The Perfumed Sleeve

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Where are we going?” Ibe asked Sano as they and their men cleared a checkpoint in the winding, walled passage between the official district and the palace.

  “To metsuke headquarters,” Sano said.

  The metsuke was the Tokugawa intelligence service that guarded the regime’s power over Japan. Its agents collated and interpreted information gathered by a widespread network of spies and informers. Sano now hoped to tap the metsuke’s treasure trove of facts about citizens.

  He and his entourage left their horses outside the palace compound. They walked through the palace’s labyrinth of corridors, government offices, and reception rooms to a chamber divided by paper-and-wood screens. Here, men rushed back and forth between desks that overflowed with scrolls, message containers, and writing implements. They smoked tobacco pipes while they pored together over maps hung on the walls; they conversed in urgent mutters. Sano observed that the political unrest had the metsuke agents working hard to keep abreast of developments and anxious about their own fate.

  As he hesitated near the door, the agents noticed him and his fellow intruders. Talk gradually ceased. Sano scanned the faces turned toward him but didn’t find the one he sought.

  “I’m looking for Toda Ikkyu,” he finally announced.

  A samurai dressed in gray stepped out from a group of agents. He bowed to Sano. “Greetings, Sosakan-sama”

  Sano returned the bow. “Greetings, Toda-san.”

  Toda, a senior intelligence agent, had such an indistinct appearance that Sano always forgot what he looked like, even after consulting him often during past investigations. He was neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, old nor young. He had a face that no one would remember—an advantage in his profession.

  “Let me guess,” Toda said. “You’ve come to get my help in investigating Senior Elder Makino’s murder.” Now his world-weary voice and manner jibed with Sano’s vague memory. Toda’s gaze took in the men ranged behind Sano. “And you’ve brought the observers assigned to you by Chamberlain Yanagisawa and Lord Matsudaira.”

  As usual, he demonstrated his knowledge about what went on in the bakufu. He moved partitions, enlarging the space around his desk. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Sano said.

  He and his detectives knelt on the floor; Ibe and his men, and Lord Matsudaira’s, crowded around them. Sano knew that despite the ready welcome, Toda wasn’t eager to part with information: The metsuke jealously hoarded knowledge, the basis of its unique power. But Toda dared not refuse to help apprehend the killer of the shogun’s friend and high official.

  “I have Makino’s dossier right here.” Toda sat behind his desk and placed his hands atop a ledger. “Which of your murder suspects among his associates do you wish me to tell you about?”

  “Start with Makino’s wife and concubine,” Sano said.

  Toda paged through the ledger. “I’ve nothing listed on them except the dates that Makino married Agemaki and brought Okitsu into his house. There was no reason to think they merited our attention, until now.”

  Sano reflected that the entire bakufu considered most women too unimportant to notice. Reiko had proved more helpful in this instance. “What about the actor?”

  “Here he is,” Toda said, pointing to a column of text. “Born Yuichi, son of a teahouse owner, twenty-five years ago. Present stage name Koheiji; employed at the Nakamura-za Theater; specializes in samurai roles. Formerly known as Kozakura and employed at the Owari Theater. There’s no record that he’s ever been in any trouble. He was considered harmless company for Senior Elder Makino.”

  Sano memorized the information for later use. “What do you have on Tamura?”

  Toda scanned several pages, then summarized, “Tamura Banzan, age forty-seven. Hereditary vassal to Makino. He’s renowned as a sword fighter, but his combat experience has been confined to the training grounds.” Toda met Sano’s eyes and added, “A samurai with his taste for the martial arts has usually blooded his sword at least once by his age. But there’s no record that Tamura has ever killed.”

  “A record free of killings doesn’t exonerate him,” Sano said, “nor does it prove he’s incapable of murder.” A bureaucrat like Tamura had few occasions to fight to the death. “What can you tell me about Tamura’s relations with Senior Elder Makino?”

  “Sources within Makino’s retinue have reported frequent altercations between him and Tamura.”

  “Altercations about what?”

  “Makino had a habit of demanding money from lesser bakufu officials,” Toda said. “Since he had the power to ruin them if they didn’t pay, they seldom resisted him. Tamura disapproved of this habit. He also disapproved of Makino’s profligate relations with women. Tamura told Makino that his extreme greed for money and sex was a transgression against Bushido.”

  The warrior code of honor decreed that money was dirty and beneath the notice of a samurai, who should rise above material concerns. He should also abstain from overindulging in the pleasures of the flesh, which distracted him from duty. Sano observed that the conflict between Tamura and Makino had run far deeper than Tamura had suggested.

  “How did Makino react when Tamura accused him of dishonor?” Sano asked.

  “Makino was understandably insulted,” Toda answered. “He said his personal affairs were none of Tamura’s business, he would do as he pleased, and if Tamura didn’t keep his mouth shut, he would lose his post.”

  To be dismissed from the servitude that gave him a livelihood, a respectable place in society, and meaning to his existence was a catastrophe for a samurai.

  “Tamura should have humbly accepted Makino’s judgment and never raised the subject again,” Toda said. This was the custom when a samurai exercised his duty to criticize his master and the master spurned the criticism. “But Tamura considered Makino’s faults a personal insult to himself. He kept after Makino to change his habits. His objections, and Makino’s threats, grew louder and more violent over the years. They came to despise each other. But Tamura was a competent, valuable chief retainer. Makino needed him.”

  “Makino died before their problems could result in Tamura’s dismissal,” Sano said thoughtfully. “And now that Makino is gone, one of his sons will take his place as head of the clan.”

  Toda nodded, giving credence to this suggestion that Tamura had killed Makino to keep his post and gain a new master more worthy of him.

  “But Tamura prizes his own honor,” Ibe broke in, obviously displeased to see suspicion gathering around the chief retainer instead of Lord Matsudaira. “He wouldn’t have committed the ultimate sin of murdering his master.”

  “Allow me to remind you that there’s one instance when murdering one’s master is justified,” Toda said.

  “That’s when the master is such an incorrigible disgrace that only his death can redeem his honor,” Sano said. “If Tamura believed this to be the case, he’d have considered it his duty to kill Makino.”

  “But Tamura wouldn’t have killed a favored friend of the shogun,” Ibe protested. “He wouldn’t have wanted to offend our lord—or risk the punishment.”

  “Whoever killed Makino tried to cover up the murder,” Sano said. “Maybe Tamura did it in order to escape the consequences.”

  “Here’s some news that might interest you,” Toda said. “Late yesterday, Tamura swore out a vendetta.”

  Vendetta was the means by which a citizen could exact personal revenge for a serious offense, usually the murder of a relative. The law required the avenger to follow a strict procedure. He must first present to the authorities a letter of complaint that described the offense and named his enemy. The authorities would grant him permission to slay his foe. The avenger would locate his enemy, declare his aim to kill him, and specify the reason. The two would then fight a duel to the death. If the avenger won, he presented the head of his foe to the officials who had authorized the vendetta. The advantage of this system was that as long as the avenger f
ollowed the rules, he could murder his foe and walk away a free man. The disadvantage was that the procedure allowed his target to hear about the vendetta and run, hide, or otherwise protect himself.

  “Against whom did Tamura swear this vendetta?” Sano said, puzzled.

  “The murderer of Senior Elder Makino,” said Toda. “Tamura wrote in his complaint that he can’t specify the name of his target because he doesn’t yet know who killed his master.”

  “But his vendetta was sanctioned anyway?” Sano had thought that any deviation from the rules would cause the authorities to reject a vendetta.

  “The magistrate apparently decided that the circumstances justified bending the rules,” Toda said.

  A samurai owed his master an even greater loyalty after death than in life. Should his master die by foul play, a samurai had the right and solemn duty to avenge him. This explained why the magistrate had made an exception for Tamura. Now Sano perceived the implications that Tamura’s vendetta had for his investigation.

  “Well, now there’s all the more reason to believe that Tamura isn’t the killer,” Ibe said, voicing Sano’s thoughts. “He wouldn’t swear out a vendetta on himself.”

  “He might, to make himself appear innocent,” Sano said.

  “That’s mere, unfounded supposition,” Ibe scoffed. “You know as well as I that the killer is most likely someone outside Makino’s circle.”

  He cut a hostile glance at Lord Matsudaira’s men. They’d been listening in attentive quiet, but now one of them rose to Ibe’s bait: “I agree that we’re seeking the killer in the wrong place.” A young samurai with a hungry look of ambition, he said to Toda, “What information do you have about Chamberlain Yanagisawa that might indicate he’s behind the murder?”

  Caution hooded the metsuke agent’s eyes. “I’ve nothing to say on the subject of the chamberlain.”

  “How prudent you are,” Ibe said. His smirk expressed condescension toward Toda and triumph over the man who’d asked about Yanagisawa. “Remember that the chamberlain controls the metsuke,” he told the Matsudaira contingent. “Don’t expect it to serve your master.” He said to Toda, “What I want to know is, can you connect Lord Matsudaira to the murder?”

  “I’ve nothing to say about him, either,” Toda said.

  “Remember that your master’s position is subject to change,” the young samurai told Ibe. His gaze challenged Toda. “When the dust settles, you may find that the metsuke has lost the chamberlain’s protection and you need new friends. So you’d better answer my question.”

  Toda’s face was perfectly still and calm; yet Sano sensed him trying to navigate a safe path between the two factions. At last he spoke: “Chamberlain Yanagisawa had a spy in Senior Elder Makino’s retinue.” Ibe exclaimed in angry protest, while the Matsudaira man grinned, triumphant. Toda continued smoothly, “So did Lord Matsudaira.” The Matsudaira man frowned; Ibe’s protests subsided. “Yanagisawa’s spy is a guard named Eiichi,” Toda said to Sano. “Lord Matsudaira’s is a guard named Sayama. You may want to ask them what they were doing the night Senior Elder Makino died.”

  Ibe and the Matsudaira man looked nonplussed; neither spoke. Each was obviously glad to have the opposition incriminated yet at the same time fearful that Toda would further compromise his master. Although perturbed that Toda had handed him new evidence connected to the warring factions, Sano felt a reluctant admiration for Toda’s finesse at placating both sides but favoring neither.

  “What I’ve told you should be enough to occupy you for a while.” Toda gave Sano a rueful smile that recognized him as a comrade in the same battle for survival. “If you need any more help, by all means ask me again.”

  As Sano thanked Toda and rose to leave, the tension in him wound tighter; his misgivings about the investigation burgeoned. By this afternoon, Reiko would take her position in Makino’s estate, among four murder suspects.

  Hirata and his comrades from Sano’s detective corps rode through the Nihonbashi merchant district. The shops that lined the narrow, winding streets crowded them together, and housewives, porters, and laborers on foot hindered their progress. After them hastened Otani, accompanied by Lord Matsudaira’s and Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s other men. As their horses trampled wares set outside for sale, shopkeepers cried out and mothers rushed to yank children out of their path. Hirata felt irritably conspicuous and hampered by his watchdogs in his efforts to solve the crime.

  At least he didn’t have Ibe to rile him. And he did have an advantage that would help him investigate Makino’s concubine. The merchant named Rakuami, with whom Okitsu had previously lived, was an old acquaintance of Hirata’s.

  Now Hirata arrived in a lane bordered on one side by a dignified row of substantial houses with heavy tile roofs, low earthen walls, and roofed gates—the abodes of prosperous merchants. Opposite stood a lone mansion. Its walls enclosed a spacious garden, and its eaves sported gay red lanterns. The gate was open, revealing a gravel path that led to the door. Samisen music and raucous laughter emanated from within the premises. As the detectives and watchdogs grouped around Hirata, a party of dandyish samurai strolled in through the gate.

  “What kind of place is this?” Otani said.

  “You’ll see,” Hirata said.

  They secured their mounts to posts near the gate, then went inside the mansion. Beyond the entryway, which was filled with shoes and swords left by guests, men lolled on cushions in a parlor. Pretty young women dressed in colorful robes served the men drinks, flirted and played cards with them, or sat on their laps. A comely youth plinked the samisen, while maids circulated with trays of food. As Hirata and his companions paused at the threshold, a samurai and a girl walked together to a man who stood by a doorway. The samurai dropped coins into the man’s hand. The girl led the samurai through the doorway and down a corridor, from which came giggles, grunts, and moans.

  “This is an illegal brothel,” Otani said.

  “Good guess,” Hirata said.

  Although prostitution in Edo was officially confined to the licensed Yoshiwara pleasure quarter, it flourished throughout the city. Private establishments served men who couldn’t afford the high prices in Yoshiwara or didn’t want to travel so far. This exclusive establishment catered to the wealthiest, most prominent clientele.

  A man rose from amid the revelry. “Greetings, Hirata-san,” he called. His face was round, his head bald, his age nearing sixty, his manner genial. He wore a red-and-black-patterned dressing gown that exposed his bare chest, legs, and feet. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you hereabouts.”

  “Greetings, Rakuami-san,” Hirata said. “Business is still thriving, I see.”

  “Yes, yes.” Rakuami’s skin had an oily sheen, and his smiling lips glistened moistly, as if he ate so many rich meals that grease oozed from him. He added slyly, “Despite the police’s occasional attempts to arrest me and close down my operation.”

  As a young, inexperienced patrol officer, Hirata had once raided the house and tried to enforce the law against prostitution outside Yoshiwara. He hadn’t realized that Rakuami had clients in high places who protected him from the law. Hirata’s mistake had earned him a reprimand from his superior and a cantankerous sort of friendship with Rakuami.

  “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from you?” Rakuami said. “And aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

  Otani elbowed Hirata aside. “My name is Otani,” he said with authoritative pomp. “I’m a retainer to Lord Matsudaira. I’m conducting an inquiry into the murder of Senior Elder Makino.”

  “I’m conducting the inquiry,” Hirata said. Offended that his watchdog would try to seize control of the interview, he jostled Otani and reclaimed his position. “And I’ve come to ask for your assistance,” he told Rakuami.

  Rakuami appraised Hirata and Otani with his shrewd, bright eyes. Then he smiled at Otani. “I’ll be delighted to give you all the help that I possibly can.”

  Hirata saw, to his
chagrin, that Rakuami was more concerned about pleasing an envoy from the powerful Lord Matsudaira than a retainer to the shogun’s detective. “Is there someplace quiet we can talk?” Hirata said, asserting his own authority.

  “How about a drink?” Rakuami asked Otani.

  “No, thank you,” Hirata said loudly.

  “That would be most appreciated,” said Otani.

  “Right this way.”

  Rakuami ushered Otani to a corner of the parlor. Otani’s men followed, as did those sent by the chamberlain. Rakuami seated everyone and beckoned the maids, who poured the men cups of sake. The festivities continued noisily around them. The detectives looked at Hirata.

  “Come on,” he told them. Resentment simmered inside him as he squeezed in beside Rakuami and the detectives sat at the edge of the group.

  “Was a girl named Okitsu ever one of your courtesans?” Otani was saying to Rakuami.

  “Yes,” Rakuami said. Eager to please Otani, he added, “I bought her from a broker who was selling farm girls.”

  Brokers traveled the country, buying daughters from impoverished peasant families to sell to pleasure houses in the city. The prettiest girls went to Yoshiwara for high prices. The others ended up in places such as Rakuami’s, or worse.

  “Okitsu was a sweet little thing.” Rakuami’s lewd smile suggested that he’d partaken of her favors himself. “I hope she’s not in any trouble?”

  “She’s a suspect in the crime,” Hirata said.

  “You don’t say!” Rakuami glanced at Hirata, then turned back to Otani. “I can’t believe little Okitsu had anything to do with the murder.”

  “She never caused problems here?” Otani said.

  “None at all,” Rakuami said. “She was pleasant-natured and obedient. Everybody liked her. She was very popular with my guests.”

  “That should be enough to settle whatever doubts you have about her character and clear her of suspicion,” Otani said, condescending to address Hirata.

  “But of course Rakuami would speak well of her,” Hirata said angrily. “He wouldn’t want to get a reputation for employing troublesome girls.”