Laura Rowland - The Assassin's Touch

“On my intuition.”

Magistrate Ueda’s gaze tilted skyward. Reiko remembered many times when, during her childhood, she’d made statements that she’d insisted were true because her feelings said so. Before he could argue, as he had then, that emotions weren’t facts and women were flighty, irrational creatures, she said, “My intuition has been right in the past.”

“Hmm.” Her father’s expression showed grudging agreement.

During the murder investigation at the Black Lotus Temple, Reiko’s unfounded suspicions had proved true. Now she said, “I think that whatever Yugao is hiding is too dangerous to let her take to her grave, and if she does, we’ll regret it. Please give me a little more time to find Tama. Please wait at least until I hear what she has to say before you convict Yugao.”

Magistrate Ueda smiled with fondness and vexation. “I’ve never found it easy to say no to you, Daughter. You may have one more day to investigate. At this time tomorrow, I’ll reconvene Yugao’s trial. Unless you can present evidence that exonerates Yugao-or justifies continuing to investigate the crime-I must send Yugao to the execution ground.”

One day seemed not enough time to solve the mystery in which justice and a young woman’s life hung in the balance. But Reiko knew she’d pushed her father to overstep his authority too much, and Sano would be even more displeased than when he’d first heard about her investigation.

“Thank you, Father,” she said. “I’ll have the answers for you by tomorrow.”

The afternoon sun beamed down on a queue of soldiers, officials, and servants who crowded the promenade outside Edo Castle and inched up to its gate. Sentries examined each person’s identification document, which consisted of a scroll bearing his name, post, and the shogun’s signature seal, before letting him inside. They searched everyone’s body and possessions for hidden messages or bombs. In the guardroom above the massive, ironclad portals, more sentries, armed with guns, peered out barred windows, monitoring the street traffic. In the covered corridors atop the stone walls that enclosed the castle’s buildings and wound around the slopes up to the palace, guards scanned the city through spyglasses. Lord Matsudaira, goaded by his fear of attack, had increased the usual security precautions and made Edo Castle the safest place in Japan.

Sano rode with his detectives to the head of the line. The men trapped in it bowed and yielded politely to him. He heard someone calling his name, turned, and saw Hirata galloping toward him, accompanied by Inoue and Arai. Sano signaled his men to wait. Hirata and the detectives joined them.

“We’ve got news,” Hirata said.

At the gate, the sentries recognized Sano and his companions and waved them through without inspecting their documents. They bypassed the troops who were searching people and opening trunks and saddlebags in the guardhouse and rode uphill through the passages.

“We traced the movements of all the murder victims except Treasury Minister Moriwaki,” said Hirata. “His habit of sneaking off alone made it impossible. As for Court Supervisor Ono, the retainers who accompanied him outside the castle didn’t see anyone touch him or any stranger behaving suspiciously around him.”

Sano asked, “What about Highway Commissioner Sasamura and Chief Ejima?”

“We got lucky there,” Hirata said. “Ejima went to an incense shop two days before he died. One of his bodyguards said that a wandering priest bumped into Ejima in the crowds and knocked the package of incense out of his hands. Ejima bent over to pick it up. The priest could have touched him then.”

“The bodyguard didn’t notice?”

“The traffic in the street blocked his view.”

“Did you get a description of the priest?” Sano asked.

“He wore a saffron robe and a wicker hat and carried a begging bowl.” Hirata shook his head in regret. “Just like any other priest in Japan. One moment he was there; the next, he’d disappeared.”

“Did the highway commissioner also have an encounter with a priest soon before his death?”

“No, but he did with someone else, at a money-lender’s shop.” Although officials of Sasamura’s rank earned big stipends, many overspent on lavish lifestyles and wound up in debt to merchant bankers. “A guard stationed outside the shop saw a water-seller loitering nearby while Sasamura was inside. That in itself wouldn’t have been unusual-except the guard noticed that his water buckets were empty. The guard thought he was a bandit in disguise, waiting to rob people who borrowed money from the shop. He chased the water-seller away.”

“Maybe the water-seller, and the priest, were the killer in disguise, stalking Ejima and Sasamura for the purpose of assassinating them,” Sano said thoughtfully. “And these ‘chance’ encounters were deliberate.

“I think they were the points of attack,” Hirata said. “Unfortunately, the guard couldn’t describe the water-seller, except to say he looked like all the rest of them.”

“I’d like to know where Captain Nakai was when Ejima went to the incense shop and Sasamura visited the money-lender,” Sano said. “By the way, we have a new potential lead.” He told Hirata about the priest Ozuno.

Rapid hoof beats clattered on the pavement behind them. A voice called, “Honorable Chamberlain!”

Sano and his party stopped and turned to see two men on horseback approaching. One was an Edo Castle guard, the other a samurai boy in his teens, dressed in a fancy black satin kimono printed with green willow branches and silver waves, as though for a festive occasion. Both halted their mounts and bowed to Sano. The guard said, “Please excuse the interruption, but this is Daikichi, page to Colonel Ibe of the army. He has an important message for you.”

The page spoke in a breathless rush: “I come on your orders to report any cases of sudden death directly to you.”

“Has there been another?” Sano said, exchanging alarmed glances with Hirata.

“Yes.” The page’s voice shook, and tears welled in his clear young eyes. “My master has just died.”

Consternation struck Sano. “Where?”

“In Yoshiwara.”

Edo’s notorious pleasure quarter lay on the northern outskirts of town. Many men bound for Yoshiwara, the only place in the city where prostitution was legal, traveled there by ferry up the Sumida River, but Sano, Hirata, and the detectives took the faster land route on horseback. Beyond the Dike of Japan, the long causeway upon which they rode, the flooded rice paddies spread lush and green. Peasants waded in them, pulling weeds and netting eels. Irises and lilies bloomed in the willow-edged San’ya Canal, where herons posed in waters swollen from the spring rains. Seagulls winged and jeered in a limpid turquoise sky. But Sano observed that the political strife had contaminated even this bucolic setting.

Squadrons of armed troops escorted mounted samurai officials. Merchants traveling in palanquins were protected by hired rōnin bodyguards. As Sano passed the teahouses that lined the approach to the Yoshiwara gate, he saw soldiers who wore the Matsudaira crest loitering around them, watching for fugitive rebels. Yoshiwara was a place of high fashion, lavish entertainment, and glamour, but Sano knew it wasn’t exempt from violence. Two winters past, he’d investigated a murder there; six years ago, he’d thwarted an assassination attempt. Now it was the scene of another death by foul play.

He and his comrades left their horses at a stable by the moat that surrounded Yoshiwara and crossed the bridge. Civilian guards let them through the red, roofed gate in the high wall that kept the courtesans from escaping. Inside, they strode past the pleasure houses that lined Naka-no-cho, the main street. Laughter burst from teahouses jammed with men; samisen music spangled the air. Customers strolled, gawking at the women who sat on display inside the barred window of each brothel except for one, the Mitsuba. It was located at the farthest, least prestigious end of the street and catered to clients who wanted women for lower prices or rowdier entertainment than was offered at the better houses. Here, according to his page, Colonel Ibe had died. Bamboo blinds covered the windows. A funereal vacuum shrouded the building.