Chūgo sat perfectly still; he appeared not to breathe. But Sano sensed the mental energy flowing from him as his trained perception divined the positions of the unseen targets. While Sano waited in suspense for Chūgo to draw his sword, he wondered what the captain’s proficiency at iaijutsu said about him.
Iaijutsu was a discipline particularly suited to peacetime, when samurai kept their weapons sheathed, instead of drawn as in battle. The techniques could be used defensively, or to secure the opening move in a duel. Hence, most reputable kenjutsu masters trained their students in them. But iaijutsu had a treacherous, and therefore dishonorable aspect. Too often it was used against unwary opponents or unarmed peasants. Many of the latter had died in “crossroad cuttings,” or “practice murders,” when a samurai merely wanted to test a new sword.
Had Chūgo used his deadly skill to strike down Kaibara Tōju, the rōnin Tōzawa, and the eta before they’d perceived the danger? Did his choice of discipline imply a willingness to attack helpless or unsuspecting victims? One thing Sano knew: Extreme devotion to the martial arts often indicated an obsessive adherence to Bushido. Had its credo of ancestor worship driven Chūgo to murder?
In a single fluid motion, Chūgo leapt to his feet and whisked his sword free of its scabbard. The blade’s blurred white arc whistled sideways through the air, slicing off the first dummy’s head. Without a pause, Chūgo whirled. He severed the second, third, and fourth heads before the first hit the ground.
Sano’s breath caught at the beauty and precision of Chūgo’s performance. Then a premonition of danger licked at him like an icy flame. He gave an involuntary shout and sprang backward. Heedless of the law that prohibited his drawing a weapon upon another man inside the castle, his hand instinctively sought his sword.
Because instead of sheathing his blade and kneeling again as the exercise dictated, Chūgo came hurtling straight toward Sano, swinging his sword upward in both hands for an overhead killing cut.
Sano had his sword free and ready to parry the blow. Then, at the last instant, the guard and Chūgo’s attendant realized what was happening.
“No, Chūgo-san! Stop!”
Seizing Chūgo’s arms, they arrested his attack. He froze, sword at the peak of its deadly ascent.
Sano froze, too, then slowly sheathed his weapon as he saw Chūgo’s body relax and felt the captain’s murderous impulse subside. With his heart hammering and combat energy still surging through his body, he watched Chūgo step free of his men. He let out his breath as Chūgo calmly returned his sword to its scabbard, then removed the black hood.
“Sōsakan-sama.”
Chūgo spoke in a gruff monotone that betrayed little interest and no surprise. His long face conformed to his body’s linearity. Thick, horizontal eyebrows crossed the bridge of his thin nose. His narrow eyes, dark, unblinking, and so devoid of emotion as to appear lifeless, looked out from deep, rectangular gashes set above knife-edge cheekbones. Vertical creases etched his skin from the nostrils to a thin, almost lipless mouth. From the jawline, his chin tapered to a sharp point. Only one feature deviated from this geometric theme: the puckered scar that snaked across his shaven crown.
Encompassing both Sano and the other two men in his deathlike gaze, he said, “We won’t speak of this accident.”
Obviously he meant that no one would report the incident, and therefore neither he nor Sano would suffer the suicide penalty dictated by law. Sano, badly shaken by the violent encounter, could only nod as he tried to match Chūgo’s stoic calm and organize the torrent of thoughts that flooded his mind.
Blindfolded, Chūgo had decapitated all four dummies in the time it would take an ordinary swordsman to sight a target and draw his weapon. Aside from Chūgo’s obvious skill at swordsmanship, however, Sano had another reason to believe he’d cut down four men in the dark of night.
Chūgo had meant to kill him. This Sano knew with every particle of his being, despite the captain’s claim of an “accident.” Had Chūgo lashed out in reaction to the vague threat of a stranger’s arrival? Or because he’d instinctively recognized the man who might expose him as the Bundori Killer?
“Practice is over. Put the targets away,” Chūgo told his attendant. To Sano: “What do you want?”
He dismissed Sano’s escort and moved into his office, where he scrutinized the castle maps whose colored pins represented troop positions. Sano followed. He watched Chūgo shift pins like a general planning a battle. The minimal chance of a siege didn’t seem to affect his dedication to his job.
“Well?” Chūgo asked.
Sano found himself sorting and grouping questions in his mind, much as Chūgo was doing with the pins. “You probably know that the shogun has assigned me to catch the Bundori Killer,” he said, feeling his way.
“So?”
Apparently uninterested, Chūgo strode out of the command post, where he addressed his lieutenants. “The coverage of the eastern perimeter is too thin,” Sano heard him say. “Dispatch another unit there at once.”
Then he returned to the office to peruse the duty rosters. His movements had an impatient jerkiness that contrasted with the fluid grace of his swordplay. Intent on his duties, he seemed not to care if Sano ever stated the purpose of his visit.
“The labels on the heads of the killer’s victims bore the names Araki Yojiemon and Endō Munetsugu,” Sano said. “Two men who had a troubled relationship with your ancestor, General Fujiwara.”
The captain’s hand remained steady as he ran his finger along the columns of names on the roster. His lips compressed in irritation, but not surprise or dismay. “What of it?”
Sano tried to see the thoughts behind Chūgo’s opaque eyes. If he was the Bundori Killer, he revealed no fear of exposure. But then Chūgo, as a martial arts master, would have trained himself to suppress all signs of emotion.
“General Fujiwara had a grudge against Araki and Endō,” Sano said. “He risked his life trying to destroy them. Whoever killed Kaibara Tōju, the rōnin Tōzawa, and the priest Endō seems to have revived the feud by attacking Araki’s and Endō’s descendants. I believe the killer is a descendant of General Fujiwara’s, out to complete his blood score.”
“Pah!” Chūgo’s snort conveyed all the contempt that his face didn’t. Before he could speak, his attendant entered the office, bearing a lacquer box.
“Your meal, Honorable Captain.”
“Set it there.” Chūgo knelt on the mat and pointed to the space before him. The office was warm, and he opened his kimono and rolled up the sleeves. No wounds marked his limbs or torso; he’d either evaded Brother Endō’s spear during combat, worn armor, or never fought at all. To Sano, he said, “If you’re asking me if I’m a murderer, I’m not. And my ancestors are none of your business. Besides, the past is dead.”
But was it, Sano wondered as Chūgo unpacked the lunchbox. “Dried chestnuts, kelp, and abalone,” he remarked as each item appeared. “Do you always choose the foods eaten by soldiers before battle?” Perhaps Chūgo wasn’t so indifferent to the past as he pretended. He was certainly familiar with war rituals.
Chūgo shrugged. He ate like a man fueling his body for combat: grimly, washing down each mouthful with a gulp of sake from a battered metal flask. “I eat what I please.”
Having gotten nowhere by subtly probing this impenetrable man, Sano tried a blunt query. “If you’re not the Bundori Killer, then where were you last night?”
“That’s none of your business, either. But I’ll tell you anyway. I was here. At the castle. Where I’ve been for the past fifteen days. I never leave during my duty shift. Any of my men will tell you that.”
Sano tilted a pained glance at the ceiling. Here was another alibi, just as dubious as Matsui’s and even harder to break. The Edo Castle guards, including the gate sentries, owed allegiance to their captain. They would corroborate any story he told, take his side in any dispute, especially one with a retainer who’d lost the shogun’s favor. Even if Sano managed to find a
brave or disgruntled individual willing to say otherwise, thousands more would swear to Chūgo’s presence in the castle during all four murders. No magistrate would convict him without more proof. Sano thought of the two kimonos, which he had yet to show the tailors, and of the mysterious missing woman. He wondered if Hirata was having any luck finding the dragon palanquin’s maker, or learning the assassin’s identity.
“Do you own a palanquin with a dragon design on it?” he asked.
“No. I use the castle’s.” These bore no ornamentation except the Tokugawa crest.
“Have you ever hired a mercenary swordsman?”
This time, one corner of Chūgo’s mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “If I wanted to kill someone, I’d do it myself.”
“What would you say if I told you a witness saw you outside the castle last night?” Sano bluffed.
Chūgo chewed, swallowed, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “That you’re lying. Or your witness is.”
Sano’s frustration mounted. Chūgo had betrayed neither concern, nor knowledge of the witness’s gender.
Finishing his meal, Chūgo said, “Enough false accusations, sōsakan-sama. Time for you to go.”
He rose and strode to the door. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted for his lieutenants in a voice that could have carried across a battlefield. Suddenly the two men were dragging Sano out of the command post while Chūgo returned to his work.
“Let go!” Sano shouted. He managed to shake his captors loose, but more men came to their aid. They hoisted him onto their shoulders, carried him across the compound, and dumped him, stomach down, upon his horse. Someone slapped its rump. Sano barely managed to sit upright in the saddle before his mount bolted. The entire command provided a resounding send-off of cheers, hoots, and laughter.
Fuming, Sano rode away, plotting the revenge he would take by seeing Chūgo arrested, convicted, and executed for the Bundori Murders. The captain’s character, swordsmanship skill, and knowledge of war rituals all warranted more suspicion than his alibi could dispel. But for now, Sano turned his horse toward the Official Quarter. He had no time to waste on thoughts of personal retribution. If he didn’t hurry, he would be late for his miai.
In the passageway, he stopped a castle messenger. From his sash he took the letter he’d written in a stationer’s shop on Suruga Hill. It detailed his plan for tonight, a course of action he’d hoped would be unnecessary, but now deemed crucial—especially because it could eliminate the need for investigating Chamberlain Yanagisawa. He gave the letter to the messenger, along with a generous tip to ensure quick delivery.
“Take this to doshin Hirata at the police compound immediately,” Sano said.
Then he hurried home to prepare for his miai.
22
Kannei Temple, located in the hilly, rural Ueno district north of the castle, was one of Edo’s most popular sites for viewing cherry blossoms. Every spring, citizens flocked there to enjoy the lovely scenery while contemplating the transience of life, so poignantly symbolized by the short-lived flowers. Across the temple’s grassy slopes, the luxuriant leafless blossom clusters hovered in masses of pink cloud beneath the pale sky. Petals fell like snowflakes upon the paths and grass, the heads of the strolling crowds, and wafted toward Shinobazu Pond’s pine-fringed silver expanse.
Sano, having left his horse outside the temple’s wall, barely noticed his surroundings as he hurried along the gravel paths, past halls, pagoda, and pavilions, and wove through the crowds. He was very late for his miai. He ignored the cries of Ueno’s famous crows as they circled overhead, and the colorfully dressed picnickers: beautiful women; playing children; drunken men who danced, sang, and cavorted on the lawns. The pressures of his work and this all-important social rite drained all pleasure from the outing that so many others were enjoying.
At last the Kiyomizu Hall came into view, a stately structure painted bright red, with a blue tile roof and a balcony overlooking Shinobazu Pond. Sano followed the wide promenade along the lake. Muttering apologies, he squeezed past a procession of chattering women carrying identical green and white paper parasols. He dodged more pleasure seekers and sprinted down the promenade, then came to an abrupt stop at the grassy hill that sloped upward to the hall. He winced at the social gaffe he’d committed.
According to plan, he should have arrived early, joining his mother and Noguchi for a seemingly casual stroll along the promenade, then meeting Magistrate Ueda and his daughter as if by accident. The charade would have allowed both parties to pretend that a miai had never taken place, thus saving face, should the marriage negotiations fail. Sano’s tardiness had made all pretense impossible.
Everyone had already assembled at the designated meeting place on the promenade, beneath the famous Moon Pine, named for the branch that looped in a perfect circle: His mother, leaning on her maid Hana’s arm; Noguchi; Magistrate Ueda, a stout, middle-aged samurai dressed in black ceremonial robes decorated with gold family crests. And a slender young lady with silky black hair that fell to her knees, dressed in a lavish red and white kimono and accompanied by two female attendants: Ueda Reiko, the prospective bride. All of them, despite their natural poise, must be suffering agonies of embarrassment on Sano’s account.
Arriving sweaty and breathless, Sano said, “Please excuse my late arrival. I meant no offense, and I’m sorry for any inconvenience you’ve suffered.” He bowed to those he knew. “Noguchi-san. Mother. Hana.”
His mother smiled a gentle rebuke. She looked thinner and weaker, but more placid than when he’d last seen her. Noguchi’s frown-wrinkles slid up his scalp as he said with false joviality, “Well, you’re here now, and that’s what counts.” He turned to the other man. “Magistrate Ueda, may I present Sano Ichirō, His Excellency’s sōsakan-sama.”
Magistrate Ueda’s gaze took careful measure of Sano as he bowed. He had abundant gray hair, broad features, and a ruddy, youthful complexion. Heavy lids shadowed eyes bright with intelligence. The lines around his mouth suggested that he smiled often, though he didn’t now.
“The honor is all mine, Sano-san,” he said in response to Sano’s professions of respect and gratitude. His voice was low but confident, that of a man with no need to flaunt his power. “And this is my daughter, Reiko.”
Sano bowed, courteously not looking too hard or too long. And she, a proper young lady, kept her head inclined, the lower part of her face covered with her fan. He glimpsed only her long-lashed eyelids and white forehead with its high, thin, painted brows.
“Well,” Noguchi said, rubbing his hands together in exaggerated enthusiasm. “Let’s walk around Kiyomizu Hall, shall we? The cherry blossoms there are particularly fine.”
They ascended the hill. Sano knew he should impress his prospective father-in-law with his intelligence and wit, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Coming in the midst of his troubles, this ritual seemed unreal. Would he survive to marry?
Noguchi initiated the conversation with a poem appropriate for the occasion:
“They bloom only a short time—
Ah, this life of ours…”
Thankful for his friend’s intervention, Sano recited the rest of the poem.
“But when four days have passed, where
Are the cherry blossoms?”
He quoted other similar poems to display his literary education, and inquired about the Ueda family’s journey to the temple. But he couldn’t hold up his end of the conversation. The poems reminded him of his deadline. Was his hope of success as ephemeral as the dying cherry blossoms?
Breaking an uncomfortable silence, Magistrate Ueda spoke. “Might I have a private word with you, Sano-san?”
Sano looked at him in uncomfortable surprise. Convention called for the two families to converse as a group. Before he could reply, Noguchi answered for him.
“Why, yes, of course, Honorable Magistrate,” he said, obviously anxious to make amends for Sano’s deplorable rudeness. “Go ahead. I will chaperone the ladies
.” Making shooing motions at Sano, he joined Sano’s mother, Reiko, and the attendants.
Sano walked on ahead with Magistrate Ueda. Fearing that his earlier apologies had been inadequate, he said, “There was no excuse for my tardiness. I beg your forgiveness, and your daughter’s, even though I have no right to expect it.”
“No need for apologies, Sano-san.” Magistrate Ueda’s tone was grave, but not unkind. “The responsibility given you by the shogun must and should consume the major part of your time and attention. No, I have other concerns besides your late arrival. If I may speak frankly?”
Warily Sano nodded.
“My sources tell me you’ve somehow offended Chamberlain Yanagisawa, who has turned the shogun against you.” As the path wound beneath more cherry trees around a small hollow, Magistrate Ueda contemplated a merry group of men toasting one another with sake. “And that if you don’t solve the murder case, you’ll be exiled to Sado Island. Is this true?”
Sano, familiar with the upper-class custom of employing investigators to check on prospective in-laws, had feared that Magistrate Ueda would learn he’d lost the shogun’s favor before he could reclaim it. Now he owed an honest disclosure to this man who had entered negotiations for his daughter’s hand in good faith.
“Yes,” Sano said reluctantly. “It’s true.”
“Ah.” Magistrate Ueda nodded, seeming disappointed but not surprised.
“But my investigation is progressing,” Sano hastened to add, not wanting to lose this chance at the marriage his father had wanted for him. He summarized his findings, ending with: “I’ve identified four suspects, and one of them is the Bundori Killer.”
The magistrate didn’t reply immediately. In silence, they skirted a bevy of shrieking children. “I must say I’ve also heard much good about you, Sano-san,” he said at last. “You’ve acquired a reputation for courage, intelligence, and an impressive dedication to truth and justice. What you’ve just told me confirms it. There are also rumors of a valuable service you performed for His Excellency.”
Bundori Page 21
