Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

Holmes pondered over that for barely half a second before saying, “The sprinkler system cut in, I suppose?”

“Exactly so, Holmes-san. But not quickly enough to save them.”

“They were on the bed?”

“Yes.”

“And in what state of attire?”

“They had only just arrived, and they were mostly fully clothed.”

In previous years, Holmes would have coloured slightly while discussing such intrusive facts. But his experiences of recent times – and most particularly in Amsterdam – had hardened his mentality when it came to such matters. Was he beginning to fit in with this strange age, he wondered, and becoming ‘modern’ after all?

Putting that thought to one side, he began to patrol the entire room, checking every detail of it for some clue that might explain exactly what had happened. There was no indication that the door had been forced. There were ventilation ducts here, certainly, but they were far too small. And there was not a suspect footprint or a fingerprint that he could find. Everything he looked at led him to the troubling conclusion that the unfortunate couple had been entirely on their own in here.

“An electrical fault, perhaps?” he suggested.

Haruko Minoshi’s head shook stiffly. “There are no electrics in the bed, no vibrating mattresses or such. The nearest device to it is the alarm clock, which – as you can see – is entirely pristine. It is barely conceivable that a fault anywhere else could cause a charge to leap this kind of distance, but I had it checked out nonetheless. The wiring in this room is good. In fact, it’s perfect in the whole hotel.”

She’d been extraordinarily thorough in the way she had investigated this strange matter. Sherlock Holmes suspected it was always so. Her intellect was obvious, but intellect all by itself was no use when it came to solving crimes – you needed to combine it with real diligence and proper methodology, which was precisely what she’d done. If only more professional police officers would follow her example.

Except … had there actually even been a crime committed here?

Holmes took a careful look at the adjoining bathroom, finding it to be pristine and unused, before returning to the blackened suite.

A large mirror was fixed to a wall opposite the bed. Staring at it hard, the great detective noticed something slightly odd. He went over and inspected it, and then called Haruko across.

“You’re sure there are no hidden cameras in here? Then what is this?”

It was a circular indentation in the silver of the mirror he was pointing at, no larger than a penny piece. Minoshi studied it assiduously before giving her opinion.

“Merely a flaw in the glass, Holmes-san. I can see nothing beyond it. Maybe the heat caused it, or perhaps it was already there.”

“Aha, I’d imagine that you’re right. Do you suppose that I could take a look at some adjoining rooms?” Holmes asked.

“Of course,” Minoshi told him. And she straightened up, eager to lead the way.

“On my own, lieutenant, if you please,” Holmes corrected her.

And Minoshi looked unhappy and a little stunned, but handed him her swipe-card.

He returned within less than two minutes, still looking totally bewildered and with deep lines on his forehead.

“Did you find anything, Holmes-san?”

“No, I did not.”

He was obviously at a complete loss.

“Could it be an actual case, perhaps,” the consulting detective asked, “of that alleged phenomenon referred to as ‘spontaneous combustion’?”

Lieutenant’s Minoshi’s face went numb, her lower lip jutting out slightly.

“I’m not sure of that,” she answered. “But there is a rumour going around my station house.”

When Holmes stared at her and waited for her to explain, she dropped her gaze away from his, nonplussed.

“Some of my colleagues are saying – the older ones especially – that the culprit in this case is a ghost.”

“But this is such a modern city!” Holmes pointed out loudly. “Do the majority of people here seriously believe in things like phantoms?”

Which was not to say that he did not believe in them himself. Actually, he had personally encountered them in New York City, during the course of a previous case. But he was interested to know what the mentality here was. This appeared to be a city of vast contradictions.

They were walking briskly down another narrow side street, one that had been closed to traffic and been paved from edge to edge with coloured brick. The streetlighting was dim as well and had a bluish tinge, so that everything around them was lent a faintly unreal aspect.

“You misunderstand Japan, Holmes-san,” Haruko explained to him, with as respectful a tone as she could muster. “Much of what we do is very modern, yes. Yet the majority of people still cling to the old traditions and beliefs. We believe that all our ancestors are watching over us, for instance, and we honour them long after they have passed beyond the veil. So a belief in ghosts in not remarkable – far from it. We don’t accept that people have gone simply because they are dead.”

Holmes turned that over and finally nodded, seeing the attraction of such a concept. How pleasant it would be – for instance – to believe that dear John Watson was still taking notice of his every move, and perhaps even helping sometimes.

But there were pleasant fantasies, and then there were demonstrable facts. Holmes had built his whole career by going on that principle.

“ You don’t think a phantom killed that unfortunate couple, do you?” he asked the lieutenant, rather brusquely.

Minoshi’s head went down again.

“I’m not sure quite what to think, Holmes-san. In the lack of any evidence, I have no choice but to keep my mind completely open.”

And – when he thought about that – he could see that she was absolutely right. He had come across a great deal that was unexpected in his recent cases, after all.

They finally reached the offices of Sutomocha Security Services. The lieutenant had already called ahead on her mobile phone, and the manager was expecting them. He led them through into a wide, largely bare room with dozens of closed-circuit monitors set up on the plain grey walls. Each of them showed a picture of a corridor or lobby in the love hotels. As Holmes watched, a couple with their arms around each other disappeared into a room.

“That’s not the Purple Cloud, I hope.”

“No, Mr Holmes. That hotel is closed for business till this matter is resolved. This is …” and the manager studied a logo in the bottom corner of the screen, “… the Heavenly River hotel, three blocks away from the one in question.”

And then he introduced the great detective to the man who’d been on duty when the horrible incident had occurred. Mr Sokua had to be in his late forties, and was already completely bald. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a rather sour expression, but he seemed sharp-eyed, alert enough, and – with Haruko interpreting – he answered Holmes’ questions with not the least hesitation.

“Did you see the young couple on fire?”

“There are no cameras in the room, so I did not.”

“Was there anyone in the hotel who ought not have been there?”

“There was no one.”

“Or anything else that might have aroused your suspicions?”

“On that particular night, no.”

Holmes and Minoshi exchanged a puzzled glance, then stared back at the fellow.

“But on other nights?” Holmes pressed the man.

Sokua and his manager were both looking uncomfortable.

“We record everything the cameras see,” the manager said, stepping in, his wide face creasing up.