“It might, but our cadets would be instructed to avoid such unpleasantries.” He regarded Holmes with an absence of expression that results in men of the Occident calling men of the Orient inscrutable.
“Young men, proud of their accomplishments and manhood, do not lend themselves to such restraints,” Holmes pointed out.
“Perhaps not in the West. It is different in the East.” He favored Holmes with an unctuous smile and had more of his tea.
“But you yourself, Count, have had reason to complain of the behavior of your cadets in the West, starting with the Prince himself,” said Holmes. “And it may be that there will be those who share his misbehavior rather than preventing it, should your cadets be here in larger numbers.”
“That is the wisdom of the West,” sighed Ambassador Tochigi. “It is thought that all men will throw off custom and restraints, given the opportunity to do so.”
“As history must teach us,” Holmes said, and rose to pour himself more tea. He added milk from an antique jug, then returned to his seat.
“Perhaps. But your history seeks to show that this is the way of men, that without fear of punishment—and occasionally with fear of punishment—they will become adventurers and marauders, bringing disgrace to themselves and their families.” He looked puzzled. “You call it Original Sin, I believe.”
“Not precisely,” said Holmes. “But let us not be distracted by discussions on religion. It would serve neither of our purposes.”
“No doubt you are correct,” said Ambassador Tochigi, and made an abrupt change of subject. “I have read that you have once seen Japan. Is this true?”
“I was much younger then, and my visit was brief. I was told that I should see it in the spring, when it is at its best.” Holmes looked directly at Ambassador Tochigi. “I saw Kyoto, and the old harbor at Osaka. But I had only four days in your country.”
“Not much time, truly,” said Ambassador Tochigi. “I should be most sad if all I could ever see of England was what I could find in four days.” He glanced at Holmes. “And your time was not your own.”
“No, it was not,” Holmes agreed. “In fact, speed was of the essence. Had I been able to discharge my commission in less time, I would have.”
A speculative light came into the ambassador’s eyes. “Tell me, did this take place just over twenty years ago?”
“It did,” said Holmes tersely.
Ambassador Tochigi nodded twice. “I have heard something of that commission. It is remembered with high regard. You were fortunate to escape unscathed.” There was reluctant admiration in his voice.
“Not quite unscathed. I have a scar to remind me of the men who wanted to thwart my efforts.” Unbidden, his hand went to the top of his collar where the long seam of a scar began.
“Surely you do not hold that against the Japanese?” said Ambassador Tochigi.
“No, I don’t. I hold it against the opium lords.” He made himself speak more calmly. “It was years ago. Things have changed a great deal since that time.”
“To our mutual advantages,” said Ambassador Tochigi.
Holmes gave a nod that was almost a bow. “For the time being.”
The silence that settled on the White Salon was oddly companionable. I saw that Messers Minato and Banadaichi were looking at Holmes with increased respect, Minato going so far as to duck his head in appreciation. From what I had seen of him, I could not decide if there was any special significance in this greater show of respect than his own very correct sense of conduct.
But these recollections had awakened a number of questions within me. What on earth had Holmes done in those four days, I wondered, that it was still talked about in Japan? He had made no mention of it to me, had, in fact, claimed ignorance in regard to that country. By his standards, I could conceive how a dangerous mission—for surely it had been dangerous—of four days would not constitute any true knowledge of the country. But what had been his purpose then? And what bearing, if any, did it have on the events surrounding us now? I resolved to discuss this further with my employer when we were alone.
I finished my St. Honoré’s cake and debated having a little of the zabaglione as well, when Andermatt came into the White Salon, bearing a tray with four impressive bottles and appropriate glasses.
“It is the hour for sherry,” he announced, though he was plainly offering more than that. “Sherry, as you see. Russian vodka, almond liqueur, and brandy. You may select whatever pleases you.” He put the tray down on the butler’s table and waited for requests.
Ambassador Tochigi said, “I will have the vodka, to remember my years in Russia.”
Holmes coughed once. “I will have the same.”
It was now left to the three secretaries to select our preferences. Messers Banadaichi and Minato both asked for the vodka. So I decided to have something else.
“Is the almond liqueur Italian?” I asked, as if I had some knowledge of the matter.
“Yes, sir. From the Benedictines near Udine. It is not so sweet as most of them.”
“I’ll try it, then,” I said, hoping I would like the stuff. As Andermatt handed me a small sniffer with a generous tot in it, I sniffed at it, finding it oddly harsh in odor. I did my best to show approval. “You’re right. It’s not sweet.”
“I will leave the tray for you gentlemen,” said Andermatt. “Your evening meal will be laid for you at eight, if that is convenient?”
“Yes, of course,” said Holmes.
At the same time Ambassador Tochigi said. “Most satisfactory.”
Andermatt bowed and withdrew.
“An excellent servant,” said the ambassador when Andermatt was gone. “The Swiss are always so careful in these matters.”
“They have to be, given the nature of their country,” said Holmes. “Historically, the French, the Germans, and the Italians have not made very good neighbors, except in Switzerland, where they take great care to get along for the sake of their country.”
“A worthy model,” said Ambassador Tochigi, “for those who are troubled by their neighbors. Japan, being an island, like England, need not concern itself with such matters.”
Holmes shook his head. “Not so. England has seen waves of invaders become English, which Japan has not. We have an obligation to everyone, Norman, Saxon, Angle, Jute, Viking, Roman, Celt, and the rest.”
Ambassador Tochigi stared into his vodka. “Not so bad as Russia, but bad enough.” He pondered the clear, oily-looking liquid for a moment. “Sometimes when there is an invasion, those invaded accept the newcomers grudgingly, if at all.”
“True enough,” said Holmes.
I had the oddest sensation that the two of them were suddenly speaking in a code. I touched my tongue to the almond liqueur and listened intently, though I did not know what I expected to hear.
“And where there has been killing, the anger will linger for years—sometimes for more than a lifetime.” He drank down his vodka in a single gulp, then poured himself more.
“As you and I have witnessed,” said Holmes, and sipped carefully at the vodka in his snifter.
“Exactly,” said Ambassador Tochigi.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
At last. An urchin came around from Baker Street bringing a note saying that none of the street gangs preying on cabs in the manner described has been working north of the Thames. There are no rumors of any new gangs “taking up the lay”, and certainly not in Kensington, Chelsea, or Westminster.
However, according to the message the boy carried, there are stories being circulated about a band of malcontents with political ambitions who are not above trying to interfere with negotiations with the Japanese, or any powers beyond the British Empire. They have been trying to stir up public sentiment against the Oriental presence in England, claiming that life would not be safe for good Englishmen. It is expected that they may attempt some demonstration of their position at the Swiss embassy tomorrow night. I have dispatched a note of thanks to M H
’s brother for his assistance, and given it into the boy’s care. He informed me he will call tomorrow afternoon if there are any further developments.
Sutton has almost finished memorizing Sir Peter Teazle, and I am heartily glad of it. What amused me a day ago is now sadly flat, for I have heard it more times than I enjoy. He has just returned from M H’s club across Pall Mall, and has settled down in the sitting room, his play in hand.
Sid Hastings has agreed to send his cousin Reginald to pick up M H and G at the conclusion of their dealings. It is hoped that the watchers will not recognize Reginald and his horse, but to add to the strategem, I have recommended that they not return by the Brompton Road, Knightsbridge, Piccadilly route, but travel some other course, and come in from Regent Street, not St. James. It will take longer, but it will be safer, of that I am convinced. I trust Sid Hastings in this, but I know little or nothing of his cousin, who may not be so willing to take this course back from the Swiss embassy.
Tomorrow will be a telling day, no matter how the negotiations fare. I have prepared the formal wear M H will need to take with him upon his departure in the morning. I understand G will do the same.
At least they will be prepared for every possible occurrence.
I WOKE BEFORE dawn with the groggy sensation of urgency pulling me awake precipitously. I stumbled out of bed, taking care to support myself on the bureau and then the chair as I made my way to the bedroom door. As I reached for the handle, I heard a sound just beyond the door—the distinctive mew of a cat. My sudden relief was quickly replaced with apprehension. How had a cat got into my rooms? I had taken care to secure the windows and lock all the doors when I returned here last night shortly after eleven. There should be no means for the animal to gain access to the sitting room. With these reflections to caution me, I opened the door a crack and peered out.
This time the cat’s cry had the quality of a question, rising at the end of the sound.
“Where are you?” I whispered, not seeing the animal, and being in no mood to chase it on my strapped ankle.
Another mew, this one more confident. I began to hope that however the cat had got in, it would prove to be a minor oversight on my part, and not a warning of more hazards. And if any danger remained, I thought, the cat would surely be silent. The fact that she was crying out meant that there was some degree of safety. I limped out into the sitting room, trying to penetrate the predawn gloom without having recourse to the lamps.
I made my way across my sitting room, hoping that I would not unduly disturb Missus Coopersmith, who served as housekeeper to the six residents of the house. Her quarters were directly below mine and she was known to be a light sleeper.
I heard the cat again, and this time I caught fleeting sight of it—a moving blur of darkness. She had run under the table where I had my meals and did my writing. I pursued her, confident now that I could corner her, and even if the animal was wild, I could contrive to remove it from my rooms. As I steadied myself on the end of the table, I reached for a lucifer. I would need more light on the matter if I were to succeed in getting the cat out of her hiding place. After I adjusted the flame on the lamp, I moved carefully so that I could look under the table without injuring my ankle.
The cat was crouched there, ears back and teeth bared. I noticed that her coat looked matted and it took me a moment to realize it was not blood that marred the cat’s fur, but bright red paint, quite fresh, and that smears of it smirched the carpet and floor of the room, a deliberate gesture to tell me that I was not safe here—that paint could be blood and the cat might as easily have been myself Whoever had done this was also alerting me that he knew where I lived, and had gained access to my rooms while I lay sleeping. This last thought was no more welcome than the others had been, but I determined to fix my attention on it.
“Mrrow,” said the cat, timorously trying to get near me.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” I answered, and decided that I would ask Missus Coopersmith’s help in dealing with the cat and the mess she made of the floor and carpets. I would probably have to pay her for the extra service, but given the circumstances, that was more than acceptable to me.
While I shaved, I noticed that the cat began a tentative exploration of her surroundings. I could find it in my heart to pity the poor creature, for it had suffered, through no fault of its own, at the hands of my enemies—Lord, I did not think of myself as a man with enemies! Since I was the cause of its distress and ill usage, I supposed I ought to find it a good home. I certainly owed it that much after it had suffered because of me.
Had I still been engaged to Miss Elizabeth Roedale of Twyford, as I had been at this time last year, I should have asked her to care for it. The thought of Miss Roedale recalled the keen remonstrance my mother had called down upon me when that lady ended our engagement, for it had been my mother’s—and Miss Roedale’s mother’s—dearest wish since the lady and I were children that we should be married. Miss Roedale would not want to have anything from me now, particularly not a stray cat covered in red paint. Now I could think of no one who would be willing to take the cat as an accommodation to me. I frowned over that problem—it was more soluble than determining who put the cat in my room in the first place, and why.
Unbidden, the image of Miss Gatspy rose in my thoughts. What, if anything, was her role in all this? I knew she was capable of killing a man, but I could not imagine her covering a helpless cat in paint. Did the Golden Lodge have anything to do with England’s agreements with Japan? Was the Brotherhood interfering in our negotiations? I did my best to recall everything she had said to me at the Swiss embassy, and as I examined her remarks away from the shock of her presence, I was the more confused. What had seemed then a timely warning now held a more sinister intent. I glared at the clothing on my carpenter’s valet, as if I might find the answer there.
For an instant I wondered if Penelope Gatspy might be the woman we sought, the one who was enamored of Prince Jiro. I realized at once this was impossible. And while I knew that Miss Gatspy was a very attractive woman in her way, I could not imagine her allowing such a. personal entanglement to enter her well-ordered life. Still, I resolved to watch her more closely this evening, to see how she behaved in regard to the Prince. I thought again of Mycroft Holmes’ acute interest in my encounter with Miss Gatspy when I related the whole of it to him on the way home last night. To my astonishment, he had professed himself amused to know she was there.
The cat had found a remote corner of my sitting room and was occupied in cleaning her coat. She ignored me most splendidly. I would have liked to make another attempt to pick her up to examine her and reassure myself she had been injured in dignity only, but I could not manage my crutches and an unwilling cat at the same time, and gave up the attempt.
As I prepared to leave, my formal clothes in my valise, and my portfolio’s handle looped over my wrist, both of which were devilishly awkward with the crutches, I stopped at Missus Coopersmith’s rooms on the ground floor and told her of the cat. “I suppose she is the victim of those bands of young hooligans from Soho who racket about the streets at night, doing mischief.”
“In this part of the city?” exclaimed Missus Coopersmith. “You’d think the police would put a stop to it.”
I nodded. “It might be wise to be particularly careful for the next few days. There is no saying they might not think of something more . . . unpleasant to do,” I told her, wanting to put her on her guard without giving undue alarm.
“How vexing, that such things could happen in Curzon Street. Tell me about the poor animal.” Missus Coopersmith was willing to hear me out.
“She is hiding near my bookcase, in the corner, or she was when I left the room. I suspect a little cream will coax her out.” I managed to gesture encouragement.
“Cats. People will do such vile things to them.” She came up to me and patted my arm. “Do not fret, Mister Guthrie. I will see to the cat. She will take no hurt from me.” With that she glanced towar
d the ceiling. “You said something about paint?”
“Yes. Red paint. I fear it’s made something of a mess.” As it was intended to, I added to myself. I knew the warning was deliberate. “I am afraid the cat was covered in it. She ran around and the—”
“It is very sad,” said Missus Coopersmith, and made a risking sound. “You need to be on your way, Mister Guthrie. I recall you said you had a function that would keep you out late tonight. I will not be concerned if you do not arrive until the morning hours. And I will tend to your rooms and the cat.”
As I watched her bustle upstairs, I was struck again at how much like a grandmother she seemed—round as a dumpling and ruthlessly good-hearted, it was an easy matter to think of her as ancient, when, in reality, I knew she was only six-and-thirty, and was not, in fact, a widow: Her husband was very much alive and posted in India, where he kept three native women as his wives. Missus Coopersmith had found it more tolerable to be a widow than a woman abandoned as she was. She had been given the income from this house by her father-in-law, as much from shame as from affection. She would take excellent care of the cat, and would guard her house diligently.
I made my way out to the kerb and looked along the street for Sid Hastings. I was often amazed at the hours he kept, for he could not have much time with his family given all the hours he devoted to his business. My valise at my side made me feel as if I were off on another adventure at Mycroft Holmes’ request rather than venturing to the Swiss embassy for the final stages of our negotiations. For a moment I thought about the cat, and the cryptic warning she was intended to issue. Then I pushed those events firmly to the back of my thoughts.
“Good morning to you, Mister Guthrie,” Sid Hastings called out as he brought Jenny to a halt in front of me. It was a good hour earlier than he usually came for me, as arranged. “Have a care getting in. Dare say you’re eager to be at it this morning.”
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