Chapter 2: Las Meninas

1

It was now autumn in the city of Kyoto, meaning comfortable temperatures, clear blue skies, and gradually reddening maple trees. It was also the harvest season, so foods using the abundant local crops and Japanese sweets made with chestnuts were trending. You might say that autumn is Kyoto’s most attractive season of the year, and clearly tourists thought so. The shops on Teramachi Street and Sanjo Street were getting busier.

I looked out the window as I leisurely cleaned the store. Lately I’ve been able to sense whether passersby are tourists or not, and there were definitely a lot of them at this time of year. These tourists would walk right past our shop, not even bothering to look at it.

Yep, as always, this shop is so quiet that you wouldn’t believe how bustling it is outside. The grandfather clock continued to tick as if matching the rhythm of the relaxing jazz music playing in the background. Holmes was sitting at the counter with the account book open in front of him. As usual, he was checking it, pen in hand.

Now that I think about it, what is he always checking so intently? I stealthily peeked sideways at him without stopping my dusting. Then, I realized that he was only pretending to check the accounting. He was actually doing schoolwork.

“Holmes, you’re doing schoolwork?” I exclaimed, surprised.

He looked at me sheepishly and said, “You noticed? Sorry, I have an assignment due.”

“O-Oh.” You don’t have to apologize, I mentally added.

“Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I’ll confess that I sometimes work on my studies while pretending to be doing the accounting.”

“Really?!” No wonder he always has the account book open.

“You’re free to work on your own homework too, if you want.” He looked embarrassed, and I couldn’t help but giggle. I don’t think he has to feel bad about it. There’s nothing strange about watching your grandfather’s store and doing schoolwork on the side.

“No, I’m a hired employee. I couldn’t possibly accept money for not working. I might do a little bit of studying if I have to come in before exams, though.” Usually I’d ask for time off when I had tests, but there were occasionally times when they really wanted me to come in. If I’m allowed to study at the shop when that happens, then that’s okay with me.

“In that case, I’ll check your homework for you.”

“Really? That’d be great!” I leaned forward, moved by his kindness. Getting tutored by Holmes? I couldn’t be happier!

Suddenly the door chime rang.

“W-Welcome!” I flipped around in surprise. Standing at the door was a thin, lanky man. He had an androgynous look, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked to be in his late twenties.

“Hello, Kiyotaka,” he said, smiling weakly.

“Ah, Yoneyama.”

“Long time no see. Sorry for showing up in the middle of work.” He shrugged.

“It’s not a problem. As you can see, I’ve just been doing miscellaneous tasks. Please have a seat. Aoi, you can take a break too. I’ll make coffee,” Holmes said, standing up.

He says “miscellaneous tasks,” but he was doing his own homework. I sat down on the sofa in front of the counter.

“Hello there, nice to meet you. Are you Kiyotaka’s girlfriend?” Yoneyama asked me with a feeble smile.

I hurriedly shook my head. “N-No, I’m just a part-timer.”

“Oh, I see. It looked like you two had something nice going on.”

Something nice? My heart skipped a beat.

“My name is Ryosuke Yoneyama. I currently work at an art gallery.” He handed me his business card even though I’m only a high school student.

“I’m Aoi Mashiro.” I accepted the card with both hands and was immediately captivated by its artistry. “This is a wonderfully designed card.”

“Thank you.” He blushed and stooped over, scratching his head. Judging from how pleased he seemed, he must’ve designed it himself. It also seemed like he was hoping for praise when he offered it to me. He’s kind of cute.

As I was staring at the card, Holmes came out from the kitchenette carrying a tray. “Here you go,” he said, placing the cups in front of us. The rich fragrance enveloping us soothed my heart.

“Thank you,” Yoneyama said, bringing the cup to his mouth and smiling appreciatively. “Your coffee’s truly the best, Kiyotaka. Oh right, I brought sweets for you. They’ll go with the coffee, so let’s all eat them together.” He excitedly took a box out of a paper bag and placed it on the counter. The box had some complicated characters on it.

I squinted at the text. “How do you pronounce this?”

“This is pronounced ‘Ajari mochi.’ They’re fairly famous sweets in Kyoto, produced by a well-known store called Mangetsu, or ‘full moon.’ Thank you for bringing them, Yoneyama.” Holmes handed me one of the individually wrapped packages.

“Thank you.” I opened the package, and inside was a round roasted rice cake. I took a bite. It was springy on the outside, and the filling was very rich. “Th-This is really good.” It was so good that I broke out into a grin. Holmes and Yoneyama nodded, looking pleased with my reaction.

“It is, right? It’s a popular dessert in Kansai, but since it only has a shelf life of five days, it’s not well known in the rest of the country,” Holmes explained.

“Oh, I see.” If you have to eat them within five days, then not many people would be able to bring them home as souvenirs. It’s such a shame that there aren’t more people who know about this delicious treat! I took another bite of the Ajari mochi, savoring it and grinning again.

“I heard that Mr. Yagashira recently discovered a counterfeit at a museum. Apparently it was a really elaborate one,” Yoneyama mumbled, as if talking to himself.

“Yes. I’ll be joining him on his next museum visit. To be honest, we were talking about how we never would’ve expected a greater counterfeiter than you to appear after only a few years.”

Wait, what? A counterfeiter? I looked at Yoneyama in disbelief, and he smiled weakly.

“Ah, you must be surprised. I’m actually a former counterfeiter. I washed my hands of the business after Seiji Yagashira exposed me.”

“I-I see.” I didn’t know what else to say, so I gave him a vague smile.

“You wouldn’t have expected it, right?” Holmes asked.

I nodded and replied honestly, “Right. I imagine someone more brazen.” It was hard to believe that this feeble man was a counterfeiter.

“Nah, I think you’d be surprised how many are like me. I used to be an art student. I was confident in my skill, but I never won any contests. One day, I was looking at a famous artist’s work, and I figured, ‘I can draw something like this too!’ So I copied it, and it really was a masterpiece.”

“You can’t call a counterfeit a masterpiece,” Holmes said coldly.

Yoneyama shrank away. “Sorry, sorry. Anyway, a bad friend of mine noticed my imitation and told me I was a genius. I wasn’t used to being flattered, so I was really happy and got addicted to making copies.”

That’s so irresponsible... I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.

Holmes looked sideways at him and sighed. “Despite how he looks, he’s a sly man.”

“Sly?”

“Yes, in the way he created counterfeits. He bought paintings by obscure artists from the seventeenth century and scraped all of the paint off. Then he dissolved the paint and used it to create a new picture on the same drawing board. That way, he could produce colors that could only exist from that time period, and even the rust on the nails in the frame would be authentic.”

“W-Wow.” That was amazing.

“He was also the possessed type, or rather, he made copies when he was in a unique trancelike state. So, his counterfeits didn’t have the unpleasant aura of wanting to deceive others,” Holmes said nonchalantly.

Yoneyama gave a self-derisive smile. “But you know, as I kept going, I started wanting people to look at me.”

“You wanted to be seen...?”

“Yeah. I wanted to say, ‘This wasn’t painted by a famous artist. It was me!’ That’s how I got found out. You see, Mr. Yagashira went out of his way to visit me. He said, ‘I don’t want to say this to a counterfeiter, but you’ve got skill. You deserve better than to be in the shadows, so atone for your crimes and start over. I’ll help you out if you do.’ That was the first time anyone had seen me that way, and I was so happy that I broke down weeping.” He rested his chin in his hands. He must’ve been recalling that memory, because his eyes glistened with tears.

“Come to think of it, did you have business with me today?” Holmes asked gently.

Yoneyama looked up, coming back to his senses. “Ah, yeah... Actually, I have a favor to ask you.” He fidgeted and drew away.

“What is it?”

“How do I put this? I want to ask for an appraisal.”

“Sure, of course.” Holmes immediately put his hand in his inner pocket to take out his gloves, but Yoneyama hurriedly held up his hands and said, “No, it’s not here right now.”

“Is it something large?”

“Yeah, well, kind of. Actually, the other day, I had Mr. Yagashira look at it, and he told me to show it to you...”

“My grandfather said that?” Holmes frowned. Even he seemed baffled. It certainly was strange. Why would the owner call on Holmes even though he’d already looked at it first?

“What exactly is this item?” Holmes asked.

“It’s...a painting that I drew.”

“Huh?” Holmes and I both froze.

“You want me to appraise your painting?”

In other words, he wanted Holmes to judge how much his work was worth? Holmes may have an exceptional discerning eye, but assessing a modern painting didn’t seem like it was in his jurisdiction.

“My life kind of depends on this,” Yoneyama said, shrugging again.

“Could you tell me more?” Holmes gave him a serious look.

What did he mean by his life depending on it? I nervously waited for him to start telling his story.

Yoneyama spoke slowly, “The other day, I was at an industry party, and...”

2

His story was as follows:

After Yoneyama was exposed as a counterfeiter by the owner, he turned himself in, atoned for his crimes, and started a new life. He completely washed his hands of that world.

Thanks to the owner’s help, he’s been working an honest job ever since. However, at the same time, the owner has been making sure to inform others that Yoneyama is a former counterfeiter. He believes that Yoneyama will be able to live more confidently if he doesn’t try to hide it. Sounds like the owner, all right.

On one occasion, Yoneyama was invited to a party where he ended up running into the one person he wanted to avoid the most: a rich, elderly man named Takamiya who lives in the Okazaki district.

“I sold him one of my counterfeits when I was in my early twenties.” Yoneyama shrank away again, looking ashamed.

A bad friend of his had heard a rumor that there was a rich man in Okazaki named Takamiya who had no eye for art. He then told Yoneyama to create a certain painting. Up until then, Yoneyama had only done the creation of the counterfeits. He hadn’t been involved with sales. But that one time, he really wanted to see the customer’s reaction with his own eyes. That’s how confident he was in his work.

It was the first and last time he sold his own counterfeit. In other words, he’d run into his one and only victim at that party.

At this point in the story, Holmes crossed his arms and asked, “Whose painting did you copy?”

“Vermeer.”

“A beloved artist for counterfeiters, I see.” Holmes chuckled.

“What do you mean by that?” I tilted my head in confusion.

“Vermeer was a Dutch painter who was called the ‘Magician of Light.’ His masterful use of rays of light and his textured painting style continue to fascinate the world to this day. His most famous work is Girl with a Pearl Earring, which depicts a girl looking back and smiling. It’s revered as the ‘Dutch Mona Lisa.’ An ingenious counterfeiter from the twentieth century named Meegeren was able to reproduce Vermeer’s works almost perfectly, and these remain a problem for art collections all over the world. It’s at the point where when you hear Vermeer’s name, you also think of Meegeren,” Holmes answered with ease. It’s good to see that his explanations are still going strong.

“That’s Kiyotaka for you,” Yoneyama said, laughing weakly.

“Everyone in this industry knows of him. By the way, I know Mr. Takamiya as well. He may be old, but he still has an eye for great art. I find it a bit difficult to believe that you’d be able to trick him into buying a counterfeit Vermeer. Was the work you copied The Concert, by any chance?”

“No, it was The Guitar Player,” Yoneyama said quietly.

Holmes’s eyes lit up. “I see. How sly.”

It was like the two of them were communicating with their eyes, and I was the only one who was out of the loop. Holmes noticed my blank stare and turned to me with a gentle smile. “My apologies. The Guitar Player is,” he said, taking an art book from the shelf and flipping it open, “this work here.”

On the page was a painting of a young girl wearing a simple dress. She was holding a guitar that was a little bigger than a ukulele and smiling at someone outside of the frame. The painting had a soft and subdued atmosphere.

“This was one of Vermeer’s final works. Due to the deterioration of his ability, it’s worth less than his other paintings.”

“Oh, so does that mean it’s easier to forge?”

I nodded in understanding, but Yoneyama shook his head with a feeble smile and said, “No, that’s not it.”

“Huh?”

“This painting was kept in an art gallery in England called Kenwood House, but it was the subject of a theft in 1974,” Holmes said with a long face.

I leaned forward, surprised. “Huh? This painting was stolen?”

“Yes. However, it was found two months later and remains on display at Kenwood House today.”

“Oh, so they got it back. That’s good.”

“Indeed, but it wouldn’t be strange for someone to think, ‘What if they created a fake in order to maintain their pride, and the real painting is still out there somewhere?’” Holmes looked straight at me. His sharp gaze made me gulp.

A work that was stolen but came back to the gallery. In other words, Yoneyama and his friend had claimed that the one at Kenwood House was a cover-up, and theirs was the real thing.

“What about the other one you mentioned, The Concert?” I asked.

“That one was another victim of theft. Unfortunately, its whereabouts are still unknown.” Holmes looked down, looking sincerely sorrowful.

I see... But that means that works of art really do get stolen, huh? It’s like something out of a manga or film.

“The Concert is too risky to forge, you know?” Yoneyama said.

“Indeed. You really are a sly one.”

“Hey now, it’s all in the past. Besides, it was my friend’s idea.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

The two looked at each other and smiled.

“Umm, why is The Concert riskier?” I felt bad being the only one who didn’t understand, but I still had to ask.

“If a famous missing painting appeared, it would be world news. Even if you made the buyer promise not to publicly announce it, there’s a chance that the real painting would appear in the future. So, it’s less risky to choose a work that has already been recovered. That way, the buyer will also be willing to keep it to themselves and not proclaim that theirs is the real article. It’s unlikely that the public will find out.”

“I-I see.” It made sense. It’d be a huge deal if a centuries-old masterpiece that’d been missing all this time suddenly appeared. But if it were The Guitar Player, which had already been recovered, then they wouldn’t have to worry about that.

“Sly, right?” Holmes looked at me as if seeking my agreement. I was going to nod, but I hesitated. It was hard to say “Yes, that is sly!” right in front of the perpetrator.

“You’re always so quick-witted when it comes to counterfeits, Kiyotaka.” Yoneyama smiled as if he was enjoying this.

Holmes straightened his posture. “So, how much did you try to make Mr. Takamiya pay for it?”

Yoneyama held up one finger. Huh? Does that mean one million yen? He sold it for that much?

“One hundred million,” he said without hesitation.

“O-One hundred million?” I squealed, my voice echoing through the store.

“Considering that Vermeer’s early works were auctioned for one billion, one hundred million is a safe price for a later work that you can’t publicly declare to be real.”

“S-Safe? That’s a safe price?”

“Assuming it is real. A counterfeit isn’t even worth a single yen,” Holmes snapped, as if to remind us of that fact.

“Sharp as ever,” Yoneyama said with a quiet laugh, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’m surprised that Mr. Takamiya would offer one hundred million, though. I know he’s wealthy, but he’s also cautious and shrewd. Was your friend’s sales pitch that impressive?” Holmes seemed perplexed. He rested his chin on his hand and stared at Yoneyama.

“There was no pitch. We just showed him the painting and stated the price.”

“I see.”

“A while after that, he said he’d buy it. The check came at a later date, but it was only for one million. It didn’t seem like he was going to pay the rest, but we couldn’t pursue it further, so it ended up only being sold for that amount.” Yoneyama shrugged.

Holmes smiled in acknowledgment and nodded. “That makes sense. Mr. Takamiya may have seen through you, but he still paid you one million. He was rewarding you for deceiving him and implying that he saw promise in your skill.”

Yoneyama took a deep breath. “Exactly. So when I ran into him again at the party, I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there with my head down, shaking. But he gave me this nice, unthreatening smile and said, ‘Thank you for The Guitar Player from some time back.’ I felt like I’d been drenched in cold water.” Remembering it must’ve really given him the chills, because his face was pale as he held his head in his hands.

“I understand. This industry is full of monsters like my grandfather. It’s a terrifying place,” Holmes said, nodding. My face stiffened. You’re a monster too, Holmes.

“Then, Mr. Takamiya said to me...” Yoneyama took a deep breath and resumed his story.

After receiving Yoneyama’s The Guitar Player, Mr. Takamiya immediately went to England to see the painting that was at Kenwood House. At that point, he knew without a doubt that the painting he’d received was a counterfeit. The deciding factor was that it looked truly identical. There wasn’t the slightest difference between it and the one on display in the gallery. To Mr. Takamiya, it felt as though Yoneyama had engraved every detail of the work into his head—as though Vermeer himself was possessing him as he copied it. As Holmes said, the one million yen was indeed both a reward for fooling him and a show of respect for the depth of the forgery.

Judging from his confidence and the way Holmes spoke of him, Takamiya must also have quite the discerning eye.

Yoneyama sighed deeply, as if recalling how he felt back then. “I was relieved, but then Mr. Takamiya said, ‘However, that doesn’t change the fact that you committed a crime against me. Now that we’ve met again, I’d like you to compensate me.’”

“Did he want his money back?” I asked.

Yoneyama shook his head. “If only. That would’ve been easy to take care of. Instead, he said...”

Mr. Takamiya’s request was: “I want you to grant one of my wishes. If you do, then I’ll forgive you.”

Holmes and I exchanged glances. Grant one of his wishes? What does that mean? As those questions flitted through my mind, Holmes nodded as if he understood.

“He wanted you to paint him something, yes?”

“Yes, and there was a condition.”

“What? Surely he didn’t request a forgery, right?”

“No. But he wanted me to paint him something similar to Diego Velázquez.”

“Diego Velázquez, you say?” Holmes folded his hands on top of the counter, seeming intrigued. I didn’t recognize the name, so I just stared at them blankly.

Holmes flipped the book that was still on the counter to another page and explained, “Diego Velázquez was a Spanish court painter—a master of the seventeenth century, which is considered the golden age of Spanish paintings. His famous works include The Surrender of Breda and Las Meninas.”

The page he flipped to had a picture of The Surrender of Breda. It depicted a post-war setting: soldiers gathered with their horses and spears; two men showing respect for each other. It was a brilliant painting—I could understand why the artist was called a master.

“The Surrender of Breda is a victory painting.”

A victory painting... In other words, it shows Spain winning the war.

“Normally, victory paintings depict the losing side’s commander kneeling on the ground while the victor looks down on him from atop his horse. However, The Surrender of Breda has the victorious commander standing on the ground with the loser, placing his hand on the loser’s shoulder as if showing appreciation for his hard work.”

I looked at the painting again. The two men looked like they belonged to the same troops, but it was actually the winner placing his hand on the loser’s shoulder. They almost seemed like comrades in arms.

“This excellent work shows Spain’s chivalrous spirit when they won the war. Diego Velázquez was amazing for both his technical skill and his ability to tug at one’s heartstrings,” Holmes said, smiling.

Paintings that tug at your heartstrings... After hearing the rest of his explanation, I looked at The Surrender of Breda again. It seemed noble, how the two men were supportive of each other regardless of the war’s outcome. I realized again how much better it is to have background knowledge when encountering such works of art. Just looking at them isn’t enough to understand the emotions and drama contained within.

“So, did you complete that painting?” Holmes asked. His voice brought me back to my senses.

“Yeah, I did. Mr. Yagashira said he’d come with me for the handover, because it’d be better to have a third-party witness who knows the situation.”

That does sound like a good idea. The owner must’ve been sincerely concerned about Yoneyama to offer to go with him.

“But when he saw my painting, he said, ‘I’m not going anymore. Get Kiyotaka to be your witness,’” Yoneyama said with a bitter expression.

“And that’s why you’re here.”

“I think he said that because there’s something only you would know. Could you please come with me?” Yoneyama bowed deeply.

Holmes sighed. “I understand. Since my grandfather called on me, I can’t refuse. Honestly, I also want to see what you painted.”

“Thank god.” Yoneyama wearily put his hand on his chest. He then looked at me and said, “Oh right, do you want to come too, Aoi?”

I was a bit surprised. “Huh? Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Mr. Takamiya lost his wife, son, and beloved granddaughter in an accident. He only has one living relative left. I think his granddaughter would be around your age if she were still alive, so he might feel comforted by your presence.”

Holmes nodded. “That may be true. Would you like to come with us, Aoi?”

“Y-Yes! I’d love to.” I was curious about Takamiya’s mysterious request, and I wanted to see Yoneyama’s painting. I also wanted to know why the owner called on Holmes. He hadn’t criticized the painting, so that wasn’t the issue. Perhaps it was indiscreet of me, but I nodded eagerly, anxious to find out.

3

That Saturday, Holmes and I headed to the Okazaki district where Mr. Takamiya lived. Sitting in the passenger seat of the car, I looked out at Heian Shrine’s large red torii gates, Okazaki Park, and the local zoo. It was quite a spacious area.

“The vermilion of Heian Shrine looks great against the blue sky, doesn’t it?” Holmes said while driving, seeming fascinated.

“It really does. This looks like a good place for a walk.”

“Yes, there’s the shrine as well as the art museum’s large garden. You can also enjoy reading in the library, and Nanzen-ji Temple is within walking distance too. You can easily spend an entire day in Okazaki.”

“I see. Kyoto really is full of sights, huh?”

“Indeed. Let’s come here again when we can take our time to explore,” Holmes said smoothly, making my heart skip a beat.

“Y-Yeah. It’d be great to have you as a guide.” Wouldn’t going to a museum, library, and zoo with Holmes be like an actual date? Then again, we also went to the Hyakumanben market and Mount Kurama together, so maybe he doesn’t consider it anything special. Frustrated that I was the only one flustered by this, I looked out the window to hide my nervousness, knowing that it might be futile.

Eventually we reached the residential area. Unlike in the rest of Kyoto, here there were large houses with plenty of space between them. It had the atmosphere of a rich neighborhood. We turned onto a small lane and suddenly a tall fence came into view.

“This is the Takamiya estate,” Holmes said, looking at the fence.

“Huh?” I gaped in surprise. The high fence practically screamed “No intruders allowed.” On the other side of the large iron gate was a sprawling grassy lawn, and in the center of the lawn was a Western-style house with subdued brick walls. I’d seen my fair share of flashy Western-style estates here and there, but Takamiya’s was different. Instead of feeling new and modern, it had a historical, stately ambiance. Its regal atmosphere was like that of an old castle.

There was a large parking lot in front of the gate, and a big van was parked there. Yoneyama was in the driver’s seat. When he saw us, he smiled weakly as usual and waved. Holmes returned the gesture and then backed the car into a parking space.

“Right on time. Thanks for coming.” Yoneyama opened the trunk of his car and took out a large wrapped painting. That must be the one he painted—the one that’s supposed to be in Diego Velázquez’s style.

“Welcome. Please come this way,” said the attendant who came outside to fetch us. We entered the Takamiya estate and headed towards the study. On the way, I was surprised by the size of the foyer and the height of the atrium. There were dark red carpets, chandeliers, and a large portrait on the wall which was probably of Takamiya and his wife in their younger days. It depicted a young man with masculine features and a beautiful young woman. It was a wonderful painting that I’d imagine was commissioned from a famous artist.

“Here we are.” The attendant stopped in front of the study and slowly opened the door. The first thing I saw was Yoneyama’s rendition of The Guitar Player. I was a bit startled that Takamiya would put it on display despite knowing that it was a fake. In front of the painting was a grand desk, which the man himself was sitting at. He looked around the same age as the owner, which would put him in his late seventies. However, he didn’t have the owner’s glamorous aura. Instead, he seemed calm, gentle, and refined.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, picking up his cane and standing up. He spoke in standard Japanese rather than one of the regional dialects.

The three of us bowed.

“Hello there, Kiyotaka. Long time no see. Seiji told me you’d be coming today,” Takamiya said, smiling at Holmes.

“It’s been quite a while. I see you haven’t changed.”

“Nah, I’ve grown old. I wish I could stay energetic forever like Seiji.” Takamiya then looked at me. “Who’s this?”

“I-I’m Aoi Mashiro,” I said awkwardly.

Holmes immediately followed up, saying, “She’s one of our staff members at Kura.”

“I see. It must be interesting being surrounded by the Yagashiras. Do your best at work, all right?”

Judging from those words, he must’ve been very familiar with the peculiarities of the Yagashira family. I instantly felt a sense of kinship with him. “I will,” I answered happily, bowing again.

Takamiya continued walking to Yoneyama. “You’ve already finished, I see. Are you a fast worker?” he asked, still smiling. His tone was gentle, yet there was something imposing about it.

“Y-Yes, I think I’m fast.” Yoneyama trembled as he nodded. He then saw the easel that had been set up. “Um... Can I put it here?”

“Yes, please do.”

“O-Okay.” Yoneyama put the large wrapped painting on the easel. Watching his shaky movements made me nervous as well. “Th-There,” Yoneyama said, stepping away.

Takamiya had seemed confident up until then, but I noticed him gulp in anticipation. Holmes stood by the wall with a sharp glimmer in his eyes. The study was engulfed in a tense atmosphere.

Takamiya quietly lifted his hand and removed the white cloth surrounding the painting in one swift motion.

“Oh...!” I murmured unconsciously. The painting depicted an adorable, doll-like young girl around seven or eight years old. She had luscious black hair, deep black eyes, and rosy cheeks. She wore a pink dress and had a bit of a prim and proper smile.

Takamiya stood there wordlessly. Behind him, Holmes was smiling. “It’s an oil painting, as Diego Velázquez is known for. I think you’ve done a wonderful job of replicating the master’s style. By the way, who is this girl?”

Takamiya cast his eyes down. “It’s my granddaughter, Satoko.”

Holmes closed his mouth and his face took on a gentle expression.

Yoneyama hesitantly looked up and said, “I heard from Mr. Yagashira that your granddaughter used to be the apple of your eye, so I asked your secretary for a picture of her.” He sounded apologetic for doing that without permission. There was something bitter about the way he said “used to be”—right, Takamiya lost his family in an accident. This painting must be of his late granddaughter.

“I see. Diego Velázquez painted several portraits of Princess Margarita, the beloved daughter of King Philip IV of Spain. The paintings were to be sent to Austria where she was to be married, but it’s true that the king adored her. Did you use that as a hint?” Holmes asked.

Yoneyama nodded silently.

Standing in front of the painting, Takamiya’s hands were trembling and his eyes were moist with tears. “It’s more brilliant than I’d ever imagined. Satoko must be happy in heaven, too.”

“Thank you.” Yoneyama put his hand on his chest in relief and looked ruefully at Takamiya.

Takamiya gazed at the painting and said, “You see, I gained an incredible fortune through successful business operations. For a time, I thought I’d obtained everything the world had to offer. I even boasted that there was nothing that money couldn’t buy. Then divine punishment came for me. Since I was busy with work, my wife and my son’s family went on a trip without me. There was a car accident, and just like that, I lost most of my family. My wife who I had spent decades with, my son who I was ever so proud of, and my beloved granddaughter, Satoko...”

The tyrant who bragged about obtaining everything in the world...lost everything that money could never replace. I could tell how much sorrow and pain he was in. I cast my eyes down, unable to look directly at him.

Yoneyama continued, “Yes, I heard about that too. I was told that your granddaughter was only five at the time.”

“Huh?” I looked back at the painting. This girl is five years old? She...didn’t look like that at all. She was quite tall for that age.

“I see,” Holmes said, nodding. “You drew her at a slightly older age.”

Yoneyama nodded emphatically. “Yes. Based on the picture I borrowed, I imagined what she would look like at elementary school age and painted that.”

At that, Takamiya couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, and they streamed down his face. “Thank you so much. I never would’ve dreamed of being able to meet the seven-year-old Satoko.” He shook Yoneyama’s hand firmly.

“I hope I met your expectations.”

I’m sure his work granted Takamiya’s wish. I felt my chest grow hot too, and tears rose to my eyes.

“You exceeded them,” Takamiya said, gripping Yoneyama’s hand tighter.

Yoneyama looked a bit hesitant. Why doesn’t he seem happy? I wondered.

“The painting itself seems to have exceeded his expectations, but it’s not what he was originally looking for, right?” Holmes asked in a strong tone of voice. The rest of us stopped in our tracks. The painting itself exceeded his expectations, but it’s not what he was originally looking for? I frowned, not knowing what Holmes was talking about.

On the other hand, Yoneyama seemed to be thinking the same thing as Holmes. He nodded with a serious look on his face. “I felt the same way. I was confident when I was painting it, but when I showed the completed portrait to Mr. Yagashira, he went silent for a while before telling me to go to Kiyotaka. I’m guessing that he also sensed something wrong with it that he couldn’t explain in words. You seem to be satisfied with it, but it’s completely irrelevant to your request, right?” Yoneyama spoke confidently, as if his weak nature up until now had been a facade. I was surprised that this feeble man could have such an intense look in his eyes.

Takamiya quickly looked down, as if trying to avoid that gaze. “Yes... The reason why I asked for Diego Velázquez was that there was a specific painting I was hoping for. I wanted to see what kind of painting the genius who once tricked me would come up with under that condition. Would you paint a wonderful piece that picked up on what I hoped to see, or would you bring me a piece that simply mimicked his technique alone?”

I see... Takamiya was testing Yoneyama to see if he’d meet his expectations.

“In the end, you didn’t figure out what I was hoping for, but you went above and beyond it. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that you far exceeded the client’s imagining, so it’s fine. I’m extremely satisfied,” Takamiya said earnestly, staring at the painting.

“But if it’s not what you originally wanted, then I can’t accept this outcome,” Yoneyama said loudly, sounding upset. It really was like he’d become a different person. He used to erase his presence when he was creating forgeries. He reformed himself and now works at an art gallery, but maybe this was the first time that someone requested a painting from him like this—someone who knew everything about him and recognized his talent. Something might’ve been budding within him—the pride of a creator who wholeheartedly wants to meet the client’s expectations...

What does Holmes think? I glanced at him. He was standing by the wall and looking out the window with a pleasant smile on his face. What’s he looking at? I followed his gaze and saw two young children playing in the yard. They were unsteady on their feet, and their young parents seemed to be having fun watching over them.

“Who’s that family?” I asked quietly.

Takamiya gazed out the window with a warm expression. “They’re my only remaining treasure. I lost my family, but one of my grandchildren survived, and that’s his family. My grandson, his wife, and their children, ages two and three. They’re my great-grandchildren. They all love me regardless of who I am, and they’re truly irreplaceable to me.” His face relaxed into a content smile as he watched the happy family playing outside.

Holmes nodded, as if he’d figured out everything. “I understand, Takamiya.”

“Hm?” Takamiya turned to look at Holmes.

“You wanted Yoneyama to paint you something like Las Meninas, right?” Holmes said confidently.

Takamiya’s eyes widened.

“Las Meninas?” Yoneyama and I asked in tandem—but with different inflections. My question was in a confused tone, while Yoneyama’s had a dubious ring to it.

After a moment of silence, Takamiya squinted as if he was looking at something dazzling. “You’re truly a wonder, Kiyotaka.”

Las Meninas. That was one of the paintings Holmes named the other day when he was talking about Diego Velázquez’s famous works. I saw a picture of it, too. “Las meninas” is Spanish for “the court ladies.” If I recall correctly, the painting had Princess Margarita in the center, surrounded by several other court ladies. I also remember reading that it was highly praised for its complex composition. Did Takamiya want Yoneyama to paint a complex composition like that?

As if answering my question, Holmes reached for the bag he’d left on the floor and took out the book. “I brought it just in case,” he said, flipping it open to the page with Las Meninas on it. Princess Margarita was in the middle, just as I’d remembered. To the left, a court lady was holding her hand. To the right were three girls. The youngest of the three was placing one foot on the back of a dog that was lying down. It looked cruel at first glance, but the dog didn’t appear to be bothered, so it seemed to just be childish mischief. What caught my eye was a person who was standing behind a large canvas.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“That’s Diego Velázquez himself.”

“Oh!” So this was a self-portrait, too. If he included himself in the painting, does that mean he was a narcissist? Maybe that’s how artists are? I stared fixedly at the painting, looking for the hint that had to be there. Yoneyama stood next to me.

“Yoneyama, please pay attention to the king and queen in the painting,” Holmes said.

“The king and queen?” Yoneyama squinted, looking confused. After a few moments of silence, he jolted up as if he’d realized something.

“Um, did you figure something out?”

“Y-Yeah. Look at this, Aoi.” He pointed at a picture frame on the back wall in the painting.

“Is this a painting inside a painting?” On the left was a woman in a dress, and on the right was an influential-looking man. It was probably a portrait of the king and queen.

“That’s what I thought too, but it’s not. This isn’t a painting; it’s a mirror. It’s customary for the king to be on the left and the queen on the right in a painting, but here they’re reversed.”

“A mirror?” That meant that the king and queen were in the same room but out of frame. They were where Princess Margarita was facing. In other words, the figure of Velázquez was painting the king and queen on that canvas. So that’s it. Velázquez painted this for the king, from the king’s perspective. Nowadays you can just take a photo, but there was no such thing back then. The young Margarita was going to be married off to Austria before long. To the king, those peaceful, happy days were a precious treasure with a time limit on them. Velázquez captured a snapshot of those precious days in his painting, preserving the king’s view of the princess, the court ladies, and even Velázquez himself.

The moment I realized that, Yoneyama clenched his fist and said, “I-I’ve got it!” He continued in a low voice, “I figured out the secret of the composition of Las Meninas. This is the happy scenery that the king saw, right?”

Holmes nodded. I’d figured it out too. Basically, Takamiya wanted Yoneyama to paint him a happy scene of his grandson’s family playing together, since these days also wouldn’t last forever. Just like Diego Velázquez’s Las Meninas. It was because Takamiya knew how irreplaceable this everyday scene was. The moment I realized, I burst into tears and hurried to wipe my eyes.

“Here,” Holmes said, offering me a handkerchief.

“Th-Thank you.” I wiped my tears with it, feeling embarrassed.

Takamiya smiled at our conversation. “Thank you for understanding. You’re correct, but my request was a bit malicious. I wanted to see how far he’d solve the puzzle, but I underestimated him and assumed he’d have no idea. However, he did paint me a wonderful painting in the style of Velázquez. I’m truly satisfied.” After saying that, he looked at Yoneyama’s painting of Satoko again with a loving smile.

Yoneyama walked up to Takamiya and bowed. “Takamiya, could you give me another chance?”

Takamiya looked him in the eye without saying a word.

“Please let me paint one more. This time, I’ll paint you a work like Las Meninas,” Yoneyama urged.

“Yoneyama...” Takamiya seemed hesitant, but then smiled. “In that case, let me make it a formal request. Would you paint me the happy scene that I see from here right now?”

“Yes, gladly.” Yoneyama placed his hand on his chest and bowed again.

“I’m looking forward to your Las Meninas. But this time, please don’t copy Velázquez’s style. Make it your own painting.”

Yoneyama bowed deeply with an earnest face. “I’ll do my very best.”

It felt like I was watching King Philip IV and Diego Velázquez themselves. A brilliant artist was born right here, in this divine scene before me.