The Concubine’s Tattoo

32

Morning brought milder weather, with a south wind blowing in from the sea. Puffy white clouds, like the stylized designs painted on Chinese porcelain, floated in the cerulean blue sky as Sano and Hirata rode along the Great North-South Road, Edo ’s main thoroughfare. Merchants slid open the wooden shutters of their shops, revealing fine furniture, paintings, lacquerware, and fabrics; servants mopped doorsteps. The street began to fill with peddlers and tea vendors, peasants calling cheerful greetings to one another, orange-robed priests with begging bowls, ladies riding in palanquins, mounted samurai.

Sano said, “We need to talk, Hirata-san.”

Hirata felt a constriction of his veins, heart, and windpipe. “Yes, sōsakan-sama,” he said heavily.

“The false case against Lady Keisho-in and Priest Ryuko was primarily Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s doing,” Sano said, “with coincidental supporting evidence from the diary, Harume’s father, and Choyei’s murder. But another person contributed to the fiasco that could have cost us our lives, if not for my wife’s independent investigation: Lady Ichiteru.”

His expression grave, Sano spoke with reluctance, obviously no more eager for this conversation than Hirata. “You were responsible for questioning Ichiteru, but somehow you managed to learn nothing at all during your first interview with her. When I asked you what the problem was, you avoided answering. It isn’t like you to be evasive-or incompetent-but I let the matter go because I trusted you to work things out yourself. I trusted your detective instincts and accepted Ichiteru’s statement without corroborating testimony, as you did. Now I see that I made a mistake.”

Shame assailed Hirata. He’d betrayed his master’s trust, an unforgivable sin. A long night spent in self-recrimination had increased his guilt. Now Sano’s words tore his spirit. The beauty of the day, the sunlight that sparkled on the canals, seemed to mock his woe. He longed to die on the spot.

“Something’s wrong,” Sano said, “and I can’t ignore it any longer. When Ichiteru told you about overhearing Keisho-in and Ryuko plotting to kill Harume, what made you so ready to believe her? You know that criminals often lie to incriminate other people and divert suspicion from themselves. What happened between you and Ichiteru?”

Hirata saw that Sano was less angry than concerned, more intent on understanding than chastising. Sano’s sympathy made him feel even worse, because it required an explanation when he would have preferred a sound beating. Reluctantly he poured out the whole miserable tale of Ichiteru’s seduction, his own gullibility. He forced himself to watch the dismay on Sano’s face. When he finished, he said, "There’s no excuse for what happened. I should have known better. Now I’ve disgraced myself and let you down.

Blinking away tears, Hirata drew a deep, tremulous breath. “I’ll leave today.” He would find a private place to commit seppuku, thereby redeeming his honor.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Alarm blared in Sano’s voice and eyes: He knew what Hirata was thinking. “You’ve made a bad mistake, but it’s the first since you entered my service. I’m not going to dismiss you, and I forbid you to leave!”

Then he said more calmly, “You’re punishing yourself harder than I I ever could. I forgive you; now, you do the same. We’ve no time to waste dwelling on what’s past. I need you to go to Daikon Quay and see if you can pick up any leads on Choyei’s murder. Then visit the scene of the dagger attack on Lady Harume-maybe something there will point us to her killer.”

“Yes, sōsakan-sama.” Relief eased the constriction inside Hirata; he could breathe again. Sano was giving him another chance! “Thank you.”

Yet his guilt remained. Opposing purposes warred in him. He must make up for the trouble he’d caused. Lady Ichiteru had nearly ruined the most important thing in his life-his relationship with his master. He was furious at her for manipulating him, and craved revenge, but he still wanted her. And though her lies made her a stronger suspect than ever, he wanted to believe in her innocence, because if she turned out to be the killer he would doubt his own judgment forever. He would never again trust himself to decide whether someone was guilty; he would dread missing clues. He would anticipate failure, making it inevitable.

Forcing a semblance of rationality, Hirata said, “We know that it was a man who stabbed Choyei, so Lady Ichiteru is innocent of that crime.” Hirata suppressed the thought that she could have hired someone to buy the poison, then assassinate the drug peddler. “Still, she probably knows something about Harume’s murder. I request permission to confront Lady Ichiteru and get the truth out of her.”

Instead of answering at once, Sano gazed into the distance, watching an oxcart toil up the road. Then he said, “I’m ordering you to stay away from Lady Ichiteru. You’ve already lost your objectivity toward her, and the penalty for consorting with the shogun’s concubine is death; you can’t let it happen again. Reiko will question Ichiteru. While you’re investigating Choyei’s murder and the attack on Harume, you can look for connections to Ichiteru, but leave her alone.” He added, “I’m sorry.”

A fresh wave of misery and shame overwhelmed Hirata. Sano didn’t trust him anymore. Would that he’d never met Ichiteru! The need for revenge consumed him.

They’d reached the junction with the highway leading north out of Edo, and Sano said, “I’m off to Asakusa. I’ll see you back at the house later.” He peered at Hirata with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, sōsakan-sama,” Hirata said, then watched Sano ride away. But he wasn’t all right, and he wouldn’t be until he regained Sano’s trust. As he headed toward Daikon Quay, he decided that the only way to do that was to uncover the evidence that would ultimately identify Lady Harume’s killer.

Several hours of canvassing the area around the scene of Choyei’s murder eroded Hirata’s hopes for salvation. The rooms in the adjacent lodging houses belonged to single males-dockworkers and laborers-who were away at their jobs when Hirata called, and had probably been absent during the murder, too. Thus Choyei’s killer had slipped through the alleys unobserved. In the nearby commercial district, Hirata had no better luck. He questioned people who recalled seeing many men dressed in cloaks and hoods for yesterday’s cold weather. The killer had easily blended with the crowd. By noon, Hirata was tired, discouraged, and hungry. Above a row of storefronts off the quay, he noticed a sign advertising fresh eel. He went inside to fortify body and spirit.

The small dining room at the front was jammed with customers who sat on the floor, scooping food into their mouths with chopsticks. In the rear kitchen, huge rice pots simmered. Cooks flung wriggling eels on chopping blocks, split them from gill to tail, cut off the heads, and extracted the bones. The long strips of meat, skewered on bamboo sticks and basted with soy sauce and sweet sake, roasted over an open fire. Clouds of pungent smoke whetted Hirata’s appetite and evoked a sharp pang of nostalgia. The restaurant reminded him of establishments he’d frequented during happier days as a doshin. He’d been so confident then; how could he have known his career would founder upon a woman’s treachery?

Hirata sat, then ordered a meal from the proprietor, a stout man with missing finger joints on both hands. Customers and staff exchanged gossip. The place was clearly a popular local meeting place. Maybe this trip didn’t have to be a waste of time after all.

The proprietor brought Hirata’s food: chunks of grilled eel and pickled eggplant on rice, with a pot of tea. Hirata introduced himself, then said, “I’m investigating the murder of a peddler not far from here. Have you heard about it?”

Wiping his sweaty brow with a rag, the man nodded. “Lots of bad things happen nowadays, but it’s still a shock when it’s someone you know.”

Hirata’s interest stirred. “You knew him?” This was the first person to admit an acquaintance with Choyei, who seemed a recluse without friends or family.

“Not very well,” the proprietor confessed. “He never talked much; kept to himself. But he ate here often. We had a deal: he let me buy things cheap, and I took messages from his customers. He roamed all over town, but word got around that he could be reached here.” The proprietor glanced at the Tokugawa crests on Hirata’s garments, then said, “Mind if I ask why a high-ranking official like you is interested in an old peddler?”

“He supplied the poison that killed the shogun’s concubine,” Hirata said.

“Hey. Wait. I don’t know anything about poison.” The proprietor raised his hands defensively. “As far as I knew, the old man sold only healing potions. Please, I don’t want any trouble!”

“Don’t worry,” Hirata said, “I’m not after you. I just need your help. Did a man wearing a dark cloak and hood come looking for the peddler yesterday?”

“No. I can’t recall that anyone asked for him then.”

Disappointment descended upon Hirata: Perhaps this lead was a dead end after all. Reluctantly he said, “Were any of his customers women?”

“Oh, yes. Many, including fine, rich ladies. They bought medicine for female troubles.”

The proprietor relaxed, glad to turn the conversation away from murder, but Hirata’s heart sank. “Was one of the ladies tall, very beautiful and elegant, about twenty-nine, with a large bosom and lots of hair ornaments?”

“Could be, but not recently.” Eager to dissociate himself from the crime, the proprietor added, “Come to think of it, there haven’t been any messages or visitors for the old man in ages.”

A young, pimple-faced waiter, passing by with a tray of food, interjected, “Except for that samurai who came here just after we finished serving the morning meal yesterday.”

“What samurai?” Hirata and the proprietor said in unison.

The waiter distributed bowls of rice and eel. “The one I saw in the alley when I took out the garbage. He threatened to spear me if I didn’t help him find the peddler. So I told him where the old man lived. He left in a hurry.” The waiter looked stricken. “Was that who killed him? I guess I did the wrong thing.”

“What did he look like?” Hirata asked.

“Older than you. An ugly fellow.” The waiter thrust out his jaw, scowling in imitation. “He hadn’t shaved, and even though his clothes were the kind gentlemen wear, they were dirty, like he’d been sleeping outside.”

Elation buoyed Hirata. The description of the man and his weapon matched Lieutenant Kushida, placing him in the area at the time of Choyei’s death; he could have donned the hood and cloak later, as a disguise. His potential as a suspect outweighed that of Lady Ichiteru. Hirata ate his food and thanked the proprietor and waiter with large tips. Leaving the restaurant, he sent a messenger to Edo Castle with orders to search for Kushida around Daikon Quay. Then he rode toward the marketplace where an assassin had almost felled Lady Harume with a dagger.

“I’ll show you where it happened,” said the priest in charge of security at Asakusa Kannon Temple. A former Edo Castle guard, he had the powerful features of an iron war mask and a vigor undiminished by the amputation of an injured left arm, which had ended his past career. Hirata had called on him to review the official account of the attack on Lady Harume. Now he and the priest left the temple and walked along Naka-mise-dori, the broad avenue that led from the main worship hall to the great vermilion Thunder Gate.

Asakusa, a suburb on the bank of the Sumida River, straddled the highway that led to all points north. Travelers often stopped to have refreshments and make offerings at the temple. This convenient location made Asakusa one of Edo ’s most popular entertainment districts. Noisy crowds thronged the precinct, gathering around stalls that sold plants, medicines, umbrellas, sweets, dolls, and ivory figurines. The scent of incense mingled with the toasty smell of Asakusa’s famous “thunder crackers,” made of millet, rice, and beans. Consulting a clothbound ledger, the priest halted outside a teahouse. Nearby, audiences cheered three acrobats who spun iron tops on the rims of their fans while balanced on a plank perched atop tall bamboo poles supported by a fourth man.

“According to Lady Harume’s statement, she was standing here, like this.” The priest positioned himself at the corner of the teahouse, just inside the adjacent alley and half-turned away from the street. “The dagger came from that direction”-he pointed diagonally across Naka-mise-dori-“and struck here.” He touched a narrow slit in the plank wall of the teahouse. “The blade pierced Lady Harume’s sleeve. Any closer, and she would have been seriously injured-or killed.”

“What happened to the weapon?” Hirata asked.

“I have it here.”

From the ledger, the priest took a paper-wrapped package. Hirata opened this and found a short dagger with a tapering, sharply pointed steel blade, the haft wrapped in black cotton cord. It was the sort of cheap weapon used by commoners, easily hidden beneath clothing or under the bed… and sold everywhere.

“I’ll keep this,” Hirata said, rewrapping the dagger and tucking it under his sash, though he had minimal hope of tracing the owner. “Were there any witnesses?”

“The people nearby were all looking in the other direction, at the acrobats. Lady Harume had become separated from her companions and was very upset. Either she saw nothing, or fright made her forget. Vendors down the street noticed a man in a dark cloak and hood running away.”

Hirata’s heart gave a thump of excitement. The attacker had worn the same disguise as Choyei’s killer!

“Unfortunately, no one got a good look at the culprit, and he escaped,” the priest said.

“How?” This surprised Hirata. The Asakusa security force usually maintained order and subdued troublemakers with admirable efficiency. “Didn’t anyone chase after him?”

“Yes, but the incident occurred on Forty-six Thousand Day,” the priest reminded Hirata.

Hirata nodded in glum comprehension. A visit to the temple on this summer holiday equalled forty-six thousand visits on ordinary days, incurring the equivalent in blessings. The precinct would have been jammed with pilgrims. Additional stalls selling Chinese lantern plants, whose fruit warded off the plague, would have hindered the pursuit, while the confusion allowed the would-be assassin to flee. Sighing, Hirata gazed up at the overshadowing bulk of the temple’s main hall, the tiered roofs of the two pagodas. He envisioned the shrines, gardens, cemeteries, other temples, and secondary marketplace within Asakusa Kannon’s precinct; the roads leading through the surrounding rice fields; the ferry landing and the river. There were countless places for a criminal to hide, and just as many avenues for escape. Lady Harume’s attacker had chosen both time and place well.

“Do you have any other information?” Hirata asked without much hope.

“Just the names of everyone in the Edo Castle party. I gathered the women and their escorts at the temple and took statements from them, according to routine procedure.”

He held out the ledger, and from the list of Harume’s fifty-three companions, one entry leapt out at Hirata: Lady Ichiteru. A sick feeling engulfed his stomach. Pointing to his erstwhile lover’s name, he said, “What did she tell you?”

The priest turned pages and found the statement. “Ichiteru said she was having tea alone down the street when she heard Lady Harume scream. She claimed not to know anything about the attack, or who might have been responsible.”

But Ichiteru was a liar with no alibi. When Harume survived, had Ichiteru resorted to poison? However, Hirata didn’t want to prove her guilt, not even for the sake of closing the case, or the satisfaction of seeing Ichiteru punished. The prospect of success and revenge lost appeal when he imagined living the rest of his life knowing he’d been tricked by a murderer.

“Let me see that list again.” Finding Lieutenant Kushida noted there, Hirata experienced great relief. Kushida fit the assassin’s general description. The dagger wasn’t his preferred weapon, but he might have chosen it because it was more easily concealed than a spear. “What was Kushida’s story?”

“He was so distraught over his failure to protect Lady Harume that I couldn’t determine his whereabouts during the attack,” said the priest.

“Had anyone else seen him?”

“No. They’d split up to escort various ladies around the precinct. Everyone assumed Kushida was with a different group.” The priest frowned. “I know the lieutenant from my days at Edo Castle. I had no reason to believe he was a suspect in the attack, or that he would become a fugitive from the law. Otherwise I would have tried to trace his movements. I’m sorry to be of so little help.”

“Not at all,” Hirata said. “You’ve told me what I wanted to know.”

He was convinced that the same man had flung the dagger at Lady Harume, poisoned her, and silenced Choyei. Lieutenant Kushida had had plenty of opportunity to commit the crimes, and no alibis. Hirata foresaw his triumphant return into Sano’s good graces and his own self respect.

All he had to do was find Lieutenant Kushida.