Keisuke Matsuoka - Sherlock Holmes - A Scandal in Japan

Kanevsky cursed. He turned back to Sherlock and explained, “The Laskar is only a cruiser, not a flagship. None of these sailors have any experience. Their ranks are totally broken.”

“The Tsarevich had run away from home. Likely they were the only men available.”

“Can no one tell us where Tsarevich Nicholas has gone?” Ito asked.

“He definitely boarded the first boat and set off immediately, but nobody can say in which direction.”

The lights of their steamboat swept over the water like a lighthouse beam, casting the assembled lifeboats into relief. The men aboard the ships worked their oars furiously, heading toward the shore. They seemed mostly terrified. There was no telling when the Laskar might also explode.

Sherlock thought carefully. Which direction would the villains have chosen, to best achieve their objectives?

Of course. “Lt. Colonel,” he told Kanevsky, “chart a course for ten o’clock. We must travel southeast at full speed.”

Kanevsky looked at him uncertainly. “That will take us away from shore. The Walery only just sank.”

“Hence why we must travel southeast. Chekhov and his men will take Nicholas in the direction in which they expect least interference. Enough time has passed since the ships in the other directions sank, and the Japanese police and fishermen will already have arrived to rescue who they can. The crew of the Walery, however, has barely even evacuated.”

“So be it.” Kanevsky turned toward the sailors and shouted in Russian.

The steamboat began to move once more, gaining speed. The smoke in the air grew denser. The way ahead was thickly shrouded. The light from their boat was meaninglessly diffused mid-air. They could see no more than a few yards ahead.

But there was something visible in the water. The steamboat altered direction slightly.

Sherlock looked at the object as they passed it. It was a sailor’s corpse. He was floating face down in the water, his body motionless and limp. Blood oozed from a gunshot wound in his back.

The steamboat slowed abruptly. There was something else in the water. Unsurprisingly, it was yet another sailor, this one floating face up. His chest was stained red.

“Poor devil,” Ito groaned.

The two must have been the guards on Nicholas’ lifeboat. They were headed in the right direction. “Lieutenant Colonel, don’t slow down. They came this way, there is no doubt about it.”

Kanevsky gave the order and their speed increased. The steamboat swiftly hurtled through the dense fog.

“I see them,” Ito cried.

Sherlock peered into the murk. A small shadow bobbed into view. It was a boat. Its oars were still. Someone stood inside of it—a young Caucasian man, dressed in a frock coat. His clothes made him appear thin, but judging from his stance he was robust and physically well-conditioned. It had to be Denikin. He was waving a Japanese katana in the air. He gripped the hilt in both hands, staring down, ready to strike.

A man-shaped shadow sprawled at the base of the boat. One arm was thrust forward, and he was clearly begging the other man to stop. He wore a red army coat. He’d probably thrown the coat on in a rush during the evacuation, so that he would be easily recognizable as the crown prince. Nicholas’ terrified face came into focus with the light from their ship.

It was obvious why Denikin had chosen a katana. Clearly, he meant to stage the attack to make it seem as if Nicholas had been assassinated by the Japanese.

A third man, sitting in the bow, turned to face Kanevsky’s boat. He was fat, with red hair. He stood up in a panic, pointing in their direction.

No, not pointing. He held a pistol.

There was the crack of a gunshot. The sailors crouched low, taking cover. Several more shots followed before their surroundings suddenly went dark. He’d shot their lights out.

Blast it! A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine. How could they return fire with no light? They might hit Nicholas by accident.

Just then he felt something shift behind his back. Then there was a splash in the water. Ito was gone! He had just dived into the water. Inches below the surface, a darker shadow sped, porpoise-like, toward the other boat.

Such recklessness! Sherlock barely had time to register shock before a glaring light flared into existence. He could see again. One of the sailors had lit a torch. The light was bleached and white—made from a mixture of sulfur, saltpeter, and ash, to ensure it would not be extinguished when it touched the sea. The sailor threw the torch onto the waves, between the two boats.

Now they could see their enemy clearly. The sailors began shooting. They aimed their rifles high. With Nicholas held hostage, they could provide cover fire at best.

But Chekhov had no such restraints. He fired, and hit one of the sailors. Kanevsky crouched low behind the balustrade. The other sailors took cover as well. Sherlock, too, was forced to crouch low.

Standing atop the lifeboat, Denikin brandished his katana once more. Nicholas attempted to shrink away, but he was already at the edge of the boat and had nowhere else to go.

Then there was another splash. A shadow rose from the surface, like a fish leaping into the air. Ito boarded the boat, dripping wet, and grabbed Denikin by the leg. He pulled, hard. Denikin lost his balance and fell.

Ito was the first to his feet. The boat rocked violently left and right. Chekhov, bent low, grabbed the boat’s edge. Ito’s skillful sense of balance, however, allowed him to maintain his own footing.

Denikin stood up. He glared at Ito, eyes wide, and took aim with his sword.

Ito still held the cane. He drew the hidden blade, gripped the hilt in both hands, and squared off against Denikin, his sword brandished high and center. He met Denikin with cold, steady eyes.

The Russian man struck quickly. Ito’s sword flicked side-to-side in response. The boat rocked so it was difficult to use footwork, but Denikin had the same limitation. Sparks lit the darkness when their blades clashed. Their struggle seemed intense. The swords crossed and it soon turned to a contest of strength, each attempting to push the other backward. Denikin, who was in better physical shape, seemed to be winning.

The lifeboat began to regain equilibrium. Chekhov resumed firing at the steamboat.

It was no use crouching at the bottom of the boat forever. Sherlock leaned over the edge. “Lieutenant Colonel, your assistance!”

“Wait, Holmes,” Kanevsky shouted. “What are you—”

Sherlock did not hear the rest. He was already in the sea.

Underwater, he might as well have been blind. But he had expected this. He could hear the sound of gunshots, muffled by the water. The ocean was frigid, but his clothes helped to keep him buoyant. He followed Ito’s example, swimming close to the surface while propelling himself forward with his legs. The current flowed from the side. Sherlock swam quickly, fine-tuning his course as he progressed. There was no time to even take a breath. If he broke water he would surely be shot.

His head bumped against something hard. He stretched his arms out. It was the hull of the boat. He swam around to the other side, reached up, and grabbed onto the edge.

As he broke the water’s surface, sight and sound were restored. The first thing he saw was Nicholas, cowering at the foot of the boat. His face was alive with terror. The piercing sound of metal clashing against metal filled the air. Sherlock looked up. Ito and Denikin were still engaged in their fierce swordplay.

Chekhov sat near the bow. He seemed to have regained his composure, realizing that with Nicholas hostage the steamboat was unable to return effective fire. He redirected his pistol, aiming it now at Ito, who stood mere feet away.