Now Sano wondered if he—or Tekare—suspected that Lady Matsumae had been involved in the murder.
Intent on the falcon he was examining, Lord Matsumae gave no sign that Sano could see. “Just make sure the guards stay near her at all times, Uncle.”
“As you wish.” Gizaemon’s dark look said how much he hated being overruled by a ghost although not by his nephew.
The birds were calmer now. Only the largest, a magnificent eagle with gold plumage, still shrieked. Lord Matsumae slipped a gauntlet on his left hand and whistled. With a great flap of wings, the eagle leaped onto his fist. He rewarded the eagle with a dead mouse. Sano thought how barbaric seemed the ancient sport of falconry. Since Buddhism had taken root in Japan some eleven centuries ago, hunting had fallen into disfavor because Buddhist doctrine forbade eating meat. Most samurai kept falcons as a mere bow to tradition. But Ezogashima was a world apart from mainstream Japanese society. Here, blood sport flourished. But Sano was more interested in a different kind of hunt: the search for a killer.
“What else are you going to do?” Lord Matsumae asked.
“Detective Fukida and I will examine the scene of the murder,” Sano said.
“That’s a waste of time,” Gizaemon scoffed. “There’s nothing left to see.”
“I still need to have a look.” Sano wondered what Gizaemon didn’t want him to find.
“That’s fine with me.” Lord Matsumae unfastened the tether that tied the eagle to its perch. “And me,” echoed Tekare’s voice. He cast the bird off his fist. It flew in circles while the other birds shrieked and flapped as if envious of its freedom. “Anything else?”
“I have a request from the Ezo,” Sano said. “They ask permission to hold a funeral for Tekare.”
“A funeral? To bury her in the ground?” Lord Matsumae exclaimed in horror. “You want to take her away from me!” He clutched his arms as if embracing his dead mistress in them. “Her remains are all I have left of her. How can you ask me to give them up?”
“The Ezo say a funeral will help her cross over to the spirit world,” Sano said. “She’ll stop haunting you.”
“But I don’t want her to cross over. I don’t want her to leave me!”
Lord Matsumae waved his arms. One struck the eagle as it flew by him. Confused or frightened, it screeched and flew straight at Sano.
“Look out!” Detective Fukida said.
The eagle came so near Sano that he could see the luminous flecks in its golden eyes. Ducking, he felt wings brush his head. Lord Matsumae guffawed and cackled. Sano dodged the eagle as it dived repeatedly at him while the other falcons set up a din of screeches. Fukida ran after the bird and yelled. It swooped toward him, then Sano again. Hands raised up to protect himself from its talons, Sano said, “A funeral could reveal the truth about Tekare’s murder.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Matsumae began, then said in Tekare’s voice, “Wait, my lord. He may be right.”
“But I don’t want you to go to the spirit world, my beloved. I don’t want you to leave me.”
“I won’t. A funeral can’t take me away. I want to know who killed me.”
Clasping his hands, Lord Matsumae beseeched the empty air around him: “Do you promise?”
“I promise. Now let the honorable chamberlain live so he can finish what he’s started.”
“All right, my beloved.”
Lord Matsumae held up a scrap of meat and whistled. The eagle alighted on his fist. It gulped the meat and folded its wings. Sano was relieved and amazed that he’d been saved by a ghost.
“The funeral will be held tomorrow morning,” Lord Matsumae decided. “In the meantime, Chamberlain Sano will continue his investigation. Take him to the scene of the murder, Uncle.”
Gizaemon scowled, unhappy to be overruled yet again. “All right, Chamberlain Sano.” You win this time, said his tone. “Let’s get it over with.”
The way to the murder scene lay out the back gate of the castle, down the hill through stands of trees, and along a trampled path that divided into a fork. One branch led farther downhill, toward town. The other led along a ridge edged by bare trees. Following Gizaemon onto this path, Sano could see the ocean, gray and dull like beaten steel.
“Not that I wouldn’t like to get rid of that corpse in the teahouse, but you shouldn’t have mentioned a funeral to my nephew,” Gizaemon said. “That always sets him off.”
“You could have told me,” Sano said.
“Next time listen when I warn you to stay away from him.”
The path inclined gently into forest that was thick enough to shut off all sight of Fukuyama City, and quiet except for an occasional bird’s squawk. Sano could imagine himself in the wild heartland of Ezogashima instead of a short walk from civilization. “What was Tekare doing out here?”
“There’s a hot spring up ahead.” Gizaemon chewed a sassafras toothpick. Sano smelled acid as well as the spice in his breath. He must have indigestion and need the sassafras to calm his stomach. “Women in the castle like to bathe in it.”
“They come all the way out here to take a bath?” Sano said, puzzled by what seemed a strange custom.
“Takes a long time to heat water in the winter. But there are springs all over Ezogashima, naturally full of hot water all year round. The women can come here whenever they want a bath. They don’t have to wait for the tub to warm up. And the water has healing powers.”
Glancing at the snow on the path, Sano saw his footprints and Gizaemon’s overlap other, smaller ones. The spring got a lot of use even though it was a cold walk from the castle. He smelled its moisture and warmth, and a whiff of sulfur.
“Where was the spring-bow set?” Sano asked.
“Up there.” Gizaemon stopped and pointed to a patch in the forest where broken stumps remained from trees that had fallen. It lay along a clear line of shot to the path.
“The trip-string was tied to that,” Gizaemon said, indicating a pine beyond the path’s opposite side.
Sano and Fukida examined the trunk of the pine. They moved on to the place where the murder weapon had stood. The snow there looked untouched, except for a few tiny animal tracks.
Gizaemon said, “I hope you’re satisfied. I told you this was a waste of time.”
Sano was disappointed nonetheless. He’d hoped for any clue that might help him solve the case. As they returned to the path and resumed walking, Fukida said, “Where is the spring-bow now?”
“Lord Matsumae hacked it apart with an axe and burned the pieces. He needed something to punish.”
So much for examining the murder weapon for clues. Sano said, “Where was the body found?”
Gizaemon paced some twenty steps farther. Sano and Fukida marched alongside him, stopped when he did. Gizaemon grinned. “Right where you’re standing.”
Sano looked down and saw a mental image of the woman now enshrined in the tea cottage. Tekare lay, her black hair fanned out, against ground covered with pine needles and leaves. Her body was robust, youthful, and ripe instead of withered. Her face was smooth and beautiful instead of decayed. The blood from her wound gleamed red, newly spilled, dotting the path between her body and the place where she’d tripped the spring. The image was so vivid that Sano could feel the essence of the woman, passionate and tempestuous. He blinked. Her image disappeared. He was gazing at blank snow.
“That’s where she fell,” Gizaemon said. “She was strong, to get this far before the poison on the arrow killed her.”
“Who found her?” Sano asked.
“You’re talking to him,” Gizaemon replied.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Sano thought. “How did you happen to be the one to find Tekare?”
“That morning, Lord Matsumae wanted her company. She wasn’t in the women’s quarters. Her bed hadn’t been slept in. We looked for her all over the castle, no sign of her. I led the search party that checked this path.”
“Why was it your party that came out here?”
Gi
zaemon shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”
But the person who discovered the body often turned out to be the murderer. Maybe Gizaemon had known where to find Tekare because he’d set the spring-bow for her. Maybe he’d wanted to be first on the scene to see if his trap had worked. If he was the killer, that would explain why he wanted to prevent Sano—or Reiko—from finding evidence. But if he wasn’t, then he was an important witness.
“Tell me what you saw when you found Tekare,” Sano said.
“The spring-bow, the loose string.” Gizaemon pointed at the places he’d seen them. “The arrow lying on the ground where she left it after she pulled it out of herself. A trail of blood leading to her body.”
“Was there anyone around?”
“Not that I saw.” Gizaemon regarded Sano with disdain. “The killer could have set the trap at any time before she came along the path. That’s the advantage of the spring-bow. You don’t need to be there to bring down your prey.”
“Some killers like seeing their victims die,” Sano said.
“Well, if that was the case, he could have watched and been long gone by the time I came,” Gizaemon said. “Tekare’s body was cold and stiff. She’d been dead since the night before.”
The circumstances of the murder troubled Sano. “You indicated that other women besides Tekare used this spring?”
“That’s right.”
“Then the trap could have been set for someone else.”
“Maybe,” Gizaemon said, “except that she liked to come here at night. But even if she wasn’t the person meant to die, what does it matter? You still have to find out who killed her.”
“True,” Sano said, but it did matter. If Tekare hadn’t been the intended victim, then he’d wasted yesterday on inquiries related to her. If a different woman was the killer’s actual target, there were motives, suspects, and clues he had yet to discover. Even worse, what if the killer hadn’t had a particular victim in mind? What if he was like a hunter who didn’t care which deer he bagged as long as he got one? How could logical detective work solve such a random crime?
But Sano thought it best to proceed under the theory that Tekare had been the intended victim, unless he found out otherwise. With all the enmity and strong passions Tekare had inspired, she seemed the perfect target for murder.
And the man beside Sano seemed a perfect suspect. “How did you know that Tekare liked to bathe in the hot spring at night?”
“General knowledge.”
“But maybe you knew Tekare’s habits because you watched her. Followed her. Stalked her like game in the forest.”
“After me again, are you?” Gizaemon said, irritated. “I told you I didn’t kill Tekare. But if you’re so good at making up theories, explain this: Why would I kill the woman Lord Matsumae loved? He’s the most important person in the world to me.” His expression filled with proud, fierce tenderness. “How could I hurt him?”
Sano didn’t have an answer. That was the biggest weakness in his case against Gizaemon.
Gizaemon laughed. “I thought so. Maybe now you’ll believe me when I tell you that it was an Ezo who killed Tekare.”
“If I believe you, that would give you more than an excuse to subjugate the natives and take over Ezogashima.”
Gizaemon ignored Sano’s hint that he was guilty and diverting the blame for the murder onto innocent people in order to avoid punishment himself. “They’re a shifty, dishonorable people. The opposite of samurai.” Fukida rolled his eyes at Sano: They’d met too many samurai who were a disgrace to the Way of the Warrior. “And they don’t respect Japanese law. One of theirs misbehaves, they take care of the problem in their own fashion. That rule applied to Tekare.”
“The Empress of Snow Country?” Sano said. “The wife who sold her favors to men in exchange for gifts, then left her husband to come to the city as a mistress to Japanese men?”
Sardonic humor wrinkled the leathery skin around Gizaemon’s eyes. “I see that Hirata-san got an earful from the gold merchant. You should listen, Honorable Chamberlain. It’ll lead you to her killer.”
“Urahenka?” Sano said, recalling the young Ezo’s passionate claim that he’d loved his wife, wanted her back, and had come to Fukuyama City to rescue her. His angry denial that he’d murdered her had seemed more credible yesterday, before the gold merchant had shown Tekare in a bad light.
“Not him. He doesn’t have the authority to act on his own. The chieftain’s the one I mean.”
“Why would he have killed Tekare? She was the village shamaness. He wanted to bring her home for the good of the tribe.”
“If you believe him, then I’ll sell you the hot spring to take back to Edo.” Gizaemon turned and stalked down the path the way they’d come. “No, he wanted to punish her.”
“Punish her for what?” As Sano kept pace with Gizaemon, he felt lost in this land of unfamiliar customs.
“For everything she did wrong. The Ezo believe that the shamaness keeps the village in balance with the cosmos. If she’s a good girl, fortune will smile upon them. If not, the spirits will send them sickness, famine, and death. Tekare had upset the natural order. The only way for the Ezo to restore it was to destroy her. And that was the chieftain’s duty.”
Sano frowned. Chieftain Awetok had impressed him as straightforward and honest, but maybe Sano was misjudging the man due to his ignorance about the Ezo. Maybe he was viewing them as savages who didn’t have motives or relationships as complicated as Japanese had. Maybe he was too ready to think them incapable of subterfuge. Were they hiding secrets behind the barrier of cultural differences? Understanding the Ezo might be critical to solving the crime, but Sano understood his fellow Japanese very well. Gizaemon behaved like a decoy soldier planting false tracks for enemy troops to follow.
“You said Tekare upset the natural order. Did she do that here? Did she cause trouble for you?” Sano said.
Gizaemon snorted as they walked down the path. He seemed to imply that a mere Ezo woman was too trivial to bother him. “She didn’t know her place in the world. But that wasn’t my business. She was the barbarians’ problem. And their chieftain dealt with her.”
Trying to pin Gizaemon down was like trying to nail an eel to a board while it slithered repeatedly out of one’s grasp. Sano said, “You seem to know a lot about the Ezo.”
“I should. I’ve spent most of my life in their territory.”
“That would include knowing how to use Ezo weapons,” Sano said, “like the spring-bow.”
Gizaemon halted at the spot where the string had been stretched across the path. Exasperation colored his tough face. “For the last time, I didn’t kill that woman. For your own good, you’d better stop trying to pin her murder on me. When Lord Matsumae gets tired of waiting for you to solve the crime and puts you to death, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Refusing to be intimidated or sidetracked, Sano said, “Where were you the day Tekare died, before she sprang the trap?”
“Nowhere near it. You won’t be able to prove I was.”
“Have you ever used a spring-bow?”
Gizaemon’s manner turned condescending. “If you want to know about the spring-bow, let me explain something to you. There’s no trick to using a spring-bow. That’s the whole point of it. You don’t have to be a good shot. You just set it up, aim it in the right direction, and tie the string. You walk away and wait. Then—”
His fist socked his palm. “Anyone with a little strength and the slightest intelligence can score a hit. Even a woman.”
Chapter Fourteen
At the entrance to Lady Matsumae’s chambers, the guard said to Reiko, “We’ll be waiting right here. Don’t try anything.”
Reiko bowed her head meekly even though rebellion seethed in her. If she wanted to find Masahiro, she must lull the guards into trusting her, the better to escape again later.
Inside the chamber she found Lady Matsumae, her attendants, and the maid Lilac. Lady Matsumae knelt at a t
able spread with sheets of paper, a writing brush in her hand. The attendants mixed and poured out ink for her. Their actions had the solemn air of a religious ritual. Lilac fanned the coals in a brazier. She gave Reiko a furtive smile. The other women bowed politely.
“Good morning,” Lady Matsumae said.
The few syllables conveyed that she was anything but happy to see Reiko again. Reiko saw that if she wanted information from Lady Matsumae, she had serious amends to make.
Kneeling and bowing, Reiko said, “I’m sorry about your daughter. I shouldn’t have spoken so insensitively yesterday. Please accept my condolences.”
“They are much appreciated.” Lady Matsumae seemed to relent a little. “It was wrong of me to treat an honored guest so discourteously. Please forgive me.”
In spite of this apology, Reiko felt a new aversion to Lady Matsumae. Now that she knew Lady Matsumae had lost a child, she didn’t want to be near the woman. She had an irrational yet potent fear that Lady Matsumae’s bad luck would rub off on herself. But she mustn’t let Lady Matsumae sense her feelings.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Reiko said, forcing compassion into her tone. “I understand.”
“My daughter was my only child.” Lady Matsumae inked her brush and drew lines on a page—practicing calligraphy, Reiko assumed. “She was only eight years old when she died.”
Reiko sympathized with her need to speak of her daughter, but she didn’t want to listen because she felt a terrible kinship with Lady Matsumae. There wasn’t enough distance between a woman whose child was missing and a woman who’d lost hers forever. Reiko could imagine herself speaking similar words: Masahiro was my only son. He was only eight years old when he died.
Lady Matsumae was watching Reiko, awaiting some response. Reiko had a nightmarish idea that their positions had reversed and it was she telling her story of tragedy to Lady Matsumae. She stammered, “May I ask your daughter’s name?”
“Nobuko.” Lady Matsumae lingered on the word as if it were a spell that could resurrect the dead.
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