Now Senior Elder Makino took up the chamberlain’s argument. “I would like to know what motive of General Fujiwara’s could possibly survive his death and induce a descendant to commit murder a hundred years later.” Makino laughed, an obscene cackle. “The notion seems fantastic.”
“Yes, Makino-san,” the shogun said humbly, “I must agree that it does.”
“Well, then.” Yanagisawa shot Sano a triumphant glance, drawing on his pipe and exhaling smoke with an air of finality.
Everyone else turned to look at Sano, most with hostility, a few others sadly; none offered support. Fear of punishment held them in Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s thrall. Sano’s chest constricted in terror as before his eyes the hall turned into a battlefield. He could almost smell acrid gunpowder and burning castles. Yanagisawa had declared open war on him, and had among his allies the most powerful men in the bakufu.
“Furthermore,” Yanagisawa continued, “Sōsakan Sano has exhibited a most disturbing character trait.” Having swayed the shogun to his viewpoint, he didn’t bother hiding his contempt. “He has refused the police’s help, working alone in an attempt to win all the credit for solving the case. Obviously, self-aggrandizement is more important to him than saving lives.”
Sano could restrain himself no longer. “That’s a lie!” he blurted. “The police were ordered not to help me. And-”
Absolute silence. The elders toyed with tea bowls and pipes. An uncomfortable tension gripped the assembly. The shogun frowned at the floor. Chamberlain Yanagisawa alone looked directly at Sano.
And smiled. Too late Sano realized that the elders were more shocked by his contradiction of their superior than interested in learning the truth. He’d lost favor with Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, who had a ruler’s dislike of direct challenge and a refined man’s abhorrence of open argument. Yanagisawa had set him up. He’d taken the bait and fallen headlong into the trap.
As if nothing had happened, Chamberlain Yanagisawa turned to the shogun. “In view of Sōsakan Sano’s incompetence, I recommend that he be relegated to a position in which he is less likely to endanger national security.”
Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”
Don’t condemn me yet! Sano clenched his teeth to hold back another outburst that would only worsen his predicament.
Makino cleared his throat with a repulsive, death-rattle sound. “With all the troubles on Sado Island, we could use a new administrator there.”
Yanagisawa’s dark eyes sparkled with malevolent delight. “A splendid suggestion. What do you think, Your Excellency?”
A spasm of horror clutched Sano’s heart. Sado Island was a cold, hellish prison colony far from the mainland, many days’ journey over troubled northern seas. Violent criminals were exiled there to labor in underground mines. Sano knew what would happen if he went to Sado Island: Yanagisawa would make sure he never came back. If he didn’t get killed during one of the frequent insurrections, he would surely fall victim to famine or disease. In any case, his spirit would die of disgrace long before his body did. He would lose his chance to fulfill his promise to his father, and he would never see Aoi again. Father, he prayed silently, help me save myself! He sent the shogun a wordless plea for the rescue he surely deserved.
“Well, ahh, Chamberlain Yanagisawa,” said the shogun hesitantly, “something must be done about Sado Island.”
He returned Sano’s gaze with one both stern and apologetic. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten the service Sano had rendered him, but lacked the energy and courage to oppose Yanagisawa and his cronies. Sano could already feel the motion of the ship carrying him across the sea; he sensed the other men in the room recoiling from him, as if to avoid the taint of disgrace. His stomach rolled with nausea and shame.
Then the shogun said, “Sōsakan Sano, your performance has been disappointing thus far.” He lowered his eyes, perhaps ashamed of his weakness. “But I am a generous man.”
Sano’s heart leapt at the hope of reprieve.
“I give you five more days to catch the Bundori Killer. If you fail to do so within that time, then you can try your hand at, ahh, prison administration. Dismissed.”
Chapter 15
Five more days to catch the killer, to restore peace to the city, and to save himself from utter disgrace.
In a panic, Sano rushed from the audience hall to the castle archives to see if Noguchi had located General Fujiwara’s descendants. But the archivist’s clerks said he was still researching at the Ministry of Shrines; he’d sent back no message for Sano, and given no indication of when he might return. Sano then hurried to the police compound, taking his own horse and another from his stable, both saddled and provisioned for a journey. Aoi’s new lead was the only one that promised quick success. He would need help finding the house and capturing the killer, and didn’t know if Hirata, as a low-ranking samurai, owned a horse.
“In her vision, Aoi saw the killer crossing a high bridge over a wide river,” Sano told Hirata as they rode across the Ryōgoku Bridge. The great wooden arch spanned the Sumida River, connecting Edo with the rural districts of Honjo and Fukagawa on the eastern banks.
Hirata followed at a trot, bouncing only a little in the saddle. The awkwardness with which he’d first mounted and handled the horse attested to his lack of riding experience. Yet he seemed a natural horseman, learning by instinct as well as by observation.
When he spoke, however, his abashed tone didn’t reflect this growing equestrian confidence.
“Gomen nasai-I’m sorry for not being able to find the suspect or any more witnesses,” he said.
“Hopefully, after tonight, that won’t matter.”
As they crested the bridge’s arch, Sano darted wary glances at the other travelers streaming past them. A more immediate threat than the shogun’s punishment haunted him. Someone wanted him dead-and likely wouldn’t stop after one failed attempt. When would the next assault come? Was that hatted and cloaked samurai following them, awaiting the right moment to attack?
Sano peered between the bridge’s railings. Far below, ferries, barges, and fishing boats floated on the swiftly flowing brown water. A ferryman lifted an oar in greeting. Sano looked away. Overnight, all of Edo had turned sinister. Every stranger was possibly the agent of an unknown enemy; every encounter promised danger. Hirata, whom Sano had told about the attack, stuck close by, hand on his short sword, ready to defend his superior. His protectiveness touched Sano, but Hirata’s presence posed another dilemma. Remembering another young assistant he’d once had, who had been murdered while accompanying him on an investigation, he would rather face danger alone than risk Hirata’s safety.
They reached the river’s eastern bank, where warehouses, piers, and docks lined the water’s edge. Beyond these, a jumble of houses, shops, and open markets comprised a flourishing suburb. To the north rose the E-ko-in- Temple of Helplessness -built upon the burial site of the victims of the Great Fire thirty-three years ago. Sano led the way south along a road that ran past the warehouses and paralleled the river.
“Aoi saw the killer pass piles of wood and canals with logs floating in them,” he explained.
Hirata nodded. “The Honjo lumberyards.”
The road ended at the Tatekawa River, a small tributary of the Sumida. In the lumberyards lining its banks, laborers cut and planed timbers, and stacked finished boards on barges bound for the city. The clear morning air rang with men’s shouts and the rasp of saws and scrapers. Sunlight filtered through a golden haze of sawdust that bore the winy scent of freshly cut wood. A network of canals branched off the Tatekawa River, all choked with logs transported from the eastern forests. Burly men walked along the logs as easily as on land, guiding them with poles.
While Hirata stood watch for assailants, Sano asked the lumbermen if they knew of an abandoned house in the marshes, at the intersection of two canals, that somehow resembled a samurai’s helmet.
“Nothing like that on our route,” said the foreman of a log
transport team.
“No. But then, I don’t go out in the marshes much.” This answer came from woodworkers, porters, and sweepers.
Giving up, Sano said to Hirata, “If the killer travels often between the house and the city, at least it can’t be far.”
Beyond the lumberyards lay open marshland, through which they headed east on a narrow road bordered by lilies, ginger, ginseng, and other spring flowers. The high blue sky reflected in standing pools that broke the expanses of lush green grasses. Willows drooped graceful boughs hazy with spring foliage. As humans grew scarce, wildlife abounded. Geese honked and gulls screeched overhead. Fish jumped in ponds, where water rats prowled, turtles sunned themselves, and white cranes fed on frogs and water insects. Butterflies flitted through the air; bees droned. Although the stinging flies and mosquitoes wouldn’t swarm in full force for some months yet, the weather was as balmy as summer.
Spaced at wide intervals along the road, tiny shacks stood on stilts above the marshes. Sano stopped at one.
“We’ll ask for directions,” he told Hirata.
The marsh people eked out a meager living by collecting fish, shellfish, eels, frogs, and wild herbs to sell in the city. They would, out of necessity, range farther into the marshes than the lumbermen. In response to Sano’s call, a weathered brown woman dressed in faded cotton kimono and headcloth came to the door. When asked about the house, she said, “I’ve heard about a hunting lodge that a rich samurai built a long time ago and doesn’t use anymore. I’ve never seen it myself, but I think it’s that way.” She waved a hand in a vague gesture to the northeast.
Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, Sano squinted into the distance, but saw only more marshes. “How far?”
“Oh, a few hours’ walk.”
Encouraged, Sano led Hirata off the main road and onto a narrow northeast-bound branch. This trail meandered, veered, and repeatedly doubled back on itself. The sun climbed higher in the sky. Noon came and went, and still they did not find the abandoned house. They passed no other travelers, and no other shacks where they could ask for directions. Sano grew increasingly worried. Would they reach their destination by the hour of the dog, when Aoi had said the killer would arrive?
“The house is out here somewhere,” he said, as much to reassure himself as Hirata. “We should find it soon.”
Doubt shadowed the young doshin’s eyes, but he neither questioned nor complained. Sano was grateful for his tact. Grim and determined, they pushed on.
All too soon, the day began its inevitable decline. The sun dropped lower in the west. The fleecy white clouds turned first pink, then violet against a flame-orange sky. The grasses darkened to murky gray. Waterfowl ceased flight to clamor beside the ponds. Every tree held a twittering orchestra of birds. The air grew chill; a thin vapor that smelled of fish and rotting vegetation rose from the marshes. Soon it would be too dark to search anymore. Less than three hours remained before the killer’s expected arrival at the house.
Then Sano spied a building in the distance to the north. “There!” He pointed. “Look!
With no time to waste on looking for a road to the house, they dismounted and plunged into the marsh, leading their horses. The shoulder-high grasses closed around them. Icy water soaked them to the knees; mud sucked at the horses’ hooves. Small creatures fled at their approach. Striking a straight line toward their target soon proved impossible. Deep pools and impenetrable reed thickets constantly forced them to detour. Keeping the house in view grew increasingly difficult as the darkness deepened. Only one thought consoled Sano: following them secretly would be impossible for an assassin. At last, after an hour’s tedious trudge, they emerged on solid ground, at the junction where two shallow, weed-choked ditches merged to form a wider one that meandered off into the distance. Perhaps two hundred paces beyond the junction rose the structure they’d seen.
“Come on,” Sano said, freshly energetic in his eagerness.
He jumped a ditch and urged his horse across it. Leaving Hirata to follow, he mounted and rode the remaining distance. The ground, though as overgrown with grasses as the surrounding terrain, was higher and firmer here. As he neared the house, its features grew apparent.
The house was a minka, the sort of dwelling found throughout rural Japan. A crumbling earthen wall surrounded it, also enclosing a ruined barn. The house had three stories counting the attic, with a few tiny barred windows set into half-timbered, unplastered mud walls. Sano dismounted outside a gap in the wall where rough wooden pillars marked the place where a gate had once hung. He drew and expelled a long breath of recognition.
“See the roof,” he said to Hirata, who’d caught up with him. “Doesn’t it look like a samurai’s helmet?”
Made of thick, shaggy thatch, the roof jutted out between the first and second levels in wings that resembled the side flaps on a warrior’s helmet. From the second story, it ascended to a flat portion over the attic before tapering to a narrow point. Exposed beams on either side of the ridgepole crisscrossed, forming long projections like horns crowning a general’s headgear. But the place looked deserted, with an aura of complete abandonment. Sano’s inner sense told him that no one had made consistent use of the house in ages. He felt a momentary prick of doubt, which he dismissed.
Hirata cleared his throat and said, “Sumimasen. Forgive my forwardness in speaking, sōsakan-sama. If the killer owns the house, the property records might tell us who he is.”
Sano regarded his assistant with new respect. He’d guessed that the killer had simply taken over the old house, but Hirata’s alternative made sense.
“That’s a good idea,” he said. “If we don’t catch him tonight, we’ll check the records when we get back to town.” But he fervently hoped that they would, and that a long search wouldn’t be necessary. “Now let’s look around.”
Tethering their horses inside the wall, they circled the property. At the house’s rear, an overgrown trail ran west, probably to link up with a road leading toward the city. It bore no visible foot- or hoofprints or any other signs of travel. Around them, as far as Sano could see, stretched the marshes: a vast level spread of land, accented by occasional trees. The only sound was the wind rustling through the grasses.
“Let’s go inside,” Sano said, swallowing his misgivings.
From their saddlebags, they fetched candles and matches, then crossed a jagged flagstone path through an earthen courtyard that sprouted knee-high grass as the marshes slowly reclaimed it. The front door was unlocked, but the wooden planks had swollen in the damp climate, and opening it took their combined strength. Lighting their candles, they cautiously stepped inside the house.
The candle flames illuminated a single large room with earth floor and mud walls. Gaps between the ends of the ceiling’s exposed beams admitted light and air. Walls, beams, and the rough pillars that supported the upper stories were blackened by smoke from past fires in the clay hearth that stood near one wall. The room was empty, almost as cold and damp as the outdoors, and showed no signs of recent occupation. Sano conjectured that the killer needed more than one hideaway, each near enough to a murder site for him to bring the head back, make the trophy, and take it to its final resting spot. Such a scheme bespoke the killer’s intelligence and forethought. If this was the lair he meant to use for a murder in Honjo tonight, wouldn’t he have prepared it better? Again Sano experienced doubts.
“Maybe he uses the upstairs.” Hirata’s voice echoed Sano’s hope as he raised his candle to a ladder that ascended to a square opening in the ceiling.
Sano examined the ladder. Finding it sturdy, he climbed to the second story, holding his candle above him. At the top he found himself in a small empty room, probably a bedchamber, with a plank ceiling and floor, and one tiny window. A doorway in a wall of torn paper and broken wooden mullions led to more rooms.
Another ladder rose to the attic. Sano waited for Hirata to emerge through the hole.
“Search these rooms,” he sa
id. “I’ll check the attic.” A perverse reluctance kept him from assigning his subordinate the more hazardous, less promising task. By doing so, did he think he could ensure that they would find the evidence he sought? Shaking his head at his foolish attempt to manipulate fate, Sano mounted the second ladder. With his head and shoulders in the attic, he paused and lifted his candle, looking around the tent-shaped space.
On the attic floor, exposed wooden joists formed a neat pattern of intersecting strips. The ceiling sloped steeply upward to the roofs apex. From the thatch between the beams came sinister squeaks and rustlings: The roof was full of vermin. Gingerly Sano raised the rest of himself into the attic. He began to explore, testing the joists with each step before putting his whole weight on them.
Panning his candle from side to side, he saw a latticed vent window in the peak of the roofs far gable. Below this, a pile of objects lay on the floor. Restraining his eagerness, Sano carefully moved toward the pile.
Suddenly a loud squeal split the silence. A huge rat dropped from the thatch and landed with a thump at Sano’s feet.
He cried out in surprise and instinctively reached for his sword. But even as his mind dismissed the threat as insignificant, he made an involuntary jump backward. His feet left the joist. With a loud, splintering crack, they burst through the unreinforced ceiling of the room beneath. He was falling. In a desperate effort to save himself, Sano threw out his arms, experiencing a shattering jolt as his elbows caught on the joists that framed the hole he’d made.
“Sōsakan-sama!” From below him, Sano heard Hirata’s shout, and running footsteps. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
SI2 Bundori (1996) Page 15