Thus absorbed in deduction and observation, Sherlock passed the time quickly. The sun set and it became night. The female passengers did not hesitate to sleep in their seats—testament to how safe the country had become. Nor did anyone attempt to sneak aboard the first-class carriage without buying a ticket, an inevitable occurrence on British trains. Ito had told him the fine for sneaking onboard was exorbitant, but this was true in England as well; the people of Japan seemed more naturally averse to causing trouble. Of course criminals still existed, but in general there seemed to be a deep-seated appreciation of the group and observance of the rules.
As dawn broke, Sherlock saw a grand mountain range spring into view from beyond the train window. The only signs of human activity were the occasional thatched roof or country ranch. What remained was unspoiled nature, sprawling as far as the eye could see. In contrast with Tokyo, the distance between each station stop was long. The steam engine puffed along at full speed.
Still, Sherlock never felt fatigue when in pursuit for a case, no matter how great the distance travelled. The train passed through Shiruchi Station, before finally arriving at its final stop, Aomori.
He exited the wooden station house and passed through a throng of travellers, before entering an area swarming with livestock and freight wagons. The atmosphere immediately felt more laidback than in Tokyo. Sonoda had arranged for escorts from both the Aomori Prefectural Police Department and Kushiro Police Department to meet him at the station. Included in the group was a Captain Saito, of the Kushiro Police. Captain Saito spoke English. Sherlock was grateful that they’d be able to communicate; he left for Kushiro with them directly, on one of the police ferries.
Though it was only September, it was so cold that a layer of ice had formed across the sea. The cold was a reminder of how close they were to Russia. A misty haze filled the air, through which gradually floated into view a gray mass of land. Hokkaido. Charles Scott Meik, a British engineer working for the prefecture, had recently advanced plans for the construction of a port at Kushiro. The project had only recently gotten underway. At present there was no more than a provisional wharf. There was no modern port town in which they could disembark, but the police had arranged for a carriage. Once they descended on land, they boarded without a moment’s delay, heading overland for the nearby town of Shibecha.
The sun was now setting for a second time and they were emerging from a forest, when Sherlock finally caught sight of a massive facility, located beyond the trees. It looked like a small town: Several dozen buildings were arranged at regular intervals. The carriage pulled up alongside one such building, which from the outside looked like a Western-style mansion. It was equipped with sash windows and possessed a protruding arch over the main entrance.
This was Kushiro Prison’s administrative building. Inside, Sherlock met with the warden, or director, of the prison. He was a nervous man in his early thirties, named Teruchika Oinoue. For a man in a position of power in such a cold environment, he seemed more naturally solicitous than might have been expected. Apart from basic introductions, however, he spoke no English. A second man, in his late twenties and dressed in what resembled a priest’s cassock, was also present. He was the Christian chaplain of the prison, Taneaki Hara, and he did understand English.
Oinoue led the way, and the group was shown to Tsuda’s old solitary cell. “Before, it was the same here as at other prisons,” Hara explained as they walked. “The prisoners were forced to carry out grueling labor to develop the area. There were many senseless practices, like abandoning prisoners who collapsed to be eaten by wild animals. Since Warden Oinoue’s appointment, however, the prison has been remodeling itself in the Western fashion, with respect for the humanity of those incarcerated.”
The lone building they arrived at resembled a mountain cabin. The exterior consisted of stacked logs. The door had been left half open. Sherlock stepped inside. There was nobody here. The floor was made of hard concrete and the interior walls were covered in wooden boards that left no gaps exposed. It looked very sturdy.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock murmured. “I see you spoke the truth.”
“Pardon?” Hara inquired.
“I said you spoke the truth earlier. In prisons where the inmates are treated poorly, the cells are in an atrocious state. And it’s clear you did not clean this room just for my arrival; otherwise, the smell of solvent would still be lingering. There is no smell, therefore the room has been regularly kept clean.”
“I see. Well…”
“When did Tsuda arrive?”
“July 2. He was transported from Otsu Prison to Baba Station on May 31. He was then sent by train to Hyogo Karyukan. On June 27 he was transported to Hokkaido with 119 other serious offenders, via a Japan Mail steamer called the Wakanouchi-maru.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock took a look around the cell. “The note, the one that appears to be a will? It was found in this room?”
“That’s correct. After Tsuda was transported to the sickroom, Warden Oinoue searched the room and discovered it.”
“Where did he find it?”
Hara asked Oinoue a question in Japanese. Oinoue replied, and Hara turned back. “It was hidden in that corner, beneath a blanket.”
Sherlock leaned down to inspect the floor. There was a visible stain, probably from when Tsuda had been coughing blood. He lifted his head. “Where is the will, now?”
Captain Saito answered. “Earlier, it was sent to Kushiro Headquarters for keeping as evidence, but they sent it back once it was determined that Tsuda died of illness.”
“It is now stored in the sickroom,” Hara added. “The one where he was housed.”
Sherlock stood up. “Please, show me there now.”
The sickroom was even cleaner than the cell had been, and differed very little from patient rooms at any ordinary clinic. The bed, where Tsuda had breathed his last, had been preserved in its final state.
Sherlock had very little interest in the bed, however. The mat was covered with marks as if it had been clutched at and torn. A quick glance at it told him all he needed to know.
The officers gave him Tsuda’s will. He glanced at the piece of paper. A few brief lines had been scrawled in Japanese. “Where did he acquire the paper?” he asked Hara.
“It was handed out during English lessons in the chaplain’s office. He must have snuck one of the sheets out. Same for the brush and ink. We do not use Western pens. Anything with a point could be used as a weapon.”
“This is very interesting,” Sherlock said, staring at the note. “I cannot read Japanese, but that allows me to better focus on the penmanship. There are six locations where the characters are particularly disordered. It appears as if he suffered a coughing fit at each. The pressure and tilt of his hand changes several times throughout the note, indicating that he shifted from side to side as he wrote. He would have been searching for a position in which his breathing was more comfortable. This is exactly indicative of acute pneumonia.”