The Manifestations of Sherlock Holmes

by James Lovegrove

  “I am all ears, sir.”

  * * *

  Later that day, the Marchindale Stiletto was wrested by Holmes, almost miraculously, from the pond. His experiment in the kitchen had, he explained to Sir Albert, demonstrated that the consistency of the mud of the pond bed was such that it would have sucked the dagger further down than anyone suspected. The searchers simply had not delved deep enough.

  Sir Albert and a sickly-looking Lady Constance, clad in nightdress and gown, looked on as Holmes waded into the pond up to his thighs, leant down and began to probe the bottom. What they did not see was Holmes slipping the stiletto out of its place of concealment in his jacket sleeve, even as he methodically groped about underwater. The cry of delight my friend gave as he pretended to locate the stiletto and the triumph with which he held the mud-stained weapon aloft were so well feigned – a masterclass of acting – that the Marchindale patriarch and his wife were none the wiser. Sir Albert was overcome with relief and joy, and gladly wrote out a cheque for a handsome sum in recompense.

  Holmes, I am pleased to report, donated the full amount to the Salvation Army.

  “I cannot in all conscience spend it on myself,” he told me upon his return to Baker Street after handing the money over at the Marylebone mission, “since I did not properly earn it. It would be rank charlatanism.” A wry twinkle entered his eye. “The lifting of curses should be left to witches, Watson, and perhaps the clergy. It is not, and never should be, the province of the humble consulting detective.”

  THE PROBLEM OF THE EMPEROR’S NETSUKE

  Written exclusively for this collection

  This story mimics the format of Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Gloria Scott”, in that it takes the shape of a reminiscence recounted by Holmes to Watson. It was inspired, in part, by a conversation I had with a lifelong friend regarding the ageing process and how weird it is that, while I often still feel like a young person inside, my reflection in the mirror tells a very different story.

  I’m indebted to Stephen Harada DDS for casting an eye over the manuscript to check that it represents Japanese history and culture accurately, and for his continued support for my Holmes work over the years.

  The Problem of the Emperor’s Netsuke

  “Incremental changes,” said Sherlock Holmes, “are the hardest to detect.”

  I nodded.

  “I daresay you wish me to qualify that remark.”

  I nodded again.

  It was a hot, drowsy afternoon in July 1896 and I had called at Baker Street after my rounds to visit Holmes before returning home to my wife. My friend was in ruminative mood. No case presently occupied him and he seemed content to stretch out upon the couch languidly in his shirtsleeves, smoking. To judge by the overflowing ashtray and the heap of newspapers on the floor beside him, he had been in this prostrate position for several hours.

  “Take, for example, the street outside,” said he. “Have you noticed that there is a new awning above the window of the ironmongers? And that the butchers has changed ownership?”

  “A-ha!” I said. “The answer to both questions is yes. The ironmongers’ awning is blue where it used to be green, and the butchers’ was Bracewell’s but now is Thurlby’s.” I was pleased with my perspicacity. Usually when Holmes would put my powers of observation to the test, they were found wanting.

  “And that is precisely how I expected you to reply,” Holmes said, somewhat to my disappointment. “Of course you would perceive such changes, for no longer do you walk down Baker Street as regularly as once you did. Were this one of those periods when you were resident in these very rooms, you would have passed along the pavement below perhaps as often as a dozen times a day. Would you, I wonder, have been quite so conscious of every minor alteration then? Or would the sheer quotidian ordinariness of seeing the same thing, day in, day out – the same shopfronts, the same façades, the same neighbours’ faces – have blinkered you to the street’s state of constant mutability?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Put it another way. A man sees his reflection in the bathroom mirror every morning as he shaves. As the years go by, he scarcely registers the accretion of tiny wrinkles around his eyes, the appearance of grey hairs on his head, the slow manifestation of minor blemishes such as warts and moles, until one day he looks at himself and is startled to realise he has grown old. It comes as a shock because the changes were so minute, so gradual, that he did not notice them individually but only when their totality made a sudden impression upon him.”

  “I suppose that is true. What has prompted this particular line of musing?”

  “I was thinking about an old case of mine,” Holmes said. “It was back in ’eighty-eight, shortly after you abandoned me in favour of a wife for the first time, that unpardonable sin which you have lately seen fit to commit again. You were not present during the investigation, being ensconced as you were in newfound domestic bliss. A brief episode but an intriguing one nevertheless. Have I not mentioned before my dealings with Meiji the Great?”

  “The Japanese emperor?”

  “None other.”

  “I do not recall you ever having told me about that.”

  “It was a relatively trifling matter,” Holmes said airily.

  “If it involved the emperor of another nation, the matter can hardly be called trifling.”

  “More accurately, it involved the Japanese envoy to the Court of St James, Fumitaka Harada, rather than his ruler, although events did impinge indirectly upon the emperor himself. Surely I have shared this anecdote with you before? No? Very well, then. Settle in, refill your pipe, and I shall recount the tale.”

  I did as bidden, thinking that there were few better ways to while away an idle hour than spend it being regaled by Holmes with the details of a case hitherto unknown to me.

  “It happened when I was still learning the martial art of baritsu,” he began. “You will remember how I studied under the tutelage of Sensei Iwasaki.”

  “I do. He taught at a gymnasium in Poplar, did he not? You would visit him twice a week, and return each time not only exhausted but covered in bruises.”

  “He was a hard taskmaster, my sensei, but it has since stood me in good stead, not least during my confrontation with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, of recent memory. It was through Iwasaki that I learned about Mr Harada. The two were close friends, and Harada had confessed to Iwasaki that he had got himself into difficulties and was facing a crisis of devastating proportions. ‘You, Mr Holmes, are perhaps the only man in all London who can help,’ Iwasaki said. ‘I beg of you, pay a call on Harada-san. He is Japan’s senior-most representative in this country and at the moment he stands disgraced. So imperilled is his good name that he may not merely lose his position, and thus any hope of furthering his political career, but he may feel obliged to commit seppuku.’ I trust, Watson, you know what that is.”

  “Ritual suicide.”

  “Precisely. To atone for a dishonourable deed by the somewhat gruesome method of disembowelling oneself. ‘If Harada-san is guilty of any crime, it is inattention,’ Iwasaki continued. ‘He should not lose his job, or for that matter his life, over that. But you, with your skills in detection, may yet be able to redeem him.’ Well, in the face of such a challenge, and for such stakes, what could I do but oblige? I took myself straight to Harada’s residence just off Park Lane, with Iwasaki’s card in my hand as introduction.

  “In no time I was ushered into the presence of the man himself, and rarely have I seen an individual so devastated, so wretched. He could scarcely hold his head up to meet my gaze. His stooped posture spoke of nothing but defeat and abasement. I half expected him to shrivel before my very eyes, disappearing like some withered autumn leaf beneath pounding rain. His manners, however, were impeccable. He made sure I was served green tea – in the Japanese tradition, of course, stirred to a froth with a bamboo whisk and drunk from a bowl – and accorded me all the respectful attention that his countrymen habitual
ly pay their guests.

  “His spoken English was impeccable too, with nary a trace of an accent. He told me he had studied English common law at Camford, which would account for that. His bearing was noble – I would go so far as to say aristocratic – but that was not surprising, for he hailed from the Satsumahan, the Satsuma clan, one of the most powerful and influential dynasties in Japan and a dominant force in the country’s government. As for his suit, it was Savile Row’s finest, cut to fit his lithe frame perfectly.

  “In all, Harada made a good impression. Nonetheless, he remained in a state of misery, and I soon got to the bottom of why.

  “‘Mr Holmes,’ said he, ‘you cannot be unaware of the exhibition of Japanese art currently being held at the South Kensington Museum.’”

  “I dimly recall that,” I said. “People spoke highly of it. Silkscreen prints and ceremonial swords and whatnot.”

  “Whatnot indeed,” said Holmes. “‘Upon my humble self,’ Harada continued, ‘has been conferred the privilege of curating the event and the responsibility for ensuring that the treasures on display, many of them priceless, remain safe. It is an opportunity for my country to demonstrate the breadth and depth of its cultural accomplishments. The emperor is keen for relations between our two great nations to continue to grow and flourish. Indeed, he hopes that, sooner rather than later, Japan will establish a full diplomatic mission here, and Britain likewise in Japan, with ambassadors being exchanged on both sides. The exhibition is one way of fostering mutual understanding and harmony.’

  “‘A worthy goal,’ I said to him, ‘and one that I, who am benefiting greatly from the physical and mental discipline of your homeland’s own baritsu, endorse wholeheartedly.’

  “‘You will perhaps be aware that among the exhibits is a selection of the emperor’s collection of netsuke,’ said Harada.”

  “Netsuke,” I said. “What is that?”

  “A form of miniature sculpture, Watson. The traditional Japanese robe, the kimono, has no pockets, and in order to store personal items the wearer carries a pouch or a small box attached to the robe’s sash by a cord. Netsuke were originally the toggles used to fasten the cords, carved from ivory. Over time they evolved from mundane items of haberdashery into exquisitely detailed ornaments, artworks in their own right. There exist many kinds, from representations of animals, people and mythological beasts, to tiny replicas of the masks used in noh theatre, to hollow, oblate spheroids depicting nature scenes in such delicate, intricate relief you would think it impossible any human hand could have produced it. The craftsmanship is never less than extraordinary, and the artefacts themselves are highly prized.”

  “I do not doubt it,” I said, “if your description is anything to go by.”

  “But you don’t have to take my word for it, Watson,” said Holmes, springing to his feet with a sudden burst of animation. “See for yourself. I have a specimen somewhere around here.” He rummaged in the drawers of his desk, eventually producing a smooth hardwood ovoid the size of a plover’s egg.

  Handing this to me, he said, “You will discern the join which runs all the way around the circumference, dividing it in two.”

  “It can be opened, then?”

  “Indeed, but let us see if you can fathom how.”

  I spent several minutes attempting to separate the two halves of the ovoid. I tried sliding them apart. I tried rotating them in opposite directions. I sought some hidden catch that operated a release mechanism. It was all to no avail, and in the end I gave it up and returned the ovoid to Holmes.

  “Really, Watson? Surrendering so easily?”

  “I am at a loss. Enlighten me.”

  “It is child’s play.” Holmes squeezed the two halves of the ovoid together and performed a series of deft manipulations, whereupon the thing miraculously fell open in his hands. Inside one of the hollow halves, like the kernel of a nut, lay an ivory sculpture no bigger than the tip of my forefinger – the image of a man’s head. Holmes tipped it into his palm and held it out for me to examine more closely.

  “Why, it is you!” I ejaculated. “It is the very likeness of you!”

  “Derived from Mr Paget’s interpretations in The Strand. I did not pose for it.”

  “That would explain the calabash pipe. How did you come by this little marvel?”

  “Harada. He gave it to me in gratitude for the services I rendered him, over and above my customary fee. He commissioned it from a maker in Japan and presented it to me some two months after the events I am describing. It is a specimen of a particular kind of netsuke known as karakuri-netsuke, or ‘trick’ netsuke, one that has moving parts or hides a surprise within. According to Harada, this one epitomises my facility for solving mysteries. On the surface, all is opaque, impenetrable; but with the correct application of intellect and skill, the mystery may be unlocked and the truth brought to light.”

  “The truth, in this instance, being… you?”

  “Ah, that was Harada’s ‘little philosophical joke’, as he called it.”

  “Joke?”

  “Yes. It required some explication, I have to admit. But I am getting ahead of myself.” Holmes slotted the tiny bust of himself back in its ovoid shell, re-joined the two halves of the karakuri-netsuke and, having slipped the artefact into a pocket, resumed his recumbent position on the couch. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. Of all the Japanese, few are as besotted with netsuke as Emperor Meiji. His collection numbers in the thousands, among them the very finest examples of the craft. For him to permit a small portion of them to be transported halfway across the world and put on public display in London, when normally they would never leave the confines of the Imperial Palace, was proof positive that his desire to build bridges between our two countries was sincere. So Harada claimed, at any rate, and who was I to gainsay him?”

  “I take it something untoward occurred,” I said. “The emperor’s netsuke were stolen.”

  “Watson, Watson, Watson!” Holmes chided. “You anticipate the twists and turns of the story. A purveyor of fictions such as yourself should surely know that the plot must unfold at its own pace and in the correct order. One must not jump ahead willy-nilly.”

  “Well? Were they?”

  “Yes,” Holmes said with a hint of chagrin, “they were stolen. But allow me to describe it in Harada’s own words.

  “‘Mr Holmes,’ said he, ‘it has been my duty to visit the exhibition each and every day in order to assure myself that all is as it should be. I take that duty very seriously, although I will confess that I derive no small pleasure from viewing the various artefacts, whether it be the pottery, the calligraphy, the woodblock prints, the suit of samurai armour or indeed the netsuke. The sight of them stirs my soul, evoking in me aesthetic delight, a sense of deep patriotic pride, and also, alas, a touch of homesickness. Thus for the past two months I have taken myself to the Victoria and Albert punctually at eleven every morning and patrolled the aisles of the gallery where the collection is held. This practice occupies the best part of an hour. I routinely check the display cabinets to ascertain that they are locked, and cast an eye over the paintings, looking for damage. Just last Wednesday, I was scrutinising the netsuke when something caught my eye. One of them appeared out of place, not congruous with the others.’

  “‘Kindly elaborate,’ I said.

  “‘The netsuke was a representation of a cat arching its back and hissing, its tail curling around its flank. I looked at it and looked at it until all at once, to my utter horror, I realised it was a fake. The quality of the carving was inferior. Moreover the material from which it was fabricated was not ivory but some kind of pale yellow wood.’

  “‘You mean to say someone stole the original and replaced it with a reproduction?’

  “Harada nodded. ‘But that is not all, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘One by one I examined the other netsuke, all thirty-odd of them, and saw that they too were fakes. Every single piece on display was a counterfeit, save just two. I was aghast, of co
urse. But, more than that, I was appalled. I felt sick. My head swam. The emperor’s own netsuke! Pilfered! Items of huge personal value to him, entrusted to my care – gone! I nearly fainted on the spot.’

  “‘Surely, Mr Harada,’ I said, ‘the burden of responsibility was not wholly yours. The museum must shoulder some of it. Did you remonstrate with the director?’

  “‘Mr John Henry Middleton? I most certainly did, and while he was outraged and sympathetic, he was also unhelpful. Mr Middleton, as you may well know, has a history of drug dependency.’

  “‘I have heard rumours to that effect. He treats the symptoms of a depressive personality with morphia.’”

  At this point I nearly interjected with one of my homilies against cocaine, Holmes’s own drug of choice, before remembering that I had recently succeeded in persuading him to quit the habit. My reaction was instinctive, inculcated in me over the years of our acquaintance. I allowed myself a small moment of pride in my achievement. Holmes’s mighty brain was too valuable for him to continue destroying it through the rigours of addiction.

  Holmes continued, “‘Middleton cuts a melancholy, rather pathetic figure,’ Harada said, ‘and I could tell that he was going to be of no great use to me. I interviewed as many of the curators and guards as I could find, with mounting desperation. Each professed himself ignorant of the theft until I brought it to his attention, and then each pronounced himself astonished. All asked more or less the exact same question. How could someone have walked into the gallery, unlocked and opened the display cabinet, made off with almost all of the netsuke, and substituted replicas?’

  “‘I concur,’ I said. ‘It is an audacious act. The crime itself would have taken a good minute or two to commit. If it had occurred during the museum’s opening hours, it must have been undertaken in plain sight, with perhaps other museum-goers present and doubtless a guard as well; and if at night, it would have necessitated a break-in. Considerable planning would have been required, what is more, for the culprit would have had to study the original netsuke meticulously beforehand in order to be able to fashion duplicates.’”