The Collected Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in Japan

by Ben Stevens

  The day passed slowly, what with Holmes saying next to nothing and there being no one else to talk to. I even attended the afternoon service, as though seeking a little light relief. Finally there was dinner, and then we returned to our room to rest.

  Which was when, quite unexpectedly, Holmes said suddenly to me –

  ‘There is something on your mind, my good doctor.’

  It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘It doesn’t matter at the present time,’ I returned quietly. ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Holmes.

  I shrugged, thought for a few moments, and then said –

  ‘I never knew you’d travelled to China, before coming to Japan.’

  Holmes gave a small smile of reminiscence, which monetarily displaced some of the mental exhaustion now beginning to show on his face.

  ‘I was rather ‘out of sorts’, to provide a somewhat clumsy interpretation of a common English expression,’ he said softly. ‘My nerves were quite strained by a succession of cases in England, especially those concerning my late nemesis, Moriarty.

  ‘In order to recuperate, I thought that I might practice what almost amounted to an ascetic lifestyle. And so I travelled to China, where I commenced a little Buddhist training in meditation and the like in one of the temples in Chang’an.

  ‘But then I discovered the sprawling backstreets of the city, the lamp-lit pleasure areas, those countless jumbled, cramped dwellings and hidden rooms and the type of life that takes place in shadows and darkness… Far more interesting than what I was enduring at the temple, I regret to say…’

  It was not cold, but still Holmes’s words somehow had me chilled to the bone.

  ‘Yes,’ he continued, his eyes far-away and abstract, looking into his memories. ‘Despite my being a foreigner – and anti-foreign sentiment is high within China, and I believe it will only get worse – I was able to learn many dark secrets…

  ‘Ways of assassination, especially, which right now I be– ’

  A soft knock on the door caused Sherlock Holmes to abruptly stop talking.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  The door slid open and Katamari entered, giving a slight bow as he did so. Despite my amazement at what I’d just been told, I couldn’t help but reflect that the senior monk’s change in attitude to the Englishman was really quite profound! It was now as though Katamari had a definite respect for Holmes, and his abilities.

  ‘Forgive my disturbing you,’ Katamari began, as Holmes made some small gesture indicating that this was fine. ‘I just wondered if…’

  The rest of the question was obvious.

  ‘Katamari-san,’ began Homes, ‘is there any part of the temple I have not yet seen?’

  ‘You mean – as in you needed to see the large pond outside the tearoom, to guess that a tunnel ran along the bottom of it?’ returned the senior monk. Clearly, he was no fool.

  Holmes nodded.

  ‘Yes, that is correct,’ he said honestly. ‘I confess that otherwise I can see no meaning in these words, as yet.’

  Katamari thought for a few moments.

  ‘Well, all the rooms occupied by the monks are almost identical to this one, or the one you saw the body of Isuke lying in,’ declared Katamari uncertainly. ‘You’ve seen the main hall, the tearoom, the main entrance, the dining hall… Really, I don’t know where else – ’

  He paused, quite suddenly.

  ‘Katamari-san?’ prompted Holmes.

  ‘Well – there’s the Barrel Room, I suppose,’ declared the senior monk.

  ‘The Barrel Room? Where is this – and what does the name signify?’

  ‘It’s located behind the main hall – I mean, beyond the corridor that runs behind the altar,’ Katamari replied. ‘As for the name, I believe it’s because barreled supplies – preserved food and such – were once stored there. Now, we continue to use it as a general storage area. There is nothing of any interest there, except…’

  ‘Yes?’ said Holmes, slight impatience sounding.

  ‘Well,’ said the monk, looking shrewdly at the famous foreigner, ‘maybe it would be best just to show you. Shall we go now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘Let’s.

  9

  Some of the wind which had sprung up outside whistled along the corridors of this ancient temple, as the three of us walked towards the main hall. We entered, and headed across the tatami mats that were on one side of the altar with its great, golden statue of Buddha, surrounded by lighted candles, in the direction of a small doorway.

  This, I discovered, led out to yet another long, but also very narrow corridor. It was gloomy – increasingly so as the stormy afternoon turned to evening, the light coming in through the main hall’s, wood-and-paper windows beginning to diminish.

  Katamari found a lamp on a shelf, and lit it. He stopped outside a small wooden door that was situated along this corridor, opposite from the main hall.

  Pushing the door open – it was unlocked – he then led us inside. It was a cool, stone-floored room with numerous shelves and such placed along two walls. There was only one small, cobweb-covered window, so it was dark away from the flickering flame of the lamp. All in all, a singularly unremarkable room – except for one thing.

  Sited the entire length of one wall, a little over six feet tall and approximately ten feet wide, was an impressive painting of Buddha’s death. He was stretched out below a hanging tree that was beside a beautiful river. Gathered all around him were various people and animals, from Indian priests to small white elephants, all of them weeping as the prostrate, barefooted Buddha – clad in an orange robe – gave a gentle smile.

  The quality of the painting had been affected by age, and patches of white mold showed here and there, mainly around its edges. It at once caught Holmes’s eye.

  Obligingly, Katamari held the lamp closer to it, enabling the English detective to make his keen-eyed inspection.

  ‘When was this painting done?’ asked Holmes softly. I sensed that he’d realized something. There was suddenly the slightest edge to his voice, discernible only to someone who’d lived and worked with him for some months now…

  Or so I thought. But then I realized that Katamari was studying Holmes’s face closely, as though searching for some sort of sign…

  ‘I believe it was completed shortly after this temple was built – by Gyoja-sama himself, if the legend is correct,’ returned the senior monk.

  Both Katamari and I now observed that Holmes’s attention was fixed upon some bushes and plants painted on one side of this picture – maybe about a third of the way up.

  ‘Of course,’ said Holmes, speaking as though to himself. ‘What a fool I have been –that I should have needed to see a picture, even, to realize what this last riddle referred to!’

  ‘You – you know?’ said Katamari, surprise showing on his thin face.

  ‘It’s as simple as the other two,’ returned Holmes almost angrily. ‘That it’s taken me this long to realize it – almost twenty-four hours – is proof that whatever ‘ability’ I possess has been rather exaggerated.’

  ‘But what – what is the meaning?’ demanded the senior monk, now breathing a little quicker.

  It was Holmes’s turn to give a quick, shrewd look at Katamari. Just for a split-second, however; then the detective said –

  ‘‘Natural beauty becomes / True beauty?/ In accordance with / Human ideal’ – so reads the first ‘verse’ of the last riddle we found. But where do we find natural beauty – and how do we shape it, so it proves aesthetically pleasing to our own, ‘human ideal’?’

  Such was the question the foreigner fired at Katamari and me, in our own tongue. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, neither of us even attempted an answer.

  ‘Next – ‘A dwarf / Or a cliff / Swept by the wind / Or by attachment to a rock / Salvation,’ continued Holmes remorselessly, the pupils of his eyes like pinpricks. ‘Still no idea? Bonsai, of course! The perfect example of natura
l beauty being shaped and nurtured by us, humans, into what we consider to be pleasing to the eye.

  ‘Maybe the bonsai is allowed to remain as it is – a dwarf; that is, a stunted tree or bush. But more often than not it is trained – shaped by experts – to give the impression, at least, of a much larger image. A seaside cliff has been a popular image for centuries – a cliff ceaselessly swept and whipped by the wind.’

  ‘But then,’ interrupted Katamari, his thin face upturned slightly as he carefully regarded the Englishman. ‘But then – what are these lines about ‘attachment to a rock’ and ‘salvation’? What have such things to do with bonsai?’

  ‘Everything!’ returned Holmes, almost with exasperation. ‘Do I, a foreigner, really need to tell you – a senior Buddhist monk? For here we move into the religious significance of bonsai – the very reason why this art-form was created in China in the first place. Long before wealthy Japanese daimyo, samurai, traders, money-lenders and the like deigned to stick them around their residences as mere attractive decorations.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Katamari. He spoke slowly, in stark contrast to Holmes’s rapid flow of words. ‘You have reminded me. Of course… The roots of the bonsai, gripping the rocks in the tray, represent our attachment to Buddha. How by praying to him daily, and frequently invoking his name, we may obtain our salvation.

  ‘But this last part – I am aware bonsai may be several hundred years old, but ‘sometimes fuel for the fire’…?’

  Holmes gave a short laugh.

  ‘I am beginning to suspect that Gyoja-sama’ (as always when he was in the presence of anyone from the temple, Holmes used the honorific) ‘had something of a puckish sense of humor. There is no real meaning here.

  ‘But the ‘fuel for the fire’ refers to some ancient Chinese plays, where people fall from fortune into poverty, and so are obliged to burn their precious indicators of previous wealth and power, if they are to try and remain warm. A simple play upon the fickleness of fortune, and how all of us, no matter how great or low our status in society may be, must one day sicken and die…’

  ‘And its meaning… now?’ said the senior monk quietly, his eyes fixed upon the foreigner.

  ‘You have the key?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘No, not on me,’ returned Katamari, looking surprised. ‘In any case, where exactly is the keyhole?’

  ‘You have some sort of sharp-bladed implement, perhaps?’ Holmes said simply.

  Katamari’s surprised expression only increased; but then he disappeared, quickly returning with a small knife.

  ‘I found this, Holmes-san, in the kitchen,’ he said.

  ‘Perfect. Now to answer your question, Katamari-san – the keyhole is behind this area of the painting, which, if you will look closely, has a picture of a bonsai.’

  Both Katamari and I inclined our heads to look closely at the area of the picture Holmes indicated. That is, the area at which he’d looked closely before, where various plants and bushes were depicted – a little to one side of the central scene.

  And there it was: a bonsai, well-disguised among all the other vegetation. You would never have noticed it, perhaps, had you not been specifically looking for such a thing…

  ‘The keyhole is…’ began Katamari.

  ‘Behind this painted image of a bonsai,’ declared Holmes. ‘This whole canvas is stretched upon a wooden frame placed on the wall behind – a wall which also has a door set in it. We must first expose the keyhole, and then discover the exact size of this door.’

  ‘But that will mean cutting into the picture,’ queried Katamari.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Should we wait until the Jushoku is recovered – to seek his advice and decision concerning what is best to do…?’

  ‘No,’ said Katamari, and there was no disguising the excitement in his eyes. ‘No – I will make the decision. Take this knife, and let us see this keyhole!’

  Holmes carefully cut a square shape around the image of the bonsai. A small gap appeared behind the stretched canvas and there was the keyhole, placed in what appeared to be a door of stone.

  ‘Well, Katamari-san – would you be prepared to get the key?’

  For a moment the senior monk appeared to think; and like a shadow an expression I didn’t care for in the slightest flitted across his face. It was hard to define, exactly; but it was sly and cunning, and then something else entirely…

  And then it was gone.

  ‘Yes,’ said Katamari, obviously making an effort at keeping his voice steady. ‘If you remain here, I will go and get the key.’

  ‘We will wait,’ returned Holmes. He waited until almost a minute after Katamari had left; then he said to me –

  ‘The danger is most acute now, my dear Yoshida-sensei. It is imperative you do exactly as I say, or direct, very shortly.’

  I knew when not to ask any questions, or query what was being said. As aflame as my mind was with nervous curiosity, I replied: ‘Yes, Holmes-san.’

  The senior monk returned a few minutes after with the key.

  ‘And now we learn if this really is… the last riddle,’ said Katamari, his hand shaking slightly as he placed the key in the lock that was a few inches behind the canvas. It fitted perfectly, and turned to the right with a satisfying clunk.

  The door immediately swung outwards; that is, away from the reverse of the thick canvas.

  ‘You’re sure it’s okay to further despoil this painting?’ asked Holmes quietly.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ snapped Katamari irritably. ‘Do you not realize what – ’

  With an effort he caught himself, and made an obvious effort to steady his breathing.

  ‘Forgive me, Holmes-san,’ he said then. ‘What with everything that has happened recently, I find myself a little…’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ returned that detective from the great English city of London sympathetically. ‘Maybe seeing what lies in the room that has been hidden behind this painting will solve one mystery, at least...’

  So using the knife, Holmes cut out a neat rectangular shape for us to pass through. He put the part of the painting he’d cut out on the stone floor. Katamari then held the lamp inside this doorway. We saw it was the top of some stone stairs leading downwards. There was a general smell of earth, and age.

  We entered inside, and walked down. Ten steps and we found ourselves in a small, underground room that had a large wooden rack full of the same thick lengths of bamboo which had contained the last two riddles.

  Holmes took one of these lengths of bamboo from the wooden rack. He removed one of the wooden plugs placed in either end and threw it aside. The rolled-up piece of paper he then removed looked even older than the others I’d seen. He opened it up with extreme care, watched all the time by Katamari. I saw what was written and made a small noise of surprise. It was in a language the like of which I’d never seen before.

  ‘Sanskrit…’ breathed the senior monk.

  ‘Do you know it?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Yes… I studied it, during my time in Chang’an.’

  ‘As did I,’ returned Holmes, whose expression was then one of absolute fascination as he stared at the unrolled scroll.

  ‘I do not say that I am anything like fluent in it, but what I can read is just… Incredible… absolutely incredible…’ he murmured – an opinion that was obviously shared by Katamari. One had only to glance at the senior monk’s expression to realize that.

  ‘We… we have to assemble everyone in this temple, now,’ said Katamari. ‘Let us go to the main hall. We will leave the scrolls here for the time-being.’

  Holmes gave a small nod – his expression I noticed a little tight – and we followed the senior monk back up the narrow flight of stone stairs, and into the so-called ‘Barrel Room’.

  We crossed the narrow corridor, and entered into the main hall that was lighted with a number of candles. They glowed around the golden statue of Buddha.

  Katamari bade us to kneel close in front of the altar – clearly
, we were about to give thanks to Buddha for what we’d just discovered – and he lit two sticks of incense in a pot beside us.

  Then, quite suddenly, he said, ‘I will go and fetch every other monk – even the Jushoku, if he is not too ill. Please remain here.’

  And with that he walked quickly away, leaving the main hall.

  At once an appalling sickness seemed to grip my mind. I could hear my heart beating ever-louder and faster in my ears. And shrieks – great cries of appalling grief and agony.

  The candle-flames were all blurred… I could not focus on anything…

  But I could begin to see such demons and other things from hell that I thought just the sight of them would strike me dead…

  Some distant part of my brain realized my face was horribly contorting; I was being rapidly driven towards death by sheer fear…

  Then, as though from somewhere distant, I sensed I was being pulled away from the merging candle-flames and the hideous faces of the demons and imps and such…

  Someone was shouting in my ear, entreating me not to die, to stay focused and to –

  ‘…breathe…!’

  It was upon hearing this last word that I began partially to return to my senses. Clean air was rushing into my lungs… A strong wind was buffeting around my head and my ears and I realized that I was half-leaning in the darkness out of one of the main hall’s windows, the shutter of wood-and-paper having been slid open…

  Strong hands were gripping my shoulders and keeping me from falling towards that rocky river, surrounded by bamboo groves, that was far below. Holmes’s head was beside mine; he too was breathing the cool air that was so different from the poisonous atmosphere inside the main hall.

  ‘Holmes…?’ I said uncertainly, my voice little more than a croak.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear doctor – I’m so sorry,’ he returned in an almost emotional-sounding flood. ‘I would not have subjected you to this for the world; but there was no other way – absolutely no other way…’