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, and foam had dried 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.
Police personnel arrived quickly along with Detective Kurosawa, 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 him. 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 Fujimoto-san, 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 Bodhi 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 toward 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, introducing 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.
‘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.�
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‘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 special. 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 to 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!’
Mr. Holmes stepped up to the painting and studied it and the frame very carefully with a magnifying glass. Then he attempted to lift it and gave up after a couple of tries.
‘So you say that this painting is new.’
‘I have not seen this before. It may not be new, but I know he never displayed it. I am quite sure of that.’
‘Ah. The painting may be old. But I see that the frame is new.’
‘The face is somehow familiar,’ said Detective Kurosawa, frowning. ‘I have seen it recently, but I do not recall where.’
Mr. Holmes examined the late priest’s effects and the account books very closely. He removed a slip of paper from the pocket of the priest’s kimono, which had been kept folded on the bed after the funeral.
He handed it to me and asked me what it was.
‘This is a ticket to a recital by the great koto player Yatsuhashi Miyagi at the Minamiza Auditorium, a place used for kabuki and musical performances. This was on the day prior to his demise.’
‘Was he in the habit of attending concerts?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘He was a great connoisseur of music. He had a deep unspoken passion for its spiritual significance and was himself a brilliant koto player.’
‘Did he perform in public?’
‘No. Music was, to him, a personal matter. But I know that he was extremely gifted.’
Mr. Holmes’ eyes moved to the koto with the broken strings, still lying where it had been found. He bent down and looked at the cut strings and the metal cutter very carefully and nodded. His eyes were reflective as he stood.
‘Why would he cut the strings?’
‘I do not know,’ I replied. ‘It seems an impossible thing for him to do. Practically sacrilegious.’
‘Not necessarily, not necessarily. There is an element of finality in the act.’
‘Did he maintain a personal diary?’
‘I could not say. Let me look.’
I went to his desk to look over his documents. Finding nothing, I looked behind the desk and saw a crumpled piece of paper.
‘Ah, here is something!’
I picked it up and smoothed it out.
‘This is in Hayashi-san’s handwriting. Let me translate it for you.’
‘Music is nothing but heaven itself. When I play, I touch heaven.’
‘Miyagi is inferior, yet people applaud. This too is an illusion.’
‘I am a mere monk who no one knows. And he—utterly amateur and worthless as a player—he is worshipped. How can he play thus?’
‘He always knew I was better. His father threatened my poor mother and forced her to make me a monk. What option did she have?’
‘Emiko! Emiko!’
‘I have spent a life in contemplation and music. To what end?’
‘The entries appear disconnected,’ I remarked, ‘though I get the impression of a man in the grip of a negative emotion. This is strange because I do not recall seeing him upset. Of course, we have a very set routine and spend a lot of time in meditation. It is possible our ability to observe worldly events has dulled.’
‘Perhaps we get a glimpse of the psychology of the man, in spite of what you believed him to be,’ murmured Sherlock Holmes. He paced the room, frowning, head bent.
‘What does “Emiko” mean?’ Dr. Watson asked. ‘Is that a name?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A woman’s name. Though I could not say who she might be.’
‘I just remembered something! I attended the same concert last night,’ interjected Kurosawa-san suddenly. ‘And now I recall why that painting seemed familiar. I saw an older woman there in the front row who had some resemblance to the woman in this painting. I am sure of it. I never forget a face.’
‘Capital! This opens a new line of thinking,’ murmured Mr. Holmes. ‘Detective Kurosawa, may I ask you to please check on a couple of points?’
He scribbled something on a slip of paper. Kurosawa-san glanced at it, nodded, rewrote the text in Kanji and passed it on to an aide.
At this point, another detective entered the room in a hurry and spoke to Kurosawa-san.
‘We have made a breakthrough. Three witnesses claim to have seen Hayashi-san and Miyagi-san after the concert. They overheard Hayashi-san inviting him for tea!’ Kurosawa-san was excited.
‘From this you conclude?’
‘We must hold Miyagi-san immediately on suspicion!’
‘What is the case?’
‘A ticket to the concert. Three witnesses who overheard the invitation to tea. Two tea cups. The death appearing to have been caused by poison.’
Sherlock Holmes looked dubious. ‘Well, well, I am not completely convinced, but I do not have much more to go on. Something does not seem quite right. Every instinct protests. Meanwhile, when do you expect to know about the contents of the tea cup?’
‘By this evening.’
‘Excellent. Shall we meet again at eight? Is it possible for you to avoid detaining Mr. Miyagi till we have had a look at the results?’
‘Y
es. That is not a problem. I shall be back.’
Kurosawa-san and his aide left the monastery after sealing the room again.
‘Miyagi-san is a very accomplished and famous koto artist. For him to be arrested on suspicion of murder would be sensational, of course,’ I said.
‘Yet something is not quite right.’
‘If the scrap of paper showed that he was jealous of Miyagi-san, why would he invite him over for tea? Why would he even attend his concert?’ Dr. Watson enquired.
Sherlock Holmes halted in mid-stride. ‘Watson! Now that is a remarkably astute observation! A musical monk visits the koto concert of someone he believed to be his inferior, uncharacteristically invites the artiste to tea, writes apparently incoherent sentences suggesting jealousy and depression and is found poisoned. Inexplicably, his koto has broken strings. And what of the discovery of a hitherto unknown painting of a woman? Is a picture emerging? No? Well, let us withhold judgment. We may be close to the answer.’
We waited in my office for the report to come in. Sherlock Holmes sat back in a chair, lost in thought, his eyes far away. Dr. Watson looked at the ancient manuscripts and objects of art and history that were on the shelves. We discussed the history of the temple and the kinds of studies that the monks pursued. I was pleased to note the gentleman’s interest in our religious beliefs and in our temple.
Kurosawa-san came in precisely at eight.
‘Well?’ asked Mr. Holmes eagerly. ‘Was I right?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Kurosawa-san. ‘Perfectly right. We checked. Miyagi-san and Hayashi-san were students of the same koto teacher at the same time. Miyagi-san belonged to a prosperous Samurai family, while Hayashi-san was of much humbler stock and was raised by his mother who was very poor. They knew each other well but were not friends and, in fact, disliked each other intensely. Hayashi-san was considered the superior musician, but he abruptly chose the life of a monk, perhaps because Miyagi-san’s father spoke to his mother and, in those days, absolute obedience to a Samurai family was taken for granted. Miyagi-san pursued a career in music. He married his teacher’s daughter, Emiko, and she was at the concert last night.’
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan Page 19
