nara-san, who arrived in moments. He examined the body and said that Hayashi-san had been dead for at least six to eight hours. He suggested we call the police, for which I issued instructions.
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br />   Police personnel arrived quickly along with their detective Kurosawa-san, who impressed me as a man of few words and high intelligence. He examined the room carefully and observed that it appeared that Hayashi-san had had a visitor the previous night, judging by the two cups of tea on the table. He was puzzled, I could see, by the fact that we insisted that the door had been shut but not locked. The windows in his quarters had metal bars and the ventilators in his room were too far above and too narrow. The other person could have left the room only by the front door, but the event was unthinkable, since it was not the norm to visit the quarters of any priest after dusk, much less have tea with them. Moreover, all of us were emphatic that Hayashi-san never entertained any visitors at any time. Had there been visitors, we would have known. It was impossible to keep such an event secret.

  In my presence, Kurosawa-san conducted a thorough search of Hayashi-san’s rooms and did not find anything missing. All the keys were precisely where they always were. There were a few scrolls that Hayashi-san had borrowed from our library – they too were safe and in immaculate condition. There were some other books from the office, mostly of accounts.

  There was one unusual addition, however, which I shall talk about later.

  Kurosawa-san took charge and asked that nothing be disturbed. We respectfully removed Hayashi-san’s body, so we could prepare it for the funeral, and sealed his room. All the monks were plunged into grief, as Hayashi-san had been a venerated priest, particularly loved for his music and painting. I found it difficult to contain my own feelings, but I had to demonstrate the behaviour expected of a chief priest and therefore went about without any great show of emotion. We began the funeral preparations immediately; I took personal charge of the matter and concluded the ceremonies appropriately. The local officials had also come and the matter received some publicity.

  A day after the funeral, with all of us still reciting the Amitabha Sutra and otherwise continuing our mourning, we received two Englishmen who introduced themselves as Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. They had with them, quite surprisingly, a letter of introduction from Fujimotosan, a dear lay monk who had embarked on a pilgrimage to Bodh Gaya several weeks prior, as part of a personal quest for atonement and forgiveness for a life spent in the pursuit of incandescent objects of acquisition. He had been accompanied by Oto-san, a younger monk.

  The letter the visitors presented was interesting.

  Respected Arima-san,

  I am indeed blessed that I was able to travel to the land of the Buddha without incident and with your permission. Oto-san is a fine companion and very caring and we managed to travel uneventfully through Shanghai, Singapore and Calcutta. We did have some difficulty in reaching Bodh Gaya, but the journey was tolerable. We found shelter at a dharamshala and have spent several days absorbing the grace and wonder of the land where the Buddha himself walked. Indeed, I have spent hours contemplating the Buddha at the banyan tree and felt the vibrations of the enlightened soul.

  I am sending this letter through the hands of two extremely interesting and trustworthy gentlemen, Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. I sense that they wish to travel to Japan soon and they may need assistance. Mr Holmes, the taller one, speaks some basic Japanese, while Dr Watson does not. They met me disguised as Indian monks, but I realized they were not so and are possibly policemen or government officials on some sort of mission. This I have guessed because of my past interactions with the government, of which you are aware. They finally admitted to being Englishmen on a sensitive mission. These are good men, in my opinion, and deserve your consideration and protection.

  As always, I regret the life of crime I was associated with, but I am also happy that you, Arima-san, helped me to confront the consequences that I may face in my next incarnation. I wish to break the cycle of illusion and adopt the path of truth by confessing my misdeeds at every opportunity and, when my time comes, I hope to receive forgiveness at the feet of the Buddha.

  We propose to leave soon for Lumbini and Sarnath. With the blessings of the Buddha, perhaps we shall return to Kinkaku-ji in six months.

  Respectfully Yours,

  Akira Fujimoto

  Fujimoto-san was a former member of the Yakuza, who had been at the periphery of that organization and had developed spiritual interests some years ago. As you may know, we do not judge a person by his life; we are all in the grip of Karma and must consciously work towards breaking the cycle of cause and effect.

  I looked at the tall gentleman with the sharp nose and intense eyes. I saw extreme intelligence and wisdom and could also see why Fujimoto-san was so impressed. I too instinctively felt that this was a person of great discernment who was likely to have the skills needed to understand the reasons behind the unfortunate event.

  ‘Can you help us?’ I asked him, ‘in determining how and why Hayashi-san’s life ended in such a manner?’

  ‘If your local investigators would not object to my presence, I would be honoured to do so.’

  ‘I shall speak to the inspector. I know him.’

  I ensured that our guests received the best care and refreshments. After that, I summoned Kurosawa-san and asked him to allow the gentlemen access to the crime scene, describing them as my dear friends who had lately arrived from Nagasaki.

  Mr Holmes examined the room very carefully. The force of his magnetic personality was such that it became clear that he was in charge of the investigation.

  ‘What was the nature of Mr Hayashi’s duties?’

  I described them in detail.

  ‘Who are the priests who live on either side of his quarters?’

  I summoned Shimuza-san and Saito-san, lay priests both.

  They denied having heard anything and confirmed that they would have known if anyone had entered or left the room. There is almost no sound here, they said, as we spend most of our time in private contemplation. Hayashi-san was not in the habit of inviting anyone for tea, in any case.

  ‘I see that the tea cups are still here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the inspector. ‘I left instructions that nothing be disturbed. It is now three days since the event. I was proposing that the room be cleaned up.’

  ‘One cup has completely dried up while the other is half-empty. Does that not strike you as significant, Watson?’ Mr Holmes asked his friend.

  ‘Perhaps the guest was not a tea drinker.’

  ‘Quite unlikely. It would probably be bad manners for a guest to not sip some as a matter of form. No, you have missed the point here. Let us delve further.’

  He examined the cups carefully and then turned to the inspector: ‘Could we have a chemical analysis done of the contents of the cups?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Was there a post-mortem?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How will you determine the cause of death?’

  ‘At this time, we believe Hayashi-san was shocked by some news and had a severe heart attack and died. There was no physical wound on his body. The possibility of poison does exist, given the appearance of the corpse.’

  ‘Were you a frequent visitor, Mr Arima?’

  ‘Not frequent, but perhaps once a month.’

  ‘Is there anything you see here that is different?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, gesturing. ‘This painting.’

  On the opposite wall was an extraordinary painting that I had never seen before Hayashi-san’s death. That in itself was not surprising, since Hayashi-san was a prolific painter who worked on many pieces simultaneously and I was not usually aware of what he was doing. What was surprising was that this was not a painting of the Buddha.

  It was a painting of a woman.

  The painting was a portrait, about three feet in height and two feet wide. It was clearly the work of Hayashi-san in the prevalent Nihonga style, but it was uniquely different from his other pieces. The unsmiling woman was not particularly beautiful; many women look more attractive in real life than in portraits. And perhaps that was what made it s
pecial. The painting looked more real than anything I had ever seen before. Life pulsated on that canvas, but it was grim and not liberating. She was young, perhaps twenty, and her eyes had an infinite sadness in them. She was looking slightly to her left.

  Let me attempt to describe it further. I am not gifted in the use of words and if I stumble, please excuse me.

  I saw the unmistakable genius of Hayashi-san. But I was embarrassed. It was a very private painting, full of frustration. No, do not misunderstand me.

  She had on an unusual kimono, light green with a delicate flowery motif and wore no make-up – now can you imagine a painting being able to make such a statement? Her hair was set neatly in the style of the times and yet she was timeless. Behind her was a brilliant blue sky, full of furious white clouds, pushing against the canvas, wishing to burst out. Though red was not really visible, it could be sensed – a peculiar understated emotion soaking the canvas.

  The painter had transferred a message of deep love onto the canvas. But the woman clearly did not reciprocate. His love had been found unworthy or unsuitable, perhaps. And as the painter had painted her, her rejection had become progressively firm and so the painting was not static. It described a string of tormented moments, of the painter and of the subject. And we could almost hear the woman breathing.

  I was absolutely awestruck by what I saw, as was Dr Watson.

  ‘I have not known Hayashi-san paint anything but the Buddha!’ I finally said.

  ‘Perhaps this was a woman he knew,’ remarked Dr Watson. ‘He dies facing the painting. Very melodramatic!’