The Perfumed Sleeve (7 page)

“Are you sure you didn’t hear anything that night?” Sano asked Agemaki.

She stood by the door, hands folded in her sleeves. “I am quite sure.”

Sano wondered how she could not have heard Makino having sex on the other side of the flimsy partition or being beaten to death one room away. Agemaki murmured, “I took a sleeping potion. I slept very soundly.”

A reasonable explanation, Sano thought; but he pictured her sliding open the partition and stealing into Makino’s room in the dark of that night.

Her face suddenly contorted; tears flooded her eyes. She dabbed them with her sleeve. “I wish I had heard something,” she said, her voice broken by a sob. “Maybe I could have saved my husband.”

Sano pitied her even as he wondered if her grief was an act. “Have you any idea who killed him?”

She shook her head. “If only I did.”

“May I look around your room?” Sano said.

Agemaki gestured, granting him permission. He opened cabinets and chests, surveyed neatly folded garments and paired shoes. Otani stuck close by him, peering over his shoulder. While Sano searched for a murder weapon and bloodstained clothes, Agemaki watched mutely, indifferent. He found neither. Maybe she was the blameless, grieving widow she seemed.

“How long had you and Senior Elder Makino been married?” Sano asked her.

“Six years,” she said sadly.

Sano had known she wasn’t a first, longtime wife to Makino, whose sons were in their forties. She was too young to have borne them, and at least three decades younger than Makino.

“Were there any problems between you and your husband?” Sano said.

“... None whatsoever.”

“Had you quarreled recently?” Sano prodded.

“We never quarreled,” Agemaki said with pride. A fresh spate of weeping seized her. “We were devoted to each other.”

But they hadn’t shared a bed. And Makino had had a young, beautiful concubine, as did many rich husbands. Marital troubles often arose from such a situation. Sano wondered if Agemaki knew he was seeking a motive for her husband’s murder. If so, she would also know to deny any reason for killing him, as well as protect herself by appearing to cooperate with Sano’s inquiries.

“Who is your family?” Sano asked, curious about her.

“The Senge. They’re retainers to Lord Torii.”

Sano recognized the clan as a large, venerable one, and Lord Torii as
daimyo
of Iwaki Province in northern Japan. “Have you any children by Senior Elder Makino?”

Agemaki sighed. “I regret to say that I have none.”

“What will you do now that your husband is dead?” Sano doubted that Makino’s clan, which was notoriously venal and exclusive, would support a widow from a brief marriage who had no strong political connections to it. “Will you go back to your family?”

“No. My parents are dead, and I haven’t any close relatives. I will stay here until my official period of mourning is done. After that, I will live in a villa that my husband owned in the hills outside Edo. He left me the villa, along with an income to provide for me.”

Sano’s detective instincts roused. “How much is the income?”

“Five hundred
koku
a year.”

She spoke as if mentioning a trivial sum. Perhaps she didn’t realize that it equaled the annual cost of the rice necessary to feed five hundred men, a fortune large enough to maintain her in affluence for the rest of her life. But Sano had seen Makino’s villa, an opulent mansion with beautiful woodland surroundings and a breathtaking view. Even a gentlewoman, ignorant of finance, would recognize the value of such an inheritance.

“When did you learn that your husband had left you the property and income?” Sano asked.

“He showed me the document the day after we married.”

So she’d known before Makino died. The legacy hadn’t been an unexpected windfall. Agemaki might have decided long ago that she preferred freedom and inheritance over marriage to a decrepit husband. And perhaps she’d gained them by killing Makino the night before last. Yet there was no proof, and Sano still had other suspects to investigate.

“That will be all for now,” he told Agemaki.

As he and Otani crossed the walkway from the private quarters toward the main house, Otani said, “That woman doesn’t look capable of murder. She seems genuinely upset about Makino’s death. And if she’s responsible, she wouldn’t have told you about her legacy. Even an ignorant female must know that would direct suspicion toward her.”

“True,” Sano said, although he supposed that a clever one might volunteer the information, which he would have discovered sooner or later anyway. Her openness might be a ploy to make him think her innocent.

“What’s next?” Otani said.

“It’s time for a talk with Makino’s chief retainer,” Sano said.

“You’d better learn more from Tamura than you did from the widow.” Otani’s tone hinted at the wrath that Lord Matsudaira would inflict upon Sano if he didn’t prove someone else guilty of the murder and do it fast. “You were so easy on her that even if she’s guilty, you wouldn’t have gotten a confession. Talking to her was a waste of time.”

But Sano thought perhaps not, because of something that Otani didn’t appear to realize. Agemaki hadn’t seemed the least bit curious about how her husband had died. Maybe she was too shy and reticent to ask. Maybe she already knew because the information had filtered from the palace to her household. Or had she not needed to ask, because she knew firsthand what had happened to Senior Elder Makino?

7

After a lengthy search of Makino’s estate, Hirata located the concubine and houseguest in a room designed as a Kabuki theater. A raised walkway extended along one wall to the stage, a platform flanked by pillars supporting an arched roof. Striped curtains hung open from the roof and framed a backdrop painted with blue waves to represent the ocean. When Hirata and Ibe—Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s representative—entered the room, they found the handsome young houseguest and pretty girl standing below the stage, at opposite ends. Hirata sensed that they’d quickly moved to these positions from elsewhere when they heard him and Ibe coming. A furtive air surrounded them.

“Koheiji-
san
?” Hirata said.

The young man bowed. Today he wore robes in somber shades of blue, appropriate for funeral rites. “That’s me,” he said with a nervous smile that flashed strong white teeth.

Hirata looked toward the girl. “Okitsu?”

She bowed silently, with eyes downcast. Her hands fidgeted with her purple-gray sash that bound a kimono of lighter tint.

Hirata introduced himself, then said, “I’m assisting the
sōsakan-sama
with his investigation into Senior Elder Makino’s death. I must ask you both to cooperate in my inquiries.”

“We’re at your service.” Koheiji made an expansive gesture that indicated his willingness to fall all over himself to help Hirata, if necessary. “Aren’t we?” he asked Okitsu.

The concubine bent at the knees, as if she would rather sink into the floor. Her lovely eyes were wide and fearful.

“Hey, I heard that Senior Elder Makino was murdered,” Koheiji said to Hirata. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Hirata said, wondering if the man had reason to know already. But Koheiji’s nervousness didn’t necessarily mean he’d been involved in the murder. Anyone, whether guilty or not, would be nervous when chosen for questioning in connection with a crime punishable by death.

“Oh.” Koheiji hesitated, digesting the news. “May I ask how Senior Elder Makino died?”

Hirata thought Koheiji was a little too eager to learn how much he knew. “By violence,” he said, deliberately vague.

Koheiji seemed about to press for an explanation, then changed his mind. “Have you any idea who killed Senior Elder Makino?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Hirata said. "First, who are you?”

“I am a Kabuki actor and star of the Nakamura-za Theater,” Koheiji said. He struck a brief pose, lifting and turning his head at an angle that flattered his profile. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Okitsu gazed at him in admiration. Ibe leaned against the walkway and looked bored. Hirata said, “Sorry, I don’t see many plays.” Kabuki was popular among people from all classes of society, but Hirata had little time for entertainment. “What was your relationship with Senior Elder Makino?”

“He was my patron,” Koheiji said.

Wealthy Kabuki enthusiasts often gave money and gifts to their favorite actors, Hirata knew. “What were you doing in this estate on the night Senior Elder Makino died?”

“He hired me to give private performances to his household. I’ve been living here for, oh, about a year.”

What a cozy, lucrative situation, Hirata thought. Makino had been generous to his protege, despite a reputation for stinginess. But Hirata wondered why Makino, a man so concerned about security, had moved Koheiji into his home, when actors were renowned as unscrupulous ruffians.

“What did you do to deserve the honor of sleeping in Senior Elder Makino’s quarters?” Hirata said.

Caution veiled Koheiji’s brash countenance. “I was his friend.”

Hirata eyed the actor skeptically, because friendship wasn’t the usual reason that a man wanted a handsome youth nearby at night. “Were you also his lover?” Hirata said, recalling Makino’s injured anus.

“Oh, no,” Koheiji said. Then, as Hirata looked askance at him, he added, “Makino didn’t practice manly love. Neither do I. There was never any sex between us.”

As Hirata counted more denials than necessary, he heard a squeak from Okitsu. She clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes bulged with alarm at the involuntary sound she’d made. Did it mean she knew the actor was lying?

Koheiji must have read Hirata’s thought, because he spoke with defensive haste: “Hey, maybe I don’t seem like the kind of person that Senior Elder Makino would have for a friend, but sometimes he got tired of the other people he knew. He liked to drink with me and talk about the theater instead of government business.” Koheiji moved, blocking Hirata’s view of Okitsu. “It was a nice change for him.”

This explanation didn’t convince Hirata. Had Koheiji penetrated Makino during sex that night and caused the anal injury? Had a quarrel later arisen between them and led to Makino’s death? If Koheiji should turn out to be the killer, what a letdown! The actor was a nobody and an unworthy opponent, in Hirata’s estimation.

Yet Hirata must conduct as thorough an investigation of Koheiji as Sano would expect. He must obey Sano’s slightest wish, or mire himself deeper in disgrace. “When did you last see Senior Elder Makino alive?” he asked Koheiji.

“The evening of the day before he was found dead,” Koheiji answered, too readily. “At dinner, I performed for him and some of his retainers.”

“You didn’t have any contact with him after the performance?” Hirata said.

“None whatsoever.” Koheiji spread empty hands. “I haven’t the faintest idea what happened to him later.”

Hirata peered around Koheiji. He saw Okitsu’s queasy expression. “You didn’t speak to Senior Elder Makino, or go into his chamber that night?” Hirata pressed Koheiji.

“No, I didn’t,” Koheiji said. “If you’re hinting that I killed him, you’re wrong. With all due respect,” he added, giving Hirata a courteous bow and another dazzling smile. “I had no reason to murder my own patron.”

Ibe, who’d been listening in silence, now said, “That’s a good point.” He sauntered over to Koheiji. His nose twitched, testing the actor’s air. “Now that the senior elder is dead, you won’t get any more money or gifts from him, will you?”

“Sad but true.” Koheiji sighed.

“And you’ll have to move out of Edo Castle,” Ibe said.

“Yes,” Koheiji said.

Consternation filled Hirata. “Excuse me, Ibe-
san
, but I’m conducting this interview.”

Undaunted, Ibe said to Koheiji, “I’ve seen you in plays. Your acting is good but nothing special.” Koheiji drew back from Ibe, miffed at the slight. “Without Makino’s patronage, you’d never have gotten your starring roles.”

“You’re just supposed to observe,” Hirata said, angry even though his own direction of thought paralleled Ibe’s. “Stay out of this.”

“In fact, Makino was worth more to you alive than dead, wasn’t he?” Ibe asked the actor. When Koheiji nodded, Ibe turned to Hirata. “Therefore, this man didn’t kill Makino.”

“He’s right.” Koheiji’s surly expression said he hadn’t forgiven Ibe, but he moved to closer to him, glad of any ally under the circumstances. “I’m innocent.”

“That’s for me to determine,” Hirata said. Ibe was undercutting his authority as well as intruding on his business. “Stop interfering, or I’ll—”

“Throw me out?” Ibe smirked. “You can’t, because I’m here under orders from Chamberlain Yanagisawa.”

Hirata gritted his teeth.

“Besides, I’m just trying to keep you from wasting your time on an innocent man,” Ibe said.

“Listen to him,” Koheiji eagerly urged Hirata. “He’s doing you a favor.”

Hirata eyed Ibe with contempt, for he knew that Ibe had other, less altruistic reasons to steer suspicion away from the actor. He asked Koheiji, “What did you do after you performed that evening?”

“I went to take off my costume and makeup.”

“Show me where.”

Ibe rolled his eyes, signaling that he thought Hirata was wasting more time. As the actor led him and Hirata out of the theater, the concubine lingered.

“You come, too,” Hirata told her.

She reluctantly trailed them into the private quarters. There, Koheiji showed Hirata the room he occupied on the opposite end of the building from Makino’s. The actor had furnished his lair as a theatrical dressing room. A table under a lantern held brushes and jars of face paint. On wooden stands hung kimonos assembled with cloaks, surcoats, trousers, and a suit of armor. Wooden heads on shelves wore helmets.

“I specialize in samurai roles,” Koheiji said.

That explained his hairstyle—the topknot and shaved crown usually reserved for the warrior class. While Ibe examined the armor and Okitsu hovered at the door, Hirata looked inside a trunk. It contained swords, daggers, and clubs.

“Those are my props,” Koheiji said.

Hirata lifted out a sword. Its blade was made of wood, as were the other weapons, so they wouldn’t cut anyone during simulated fights onstage.

“There’s no blood on those,” Koheiji said.

“How do you know what I’m looking for?” Hirata said.

The actor shrugged and smiled. “It was just a guess.”

Hirata sensed that Koheiji enjoyed matching wits with him. He grew increasingly sure that Koheiji knew more about the murder than he would admit. But although a club from the trunk could have killed Senior Elder Makino, the actor seemed too smart to leave incriminating evidence in his room. Hirata opened the cabinet. He beheld compartments crammed with clothes, shoes, and wigs; stacks of handbills displayed Koheiji’s portrait and advertised his plays.

“Please allow me,” Koheiji said.

He carefully lifted out and displayed garments for Hirata’s examination. Hirata supposed that if Koheiji had gotten blood on his clothes while beating Makino, he’d have destroyed them, but Hirata had to look anyway. He predicted that the clever actor would soon offer an alibi in an attempt to clear himself.

“You won’t find any proof that I killed Senior Elder Makino,” said Koheiji, “because I didn’t. In fact, I couldn’t have. I was here, in this room, all night. And I have a witness to prove it.”

There he went, Hirata thought. “Who might that be?” He could already guess.

“Okitsu,” the actor said, proving him right. “She can vouch for my innocence.”

Hirata turned to the concubine, who huddled in the doorway. “Is that true?”

She gulped and nodded. Hirata beckoned her, and she crept toward him like a child expecting punishment.

“You were here, in this room, with Koheiji-
san
, the night Senior Elder Makino died?” Hirata said.

“Yes, she was,” Koheiji said.

“Let her speak for herself,” Hirata said.

Okitsu quailed under his scrutiny; she replied in a barely audible whisper, “I was here.”

“All night?” Hirata said. If Koheiji needed to invent an alibi, he shouldn’t have picked such an unconvincing partner. Perhaps he’d not had any other choice.

“She came while Senior Elder Makino and his men were still drinking after their dinner,” Koheiji said. “She stayed until morning, when Tamura-
san
found the senior elder dead, and we heard all the commotion.”

Hirata signaled the actor to shut up. “A murder investigation is a very serious matter,” he sternly told Okitsu. “Anyone who lies will go to prison. Do you understand?”