“As far as I’m concerned, you only made everything worse.” Keisho-in crossed her plump arms and pouted at Reiko.
Disconsolation filled Reiko because she couldn’t deny that Keisho-in spoke the truth. She heard muttered conversation from the guards now stationed outside the door. Sounds of footsteps and stirring below indicated that other men inhabited the tower’s lower levels. Even if she somehow managed to get out of the room again, she could never sneak past them all. Reiko stretched out her legs and unhappily contemplated her naked feet. The guards had taken the shoes and socks from all the women. Even if they somehow located a boat and crossed the lake, how far could they get barefoot, before the kidnappers caught up with them?
Reiko mourned that her efforts had decreased their chances of gaining freedom. If she couldn’t save them, could anyone?
The merchant Naraya operated his soy sauce factory in the Kanda district, north of Edo Castle. The factory inhabited a building that had a shop at the front and occupied a block across the road from a canal, where barges floated along water edged with houseboats. Bridges led between populous neighborhoods on both sides of the canal.
Sano, riding up the street with four detectives, smelled the factory before he saw it. The rich, salty odor of soy sauce pervaded the warm air. He and his men dismounted outside the factory and ducked under the blue entrance curtain that bore Naraya’s name in white characters. Inside the store, ceramic jars filled shelves that lined the walls. Clerks waited on customers. Their chatter ceased as they saw the newcomers.
“I want to see Naraya,” Sano told a clerk. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the factory,” the clerk said, glancing at a curtained doorway at the rear of the room. “Shall I fetch him for you, master?”
“No, thank you. I’ll find him.” Sano wanted to catch his suspect off guard. As he led his men through the doorway, he counseled himself against jumping to conclusions about Naraya. He’d already erred in blaming the Black Lotus for the kidnapping. He couldn’t afford another mistake that would sidetrack the investigation. He must not ruin his chance for a fresh start.
They entered the cavernous factory. Smoke and steam diffused the sunshine from the windows and skylights. Aromas wafted from vats of soybeans boiling on charcoal hearths and wheat roasting in ovens. Sweating workers, clad in loincloths and headbands, poured steaming beans onto wooden pallets, ground the wheat in mortars, lugged tubs of malt and brine, and mixed the ingredients. Amid the activity bustled a middle-aged man dressed in a blue kimono.
“Gently, gently!” he admonished workers who were straining viscous, fermented brew through cloth bags. “Treat the product with respect, or it’ll go bad.”
His authoritative manner identified him as Naraya. He paused at a row of barrels, tasted their contents, then shook his head. “Not ready yet,” he told the workers. “Let the spirit of the soy sauce develop longer.”
Then Naraya caught sight of Sano and the detectives. Hastening over to them, he bowed and said, “Good day, masters. How may I serve you?”
Closer inspection showed Sano that Naraya was some fifty years old, with droopy cheeks and jowls. His skin, teeth, sparse gray hair, and the whites of his eyes had a brown tinge, as though he’d absorbed the soy sauce he manufactured. Brown stains discolored his fingernails and cheap cotton robes. Despite his status as one of Edo’s wealthy, prominent merchants, Naraya looked like a small-time shopkeeper.
Sano introduced himself, then said, “I’m investigating the kidnapping of Lady Keisho-in, and I need your assistance.”
“Oh. I see.” Naraya spoke in a hushed tone that recognized the gravity of Sano’s purpose, but he frowned as though mystified. “Of course I’ll gladly do whatever I can. May I first offer you and your men some tea at my house?”
“Let’s just step outside.” Sano didn’t want to waste time on formalities. As he and his detectives followed Naraya out the back door, Sano observed that Naraya’s confusion seemed genuine, as did his willingness to cooperate. Was Naraya therefore not the kidnapper?
But if he was, he would have anticipated that the ransom letter would direct suspicion toward Police Commissioner Hoshina’s enemies. He would have expected to be questioned, and prepared to act innocent.
They gathered in the alley between the factory and a warehouse. Trash containers, privy sheds, and night-soil bins fouled the air, but the alley was quiet and afforded Sano the privacy he wanted.
“This kidnapping is a terrible, terrible disaster,” Naraya lamented. “Such evil forces plague this world of ours. Your wife was among the ladies taken, wasn’t she?” he asked Sano. When Sano nodded, sympathy oozed from Naraya. “My sincere condolences.”
“Thank you.” Sano scrutinized the merchant. He wanted Naraya to be the Dragon King; he wanted to believe Naraya could deliver Reiko to him. He reminded himself that there were other suspects and he must not rush to judgment again.
“Tell me how I can help,” Naraya said, flinging open his arms. “Whatever you want of me, name it, and it’s yours.”
Was he sincere, or putting on a good show? Naraya seemed too ordinary to be the Dragon King, who’d assumed monstrous proportions in Sano’s mind. But a successful merchant, expert at bargaining with customers, was as good at theatrics as many a Kabuki performer.
Sano said, “Tell me about your relations with Police Commissioner Hoshina.”
Naraya flinched at the sound of Hoshina’s name. His smile vanished. “You seem to already know there’s bad blood between us,” he said, and his manner turned wary. “Old news travels far. I left Miyako and so did Hoshina- san, but one can never leave the past behind.”
“I understand that you blame Hoshina-san for the death of your daughter,” Sano said.
The merchant hesitated. Sano sensed Naraya’s wish to avoid discussing a painful subject, his fear of how anything he said might hurt him, and his need to air an old grievance.
Need prevailed. Naraya burst out, “It was his fault! My Emiko was my only child, and a sweet, innocent, harmless girl. Hoshina-san destroyed her for his own selfish purposes.”
Flushed and agitated, Naraya leaned toward Sano, eager to justify his ire. “Emiko was fifteen years old. She liked nice clothes, but I couldn’t afford to buy any because I wasn’t as well off as I am now.” Regret and guilt saddened Naraya’s voice. “One day Emiko saw a pretty red kimono hanging in a shop. She went inside, grabbed it, and ran.”
So this was the theft Hoshina had mentioned, thought Sano; not a serious crime, but a girl’s foolish impulse.
“Emiko wasn’t a thief,” Naraya said, passionate in his conviction. “She would have soon realized she’d done wrong and returned the kimono. Unfortunately, Hoshina-san happened to come riding along the street. He saw Emiko clutching the kimono, running away. He chased her and caught her. He marched her back to the shop. The proprietor identified the stolen merchandise. Hoshina arrested Emiko and took her to jail.”
Fury resonated in Naraya’s voice. “When I heard what had happened, I went to police headquarters. That was when I first met Hoshina-san. I tried to explain that Emiko had just made a mistake. But Hoshina-san said she was a criminal and would be sent to work as a courtesan in the pleasure quarter.”
Forced prostitution was the usual sentence for female thieves.
“I offered Hoshina-san a bribe to free my daughter,” said Naraya, “but he refused, even though the police usually will take bribes when the crime is minor.” Naraya glared through tears of outrage. “Later, I learned that Hoshina-san had just been promoted to the rank of commander, and he wanted to show everyone how tough he was. He wanted to make an example of Emiko, as a warning to other would-be thieves.”
This sounded just like Hoshina, and Sano detested him all the more. Sano had already begun having second thoughts about his decision to protect his enemy. He grew less confident that forestalling Hoshina’s death would prolong Reiko’s life. Would he have done better to renege on his promise and let the shogun comply with the ransom demand? What if the investigation proved that neither Naraya nor the Kii clan had taken the women?
“The next day, while Emiko was awaiting her trial, a fire started in the neighborhood around the jail,” Naraya said. “The warden let out the prisoners.”
Tokugawa law decreed that when fire threatened, all prisoners should be released so that if the jail burned, they wouldn’t die-a rare example of mercy in a cruel penal system. After the danger passed, the prisoners were
