Assassin's Touch (4 page)

“He seemed to faint in the saddle just before he dropped,” said a spectator. “It looked as if his heart had suddenly given out.”

Sano saw heads nodding, heard murmurs of agreement. Contradictory feelings beset him. If these observers were correct, then the death wasn’t murder, the other three probably weren’t either, and his inquiry would be short. He felt a letdown coming. Then he reasoned that at least this would mean the regime was safe, and he would be glad to put Lord Matsudaira’s fears to rest. But for now he must keep an open mind.

“My investigation will determine whether Ejima was a victim of foul play or not,” Sano said. “Until it’s finished, this is a case of suspicious death. The racetrack will be treated as a crime scene, and you are all witnesses. I must ask you all to remain here and give statements about what you observed.”

He saw irritation on the men’s faces. He sensed them thinking that Lord Matsudaira was too quick to see evil schemes everywhere and that he himself was wasting his time as well as theirs. But no one dared argue with the shogun’s second-in-command. Sano reflected that his new status had its advantages.

“Fukida-
san
, you start taking the witnesses’ statements. Marume-
san
, you come with me,” Sano told his men.

The thin, scholarly, serious detective began herding the crowd into a line. The brawny, jovial detective accompanied Sano as he strode along the track. The racetrack master followed them. As they neared the body, the soldiers surrounding it stepped aside. Sano and his companions halted and looked down at the dead man.

Ejima lay sprawled on his back, his arms and legs bent, against a wide, smudged black line painted across the track. His iron helmet covered his head and face. Sano could see his eyes, dull and vacant, through the open visor. Ejima’s metal armor tunic was dented. Blood and grime stained his blue silk kimono, trousers, white socks, and straw sandals.

“He looks like he’s been beaten,” Marume said.

“The horses trampled him,” Oyama explained. “He fell right under their hooves. It happened so fast, and the other riders were so close behind him, there was no time for them to steer clear.”

“At least he won his last race,” Marume said.

“Has his family been notified of his death?” Sano asked Oyama.

“Yes. My assistant went to tell them.”

“Did anyone touch him after he fell?” Sano said.

“I turned him over to see how badly he was hurt and try to help him. But he was already gone.”

“Has the track been cleaned since he died?”

“No, Honorable Chamberlain. When I sent the news to Lord Matsudaira, his troops came and brought orders that nothing was to be disturbed.”

Sano felt hindered by the troops, who lingered too close, waiting to see what he would do. “Wait over there,” he told them and Oyama, gesturing down the track.

When they’d moved off, Sano said to Marume, “Supposing Ejima didn’t die of a bad heart, the fall could have killed him. But then the question is, what caused the fall?”

“Maybe someone in the stands threw a rock at him, hit his head, and knocked him unconscious. Everyone else there would have been too busy watching the race to notice.” Marume paced around the body, kicking at a few stones that lay scattered on the dirt. “One of these could be a murder weapon.”

Sano listened to sporadic gunfire that emanated from the distant martial arts training ground. He rotated, looking beyond and above the track. Soldiers peered down at him from windows in covered corridors and watchtowers atop the walls that enclosed the compound and rose up from the slope higher on the hill. “Someone up there could have shot a gun at Ejima.”

“Who would have noticed one more shot?” Marume agreed.

“I don’t see a bullet wound on him, but he could have been hit on his helmet and stunned.” Crouching, Sano examined Ejima’s helmet. Its metal surface was covered with scratches and dents.

“I’ll have the area searched for a bullet,” Marume said.

“In any case, the witnesses aren’t limited to the people inside the compound when Ejima died,” Sano said. “We’ll have to round up all the soldiers who were on duty anyplace with a view of the racetrack. But first I want to question the other witnesses who were closest to Ejima.”

He and Marume walked over to the racetrack master.

“Are you finished inspecting the body?” Oyama asked. “May I have it removed?” He sounded anxious to rid his domain of the physical and spiritual pollution conferred by death.

“Not yet,” Sano said, because he needed a more thorough examination of the corpse than could be done here, and he didn’t want it whisked off for the funeral and cremation. “I’ll take care of its removal. Right now I want to talk to the riders who were in the race with Ejima. Where are they?”

“In the stables,” Oyama said.

Inside the long wooden barns with thatched roofs, horses stood in stalls while grooms washed and wiped them, combed their manes, and bandaged wounded legs. Manure and hay scented the air. The five riders squatted in a corner, conversing in low voices. They’d stripped oft their armor, which hung on racks that also held their riding gear. When Sano approached them, they hastily knelt and bowed.

“Rise,” Sano said. “I want to ask you some questions about Chief Ejima’s death.” He observed that the riders were all robust samurai in their late twenties or early thirties. They were still grimy from the race, and reeked of sweat. As they rose, he said, “First, identify yourselves.”

Among them were a captain and a lieutenant from the army, a palace administrator, and two distant cousins of the shogun. When Sano asked them to describe what they’d seen during the race, the army captain spoke for them: “Ejima crumpled in his saddle. He fell off his horse. Our horses ran him over. By the time we’d stopped and dismounted, he was dead.”

This matched the story told by the spectators. “Did you see anything hit him before he crumpled?” Sano said. “Such as a rock or a bullet?”

The riders shook their heads.

“Did you touch Ejima?”

They hesitated, eying one another with uneasy expressions. Sano said, “Come on. I know that horse racing is a rough sport.” He moved to the rack and fingered a riding crop, which consisted of a short, stout leather whip with an iron handle. “I also know that the horses aren’t the only ones to take the brunt of these. Now speak up.”

“All right. I hit him,” the captain said reluctantly.

“So did I,” said the lieutenant. “But we were just trying to slow him down.”

“We didn’t hit him that hard. He got me a lot worse than I got him.” The captain gingerly touched his face, which was swollen around his jaw.

“We play rough, but we never intentionally hurt a fellow rider,” said the lieutenant. “That’s the code of honor at the racetrack.” The other men nodded, united against Sano’s implied accusation. “Besides, he was a friend. We had no reason to kill him.”

“Although I bet that a lot of other people did,” the captain said.

Sano thanked the men for their help. As he and Marume walked away from the stables, Marume said, “I think they’re telling the truth. Do you believe them?”

“For now,” Sano said, reserving judgment until evidence should indicate otherwise. “The captain was right when he hinted that Ejima was a good candidate for murder.”

“Because he was one of Lord Matsudaira’s top officials?”

“Not only that,” Sano said. “His position made him a target. He headed an organization that spies on people.”

No one was safe from the
metsuke
, especially in this dangerous political climate, when a man’s most innocuous words or deeds could be twisted into evidence of disloyalty to Lord Matsudaira and cause for banishment or execution.

“If Ejima was murdered,” Sano said, “the killer may be connected to someone destroyed by a
metsuke
investigation.” And Sano recalled that Ejima had enjoyed his dirty job a little too much. The relish he’d taken from ruining people might have angered their relatives and friends.

“Talk about a man with a lot of enemies,” Marume said.

“But motive doesn’t necessarily mean murder,” Sano reminded them both. “Not when there’s so little evidence.” He resisted his hunch that Ejima had been a victim of foul play: Even samurai instinct was susceptible to influence by personal bias. “Before we go any further, we should finish interviewing all the witnesses.”

He looked across the track, where Detective Fukida was still busy with the spectators, then up at the soldiers along the walls and in the turrets. “Even more important, we have to determine the exact cause of Ejima’s death.”

This was something that Sano, despite all his past experience and newfound authority, couldn’t do himself. And the scope of the investigation extended far beyond the racetrack, past the men present at the scene of the death, to include Ejima’s foes as well as Lord Matsudaira’s. That could mean hundreds of potential witnesses—and suspects. Sano needed more help than Marume and Fukida could provide, from someone he could absolutely trust.

“Send for Hirata-
san
,” he told Marume. “Tell him to meet me here right away.”

4

Hirata sat behind the desk in the office that had once belonged to Sano, inside the estate where he was now master. Into the room filed ten members of the hundred-man detective corps that he’d once supervised for Sano and now commanded for himself.

“Good evening,
Sōsakan-sama
,” the detectives chorused as they knelt and bowed to Hirata.

“What have you to report?” Hirata asked.

The men described their progress on various cases he’d assigned them—a theft of weapons from the Edo Castle arsenal; a search for a rebel band suspected of plotting to overthrow Lord Matsudaira. The political climate had spawned many crimes to occupy the shogun’s new Most Honorable Investigator of Events, Situations, and People. As he listened, Hirata tried to ignore the pain from the deep, barely healed wound in his left thigh. He tried to never let his expression reveal his suffering. But Hirata couldn’t hide that he’d lost much weight and muscle after the injury that had almost killed him. He couldn’t deny that all the honors that had resulted from his valor in the line of duty had come with a terrible price.

Six months ago he’d stopped an attack on Sano and saved Sano’s life. The cut from the attacker’s sword, meant for Sano, had gashed Hirata’s leg so badly he’d thought his death was certain. As blood poured from him and he lost consciousness, he thought he’d performed the ultimate act of samurai loyalty—sacrificing himself for his master.

Three days later Hirata had awakened, and learned that Lord Matsudaira had defeated Yanagisawa, Sano was the new chamberlain, and he himself was a hero. The shogun had declared that if Hirata lived, he would be promoted to Sano’s former post. Hirata had been thrilled by the honor, and amazed that he—a onetime police patrol officer—had ascended to such a high rank. But for two long months, the pain had been so bad that the doctors gave him large doses of opium, which kept him in a drowsy daze. Fever sickened and weakened Hirata. Once robust and active, he was an invalid until the New Year, when the evil spirits of disease finally left him, and he began to recover. Everyone said his cure was a miracle, but Hirata wasn’t so sure.

Now the detectives finished their reports. Hirata gave his orders: “Find out if any of the missing weapons have turned up on the market. Put a secret watch on the teahouse where the rebels have friends.”

The detectives bowed and departed. Hirata clenched his teeth against the pain. Today he would gladly trade his new post for the good health he’d once taken for granted. He was ashamed because he did little besides hear reports and give orders. Sano had done much more. Hirata knew that what he told the detectives to do, they probably could think of themselves, although they always pretended they needed his guidance. Loyal friends, they never showed that they knew he depended on them for everything; they acted as though he was in charge. They did the investigations he’d once done—because he no longer could.

Walking or riding a horse was so uncomfortable that Hirata seldom went outside the estate. A brief martial arts practice each day exhausted him. Even sitting for long taxed his energy. At age twenty-eight, he was as feeble as an old man.

His wife Midori entered the room. Young, plump, and pretty, she smiled at him, but her face had the worried look she’d worn ever since his injury. She said, “Taeko wants her papa. Can you come and see her?”

“Of course.”

Hirata rose laboriously. He leaned on his wife as they walked down the corridor. She was the only person he allowed to see his weakness. She loved him too much to think less of him. He loved her for her loyal, tender care. That his injury had brought them closer together was the only thing for which he was truly glad. He didn’t regret that he’d ruined himself to save Sano; he would again, if need be. But as much as he appreciated the honor and acclaim, he sometimes wondered if it would have been better if he hadn’t lived. Death would have gotten him all the glory and none of the suffering.

In the nursery, his daughter Taeko sat on the floor, dressed in a red kimono, surrounded by toys and attended by a nursemaid. Eleven months old, she had round, bright black eyes and downy black hair. She cooed and bounced when she saw Hirata. His spirits lifted.

“Come to Papa,” he said, kneeling down to hug her.

Taeko flung herself into his arms. She landed hard on his bad thigh. Hirata yelled in pain. He shoved Taeko off him. Confused and hurt, she began to cry. Hirata hobbled into the corridor and lay gasping on the floor. He listened while Midori and the nursemaid soothed Taeko. When she’d quieted, Midori came to him.

“Are you all right?” Midori said anxiously.

“No! I’m not all right! What kind of man can’t even hold his own child?” Hirata spoke with the frustration and self-pity that he usually tried not to show or feel: “If Taeko can hurt me so badly, then what if I should have to fight a criminal who’s much bigger and stronger? I would be cut down like a blade of grass!”

Midori knelt beside him. “Please don’t get upset,” she said. “Don’t think about fighting yet.”