Still, the knowledge didn’t stop Hirata from wanting her, or from hoping she was innocent—and that she wanted him, too. Though he feared another episode of failure and humiliation, he longed to see her again. Should he go back to the theater and demand straight answers? Hot blood filled his loins at the thought of being with Ichiteru, of finishing what they’d started. Reluctantly he decided he was in no shape to conduct an objective interrogation; he must first regain control over his feelings. And Hirata had other leads to investigate besides Lady Ichiteru. Fortunately his detective instincts had brought him to a good starting place.
Hirata entered the police compound. After giving his horse to a stableboy, he crossed the yard lined with the barracks where he’d once lived as a doshin, then went inside the main building, a rambling wooden structure. Officers signed on or off duty and delivered criminals in the reception room. From a raised platform, four clerks dispatched messages and dealt with visitors.
“Good day, Uchida-sarc,” Hirata greeted the chief clerk.
Uchida, an older man with a humorous face, gave Hirata a welcoming smile. “Well, look who’s here again.” The police station was always a font of information, and Uchida, across whose desk all this information passed, had proved a valuable source many times. “How’s life at Edo Castle?”
After exchanging pleasantries, Hirata explained why he’d come. “Any reports of an old peddler selling rare drugs?”
“Nothing official, but I heard a rumor you might be interested in. Some youths from wealthy merchant families in the Suruga, Ginza, and Asakusa districts have supposedly gotten hold of a substance that induces trances and makes sex more fun. Since there’s no law against it, and the users aren’t suffering or causing any harm, the police haven’t arrested anyone. The dealer is reportedly a man with long white hair and no name.” Uchida chuckled. “The doshin are looking for him, mainly, I think, so they can try the drug themselves.”
“A man with pleasure potions might also have poisons,” Hirata said. “It sounds like he could be the one I’m looking for. Let me know if there’s any word on his whereabouts.”
“Be glad to—if you’ll recommend me to your important friends when they hand out promotions.” Uchida winked.
Hirata left police headquarters, mounted his horse outside the gate—and immediately thought of Lady Ichiteru. He forced himself to concentrate on the work at hand. Suruga, Ginza, and Asakusa were separated by considerable distance; apparently the nameless drug dealer ranged all over Edo, and might have moved on by now. Instead of questioning the doshin who had reported on him, Hirata would exploit a better, albeit unofficial, source of information.
Perhaps the activity would keep his mind off Lady Ichiteru.
The great wooden arch of the Ryogoku Bridge spanned the Sumida River, linking Edo proper with the rural districts of Honjo and Fukagawa on the eastern banks. Below, fishing boats and ferries glided along the water, a shimmering mirror that reflected the vivid autumn foliage along its banks and the blue sky above. Temple bells tolled, their peals sharply vibrant in the clear air.
The hooves of Hirata’s mount clattered on the bridge’s wooden planks as he joined the stream of traffic bound for the far end of the bridge, an area known as Honjo Muko—“Other Side”—Ryogoku. This had developed in recent years as Edo’s population had overflowed the crowded city center. Marshes had been drained; warehouses and docks now lined the shore. In the shadow of the Temple of Helplessness—built upon the burial site of the victims of the Great Fire thirty-three years ago—a flourishing merchant quarter had sprung up. Honjo Muko Ryogoku had also become a popular entertainment center. Peasants and ronin thronged the wide firebreak, patronizing teahouses, restaurants, storytellers’ halls, and gambling dens where men played cards, wagered on turtle races, or hurled arrows at targets to win prizes. Lurid signs above a menagerie depicted wild animals. Barkers shouted come-ons; peddlers sold candy, toys, and fireworks. Hirata headed for a popular attraction, where a large crowd had gathered before a raised platform. There stood a man of remarkable appearance.
He wore a blue kimono, cotton leggings, straw sandals, and red headband. Coarse black hair covered not only his scalp, but also the other exposed parts of his body: cheeks, chin, neck, ankles, the backs of his hands and tops of his feet, and the wedge of chest at the neckline of his garment. Shaggy brows nearly obscured his beady eyes; a sharp-toothed mouth grinned within his whiskers.
“Come to the Rat’s Freak Show!” he called, waving toward the curtained doorway behind him. “See thé Kanto Dwarf and the Living Bodhisattva! Witness other shocking curiosities of nature!”
The Rat was no less an oddity than his freaks. He came from the far northern island of Hokkaido, where cold winters caused men to sprout copious body hair. The Ainu, as they were called, reminiscent of apes, very primitive, and usually much taller than other Japanese. Short and wiry, the Rat must have been a runt of his tribe—and an ambitious one. He’d come to Edo as a young man to seek his fortune. A tobacco merchant had let him live in the back of his small shop, charging customers money to see him. The Rat’s rodentlike visage had earned him his nickname; his business acumen had turned the merchant’s sideline into this lucrative, notorious freak show. Some twenty years later, the Rat now owned the establishment, which he’d inherited upon his master’s death.
“Step inside!” he invited. “Admission is only ten zeni!”
Coins in hand, the audience lined up outside the curtain. The Rat leapt off the platform to usher them inside; his assistant, a hugely muscled giant, collected admission fees. Hirata joined the queue. Seeing his empty hands, the giant growled, frowning.
“It’s you I’ve come to see,” Hirata told the Rat.
“Ah, Hirata-san.” The Rat’s beady eyes took on a gleam of avaricious cunning; he rubbed his hairy paws together. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need some information.”
The Rat, who roamed Edo and the provinces in an ongoing hunt for new freaks, also collected news. He supplemented his income by selling choice information. While a police officer, Hirata had caught the Rat during a raid on an illegal brothel, and the Rat had bartered his way out of an arrest by telling Hirata the whereabouts of an outlaw who had eluded Edo police for years. Since then, Hirata had often used the Rat as an informant. His prices were high, but his service reliable.
“Better come inside,” the Rat said now. “Show’s about to start, and I have to announce the acts.” He spoke with an odd, rustic accent. “We can talk during them.”
Hirata followed him into the building, where the audience had gathered in a narrow room with a curtained stage. The Rat jumped onto this. Extolling the wonders of what was to come, he whipped the crowd into a noisy, eager frenzy, then announced, “And now I present the Kanto Dwarf!”
The curtain opened and out walked a grotesque figure, half the height of a normal man, with a large head, stunted body, and short limbs. Dressed in bright theatrical robes, he sang a song from a popular Kabuki drama. The audience cheered. The Rat joined Hirata at the side of the stage.
“I’m looking for an itinerant drug peddler named Choyei,” Hirata said, relating the meager background material that existed on the man.
The Rat’s feral grin flashed. “So you want to know who sold and who bought the poison that killed the shogun’s concubine. Not easy, finding someone who doesn’t want to be found. Plenty of hiding places in Edo.”
Hirata wasn’t fooled. The Rat always began negotiations by stressing the difficulty of obtaining a particular piece of information. “Thirty coppers if you find him by tomorrow,” Hirata said. “After that, twenty.”
On stage, the dwarf’s song ended. “Excuse me,” said the Rat. He bounded onto the stage and announced, “The Living Bodhisattva!” Amid more cheers, a woman appeared. She wore a sleeveless garment to show off her three arms. She struck poses reminiscent of statues of the many-armed Buddhist deity of mercy, then invited audience members to bet on which of thr
ee overturned cups hid a peanut. The Rat rejoined Hirata. “A hundred coppers, no matter when I find your man.”
Other acts followed: a dancing fat man; a hermaphrodite singing the male and female parts of a duet. The negotiations continued. At last Hirata said, “Seventy coppers if you find him within two days, fifty thereafter, and nothing if I find Choyei first. That’s my final offer.”
“All right, but I want an advance of twenty coppers to cover my expenses,” the Rat said.
Hirata nodded, handing over the coins. The Rat stuffed them into the pouch at his waist, then went to announce the final act. “And now, the event you’ve all been waiting for: Fukurokujo, god of wisdom!”
Out walked a boy about ten years old. His features were as tiny as a baby’s, his eyes closed, his head elongated into a high dome that resembled that of the legendary god. Gasps of surprise came from the audience.
“For an added charge of five zeni, Fukurokujo will tell your fortune!” cried the Rat. Eagerly the audience pressed forward. The Rat said to Hirata, “To seal our bargain, I’ll give you a free fortune.” He led Hirata onto the stage and placed Hirata’s hand on the boy’s forehead. “Oh, great Fukurokujo, what do you see in this man’s future?”
Eyes still closed, the “god” said in a high, childish voice, “I see a beautiful woman. I see danger and death.” As the audience emitted oohs and ahs, he keened, “Beware, beware!”
The memory of Lady Ichiteru came rushing back to Hirata. He saw her lovely, impassive face; felt her hand upon him; heard again the wild music of the puppet theater underscoring his desire. He experienced anew the stirring mixture of lust and humiliation. Even as he recalled her trickery and the penalty for consorting with the shogun’s concubine, he yearned for Ichiteru with a frightening passion. He knew he must see her again—if not to repeat the interview and salvage his professional reputation, then to see where their erotic encounter would lead.
14
The gilt crest above the gate of Lord Miyagi Shigeru of Tosa Province represented a pair of swans facing each other, their wings spread around them in a feathered circle, touching at the tips. Sano arrived at dusk, when homebound samurai trooped through the darkening streets. An elderly manservant led Sano into the mansion, where he left his shoes and swords in the entry way. Edo’s daimyo district had been rebuilt since the Great Fire; hence, the Miyagi estate dated from a recent period. Yet the interior of the house seemed ancient, the woodwork of the corridor dark with age and probably salvaged from an older structure. A faint smell of decay hung in the air, as if from centuries of moisture, smoke, and human breath. In the reception room, an eerie melody ended as the servant ushered Sano inside and announced, “Honorable Lord and Lady Miyagi, I present Sano Ichiro, the shogun’s Sōsakan-sama.”
Four people occupied the room: a gray-haired samurai, reclining on silk cushions; a middle-aged woman who knelt beside him; and two pretty young maidens seated together, one holding a samisen, the other a wooden flute. Sano knelt, bowed, and addressed the man.
“Lord Miyagi, I’m investigating the murder of the shogun’s concubine, and I must ask you some questions.”
For a moment, everyone regarded Sano with silent wariness. Cylindrical white lanterns burned, giving the room an intimate, late-night ambience. Charcoal braziers warmed away the autumn chill. The Miyagi swan insignia was repeated in carved roundels on the ceiling beams and pillars, in the gold crests on the lacquer tables and cabinets and the man’s brown silk dressing gown. Sano had the distinct sense of a self-contained world, whose inhabitants perceived other people as outsiders. An aura of perfume, wintergreen hair oil, and a barely perceptible musky odor formed a cocoon around them, as if they exuded their own atmosphere. Then Lord Miyagi spoke.
“May we offer you some refreshment?” He gestured toward a low table, which held teapot, cups, smoking tray, and sake decanter, plus a lavish spread of fruit, cakes, and sushi.
Observing social convention, Sano politely refused, was persuaded, then graciously accepted.
“I wondered whether you would find out about me.” Lord Miyagi had a thin, lanky body and long face. His downward-tilted eyes were moist and luminous, his full mouth softly wet. Loose skin wattled his neck and cheeks. His drawling voice reflected his languid posture. “Well, I suppose I might have expected that my connection with Harume would become known eventually; the metsuke is most efficient. I am just glad that it happened after her death, when it can hardly matter anymore. Ask me whatever you please.”
Preserving the possible advantage of keeping Lady Harume’s diary a secret, Sano did not correct the daimyo’s impression that Tokugawa spies had uncovered the relationship. “Perhaps we should talk alone,” Sano said, eyeing Lady Miyagi. He needed the intimate details of the affair, which Lord Miyagi might want to hide from his wife.
However, Lord Miyagi said, “My wife will stay. She already knows all about Lady Harume and myself.”
“We are cousins, joined in a marriage of convenience,” Lady Miyagi explained. Indeed she did bear a striking family resemblance to her husband, with the same skin, facial features, and thin figure. Yet her posture was rigid, her eyes a flat, lusterless brown, her unpainted mouth firmly set. She had a deep, mannish voice. While everything about Lord Miyagi bespoke weakness and sensuality, she seemed a stern, dry husk within her brocade kimono. “There is no need for us to keep secrets from each other.”
Then she added, “But perhaps we do require a bit more privacy. Snowflake? Wren?” She beckoned to the maidens, who rose and knelt before her. “These are my husband’s concubines,” Lady Miyagi said, surprising Sano, who had assumed they were the couple’s daughters. With a motherly pat to the cheek of each girl, she said, “You may go now. Continue practicing your music.”
“Yes, Honorable Mistress,” the girls chorused. They bowed and left the room.
“So you knew that your husband was secretly meeting Harume in Asakusa?” Sano asked Lady Miyagi.
“Of course.” The woman’s mouth curved in a smile, baring her cosmetically blackened teeth. “I am in charge of all my lord’s amusements.” Beside her, Lord Miyagi nodded complacently. “I select his concubines and courtesans. Last summer I made an acquaintance with Lady Harume and introduced her to my husband. I organized their every rendezvous, sending Harume letters telling her when to be at the inn.”
Some wives went to extraordinary lengths to serve their men, Sano thought. While this arrangement caused him a prickle of distaste, he wished Reiko possessed some of Lady Miyagi’s willingness to please. “You took a big risk by sporting with the shogun’s concubine,” he told Lord Miyagi.
“I find much enjoyment in danger.” The daimyo stretched luxuriously. His tongue came out, moistening his lips with saliva.
A true devotee of fleshly delights, he seemed acutely conscious of every physical sensation. He wore his robe as though he felt the soft caress of silk against his skin. Picking up a tobacco pipe from the metal tray, he drew on it with slow deliberation, sighing while he expelled the smoke. In his frank pleasure, he appeared almost childlike. Yet Sano saw a sinister shadow behind the veiled eyes. He recalled what he knew of the Miyagi.
They were a minor clan, more renowned for sexual debauchery than political leadership. Rumors of adultery, incest, and perversion haunted both male and female members, though their wealth purchased freedom from legal consequences. Apparently the present daimyo followed the family tradition—which had sometimes included violence.
Addressing both husband and wife, Sano said, “Did you know that Lady Harume planned to tattoo herself?”
Lord Miyagi nodded and smoked. His wife answered, “Yes, we did. It was my husband’s wish that Harume prove her devotion by cutting a symbol of love for him upon her body. I wrote the letter asking her to do so.”
Sano wondered whether Lady Miyagi’s stiff bearing reflected a sexual coldness that precluded normal marital relations between her and her husband. Certainly she possessed none of the physical attractions va
lued by a man such as him. But perhaps she pursued her own carnal thrills by procuring her husband’s; she, too, was a member of the infamous clan. From the cloth pouch at his waist, Sano removed the black lacquer bottle whose ink had poisoned Harume. “Did she get this from you, then?”
“Yes, that is the bottle we sent with the letter,” Lady Miyagi said calmly. “I bought it. My husband wrote Harume’s name on top.”
So they both had handled the bottle. “And when was this?” Sano asked.
Lady Miyagi considered. “Four days ago, I believe.”
That would have been before Lieutenant Kushida’s suspension from duty in the Large Interior, but after Lady Harume’s complaint. But Kushida claimed to have had no prior knowledge of the tattoo, and Sano didn’t yet know about Lady Ichiteru. Presumably Hirata would obtain the information. For now, the Miyagi seemed the ones with the best opportunity to poison the ink.
“Were you on good terms with Lady Harume?” Sano asked Lord Miyagi.
The daimyo shrugged languorously. “We had no quarrels, if that’s what you mean. I loved her as much as I’m capable of loving anyone. I was getting what I wanted from the affair, and I presumed she was, too.”
“What was it that she wanted?” The diary explained how Lord Miyagi achieved gratification, but Sano was curious to know why the beautiful concubine had risked her life for sordid, joyless encounters with an unattractive man.
For the first time, Lord Miyagi looked uncomfortable; his Adam’s apple bobbed in the loose flesh of his throat, and he looked to his wife. Lady Miyagi said, “Harume had a craving for adventure, Sōsakan-sama. The forbidden liaison with my husband satisfied it.”
“And you?” Sano asked. “How did you feel about Lady Harume and the affair?”
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