“Sherlock, cut the nonsense. If anyone were to look at you, they would think that a famine had swept the country.”
“Oh, how right you are, my dear brother. Of course, if they were to look at you, they would know the cause. But enough of our respective situations of health; do tell me to what it is then that I owe the honor of your visit.”
“Stop playing the fool. You know perfectly well that I would only come here if there were a danger to the Empire with the potential for dire consequences. Otherwise, I have better things to do. Now sit down and listen.”
I made as if to retire discreetly to my bedroom, although I was inwardly dying to hear what was about to be said.
“Watson,” barked Mycroft Holmes. “Sit down. I am going to need to have complete reports on this assignment, and my brother is too conceited to admit that it is not sufficient to rely on one’s memory when matters of state are at stake. Sit down, and take out your blessed notebook.”
I did as ordered.
“There is,” he continued, “as I assume the two of you have read, a war in the Far East.”
I volunteered a response. “Between the Russians and the Japanese, you mean. But we are neutral, are we not? How does it concern His Majesty if Britain is not involved?”
Mycroft gave me a scornful look.
“Yes, we are officially neutral, in spite of our Alliance with the Japanese, and it does matter to us what is going on over there. The outcome is of enormous consequence.”
“Well then, brother,” said Holmes, “Kindly state your case. Furnish me with the facts. I am all attention.”
Mycroft leaned back in the sofa and crossed his arms across his large, well-padded chest.
“It concerns our envoy in Tokyo. I assume that you know to whom I am referring.”
I racked my memory and could not come up with anything, but I knew that Holmes read every major newspaper every day and forgot nothing. His answer did not surprise me.
“Ah, yes. A bright young chap named Grant Munro. Cambridge about fifteen years back. Took some prizes and a triple first. That chap? To be blunt, Mycroft, I cannot imagine a fine young guy from Cambridge ever becoming a problem. All budding young Kimball O’Haras and loyal to the Empire, are they not?”
“Cut the sarcasm. Yes, that’s him. He sat the Foreign Service exam and did brilliantly. His career to date has been stellar, and before he had turned thirty, he was made a full Envoy in East Africa. Did wonderful work overseeing the construction of the Mombasa to Uganda railway. Very fine work.”
“I would have thought,” countered Holmes, with a straight face, “that those workers who were eaten by lions at Tsavo might beg to differ with you.”
“That was overblown by the press. We only lost a mere half dozen before the lions were hunted down. From the accounts in the papers, you would have thought that the entire company had been devoured. After that one unfortunate incident, the construction continued all the way to Lake Victoria. A brilliant piece of work. So much so that in 1900 he was awarded the post in Tokyo, which is quite the plum appointment for so young a diplomat.”
“Very impressive,” agreed Holmes. “So wherein is the problem?”
“His wife. He went and got married out on the field.”
“Oh, dear. Well, now, that is a problem. I assume it was what your insufferable snobs over in Whitehall, who still believe in the superiority of the white race, would call going native. Did the young man acquire a bad case of jungle fever, as you call it?”
“No. He did not get married until after he arrived in Japan.”
“Oh, well, that’s not quite so serious. Only a case of yellow fever. I believe that is the Whitehall term for it...”
“Blast you, Sherlock. He married an American missionary.”
“Ah, well that is a relief. Merely a common case of Yankee Panky. Invigorating for the constitution although known to be fatal to the bank account. Tell us about his wife and her missionary position. How could any such Christian lady be a concern?”
“The first concern is that for several days every fortnight she keeps disappearing without saying where she is going, and not revealing where she has been. Secondly, every month, substantial sums appear in her bank account from an unknown source.”
“Oh, my. I really cannot think of more than half the married men on earth who would not be on their knees thanking whatever gods they believe in were their wives to do likewise and not be making endless demands for more money. How lucky can a man be? Pray tell, why is this a problem?”
“It is a problem,” Mycroft said testily, “because she is a Russian.”
“You just said that she was an American.”
“She is an American. She was born and raised in New Jersey. But her family emigrated from Vladivostok in 1860. They joined the Baptist Church in Hoboken and the Freemasons and sent their children to the local public school, but they made sure that they could all speak Russian. And you know what that means.”
“I confess that I do not. Pray, explain.”
“Really, Sherlock, your naiveté with respect to international affairs disappoints me. It means that no matter what happens, you cannot get rid of the Russia within a Russian. Their loyalty to Mother Russia will always be there, no matter what country they live in and no matter how many generations removed.”
“I confess that I did not know that. Please, continue.”
“This woman, Ekaterina—or Effie for short—Federov, did well in school, decided that the Almighty had called her to the mission field, became a nurse and at the tender age of nineteen off she went to save the Japanese heathen. She remained a spinster, admired and respected by all who knew her until she was thirty-eight, whereupon she met our star envoy, Munro, at a diplomatic function. They fell in love and were married within three months. No sooner had the honeymoon ended, but she began her inexplicable disappearances, and they have continued unabated.”
“My dear brother, I cannot believe that you departed from your sanctum sanctorum over in Whitehall and condescended to visit me just because some evangelizing American Baptist nurse has been acting strangely. Perhaps you could further enlighten me.”
“If that were all there was to it, you know I would not be here. It so happens that in the past three months our cultural attaché has disappeared. Vanished, without a trace. And just yesterday, we learned that the Deputy Head of Mission at the American Embassy was found floating in the river having suffered a rather nasty scratch on his throat. That is why I am here. We believe that all of these events are connected and that somehow Envoy Munro’s wife is involved.”
Holmes eyes involuntarily widened. His hands came together under his chin and he pressed his fingertips together. “Mycroft, you have a network of agents all over the world, better known as spies, who should be able to look into these matters for you. Surely, you have contacts within the Tokyo Legation. Why are you here talking to me?”
“Of course, I have some of my people in Tokyo, but it is precisely because they are spies that I cannot afford to use them. They are trained as professional diplomats, which means that they are the finest group of young liars in the Empire. On such a sensitive matter, they will invariably tell me what they think I want to hear. I would have no way of knowing if their reports were true or not.”
“Then use some of your old hands in Whitehall. Are they not veterans of the field and experienced in all manner of skullduggery and legerdemain?”
“Exactly, which makes them the finest group of old liars. And regardless of how endlessly annoying I find it to even have a conversation with you, I know that you are incapable of looking me in the eye and lying. And that is why you are being sent off to Japan. You have two days to pack. And take your Boswell with you. I need to have complete written reports even if they are sensationalized and romanticized. You depart on Wednesday. And don’t claim that you are occupied with some intricate case. Your docket is empty.”
Holmes sat back and was quiet. I had reached the conclusion
that I would soon be on my way to the Land of the Rising Sun, a prospect that, I must admit, I found rather pleasing.
“I presume,” said Holmes, “that you have concocted some pretense for my visit. It really would not do to have me arrive as the official investigator of the Envoy’s wife.”
“Of course not. You are part of a cultural exchange. The Legation will be hosting a display of British objets d’art. We’ve tossed in a few Gainsboroughs, Turners, and Stubbs; a copy of the Magna Carta, the Domesday Book, the Rosetta Stone, a selection of the Crown Jewels and goodness knows what else. Oh yes, some of our recently departed Queen’s dresses. The Japanese just adore the old girl. The British Empire is sponsoring a set of vigorous athletic races and, for good measure, we are throwing you in as well.”
“Permit me to remind you, my dear brother, that I am a professional consulting detective, not some exhibit you can stuff and mount and pin to the wall.”
“In Nippon, Sherlock, that is exactly what you are. Thanks to Watson, the stories of your investigations have been translated and sold all over Japan. There is a Sherlock Holmes Society now with several thousand members who meet regularly … oh, pardon me … irregularly … to discuss your adventures. For no reason that I can possibly understand, they are besotted with you. I fully expect that you will be mobbed with admirers in every one of your public lectures. You will have three weeks on board one of P & O’s liners to prepare. Thomas Cook will deliver your ticket. A set of files will be delivered here on Tuesday that you will have to have mastered before your arrival in Tokyo. You will arrive in time to enjoy Hanami, provided that you are not mistaken for a fishing trawler by the Russian Fleet.”
Without bidding us good-day, he lifted his bulky frame from the sofa and departed.
Chapter Two West then East of Eden
ALTHOUGH SEVERAL DECADES HAD PASSED since my service in the Northumberland Fusiliers, I had not forgotten the art of packing lightly and quickly and being ready to break camp on an hour’s notice. Before the evening had passed, I was ready to go. So, for the next two days, I prowled the bookstores searching for anything that might render Japan a less completely unknown entity. In Hatchards on Piccadilly, I found a recent edition of Baedeker’s blue guides that announced that it would tell me all I needed to know about the island nation of the Far East.
I read it from cover to cover and diligently practiced bowing to the mirror while smiling and saying useful phrases such as ohayo gozaimasu, or arigato gozaimasu, or konnichiwa. I imagined myself courteously bowing to a distinguished shogun and respectfully pronouncing “Arigato Gozaimaaaas.”
Holmes, on the other hand, buried himself in reports in the press and in dossiers sent over from Whitehall regarding the hostilities between Russia and Japan and the complicated relationship of Great Britain with each of them.
“Very well, now, Holmes,” I teased him on the Tuesday evening. “Which of the two are our friends? Or is the correct answer neither?”
He put down the file he was reading and shook his head. “The only certain answer would be ‘a plague on both your houses.’ Japan is currently on good terms with us since we are buying their silk by the boatload and selling them a navy. We have been skirmishing with the Russian bear for five decades in the Great Game throughout the Stans, but we cooperated on the Boxer rebellion. Then back in October we mobilized the Fleet and were almost at war with them after some imbecile admiral of theirs sunk our fishing trawlers on the Dogger Bank. Frankly, I can make neither head nor tail of it, and I rather suspect that even Mycroft must find it confusing.”
“Ah yes,” I agreed, “but then we denied their warships the use of our Suez. So even if we leave tomorrow, we shall beat their fleet to Japan.”
“We shall, indeed,” said Holmes. “And then goodness only knows what duplicity will await us.”
On the Wednesday morning, Holmes and I rose early and found a cab to the Tilbury Wharf. Once there we made our way to the S.S. Delhi, the newest liner in the gleaming P&O fleet, boarded and were escorted to a select cabin in the first class section. As I looked it over in profound delight, I could not help but remember my ocean voyage of many years ago on the troop ship Orontes. My health was broken, and I was near death the entire way back from the Sub-Continent, having been wounded in the war and only barely kept alive by the valiant efforts of Murray, my orderly. The conditions I would be enjoying over the next few weeks could not have been further removed from those miserable days of my youth.
Shortly after we had settled in our cabin, a knock came to the door. Two Royal Marines confirmed that we were indeed Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson and, having done so, presented us with a secured diplomatic case and the necessary set of keys. Over the next three weeks, I would read through the documents before nearly dying of boredom and retreating to the liner’s library and bar. Holmes, I knew, would read and re-read them until he had committed every word to his prodigious memory.
[I made copious notes every day of our journey but have had to dispense with the great bulk of them lest this story descend into an extended travelogue. I hope my readers will indulge my going on about some of the events we encountered as we traveled. This voyage was and remains my only trip to the Orient.]
The weather improved greatly as we rounded Gibraltar and steamed non-stop to Port Said and the mouth of that great marvel of engineering, the Suez Canal. An Englishman could not help but smile at how the French had enslaved the Egyptians and together labored and died by the thousands in its construction, only to have the British Crown snap it up for a few pennies on the pound when the Compagnie universelle du canal maritime de Suez fell on hard times and went bankrupt. And now, on maps of the world, the Canal is a glorious red.
Telegrams and diplomatic pouches were waiting for Holmes at Port Said. The Russian Fleet, on route to the Far East, was bottled up in Madagascar while the French colonial dockhands worked, on French time no doubt, to re-supply the ships with coal and provisions. We were now sure that we would get to Tokyo well before the Russian battleships were anywhere near.
Along with the other First Class passengers, we passed the night at the luxurious Hotel de la Poste, which had retained its French name even if now under the thumb of the Colonial Office. The passage through the Canal, although tedious due to the one-way-only traffic, was pleasant and once through the Red Sea we charged with full steam ahead eastward across the Arabian Sea to Colombo, the capital of the lovely spice island of Ceylon. Our ship pulled into port for re-provisioning, allowing us an overnight in the magnificent Galle Face Hotel. It had been a quarter century since I had been in this part of the world, and now I could see why the English were so besotted with the Raj. The level of grandeur, service, dining, and elegance was beyond my imagining. It thrilled my heart to see how the British Empire had lifted this once heathen land into a veritable isle of delight.
Our stay in Ceylon was all too brief, and we departed the following afternoon, with Singapore as our next port of call. Again, we were fortunate to have sunny skies, pleasant seas with gentle swells, and winds that did not exceed ten knots. It took only two days to cross the Bay of Bengal and enter the Malacca Straits. That narrow passage is reputed to be among the most dangerous on earth, beset by shoals, and rocks, and pirates. Good luck was with us, and we were tugged into the Port of Singapore.
Once again, the First Class passengers were led off the ship and to our rooms in a splendid hotel – this time the Raffles. The docks were inundated with beggars, rickshaw drivers, and hawkers, all shouting to us regarding every known object and service imaginable, some of which had no place in the life of an English gentleman. Fortunately, the hotel had a carriage waiting, and we were soon sitting in a veritable oasis of gardens in the courtyard of the Raffles. As the sun set, we made our way to the Long Bar and ordered brandies. Instead of our drink of choice arriving in a familiar snifter, the bartender, who had introduced himself as Mr. Ngiam Tong Boon, placed in front of us tall glasses holding a cherry colored drink and topp
ed with a thin layer of foam.
“And what, my good man,” I demanded of the barkeep, “is this?”
“Ah, gentlemen,” he replied with a friendly if sly smile, “it is our own humble concoction. We have called it our Singapore Sling. It is more refreshing than brandy. Please, enjoy.”
I imbibed. It was pleasant enough, but seemed no more than a mixture of tropical fruit juices, with a touch of gin. Being thirsty, I downed it rather quickly and requested a second and then a third. Then I stood up. Then I sat back down again. Whatever Mr. Tong Boon had put in his Sling, it was not just fruit juice.
Early the following morning I rose and made my way to one of the interior verandas on which the staff served an excellent breakfast. After several cups of coffee, I felt that my head had sufficiently cleared from the bombardment of the previous evening, and I was steady enough on my feet to venture out onto Orchard Road. I had no sooner walked into the teeming multitudes than a small man with a portable stool and a wooden tool case accosted me.
As a result of that meeting, by the afternoon my feet were shod with a fine new set of shoes.
The final stretch on the P & O liner took us from Singapore to Hong Kong. This time, the travel agent had booked us into the Peak Hotel at the top of the funicular railway. From our balcony, the view of Hong Kong Harbor, with endless Chinese Junks, freighters, and the fleet of Star Ferries coming and going, was a sight to behold. That evening, having learned my lesson in Singapore, I drank nothing but tea. The following morning I descended the Peak Tram to Queen’s Road, quite confident that I would not squander any more of my funds on articles of fashion that I simply did not need. However, while I was peacefully strolling along the street, a gentleman of the Indian race came out of his shop and stopped me on the pavement.
The following morning I not only had a suit tailored exactly for my body, but five new shirts to go with it.
By the time I had boarded our new ship, the Moji-Maru of the Japan Mail Steamship Line, I was better dressed and shod than I had been in my entire life.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 24
