“Certainly not.” Sherlock laughed, but there was a tightness in his chest. “The truth is… you were right.”
Ito’s face twisted up in confusion. “About what?”
“On the way here, our boat passed through Shanghai. My brother had told me not to leave the boat, but I could not resist being curious.”
“Ah,” Ito smiled. “There were a great number of Indian street performers, I presume?”
“It was just as you said. Snakes have no eardrums, only an internal sound organ known as the inner ear. While not entirely insensible to sound, it is doubtful they could distinguish the notes of a flute as a mammal could. And on top of that, they are carnivorous. They do not drink milk.”
“I remember that Dr. Watson was worried you may have been entirely mistaken in your conclusions…”
“No. The long and short of the case held. Roylott believed he was controlling the snake with his flute and milk. What actually happened is likely that he thrust the snake into the vent headfirst, so it could only crawl forward. As Roylott’s room was moist and dark due to the other animals he kept, the snake returned readily to it in search of its nest. Indeed, his assumption that the snake was under his control likely caused him to be careless and thus fall victim to the creature’s fangs himself.”
Ito listened to this explanation blankly, but once Sherlock was finished he smiled. “I do not know the particulars of what you are speaking of, but I am glad that you arrived at the truth.”
The detective could only shrug his shoulders. “It is my brother who placed the treatise on snakes in my bag. I suppose he had read Watson’s story and wished to point out my mistake.”
“You are lucky to have a brother who is so astute.”
This pricked his ire. Ito didn’t know about his antagonism towards Mycroft. Sherlock sipped from his cup. “Speaking purely in my own capacity, the significance of my individual existence is greatly injured by the existence of a brother. I may be unique, but the presence of a brother, identical in blood and greater in experience and years, cuts my own value down by half.”
“I’m sure that isn’t so.”
“You do not have brothers and would not know.”
“I have children. They are brothers and sisters.”
“Perhaps then with different mothers there is no desire to compete. They may be brothers, but they are also half strangers.”
“Mr. Holmes. As collected and rational as you may be, you can be possessed of the strangest notions. Did your brother not help you to escape the country? He seems very dedicated to you.”
At this, Sherlock could only fall silent. He would have liked to agree with what Ito said, but could not shake his feelings of distrust. He was inclined to cynicism. Mycroft was likely only feigning solicitude as an excuse to better parade his own problem-solving skills before his younger brother.
He had to admit, at the end of the day perhaps it was petty jealousy on his part. But if Mycroft felt himself to be even slightly superior to him, that then was reason enough for him to be irritated. In the end, Sherlock was simply incapable of seeing eye to eye with his brother. He simply could not accept him.
Ito grasped his chopsticks. “Shall we?” He indicated a small bowl. “That, Mr. Holmes, is stewed warabi.”
Sherlock lifted the small bowl. It was difficult for him to manage the chopsticks. He immediately recognized the stuff in the dish, however, as the same bracken-root that grew in the highlands of Scotland. Wasn’t bracken a weed? No one ever ate it in England, of course.
Once he had taken a mouthful, however, he found the texture pleasant—soft but with enough bite. The overlay of sweet and sour in the broth was likewise exquisite.
Ito seemed to guess his thoughts. “When we adhere to preconceptions, we miss the opportunity to enjoy very many delicious things. Don’t you agree?”
This made Sherlock frown. He was beginning to worry that if he agreed too readily with everything that Ito said his own dignity might suffer in consequence.
But of course, this was Hirobumi Ito’s country. The culture, the affability of the people… Sherlock was forced to admit that he had met with much to defy his expectations.
He placed his chopsticks on the tray and glanced down. “What am I to do now?”
“There is no need to worry,” Ito reassured him gently. “As long as you accompany me all will be fine.”
“I am afraid that might lead to a spectacle. I drew the attention of quite a many Japanese as I made my way here. A lanky Englishman earns many stares in this country. People will think it strange to see me always in the company of the head of the Privy Council.”
“No, so long as you are at my side all will be fine. When Piggott Wilson Johns came to Japan to advise on constitutional matters, we could be found in discussion nearly every hour of the day.”
“Ah, the son-in-law of MP Jasper Wilson Johns.”
“Yes. Our lords of parliament do not speak English very fluently, and so they tend to keep their distance when foreigners are concerned. I doubt there will be any problems while the two of us are together.”
“Is that so… It’s possible that I might meet other foreigners here as well, is it not? Even other Englishmen?”
“If that should happen, all you need to do is play along and make conversation. Mr. Holmes, I understand your misgivings. When I was first in London I felt the same. As time passes, you will grow more bold. Perhaps as bold as I was, when we met in Cheapside!”
Sherlock had to laugh, despite himself. “I do not know that I am quite as brave as you,” he murmured. His voice sounded lifeless to his own ears.
“But of course you are. And a good deal more clever.” Ito raised his cup once again. “So then, welcome to Japan, Sherlock Holmes.”
9
Sherlock had never been so grateful for a bed that didn’t rock. He slept soundly for the first night in four months, awaking most agreeably in the morning. When his eyes un-shuttered themselves, he found himself gazing upon neither the ever-looming ship hold nor his rooms in Baker Street, but at less recognizable settings. He soon remembered, however, that he was currently a guest at Hirobumi Ito’s estate.
Shortly a servant entered and led Holmes to another room, in which a barber was waiting—one in the service of Ito and his family, it seemed. Once Sherlock’s hair had been cut and his beard shaved, he finally recognized his familiar, dapper self in the mirror again.
Back in his bedroom, he noticed that his trunk and leather case had been restored. His clothes, too, had been removed and hung up in the closet.
His hosts were very thorough in their attention. One couldn’t call anything less than this a civilized life. Sherlock dressed himself in a shirt with starched collar and his morning jacket. He put on his silk top hat. Then he stopped. His leather shoes were nowhere to be found. But one did not wear shoes indoors in Japan.
In the mirror, other than his bare feet, his reflection matched how he had looked on Baker Street down to the last detail.
The bedroom’s furnishings included a low table, upon which his breakfast had been laid out. He sat down at the table alone, cross-legged. The table had been arranged with a great number of small bowls, each filled with a minute portion of something different. He saw fish, he saw mountain vegetables, but everything else was alien.
“Excuse me,” a girl’s voice called. The sliding door opened, and Asako showed her head. She was wearing a brightly colored dress, likely one of her finer articles. Her hair had been tied up neatly as well. She held a newspaper in her hand.
The girl looked upon Sherlock with evident happiness. He didn’t understand its cause, but perhaps she was reacting to his change in appearance after his haircut. She approached and sat down next to him.