Sherlock Holmes In Japan

By Vasudev Murthy

1893: King Kamehameha III of Hawaii declares Sovereignty Restoration Day...Tension grows between China and Japan over Korea .. The Bengal Famine worsens... Senior priest at Kinkaku-ji temple is found dead in mysterious circumstances  Dr John H. Watson receives a strange letter from his supposedly dead friend, and sets out for Tokyo. On the ship, his quiet, distinguished cabin-mate is murdered as he sleeps just a door away. Meanwhile, in the opium dens of Shanghai and in the back alleys of Tokyo, sinister men hatch evil plots. And Professor Moriarty stalks the world, drawing up a map for worldwide dominion.  Only one man can outwit the diabolical professor. Only one man can save the world. And that man has survived Reichenbach Falls.  Sherlock Holmes in Japan follows in the tradition of the many Missing Years novels that attempt to fill in the gap in Holmes's life after Reichenbach and before he re-emerges in London three years later. This seriocomic novel radically ups the ante, though - with Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H. Watson finding their match in  more than one man (or woman). A thrilling chase that will leave you breathless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Jun 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9789350296707

Vasudev Murthy

Vasudev Murthy writes in multiple genres: classical music, management, crime and humour. He draws inspiration from the violin, yoga, animal rights and insane poets. His work has been translated into Japanese, Portuguese, Hindi and Kannada. He lives in Bangalore.

Book preview

Prologue

O Stranger

Let the first red rays of the rising sun caress your eyelids

while you meditate

Let the Buddha of Kamakura speak to you in silence

The early hours of the morning at Sagami Bay are like those on any other day: the Pacific lapping at the beach, the sound of crashing waves, the hiss of the mist, the salty tang in the air. From beneath the sea, the fish look up as the first rays of light diffuse into the restless water. The terns and gulls squawk unpleasantly but with happiness. In the death of others is the guarantee of their own life.

Many men have left the shores of Yokohama and returned as tormented ghosts held in an embrace by the spray of the surging waves. Time continues to paint everything gently. Love evaporates and kisses the restless gull; ambition disintegrates into the sand and slides down, down, several feet below. No man shall be spared death. The Amitabha Buddha of Kamakura will watch over acts of passion and hate, of evil and tenderness.

The fishing boats will take an hour to return from their overnight journeys. Hideo, the vagrant philosopher-poet, sits quietly on his haunches on the beach, letting the water touch him from time to time. Yes, there is a hint of red in the clouds and slowly, with a vicious intent, the red spreads over the bay. Hideo now sees a sea of blood in which even the ghosts have been drenched.

He walks along the beach wondering what the sea may have decided to reject today. It is the usual – dead fish, a couple of writhing eels approaching the inevitable, many shells and pieces of wood from ships that rest in the sea several fathoms below.

In the swampy area far from the harbour, he sees a larger shadow. Ah, perhaps a whale or a shark. He walks through the muck and the weeds, his feet making a sucking noise as he moves one leg and then the other. A few nesting birds squawk in alarm and anger and fly away, the sound of their flapping mixing with the dull thunder from below the sea.

A shark? An octopus? No. The light is not strong enough. He ventures closer and looks carefully.

A body hugs the swamp, face down. A man in a Western suit. Who is he? Why did he depart this way? Was he asked to? Who shall say?

Hideo looks back at Sagami Bay. The red is even more profound, but again, a sliver of sunlight edges up and meets a passing cloud.

The Buddha of Kamakura continues to meditate, his gentle smile frozen as it has been for so many years.

Two gulls fly upwards in joy, silently.

The Rt. Hon. Walter Campbell Esq.

Secretary

The Publishers’ Guild

Wimpole Street

Cavendish Square

London

June 25, 1909

Dear Sir,

I may be excused for presuming that my name is already known to you, given the not-inconsiderable publicity that my chronicles of the adventures of my distinguished friend Sherlock Holmes have attracted over the past several years through the good offices of members of your own Guild. I humbly accept the fact that my own modest fame, if any, is a direct consequence of a fortuitous association with a very eminent man, who will always be remembered as someone of exceptional intellect.

I write this formal letter of complaint with considerable reluctance. However, given the gravity of the matter, I have decided, after due consideration and after consulting my solicitors, that candid communication is best. You – and indeed the public, for I have chosen to make this letter public – have a right to understand my anguish.

At the outset, I would like to express my admiration and regard for the high degree of professionalism that members of your Guild have exhibited over the years that I have known them. At no stage or time has an editor found it necessary to advance more than a few constructive suggestions on my writing; these have mostly pertained to the need to expand on a particular point to assist the reader in understanding a possibly arcane reference. I have always respected the judgement of the editor and our association has been noted for its harmony. Perhaps I am fortunate that my writing has always met the rather stringent and exacting standards you have set; nothing has been altered between the time I wrote something and the time it reached the public.

However, without wishing to sound pompous and needlessly sensitive, I am compelled, Sir, to formally register my unease, irritation and, frankly, outrage, about a development in your professional community that promises to have serious detrimental repercussions for all involved.

I refer here to the introduction of a new kind of bold and overly assertive editor, most often a young, educated girl, usually pretty and invariably well-read (perhaps excessively so, at a time when breadth is valued more than depth), with an entirely new lexicon. My publisher, Messrs HarperCollins, a member of your Guild, has, most regrettably, succumbed to this trend and foisted on me one such young lady who insists on providing an endless stream of outrageous, unsolicited, unwanted, unwarranted and presumptuous suggestions, by Royal Mail, telegram, telephone and in person.

I am a chronicler, Sir, and am unused to young women (admittedly possessing some elements of pulchritude) offering unnecessary suggestions on how I should be writing for the so-called ‘modern audience’. She suggests, repeatedly, that I look into aspects of pace, weaknesses in the plot, apparent contradictions and so on. She would have me believe, Sir, that I am a novice and that I lack the ability to hold the audience’s attention. Indeed her whole manner could be easily construed as pitying and tolerant, as perhaps a missionary might view a heathen in some corner of our overseas territories.

My contention, Sir, is that I do not write for salacious readers and do not believe that I am obliged to ‘hold’ my audience’s attention. I do not invent or make special efforts to appeal to the morbid and celebrate the sensational. I report facts and do not pander to the ‘modern readership’, which, I am told by this young lady is restless, impatient and suspicious, constantly seeking gratification on every page, in the absence of which a work of rigour is dismissed cursorily. I am not obliged, Sir, to create a racy piece of fiction to solicit cries of delight from an immature readership that relishes murder and mayhem. I report true facts faithfully. To expect that every second of Sherlock Holmes’s life was filled with tension, shocking events, evil men and women and sinister plots is a grave affront to the sensibilities of anyone associated even remotely with him.

I could certainly point out a few specifics in a recent communication from this young lady.

The pace slackened at —

I don’t think this is necessary —

Holmes is unlikely to say —

The temerity of this pretty, energetic, bright-eyed junior editor to suppose that she should hold my pen and write on my behalf – this is a matter of the deepest concern. Why then am I necessary, Sir? How dare she say to me, with a touch of patronizing sarcasm, that ‘Holmes is unlikely to have said’. She never met him and never will. I spent many years with him and my faithful notes have stood the test of time and scrutiny. Why should there be an expectation that Holmes speak in precisely one way and not another? He was a linguist, a violinist, a scientist, a great scholar and certainly someone with a gift for disguise. Nothing can be asserted with absolute certainty about him, except that he was a man of the utmost integrity.

My mind is now filled with grave doubts, Sir, as to whether my work will ever reach the public eye without meddling by this young and overly educated editor. We see now the deleterious effect of Universal Suffrage in the most sacred space – the editorial desk of respected publishers. I have demanded that this letter of protest be included in the final manuscript since I no longer believe that my work will emerge unscathed.

The modern woman is devious, my dear Sir, and counts on the need of a gentleman to always be a gentleman under all circumstances. However, it is the possible besmirching of the reputation of my distinguished friend Sherlock Holmes that most exercises my mind. Needless to say, I am in discussion with my solicitors Llewellyn, Harwood and Fox, 15, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London, W.C. for appropriate legal recourse and recovery of damages should the machinations of this attractive young woman succeed.

I trust I have succeeded in drawing your attention to this matter and I am confident that your respected organization will institute suitable enquiries and provide correction to Messrs HarperCollins and similar others on their misguided attempts to suffocate writers with the unacceptable attentions of young female editors.

I remain, Sir,

Yours truly,

John H. Watson, M.D.

221B Baker Street

London, W.C

A Letter from Yokohama

My friend, you may have lived in Osaka and I in

Nagoya for the past thirty years. And yet the bonds of

our silent friendship are stronger than the steel of

a Samurai’s sword.

When I wrote The Final Problem, advising the public on the circumstances leading to the death of Sherlock Holmes and his arch-enemy Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls near the village of Meiringen in Switzerland, I had not bargained for the reaction. To say that the man on the street felt no embarrassment in joining a collective cry of anguish would be an understatement; his rooms at 221B Baker Street became a veritable shrine for the devout. The costermonger, the clerk in the shipping office, the constable, Holmes’s friends in the criminal class – all stood shoulder to shoulder outside in silence, mourning his passing. My eyes misted when I saw how much love my strange and solitary friend had commanded from the citizenry of the city; of course, he himself would have dismissed such speculation contemptuously, for, in his rational mind, love of any kind had no place except as a lens into the behaviour of the human mind, a tool he frequently used in his investigations.

Thereafter, a number of unscrupulous individuals attempted to profit from such sentiments by reporting the alleged spotting of Holmes in many places – he was in Bombay trading in Indian antiquities, said one dispatch. A confirmed sighting in Durban, swore an Army colonel. In Santiago as a respected violinist, calmly asserted a returning ship’s captain. An innkeeper in Vaasa, Finland, said the excited wife of the second secretary of our Embassy in that country.

I, however, reconciled to his death and went back quietly to my country home with my wife. I swore to keep his memory alive and began the onerous task of collecting and organizing his papers, personal effects and correspondence; I was keenly aware of how history would view and idolize the memory of this great man and was not unaware that my association with him would be remarked upon favourably. Holmes’s brother Mycroft most generously handed over whatever he had of his brother’s effects, including his beloved Stradivarius violin, saying, ‘The bonds of blood do not always take precedence over the bonds of loyal friendship, Watson.’ I was deeply touched.

The letter from Japan, a little over two years after the affair at Reichenbach Falls, came as a complete surprise. The handwriting was vaguely familiar. I dismissed the surge in my heart and speculated on the contents inside the yellow envelope with the unfamiliar stamps and markings. I saw that it had taken more than three months for the letter to reach me from the city of Yokohama. I opened the envelope and was mystified to see a single first-class ticket for carriage from Liverpool to Yokohama on the merchant ship North Star for the 13th of June.

I glanced at my calendar; the date was barely a week away. As I examined the ticket again, a single scrap of paper fell out of the envelope on to my desk. It was a terse note in Sherlock Holmes’s hand.

Watson, I need you. My violin, please. S.H.

I stared at the paper, stupefied. It seemed impossible, and yet, there was no mistake. It was Holmes’s handwriting. And the slight whiff of a familiar tobacco confirmed it. Sherlock Holmes was alive and he had sent the note!

I threw logic aside at once. Holmes had often rather cruelly remarked that my mediocre medical qualifications came in the way of alert thinking and that I was a creature of conditioning who would follow the mob if I could at all help it. ‘I am sorry if my remarks pain you, Watson, but mere action in Afghanistan does not imply the highest in mental faculties,’ he had once said with a mocking laugh. But here I was, joyfully accepting an invitation to Japan from a friend who I believed had died so tragically two years ago!

I made preparations, post-haste, for the journey. I took my wife into confidence and was surprised to see her approval. She saw no foolishness in the proposition that Holmes might still be alive and that he might be in Japan; she felt a certain pride that I had been called to his side in such strange circumstances. With her usual efficiency, she ensured that I was well equipped for an unusual journey. And in a few days, we departed for Liverpool.

‘Look after yourself, my dear,’ I said, pressing her hand. We stood at the Langton Dock, while I prepared to board the North Star, a small ship that carried only a few passengers in first-class while ferrying goods between several ports.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she responded with a smile, her eyes unusually bright. ‘Your place is by Mr Holmes’s side. I always believed he was alive. He needs you now more than I do.’

I was greatly touched and recalled Holmes’s understated appreciation for her. ‘A fine lady there, Watson. Perhaps she deserves better,’ he had said, filling my heart with both pride and resentful anger at his jibe. I turned, unable to speak, and soon boarded the North Star with my friend’s beloved Stradivarius in a special rectangular case that could also pass off as hand luggage. As the ship sailed out of Liverpool and the raucous crowd on the dock faded away, I wondered what new adventure awaited me in a strange land, in the company of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, who I had not seen for such a long time.

The Voyage Begins

My friend, do not stop me. I must begin without

knowing that I shall end. I have heard that the seas

will never reveal their secrets but shall bless

the brave who set forth to do their duty.

The long journey to Yokohama was to take me through the Strait of Gibraltar, halting at Marseilles, Alexandria, Aden, Bombay, Singapore and Shanghai. I had hoped that the sea breeze and the solitude would allow me to consider various possibilities and scenarios, undisturbed, pertaining to the pleasant but baffling re-emergence of Sherlock Holmes.

I shared my cabin with a tall, quiet and distinguished Japanese gentleman, Kazushi Hashimoto, who indicated that he was returning to Japan after a sojourn of some six months in Scotland looking after certain business matters. He kept himself absorbed in a Japanese board game of some kind, which suited me perfectly. He had with him an interesting musical instrument he called a koto, which he strummed gently in the evenings after asking my permission and apologizing profusely for the inconvenience. The sounds were not unpleasant, though unusual, and I was able to block them out of my consciousness after a short while. Indeed, they almost helped my meditative reflections in the evening. I found myself quite comfortable in his presence and in a couple of days moved into a routine of sorts.

The captain of the North Star was Samuel Groves, a curious individual of middle height, aged about fifty, who conveyed a mix of competence with a mild dissolution in manner that I found unsettling.

He spoke in restless disconnected phrases. ‘Good weather! Good people! Never liked Gibraltar! Can’t stand the place!’

On the first night, he joined us in the first-class dining room. I looked around the table. On my right was Mrs Edith Andrews, a lady aged about thirty with an aristocratic demeanour, who said she was joining her husband at the governor’s residence in Aden after a brief holiday at her country home near Bury St Edmunds. To her right was Colonel James Burrowe, who said he was with the Royal Horse artillery regiment, which interested me since it was the regiment I had once served with in Afghanistan before I was wounded in the Battle of Maiwand. I was sure we would have acquaintances in common. He said he was travelling to Penang. However, since Mrs Andrews separated us, I could not speak much with him without seeming impolite. I decided to have a word with him as soon as possible.

To my left was a Sikh gentleman, Mr Shamsher Singh, who introduced himself as an aide to the maharajah of the Princely State of Patiala in the Panjab. He was a striking turbaned man with piercing eyes and indisputable charisma. He spoke English extremely well, though with a pronounced Indian accent.

He expressed interest in Shakespeare and impressed me with his knowledge of the activities of the British Museum. I found him slightly disconcerting, though I could not say why; perhaps it was his overwhelmingly strong personality.

To his left sat Mr Hashimoto and beyond was Miss Clara Bryant, a small fading lady in her late forties with intelligent blue eyes and a quiet, though sprightly manner. She said she was travelling to Shanghai, where she was the tutor to the Japanese consul-general’s children. I made a mental note to speak to her later; after all, here was my first tangible English link to Japan. Seated next to her was Mr Simon Fletcher, who introduced himself as a banker travelling to Singapore. He was very correct in his manner and quite polished, though bland. He must have been about fifty-five and was on the heavier side.

The captain breezed in and wished us all a good evening.

‘We have the most excellent wines,’ he said heartily. ‘Good winds this evening! Thirty voyages captaining this ship! Aden, an excellent place to rest for a day and see the sights! Decent library on the ship, plenty of books on crime!’

‘You will be leaving us at Aden, Madam,’ he said, turning to Mrs Andrews.

She coloured unexpectedly. ‘I don’t much care for the place, honestly.’

‘Ah? Why so?’ asked the captain, interested.

‘It’s very hot and I don’t care for the natives,’ Mrs Andrews said with a shudder.

Miss Bryant suddenly interjected from across the table ‘You can make yourself like any place, you know. I love Shanghai now though I once thought I never would; the beastly weather, the Chinese. But now I rather like them. I’m glad to be going back. There’s something eternal about the culture.’

I liked her attitude and saw Mr Hashimoto look at her sideways with approval. Mrs Andrews turned to me, a silent plea in her eyes. I took the hint and changed the topic.

‘I have never been to the Far East. I wonder if any of you could give me some suggestions on what I might expect,’ I said, looking around the table.

‘Be careful,’ chortled the captain.

Shamsher Singh agreed. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Be careful. Do not believe anyone, including me.’

‘Avoid exploring the ports of call, if you can. They attract the scum of the earth,’ said Simon Fletcher with a vehemence that seemed out of character. ‘Just get to where you want to go and damn the local culture!’

I saw Mr Hashimoto look at Simon Fletcher thoughtfully.

‘I do intend to visit Alexandria, if we can be allowed,’ said Mr Singh in a deep and deliberate voice. ‘I find the Egyptian culture interesting, though somewhat barbaric.’

‘Oh yes, you’ll have a couple of days to look around, if you like. Good people. Fruits. Water – be careful! Very careful! Mosquitoes! Plenty of little crooks!’ said the Captain.

‘Perhaps you will join me,’ said Mr Singh, turning towards me. It was a command and I found myself agreeing without hesitation.

From across the table, Miss Bryant spoke up. ‘I shall join you too, if I may?’

‘So shall I,’ said Mr Hashimoto. Something in his voice made me look at him quickly, but his face was inscrutable.

‘Not I,’ chuckled Colonel Burrowe. ‘I’ll spend some quiet time in the ship’s library and have a few drinks. Alexandria is fine and I’ve been around a few times, but nothing like Bombay, my friends, nothing like Bombay!’

One evening, just prior to reaching Marseilles, we were back in our cabin after supper and I had settled down to a cigar and a book when Mr Hashimoto suddenly looked up from his game.

‘Dr Watson, it is not in my nature to be inquisitive, but may I ask you the purpose of your proposed visit to my country?’ he asked in unaccented, precise English.

I hesitated for the briefest fraction of a second.

‘I have a weak constitution and have been advised a bracing sea voyage,’ I said.

‘I see,’ he responded thoughtfully. ‘It is rare, of course, to travel to Japan for constitutional improvement,’ he said with a friendly smile.

I smiled, but did not respond, seeking the safety of my book.

‘I do sense the presence of evil on this ship,’ he said quite suddenly.

I put down my book. ‘Really, my dear sir …’

‘I am sorry to alarm you. Nevertheless, I must share with you the fact that I am uneasy.’

‘On what do you base your remark?’

In answer, he pulled out from under his pillow, very carefully, a piece of paper.

‘I found this placed under our door when I came in after breakfast.’

The paper had this written on it:

‘But what does it mean?’ I asked, surprised.

Mr Hashimoto looked at me, quietly and gravely, for a few seconds.

‘Dr Watson, all that I can share with you is that there is grave danger about us. Let us exercise caution and not take needless risks or strike up unnecessary friendships. For some reason that I do not know, we have been warned by someone.’

A chill crept down my spine. Accompanying it was a feeling of déjà vu. I almost felt as though I was speaking to my old friend Holmes! But that was impossible. Holmes