“The 18th. That was two days before the Russian ships left Japan, if I am not mistaken. It was after that, then, that the court released Nicholas’ diary?”
“Yes. The Russians paid the rickshaw drivers all that money without ever mentioning a word of it to the newspapers, and all the while they were backing a story in Russia that it was Prince George who saved the Tsarevich. Later, people figured out that the two rickshaw drivers had become wealthy from their extravagant spending habits. After the truth came out, the Japanese government awarded both of them with the 8th Order of Merit White Paulownia Leaves Medal, not to mention pensions of 36 yen.”
“Those two must be quite famous now.”
“In Japan, at least. For a while people even called them ‘the great decorated rickshaw drivers.’ Their names are Jizaburo Mukohata and Ichitaro Kitagaichi. But recently…”
“Their reputations have taken a fall?”
“Imagine if two London hansom drivers suddenly came into 200 pounds! The rickshaw drivers have acted as you would expect. Mukohata had a criminal record, and now he spends his days gambling and whoring. I heard he got flimflammed into some strange business venture, and has already used up his money. And Kitagaichi has supposedly purchased a huge plot of land in the town in which he was born.”
“Yes, economic prudence can certainly be a challenge.” Sherlock stood up. He had gotten all the most important information and there was no point in staying further. “Thank you, this has been most informative.”
“Yes. And Mr. Harding,” Borloo said, standing as well. “Please contact me as soon as a schedule is set for the palace reconstruction. We would like to be the first to break the story.”
“Without question,” Sherlock smiled. “Until then, I hope you will see fit to keep my visit private.”
17
He walked down an avenue lined with crude street stalls that vaguely reminded him of London’s East End. As the sun began to set and evening approached, Sherlock was seized by a melancholy feeling.
He had been gallivanting around all day but with little to show for it. Having fallen for Shevich’s amateurish trap, he was now legally proscribed from approaching the man. In London he might be able to determine someone’s location by investigating details of the soil, but in Japan, he was at a loss. What good would it do him to uncover a discarded tobacco butt if he was unfamiliar with the domestic brands? Once, Sherlock had written a monograph on the 140 different varieties of ash, from pipe, cigar, and rolling tobacco—but none of those varieties were Japanese. Sherlock was now at a significant disadvantage. He needed to relearn the entire world.
In his dejected state, he passed a stack of familiar-looking small boxes at one of the stalls. They were labeled in English. Fortuitous. This was exactly what he needed, perhaps, to banish this despondency. Sherlock paid the man at the stall and flagged down a carriage, cradling a box in his arm.
There remained only a trace of the pearly grey of twilight in the sky when he finally arrived at Ito’s estate. He passed through the dimly lit garden and headed for the main door.
Before he got there, Ito appeared at the entrance. He was even dressed in a yukata. He must have returned much earlier.
“Your business kept you quite late,” Ito greeted him inquisitively. “Were you able to meet with the correspondent?”
“I finished at Le Figaro some time ago. I was merely taking in the sights.”
“I see.” Ito glanced down at Sherlock’s box. “What is that?”
“It is nothing.”
“Show me.”
“It is a personal article that I purchased in my own time. There is no reason for you to meddle with it.”
“There is if you are bringing it into my house.” Ito’s expression grew severe. “Does that say cocaine?”
“It is only a 7 percent solution, quite mild.”
“Give it to me.” Ito reached for the box.
Sherlock held it away. “Cocaine is legal even in England, a nation that is developed and civilized. I do not believe it is restricted in Japan.”
“But it is a narcotic.”
“Nonsense. It merely stimulates activity in the central nervous system.”
“It leads to progressive deterioration and morbidity of spirit.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale.” Sherlock hid the box behind his back. “It refreshes the mind and clarifies thought. It is as indispensable to me as rice is to the Japanese.”
“Cocaine—and rice?!” Ito made a grab for the cocaine, the veins on his face and neck protruding. “Give it! You will not bring that in here! I will see that stuff outlawed soon enough.”
“I thought you had no influence over the judiciary?” Sherlock struggled against Ito with all his strength, attempting to knock the other man’s hands away. “It is not your concern, leave me be.”
“Leave you be? To ruin yourself?”
“I might say the same of you and your geisha habit!”
“I returned home directly today. Your disappointment in me had hit home.”
“And if your forbearance lasts until tomorrow, I might find it more persuasive.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “One day, however, is not much to boast about.”
“Give me the box!” Ito shouted. “Give me the box—or you won’t be allowed through this door!”
Umeko appeared in the doorway—at a glance, took in the struggle and froze, her hand flying to her mouth.
Sherlock was distracted by Umeko’s appearance, and Ito grabbed his chance to jerk the box away.
He immediately dashed it to the ground. The box broke, the glass implements inside shattered, and fragments went flying. Small packets filled with dried leaves were scattered across the dirt. Ito began ferociously grinding the pouches into the ground with his wooden sandals.
“Stop that!” Sherlock leapt forward and grabbed Ito by the collar.
“Let go.” Ito grabbed the other man’s collar in return.
The jujitsu techniques Sherlock had learned from the London dojo had saved his life at the Reichenbach Falls. But Ito did not so much as budge from Sherlock’s attempts to throw off his opponent’s center of gravity. Rather, the Japanese man continuously shifted this very center, skillfully redirecting the force of Sherlock’s attacks. That Ito’s reflexes were still so sharp was surprising for a man of fifty. Their struggle grew even more heated as both desperately competed to prove their superior strength.
A shriek rent the air. Ikuko and Asako had rushed outside to intercede. Both were shouting in Japanese. Clearly, however, they were imploring the men to stop. Asako’s face looked wild, ready to break into tears at any moment. Ikuko’s expression, too, was beseeching.
Seeing the two girls, the fight in Sherlock instantly withered. He relaxed his arms and Ito fell back, short of breath. Sherlock could only stand, at a loss as to what to do. At some point Ikuko had latched on to him, full-bodied. And Asako was holding back Ito. The girls had thrown themselves into harm’s way together to stop the two men’s fight.
His anger apparently still unspent, Ito dumped out the remaining contents of the box and tore apart the packets. He ground the leaves beneath his sandals. Only once they had been thoroughly pulverized and contaminated did he stop, straightening himself with a sigh. Sherlock leveled a glare at him. Asako, however, stared at her father imploringly. Ito wheeled about in a rage and began walking back toward the door.
“Umeko,” he shouted angrily. “Clean this up. Do not leave even a speck of a leaf, do you hear me!”