When Sano related the novice monk’s story, the detective exchanged glances with Hachiya, a muscular man whose friendly disposition inspired trust, often to the detriment of people with something to hide. The pair bowed to Sano, observing the samurai tradition of unquestioning obedience to their master, but he sensed their skepticism.
“I know it sounds unbelievable,” he said, “but if there is anything wrong at the temple that may have any bearing on the arson and murders, we need to know.” To the two other detectives he said, “I want you to infiltrate the sect.”
The two men, Takeo and Tadao, were brothers in their late teens, from a family of hereditary Tokugawa vassals, apprentices to Sano. They shared similar daring spirits and handsome faces. Now they listened attentively as Sano said, “You’ll pose as religious youths who want to enter the Black Lotus monastery. Get accepted as novices and find out what goes on inside.”
“Yes, master,” Takeo and Tadao chorused, bowing.
“Kanryu-san, you’re in charge of the surveillance,” Sano said. “Report to me on everyone’s progress.”
“Will you be at the temple today?” Kanryu asked as the detectives prepared to leave.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sano said, “Later, perhaps. I’ve got some business to take care of.”
Kojimachi district occupied the central ridge of Edo, just west of the castle, along the road that led to Yotsuya, home of the secondary branches of the Tokugawa clan. Here, in a narrow corridor between the compounds of Tokugawa daimyo and retainers, commoners plied their trades. Merchants sold and delivered food; restaurants and teahouses served travelers; Hirakawa Tenjin Shrine hosted one of Edo ’s few evening markets. Behind the businesses thrived a populous residential area.
As Sano rode past a shop redolent of fermenting miso, light rain fell from the gray sky; umbrellas sprouted in the crowds around him. Trepidation weighed upon his spirit. He’d promised Reiko that he would personally investigate the Black Lotus, and sending detectives instead seemed a betrayal of her trust. And he hadn’t told her that he was going to check Haru’s background. Although he deemed this necessary for assessing the girl’s character, he didn’t want Reiko to think he lacked faith in her judgment or was persecuting Haru.
Still, he must determine to his own satisfaction whether Haru was guilty, so he could either arrest her and satisfy the shogun and the public, or develop other leads if she was innocent. Perhaps what he learned at her birthplace would put him and Reiko on the same side of the case.
The road led Sano to Kojimachi’s most famous landmark: the hunters’ market. Stalls sold the meat of wild boar, deer, monkey, bear, and fowl from the mountains outside Edo. Customers and vendors haggled; flies buzzed around carcasses hung on hooks or spread on pallets; the air reeked of blood and decay. Buddhist religion prohibited the eating of meat, with one exception: for medicinal purposes. Some diseases could be cured only by consuming stews or elixirs made from animals. Farther down the road stood the popular restaurant named Yamasakana- “Mountain Fish”-which served these remedies.
In a row of low, attached buildings near Yamasakana, Sano saw a noodle restaurant. This must be the establishment once owned by Haru’s family. Short indigo curtains hanging from the eaves sheltered a raised wooden floor where diners could sit. At this hour-midway between the morning and noon meals-the restaurant was empty, but the sliding wooden doors stood open. As Sano dismounted and tied his horse to a pillar, he heard pans rattling in the kitchen at the rear; charcoal smoke wafted out. The moneylenders who had seized the restaurant as payment for Haru’s father’s debts had apparently sold it to someone else.
When Sano entered, a middle-aged proprietor wearing a blue cotton kimono and white head kerchief came to greet him. Sano introduced himself, then said, “I need information on the family who owned this restaurant before you. Did you know them?”
The proprietor’s round, honest face looked perplexed. “Yes, master. They were my parents. They died eleven years ago. My wife and I have been running the business ever since.” He gestured toward the kitchen, where a woman stirred steaming pots on a hearth amid chopping blocks heaped with sliced vegetables.
“I must have the wrong place,” Sano said. “The people I’m interested in died just two years ago. They had a daughter named Haru.”
He was about to ask whether the proprietor knew the family, when the man went deathly pale, dropped to his knees, and uttered an anguished moan: “Haru-chan…”
The woman ran out from the kitchen. Small and slender, with graying hair piled atop her head, she scolded her husband, “We agreed never to speak of her again!” Then she took a second look at the man, and her rage faded into concern. “What’s wrong?” She turned wary eyes on Sano. “Who are you?”
“He’s the shogun’s sōsakan-sama,” the proprietor said in a choked voice. “He asked about her.”
“Then you know Haru?” Sano said, baffled by the couple’s reaction.
“No.” The woman shot her husband a warning glance.
He lifted bleak eyes to Sano. “She was our daughter.”
“Your daughter? But I understood that Haru was an orphan whose parents died of a fever.”
Misery slumped the proprietor’s shoulders. “Whoever told you that was wrong. We are alive. It is Haru who is dead.”
Trying to make sense of the conversation, Sano shook his head. “Haru is at the Zōjō Temple convent.” He explained about the fire and murders, and Haru’s situation. The couple listened in blank silence: Apparently they hadn’t heard the news. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Sano said. “We can’t be talking about the same-”
Grunting noises came from the man, and Sano realized that he was weeping, although his eyes were tearless. The woman pressed her hands against ashen cheeks. She murmured, “Oh, no.”
In the kitchen a pot boiled over; moisture sizzled on hot coals, and clouds of steam rose. The woman rushed to the stove and removed the pot. The man stood, his movements shaky. “There’s no misunderstanding,” he said sadly. “The Haru you speak of is our daughter. She is dead to us, but we’ve known all along that she was out in the world somewhere.”
So Haru had lied about being an orphan. Disturbed, but not really surprised, Sano wondered whether she’d told the truth about anything. “Did she run away?” Then another possibility occurred to him. “You disowned her.”
“After what she did?” The woman returned, wiping her hands on a cloth. Indignation distorted her face. Now Sano saw a resemblance to Haru in her small build, wide brow, and delicate features. “We had no choice!”
“What did Haru do?” Sano asked.
“For you to understand, I must begin the story at the beginning,” said the proprietor. “Two years ago, we had a regular customer-a wealthy Shinjuku rice broker named Yoichi. He came to Kojimachi every few days to shop at the hunters’ market, and he often ate at our restaurant.”
“Haru was growing up into a pretty young woman,” the wife said. “Yoichi-san was a widower, and he took a liking to her. He asked for her hand in marriage.”
“It was a good match,” said the proprietor. “As a rich man’s wife, she would live in a fine house and be secure. She could care for us in our old age. Her children would have everything, and inherit a fortune.” Financial gain was always an important factor when arranging a daughter’s marriage. “So we accepted Yoichi-san’s proposal.”
“But Haru didn’t want to marry him because he was old and ugly. Such a disobedient, ungrateful girl!” Disgust tightened the wife’s mouth. “But it was her duty to marry the man we chose for her.”
“A month after the wedding, in the middle of the night, Yoichi-san’s house burned down. The fire brigade found him and the servants dead in the ruins. But Haru turned up at our door the next morning. She was covered with soot. There were burns on her hands and clothes.” Spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, the proprietor said, “Of course we took her in.”