Many of those who had followed the samurai path were left adrift after giving up their swords following the Meiji Restoration. Many were forced to either dedicate themselves to the government army as soldiers, or to set out on unfamiliar lives as laborers. Tsuda believed that by becoming a policeman he had managed to preserve his dignity as a warrior. He took pride in that fact, and supported his spirits with the memory of his military honor.
Several witnesses attested that Tsuda had shouted joui when he attacked Nicholas. Tsuda claimed he did not remember the events of the day all that clearly. His testimony was vague, and his motives were unclear. Indeed, investigators had only conjectured that Tsuda feared Takamori Saigo was still alive. The man himself had never stated this outright.
According to the report, Tsuda had told the investigators that he “had to get one in.” One referred to at least one strike of his sword; Tsuda’s statement could therefore be interpreted as, while he had intended to injure Nicholas, he did not mean to kill him.
But then again, Tsuda’s attack had been brutal, aimed at Nicholas’ head. It was unlikely he had only meant to injure the crown prince.
Sherlock sighed and returned the documents to the envelope.
He had received no new answers from the information. Whatever had driven Tsuda to violence was not to be found in the report he had just read. He knew of several incidents in England of officers who had fallen into despair after leaving the army, and who had committed crimes of one sort or another. Perhaps this case was similar to those?
Still, something nagged at Sherlock.
After the incident, Tsuda’s Order of Merit—the award that had brought him such comfort and solace in his otherwise empty life—was rescinded. Which was only natural. Had Tsuda truly failed to foresee that this would be the most basic repercussion of his actions?
The Japanese Le Figaro offices were not much different in appearance from those of a newspaper in any other country. The room was crammed with desks, and employees jostled against each other elbow-to-elbow. A curtain of tobacco smoke hung over the news floor, and the offices appeared as though they were in a hazy fog.
A challenging environment, Sherlock thought. He was sitting on a sofa for guests in the corner of the room. He began smoking the pipe he had brought with him, seeing no need to hold back here.
A man in his thirties approached, carrying an envelope, and sat across from Sherlock. This was the correspondent Loic Borloo. “The Privy Council informed me you would be coming. I was surprised to hear they plan to rebuild Meiji Palace. You are an architect, that is correct? Mr. …?”
“Lionel Harding,” Sherlock said smoothly. “One of the oyatoi gaijin, the foreign engineers. The palace was originally meant to be a stone building, designed by Josiah Conder. But due to budgetary concerns, we ended up going with a wooden building instead.”
“I had heard that the Imperial Household’s Bureau of Construction was opposed to this plan, at first.”
“They were, but Chairman Ito was able to persuade them.”
“So this is why they have decided to rebuild the palace? But tell me, why are you interested in Tsarevich Nicholas?”
“I thought we should consider the possibility that foreign leaders might take up residence in the palace…”
“In the palace?”
“If Russia occupies Japan,” Sherlock said, briefly. “As a reporter, I’m sure you are aware that Europe’s castles and palaces have tended to change hands after war. It is the way history tends to go.”
Borloo looked around them and spoke again in a lowered voice. “So, you think there will be war?”
“It seems possible, certainly. Russia is occupying the harbor. There are nine Russian ships in port.”
“We have been wondering about the ships, as well,” Borloo said excitedly. “We’ve asked for interviews several times but are continually rebuffed. I even tried sneaking into the occupied Daiba district, too, but the sailors at the entrance had none of it. They wouldn’t let me pass unless I gave them the names and positions of their ships. They sent me on my way quite brusquely.”
“My sympathies.”
Borloo grimaced. “To be honest, I cannot fathom what the Russians are up to. They seem to be all over the place. You know when Tsarevich Nicholas was travelling through the East? Well, when his brother, the Duke George, fell sick and had to go back to Russia early, they sent all the most capable attendants back with him.”
This meant that Chekhov and Anna were, despite Sherlock’s impression, two of the most competent retainers of the retinue. “Is it possible that this may be why the Otsu attack was later forgiven?” Sherlock asked.
“Indirectly, maybe. Essentially, the Russians mismanaged the Tsarevich’s itinerary. For instance, while in Siam, the military photographer was left aboard one of the ships, ignorant of the schedule. They failed to take even a single photograph.”
“Are you saying the Russians have no documentation of their time in Siam?”
“None! At the time, we almost didn’t notice, because all the international newspapers were relying on Siam’s local reporters, and no one disembarked.”
“So the press never entered Siam?”
“Siam is a unique situation. It is an independent country, not a European colony. We couldn’t get permission for the press in time to catch up with the Tsarevich. But the local reporters agreed to take photographs and notes for us. The rest of us loafed around the waters near the coast. When the Russian military photographer saw us all aboard, he must have assumed he didn’t need to disembark either.”
“It sounds as if it was you and the other reporters, then, who were responsible for this lack of official documentation.”
Borloo frowned. “No, it was the photographer’s fault. I remember specifically, he did everything correctly in Egypt, India, and Ceylon. When they later found they had no official documentation of the Siam trip, the Russian court approached all the international newspapers, including ours, to ask for our notes and photographs.”
“So they purchased newspaper records about Siam to cover for those the military had forgotten to take?”
“Yes. Both written and photographic. They only wanted a copy of the written notes, but as the photographs were to be used for imperial purposes, they asked us for the rights and film negatives. Our main office accepted. They offered us quite a sum of money.”
“And what of your own firm? You didn’t mind giving up your photographs?”
“At some point in the future I’m sure we’ll be able to run photographs in our papers, but not with our current printing technology. The best we can do now is run tracings. So generally, the photographs are of no particular use in writing our articles either.”
“Did Le Figaro take a great many photographs?”
Borloo nodded. “The times have changed. Photographers no longer need to carry around dry plates and toxic chemicals everywhere they go. Since three years ago, with Eastman’s Kodak camera, we can take photographs wherever we please.”
“Was the Russian court only interested in buying the notes and photographs from Siam? No other countries?”
Borloo shook his head. “No. After all, in Egypt, India, Ceylon, Singapore, Indonesia, Hong Kong, and Shanghai, the military photographer managed admirably enough on his own.”
“And what about in Japan?”
“The exact opposite than what happened in Siam. The Tsarevich brought only the Russian military photographer with them, and all the newspapers, including ours, were left in the cold.”