Red Chrysanthemum

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Yanagisawa turned to Kato Kinhide and Ihara Eigoro, members of the Council of Elders, Japan’s supreme governing body and the shogun’s top advisers. His message had asked Yoritomo to bring them along. They’d opposed Lord Matsudaira and supported Yanagisawa during the war. They had survived the purges by latching onto Yoritomo, whose influence with the shogun protected them from Lord Matsudaira. Now they looked as amazed to see Yanagisawa as if he’d risen from the dead, and not especially pleased.

  “What’s the matter?” Yanagisawa said. “I thought you’d be glad I’m back.”

  “Yes, of course we are,” said Ihara. He was short and hunched, simian in appearance. “This is just such a shock.”

  “How did you escape?” asked Kato, who had a broad face with leathery skin, like a mask with slits for eyes and mouth.

  “Never mind that,” Yanagisawa said. “I’m here to mount a new campaign against Lord Matsudaira.” Once he got rid of Lord Matsudaira, he could inveigle his way back into the shogun’s good graces. “We need to make plans.”

  Kato exchanged glances with Ihara, then said slowly, “This isn’t a good time for such a campaign.”

  “Why not?” Yanagisawa said, disturbed by their lack of enthusiasm.

  “The political climate has been unfavorable to you since you’ve been gone,” Ihara said.

  “What’s happened to my other allies? Don’t I have any left?” Yanagisawa controlled the fear that crept through him.

  “There are still officials and daimyo who are partial to you,” Kato said, “but Lord Matsudaira has them virtually under his thumb.”

  “What about my army?”

  “Remnants of it are still fighting Lord Matsudaira,” Ihara said, “but he’s captured and executed many of your troops and driven the rest underground, scattered them across the country.”

  Yanagisawa heard the trickle of a water clock in the temple garden; it sounded like his hopes draining away. But he refused to be discouraged. “Well, then, I’ll just have to build a new army. If you could talk to my old allies for me, persuade them to contribute some troops…” His voice trailed off as he saw Kato and Ihara shaking their heads.

  “I’m sorry,” Kato said.

  “Do you mean you won’t support me?” Yanagisawa demanded.

  “We can’t afford to,” Ihara said bluntly.

  Rage incensed Yanagisawa. “I put you on the Council of Elders. Without me, you’d both be minor officials in some backwater province. You owe me!”

  “We paid off our debts when we risked our lives for you the first time around and barely escaped death,” Ihara said.

  “It’s our duty to keep the peace, not embroil the country in more war,” Kato said.

  Which meant they were comfortable with the status quo; they didn’t want to trouble themselves. The old cowards! Hurt and bitter, Yanagisawa said, “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Be patient,” Kato said. “Lie low for awhile.”

  “Wait for a time when you’ll have a better chance of success,” Ihara said.

  That time would never come. The number of Yanagisawa’s partisans would shrink as Lord Matsudaira persecuted them. The longer Yanagisawa remained absent from the political scene, the easier for people to forget him. Besides, Yoritomo was getting too old to hold the interest of the shogun, who preferred younger males. Yanagisawa would lose his chance to put Yoritomo at the head of the regime unless he made his comeback soon.

  He hid his despair behind a cool, stoic expression. “Since we’ve nothing more to say, I’ll bid you good night.”

  The elders bowed. Yoritomo told them, “You can start back toward Edo Castle. I’ll catch up.” After they’d left, he said, “Father, I’m sorry they disappointed you.”

  His sympathy moved Yanagisawa. “It’s all right.” The elders would pay for letting him down in his time of need. “There’s more than one way for me to rise again.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Yoritomo asked.

  He’d always been a loyal, devoted son, eager to please. Yanagisawa smiled, heartened by his support. “Oh, yes, indeed.” He put his arm around Yoritomo as they walked toward the gate. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He whispered in Yoritomo’s ear.

  13

  The medium had vanished.

  “Where did she go?” Sano asked Madam Chizuru, the chief lady official of the Large Interior, the women’s quarters of Edo Castle.

  “I don’t know,” Madam Chizuru said. She was in her fifties, with a masculine build and a hint of whiskers on her upper lip. “Lady Nyogo wouldn’t say.”

  They stood with Detectives Marume and Fukida in the corridor of the palace that led to the Large Interior. Two sentries guarded the heavy oak door, banded with iron and decorated with carved flowers, behind which lived the shogun’s mother, wife, concubines, their attendants, and the palace’s female servants. A loud babble of their voices, like twitters from caged birds, penetrated the door.

  “When did she leave?” Sano asked, disturbed that the medium had fled before he could question her.

  “About an hour ago,” said Madam Chizuru.

  Right after her fraudulent seance. “When do you expect her back?”

  “Not soon. She took a trunk full of clothes.”

  “She intends to stay gone long enough to avoid you,” Detective Marume commented to Sano.

  “If I were her, I’d do the same,” said Detective Fukida.

  “Did anyone go with her?” Sano asked.

  “Yes,” Madam Chizuru said. “Four bearers and two porters to carry her palanquin and her trunk.” Such an unwieldy procession couldn’t travel very far very fast. Determined to find out why the medium had incriminated him, Sano said to his detectives, “Let’s catch them.”

  Speeding downhill through the wet passages, they found no sign of Nyogo. They stopped at the first checkpoint, whose guards told Sano, “Her escorts hurried her through as if wolves had been chasing them.”

  At the main gate, the sentries couldn’t agree on which way Lady Nyogo had gone. Sano and the detectives stood beneath the gate’s roof, while pouring rain hid Edo from their view.

  “We’ll send out search parties,” Sano said. “Then we’ll go back to the scene of the crime.”

  He hoped that they would find clues to implicate someone else besides Reiko, especially since the first step in his attempt to exonerate her had failed.

  The Nihonbashi merchant district was deserted except for soldiers on patrol and civilian sentries at neighborhood gates. Although the rain had paused, the air was so humid that the clouded sky seemed to engulf the earth. Hirata and Detectives Inoue and Arai rode along winding streets where water dripped down the tile roofs, off balconies, and through drain spouts. Lanterns glowed weakly in a few windows, their reflections shimmering in puddles. Hirata turned a corner, and a lone pedestrian came walking toward him. The man appeared in and out of view as he passed through the lights from the windows then merged into the shadows between them. He limped on a lame right leg, leaned on a wooden staff. Hirata jumped off his horse and hurried to meet him.

  “Ozuno!” he called, surprised and delighted to see his teacher. “You’re here!”

  “You have a habit of stating the obvious.” The priest halted. He carried a wooden chest hung from a shoulder harness decorated with orange bobbles. He didn’t look pleased to see Hirata.

  Hirata was too glad to see Ozuno to care. “This is so convenient, that you’re in town. Now we can continue my training.”

  Ozuno snorted. “Training isn’t a matter of convenience. But if you’re so eager for more lessons, then come with me. We have a lot of time to make up.”

  “I can’t right now,” Hirata said, abashed. “I’m in the middle of an investigation. How about tomorrow?”

  Now Ozuno looked gravely disapproving. “The trouble with tomorrow is that it may never come.”

  “But my master is in danger, and I have to help him.”

  “You must choose between your tr
aining and your duties. I won’t waste my effort on someone who merely dabbles in the martial arts instead of dedicating his life to them.” Ozuno started to shuffle away.

  “Wait!” Hirata hurried after him. “I can’t quit my training.”.

  “It wouldn’t be much of a loss if you quit,” Ozuno retorted as he kept walking. “You’ve been doing so poorly that I think I made a mistake accepting you as a pupil.”

  Hirata was desperate to cling to his dream of becoming a great fighter and the teacher upon whom it depended. Exercising the authority that his rank conferred upon him, he grabbed Ozuno and commanded, “I forbid you to go! I order you to come live in my house and train me when my schedule permits!”

  They stood in a blur of light that filtered through a window. Ozuno’s expression was fierce. “Take your hand off me,” he said in a voice quiet yet terrible.

  Through his body thundered a blast of energy. It struck Hirata. He snatched his hand away and stepped backward as Ozuno’s shield pulsated waves of power at him. His fingers smarted, as if burned.

  “You would arrest your teacher, hold him captive, and force him to train you against his will?” Ozuno said, his voice now laced with incredulity. “Merciful gods, there’s no end to your pigheadedness!”

  “Forgive me,” Hirata said, anxious to placate Ozuno, regretting his own behavior. “A thousand apologies!”

  “A single ‘farewell’ would be more to my taste.” Ozuno stomped down the wet street.

  Hirata followed, horrified by the turn of events. “Do you mean it’s over? Just like that, after three years?”

  “Three years are even more precious to an old man than to a young one. I shan’t waste more of my time on you because unless you change radically, you’ll never succeed at dim-mak.”

  “Please give me another chance,” Hirata begged.

  “Life is full of chances,” Ozuno said, limping faster, pounding his staff on the ground. “If by some miracle you make a major breakthrough, I’ll take up your training again.”

  Hirata halted in defeat. “But where are you going?” he called to Ozuno’s receding figure. “Where will I find you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Ozuno called over his shoulder as he disappeared through a neighborhood gate. “Should you ever be ready for another try, I’ll find you.”

  Hirata and his men arrived in a rundown neighborhood crisscrossed by a malodorous canals. Voices quarreled inside the tenements whose thatched roofs sagged under the weight of the rain. A peasant emptied a bucket of slops into a street already mired in floodwater and sewage. Sullen men and boys loitered, smoking pipes and drinking cheap sake, on plank sidewalks above the filth. The desolate scene matched Hirata’s mood. He consoled himself with the thought that since his martial arts training had been suspended, at least he could focus on getting Sano and Reiko out of trouble.

  This was where their trouble had started.

  He dismounted outside the Persimmon Teahouse. A lantern within splashed light through the wet, tattered blue curtains. He and Inoue and Arai entered. The proprietor lounged glumly beside his sake jars; a man dozed, his head pillowed on a wooden drum; three women sat bickering together. When they saw Hirata’s party, they perked up.

  “Welcome,” said the proprietor. “How about a drink?”

  Hirata and his men accepted. The proprietor served them sake, then nudged the sleeping drummer. “Wake up! Entertain our guests.”

  The women got to their feet, preparing to dance. Hirata said, “Never mind, thank you. I’ve come to talk to Lily. Is she here?”

  “Lily?” The proprietor frowned. “There’s no one here by that name.”

  Hirata looked at the dancers and drummer, who shook their heads. “I was told that Lily worked in this teahouse.”

  “Whoever told you was mistaken.”

  “She was a dancer here three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve never had anyone called Lily,” the proprietor said.

  Hirata stepped outside for a moment, looked at the insignia printed on the curtains, then said, “This is the Persimmon Teahouse, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But maybe you’re looking for another place with the same name in a different neighborhood. Maybe this woman Lily works there.”

  Hirata didn’t think so. The directions he’d obtained from Reiko before leaving Edo Castle had been clear enough, and this place fit her description. Now he was disturbed that it seemed Lily didn’t exist, but not really surprised. The fact that he wasn’t surprised caused him even more distress.

  All along he’d had private doubts about Reiko’s story. The idea that she’d gone to the Mori estate to look for a stolen child, then ended up naked and unconscious at the scene of Lord Mori’s murder through no fault of her own seemed far-fetched even for a woman as extraordinary as Reiko.

  During his years as a police officer, Hirata had heard some mighty creative excuses from wrongdoers trying to slither their way around the law. He couldn’t help wondering if Reiko’s case was an example. His friendship with her urged him to deny that she was as guilty as she appeared, but his police instincts warned him against falling for a trick by a murder suspect who was far more intelligent than the average street criminal. Hirata felt torn between his wish to believe and protect Reiko and his reluctance to be a dupe and let a possible murderess thwart justice.

  “Lily is about forty years old. She has a little boy named Jiro,” he said to the proprietor, dancers, and drummer. “Does that jog your memory?”

  “No, master,” they said.

  “The boy was stolen. Lily wrote to Lady Reiko, asking for help. Lady Reiko came here to see her. Do you remember?”

  Again, a chorus of denials.

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” Hirata said. “Are you sure you don’t know Lily?”

  “We’re sure,” the proprietor said.

  As the dancers nodded, Hirata surveyed them closely. They were all too young to be Lily. They looked nervous, but he couldn’t tell if it was because they were hiding something or from fear of the authority that he represented. His mind buzzed with warning signals that someone wasn’t playing straight with him, but he didn’t know who it was.

  “Come on, let’s go,” he told his detectives.

  Outside, Arai said, “Those people could be lying.”

  “But why would they?” Inoue said.

  Hirata shook his head, at a loss for a good reason. He could see his distrust of Reiko in his men’s faces, although they didn’t voice it because they knew his deep-seated loyalty to her as well as Sano. He stifled the thought that he didn’t know them as well as he once did. Had both their characters been corrupted by power?

  “We have to find Lily,” he said. “She’s the best witness who can confirm Lady Reiko’s statement.”

  He marched down the street, stopped at the first door he came to, and knocked until it was opened by a man wearing a nightshirt and accompanied by a wife carrying a lamp. They blinked drowsily at Hirata.

  “I’m looking for a woman named Lily,” Hirata said. “Do you know her?”

  “No,” the man said, and shut the door.

  At the next two houses Hirata got the same response. At the fourth house an elderly man answered and Hirata said, “Where’s the headman of this neighborhood?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Show me your record of everybody who lives here.”

  The headman complied. The ledger that contained the neighborhood census of names, family relationships, occupations, and addresses showed no Lily or Jiro listed.

  “Something is fishy, but maybe not here,” Arai said, hinting that it was Reiko’s story.

  By this time Hirata was anxious to find out the truth and silence the voice in his head that said Reiko had sent him on a wild goose chase. “I want everyone from every house out in the street.”

  He and Arai and Inoue pounded on doors, yelling orders. Soon they had a crowd of frightened people lined up outside their homes. Hirata told them, “I’
m looking for a widow named Lily, who’s the mother of a boy named Jiro. Anyone who knows her whereabouts, step forward.”

  Nobody did. Hirata walked up and down the lines, studying the women, as stronger doubts about Reiko nagged at him despite his tendency to take her word over that of strangers. Planting himself in the center of the road, he announced, “Tell me where Lily is, or somebody will get hurt.”

  They cowered in speechless fright. Hirata pulled an elderly, white-haired man out of the line and flung him at the detectives, who caught him. “I’ll count to ten, and if you don’t answer, we’ll beat him up. One… two…”