The Collected Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in Japan (21 page)

Well – ‘imitation’, you might say.

‘
Very well, Holmes
-san
, I will tell you my story. And I also retract any suggestion that I might take your life, or that of your friend. I regret saying such a thing, now. For you are a good and just person, quite simply, and Japan needs you – for so long as you choose to stay in this country, so very far from your own...

‘So when I finish my story, if you feel that I was not entirely justified in seeking to end the life of this man named Abe, then I will simply step down from this golden lotus, hand you the
shuriken
I have spent countless hours learning how to use, and you may take me before the chief magistrate of this region.

‘
But first – my story…
’   

3

‘
Once, in a different lifetime, I was a
maiko
- a ‘trainee’
geisha.
I learnt how to apply the deathly-white makeup upon my face, and how to maintain a mask-like expression. How to sit in
seiza
, entirely motionless. Scarcely seeming even to
breathe..
. Useful training, wouldn’t you say, for what I would ultimately disguise myself as…?

‘Of course, I was also learning how to dance, play the
shamisen
, pour
sake
, act demurely in front of male patrons… And then came the day that a group of these ‘Crazy Ones’ – with their tattoos, wild hairstyles and swords – came to visit the place where I, some other
maiko
and our
geisha
tutors were staying.

‘We could hardly turn them away… At first they just drank, and laughed… And then they turned ugly. They barricaded the doors, the windows. People outside knew what was happening, but everyone is scared of the Crazy Ones. Some of them are former
samurai
; they know how to fight.

‘And how to be evil. We were raped, all of us. Repeatedly, by every man. I cried out that I was only thirteen, but the man I would – much later – again recognize only laughed as he thrust himself harder into me.

‘I was forced to commit some of the most vile, depraved acts you can imagine. It was not simply a matter of lying there and being used by every member of the Crazy Ones. That man who later became a monk, calling himself ‘Abe’, had a particular fondness for me.

‘The things he made me do…

‘Finally, after a couple of days, it was over. The Crazy Ones left, leaving me and the other
maiko
and older women lying beaten, naked and bleeding upon the
tatami.
Once I’d sufficiently recovered, I left – I could never become a
geisha
now. I learnt later that a couple of the other women were driven mad by what they’d experienced, and that one committed suicide.

‘I travelled; I walked far. I lived in forests and drank from rivers. I learnt how to use a knife and how to use that dreaded weapon of the
ninja
, the
shuriken
, so that no man would ever use me as that man with the hooded eyes, and the missing little finger, had.

‘And I learnt how to meditate, calming my mind. Turning my own thoughts away from the blackness, and the odd desire for suicide, which was the result of my treatment at the hands of the Crazy Ones. I learnt how to sit absolutely motionless for hours, so that birds, even, would alight on my shoulders. I entered into one town and there, in a dark back alley, came across two men attempting to rape a woman. I killed them both, with the knife. Then I melted back into the darkness, almost before the woman knew that she had just been saved.    

‘I became an assassin, but only of those men I encountered who abused women. I continued to travel; I had no need for money; I had only those possessions I absolutely required. I learnt how to blend into any scenery; once I disguised myself as a scarecrow, standing there in a field all day long as farmers labored all around me. I was able to control my breathing, my thoughts – everything.

‘And then came the day when I entered into this temple hall – as anyone may do – with the intention of praying before the statue of Buddha for a while, and saw
that
monk.

‘It was him! I knew it instantly. Those hooded eyes gazed upon me, attempting to look benign. And the missing little finger…

‘He quietly greeted me. I nodded in reply. For the first time in many years, I actually felt my heart-rate increase. I wanted to kill him there and then, and yet I knew the moment I said who I was – and what he had done to me, while I was still basically a child – he would shout for help and attempt to flee.

‘I first needed to ‘stun’ him, in some way… To shock him so greatly that he would be rendered incapable of shouting out for help…

‘I went away, into the forest that lies behind this temple, and there meditated for several days.

‘And then the idea came to me… I had, previously, successfully disguised myself as a scarecrow, amongst other things – a tree, a rock… But would I be able to impersonate that statue of the Buddha that was in the temple hall…?

‘I visited the temple several times more. People frequently entered into that hall, from outside, in order to pray. I was not especially noticed. Besides which I have trained myself to pass unnoticed, even when I am present. You would be surprised at how great an aura even the most ‘unremarkable’ of humans projects – once you actually become consciously aware of such a thing… 

‘I realized that that accursed man, now masquerading as a monk, ‘opened’ the hall most mornings – and that he always did this alone.

‘I closely observed the statue of the Buddha. I learnt to replicate its pose exactly. I obtained golden body-paint. I practiced applying it. I shaved my head. One day I entered into the temple and hid in the small corridor that lies behind this hall. No once checked there, before locking up in the evening. In the night I took down the statue – it was heavy, but not impossible to lift; I believe it is gold plating upon a wooden frame – and, first disrobing it, placed it, along with my clothing and few possessions, inside one of the cupboards that are along that corridor.

‘Then I undressed, and by lamplight applied the golden paint, put upon the robes – which are sufficiently loose that they serve to disguise my breasts – and took position on top of this golden lotus. I waited there as dawn began lighting the hall, illuminating the sliding windows of wood and paper. And then entered that man; I had my eyes closed, as does the statue, but I knew it was him. He had a snuffly way of breathing, and dragged his feet slightly…

‘And then I opened my eyes, and addressed him! And yet, it was not as
satisfying
as I’d imagined… At first, he could only mutter ‘No… no…’, so that I feared I had, in fact, shocked him so greatly that he’d just been driven insensible…

‘But then he pleaded that he’d changed character, had turned his back upon his former life – the very reason for him having become a monk. He begged for his life… 

‘But nothing would change my resolve; he was going to die, come what may, for what he and those other men had done to me and the other women and girls. He clutched at his chest, those hooded eyes growing ever wider with shock and fear as I continued to quietly explain just who I was, and so the reason why he was shortly going to die.

‘But he robbed me of
that
part of my revenge – the throwing of the
shuriken
– by suddenly dropping dead upon the
tatami
, curse him
.
Still, I had undoubtedly
caused
his death, at least…

‘And then some other monks entered, before I could come down and replace the Buddha statue in its original position. And then you were summoned, and I continued to sit motionless. It did not matter, I thought, I could wait all day. When the hall became empty, I would quickly restore the statue and dress myself, before secretly taking my leave…

‘But
you
, Holmes-
san –
you saw through my disguise. My congratulations; your reputation is certainly deserved…

4

‘…And my congratulations to you,’ said Holmes quietly, after a few moments of silence had passed. The hall was very bright now, lit up by the midday sun outside. ‘You are a remarkable woman, a survivor of a horrific experience that would have broken many other people; and you have successfully taken your revenge against a truly evil man.

‘For some offences in life, surely, a second chance can never be permitted.’

Before anything else could be said, there came the sound of voices in the corridor beyond the entrance to the temple hall. In entered the fox-faced priest, the senior monk accompanying him.

‘Despite the unfortunate tragedy of Abe-
san
’s death,’ began the priest brusquely, ‘we are still shortly due to hold a service, here in this hall. So, if there is nothing else…’

The dismissal was obvious, and the English detective nodded.

‘No, I believe the monk’s death to have been entirely natural. A heart attack, most likely,’ said Holmes casually. ‘Yoshida-
sensei
and I will leave, now. Although… after the service, is the hall in use?’

‘Well, no,’ returned the priest, looking confused by the foreigner’s seemingly strange question. ‘People may visit it in order to pray before the statue of the Buddha here, but nothing else in
particular
is planned, following the service.

‘On occasion, this hall just lies empty…’

‘I see,’ said Holmes, in the same easy tone. ‘If you’re ready, Yoshida-
sensei
...?’

And we left that hall.   

Sherlock Holmes and a Death in the Orange Grove

1

 
‘Holmes-
san
– praise be to Buddha you are here…! Please, come quickly!’

  With these words, the young man with the towel tied around his head burst into the room at an inn where Sherlock Holmes and I were staying.

‘What is the matter?’ demanded Holmes in his excellent Japanese, as this bug-eyed young man all but dragged him off the
futon
where he was laying.

‘My father is dead – murdered!’ returned the young man, tears beginning to pour from his eyes. ‘He lies among one of his orange groves…’

At this, Holmes got speedily up, and I followed him and the young man out of the room and towards the sprawling orange groves which grew upon stepped hillsides close by the sea. I understood that these were owned by various farmers, and that it was about this time that the oranges were harvested.

Yes, I could see various men and women plucking the fruit from the trees, some of them stood upon short ladders. It was delightfully sunny, a wonderfully sweet smell of fruit perfuming the air. The sort of heady, ethereal atmosphere I had delighted in just a short while earlier, when Holmes and I had taken a walk along this same route.

But now –

Holmes and I were soon obliged almost to run, so to keep up with the young man who’d fetched us from our room at the inn. We scrabbled down the steep hillside, passing any number of trees laden with fruit, quickly becoming quite sweaty and exhausted. Finally, we entered into one of the shady groves at the foot of the hillside, some two hundred feet below the first of the orchards at the top, which were close to the inn and indeed the rest of the seaside village where we were staying.

‘There, Holmes-
san
,’ panted the young man, pointing ahead of him through the orange trees – the fruit upon them beautifully fat and round – to a small group of people who were standing around looking down at something.

I need hardly tell you that this ‘something’ was the corpse of the young man’s father. A slightly wizened, leathery-skinned man of perhaps sixty to seventy years of age, his head turned to one side as he lay sprawled upon the ground. Slightly beyond him, I observed, a low net had been stretched out – there were others, also, designed (it was not hard to realize why) to catch any fruit which fell from the trees and rolled along the slightly sloping ground, before it became too damaged to sell.

‘My father – the finest orange grower who ever lived,’ declared the young man then, his voice thick with repressed tears.

Holmes was already kneeling down beside the corpse.

‘A blow to the nape of the neck,’ he declared, his distant voice displaying his mechanical thought processes. ‘Something hard dealt the fatal blow – a wooden club, perhaps, or even just the heel of the hand belonging to someone skilled in unarmed combat, chopping down with brutal force upon – ’

As the young man gave what was almost a whimper, I coughed and said tightly –

‘Holmes-
san
…’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said another voice, belonging to one of the four men standing around the body of the fruit farmer. ‘I believe you are the illustrious Holmes-
san
? We had, of course, already deduced just how poor Miguchi-
san
met his end. The large purple bruise clearly visible upon the back of his neck is rather indicative of some significant trauma.