1881. Spurred by his encounters in Berlin he maneuvered his political rival Okuma into resigning. Okuma had supported an English-style parliamentary constitution, but Ito preferred to adopt a Prussian-style constitution which maintained the imperial prerogative. Real progress had been made toward establishing a parliament and the drafting of a constitution.
March 3, 1882 (5th year of Meiji). He travelled Europe on orders by Emperor Meiji to study the various constitutional systems of the West. He left on the 14th of March. He visited the University of Berlin and University of Vienna to study historical jurisprudence and political administration. The groundwork was laid for the creation of a cabinet system and the drafting and enactment of the Constitution of the Empire of Japan.
At this age, patches of white began to appear on Ito’s head. In Europe, he realized he would soon be 41. His had been a tumultuous life. The establishment of a genuinely modern Japan was close. He was certain his goals were in reach.
On February 12, 1883, he left Berlin and travelled to Brussels, Belgium. On March 3, exactly one year after receiving his orders from Emperor Meiji, he set foot in London once again.
Ito had changed much since his first visit to the British capital. He could look at the city with much more perspective. He no longer had to scurry through the shadows, eking out a meager existence. He was surrounded by an extensive contingent of hangers-on and treated as an honored guest of state; his time was consumed with relentless royal audiences and scholarly meetings. His plan was to spend two months studying the English constitution.
However, there were two people with whom Ito wished to meet while in London, by whatever means necessary. If the older brother of that strange duo he had rescued, all those decades ago, had entered government service as he had said, Ito thought finding him would be a simple matter.
5
Hirobumi Ito’s attachés were vociferously opposed to the idea of his wandering London unattended. They stared at him in affront at the mere suggestion. Japan was on the cusp of modernization—allowing one of the driving figures of that movement to walk the streets unguarded was sheer folly.
Ito, however, was far more proficient in English now than during his first time in London. So he made a personal request to the British Home Office staff, asking one of the clerks if there was a civil servant named Mycroft Holmes—of what sector, he didn’t know. The clerk replied that he would look into it.
It was early in April, a typically dismal, overcast afternoon. Claiming he wanted to shut himself up for a time in one of the reference rooms at the British Library, Ito managed to detach from his group and slipped out a window. Though he was in his forties, his physique had been hardened by war. He easily passed through the garden and hopped into a carriage, giving the coachman the address he had jotted down: “221B Baker Street, please.”
He’d heard Mycroft was responsible for auditing books for a variety of government departments. Ito had been able to send him a telegram, but Mycroft had politely refused to meet. The answer Ito had received was markedly reserved, and he couldn’t help but feel some misgivings as he read it. But then, perhaps the other man’s answer was only natural. After all, he was being contacted by a foreigner he had met only once in his teens. And, too, the Home Office had briefed Mycroft on Ito’s title and situation in all its minute details. Perhaps that, too, had put Mycroft off.
But Mycroft had sent his brother’s address. Sherlock apparently now worked as a private detective. As a result his place of business, which also doubled as his residence, was open to visits from the public. Ito was in high spirits as the carriage jostled him side to side. A detective! It was the perfect career for Sherlock. Though Sherlock must have improved significantly in his sociability; after all, when dealing with clients, grace and manners were vital. He would now be 29 years of age. Ito wondered what sort of man he had become.
Baker Street was a broad road stretching from north to south in the West End, running from the northeast corner of Hyde Park to the southwest corner of Regent Park.
The building the carriage slowed down in front of was one that might be found anywhere through London. Rows of sash windows, trimmed in white, lined its rich brown brick walls. It was a lodging house, and must command a considerable rent. The small entryway was crowned with an arch window bearing the inscription of 221B.
Ito rang the bell. Shortly after, the door was opened. An elderly woman in a simple dress poked her head out.
Mycroft had also confided the name of the building’s landlady to Ito. He removed his top hat. “Good afternoon, my name is Hirobumi Ito. It is Mrs. Hudson, I presume?”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Hudson, a smile spreading across her face. “You’ve come early. We had a telegram from Mr. Holmes’ brother. You’re quite the distinguished guest. Is your party…?”
“I am alone. My apologies for coming unannounced. Is Mr. Holmes in?”
“I’m sorry to say he’s been down to Leatherhead since the sixth. We expected him back this morning, but he’s yet to make an appearance. I’m afraid things can be quite sudden with Mr. Holmes. It was a young lady that came around before seven, asking that I ring him up.”
“I see. Being a detective must be a very difficult job. Like a physician.”
“It’s Dr. Watson, that shares the lodgings, who is the physician. Will you wait inside? I’ll put on the tea.”
“Thank you very much,” said Ito, as he was shown in. Going up the stairs, he was led through the first door.
The room he entered left him speechless.
While the fireplace, furniture, and other ornaments might appear elegant to the Japanese eye, they would hardly be counted ornate by English standards. The room was fairly spacious, with a second room off the back—likely the sleeping quarters.
The room, however, was in a state of extreme disarray. Mountains of books and papers lay toppled across the easy-chair and sofa, leaving absolutely no space to sit. A Persian slipper stuffed full of tobacco had been left lying out; there were cigars in the coal scuttle. A stack of unopened correspondence was pinned to the mantelpiece with a jackknife, and scattered next to it was a variety of paraphernalia including a pipe, a syringe, a knife, and several bullet cartridges. One wall was the proud bearer of an assortment of bullet holes, which formed a pattern spelling out the letters “V R.”
The writing desk was also covered with an array of chemical apparati and materials. This was likely the source of the strange odor that permeated the room. A mummified finger bone lay haphazardly next to the butter dish and a violin rested on the table with its case.
Mrs. Hudson withdrew, leaving Ito alone in the disorder. He approached the unlit fireplace. A crooked fire poker had been tossed upon the floor, as baffling as everything else in the room. It looked as if it had first been bent nearly double and then bent back to its original shape. It would require preternatural strength to achieve such a feat. Surely it could not have been the work of the delicate young boy Ito had once known, fully grown though he now should be.
Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed on the stairs. Ito could hear the voices of two men, engaged in friendly conversation. “Still,” said one of the voices, “it was quite astounding such a powerful venom should go undiscovered during autopsy.”
The other voice was deeper in tone, aloof yet also strident, exhibiting a turn of phrase that was oddly distinct. “Undoubtedly he had been schooled in his fiendish methods in the Orient,” said the owner of the voice, “as only the most cunning savage would hit upon such a technique. Having pacified the serpent, he had trained it to return at the sound of his whistle.”