Sherlock seemed to be fast regaining his former confidence. “Like the Chinese.”
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, raising his voice. “Enough.”
Sherlock, however, continued to stare at Ito in fascination. “It’s something, rather, that a group of stowaways should be housed under the care of Professor Alexander Williamson and his wife. However did you manage such an arrangement?”
Ito broke into a coughing fit, choking on his lemonade. “How did you know that?”
“Professor Williamson and his wife both work,” Sherlock added, “but they take supper with you and the other Japanese men once a week.”
Mycroft shook his head. “Not once a week,” he said. “Once every three or four days.”
A sense of alarm stole over Ito. They had taken great care to keep their daily activities a secret, and now two young boys he had just met were describing those activities in detail. Accurate detail. It was unsettling. “Forgive me, but would you mind telling me where you heard such rumors?”
“Please, forgive our rudeness,” Mycroft interpolated apologetically. “There were no rumors. This is a poor habit of my brother’s.”
“A habit?” Ito glanced at Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed quietly, still holding the towel to his face. “You speak with a Liverpool accent. I read in the papers that the British legation at the international trading port of Hakodate was staffed largely by persons from Liverpool. Your pronunciation, however, is far from natural. Obviously you learned English from a friend who learned English from someone at the legation. From the manner in which Enola spoke of them earlier I gather that your four friends are all Japanese.”
“You’re awfully keen for a boy of ten,” Enola said, a look of amazement on her face.
“In America,” Mycroft said, suppressing a grin, “they refer to a sweetened carbonated lemon beverage as lemon squash, not lemonade. In America, lemonade refers to sweet lemon water without carbonate. I presume my brother noticed that you did not hesitate when ordering.”
Ito fidgeted restlessly, reaffixing his smile. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew the rest.”
“You were aware of which street to take without pausing,” Sherlock continued dispassionately, “which leads me to conclude that you have been in London for about a year. However, your sleeves are also stained with brill shrimp sauce and oyster soup. The fact that you are still unaccustomed to English dining manners after such a period of time tells me that you and your fellows are left to partake at your own liberty, with but few opportunities to dine with your hosts.”
Mycroft seemed exasperated. “Sherlock, you are being terribly rude.”
“You are also wearing the pocket watch chain that London University presents to professors upon every five years of service,” continued Sherlock, his expression unperturbed. “I have read in a book that Japanese men are very proud, so I imagine the same gift was made to all five men. Even if the professor in question were appointed at the age of 30, allowing one more chain for the man himself, he would have to be over 60 now. To harbor stowaways for payment, such a professor would likely be retired and thus find himself strapped for—”
Mycroft quickly cut in. “What my brother means to say is that you appear to have received instructions in deportment, allowing us to deduce that the professor has a wife. Perhaps they are a couple with several children who have grown up and moved away, thus allowing them to furnish you with rooms.”
“The professor’s wife, however, works outside of the home,” added Sherlock. “Your laundry is insufficient, she lacks leisure to instruct you in British English, and cannot take meals with you every day. I have an interest in chemistry, and often read articles pertaining to Professor Williamson, who was awarded the Royal Medal. I couldn’t help but notice that the particulars of his career, his level of comfort, his domestic situation, and even the working habits of his wife coincide with these particulars.”
Ito leaned forward. “One more point. How did—”
“How did I know you were a stowaway? The scars on your palms have not yet fully healed. They show you had repeatedly wrapped rope around your hands. You were in charge of hoisting the sails for your entire journey, work which is usually relegated to the lowest members of a ship crew. The oil in the detergent used to polish the decks causes the hands to blister. There would be no reason for a mere impoverished laborer to stay with the professor and his wife. However…”
“There is more?”
“Despite your status as a stowaway, I presume you found your passage quite agreeable. After all, even after remunerating the captain and Professor and Mrs. Williamson, your funds were more than adequate to provide for yourselves in comfortable circumstances, were they not?”
Ito’s spirits had sunk with each new statement, but here at last a smile escaped his lips. “You are wrong about one thing,” he murmured, his emotions conflicted. “Our funds were not that great. And it was not an agreeable journey. The moment we left our country, we knew we were committing a capital offense.”
A look of shock appeared on the faces of both brothers. Sherlock stared at Ito, his eyes particularly wide. “A capital offense? You mean execution? Does Japan’s government prohibit people from travelling overseas? Since Professor Williamson agreed to lodge you, I assumed that some high-ranking official must have been involved…”
“The Choshu Domain went to great lengths to sponsor us. We were given the equivalent of 350 pounds each, in Japanese money. But the Bakufu does not support us.”
“Bakufu?” asked Sherlock, furrowing his brow. “Choshu?”
“Japan is a complicated country.”
Just then a man rushed into the establishment and approached them. He was dressed in a frock coat, identical to Ito’s. It was Monta Shiji, yet another of the Choshu Five.
Monta seemed ruffled. He spoke to Ito in Japanese. “Here you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Ito, also in Japanese.
In response Monta drew forth an English newspaper. It was the Times. “Look at this.”
He glanced at the page, where Monta’s finger indicated a small article. Shock ran down Ito’s spine. According to the headline, Britain had entered into retaliations against the Choshu Domain.
He read the article in disbelief. In May of last year, Choshu had blockaded the Bakan Strait,[1] and without warning was attacking American, French, and Dutch trading ships that attempted to pass through. A few weeks later American and French warships had attacked the Choshu fleet stationed in the straits, dealing a devastating blow to Choshu’s maritime capabilities. Choshu, however, continued the blockade, refortifying its remaining batteries and occupying a portion of the Kokura Domain on the opposite shore to build new ones. As a result, Britain, citing the economic loss it had sustained, had called on American, French and Dutch aid. The powers were now preparing for a joint strike against Choshu.
Ito raised his head, dumbstruck. “What is this?”
Monta scratched at his face. “Our time in London has blinded us. Choshu still clings to outdated notions of the domain above all. All they speak of is joui.[2] They think it is a matter of samurai pride to meet the foreigners with force.”
“They’ll never understand the overwhelming technology and logistics of the West unless they see it for themselves. At this rate, not just Choshu but all of Japan will be crushed.”
Sherlock glanced at the paper. “History shows that it is often the fate of small countries, lacking in civilization, to underestimate their enemy’s strength and hasten their own destruction.”
2