by Ben Stevens
The Collected Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in Japan
Ben Stevens
Sherlock Holmes and the Temple of Death
Sherlock Holmes and the Bare-knuckle Brawler
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire-Geisha
Sherlock Holmes and the Shinto River-Dancer
Sherlock Holmes and the Sumo Wrestler
Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Monk
Sherlock Holmes and a Death in the Orange Grove
Sherlock Holmes and the Disappearing Dragon
Sherlock Holmes and the Temple of Death
1
I still see that face in my nightmares. Twisted almost out of recognition; the mouth frozen in a silent scream. The eyes wide and staring, transfixed by some nameless horror.
Even Sherlock Holmes – famous for his iron nerves – could not repress a slight shudder. We both stared down at the body of the young monk lying on the futon.
‘Who discovered this man?’ asked Holmes quietly.
‘I did,’ replied the head-priest, a man in his mid-sixties. Stood beside him was the senior monk, who looked to be about ten years younger.
‘Isuke – that was his name – failed to come to the morning service in the main hall,’ continued the priest. ‘I thought that perhaps he was just sick in bed – especially given that strange habit he’d recently developed… But a few hours after the service, when no one had seen him still, I entered this room and…’
Holmes nodded.
‘I see, Jushoku,’ he said, addressing the priest by his formal title. Holmes’s mastery of Japanese was quite extraordinary, given the relatively short amount of time he had been staying in this country. A country so distant – and, needless to say, so very different – from his own...
‘You mention a ‘strange habit’…?’ said Holmes then.
The priest now appeared slightly uncomfortable. It seemed to me that the senior monk (who’d given his name as Katamari) was also looking pointedly at his senior. As though cautioning the priest not to say too much…
‘Whether it is the rainy season or not, this region sees frequent showers,’ began the priest. ‘Especially as we have now entered autumn. Isuke would go out in heavy rain, and so return almost wringing wet. Why he did this, I do not know. Several times I had stern words with him about it, but he seemed…’
The priest shook his head, and then said passionately –
‘He seemed consumed, Holmes-san! As though he was struggling with something – some thought, perhaps – that was torturing him…’
‘We are fortunate that you happened to be lodged at a nearby inn, Holmes-san,’ broke in the senior monk, Katamari. ‘We – that is, all of us at this humble temple – are also deeply obliged to you for having come here at the Jushoku’s request. But as you can see, there is nothing here that requires your legendary powers of deduction...’
These last few words, as politely delivered as they were, still seemed faintly mocking. As though this senior monk suspected that this famous gaijin, or foreign, detective was nothing other than a charlatan.
Holmes looked pointedly at Katamari.
‘Indeed, Katamari-san?’ he returned, his voice even. ‘Am I perhaps missing some obvious cause of death?’
Katamari’s thin lips twitched in a slight, humorless smile.
‘It was the rain – of that I am certain,’ stated the senior monk. ‘All these recent, outdoor trips Isuke made in foul weather caused a fever to suddenly develop within him, after he went to bed last night. Sadly this fever proved too great for his body’s natural defenses, and so he died as he slept.’
‘I’ve seen several people who’ve passed away in their sleep,’ observed Holmes quietly. ‘And not one had a face like – this.’
I saw anger briefly flash in Katamari’s eyes. He was about to reply, when the priest said suddenly –
‘No, no, Katamari, this won’t do! We have to be open with Holmes-san – to trust to this reputation he already has in Japan!’
Looking directly at Holmes, he continued: ‘We need your help, Holmes-san. For at this moment, it seems as though this temple has a curse upon it. Because not six months before this day, and the discovery of this monk’s body – ’
‘Jushoku,’ broke in Holmes, ‘I am already aware. For this is the second young monk to be found dead here at this temple within half a year. Only last time, the body of the monk named Matsuo was discovered in the temple main hall, with a similar, horrific expression on his face. Is this not correct?’
2
Sometime later, we were seated in a tatami mat room which had running through its centre a long, low wooden table. The other, less senior monks had already eaten their lunch. A young monk served the priest, Katamari, Holmes and I with our humble fare.
Holmes and I had enjoyed excellent food and sake at the nearby inn where we were staying. So I should have been disappointed at the bland vegetables and rice on offer here. As it was, however, the sight of that deceased monk’s face had quite taken away my appetite.
And now there was this talk of another death having occurred at this temple – within the last six months!
‘You seem to know a certain amount about this temple already, Holmessan,’ said the priest carefully.
‘I heard something concerning the death of the previous monk anyway, Jushoku, actually not long after I arrived here in Japan,’ replied Holmes, his tone equally as cautious. ‘Naturally, I understand that you would hardly want such a matter to become common knowledge. Only the Shining Path branch of Buddhism you practice is so well-known, that…’
Holmes’s voice tailed discreetly away, as the priest nodded a reluctant understanding. The tense atmosphere in this room accordingly diminished – at least between the priest and Holmes.
Katamari, however, continued to observe the distinguished foreigner with a cold eye.
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ sighed the priest. ‘And a man with such a reputation as yours can only be expected to know about various, mysterious… occurrences.’
When Holmes failed to reply, I glanced at him. He was staring fixedly at something hanging on the wooden wall. Curious, I followed his gaze to observe an old, hanging scroll.
For a few moments, I struggled to make out the thickly-inked Chinese characters.
Then, I read –
To calm and concentrate
The mind
So one can truly see
What is?
Simplicity
To exist in this place
And yet simultaneously
To be in another
And then to see through this other
And to discover –
What lies beyond?
It was the type of thing you might expect to see hanging within a Buddhist temple. Vague words upon which priests and monks like to turn their spiritual attention. Otherwise, there was precious little ‘decoration’ within this room or the rest of this ancient temple that I had seen so far.
One notable exception to this was in the temple’s main entrance. For it was here (after Holmes – and so I – had been summoned from the nearby inn as a matter of urgency) that I’d noticed the huge mirror bolted onto one of the walls.
Its frame was made from polished metal, skillfully carved into many small fish all biting one another’s tails. This mirror was as wide as a man, and almost as tall. It stood out in a place such as this and I quietly remarked upon it to Holmes, as we removed our footwear prior to stepping up onto the wooden floor.
‘Chinese in origin, I believe,’ Holmes had returned, as we handed our coats and luggage to the young monk who’d been s
ent to fetch us. ‘No doubt one of the fabled treasures Gyoja brought back with him, when he finally returned to Japan following his travels through India and China.’
‘Gyoja?’ I said quizzically. The name meant nothing to me – and yet still I’d the feeling that I’d heard it somewhere before.
I was, by now, quite used to Sherlock Holmes’s expert knowledge of so many things relating to my own country – its language, culture, customs, history and religion…
‘The founder of the Shining Path branch of Buddhism,’ returned Holmes. ‘He constructed this temple with his followers upon his return to Japan. Now, several hundred years after his death, there are a number of Shining Path temples situated across the country. But this particular temple continues to represent the ‘heart’, so to speak, of the Shining Path branch...’
…The priest surveyed Sherlock Holmes with a mixture of confusion and irritation. Then, his broad face again attempting to appear serene, he observed –
‘I see that hanging scroll has caught your attention, Holmes-san. You are able to read kanji? You have my admiration, especially as these characters are written in the ‘cursive’ style, which can make them difficult to read even for an educated Japanese person, never mind a foreigner who, I believe, has not been so long in this country...’
Holmes almost started, before giving a slight, embarrassed smile.
‘Excuse me, Jushoku – I did not mean to appear rude. Thank you also for your compliment. Actually, it took some two months of concentrated study before I felt sufficiently confident in the Japanese tongue – to be able to speak, read and write it, I mean… But I take it these words were written by none other than Gyoja himself?’
‘Yes – those are Gyoja-sama’s words,’ nodded the priest, pointedly adding the extreme honorific to the founder’s name. ‘Legend states that whoever can one day understand their true meaning will know all that Gyoja-sama himself knew – and so will be on the path to attaining true Buddhahood.
‘And so,’ concluded the priest, ‘everyone resident at this temple meditates upon these words daily – as has been the case for several hundred years.’
Sherlock Holmes’s eyes had become like pinpricks – the only outward sign of his inner excitement. Neither the Jushoku nor Katamari had noticed. But I – who had lived and travelled with Holmes for some months now, facing mystery and danger alongside him on several different occasions – knew that that fantastic brain had realized something.
‘Returning to the matter of the deceased monks, Holmes-san,’ said the priest politely, but still forcefully. ‘You know why they were here?’
Holmes nodded.
‘It is my understanding,’ he began, ‘that the priest of this temple chooses a successor from among the monks resident at the other, Shining Path temples.’
‘That is correct,’ said the priest. ‘That has been the tradition for, well, hundreds of years now. A tradition set by Gyoja-sama himself. As the priest at this temple finds himself entering into old age, he invites the priests of the other Shining Path temples, located across Japan, to each recommend one monk to travel here and train as a successor.
‘Assisted by his senior monk – in my case Katamari – the resident priest here then sorts through the various recommendations, and ultimately makes his choice.’
‘I’m a little surprised that the senior monk here is not considered as being an obvious successor,’ observed Holmes.
This prompted a thin-lipped smile from Katamari, as the priest briefly shook his head.
‘I believe,’ said the priest, ‘that Gyoja-sama decided upon this system so that the hierarchy within this temple never becomes too ‘stale’, as it were. Always an outsider is appointed as the next priest, receiving five years’ training from the existing priest before that priest retires and so hands over control of the temple.
‘And now, not one but two of my appointed successors, gifted with wit and wisdom far beyond their years, are dead! What monk will dare to come to this temple next?’
With this final, despairing question, the priest again shook his head and was silent.
Holmes appeared briefly sunk in thought. Then he asked –
‘Is it common for the monks here to burn incense within their sleeping quarters?’
Katamari observed the hawk-faced English detective with drooped eyelids.
‘I’m sorry?’ said the senior monk tightly.
‘Beside Isuke’s futon there was a small brass bowl, with some ash within it,’ returned Holmes. ‘Clearly, he’d burnt a stick of incense sometime the previous evening.’
The priest now emerged from his sorrow to stare quizzically at Holmes.
‘Holmes-san, please excuse me, but… does this have any bearing on anything?’ asked the priest.
‘Quite possibly not,’ admitted Holmes. ‘I thought it worth mentioning, but now…’
The awkward atmosphere within the room was interrupted by the arrival of the same young monk who’d served us lunch. He first knocked on the door, and when the priest bade him ‘Come’ slid open the door before respectfully entering on his knees. He shuffled over to the priest, whispering a few words in the elderly man’s ear.
The Jushoku again appeared pained. He waved the young monk away, and then said to Holmes and me –
‘And now what I feared would happen, has. One of the monks here has stated his desire to leave this temple. Holmes-san and Yoshida-sensei,’ (my status as a doctor led to this honorific being added to my own surname) ‘you must excuse me and Katamari – we have to attend to this matter immediately, before every single monk here decides to flee. And, of course, I must also arrange for poor Isuke to receive a proper funeral.’
‘Of course – but I must quickly ask one final thing,’ said Holmes.
‘Yes?’ said the priest, rising slowly to his feet.
‘You wish for me to try and investigate this matter – to try and discover exactly why two young, apparently healthy monks have died in such a relatively short space of time, and in such mysterious… circumstances?’
The priest’s expression became almost pleading. He appeared now to have forgotten all about Holmes’s strange (indeed, apparently quite pointless) question, concerning the burning of the incense.
‘Holmes-san, I would be most grateful for any help or explanation you could give,’ said the priest.
‘Of course,’ returned Holmes. ‘Only, I fear to impose, but it would be helpful if my friend Yoshida-sensei and I could stay here, while I look into this matter…’
‘Naturally,’ said the priest, as Katamari’s cold eyes signaled his disapproval of such an arrangement. ‘I will have one of the monks arrange a room for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’
Accompanied by Katamari, he left.
At once, Holmes stood up, his eyes gleaming.
‘Quickly, Yoshida-sensei, I beg of you…! Let us return to the inn, pay our bill and get our few possessions! Although, we cannot truly start work before everyone at this temple has fallen asleep this evening…’
‘Holmes-san?’ I said uncertainly. ‘What ‘work’ is this?’
‘You will know,’ returned the Englishman, his voice and expression suddenly grim. ‘I believe that there is great danger here – murder and trickery and deception. We have to act quickly…’
Like his good friend and colleague Doctor John Watson in London, England, I knew when it was appropriate to ask Holmes questions – and when it was best just to do exactly as he wanted. So without another word we left the tatami dining room, and walked along the wooden corridor towards the main entrance of the temple.
3
The room given to Holmes and I was as small and plain as that which the dead monk had occupied. Only a few tatami in size, with two futon laid out almost side-by-side.
‘No incense sticks provided – note that, Yoshida-sensei,’ muttered Holmes, as (now that we were alone) he began to spread out those assorted, peculiar tools he always carried upon one of the futon.
I barely restrained a sigh. He was still obsessed by this matter of the incense sticks! I failed to see what possible relevance this could have to anything, least of all the death of the monk named Isuke.
The temple went to sleep soon after it got dark. I judged that they did this in order to preserve the expensive oil for their lamps. We’d been given one such lamp, which shone softly in our small room now, as we waited until it seemed likely that everyone else in the temple was fast asleep.
And then we’d do – what, exactly? I’d still no idea.
I watched as Holmes carefully ordered all those small, variously-sized blades and tools he’d had call to use in the past. When it was necessary to pick a lock, or something of the sort. At this, like so many things, he was expert.
Then Holmes put these small tools back in the pouch he used to carry them. He sat down on a futon and looked at me, the deep eyes in that noble, yet curiously hawk-like face again like pinpricks.
‘I have something. When you look at it, it’s there. But when you look for it, it’s not. What is it?’
‘Holmes-san…?’ I returned hesitantly.
‘An easy enough riddle,’ yawned Holmes – something which broke his almost hypnotic expression of before. ‘And something which relates to those words of Gyoja’s, printed on the scroll in the temple’s dining-area, which have had assorted monks and priests scratching their heads in confusion for several hundred years.’
‘You – you know what those words mean?’ I demanded.
Holmes held up a cautionary hand.
‘We shall see, we shall see,’ he said. ‘In fact, I believe we can set off now.’
‘But where are we going?’
‘To that mirror in the main entrance that you so admired upon our arrival earlier. Quietly now! We mustn’t disturb a soul...’
4
The meager flame of the oil lamp flickered ghostlike in the glass of the great mirror. I was holding this lamp – but then Holmes took it from me, using it to perform a curious, close-up search of the mirror’s frame.
