Hara nodded. “He had a fever of nearly 40 degrees Celsius and slept poorly. His breathing grew difficult, and his lips turned purple and blue. The doctor said there was no doubt that it was acute pneumonia.”
“Where is the body?”
“In the mortuary.” Hara glanced to Oinoue. Oinoue ushered them toward the door.
Without heating, the prison would have been freezing. These were excellent conditions for a mortuary.
Tsuda’s body was well kept.
It was laid out on a wood slab, as on a bed, with a white kimono draped over it. Uncovering the body was a simple affair. This is much more efficient than how things were done at the London morgue, Sherlock thought. He inspected the body thoroughly, his face mere inches from the dead man’s skin.
Compared to the photograph he’d seen of Tsuda, his face in death appeared drawn and wasted. The same was true of his body. Sherlock observed bits of string and rusted metal beneath the fingernails. They matched the marks on his bed.
“I see now why you never doubted Tsuda’s illness,” he murmured. “I am surprised you did not tie him to the bed, considering how much he must have writhed. From the marks and scratches along his body, I assume that his hands were left free.”
“To be honest, it was impossible not to sympathize with him toward the end,” Hara sighed. “His suffering was difficult to watch.”
There was a scar on Tsuda’s neck. “What caused this injury?” Sherlock pointed it out.
“That was left by the rickshaw driver, when Tsuda attacked Tsarevich Nicholas. Apparently it was quite painful. He would often double over and press his hand to the scar.”
“He wasn’t always kept in solitary, was he? Did he interact with the other prisoners?”
“Certainly there was some interaction, but Tsuda spoke very little. And the others seemed to find him off-putting. Warden Oinoue and I took pains to engage him in conversation, and he had just been starting to speak very slightly more. His comments, however, did not differ much from what he wrote in his will. He’d ask us to send his money back to his family, or obsess over the future of Japan.”
“There are marks on his neck and ankles, as if from restraints. And there is a hole in his ear.”
“Prisoners are required to wear collars and shackles. There are no exceptions, even for simple work such as straw making. The shackles are attached to a round weight. The hole in the ear is connected to the legs via a chain. It is called a tagane, and is used to cause pain to prisoners who attempt to escape.”
“So is this what you meant earlier, when you said you respect prisoners’ humanity?”
“We take pains to treat them humanely, but the prisoners here are serious offenders. Relaxing all of our methods immediately would be difficult.”
“Doubtless.” Sherlock straightened up. “Tsuda was a simple and unskilled man. Judging from the range of scars along his body he had been involved in several life-threatening battles throughout his career. He was likely proud of his life as a soldier, and I imagine he took it poorly when his Order of Merit was revoked. Judging from the color of his skin his liver was failing. Did he drink?”
Hara shook his head. “Not very much.”
“Then it is possible he used sedatives heavily. They would have decreased the functioning of his liver and depressed his immune system, which in turn may have led to acute pneumonia.”
Saito nodded. “The Shibecha Prison medical chief kept detailed daily notes. He wrote comments to that same effect. It seems it was a series of unfortunate coincidences.”
“We must not be hasty, however,” Sherlock said softly. “There is no guarantee his death was accidental. If someone had commissioned the attack on Nicholas, we must allow for the possibility that this person learned that Tsuda’s constitution had been weakened through his psychiatric treatment, and took advantage of it.”
“How could a third party have learned of such a thing?”
Sherlock’s thoughts came together quickly. “Would you wire Police Chief Sonoda?” he requested of Saito. “Tsuda was admitted to the hospital several times for mental illness. Inquiries will need to be made with each of the hospitals he was at. We must look into how their records are kept, and who in the hospitals would have access to them.”
Saito took out his notepad and began writing with a pencil. “Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Foreigners residing in Kanto, engaged in private commercial trading. Inform Police Chief Sonoda that I would like a list drawn up. Two young Russian men working together must be particularly suspicious, but it is possible they have falsified their nationality.”
“Are you referring to the two Russians who were seen with Tsuda? But why commercial trading?”
“A string of trivial thefts has occurred recently throughout Tokyo prefecture. Until lately the thefts focused on pottery, dolls, and woodblock prints. The culprit has now moved on to paper fans, kimonos, and sandals. These are common household items with no particular value. No particular value, that is, to a Japanese person.”
“You believe the thief is a foreigner?”
“As a Westerner, to me it makes immediate sense. Japan has only been open for 20 years, and goods imported from here are the fashion now in Europe. Russia is very close, and smuggling ships could be sent back and forth quite frequently. Such a haul would prove a feast for any commercial trader. Popular demand would likely begin with furnishings and decorations before moving on to personal items and clothing.”
“You believe that someone is sourcing goods from Japan in response to Russian demand?”
“The thief strikes repeatedly, moving from location to location throughout Kanto. He would need to lay low somewhere in the country, and support himself with money garnered from his thefts. It is highly possible that one of the young Russians is a man known as Olgert Bercerosky.”
Saito’s eyes lit up. “I will send a wire immediately.”
Sherlock silently looked down at Tsuda’s face. It was puckered and drawn, like a dried fish. One act of violence, at Tsuda’s hand, had created a network of cracks in the foundation beneath the relationship between Japan and Russia. Thanks to Russia’s forbearance, they had averted a serious conflict. But was the danger truly over?
28
Ito and Minister Mutsu walked along the red carpeted floor of the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce annex. The spacious hall, which faced the corridor along which they walked, was lined with rows of desks at which some 100 professionals were busy at work.
The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences had 80 chapters. Each individual chapter had been divided into further sections, with translators assigned to each. In addition to familiarity with the Russian language, the translation also required a range of specialist knowledge. Translators from universities throughout the country had been invited to join the effort.
“With 100 translators on the job,” Mutsu reported, “progress is proceeding swimmingly.”
Ito nodded. “This large-scale approach is very effective.”
“I was inspired by how you handled the railways. At this rate we will soon make up any gaps in our understanding of the natural sciences.”
“But I was told you had something specific to tell me?”
“Yes, if you will allow me. Kubo, the project director, should be joining us soon… Ah, here he is!”
A man about 30 years in age, a batch of papers bundled under either arm, scurried towards them. “Minister Mutsu, Chairman Ito,” he wheezed. “Welcome. Welcome. This is amazing. The Russians have nearly proven that a mother’s breast milk contains immunological properties. In Europe they are only just beginning to research this!”