Laura Rowland - The Perfumed Sleeve

As Hirata and the other men hurried after him along the walkway, the audience waved at them and cheered their arrival. The noise clamored in Sano’s ears. Faces distorted and ugly with bloodlust surrounded him. On the stage Sano saw two men facing each other. One held a sword raised high. The other cowered, his palms lifted. Nearing the stage, Sano recognized the cowering man as Koheiji. He wore samurai costume; wide trousers, two swords at his waist, surcoat, and flowing kimono. Shock and fright showed on his painted face. The other man, dressed in black, was Tamura. Surprise halted Sano at the rim of the stage.

“I’ve come to avenge the death of my master, the honorable Senior Elder Makino!” Tamura shouted. He pointed his sword at Koheiji. “You who murdered him shall pay with your blood!”

The spectators roared. Maybe they thought this was part of the play, but Sano knew Tamura was carrying out the vendetta he’d sworn on Makino’s killer. Suddenly Sano recalled hearing someone outside the chapel of the Makino estate while he’d interrogated Agemaki. It must have been Tamura, eavesdropping.

Hirata exclaimed, “He overheard you saying that Daiemon hired Koheiji to assassinate his master!”

“You’re insane,” Koheiji told Tamura. “I didn’t kill Makino.” But his fear quaked under his scornful tone. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

While the audience cheered, Tamura said, “No more lies!” Rage and determination hardened his stern, masklike face. His blade glinted in the sun that shone through the skylights. “Admit your guilt before you die, you coward!”

Although Sano understood the honor involved in a vendetta, and he hated interfering with a fellow samurai’s duty to avenge his dead master, he couldn’t let Tamura take the law into his own hands. The shogun had the first right to deliver Koheiji to justice if he wanted. Sano stepped onto the stage.

“Tamura-san,” he called.

The noise from the audience subsided into an expectant hush. Tamura turned, glancing at Sano but keeping his attention focused on Koheiji. “Sōsakan-sama,” he said, his manner amused as well as hostile. “Many thanks for discovering that this worthless gob of filth murdered my master. I suppose I owe you an apology for underestimating you. Now, if you’ll stand back, I’ll save you the trouble of arresting him.”

He lunged and slashed his sword at Koheiji. The actor vaulted backward, narrowly escaping the blade. The onlookers cheered. Their hunger for thrills exceeded any concern that their favorite’s life was in peril.

“I’m not the murderer.” His desperation obvious, Koheiji said, “Ask Okitsu. She’ll tell you.”

“She has,” Sano said. “She told me the whole story.”

“Louder!” came shouts from the audience. “We can’t hear you! Speak up!”

Sano glanced over his shoulder and saw hundreds of avid faces looking at him: He’d become part of the drama. “You did kill Makino,” he said to Koheiji, then addressed Tamura: “But he’s not a murderer.”

Both men stared at him. Tamura halted on the verge of another attack. Disbelief and confusion showed on both their faces.

“Tamura-san, you listened to only part of the story,” Sano said. “You overheard me tell Agemaki that Koheiji had been hired to assassinate your master. If you hadn’t rushed off so fast, you’d have heard there was no assassination plot, and Makino’s murder was an accident.”

“What?” Tamura exclaimed. The audience quieted, eager to hear the conversation.

“Makino collapsed during a sex game,” Sano said.

Koheiji exhaled a puff of relief that the truth had come out. “That’s right,” he said. “Makino dropped dead on Okitsu and me while we were giving him a little fun.”

“Quiet!” Bent on pursuing retribution, Tamura slashed his sword at Koheiji.

The audience gasped a collective breath. Koheiji drew his weapon and parried strikes; the audience cheered him on. But his sword was a mere theater prop. Tamura’s sword hacked off its wooden blade. Koheiji stared in dismay at the useless stub that fell from his hand.

“I don’t believe you,” Tamura said angrily to Sano. “You’re just trying to trick me out of my vengeance.”

“This is no trick,” Sano said. “The assassination plot was a fraud.”

Tamura glowered and raised his sword at Koheiji, who cried in desperation, “Get him out of here, will you please?”

Sano gestured for Hirata and the detectives to surround Tamura. As they moved in on him, Tamura ordered, “Get out of my way. Let me at him.” But indecision flickered in his eyes. Sano had shaken his certainty that Koheiji had murdered his master.

A gang of samurai jumped onto the walkway. Clad in tattered clothes, they appeared to be rōnin. Sano saw that they wanted to join the action, and they were too excited-or too drunk-to worry about the consequences of interfering with bakufu business. Ibe’s and Otani’s men held them back from rushing onstage. Their leader, a brute with an unshaved face and a red head kerchief, yelled, “Fight! Fight!”

The audience took up the chant. The rhythm, accompanied by stamping feet and clapping hands, rocked the theater.

“Makino drank too much aphrodisiac and overexerted himself,” Sano said. “He’s as responsible for his death as anyone else is.”

Tamura stood paralyzed. His face reflected shock, then disgust, then acceptance that lustful habits, not murder, had been his master’s undoing.

“Now that you know I’m innocent, can you all just go?” Koheiji whined. “Can I please finish the play?”

“Fight! Fight!” chanted the audience. The brute in the red head kerchief wrestled with Otani’s and Ibe’s troops as they tried to force him and his gang off the walkway.

“I’m afraid not,” Sano told Koheiji. “You see, Makino wasn’t quite dead when he collapsed. You shouldn’t have tried to make his death look like murder by an intruder. The beating you gave him is what really killed him.”

Koheiji stared in open-mouthed, silent horror. Sano could almost see his face turn pale under its makeup. “Merciful gods,” he whispered. “I had no idea…” He shook his head, ruing his mistake. Sano watched him realize that someone must shed blood for Makino’s death, and he was that someone. He staggered under the knowledge that he’d come to the end of living by his impulses and wits, and this was one scrape from which they couldn’t save him.

“Then Makino’s death was a stupid blunder by this fool,” Tamura said. “It’s not worth avenging. And a fool isn’t worth bloodying my sword.” Crestfallen, he lowered his weapon. But Sano discerned that he was relieved-he lacked the heart to enjoy killing. Now he sheathed the weapon. “I renounce my vendetta,” he said and jumped off the stage.

The audience and the gang of rōnin booed, furious to be cheated out of the carnage they wanted to see. Police moved through the theater, forcing the mob to clear the seats. Sano nodded to Detectives Marume and Fukida. They moved to Koheiji and grabbed his arms. He didn’t resist; he appeared too shattered by his misfortune. “You’re under arrest,” Sano said.

“My husband had discovered that Lord Matsudaira’s nephew and concubine were having a love affair,” Lady Yanagisawa told Reiko. “He’d learned about the signal that Lady Gosechi used to arrange secret meetings with Daiemon. He lured Daiemon to the Sign of Bedazzlement and sent me there to assassinate him.”

Lady Yanagisawa seemed unfazed that the detectives, as well as Reiko, were listening to her incriminate herself. Shocked by her admission even though already aware of what Lady Yanagisawa had done, Reiko said, “Weren’t you afraid? How could you do it?” A reason occurred to her. “What did the chamberlain offer you in return?”