Bundori: A Novel of Japan (18 page)

The house’s drab exterior didn’t prepare Sano for the treasure trove he found inside. Elaborate coffered and gilt ceilings decorated the long corridor they followed past rooms crammed with lacquer chests and cabinets, painted scrolls, embroidered silk cushions, life-size statues, tables and shelves crowded with ceramic vases and ivory and gold carvings. Each room had two maids and an armed guard. In a parlor, women dressed in gaudy, expensive kimonos played cards, smoked silver pipes, drank tea, and ate cakes made to resemble flowers. Windows overlooked a verdant garden and a miniature temple complete with halls, bell house, and pagoda. The whole place reeked of incense and perfume, and personified the vulgarity of the merchant class that earned them the samurai’s disdain and jealousy.

“I hope my poor little house pleases you,
sōsakan-sama
.” Matsui’s voice held a hint of mockery. The guards snickered.

Sano wondered what Matsui’s willingness to display his house meant. Nothing to hide? Aside from this obvious possibility, Sano glimpsed a more sinister one. The sumptuary laws prohibited merchants from flaunting their wealth; hence, the house’s simple exterior. Breaking the laws could result in confiscation of all an offender’s money and property. Last year, the
bakufu
had seized the Yodoya family fortune, including houses, rice fields, gold and silver artifacts, and 300, 000
koku
in cash. Yet Matsui had allowed him to see his outrageous hoard. His expert management of the Tokugawa finances must give him understandable faith in their continued protection.

Did he also have the audacity to believe he could get away with murder?

“Now I’ll show you something that should interest you very much,” Matsui said.

He slid aside a panel in what had appeared to be solid wall, revealing a short, narrow corridor that led to an iron-clad door. “Extra security precautions,” he explained as he opened the door, “for my most prized possessions.”

Wondering what could be more valuable than the things he’d already seen, Sano followed Matsui into a small, windowless room. The bodyguards stationed themselves outside the door. Matsui summoned a servant, who lit a ceiling lantern, then left. The lantern’s light illuminated the clay walls of what looked to be a fireproof storehouse connected to the main building. The full-length portrait of a seated man covered the back wall. He wore armor, with his head bare and the helmet resting on his knee.

“My ancestor, General Fujiwara,” Matsui announced proudly.

Shocked, Sano stared at his host, then around the room, which he now realized was a shrine to the general. Beneath the portrait, an altar held incense burners, oil lamps, a cup of sake, oranges, and a bowl of rice. Low pedestals placed against the side walls held artifacts that Sano couldn’t identify in the dim light. But he could see the soot that blackened the walls. The lamp wicks were burnt, the food fresh. Matsui, with all the luxurious rooms at his disposal, spent much time in this small, dark chamber, communing with his ancestor’s spirit.

Matsui’s hearty voice overlaid Sano’s thoughts. “Just because I’m no longer samurai doesn’t mean I’ve renounced my heritage,
sōsakan-sama
. What’s in the blood can never be lost.” He gestured to the portrait. “See the resemblance between us?”

Sano did. General Fujiwara’s stylized face bore Matsui’s features. Only the expression was different: stern, rigid, befitting a great warrior.

Matsui circled the room, lifting items from the pedestals for Sano’s inspection. “These are the general’s relics that I’ve inherited. And I’ll spend whatever’s necessary to acquire those which have become lost over the years. This is his helmet.” Tenderly he stroked its battered metal surface. “And this is his war fan.” It was a gold disk, mounted on an iron shaft, bearing a crescent-moon crest in flaking red paint. “These scrolls tell of his heroic deeds. And this… ”

As Matsui extended to Sano a metal handguard with attached chain-mail sleeve, his voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “This is the armor he wore in the Battle of Anegawa. He was wounded; that dark stain is his blood.”

A shiver rippled Sano’s skin when he saw that Matsui’s smile had vanished. His eyes, fixed on his grisly relic, shone with fierce obsession. In that moment he looked strikingly like General Fujiwara.

Like a warrior capable of killing his enemies.

Cautiously Sano said, “You pay respect to your ancestor. Do you also wish you could live his life?”

“Often.” A sigh gusted from Matsui; his hands caressed the armor. “After a day spent making deals, counting money, and plotting against: my rivals, I long for the simplicity of Bushido. Absolute loyally and obedience to one’s lord. Dying in battle for him. What could be cleaner or more noble?” Matsui chuckled wryly. “So unlike the filthy business of making money. Do you know that my own cousins severed ties with me when I became a merchant?”

Either the shrine induced in Matsui an urge to confide, or he was displaying a show of candor to absolve himself of suspicion. Sano couldn’t tell which, but he nevertheless encouraged Matsui’s revelations.

“Your family’s rejection must have hurt you,” he remarked.

“Oh, yes,” Matsui said sadly. He returned the armor to its pedestal and knelt before the altar. “I like to think that I could have been a great general. But it seems my fate to lead others in the pursuit of making money. Still, my cousins’ disapproval hurts less than the thought of his”-Matsui bowed to the portrait-“had he known how I would disgrace our family.”

“You want to deserve General Fujiwara’s respect, then?”

A sigh; a worshipful glance at the portrait. “Sometimes I think I would give everything I own for it.”

“What do you know of the general’s feud with the Araki and Endō clans?” Sano asked, quietly so as not to jolt Matsui out of his introspective mood.

He’d expected the merchant to deny knowledge of the feud, but Matsui answered without hesitation. “My grandfather, the family historian, considered the feud a puzzling but trivial epilogue to an exemplary life. General Fujiwara was ill when he began the attacks on Araki and Endō. His grievances against them may have been the product of a failing mind. But I believe he had a good reason for his actions, and I wish I knew what it was.”

Although Matsui’s tone and manner hadn’t changed when he uttered the last sentence, Sano’s extra sense told him the merchant was lying. Still, Matsui had given him an opening.

Phrasing his question carefully, he said, “Would your reviving the feud against Araki’s and Endō’s descendants appease the general’s spirit?”

Matsui slowly turned from the portrait. Sano dared not breathe. Every instinct told him Matsui was capable of killing to ensure General Fujiwara a posthumous victory over his enemies. Now he need only elicit a confession.

Softly he said, “Where were you last night, Matsui? And on the nights of Kaibara’s and the
rōnin
Tōzawa’s deaths? Did you kill them?”

Visions of the shogun’s approval, fulfilling his promise to his father, and the city delivered from evil hovered at the periphery of Sano’s consciousness as Matsui lifted haunted eyes to his.

Then Matsui threw back his head and laughed, completely shattering the fragile structure of Sano’s interrogation. “You’re very good,
sōsakan-sama
,” he said, standing. He waggled a playful finger at Sano. “But not good enough to trick old Matsui Minoru. Consider me a murderer, if you will. But remember this.”

He faced Sano, arms folded, stance firm: once again the hard-driving merchant who refused to yield concessions. “Would I have shown you this shrine if I were the killer you seek? I certainly wouldn’t have let you in my house if I had a blood-spattered trophy workshop to hide. I invite you to search my other houses, my store, my banks and moneylending shops, and my offices at the shipping firm. You’ll find nothing there, either. You can question my staff, who will tell you that I’m a good, respectable citizen.”

His brazen declaration left Sano speechless. Had Matsui’s “confidences” been nothing but a joke at his expense? Or was Matsui bluffing now, to repair the damage they’d done?

“As for the nights of the murders,” Matsui continued in the same recalcitrant tone, “I was here at home, in this very room.” Pointing at the men outside the door, he added, “My guards will vouch for me. I never go anywhere without them.

“And now you must excuse me,
sōsakan-sama;
I have business to conduct. If you have any more questions, you’ll have to arrest me. But think hard before you do. Should the shogun’s gold cease to multiply and flow, I doubt if he would thank you.”

Sano returned to Edo Castle at noon, feeling rushed and discouraged. Now, he rode through the main gate to seek Chūgo Gichin, captain of the guard and second suspect, before attending his
miai
. Since he couldn’t conduct a secret inquiry in the castle, where spies would undoubtedly report his activities to Chūgo, he hoped a surprise confrontation might prove more satisfactory than his clash with Matsui.

He couldn’t eliminate Matsui as a strong suspect, despite the merchant’s denials and the common sense that told him such a man wouldn’t risk his wealth and position to revive a dead feud. He believed in Matsui’s sinister obsession with General Fujiwara, and had sensed his capacity for violence. During their short encounter, he’d grasped Matsui’s essential nature: bold, ruthless, with a grandiose self-importance that could easily inspire a sense of invincibility. That Matsui’s associates would attest to his good character and his bodyguards to his whereabouts didn’t convince Sano of the merchant’s innocence. All those people were in Matsui’s pay. Still Sano appreciated the difficulty of establishing Matsui’s guilt.

Matsui was far too clever to leave incriminating evidence in his places of residence or work. Sano thought he could probably persuade Matsui’s enemies to contradict the good references from friends and underlings, but he doubted whether he could break Matsui’s alibi. If the bodyguards had taken part in the murders, they would lie to protect themselves.

This next interview would either offer a better suspect, or eliminate Chūgo Gichin and give him more time to incriminate Matsui. Of Chamberlain Yanagisawa, he could not bear to think, because Yanagisawa’s guilt would mean his own destruction. For once, Sano closed his mind to his father’s voice, which would force him to acknowledge the possibility he didn’t want to face.

Inside the castle, Sano entered the main guard compound, where a thousand samurai occupied the huge, stone-walled courtyard shadowed by the towering keep. Some were mounted, others on foot; all wore swords and armor tunics. The long wooden sheds that bordered the compound held an arsenal of swords, spears, bows, polearms, arquebuses, cannon, and ammunition. This was the mighty heart of the Tokugawa military regime. Through it, like an emperor surveying his domain, strode Chūgo Gichin.

Accompanied by three lieutenants, he alone wore full battle regalia. A black metal helmet with deep side flaps and a pair of carved golden pine boughs adorning its crown sat proudly on his head. An elaborate armor tunic, its many plates laced with red and gold silk cord, hung from his high, square shoulders. Chain-mail sleeve guards covered his long arms. His kimono hem was tucked into metal shin guards that covered legs as slender and straight as wooden pillars. His erect, rigid posture emphasized his spare muscularity. As he made his inspection tour, he carried the weight of his armor without visible effort. His voice, barking orders and questions at his ranks, rose above the sounds of footsteps, hoof-beats, and muted conversation.

Sano watched the captain of the guard and tried without success to imagine him a murderer. This man’s family had loyally served the Tokugawa for generations. Chūgo had worked his way up through the military ranks, even doing a stint in the navy. Now he was responsible for the castle’s security during his duty shift. It was his job to protect the shogun, his family, and their multitude of officials, retainers, and attendants; to maintain order and peace.

How could he also be the person who had killed four men and thrown the city into turmoil?

Then Chūgo headed toward his command post, passing the armory sheds, whose red curtains bore his crest: a white octagon with the Fujiwara crescent moon in the center. Sano dismounted and started after Chūgo. Before he'd moved ten steps, a pair of guards accosted him.

“May we be of assistance,
sosakan-sama
?” one asked. A touch of insolence tainted his courteous bow and greeting. Just three days ago, these men would have treated Sano with fawning subservience. He marveled at how quickly news of his downfall had reached even the
bakufu
's lower echelons.

“I must speak with Captain Chūgo Gichin,” he said.

Scornfully looking him up and down, they advanced until he was forced to move backward toward the gate.

“It concerns a matter of vital importance to castle security,” Sano added.

The two guards stopped, exchanged glances, shrugged. “Come with me,” the spokesman said.

Sano offered a silent prayer of thanks for underlings who preferred to shift responsibility to their superiors. Shadowed by his escort, he followed Chūgo's steps to a large shed in the compound's corner, built under a tall watchtower. He braced himself, hoping his arrival would startle the captain into betraying guilt. But as they entered the command post, the guard shot an arm across Sano's chest.

“Wait,” he ordered.

The post's anteroom was unfurnished, earth-floored. An open door at the rear showed the captain's office, which contained a desk, cabinets, chests, pieces of armor and weaponry. The walls were covered with duty rosters and maps of the castle. Sano's attention flew to the room's center, where Chūgo Gichin knelt on a straw mat, profile to the door, fists balled on his thighs. He'd removed his armor and helmet; now, a black hood completely covered his head. An attendant was positioning four man-size straw dummies around Chūgo. Finishing, he came to stand beside Sano at the door. He raised a finger to his lips for silence. Sano nodded agreement, eyes riveted on Chūgo. Anticipation tightened his stomach. He was about to witness a demonstration of the martial arts skill for which Chūgo had achieved nationwide fame:
iaijutsu
, the art of simultaneously drawing and cutting with the sword.

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
ronin
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.