Was the anonymous message the lure for an ambush?
The trail abruptly ended in a clearing. There stood the house, a dilapidated shack. It appeared to be an ordinary, cheap summer retreat, yet Sano’s instincts prickled, sensing evil.
“Beware,” he whispered to his men.
The guards led the advance, cautiously panning their lanterns as they stole through knee-high grass that rustled underfoot. Sano and Hirata followed, while the detectives brought up the rear, their alert gazes sweeping the area for signs of trouble. A lull in the wind stilled the forest; the stream rippled. Somewhere, a dog or wolf howled. As the group neared the house, the lanterns revealed weathered plank walls, a thatched roof, latticed windows, and a door framed by a webbing of vines.
Pausing near the threshold, Sano motioned for the guards to circle and scout the building. They obeyed, then returned, shaking their heads to indicate they’d seen no threats. At a gesture from Sano, they opened the door and shone the lanterns into the dark space within. The light penetrated a narrow, empty passage. Sano nodded; the guards preceded him and the others inside, along a bare, creaking wooden floor, beneath low rafters. The lanterns splashed their shadows across paper walls. Sano inhaled, trying to scent danger, but the cold had numbed his nose: He smelled nothing.
“There’s nobody here,” Hirata said, voicing what Sano perceived.
A slithering sound caused Sano’s heart to lurch; everyone started. Hands grasped swords. A guard flashed his lantern into a kitchen furnished with cooking utensils on shelves, and a plaster-encased hearth. It was vacant, the sound probably caused by vermin seeking food. Breaths fogged the air as everyone relaxed; yet as they moved to the doorway of the opposite room, Sano’s instincts blared a continuous warning.
Inside the room, tatami covered the floor; dried flowers bloomed from a vase in the alcove. A table held a cricket cage, sake jar, and folding fan-relics of summer. On a lacquer chest lay a few papers. Hirata fetched them and gave them to Sano.
They were musical scores, signed by Fujio.
One more room remained. As the group approached this, dread slowed Sano’s steps. Whatever he was meant to find must be there.
The cramped space he saw from the threshold appeared as abandoned and lifeless as the rest of the house. A swath of white muslin mosquito net hung from the ceiling and draped a futon. The futon held what at first looked to be a large, crooked bundle of fabric. Then Sano saw, protruding from one end of the bundle and out of the mosquito net, an arm that extended to a hand with curled fingers. The bundle was a human body, slender and curved and female, dressed in a patterned kimono and sprawled on the futon. That she lay so still, in this freezing, isolated house, could mean only one thing.
“Merciful gods,” Sano said.
He and his comrades rushed into the room. Sano flung back the mosquito net, and everyone exclaimed in horror. The body was headless, the neck an ugly stump of mangled flesh, clotted blood, and hacked bone. In his memory Sano heard a girlish voice saying, “She wore a black kimono with purple wisteria blossoms and green vines on it.” The garment on the dead woman was surely the one described by the kamuro, Chidori.
“Lady Wisteria,” Sano said, aghast.
Reiko lay in bed, where she’d fallen into a restless sleep hours after Sano left for Fujio’s house. Quiet footsteps in the corridor impinged on her consciousness, and she jerked awake, breath caught, eyes widevopen in the darkness of her room.
She knew the estate was well guarded, but ever since the Black Lotus case, noises at night conjured up terror of attack. She snatched up the dagger she kept beside the bed. Silently she crept down the corridor, shivering with cold and fear. Lamplight glowed from the bathchamber; a human shadow moved inside. Peering cautiously through the open door, Reiko saw Sano. He was undressing. Her body sagged in relief. She lowered the dagger and entered the room.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said.
Sano nodded without looking at her, his features set in a frown. He dropped his sash on the slatted wooden floor, then stripped off his trousers. He tore off his robes and socks. Reiko noticed his hands shaking; the sculpted muscles of his stomach contracted in spasms as he shed his loincloth. He squatted, emptied a bucket of water over himself, and shuddered in the icy splash.
Worried by his strange behavior, Reiko laid down the dagger and crouched near Sano. “What happened at Fujio’s house?”
Sano picked up a bag of rice-bran soap and violently scrubbed his torso. His voice emerged from between chattering teeth: “We found the dead body of a woman.”
“Oh.” Reiko now understood why Sano would bathe in the middle of the night. He wanted to cleanse himself of the spiritual pollution from his contact with death. Postponing more questions, she said, “Let me help you.”
She lit the charcoal braziers. Luckily, the water in the round, sunken wooden tub was still warm, heated earlier for her own bath. She washed Sano’s back and rinsed him. He climbed into the tub, groaning as he immersed himself up to his chin and closed his eyes. Reiko knelt beside the tub. Moments passed. Gradually Sano ceased shuddering.
“The body was wearing the kimono that Lady Wisteria had on the night she vanished,” he said wearily.
Dismayed, Reiko said, “But you don’t know for sure if the body is hers?”
“The woman’s head was missing.”
Reiko sucked air through pursed lips. “Did she die from decapitation?”
“I don’t know yet. I had my men take the body to Edo Morgue for Dr. Ito to examine. But this clearly wasn’t a natural death. She was murdered.”
“Was there a weapon?”
Sano opened hollow eyes that looked unfocused, as if he saw the murder scene instead of Reiko. “We searched the house,” he said, “but we didn’t find anything. Her killer could have taken the weapon, or thrown it away in the woods. The same possibilities apply to her head.”
A feeling of distance between her and Sano troubled Reiko. Tonight the investigation, which she’d hoped would unite them, seemed to have separated them further. But perhaps this was just a temporary effect caused by Sano’s upsetting experience.
“Do you think Fujio killed Wisteria?” Reiko asked.
“She was in his house,” Sano said. “That implicates him.”
Reiko sensed that Sano was upset about more than discovering the body and losing a witness. She wanted to ask what it was, but his reticence prevented her. Instead she said, “How did Wisteria get there?”
“Fujio could have smuggled her out of Yoshiwara and hidden her in his house.” Sano spoke as if forcing out each word; he stared at the water before him.
“Wouldn’t he have known better than to kill her on his own property, leave her corpse there, and incriminate himself?”
“He might have thought no one would find her there. I never would have, if not for that message.”
Reiko also sensed that Sano wasn’t telling her everything. “If Fujio did kill Wisteria, does that mean he also killed Lord Mitsuyoshi?”
“Perhaps.”
“Could someone else have found Wisteria and killed her?” Reiko hated coaxing Sano to talk when he would obviously rather not; but they needed to determine what the new murder meant to the case.
“Anything is possible,” Sano said in that same reluctant tone. “But who besides Fujio would have known she was in the house?”
“Perhaps a traveler who happened upon her?” Reiko said.
“There aren’t many travelers in the hills this time of year, though she could have been killed by bandits robbing summer homes. Her death must be connected with Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder, and so must the killer.”
Reiko had hoped that if they kept talking, Sano would open up about what was bothering him. “Who would want Lady Wisteria dead and Fujio blamed?” When Sano didn’t answer, Reiko suggested, “It could be the person who sent the message.”
Sano rested his head against the rim of the tub and closed his eyes, exhaling a tremulous breath
.
Increasingly worried, Reiko said, “Are you ill? Shall I prepare you a medicinal tea?”
His throat muscles clenched as he swallowed. “No. I’m fine.”
“If you’d rather be alone… ?” Although unwilling to leave him like this, Reiko rose.
“Don’t go.” With an obvious effort, Sano opened his eyes, lifted his head, and met her gaze. “We need to talk.”
Reiko waited, nervous about what she might hear. A heartbeat passed in ominous suspense. Then Sano said, “Maybe the dead woman isn’t Wisteria, and the scene at the house was arranged to mislead me.”
“And her head could have been removed so you would think she was Wisteria.” Reiko guessed that this topic wasn’t the one Sano had originally intended to broach. “But if it isn’t Wisteria, then who is it?”
“I hope Dr. Ito can provide some answers,” Sano said.
“Doesn’t this murder cast doubt on Treasury Minister Nitta’s conviction?” Reiko asked.
“If the victim is Wisteria, and it happened after Nitta was arrested, yes. Her disappearance from Yoshiwara and Lord Mitsuyoshi’s death are linked, and if Nitta is innocent of one thing, he may not be guilty of the other.”
Sano’s melancholy seemed unrelieved by this theory that justified continuing his investigation. “All this time I’ve felt so sure Wisteria was alive,” he said.
Reiko detected in him a concern that seemed deeper than she would expect him to feel about a stranger who was a murder suspect. A vague, disturbing notion crossed her mind.
Sano’s shoulders moved in a gesture that expressed doubt and anxiety. “Whether or not this murder is what it seems, there’s no use drawing conclusions until we hear what Fujio has to say about what we found.”
He climbed out of the tub, and as Reiko draped a cloth around him, she rejected her notion. It was surely a product of the distrust instilled in her by the Black Lotus. Whatever secret Sano was keeping from her, that couldn’t be it.
“Let’s go to bed and try to sleep for what’s left of the night,” Sano said. “In the morning, Hirata will question Fujio while I go to Edo Morgue and see what Dr. Ito’s examination of the corpse can tell us. What we learn might help me persuade the shogun to let the investigation go on.”
His face was haggard with exhaustion. “Or it might not.”
* * *
21
The village of Imado, home to various Yoshiwara merchants and workers, lay across rice fields and marshes from the pleasure quarter. It contained a few streets of houses, shops, inns, and teahouses. Upon arriving in Imado with two detectives, Hirata proceeded to one of several villas on the outskirts, built by wealthy brothel owners.
A thatched roof spread over the interconnecting wooden structures that comprised Fujio’s house; a stone wall enclosed the surrounding garden and courtyard. Beyond the wall stretched fallow brown earth dotted with farmers’ cottages. Gauzy bands of white cloud streaked the pale blue sky. Sunlight brightened a chill, blustery morning as Hirata and the detectives dismounted outside Fujio’s gate and walked into the courtyard.
When Hirata knocked on the door, a boy answered. Hirata said, “We’re here to see Fujio.”
Eventually, the hokan came to the door, yawning. His handsome face was puffy, his hair mussed. He wore a blue-and-red checked dressing gown, and reeked of liquor and tobacco smoke. His bloodshot eyes blinked in puzzlement at Hirata; but he smiled and bowed gallantly.
“Sorry for my miserable appearance,” he said, “but I was out late last night. What can I do for you, masters?”
Hirata introduced himself, then said, “I need to talk to you. May we come in?”
“If this is about what happened to Lord Mitsuyoshi, I’ve already told the sōsakan-sama everything I know.” Fujio rubbed his temples and winced. “Merciful gods, what a headache! I really shouldn’t drink while I perform.”
“It’s about your house in the hills,” said Hirata.
Dismay cleared the sleepiness from the hokan’s face. “Uh,” said Fujio. He took a step backward and bumped into two women who appeared in the entryway behind him. One was young, pretty, and pregnant, the other middle-aged and scowling.
“Who are those men?” the younger woman asked Fujio in a shrill, petulant voice. “What do they want?”
“It’s none of your business,” Fujio told her with obvious irritation.
“How can you be so rude to let your guests stand outside?” the older woman chastised him. “Invite them in.”
Fujio rolled his eyes. “My wife and her mother,” he explained to Hirata. “Could we please talk somewhere else?”
Hirata agreed. Fujio went to dress, and returned wearing a brown cloak and kimono over wide, striped trousers. He and Hirata walked down the lane toward the village, while the detectives trailed them. Ducks huddled in a ditch alongside the lane; in the distance, a peasant drove oxen across the sere landscape.
“My wife and in-laws don’t know I own the house, and I don’t want them to know. I bought it years ago, as a summer retreat.” Fujio eyed Hirata. “You married?”
“No,” Hirata said. After reading Lord Niu’s letter yesterday, he doubted he ever would be, unless he accepted his father’s choice of a bride. But he couldn’t give up on finding some way to make peace between the two clans so he could wed Midori.
“Well, when you do marry, you’ll understand that having a wife can really tie you down,” Fujio said. “Especially if you live with her parents. A fellow needs a place where he can have a little privacy.”
“And the company of lady friends?” Hirata said.
Fujio cracked a mischievous grin. “Well, yes. That house comes in handy for entertaining my female admirers. But I’d be ruined if my father-in-law ever learned that I was unfaithful to his daughter. He would throw me out. Besides, he owns the Great Miura brothel and has a lot of influence in Yoshiwara. I would never get any work there again.”
Was this the only reason Fujio wanted to keep the house a secret? Hirata said, “Tell me about the woman you’ve been keeping in the house.”
“What?” Fujio halted. “Nobody’s there now. I only use the place in the summer.” The daze from his hangover dissipated; he looked puzzled but sober. “Say, how did you find out about my house, anyway?”
“The sōsakan-sama got a letter,” Hirata said. “We went there last night and found a dead woman in your bed.”
A cloud of breath puffed out of Fujio’s mouth, but no sound emerged. His surprise seemed genuine, though Hirata knew Fujio was an entertainer and skilled at dramatics.
“… A dead woman? In my house?” After a few more stammers, Fujio recovered enough composure to say, “Who was it?”
“We don’t know. Her head had been cut off and removed from the premises,” Hirata said, closely watching Fujio. “But she was dressed in what appear to be Lady Wisteria’s clothes.”
“Wisteria? Merciful gods.” Fujio staggered backward, as if physically shaken by the news. “What was she doing there?”
“You tell me.”
“Wait.” The hokan raised his hands palm-up. “If you think I killed Wisteria, you’ve got it all wrong. I don’t know how she got in my…”
A look of comprehension sharpened his eyes. “But I can guess. When we were lovers, I told her about my house. She must have remembered, and gone there because she knew it would be empty. She did it without my knowledge or permission. I had nothing to do with her dying.”
He could be telling the truth, Hirata thought—or improvising an explanation to protect himself.
“Tell me everything you did from the time Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder was discovered, up to last night,” Hirata said.
The hokan pondered with intense concentration, clearly recognizing his need to demonstrate that he’d been nowhere near his secret house. “I was performing in the Owariya when Momoko ran into the party screaming that Lord Mitsuyoshi was dead. The Yoshiwara gate was shut, and before it opened in the morning, the police came and locked e
veryone in the quarter. When they let us go, I went home.”
“What did you do there?” Hirata said.
“I had dinner with my family,” Fujio said, “then went to sleep.” He added with pointed emphasis, “I was in bed all night, beside my wife.”
Hirata intended to check this story with the hokan’s wife and in-laws, although they might confirm what Fujio said whether it was true or not, to protect him. “And in the morning?”
“I went to Yoshiwara. There wasn’t much going on, so I sat around the teahouses, drinking and playing cards with friends.”
“Were you with them the whole time?” Hirata said.
“Not every moment, but I was never out of their sight long enough to go to the hills.” Yet Fujio slowed his speech, as if he saw danger looming ahead in his tale. “That night I performed at a party. The sōsakan-sama met me there. After we talked, I entertained the guests until dawn. Then ...”
From a distance echoed the ring of an axe, chopping wood. “Then what?” Hirata prompted, eager because they’d reached a critical time period. This morning he’d learned that Fujio had managed to shake the detectives assigned to watch him, and he’d been out of their sight from dawn until afternoon of that day, when they’d caught up with him in Yoshiwara.
“I visited a friend,” Fujio said reluctantly. “I was with… my friend until yesterday afternoon, when I went back to Yoshiwara to perform.”
“Who is this friend?”
“A woman.” Despite the cold, Fujio’s face was slick with sweat. “I can’t tell her name. She’s the wife of a patron.” He shook his head, deploring his own rakish behavior. “How do I get myself into these things?”
“If you want me to believe you were with this woman, she must verify what you’ve told me,” Hirata said.
Sano Ichiro 7 The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria (2002) Page 19