This information was better than none, but not much. Elaborate decoration signified a private, rather than a hired vehicle. If the palanquin had, as Sano suspected, conveyed the Bundori Killer to and from the temple, he need only call on the several thousand Edo citizens rich enough to own personal transportation.
“What color was the dragon?” he asked, seeking to narrow the field.
Kenji shrugged. “It was too dark to tell.”
“Would you recognize it if you saw it again?” Hirata interjected.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” The novice shivered, beating his hands against his arms. “Can I go now? I’m cold.”
After ascertaining that Kenji remembered nothing more about the palanquin and had seen nothing and no one else in or outside the temple complex the previous night, Sano dismissed him.
“I’m sorry he couldn’t tell us more, sōsakan-sama,” Hirata said. “I wanted to bring you evidence to make up for not having done you any good so far.” Self-contempt laced his voice.
“Don’t underestimate your achievement, Hirata,” Sano said, fighting his own disappointment. “Kenji’s testimony might eventually place a suspect near the crime scene. You’re a talented investigator. You got facts from the boy that I might not have.” Then, seeing Hirata flush with pleasure, he regretted his impulsive praise. He mustn’t encourage the young doshin’s attachment to him.
“Keep searching the grounds,” he ordered. “I’ll join you after I’ve finished questioning … three thousand possible witnesses and suspects.”
Sano spent the next hours in the temple’s assembly hall, interrogating an endless parade of frightened, shocked clergy and servants. Some priests he recognized as former teachers, or classmates who had taken orders and stayed at the temple. By the time he finished, he’d verified the abbot’s statement. No one but Kenji had seen anything. And Brother Endō himself had publicized his occupation. A gregarious man, he’d often stationed himself at the main gate to greet and chat with visitors. Any pilgrim—the killer included—could have learned his schedule directly from him.
Afterward Sano joined Hirata and a horde of priests in searching the temple for evidence. Carrying torches, they inspected paths, gardens, monuments, stairways, graveyards, the ground around every building and gate, the forest…
And found nothing.
At dawn, Sano and Hirata mounted their horses for the ride back to Edo. In addition to the killer’s boards, spikes, and tools, Sano’s saddlebags held the mystery woman’s two kimonos—the sole tangible reward for their labors.
This night had forever changed his personal vision of Zōjō Temple. Now, when he thought of it, he would no longer picture a sunlit haven of prayer and learning, or recall the happy and sad times of his childhood. Instead he would see Brother Endō’s mutilated corpse, and remember his friends and teachers as potential witnesses and suspects. The investigation not only dominated his present and future; it had also damaged cherished memories.
“We got more from this murder scene than from any of the others,” Hirata said, as though trying to bolster his own spirits as well as Sano’s.
But what did they have? Confirmation of a theory that had as yet led nowhere. The description of a possible suspect’s palanquin. A missing witness, and only a pair of kimonos as clues to her identity.
And just four more days to catch the Bundori Killer.
18
Back in Edo, Sano and Hirata parted ways outside the Nihonbashi produce market, a sprawling complex of stalls, where vendors haggled with customers and porters carried baskets of vegetables, fruit, and grain on their backs. Maneuvering his horse into a quiet side street, Sano gave Hirata orders for the day.
“After you’ve rested, visit all the palanquin builders in town and find out who made a palanquin with a dragon design on it. Ask who bought it, but don’t say why you want to know. If that really was the killer Kenji spotted last night, we don’t want him to know he’s been seen and destroy the palanquin before we can use it as evidence.”
He paused to stop a newsseller who was trudging toward the market with a stack of broadsheets under his arm. “Here’s some news for you: ‘The shogun’s sōsakan says that the Bundori Killer seeks to destroy only the descendants of Endō Munetsugu, who should beware.’ ”
As the newsseller hurried away shouting the words, Sano said to Hirata, “While you make your rounds, spread that message to everyone you can. We want as many people as possible informed before another night falls.” If they didn’t catch the killer, at least the potential victims would be forewarned, and the citizens calmed.
“I’ll start now,” Hirata said. “I’m not tired.”
Indeed he did look fresh and lively, as if he, like Sano himself, was functioning on the peculiar energy that sleeplessness can induce. Wistfully stroking his mount’s mane, he said, “I guess you want your horse back.”
“Keep her for now,” Sano said. “I’ll pay her board at the police stables.”
Amazement and gratitude lit Hirata’s face. “Thank you, sōsakan-sama!”
Sano realized that while he’d merely intended the horse’s loan as a means of allowing Hirata to cover more ground faster, the young doshin interpreted it as an expression of trust and a deepening of their relationship. Now he couldn’t retract the offer without hurting Hirata.
“Should I keep looking for the tall, lame suspect with the pockmarked face?” Hirata asked.
While he pondered the question, Sano let his gaze wander to the market. The morning was unseasonably warm, with a humidity that intensified the odors of vegetable refuse and open drains. Beneath a bright, hazy sky that presaged the summer to come, the market seemed quieter and less crowded than usual, its atmosphere of cheerful commerce conspicuously absent. How long before news of the latest murder spread throughout the city? Would his own message be enough to counteract it? Sano dreaded the escalation of civil unrest more than the threat to his own life.
“Forget about the suspect for now,” he said finally.
He still believed in Aoi’s mystical powers, and intelligence. Her evocation of his father’s spirit and the courtesan Sparrow, her knowledge of the hatamoto Kaibara’s sorrow, and the circumstances of the rōnin Tōzawa’s death had convinced him that she could communicate with the spirit world. She’d identified the eta murder as a practice killing, and Kaibara’s status as last surviving clan member as a reason for the killer to revive General Fujiwara’s feud. So Sano had to consider the possibility that she’d deliberately misled him by failing to predict the murder at Zōjō Temple, and sending him to the marshes instead. He also began to doubt her description of the killer. With alarm, he discovered that although he no longer trusted Aoi, neither could he think of her without experiencing a desire that clenched his heart as it warmed his body.
“What should I have my assistants do?” Hirata asked.
Remembering the young doshin’s performance at the temple gave Sano an idea for making better use of Hirata’s time. “Have you any good informants that you use in your work?”
“A few.” The gleam in Hirata’s eyes belied his modest disclaimer.
“Then have your men look for the dragon palanquin. You ask your contacts if they can identify the man who attacked me. You have his description. Leave a message for me at the castle gate if you learn anything. I’ll send word to the police compound if I need you for anything else.”
“Yes, sōsakan-sama.”
As Sano watched his assistant go, a rueful smile tugged at his mouth. Hirata rode like an expert now, his posture confident as he steered the horse down the crowded street. He wore his pride like a battle flag attached to a soldier’s back. Sano was glad that the investigation was bringing happiness to one of them.
He headed for the castle to see whether Noguchi had located General Fujiwara’s descendants and show the mystery witness’s kimonos to the tailors. So many paths to follow, any or none of which might lead to the killer before the four days were up. But one thing was
certain: He would see Aoi tonight, and demand an explanation from her.
In the Edo Castle archives, Noguchi ushered Sano past the main study, where clerks and apprentices pored over documents, and down the corridor to his private office. Inside, chests, stacked shoulder-high and three deep, lined the walls, partially obscuring the windows. Piles of paper occupied every shelf and most of the floor. Noguchi’s desk, cluttered with writing materials, formed a small island in the middle. With foreboding, Sano wondered what Noguchi had to say that he couldn’t in one of the mansion’s more comfortable public areas.
Noguchi cleared a space on the floor, knelt, and motioned for Sano to do the same. “I hope you are well?”
Sano recognized the formality as a stalling tactic: Noguchi didn’t want to get down to business—either his, or Sano’s. A furtive wariness had shadowed the archivist’s open, friendly manner.
“As well as can be expected,” Sano replied, explaining about the murder at Zōjō Temple.
“Oh, my, oh, no,” Noguchi murmured. Then he cringed and said, “Sano-san, I regret to tell you that I can no longer associate myself with you professionally. I think you can understand why not?”
Sano looked away to hide his hurt. He could see that Noguchi had heard about the council meeting and wanted to sever their ties to avoid sharing Sano’s misfortunes. He was losing the only friend he had at Edo Castle, when he most needed sympathy and support.
“However,” Noguchi continued, “you need not fear that I mean to end our personal relationship before you can arrange for someone to take my place. I will act on your behalf on this day, which is so crucial to you.”
Sano could have argued that every one of the next four days was crucial to him. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Today is your miai.” Noguchi’s forehead wrinkles began their ascent up his scalp. “Surely you’ve not forgotten?”
Sano had. Entirely. The event, to which he’d once looked forward so eagerly, couldn’t have come at a worse time. How could he interrupt his investigation to pursue a marriage that would never happen if he didn’t catch the killer by the shogun’s deadline?
“At the Kannei Temple this afternoon,” Noguchi reminded him anxiously. “Everything is arranged. The Ueda are coming. Castle palanquins will convey your mother and her maid to the temple. You will be there, won’t you?”
Sano longed to postpone the miai, but his father had wanted this marriage for him; it was an essential factor in their family’s rise to prominence. Sano couldn’t offend the Ueda by cancelling on such short notice.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Good.” Noguchi looked relieved. “Afterward you can engage a new go-between.”
Sano had no time to worry about finding someone to replace Noguchi. The miai would consume the afternoon. In more of a hurry than ever now, he turned the conversation to the reason for his visit. “Have you managed to locate General Fujiwara’s descendants?”
Noguchi dropped his gaze and suddenly became very busy fidgeting with an inkstone on his desk. Without looking at Sano, he said, “I am afraid you will have to discard your theory for lack of sufficient validity.”
“Discard it?” Sano echoed, bewildered. “But tonight’s murder confirmed my theory.” Then a disturbing thought struck him. “You couldn’t find the names.”
Now Noguchi met his gaze with one full of pity and chagrin. “I have the list here.” He removed a folded paper from his sash, then said with a sigh, “Oh, my. The role of harbinger of bad news is a thankless one. I hope you will not blame me for your disappointment.”
Sano snatched the list and eagerly unfolded it. As he read the names, disbelief and despair flooded him. Now he understood what Noguchi meant.
He recognized all four names, even without the descriptions Noguchi had included. All the suspects were prominent citizens—none of whom he could imagine as the Bundori Killer:
Matsui Minoru. Edo’s foremost merchant; financial agent to the Tokugawa.
Chūgo Gichin. Captain of the Guard; one of Edo Castle’s highest-ranking officers.
O-tama. Concubine to the commissioner of highways; subject of a famous scandal ten years ago.
To the last name, Noguchi hadn’t bothered to append a description. And he’d written it in smaller characters, as if reluctant to include it at all:
Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu.
19
In the seclusion of his private quarters, Chamberlain Yanagisawa held Aoi’s coded letter to the lamp flame and watched it burn. His shaking hands scattered ash onto the lacquer table. Shock and dread blurred his vision until he could no longer see the room’s carved chests and cabinets, painted murals, embroidered silk floor cushions, or the garden of boulders and raked sand outside his open window. As he absorbed the full import of his spy’s message, which he’d just received, prickly tendrils of fear spread from his heart into his throat and stomach.
He’d thought that his plan to thwart Sōsakan Sano’s investigation was working very well. From Aoi’s last report, he knew she had Sano looking all over Edo for a suspect who didn’t exist. He’d believed that Sano stood little chance of capturing the Bundori Killer.
True, Sano’s revelations at the council meeting had shaken him badly; he alone had recognized the merit of Sano’s theory, which he’d been unable to completely discredit. He’d failed to detach the shogun’s fancy from Sano, and therefore couldn’t simply banish or execute the troublesome sōsakan. Nor had he managed to relieve Sano of the murder case so that he could give it to the police, whom he controlled. But still he’d believed he would eventually prevail.
Until now.
In her message, Aoi reported the failure of her plan to sabotage Sano by sending him to an abandoned house in which her agents had planted fake evidence. Because of the priest’s murder, he must now know she’d misled him, and would cease to trust her guidance. And the witnesses from Zōjō Temple could bring Sano dangerously closer to identifying the killer.
Worse yet, according to Aoi’s informants in the castle archives, Sano’s pursuit of his theory had yielded suspects. Yanagisawa didn’t need to wait for her to collect and send the list of names to know it would include his own. In a haze of terror, he imagined his destruction at the hands of the most serious adversary he’d ever faced. The success of Sano’s investigation would mean his own ruin.
The paper burned away, obliterating Aoi’s words, but not Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s woes. He got to his feet and crossed the room. Opening the door, he shouted for his manservant, who appeared immediately.
“Yes, master?”
Yanagisawa gave his orders. After the servant had hurried off to obey, he began to pace the floor. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh burst from him.
To his subordinates, he always managed to appear the suave, confident chamberlain, always in control of himself, of everyone, and of every situation. But sometimes his terrors and passions held him in a virtual paralysis of indecision and inactivity. He doubted his own judgment, but couldn’t seek counsel from others for fear of losing face and power. He would pace, as he did now, like a man trapped inside the prison of himself.
Impatiently Yanagisawa went to the door and looked down the corridor. Why was that fool servant taking so long to deliver what he’d requested?
Yanagisawa resumed pacing. Sweat dampened his garments; panic shot flares through his body until he felt weak, dizzy. The hated Sano Ichirō had brought him to this miserable state. He must devise a plan to wreck Sano’s investigation once and for all, to eliminate the threat it posed to him. But first he needed the release that he could achieve in only one way.
Behind him the door opened, then closed as someone entered the room. Yanagisawa turned. Anticipation warmed his blood. Worry and fear dissipated; he smiled.
There stood the shogun’s favorite boy actor, Shichisaburō, who knelt and bowed. “I await your orders, master,” he said.
Instead of his elaborate theatrical costume, he wore a plain brown c
otton kimono and a wooden sword like those carried by samurai boys. As Yanagisawa himself had upon his eighth birthday, when Lord Takei had first summoned him to his private chambers. The simple garb only enhanced Shichisaburō’s delicate, striking beauty, as it must have done Yanagisawa’s own. The beauty that had attracted the lecherous daimyo.
His father had been Lord Takei’s chamberlain, a cold, calculating, ambitious man who had sought to further his family’s status by sending the young Yanagisawa to be a page in the daimyo’s service. Yanagisawa, just as ambitious, but pitifully naive, had gone willingly enough, expecting to run the daimyo’s errands and advance himself in the world. How could he have known, as his father must have, about Lord Takei’s tastes? How could he have known that any handsome boy who entered the daimyo’s service could expect to be used as an object of physical gratification?
Against a rising swell of memory and an accompanying sensual excitement, Yanagisawa spoke the words that had once been spoken to him: “Rise, young samurai, and let me see your face.” He heard his own smooth voice assume the remembered gruffness of Lord Takei’s. “Don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm.”
Shichisaburō obeyed. Yanagisawa studied him with approval. The boy’s eyes were round, solemn. His lips trembled, but he held himself tall and proud.
“My only wish is to serve you, master,” he said.
Yanagisawa sighed in satisfaction. The boy wasn’t really afraid. They’d done this before; he knew what to expect. But his acting was no less inspired than on stage. Shichisaburō knew and accepted that his fate depended on complete cooperation with his superiors. At the first sign of rebellion he would find himself expelled from the castle, stripped of his status as a theatrical star, and working in some squalid roadside brothel. With Shichisaburō, Yanagisawa had come to appreciate the value of a professional. He’d lost his taste for the castle’s pages—inexperienced country boys who sometimes wept or soiled themselves in fright.
Bundori Page 18
