“The teacher.” Hirata figured it was wise not to mutilate the bodies of persons from such an important clan as the Hosokawa.
Mura fetched a long knife with a sharp steel blade. He cut the stained, dusty, dark green kimono and white under-robe off Usugumo, then positioned her on her back. She lay naked, arms bent upward, knees flexed. Her skin was white, smooth for a woman her age, her breasts and stomach firm. Her open mouth in her triangular cat’s face made her look as if she were hissing. Her red eyes glared as if she took offense at this rude treatment. Hirata shivered.
Directed by Dr. Ito, Mura made a cut that went straight down the middle of Usugumo’s chest then branched in two diagonal cuts across her stomach. He peeled back the flesh. When he opened her abdominal cavity, the strong, pungent odor of garlic arose.
“That’s one sign,” Dr. Ito said.
“Of what?” Hirata asked.
“Arsenic. It’s a mineral that’s been used in Chinese medicine for thousands of years, in small doses. In larger doses, it kills. It also delays putrefaction. The Koreans blend it into a drink that’s given to criminals of high political status who’ve been sentenced to death. More commonly, it’s a poison for rats.” Dr. Ito leaned over Usugumo’s body, his eyes agleam with fascination, and pointed. “Observe the other signs.”
Her abdominal cavity was as bright yellow as if coated with yellow paint. Hirata stared, amazed. He’d seen plenty of bodies eviscerated during combat, but nothing like this.
“The color is caused by the mixing of arsenic and bodily substances.” Dr. Ito added, “Arsenic is used by artists, as a pigment. Some have accidentally poisoned themselves by breathing the powder or licking their paintbrushes. Mura, please cut open the lungs and the stomach.”
Mura obeyed. The lungs were congested with lumps of clotted blood, the tissue covered with purple spots. The inside of the stomach was as red as a boiled lobster.
“Note the residue of the stomach contents. Perfectly preserved,” Dr. Ito said. “My diagnosis is confirmed.”
Hirata looked at the chewed-up rice, greens, and tofu in brown liquid. His own stomach felt queasy. “How was the arsenic administered?”
Dr. Ito examined Usugumo’s nose, mouth, and throat. Her tongue was thickened, the membranes red and enflamed. “She inhaled it, I would surmise. Although her digestive tract would look the same if it were taken in food or drink. Did you find any clues at the scene?”
Hirata removed the green paper packets from the pouch at his waist. “Incense samples from the game.”
Dr. Ito picked up the open packet and shook the small, round, dark brown pellets onto the table. “Let’s try a test.”
He went to a cabinet and fetched a pair of fine tweezers and a knife with a wide, flat blade. He lifted down a lantern from its hook on the wall. He held the knife over its flame until the blade glowed red-hot. Then he used the tweezers to pick up an incense pellet and drop it onto the hot blade. The pellet burned and smoked. There came the sweet incense odor, then the stench of garlic. Dr. Ito quickly carried the knife to the open window to disperse the fumes.
“The test is positive. Iron and heat plus arsenic produces a garlic smell. The arsenic was administered by way of this incense sample.” Dr. Ito added, “The women may have inhaled only a little poisoned smoke, but it went straight into their lungs and was enough to kill them. The incense probably continued burning after they were dead. The fumes accumulated inside the house and preserved their bodies.”
“So we know that the women were poisoned and how,” Hirata said, gratified yet disturbed. “If only we knew who did it.”
7
The top officials of the Tokugawa regime had once lived in fine estates within Edo Castle, in mansions surrounded by gardens and walls. Now their quarter was reduced to a few intact sections of buildings amid rubble heaps. Most of the residents had evacuated. Only one estate was still occupied. Here, sentries guarded the private chambers, a square building with rooms arranged around an inner courtyard. Its covered corridors were attached to nothing-the wings once connected to the chambers lay in pieces. The site was as still as a tomb.
Inside the chamber, he lay in bed beneath heavy quilts. The only light came from a barred window slightly open to vent the smoke from the sunken charcoal braziers. His muscles and bones ached. Pain throbbed in his head behind his sore, closed eyes. Suspended between wakefulness and nightmare, he breathed shallow sips of air. But his physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in his spirit, which wracked him every moment of every day. Emptiness yawned in his heart like a black cavern so deep that all the tears he cried could never fill it. The distant noise of shovels and pickaxes barely impinged on him while he mourned.
The floorboards squeaked as footsteps paused outside his room. The door slid open a crack. The cautious voice of his manservant said, “Master Yanagisawa- san? Are you awake?”
Yanagisawa lay still, his eyes closed.
“You have a visitor,” the servant persisted.
“I don’t want to see anyone.” Yanagisawa’s voice was rusty from disuse.
“It’s Kato Kinhide. From the Council of Elders.”
Kato was an old ally of Yanagisawa’s, from the days when Yanagisawa had still cared about politics. “Tell him to get lost.”
“I will not get lost,” said a man’s irate voice. “Not until I’ve talked to you.”
The door scraped all the way open. Yanagisawa screwed his eyes shut tighter. Kato entered the room, made a sound of disgust, and said, “It smells like a wild animal den in here! Don’t you ever wash?” He tripped over trays of food that Yanagisawa had barely touched. “And when was the last time you ate a good meal? Not since Yoritomo died, I’ll wager.”
Yanagisawa had forbidden everyone to speak Yoritomo’s name or mention his death. That his beautiful, beloved son was gone was unbearable enough. Hearing the fact spoken made it even worse. Anger at Kato’s insensitivity shook him out of his torpor. His eyelids, crusted with dried tears, peeled open. Kato moved across his bleary vision, a thin figure with wide shoulders exaggerated by the epaulets of his surcoat, the topknot protruding from his narrow head. As Kato flung open windows, cold, fresh air blew into the room.
“Don’t.” Yanagisawa pulled his hand from under the quilts and raised it to shield his eyes from the light.
Kato stood by the bed, staring down at him. “Merciful gods.” Kato had a flat face with leathery skin, its features so minimal that they looked like slits cut for eyes, nostrils, and mouth. He studied Yanagisawa’s long, scraggly hair, mustache, and beard, sallow skin, sunken eyes, and the fingernails as long and curved as talons. “You’re even worse than I expected.”
Yanagisawa didn’t care what Kato thought; nor did he care that he’d lost the beauty in which he’d once taken great pride. “You’ve talked to me. Now you can go.”
“I’m not finished.” Urgency did away with the respect that Kato owed to Yanagisawa. “I came to tell you it’s time to stop playing dead and pull yourself together. It’s been almost a year.”
A stab of offense pierced the barrier that Yanagisawa had built between himself and his fellow humans. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I know that Yoritomo had his throat cut. I know he died a horrible, premature death,” Kato said with brutal frankness. “I also know that letting yourself go to hell won’t bring him back.” He noticed the tears welling in Yanagisawa’s eyes. “Unless you snap out of it, you’ll have a lot more to cry about besides Yoritomo.”
“Leave me alone,” Yanagisawa whispered.
Kato went on, relentless: “Your political faction is in shambles. Allies have been deserting you like water leaking from a punctured bladder. Pretty soon you can forget about regaining the status and power you lost when the shogun blamed you for that fiasco at the palace last year. You can say good-bye to your hope of ruling Japan.”
“I don’t care about that anymore.” Yanagisawa pulled the quilt over his head.
Kato tore it off. The slits of his eyes blazed with anger. “Well, I care! So do the others who’ve stood by you
