“So I’ve heard.”
“Where have you been?”
“On business in Osaka. I just arrived home.”
Lady Mori cried, “The chamberlain thinks I did it!”
Enju frowned at Sano. “That’s not what Akera-san told me. He says your wife killed my father.”
“She did! Please make him understand that I’m innocent,” Lady Mori said, clinging to Enju.
“On what grounds do you accuse my mother?” Enju asked.
“She had the opportunity to murder your father and frame my wife,” Sano said.
“Excuse me, but have you given her a chance to tell her own version of events?” A current of hostility ran beneath Enju’s calm voice.
“Yes indeed.” Sano felt his temper rising again. “She has made a ridiculous claim that my wife was Lord Mori’s mistress and killed him during a lover’s quarrel.” Sano briefly explained.
“There you have it, then.”
Sano noted that Enju had remarkable assurance for so young a man addressing a high official. He seemed undisturbed by Lord Mori’s death, and although he acted willing to blame Reiko, he hadn’t actually claimed that his mother was innocent. This struck Sano as odd.
“How do you know what happened last night?” Sano asked. “By your own admission, you weren’t here.”
Calculation hooded Enju’s expression. “I saw my father cavorting with your wife often enough. It was no secret.” To anyone but you, said his tone. He shrugged. “Their affair and my mother’s attempt to stop it obviously drove Lady Reiko to murder.”
It sounded to Sano as if the young man had decided to confirm Lady Mori’s damning story about Reiko for some reason other than that he believed it. But Enju was the kind of cool, self-possessed witness who would be hard to shake. Sano knew that mother and son might convince too many people that Reiko was guilty. Yet Enju’s behavior was suspicious, and he represented another chance for Sano to exonerate her.
“Someone was obviously driven to murder, but not my wife,” Sano said. “I understand that you’re Lord Mori’s heir.”
“That’s correct.”
“And now that he’s dead, you inherit his title and his wealth,” Sano continued. “You’ll govern his provinces and command all his retainers.”
“Yes.” Caution narrowed Enju’s gaze.
“In other words, you’re the person who benefits the most from his death.”
Lady Mori gasped. “Are you accusing my son of murder?” She beheld Sano with shocked disbelief that turned to outrage. “He would never commit such a sin against filial piety. He loved his father!”
“Calm yourself, Mother. He can’t pin the blame on me.” Unfazed, Enju countered Sano’s accusation: “I didn’t kill Lord Mori. He adopted me, he educated me, he made me the man I am. I would have killed myself before I ever hurt him.”
“According to your mother, he abandoned you as well as her for a mistress and her child,” Sano said. “If she’s telling the truth, you had that reason to want him gone, in addition to the fact that you would inherit his estate.”
Not only were mother and son in league to protect each other by lying about Reiko, but maybe they’d conspired to rid themselves of Lord Mori.
Enju smiled, conveying pity for Sano. “The fact is that I couldn’t have killed him. I’ve been traveling for the past four days. My attendants will verify that they spent last night with me in Totsuka.” This was a village on the Tokaid, the highway that connected Edo to points west. “They’ll verify that we rode home this morning.”
His attendants would say whatever he wanted, Sano didn’t doubt. Sano sensed unrevealed dimensions in the young man, but for now Enju had an alibi. Sano felt an urge to beat Enju until his composure shattered and the truth came out of him. One thing that prevented Sano was the knowledge that if he started beating Enju, he might not be able to stop, and killing one of the other suspects would do Reiko no good.
A second was that he had other issues to take up with Enju and Lady Mori; namely, the missing boy and what Reiko had observed in Lord Mori’s bedchamber prior to his death.
One of Sano’s guards appeared in the doorway. “Pardon me, Honorable Chamberlain, but there’s a message from the shogun and Lord Matsudaira. They want to see you in the palace immediately.”
Sano rode toward Edo Castle with Hirata and his entourage. The rain had started up again, and their horses’ hooves splashed in puddles along the avenue through the daimyo district. Pedestrians were few. The sentries hid in their booths outside the estates; dripping banners printed with clan crests sagged over the portals. The castle was a massive gray blur towering behind a waterfall.
“What do you think Lord Matsudaira wants?” Hirata asked.
“Probably the usual business,” Sano said.
Lord Matsudaira summoned him at least once a day, to extract reassurances that the government was running smoothly and learn whether Sano had heard of any new plots against him. But Sano had an uneasy feeling about this particular summons.
He recalled a question that had occurred to him when Hirata had brought Reiko home but he hadn’t had a chance to ask. “How did you happen to be at Lord Mori’s estate this morning?”
The high stone walls of Edo Castle loomed in the near distance. Soldiers in the guard house atop the main gate had spotted Sano’s procession; they hurried out to let it inside.
“It’s a long story,” Hirata said.
“I’ll make time to hear it,” Sano said, hoping that Hirata’s story could provide a different perspective on the murder, counteract Lady Mori’s and Enju’s statements, and help Reiko.
GENROKU YEAR 11, MONTH 2 (MARCH 1698)
Dawn lit the mist that shrouded the Yoshino Mountains, a fifteen-day journey west of Edo. Steps cut into a cliff led up to a remote temple that was home to a small Buddhist sect. The temple bell echoed across the pine forests. Eagles soared above the pagoda whose tiered roof vanished into the sky. Inside the temple precinct, Hirata circled an expanse of bare ground. Wearing a white jacket and trousers, his feet bare, he raised his hands in preparation for combat.
Opposite him circled his martial arts teacher. Ozuno, an itinerant priest, had a stern, weathered face; his gray hair was topped by a round, black skull cap. He wore a tattered kimono, loose breeches, cloth leggings, and frayed straw sandals. His lame right leg, his eighty years, and his unkempt appearance disguised his identity as an expert in the mystic martial art of dim-mak and a member of the secret society that had preserved it for four centuries.
Hirata had met Ozuno during a murder investigation and persuaded Ozuno to take him as a disciple. Ozuno had made Hirata commit to an indefinite period of training, then swear not to reveal that he was a pupil. The ancients who’d invented dim-mak meant for it to be used honorably, in self-defense and in battle, but they feared that it would be used for evil purposes. Hence, they passed down their knowledge to only a few trusted students. Hirata was forbidden to use dim-mak except in cases of extreme emergency, or to reveal the techniques to anyone except his own disciples someday. Hirata had agreed, because his future depended on mastering them.
His left thigh had been seriously wounded in the line of duty four years ago. Once an expert fighter, he’d become a cripple. He wanted more than anything to regain his strength and prowess, his manhood and honor. This training was his only hope. But it had proved to be more than he’d bargained for.
First had come months of scholarly study. “Why do I need to learn about medicine and anatomy?” Hirata had asked Ozuno. “I’m not training to become a physician.”
“You need to know the vulnerable points on the human body,” Ozuno had explained in his gruff, resonant voice. “The points are the same as those used by physicians during acupuncture. They’re located on junctions along nerve pathways that connect vital organs. Memorize them, and don’t argue.”
Hirata looked ahead to lessons on the secret combat techniques. But when they came, they brought another unpleasant sur
prise: Dim-mak was the most incomprehensible, vexatious thing he’d ever attempted.
Now, as he and Ozuno faced off, Ozuno said, “You’re not using the secret breathing technique. In order to build and channel your inner forces, you must get the maximum air through every part of your body. But you are panting like a dog in summer. You haven’t been doing your breathing exercises.”
Hirata hated those. The ritual of sucking in and expelling air for hours on end was a tedious bore.
“And you’re as tense as if someone poked a stick up your rear end,” Ozuno said. “Relax! When your muscles are tense, they contract. They pull your strikes back toward you and decrease their power.” His eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You haven’t been practicing meditation enough.”
“Yes, I have,” Hirata fibbed. He also hated meditation, which seemed like sitting and doing nothing. In the past, he’d been a good fighter without wasting time on it.
“Don’t resist that which you do not enjoy,” Ozuno said. “Meditation is necessary to quiet the mind so you can forge a link with the cosmos and the infinite knowledge embodied there. Only then can you know the proper actions to take during combat. Otherwise you will fall prey to insecurity and confusion and lose the battle. You will be unable to tap your spiritual energy. I can tell that’s the case with you, because I can hardly feel your shield.”
The shield was the subtle energy field that surrounded all things. It sprang from a person’s thoughts as well as bodily processes. “There’s too much chaos in your mind,” Ozuno said. “Your shield is so weak that you can’t detect the energy from other people’s shields and sense threats from them.”
“I can feel yours,” Hirata said. Ozuno’s shield gave off a mighty thrum, like lightning about to strike. Hirata braced himself for combat.
Ozuno sneered. “You’re too anxious to beat me. You persist in acting as if your opponent is your adversary. Remember that he’s not; he’s your partner in your quest for victory. Without him, you can’t win. Merge your energy with mine. Don’t oppose it.”
Hirata had always struggled with this concept of oneness with his opponent. How, in a real battle, could he be partners with someone when they were trying to kill each other?
“We’ll practice the no-hit technique,” Ozuno said.
That entailed projecting bursts of spiritual energy that impacted the opponent’s shield and convinced him that he was being hit even though no physical contact occurred. An expert could drive an opponent to the ground without touching him. Hirata raised his palm at Ozuno.
The priest burst out laughing. “You look like you’re constipated. Are you even trying to project your energy?”
“I am,” Hirata said, nettled by the constant, insulting criticism that he’d endured from Ozuno for three years.
“Then stop my attack.”
Ozuno lashed out. Hirata willed his energy at Ozuno’s fist. It should have arrested Ozuno’s movement, but instead the blow landed squarely in Hirata’s stomach. The breath whooshed out of Hirata. He doubled over, gasping.
“Merciful gods, what a sorry excuse for a pupil you are!” Ozuno began boxing his ears.
“Stop!” Hirata wheezed and ducked.
“After all your training, you should be able to stop me yourself,” Ozuno said. “Project a powerful thought of violence toward me. Put me on the defensive.”
Even as Hirata tried, Ozuno hit him again and again. “Well? I’m waiting. Oh, forget it!”
He pushed Hirata away. They resumed circling each other. Hirata was dripping sweat, was exhausted from twenty days of lessons. His bad leg ached. Ozuno lunged, raising his hand to strike Hirata’s face. Hirata swept his own hand past his face and outward. This should have made Ozuno lose focus and led his blow away from its target, but Ozuno’s hand collided with Hirata’s chin. Hirata found himself lying flat on the ground.
“Never have I had a pupil so slow on the uptake,” Ozuno said. He wasn’t even winded. “The gods must be punishing me for some sin I committed during a past life.”
Stung, Hirata clambered to his feet and said, “I’d do better if we used swords.” Swordsmanship was his area of expertise, and he was angry that for three years Ozuno had focused solely on unarmed combat, his weakness.
“It would make no difference,” Ozuno said. “Weapons are only an extension of the self. You must master the principles of dim-mak before applying it to sword-fighting.”
“But in the meantime, what will happen if an enemy attacks me with a sword?” Hirata said. “How can I fight back?”
Ozuno uttered a sound of exasperation. “How many times do I have to tell you? Combat is more mental than physical. The mind is the foundation of a warrior’s power. Conquer your foe’s mind and you win, no matter what weapons you don’t have.”
Defeat washed through Hirata. He turned away from Ozuno and gazed across the mountains, still hidden in the mist. His goal of learning the secrets of dim-mak seemed even farther away than when he’d begun his training. He yearned for the old days before he’d been injured, when life had been so simple. He missed the family he’d left at home.
“One of your problems is that you focus on the physical aspects of your training and refuse to develop your character,” Ozuno said to Hirata’s back. “You are immature, impatient, and arrogant. You expect things to be easy. You can’t take criticism, and instead of trusting me and following directions without complaint or debate, you question my authority and judgment. Unless you change radically, you will fail.”
Worn down from the constant humiliation, Hirata trudged toward the gate. “I have to go back to Edo.” He’d stayed away much longer than he should have.
“Are you coming back?” Ozuno said.
Hirata paused; he turned to face Ozuno. Their gazes held. Ozuno’s face was somber, devoid of his usual mockery. Hirata realized that they’d reached a critical point where he must decide whether to continue his studies or part ways with Ozuno. The idea of quitting his pursuit of his dream horrified Hirata. Yet right now the dream seemed not worth the suffering.
“I don’t know,” Hirata said.
Fifteen days later, Hirata rode his horse through the gate of Edo Castle on a fine spring afternoon. He looked forward to a meal, a hot bath, a good night’s sleep, and time to sort out his life. But when he arrived at his mansion in the official quarter, his wife, Midori, greeted him at the door, holding their daughter in one arm and their baby son in the other.
“Thank the gods you’re home!” she cried. “You’re wanted by the shogun and Lord Matsudaira. They’ve been asking for you every day you’ve been gone.”
Hirata’s heart sank because he was surely in trouble. He rushed to the palace, where he found the shogun and Lord Matsudaira at a cherry blossom party. They and their guests sat in the garden, sipping wine, eating delicacies, composing poetry. Pink petals drifted down on them. The shogun smiled in delight, but Lord Matsudaira wore a grim expression: He hated dancing attendance on his cousin, which he had to do in order to maintain his influence over the shogun and his control over the regime.
“Ah, Hirata-san,” the shogun called, “join the party.”
Hirata knelt and bowed. A servant poured him wine. Lord Matsudaira demanded, “Where in the world have you been?”
“Away on business,” Hirata said, quaking inside because Lord Matsudaira took serious umbrage at any offense and seemed even angrier than he’d expected.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to disappear for almost two months. What good is an investigator who’s never around when I need him?”
“Ahh, don’t scold,” the shogun interrupted, flapping his hand at Lord Matsudaira. “It’s too nice a day for a quarrel.”
“Yes, Honorable Cousin.” Lord Matsudaira’s tone hinted at how much he hated deferring to the shogun. “Will you permit me to take Hirata-san for a walk and show him the prettiest cherry blossoms?”
“Certainly.”
Hirata braced himself for the reprimand he knew w
as coming. As they sauntered under the trees, Lord Matsudaira spoke in a low, furious voice: “This recent absence isn’t the only problem I have with you. You’ve been pretty scarce for awhile.” He trampled on petals; he swatted angrily at one that drifted against his face. He was less in control of himself, and more insecure, every time Hirata saw him. “When I want to know the progress of your investigations, your men give the reports. They seem to be doing all the work and covering for you.”
Hirata was dismayed that he hadn’t hidden this fact as well as he’d thought. “My men work under my direction. I can’t be everywhere at once. But I’m at your service now.”
Lord Matsudaira fixed on him a gaze that measured his dedication. “Well, that’s good, because I have a job that I want you to handle personally, not pass on to somebody else.”
He glanced toward the shogun, then led Hirata to the far end of the garden. “It has come to my attention that there are men close to me who may have secretly joined the opposition.”
This news surprised and alarmed Hirata. Lord Matsudaira had always been nervous about treachery, but not until now had Hirata heard that treason might be breeding within Lord Matsudaira’s inner circle. Hirata realized how out of touch with politics he’d become during his martial arts training. “May I ask who these men are?”
Lord Matsudaira whispered in his ear. The twelve names sent a ripple of shock through Hirata. Those were the most powerful, important men who’d put Lord Matsudaira on top. Together they had the power to knock him down if they wished.
“I want you to investigate each of them,” Lord Matsudaira said. “Determine if indeed they are plotting to betray me. And keep your investigation absolutely confidential.”
The detective in Hirata welcomed a new, important challenge, but the investigation could take ages. His heart plummeted. When would he fit in his martial arts lessons?
“If I catch you neglecting your duties,” Lord Matsudaira went on in an ominous tone, “you’ll be free to do whatever you want instead. Do you understand?”
He meant that unless Hirata devoted himself entirely to this investigation, he would lose his post; he would be cast out as a rnin, to fend for himself and his family in a harsh world. No matter how much Hirata longed to be an expert martial artist, he couldn’t sacrifice Midori, his children, or his honor.
The Red Chrysanthemum Page 7