SI1 Shinju (1994)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Midori sighed, accepting his words with averted head and slumped shoulders. “I know you can’t,” she said sorrowfully. Her hand went up as if to stroke her hair, then jerked back as it touched bare scalp. “My father’s men would hunt us down. They would cut off your head and bring me back here. I shouldn’t have asked. Forgive me.”

  “Can you tell me how you happened to come here?” Sano asked. He didn’t want to set off another outburst by mentioning her sister’s death right away, and he wanted the story in her own words, uninfluenced by his own expectations.

  “My stepmother is punishing me.” Now Midori’s eyes glittered with anger. “I hate her! If I ever see her again, I’ll kill her. I’ll get a sword and cut her a hundred times. Like this!” Wielding an imaginary sword, she slashed at the air. “I don’t want to be a nun. I want to live in Edo and go to parties and the theater. I want my sisters, and my pretty clothes, and my dolls, and, oh…!” She burst into wild sobs, hiding her face in her hands.

  “Has your father no say in the matter?” Sano asked. He knew that many men cared little about their daughters’ happiness, but he wouldn’t have expected Lord Niu to give one up to the clergy so easily. He had more to gain from marrying Midori off to a son of another important clan. This way he lost the chance to cement a political alliance and had to pay a dowry to the temple.

  Midori raised her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I hardly ever see my father. Besides, he lets my stepmother run the household as she pleases. Just like he lets my older brothers run his province. The servants say he can’t think for himself anymore. His mind isn’t right, and it gets worse every year, they say.”

  Sano suddenly remembered the Little Daimyo’s other nickname: the Crazy Little Daimyo. He’d heard rumors of bizarre happenings in Satsuma Province: Lord Niu’s wild parties, and his howling rages, when he would gallop his horse around the castle grounds, hacking viciously with his sword at anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. If, as Midori said, Lord Niu’s authority had passed to his wife, it would explain Lady Niu’s unusual power. Sano wondered if anyone else in the family shared Lord Niu’s violent disposition. Perhaps the young Masahito, who resembled him physically? But Yukiko’s, Noriyoshi’s, and Tsunehiko’s murders bespoke a different kind of mentality: sane and calculating.

  “What are you being punished for?” he prompted Midori, guiding the conversation away from this interesting but secondary subject.

  “For disobeying my stepmother’s orders by going into Yukiko’s room. For talking to you-and to make sure I never talked to you again.”

  So he’d guessed correctly.

  “She doesn’t want me to tell anyone what I read in Yukiko’s diary,” Midori continued.

  Sano leaned toward her eagerly. Here came the evidence he sought, from Yukiko herself, or as nearly as possible. “And what was that?” he asked, keeping his voice calm so as not to frighten Midori.

  Midori wrapped his cloak more tightly around her. “Well… Yukiko wrote about firefly hunting. And about our brother Masahito’s manhood ceremony.”

  She went on to describe both, obviously enjoying Sano’s attention and wanting to keep it by drawing out the story. Sano let her talk, although he was uncomfortably conscious of the cold and of the rapidly fading daylight. He knew that valuable information comes, sometimes unexpectedly, to those who listen well. But he kept part of his mind on the path, watching for the guards.

  “I didn’t see that man Noriyoshi’s name in the diary,” Midori said. “Not once! And I know Yukiko wasn’t in any hurry to marry; she always said a girl should be willing to wait until a suitable match can be made for her. Besides, how could she have met that man? She never went out without a chaperone, and never at night.” A frown wrinkled Midori’s forehead. “Except-”

  Now Sano was glad he’d let her ramble. “You saw her go out the night she died? Did the diary say where, or why?”

  Midori’s answer disappointed him. “No. It wasn’t then, it was last month. On the night of the full moon. I didn’t see her leave, but I saw her come home very early the next morning. And I didn’t have time to read that part of the diary-my stepmother stopped me. So I don’t know where she went.”

  Last month. The wrong time entirely. Sano lost interest. He suspected that Yukiko had been killed right there at the Niu estate, anyway, and her body moved afterward. Increasingly eager to extract the relevant information and leave the mountainside, he said, “When we spoke in Edo, you said you had proof that Yukiko was murdered. Was it something you read in the diary? Will you show it to me?”

  To his dismay, Midori just stared at him blankly. “I can’t,” she said. “My stepmother tore it up. And why do you need to see it, anyway? I just told you that it proved Yukiko didn’t know that man. So she couldn’t have committed shinjū with him. Isn’t that enough? Can’t you look for the person who killed her now?”

  It was far from enough. Sano took two abrupt steps down the path, turning his face away from Midori so that she wouldn’t see the devastation there. What a tragic waste this journey had been! All he’d learned was that, according to a little girl, Yukiko hadn’t mentioned Noriyoshi’s name in a diary that no longer existed. Anger swelled in his chest, directed not at Midori for misleading him, but at himself for hoping for too much. He had to force himself to turn back to her and say, gently, “Did the diary say anything else?”

  For the first time since they’d met, Midori showed less than complete candor. Hunching her shoulders, she looked at the ground and mumbled, “No. Nothing.”

  To Sano it was obvious that she was lying. There was something else. Something crucial to his investigation. He wanted to demand, “What was it? Tell me!” Instead he knelt beside her.

  “Even something that doesn’t seem important could turn out to be helpful later,” he said. “If you want me to find out who killed your sister, you must tell me everything.”

  No answer.

  “Look at me, Miss Midori.”

  She sighed and met his gaze defiantly. “It didn’t have anything to do with Yukiko dying,” she protested. “It was about our family.”

  Evidently it hadn’t occurred to her that one of her own relatives might have killed Yukiko. Now Sano watched sudden comprehension register on her face. She recoiled visibly, her small body scooting backward on the log. Her eyes beseeched him to banish her fears.

  Sano hesitated. He hated to see her suffer more than she already had. But he understood the loyalty that bound her to keep her family’s secrets and knew he had to break through its armor to learn the truth.

  “Your family’s affairs could have everything to do with Yukiko’s death,” he said as gently as possible.

  Midori’s teeth gnawed her chapped lips, drawing blood. At last she began to speak in a dull monotone.

  “The day before she died, Yukiko wrote that she couldn’t decide whether to tell what she knew about someone. ‘To speak is to betray, ’ she said. ‘To remain silent a sin. ’ After I read that, I looked back to see who she was talking about.” Midori paused. “It was our brother, Masahito.”

  Young Lord Niu. Noriyoshi’s blackmail victim, also in the power of a sister with a strong sense of right or wrong. Would she have pressured him to confess a misdeed, as she had the little girls who had broken a firefly cage? He was cunning enough to plan the false shinjū, and had access to plenty of loyal helpers. Crazy like his father, perhaps. Son of a powerful woman who would use her influence to protect him from the law. And, in the end, desperate enough to kill again to avoid exposure? The puzzle arranged itself into a picture whose logic and rightness Sano found immensely satisfying. Only one piece was missing.

  With an effort, Sano controlled his rising excitement. “What did Yukiko know about Masahito, Miss Midori?”

  Midori shook her head with the conviction that her earlier denial had lacked. “I don’t know. All Yukiko said was-”

  She frowned and pursed her lips in an effort to remember. Then she said
, “For what Masahito did, the penalty is execution, maybe not just for himself, either, but for the whole family, who must share his awful punishment because it’s the law. Yukiko said that the thought of death filled her heart with dread. But she was willing to die rather than live in shame and dishonor, because it’s a samurai woman’s duty. And she thought duty was more important than her loyalty to our family, even if she would condemn us to the same cruel fate as his by exposing Masahito.

  “My stepmother came in then, and I didn’t get to read any further,” Midori finished. “I don’t know what Masahito did, but it must be very bad.”

  Sano tried to imagine what Lord Niu might have done to merit such extreme punishment. Samurai were not subject to the same laws that bound commoners. Usually they were allowed to commit seppuku-ritual suicide instead of being executed for their crimes. Only for very serious offenses involving disgrace to their honor were they stripped of their status and treated as commoners. Arson and treason came to mind; sometimes murder, depending on the circumstances, could also mean execution for both the criminal and any relatives who had collaborated in or even known of the crime. Without more information, Sano could only guess which Lord Niu might have committed. But he had no doubt that the need to keep it a secret had provided Lord Niu’s motive for the murder of not only his sister, but of Noriyoshi and Tsunehiko as well.

  “He killed her, didn’t he?” Midori asked. “Because he didn’t want her to tell?”

  Wanting to spare Midori’s feelings, Sano said, “Maybe not. After all, we have only Yukiko’s word for what happened. Perhaps she misunderstood, or wasn’t telling the truth in her diary.” Objectivity forced him to consider both possibilities.

  Hope kindled in Midori’s eyes. Then she shook her head, fingering her shaven scalp. “No,” she said mournfully. “Yukiko wouldn’t lie. And she must have been sure. I know she was upset before she died.”

  Midori hugged her knees to her chest as if for comfort as well as warmth. Sano’s heart ached for the pampered daimyo’s daughter, sent against her will to a place she hated, to live a life of deprivation and servitude. It was the fate of many girls, but with a terrible difference. Other girls, sold into prostitution or given in marriage to cruel husbands, could find solace in believing they’d made a noble sacrifice, and in idealizing the families they’d left behind. Midori had to face the worst about hers. Sano hated his part in her anguish. He wished things could have turned out any other way. But whatever the outcome, innocent people would suffer when his investigation bore fruit. He realized that now, even if he hadn’t when he’d impulsively begun.

  “I’m sorry,” he began, then fell silent. He couldn’t think of any words of sympathy that wouldn’t sound trite or insincere.

  Midori didn’t answer. She was gazing down at the village, her face pinched with misery.

  The sudden ringing of the temple bell broke the silence and made them both jump. Its deep, resounding peals echoed across the mountains and lake, signaling the evening rites.

  Midori cast a nervous glance uphill. “I’d better go back now, before anyone misses me,” she said. “When the nuns catch me disobeying, they make me go without supper.” Reluctantly she rose, handing back Sano’s cloak. “Good-bye, yoriki-san.”

  She took a few steps, then turned and said, in a voice newly adult in its seriousness, “I want Yukiko’s death avenged. I want her killer punished.” Her face, too, had sharpened, giving Sano a disconcerting glimpse of the woman she would become: as formidable in her own way as Lady Niu. “If it’s Masahito”-she swallowed hard, but continued bravely-“then so be it.”

  Sano watched her small, forlorn figure climb the path toward the temple. Then he started down the mountainside. Tonight he could rest. But tomorrow he must begin the journey back to Edo, where he faced the onerous tasks of notifying Tsunehiko’s parents of their son’s death, and proving Lord Niu Masahito guilty of three murders.

  Chapter 17

  Magistrate Ogyu bent to examine the stone bench that stood outside his tea ceremony cottage. Although the morning sunlight revealed no dirt, he ran his finger over its surface. He held the finger close to his eyes, frowning at the almost invisible film of dust on his skin.

  “Clean this bench immediately,” he said to the servant who hovered at his elbow. “Lady Niu will be arriving soon. Everything must be perfect.”

  “Yes, master.” The servant began to sweep the bench with a small broom.

  Ogyu turned to inspect the garden. He needed to make sure the gardeners had cleared away the dead branches from the flagstone path and arranged leaves in an attractive pattern on the pond. But his movement crackled the paper tucked into his sash. Unwillingly, but also unable to stop himself, he drew out Lady Niu’s letter, which he’d received yesterday. He read it for what must be the twentieth time, skipping over the formal salutations to the heart of her message:

  In view of recent events, I feel it is imperative that we meet and plan our strategy for dealing with their ramifications.

  The “events” she referred to could only be Sano Ichirō’s secret visit to the Temple of Kannon and the murder of the boy Tsunehiko. Ogyu’s spies had reported both to him, the only out-of-the-ordinary things to happen over the past three days. He wondered why Sano had told the seemingly pointless lie about Mishima. But whatever the reason, it was a matter between superior and subordinate, best handled privately. Tsunehiko’s death was an unfortunate but all too common highway tragedy. What had these incidents to do with Lady Niu?

  Ogyu could only guess. His uncertainty had kept him awake last night and soured his stomach; he still felt nauseated despite the infusion of bamboo ash he’d taken. Added to his worries was the disturbing news that one of his Edo informers had brought just this morning: Sano had not stopped investigating the shinjū. The day before he left, he’d interviewed both the actor and a wrestler. Ogyu didn’t think Lady Niu had found out yet; his informers in those quarters were better than anyone’s except the shogun’s. But he knew she soon would, and that she would blame him for not seeing that Sano followed orders. The thought of her displeasure worsened Ogyu’s sickness. Hot, acrid bile rose in his throat as he remembered how she could ruin him if she chose. A curse on Sano Ichirō, that stubborn, disobedient fool! Would that he’d never seen the man!

  Cramming the letter back into his sash, Ogyu tried to dismiss his worries. He could handle Lady Niu. He need only practice the skills he’d honed to perfection over the years. Manipulation. Verbal swordplay. Spotting the advantage and seizing it before his adversary had even noticed. Using the adversary’s own strengths and weaknesses as weapons. And he could favor his triumph over Lady Niu by making sure the stage was properly set for their confrontation. He turned his attention to the tea ceremony cottage.

  The small, boxy hut, with its thatched roof, rough earth walls, and bamboo mullions, looked like a farmhouse uprooted and transported to Edo. Ogyu usually enjoyed the contrast between it and his urban mansion. He enjoyed the effect of rustic simplicity, which he’d spared no expense to create. Money, he often thought, could buy even peace and serenity.

  But today, his apprehension wouldn’t let him regard the cottage with his usual complacence. The leafless garden seemed bare and unappealing. He’d planted cherry trees for spring, annuals for summer, and maples for autumn, but he’d neglected to include evergreens for winter. The ancient stone lanterns looked dingy and worn instead of picturesque. He’d spent hours placing the stepping stones that led to the cottage in an artistically irregular line. Now he had a sudden urge to rearrange them. The cottage’s design didn’t meet his approval, either. The kneeling entrance was too high, the windows too small. As the threat of Lady Niu’s impending visit eroded his confidence, he saw the tea cottage for what it was: the second-rate creation of a dilettante who fancied himself a tea master.

  Ogyu felt a spurt of impotent rage toward Lady Niu and Sano Ichirō, both of whom had so seriously disturbed his tranquillity of late. He sought an outlet for
his rage.

  “Come here, you!” he shouted to his servant. “See this spot you missed.” He pointed to a tiny streak of dirt on one of the otherwise immaculate stepping stones. “Attend to it at once, and if your work is not perfect from now on, I will dismiss you!”

  “Yes, master. Right away, master.” The servant hurried to obey.

  The fear in the man’s eyes restored Ogyu’s sense of power. Now he could picture himself emerging victorious from his clash with Lady Niu, just as he had from every difficult situation that had arisen in his long life. Smiling, he followed the stepping stones- which looked fine now-to the cottage. He slipped off his shoes and slid open the door to the kneeling entrance that stood at thigh height above the ground, designed to induce humility in tea ceremony guests. Ordinarily he would enter the cottage through the server’s door in the rear, which led to the kitchen. But he wanted to view the cottage from Lady Niu’s perspective. As he climbed inside, his smile widened. Today this entrance would serve another purpose. Lady Niu must kneel when she approached him, as she never would on any other occasion. The opening advantage would be his.

  Inside the cottage, Ogyu cast an approving eye around the room. Flecks of straw gleamed in walls made of red-ochre earth. The central pillar was a slender tree trunk, irregularly shaped but polished to a subtle gloss. Rich woodgrain veined the unpainted rafters and columns. In the alcove, a scroll bearing a winter haiku hung above a crude black vase made by a primitive Korean potter. Yes, everything about the room met the highest standards of tea culture.

  Ogyu had added one special touch, though, which he considered an improvement over traditional tea cottage design. Hidden beneath wooden grills, three sunken charcoal braziers burned. Ogyu saw no reason to sacrifice comfort for rusticity. In winter, the heat from the hearth, a square burner set in the floor by the host’s place, was hardly adequate.