The then-eighteen-year-old O-tama had become the object of men’s obsession, her affairs with countless merchants, samurai, and clergymen the subject of popular songs. A ripe yet dainty girl with a saucy smile, she’d reached the peak of her celebrity when she won the patronage of wealthy Highway Commissioner Mimaki Teinosuke, thirty-two years her senior.
The public had followed the affair’s progress with great zest. Everyone talked of the gifts Mimaki lavished upon her; his poetic love letters; his neglect of wife, family, and work while he spent hours in the Water Lily’s private rooms with O-tama; and the huge sums he paid for the privilege. Their great love for each other had been so sure to end in tragedy, as forbidden romance always must, amid rumors of a government crackdown on bathhouse prostitution.
Sano reached Mimaki’s house, a large office-mansion with an unusually high wall that concealed all but the tip of its tile roof. He gave his name and title to the guard at the gate and said, “I wish an official audience with Mistress O-tama.”
The guard opened the gate, spoke to someone inside, and closed it again. “Please wait while your request is forwarded to Master Mimaki,” he told Sano.
As Sano dismounted and waited, he recalled how the story of Mimaki and O-tama had ended. The crackdown on bathhouse prostitution had proved unnecessary, as had the public’s sympathy for the doomed lovers. A fire had destroyed the Water Lily. Mimaki had sent his family to live in the country and taken O-tama into his home as his concubine. There, the gossips reported, he treated her like an empress, giving her everything she wanted. She did no work; servants waited on her hand and foot. Jealous of her beauty, wanting her all to himself, Mimaki shunned society. If an unavoidable visitor came, he placed a screen before her to hide her from view. The great love story having ended happily, the public’s interest moved on to other matters. Sano had heard nothing of O-tama in years. He wondered what she was like now, and pondered the strangeness of having her resurface as a murder suspect. And who would have thought that the blood of a great warrior like General Fujiwara flowed in her veins?
The gate opened. A middle-aged female servant, probably the housekeeper, bowed to Sano. “Please come with me.”
Sano followed her into the entryway to leave his swords. But instead of ushering him through the mansion’s public rooms, she led the way down a path alongside the house, through another gate, and into the most unusual garden Sano had ever seen. Gravel paths wound around the usual boulders, pines, and flowering cherries, but other less typical features dominated. From the delicate gray boughs of lilac trees, purple blossoms exuded a sweet perfume. Jasmine and honeysuckle vines draped the fence and veranda. Countless wind chimes tinkled from the branches of a red maple; birds twittered in wooden houses in the plum trees. Red carp splashed in a small pond, near which stood an odd seat, like ones Sano had seen in pictures of the Dutch traders’ quarters on Deshima, only with wooden wheels attached to its legs. Beside a bed of pungent mint knelt a gray-haired samurai in black kimono, weeding with a small spade.
The housekeeper led Sano to him. “Master Mimaki, here is Sōsakan Sano.”
Mimaki rose. As they exchanged bows, Sano noted with surprise that Mimaki, at sixty, looked not at all like the impetuous lover of a courtesan young enough to be his daughter. He was stout and ordinary-looking, with eyes that drooped at the corners and a narrow mouth tucked tightly between fleshy cheeks and chin. His tanned skin and muddy hands gave him a peasantlike appearance despite his shaven crown and high rank.
“I understand you wish to see O-tama on official business,” Mimaki said. His grave manner showed no jealousy.
“That’s correct.”
“Alone?”
Sano nodded. “I would prefer it, yes.”
Now Mimaki’s suspicious scrutiny, plus the fact that he was working in his garden instead of in his office, matched Sano’s expectation of a man preoccupied with his private life, into which he welcomed no intruders. But then Mimaki nodded, perhaps dismissing Sano as a rival.
“Very well.” He turned to the housekeeper. “Prepare Mistress O-tama for a visitor.”
The housekeeper hurried into the house. Mimaki and Sano followed more slowly.
“You may address O-tama under the following conditions,” Mimaki said as they walked down the corridor. “You will stay no less than ten paces from the screen. If you try to move the screen or step behind it, I’ll kill you. Is that clear?”
Shocked at this threat, delivered with no change of expression, Sano could only nod.
A door opened as they reached it, and the housekeeper slipped out, bowing them into a room that was bare except for a large wooden screen with thin mullions framing diamond-shaped paper panels. Light from the windows silhouetted a shadowy figure behind it.
Sano knelt in his designated place. Mimaki stepped behind the screen. Now two shadows appeared on its translucent paper, and Sano heard whispered conversation. Then Mimaki emerged, his face transformed almost beyond recognition. His eyes glowed; his mouth had relaxed into a smile at once joyful, sensual, and secretive. When he turned to Sano, his former gravity returned.
“Remember what I said.” Then Mimaki left the room.
Sano, uneasy about interrogating a suspect he couldn’t see, hesitated before speaking. How would he know if O-tama was telling the truth?
From behind the screen, she spoke. “It’s an honor and a pleasure to meet you, sōsakan-sama.”
Hers was one of the loveliest voices Sano had ever heard. High and sweet, it lilted and sang, tickled and warmed the inside of his chest. Sano smiled, despite the seriousness of this interview. Even so fresh from Aoi and so sure about his feelings for her, he couldn’t remain immune to O-tama’s charm. Many a man must have fallen in love with her voice alone.
“The pleasure is mine,” Sano replied, meaning it.
A maid appeared and set tea and cakes before him. “Do make yourself comfortable,” O-tama said. “And don’t let Mimaki-san’s rules bother you. He doesn’t mean to insult you; he’s just very protective of me. And I can tell from your voice that you’re an honorable, decent man.”
Her manner, though flirtatious, as Sano suspected it would be toward any male, showed genuine affection for her master. Mimaki needn’t fear losing her, and probably for this reason had allowed the interview. So then why the screen, the threat?
“If you hadn’t come today, I would have invited you,” O-tama continued. “Because I’ve heard of your great talents, of course, but also because I have important information for you.”
“You do?” Sano said, taken aback by this reception, so unlike those he’d received from the other suspects. To give himself time to think, he lifted his tea bowl and drank, letting her continue.
“I like peace and privacy, and usually ignore the world,” O-tama said. “My dear Mimaki-san is my life. But I’ve followed these terrible murders with great concern. After the first and second, I guessed what was happening, and with the priest’s murder, the pattern became obvious to me. Yet still you, of whom I’ve heard tales of great courage and ability, hadn’t caught the killer. I decided I must come forth and tell you what I know.
“Sōsakan-sama, forgive my unwomanly boldness. I can’t name the Bundori Killer, but I can tell you why he kills—and why he must be one of three men.”
“Who are they?” Sano stalled, suppressing his eagerness. For a murder suspect, she seemed too forthcoming. Was this a bluff, designed to divert his suspicion? If only he could see her!
He peered through the screen, but could discern only the silhouette of her head, hair piled on top, rising above what looked to be heaped cushions. Age had probably filled out her face and figure, perhaps coarsened her skin and hair, but her voice suggested that she’d retained youth’s fresh vitality. Certainly her master’s continuing possessiveness meant she must be lovely still. Sano regretted more than just his inability to assess her honesty.
“These men are bound to me by our common history,” O-tama explained. “I
know their motives as no one else can. Because they’re my cousins: Chūgo Gichin, Matsui Minoru, and Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu.” O-tama’s lilting voice danced over the names. “You’ve met them?”
“I have,” Sano said warily.
“You’re not surprised, so I believe you already suspect my cousins. How clever of you! But you’ve made no arrest. Does this mean you don’t have any evidence against them, and that’s why you came to me?”
The former yuna was intelligent as well as charming. Sano saw no use in denying the obvious, or pretending another reason for the call.
“Yes,” he conceded. After his experiences with Chūgo, Matsui, and Yanagisawa, he knew how little he could expect to gain from direct interrogation. All the suspects were on their guard now. With O-tama, he decided to let the conversation go where she led it and hope she betrayed some sign of guilt or innocence.
O-tama’s bubbly laugh evoked images of flowing water and sensuous frolic. “Then I’d be most delighted to give you at least part of the evidence you need to deliver the Bundori Killer to the execution ground. Shall I begin?”
Sano, awed by the contrast between her gaiety and the grim promise she offered, let his silence give his assent.
“The roots of the murders lie in events that took place more than one hundred years ago,” O-tama began.
At last, a confirmation of his theory, albeit from a questionable source—a onetime prostitute, Fujiwara descendant, and murder suspect. “You mean General Fujiwara’s attacks on the Araki and Endō clans,” he prompted.
But O-tama’s shadow shook its head. “No, sōsakan-sama. I’m speaking of Oda Nobunaga’s murder.”
Confused, Sano said, “I know the attacks occurred after Oda’s death. But there’s nothing in the archives to suggest that this was anything but a coincidence.”
O-tama laughed again. “Sōsakan-sama, a man of your intelligence must know that much of history is never recorded. What I tell you comes not from moldy old scrolls, but from this secret legend handed down from General Fujiwara through our family: The general attacked Araki and Endō because he sought revenge on them for their part in Oda Nobunaga’s murder.”
A sense of incredulity provoked Sano’s immediate protest. “But Araki and Endō didn’t kill Oda; Akechi Mitsuhide did. The facts are documented and undisputed.” Was this remarkable woman claiming that her family myths superseded the official historical record?
Evidently she was. “Our legend says that Akechi didn’t act alone. Araki and Endō conspired with him to murder Oda so that their lords, Tokugawa Ieyasu and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, could seize power.
“Ah, I sense your doubt, sōsakan-sama. But even in the records, there are facts that support the legend. Such as this: Why was Oda alone in a temple on the night he died, with only a handful of men?”
“His allies, Hideyoshi and Ieyasu, were away at the time,” Sano said impatiently, thinking this visit a waste of time. She wasn’t the Bundori Killer, she knew nothing of the murders or the motive behind them, and he hadn’t come to debate historical points with her. “There’s no evidence of their complicity. Ieyasu was on holiday at Sakai. Hideyoshi was fighting the Mori clan at Takamatsu Castle. He’d asked Oda for reinforcement troops, which Oda sent …”
His voice trailed off as he saw the connection that the historians had missed, or ignored.
“Thereby reducing the number of men at hand for Oda’s protection,” O-tama finished for him. “But did Hideyoshi really need those troops? And why did Ieyasu take a holiday then? Was it a coincidence that Oda’s allies were both gone when he needed them? And what could Akechi have hoped to gain by killing the most powerful man in the country?”
Stunned by this new version of history, Sano repeated the standard answer, which now sounded ridiculous. “Revenge. Oda had sent Akechi’s mother-in-law to another clan as hostage for his good behavior. She died when he attacked them. And Oda ridiculed Akechi in front of their colleagues, banging on his bald head with an iron war fan as though it were a drum.”
“Oh, sōsakan-sama. Such silly reasons!” O-tama laughed merrily; Sano imagined her sporting naked in a bathtub with a client, amid clouds of steam. “And why did Akechi stay in Kyōto after the murder, instead of running for his life?”
“He wanted to win the support of Oda’s allies by distributing Oda’s treasure among them.” Having seen documents that proved Akechi had indeed tried this, Sano answered with more confidence.
O-tama countered, “Oh, no, sōsakan-sama. He was waiting for Generals Araki and Endō, who had arranged their lords’ absences so he could kill Oda. They’d promised him money and a higher rank. But they never came. And Hideyoshi avenged Oda’s death by killing Akechi.”
“If this story is true, then why didn’t Araki and Endō keep their promise?” Sano asked, striving to maintain his position, but only for objectivity’s sake. For he needed a motive for the crimes.
“Because Araki and Endō had acted without their lords’ consent. They didn’t want news of the conspiracy to make Oda’s retainers rise up against Hideyoshi and Ieyasu. Akechi was supposed to take the blame, alone. And he did; he was punished—but Araki and Endō weren’t. General Fujiwara learned of the conspiracy and vowed revenge, but failed. Now one of his descendants has taken up the task. Chūgo? Matsui? Maybe. But only Chamberlain Yanagisawa is a direct descendant of General Fujiwara’s eldest son. With him lies the main responsibility for fulfilling our ancestor’s wish.”
Sano’s earlier optimism drained away in a trickle of icy horror. The murder of a samurai’s lord was the ultimate offense—a blood score that could indeed transcend generations. O-tama’s story, supported by circumstantial historical evidence, explained General Fujiwara’s bizarre behavior, and the murders. And reaffirmed Yanagisawa as the prime suspect.
“There can’t be any truth to this legend!” Sano blurted in vehement denial.
“It doesn’t really matter if there is, does it, sōsakan-sama? All that matters is that someone—the killer—believes so.”
Sano couldn’t argue, but leapt to challenge O-tama’s credibility. “Why did you break the silence and tell me a secret that has been kept for so many years? Why have you given me evidence that endangers your cousins?”
Satin garments rustled as the shadowy figure behind the screen stirred. “You may find this shocking and disgusting, sōsakan-sama, but I have no love for my family.” Bitterness damped the lilt in O-tama’s voice. “Their problems are not mine. I care nothing for the samurai heritage that binds us. And I’ll tell you why.”
She recited the Fujiwara family history, and Sano learned of the rivalry that had divided the general’s sons after his death, the rises and declines in fortune experienced by the clan’s different branches. O-tama’s, he discovered, had fared worse than Matsui’s, Chūgo’s, or Yanagisawa’s.
“My grandfather mismanaged the estate entrusted to him by Tokugawa Ieyasu,” O-tama said. “He was demoted to the post of secretary. And my father, who inherited the post, was a drunk who lost it entirely. He became a wandering rōnin, hiring himself out as a guard to peasant villages. We ate millet and lived in huts. Money was scarce; my father couldn’t afford a dowry for my marriage. He turned me out when I was eighteen.”
O-tama leaned closer to the screen. Against the milky paper, Sano could just make out the oval of her face. “So I came to Edo, looking for work as a maid. But I couldn’t find a lady willing to hire a girl like me, who would tempt the house’s menfolk and make the women jealous. For even then I was beautiful.”
A strange, sad note crept into her voice. She swallowed audibly, then continued. “Winter came. Living and begging in the streets, I was hungry and cold and desperate. All my life, I’d heard my father talk about our great cousins. So I went to ask their help.
“I tried Matsui first, at his moneylending shop. He gave me enough coins for a meal and sent me on my way, with orders never to return. Chūgo refused to see me at all. And Chamberlain Yanagisawa …”
&nb
sp; Her sigh trembled like wind through dead leaves. This woman who lived in luxury hadn’t forgotten her harsh past.
“He was the shogun’s new plaything. He took me to his private chambers in the castle, where he gave me food and heard my story with great sympathy. I was so thankful I wept. He was so handsome, so kind. He was going to help me. But then—”
O-tama’s voice broke. “He violated me,” she whispered. “From behind. And then threw me out without a zeni. That same day, the Water Lily’s proprietor saw me wandering the streets and offered me work as a yuna. I had no choice but to accept, and no pride left to prevent me doing so.
“And so you see, sōsakan-sama, why I have no loyalty toward those who would deny mercy to a helpless girl. My story has a happy ending, of course. But I’ve always dreamed of taking revenge on Matsui, Chūgo—and especially Chamberlain Yanagisawa. Now I have. One of them is the Bundori Killer. And by speaking the forbidden secret, I hope I’ve delivered him to you.”
Despite the timbre of truth in O-tama’s words, Sano grasped at the slim hope that she, not Yanagisawa, was the murderer. He knew women were capable of killing, and it was they who had traditionally prepared trophy heads after battles. O-tama bore her grudge and spoke of revenge with a keen relish that even General Fujiwara would have been hard pressed to match. And there was one other reason.
“The secret incriminates you, too,” he reminded her.
O-tama laughed again, but this time mournfully. “Sōsakan-sama, I have nothing to fear.”
“If that’s so, then where were you on the nights of the murders?”
“Here at home, where I always am.” A pause; her shadow tilted its head in thought. “You wish proof?”
Bundori Page 26
