The money changer’s calculations were also extremely fast. Sherlock glanced at the rate written on the board several times to be sure the amount returned to him was right. It was. The clerk moved his fingers over the empty counter as he worked the sum, almost as if he were operating an invisible abacus. Were all money changers in Japan like this? So skilled at arithmetic they could rival mathematics professors?
As he continued on, Sherlock glanced back and forth between his surroundings and the map he held. The two bridges spanning the river were the Bentenbashi and Oebashi. The station he was looking for was just beyond.
The street leading up to the railway station was lined with gas lamps. The station itself was a brick building in the American style. It was surprisingly modern, fully Westernized even. In contrast to the British colonies, here in Japan, technologies from several countries were mingled together. It was incredible to think that all of this had been accomplished in the mere two decades that had passed since the Meiji Restoration.
Sherlock was forced to ask passersby for directions to his platform. To his surprise, the people he spoke with were very friendly. They all smiled, concierge-like in their hospitality, and nearly all spoke English, if only in broken fragments. His height also seemed to be a matter of fascination to the Japanese—who stared as if he were an outlandish beast. Children and young women, in particular, approached him curiously. He faced no shortage of helpers as a result. As he went, Sherlock stopped to ask for directions several times. Each person responded with evident good will, answering his questions in their own stilted English. Not one demanded any gratuity in return.
At this point, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel obligated to the kindness of strangers. He also was starting to realize just how difficult it was to get around in a country when one could not communicate. When he’d been invited by the French government to visit their country, on the other hand, he’d been provided with a translator. He had no prior notion that travelling through a foreign country on one’s own should prove this difficult. As galling as it was to admit, once again his brother’s judgment had been correct. If Sherlock had gone around the British colonies accosting strangers left and right as he was doing here, he would have attracted police attention in very short fashion.
In Japan, however, he was even free to ask the police themselves for guidance. Next to the train station there was a small building like a guard hut with uniformed police officers constantly garrisoned inside. At first glance, they stood stiff and upright like the most unbending of sentries. And yet, when Sherlock approached to speak with them they removed their hats and smiled, eagerly giving him directions in their broken English. He couldn’t help but feel that the salaried thieves of London—the policemen in name only—might learn a thing or two by their example.
Finally he boarded his train. Sherlock stared out the window as the motion of the vehicle jostled him to and fro. Of the people outside, he couldn’t see a single sword-wielding samurai or top-knot. The men’s haircuts were no different than those in the West. The women, meanwhile, wore their long hair in braids that hung down their backs and were tied off with ribbons. About half the people were clothed in suits and dresses, and the other half in kimonos, although to his eye there were slightly more wooden Japanese-style buildings than Western-style buildings.
Everything he saw was bustling and lively, but orderly and safe. At one point he saw fragile-looking pottery dishes on display outside of one shop. This, too, would have been unthinkable in London—simply asking for destruction or theft. Nor did he see any children attempting to filch fruit from the various grocers. The houses of the commoners he saw were small, and from the outside their lives hardly looked affluent, but perhaps that was only how it appeared to his English perspective. Indeed, Sherlock saw no dissatisfaction on the faces of the citizens strolling along the streets. Only quiet enjoyment at the arrival of autumn.
For by now it was September. He couldn’t be sure of the exact date: it was probably the first or second week of the month, or so the captain had said. Four months had passed since his death had become common knowledge throughout London. He wondered how the trial had progressed. Had Watson recovered at all from his friend’s passing?
The train ride passed with Sherlock absorbed in such thoughts. An hour later, they at last arrived at Shimbashi. Descending from the train, Sherlock found this area was truly metropolitan. There was a stately three-story brick building, apparently the Imperial Hotel, which had been completed just the previous year. A number of foreigners could be seen coming and going through its doors. He slipped quietly away from the high street and onto a quieter, residential avenue.
He followed the map as he walked. On either side of him were impressive mansions. Ito’s home was located at number 36, Takanawa Minamimachi. He headed there now.
It proved to be a Western-style building, with an unusually spacious garden for Japan. But Sherlock felt a sense of misgiving at the sight of the nameplate affixed to the gate. They did not look quite right. He didn’t think they were the characters used to write Ito.
An elderly woman passing by caught his attention. He stopped her and pointed to the nameplate. “Ito?” he asked.
“Iwasaki,” replied the woman with a smile, before walking away.
This was not good. The building was brand new. It looked as if it had replaced whatever stood there before. Had Ito ceded the land and moved elsewhere?
The excitement Sherlock had felt at his first visit to Japan was steadily fading, and his underlying exhaustion rushed back in. He found himself tottering. Now would have been the time for cocaine, but he hadn’t brought any on his journey—it seemed unwise to carry narcotics, especially considering he might have been arrested at sea. Would he be able to refill his supply here?
Sherlock shook off his tiredness and began canvassing the area, asking passersby for help. Unfortunately, it seemed Ito was a popular surname in Japan. Perhaps not as common as Smith and Jones were in England, but at least the equivalent of a Taylor or Davis, it seemed.
While there was no one unfamiliar with the name of Hirobumi Ito, first Prime Minster of Japan, that brought Holmes no closer to Ito’s new address. In the end, he found himself making the rounds of several neighborhoods.
While he walked, the sun rose high and then, as he continued to look, began to set. The streets began to grow dark. Sherlock hardly had the energy to be impatient; he was struggling to put even one foot in front of the other by now. The trunk he dragged behind him felt heavy as lead.
Twilight was settling in by the time he finally arrived at a traditional, Japanese-style house. Though only a single story, the building was quite large in scale, with an expansive Japanese-style garden waiting beyond the gates. The nameplate read Ito. He had now seen the same characters on several other houses he had passed. There was no guarantee this was, at last, the right house, but Sherlock had reached his limit and could no longer care.
There was no door on the gate, nothing to stop him from entering the property. In the garden, he found koi fish swimming in a small stream. He only took one glance at them, but found that after looking down he was no longer capable of lifting his head up again. His body suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
He fell forward and landed face down in the grass.
Later, he heard the sound of footsteps, but muffled, as though coming through a thick fog. How much time had passed? He lifted his eyes ever so slightly, and spotted a slender young girl in a white dress. She was Japanese, perhaps around 14 or 15. Her expression was innocent, her eyes wide with surprise. Frozen, she stared down at Sherlock.