‘We are now at the most dangerous stage of our journey, Watson. We have stayed ahead of the North Star. The two Japanese on board the ship must be apprehended as it docks in Yokohama, or the consequences will be shattering. I will tell you why.’
We disembarked at the port and were waved through since we looked Chinese; the community has a large presence at Nagasaki and has trading rights, which give them certain advantages.
We were finally in Japan.
***
In Paris, Professor Moriarty stared at yet another cable.
Targets disappeared on the way back to Bangkok from Siem Reap. Attempt failed at Angkor Wat. Awaiting instructions.
He drafted a wire to his associate, Tsong Wang, in Shanghai.
9I did not read this monograph as I felt it was one monograph too many.
10I do not know who received this monograph, but I am quite certain it was not I.
11‘Ah gentlemen, your friends from Bangkok were looking for you. Did they find you?’ ‘I’m afraid they did not, Mr. Chea, could you describe them?’ ‘Two gentlemen, English I would say. Perhaps thirty years old. They were accompanied by a young Cambodian boy. They must have come not more than thirty minutes after you left. They said they had arrived from Bangkok and were most eager to meet you.’ ‘We did not meet, regrettably. We shall be leaving immediately for Bangkok, Mr. Chea. Do let them know.’
12Holmes’ mania for monographs certainly called for a separate monograph.
Kyoto
It is safer to live in dreams, my friend.
There we shall meet the lovers we never had. We can listen
to the most wonderful music there, that which does
not deserve to be played in the real world.
Yes, your suggestion is excellent.
I shall leave tomorrow. Perhaps I shall meet you in my dream
and we shall sing songs for the ghosts.
After refreshing ourselves in Nagasaki, at lodgings that a friendly Japanese gentleman at the port had recommended, Holmes and I considered our plan of action. Every security agency was likely to have been compromised and it was necessary to maintain absolute secrecy. Oshima-san, according to Holmes, was possibly the only person we could fully trust.
‘I would venture to say, Watson, that we shall not find safety till we actually enter the building that Mr. Oshima operates from. The focus of all the forces must now be on Japan. I have deliberately not kept in touch with Mr. Oshima all this while. Who is to say who is monitoring telegrams in Tokyo? And yet, time is of the essence. We must reach Tokyo very quickly. I must ring Masako Nohara and consult with her.’
We had stepped outside, after discarding our Chinese guise, to visit Meganebashi Bridge, a local attraction that our hotel manager said was a place of exquisite beauty and tranquility. Holmes needed a place for quiet deliberation and a smoke. Both of us wished to stretch our limbs and feel the earth after the extended voyage. The city was certainly beautiful, with Dutch and Portuguese churches, Buddhist temples, manicured gardens, and well-designed roads. The people were singularly courteous.
We dropped in at the pleasant British Tea House for a quiet cup of tea and to find our land legs. It was a quaint little place and I felt a touch of nostalgia, momentarily feeling that I was in London.
We then found the nearest post office and Holmes placed a trunk call to Masako Nohara. Their conversation was brief and to the point. We continued toward Meganebashi Bridge.
‘Developments, Watson. Perhaps significant,’ said Holmes, as we walked. ‘Miss Nohara says that Mr. Oshima has suddenly taken ill with symptoms of food poisoning after a meal at a restaurant and is currently recuperating. He will be back at work on the fifth. She recommended we keep to the interior till then as the Yakuza would certainly expand their search to include all ports of entry. It appears that someone made enquiries about us at Saigon just yesterday. Also, the Emperor of Japan is away north in Sapporo and will also return on the fifth. She advises us to plan to reach Tokyo only on the sixth to be on the safe side and not communicate with her any further till then. In brief, we must lie low. We still have a slight time advantage over the North Star, so her advice is sound.’
While he smoked his pipe, leaning on the railing of the bridge, I opened a map of Japan, planning our logistics. ‘Holmes, the journey from here to Tokyo touches the cities of Fukuoka, Hiroshima, Okayama, Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto, Nagoya—’
Holmes stopped me. ‘Watson, what was that you said? What are the cities we shall be passing by on our way to Tokyo?’
‘Fukuoka, Hiroshima, Okayama, Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto, Nagoya, Shuzuoka…’
‘Have we not heard the name of one of those cities in the recent past, Watson?’ Holmes asked, his brows furrowed.
I shook my head. ‘No, Holmes. I have no recollection. The only Japanese we have met thus far were Mr. Oto and Mr. Fujimoto at Bodh Gaya. I did not speak to Mr. Oto, much less discuss the cities of Japan.’
‘But I spoke at length with Mr. Fujimoto, my dear fellow!’ Holmes was positively excited now. ‘And I now recollect! Mr. Fujimoto and Mr. Oto were monks from the Kinkaku-ji temple in Kyoto. And he gave me a letter of introduction to the chief priest. There is not a moment to be lost. We need sanctuary wherever we can get it. Let us take the next available train to Kyoto, Watson.’
We rushed back to the lodge, where Holmes verified that he had the letter from Mr. Fujimoto.
I was apprehensive. ‘We cannot read the Japanese script. Are you quite certain this is a letter of introduction, Holmes, and not something that would put us in difficulties?’
‘An astute observation, Watson. That thought did cross my mind. But given the disposition of Mr. Fujimoto and the length of the letter, it seems probable this is a letter of introduction. We will have to take our chances. Let us make haste!’
On enquiry, we found that the most convenient route was overland to Fukuoka, with a ferry transfer to the Honshu mainland. From there, a number of convenient trains were available that could take us all the way to Tokyo. We traveled to Fukuoka and then took an overnight train to Tokyo through Kyoto, after a quick visit to the telegraph office, from where I sent a wire to my wife. Holmes also sent out a couple of wires, though he was quite tight-lipped about it.
The train was slow but comfortable and spotless. We had already started developing a favourable opinion of these interesting people and their elaborate culture.
‘A mania for precision and timeliness similar to the Germans, but perhaps more colourful,’ Holmes observed dryly. ‘I was also pleasantly surprised to learn from our efficient hotel manager, Mr. Yamamoto, that Nagasaki has an English language newspaper called The Rising Sun and Nagasaki Express and the editor, Arthur Norman, is a Freemason. I have brought a slightly dated copy with me. Perhaps you would care to peruse it and tell me if there is anything there that may be of interest. Meanwhile, I shall shut my eyes and listen to you.’
I was pleased to read an English language newspaper after so long. ‘Let me read out the headlines, Holmes:
‘Emperor to visit Nagasaki within a month (Ah! We shall miss seeing him then, Holmes)…Guy de Maupassant dies of syphilis in Paris on 6 July (Hmm, reported late. How did we miss that, Holmes?)…King Kamehameha III of Hawaii declares 31 July as Sovereignty Restoration Day (Now what is that about?)…Tension grows between China and Japan over Korea (Why, I wonder. Well, we shall read momentarily)…Daniel Williams successfully performs the first open-heart surgery without anaesthesia (This verges on the unbelievable, Holmes, but the progress of medicine must be applauded, yes indeed!)…The first cultured pearl has been extracted by Kokichi Mikimoto (How wonderfully exotic, Holmes! I wonder if I can get one for my wife)…Senior priest at Kinkaku-ji temple found dead in mysterious circumstances (Tragic indeed!)…Morita-Za kabuki production of The Tale of the 47 Ronin received with acclaim (Now what is kabuki, Holmes? And
what an unusual title!)—’
‘Stop right there, Watson!’ exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, sitting up, his eyes alert. ‘What was that about the Kinkaku-ji temple? Was that not the place our two Japanese friends were from?’
‘Yes, Holmes. The report says a senior priest there was found dead. Let me read it out for you.’
Kyoto—From our special correspondent
Mystery surrounds the death of Ataru Hayashi, one of the distinguished senior priests of the Kinkaku-ji Temple in Kyoto. The temple is the seat of the Shikoku-ji school of Zen Buddhism. Hayashi-san was the Chief Custodian of several ancient relics and manuscripts and was considered an able administrator, brilliant musician, and scholar.
Last Sunday, after the evening prayers, Hayashi-san retired to his private chambers, mentioning to others that he proposed to practise on his koto for a while, meditate, and then retire for the night, a routine he was known to follow. The next morning, when acolytes knocked at his door to serve him tea, there was no response. After repeated attempts to elicit a response failed, the chief priest was informed and he authorized the opening of Hayashi-san’s room. The priest was found dead on the floor of the living room, his eyes wide with terror and with froth encrusted around his lips. A koto with its strings cut was found next to him. Two cups of tea were on a small table nearby, indicating a possible visitor. An inventory revealed that no object in his custody had been stolen. Japan’s top criminal detective Shinji Kurosawa has been assigned to this case and we have been assured of rapid progress in the matter, though there are no immediate leads. We shall endeavour to keep our readers updated.
‘Well, well! Now that is a remarkable coincidence, Watson. The very temple we propose to visit is the scene of a crime! The report, though extremely brief, has two or three interesting points I wish to look into this further, should I have the opportunity.’
‘Yes. The cups of tea and the koto with the severed strings, Holmes?’
‘Watson, you excel! But I am also intrigued by the comment on his visage. Why was he terrified? That, of course, may also be symptomatic of poisoning. Perhaps you recall the case of The Devil’s Foot in Cornwall. What might have been the reason, Watson? Well, one can conjecture, but perhaps not on this trip.’
Destiny would have something else to say, however. We reached Kyoto by mid-morning and set out to the Kinkaku-ji temple, a well-known landmark in an already enchanting ancient city that was once the capital of Japan. The attire of the people, the designs of commonplace objects, the sweeping arcs that highlighted the reliefs of the temples, the emphasis on minimalism and nature—I was quite fascinated and made several appreciative comments. Even Holmes, usually indifferent to beauty, was constrained to remark that the city appeared to contain the very essence of Japan.
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 stories 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’ 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.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan Page 18
