“At least tell me one thing,” Ito begged. He was still in the dark. “When you say he is ‘itching for a fight,’ do you mean war?”
“Come now,” Sherlock dodged. “If I told you now that Nicholas intends war, you would be forced to take immediate action. Humor me until tonight. Then all will be made clear.”
24
An exquisitely ornamented table clock announced 6:00 P.M., chiming a barrel organ version of the melody to Stenka Razin.
The room was decorated with furniture in the Russian Modern style. The décor would not have been out of place in the salon of a typical aristocratic home. But the Russian legation had different standards. The room was not a social space but a barber’s salon: there was a reclining chair, shampooing bowl, and, on the wall, a hanging mirror. The metal mesh hampers were filled with towels, and a wagon in the room held scissors, combs, and other tools of the trade.
The various tools and accouterments implied this was a place of business, but it was no public shop. Not even the legation staff came to have their hair trimmed. The room was reserved for the sole use of the imperial family.
The door opened on schedule. Tsarevich Nicholas entered.
Instead of the overly ornate military uniform he wore for ceremonial events, the Tsarevich was wearing a simple double-collared shirt. In this simple garb, he looked for once his age, a young man of 23. Though short for a Russian, he was slim and fit. His hair was cropped, and his mustache neatly trimmed. He certainly didn’t look like he needed a barber. Clearly he was visiting this room for some other purpose—just as Sherlock had expected.
Nicholas approached the reclining chair. He never once glanced in Sherlock’s direction; the Romanovs were not in the habit of exchanging pleasantries with the workers they employed. But it was also only natural that Nicholas was feeling dour, considering the unpleasant procedure to come.
He sat down before the mirror and asked a question in Russian. There was a slight tremble in his voice. Most likely he was asking something to the effect of: Will it hurt? How long will this take?
Ito had been watching silently, but now slowly approached until he stood directly behind Nicholas. Nicholas did not immediately notice his presence. Ito stared at Nicholas’ reflection in the mirror, speaking softly in English.
“Good evening, Your Highness.”
Nicholas’ expression became startled. He spun around, staring upward at Ito. “Who are you? You’re not the tradesman I was expecting.”
Sherlock, who had been standing against the wall, walked towards the chair as well. “Please forgive the imposition, Your Highness. This is the Chairman of the Privy Council, Hirobumi Ito.”
Nicholas’ eyes widened. His eyes ran up and down Ito’s clothing.
It was no surprise he had a hard time believing them, Ito thought, considering he was dressed in the same rickshaw driver’s uniform as previously, with the livery coat and apron, workman’s trousers and tabi. He had no idea what the Nagasaki tradesmen usually wore, but Sherlock had insisted the Russians would never know the difference. The English detective himself had gained entry wearing his usual frock coat, claiming to be Ito’s translator.
Getting inside had been that simple. They had kept watch on the legation through binoculars, and confirmed that Ambassador Shevich and Lt. Colonel Kanevsky were confined to a meeting room somewhere else.
Nicholas leapt to his feet and rushed toward the door, shouting something in Russian. Sherlock spun around, blocking Nicholas’ path. “A moment, Your Highness. Before your guards throw us out, ask yourself, are you entirely in the right in this situation?”
“What do you mean?” Nicholas stared at him.
“You have entered the country without permission, and without the knowledge of the Japanese government. Inside the legation you are protected by extraterritorial privilege, but in order to return home, at some point you will need to step outside the building. If anyone should spot you, it would provoke an international incident.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Trying to say? Rather, let me ask what you planned to do here today. Why should you come here if you have no need of a barber—which clearly you do not? You were informed, I believe, that the tattooist from Nagasaki had arrived two days early. Your appointment was undoubtedly with him.”
Nicholas’ face betrayed that he was dumbfounded. He finally glanced around the room and realized the three of them were not alone.
His confusion was instantly replaced with anger. “Chekov! And even Miss Luzhkova! What is the meaning of this!”
In the corner of the barber’s room, Chekhov and Anna cowered. “Please forgive us, Your Highness,” Chekhov said falteringly. “We lied when we said that the tattooist had arrived early. Only…”
“Your Highness!” Anna’s voice was shrill and panicked. “We are prepared for arrest, if it comes to that. But I beg you, please understand. Mr. Holmes already knew everything.”
Nicholas turned toward Sherlock in astonishment.
“Would you do us the honor of rolling up your right sleeve?” Sherlock requested quietly. “As you yourself must know, that in itself will be more than ample proof.”
Silence descended on the room. Nicholas gave Sherlock a stubborn look, but soon gave in. He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve.
Ito swallowed hard. He could not believe his eyes.
Nicholas’ tattoo—the dragon tattoo he had received in early May—was not there!
Of course, Ito had never actually seen the tattoo for himself. When he and the Emperor had visited the Tsarevich in Kyoto, Nicholas had been wearing long sleeves.
Nicholas rolled his sleeve back down with an air of apprehension. “Mr. Holmes, is it? Are you related to the famous Sherlock Holmes?”
“No. I am the famous Sherlock Holmes.”
“But I heard you were dead.”
“Those reports are false,” Ito answered. “As a result Ambassador Shevich believes that Mr. Holmes is a spy. On my honor, however, I swear to you that Mr. Holmes and I have come to help you.”
Nicholas glanced at Chekhov. “You’ve betrayed our confidence?” Chekhov and Anna shrunk into the corner, shaking their heads back and forth frantically.
“Your Highness,” Sherlock said softly. “I arrived at the truth quite on my own, I assure you. You did not in fact visit Japan from April to May of this year. It was your brother, Grand Duke George, who visited in your stead.”
Ito reeled. “His brother? That cannot be!”
“But it can,” Sherlock said implacably. “Grand Duke George was attacked by Sanzo Tsuda, and still remains in critical condition.”
Ito could not make sense of it. It was absurd—Grand Duke George was in Paris, resting after an extended campaign of public service. When Nicholas had visited Japan, he’d met with Prince Takehito Arisugawa, interpreter Naohide Madenokoji, Governor Takeaki Nakano of Nagasaki, and even Duke Tadayoshi Shimazu. And above all, he had even met His Grace the Emperor.
In the past, His Grace had met Nicholas during official functions. And Ito had been present with His Grace at the hotel in Kyoto. Surely they should have noticed if Nicholas and his brother had traded places.
Nicholas sighed. “You are an Englishman. I suppose that means the entire world now knows the truth?”
“Hardly. I have yet to inform a soul. I have deduced these facts based on your dealings with Siam and Japan, but I would now like to hear your own account of events, if you might do me that kindness. Though I am capable of discerning how events unfolded, only you may say what your state of mind was at the time.”
Nicholas paced in the silence, his expression disconsolate. Then his feet came to a stop. “George is three years younger than me, but he was always tall, unlike me. He is handsome and lively. Mother always fussed over me, so he would cause mischief to get her attention.”