The Shogun's Daughter: A Novel of Feudal Japan (Sano Ichiro Mysteries)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Yanagisawa added, “I hear Lady Reiko is pregnant,” then stalked out of the room with his guards.

  Alone in the courtroom, Sano sat on the dais, letting his temper cool before his next trial, thinking about what had just happened. If Yanagisawa hadn’t killed Tsuruhime, would he be so desperate to stop the investigation? His own behavior was good evidence of his guilt.

  Something else good had come of the altercation with Yanagisawa. Yanagisawa knew about the investigation. There was no need to keep it secret anymore.

  Shaken by Yanagisawa’s parting words, Sano massaged his sore forehead. Yanagisawa wasn’t the only one who needed to discipline his emotions. Sano looked at his hand, bruised from his assault on Hirata. This was his second physical altercation in two days.

  This time he’d goaded Yanagisawa into threatening Reiko.

  16

  AFTER HIS LESSONS, Masahiro ran to the daimyo district before anyone could give him a message to deliver. He had to look for Taeko. Yesterday, he should have kept looking, but he’d been mad at her for getting in the way of his investigation, and he’d thought she’d gone home. Now he’d made another mistake by not telling his father that she’d followed him to Lord Tsunanori’s estate yesterday. But he’d been so sleepy this morning, he hadn’t thought of it until after the search parties had left. If something terrible had happened to Taeko, it was his fault.

  Outside Lord Tsunanori’s estate, Masahiro didn’t see her among the water sellers and food peddlers, the servants going about their errands, the troops patrolling. He searched the nearby streets. There was still no sign of her. Masahiro reached a neighborhood gate that led to the Nihonbashi merchant quarter. He hoped Taeko hadn’t wandered there. Masahiro would never admit it to anyone, but since the earthquake he was afraid to go into the city. But he had to find Taeko. He took a deep breath, put on his most confident air, and strode through the portals.

  Nihonbashi five months after the earthquake was a chaotic mix of buildings under reconstruction and still in ruins. Masahiro walked cautiously along the narrow alleys where peasants crowded around merchants who sold food from temporary stalls. Beggars accosted Masahiro, pleading for alms. The ground was muddy, still black with soot from the fires. He covered his nose to block the powerful stench. Night soil collection had resumed, but waste accumulated after the earthquake still fouled Edo. Stray dogs foraged in the garbage heaps. They growled and snapped at Masahiro. Walking faster, he came upon tattooed gangsters fighting. Down another alley lined with the black shells of burned houses, a brutish, gaudily dressed man and two samurai bodyguards led a group of little girls. Masahiro had heard about merchants rounding up girls orphaned by the earthquake and selling them to brothels. One of these girls was about nine years old and wore a green kimono.

  “Taeko!” Masahiro ran to the girl and grabbed her arm.

  She turned her plain, surprised face to him. She wasn’t Taeko. A bodyguard yanked Masahiro away from her, kicked him in the behind, and sent him flying into a garbage heap. He stood up, dusted himself off, and looked around in despair.

  He was standing outside a teahouse, the only intact building on this block. It was an open storefront screened by a blue curtain that hung from the eaves and extended halfway down to the raised plank floor. Customers sat inside; the proprietor served them drinks. Sunlight shone on them through holes in the roof. Five men were peasants in a group, the other a samurai sitting alone. The samurai was Jinnosuke, the young soldier from Lord Tsunanori’s estate.

  Masahiro couldn’t believe his good luck. If he hadn’t been looking for Taeko, he might never have found the soldier again. She had, in a way, helped him with his investigation.

  * * *

  SUNLIGHT SPARKLED ON the Sumida River as Yanagisawa and three bodyguards rode across it in a ferryboat. The fresh breeze cooled Yanagisawa’s face, which was still hot from his clash with Sano. The ferryman carefully plied his oar, navigating around barges piled high with wood, rice bales, produce, bamboo, roof tiles, and other goods to supply Edo’s rebuilding boom. Merchant vessels, guarded by Tokugawa navy ships, sailed up the river.

  Yanagisawa and his bodyguards disembarked at the dock on the eastern bank of the river, in the Honjo district. They walked across the wide strip of land along the waterfront. This was a firebreak, where permanent structures were banned to reduce crowding and prevent fires from spreading. Here a large outdoor entertainment district had flourished before the earthquake had knocked down most of the canopy-covered stalls. Many had risen anew. Customers flocked to sample the refreshments, play games, and see the acrobats, jugglers, storytellers, menageries, and freak shows. Edo wanted to have fun again.

  In the Honjo district, smoke drifted from kilns in the northern sector, where ceramic tiles were produced. Vegetable markets had once lined the many canals. The larger canals had been cleared of earthquake debris, but smaller ones were still clogged with the remains of houses that had flooded when the earthquake pushed water from the Sumida River inland. Townspeople were busy rebuilding their houses along stagnant, mosquito-infested waterways. Yanagisawa was relieved to enter the samurai enclave. Here, rich members of the government had suburban villas where they could go to escape the political hotbed of Edo proper. Other samurai lived here permanently. The only estate completely repaired was the two-story mansion at which Yanagisawa and his men arrived.

  “I’m here to see Lord Ienobu,” Yanagisawa said to the sentry in the guardhouse.

  “You aren’t welcome,” the sentry said. “Lord Ienobu’s orders.”

  “Unless he wants me to bring the army to invade his house, you’ll let us in.”

  The sentry shrugged and opened the gate. He knew better than to defy a threat from the shogun’s second-in-command for the sake of obeying the shogun’s cast-off nephew.

  Once inside the estate and past the barracks, Yanagisawa and his men came upon a garden planted with new shrubs, saplings, and flowerbeds. Thinking of his own estate, still in ruins, because he’d been too busy with political maneuvering and too short on cash to fix it, Yanagisawa felt a pang of resentment. Ienobu’s estate was like spit in the eye. Inside the mansion, Ienobu sat on the dais in the reception room. With his hunched back, and his skinny arms and legs jutting at odd angles, he looked like a molted, hollow shell of a cicada.

  “I had a bet with myself that you would barge in on me today,” he said. “And here you are, right on schedule.”

  Although Yanagisawa knew Ienobu must be furious at him, Ienobu’s mocking manner was placid. Yanagisawa tethered his own unruly emotions. In a battle of wits, they would put him at a disadvantage. “Then you must know why I’m here.”

  “You’re not satisfied with throwing me out of the court. You wanted to see me living in squalid ruins. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Yanagisawa figured that Ienobu had rushed to rebuild his estate the moment Yoshisato had appeared at court as the shogun’s son. Ienobu had wanted somewhere to go to ground if Yanagisawa ran him off. This spoke volumes about Ienobu: He thought ahead, planned for all possible contingencies. Now he had a secure, comfortable base from which to operate.

  “Guess again,” Yanagisawa said.

  “You want to rub salt in my wounds?”

  “Far be it from me to indulge in such a cheap thrill.”

  “May I offer you some refreshments?”

  “Never mind.” Far be it from Yanagisawa to eat or drink anything in Ienobu’s house. It would surely be poisoned.

  “I give up, then.” Ienobu’s expression proclaimed that although he’d lost a major battle to Yanagisawa, he wasn’t quitting the war.

  “I came to talk about a little problem the shogun has been having,” Yanagisawa said. “He’s complained about noise outside his bedchamber.”

  Caution hooded Ienobu’s bulging eyes. “What sort of noise?”

  Yanagisawa knew that Ienobu knew exactly what sort. “People whispering at night. They’ve been disturbing his sleep. Have you anything to do with it?” />
  “Far be it from me to disturb my honorable uncle.”

  Yanagisawa knew Ienobu was lying through his big teeth. “You’ll be glad to know the problem has been solved.”

  Ienobu feigned mild curiosity. “Oh? How?” Air whistled through his nostrils as alarm quickened his breathing. He feared that Yanagisawa had arrested his henchmen who’d been telling the shogun that Yoshisato wasn’t really his son and they’d confessed that Ienobu had put them up to it.

  “Let’s just say I’ve put a stop to the chatter,” Yanagisawa said.

  “Good.” Ienobu tried to sound enthusiastic, but his voice was flat.

  Yanagisawa smiled. “I’m glad we had this talk. If the chatter should start again, your uncle and I know who not to blame.” His warning gaze told Ienobu that if he tried any more funny business, there were worse fates than being dismissed from court. Even the shogun’s nephew could have a fatal “accident.”

  Ienobu shifted position, scrambling for a rejoinder. “I just thought of a problem I’d like to bring to your attention. Would you like to guess what it is?”

  Apprehension stiffened Yanagisawa’s smile. “I doubt that I’ll have to guess.” But he already had. “Because you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “My sources say the shogun’s daughter was murdered. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Of course not.” Yanagisawa spoke in an amused, disdainful tone, but his heartbeat skipped. He’d hoped that even if Lady Nobuko and Sano had gotten the idea that Tsuruhime’s death was murder, nobody else would, especially not Ienobu. “Your sources are blowing smoke up your bony rear end. Tsuruhime died of smallpox.”

  Ienobu grinned; he knew he had the upper hand. “Not all cases of smallpox are natural. A sheet stained with blood and pus was found in Tsuruhime’s room before she took ill. It came from the bed of another smallpox victim.”

  Yanagisawa’s heart sank. There was evidence that Tsuruhime had been deliberately infected. Ienobu’s spies had heard about it; Yanagisawa’s own hadn’t.

  “You can’t really believe that story,” Yanagisawa scoffed. “You’ve been putting your ear to the rumor mill so hard, you must have ground it off.” He leaned from side to side, pretending to check on whether Ienobu had both ears.

  “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s true,” Ienobu said smugly. “Your friend Sano-san does, or he wouldn’t be investigating Tsuruhime’s death.”

  Yanagisawa was all the more disturbed to hear that Ienobu knew about Sano’s investigation. “Then where is the sheet?” Yanagisawa had to get hold of it and destroy it before it could be used against him.

  “If you don’t think it exists, then why should you care where it is? What I’d also like to know is, how did the sheet get into Tsuruhime’s room?” Ienobu’s eyes were bright with suspicion and malice. “Perhaps you can tell me?”

  “Perhaps you can tell me. You’re so convinced that Tsuruhime was murdered; it’s probably because you killed her yourself.”

  “Not I,” Ienobu said with pious conviction. “Tsuruhime’s death doesn’t help me. You’re the one who wants Yoshisato to be the next shogun. If Tsuruhime had lived to bear a son whose pedigree was indisputable, she could have knocked Yoshisato out of the succession.” Ienobu pretended to have a sudden, bright idea. “But wait—you’re not the only one with a motive. Yoshisato’s is stronger. After all, the dictatorship is his to lose.”

  If Yoshisato were implicated in the murder of the shogun’s daughter, he could lose more than his right to rule Japan. He could be put to death. Yanagisawa was more worried about Yoshisato’s safety than his own. His love for Yoshisato made him vulnerable. Losing one son had almost destroyed him. He couldn’t lose another. But Ienobu didn’t seem to have anyone he cared about more than his repulsive self.

  “You’re speaking of the shogun’s heir. Be careful,” Yanagisawa said, his voice hushed with menace. “Or you could find yourself brought up on charges of treason.”

  “No, you’re the one who should be careful. You’re playing a dangerous game, passing your son off as the shogun’s. I’m offering you a chance to get out of it with your head still attached to your body. Tell the shogun the astrologer made a mistake: Yoshisato isn’t his son.”

  “You’d like that,” Yanagisawa said, astounded by Ienobu’s nerve. “That would put you back in line to inherit the regime. But if you think I’ll do it, you’re insane.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll help Sano prove that you and Yoshisato murdered Tsuruhime. My uncle will put you both to death for treason. And I’ll be the next shogun.”

  Although upset by the idea of Ienobu and Sano joining forces, Yanagisawa said, “Go ahead, make friends with Sano. It will make things more convenient for me: I can destroy you both at once.”

  “I have to give you credit,” Ienobu said with mocking admiration. “No one else bluffs as well as you. You should really take my advice, though. If you don’t, we’ll just see which one of us comes out on top. And I have a bet with myself that it will be me.”

  “That’s a wise bet,” Yanagisawa retorted. “When you lose, you can still collect from yourself.”

  Ienobu smirked, as if he saw the anxiety Yanagisawa was trying to hide. “Here are my troops to escort you out. They’ve timed it just right. Our conversation is finished.”

  Furious because he’d been intimidated by Ienobu, then rudely dismissed, Yanagisawa rose. Coming here had been a mistake. Instead of subduing Ienobu, he’d escalated the strife between them. Ienobu was an even craftier and more ruthless adversary than he’d thought. Ienobu was trouble that wouldn’t go away even if Yanagisawa managed to avoid being blamed for Tsuruhime’s murder.

  Ienobu uttered a dry laugh, like cicada wings rubbing together. As Yanagisawa walked out of the room, he called, “I’m so glad we had this talk.”

  17

  MASAHIRO STEPPED INTO the teahouse. The proprietor and peasants bowed. Jinnosuke ignored him. The young samurai slouched morosely over the table that held his sake cup. Masahiro walked over, knelt opposite Jinnosuke, and said, “Hello. Do you remember me?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I was at Lord Tsunanori’s estate yesterday. My name is Masahiro. I helped you pick up the tiles.”

  “Oh. Yes. Thanks.” Recognition glimmered in Jinnosuke’s bleary eyes. He was drunk, Masahiro realized. He motioned to the proprietor. “A drink for my friend, and another for me.”

  The proprietor set a cup in front of Masahiro. Masahiro bravely downed the sake. He’d only had a few drinks in his life. This time he managed not to cough; the liquor was watery, cheap. He sought to start a conversation about Tsuruhime’s murder.

  “Those men you were working with yesterday,” he began.

  “Those bullies! They’re always picking on me!” Jinnosuke burst out. “They don’t understand what it’s like to lose someone you love.” His voice broke. He gulped his sake.

  “Who did you love and lose?” Masahiro prompted.

  Jinnosuke shook his head, pressed his trembling lips together.

  “Was it Lord Tsunanori’s wife?”

  “Shh!” Jinnosuke glanced nervously at the other customers. He asked in a low voice, “How did you know?”

  “I guessed,” Masahiro said, “from what the bullies said.”

  “They won’t keep their mouths shut. I’m going to get in trouble for sure.” Jinnosuke dropped his head in his hands and groaned. “I never meant to fall in love with Tsuruhime! When she was alive, I didn’t care what happened to me. She was all that mattered. But now that she’s gone—” His thin shoulders heaved with a sob.

  “How did it happen?” Masahiro thought that falling in love with his master’s wife was a stupid thing for a samurai to do.

  “I was one of her bodyguards.” Jinnosuke wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Whenever she went out, I rode alongside her palanquin and we talked about the weather, the things we saw, anything to pass the time. One day there was a beautiful cloud in the sky. It was
shaped like a swan. I made up a poem about it and recited it to her. We discovered that we both liked poetry. We started writing poems and passing them to each other at home. It was fun, a secret game.

  “But the poems got more and more personal. And one night there was a moon-viewing party. We went for a walk in the woods, and I told her I was in love with her. She said she was in love with me. And, well, one thing led to another.”

  Masahiro had been to moon-viewing parties and knew that other things went on there besides looking at the moon. He’d heard the whispers, scuffles, and giggling in the darkness.

  “It was my first time,” Jinnosuke said. “She was so passionate, as if she was starved for lovemaking. We couldn’t get enough of each other. When her husband was away, we would meet in her chamber. We thought people wouldn’t notice. But pretty soon the fellows started making remarks, and the maids giggled when they saw me. It wasn’t smart of us, I know.”

  Masahiro thought it wasn’t smart to get drunk and blab to a stranger. He remembered Detective Marume telling him, People are stupid. That’s a real advantage for a detective.

  “Then Tsuruhime got smallpox.” Tears welled in Jinnosuke’s eyes. “Nobody was allowed to go near her except her nurse. I couldn’t even send her letters. I didn’t trust the nurse not to tell Lord Tsunanori.” He choked on a sob. “I couldn’t even say good-bye.”

  Masahiro felt sorry for Jinnosuke, but he remembered Detective Marume saying, You can’t allow sympathy to get in the way when you’re interrogating a witness.

  “Did Lord Tsunanori find out about you and Tsuruhime?” Masahiro asked.

  “I don’t think so. If he did, he would have killed me. But maybe somebody told him. He’s been giving me dirty looks. Or maybe I’m just imagining it.” Jinnosuke pressed his hands over his temples. “Merciful gods, I’m so confused! I don’t want to go home. I can’t take any more stares or jokes, and I’m scared of Lord Tsunanori.”