The Fire Kimono (28 page)

“I’m trying to trace a man who recently arrived in town,” Hirata said. “Could you look him up in your records?”

The second clerk had a stout body and an expression that brooked no nonsense. “What’s his name?” He hefted a stack of ledgers onto the counter.

“He’s dead now. His name was Egen.”

Something about the tutor had never smelled right to Hirata. Although he couldn’t define exactly what, his senses had perceived a wrongness in the energy field that Egen had emitted.

The stout clerk paged through listings of people who’d entered Edo. “When did he come?”

Hirata didn’t know exactly. “Start three days ago and work backward.”

The gray-haired clerk helped, reading over his colleague’s shoulder, to the displeasure of the people waiting in the line. Finally the stout clerk said, “We’ve gone back five months and still haven’t found your man.”

Egen had lied to the shogun. Had he also lied when he’d told the people at the inn that he’d arrived recently? Hirata said, “Maybe you remember him. He was over sixty years old, and he was covered with terrible pockmarks.”

“As a matter of fact I do,” the gray-haired clerk said, his sharp eyes brightening.

“So do I. That face of his wasn’t something you’d forget,” said the other clerk. “He came through here not a month ago.”

“He was a good singer,” said his colleague. “He entertained everybody in line while he waited his turn.”

Hirata remembered Egen addressing the shogun in his dramatic, resonant voice. “He must be the same man. Why isn’t his name in the ledger?”

“Because his name wasn’t Egen,” said the gray-haired clerk. “I remember now-it was Arashi.” He leafed through the ledger, turned it around for Hirata to see, and pointed at a column of written characters. “Here he is.”

Hirata read the full name, Arashi Kodenji. In the space provided for recording the traveler’s place of residence was written Shinagawa, the highway post town nearest Edo. Hirata frowned in surprise as he saw what was listed as Arashi Kodenji’s occupation.

Actor.

Sano met up with Hirata on the main street that ran through the Nihonbashi merchant district. The moon ascended the smoky sky above the rooftops, pale as a dead carp floating in a polluted pond. Hirata maneuvered his horse into step beside Sano’s. They rode at the head of Sano’s entourage, past shops closed for the night. A brigade of firemen carrying ladders trudged across a side street. Their faces were black with soot. They trailed the odor of smoke.

“I have news,” Hirata said.

“So do I,” Sano said. “You go first.”

“The man we thought was Egen the tutor actually wasn’t.” Hirata described his visit to the post house. “His real name was Arashi Kodenji. He was an actor from Shinagawa.”

“Today is certainly a day for revelations.” As Sano recovered from his surprise, he absorbed the implications of Hirata’s news. “So this Arashi Kodenji impersonated the tutor.”

“He acted the part of Egen as if it were a role in a Kabuki play,” Hirata said. “His scars probably kept him from getting lead roles on the stage, but they were an advantage in this case.”

“If he happened to run into people who’d known Egen, they would think his face had been disfigured by the pox and that was why he didn’t look like the man they remembered. That’s what happened with my mother.” Sano recalled how shocked she’d been at seeing how much her onetime lover had changed.

“That was quite a show he put on at the palace,” Hirata said, his disgust tinged with admiration.

Sano smiled ruefully. “It must have been the biggest performance of his life. I recall thinking it seemed theatrical.”

“But why would he tell lies about a woman he didn’t even know? Certainly not just for the attention.”

“More likely for money,” Sano said. “We can assume that’s how he got rich.”

“And we can guess where the money came from.” But Hirata sounded uncertain. “Maybe I’ve underestimated Lord Matsudaira, but I never thought him devious enough to do something as original as hiring an actor to impersonate your key witness.”

Suspicions that had arisen in Sano’s mind since he’d begun investigating the first murder now revolved around the new facts about the second victim. “I don’t think he is. This situation smells more rotten than Lord Matsudaira.”

“You’re right. But then who-?”

Sano was beginning to get the idea. “Before I tell you, listen to my news.” He described how he’d learned that Lord Arima was behind the ambush of Reiko, the bombing of Lord Matsudaira’s estate, and the many other attacks that Sano and Lord Matsudaira had mistakenly attributed to each other. “Lord Arima wasn’t Lord Matsudaira’s ally as he pretended to be. But he wasn’t mine, either.”

Hirata shook his head, astonished. “Lord Arima played you off against each other, then betrayed Lord Matsudaira to the shogun. Why? Did he think he could make a bid for power himself?”

Sano’s ideas shifted in the new light cast by the revelation about the fake tutor. “At first I thought so. His chief retainer couldn’t supply any other explanation.” He’d interrogated Inaba about Lord Arima’s motives, in vain. Even the threat of being handed over to Lord Matsudaira had failed. Finally, realizing he’d exhausted the man’s knowledge, Sano had sent Inaba home. “But now I doubt Lord Arima wanted to make a power play. He’s not that reckless.”

“His army isn’t big enough, and he’s not popular enough to attract support,” Hirata agreed. “Besides, he skipped town instead of taking advantage of the upheaval he caused and moving into Lord Matsudaira’s position.”

They left the merchant quarter and entered the daimyo district. A procession of samurai on horseback rode toward them. “Aren’t those friends of yours?” Hirata asked.

Sano noted the banners that bore the crests of three feudal lords who’d sworn allegiance to him. As the men passed, they didn’t so much as look in Sano’s direction. He saw the other banners that their troops wore on poles attached to their backs. These sported the triple-hollyhock-leaf Tokugawa crests.

“It was inevitable,” Sano said. “My allies are deserting me and rallying around the shogun.”

They’d clearly decided to join forces with the shogun, who had the hereditary right to rule, the sanction of the emperor, and a strong following of old-time loyalists who’d never approved of Sano. Which meant that Sano had fewer allies to defend him in the event of war.

“Lord Matsudaira’s allies are probably doing the same thing,” Hirata said.

“True, but that won’t help me if I don’t solve the murders.” Sano turned the conversation back to the subject they’d been discussing. “We have the same situation with Lord Arima as with the fake tutor. Both of them acting strangely, neither on his own.”

“They were both working for somebody else,” Hirata concluded.

“We didn’t run across any evidence that they knew each other, but there’s a connection between them.”

“The murder of the actor.”

“Yes. Ishikawa and Ejima said that Lord Arima sent them to kill the man we thought was the tutor. At first I didn’t know whether to believe them, but now…” Sano accepted their dying confession as the truth. “And I don’t believe Lord Arima did the murder for Lord Matsudaira.”

Puzzlement creased Hirata’s brow. “Then who could it be that they and the actor were working for?”

“Don’t laugh when you hear,” Sano warned. They were nearing Edo Castle. Although the boulevard was deserted, Sano knew that spies lurked in shadows, and he refrained from naming a name. “I think it’s an old friend we thought was safely out of the picture.”

As Hirata comprehended Sano’s meaning, his expression rearranged into shock. “That can’t be. If he were back, how could he have kept it a secret?”

“He’s clever, and he has supporters to hide him. Besides, this situation stinks of him.”

“The reports from Hachijo don’t say a word about any escaped prisoners,” Hirata pointed out.

“You and I both know that reports don’t always tell the truth.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Hirata eyed Sano as if questioning his sanity.

“I just am.”

Sano’s certainty was more than a hunch built from odd incidents and facts and glued together with logic. For eleven years he and the man had lived through rivalry and truce, through violence, bloodshed, and the threat of death, through clashes and collaboration. Sano had come to know the man as well as himself. He knew the pattern of the man’s thoughts, the distinct texture of his vision. The two of them had developed a preternatural awareness of each other, as if the space between them were charged with energy like the air before a thunderstorm. When one moved, the other felt the sensation in his nerves.

Sano had felt that sensation for some time now. One thing happening after another had made it grow stronger, impossible to let common sense push to the back of his mind anymore. “If I’m right, it would explain a lot of things.”

“Such as the increase in activity by his underground partisans,” Hirata said, not convinced but willing to test the theory. “Add to that the attacks on Lord Matsudaira-who’s his biggest enemy-and on you, the man who took his post.”

“Those attacks include the one in Ezogashima last winter,” Sano said.

“We were never able to determine who threw that knife at you,” Hirata recalled.

“I suspected then, and I do now, that our friend sent an assassin to kill me in Ezogashima,” Sano said.

“If he knew you were going there, and if he knows enough about the murder investigation to meddle in it, then he must be close by.”

Sano could almost see the shadow of a tall, familiar figure move across their path. Hirata lifted his head, and his nostrils flared as if smelling their old adversary’s scent.

“He must have friends at court who keep him well informed.” Sano could guess whom they included. He thought of Yoritomo’s strange behavior. More mysteries became less perplexing.

“Suppose you are right,” Hirata said. “We can’t let him keep pulling strings and wreaking havoc from behind the scenes. But we can’t hit an invisible target, either. What are we going to do?”

“I’ll think of something. But there’s no time now. I have to exonerate my mother by the end of the day tomorrow.” Amid the dark, tangled wilderness of his troubles, Sano saw a faint glow of hope. “And I know one more place to look for proof that she’s innocent.”

The next morning found Sano and Hirata in the forest where Tokugawa Tadatoshi’s skeleton had been discovered. They stood gazing down at the closest thing they had to a crime scene.

The grave had been filled in. All Sano could see of it was bare dirt with white salt crystals sprinkled on top to purify it. The tree knocked over by the wind had been removed. The forest was peaceful, enlivened by birdsong. A gentle breeze swayed boughs green with new foliage. Patches of sunlight and shadow formed a moving tapestry on the leaf-covered earth. Sano breathed air that was fresh and clean in these hills far above the city and the fires.

“There’s nothing here related to Tadatoshi, his death, or whoever killed him,” Hirata said.

Sano knew that Hirata had trained his senses to perceive the energy that every living thing gave off and any disturbance to the world of nature. Hirata had employed this unique talent to help solve the murder case they’d investigated in Ezogashima, and if he said there was no evidence here, Sano believed him. But Sano wasn’t discouraged.

“Fortunately, there are other kinds of evidence besides physical clues.” Sano turned to the man waiting on the path, who’d shown Sano and Hirata to the graveside. It was the priest who’d discovered Tadatoshi’s skeleton. “Were you here during the Great Fire?”

“No,” said the priest. He wore a dark blue kimono over gray trousers instead of his ceremonial white robe and black cap. His placid face, oval in shape and speckled with age, reminded Sano of a quail’s egg. “I came here three years after.”

“Are there any people around who were?” Sano said.

“Many, all over Edo, I suppose,” the priest said. “These hills were a refuge for people escaping from the fire. The shrine gave shelter to hundreds.”

“Too many witnesses are better than too few,” Hirata said.

“But searching the whole city for them will take more time than I have left to solve the murder,” Sano said.

“Perhaps I can save you some trouble,” said the priest. “If you will please come with me?”

He led Sano and Hirata out of the forest to the shrine, which embodied Shinto religious architecture in its simplest form. They walked through a torii gate to a small, plain wooden building that waited ready for the spirits to occupy. Outside stood a gong for summoning the spirits and a basin of water for visitors to wash their hands. The shrine was off the main routes, visited mostly in the summer by people who flocked to the hillside villas to escape the city heat. Today the shrine was deserted except for an old man who sat on a stone bench, his hands propped on a cane, eyes closed, face lifted to the sun.

The man turned as Sano and his companions approached. The priest said, “This is Rintayu. He was the priest here before me. Now he’s a pilgrim who travels from shrine to shrine. He returns here every year. He just arrived yesterday.”

Rintayu nodded and smiled. He was over eighty, his face tanned and wrinkled, his mouth toothless, his hands gnarled. His expression was benign and sunny. The priest introduced Sano and Hirata to him, and Rintayu bowed. He said in a quavering but clear voice, “It’s an honor to meet you.”