Hirata gulped. “It was on her, uh,” he faltered. Did she really not know the location of the tattoo? Was she innocent? “It was, uh-”
The faintest amusement curved Lady Ichiteru’s lips.
“Above her crotch,” Hirata blurted. Shame washed over him like a tide of boiling water. Had Ichiteru deliberately manipulated him into using the crude term? She was so provocative, yet so elegant. How would he ever finish this interview? Wretchedly, Hirata stared at the stage.
Okiku’s song had ended. Now a sly, handsome samurai puppet sidled onto the stage. “Jimbei’s younger brother Bannojo is secretly in love with Okiku and wants her for himself,” the chanter narrated. Bannojo beckoned to Ofuji. Unobserved by the blind Okiku, the pair conspired. Jealous Ofuji agreed to let the covetous Bannojo into the house that night. The music turned discordant. Murmurs of anticipation swept the audience. Hirata grasped at the shreds of his professional demeanor. “Had you been in Lady Harume’s room prior to her death?” he asked.
“It would degrade one to enter the chamber of a vulgar peasant. One just…” insinuation filmed Ichiteru’s covert glance “… doesn’t.”
If she hadn’t gone into Harume’s room, did that mean she couldn’t have poisoned the ink? Despite his police training, Hirata was unable to think clearly or follow the logic of the interrogation, because Lady Ichiteru’s remark had pierced the heart of his insecurity. He felt vulgar in her presence; it seemed she was rejecting him, as she had Harume, as unworthy of her regard. Humiliation edged his desire.
Onstage, a new backdrop appeared: a bedchamber, with a crescent moon in the window to indicate night. Beautiful Okiku lay asleep while Ofuji let Bannojo into the room. Warning cries came from the audience.
Okiku stirred and sat up. “Who’s there?” The chanter made her voice high, frightened.
“It is I, Jimbei, home from Edo,” the chanter answered for Bannojo. Then he explained, “His voice is so like his brother’s, and her longing for her husband so great, that she believes his lie.”
The couple sang a joyous duet. Then they tugged each other’s sashes loose. Garments fell away, revealing her large breasts, his upright organ. This was the advantage of puppet theater: scenes too explicit for live actors could be shown. Bawdy cheers filled the courtyard as Okiku and Bannojo embraced. Hirata, already too aroused, could hardly bear it. His manhood fully erect now, he feared that Lady Ichiteru and everyone else would notice his condition. Trying to sound businesslike, he said, “Have you ever seen a square, black lacquer bottle of ink with Lady Harume’s name written in gold on the stopper?”
An involuntary gulp caught in his throat. While Ofuji watched from outside the door, Bannojo mounted Okiku. Amid sinuous music, the chanter’s moans, and the audience’s raucous exclamations, the puppets simulated the sexual act. Hirata squirmed, but Ichiteru viewed the drama with tranquil detachment.
“When one sees a fancy container of ink… one naturally assumes that it is for writing letters…” Another veiled glance. “Perhaps letters of… love.”
The last word, spoken on a whisper, sent a shiver through Hirata. Lady Ichiteru raised her hand to her temple, as if to brush away a stray hair. Without looking at him, she lowered her hand, letting the wide sleeve of her kimono fall across Hirata’s lap. His loins throbbed at the sudden pressure of its heavy fabric; he gasped. Had she done it by accident, or deliberately? How should he respond?
He tried to concentrate on the continuing drama onstage, where morning had come, bringing the unexpected arrival of Okiku’s husband, Jimbei. Ofuji triumphantly informed him that his wife and brother had betrayed him. Jimbei, the stern, noble samurai, confronted his wife. Okiku tried to explain the cruel trick played upon her, but honor demanded revenge. Jimbei stabbed his wife through the chest. Ofuji begged him to marry her, swearing eternal love for him, but Jimbei stormed off in search of his duplicitous brother.
Under cover of her sleeve, Lady Ichiteru’s hand moved onto Hirata’s thigh. She began to massage it. Hirata felt her touch as if against his naked flesh, warm and smooth. Breathing hard, he hoped the audience was too engrossed in the play to see. Lady Ichiteru’s impassive expression didn’t change. But now he knew that her provocation was intentional. She had maneuvered their whole encounter to this point.
In the city marketplace, Bannojo learned of Okiku’s death. He rushed to the house and slew the treacherous Ofuji. Just then Jimbei arrived. Accompanied by wild music, the chanter’s cries, and shouted encouragement from the audience, the brothers drew their swords and fought. Hirata, almost oblivious to the drama, felt his own excitement rise as Lady Ichiteru’s hand crept stealthily to his groin. This shouldn’t be happening. It was wrong. She belonged to the shogun, who would have them both killed if this dalliance became known. Hirata knew he should stop her, but the thrill of forbidden contact held him immobile.
Ichiteru’s finger circled the tip of his manhood. Hirata swallowed a moan. Around and around. Then she grasped the rigid shaft and began to stroke. Up and down. Hirata’s heart thudded; his pleasure mounted. Onstage, the wronged husband, Jimbei, delivered the fatal slash to his brother. Bannojo’s wooden head flew off. Up and down moved Ichiteru’s hand, her movements expert. Tense and breathless, Hirata approached the brink of climax. He forgot the murder investigation. He no longer cared if anyone saw.
Then Jimbei, overcome with grief, committed seppuku beside the corpses of his wife, brother, and sister-in-law. Suddenly the play was over, the audience applauding. Ichiteru withdrew her hand.
“Farewell, Honorable Detective… this has been a most interesting meeting.” Eyes modestly downcast, fan shielding her face, she bowed. “If you need my further assistance… please let me know.”
Hirata, denied the release he craved, gaped in helpless frustration. From Ichiteru’s demeanor, the incident might never have taken place. Too confused to speak, Hirata rose to leave, struggling to recall what he’d learned from the interview. How could a woman he wanted so much be a cold-blooded killer? For the first time in his career, Hirata felt his professional objectivity supping.
From behind the stage curtain, the chanter’s solemn voice intoned, “You have just seen a true story of how treachery, forbidden love, and blindness caused a terrible tragedy. We thank you for attending.”
11
Eta corpse handlers placed the shrouded body on the table in Dr. Ito’s workroom at Edo Morgue. Sano and Dr. Ito watched as Mura unwrapped the white folds of cloth from Lady Harume. Her eyes had dulled, and encroaching decay had blanched her skin. The foul, sweet odor of rot tainted the air. She still wore the soiled red silk dressing gown; blood and vomit still smeared her face and tangled hair. Hirata had indeed made sure that no one tampered with the evidence. Having known what to expect, Sano experienced only a momentary pang of revulsion, but Dr. Ito seemed shaken.
“So young,” he murmured. As morgue custodian, he had examined countless bodies in worse condition; yet lines of pain deepened in his face, aging him. He said in a bleak voice, “I had a daughter. Once.”
Sano recalled that Ito’s youngest child had died of a fever at about the same age as Harume. He’d also lost contact with his other children upon his arrest. Sano and Mura stood silent, heads bowed in respect for their friend’s grief, so seldom expressed. Then Dr. Ito cleared his throat and spoke in his normal brisk, professional manner. “Well. Let us see what the victim can tell us about her murder.”
He walked around the table, studying Harume’s corpse. “Dilated pupils; muscular spasm; vomiting of blood- symptoms that confirm my original diagnosis of poison by Indian arrow toxin. But perhaps there is more to learn. Mura, would you please remove her garment?”
Despite his unconventional nature, Dr. Ito followed the custom of letting the eta handle the dead. Hence, Mura performed most of the physical work of examinations, under his master’s supervision. Now he took a knife and cut the robe away from Harume’s rigid form. The dark nipples and tattoo contrasted harshly with her waxen pallor. Her limbs were smooth and shaved hairless, her skin without blemish. Sano felt rude to violate the privacy of this woman who had obviously taken care over her personal grooming.
Dr. Ito bent over the corpse’s midsection, frowning. “There’s something here.” He spread a white cotton cloth over Lady Harume’s abdomen, then pressed his hands against her, the cloth shielding him from the polluting contact with death. His fingers palpated and squeezed.
“What is it?” Sano asked.
“A swelling. It may be an artifact of the poison, or some other unrelated abnormality.” Dr. Ito straightened, his expression grave as he met Sano’s eyes. “But I’ve treated many female patients in my medical career. Unless I’m mistaken, Lady Harume was in the early stages of pregnancy.”
