“Sano Ichirō.” The abbot’s deep voice had a humming quality imparted by years of chanting sutras. “It has been a long time since last we met.”
Sano straightened, tilting his head back to look into the taller man’s eyes. “It has, Your Honorable Holiness,” he agreed, before introducing Hirata.
He’d spoken with the abbot exactly twice before: at age six, during his admission interview, and again upon completing his studies. Now he saw with surprise that the passage of sixteen more years had scarcely altered the abbot.
Age spots marked the shaven head, and the thick eyebrows had turned white, but although he must be in his seventies now, the abbot retained an air of youthful vigor. His full-fleshed body was still firm; his oval face virtually unlined. The prominent features hadn’t lost their resolute strength. Nor had time dimmed the serene light of his eyes. Benevolent and all-knowing, they contemplated Sano. Suddenly he remembered the abbot’s parting words to him:
“You have an inquisitive spirit and a talent for uncovering truth, my son. This talent can be a blessing, or a curse. Will the truths you uncover bring darkness and trouble to you and the world, or light and serenity?”
Now Sano wondered if the abbot remembered their conversation. With the arrogance of youth, he’d disregarded his elder’s insightful remark. Never had he imagined that he would one day appreciate the danger in his dubious talent.
Having acknowledged their past association, the abbot dispensed with refreshing their acquaintance. As much canny politician as spiritual leader, he undoubtedly knew as much about the shogun’s sōsakan as anyone in the bakufu, and had probably reviewed Sano’s school records in preparation for this encounter.
“I thought it best to await your arrival before attending to the remains of our brother, Endō Azumanaru, who was murdered tonight,” he said. “You will, of course, have our full cooperation in apprehending his killer.”
Endō.
Sano’s excitement overrode his relief at learning that the abbot meant to facilitate his investigation. As the abbot and his retinue ushered them up the path toward the temple’s inner precinct, Sano asked, “Was the dead priest a descendant of Endō Munetsugu?”
“Why, yes. Brother Endō took orders after retiring from the bakufu service.” Many samurai sought a contemplative life in their old age. “He was very proud of his ancestry. But how did you know of it?” Displeasure brought a transient frown to his serene face. “Did the guards tell you that the name Endō Munetsugu appeared on the label fastened to Brother Endō’s head?”
Sano and Hirata exchanged glances of suppressed elation. This fourth victim proved the theory.
“No,” Sano said, hastening to exonerate the guards of disobedience by explaining how this tragedy had brought enlightenment.
They passed beneath a torii gate at the end of the path, then climbed the steps.
“What was Brother Endō doing outside after dark?” Sano asked. Priests, who rose at dawn, usually retired by sunset.
“He was the security officer who led the night patrol.”
Now Sano knew that the Bundori Killer chose his victims deliberately, familiarizing himself with their habits, then selecting the right time and place for their murders. Anyone in the banchō could have told him of Kaibara’s visits to the pharmacists’ district, but he must have paid informers to tell him the rōnin Tōzawa’s whereabouts. To learn of Brother Endō’s job, he must have questioned someone living at the temple. The thought of such elaborate calculation froze Sano’s blood.
At the top of the steps, an enclosed corridor with a tile roof formed the temple’s inner wall. Through its narrow windows, Sano saw frightened faces looking out at him, and heard whispered conversation. Even before he entered the main precinct, he could feel the atmosphere of fear, shock, and horror that pervaded the temple.
The precinct blazed with the light of flames that leapt within stone lanterns and flared from torches planted in the vast courtyard. The massive architecture, with its carved columns and doors, and undulating thatched roofs supported on complex wooden bracketry, dwarfed the priests who stood around the Buddha Hall, five-story pagoda, octagonal sutra repository, and the temple bell in its wooden cage. On the hill outside the wall, Sano could see the roofs of the temple’s other buildings: abbots’ residence; priests’, novices’, and servants’ dormitories; refectory; the tombs of past shoguns. Stripped of the animating panorama of pilgrims and ritual, the temple seemed like a stage set where the minor players waited, motionless and silent, for the principals to arrive.
“This way.” The abbot led Sano and Hirata around the main hall. There, outside the rear door, seven priests stood in an outward-facing circle, shielding something at the center. “Out of respect for our brother, we have retrieved his head, which the killer left outside the main gate, and placed it by the body. Otherwise, the scene is undisturbed.” At the abbot’s command, the priests followed him to the courtyard, leaving Sano and Hirata to their task.
Even the Bundori Killer’s earlier atrocities could not have prepared Sano for his first sight of the priest’s remains. Horrorstricken, he sucked air through his teeth. He heard Hirata moan.
Blood covered the white gravel in a lurid crimson stain. At its center, the priest’s headless corpse lay on its back. Sword wounds covered his body. The torn fabric of his saffron robe framed a deep gash in his right side. Minor cuts on his calves showed beneath the hiked-up hem of his cloak. And he’d lost his left hand, which lay several paces from where he’d fallen. This victim, unlike the others, had fought back. Still clenched in his bloody right hand was the spear he’d wielded in vain against his attacker’s sword. More splashes of blood on the gravel defined the area where the fight had taken place.
Sano glanced at the trophy head just long enough to note the rouged face and square mounting board that proclaimed it the work of the Bundori Killer, who had nailed the name label to Brother Endō’s shaven scalp. He surveyed the murder scene with a sinking feeling due only partially to his failure to prevent another death.
From behind him, Hirata voiced the troubling question in his mind. “Sōsakan-sama, why did the shogun’s shrine attendant send us to that house in the marshes, instead of here?”
“I don’t know, Hirata,” Sano answered wearily.
And he wouldn’t, until he saw Aoi again. But for the first time, he doubted the woman who had gained his trust, aroused his senses, and touched his spirit.
“Search the area and see if you can find any trace of the killer,” he told Hirata. “Footprints. Blood—the priest may have wounded him.” Brother Endō’s spear was covered with blood, perhaps not only from his own wounds. “Maybe he left a trail showing which way he went after he left the temple.”
While Hirata strolled and stooped in widening circles around the murder scene, Sano rejoined the abbot in the courtyard. “Please send Brother Endō’s remains to Edo Morgue,” he said. “Now I need to speak with each member of your community, starting with the person who found the body.”
An incredulous smile touched the abbot’s mouth. “That’s hardly necessary. I can tell you whatever you need to know. The night patrol discovered Brother Endō. They report having seen no one and nothing out of the ordinary, either before or after. Everyone else was in their quarters, where they are now: all safe and accounted for. I and my assistants have questioned them and ascertained that no one saw anything relevant to the murder. And you surely don’t think one of us is the killer?”
“No,” Sano admitted, having no evidence to tie the other murders to the temple.
He realized that the abbot’s cooperation didn’t extend to independent interrogation of his subjects, which would breach their seclusion and challenge his authority. Much as he hated to overrule this man whom he revered, Sano knew he must, or endanger his chances of success.
“But I must insist that you bring your people to me, one at a time, in a place where we can talk in privacy.”
The abbot’s frown forced
him to back his request with a veiled threat. “The murders have thrown the city into a panic that can only worsen until the killer is caught. I wonder what effect it would have upon the faithful to learn that their spiritual leader had actually obstructed justice?”
He didn’t have to hint at the reduced donations and the mass defections to other temples that would result should such news spread. The abbot conceded with a wounded dignity that hurt Sano more than open reproach. “As you wish, sōsakan-sama.” He ordered his aides to prepare a room and assemble the community. “But you are wasting your time. No one can help you.” He paused. “With the possible exception of one individual.”
Sano’s spirits lifted. A witness, at last?
“A woman came to the temple early yesterday evening seeking shelter,” the abbot explained. “She said she wished to renounce her worldly life and become a nun. I gave her a room in the guest quarters, pending her transfer to one of our sect’s nunneries. I believe it was she who discovered the murder and rang the bell. None of the priests, novices, or servants were outdoors after evening rites.”
Sano took a deep breath to still the thudding of his heart. “Then I must speak to her. Where is she?”
“I’m afraid she has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Sano echoed in dismay.
The abbot spread his hands in a calming, beneficent gesture. “When the security patrol searched the premises after discovering Brother Endō’s body, they found the guest quarters vacant and the woman gone. She must have fled after ringing the bell.”
“Well, then,” Sano said, adjusting his plans, “give me her name and address so I can find her.”
The abbot shook his head. “I am sorry to say that she gave no information about herself.”
“She wouldn’t tell you who she was or where she came from? And you took her in anyway?” Sano’s disappointment turned to anger at the abbot. “She might have been a runaway wife or daughter—or a fugitive from the law!”
“Sōsakan-sama.” Annoyance tightened the abbot’s smooth features. “We don’t turn away those who come to us seeking sanctuary. Your criticism shows a deplorable lack of understanding of the charity and mercy that we practice in our faith.”
“My apologies, Your Holiness.” Inwardly Sano berated himself for letting the pressures of the investigation make him behave like an ignorant boor. “Perhaps if you describe this woman and tell me what she said, I can trace her.”
“Certainly.” Mollified, the abbot unfocused his gaze, remembering. “She was rather small, and not young. She wore a plain black kimono with no crest. She said she wanted to enter a nunnery because she was unhappy in her marriage.”
“Unhappy in what way?” Sano prompted. “Did her husband beat her? Was he a drunk, or a lecher, or a miser? Were her in-laws cruel?”
The abbot shook his head. “She didn’t say, and I didn’t press for an explanation. After all, she was leaving those problems behind by coming here.”
“What about her face? How did she dress her hair? Did she speak like a lady, or a peasant?”
“I’m sorry, sōsakan-sama. Her hair and face were veiled, and I spent only a moment with her. We get many women seeking shelter. I remember little about this one.”
Sano refused to give up. “Did anyone else see her?”
“No. She acted as if she didn’t want to be seen—she wouldn’t allow the servants into her room to serve her meal; they had to leave it outside the door.”
A witness who had seen something terrible enough to make her ring the huge bell—no small feat for a woman—and flee the temple. And no one knew who she was, or where she could be found. Sano cursed his luck.
“Did she leave any possessions behind?” he asked.
“Yes. A pair of kimonos.”
Sometimes, owning nothing else of value, women entering nunneries brought their best clothes as dowries to pay for their room and board. Perhaps this woman’s would provide a clue to her identity. “May I please see them?” Sano asked.
“Certainly. They are in my office.”
The abbot led the way to another, smaller precinct, where they followed a path between two dormitories—long, narrow buildings with barred windows, plastered walls, plank doors, and narrow verandas. A sound from the left-hand dormitory’s second floor caught Sano’s attention. He looked up and saw a window open and the shaven head of a boy perhaps ten years old appear. On his face, Sano saw the curiosity and excitement one might expect in a child under the circumstances—but something more. Shame? Guilt?
“Who is that boy?” he asked the abbot, pointing.
The abbot glanced toward the window. “That’s Kenji, one of our novices. A farmer’s son who came to Edo to seek his fortune when the family crops failed. One of our brethren found him dying in the street and rescued him.”
Catching sight of them, Kenji gaped, then slammed the shutters and disappeared. On impulse, Sano excused himself and returned to the main precinct. “Hirata,” he called.
Hirata left his examination of the ground around the bell cage and hurried over to Sano.
“There’s a novice named Kenji in the upper floor of the lefthand dormitory,” Sano said. “I think he knows something about the murder. See if you can find out what it is.”
The frightened peasant child might speak more freely to the young doshin than to him. Besides, Sano suspected that Hirata possessed abilities as yet untested, which perhaps included interviewing witnesses.
Inside the temple office—a spacious study with an elaborate coffered ceiling, and built-in cabinets and shelves containing books and scrolls—Sano examined the mystery woman’s kimonos. Both were made of fine, expensive silk. One was crimson, with a lavish embroidered design of white cranes and snowflakes, green pine boughs, and orange suns—appropriate for the New Year season. The other was a gray fall kimono printed with bluebells, patrinia, autumn grasses, bamboo, yellow clover, and wild carnations. Sano noted the hip-length sleeve panels typically worn by married women, or those past their youth. Both garments were in excellent condition, but he knew little about fashion, and he couldn’t tell if they were new outfits, or old ones worn only on special occasions. Nor could he tell whether they belonged to a samurai lady or a wealthy merchant’s woman.
Sano folded the garments and tucked them under his arm. “I’ll take these with me, and return them as soon as possible.” Maybe the Edo Castle tailors could tell him who had made the kimonos.
They left the office and started down the path. Sano saw Hirata coming to meet him, bringing a small, shaven-headed figure in a hemp robe: the novice Kenji.
“Sōsakan-sama, Kenji has something to tell you,” Hirata announced.
The novice, seeing the abbot, backed away, his eyes round with terror. Sano guessed that he didn’t want his superior to hear what he had to say. Turning to the abbot, Sano said, “I’d like to talk to Kenji alone, please.”
The abbot nodded. “I will be in my office if you need me.” His eloquent parting glance made it clear that he would allow the novice an unsupervised conversation with an outsider only because he feared adverse publicity.
“All right, he’s gone,” Hirata said to the novice. “Now tell the sōsakan-sama what you saw.”
Kenji gulped. His lips trembled. Sano squatted, placing himself at Kenji’s eye level, and gave the boy an encouraging smile. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.
Hirata’s method of eliciting speech was more aggressive. With a rough but affectionate gesture, he cuffed one of the ears that stuck out from Kenji’s head like jug handles. “Go on, talk! He won’t hurt you.”
Looking somewhat reassured but still wary, Kenji spoke in a rapid mumble. “Yesterday I went begging in the city.” He had been collecting alms to support the temple, as did the other young clergy. “I stayed too late, and it was dark when I started walking home. When I got back, the others were already asleep. I climbed in the dormitory window. The priests didn’t miss me, because my friends had fixed my bed to look lik
e I was in it. I didn’t mean to be late, honest. Please, master, you won’t tell the abbot, will you?” Hands wringing the front of his robe, he raised beseeching eyes to Sano.
“It’ll be our secret,” Sano said gravely.
“Oh, thank you, master!” Kenji’s radiant smile transformed him from a picture of abject misery to a happy, high-spirited child. “You see, master, I was late because I stopped to watch a juggler in Nihonbashi. He was amazing! He juggled knives, and flaming torches, and live mice—”
“The sōsakan-sama doesn’t want to hear about that!” Hirata interrupted. “Tell him what you saw on the road leading from Edo back to the temple.”
Sano’s heart skipped, then began a strengthening pulse in his throat. Was he looking at his first murder witness? “What did you see, Kenji?”
“A palanquin,” the novice said. “With four big men carrying it. I noticed them because all the pilgrims who come to the temple are gone by dark. When I’m out that late, I usually don’t meet any—”
Kenji clapped his hands over his mouth. “I’ve only been late a few times before, master. Honest!” He clasped his hands in penitence, but his eyes danced with mischief.
“Did you see who was in the palanquin?” Sano asked patiently.
“No. The doors and windows were shut.”
“Did you see the bearers’ faces?”
Kenji shook his head. “It was dark, and they wore big hats. And I was running to get back to the dormitory before anyone noticed I wasn’t there.”
Disappointment descended over Sano. Grasping at the receding vestiges of hope, he asked, “Can you remember anything at all about the palanquin or the bearers?”
“I’m sorry, master.” Then Kenji’s drooping head snapped alert; his eyes brightened. “Wait—I remember now. The moon was shining on the palanquin. And I saw a big dragon painted on the side!”
Bundori:: A Novel of Japan Page 17
