Yutaro did not follow them, but stood outside in the corridor, listening.
The body had been removed, but the coppery blood scent lingered like faint incense. A dark stain on the floor stopped at the place where the sleeping mat had lain. That too was gone, probably to be burned. The blood itself would not be cleaned up until Shinto priests came to drive away the bad kami, or spirits.
The judge pointed to the rope that led from the lantern hook to the window. “At least we know how the assassin escaped. He did not fly away.”
Seikei wondered whether the judge was teasing him about his earlier suggestion. As if to reassure him, the judge went on: “But he could have been invisible, if he were a ninja.”
A ninja? When Seikei and his brothers had been very young, their mother used to frighten them when they misbehaved by telling them stories of the ninjas. They could come and go wherever they wished, because they had magic powers that they could use to make themselves invisible. They came in the night to capture naughty children while they slept and punished them in ways too horrible to be described.
“Are there really such people as ninjas?” Seikei asked.
“Yes, most certainly there are,” replied the judge. “Look at this rope. It’s made of silk. Just the sort of thing a ninja would use. Light enough to be carried easily, but strong enough to hold—come see.”
Seikei joined the judge at the window and looked down. He felt dizzy at the thought of falling. “You see,” the judge said, “the assassin would not have needed to put his full weight on the rope. He could have balanced his feet against the wall on the way down. Still, he could not have weighed as much as I do.”
The judge gave Seikei a glance. Seikei’s stomach churned as he realized the judge might ask him to test the rope by climbing down it.
Instead, the judge whispered, as if he didn’t want Yutaro to hear from the corridor, “Have you noticed anything else that provides us with a clue to the assassin’s identity?”
Seikei examined the rope carefully. It was made of black silk. The knot that held it to the lantern hook was not unusual, just a secure knot of the kind anyone would use.
He looked around the room. Had the assassin left any other trace of himself? Not the weapon he must have used to slit the daimyo’s throat. Seikei trained his eyes on the spot where the judge was looking.
There was an outline on the floor traced by the dried blood. Something had been there earlier when the blood had flowed around it. Seikei bent to study its shape. “A wing?” he said, puzzled.
“We must talk to the servants who cleared the room,” said the judge.
2
THE BUTTERFLY
There is a disadvantage to being feared,” the judge had once told Seikei. ”People sometimes confess to crimes they did not commit.”
“Why would anyone do that?” asked Seikei.
“They want to avoid being tortured.”
“But you don’t use torture to get people to confess,” Seikei said. The judge had often said that such methods were useless in finding the truth.
“Unfortunately,” replied the judge, “they know that I can, if I wish.”
It was apparent from the looks of the servants that they were thinking of torture, if not something worse. Yutaro, Lord Inaba’s son, had done nothing to reassure them. After the judge asked to question the servants, Yutaro brought them together like a flock of chickens. They assembled in a room downstairs where there was a shrine to a Buddhist saint, with a candle burning in front of it. The servants huddled together as closely as possible, and when they saw the judge, with the two swords under his belt marking him as a samurai, they all dropped to their hands and knees, tangling their legs together in their haste.
Seikei saw that there were seven of them: five women and two men. “Look up, if you please,” the judge told them. Reluctantly their eyes rose from the floor.
“Which of you removed Lord Inaba’s body from his room?” the judge asked.
“We were ordered to do it,” protested one of the men in a shrill voice. The other man nodded vigorously.
“I understand,” said the judge quietly. “When was this?”
“Yesterday morning, after they found him dead,” the man said.
“What is your name?” asked the judge.
The man looked around as if he were sorry he’d spoken. He bowed his head and murmured, “Doppo.”
“Who was it who found Lord Inaba?” asked the judge.
“One of the guards. It was their fault. We were all in our rooms asleep.”
The others nodded, some of them murmuring agreement.
“Did anyone besides the guards enter the room before you moved the body?”
The two men looked at each other, and Doppo finally spoke. “Just Yutaro. I mean ... Lord Inaba.”
The judge paused before saying, “The new Lord Inaba.”
“Yes. He is our lord now.” Doppo glanced at Yutaro, who was standing to one side of the room. Seikei thought Yutaro seemed pleased that the servant referred to him that way, and of course that was just what Doppo had hoped to see.
“Did you enter the room while the body was there?” the judge asked, directing his question at Yutaro. Seikei could see that the new Lord Inaba did not like being questioned in the same manner as his servants. But of course the judge represented the shogun, and could in theory torture anyone to obtain a response....
Even so, it took Yutaro a moment to answer. Seikei could see he was trying to think what the best reply would be, instead of what the truth was. “I did,” he said finally.
The judge looked back at Doppo. “Did you see anything on the floor when you removed the body?” he asked.
Doppo furrowed his brows. “The lord was on the floor.”
“He was on a mat,” corrected the judge.
Doppo looked as if he’d been tricked. “Well, then, the mat was on the floor. I noticed that.”
The judge glanced around at the others. “The mat has also been removed. Who took it?”
“We were ordered to,” said one of the women.
“Yes, yes,” the judge said impatiently. “I understand that. What is your name?”
“Shiwo.” She was middle-aged and looked as if she had some authority in the household. Without being prompted, she went on: “We took the mat and burned it, for it was impure with the lord’s blood.”
“And the blood on the floor ... ,” the judge began.
“We were waiting for the Shinto priest before we cleaned that up,” said Shiwo. “But you showed up first.”
“So I did. When you took the mat away, did you notice anything else on the floor?”
“Just the blood, as your lordship said.”
“You said we took the mat. Who else was with you?”
“No one, Lord. Only Hana.” Shiwo gestured to a girl about twelve years old next to her. “She’s a little slow,” Shiwo said with a wink at the judge. “Doesn’t know anything you might want to know.”
At the mention of her name, Hana looked terrified. Her eyes, pinned on the judge, couldn’t have been any wider if she had been watching a dragon.
The judge gave her a glance, thought for a moment, and then announced, “I would like everyone to come upstairs and show me exactly what you did in the room.” He paused. “Except Hana. You may stay here.”
Taking Seikei by the arm, the judge spoke softly in his ear: “I want you to question Hana. She may have picked up whatever was on the floor. I need to know what it was.”
Seikei wanted to ask the judge how he should draw this information from a girl who looked too frightened to speak. But he realized he was supposed to find that out on his own.
When the others had left, the girl knelt in a corner of the room as if she hoped Seikei wouldn’t notice her. He went a little closer. “What kind of work do you do?” he asked.
She looked as if she couldn’t believe he was speaking to her. As he held her gaze, however, she said softly, “Whatever anybody wants.
Shiwo’s in charge of us. She tells me what to do.”
“And she told you to help her remove the mat from Lord Inaba’s room?”
“Yes. I was scared. I would never have dared to go there otherwise.”
“I believe you,” Seikei said. Hana didn’t seem to be the courageous type.
“And I wouldn’t have taken anything if I’d thought it was valuable,” she added.
“Um ... you wouldn’t?”
Hana put her hand over her mouth as if she realized she had said too much.
“Well, it probably wasn’t valuable,” said Seikei.
“I didn’t think it was,” Hana replied. “And anyway, it was spoiled. Nobody would want it, that’s what I thought. Nobody would even miss it. Shiwo would just have burned it if she’d seen it.”
Seikei tried to figure out how to get her to tell him just what it was. “Yes,” he said, “but the judge noticed. Nothing escapes him.”
The girl was silent for a moment. Then a tear fell from her eye, cascading down her cheek. Then one from the other eye, followed by another, and another.
Seikei was as alarmed as if she had sprung a leak and would soon engulf the room in tears. “Stop that!” he said.
She hung her head so he couldn’t see her crying. “If any of us are caught stealing,” she said between sobs, “we’re immediately dismissed. And I have no place to go. My parents are dead, and my grandmother said I was very lucky to find a place in Lord Inaba’s household. She’s probably dead too.”
After a little while, she quieted down. “Are you finished crying?” Seikei asked.
She shook her head no.
“Look, I have an idea,” he said. “Give me what you picked up in the room, and I won’t tell anyone.”
She gave Seikei a look of surprise. The tears on her cheeks still distressed him, but he tried to appear calm.
“You won’t?” she asked. “Truly?”
“Well, I have to tell the judge,” he said, “but—”
He stopped because she had started to cry again. “He will punish me, I know,” she sniffled.
“No, don’t worry,” said Seikei. “He’s really very kind. I know he’ll forgive you.”
She looked into his eyes. “You swear?” she asked.
“On my honor as a samurai,” he said, putting his hand on the wooden sword he carried under his obi.
Abruptly she threw her arms around his knees. He looked around, fearing that someone would enter the room and see. “Let go, now,” he said. “If you don’t give me the thing before the judge returns, he may not forgive you.”
“Oh,” she said. She released him and reached inside her kimono. Drawing something out, she opened her hand to reveal a butterfly.
It was made of folded paper, crumpled now and partly stained with dark blood. But unmistakably it had been intended as a butterfly, for the red paper wings were painted with black spots, just like a real butterfly.
“I didn’t think anybody would want it,” Hana said in a small voice.
“It could help us find the person who killed Lord Inaba,” said Seikei.
Hana smiled as if she knew Seikei was trying to fool her. “Oh, you’ll never find him,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because it was a ninja. That’s what the servants all say.”
“How do they know? Did anyone see him?”
“Of course not. You can’t see ninjas. That’s how they know it was a ninja.”
Seikei couldn’t think of an answer to this, but he reminded himself that all possibilities must be considered.
“Why would a ninja want to kill Lord Inaba?” he asked.
Hana shrugged. “Somebody must have paid him.”
“Who would do that?”
“I don’t know. You’re the judge’s assistant, aren’t you?”
Seikei was annoyed at himself. The judge had often told him, “Never let people you are questioning ask you the questions.” Before he could reply, however, the judge returned. He was by himself and gave Seikei a questioning look. Seikei held up the butterfly.
“Very good,” said the judge. He turned to Hana.
“Thank you for saving this for us.”
“I ... I didn’t think—” she began.
“This didn’t belong to Lord Inaba, did it?” asked the judge.
“Oh, no.” Hana seemed horrified by the thought.
“I would never take anything that belonged to the lord.”
“Just so,” said the judge. ”You may go now.”
She lost no time doing that, scrambling to her feet and backing out the doorway while bowing many times at the judge. Seikei thought he himself received a grateful glance just before she disappeared.
The judge took the paper butterfly from Seikei and turned it over in his hands.
“What does it mean?” said Seikei.
“It tells us who the assassin is,” replied the judge.
3
THE TRAIL BEGINS HERE
Seikei stared. Though he knew Judge Ooka had great powers of deduction, he could hardly believe the judge had solved the case simply by looking at a paper butterfly.
The judge saw Seikei’s confusion, and smiled. “There is still much work to do before we apprehend the assassin,” he said.
“But who is he?” asked Seikei.
“And, of course, I do not yet know his name,” said the judge. “But as you know, once we understand a person’s actions and motives, finding him is no more difficult than following the tracks of a deer in the forest. If we continue with persistence, eventually the deer will stop to rest and we will catch him.”
Seikei thought it would be harder than that. “How did the butterfly tell you all this?”
“Actually, the butterfly has even more secrets to tell us. But I was asking other questions while you were finding the butterfly. Since you were not present, I will explain.”
He stopped because Shiwo had appeared at the doorway. “Would your lordship care for something to eat?” she asked.
“That would be most welcome,” said the judge. “Can you bring trays to us here?”
“Whatever you wish,” she replied.
After she left, the judge told Seikei, “Pay attention to the quality of the food we are served.”
Seikei wondered if the judge were letting his love of food overshadow his interest in capturing the criminal. Immediately Seikei chided himself for thinking such a disloyal thought.
Again the judge smiled, and Seikei hung his head as if his foster father could indeed read his thoughts.
“Do you recall,” the judge asked, “when the new Lord Inaba—Yutaro—said he thought the assassin was a thief?”
“Yes,” Seikei said, glad that he had paid attention earlier.
“Upstairs, I asked him and the servants what had been stolen. They could not answer—that is, they could find nothing that was missing. The young lord suggested that the thief was frightened away before he could steal anything. Do you believe that?”
Seikei thought rapidly. “Everyone was asleep. No one ever saw the assassin. He could not have been frightened away.”
“So it was,” said the judge. “And what else did Yutaro tell us that we must now reject?”
This was a more difficult question. Seikei thought over what he remembered Yutaro saying. Then it came to him: “That his father, the old Lord Inaba, had no enemies.”
The pleased look on the judge’s face was Seikei’s greatest reward. “Just so,” said the judge.
Shiwo appeared then, carrying a tray of food for the two of them. When she set it down, Seikei saw that it held only two small bowls of plain rice and a dish of seaweed with a little soy sauce sprinkled over it. There were also two cups of tea. Seikei’s family had been tea merchants for five generations, and he could smell without tasting it that it was inferior tea. To be served such a meager meal in a lord’s castle was almost insulting.
Then Seikei realized that was what the judge had told him to notic
e.
The judge made no comment on the food. He merely picked up his chopsticks and began to eat.
When Shiwo had departed, however, Seikei asked, “Why are we being served this kind of food?”
“Ordinarily,” said the judge, “I would take it to mean we are not welcome here.”
Seikei finished his bowl of rice quickly, since he hadn’t eaten much for breakfast. It took an effort for him to leave most of the seaweed for the judge.
After the judge put down the empty bowl, he folded his hands on his belly and closed his eyes. A look of satisfaction slowly crept over his face, as if he had just enjoyed a magnificent feast.
Seikei knew there was nothing to do but wait. Bunzo had taught him that if you wanted time to pass quickly, it helped to concentrate on a sound. Seikei thought of a time when he had heard the geisha Umae singing. Just at the point where her voice was highest in a lovely melody ...
But his mind kept wandering to other things. The butterfly. How did it tell the judge who the assassin was? Who was he, anyway? An enemy of Lord Inaba’s? What did the meal they’d been served have to do with—
“I am thinking,” the judge said unexpectedly, his eyes still closed, “of a wonderful meal I once had at the house of a man who loved food as much as I do. Have you ever tasted soba noodles with whipped mountain yam and quail eggs?”
“No,” answered Seikei.
“A pity. Then you would have something to think about after a meal like this one.”
“You said the meal means we aren’t welcome here,” said Seikei. “Does that mean we should leave?”
“Not yet,” replied the judge. “I want to see how unwelcome we are.” He seemed to relax again, and Seikei knew there was more waiting to be done.
Seikei closed his eyes and tried to think of a meal he had particularly liked. It didn’t take him long. Okayu—rice porridge that his mother had often fixed. Eating okayu had always made Seikei feel secure, as if nothing bad could ever happen. But of course, bad things did happen. Life with his old father had not been easy.
His father—the one Seikei had been born with—had always told Seikei how foolish he was. “Wishing to be a samurai—you know that is impossible! And even if it were possible, you would not like it!”
In Darkness, Death Page 2
