Ito’s voice trailed off. He fell silent, and removed his reading spectacles.
Sherlocks stared wordlessly at the tobacco smoke floating before his face. As far as London was concerned, Japan may as well have been the afterlife. Sherlock’s reach did not extend to the world of the living—he could only watch events unfold from afar. He was powerless even to help the one true friend he had left behind.
21
The rain grew stronger as night fell. Sherlock lingered quietly on the veranda, staring out into the darkness of the garden. He crossed his arms and leaned against the pillar, remaining in that pose for a long time.
He was not currently exercising his logical capabilities. Try as he might to focus, his emotions continued to run amok, interfering with his ability to analyze the attack on Nicholas. For the moment, fruitless though it might be, he preferred to give in to melancholy and grief about London. He searched for some sense of proportion. If he gained some perspective, he might at least approach the Nicholas case better in the morning.
Though they were concerned, the members of the Ito family had since retired to their respective rooms. No one had spoken to him for some time. But now he heard footsteps approach from the hallway.
Those footsteps proved to be Ito. “Mr. Holmes,” he whispered. “You should rest.”
Sherlock let loose a sigh. “I’m afraid Morpheus has yet to visit me this evening. I accomplished very little today. Since I cannot sleep, I would rather absorb myself in this rain, and the darkness of the night. Perhaps I will hit upon a method by which we can meet with Tsarevich Nicholas.”
“Is that really what you’ve been thinking about?”
The sound of raindrops could be heard bouncing off the eaves. “It is not,” he admitted soberly.
Ito’s tone was solicitous. “Mr. Holmes… I stopped reading part-way through the article, but the second half…”
“I read.” Sherlock nodded. “In both the criminal and civil cases, the only person to rebut Moriarty’s brother’s claim was Dr. John H. Watson. Though I have allies among the police and barristers, they do no more than their jobs demand… Watson alone insists my conduct was honorable.”
“If a defamation suit is brought forward, Dr. Watson will be quite busy. Hopefully it will not interfere with his practice. You do not fear that Moriarty’s brother will make designs upon his life, do you?”
“The younger Moriarty is a mere stationmaster in the West Country. He lacks his brother’s cunning mind and propensity for action. Perhaps he is simple enough to even believe the elder Moriarty’s innocence.”
“You must be desperate to know how the trial unfolds.”
“Me? No, I am but a dead man. What could I do?”
“But you worry for your friend. Am I wrong?”
Sherlock stared out into the darkness, into the garden. “I have caused him much misery.”
“Come now,” Ito replied gently. “Do you remember the day we first met? When I read in the paper that the Choshu Clan was on the verge of being annihilated?”
“Yes. I think I can now understand how you felt. If only I could dash over the sea and return home now, I would not care what became of me. I can think of nothing else. Did you feel the same?”
“If I were to fall before achieving my goals, I still had compatriots to carry them on. You are alone, however. I cannot imagine what you are suffering.”
Sherlocks dropped his gaze, agitated. “If only my own brother were more capable.”
“He helped you escape. He seems quite capable.”
“Moriarty’s brother shows more dedication than mine does. I see Mycroft’s name nowhere in the papers. He allows Watson to expose himself like this while he reclines on a bureaucrat’s chair.”
“He supports you from the shadows.”
“No. He is an opportunist by nature. I am sure he has already forgotten his dear, departed brother.”
“I think, perhaps, that you yourself would rather not believe that.”
“But I make a habit of only speaking the truth.”
They were silent for a moment. Finally Ito spoke again. “There is a tanka by Shinsaku Takasugi, written when he was very ill. ‘If you die, catch up to Buddha and Confucius, so that you can finally ask them the way.’”
Sherlock’s laugh was without mirth. “Very witty. Now that I am dead, I suppose I had better apply myself to finding God.”
Ito smiled, relieved that the detective could joke. The atmosphere lightened a little. But soon Ito’s expression grew serious again.
“Mr. Holmes. If you decide you wish to return to London, by whatever means, know that I can prepare a ship at a—”
Sherlock raised a hand.
“I assure you that I have no such wish,” he proclaimed. “I owe you my life, and as payment I intend to rescue this country from its crisis of war. I promised as much. I will not renege on that oath, regardless of what may come.”
He turned his eyes again to the darkness outside. The raindrops seemed clearer than they had earlier, and the sound of the drops were more distinct in his ears. He felt as if his faculties had been honed back to sharpness.
He turned his back on Ito. “All the clues point to Nicholas. Our only choice is to meet with him directly. If we do not have an intermediary, then we must push through by force.”
“By force? The harbor is swarming with Russian troops, and he is housed in the very middle of nine warships. It would be more than foolish to sneak onboard.”
“I doubt the Laskar is our destination. He was only there to facilitate negotiations with Siam. Likely he has long since snuck ashore, and availed himself of more congenial surroundings.”
“You believe Tsarevich Nicholas is no longer aboard the ship?”
“If the rickshaw drivers were able to abscond from the ship, there is no reason to assume Nicholas could not do so in secrecy as well. Our problem to consider now is whether he is on Japanese or Russian shores. If he has returned home then our fight is with ghosts. But luckily, the probability of that is small. Nicholas is preoccupied with Japan. Surely he has taken up lodgings somewhere nearby.”
“But how can we find out where?”
“And I am forbidden to approach Ambassador Shevich,” Sherlock sighed. “We will need help from some more benevolent Russians.”
Just then, they heard footsteps from beyond the estate. A silhouette appeared at the gate and walked swiftly across the grounds, holding a lantern aloft in one hand.
“Who’s there!” Ito shouted.
The stranger approached the veranda and stopped, raising the lantern. The light revealed a man cloaked in the mantle of what appeared to be a uniform. His face was illuminated in the weak glow, showing a man of about 30, with a mustache and a cap in the French military style.
Sherlock immediately deduced that this man felt respect and loyalty toward the master of the house. The wetness of his mantle suggested he had arrived by carriage but had parked a distance away, so as not to disturb them with the sound of hooves. And it was also apparent from the mud on his trousers that he had rushed here from the carriage as quickly as possible.