21
The village of Imado, home to various Yoshiwara merchants and workers, lay across rice fields and marshes from the pleasure quarter. It contained a few streets of houses, shops, inns, and teahouses. Upon arriving in Imado with two detectives, Hirata proceeded to one of several villas on the outskirts, built by wealthy brothel owners.
A thatched roof spread over the interconnecting wooden structures that comprised Fujio’s house; a stone wall enclosed the surrounding garden and courtyard. Beyond the wall stretched fallow brown earth dotted with farmers’ cottages. Gauzy bands of white cloud streaked the pale blue sky. Sunlight brightened a chill, blustery morning as Hirata and the detectives dismounted outside Fujio’s gate and walked into the courtyard.
When Hirata knocked on the door, a boy answered. Hirata said, “We’re here to see Fujio.”
Eventually, the hokan came to the door, yawning. His handsome face was puffy, his hair mussed. He wore a blue-and-red checked dressing gown, and reeked of liquor and tobacco smoke. His bloodshot eyes blinked in puzzlement at Hirata; but he smiled and bowed gallantly.
“Sorry for my miserable appearance,” he said, “but I was out late last night. What can I do for you, masters?”
Hirata introduced himself, then said, “I need to talk to you. May we come in?”
“If this is about what happened to Lord Mitsuyoshi, I’ve already told the sosakan-sama everything I know.” Fujio rubbed his temples and winced. “Merciful gods, what a headache! I really shouldn’t drink while I perform.”
“It’s about your house in the hills,” said Hirata.
Dismay cleared the sleepiness from the hokan’s face. “Uh,” said Fujio. He took a step backward and bumped into two women who appeared in the entryway behind him. One was young, pretty, and pregnant, the other middle-aged and scowling.
“Who are those men?” the younger woman asked Fujio in a shrill, petulant voice. “What do they want?”
“It’s none of your business,” Fujio told her with obvious irritation.
“How can you be so rude to let your guests stand outside?” the older woman chastised him. “Invite them in.”
Fujio rolled his eyes. “My wife and her mother,” he explained to Hirata. “Could we please talk somewhere else?”
Hirata agreed. Fujio went to dress, and returned wearing a brown cloak and kimono over wide, striped trousers. He and Hirata walked down the lane toward the village, while the detectives trailed them. Ducks huddled in a ditch alongside the lane; in the distance, a peasant drove oxen across the sere landscape.
“My wife and in-laws don’t know I own the house, and I don’t want them to know. I bought it years ago, as a summer retreat.” Fujio eyed Hirata. “You married?”
“No,” Hirata said. After reading Lord Niu’s letter yesterday, he doubted he ever would be, unless he accepted his father’s choice of a bride. But he couldn’t give up on finding some way to make peace between the two clans so he could wed Midori.
“Well, when you do marry, you’ll understand that having a wife can really tie you down,” Fujio said. “Especially if you live with her parents. A fellow needs a place where he can have a little privacy.”
“And the company of lady friends?” Hirata said.
Fujio cracked a mischievous grin. “Well, yes. That house comes in handy for entertaining my female admirers. But I’d be ruined if my father-in-law ever learned that I was unfaithful to his daughter. He would throw me out. Besides, he owns the Great Miura brothel and has a lot of influence in Yoshiwara. I would never get any work there again.”
Was this the only reason Fujio wanted to keep the house a secret? Hirata said, “Tell me about the woman you’ve been keeping in the house.”
“What?” Fujio halted. “Nobody’s there now. I only use the place in the summer.” The daze from his hangover dissipated; he looked puzzled but sober. “Say, how did you find out about my house, anyway?”
“The sosakan-sama got a letter,” Hirata said. “We went there last night and found a dead woman in your bed.”
A cloud of breath puffed out of Fujio’s mouth, but no sound emerged. His surprise seemed genuine, though Hirata knew Fujio was an entertainer and skilled at dramatics.
“… A dead woman? In my house?” After a few more stammers, Fujio recovered enough composure to say, “Who was it?”
“We don’t know. Her head had been cut off and removed from the premises,” Hirata said, closely watching Fujio. “But she was dressed in what appear to be Lady Wisteria’s clothes.”
“Wisteria? Merciful gods.” Fujio staggered backward, as if physically shaken by the news. “What was she doing there?”
“You tell me.”
“Wait.” The hokan raised his hands palm-up. “If you think I killed Wisteria, you’ve got it all wrong. I don’t know how she got in my…”
A look of comprehension sharpened his eyes. “But I can guess. When we were lovers, I told her about my house. She must have remembered, and gone there because she knew it would be empty. She did it without my knowledge or permission. I had nothing to do with her dying.”
He could be telling the truth, Hirata thought-or improvising an explanation to protect himself.
“Tell me everything you did from the time Lord Mitsuyoshi’s murder was discovered, up to last night,” Hirata said.
The hokan pondered with intense concentration, clearly recognizing his need to demonstrate that he’d been nowhere near his secret house. “I was performing in the Owariya when Momoko ran into the party screaming that Lord Mitsuyoshi was dead. The Yoshiwara gate was shut, and before it opened in the morning, the police came and locked everyone in the quarter. When they let us go, I went home.”
“What did you do there?” Hirata said.
“I had dinner with my family,” Fujio said, “then went to sleep.” He added with pointed emphasis, “I was in bed all night, beside my wife.”
Hirata intended to check this story with the hokan’s wife and in-laws, although they might confirm what Fujio said whether it was true or not, to protect him. “And in the morning?”
“I went to Yoshiwara. There wasn’t much going on, so I sat around the teahouses, drinking and playing cards with friends.”
“Were you with them the whole time?” Hirata said.
“Not every moment, but I was never out of their sight long enough to go to the hills.” Yet Fujio slowed his speech, as if he saw danger looming ahead in his tale. “That night I performed at a party. The sosakan-sama met me there. After we talked, I entertained the guests until dawn. Then…”
From a distance echoed the ring of an axe, chopping wood. “Then what?” Hirata prompted, eager because they’d reached a critical time period. This morning he’d learned that Fujio had managed to shake the detectives assigned to watch him, and he’d been out of their sight from dawn until afternoon of that day, when they’d caught up with him in Yoshiwara.
“I visited a friend,” Fujio said reluctantly. “I was with… my friend until yesterday afternoon, when I went back to Yoshiwara to perform.”
“Who is this friend?”
“A woman.” Despite the cold, Fujio’s face was slick with sweat. “I can’t tell her name. She’s the wife of a patron.” He shook his head, deploring his own rakish behavior. “How do I get myself into these things?”
“If you want me to believe you were with this woman, she must verify what you’ve told me,” Hirata said.
“But I can’t let her,” Fujio protested. “Her husband is a prominent samurai. He has a bad temper. If he finds out about us, he’ll kill me.”
Tokugawa law permitted a samurai to kill a peasant and escape punishment. Fujio seemed caught between the threat of his mistress’s husband on one side and execution for murder on the other. The story sounded credible to Hirata, who began to doubt that Fujio had killed the woman. Fujio was clever; if he’d committed the crime, wouldn’t
