Laura Rowland - The Assassin's Touch

Detective Ogata, who’d abandoned the night soil cart, came rushing to rescue him, dagger in hand. His two mounted men of the rear guard also galloped to his aid, swords drawn. The outlaws saw they had more opposition than they’d thought, fled down the road, and scattered into the alleys. The detectives gathered around Hirata.

“Are you all right?” Inoue asked anxiously.

Gasping and exhausted, his heart pounding from his close call, Hirata pushed himself upright. “Yes,” he said, his voice brusque. “Thank you.

He was mortified that he’d been unable to defend himself-or capture the gang as he should have done. Inoue and Arai held out their hands, offering to help him rise, but he ignored them and struggled to his feet. He avoided his men’s gazes, lest he see pity in them. He sheathed his sword and climbed onto his horse.

“Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.” He added, “Don’t mention this to Chamberlain Sano.”

As they resumed their progress, Hirata wondered how he would get through this investigation, or the rest of his life.

How did you fare with Yugao?” Magistrate Ueda asked Reiko.

They were seated in his private office, a sanctuary lined with shelves and cabinets that contained court records. A maid poured them bowls of tea, then withdrew.

“I must say she wasn’t very cooperative,” Reiko said ruefully. She dabbed her cloth tea napkin against her face. Although she’d washed off Yugao’s saliva, she still felt its moist slime on her skin, as though the hinin had permanently contaminated it. “In fact, she did her best to make me think the worst of her and discourage me from doing anything that might save her.”

Reiko gave her father an edited version of her talk with Yugao. She told him that Yugao had been rude to her, but didn’t repeat the insults; nor did she mention how Yugao had spat on her. She felt chagrined because she should have handled the situation better, although she didn’t know what she could have done differently. And she didn’t want her father to become offended on her behalf and punish Yugao. Despite Yugao’s behavior, Reiko still pitied the woman, for Yugao must have suffered much degradation in her life as an outcast, whether she was a murderer or not. Even a hinin deserved justice.

“I’ll send Yugao back to jail for the time being. What was your overall impression of her character?” Magistrate Ueda said between sips of steaming tea.

“She’s quite a nasty, bad-tempered person,” Reiko said.

“Do you think she’s capable of murder?”

Reiko pondered, then said, “I do. But I wouldn’t place much faith in a personal opinion based on one short meeting.” Now that her own temper had cooled down, her sense of honor required that she put aside her emotions and conduct a thorough, fair inquiry. And she had too much pride to fail. “I need to do more investigation before I can determine the truth about Yugao.” Too many unanswered questions remained. “And since she won’t help me, I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“Very good.” Magistrate Ueda glanced at the window. The sun, fading with the approach of twilight, shone golden through the paper panes. He set down his tea bowl and rose. “I must return to the courtroom. I have three more trials today.”

“And I should be going home.” Reiko also stood.

Traveling through the city after dark was even more dangerous than usual. At night the outlaws marauded, and prudent citizens stayed indoors. Reiko wondered when she would sec Sano and hoped he wouldn’t be home too late, for she was eager to tell him about her new investigation.

“Tomorrow, maybe I’ll find evidence that someone other than Yugao killed her family,” Reiko said. But at this moment, she had to admit she wouldn’t mind proving that Yugao was as guilty as she claimed to be.

Although Hirata had been a frequent visitor to Edo Jail during his police days, he hadn’t seen the Tokugawa prison for a while. Now, as he and his detectives approached it, he observed that it hadn’t improved. The fortress-like structure still loomed above a canal that smelled like sewage; the water murkily reflected the setting sun’s orange rays. The high stone walls still wore a coat of moss. The same sullen guards peered from the watch turrets. The same aura of despair hung over the gabled rooftops within. Hirata and his men brought the cart that contained Ejima’s corpse across the bridge to the iron-banded gate. There, lanterns burned and a guardhouse sheltered two sentries.

“We want to see Dr. Ito at the morgue,” Hirata told them.

They promptly opened the gate. Hirata knew that Sano paid them a generous salary to admit visitors for Dr. Ito, ignore their business in the morgue, and tell no tales. Hirata led his men into the compound, past dingy barracks and the warden’s office building that surrounded the dungeon. He knew where the morgue was, but he’d never been inside; most people shunned it in fear of physical and spiritual contamination. Entering a courtyard enclosed by a bamboo fence, he found a low building with scabby plaster walls and a ragged thatched roof. As he and the other men dismounted, he looked through its barred windows.

Its interior was furnished with cabinets and waist-high tables. Three male eta-the outcasts who staffed the jail-were washing naked corpses in stone troughs. A man came out the door. He was tall, in his late seventies, with white hair, prominent facial bones, and a shrewd expression; he wore a long, dark blue coat, the traditional uniform of a physician.

“Dr. Ito?” said Hirata.

“Yes?” the doctor said. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” When Hirata identified himself and his men, Dr. Ito’s face relaxed into a smile. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Hirata-san,” he said with a courteous bow. “Your master has spoken highly of you.”

“He speaks highly of you, too,” Hirata said.

“Is he well?” When assured that Sano was, Dr. Ito said, “I am glad to hear that. It has been over six months since I last saw him.”

Hirata detected a wistful note in the doctor’s voice. As chamberlain, Sano was so closely watched that he didn’t dare associate with a convicted criminal. Hirata knew that Sano missed his friend and observed that the feeling was mutual.

“How may I be of service?” Dr. Ito asked.

“Chamberlain Sano has sent a body he’d like you to examine.” Hirata explained about Chief Ejima’s death.

“I’m happy to oblige. Where is it?”

Detective Ogata took the lid off the night soil cart. He lifted out the bin of stinking human waste and exposed Ejima, still dressed in his clothes, armor, and helmet, wedged in the hidden compartment. Dr. Ito called two of the eta outside to empty the waste bin. He told the third to carry the corpse indoors.

“This is my special assistant. His name is Mura,” he introduced the man.

Mura was gray of hair and stern of face. Hirata remembered Sano telling him that Dr. Ito had befriended Mura even though he was an outcast, and Mura performed all the physical work associated with Dr. Ito’s examinations. Now Mura laid Ejima’s corpse on a table. He positioned lanterns on stands near it. As Hirata, Dr. Ito, and the detectives grouped around the table, the smoky, flickering flames lit their faces and the dead man. Hirata thought they must look as if they were gathered to perform some weird religious ritual. His leg ached, and he hoped he could remain standing for the duration.

“Please undress the body, Mura-san,” said Dr. Ito.

The eta removed Ejima’s helmet. The face that appeared was almost boyish, with sleek, unlined skin, although Hirata knew that Ejima had been in his forties. In life he’d worn a habitual sly look that proclaimed secret knowledge; in death, his countenance was blank.