“Did they also tell you that the judge who was beaten is my father-in-law?”
“They mentioned it.”
“Did they mention that the supreme court is divided on the issue of whether you should live or die?”
“No.” Puzzlement crept into Oishi’s scowl. “How could they know? The supreme court proceedings are secret.”
“Why are you asking us these questions?” Chikara demanded.
“Mind your manners,” Oishi warned.
“Why should I?” Chikara grinned at Sano despite the fear that showed in his eyes. “The Hosokawa men brought us some news about you, too—you’re out of favor with the shogun. Nobody cares what you think.”
His insolence stung. Sano controlled his temper. “You should care. What I think will affect my investigation, which could influence the supreme court one way or the other.”
“My son’s question was a good one,” Oishi said. “So your father-in-law was beaten: What has that to do with us?”
“I want to know if you or your men are responsible,” Sano said.
“How could we be? We’ve been under house arrest for the past five days.”
“What else have the Hosokawa men been kind enough to do for you besides bring you news?”
Caution settled over Oishi; he exuded a stillness the way a tree does when the wind dies down and its branches cease to toss. “I don’t get your meaning.”
“Did you ask them to prolong your life by attacking the supreme court?” Sano asked. “Did they hire an assassin to kill my father-in-law? Or let you out so that you could?”
Oishi turned away, massaging his jaw with his fingers. It was the same reaction as when Sano had told him that his mistress was in town. Oishi seemed even more discomfited now, by Sano’s accusation. Maybe he was innocent and the idea that anyone would think him responsible for the attack had never occurred to him. Or maybe he was guilty but he’d counted on nobody connecting him with the crime because it had happened while he was imprisoned.
“I didn’t ask them.” Oishi spoke slowly, as if buying himself time to think. “Even if I had, they wouldn’t have done it. And they haven’t let me or any of my men outside.”
A Hosokawa retainer who was fanatical about Bushido and idolized the prisoners might have thought them worth risking the consequences of murdering an important official like Magistrate Ueda. Sano wasn’t ready to give up his theory, especially since he sensed that Oishi had something new to hide.
“My father didn’t arrange the attack.” Chikara moved to stand beside Oishi.
“Then maybe you did,” Sano said.
“Me?” Chikara drew back in surprise and fright. He looked to Oishi.
“He didn’t do it.” Oishi flung out his arm, a barrier between Sano and his son.
Sano remembered making the same gesture himself, when Masahiro had tried to run into the street as a group of samurai on horseback raced by. “If you’re guilty, then you’d better admit it,” he said, “or I’ll take Chikara to Edo Jail and torture him until he confesses.”
Although clearly dismayed by the threat, Oishi declared, “We’re both innocent.” He stood. “And we’re through with this conversation.”
Sano rose, too, his bluff called. “You haven’t seen the last of me. If I discover that you or your comrades were responsible for the attack on my father-in-law, I’ll execute the whole pack of you even if the supreme court pardons you for the vendetta.”
As he stalked from the room, he was astonished to recall that not long ago he’d respected the forty-seven rōnin as exemplars of Bushido. Now he suspected them of trying to murder his kinsman. Even if they were innocent, he believed that their vendetta had led to the attack on Magistrate Ueda, and they were therefore indirectly responsible. If they were truly guilty, he would have their blood and his own revenge.
* * *
AFTER THINKING OVER the conversation he’d overheard between his parents last night, Masahiro had decided what to do.
He would conduct his own investigation into the attack on his grandfather.
The first step was to interview the suspect.
His heart pounded as he went to Okaru’s room. He wanted to see Okaru as much as he wanted to find out if she was involved in the attack. Peering through the open door, he discovered that she wasn’t there. Bedding lay in a heap on the floor. A maid stood at the cabinet, taking out clothes.
“Where’s Okaru?” Masahiro asked.
“Your mother moved her into the servants’ quarters. She doesn’t want her so close to your family.”
Masahiro felt a stab of apprehension. “Why not?”
“She thinks Okaru might have had something to do with the attack on Magistrate Ueda.”
If his mother thought Okaru was guilty, then perhaps she was. Masahiro’s heart sank.
“Lieutenant Tanuma is guarding Okaru,” the maid added.
So much for Masahiro’s plan to interview her. He couldn’t do it in front of Lieutenant Tanuma, who would tell his mother, who probably wouldn’t approve. It was time for the second step in his investigation.
“You can leave,” he told the maid.
“Your mother told me to move these things to Okaru’s new room.”
“Come back later,” Masahiro said.
He was the master’s son. The maid went. Masahiro hesitated, feeling guilty about snooping and afraid of what he might find. He gingerly sorted through the kimonos on the floor. Okaru’s sweet scent wafted up from them. He caught up a robe and buried his face in the soft, bright floral fabric. Embarrassed, he dropped the robe as if it were on fire. He didn’t find anything suspicious among Okaru’s clothes, shoes, and few other personal items in the right side of the cabinet. He examined a doll that had a chipped porcelain head. A girl who still liked dolls couldn’t be a criminal, could she?
Masahiro moved to the left side of the cabinet. Here robes and trousers were neatly folded, their material sturdy, their colors drab. They must belong to the servant named Goza. All were masculine in style. Masahiro searched the cabinet until he came upon a bundle on the floor. The bundle was a brown kimono wrapped around a pair of gray trousers with rope drawstrings. Both garments were blotched with stiff, reddish-brown stains.
A bad feeling came over Masahiro.
The stains were dried blood.
A high, feminine, angry voice behind him demanded, “What are you doing?”
Taken by surprise, Masahiro yelled. He dropped the clothes and banged his elbow painfully on the cabinet as he turned.
Goza stood there, her fists clenched, a savage look on her mustached face. Masahiro stammered, “I was just looking—”
“For what?” Goza towered over him, trapping him against the cabinet.
Masahiro remembered that this was his house, he was a detective, and he was the one supposed to ask the questions. He snatched up the clothes he’d dropped and thrust them at Goza. She stepped back. Moving away from the cabinet, he said, “Where did this blood come from?”
Goza’s eyes were like a pig’s, small and mean, sunken into the thick flesh of her broad face. “None of your business,” she said, and grabbed the clothes.
“You have to answer,” Masahiro said. “Or I’ll get my father, and you can tell him.”
The piggy eyes glinted with fear and antagonism. “It’s from a bloody nose.”
“Whose nose? My grandfather’s? Did you beat him up?”
“Stupid boy,” Goza said. “You don’t know anything.”
“Where were you the night before last?” Masahiro persisted.
“Here. In the house.”
“No, you weren’t,” Masahiro said disdainfully. “I already asked the guards. They said you left and didn’t come back until the next morning. Where were you really?”
Goza muttered a curse. “I was out.”
“Out, where? What were you doing?”
A dirty, sly gleam crept into Goza’s eyes. “Do you like Okaru?”
Masahiro was taken aback by the chang
e of topic. His first impulse was to lie rather than tell Goza to mind her own business. “No.”
“Yes, you do.” Goza regarded him with amused contempt. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. You want her, just like all the other men.”
His face aflame with embarrassment, Masahiro could only shake his head. If Goza knew how he felt about Okaru, who else did?
Goza grabbed him by the front of his kimono and yanked him close to her. Masahiro was so startled that he forgot to resist. She said, “Listen, stupid boy. Better not tell anybody what you found.” Masahiro recoiled from her hot, sour breath. “If you do, it won’t just be me that gets in trouble. It’ll be Okaru, too. Because I’m her servant. Whatever I’ve done, it was because she told me to. She’ll be arrested and killed. And it will be your fault.”
As Masahiro gaped in horror, the floor in the corridor creaked under footsteps. He heard the maid say, “I just saw Goza, she went in there.”
Goza released Masahiro, stepping back from him just before the maid and a guard entered the room. “You’re not allowed in here anymore,” the guard told Goza. “Come with me.”
Goza bent a warning look on Masahiro. “Remember what I said.”
Before she and the guard left the room, Masahiro caught a fleeting glimpse of two crude black tattoos on her wrist.
* * *
OKARU’S NEW ROOM was a cubbyhole in the servants’ quarters, an outbuilding near the kitchens. Lieutenant Tanuma leaned against the wall in the corridor outside, guarding Okaru. Before Reiko left the estate, she looked in on her prisoner. Okaru knelt on the mattress on the wooden pallet, her sad face lifted to the sunlight that came through the paper panes of the barred window. When she saw Reiko, her eyes filled with hope and entreaty. Reiko shut the door, pulled her cloak tighter around herself, and left the servants’ quarters. Walking up the path to the mansion, she met Chiyo.
Chiyo fell into step beside Reiko and voiced the thought that was on both of their minds. “Did she do it?”
“I don’t know,” Reiko said. “But I don’t think so.”
“I must say that neither do I,” Chiyo said. “When we first met Okaru, I was distrustful of her, but I can’t believe she has it in her to deliberately harm anyone.”
Guilt distressed Reiko. “If she didn’t have anything to do with the attack on my father, then I’m being cruel to treat her like this.” Suspicion provoked a burn of anger. “If she did, then I’ll never forgive myself for bringing her into my family.”
Chiyo didn’t say she’d warned Reiko not to get involved with Okaru. She said soothingly, “You couldn’t have known what would happen to your father. It isn’t your fault, even if it is Okaru’s. You were trying to help someone in need. And maybe Okaru is innocent.”
Even if she was, she’d certainly opened the door to a lot of trouble. Without her story about Oishi and the vendetta, Sano’s investigation might not have taken the course that it had. Magistrate Ueda might not have been attacked.
But Reiko said, “You’re right. The assassin could be someone who has a personal grudge against my father. And if he was hired by someone, there are other people besides Okaru who could have done it. I’m going to see Oishi’s wife and Lady Asano.”
She and Chiyo reached the front courtyard, where her palanquin, bearers, and guards stood waiting. Chiyo said, “Shall I come with you?”
“I’d better go alone.” Reiko needed time to think.
The two women bid each other a stilted good-bye. Reiko climbed inside her palanquin, unhappily aware that she’d hurt Chiyo’s feelings. Even if Okaru was innocent, she had come between Reiko and Chiyo.
* * *
RIDING AWAY FROM Edo Castle, Hirata studied the list of repeat offenders. Their residences were scattered all over town. He wouldn’t have time to look for Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi. Now that he’d slept on his encounter with them, it seemed unreal, the aim of their society a joke. Magic rituals to influence the course of fate, indeed!
He glanced backward at the palace, where Tahara had thrown the branch, and snorted. What did those men think was going to happen? The hill under Edo Castle would erupt like a volcano?
One repeat offender, named Genzo, lived near the blacksmiths’ district, where the doshin had chased Magistrate Ueda’s attacker. Hirata rode along a narrow lane. Between the gates at the ends were tenements—ramshackle, two-story, connected buildings. A woman came out of a room on a lower floor and dumped a pail of dirty water onto muddy snow. Balconies fronted the upper stories. Smoke from the blacksmiths’ shops fouled the air with soot.
A man emerged onto a balcony. He had shaggy black hair; his gray kimono strained across his thick shoulders. He looked out onto the street, yawned, and scratched his head. Hirata saw two black tattoos on the man’s arm, at the same instant he sensed the sullen red aura with glinting sparks, the energy that bespoke weakness and brutality. A combination of Reiko’s detective work and Hirata’s supernatural powers had led to the culprit.
The man turned his head toward Hirata. Recognition flashed in his puffy eyes, even though he and Hirata weren’t acquainted: A perpetual criminal knows the law when he sees it coming after him. He rushed into the room behind the balcony. Hirata galloped his horse toward the house, stood in the saddle, and jumped.
He caught the wooden railing of the balcony and pulled himself up. He charged into a room cluttered with an unmade bed, heaps of clothes, and a bow and a quiver of arrows. The man was nowhere in sight. Hirata heard footsteps pounding down stairs. He sped through a curtained door, into a dim, narrow stairwell. Clearing the stairs in one leap, he saw the man run across a courtyard. Hirata caught the man by the shoulder just before he reached the gate. The man turned, his eyes wide with shock: He couldn’t believe Hirata had caught up with him so fast. Hirata squeezed a nerve in his shoulder. The man crumpled, howling with pain.
“Who are you?” He clutched his arm, which jerked in spasms. “What did you do to me?”
Hirata said, “Don’t worry—the damage isn’t permanent. My name is Hirata.”
The man gasped. He obviously knew Hirata’s reputation. “What do you want?”
“Are you Genzo, convicted twice for assault?” Hirata asked.
“Yes. But I haven’t done anything wrong since then.”
“You ambushed three men the other night,” Hirata said. “You killed two of them and beat the third so badly that he may die, too.”
“How did you know I did?” Genzo was so flabbergasted that he didn’t think to deny the accusation. Confusion, terror, and pain had caused him to blurt out his guilt.
“Never mind.” Hirata seized Genzo by his uninjured arm and hauled him to his feet. “You’re under arrest.”
As he marched Genzo out of the courtyard to the street, Hirata looked up at Edo Castle. It looked the same as ever, with a smoke haze around its hill and its white walls and tile roofs shining in the sun. Nothing had happened yet, as far as Hirata could tell.
31
REIKO REMEMBERED THAT Oishi’s former wife had said she worked as a maid for a salt merchant. Accompanied by her guards, Reiko rode in her palanquin past the salt warehouses along a canal near the reeking fish market in Nihonbashi. Peasants hefted crocks of salt out of boats moored at the quays. In the district where the merchants lived, Reiko’s guard captain asked a watchman at a neighborhood gate, “Where can we find a woman named Ukihashi?”
“Oh, the samurai lady. She works for Madam Yasue,” the watchman said, and gave directions to the house.
Ukihashi had said that her employer enjoyed having a samurai lady for a servant, Reiko recalled. Evidently, Madam Yasue was so proud of it that she’d spread the word.
The procession stopped in a street of houses that were big but plain. Sumptuary laws prevented commoners from flaunting their wealth; the penalty was confiscation of their assets. Any expensive things were hidden behind those bamboo fences and half-timbered walls. Reiko climbed out of her palanquin, went up to the gate, and rang the bell.
A girl answered. She was about ten years old and wore the indigo kimono and white headscarf of a maid. Reiko said, “I’m looking for Ukihashi. Is she here?”
Before the girl could reply, the door of the house behind her opened. A stout, middle-aged woman emerged. Her upswept hair was dyed a fake, bronzy shade of black. She wore thick makeup and a garish floral kimono. “Who’s there?” she barked at the girl.
“A lady,” the girl mumbled. “She wants to see my mother.”
Reiko noticed that the girl had Ukihashi’s square face and delicate features. The woman, presumably Madam Yasue, raked her gaze over Reiko. “Who are you?”
Reiko introduced herself.
“Ukihashi is a servant who has work to do,” Madam Yasue said, “but I’ll let you see her for a few minutes.” She jerked her chin at the girl.
The girl trudged toward the rear of the house. Reiko followed. She pitied Ukihashi and her daughter, employed by that mean, vulgar woman. She tried not to think that their fate could be hers someday. If Sano left, there was no telling what depths she and the children might sink to, even if he wasn’t made a rōnin.
The kitchen occupied a building attached to the house by a covered corridor. Its yard contained buckets, a storage shed, and slop barrels. Steam that smelled of fermented soybeans billowed from the open door. Reiko heard rattling, sizzling, and hissing noises. She entered, peered through the steam, and saw two women at a table surrounded by pots boiling on the hearth, dishware on shelves, utensils hung from the ceiling, bales of rice, and ceramic jars of food. Ukihashi was cleaning fish, slitting their bellies with a sharp knife and scraping out the entrails. The other woman knelt with her back to Reiko. All Reiko could see of her was her head drape and her cloak.
Ukihashi glanced up and noticed Reiko. Her raw, chapped lips parted. The other woman turned. It was Lady Asano. The drape covered her shaved head. Her plain, round face revealed shock and dismay. Reiko had never seen two people less glad to see her.
Ukihashi said, “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you again,” Reiko said.
The Ronin's Mistress: A Novel (Sano Ichiro Novels) Page 25
