Assassin's Touch (12 page)

He’d confirmed what the
doshin
had said at Yugao’s trial. His description of that night brought it to vivid life for Reiko, who felt more inclined than ever to believe that Yugao was as guilty as she said. Yet Reiko couldn’t conclude her investigation based on the testimony of a witness who’d arrived at the scene after the murders were done.

“When you came here that night, did you see anyone around besides Yugao?” Reiko asked.

“Only some folks who’d come out of their houses to see what the commotion was.”

Reiko must later determine whether the neighbors had noticed anyone near the house before the murders, or fleeing it afterward. “How well did you know the family?”

“Well enough. They’d been here more than two years. They had about six more months left of their sentence.”

“What can you tell me about them?”

“The man’s name was Taruya. He once owned an entertainment hall in Ryōgoku. He was a wealthy, important merchant, but when he became a
hinin
, he got a job as an executioner at Edo Jail.” That was one of the lowly occupations assigned to the outcasts. “His wife O-aki and Yugao earned a little money by sewing. The younger daughter, Umeko, sold herself to men.” The headman pointed at the alcove. “That’s where she serviced them.”

“I need to know why Yugao killed her family, if she did,” Reiko said.

“She didn’t tell me, but she didn’t get along with them particularly well. They quarreled a lot. Neighbors were always complaining about the noise. Of course that’s nothing unusual here. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my seven years in this hell, it’s that when people are miserable and cooped up together, fights are bound to break out. Some little thing probably tipped Yugao over the edge.”

Here Reiko saw a chance to answer at least one question. “Why did Yugao and her family become outcasts?”

“Her father committed incest with Yugao.”

Reiko knew that incest with a female relative was one of the crimes for which a man could be demoted to
hinin
, but she was nonetheless shocked. She’d heard gossip about men who satisfied their carnal lust on their daughters, but couldn’t understand how a father could do such a perverted, disgusting thing. “If Yugao’s father was the criminal, what were Yugao and her mother and sister doing here?”

“They were three helpless women without any money to their own names. They depended on Taruya to support them. They had to move here with him or starve to death.”

Which meant that the whole family—including Yugao—had shared his punishment. That seemed unfair, but Tokugawa law often punished a criminal’s family for his transgression. Reiko’s heartbeat quickened because she spied a possible motive for at least one of the murders. Had Yugao felt so soiled and shamed by the incest that she’d come to hate the father that tradition commanded her to respect and love? Had her hot temper ignited into murderous rage that night?

Reiko gazed around the hovel. Her imagination populated the room with a man and three women seated at their evening meal. The faces of Yugao’s father, her mother, and the sister were indistinct; only Yugao’s features were in clear focus. Reiko heard their angry voices rise in a quarrel fostered by living in crowded conditions, not having enough to eat, and their mutual disgrace. She envisioned them hurling blows, dishes, and curses at one another. And perhaps the crime that had condemned them to their fate hadn’t stopped. Reiko imagined the hovel in the dark of that night. She saw two shadowy figures, Yugao and her father, in a bed superimposed over the largest blood-stained patch on the floor.

He pins her down, his hand held over her face to muffle her cries as he thrusts himself against her. Nearby, her mother and sister lie asleep in their beds. After the illicit coupling is done, the father rolls off Yugao and falls asleep, while she seethes with ire. This night’s indignity has been one too many. Yugao has had enough.

She rises, fetches a knife, and plunges it into her father’s chest. He awakens, howling in pain and surprise. He tries to seize the knife from her, but she slashes his hands and stabs him again and again. His cries rouse Yugao’s mother and sister. Horrified, they grab Yugao and pull her away from her father, but too late
—
he is dead. Yugao is so frenzied that she goes mad. She turns the knife on her mother and sister. She chases them, slashing and stabbing, while they scream in terror. Their feet leave bloody prints on the floor, until they fall lifeless.

Yugao surveys her work. Her thirst for vengeance is satisfied; her frenzy turns to unnatural serenity. She sits down, the knife in her hands, and waits for whatever will come.

The headman’s voice interrupted Reiko’s thoughts. “Have you seen enough?”

The vision faded; Reiko blinked. She now had a plausible theory of why, and how, the murders happened, but it was mere speculation. She needed more evidence to support it before she told her father that Yugao was guilty and he should sentence her to death.

“I’ve seen enough here,” she said. “Now I must talk to the family’s neighbors.” Maybe they’d seen something Kanai hadn’t. Had someone else entered the hovel and committed the murders? Had Yugao been an intended victim? That would leave questions as to why she’d survived—and confessed—but Reiko still sensed that there was more to the crime than she’d learned. “Will you guide me around the settlement and introduce me?”

Kanai gave her a look of forbearance. “Whatever you want, but I think you’re wasting your time.”

Reiko’s curiosity about the
hinin
extended to this man who’d become her willing, albeit skeptical, assistant. “May I ask how you became a
hinin
?”

His face darkened with emotion; he turned away from her. “When I was young, I fell in love. She was a maid at a teahouse.” He spoke as though each word flayed him with a whip. “I was a samurai from a proud, ancient family.” Yet a hint of a smile said he took pleasure from wounding himself. “We wanted to marry, but we belonged to different worlds. We decided that if we couldn’t live together, we would die together. One night we went out to the Ryōgoku Bridge. We tied ourselves together with rope. We pledged eternal love. Then we jumped.”

This was an old story, the subject of many Kabuki plays. Suicide pacts were popular among illicit lovers. Reiko said, “But you’re—”

“Still alive,” Kanai said. “When we fell in the river, she drowned almost at once. She gave up her life easily. But I—” He drew a wavering breath. “It was as if my body had a will of its own, and it didn’t want to die. As the current swept us away, I struggled until the ropes that tied me to her came loose. I swam to a dock. A police officer found me there. Her body washed up downstream the next day. And I was made an outcast.”

That was the standard punishment for survivors of love suicide pacts. As Reiko studied his bleak posture, she realized that Kanai still mourned his beloved. “I’m sorry. Maybe if I put in a good word for you with my father, he’ll pardon you.”

“Thanks, but don’t bother,” Kanai said, his expression morose as he faced her. “My sentence was one year. I can leave any time I want. I choose to stay.”

“Why?” Reiko couldn’t believe that anyone would voluntarily live here.

“I was too much a coward to die. What kind of poor excuse for a samurai does that make me?” Kanai’s tone was scathing. “She’s dead. I’m alive. Staying here is my punishment.”

With a visible effort he donned his usual, indifferent attitude. “But you didn’t come here to listen to my pitiful story. Come with me—I’ll introduce you to Yugao’s neighbors.” As they exited the hovel, he said, “There’s one lesson you can learn from my example, that you should keep in mind while you investigate these murders: Some people accused of crimes truly are guilty.”

11

Cannons and gunshots blasted around Hirata. He stood alone on a battlefield, his body clothed in armor, his sword in his hand. Amid clouds of smoke and mist, shadowy figures engaged in fierce combat. Their cries rang above the blare of conch trumpets and the thunder of war drums. A soldier on horseback galloped through the mist, his lance aimed at Hirata. Hirata dodged and swung his sword. It cut the soldier across the belly. The soldier dropped from his mount, spurting blood. A swordsman charged Hirata from the rear. Hirata whirled; his blade lashed open the man’s throat. More soldiers assailed Hirata. He slew them with effortless grace. His blade seemed an extension of his will to win. Exhilaration filled him.

Suddenly the battle sounds faded; the armies dissolved in the mist. Hirata awakened to find himself lying in bed, his wounded leg throbbing. The war-cries became the chatter of servants in his estate; the gunfire emanated from the Edo Castle shooting range. Morning sunlight from the window stabbed his eyes. His head ached and his stomach was sour—after-effects of his sleeping potion. Every night he dreamed that he was whole and strong; every morning he awakened to the nightmare of his true existence. But he stoically heaved himself out of bed. He had important work to do, and he’d already slept too long.

“Midori!” he called.

After she helped him dress and coaxed him to eat some rice gruel and fish, he went into his office and sent for his detectives. He assigned men to take charge of ongoing investigations, dismissed them, and told Arai and Inoue to stay.

“Today we’ll investigate the previous deaths that Lord Matsudaira thinks were murders,” he said.

“That would be Ono Shinnosukc, the supervisor of court ceremony, Highway Commissioner Sasamura Tomoya, and Treasury Minister Moriwaki?” said Arai.

Hirata nodded. “We’ll try to find out whether they were victims of
dim-mak.
If so, we’ll look for suspects.”

“Where do we start?” said Inoue.

“At their homes. That’s where Ono and Sasamura died.”

All three men had lived in estates in the Hibiya administrative district. Hirata hoped he wouldn’t have to travel any farther. The pain was especially severe this morning, due to yesterday’s exertions. Maybe he could connect the previous deaths to Chief Ejima’s and uncover some leads before his strength gave out. He tucked a vial of opium under his sash in case he should need relief.

Two hours later, he and the detectives walked out the gate of Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s residence. They mounted their horses while clerks, officials in palanquins, and foot-soldiers streamed past them in the street.

“Another dead end,” Inoue said regretfully.

“It’s too bad that no one here, or at the court supervisor’s or the highway commissioner’s estates, noticed a fingerprint-shaped bruise on any of the victims,” Arai said.

Hirata had questioned the men’s families, retainers, and servants, to no avail. Because the bodies had been cremated, they couldn’t be examined. “Moriwaki’s wife did tell us some interesting facts about what happened after he died,” Hirata remarked.

“But we’ve learned nothing to prove that Ono and Sasamura didn’t die natural deaths in their sleep,” said Inoue.

“Maybe Ejima’s murder was an isolated incident and there’s no conspiracy against Lord Matsudaira,” Arai said.

“In which case, this list of people that the men saw during the two days before they died won’t do us much good because there’s no reason why the name of Ejima’s killer would appear on it.” Hirata tucked the scroll in his saddlebag. He felt sick and weak, as well as frustrated.

“What do we do now?” Inoue said.

Hirata didn’t want to give up and return empty-handed to Sano. “Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s case is different from the other two. He wasn’t found dead in bed at home. And our list of his contacts and places he went is incomplete.” Moriwaki’s former secretary had said that the treasury minister had been an eccentric, secretive man who’d liked to arrange his own appointments and go off by himself. “Maybe if we trace his movements, we’ll turn up some evidence that he was murdered, and some clues as to who killed Chief Ejima as well as him.”

Even though the stiffness in Hirata’s leg had eased somewhat, he spoke with as much reluctance to take another journey as anticipation of success: “The one place we know for sure that Moriwaki went is the bathhouse where he died. We’ll go there.”

The journey took Hirata to the Nihonbashi merchant district. The canals that traversed the neighborhoods brimmed with spring rain. Into them, willows trailed their boughs like girls washing their hair. Plum trees blossomed in pots outside doorways and on balconies. Hirata and his men rode past a funeral procession of lantern-bearers; priests ringing bells, beating drums, and chanting prayers; and white-robed mourners who accompanied a coffin decorated with flowers. Funerals were a disturbingly common sight since the war.

The bathhouse was located in a half-timbered building with a gleaming tile roof. It occupied an entire block in a neighborhood composed of stately houses near shops that sold expensive art objects. Clean indigo curtains, printed with the white symbol for “hot water,” hung over the entrance. Pretty maids dressed in neat kimonos stood there to welcome customers. When Hirata and his detectives dismounted outside, servants hurried to tend their horses. He deduced that the place catered to folk who were wealthy enough to have bath chambers at home but came here for other reasons besides washing themselves.

A samurai strode out the door. He was tall, with a muscular build and arrogant bearing; he wore opulent silk robes, a fancy armor tunic, and two elaborate swords. Two samurai attendants followed him. As he caught sight of Hirata, a sneer appeared on his handsome, angular face.

“Well, if it isn’t the
sōsakan-sama
,” he said.

Hirata bristled at the man’s insulting tone. “Greetings, Police Commissioner Hoshina.”

The police commissioner had been the lover of Yanagisawa, and a staunch ally of his faction, until a bitter quarrel had split them up. Hoshina had then taken revenge by joining Lord Matsudaira and thus kept his position at the head of the police force. He was a longtime enemy of Sano, and their bad blood extended to Hirata.

“I’m surprised to see you. The last I heard, you were on your deathbed.” Hoshina’s insolent gaze raked Hirata. “I think you got up a little too soon.”