The Perfumed Sleeve (25 page)

“For your son’s sake, you’d better find more evidence that they did,” Ibe said, his thin features stiff with cold and bad will toward Sano.

“What about Makino’s actor and chief retainer?” Sano asked his detective.

Otani said, “I’m warning you.”

“They both went out before the women did,” said the detective. “Koheiji hasn’t yet returned. Tamura came back after midnight and went out again a little while ago.”

“Forget you heard that,” Ibe told Sano. “Concentrate on the women, or else.”

Anger that the watchdogs had commandeered his investigation boiled up in Sano, but an image of Masahiro surrounded by their thugs stifled his retort. He longed to ask the detective for news of Reiko, but he couldn’t in the presence of Otani and Ibe. With great effort he banished the thought of his wife and son both in jeopardy and focused on the business at hand. “Where are Agemaki and Okitsu?” he asked the detective.

“They went out together early this morning. They’re not back yet.”

“I’m sure you can find something to occupy you here until they return,” Ibe said.

“Why don’t you search their quarters again?” Otani said.

He and Ibe escorted Sano to the private chambers, thwarting Sano’s hope of sneaking off to find Reiko or investigate the scene of Daiemon’s murder. Their troops followed, guarding Detectives Marume and Fukida. Sano and the detectives first searched Okitsu’s cluttered room. Otani and Ibe wandered off, but their troops stayed. If Okitsu had killed Daiemon, Sano found no sign of it. Sano moved on to Agemaki’s pristine quarters. There he and his men had just finished another fruitless search, when Ibe end Otani burst into the room. Ibe dragged the concubine; Otani brought the widow. Okitsu whimpered in terror, while Agemaki remained tranquil.

“Here they are,” said Ibe. “Pick one.”

Sano’s gaze flew to a group of maids who hovered fearfully outside the door. Reiko wasn’t among them. Sano said, “Take Okitsu to her room.” He thought her the weakest of the suspects, and giving her time to worry should goad her to reveal whatever secrets she might know about Makino’s murder. “I’ll question Agemaki first.”

The watchdogs’ troops took the concubine away. Ibe pushed the widow to her knees on the floor in front of the screen decorated with gilded birds. He and Otani stood on either side of her, their troops ranged around them. It was a situation designed to intimidate, Sano observed, but it wasn’t working. Agemaki seemed completely indifferent to the display of power surrounding her. He wondered if she’d been expecting another interrogation. Either she was innocent and felt safe in her virtue, or her stoicism was worthy of a samurai.

“When we talked yesterday, you told me that you last saw your husband before he went to bed the night he died,” Sano said. “You slept all that night in your own room. You were unaware of anything that happened because you’d taken a sleeping potion, and you don’t know how your husband died or who killed him. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.” A sigh accompanied Agemaki’s response.

“My investigation has uncovered facts that cast doubt on your story,” Sano said. “Is there anything that you forgot to mention—or that you’d like to change?”

He was certain that the murder hadn’t gone unnoticed by everybody except the killer. The thin walls of the private chambers, and the proximity of Makino’s room to the others, made it likely that someone else who’d been there that night had witnessed something. Someone, perhaps not just the killer, was withholding information, and it could be Agemaki.

“If so, now is the time to tell me,” Sano said. “I’d be more inclined to excuse a mistake than I might be later.”

Agemaki hesitated for an almost imperceptible instant before she murmured, “There is nothing else. I cannot alter the truth.”

Her hesitation spoke more truth to Sano than did her words. Now he knew she was hiding something. Yet people had other reasons to keep secrets besides being guilty of a crime. Those reasons included the desire to protect someone else.

“What are your feelings toward your husband’s concubine?” Sano said.

She gave him a sidelong glance from beneath lowered eyelashes. He thought he saw a glimmer of confusion cross her face. “Okitsu-
san
is like a little sister to me. We are the best of friends.”

Sano wondered how often a wife felt kindly toward her husband’s beautiful young concubine. “You didn’t care that Okitsu had won Senior Elder Makino’s affections?”

“Not at all.”

She wisely kept her response brief; if she felt any compulsion to protest too much or explain herself, she resisted it. But Sano wondered if Agemaki was more likely to have killed to protect her future from Okitsu than to have lied to protect Okitsu from the law.

“What about the actor Koheiji and your husband’s chief retainer?” said Sano. “Are you also friends with them?”

“No.”

A single word could convey many shades of meaning, Sano observed. In Agemaki’s reply he’d heard scorn for the idea that a lady of her rank would be friends with a hired entertainer or a family vassal. She wouldn’t have lied to protect them, either. If she’d withheld compromising information about Makino’s death, she aimed to protect herself.

The troops stirred, restless; Detectives Marume and Fukida watched Sano, ready to defend him if need be. Ibe and Otani gestured for Sano to speed up the interrogation.

“Yesterday you told me that your family is in service to Lord Torii,” said Sano. “But in fact, your father was a wandering
rōnin.
Your mother was an attendant at Asakusa Jinja Shrine, and so were you. Isn’t that true?”

He saw Agemaki’s throat contract as she swallowed: He’d shaken her composure. But she said calmly, “My father was a samurai retainer to the Torii clan.”

“Your friends at the shrine say not.”

Her gaze briefly touched his; pride flashed like a torn banner in her eyes. “I know better than they do.”

“Very well.” Sano understood that her background was her vulnerable spot. That he’d exposed it might open her up to more revelations. He strode closer to her. “You were a prostitute, a woman of uncertain parentage and few prospects.”

Agemaki flinched at the words as though he’d flung nightsoil on her expensive robes. Sano knew of other women in her position who liked to forget the past and pretend that their existences as wives of rich, powerful men were the only lives they’d ever known. He hoped he was tormenting a criminal, not an innocent victim.

“Senior Elder Makino brought you to his house... as his concubine. He was still married to his first wife then, wasn’t he?” Sano said.

“Yes.” Involuntary movement shifted Agemaki’s body.

“What happened to his first wife?”

“She died,” Agemaki whispered.

“How did she die?”

“From a fever.”

“According to the Edo Castle physician, you nursed her when she took ill,” Sano said, bringing into play the information Hirata had given him.

“She wanted me to take care of her.” As self-defensiveness overrode her feminine reticence, Agemaki explained, “She wouldn’t let anyone else. She trusted my healing skills.”

“But she got worse instead of better,” Sano said.

He watched Agemaki twist and rub her hands together, as if washing them. He was interested that she seemed more upset now than while discussing Makino’s murder. She must have been prepared for questions about his death but not his first wife’s or her own past. Maybe she’d not expected the subjects to come up. A person’s ability to dissemble stretched only so far.

“I did my best to save her,” Agemaki said, “but she was too ill.”

“According to the Edo Castle physician, you were the one who mixed her medicines,” Sano said. “You fed them to her. What did you put in them besides healing herbs?”

“Nothing!” Agemaki’s head came up; her eyes glittered.

“Did you poison her?” Sano said.

“I didn’t!” Panic crumbled Agemaki’s sedate mien. The guise of the demure, grieving widow deserted her. “It wasn’t my fault that she died! Anyone who says otherwise is lying!”

Sano wished he could tell whether she’d killed Makino’s first wife and feared due punishment, or if she was panicking because she was innocent and wrongfully accused. He’d seen similar reactions from guilty as well as innocent people.

“You gained by the death of Makino’s first wife,” Sano reminded Agemaki. “Makino married you. But then he took a new concubine. History repeats itself. You knew that Okitsu could replace you just as you’d replaced his first wife. Did you kill him to prevent him from divorcing you, marrying Okitsu, and cutting off your inheritance?”

Agemaki relaxed her body, stilled her hands, and spread a mask of false serenity across her features. “I did not.”

“Lord Matsudaira’s nephew, Daiemon, was in this estate the night your husband was murdered,” Sano said. “Did you see him?”

“No. If he was here, he must have come while I was asleep.”

“You’re not investigating Daiemon,” Otani said with a dark frown at Sano. “No more questions about him.”

“While you were asleep, or while you were beating your husband to death?” Sano said, ignoring Otani. “Did he catch you in the act?”

“Careful,
sōsakan-sama
,” said Ibe.

Agemaki repeated quietly, “I didn’t see him. I did nothing for him to see.

“Last night Daiemon was stabbed to death in a house of assignation,” Sano said even as the watchdogs glared at him. “What were you doing then?”

“I went out for a ride in my palanquin.” Agemaki seemed indifferent to the news of Daiemon’s death.

“Where did you go?” Sano said.

“Nowhere in particular. Just around town.”

“Enough of this,” Ibe told Sano.

Sano nodded. He’d learned what he’d wanted to know. Agemaki had been in the city last night. Perhaps she was Daiemon’s missing paramour—and killer.

“I’m satisfied that she killed Makino’s first wife,” Ibe said.

“And Makino as well,” Otani said. "Once a murderer, twice a murderer.”

“Go ahead and arrest her,” Ibe told Sano. “If you’re so anxious to solve Daiemon’s murder, let her take the blame for that, too.”

Agemaki sat frozen between the watchdogs, like a cat who thinks that if she doesn’t move, predators won’t notice or attack her.

Sano said, “The evidence against her is indirect. It’s not sufficient for me.”

“It’s sufficient to convict her in the Court of Justice,” Ibe said.

Sano knew that for a fact, but he also knew that virtually all trials in the Tokugawa justice system resulted in conviction, even if the defendant was innocent. Agemaki might be guilty of multiple murders—or not. He was by no means certain which. Even while the watchdogs held his son hostage, Sano refused to let them rush him into a faulty decision.

“You gave me a choice of two suspects,” he told them. “I’ll interrogate Okitsu before arresting anyone.”

A silent consultation ensued between Ibe and Otani. “Suit yourself,” Ibe said at last. “But don’t tax our patience.”

As they and their troops ushered Sano and his detectives out of the room, Sano looked backward at Agemaki. She stayed kneeling and immobile, her head bowed, the bare nape of her neck white and vulnerable, as though waiting for the executioner’s sword to descend.

25

Hirata knew better than to march into Makino’s estate, accost Tamura, and start asking questions. He couldn’t risk running into Ibe or Otani after they’d banned him from the murder investigation. After leaving the theater district, he went home and sent Detective Inoue to Makino’s estate, with orders to find Tamura and lure him someplace that Hirata could talk to him. Detective Inoue returned with the news that Tamura was at the Edo Castle martial arts training ground. Hirata decided that was as good a place as any. The training ground was virtually deserted in winter, when most Tokugawa samurai would rather laze indoors than practice their combat skills.

But when Hirata entered the grounds, he found them crowded with squadrons of mounted soldiers roving the field. More soldiers dressed themselves and their horses in armor. Some sparred together, eager for combat. Weapons masters hauled cannon, guns, and ammunition through the sleety rain. Commanders roamed, trying to establish order. Everyone wore the crest of Lord Matsudaira. The training ground had become a staging area for his army. Hirata looked around in amazement. He wondered why Tamura, who belonged to the opposing faction, had come here. And where was he in all this commotion?

Hirata elbowed his way through the crowd. He caught snatches of conversation: “Lord Matsudaira has summoned Chamberlain Yanagisawa to battle in the fields north of town.” “The fighting has already started. We’ll be on our way soon.” Battle fever was contagious. Hirata felt his samurai blood roil with excitement. As he scanned the crowds, light and movement inside a building near the wall of the enclosure caught his attention.

The building was a barnlike hall used for sword practice. A lone figure threw fleeting shadows against paper windowpanes screened by wooden bars. Hirata slipped through the door, into a cavernous space that smelled of male sweat, urine, blood, and temper. Burning lanterns hung from the bare rafters; straw dummies stood along walls nicked by blades. Tamura, dressed in white trousers, darted and lunged across the hall, wielding his sword. As he slashed at an imaginary opponent, his bare feet stamped the dingy cypress floor. He took no notice of Hirata. Sweat gleamed on his naked torso and shaved crown; his severe face wore a look of intense concentration. His muscles were defined and tough, his movements fluid, his form impressive for a man nearing sixty.

Tamura ended with a series of flourishes so rapid that his sword was a silver blur. He halted, his chest heaving. His breath puffed white clouds into the chilly room. He lowered his weapon and bowed.

“Very good,” Hirata said.

Tamura appeared not to hear. Hirata walked up to Tamura and clapped his hands loudly. Tamura turned at the sound, which echoed through the hall. Irritation slanted his eyebrows at a sharper angle as he became aware of Hirata.

“Did the
sōsakan-sama
send you to pester me with more questions?” Tamura said. “I thought I heard you’d been barred from investigating the murder.”

“This is just a friendly, informal chance encounter,” Hirata said.

Tamura’s reply was a stare filled with distrust. He placed his sword on a rack, picked up a water jar, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth on his arm and waited for Hirata to state the purpose of his visit. A thought occurred to Hirata. That Tamura hadn’t at first heard him speak suggested that Tamura was deaf. Was that why he hadn’t heard anything the night Senior Elder Makino died? He wouldn’t have said so because a proud samurai like him never admitted to any physical defects. Rather, he would read lips and pretend he could hear. But deafness didn’t equal innocence. There were other reasons why Tamura might withhold the truth.

“Why are you in here, fencing with your shadow, instead of riding off to war?” Hirata said. “Are you preparing to carry out the vendetta you swore yesterday?”

Tamura showed no surprise that Hirata knew about the vendetta. “Yes, although it’s none of your business. My samurai duty to avenge the death of my master outweighs all other concerns.”

“Even though you despised him?”

A scowl darkened Tamura’s features, but instead of rising to Hirata’s bait, he took up a cloth and rubbed sweat off himself.

“Your arguments with Makino are a matter of record,” Hirata said. “You disapproved of his greed for money, the bribes he extorted, and his whore mongering. You called him dishonorable to his face. Yet you expect me to believe that you think his death is worth avenging?”

“Duty must be served regardless of the master’s faults.” Tamura sounded as if he were quoting some Bushido tract. “My personal feelings are irrelevant.”

He threw down the cloth and hefted his sword. His kind of pompous, old-fashioned warrior virtue always irritated Hirata, who knew that it was often nothing but hypocrisy. “So who’s the lucky target of your vendetta?” Hirata said.

“I don’t know yet.” Tamura crouched, holding his sword horizontal, sweeping it slowly across the room, and sighting along the blade. “But I’m not waiting for the
sōsakan-sama
to figure out who killed my master.” His sneer said he didn’t think much of Sano’s chances.

“Are you conducting your own inquiries, then?” Hirata said, displeased by the tacit insult to his own master.

Tamura raked a disdainful glance across Hirata. “There’s no need for inquiries. Meditation will reveal the truth to me.”

If meditation could reveal a murderer’s identity, it would save him and Sano a lot of trouble, Hirata thought skeptically. But of course it worked without fail when one already knew the truth.

“Maybe it’s appropriate for you to be fencing against yourself,” Hirata said. “Maybe your vendetta is nothing but a charade to hide your own guilt.”

A contemptuous grin curled Tamura’s lip as he carved a swath of air with his sword. “If the
sōsakan-sama
were sure of that, he would have already arrested me.”

Hirata couldn’t deny this. Maybe Tamura really was innocent and his vendetta genuine. The lack of witnesses and evidence argued in his favor. Yet Hirata had a strong hunch that Tamura would figure into the solution of the mystery.

“Supposing you didn’t kill your master,” Hirata said, “maybe you’ve already carried out your vendetta. One of the murder suspects was stabbed to death last night.”

A slight, awkward fumble interrupted the motion of Tamura’s blade. But Tamura said calmly, “So I’ve heard. The news about Lord Matsudaira’s nephew is all over Edo Castle.”

“Did you already know it?” Hirata said.

“Because I killed him?” Tamura snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. I had nothing to do with Daiemon’s death. You’re just fishing and hoping for a bite.”

“You went out yesterday evening.”

“I was nowhere near that filthy place where Daiemon died.” Pivoting, Tamura maneuvered his sword in a smooth arc.

“Where did you go?” Hirata circled Tamura, keeping his face in view.

“I inspected Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s army camp outside town. Eight of my men were with me. You can ask them.”

Hirata knew that men loyal to Tamura would say anything for him, but instead of challenging the man, he waited. Unlike the actor, Tamura didn’t fill the silence with self-compromising blabber. But Hirata noticed that even while Tamura performed strenuous lunges, the puffs of vapor from his mouth ceased momentarily: Tamura was holding his breath, anxious for Hirata to believe his alibi… because it was false?

“Did meditation reveal to you that Daiemon killed your master and deserved to die?” Hirata said.

Tamura breathed again, apparently thinking that his alibi had stymied Hirata, who’d resorted to fishing again. “It’s common knowledge that Daiemon was a poor excuse for a samurai,” he said between whistling sword strokes. “He had too good an opinion of himself, too little respect for his elders, and too much appetite for women. He spread disgusting lies that my master had defected. Someone did the world a favor by getting rid of Daiemon. Bleeding to death in his whore’s bed was a fitting end to him.”

“Your attitude toward him sounds like a motive for murder,” Hirata said.

The sword flashed close to him, and he leaped back just in time to avoid a cut across the throat. Tamura said, “I wouldn’t dirty my blade on a rat like Daiemon.”

“What if he knew something about you that you’d rather keep secret? When he was at Senior Elder Makino’s estate, did he see you killing your master or covering up the murder?”

“Nonsense!” Tamura whacked at Hirata’s shins; Hirata sprang above the blade. “Even if I’d wanted to kill Daiemon, I wouldn’t have sneaked up on him in the dark, stabbed him, and run. That’s a coward’s way of killing.”

“Instead you’d have marched up to Daiemon on the street in broad daylight and cut off his head?” said Hirata.

“As a true samurai would.”

Hirata could picture Tamura doing such a thing. The murder of Daiemon did seem out of character for him—but perhaps that had been intentional. Hirata said, “Suppose you didn’t want anyone to know you’d killed Daiemon. You might have done it in a way that you thought no one would think you would, to avoid punishment from Lord Matsudaira.”

Tamura gave an abrasive chuckle as his sword sliced intricate, lightning-fast patterns in the air. “Deceit is dishonorable. A true samurai takes credit for his actions and accepts the consequences. When I carry out my vendetta, everyone will know what I’ve done. I’ll go to my fate with my head held high.”

His gaze deplored Hirata. “But I don’t expect you to understand. After all, you’re famous for your disloyalty to your master. Who are you to accuse me of disgrace?”

Hot shame and rage erupted in Hirata. Tamura stood still, his sword held motionless in both hands, the blade canted toward Hirata. With instinctive haste, Hirata drew his own weapon. Tamura grinned.

“Now we’ll see who’s the true samurai and who’s the disgrace to Bushido,” Tamura said.

The lantern light glinted on their blades. Hirata felt danger vibrating in the air between them, his heart drumming with a primitive urge for a battle to the death, his muscles tensed to lunge. But second thoughts gave him pause. He didn’t fear losing; although Tamura was an expert swordsman, he was some thirty years older than Hirata, and he’d never fought real battles, as Hirata had. Instead, Hirata realized that killing one of the suspects would hurt the investigation. Rising to Tamura’s challenge to defend his honor would only prove Hirata an incorrigible disgrace to Sano and condemn himself to death as a murderer.

Hirata stepped back from Tamura. He sheathed his sword and endured the contempt he saw on his adversary’s face. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

“Coward,” Tamura said.

Swallowing humiliation, fighting his temper, Hirata forced himself to speak quietly: “You know something about Makino’s murder that you haven’t told. If you killed him—or Daiemon—I will personally deliver you to justice.”

He left the building before Tamura could reply or his urge to fight could overrule his better judgment. Outside, he breathed in vigorous huffs, expelling evil thoughts. Learning self-restraint was painful. As Hirata walked through the troops milling on the martial arts training ground, he forced himself to concentrate on the investigation.