The Red Chrysanthemum

by Laura Joh Rowland

  . . .

  Outside, while they mounted their horses, Detective Marume said, “Good try, but that didn’t go exactly how we planned.”

  “Thank you for pointing it out,” Sano said as they rode through the administrative district and the rain showered them. For that one moment he’d almost had Hoshina!

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you should have gotten rid of that bastard a long time ago,” Marume said. “It would have saved you a lot of trouble.”

  “Maybe.” Even though he saw the benefits of political assassination, Sano felt bound by honor to resist the temptation. He was sick of Hoshina’s schemes, but sicker at the thought of becoming as corrupt, self-serving, and destructive as his predecessor.

  “It’s not too late,” Fukida said.

  Sano smiled wryly. “Hoshina is worth more to me alive than dead right now, even though I agree that I’ll have to eliminate him somehow and very soon.” He could feel a showdown coming like a distant fire through a forest. “He’s my primary suspect. I can’t kill him before I can place the blame for the murder on his shoulders—if in fact he deserves it.”

  “Well, I don’t think we’ll get any further with him,” Marume said. “What’s our next move?”

  “We’ll try another path to the truth,” Sano said. “If Hoshina is guilty, it’s bound to lead us back to him.”

  An uncomfortable ride in the kago took Reiko to the south end of the Nihonbashi Bridge that spanned Edo’s main canal. Here was the geographical center of the town, the spot from which all distances in Japan were measured, and the starting point of the Tokaid, the road that linked Edo with the Imperial Capital in Miyako. Travelers arriving in or leaving town crowded around large wooden placards, bearing official notices, that were erected near the foot of the bridge. At quays spread along the canal, dockworkers hauled bamboo poles, vegetables, barrels of sake, lumber, and bales of rice from boats to warehouses. The kago bearers stopped at Reiko’s destination, the entrance to a road beyond a wholesale market.

  Lieutenant Asukai and her other escorts, who’d ridden on horseback some fifty paces behind her, caught up with her as she heaved herself out of the basket-chair. She asked the bearers to wait for her. Her escorts walked with her past the shops and food stalls along the street, which was divided at midpoint by a deep, narrow drainage canal. Crossing the bamboo bridge, she paused to gaze at the brown water that flowed sluggishly between steep stone embankments, the scene of a murder two years ago.

  A dead thirteen-year-old girl named Akiko had been pulled out by garbage collectors who’d spotted her floating corpse. At first it oseemed an unfortunate accident—she’d slipped on the muddy path, fallen in the water, and drowned. But when her family had prepared her body for the funeral, they’d discovered bruises around her neck. She’d been strangled to death, then dumped in the canal.

  “It’s a disgrace that somebody could do that,” Lieutenant Asukai said, echoing Reiko’s thoughts. “Especially since she was with child.”

  Her family had also discovered that Akiko was pregnant, a fact she’d hidden beneath loose clothing. Reiko felt her stomach muscles tighten around her own unborn child as she said, “He was desperate. But that’s no excuse for murder.”

  “At least he didn’t get away with it,” Asukai said.

  They proceeded to a building that contained a barbershop in which men sat smoking and chatting while barbers trimmed their hair or shaved their faces. Reiko and her guards went down a passage to the rear of the building, which faced the backs of other shops across an alley. When she knocked on the door to the proprietor’s living quarters, a maid answered.

  “I’ve come to visit your mistress,” Reiko said.

  The maid looked down her nose at Reiko’s humble garments. “Whom should I tell her is calling?”

  “Lady Reiko.”

  The name dissolved the maid’s haughtiness: She knew Reiko was always welcome in this house. “Please come in.”

  She seated Reiko and Lieutenant Asukai in a parlor that contained modest but good-quality furnishings—fresh tatami and cushions covered with tasteful, printed fabric on the floor, a wall of polished wooden cabinets. An altar in the corner held an unlit candle and incense burner, a rice cake and sake cup, and a doll with a rosy china face, dressed in a red kimono.

  A woman hurried in. She was small and fragile, in her thirties but with hair streaked with gray and soft skin lined by hardship. “Lady Reiko!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful to see you again.”

  Reiko saw as much pain as pleasure in her smile. She regretted the bad memories that the sight of her had surely revived in the woman. “I’m sorry to arrive without warning. I hope I’m not causing you too much trouble.”

  “None at all,” the woman said. She knelt and bowed to Lieutenant Asukai. “May I offer you both some refreshments?”

  “No, thank you, we’ve already eaten,” Reiko said in customary, polite response.

  “Oh, but you must have something. And I must fetch my husband.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take him away from his work.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll want to see you.”

  She summoned servants, who spread a lavish repast of tea, cakes, and wine before Reiko and Lieutenant Asukai. Reiko was moved yet shamed by the generosity that she felt she’d done little to deserve. After they’d eaten, the barber joined them.

  “Greetings!” His voice was hearty, his face a likeable blend of intelligence and good nature. He smelled of the camellia oil he used to dress his customers’ hair. “It’s been a long time since we last met. I hope you’re well?” His gaze noted her thickened figure. “Shall I wish you congratulations?”

  Reiko saw memory dim his eyes. “Yes. Thank you.”

  The sight of a pregnant woman must forever cause him pain. The sad shadow of Akiko darkened the room. Her baby had died with her; she would never give her parents grandchildren. Everyone looked at the altar that enshrined her favorite doll.

  “It is we who should thank you, Lady Reiko,” the barber said. His wife nodded. “You brought our daughter’s killer to justice when no one else would.”

  The police had given Akiko’s murder scant attention because they were busy helping the army hunt fugitive rebels. After a few cursory inquiries, they’d concluded that Akiko had been killed by a stranger passing through the neighborhood. Her parents, unsatisfied, had written to Reiko.

  Upon questioning folk in the neighborhood, she’d learned that a certain young man had been seen near the canal the night Akiko died. He was a clerk named Goro, employed by her father; he had a reputation as a bully and womanizer. At first the other workers at the barbershop had been too afraid of Goro to speak against him, but Reiko had convinced them that if they did, they wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. They’d told her he had bragged that he’d taken advantage of Akiko. Reiko and her guards had taken him aside for a little talk.

  Cornered, he’d claimed that the girl had been his willing partner in sex. He’d claimed he hadn’t known she was pregnant and hadn’t killed her. Reiko hadn’t believed him; rather, she’d suspected he’d raped Akiko, and when she’d told him she was expecting his illegitimate child, he’d wanted to be rid of her, Reiko had convinced Magistrate Ueda to charge Goro with murder. During his trial, Goro had broken down and confessed that he’d killed Akiko because she’d threatened to tell her parents what he’d done to her and he didn’t want to lose his job.

  Now Akiko’s father said, “After Goro was convicted, I promised that I would do anything I could to repay you. If you ever need my help, all you have to do is ask.”

  “I need your help now. That’s why I’m here,” Reiko said. “Perhaps you’ve heard that Lord Mori has been murdered, and I am the chief suspect.”

  The couple exclaimed in astonishment: The news hadn’t yet trickled down the social scale to them. The barber said, “But of course you’re innocent.”

  His wife said, “No one who knows you could think you would ever do s
uch a thing.”

  Their faith in her moved Reiko, especially since friends of her own social class had abandoned her and she’d lost faith in herself. Tears she’d kept under control threatened to flow. She said, “I’m trying to find out who killed Lord Mori and framed me. It has to be someone who wanted to hurt me or my husband or both of us.”

  “It can’t be Goro. He’s dead,” the barber said. The clerk had been executed soon after his trial.

  “I was thinking of his family,” Reiko said.

  As soon as Magistrate Ueda had pronounced Goro guilty, his parents had exploded into loud, hysterical rage. His mother had shouted at Reiko, “My son is innocent! You hounded him into confessing! May the gods strike you down and your spirit be reborn into a life of misery!” Both parents had been dragged from the court, still cursing Reiko.

  “Where are they now?” Reiko asked.

  “They moved away from the district,” said the barber.

  “Their son’s disgrace was too much for them,” his wife clarified. Her expression showed pity. “They were shunned by everyone in the neighborhood.”

  Reiko admired her generous spirit that had sympathy to spare for the suffering of their daughter’s murderer’s kin. “Can you tell me where they went?”

  The barber shook his head. “They left in the night. No one saw them go. They didn’t even tell the neighborhood headman where they were moving.”

  As she fought disappointment, Reiko said, “If you hear anything about where they might be, will you let me know immediately?”

  “Of course,” the barber said.

  Reiko thanked the couple for their kindness. They accompanied her and Lieutenant Asukai to the door, where the wife said, “I’ll chant prayers for good luck for you, Lady Reiko.”

  “I hope the gods listen to her,” Asukai said as he walked Reiko down the path. “What do you want to do now?”

  “Look for Goro’s family. Maybe the neighbors have heard news of them.”

  Asukai’s expression was dubious, skeptical. “They certainly had a grudge against you, but I can’t see them as capable of killing Lord Mori or setting you up. They’re just simple, merchant-class folk. How could they have gotten close enough to a daimyo to kill him, never mind think up a scheme to get you in trouble for it?”

  “I’ve already thought of that.”

  “Then how can you believe they’re responsible for what happened to you? Why spend any more time on them?”

  “Because there are connections and patterns that are invisible to us. And because I remember the last thing Goro’s mother said to me when she cursed me.”

  The words spoken two years ago echoed in Reiko’s mind, a threatening prophesy of the future now about to come true. “‘Someday you’ll find out what it’s like to be punished for something you didn’t do.’”

  A walled enclave within Sano’s compound held valuables that included money, government records, and spare household furnishings. “I want to look at those weapons that Hirata-san found,” Sano told the guard who let him and Marume and Fukida through the gate. The weapons were the only material clue found during his entire investigation. He hoped a close examination of them would yield important facts. “Where are they?”

  Square, identical storehouses, built with thick plaster walls, tile roofs, and iron doors to protect their contents from fire, stood in rows like a small, deserted city. “Here,” the guard said, opening the door of one storehouse.

  Marume and Fukida entered and opened the shutters. Following them inside, Sano breathed dank air that smelled of metal and grease. He peered through the dimness at the thirty wooden crates on the floor.

  “I need more light than this,” he said.

  The detectives helped him move the crates onto the pavement outside. Fortunately the rain had paused. An eerie, silver glow lit the early evening sky. The air was still warm, and Sano and his men sweated while working. When they had the crates lined up between the storehouses, they removed the lids.

  Fukida picked up and read a paper that lay atop the arquebuses inside one crate. “Detective Arai did an inventory of the guns. There are twenty in each crate, six hundred total. All appear to be in good working order.”

  “Are those his only observations?” Sano asked, concerned not just because they were so limited.

  When Fukida nodded, Marume said, “What else do we need to know?”

  “Where Lord Mori got them would be helpful.” Sano wondered why Hirata had left an important task to his subordinate, apparently without checking the results.

  “That might tell us who was conspiring with him to overthrow Lord Matsudaira,” Marume agreed. “But didn’t Hirata-san say he searched the crates for documents to show where the guns came from and didn’t find any?”

  “Yes. But documents aren’t the only means of tracing guns.” Sano thought Hirata should have been aware of this fact, should have taken it into account. “Help me inspect these for gunmaker’s marks.”

  Looking over each gun, they found characters and crests, etched into the barrels or branded on the wooden stocks, that identified the craftsmen who’d made them. “Four different gunmakers so far,” Marume said after they’d gone through twenty crates. “Two of them have big workshops in Edo. They supply guns to the Tokugawa army.”

  “Maybe someone in the army is in on the conspiracy,” Fukida said.

  “They also make guns for the daimyo,” said Marume. “Don’t count them out.”

  These possibilities heartened Sano. The army and the daimyo class could offer plenty of treason suspects besides himself—but he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. “There have been thefts from the arsenal during the three years since the war,” Sano pointed out. “These guns could have gotten into Lord Mori’s warehouse via the black market.”

  “I don’t recognize the other two marks,” Fukida said.

  Nor did Sano. “They must belong to craftsmen in the provinces.”

  He and his men were down to the last three crates. As soon as Sano lifted out a gun he saw on its stock a circular crest with a chevron inside. He felt a mixture of triumph and dismay.

  “Is something wrong?” Fukida asked.

  “That’s a new mark,” Marume said, peering at the gun. “I don’t recognize it.”

  “Neither do I,” said Fukida.

  “I do,” Sano said. He had good reason to, whereas his men didn’t and neither did Detective Arai, who’d done the inventory and overlooked the marks. “It belongs to a workshop in the Hatchobori district. They make guns for the Edo police force.”

  “I didn’t know the police had guns,” Marume said. “They don’t carry them.”

  “Many of the commanders have them for target practice. That’s their hobby.” A former police commander himself, Sano knew this. “They’ve built up quite a collection.”

  “This is just what we’ve been looking for.” Excitement animated Fukida’s serious features. “A clue that points to Police Commissioner Hoshina.”

  “He could have been putting together a gang to overthrow Lord Matsudaira’s regime and do away with you at the same time,” Marume said to Sano.

  “Maybe he recruited Lord Mori and put him in charge of collecting guns for another war,” Fukida said.

  “Maybe Lord Mori had second thoughts,” Marume said, “and Hoshina was afraid he would report the conspiracy. That would explain why he’d have wanted Lord Mori dead.”

  “What if he went to the Mori estate and happened to see Lady Reiko there?” Fukida speculated.

  Marume pantomimed shooting a bow and arrow. “Two birds at once. Down goes Chamberlain Sano as well as Lord Mori.”

  The detectives had followed Sano’s line of thought to a conclusion that obviously delighted them. Sano was gladdened, too, that the guns had implicated Hoshina in murder and treason, but less happy about how and when this clue had come to light.

  Fukida handled a gun, frowning at the telltale mark. “I wonder why Ssakan Hirata didn’t notice this. He used to
be a police officer.”

  “It seems as if he’d have recognized—” Marume interrupted himself. He and Fukida glanced at Sano, then away.

  An uncomfortable silence fell.

  Sano knew they were thinking the same thing he was: Hirata didn’t even look for the marks. He missed an important clue.

  “No harm done,” Marume said, too loudly.

  “We have the evidence against Hoshina now,” Fukida said.

  Sano sensed their desire to protect Hirata, their friend and former comrade. He tried not to calculate what Hirata’s mistake might have cost him, although he couldn’t help wondering, What if I’d had this information about the guns yesterday?

  He said, “Do you think we have time for a ride to the police district before the rain starts again?”

  Marume and Fukida grinned, happy at the prospect of gathering more timber for Hoshina’s funeral pyre. “We have time, rain or not,” Marumesaid.

  The shooting range was a favorite haunt of the yoriki. It was surrounded by wharves for firewood and bamboo poles, invisible behind a wall topped with sharp iron spikes. Lanterns hung over the gate flamed and smoked in the damp evening air. Two samurai youths lolled inside a guard booth. When Sano’s party stopped before them, they rose and bowed.

  “Chamberlain Sano wants to go inside,” Detective Marume said.

  The guards exchanged fearful glances that seemed an odd response to such a simple request. They had similar square jaws and chunky physiques; they looked like brothers. One said, “I’m sorry, but we’re closed today.”

  “The field is flooded,” the other hastened to explain.

  “That’s no problem,” said Marume. “Chamberlain Sano isn’t here to shoot. He only needs to see the guns.”

  The guards spoke in rapid, panicky succession: “Nobody except the police commanders is allowed in the arsenal.” “Police Commissioner Hoshina’s orders.”

  “The honorable chamberlain outranks your boss,” Marume said. “Open up.”