The Perfumed Sleeve

by Laura Joh Rowland

“He showed me the document the day after we married.”

  So she’d known before Makino died. The legacy hadn’t been an unexpected windfall. Agemaki might have decided long ago that she preferred freedom and inheritance over marriage to a decrepit husband. And perhaps she’d gained them by killing Makino the night before last. Yet there was no proof, and Sano still had other suspects to investigate.

  “That will be all for now,” he told Agemaki.

  As he and Otani crossed the walkway from the private quarters toward the main house, Otani said, “That woman doesn’t look capable of murder. She seems genuinely upset about Makino’s death. And if she’s responsible, she wouldn’t have told you about her legacy. Even an ignorant female must know that would direct suspicion toward her.”

  “True,” Sano said, although he supposed that a clever one might volunteer the information, which he would have discovered sooner or later anyway. Her openness might be a ploy to make him think her innocent.

  “What’s next?” Otani said.

  “It’s time for a talk with Makino’s chief retainer,” Sano said.

  “You’d better learn more from Tamura than you did from the widow.” Otani’s tone hinted at the wrath that Lord Matsudaira would inflict upon Sano if he didn’t prove someone else guilty of the murder and do it fast. “You were so easy on her that even if she’s guilty, you wouldn’t have gotten a confession. Talking to her was a waste of time.”

  But Sano thought perhaps not, because of something that Otani didn’t appear to realize. Agemaki hadn’t seemed the least bit curious about how her husband had died. Maybe she was too shy and reticent to ask. Maybe she already knew because the information had filtered from the palace to her household. Or had she not needed to ask, because she knew firsthand what had happened to Senior Elder Makino?

  After a lengthy search of Makino’s estate, Hirata located the concubine and houseguest in a room designed as a Kabuki theater. A raised walkway extended along one wall to the stage, a platform flanked by pillars supporting an arched roof. Striped curtains hung open from the roof and framed a backdrop painted with blue waves to represent the ocean. When Hirata and Ibe—Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s representative—entered the room, they found the handsome young houseguest and pretty girl standing below the stage, at opposite ends. Hirata sensed that they’d quickly moved to these positions from elsewhere when they heard him and Ibe coming. A furtive air surrounded them.

  “Koheiji-san?” Hirata said.

  The young man bowed. Today he wore robes in somber shades of blue, appropriate for funeral rites. “That’s me,” he said with a nervous smile that flashed strong white teeth.

  Hirata looked toward the girl. “Okitsu?”

  She bowed silently, with eyes downcast. Her hands fidgeted with her purple-gray sash that bound a kimono of lighter tint.

  Hirata introduced himself, then said, “I’m assisting the sosakan-sama with his investigation into Senior Elder Makino’s death. I must ask you both to cooperate in my inquiries.”

  “We’re at your service.” Koheiji made an expansive gesture that indicated his willingness to fall all over himself to help Hirata, if necessary. “Aren’t we?” he asked Okitsu.

  The concubine bent at the knees, as if she would rather sink into the floor. Her lovely eyes were wide and fearful.

  “Hey, I heard that Senior Elder Makino was murdered,” Koheiji said to Hirata. “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” Hirata said, wondering if the man had reason to know already. But Koheiji’s nervousness didn’t necessarily mean he’d been involved in the murder. Anyone, whether guilty or not, would be nervous when chosen for questioning in connection with a crime punishable by death.

  “Oh.” Koheiji hesitated, digesting the news. “May I ask how Senior Elder Makino died?”

  Hirata thought Koheiji was a little too eager to learn how much he knew. “By violence,” he said, deliberately vague.

  Koheiji seemed about to press for an explanation, then changed his mind. “Have you any idea who killed Senior Elder Makino?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Hirata said. “First, who are you?”

  “I am a Kabuki actor and star of the Nakamura-za Theater,” Koheiji said. He struck a brief pose, lifting and turning his head at an angle that flattered his profile. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Okitsu gazed at him in admiration. Ibe leaned against the walkway and looked bored. Hirata said, “Sorry, I don’t see many plays.” Kabuki was popular among people from all classes of society, but Hirata had little time for entertainment. “What was your relationship with Senior Elder Makino?”

  “He was my patron,” Koheiji said.

  Wealthy Kabuki enthusiasts often gave money and gifts to their favorite actors, Hirata knew. “What were you doing in this estate on the night Senior Elder Makino died?”

  “He hired me to give private performances to his household. I’ve been living here for, oh, about a year.”

  What a cozy, lucrative situation, Hirata thought. Makino had been generous to his protégé, despite a reputation for stinginess. But Hirata wondered why Makino, a man so concerned about security, had moved Koheiji into his home, when actors were renowned as unscrupulous ruffians.

  “What did you do to deserve the honor of sleeping in Senior Elder Makino’s quarters?” Hirata said.

  Caution veiled Koheiji’s brash countenance. “I was his friend.”

  Hirata eyed the actor skeptically, because friendship wasn’t the usual reason that a man wanted a handsome youth nearby at night. “Were you also his lover?” Hirata said, recalling Makino’s injured anus.

  “Oh, no,” Koheiji said. Then, as Hirata looked askance at him, he added, “Makino didn’t practice manly love. Neither do I. There was never any sex between us.”

  As Hirata counted more denials than necessary, he heard a squeak from Okitsu. She clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes bulged with alarm at the involuntary sound she’d made. Did it mean she knew the actor was lying?

  Koheiji must have read Hirata’s thought, because he spoke with defensive haste: “Hey, maybe I don’t seem like the kind of person that Senior Elder Makino would have for a friend, but sometimes he got tired of the other people he knew. He liked to drink with me and talk about the theater instead of government business.” Koheiji moved, blocking Hirata’s view of Okitsu. “It was a nice change for him.”

  This explanation didn’t convince Hirata. Had Koheiji penetrated Makino during sex that night and caused the anal injury? Had a quarrel later arisen between them and led to Makino’s death? If Koheiji should turn out to be the killer, what a letdown! The actor was a nobody and an unworthy opponent, in Hirata’s estimation.

  Yet Hirata must conduct as thorough an investigation of Koheiji as Sano would expect. He must obey Sano’s slightest wish, or mire himself deeper in disgrace. “When did you last see Senior Elder Makino alive?” he asked Koheiji.

  “The evening of the day before he was found dead,” Koheiji answered, too readily. “At dinner, I performed for him and some of his retainers.”

  “You didn’t have any contact with him after the performance?” Hirata said.

  “None whatsoever.” Koheiji spread empty hands. “I haven’t the faintest idea what happened to him later.”

  Hirata peered around Koheiji. He saw Okitsu’s queasy expression. “You didn’t speak to Senior Elder Makino, or go into his chamber that night?” Hirata pressed Koheiji.

  “No, I didn’t,” Koheiji said. “If you’re hinting that I killed him, you’re wrong. With all due respect,” he added, giving Hirata a courteous bow and another dazzling smile. “I had no reason to murder my own patron.”

  Ibe, who’d been listening in silence, now said, “That’s a good point.” He sauntered over to Koheiji. His nose twitched, testing the actor’s air. “Now that the senior elder is dead, you won’t get any more money or gifts from him, will you?”

  “Sad but true.” Koheiji sighed.

  “And you’ll ha
ve to move out of Edo Castle,” Ibe said.

  “Yes,” Koheiji said.

  Consternation filled Hirata. “Excuse me, Ibe-san, but I’m conducting this interview.”

  Undaunted, Ibe said to Koheiji, “I’ve seen you in plays. Your acting is good but nothing special.” Koheiji drew back from Ibe, miffed at the slight. “Without Makino’s patronage, you’d never have gotten your starring roles.”

  “You’re just supposed to observe,” Hirata said, angry even though his own direction of thought paralleled Ibe’s. “Stay out of this.”

  “In fact, Makino was worth more to you alive than dead, wasn’t he?” Ibe asked the actor. When Koheiji nodded, Ibe turned to Hirata. “Therefore, this man didn’t kill Makino.”

  “He’s right.” Koheiji’s surly expression said he hadn’t forgiven Ibe, but he moved to closer to him, glad of any ally under the circumstances. “I’m innocent.”

  “That’s for me to determine,” Hirata said. Ibe was undercutting his authority as well as intruding on his business. “Stop interfering, or I’ll—”

  “Throw me out?” Ibe smirked. “You can’t, because I’m here under orders from Chamberlain Yanagisawa.”

  Hirata gritted his teeth.

  “Besides, I’m just trying to keep you from wasting your time on an innocent man,” Ibe said.

  “Listen to him,” Koheiji eagerly urged Hirata. “He’s doing you a favor.”

  Hirata eyed Ibe with contempt, for he knew that Ibe had other, less altruistic reasons to steer suspicion away from the actor. He asked Koheiji, “What did you do after you performed that evening?”

  “I went to take off my costume and makeup.”

  “Show me where.”

  Ibe rolled his eyes, signaling that he thought Hirata was wasting more time. As the actor led him and Hirata out of the theater, the concubine lingered.

  “You come, too,” Hirata told her.

  She reluctantly trailed them into the private quarters. There, Koheiji showed Hirata the room he occupied on the opposite end of the building from Makino’s. The actor had furnished his lair as a theatrical dressing room. A table under a lantern held brushes and jars of face paint. On wooden stands hung kimonos assembled with cloaks, surcoats, trousers, and a suit of armor. Wooden heads on shelves wore helmets.

  “I specialize in samurai roles,” Koheiji said.

  That explained his hairstyle—the topknot and shaved crown usually reserved for the warrior class. While Ibe examined the armor and Okitsu hovered at the door, Hirata looked inside a trunk. It contained swords, daggers, and clubs.

  “Those are my props,” Koheiji said.

  Hirata lifted out a sword. Its blade was made of wood, as were the other weapons, so they wouldn’t cut anyone during simulated fights onstage.

  “There’s no blood on those,” Koheiji said.

  “How do you know what I’m looking for?” Hirata said.

  The actor shrugged and smiled. “It was just a guess.”

  Hirata sensed that Koheiji enjoyed matching wits with him. He grew increasingly sure that Koheiji knew more about the murder than he would admit. But although a club from the trunk could have killed Senior Elder Makino, the actor seemed too smart to leave incriminating evidence in his room. Hirata opened the cabinet. He beheld compartments crammed with clothes, shoes, and wigs; stacks of handbills displayed Koheiji’s portrait and advertised his plays.

  “Please allow me,” Koheiji said.

  He carefully lifted out and displayed garments for Hirata’s examination. Hirata supposed that if Koheiji had gotten blood on his clothes while beating Makino, he’d have destroyed them, but Hirata had to look anyway. He predicted that the clever actor would soon offer an alibi in an attempt to clear himself.

  “You won’t find any proof that I killed Senior Elder Makino,” said Koheiji, “because I didn’t. In fact, I couldn’t have. I was here, in this room, all night. And I have a witness to prove it.”

  There he went, Hirata thought. “Who might that be?” He could already guess.

  “Okitsu,” the actor said, proving him right. “She can vouch for my innocence.”

  Hirata turned to the concubine, who huddled in the doorway. “Is that true?”

  She gulped and nodded. Hirata beckoned her, and she crept toward him like a child expecting punishment.

  “You were here, in this room, with Koheiji-san, the night Senior Elder Makino died?” Hirata said.

  “Yes, she was,” Koheiji said.

  “Let her speak for herself,” Hirata said.

  Okitsu quailed under his scrutiny; she replied in a barely audible whisper, “I was here.”

  “All night?” Hirata said. If Koheiji needed to invent an alibi, he shouldn’t have picked such an unconvincing partner. Perhaps he’d not had any other choice.

  “She came while Senior Elder Makino and his men were still drinking after their dinner,” Koheiji said. “She stayed until morning, when Tamura-san found the senior elder dead, and we heard all the commotion.”

  Hirata signaled the actor to shut up. “A murder investigation is a very serious matter,” he sternly told Okitsu. “Anyone who lies will go to prison. Do you understand?”

  Whimpering, Okitsu nodded. Her face was so pinched with fear that Hirata felt sorry for her. “Now tell me,” he said, “where were you that night?”

  Okitsu flashed an anxious glance at Koheiji. “I was here,” she blurted. “Just like he said.”

  Perhaps she felt more loyalty toward him than fear of punishment for lying. “What were you doing?” Hirata asked her.

  She glanced again at Koheiji, and panic shone in her eyes.

  “Never mind him.” Hirata gave the actor a glare that warned him to keep quiet, or else. “Just answer me.”

  “I … I don’t remember,” Okitsu said, looking everywhere except at Hirata.

  “It wasn’t very long ago,” Hirata said. Koheiji must not have prepared her with a story to explain how they’d spent that night. “You can’t have forgotten.” Or maybe she’d just forgotten what he’d told her to say.

  “I don’t remember,” Okitsu repeated in a timorous voice.

  Hirata stood directly in front of her so she couldn’t look to Koheiji for cues. “Well, then, did you leave the room at any time?”

  “… I don’t think so.”

  “Then you might have left?”

  “No! I didn’t!” Fresh panic filled Okitsu’s eyes.

  “Was Koheiji-san ever out of your sight?”

  She shook her head so hard that her plump cheeks quivered.

  “Did he force you to lie for him?” Hirata said.

  “No!” Okitsu wailed. “I wanted to.” She hastened to correct herself: “I mean, I’m not lying!”

  “Hey, stop it!” Koheiji burst out. “You’re confusing her so much that she can’t talk straight.” He hurried to stand beside Okitsu and put his arm around her. She clung to him. “It doesn’t matter what we were doing,” Koheiji told Hirata. “The important thing is that we were together, and she’ll swear I didn’t kill Senior Elder Makino.”

  “I believe them,” Ibe told Hirata. “We’re finished here.”

  “Maybe you are, but I’m not,” Hirata retorted. He would bet his yearly stipend that Ibe didn’t believe the pair’s alibi any more than he did. “And you don’t dictate where this investigation should go.”

  “Chamberlain Yanagisawa does,” Ibe said, “and he expects me to keep the investigation on the right path. So I’m telling you to stop bothering these people and move on to more likely suspects.”

  Suspects in Lord Matsudaira’s camp, Hirata knew he meant. “If and when any more likely suspects turn up, then I’ll investigate them,” Hirata said. His patience toward Ibe snapped. “For now, just shut up.”

  Offense flared Ibe’s nostrils. “Rudeness to me will do you no good,” he said with a mean smile. “When the chamberlain hears that you’re resisting supervision, he’ll punish your master as well as you.”

&nbs
p; Now Hirata regretted speaking so bluntly. “My apologies,” he muttered, although his spirit rebelled at having to placate his adversary, and in front of onlookers.

  Ibe sneered, pleased that he’d subdued Hirata, yet not mollified. “Be a dog who barks up a tree while his quarry hides elsewhere, if you like,” he said, “but be warned: Chamberlain Yanagisawa expects fast results from this investigation. If he doesn’t get them, your head can say goodbye to your body.”

  But Hirata couldn’t yield to Ibe’s pressure to pin the murder on the Matsudaira faction. With great effort he pretended Ibe wasn’t there. He contemplated Koheiji and Okitsu, who stood united opposite him. The alibi that Okitsu had given Koheiji didn’t protect only him, but her as well. If the alibi was a fraud, as Hirata believed, then Koheiji could have had opportunity if not reason to kill Makino, but so could she.

  “Let’s have a look at your room,” he said to her.

  She glanced at Koheiji. The actor nodded, smiled in encouragement, then gave Hirata a smug look. He clearly thought Hirata would find nothing dangerous to Okitsu—or himself. Okitsu led the group to her room, which was on the same side of the building as Koheiji’s. Movable partitions allowed passage from her room to his through a bath chamber located between them. Hirata wondered if they really had been together when Makino died and doing what many a handsome entertainer and pretty girl did on the sly. Maybe they didn’t want to admit having a sexual affair that would cast a bad light on them, and that was why they refused to say what they’d been doing that night.

  Inside Okitsu’s room, the floor was strewn with clothes and shoes and boxes of sweets jumbled among dolls and other trinkets. But Hirata hardly noticed the mess. He inhaled a familiar sweet, musky odor.

  “I smell incense,” he said. On a table he saw, almost lost in a clutter of hair ornaments, a brass incense burner. He picked up the burner and sniffed the ash inside. “It’s Dawn to Dusk, isn’t it?” he asked Okitsu.

  She nodded. Perplexity showed on her face and the actor’s. Ibe twitched his nose, perturbed that Hirata seemed to be on to something. Hirata set down the burner, lifted a pink kimono from the floor, and sniffed the fabric.