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gludzilla · 6 years

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Sachiko’s Moustache (Part I)

In the morning light, the low, lamenting sound of a cello reberbates.

She listens to the calm melody of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 Prelude - as Mrs. Hatano had told her informed her it was called - and yet, Wato cannot understand the finer points of its beautiful sound. It just makes her think it would go perfectly with coffee. For a moment, she stands in front of the closed door, drinking in the music. The last note echoes before fading. And finally silence reigns. Holding a long tray in her hands, she pushes the door - so tall it reaches the ceiling - with her backside and opens it.

She enters the chaotic room and brightly announces, “Breakfast!”

“Don’t want any,” is the immediate reply.

Still holding her cello, Sherlock glances at Wato, at the tray in her hands and the food on it - the steaming white rice, golden dashimaki tamago, daikon-flavored miso soup, and crispy grilled fish - she says this. Wato stands frozen in place. As she watches Sherlock gently put the instrument away, she smiles sweetly.

“You don’t want it?”

“Just coffee is fine. Make some coffee.”

“It’s supposed to be a sort of thank you for letting me stay here.”

A sort of thank you to the person who had offered a has-been doctor with no job or house a place to sleep. Even if that person was an exceptional weirdo. She had cooked the rice in an earthenware pot. She had woken up at 5 am to buy the fish at the marketplace. With Hatano’s help (more like Hatano making everything but the dashimaki tamago), she had cooked this breakfast with love.

“You still don’t want it?”

“Read this.”

Wato shrinks away from the sheet of paper suddenly thrust under her nose. She puts the tray on a low table nearby and snatches the note fluttering in front of her face.

“What? Rules for cohabitation. ‘Don’t make breakfast without being requested to do so.’ ‘Coffee is made with water heated to 82 degrees.’ ‘Clean up. Don’t tidy up.’ ‘Don’t speak or make noise above 50 decibels.’...Hey, hey, hey, how many of these are there? They’re too many!”

“If you don’t like it, get out.”

She points outside through the window with an empty coffee mug in her hand. No, wait a minute. Is she telling me to live the rest of my life quieter than an air conditioning unit? And does she want me to leave through the window? Wato stares at Sherlock, who still stands with her arm outstretched, for a moment before sighing.

“Hey, can’t we try having a conversation like normal peo-”

“Sherlock? Sherlock, I’m coming in.”

As soon as she says this, Mrs. Hatano, the landlord of 221B, peeks inside from behind the door. She smiles warmly at Wato before quickly turning to Sherlock.

“So, remember the friend I mentioned yesterday? She’s already arrived. I’m sorry, but could she come in once you’re finished with breakfast?”

“Show her in right now.”

An immediate response.

Good grief. Time to eat two portions of breakfast, Wato laments and moves the tray from the table to the sideboard.

Hatano tilts her head to the side and replies, “Oh, really? Give me a second, then. She’s in the corridor right now, so let me tell her to come in.” Hatano raises her voice. “Mrs. Maibara! Mrs. Maibara!”

After a short moment, an old lady with a cane walks in. Maibara looks around the room before facing Sherlock and smiling at her.

“Are you Sherlock?”

Judging by her clothing, demeanor, and relaxed way of speaking, it seems like Maibara was quite wealthy. Seemingly picking up on more details about her than Wato, Sherlock smiles boldly at her. She motions her to a chair and gives her a brief reply.

“Correct.”

“You’re even prettier than what I was told.”

“Her personality is like the devil, though,” Wato mutters quietly. She is unable to dodge an elbow aimed at her and staggers in place. Acting as if nothing happened, Sherlock perches herself on a chair and listens to Maibara.

“Do you know an artist by the name of Saneatsu Kishida?”

“He was a western-style artist who was active from the Taishou era to the beginnings of the Shouwa era.”

“As expected of you,” replies Maibara, and Wato also feels impressed. This Sherlock...she doesn’t know things that everyone else knows, but she knows things other don’t to the point that Wato wonders how far her knowledge extends. Even if her attitude when sharing her knowledge could be a little infuriating. Maibara nods suddenly and places a photograph on the table. It shows a painting of a woman wearing a kimono.

“This is Sachiko, painted by Saneatsu in his final years. My husband gave it to me as an anniversary gift for our silver wedding 20 years ago.”

“Mrs. Maibara’s husband was an antiques dealer and found it by chance while cleaning out a customer’s warehouse,” Hatano cuts in.

“What a lovely anniversary gift!” Wato exclaims without thinking.

“Ha! Lovely indeed. This painting was the first and last gift I got from my husband. Probably because it was so unlike him, he passed away not long after that.”

Maibara laughs hollowly, but there is a hint of courage in her voice. Sherlock nods calmly, asking her to continue.

“I’ve treasured it for 20 years. I’ve received requests from many exhibitions, but I turned them all down. But the curator from The Gables Museum of Art begged me to let him borrow it to be the centerpiece of a temporary exhibition.”

“So you loaned it for the very first time.”

“Yes. They placed it in the most prominent spot of the exhibition room. But...but - two days ago, there was an incident.”

Maibara falls silent. Her body begins to quiver, and even Wato leans in.

“What happened?”

A man came just before closing time and he - he drew a moustache. A moustache, on Sachiko. With a permanent marker.”

“Moustache?” Wato and Hatano exclaim at the same time. Ignoring their shocked voices, Sherlock takes over the conversation.

“Where were the employees when this was happening?”

“They were apparently busy dealing with a phone call, so there weren’t many people around. Honestly!”

“How did this man run away after defacing Sachiko?”

“Well -” Maibara stumbles over her words. Sherlock crosses her legs and urges her on gently.

“Tell me.”

“He was run over. When he ran outside, a car hit him.”

“Run over?!” Wato exclaims without thinking. Sherlock scowls angrily at her, so she lowers her voice. “Did he die?”

“He was taken to a police hospital, and he is unconscious and in a serious condition.”

“Who in the world was this culprit?”

“They don’t even know his name. He didn’t have a license, wallet or phone on him. Just why would he deface that painting? I thought perhaps you would be able to solve this mystery.”

Three pairs of eyes fall on Sherlock. The woman in question just joins her fingers together and looks into the distance. Finally she opens her mouth and declares plainly, “There is one thing I can say for certain: this man was only the perpetrator. There is a true culprit behind this.”

“Huh?”

Wato leans in. Sherlock turns to the open-mouthed Maibara and continues.

“Picasso, Delacroix, Mark Rothko. Their historic paintings have also been vandalized in the past. Most of them by self-proclaimed artists trying to make themselves known. They feel like, by leaving their signature or a message on a masterpiece, they can make a mark in the history of art and be remembered. But the man who drew a moustache on Sachiko didn’t have a license or a cell phone, probably to hide his identity if he were to be caught, so he is not a person trying to make himself known. Therefore, there is someone else who ordered him to do this.”

“Oh…” Maibara lets out a long sigh.

Wato grasps the back of Sherlock’s chair, peers down at her face, and asks, “Then...who is behind all of this?”

In spite of it being a weekday, the entrance of the Gables Museum of Art is considerably crowded.

Most of the people had surely come to see the temporary exhibition. Many of them look dismayed at the posters hung by the ticket counters that read “Saneatsu Kishida’s Sachiko has been momentarily removed.” Shooting that entrance a sidelong glance, Wato, Sherlock, and Maibara wielding her cane follow a museum employee who shows them to the back of the building. He guides them through a staff entrance and down into the building’s basement. Inside, and standing in front of a storeroom, a man in his 50s bows his head deeply when he sees Maibara.

“Mrs. Maibara! How could you forgive me? You will of course be compensated for everything that happened.”

The name tag hanging from the man’s neck on a lanyard reads, “Gables Museum of Art Curator - Satoru Yamashita.” He does not raise his head.

“I don’t care about a compensation.” Maibara replies calmly, “I just want to understand what happened. Ah, and I asked a detective to solve this mystery. I hope that’s alright.”

Maibara’s mouth curls into a smile as she glances at Sherlock and Wato. Yamashita looks puzzled, but still nods politely at them before opening the gallery’s heavy door.

“This way, if you please.”

The room is jam-packed with packaged pieces of art and shelves and feels quite cramped. Abandoning Wato to gingerly maneuver the room to avoid knocking over paintings or picture frames, Sherlock goes directly to the workbench at the center of the room. She sees the object placed on the table - and what is drawn on it - and laughs happily.

It is the painting on the photograph they had seen, Sachiko. Indeed, on the woman in the painting’s face, just as Wato had imagined - no, even more impressive than what she had imagined - a handlebar moustache has been drawn.

“What do you think?”

“This is a magnificent moustache,” Sherlock replies to Maibara and continues without taking her eyes off the painting. “Did anything unusual happen recently?”

“I don’t know if I could consider it unusual, but three days ago, this man came to visit me.”

Maibara shows them a business card. Sherlock looks at the name and hands it to Wato as if saying look at this. Wato reads the words out loud.

“Gallery Gelder. Keisuke Yanagisawa?”

“He said he wanted to buy this painting.”

“Sachiko?”

“That he would pay any price I asked of him.”

“Any price?! So, no matter how much it cost?”

Wato’s eyes widen. Maibara shakes her head calmly and continues.

“Of course, I turned him down. I want this painting to stay with me.”

“And the very next day someone drew a moustache on it...”

As if to interrupt Sherlock, the sound of the door opening rings out. A man peers in, and seeing there is already someone in the room, draws his body back, disconcerted.

“Ah, forgive me. I’ll come back later...”

“Ah, Mr. Kuwabata, good timing. Please, come in. This is the owner, Mrs. Maibara,” Yamashita calls out to the man and beckons him inside. The man he had called Kuwabata walks in bowing his head and stops near the workbench.

“Mrs. Maibara, this is the art restorer, Mr. Kuwabata.”

Finishing his introduction, Kuwabata bows his head once again. He looks somehow sickly, or maybe introspective, or perhaps has the air of an artist, thinks Wato absentmindedly. Sherlock observes the man in silence.

“This is a very important painting to me. Please, restore it to how it was before.”

“He is very skillful, so there is no need to worry.”

At this words of high expectations meant to allay Maibara apprehension, Kuwabata blushes slightly.

Glancing at Sachiko, he says reassuringly, “I’ll do my very best.”

A transportation employee who had followed him inside begins carefully packaging Sachiko following Kuwabata’s instructions. Unable to move in the even more cramped space, Wato blankly observes the brisk activity taking place. Sherlock inconspicuously takes a sheet of paper and puts it in her pocket, and Wato pretends not to notice.

“...His condition hasn’t changed since yesterday.”

The head surgeon looks at the prone man through the glass and shakes his head slightly.

Sherlock and Wato had walked to the police hospital were their perpetrator now was - name and identity unknown. They are in the process of conducting an “interview” with the Moustache Man. Naturally unable to enter the ICU, they can only observe him from ways away. Thanks to the gauze covering most of his face they can hardly even identify his features. Only a dark red ear conspicuously stands out against the white gauze.

“...Why would he draw a moustache? And was Sachiko vandalized by coincidence or was it targeted on purpose..?” Wato quietly murmurs.

Sherlock turns her gaze at the surgeon and asks, “I was told he had no personal belongings on him, but what about accessories?”

“Accessories? No, I didn’t hear anything in particular,” The surgeon replies, bemused. Other than that, Sherlock makes no other questions, and only continues staring at the unconscious man.

After the pair leave the police hospital on foot they walk into a Japanese sweets shop. What we’re looking for we’ll find on foot. Walking around, we’ll get hungry. If you get hungry, you must eat sweets. A new secret life lesson for Wato. From next to her, a spoon creeps towards her elegant bowl and in a flash, scoops out a large shiratama from it.

“Hey!”

Sherlock nonchalantly puts the spoon in her mouth and chews absentmindedly. Wato looks at the anko remains sadly, before thinking twice about what just happened and glaring at Sherlock, who sits by her side. The table in front of her is so full of freshly made Japanese sweets there is no space for any more.

“Hey! You ordered this much, so eat your own food!”

“5-3.”

“Huh?” Wato says puzzled at hearing the abruptly uttered numbers.

Sherlock points at the back of her hand and continues, “The nurse wiped it off, so it was very faint, but 5-3 was most definitely written on the back of that man’s hand. Exhibition room 5, work 3, which corresponds to Sachiko.”

Sherlock pulls a sheet of paper seemingly out of nowhere and places it among her sweets. It is a list of the works on exhibition. It looks like the one she stole from the museum’s storage room.

“The perpetrator wrote that on his hand so he wouldn’t mistake his mark for another painting. In other words, defacing any painting would not do. The mastermind purposefully targeted Sachiko.”

“So it was on purpose...I didn’t notice the numbers on his hand at all.”

Wato hums, impressed. Sherlock is definitely clever. Her ability to find a clue from such a trivial detail is certainly something worthy of respect.

“That is because you see, but you do not observe,” she replies, laughing scornfully. Wato takes it back. Her observation skills are outstanding, but her personality is the worst. Keeping her bowl away from the hands now encroaching her anmitsu, Wato scowls.

“That art dealer who wanted to buy the painting…” Sherlock continues. “Let’s go talk to Yanagizawa. He might know something.”

“...Sorry. I’m going to counseling today. It’s recommended by the medical corps.”

Wato looks away. Of course she wants to tag along, and she’s very interested in the case at hand, but she has to be responsible. She understands that the most important thing is that she stays healthy.

“Counseling is a waste of time. It’s not as if a counselor will give you a solution to your problems,” Sherlock declares, and pulls Wato’s anmitsu to herself without any hesitation. She fishes a chestnut out of the syrup and puts it into her mouth without missing a beat.

“Ah! Wait a - ! Not that, not that, wait - the chestnut...I wanted to eat that...”

Sherlock’s face breaks into a smile as she savors the chestnut. This devil. Food related grudges run deep, you know, Wato thinks, looking sadly at her bowl, where there is only kanten left.

“A suicide caused by his debts, huh.”

A corner in Ginza. Two police officers, Reimon and Shibata, exit the building and look back at Gallery Gelder’s polished display window. All their customers are well-dressed. So this is a place where people and money gather, huh, thinks Shibata, shrugging his shoulders. He turns to his superior and continues.

“The art market price was dropping rapidly. And the owner also had debts. This was a suicide.”

“...Let’s go back then.”

With that vague reply, he turns his eyes straight ahead. He sees a shape walking in a straight line towards them and calls out, voice hoarse, “Sherlock! Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. What happened?”

The two police officers look at each other. Before Shibata can say the insult that is on the tip of his tongue, Reimon intervenes nimbly and takes over the conversation with his usual tone of voice.

“Yesterday night, the body of this place’s owner was found. He fell to his death.”

“Keisuke Yanagisawa?”

“Why the hell do you know that?” Shibata exclaims.

Sherlock shrugs and gives him an impish smile.

The white building is oppressively tall compared to its surroundings, and beyond the glass entrance there is a door that closes automatically. There are multiple luxury cars parked there, but no people are visible. Sherlock stands on a staircase in front of the entrance and looks up at the towering building. Windows line the building’s walls. There doesn’t appear to be any balconies on this side. She glances at the railing on the roof.

“Yanagisawa’s body was here. I’ll send you the pictures.”

From a few steps away, Reimon taps at his smartphone. Sherlock looks at the pictures as soon as she receives them. A dead body lying facedown. Parts of his back are stained white and his head is split open.

Reimon starts pacing aimlessly and calls out to his subordinate, “Shibata, continue.”

“...Last night at 22:32 a man talking on the phone by the building’s entrance a man sees him fall from above without warning. After reporting the incident, the man stayed close to the entrance and says that during that time he didn’t see anyone come in or out of the building. After the police arrived, they inspected every single room of the building from the parking lot to the roof, but didn’t find any suspicious individuals.”

Sherlock takes a traffic cone from the parking lot and drops it heavily where the body had been. Shibata, looking as if he wanted to kick it away, sighs,“Are you even listening to me?”

After finishing their examination of the entrance, the three of them walk into the building and enter Yanagisawa’s office. Various works of art that seemed to have been collected through the years clutter the room as decoration in a fashion that can only be described as tasteless. There is a big window on the wall corresponding to the entrance of the building and bright light from the outside streams in through it.

“The room was locked; key left on top of the desk. The window was wide open. There were traces of sleeping pills on the shelf, which were also found in the body,” Reimon says to Sherlock, who is walking around the room, while pointing at the window.

“According to the gallery attendant, Yanagisawa was dealing with quite a considerable debt,” Shibata continues. “His mental state was probably unstable enough that he had to take sleeping pills regularly, and ultimately he decided to jump to his death. Therefore, this is not a job for the First Investigative Division.”

And thus finishing his explanation, Shibata’s chest swells proudly. He looks at Sherlock as if saying there you go, but the consulting detective continues looking around without even blinking and pays him no mind. Shibata puffs out his cheeks and looks at his superior.

Reimon chuckles cheerfully and says, “Sherlock? What is it?”

Sherlock grabs the keychain from the desk and stares at it intently. With an expression that says why would you be interested in that thing, Shibata grumbles, “That’s the key to this room, okay? Put it back.”

“No, it isn’t. The door has a PR Cylinder type lock, but this key is for a U9 Cylinder type. They look alike, but they’re not the same. Come on, try fitting the key in the lock.”

Sherlock carelessly tosses the keys to Shibata and cocks an eyebrow. Shibata looks as if he wants to retort something, but instead clenches his jaw and exits the room briskly. The door clicks close. The doorknob clatters noisily for a while. Finally, Shibata walks back in with a grimace and says dejectedly, “It doesn’t fit.”

Sherlock laughs triumphantly. Reimon stares at his subordinate gnash his teeth and cuts in, “The culprit left a fake key inside the room and used the real one to close the door behind him. To make it look like a locked room, seems like. If that’s right, then it is possible than the culprit made Yanagisawa take the sleeping pills.”

Sherlock hums and turns her eyes back to the desk. On top of the tidy desk there is a only book titled Stradivari: Life and Works that someone has begun to leaf through.

The building’s roof. Braced against the strong winds, Sherlock leans over the railing and peers straight down. Shibata grasps the hem of her coat and exclaims as if in reprimand, “Hey! You’re gonna fall!”

“Haha! Yanagisawa’s office is right below us. And beyond that, the spot where he fell.”

“We get it, get down from there already...hey.”

Shibata speaks as if to coax a child back to safety, but Sherlock ignores him. She jumps off the railing and touches the ground with her hand. She stretches her arm to the scaffolding beyond the railing and rubs at it with a finger. A sort of white coloring sticks to her fingertip.

Reimon looks at her absentmindedly and suddenly says, “Indeed, it is possible that he was pushed from up here.”

Sherlock does not reply and once again looks intently at the ground. An amber glint catches her eye and she finds a tiny fragment of a rock, which she picks up with a pair of tweezers. She puts it carefully into a container.

Shibata exchanges glances with Reimon, spreads his hands and exclaims, “But if he has truly pushed to his death, it could’ve been done from his office. Why would someone specifically choose to do so from here? And besides, at the time of the incident, there was no one on the roof.”

Sherlock looks at the container in her hands. Turning her eyes back to the space beyond the railings once again, she addresses Reimon.

“Inspector. There’s something I want to ask of you.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Have you heard about the case of the painting defaced by a moustache?”

“The culprit was hospitalized after being in an accident.”

“I saw him at the hospital, and he had a pierced earlobe, torn. But there were no earrings among his belongings. It is possible it fell off from the impact of the crash. I want you to find it.”

“What the hell?! Why would the Inspector -”

Sherlock mercilessly covers Shibata’s mouth and says sharply, “The two cases are connected - Yanagisawa’s death and the defaced painting.”

“Got it. Shibata. Go to check out the scene immediately. I’ll ask for reinforcements.”

“Eh? Me...”

Shibata tilts his head in confusion and points at himself. Why are you saying this to me, his face says.

“What about you, Inspector?”

“I have a physical examination. You can’t do your job properly if you’re not healthy. You should also go to checkups regularly, too.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Reimon turns his back to his dumbfounded subordinate. He takes a deep breath and says.

“Well then, Sherlock. Is there anything else we can do?”

“Tell me everything you know about what Yanagisawa was currently working on.”

“Very well. Shibata, look into that.”

Sherlock walks away and Reimon follows her soon after. Shibata is left standing there slack-jawed, watching them leave.

A room with an off white color scheme. Soft illumination. Swaying birds as the decoration’s motif. Sitting in a chair that seems to envelop her body, Wato is filled by a curious feeling. Mariko Irikawa smiles calmly. Gently and politely, she says, “Are you sleeping properly?”

“Yes. When I had just gotten back I had a hard time falling asleep and woke up in the middle of the night, too, but lately I’ve been sleeping a lot better.”

As a doctor, and even just as a person, Wato is impressed by the counselor Irikawa’s capabilities. Her attentive questions. Her demeanor that does not betray the hard edge of counseling. As she answers her questions promptly, Wato begins to think it is okay to be completely honest with her. Trusting her is the first step to receive proper treatment.

“That’s good. After being in a conflict zone, many people have trouble sleeping. Ms. Tachibana, now that you’re back in Japan, it’ll be easier for you to relax.”

“Relax...Well, because of my living environment stress keeps piling up, though.”

“Stress?”

“Yes. Because of a situation I ended up living with this person, and it’s been so troublesome...well, it’s been quite lively, so I guess it’s okay. But I don’t know if I should call it lively or just plain hectic? In any case, it hasn’t been boring.”

“That’s wonderful. That sounds like quite an interesting roommate, I’d say.”

Irikawa’s eyes crinkle at Wato’s aimless explanations. Her smile is as lovely as a flower. Even though she had said she just turned 50, she has a certain air of youthfulness that make her age seem much lower that that. Wato laughs with her.

Irikawa nods her head in agreement and says with a flowing voice, “Is talking about your worries - is showing what you hold inside to someone else embarrassing?

“Yes, it is.”

“But I won’t repeat what you say here to anyone, so it’s okay to just let yourself say things.”

“...Right.”

“For example, ‘this and that happened yesterday’. Or ‘I’m thinking about this right now.’ Don’t think about counseling as something too serious. Please, make use of it without any hesitation. Ms. Tachibana, hm? You’re a very good speaker.”

Irikawa laughs, so Wato ends up laughing too. Having someone listen to anything I feel like saying is important, Wato thinks, and feels as if something inside her heart melts at that thought.

Wato steps out into the sunset streets and pulls out her phone from her bag. When she turns it back on, she notices she has quite a number of notifications. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock...Right...the only person who would contact me right now is you, Wato mutters to herself as she moves to the side of the road and calls her back. She picks up immediately and without wasting a single second, she says, “Keisuke Yanagisawa is dead.”

“What?!” Wato exclaims. Another dead body. Was there a chance that Sherlock attracted dead bodies?

“It was a murder arranged to look like a suicide. Yanagisawa never had any interest in the world of art or its works to begin with. More than an arts dealer, he was a broker. If he can resale an artwork and gain any profit from it, he’ll try to acquire it by any means possible. And using any means possible would mean...?”

“...What?”

Wato frowns. Through the phone’s speakers, she hears Sherlock’s merciless voice, “Many people would end up holding grudges against him. It’s elementary.”

“That’s...”

“Furthermore, someone had Yanagisawa go to Mrs. Maibara and buy Sachiko from her.”

“Someone? Who?”

“The CEO of Takakura Resort Development, Hirotsugu Takakura. The locals organized a lawsuit against his aggressive developments - and I got an appointment with him. Come at once.”

“...I heard from the police. About Mr. Yanagisawa. Suicide...I can’t believe it.”

After being summoned by Sherlock, Wato had hurried to Shinagawa and met with her in front of Takakura Resort Development’s building. She said she had gotten an appointment, but how she had done so was a mystery to Wato. They’d quickly slipped into the unwelcoming building and stopped in front of the elevator, and then were guided to the CEO’s office, which was so closely guarded that it seemed that if someone tried to break in, they’d shoot them on sight. And just now that they stand in front of Hirotsugu Takakura, they are informed that his agenda for appointments is completely booked for the next five years. As always, Sherlock’s relationships - or connections, more like - are shrouded in mystery. Takakura has a refined air around him, but there is a ruthless glint in his eyes. Even so, the furnishing in his office is quite subdued, in a way that feels fastidiously planned and arranged.

“Why did you want to purchase Sachiko?” Sherlock asks before Takakura even stands up. His expression looks slightly strained.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you want it as an investment?”

“I’m not like the people who participate in the money game dealing with paintings. The most important thing to me is if I love a painting or not. When I saw Sachiko in the flesh for the first time at the Gables Museum of Art, my whole body trembled.”

“And so, you had Yanagisawa find out who the owner was and pay Mrs. Maibara a visit.”

“You are well informed. Of course, she turned him down. There was nothing I could do.”

“That’s unexpected.”

“What is?”

“You are a distinguished art collector in Japan. Is it truly okay to give up so easily?”

“Art should be owned by someone who loves it. It was just that Mrs. Maibara’s love for Sachiko surpassed my own.”

“...This painting is also very pretty! I can see its owner’s love for it,” Wato interjects, standing in front of a painting sitting on top of the mantelpiece. It had drawn her eyes from the moment they had stepped into the room. A dancer dressed in white gazes charmingly at her spectators. Takakura’s hard face melts and he approaches Wato and the painting.

“Thank you very much. It was made in the 18th century, more than 300 years ago.”

“300 years ago! How much was it, by the way?”

“That, is a secret.”

Takakura puts his finger against his lips and Wato pulls away from him.

Sherlock relentlessly cuts in, “Where were you on the night of Yanagisawa’s death?”

“At the company’s anniversary party. The 200 employees who attended can vouch for me.”

Takakura falls silent and turns their back to them as if to say, it’s about time for you to leave. Sherlock makes no other questions. She stands next to Wato and looks intently at the dancing girl in the painting.

Notes

‘the steaming white rice, golden dashimaki tamago, daikon-flavored miso soup, and crispy grilled fish’: A traditional Japanese breakfast. The dashimaki tamago that Wato lovingly made without Mrs. Hatano’s help is very similar to tamagoyaki (rolled omelette). Daikon is a radish native to Southeast Asia.

Taishou era and Shouwa era: Japan divides its years into eras, post-1889, it only changes when a new emperor takes the throne (more on that and pre-1889 here). The Taishou era was from 1912-1926 and the Shouwa era from 1926-1989. We are currently in the Heisei era.

Gables Museum of Art: The museum is named after a Sherlock Holmes short story, The Adventure of the Three Gables.

Gallery Gelder: Another nod to a short story - The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.

Anmitsu, shiratama, anko, and kanten: I suffered a lot because for the life of me I could not figure out what was what until I found this image and its explanations.

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#miss sherlock #miss sherlock novel #this one is dedicated to the anon who wants to learn japanese through the miss sherlock novel #glue translates

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