Sano Ichiro 10 The Assassin's Touch (2005) Page 5

  “How noble you are,” Yugao mocked. “I suppose it amuses you to toy with a hinin. Don’t you have anything better to do, you silly, worthless little goose?”

  “Don’t you speak to me that way! Show some respect!” Reiko ordered, now hot with fury. That an outcast dared to insult her, the wife of the chamberlain! “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Help me?” Yugao’s voice rose with incredulity. “Don’t make me laugh. What you really want is for me to tell you something that makes me look guilty. Then the magistrate can sleep easy after he sentences me to death.” A snide grimace twisted her lips. “Well, too bad for him. I refuse to go along with you.”

  Reiko couldn’t deny that she was honor-bound to follow her investigation either way it went, and any incriminating information Yugao gave would be used against her. In that case, Magistrate Ueda would condemn her with a clear conscience. Yugao might be deranged, but her logic was sound.

  “Whether you believe me or not, I’m your last chance to save your life,” Reiko said. “If you’re as smart as you think you are, you’ll tell me about the night your family was murdered.”

  “Oh, quit bothering me,” Yugao snapped. “Go away.”

  “Not until you answer my questions.” Reiko advanced on Yugao. “What really happened?”

  Yugao took a few paces backward. “Why don’t you just go home and write poetry or arrange flowers like the rest of your kind?”

  “Why did your parents and sister die?” Reiko said.

  She backed Yugao against the wall. Their antagonism heated the room as they stared at each other. Yugao’s mouth worked while her eyes gleamed with feral mischief. She spat straight into Reiko’s face.

  Reiko cried out as the gob of saliva hit her cheek. Recoiling from Yugao, she stumbled backward across the room. She wiped her hand across the warm wetness that slithered down her skin. It was as much a defilement as an insult. Such shock, outrage, and disgust filled her that she could only stammer and gasp. Yugao burst into jeering laughter.

  “That’ll teach you to pester me,” she said.

  Reiko experienced an overwhelming urge to draw the dagger from under her sleeve and teach Yugao a lesson of her own. Afraid she would kill the woman if they remained together a moment longer, Reiko stormed out the door.

  Yugao’s taunting voice followed her down the passage: “Yes, run away! Don’t ever come near me again!”

  The sun descended over the wooded hills west of Edo. Its fading light gilded the tile rooftops spread across the plain below the castle, the river that curved around the city, and the pagodas in the temple district. Wisps of black smoke rose from points scattered across the panorama. In the Nihonbashi merchant quarter, fire brigades comprised of men dressed in leather capes and helmets and equipped with axes raced through the narrow, winding streets on their way to fight blazes set by outlaws as well as caused by common accidents. Shopkeepers were busy dismantling their roadside displays of merchandise and taking them indoors. They closed and locked the shutters that covered their storefronts. Housewives leaned from balconies, calling their children inside. Laborers and craftsmen hurried home. At the gates between neighborhoods, sentries stood armed with clubs and spears. In the wake of the political upheaval, the city shut down early, anticipating the trouble that night often brought.

  Three samurai, dressed in plain, drab cotton garments and wicker hats, rode together on horseback through the rapidly emptying quarter. At a distance trailed a peasant pushing a wooden barrow used to transport night soil from the city to the fields. Two more mounted samurai followed the night soil collector. From his position between Detectives Arai and Inoue in the lead, Hirata glanced over his shoulder to make sure the barrow was still in sight. It contained Chief Ejima’s body, which he’d smuggled out of Edo Castle, hidden under a false bottom covered by a load of feces and urine from the castle’s privies. The guards at the checkpoints hadn’t bothered to inspect the malodorous barrow for stolen treasure. Nor had they recognized Detective Ogata, disguised as a night soil collector, who pushed the barrow. The two samurai behind it were also Hirata’s detectives, assigned to watch for spies following their party. They’d all left the castle separately, then joined up in town. Such were the precautions necessary for a clandestine trip to Edo Morgue.

  Hirata shifted in his saddle, trying in vain to find a comfortable position, as his horse’s every footfall jarred him. A part of his mind whispered that he shouldn’t have taken on this investigation. He gripped the reins and tried to concentrate on his duty to Sano, but other problems besides pain troubled him. Only six months ago he’d moved boldly through the world, but the world was a dangerous place for a cripple.

  Now he and his party entered Kodemmacho, the slum that housed Edo Jail and the morgue within it. Rundown shacks lined streets deserted except for a few wandering beggars and orphans. Hirata heard squabbling voices inside the shacks; they fell silent as his party passed, then resumed. Frightened faces peered at him from doorways. The late afternoon seemed darker here, the dusk hastening. The odors of cesspits, greasy fried fish, and garbage tainted the air.

  Hirata’s instincts suddenly tingled, warning him of a threat. Up the street, a band of six samurai rounded a corner, their dirty, worn-out clothes and unshaven faces marking them as rōnin. They walked with stealthy intent, like a pack of wolves on the prowl. As they spied Hirata’s party, their stride quickened to a run toward him. Steel rasped as they drew their swords. Hirata realized that they must be fugitive, low-level troops from Yanagisawa’s army. They were upon him so fast that he barely had time to draw his own weapon before one of them grabbed his ankle.

  “Get off your horse!” the outlaw shouted.

  Two of his comrades assailed Detectives Inoue and Arai, trying to pull them from their mounts. Hirata knew that horses were a valuable commodity to the outlaws, many of whom had lost their own during the battle. They could be used as transportation or sold for cash to buy food and shelter. Hirata lashed his sword at the outlaw, who at the same moment tugged hard on Hirata’s ankle. A fireball of pain shot up his leg and tore a yell from him. He went tumbling off his horse. He let go of the sword and flung out his hands to break his fall.

  Hirata’s body thudded on the dirt. More pain jarred him; he groaned and clutched his leg while a spasm knotted the muscles. The outlaw hooted with derisive laughter. He grabbed the reins of Hirata’s horse, which shied and whinnied. Hirata labored to pick up his fallen sword; he clambered to his feet. Detectives Inoue and Arai were still on horseback, fighting the other outlaws, who lunged, struck, retreated, and lunged anew. Steel blades clanged. Hirata swiped at the outlaw who was trying to mount his horse, but his blow lacked speed and force. The outlaw easily parried it. The counterblow knocked Hirata to the ground again. Arai and Inoue leapt from their mounts and rushed to help him, but the other outlaws surrounded them in a storm of blades that they fought fiercely to repel. Hirata swung again at his outlaw, who parried and laughed, still holding his horse by the reins. Overcome, Hirata lay on the dirt and rolled from side to side in a frantic attempt to avoid his tormenter’s sword that whizzed and sliced at him.

  Detective Ogata, who’d abandoned the night soil cart, came rushing to rescue him, dagger in hand. His two mounted men of the rear guard also galloped to his aid, swords drawn. The outlaws saw they had more opposition than they’d thought, fled down the road, and scattered into the alleys. The detectives gathered around Hirata.

  “Are you all right?” Inoue asked anxiously.

  Gasping and exhausted, his heart pounding from his close call, Hirata pushed himself upright. “Yes,” he said, his voice brusque. “Thank you.

  He was mortified that he’d been unable to defend himself—or capture the gang as he should have done. Inoue and Arai held out their hands, offering to help him rise, but he ignored them and struggled to his feet. He avoided his men’s gazes, lest he see pity in them. He sheathed his sword and climbed onto his horse.

  “Let’s go. We’ve got w
ork to do.” He added, “Don’t mention this to Chamberlain Sano.”

  As they resumed their progress, Hirata wondered how he would get through this investigation, or the rest of his life.

  * * *

  6

  How did you fare with Yugao?” Magistrate Ueda asked Reiko.

  They were seated in his private office, a sanctuary lined with shelves and cabinets that contained court records. A maid poured them bowls of tea, then withdrew.

  “I must say she wasn’t very cooperative,” Reiko said ruefully. She dabbed her cloth tea napkin against her face. Although she’d washed off Yugao’s saliva, she still felt its moist slime on her skin, as though the hinin had permanently contaminated it. “In fact, she did her best to make me think the worst of her and discourage me from doing anything that might save her.”

  Reiko gave her father an edited version of her talk with Yugao. She told him that Yugao had been rude to her, but didn’t repeat the insults; nor did she mention how Yugao had spat on her. She felt chagrined because she should have handled the situation better, although she didn’t know what she could have done differently. And she didn’t want her father to become offended on her behalf and punish Yugao. Despite Yugao’s behavior, Reiko still pitied the woman, for Yugao must have suffered much degradation in her life as an outcast, whether she was a murderer or not. Even a hinin deserved justice.

  “I’ll send Yugao back to jail for the time being. What was your overall impression of her character?” Magistrate Ueda said between sips of steaming tea.

  “She’s quite a nasty, bad-tempered person,” Reiko said.

  “Do you think she’s capable of murder?”

  Reiko pondered, then said, “I do. But I wouldn’t place much faith in a personal opinion based on one short meeting.” Now that her own temper had cooled down, her sense of honor required that she put aside her emotions and conduct a thorough, fair inquiry. And she had too much pride to fail. “I need to do more investigation before I can determine the truth about Yugao.” Too many unanswered questions remained. “And since she won’t help me, I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  “Very good.” Magistrate Ueda glanced at the window. The sun, fading with the approach of twilight, shone golden through the paper panes. He set down his tea bowl and rose. “I must return to the courtroom. I have three more trials today.”

  “And I should be going home.” Reiko also stood.

  Traveling through the city after dark was even more dangerous than usual. At night the outlaws marauded, and prudent citizens stayed indoors. Reiko wondered when she would sec Sano and hoped he wouldn’t be home too late, for she was eager to tell him about her new investigation.

  “Tomorrow, maybe I’ll find evidence that someone other than Yugao killed her family,” Reiko said. But at this moment, she had to admit she wouldn’t mind proving that Yugao was as guilty as she claimed to be.

  Although Hirata had been a frequent visitor to Edo Jail during his police days, he hadn’t seen the Tokugawa prison for a while. Now, as he and his detectives approached it, he observed that it hadn’t improved. The fortress-like structure still loomed above a canal that smelled like sewage; the water murkily reflected the setting sun’s orange rays. The high stone walls still wore a coat of moss. The same sullen guards peered from the watch turrets. The same aura of despair hung over the gabled rooftops within. Hirata and his men brought the cart that contained Ejima’s corpse across the bridge to the iron-banded gate. There, lanterns burned and a guardhouse sheltered two sentries.

  “We want to see Dr. Ito at the morgue,” Hirata told them.

  They promptly opened the gate. Hirata knew that Sano paid them a generous salary to admit visitors for Dr. Ito, ignore their business in the morgue, and tell no tales. Hirata led his men into the compound, past dingy barracks and the warden’s office building that surrounded the dungeon. He knew where the morgue was, but he’d never been inside; most people shunned it in fear of physical and spiritual contamination. Entering a courtyard enclosed by a bamboo fence, he found a low building with scabby plaster walls and a ragged thatched roof. As he and the other men dismounted, he looked through its barred windows.

  Its interior was furnished with cabinets and waist-high tables. Three male eta—the outcasts who staffed the jail—were washing naked corpses in stone troughs. A man came out the door. He was tall, in his late seventies, with white hair, prominent facial bones, and a shrewd expression; he wore a long, dark blue coat, the traditional uniform of a physician.

  “Dr. Ito?” said Hirata.

  “Yes?” the doctor said. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” When Hirata identified himself and his men, Dr. Ito’s face relaxed into a smile. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Hirata-san,” he said with a courteous bow. “Your master has spoken highly of you.”

  “He speaks highly of you, too,” Hirata said.

  “Is he well?” When assured that Sano was, Dr. Ito said, “I am glad to hear that. It has been over six months since I last saw him.”

  Hirata detected a wistful note in the doctor’s voice. As chamberlain, Sano was so closely watched that he didn’t dare associate with a convicted criminal. Hirata knew that Sano missed his friend and observed that the feeling was mutual.

  “How may I be of service?” Dr. Ito asked.

  “Chamberlain Sano has sent a body he’d like you to examine.” Hirata explained about Chief Ejima’s death.

  “I’m happy to oblige. Where is it?”

  Detective Ogata took the lid off the night soil cart. He lifted out the bin of stinking human waste and exposed Ejima, still dressed in his clothes, armor, and helmet, wedged in the hidden compartment. Dr. Ito called two of the eta outside to empty the waste bin. He told the third to carry the corpse indoors.

  “This is my special assistant. His name is Mura,” he introduced the man.

  Mura was gray of hair and stern of face. Hirata remembered Sano telling him that Dr. Ito had befriended Mura even though he was an outcast, and Mura performed all the physical work associated with Dr. Ito’s examinations. Now Mura laid Ejima’s corpse on a table. He positioned lanterns on stands near it. As Hirata, Dr. Ito, and the detectives grouped around the table, the smoky, flickering flames lit their faces and the dead man. Hirata thought they must look as if they were gathered to perform some weird religious ritual. His leg ached, and he hoped he could remain standing for the duration.

  “Please undress the body, Mura-san,” said Dr. Ito.

  The eta removed Ejima’s helmet. The face that appeared was almost boyish, with sleek, unlined skin, although Hirata knew that Ejima had been in his forties. In life he’d worn a habitual sly look that proclaimed secret knowledge; in death, his countenance was blank.

  “Can you figure out how he died without cutting him?” Hirata asked Dr. Ito. “I have to return him to Edo Castle. It wouldn’t do for people to guess he’d been examined.”

  “I’ll try,” Dr. Ito said.

  Everyone watched Mura work the armor and robes off the body. So far, there seemed nothing gruesome about the examination. Mura handled Ejima with gentle, respectful care. Soon Ejima lay naked, his torso marked with bloody red hoofprints and gouges where the horses had trampled on him. Dr. Ito donned white cotton mitts to protect himself from bodily excretions and spiritual pollution. He inspected Ejima’s head, turning it from side to side. His hands moved, pressing and probing, over the torso.

  “I feel broken ribs and ruptured internal organs,” he told Hirata.

  “But did I understand you to say that the witnesses saw Ejima collapse in the saddle?”

  “Yes,” Hirata said.

  “Then he was probably dead before he fell, and these injuries are not what killed him,” Dr. Ito said. “Mura-san, please turn the body.”

  Mura rolled Ejima onto his stomach. A dark stain had spread across his back. “The blood has pooled,” Dr. Ito explained, then carefully examined Ejima’s scalp. “There are no injuries here. The helmet protected
his head.” Circling the table, he pored over the body; he told Mura to turn it again, then continued his scrutiny. He shook his head and frowned.

  “Can’t you tell what caused his death?” Disappointment filled Hirata at the thought of returning to Sano empty-handed.

  Dr. Ito suddenly halted near the right side of Ejima’s head. He stooped, his gaze intent. An expression of surprise and heightened interest came over his face.

  “What is it?” Hirata said.

  “Observe this mark.” Dr. Ito pointed to a hollow in the facial bones between the eye and the ear.

  Hirata leaned close. He saw a small, bluish, oval spot, barely visible, on Ejima’s skin. “It looks like a bruise.”

  “Correct,” said Dr. Ito. “But it’s not from the injuries at the track. This bruise is more than a day old.”

  “Then it must have nothing to do with his death,” Hirata said, feeling let down. “Besides, a little bruise like that never hurt anybody.”

  But Dr. Ito ignored Hirata’s words. “Mura-san, please fetch me a magnifying lens.”

  The eta went to a cabinet and brought a round, flat piece of glass mounted in a black lacquer frame with a handle. Dr. Ito peered closely through it at the bruise, then gave Hirata a look. Enlarged, the bruise showed an intricate pattern of parallel lines and whorls. Hirata frowned in disbelief.

  “It’s a fingerprint,” he said. “Someone must have pressed against Ejima’s skin hard enough to bruise it. But I’ve never seen such fine detail in a bruise. What’s the meaning of this?”

  As Dr. Ito contemplated the strange bruise, wonderment shone in his eyes. “In all my thirty years as a physician, I’ve never personally seen this, but the phenomenon is described in the medical texts. It sometimes appears on victims of dim-mak.”

  “The touch of death?” Hirata saw his own amazement reflected on his men’s faces. The atmosphere in the room chilled and darkened.