Minezaki trotted back toward them, alone. He shook Sherlock’s hand, smiling hugely. He spoke rapidly in Japanese, clearly overjoyed. “Mr. Holmes! I don’t know how to thank you! Your powers of deduction are every bit as remarkable as the rumors claim. You have my admiration. And my deepest respect! We will take the suspect away, now.”
Satisfied, he bowed to Ito and scurried away.
Ito couldn’t help but smirk. “Shall I translate, Mr. Holmes?”
“No need,” Sherlock said coyly. “I have heard the same often enough before.”
30
When the now-Minister of Agriculture and Commerce Munemitsu Mutsu was younger, he had joined Kaientai, the private navy and shipping company founded by Ryoma Sakamoto. At that time he’d already become friends with Hirobumi Ito of the Choshu Domain. After the Meiji Restoration, he was appointed as an official in the Bureau of General Affairs, with the support of Tomomi Iwakura. During the Boshin War, he had negotiated with the Americans to acquire the CSS Stonewall. He even managed to convince the merchants of Osaka to shoulder the very hefty bill for the vessel—a significant windfall for the newly created, and very impoverished, government.
At Ito’s recommendation Mutsu studied abroad, in London, focusing on England’s cabinet system. Later he translated and published an early work by utilitarian philosopher Jeremy Bentham. Additionally, he established Japan’s first equal international treaty, with Mexico.
In every position he held, Mutsu strove to overcome international barriers. After rising to the position of Minister of Agriculture and Commerce, The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences was unsurprisingly his next target.
He received word that the translation was nearly finished only two weeks after the project was begun. He and Kubo visited the Russian legation together.
The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences was massive and very heavy. The two men carried it together. When they opened the cover, however, they saw that the individual chapters had in fact been pulled loose from their bindings. In order for the 100 translators to work on the translation simultaneously, the book had had to be divided into parts. It was no longer a single volume, but was essentially now 80 smaller pamphlets, with each chapter bound separately. The pages were also covered with finger smudges and copious handwritten notes.
Shevich met them in one of the legation offices. He looked dismayed at the state of the book. “My word…”
“At least the translation is nearly complete,” Kubo said, with some embarrassment. “We only had a few questions…”
Chekhov smiled immediately. “I am happy to help. Since the main translation is complete, allow us to provide you with a new copy. The contents, of course, will be identical.”
“Really? You would do that?” Mutsu asked.
“Certainly. Your diligence in translating the book is nothing less than inspiring. Just a moment.” Chekhov walked to the door and called out to the next room. “Akhatov! Denikin!”
Anna Luzhkova entered the room through a different door. “Minister Mutsu, Mr. Kubo,” she beamed. “Welcome. Oh! The poor book… What happened?”
“We were just telling Mr. Chekhov,” Kubo pleaded once again, “with so many people working on the translation…”
Chekhov returned. “No need to apologize, the book was yours. A newly bound copy would be much better for posterity’s sake though, don’t you agree?”
A brand new copy of The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences was carried into the room. The effort it took to carry it appeared to be almost too much for the two delicate young men assigned the task. They set it gently on the table and left the room.
“Now,” Chekhov opened his notepad. “Your questions, please. Tell me the chapter and page, and I will inquire with our people in Russia.”
Kubo lifted up one of the chapters, his eyes shining with excitement. “If we could start on chapter 1, THIS PAGE, where it mentions a paper on the Ulugh Beg Observatory…”
Mutsu stroked the pristine red leather cover of the newly provided copy of the Complete Works. As the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce, the positive relationship they now enjoyed with Russia was immensely gratifying.
For some reason, he knew, Ito still had misgivings. But why look a gift horse in the mouth? After all, the incident with Sanzo Tsuda had been settled. What was there to worry about?
October. Olgert Bercerosky’s whereabouts still remained a mystery.
Whether or not it was Bercerosky who had hired him, Tzybin had never actually met his employer in person. In Vladivostok they had communicated through notices in the newspaper and written letters. In Japan, Tzybin’s only means of contact had been through scraps of paper that he slipped into a crack in the archway of a nearby shrine.
Replies would show up in the same crack after some time had passed, but Tzybin had never witnessed the man directly. Once he had hidden in the shadows by the shrine and spied on the archway. He had waited until the sun set, but no one had showed. He claimed that after that incident he had received no further messages from his employer. He also claimed that he had burned all the notes, and that none remained.
The Russians, for their part, did not seem overly concerned with Sanzo Tsuda’s death. The Laskar remained in Tokyo Bay, and Nicholas remained aboard, but now it seemed his purpose truly was to negotiate with Siam. No further demands were made of Japan.
Tsuda’s death had been publicly announced at the end of September. The government feared that old tensions would flare up anew after the announcement, but the Russians largely remained quiet. The state of affairs between the two countries was unchanged. Japanese employees at trading firms travelled to Russia as before, and plans for commercial use of the Trans-Siberian Railway continued to progress.
It seemed as if Nicholas really had been acting on his own in regards to the Tsuda case, and that the danger from Russia had passed in June.
But Ito still had his doubts. What of Emperor Alexander III’s demands that Tsuda be executed? Had the Russian court only desired peace from the outset? It seemed unlikely—and they had been given an ideal pretext to attack Japan.
Perhaps the Russian court felt that George’s swapping places with Nicholas had put them in the wrong, and undercut their ability to pursue a harder stance. Many of Ito’s comrades seemed to believe that to be the case.
But why should a country as strong as Russia feel any compunction when handling a country as small as Japan? Grand Duke George, beloved son of the Emperor, remained in critical condition. And had the brothers not switched places it would have been Nicholas who was injured in his stead. Was Alexander III not angry? Did he not desire revenge?
One evening, Ito returned home to find Sherlock sitting on the veranda alone, legs crossed, poring through several huge stacks of documents.
Surprisingly, these documents were in Japanese. It was a copy of the translation of The Complete Work on Russian Natural Sciences, sent to him by the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce.
Sherlock’s copy of the original, in Russian, was also nearby—the volume he had wheedled from Ambassador Shevich and which, strictly speaking, should belong to Britain. The book was heavy enough to require two people to carry, but apparently Sherlock had hauled it there himself.
Ito stood close and stared at his friend. “I thought you were unable to read Japanese and Russian.”
“Which makes this all the more intriguing.” He presented a sheet of paper to Ito, on which the character for chou had been sloppily copied out. “This character means butterfly?”