“Who was it, Choyei?” Urgently Sano gripped the dying peddler’s hand. “Tell me!”
Choyei emitted sickening gurgles. Blood continued to leak from the wound. His lips and tongue struggled around the syllables of a name that seemed caught in his throat.
“What did he look like, then?” Sano said.
“No…No!” Choyei’s hand clutched Sano’s. His mouth formed words, but no sound came.
“Easy. Relax,” Sano soothed him.
While the peddler struggled to speak, Sano’s mind raced through possibilities. The brutal stabbing argued in favor of Lieutenant Kushida. Had he escaped house arrest to assault Choyei?
“Did he use a spear?” Sano said, hiding his impatience.
Choyei’s body thrashed and his head rolled from side to side in a violent protest against impending death.
“What did he look like? Tell me so I can find him!”
Now the drug peddler seemed to accept his fate. His hold on Sano’s hand weakened while involuntary tremors shook him. With a great effort, he gathered a deep, rattling breath and whispered: “…thin…wore dark cloak…hood…”
That description could fit Lord Miyagi as well as Kushida. Or what about Harume’s secret lover? How Sano welcomed this evidence that pointed away from Lady Keisho-in!
Running footsteps clattered down the street. A doshin and two civilian assistants arrived at the door. Quickly Sano repeated Choyei’s description of the killer, then added his own of Lieutenant Kushida and Lord Miyagi. “It might be either of them, or someone else, but he can’t be far away. Go!” The police rushed off, and Sano turned back to the drug peddler. “Choyei. What else can you tell me? Choyei!”
Desperation tinged his voice as he felt the drug peddler go limp under his touch. The animation faded from Choyei’s eyes. One more faint moan, a last drool of blood, then the source of the poison—and Sano’s only witness to murder—was dead.
28
The house to which Lady Ichiteru’s letter had directed Hirata was built on a willow-shaded canal near the river, in a wealthy merchant district. Usually Hirata took pride in his knowledge of Nihonbashi, gained from years of police work. However, as he walked over an arched bridge and through the gate leading into the street, he found himself in unfamiliar territory. Age and affluence lay like a rich patina upon the district. Moss furred high stone walls; a green film lustered the copper-tiled roofs. Because of their fortunate proximity to water, the mansions had survived many fires, making them some of the oldest buildings in town. But Hirata felt his own luck—and confidence—draining away with every step toward his rendezvous with Lady Ichiteru.
In his fist he clutched like a talisman the list of questions he must make Ichiteru answer. Folded inside was her letter. He’d spent hours guessing at possible meanings of the last line: “It is with more than ordinary pleasure that I look forward to seeing you.” Now, as he unfolded his list to study it one final time, he saw with dismay that the sweat from his palm had run the ink of the two documents together. This interview might determine his fate and Sano’s; yet Hirata felt terribly unprepared, despite all his planning. He hungered for Ichiteru, but wished he’d brought another detective along, or sent one in his place.
Now he had reached the designated house, a miniature estate set off from the others by a large garden. The mansion seemed to lurk beneath spreading pine boughs that almost hid its low roof. It hadn’t escaped fire unscathed; smoke had darkened the walls. With his heart drumming the opposing rhythms of desire and doom, Hirata knocked on the gate.
It opened, and a young girl’s pretty face appeared. Hirata recognized Midori, whom he’d all but forgotten. “Detective Hirata-san!” she exclaimed in delight “I was so hoping to see you again.” Eagerly she drew him into an overgrown jungle of weeds and unpruned shrubs, brown and lifeless with the waning season. An arbor draped with withered vines overhung the flagstone path to the veranda. Dressed in a kimono printed with red poppies, Midori was like a flower in a dead wilderness. She giggled in excitement. “What brings you here? How did you know where to find me?”
Her enthusiastic welcome flattered Hirata, easing his nervousness. At once he felt more like the competent professional he really was. Wishing to prolong the sensation, and reluctant to hurt Midori by correcting her assumption that she was the object of his visit, he said, “Oh, we detectives have ways of finding out things.”
“Really?” Midori’s eyes widened in awe.
“Sure,” Hirata said. “Just try me. Come on. Give me a mystery to solve.”
With her head tilted in thought, a finger to her cheek, Midori made a charming picture. Then she grinned mischievously. “I’ve lost my favorite comb. Where is it?”
She laughed at Hirata’s disconcerted expression, and after a moment, he joined her. “I confess; I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll come over and help look for it if you want.”
“Oh, would you?” Dimples sparkled in Midori’s face.
Cheered by her frank admiration, Hirata chatted about inconsequential things with Midori. They didn’t hear the door open, or notice Lady Ichiteru until she spoke.
“I am honored by your acceptance of my invitation, Hirata-san.” Down the length of the arbored passage, her low voice issued like a warm draft from a furnace. “A thousand thanks for being so…prompt.”
Cut off in midsentence, Hirata turned and saw Ichiteru standing on the shadowy veranda. Her pale skin, mauve silk kimono, and the ornaments in her upswept hair gleamed as if she somehow concentrated the meager light upon herself. Her enigmatic gaze transfixed Hirata. At once his dread returned.
“Midori, why do you detain my guest outside instead of bringing him to me?” Lady Ichiteru rebuked the girl.
Hurt filled the eyes Midori turned on Hirata. Crestfallen, she said, “Oh. You’ve come to see her. I guess I should have known. I’m sorry for keeping you.” Bowing awkwardly, she added, “I’m sorry, my lady.”
Hirata pitied her embarrassment. Vaguely he remembered that his plan called for questioning Midori.
“Detective Hirata-Mw, there’s something I should probably tell you,” Midori whispered, averting her face so Ichiteru wouldn’t notice.
“Yes, sure,” Hirata said. But Ichiteru’s seductive beauty lured him like a physical force. “Later.” Leaving Midori, he moved through the dark tunnel of vines. The crumpled list of questions fell from his hand. He climbed the steps of the veranda and accompanied Lady Ichiteru into the house.
The corridor was dim, and smelled of mildew and the dank canal. Drifting a few steps ahead, Lady Ichiteru shimmered like a ghostly vision. Panic and anticipation weakened Hirata’s legs. Every sane, prudent instinct told him to conduct their conversation outside, in the safety of the public thoroughfare. But the powerful, bittersweet scent of her perfume tantalized him. He would have followed Ichiteru anywhere.
She ushered Hirata into a room at the end of the corridor, where a single lamp burned upon a low table which also held a sake decanter and two cups. Age and dampness had discolored the painted landscape murals on the walls, so that they looked like cliffs and clouds under water. Carved sea demons snarled upon ancient cabinets. Through the shuttered windows Hirata could hear the waters of the canal lapping at the stone embankment. A futon lay upon the tatami. At the sight of it, Hirata felt heat gather in his loins. Tearing his thoughts away from the bed’s implicit invitation, he blurted the first thing that came into his mind: “Whose house is this?”
A fleeting smile crossed Ichiteru’s face. “Does it matter?” Kneeling beside the table, she motioned for him to join her. She murmured, “The important thing is that you are here…and so am I.”
“Uh, yes,” Hirata said. Clumsily he trod on the hem of his trousers and almost fell as he knelt opposite Ichiteru. Shame flushed him. The room seemed too warm and too cold at the same time; his hands felt like ice, while sweat saturated his clothes. “So, uh, what did you want to tell me?”
“Come now, Hirata-san.” Ichiteru
shot him a coquettish glance. “There’s no need to be…in such a hurry. Are you that eager to get away?” Her full lips pouted. “Do you dislike me so much?”
“Oh, no. That is, I like you just fine.” A hot blush crept over Hirata’s neck and ears.
“Then let us first…enjoy this time we have together.” Ichiteru’s kimono, worn fashionably off the shoulders, slipped lower, revealing the top of the aréole around one nipple. “May I offer you refreshment?” She lifted the sake decanter, arching her painted brows in suggestive invitation.
Hirata usually preferred not to drink while on duty, but now he needed to calm his nerves and still his trembling hands. “Yes, please;” he said.
Lady Ichiteru poured a cup of sake. When she passed it to Hirata, her smooth, warm fingers caressed his. Her eyes drew him into their fathomless depths. With difficulty, Hirata looked away and drained the cup in one swallow. The liquor had an odd, musty taste, but he was too grateful for its immediate calming effect to care. Ichiteru watched him, her hands clasped in her lap, a smile playing around her mouth.
“Now I believe we’re ready,” she said.
Leaning forward, she drew her fingertips down Hirata’s cheek. Her touch left a trail of heat. Aroused but aghast, he shrank away.
“What—what are you doing?” he demanded. The rational part of his mind guessed that she was trying to distract him through seduction. For the sake of the investigation, he must not let it happen, no matter how much he wanted her. “Your letter said that you had important information about Lady Harume’s murder. And I need answers to the questions you avoided at the puppet theater.” Wishing he hadn’t lost his plan, he tried to recall its instructions. “Where were you when Harume was almost killed by a flying dagger? How did you really feel about her?”
“Shhhh…” Tenderly Ichiteru’s finger traced his lips.
“Stop that,” Hirata said. He tried to stand, but a peculiar sensation came over him. His limbs were as heavy as bags of sand; his head felt disconnected from the rest of his body. His senses grew extraordinarily acute. Every pore seemed to open, every nerve to vibrate. The murky colors of the room glowed; the lapping of the canal sounded as loud as ocean waves; Lady Ichiteru’s perfume filled his lungs like the fragrance from a million flowers. Hirata heard the rapid drumming of his heart, the rush of his blood. His manhood swelled into an erection bigger than any he’d ever known.
Ichiteru was helping him to his feet, half carrying him to the futon. “No,” Hirata protested weakly. Through a dreamy haze that filmed his mind, he recalled the police clerk mentioning a drug that induced trances and heightened sexual pleasure. Hirata also recalled that Ichiteru hadn’t imbibed any of the sake. She must have put the drug there.
Had she bought it from Choyei, along with the poison that had killed Lady Harume?
“Let me go. Please!” Hirata feared for his own life, but Lady Ichiteru’s nearness sent shivers of delight through him; her touch burned all vestiges of reason from his mind. Surrendering, he collapsed on the futon. The coffered ceiling was decorated with painted waves that undulated before Hirata’s dazed vision. Ichiteru hovered over him as if airborne, the folds of her mauve kimono swirling. Then she raised her arms and the garment fell away, leaving her naked. Hirata gasped. Ichiteru’s breasts were full and lush, the nipples large as coins. Her hips curved voluptuously from a tiny waist; a tuft of silky black pubic hair nestled in her crotch. Sleek, creamy skin enhanced the elegant bone structure of her neck, shoulders, and long, graceful limbs. Beneath her perfume, Hirata smelled her natural odor: pungent and salty as the sea. A tide of desire rose in him, but mortal fear rode its crest.
“No. Please. We can’t do this. If the shogun finds out, he’ll have us both killed!”
Lady Ichiteru only smiled, untied his sash, and removed his garments. She unwound the bands of his loincloth, and his erection sprang free. As he exclaimed in horrified excitement, she said, “It is for the sake of His Excellency that I summoned you here. He is in great danger.” Ichiteru’s voice surrounded Hirata like a cloud of disembodied sound; her scent engulfed him. “The murder of Lady Harume was part of a plot against our lord.”
“What plot? I—I don’t understand.” The drug was rapidly diminishing Hirata’s mental capacity; his brain floated in a sea of intoxication. Lady Ichiteru leaned close. Gently her breasts brushed his chest. The exquisite sensation drew a moan from Hirata. He heard the waters of the canal crashing against its banks. He must escape. He must have Ichiteru. But he could manage neither; the drug immobilized his limbs.
Then Ichiteru cupped her breasts in both hands and pressed his manhood into the warm, smooth cleft between them. Up and down she moved, smiling. The friction was unbearably arousing. Hirata cried out as his pleasure mounted too fast, too high.
“Stop. Don’t!” Enough of his self-consciousness remained that he didn’t want to spurt all over Lady Ichiteru, but his protest went unheeded. She continued her movements. Hirata felt the rapid approach of inevitable release. Deftly Ichiteru applied pressure to several points at the base of his erection. Hirata’s climax erupted in spasms of ecstasy. Even as he moaned and gasped, he made a feeble attempt to shield Ichiteru, but his hand refused to move. Ichiteru and the place where their bodies touched seemed impossibly far away, and he strained to focus his vision there. Then surprise silenced him.
No seed had spilled from his manhood, which was still rock hard. And the climax hadn’t diminished his arousal in the least.
“What did you do to me? What kind of magic is this?” he demanded.
Looming over him, Ichiteru put a finger to his lips. “Shhh…” Her musical laughter mocked his panic. As the drug’s effects intensified, Hirata grew dizzier. The bed beneath him rocked, and the water sounds grew louder. Waves of heat licked him. He and Ichiteru were spinning, the patterns of the ceiling a blur of color above them. Only her beautiful face remained in clear focus. “Don’t be afraid…it won’t hurt you. Just enjoy yourself…” Each word resonated through Hirata’s head. “And don’t you want to know who killed Lady Harume?”
“No. I mean, yes!” Hirata fought the resurgence of desire rising in him.
“It was someone who was jealous of Harume…. A man who feared that the birth of the shogun’s heir would thwart his ambitions …” Lady Ichiteru held a red lacquer cylinder as thick as her arm. “He seeks to rule Japan, and cannot afford to lose his one avenue to power.”
The spinning accelerated; Hirata’s mind reeled. Frantically he tried to remember the facts of the case, and the male suspects. “Who are you talking about? Lieutenant Kushida? Lord Miyagi? Lady Harume’s secret lover?”
“None of them…of them…of them…” Lady Ichiteru’s soft voice echoed over the sounds of water, the pulse of Hirata’s own blood. She slipped the hollow cylinder over his organ. The oiled silk lining sheathed him in pure pleasure. As Ichiteru moved the cylinder, ridges under the lining alternately gripped and released him. Panting, Hirata began the ascent toward another orgasm.
“Priest Ryuko has spies everywhere…knew about Lord Miyagi’s letter…He comes and goes freely within the Large Interior…One day I heard him tell Lady Keisho-in that Harume was with child and must die…Together they decided that Ryuko would buy poison and put it in the ink.”
Even while the new evidence against Keisho-in filled Hirata with horror, the spasms of climax convulsed him. Again Ichiteru prevented the full release he craved. She removed the cylinder and tossed it away.
“Please. Please!” Sobbing with need, Hirata strained to reach her, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Now Lady Ichiteru knelt above him, thighs straddling his torso. The magnificence of her body, the serene loveliness of her face, and her feral, bittersweet smell maddened him.
“I beg you to warn His Excellency that the Tokugawa succession is in grave danger,” Ichiteru said. “There will never be a direct heir as long as Ryuko and Keisho-in remain at Edo Castle. They will murder any other woman who conceives the shogun’s child….
They fancy themselves emperor and empress of Japan…. They will manipulate the shogun…and squander his money on their own whims…. The bakufu will weaken and insurrection arise…. You must expose these murderers and save the Tokugawa clan and the entire country from ruin.”
Despite his agitation, Hirata could see the danger of doing so. “I can’t. At least not without corroboration. If my master and I should falsely accuse the shogun’s mother, that would be treason!”
“You must promise to take the chance.” Ichiteru’s hand, coated with gardenia-scented oil, caressed his organ until his moans turned to hoarse cries and he felt ready to burst—then she stopped. “Otherwise…I will leave now…and you shall never see me again.”
Horror flooded Hirata at the thought of losing Lady Ichiteru, of never satisfying the urgent need that consumed him. From passion grew love, like a malignant flower blooming in his spirit. Ichiteru was wonderful; she would never speak anything but the truth. “All right,” Hirata cried. “I’ll do it. Just please, please—”
Lady Ichiteru’s approving smile filled him with guilty delight. “You have made the right decision. Now you shall have your reward.”
She lowered herself onto his erection. Hirata almost swooned as he slid into her moist, hot womanhood. Faster and faster the room spun; sound, sight, and smell merged into a single, overpowering sensation. Up and down moved Ichiteru, with accelerating speed. Her inner muscles held him in a fierce suction. Hirata’s excitement climbed toward a peak higher than ever before. His heart thundered; his straining lungs couldn’t get enough air; sweat bathed him. He would die of pleasure. Panic seized Hirata.
“No. Stop. I can’t take any more!”
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