The Collected Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in Japan

by Ben Stevens

  A thorough examination of the building which served as Shige’s studio was conducted, but nothing suspicious was found.

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ noted Holmes. ‘The ingredients used to make the poisons will be kept in some place no one will ever find; they would hardly store them alongside those powdered dyes!’

  In the end, it came down almost to Holmes’s word and considerable reputation against the indignant denials from Kato, Shige and Tamura. Many in Osaka now said that the famous English detective had lost his wits; that this theory of his – of poison-covered, jagged fingernails, a delicate female artist who was actually a highly-skilled ninja assassin, and all the rest of it – was just too ridiculous…

  I must confess, even I had my private doubts, for all the cases Holmes and I have shared together…

  But as Kato could hardly explain why he’d fashioned his nail in such a way (in fact, one could hardly imagine that he’d created this nail himself, using his other hand), he was found guilty. Such was the influence Holmes’s word had here in Osaka. Tamura was also convicted, of having mixed the poison, with the blame also being put upon him for the deaths of the moneylenders. The pair was thus quickly put to death.

  Almost inexplicably, however, Shige was found not guilty – the aging magistrate was by now clearly quite infatuated with her – and she left Osaka shortly after her erstwhile boyfriend, and Tamura, were executed. (It was curious – and, it seemed at the time, a little ominous – that neither man sought to throw any blame upon her, even when they knew they were going to die. Holmes suggested that she wielded some malign influence upon their souls, which caused them to stay loyal to her right to the end.)

  Greatly irritated by the magistrate’s judgment – ‘Why did that fool choose to believe some parts of my theory and not others?’ he indignantly demanded – Holmes also left the city. This had not been a case that had ended well, or cleanly, despite the convictions of Kato and Tamura. We both knew this. And still a sense of doubt remained, deep down in my insides….

  Had Holmes been correct? The rikishi and the dyer had been convicted on such little evidence… Neither man had confessed their sin even right at the end…

  And then, just a month or so later, we were sitting in an inn – Holmes having recently solved the case of the Emperor’s missing cousin, which had been talked about all over Japan – when a package was delivered.

  Curious, Holmes opened it. Something rolled up in paper… Holmes quickly revealed a large facial portrait of himself, expertly created in a dazzling array of dyed threads. Yet still I felt a chill cross my heart. For Holmes’s eyes were closed, and there was such a whitish hue to the skin that there was no doubt that this was a depiction of him in death…

  Rolling this grotesque portrait of himself back up, the Englishman gave me a small smile in the lamp-light.

  ‘I think we can assume that this has been sent to inform me that Shige (see how well she now dyes, as well as weaves!) has not forgotten about me, Yoshida-sensei, and that I can safely add her name to my already-not inconsiderable list of enemies…’

  Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Monk

  1

  The monk was lying sprawled in front of the large golden statue of the Buddha, there in the main hall of the Temple of Eternal Light. Upon the dead monk’s face was an expression of absolute amazement, such as I have never seen before.

  There was no obvious cause of death, no wound or anything like that… Was it possible that some great shock could have caused his heart to stop beating? This was the only theory I could think of as I stood with Sherlock Holmes, the head-priest and a senior monk, the four of us staring down at the corpse.

  ‘We’re fortunate that you happened to be in the vicinity, Holmes-san,’ declared the head-priest, who had a shrewd, slightly fox-like face. ‘I would not have troubled you, but for this remarkable expression we can plainly see upon Abe-san’s face.

  ‘He was getting on in years, and a little overweight,’ continued the priest. ‘So it is quite possible that his heart simply gave out, as he conducted the usual morning prayers by himself in this hall, lighting the incense sticks in front of the Buddha statue and so forth…

  ‘And yet, that face…’

  The priest shook his head, his voice falling into silence.

  ‘It is a rather… striking… expression, that is true,’ said Holmes thoughtfully, as he continued to stare down at the dead monk.

  The expression upon the corpse’s face made me think of the murdered monk we’d seen at the start of the adventure I entitled The Temple of Death – but then, that monk’s expression had been one of the most disturbing, the most obviously horrorstruck, I have ever seen. (Later, I was to personally discover exactly what had caused such an expression – and so come close to dying through the sheer terror of it myself…)

  But this monk’s expression… Well, it was, quite simply, just one of complete and utter surprise. Sheer amazement, if you will. Really, that is as best – as accurately – as I can describe it.

  I again glanced around this hall. It was bright, the sunny day outside illuminating the closed windows of rice paper pasted upon thin wooden struts. The tatami mats were a light green color, and very clean. Several long, dark-purple futon mats were lain out in front of the life-size Buddha statue and the main altar, just behind the area where the dead monk lay. There had been some sort of big festival recently, so that fruit and white flowers were still piled up either side of the golden Buddha, which sat upon a large golden lotus leaf, its hands placed in its lap, the left hand over the right.

  All in all, this was very far from being like some of the old, gloomy temple halls which Holmes and I had previously had cause to visit. There where the golden statues were dull with age, unpolished and only partially illuminated by the candles burning nearby. The dark, smoky beams of timber and the worn, yellowing tatami…

  No, this temple hall was entirely different. Well-maintained, bright and – fresh, is as best as I can describe it. In some of those other temple halls, such as I have just attempted to describe, one could possibly imagine something lurking in the shadows; something that might somehow have caused this monk’s death.

  But here…

  Here there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  ‘There is nothing I can say,’ said Holmes then, almost echoing my own thoughts. ‘Except…’

  ‘Except, Holmes-san?’ prompted the fox-faced priest.

  ‘Well,’ sighed Holmes, ‘with the assistance of my doctor friend Yoshida-sensei here, maybe I should examine this monk’s – that is, Abe-san’s – body, before it is taken away… This might serve to throw up some possible explanation as to the cause of death… Really, it is all I can suggest…’

  ‘We are in your hands, Holmes-san,’ returned the priest, the senior monk nodding his head in agreement.

  Holmes knelt down, and closely scrutinized the monk’s face and neck. The eyes were wide open, but still somehow rather ‘hooded’ in appearance. Then Holmes took hold of one of the hands – the left. He pulled it out from under the body, under the area of the heart, and so exposed the fact that the little finger was missing, down to the first knuckle.

  ‘Did Abe-san ever explain what happened here?’ asked Holmes, glancing up at the priest.

  I watched that man’s expression closely, but nothing was betrayed as he gave a slight shrug, stating –

  ‘Yes, he did. Soon after he joined the Temple of Eternal Light, some eight years previously…’

  ‘Ten, Jushoku,’ said the senior monk quietly, addressing the priest by the appropriate title. ‘It was ten.’

  ‘Quite,’ continued the priest. ‘Anyway, he said that he’d once been bitten by a snake, and that this bite had quickly gone bad. That is, in order to save the hand – and ultimately Abe-san’s life – it had been necessary to amputate that finger.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Holmes. ‘That would seem a feasible explanation. And yet…’

  With these words, he quickly pulle
d the corpse’s right arm partially free of the kimono, thereby exposing a tattoo of a red dragon upon the bicep. The colors were dull, something which served to show that the tattoo had been done many years before, when the dead monk had still been a young man.

  The priest exhaled a low breath, as the senior monk’s eyes widened in amazement.

  ‘I assure you, Holmes-san, that this is the very first time I have ever seen that,’ he declared. He paused, clearly trying to think of the right words to say, and then continued –

  ‘We here at the Temple of Eternal Light always wear the appropriate, full kimono, and we do not bathe together. So I would not have had any opportunity to see this tattoo before…’

  ‘And if you had…?’ said Holmes quietly.

  ‘Then I may very well have refused this monk admittance into my temple,’ returned the monk firmly. ‘Let us not beat around the bush here. This is a tattoo of the type sported by these so-called ‘Crazy Ones’, who revel in committing all sorts of violence – murder, even.

  ‘I am partially aware (who is not?) of the punishments meted out to its members for a variety of ‘crimes’ – such as failing to properly carry out the orders of a ‘boss’ or senior member – which commonly include self-amputation of a finger.

  ‘So,’ finished the priest, ‘you may say that I no longer believe that story of an infected snakebite being the cause of the loss of his little finger…’

  ‘Abe-san – but this was perhaps not his real name – was once a member of the Crazy Ones; that much, at least, seems certain,’ declared Holmes. ‘At some point he had a change of heart – or maybe had reason to flee that large group, subsequently forced to also go into hiding from them – and so covering up his tattoo, and inventing a story for his missing finger, he commenced training as a Buddhist monk, ultimately being accepted to work at this temple.’

  ‘Nothing in the way he spoke ever betrayed such a background, Holmes-san,’ said the senior monk. He was somewhat shorter than the priest, and had a wide, honest face. ‘The Crazy Ones, I know, have that abhorrent slang of theirs; a way of talking which at once identifies them as being a member of that feared, lawless gang as effectively as their hairstyle or tattoos…

  ‘But Abe-san was a very quiet, gentle man, fond of praying and meditating by himself. Indeed, that is why we often had him perform the short service in this hall each morning, before the Buddha statue – because he clearly enjoyed just such a duty.’

  ‘Always on his own?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Well, yes,’ returned the senior monk immediately. He looked a little bemused, as if the answer was obvious. ‘If it was not Abe-san then it was one of the other two monks, or on occasion me.’

  ‘But not you, Jushoku,’ declared Holmes.

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘Such duties are more the responsibility of those of a less senior position, if I may be excused any unintentional arrogance,’ he said dryly.

  ‘Quite,’ said Holmes. ‘So, here was this man, a former member of the Crazy Ones, who had for whatever reason turned his back on such a life, instead disguising his past as he became a monk at the Temple of Eternal Light, inventing a story for the missing little finger – self-amputated for some digression – and always ensuring that he kept his dragon tattoo (which is not overly large, in any case) covered up.

  ‘And now he lies dead, here in this bright hall before this golden statue of the Buddha, with this remarkable expression of amazement still upon his face…’

  A slightly awkward silence followed Holmes’s words.

  ‘Err… Thank you, Holmes-san, for your summary,’ said the priest then. ‘But you have no idea as to what might have caused this monk’s death – or was it just natural causes, the facial expression remarkable but ultimately unimportant…?’

  Two monks now appeared at the entrance into the hall.

  ‘We would like to take Abe-san’s body away, and prepare it for burial,’ said the priest. ‘If you have no further need to examine it, Holmes-san…?’

  I thought I detected a certain edge to the priest’s voice. Almost some insinuation that Holmes’s scrutiny of the corpse had been rather disrespectful – and also unnecessary.

  I wondered if the priest was not considering that the dead priest’s past need not have been exposed… That ultimately it had no bearing on how he died, and that everyone was – after all – entitled to a second chance in life. (Although, surely that tattoo would have been discovered as the body was prepared for burial?)

  ‘I do not. You may remove it from this hall,’ said Holmes firmly. ‘I have no need to trespass any further upon your valuable time, either. But, if I may, I would like to remain in this hall a while longer, to see if anything… occurs to me, as it were. I need only be accompanied by my friend here.’

  ‘You may do as you please, Holmes-san,’ returned the priest, and now there was no mistaking the sharp tone to his voice. He may have agreed to this latest request from the famous foreign detective – but it was obvious he considered it to be a strange one.

  The two monks who’d just entered picked up the corpse by its shoulders and feet, and followed by the senior monk and the priest they left the hall.

  This left just Holmes and me in that brightly-lit, spacious room, with its fresh tatami, glowing windows of rice-paper and the altar, upon which was the life-size golden statue of the Buddha, other gold ornaments and the fruit and flowers placed either side of him.

  2

  Silence. Sherlock Holmes did not speak and so naturally neither did I. He looked all around him, a thin smile upon his lips. Then he looked back at that golden statue of the Buddha, its body robed in magnificent garments of green and blue, slightly in the Chinese style.

  ‘And yet,’ said Holmes suddenly, ‘looking at this statue of the Buddha, I have to ask myself one question. Where is the natural, slight protrusion upon the throat, which would indicate that this statue is supposed to represent a male – that is, Buddha himself?

  This caused me to look closer, at this particular area of the life-sized golden statue – and I all but started. It was true, there was no such protrusion of the throat. The whole area was as smooth as a woman’s!

  ‘Speak, statue!’ said Holmes then, so that I transferred my gaze to him, wondering if he had gone quite mad.

  ‘Speak as you spoke to that monk Abe, there as he performed the usual morning service alone in this hall. A golden statue supposedly of the Buddha suddenly opening its mouth and talking – that was what caused the expression of amazement upon that monk’s face, and his heart to then give out.’

  ‘You are absolutely correct, Holmes-san…’

  These words emerged from the statue’s mouth, which moved just slightly, the lips still twisted in that slight smile which is so often depicted upon a statue of the Buddha. A slim, Japanese-style statue of the Buddha, that is – not the laughing, large-bellied caricature so beloved of the Chinese. And yet, I say again, the actual clothing placed upon the statue was, with its bright colors, still slightly in the Chinese style.

  ‘I intended to kill Abe, once I’d finished talking to him. For that reason, I still have several shuriken or throwing stars lying in the palm of my right hand – which is concealed by my left.

  ‘But Abe robbed me of this pleasure by suddenly clutching his chest and collapsing to the ground, almost the moment I’d finished my explanation – which was somewhat concise, I must say. For I did not know at what point someone else might enter into this hall, and disturb us. I had to say what I needed to say, and quickly.

  ‘And as for you, Holmes-san and friend, what shall I do? Throw these shuriken, and so conclusively silence you forever? Or trust in this reputation you have, that sometimes you act as your own law, deciding for yourself who is the innocent party – and who is the guilty…’

  I must confess, at these words my mouth went dry, and I looked to the entrance of the hall – the wooden door of which had been slid shut – in a bid to plot my escape. Yet, som
ehow I knew that any attempt to flee would be futile. In a moment – less, even – one of those shuriken would be launched from the hand of this mysterious female assassin with the soft, indeed almost caressing voice, who’d so ingeniously posed as a statue of the Buddha, and I would drop down dead...

  ‘Maybe it would be best,’ began Holmes, ‘if you told us exactly why you desired to go to such great lengths to kill this monk named Abe. Although, I strongly suspect that it has something to do with his past – when he was undoubtedly a member of these so-called ‘Crazy Ones’.’

  ‘You’re correct about that,’ returned the woman, her body remaining absolutely motionless. Only her lips moved slightly, as she spoke. (I need hardly say that she had, of course, shaved her head for this role. Just like all the exposed parts of her body – face, hands and so on – it was perfectly golden in color.)

  And only now did she open her eyes, brown and perfectly calm in that otherwise entirely golden face.

  ‘But then, you saw the tattoo, and the missing little finger – all the usual, subtle indications of a man who leads a less than law-abiding life…’

  ‘Tell your story,’ said Holmes shortly. He did not seem in the least concerned about these shuriken the woman claimed to have in the palm of her hand, and which – I’d absolutely not the slightest doubt – she could use with lethal effect.

  Also, while he was, of course, expert at detecting various minute details that most other people would entirely overlook, I was still reeling from the fact that he’d managed to recognize this female assassin – disguised as a statue of the Buddha, seated in meditation, golden in color and wearing an exotic Chinese-style kimono – in the first place.

  It sounds absolutely absurd, and yet – the disguise was perfect. Even that priest and the monks who presumably visited this hall daily, for however many years, hadn’t noticed that the real statue of the Buddha had been replaced by this…