The Fire Kimono

by Laura Joh Rowland

  The wind had quieted, and the morning was hazy, thick with the city’s smoke, dust, and breath. As the slum awakened, people emerged from the shacks, lined up at the well, and built fires from scavenged coal and trash. Sano and his men rode down the foul-smelling alley, under the clotheslines, and dismounted outside the gate to the tenement where Egen lived.

  When Sano and Hirata arrived on foot, they found the yard and balconies deserted, although cooking odors and a babble of voices emanated from the buildings. Hirata pounded on Egen’s door, called his name, and said, “Open up!”

  When he received no answer, he pounded louder. A woman with a crying child slung over her shoulder appeared on the balcony and said, “He’s not there.”

  “Then where is he?” Sano wouldn’t have been surprised if Egen had skipped. He must have known to expect consequences for incriminating Sano’s mother.

  “He moved out,” the woman said.

  Hirata opened the door and looked into the room. It was full of Egen’s junk, but Egen himself was indeed gone. “He left all his wares.”

  “He said he didn’t need them anymore. He was going on to bigger and better things.” The woman sneered, half skeptical, half envious.

  Sano didn’t intend for Egen to escape without answering for what he’d done. “Where did he move?”

  “This is quite a step up from Egen’s last place,” Sano said an hour later as he and Hirata and their entourage arrived at the tutor’s new residence.

  The neighbor woman at Egen’s tenement had directed them to this expensive inn located near the main boulevard that crossed Edo. “He bragged that he was going where the rich folks stay,” she’d said. A bamboo fence around a garden containing cherry and willow trees screened the inn from other, more modest lodgings, the shops and food stalls, and the bustle of the streets. Sano and Hirata entered with a few troops. They followed the path between stone lanterns. The proprietor greeted them in the entranceway to the building.

  “Would you like rooms?” His dour face brightened at the prospect of wealthy samurai customers.

  “No, thank you,” Sano said. “We’re looking for one of your guests. His name is Egen.”

  The proprietor’s expression grew hopeful. “Have you come to take him away?”

  “Maybe.” That depended on what he had to say for himself. Maybe Sano would just kill him. “Why, do you want us to?”

  Leading them down a passage to an inner garden surrounded by guest quarters, the proprietor murmured, “The fellow is not the kind of guest I like.”

  In the garden lay the remains of what must have been a lavish, wild party. Servants picked up strings of red lanterns that dangled from the trees onto the ground, swept up food crumbs, and gathered wine bottles and broken cups. Sano smelled liquor, urine, and vomit. The doors to the rooms that opened onto the verandas were shut, the inhabitants presumably sleeping off their revels.

  “Over there.” The proprietor pointed at a door.

  Sano and Hirata strode up to it. Hirata pushed the door open. A powerful stench of feces hit Sano. He and Hirata recoiled, hands over their noses. Behind them, the proprietor made a sound of disgust.

  “What a filthy animal!”

  Sano entered the room; Hirata followed. It was dim, the bamboo blinds drawn. Heaps of articles that Sano couldn’t immediately identify gave it a resemblance to the room Egen had vacated. Egen lay on his back on the bed. When Sano spoke his name, he didn’t answer or move. Sano stepped closer. His heart drummed a cadence of foreboding.

  Egen’s limbs were splayed, tangled in his garish cotton robe and the quilt. He reeked of liquor and the excrement that soiled the mattress beneath him. His eyes were wide, his mouth parted as if gasping for air. But he neither inhaled nor exhaled any breath.

  “Is he dead?” the proprietor said fearfully.

  Sano touched Egen’s neck. The flesh was cold; there was no pulse. “Yes, he is.” Dismay filled Sano.

  “He must have drunk too much. He must have choked and died in his sleep.” The proprietor sounded eager to believe the death was an ordinary accident.

  The witness Sano had come to interrogate had taken whatever he knew about the murder to the grave. There went Sano’s hope of learning anything from Egen that would help his mother.

  Hirata yanked the cord on the blinds. Daylight brightened the room. He crouched, picked up a cushion from the floor, and examined the silk cover. “This wasn’t an accident,” he said, handing the cushion to Sano.

  Sano saw a wet, bloody spot on the silk. He looked at Egen. There was blood on the tutor’s lips and a reddish-purple bruise on his chest. Sano pictured the room in the dark of night, a figure pressing the cushion against Egen’s face, a knee planted on the struggling man to hold him down. Sano imagined Egen’s muffled cries and waving limbs, his bowels voiding while he died.

  “Egen didn’t die of drinking too much,” Sano said. “He was smothered.”

  After long hours of unhappy wakefulness, after Sano had risen and left their bed, Reiko finally drifted off to sleep near dawn. She slept late into the morning and was awakened by an argument on the veranda outside her bedchamber.

  “But I have to go practice martial arts,” said Masahiro’s strident voice.

  “You’re not going anywhere, young master,” answered the patrol guard on duty. “You know that you and your sister are confined to the private quarters and garden.”

  After Lord Matsudaira’s spy had been unmasked in the estate yesterday, Sano had laid down new rules to protect his family, had assigned extra guards to the innermost part of the estate. But Masahiro didn’t like confinement any more than Reiko did.

  “That’s all right for Akiko, but I’m not a baby,” he protested. “Let me out.”

  “Sorry. If you don’t like the rules, take it up with your father.”

  Masahiro uttered a cry of frustration. Reiko heard a door flung open, his footsteps stomping down the corridor, and Akiko beginning to cry. Akiko was too young to understand what had happened and that the family was in danger, but she was very sensitive to other people’s emotions, and she’d caught her brother’s bad mood. Shushing sounds came from her nurse, trying to soothe her. Reiko climbed out of bed and went to Akiko, in the next room. But when Akiko saw her mother, she turned and ran. Reiko was left to muster the courage to face the day.

  The quarrel with Sano still weighed heavily on her spirits. His mother was in jail, Sano’s time for exonerating her was growing shorter by the moment, and what new evil did Lord Matsudaira have in store for them? Reiko’s mind swirled with images from the capture of the spy and the ambush in the city. Another day seemed like more than she could endure, but she washed, dressed, put on her makeup, then called a maid to bring her breakfast. She ate mechanically, fueling her strength. She must put on a brave guise for the sake of her family.

  Sano looked around the room where Egen lay dead. Among the things piled against the walls were lacquer chests, folded clothes in bright printed cotton fabric, pairs of new sandals, and wooden boxes open to reveal gold statuettes, porcelain vases, and musical instruments.

  “He went on a shopping spree after he betrayed my mother,” Sano said.

  “This collection is a big step up from the trash at his old place,” Hirata said. “It would be hard to tell if anything was taken, but note this box full of coins. This wasn’t a robbery.”

  “I don’t see any signs of a fight.” Sano detected surprise on Egen’s face. “The killer must have attacked him while he was asleep.” Sano addressed the proprietor, who stood on the veranda outside. “Did you see anyone come in here last night?”

  “No,” the proprietor said, wringing his hands, upset because a murder had occurred on his premises. A young peasant appeared beside him. “This is the night watchman. Ask him.”

  When Sano repeated the question, the watchman scratched his chest, yawned, and shook his head. He had a bloated, red-eyed face. The proprietor said, “You’ve been drinking! Did you fall asleep on d
uty? You useless oaf!”

  “I’m sorry,” the watchman said sheepishly. “He had a party. He invited me, and all the guests.” He pointed into the room and saw Egen. His bloodshot eyes goggled; his complexion turned green. “Is he dead?”

  “He is, no thanks to you,” the proprietor said. “You’re supposed to protect our guests. But that sounds just like him.” His glare turned on the dead man. “He acted as if this were a teahouse in the pleasure quarter. Singing and playing the samisen, hiring girls to dance—”

  “And pouring the sake,” the watchman said.

  “I would have thrown him out today even though he paid for ten days in advance,” the proprietor said.

  Sano said to Hirata, “A junk peddler moves into an expensive inn and buys all new things. He has money left to squander on parties. How did he come by his newfound wealth?”

  “That’s a good question,” Hirata said.

  “But not the only one,” Sano said.

  “Here are two more: Who killed him, and why?”

  Sano thought about the events of the last day in the tutor’s life. “I’m beginning to have some ideas.”

  The inn’s guests had heard the commotion and they straggled out of their rooms, curious to see what it was about. Some twenty men gathered below the veranda where Sano and Hirata stood outside the dead man’s room. Sano noted their bloodshot eyes and hungover expressions. Four were accompanied by sluttish women with smeared makeup.

  “What happened?” asked one fellow with a bald head and his kimono open to display his potbelly and loincloth.

  “The host of your party has been murdered,” Sano said. Mutters of dismay and ghoulish interest came from the crowd. “How well did you know Egen?”

  “I just met him yesterday, when he showed up here,” the bald man said.

  The other men made sounds of agreement. One of the women spoke up: “He said he was new in town. He’d only arrived a few days ago.”

  Sano supposed that Egen hadn’t wanted his new friends to know he was a lowly Edo junk peddler. But Sano had a hunch that something wasn’t right. “Arrived from where?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “What else do you know about him?” Sano asked the crowd.

  Heads shook. A man said, “He told a lot of stories and jokes, but he didn’t talk about himself.”

  “He did mention that he’d had a lucky break,” said the bald man. “That’s why he threw the party.”

  Sano had a hunch about Egen’s sudden wealth and extravagance. He said to Hirata, “Someone paid him for incriminating my mother.”

  “It’s not hard to guess who,” Hirata said.

  “Lord Matsudaira does come to mind,” Sano agreed.

  “But I just found Egen yesterday, and I took him straight to the castle. How did Lord Matsudaira get to him?”

  Before Sano could hazard a guess, a new crowd poured into the scene. Five samurai clad in leggings and short kimonos carried jitte—steel wands with two curved prongs above the hilt for catching the blade of an attacker’s sword. The weapons were standard equipment for the doshin, police patrol officers. Their leader was a tall, haughty man armed with a lance. He swished toward Sano in flowing silk trousers and a wide-shouldered surcoat made of gaudy silk fabric in the latest style.

  “Just when we thought things couldn’t get worse,” Sano said under his breath to Hirata. “Greetings, Yoriki Yamaga-san.”

  Edo contained more than a million people, but those Sano least wanted to see kept cropping up like bad coins. He and the police commander had been colleagues on the police force some eleven years ago. Yamaga had never forgiven Sano for being promoted out of their ranks. He never missed an opportunity to do Sano a bad turn.

  “Greetings, Honorable Chamberlain.” His thin lips twisted in a familiar, sarcastic smile. “Perhaps you should enjoy your title while it lasts.”

  When the conflict between Sano and Lord Matsudaira had started, Yamaga had hurried to jump aboard Lord Matsudaira’s ship. The five doshin smirked. Sano refused to dignify the barb with a response in kind. “What brings you here?”

  “I heard there’s been a murder,” Yamaga said. “I came to investigate.”

  Sano exchanged glances with Hirata. Here was another instance of events moving faster than made logical sense. “How did you find out?” Sano asked.

  “I received a tip from an informer.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “His identity is confidential,” Yamaga said pompously. Beckoning the doshin, he strode up the steps and past Sano, who caught his familiar odor of wintergreen oil. Many samurai used the oil on their hair, but Yamaga’s valet must apply it with a trowel. Yamaga bumped shoulders with Sano on his way into Egen’s room. He and his men grouped around the corpse.

  “So this is the witness who changed his story about your mother.” Yamaga had obviously heard about the fiasco and had just as obviously enjoyed it. He prodded Egen with his lance, as if to make sure the man was really dead. “Ugly fellow, wasn’t he? Look at those pockmarks all over him. But he got you good.”

  He turned a suspicious gaze on Sano. “How did you find out about the murder?”

  The commander wasn’t so busy gloating that he’d forgotten to ask the important question. Things had changed for the better in the police force since Sano’s day. “I discovered the body,” Sano said.

  “Ah.” Interest flared in Yamaga’s not-too-intelligent eyes as he recalled that the first person at a crime scene is the first suspect.

  The doshin began carrying out statues, lacquer chests, and dishware, helping themselves to the victim’s possessions. Things hadn’t changed so much in the police force after all.

  “How did you happen to find the body?” Yamaga asked.

  Sano had had enough questions from the gadfly. He had questions of his own. “That’s none of your business,” Sano said. “You’re dismissed. Get out.”

  His tone reminded Yamaga that however shaky his political position, he was still the shogun’s second-in-command and Yamaga’s superior. After an insolent pause, Yamaga swept out of the room with his men, who snatched up a few last items. They all knew Sano still had an army strong enough to avenge insults against him—if Hirata didn’t break their necks first.

  Yamaga faced Sano on the veranda. “Yesterday the victim turns evidence against your mother. Today he turns up dead. And here you are, when the body’s barely cold. That doesn’t smell like a coincidence.”

  “It smells like a setup,” Sano said evenly. And part of the setup was informing the police about the murder so that Sano couldn’t hide the crime.

  “I suppose you’re going to blame Lord Matsudaira.” Yamaga sneered. “But that theory is full of holes. The victim did Lord Matsudaira a favor. Lord Matsudaira had more reason to pay him his weight in gold than to kill him.”

  Much as Sano hated to admit it, Yamaga was right. Yet every instinct told him that the murder was a strike at him, and if not Lord Matsudaira, who was responsible?

  “Lord Matsudaira doesn’t benefit from this crime. But you? The chief witness against your mother is gone. Very convenient, I’d say.” Yamaga gleamed with vicious satisfaction. “Wait until Lord Matsudaira hears about this.”

  “Whoever murdered Egen didn’t do it for my convenience.” Sano saw a flood of new troubles cascading toward him from the crime. “But why don’t you go and be the one to tell Lord Matsudaira right now?” Anything to get rid of Yamaga before Sano lost his temper and did something regrettable.

  “You can’t stop me from investigating the murder. That’s my duty,” Yamaga said, as if he cared about duty or anything else besides serving his own interests and putting on airs. “I’m going to prove that your people killed that man. And wouldn’t that be something? The honorable Chamberlain Sano and his mother both convicted of murders within days of each other.”

  Yamaga laughed. “And you won’t get away with yours even if your victim was a peasant. You’ll die as an accessory to the murder
of the shogun’s cousin, even though it happened before you were born. The executioner can cut off both your mother’s head and yours with the same swing.”

  Police Commander Yamaga and the doshin surrounded the guests at the inn and started badgering them with questions. Sano said to Hirata, “Let’s go.”

  As he and Hirata and his troops strode out the gate to the street and mounted their horses, he added, “I doubt the killer is among the guests. He’s probably long gone by now, and people who’ve been drinking all night don’t make good witnesses. We’ll leave them to Yamaga and look for better ones elsewhere.”

  Along the street, travelers accompanied by porters carrying baggage trickled out from the other inns. At either end of the street was a gate. Choosing at random, Sano led his entourage to the one on his right.

  “Were you on duty last night?” Sano asked the watchman.

  “No, master, my shift just started.”

  “Where can I find the man who was?”

  The night watchman, a teenaged peasant boy, was fetched. Sano asked him, “Did anyone come through here last night?”

  “Yes, master.”

  When Sano asked who, the watchman said, “Do you mean before or after closing?”

  Neighborhood gates in Edo closed two hours before midnight, before the party at the inn had ended and Egen had died. The closing enforced a curfew that kept troublemakers confined and crime down. Tokugawa law forbade anyone to break curfew and pass through the gates—with certain exceptions. “After,” Sano said.

  “Two samurai on horseback,” said the watchman. The police, the army, and government officials were authorized to bypass the gates after closing. “I let them in, and a little while later, I let them out.”

  Sano revised his mental picture of the crime to include two men, one kneeling on Egen’s chest and holding him down, the other suffocating him with the pillow.

  “What did they look like?” Sano asked.