“But we won’t know which it will be for a while yet,” Sano said. “The shogun is ill, and has issued orders that he doesn’t want to be disturbed. I wrote a report explaining what I did at the trial and left it with the shogun’s secretary. But Magistrate Aoki will have sent a report, too. We’ll just have to wait and hope that when the shogun reads the reports, he likes my side of the story better than Aoki’s.”
Dread pervaded the atmosphere as they sat holding their tea bowls. To boost morale, Sano said, “For now we’ll proceed as if the investigation will continue. I’ve got some new leads.” He told of his visits from officials who wanted to incriminate their enemies. “They may be spurious, but we’ll have to check them. What have you learned today?”
“I’ve found no trace of Lady Wisteria or her Hokkaido lover,” Hirata said, eyes downcast. “They weren’t at any of the Suruga teahouses or Fukagawa noodle shops, and I searched them all. I’m beginning to wonder if the man doesn’t exist, and the pillow book isn’t genuine.”
Disappointment burdened Sano’s spirits, because if he was to convince the shogun that the inquiries should go on, he needed better justification than a lot of dead ends. “It’s too early to give up,” he told Hirata. “Keep looking.”
Reiko said, “I may have found something important.” Her manner was cautious but hopeful. She described meeting Lady Wisteria’s family, and what she’d heard at their home. “That Wisteria tried to steal her mother’s husband, and ruined her mother’s clothes as revenge for selling her into Yoshiwara, shows her to be a selfish, mean person.”
“And therefore a good murder suspect, even if what happened when she was young has no direct bearing on Lord Mitsuyoshi’s death,” Hirata said, looking cheered by the new development.
However, Reiko’s description of Wisteria disturbed Sano profoundly. The courtesan had lied to him about her past, and he realized that he knew even less about her than he’d thought. The idea that his former lover was the killer revolted Sano. But if he proved that Treasury Minister Nitta was innocent, the list of suspects would shrink, and the odds that Wisteria was guilty would rise.
“I may also have some clues to where Lady Wisteria has gone,” Reiko said. “She had a childhood friend named Yuya. After I left her mother’s house, I questioned the neighbors. They said Yuya works in a bathhouse somewhere in town. Maybe Wisteria took shelter with her.”
“I’ll have my detectives search the bathhouses,” Sano said.
“A man bought Wisteria’s freedom about four years ago,” Reiko said. “Her mother doesn’t know how Wisteria got back in Yoshiwara, or the name of the man. But he was rumored to be a high-ranking samurai official. I think I should try to find out who he is, because he might be able to lead us to Wisteria, if Yuya can’t.”
Dismay jarred Sano. A hum of alarm began in his head as a bad day turned worse. Just as he’d feared, Reiko’s inquiries concerning Lady Wisteria had led to him.
A little frown of uncertainty puckered Reiko’s forehead as she sensed the change in atmosphere. “Is something wrong?”
Sano noticed Hirata watching him to see whether he would tell Reiko about his relationship with Lady Wisteria. Must he now reveal what he’d hidden from his wife? If they were to proceed with the investigation together, what choice had he? Panic besieged him.
Just then, a manservant appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me, master,” he said to Sano, “but a letter has just arrived for you. The messenger said it’s urgent.” He proffered a scroll case made from a short cylinder of bamboo, sealed with wooden plugs at the ends.
“Thank you,” Sano said. Never had an interruption been so timely. Awash in relief, he opened the case, unrolled and read the letter.
If you want to learn something important about the murder of Lord Mitsuyoshi, go to the house in the hills that belongs to the hokan Fujio.
There was no signature on the message, but it did include directions to the house.
Sano, Hirata, and a squadron of detectives and troops followed the directions into the hills north of Edo. They rode along a winding highway that climbed the forested slopes. Frigid wind ripped the smoke from their lanterns and the breath from their lungs. The horses galloped on hard earth that had borne little traffic since summer, when Edo ’s citizens took to the hills for relief from the heat. The cold fire of sunset burned above the leafless trees; patches of snow reflected pink upon the ground. In the darkening sky rose the moon, a radiant silver crescent flligreed by shadows, suspended amid stars.
“When I told Fujio that I wanted to search his house, I had a feeling he was hiding something,” Sano said to Hirata. “Now I think he didn’t want me to know he has another house besides the one in Imado where he lives.”
“I hope we find something worthwhile.” Hirata echoed Sano’s hopes.
Yet they both harbored skepticism about the clue. Before leaving town, they’d tried to discover who had sent it. A castle messenger had delivered the letter, which the guards at the main gate had given him. The guards said a man had brought them the letter; but they couldn’t recall anything about him because they took so many messages from so many people. The letter was written on cheap, common paper, in a hand unfamiliar to Sano. Although he and Hirata feared a trick, they couldn’t afford to ignore the message.
The sunset faded to a dull red edge on the horizon, and darkness clothed the hills. Sano saw the shape of a house with a peaked roof and jutting veranda, clinging to a nearby hillside. “There it is,” he called to his companions.
They left the horses, with two soldiers to guard them, at the bottom of a steep, narrow trail. As Sano climbed the trail with Hirata, the detectives, and his troops, the cold worsened; curves in the path obscured what lay ahead. Tree trunks and underbrush confined the light from the lanterns in a minuscule space around Sano and his men. Nothing else moved in the forest; the only sounds were their footsteps in the rocky path, the huffing of their breath, and the distant ripple of a stream. But Sano recalled the many attacks on him since he’d become the shogun’s sosakan-sama.
Was the anonymous message the lure for an ambush?
The trail abruptly ended in a clearing. There stood the house, a dilapidated shack. It appeared to be an ordinary, cheap summer retreat, yet Sano’s instincts prickled, sensing evil.
“Beware,” he whispered to his men.
The guards led the advance, cautiously panning their lanterns as they stole through knee-high grass that rustled underfoot. Sano and Hirata followed, while the detectives brought up the rear, their alert gazes sweeping the area for signs of trouble. A lull in the wind stilled the forest; the stream rippled. Somewhere, a dog or wolf howled. As the group neared the house, the lanterns revealed weathered plank walls, a thatched roof, latticed windows, and a door framed by a webbing of vines.
Pausing near the threshold, Sano motioned for the guards to circle and scout the building. They obeyed, then returned, shaking their heads to indicate they’d seen no threats. At a gesture from Sano, they opened the door and shone the lanterns into the dark space within. The light penetrated a narrow, empty passage. Sano nodded; the guards preceded him and the others inside, along a bare, creaking wooden floor, beneath low rafters. The lanterns splashed their shadows across paper walls. Sano inhaled, trying to scent danger, but the cold had numbed his nose: He smelled nothing.
“There’s nobody here,” Hirata said, voicing what Sano perceived.
A slithering sound caused Sano’s heart to lurch; everyone started. Hands grasped swords. A guard flashed his lantern into a kitchen furnished with cooking utensils on shelves, and a plaster-encased hearth. It was vacant, the sound probably caused by vermin seeking food. Breaths fogged the air as everyone relaxed; yet as they moved to the doorway of the opposite room, Sano’s instincts blared a continuous warning.
Inside the room, tatami covered the floor; dried flowers bloomed from a vase in the alcove. A table held a cricket cage, sake jar, and folding fan-relics of summer. On a lacquer chest lay a few papers. Hirata fetched them and gave them to Sano.
They were musical scores, signed by Fujio.
One more room remained. As the group approached this, dread slowed Sano’s steps. Whatever he was meant to find must be there.
The cramped space he saw from the threshold appeared as abandoned and lifeless as the rest of the house. A swath of white muslin mosquito net hung from the ceiling and draped a futon. The futon held what at first looked to be a large, crooked bundle of fabric. Then Sano saw, protruding from one end of the bundle and out of the mosquito
