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What a tedious thing, to go through the ordeal of transplanting one’s thoughts onto paper. As if memory isn’t a fickle enough thing when it isn’t forced through the stifling filter of the printed word. I’ve no idea how Iris manages; in fact, I half wonder if this task she’s given me is some sort of attempt to cause me to better appreciate her efforts. Well, I’m nothing if not willing to experiment, and though a great detective penning his own adventure is entirely unbefitting, it will certainly be a treat for Iris’ readers should my attempt prove successful.
As brilliant as I may be, my talents are not inclined towards poetry, and as such I will allow my hands to carry the burden of telling the tale. Whatever flickering thought passes will find its way onto the page, and in this sense I will proceed. Whatever bit of editing may be necessary following the story’s completion will be done before passing to Iris’ hands should the experiment prove successful. Review will already be necessary for preserving the identity of my companion – that is, the typical narrator of those tales Iris attempts to retell, of whose true name she as yet remains ignorant. The fellow left only minimal notes on this particular case – unsurprising considering his condition – and I presume it is that which has captured Iris’ attention and led her to come to me. I will indulge her, if only in an attempt to see which details I am able to remember and capture in writing.
She is fortunate this case, among all that I have taken and solved, holds a more prominent position in my mind than some others. Details often escape me, holding no value after a case’s conclusion, and it isn’t often I remember much at all. Only the unique nature of these events spares them from being tossed out in the same manner. I recount them now, though I will confess that many of the specifics are parsed together from what notes Mikotoba was able to create.
The incident occured in Sussex; it is a beautiful location I hold in high regard despite this black mark upon its record. A gentleman was seen running away from the sea, apparently in some sort of hysterics, and shortly thereafter died in agony. His body was riddled with horrific abrasions, and as he perished miserably he forced through gritted teeth only a single, entirely unintelligible statement about a lion of all things. One could only presume that, having been overcome by delirium, the fellow’s mind played tricks on him and caused him to mutter nonsense. That is, in the wake of torture and confusion, he was “lion” about his own cause of death. Hah! Ah, but puns translate poorly on paper.
It was to the sea that our journey then took Mikotoba and myself. We aimed to ascertain the killer, as well as the cause of death. I took to the former task, Mikotoba the latter as a result of his medical expertise – there is no one I would have trusted more with the task, admittedly including myself. Thus, we initially separated upon arrival, myself to investigate the victim’s living arrangements and personal connections, Mikotoba the body and crime scene. Separate as the wheels of a bicycle, yet turning in perfect rhythm – such was the nature of our investigation, and it did not occur to me for even a moment to doubt his capability, nor worry that anything may occur in my absence. Curse my hindered foresight! My thoughts did stray to him and away from their intended path on occasion, but I attributed it at the time to being unaccustomed to loneliness. The company of the players in the case, after all, were no comparison to that of my dear companion. Curse all who lacked the courtesy of being Yuujin Mikotoba!
But time passed, as it tends to against anyone’s will, and the setting of the sun soon drew each of our investigations to a close. Having made my way down the path towards town, I found Mikotoba by the sea. He sat upon the shore, holding his chin while watching the waves, apparently enthralled in contemplation. Naturally, it was I who should have occupied his attention at the moment, and so in a moment of great inspiration I took my place at his side and began to decorate his clothes with pinches of sand.
The attempt was successful, and I was shortly no longer ignored.
We exchanged our findings, which were sorely disappointing, and it was in fact only Mikotoba that mitigated my frustrations even by a small amount. Had he discovered anything worthwhile, himself, I might actually have been satisfied enough to thank him.
“I tell you, Mikotoba, it is all perplexing. How does a man die so violently with so little motive and without anyone noticing? In his bathing clothes, no less,” I exclaimed, to which he nodded placatingly, apparently undisturbed by the wild movements of my hands. “I daresay he was talented at dying! That, or the killer was talented at killing – or the people here lack talent at noticing. The single man who appears to have any kind of motive or opportunity also claims to have an alibi, though I have yet to confirm it – perhaps it is simpler than it all appears and I’ve already found the culprit. Yes, yes – perhaps in regards to his alibi, he is merely ‘lion!’”
Yes, I recall now that my wordplay was far more effective when spoken aloud. Though it sounded suspiciously like a sigh, dear Mikotoba had laughed, rewarding me with the sight of a small but brilliant smile. How I stared! I recall thinking how unfair it was for him to distract me in such a manner, with that smile of his that somehow showed more in eyes than lips –
In fact, I nearly missed when he began recounting his own findings to me, distracted as I was. The smile melted away as he looked back towards the sea into that same thoughtful look caused a strange sort of jealousy to rise in me that did little more for my attention. How fortunate, then, that he had only found more questions, having been unable to identify so much as a potential murder weapon.
“It’s as if he were attacked by the very air, or the sea itself…” he mused, then looked back to me. “But of course, that’s impossible. Besides, the breeze feels gentle enough, does it not? And the waves speak nothing of consequence.”
What reason had I to listen to the waves? I was listening to him! I, after all, was doing my companion the courtesy of giving him the full extent of my attention, not that I was given much choice in the matter. Talk of the breeze only drew my attention to the manner in which it tousled his hair, and for a moment I’ll confess having been jealous of the wind.
“You’re the only one who ever seems to,” I muttered as my mood did its best to sour despite the peace of the moment. I recall the feeling of his eyes upon me as I looked away, perhaps surprised at so frank of an admission. “Would that we were here on vacation rather than business. To share the sounds of the sea together…”
Suddenly aware of what I’d been saying, as well as my companion’s both intrigued and boggled expression, I clicked my mouth shut and ignored my reddening face. “Well. You’re typically the only one who ever speaks anything of consequence, and yet you haven’t. You haven’t found anything at all. Do better, Mikotoba.”
With that, I raced to my feet and fled.
To this day, I wonder what might have happened had I stayed. Most certainly I would have said more than I’d intended, perhaps to an even more foolish degree, but that would have been worth it. All worth it, every bit, had it duly prevented what next occurred.
To this day, though I can’t recall the original victim’s name, I’m unable to forget the sound of the cries ringing from the direction of the beach only hours after I’d taken my leave.
My time had been spent unproductively, in an attempt to clear away what seemed like a swarm of bees that had taken residence within my brain. Unwilling to be dislodged, they’d only ceased their buzzing a small amount when I first heard the sounds and started in their direction. I was curious.
Had they actually been his screams, rather than those of onlookers, I think that curiosity might have given way far quicker to the horror that inevitably overcame me upon returning to the beach.
They already had him under the arms, having dragged him from where he’d stumbled out of the water. Hair so typically neat, so recently wind-tousled, then hung dripping and limp from his forehead like a frayed curtain. He was drenched – having, as I managed to put together despite my shock, wandered into the sea in search of some clue – torso stripped down to an undershirt that was even then hanging from his form half in tatters and tinted an awful red.
“Mikotoba!” His name tore from my throat before my thoughts had finished turning, too many details left out of place and unsorted, all brain power that once would have gone towards doing so spent in useless panic. In a flash, I was down at his side, shoving a stranger out of the way in order to take my proper place. My hands started, stilled, hesitated, and finally made no contact with whatever wound it was that had painted his shirt. By some miracle, I finally managed to take action in the form of pulling one of his arms over my shoulders, and with the assistance of his own jerking, half-conscious footsteps we carried him off to a generous onlooker’s nearby home.
With no regard for courtesy or the state of its fabric, I began to lower him down upon a sofa. Just as I’d finished and was moving to finally examine his wound, overcome with an ice-cold fear I’d never before felt at the thought of what I might see, the man himself seemed to shake out of his half-stupor. With a surprising amount of vigor, or perhaps desperation, he’d sat bolt upright and clasped a hand upon my shoulder tighter than I’d ever known it to hold.
“H – Holmes –” His voice was forced through gritted teeth, eyes far too bright with pain as they met and held mine with a surprisingly steady gaze. “The – the lion – murderer – in the water.”
There, I panicked once more as the words of a dead man met my ears. Had Mikotoba been attacked by the same criminal? I broke the contact of our eyes in order to tear what remained of his shirt away and look upon the wound at his side, far different from any that I’d ever seen before – certainly not made by any gun, nor knife. It was as if he’d been clawed by some wild beast and burned all at once, and looking upon it I was left stunned.
“Holmes – ” Despite his state, he saw fit to scold me, squeezing my shoulder once more while fighting for my attention. Rapidly, it seemed, his strength was failing him, and it was with panting breaths that he ordered me to bring him brandy. Suffice to say, I was surprised – he’d never been fond of the drink before, and certainly this wasn’t the time. As I opened my mouth to protest, however, he hissed, “Now,” and I willingly obliged by raiding our host’s thankfully ample stores.
Upon my return I found that Mikotoba had laid back down, breath coming faster and the wound across his midsection standing out like a stain. I raised the bottle to his lips and he drank well, only to then demand from me hot water, which upon retrieval he bade I use to clean his injury. Never before had I been a medical man, and never before had I been so quiet, but in those moments – stunned into a frightened, wide-eyed and worried silence – I did naught but follow his each and every order.
It was not until he finally drifted off, having finished his last instruction, that I realized he’d guided me completely through the treatment – with luck, through the saving of his life. Without his guiding hand, I would have been useless, and I certainly felt the same once deprived of his assistance. For hours, it seemed, I lingered by his side, occasionally dabbing his sweat-soaked brow with a damp cloth. What sort of injury caused fever…? Had it gotten infected…? What was I to do if it had…?
“…Don’t drift away, my dear…” I recall murmuring, in my preoccupation neglecting to add his surname, “…I’m afraid that if you do, I’ll be left hopeless…”
But great minds do not long stay inactive, and it was not long before mine began to turn. Mulling over Mikotoba’s final words before attending to his injury, I suddenly stilled, eyes darting rapidly to the marks reaching across my great friend’s abdomen like the lashes of a whip.
The lion … in the water …
The murderer.
In the water, unseen, like the tendrils of a whip.
It was in that flash of genius that I pinned our culprit and raced to my feet, determined to finish the game even if I must finish alone. No, not alone – after all, it had only been my partner’s sacrifice that had led to the discovery in the first place. With the assistance of several fishermen, as well as the police, I took once more to the beach and in little time at all finally managed to apprehend our culprit.
No man at all, but a fish: rather, a jellyfish. A particularly large, rare, and dangerous breed, the venom of which could easily kill in large, unattended doses. I am certain that, had he not advised me through the process of attending to him, Mikotoba would have indeed followed in the footsteps of our original victim. To have had such a presence of mind even while in great agony…
Ah, but I speak no longer of the case, do I? It is a remarkable tale, but reading over the markings left by my pen, I must say that it feels lacking. I recall not enough details of interest, and fear that this particular sort of storytelling is not, as it turns out, one of my strengths.
I think, perhaps, it is best for this case to remain unpublished. As I cast my eyes over these senseless scribbles, I hold no love for them, and find that my attention has wandered far from the story I’d endeavored to recount. Perhaps one day I will attempt again… in the meantime, I’ll keep this manuscript to myself. Should Iris press, I’ll claim I forgot our agreement, and any details of the case I may have used to do as she requested. I’m certain she’ll believe me – she always does.
I suppose I should inform my long-suffering, imaginary readers that Mikotoba was all right. Of course he was – thank God, he was. The relief I felt upon seeing him wake returns to me, now, as if not a day has passed. Yet, it has, and the man himself is not at my side. In his absence, it seems I have withered…
Hopeless, indeed.