Sano Ichiro 9 The Perfumed Sleeve (2004)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  But when Hirata entered the grounds, he found them crowded with squadrons of mounted soldiers roving the field. More soldiers dressed themselves and their horses in armor. Some sparred together, eager for combat. Weapons masters hauled cannon, guns, and ammunition through the sleety rain. Commanders roamed, trying to establish order. Everyone wore the crest of Lord Matsudaira. The training ground had become a staging area for his army. Hirata looked around in amazement. He wondered why Tamura, who belonged to the opposing faction, had come here. And where was he in all this commotion?

  Hirata elbowed his way through the crowd. He caught snatches of conversation: “Lord Matsudaira has summoned Chamberlain Yanagisawa to battle in the fields north of town.” “The fighting has already started. We’ll be on our way soon.” Battle fever was contagious. Hirata felt his samurai blood roil with excitement. As he scanned the crowds, light and movement inside a building near the wall of the enclosure caught his attention.

  The building was a barnlike hall used for sword practice. A lone figure threw fleeting shadows against paper windowpanes screened by wooden bars. Hirata slipped through the door, into a cavernous space that smelled of male sweat, urine, blood, and temper. Burning lanterns hung from the bare rafters; straw dummies stood along walls nicked by blades. Tamura, dressed in white trousers, darted and lunged across the hall, wielding his sword. As he slashed at an imaginary opponent, his bare feet stamped the dingy cypress floor. He took no notice of Hirata. Sweat gleamed on his naked torso and shaved crown; his severe face wore a look of intense concentration. His muscles were defined and tough, his movements fluid, his form impressive for a man nearing sixty.

  Tamura ended with a series of flourishes so rapid that his sword was a silver blur. He halted, his chest heaving. His breath puffed white clouds into the chilly room. He lowered his weapon and bowed.

  “Very good,” Hirata said.

  Tamura appeared not to hear. Hirata walked up to Tamura and clapped his hands loudly. Tamura turned at the sound, which echoed through the hall. Irritation slanted his eyebrows at a sharper angle as he became aware of Hirata.

  “Did the sōsakan-sama send you to pester me with more questions?” Tamura said. “I thought I heard you’d been barred from investigating the murder.”

  “This is just a friendly, informal chance encounter,” Hirata said.

  Tamura’s reply was a stare filled with distrust. He placed his sword on a rack, picked up a water jar, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth on his arm and waited for Hirata to state the purpose of his visit. A thought occurred to Hirata. That Tamura hadn’t at first heard him speak suggested that Tamura was deaf. Was that why he hadn’t heard anything the night Senior Elder Makino died? He wouldn’t have said so because a proud samurai like him never admitted to any physical defects. Rather, he would read lips and pretend he could hear. But deafness didn’t equal innocence. There were other reasons why Tamura might withhold the truth.

  “Why are you in here, fencing with your shadow, instead of riding off to war?” Hirata said. “Are you preparing to carry out the vendetta you swore yesterday?”

  Tamura showed no surprise that Hirata knew about the vendetta. “Yes, although it’s none of your business. My samurai duty to avenge the death of my master outweighs all other concerns.”

  “Even though you despised him?”

  A scowl darkened Tamura’s features, but instead of rising to Hirata’s bait, he took up a cloth and rubbed sweat off himself.

  “Your arguments with Makino are a matter of record,” Hirata said. “You disapproved of his greed for money, the bribes he extorted, and his whore mongering. You called him dishonorable to his face. Yet you expect me to believe that you think his death is worth avenging?”

  “Duty must be served regardless of the master’s faults.” Tamura sounded as if he were quoting some Bushido tract. “My personal feelings are irrelevant.”

  He threw down the cloth and hefted his sword. His kind of pompous, old-fashioned warrior virtue always irritated Hirata, who knew that it was often nothing but hypocrisy. “So who’s the lucky target of your vendetta?” Hirata said.

  “I don’t know yet.” Tamura crouched, holding his sword horizontal, sweeping it slowly across the room, and sighting along the blade. “But I’m not waiting for the sōsakan-sama to figure out who killed my master.” His sneer said he didn’t think much of Sano’s chances.

  “Are you conducting your own inquiries, then?” Hirata said, displeased by the tacit insult to his own master.

  Tamura raked a disdainful glance across Hirata. “There’s no need for inquiries. Meditation will reveal the truth to me.”

  If meditation could reveal a murderer’s identity, it would save him and Sano a lot of trouble, Hirata thought skeptically. But of course it worked without fail when one already knew the truth.

  “Maybe it’s appropriate for you to be fencing against yourself,” Hirata said. “Maybe your vendetta is nothing but a charade to hide your own guilt.”

  A contemptuous grin curled Tamura’s lip as he carved a swath of air with his sword. “If the sōsakan-sama were sure of that, he would have already arrested me.”

  Hirata couldn’t deny this. Maybe Tamura really was innocent and his vendetta genuine. The lack of witnesses and evidence argued in his favor. Yet Hirata had a strong hunch that Tamura would figure into the solution of the mystery.

  “Supposing you didn’t kill your master,” Hirata said, “maybe you’ve already carried out your vendetta. One of the murder suspects was stabbed to death last night.”

  A slight, awkward fumble interrupted the motion of Tamura’s blade. But Tamura said calmly, “So I’ve heard. The news about Lord Matsudaira’s nephew is all over Edo Castle.”

  “Did you already know it?” Hirata said.

  “Because I killed him?” Tamura snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. I had nothing to do with Daiemon’s death. You’re just fishing and hoping for a bite.”

  “You went out yesterday evening.”

  “I was nowhere near that filthy place where Daiemon died.” Pivoting, Tamura maneuvered his sword in a smooth arc.

  “Where did you go?” Hirata circled Tamura, keeping his face in view.

  “I inspected Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s army camp outside town. Eight of my men were with me. You can ask them.”

  Hirata knew that men loyal to Tamura would say anything for him, but instead of challenging the man, he waited. Unlike the actor, Tamura didn’t fill the silence with self-compromising blabber. But Hirata noticed that even while Tamura performed strenuous lunges, the puffs of vapor from his mouth ceased momentarily: Tamura was holding his breath, anxious for Hirata to believe his alibi… because it was false?

  “Did meditation reveal to you that Daiemon killed your master and deserved to die?” Hirata said.

  Tamura breathed again, apparently thinking that his alibi had stymied Hirata, who’d resorted to fishing again. “It’s common knowledge that Daiemon was a poor excuse for a samurai,” he said between whistling sword strokes. “He had too good an opinion of himself, too little respect for his elders, and too much appetite for women. He spread disgusting lies that my master had defected. Someone did the world a favor by getting rid of Daiemon. Bleeding to death in his whore’s bed was a fitting end to him.”

  “Your attitude toward him sounds like a motive for murder,” Hirata said.

  The sword flashed close to him, and he leaped back just in time to avoid a cut across the throat. Tamura said, “I wouldn’t dirty my blade on a rat like Daiemon.”

  “What if he knew something about you that you’d rather keep secret? When he was at Senior Elder Makino’s estate, did he see you killing your master or covering up the murder?”

  “Nonsense!” Tamura whacked at Hirata’s shins; Hirata sprang above the blade. “Even if I’d wanted to kill Daiemon, I wouldn’t have sneaked up on him in the dark, stabbed him, and run. That’s a coward’s way of killing.”

  “Instead you’d have marched up
to Daiemon on the street in broad daylight and cut off his head?” said Hirata.

  “As a true samurai would.”

  Hirata could picture Tamura doing such a thing. The murder of Daiemon did seem out of character for him—but perhaps that had been intentional. Hirata said, “Suppose you didn’t want anyone to know you’d killed Daiemon. You might have done it in a way that you thought no one would think you would, to avoid punishment from Lord Matsudaira.”

  Tamura gave an abrasive chuckle as his sword sliced intricate, lightning-fast patterns in the air. “Deceit is dishonorable. A true samurai takes credit for his actions and accepts the consequences. When I carry out my vendetta, everyone will know what I’ve done. I’ll go to my fate with my head held high.”

  His gaze deplored Hirata. “But I don’t expect you to understand. After all, you’re famous for your disloyalty to your master. Who are you to accuse me of disgrace?”

  Hot shame and rage erupted in Hirata. Tamura stood still, his sword held motionless in both hands, the blade canted toward Hirata. With instinctive haste, Hirata drew his own weapon. Tamura grinned.

  “Now we’ll see who’s the true samurai and who’s the disgrace to Bushido,” Tamura said.

  The lantern light glinted on their blades. Hirata felt danger vibrating in the air between them, his heart drumming with a primitive urge for a battle to the death, his muscles tensed to lunge. But second thoughts gave him pause. He didn’t fear losing; although Tamura was an expert swordsman, he was some thirty years older than Hirata, and he’d never fought real battles, as Hirata had. Instead, Hirata realized that killing one of the suspects would hurt the investigation. Rising to Tamura’s challenge to defend his honor would only prove Hirata an incorrigible disgrace to Sano and condemn himself to death as a murderer.

  Hirata stepped back from Tamura. He sheathed his sword and endured the contempt he saw on his adversary’s face. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  “Coward,” Tamura said.

  Swallowing humiliation, fighting his temper, Hirata forced himself to speak quietly: “You know something about Makino’s murder that you haven’t told. If you killed him—or Daiemon—I will personally deliver you to justice.”

  He left the building before Tamura could reply or his urge to fight could overrule his better judgment. Outside, he breathed in vigorous huffs, expelling evil thoughts. Learning self-restraint was painful. As Hirata walked through the troops milling on the martial arts training ground, he forced himself to concentrate on the investigation.

  Logic and instinct convinced him that Tamura and Koheiji were both lying about the night Makino died. But while both men lacked definite alibis for Daiemon’s murder, their connections to him were tenuous, and there was no evidence that Daiemon had witnessed either of them killing Makino, or anything at all, that night. The only news Hirata had for Sano was that he’d followed orders and kept out of trouble today.

  He decided to try another tactic. Scanning the Matsudaira soldiers, he saw a heavyset samurai, clad in armor, galloping his horse across the field. The visor of his helmet was tipped back to reveal a youthful face with rosy cheeks and a square jaw. Hirata waved at him, calling, “Noro-san”.

  Noro reined his mount to a stop beside Hirata and swung down from the saddle. “Hirata-san,” he said with a quick bow and smile. “What brings you here? Are you joining our side?”

  “I’ve come on other business,” Hirata said. “By the way, my condolences on the death of your master.”

  Noro’s expression saddened as he nodded in thanks. He had been a personal bodyguard to Daiemon.

  Hirata steered Noro behind a range of archery targets, where they could talk unobserved. “I need a favor.”

  “Just name it,” Noro said.

  His willingness to oblige stemmed from an incident six years ago, when he and some friends had gotten into a brawl with a gang of peasant toughs. The gang had outnumbered and overpowered Noro and his friends. Noro had lost his sword in the scuffle, and one of the toughs had begun savagely beating him with an iron pole, when Hirata—a patrol officer at the time—had happened along. Hirata had broken up the fight and saved Noro’s life. That initial acquaintance had grown into friendship when Hirata came to Edo Castle. Noro had sworn to thank Hirata by doing him any favor he wanted.

  “Who was the woman Daiemon went to meet at the Sign of Bedazzlement?” Hirata asked.

  Noro’s eyes strayed. “I wish you’d asked me anything but that,” he said. “I can’t tell anybody, including you.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “I made a promise to Daiemon.”

  Although a samurai’s promise to his master overrode any other, Hirata persisted. “What does it matter if you tell, now that Daiemon is dead?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either,” Noro said, obviously ashamed to disappoint the man to whom he owed his life. “But believe me, it matters.”

  “She may have killed Daiemon,” Hirata pointed out. “If you don’t tell me who she is, you could be protecting his murderer. And you’re also standing in the way of my duty to help my master solve the crime.”

  Misery clouded Noro’s honest gaze, but he shook his head, refusing to be drawn into an argument.

  “Could you at least get me inside the Matsudaira estate so that I can look for clues in Daiemon’s quarters?” Hirata said.

  “Lord Matsudaira would kill me. I’m sorry,” Noro said.

  “All right.” Hirata walked away, but slowly, giving Noro time to change his mind. Hirata felt his hopes hinging on Noro’s sense of honor.

  “Wait,” Noro said.

  Hirata turned expectantly.

  “I can’t say who the woman is, but I must help you somehow,” Noro said. He rocked his weight from one armor-clad leg to the other. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, either, but… Daiemon had other quarters besides the ones in the Matsudaira estate. He kept a house in Kanda.” Noro described the location. “But you didn’t hear about it from me.”

  * * *

  26

  Sano arrived in Okitsu’s room to find her kneeling amid scattered clothing, surrounded by Ibe and Otani’s troops. Her eyes were round, wide pools of fright; audible gulps contracted her throat. When she saw Sano enter with his detectives, his watchdogs, and their men, she blurted, “I didn’t tell everything I know about the night Senior Elder Makino died. Please allow me to tell you now.”

  “Go ahead,” Sano said, surprised that Okitsu would volunteer information before he’d even asked.

  Okitsu gulped, drew a deep breath, and picked at her cuticles, which were already red and raw. “That night, when it was very late, I- I went to the Place of Relief.” This was the polite term for the privy. "On my way back, I—I saw him.”

  “Who?” Sano felt Ibe and Otani tense, alert, at his back. “Senior Elder Makino?”

  “No!” Okitsu gasped. “It was Lord Matsudaira’s nephew.”

  Now Sano sensed disapproval and concern in his watchdogs. Excitement flared in him, for here was the first evidence that anyone had seen Daiemon after his visit to Makino. “Where did you see him?”

  “He was in the, uh, study. The door was open a little. I peeked in, and—and there he was.”

  Sano scrutinized Okitsu. “How did you recognize Daiemon?”

  She wriggled under his gaze. After a lengthy pause, she said, “I—I’d seen him before—at parties?” Her voice rose at the end of the sentence, as if she was uncertain that this was the right answer and wanted reassurance.

  “What was he doing?” Sano said.

  “He—he was standing by the desk? There was a, uh, pole in his hands?” Again came that questioning lilt in Okitsu’s voice. “He was looking down at something on the floor?”

  “What was it?”

  “I—I don’t know. I couldn’t see?”

  Sano pictured Daiemon, the weapon in his hands, standing over Senior Elder Makino’s battered corpse, and Okitsu peeking through the door, a witness to
the aftermath of the crime.

  “You’ll stop this line of questioning right now,” Otani ordered Sano.

  Lord Matsudaira wouldn’t want his nephew implicated in the crime, even now that Daiemon was dead, Sano understood, lest it harm his clan’s standing with the shogun.

  “What else did you see?” Sano asked Okitsu.

  “Nothing?” Her tone implored Sano to accept her word and leave her in peace.

  Threatening stares from his watchdogs told Sano that he was pushing their forbearance. He said, “Okitsu-san, why didn’t you tell my chief retainer about this when he questioned you?”

  “Because I was too afraid,” Okitsu said. Her fingers worried at her cuticles.

  “And why did you choose to tell me about him now?”

  Okitsu risked a furtive glance at Sano. “Now that Lord Matsudaira’s nephew is dead, he can’t hurt me.”

  “How do you know he’s dead?” Sano said.

  The girl mumbled, “I heard people talking.”

  Perhaps she had seen Daiemon and feared what he would do to her if she incriminated him, Sano thought. But perhaps she had also feared to confess that she’d been wandering the private chambers that night and could have committed the murder herself instead of almost catching the killer in the act. What was the real reason for the alibi she’d given Hirata?

  “What happened after you saw Daiemon?” Sano said.

  “I went back to Koheiji. He was in his room.”

  “What did you do then?”