Laura Rowland - The Assassin's Touch

Suddenly the battle sounds faded; the armies dissolved in the mist. Hirata awakened to find himself lying in bed, his wounded leg throbbing. The war-cries became the chatter of servants in his estate; the gunfire emanated from the Edo Castle shooting range. Morning sunlight from the window stabbed his eyes. His head ached and his stomach was sour-after-effects of his sleeping potion. Every night he dreamed that he was whole and strong; every morning he awakened to the nightmare of his true existence. But he stoically heaved himself out of bed. He had important work to do, and he’d already slept too long.

“Midori!” he called.

After she helped him dress and coaxed him to eat some rice gruel and fish, he went into his office and sent for his detectives. He assigned men to take charge of ongoing investigations, dismissed them, and told Arai and Inoue to stay.

“Today we’ll investigate the previous deaths that Lord Matsudaira thinks were murders,” he said.

“That would be Ono Shinnosukc, the supervisor of court ceremony, Highway Commissioner Sasamura Tomoya, and Treasury Minister Moriwaki?” said Arai.

Hirata nodded. “We’ll try to find out whether they were victims of dim-mak. If so, we’ll look for suspects.”

“Where do we start?” said Inoue.

“At their homes. That’s where Ono and Sasamura died.”

All three men had lived in estates in the Hibiya administrative district. Hirata hoped he wouldn’t have to travel any farther. The pain was especially severe this morning, due to yesterday’s exertions. Maybe he could connect the previous deaths to Chief Ejima’s and uncover some leads before his strength gave out. He tucked a vial of opium under his sash in case he should need relief.

Two hours later, he and the detectives walked out the gate of Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s residence. They mounted their horses while clerks, officials in palanquins, and foot-soldiers streamed past them in the street.

“Another dead end,” Inoue said regretfully.

“It’s too bad that no one here, or at the court supervisor’s or the highway commissioner’s estates, noticed a fingerprint-shaped bruise on any of the victims,” Arai said.

Hirata had questioned the men’s families, retainers, and servants, to no avail. Because the bodies had been cremated, they couldn’t be examined. “Moriwaki’s wife did tell us some interesting facts about what happened after he died,” Hirata remarked.

“But we’ve learned nothing to prove that Ono and Sasamura didn’t die natural deaths in their sleep,” said Inoue.

“Maybe Ejima’s murder was an isolated incident and there’s no conspiracy against Lord Matsudaira,” Arai said.

“In which case, this list of people that the men saw during the two days before they died won’t do us much good because there’s no reason why the name of Ejima’s killer would appear on it.” Hirata tucked the scroll in his saddlebag. He felt sick and weak, as well as frustrated.

“What do we do now?” Inoue said.

Hirata didn’t want to give up and return empty-handed to Sano. “Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s case is different from the other two. He wasn’t found dead in bed at home. And our list of his contacts and places he went is incomplete.” Moriwaki’s former secretary had said that the treasury minister had been an eccentric, secretive man who’d liked to arrange his own appointments and go off by himself. “Maybe if we trace his movements, we’ll turn up some evidence that he was murdered, and some clues as to who killed Chief Ejima as well as him.”

Even though the stiffness in Hirata’s leg had eased somewhat, he spoke with as much reluctance to take another journey as anticipation of success: “The one place we know for sure that Moriwaki went is the bathhouse where he died. We’ll go there.”

The journey took Hirata to the Nihonbashi merchant district. The canals that traversed the neighborhoods brimmed with spring rain. Into them, willows trailed their boughs like girls washing their hair. Plum trees blossomed in pots outside doorways and on balconies. Hirata and his men rode past a funeral procession of lantern-bearers; priests ringing bells, beating drums, and chanting prayers; and white-robed mourners who accompanied a coffin decorated with flowers. Funerals were a disturbingly common sight since the war.

The bathhouse was located in a half-timbered building with a gleaming tile roof. It occupied an entire block in a neighborhood composed of stately houses near shops that sold expensive art objects. Clean indigo curtains, printed with the white symbol for “hot water,” hung over the entrance. Pretty maids dressed in neat kimonos stood there to welcome customers. When Hirata and his detectives dismounted outside, servants hurried to tend their horses. He deduced that the place catered to folk who were wealthy enough to have bath chambers at home but came here for other reasons besides washing themselves.

A samurai strode out the door. He was tall, with a muscular build and arrogant bearing; he wore opulent silk robes, a fancy armor tunic, and two elaborate swords. Two samurai attendants followed him. As he caught sight of Hirata, a sneer appeared on his handsome, angular face.

“Well, if it isn’t the sōsakan-sama,” he said.

Hirata bristled at the man’s insulting tone. “Greetings, Police Commissioner Hoshina.”

The police commissioner had been the lover of Yanagisawa, and a staunch ally of his faction, until a bitter quarrel had split them up. Hoshina had then taken revenge by joining Lord Matsudaira and thus kept his position at the head of the police force. He was a longtime enemy of Sano, and their bad blood extended to Hirata.

“I’m surprised to see you. The last I heard, you were on your deathbed.” Hoshina’s insolent gaze raked Hirata. “I think you got up a little too soon.”

Hirata found it humiliating to stand withered and frail before his strong, healthy adversary. “I’m just as surprised to see you,” he retorted. “The last I heard, you and Lord Matsudaira were like this.” He held up two crossed fingers. “Why aren’t you with him? Have you fallen out of his favor?”

Hoshina’s jaw tightened, and Hirata was gratified to sec that he’d hit the mark. “What are you doing here?” Hoshina said, then raised his palms. “Don’t tell me: You’ve come to investigate the death of Treasury Minister Moriwaki. Chamberlain Sano is too important to do it himself, so he sent his faithful dog.”

“I bet you’re here for the same reason.” Hirata controlled his temper with difficulty. As Hoshina nodded, Hirata recalled the facts that the treasury minister’s wife had told him. “But didn’t you already investigate his death? Didn’t you arrest somebody who was executed for murdering him?”

Sullen silence was Hoshina’s reply. His attendants looked abashed for his sake.

“Then Chief Ejima died,” Hirata went on. “Now it appears that he may have been murdered by the same person who killed the treasury minister and you made a mistake.”

“So what if I did?” Hoshina said, flustered and defensive. “Anyone else might have done the same.”

“But you were the unlucky one. That’s why you’re in disgrace with Lord Matsudaira. The instant he heard that Ejima was dead and realized he’d just lost another high official, he knew you’d botched the investigation and he threw you out of his inner circle. My condolences.” Hirata pitied Hoshina not at all. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do a proper investigation of Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s death.”

He and his detectives started toward the bathhouse door, but Hoshina blocked their way. “You’re wasting your time,” Hoshina said. “I’ve already reexamined the scene of death.”