I walked back to my cabin with Mr. Hashimoto, thinking about Mr. Singh’s strange comment. I was tired and drowsy and went straight to bed, hoping to wake up early and see the ancient city of Alexandria at dawn.
I slept extremely well. I dreamt about Holmes and what he might be busy with in Japan. In the rather vivid dream, I saw Holmes smash open a window in a bid to rescue someone and distinctly heard the sound of breaking glass. As the night wore on, it got quite cold. I wrapped my blanket tightly about me, regretting that I had not heeded my wife’s advice to carry warmer pyjamas.
I woke with a start. The rays of the rising sun had managed to creep into our room.
I jumped up and went into the common room, with the intent of waking Mr. Hashimoto as planned. He was already seated on the sofa near the door. The porthole was open and swinging on its hinges and the room was damp.
‘Oh, what a pity the porthole was open last night!’ I exclaimed, moving across the room.
Mr. Hashimoto did not respond. I saw shards of glass on the floor just below the porthole.
‘Why, it’s broken! How did that happen, Mr. Hashimoto?’ I cried out. I was quite alarmed now, and some long-dormant sixth sense stirred.
I looked around the room in the dim light. Mr. Hashimoto was dressed as he had been the previous night and was asleep with his head on the backrest of the sofa. I saw large puddles at his feet.
‘Mr. Hashimoto! This is most irregular! What happened last night?’
He did not reply.
Somehow, I did not expect him to.
I rushed toward him and saw that his eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. A dagger stuck out grotesquely from under his ribs near the sternum. I felt his pulse. There was no doubt about it.
Mr. Hashimoto had been murdered.
I pulled the bell to summon the steward. When he arrived, I asked him to summon the captain, the doctor, and any other able-bodied man he might meet. Meanwhile, I examined the body. There was only that one stab, with the dagger still embedded. Blood loss and shock must have been the reason for death. In minutes, the captain rushed in with the ship’s physician, Dr. James Israel. Mr. Singh and Mr. Fletcher followed.
‘Passenger murdered! First time in twenty-five years…the scandal! Arrangements! Doctor’s opinion…inquest!’ babbled the captain, quite agitated and incoherent.
Mr. Singh was more collected. I saw his keen and intelligent eyes quickly survey the room, stopping momentarily at the open window and noting the cold draught coming through in gusts. He studied the puddles of blood—which I had originally mistaken for water—at Mr. Hashimoto’s feet. I also saw a trail of blood from the porthole to the sofa. Mr. Hashimoto had seemingly dragged himself to the sofa and bled to death.
‘How long has he been dead, Dr. Israel?’ he asked with a natural authority.
‘Judging by the state of rigor mortis, I would say about six hours. That means he was, most likely, murdered at about half past one this morning.’
Simon Fletcher was examining the broken porthole. He commented quietly, ‘Hmm…very singular. A piece of fibre in the glass. I wonder how it got there.’
The captain gave us permission to move Mr. Hashimoto’s body to his room. Mr. Singh and Mr. Fletcher transported the body with great care.
Presently, Dr. Israel and I examined the body. ‘Do you notice something peculiar about the wound, Dr. Watson?’ Dr. Israel asked after a few minutes.
‘A deep wound and a peculiar angle of entry,’ I said after a careful examination.
‘Quite so. The inquest will have more to say.’
We removed the long, slim, curved dagger, which had oriental inscriptions on it, and kept it aside. Then we cleaned the wound and tidied him up as best we could. We came outside to find the captain, Mr. Singh, and Mr. Fletcher looking at something just behind the sofa.
‘You might like to look at this,’ said the captain.
Lying on the floor was another sheet of paper with this written on it:
The characters had faded to a dull brown, presumably having been written by Mr. Hashimoto himself in his own blood.
‘Of course!’ I thought I heard someone mutter in an undertone, ‘Of course!’
Alexandria
Have you not seen a Kabuki performance, my friend?
How strange that the man who you know to be
quiet and gentle becomes so violent and expressive
once he wears a mask on stage!
The public assumes, quite reasonably, that frequent encounters with crimes of the most shocking variety would have caused members of the constabulary—and certainly Holmes and me—to become hardened. To some extent, this is true. Yes, we recovered our presence of mind faster and tended not to descend into hysterics. But to say that murder did not affect us at all would be grossly untrue.
I had developed a liking for the suave Mr. Hashimoto and had found him an ideal companion, with restrained habits and consideration for his fellow travellers. In itself, to have been so close to extreme violence and not to have known about it was certainly disconcerting. But to have seen a man I was getting to know suddenly become the victim of a heinous crime was a severe shock.
I wished for Holmes’ presence. I knew that he would have seen possibilities and shadows where I could only see tangibles.
The captain insisted on moving me to another large and well-appointed cabin and I gratefully agreed. Then he had the porthole and the cabin sealed. We docked soon in Alexandria. The local police were waiting, having been sent a message earlier. A representative of the British consul and a British police inspector came on board, accompanied by four Egyptian constables and a physician, and set to work. They removed Mr. Hashimoto’s body respectfully.
They then took our passports, quite rightly, and formally told us that we were all under suspicion, but that we would not be detained unless there was some circumstantial evidence pointing at any person or persons. They took our statements separately and then conducted a search of our quarters, which turned up nothing. After being given guarantees by the British consul’s representative, the police allowed us to leave the ship for a short while, if we wished. The captain suggested that we visit the city and take in the sights but return soon, as he felt it was possible the police would have additional questions for us.
Mr. Singh and I set out, accompanied by the efficient Miss Bryant, who seemed a trifle subdued, a perfectly understandable state considering the circumstances.
‘Be careful!’ shouted Simon Fletcher, standing at the railings with Mrs. Andrews by his side. We waved at them and carried on. Someone pointed us toward the famous Jewish Quarter and we decided to go there and soak in the atmosphere. The streets were crowded and full of antique sellers, fruit vendors, men selling dates swarming with flies, and all manner of beggars, foreigners, and natives. Camels, cattle, and dogs roamed unhindered. Swarthy Arab men with keffiyehs on their heads and veiled women walked about. It was noisy, dirty, and exotic—and extremely hot and humid. But the three of us were used to it from our past experiences. I could imagine Mrs. Andrews finding it overwhelming and thought it quite appropriate that she had chosen to stay behind.
‘How horrible, Dr. Watson! A beastly, beastly affair! And such a nice man too! I was hoping to learn so much more from him about Japan! Oh, I wonder about his family!’ exclaimed Miss Bryant suddenly.
‘A tragedy indeed, Miss Bryant. We must, of course, help the police in any way possible.’
‘Did you hear anything at all, Madam?’ asked Mr. Singh, walking onwards purposefully.
I noticed Miss Bryant casting a quick glance at him. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Ah. A pity.’
We carried on. We turned a corner into another noisy, colourful alley filled with hundreds of people. I found myself enjoying the confusion and entirely alien atmosphere.
‘Effendi! You come here,
Effendi! Buy! Very cheap! Very cheap, Effendi!’ shouted the vendors. It was all very energetic and stimulating.
Mr. Singh suddenly stumbled against me and I tripped and fell on the road. I heard something whistle past just above. Someone groaned loudly behind us and I turned. An elderly Egyptian was clutching his neck and buckling, blood spurting out, his face contorted in horror. A knife had gone clean through. Mr. Singh pulled Miss Bryant and me to the side as a huge commotion began with screams and shouts, people gesticulating and running. Dozens of agitated Egyptians milled about the dying man.
‘Do not get involved,’ said Mr. Singh in a firm voice. He moved us along as though nothing had happened. I was shaken.
‘How fortuitous, Mr. Singh, that you stumbled. Otherwise, one of us would have been killed. I wonder what happened!’
‘Very lucky, indeed!’ exclaimed Miss Bryant, catching her breath. ‘Now that’s the second murder we’ve seen today and it’s not even noon! Ought we to return to the ship, do you think?’
‘No, I think that would be cowardly. Ah, I see our Japanese friends there, far ahead,’ he pointed. ‘Let us join them.’
I had a glimpse of the two Japanese gentlemen in a crowded narrow lane. They seemed too distant for us to catch up and were moving rapidly away, almost running. ‘Never mind,’ I said. But Mr. Singh had already left us and was weaving his way through the crowd. In no time at all, we lost him.
I was perplexed by what appeared to be an unexpected streak of irresponsibility in the man. Here we were, in the middle of an unfamiliar crowded market in the Jewish Quarter of Alexandria, having just been witness to the murder of a man in broad daylight and Mr. Singh was apparently intent on giving us further cause for anxiety.
‘Look, a souk, a market! We really must go there and buy a few things!’ cried Miss Bryant, excited by the prospect. Her enthusiasm was both charming and refreshing.
‘I shall stay here, if you please, and wait for Mr. Singh. I expect he will be by presently,’ I said, pausing under the awning of a shop. ‘But please do return soon.’
Assuring me she would be back in an hour, Miss Bryant disappeared inside and I waited at the entrance of the souk, looking anxiously for the tall Sikh. But there was no sign of him. Almost three-quarters of an hour later, when I was becoming increasingly restless, a little boy rushed up to me and started jabbering in Arabic. I assumed he was a beggar and ignored him. He persisted. I tried to wave him off. He grabbed my hand and thrust a scrap of paper in my palm and ran away.
‘I’m back, Dr. Watson! Look what I found! Scarabs and interesting odds and ends!’ Miss Bryant held up some bags triumphantly, as she emerged from the souk.
‘Let me help you with those,’ I put the paper in the pocket of my trousers and extended a hand.
Miss Bryant gave me a few bags, gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ she beamed. ‘I shall hold on to the rest! Has Mr. Singh returned?’
‘No,’ I said, feeling very anxious now. ‘But I think it would be wise for us to return and wait for him on board.’
Miss Bryant agreed and we walked back to the dock. Simon Fletcher was waiting for us at the railings of the North Star. He waved cheerfully.
‘Welcome back! How was your day? Soaked in the local atmosphere?’
‘Well, a mixed morning, Fletcher,’ I responded.
I briefly described our singular experience.
‘Well, these ports are not civilized, Dr. Watson. I did warn you. Wasn’t Mr. Singh with you? I don’t see the gentleman.’
‘We lost each other an hour ago, but I imagine he should be back soon. He is a most resourceful man.’
We repaired to our rooms and agreed to meet for lunch in an hour.
I felt hot and sweaty and loosened my collar, sitting on the bed in my new room. I decided a short nap would be in order. Presently, I woke up with a mild headache and stretched my limbs. Something crinkled in my trouser pocket. It was the paper I had slipped in earlier.
On it, in Holmes’ unmistakable handwriting, were the words ‘Be careful, Watson’.
I stared at the slip for a long time. I did not know what to think.
Presently, there was a knock on the door and, on my invitation, the captain entered.
‘Mr. Singh has not returned and the police would like to speak with him.’ He sounded very worried.
‘Extraordinary! Has everyone else reported?’
The captain was overwrought. All this had been very trying for him. He was sweating profusely and was intensely agitated.
‘Yes. And I’m afraid we will have to leave for Port Suez this evening with or without him. If he does not return, the police will certainly issue a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of having murdered Mr. Hashimoto. When will this nightmare end?’
We walked to the deck and scanned the dock anxiously. All were accounted for except Mr. Singh. Simon Fletcher was silent and smoking, lost in thought. The captain grew more anxious by the minute.
But his dread was shortly put to rest when we saw Mr. Singh walk up to the North Star, striding quickly up the gangplank.
‘I apologize for the delay, Captain,’ he said with sincerity, nodding at Miss Bryant and at me. ‘I thought I saw our Japanese friends at a distance and went looking for them. I soon lost my way and by the time I returned to the last point where we were together, you had left too.’
‘All accounted for, Captain?’ enquired Fletcher. ‘The ladies are in their cabin, are they not? The Japanese gentlemen returned quite some time ago, if I recall.’
‘Yes, thank heavens!’ said the captain, relief evident in his voice. ‘Let me go and retrieve our passports!’
He walked down to the port office and returned presently with the British police inspector, Baynes, and his Egyptian staff. Baynes was a taciturn individual and after conferring with the captain in his room, returned our passports to us and bade us good-bye. We were soon on our way to Port Said, at the mouth of the Suez Canal.
In Paris, Professor Moriarty studied the wire that had just been brought to him.
‘Incompetence! Sheer incompetence!’ he hissed.
He opened a map and studied a certain section with considerable attention.
Presently, he closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. He was not asleep.
Alexandria to Bombay
Who dwells in the mighty Sea, my friend?
The fish and the spirits observe silently as we
move onwards, spurred on by reluctant winds,
knowing exactly whether it is doom or glory that awaits us.
The North Star moved on from Alexandria toward Port Said from whence we were to pass through the Suez Canal and then into the Red Sea and onward to Aden. It would be an uncomfortable few days; all of us were considering theories in our heads about the death of Mr. Hashimoto and the incident at Alexandria. The tension was palpable, with the heat and humidity adding to our discomfort. We grew irritable and suspicious and tried to avoid each other’s company as far as possible. This was not very practical, because the necessities of social intercourse over breakfast, lunch, and dinner forced us into contact. The captain continued his attempts at humour, but his jokes fell flat and he eventually gave up.
Mrs. Andrews could see her journey coming to a close soon and brightened visibly. It was now just a small matter of going down through the Red Sea and Aden would be right around the corner. She seemed the only member of the group who was cheerful.
‘Dr. Watson, do come and visit us in Aden on your way back. We would be so delighted!’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
‘I feel so nervous around those Japanese men. That’s the whole thing about foreigners—their language, their customs! I am not really one for travel, Dr. Watson.’
‘Ah, one must have a broad outlook, Mrs. Andrews. Perhaps they view us in a like manner. Who can say?’
‘Well, I do
n’t know, but I shall be glad when we reach Aden. All this has been very wearing.’
Meanwhile I, too, was in a ferment trying to guess who on the ship Sherlock Holmes was. He was here, of that there was no doubt. He had warned me in writing—in the midst of a shopping expedition. There was no one who seemed a match and yet, knowing Holmes’ methods, I imagined that it could be any one of them. Colonel Burrowe? No, his military manner was too authentic. Simon Fletcher? No, too bland and parochial. Was it Mr. Shamsher Singh, perhaps? Yes, it seemed likely—he had a natural authority and seemed about the right height and build. His alertness and decisiveness at the Jewish Quarter at Alexandria seemed another strong hint; they seemed so characteristic of Holmes. Yes, I concluded, it was probably him. But how was I to unmask him?
Shamsher Singh accosted me one morning in the lounge as we moved past Port Said and into the Canal. I was reading a book on Egyptian antiquities and was lost in a section on the god Ra.
‘Dr. Watson, do you have any theory on how someone entered the porthole and killed Mr. Hashimoto?’ he asked in his deep voice.
‘Not really. I thought for a moment that it could have been the Japanese, especially since Mr. Hashimoto left behind those Japanese symbols. But they seem too bulky to have forced themselves through a porthole, killed Mr. Hashimoto, and left the same way.’
‘Hmm. Well, do you know what the Japanese inscriptions meant?’
‘No. I am not familiar with the script.’
‘Mr. Fletcher told me they stand for the numbers 8-9-3, which is the signature of an organization in Japanese society.’
‘Unusual! I did not know that Mr. Fletcher knew how to read the Japanese script.’
‘No one is who he appears to be, Dr. Watson,’ said Mr. Singh, looking at me very keenly. ‘Mr. Simon Fletcher is an intelligent man.’
‘Oh?’ I had formed no opinion of Fletcher, though he had been helpful in assisting us when we had to move Mr. Hashimoto’s body. ‘And what do you infer from all this?’
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan Page 3
