Laura Rowland: The Assassin's Touch

“Although I bet that a lot of other people did,” the captain said.

Sano thanked the men for their help. As he and Marume walked away from the stables, Marume said, “I think they’re telling the truth. Do you believe them?”

“For now,” Sano said, reserving judgment until evidence should indicate otherwise. “The captain was right when he hinted that Ejima was a good candidate for murder.”

“Because he was one of Lord Matsudaira’s top officials?”

“Not only that,” Sano said. “His position made him a target. He headed an organization that spies on people.”

No one was safe from the metsuke, especially in this dangerous political climate, when a man’s most innocuous words or deeds could be twisted into evidence of disloyalty to Lord Matsudaira and cause for banishment or execution.

“If Ejima was murdered,” Sano said, “the killer may be connected to someone destroyed by a metsuke investigation.” And Sano recalled that Ejima had enjoyed his dirty job a little too much. The relish he’d taken from ruining people might have angered their relatives and friends.

“Talk about a man with a lot of enemies,” Marume said.

“But motive doesn’t necessarily mean murder,” Sano reminded them both. “Not when there’s so little evidence.” He resisted his hunch that Ejima had been a victim of foul play: Even samurai instinct was susceptible to influence by personal bias. “Before we go any further, we should finish interviewing all the witnesses.”

He looked across the track, where Detective Fukida was still busy with the spectators, then up at the soldiers along the walls and in the turrets. “Even more important, we have to determine the exact cause of Ejima’s death.”

This was something that Sano, despite all his past experience and newfound authority, couldn’t do himself. And the scope of the investigation extended far beyond the racetrack, past the men present at the scene of the death, to include Ejima’s foes as well as Lord Matsudaira’s. That could mean hundreds of potential witnesses-and suspects. Sano needed more help than Marume and Fukida could provide, from someone he could absolutely trust.

“Send for Hirata-san,” he told Marume. “Tell him to meet me here right away.”

Hirata sat behind the desk in the office that had once belonged to Sano, inside the estate where he was now master. Into the room filed ten members of the hundred-man detective corps that he’d once supervised for Sano and now commanded for himself.

“Good evening, Sōsakan-sama,” the detectives chorused as they knelt and bowed to Hirata.

“What have you to report?” Hirata asked.

The men described their progress on various cases he’d assigned them-a theft of weapons from the Edo Castle arsenal; a search for a rebel band suspected of plotting to overthrow Lord Matsudaira. The political climate had spawned many crimes to occupy the shogun’s new Most Honorable Investigator of Events, Situations, and People. As he listened, Hirata tried to ignore the pain from the deep, barely healed wound in his left thigh. He tried to never let his expression reveal his suffering. But Hirata couldn’t hide that he’d lost much weight and muscle after the injury that had almost killed him. He couldn’t deny that all the honors that had resulted from his valor in the line of duty had come with a terrible price.

Six months ago he’d stopped an attack on Sano and saved Sano’s life. The cut from the attacker’s sword, meant for Sano, had gashed Hirata’s leg so badly he’d thought his death was certain. As blood poured from him and he lost consciousness, he thought he’d performed the ultimate act of samurai loyalty-sacrificing himself for his master.

Three days later Hirata had awakened, and learned that Lord Matsudaira had defeated Yanagisawa, Sano was the new chamberlain, and he himself was a hero. The shogun had declared that if Hirata lived, he would be promoted to Sano’s former post. Hirata had been thrilled by the honor, and amazed that he-a onetime police patrol officer-had ascended to such a high rank. But for two long months, the pain had been so bad that the doctors gave him large doses of opium, which kept him in a drowsy daze. Fever sickened and weakened Hirata. Once robust and active, he was an invalid until the New Year, when the evil spirits of disease finally left him, and he began to recover. Everyone said his cure was a miracle, but Hirata wasn’t so sure.

Now the detectives finished their reports. Hirata gave his orders: “Find out if any of the missing weapons have turned up on the market. Put a secret watch on the teahouse where the rebels have friends.”

The detectives bowed and departed. Hirata clenched his teeth against the pain. Today he would gladly trade his new post for the good health he’d once taken for granted. He was ashamed because he did little besides hear reports and give orders. Sano had done much more. Hirata knew that what he told the detectives to do, they probably could think of themselves, although they always pretended they needed his guidance. Loyal friends, they never showed that they knew he depended on them for everything; they acted as though he was in charge. They did the investigations he’d once done-because he no longer could.

Walking or riding a horse was so uncomfortable that Hirata seldom went outside the estate. A brief martial arts practice each day exhausted him. Even sitting for long taxed his energy. At age twenty-eight, he was as feeble as an old man.

His wife Midori entered the room. Young, plump, and pretty, she smiled at him, but her face had the worried look she’d worn ever since his injury. She said, “Taeko wants her papa. Can you come and see her?”

“Of course.”

Hirata rose laboriously. He leaned on his wife as they walked down the corridor. She was the only person he allowed to see his weakness. She loved him too much to think less of him. He loved her for her loyal, tender care. That his injury had brought them closer together was the only thing for which he was truly glad. He didn’t regret that he’d ruined himself to save Sano; he would again, if need be. But as much as he appreciated the honor and acclaim, he sometimes wondered if it would have been better if he hadn’t lived. Death would have gotten him all the glory and none of the suffering.

In the nursery, his daughter Taeko sat on the floor, dressed in a red kimono, surrounded by toys and attended by a nursemaid. Eleven months old, she had round, bright black eyes and downy black hair. She cooed and bounced when she saw Hirata. His spirits lifted.

“Come to Papa,” he said, kneeling down to hug her.

Taeko flung herself into his arms. She landed hard on his bad thigh. Hirata yelled in pain. He shoved Taeko off him. Confused and hurt, she began to cry. Hirata hobbled into the corridor and lay gasping on the floor. He listened while Midori and the nursemaid soothed Taeko. When she’d quieted, Midori came to him.

“Are you all right?” Midori said anxiously.

“No! I’m not all right! What kind of man can’t even hold his own child?” Hirata spoke with the frustration and self-pity that he usually tried not to show or feel: “If Taeko can hurt me so badly, then what if I should have to fight a criminal who’s much bigger and stronger? I would be cut down like a blade of grass!”

Midori knelt beside him. “Please don’t get upset,” she said. “Don’t think about fighting yet.”

Her voice quaked with fear because she’d almost lost him once and she didn’t want him in danger again. She took his hand. “You must be tired. Come to bed and take a nap. I’ll bring your sleeping potion.”

“No,” Hirata said, although he craved the opium that brought blessed relief from the pain. He resisted using the drug because it stupefied his mind, the only part of him not damaged.