The room’s hushed emptiness and musty odor saddened him. Cobwebs laced the ceiling corners, revealing the same neglect as the house’s exterior. Sano sensed a desolation that predated the family’s recent tragedy.
“You were his wife?” he asked the older woman, who nodded. She had a deeply lined face with downturned eyes and mouth, and a hairline so high that her knotted white hair resembled a samurai’s, shaven crown and all.
“Whatever you wish to know, I will tell you if I can,” she said. Her voice had the deep, sexless quality of old age. To the other woman, evidently her maid, she said, “Fetch our honored guest some tea.” Then she fell silent, hands folded in dignified resignation.
Sano knelt opposite her and waited until the maid had placed a tray of tea and cakes before him and withdrawn. The memory of his father’s funeral made it hard for him to swallow, but he managed a few polite bites and sips. Then he said, quietly, so as not to interrupt the rites, “I’ve brought you something that belonged to your husband.”
From under his sash, he took Kaibara’s pouch and gave it to the widow. “Have you any idea who could have wanted to kill him?”
Slowly she shook her head, stroking the worn pouch. “No. You see, my husband had been dead for a long time already.”
Taken aback, Sano said, “I don’t understand.”
“Little by little, with each passing day, my husband’s spirit had been leaving his body. He lost his memory. Sometimes he didn’t recognize the servants, our friends, or even me.” The widow gave a barely audible sigh. “He cried and babbled like a child, and I had to feed and wash and dress him as if he were one. When he went outside, he got lost. Sometimes the police brought him back. We tried to keep him inside… ”
Her gaze wandered toward the door, and Sano now understood the guard’s words. Senility had destroyed Kaibara’s mind, leaving behind only a failing body: a common tragedy-
“I must apologize for receiving you so poorly,” the widow added. “In recent years, we’ve discharged most of our servants and retainers.”
– and one that had evidently brought such shame to the family that they had accepted reduced living conditions rather than expose it to the eyes of others. No wonder they had only one guard, not enough staff to tend the house, and few mourners at Kaibara’s funeral.
“So you see, there was no reason for anyone to hate my husband enough to kill him. But until last year, he still had days when he was himself again. Then our only son died.”
She looked toward the room’s far end, where Sano saw another memorial altar. His skin rippled as he remembered the words that the spirit had spoken through Aoi. Was the son’s death the “great sorrow” that had plagued Kaibara?
The widow closed her eyes and clamped her mouth into a tight line, as if the memory of her son’s death had joined with the fresh shock of her husband’s to inflict unbearable pain. She clutched the pouch, making no sound, but the priest’s mournful chanting, and the sound of the maid weeping in the other room, echoed her grief. Hating to cause her more anguish, Sano asked gently, “What was your husband doing in the pharmacists’ district the night he died?”
This brought tears coursing down her cheeks. Then she opened her eyes, dried them with her sleeve, and composed herself. “Our son served as a captain in the city’s fire brigade, as did my husband in his day. Last year there was a terrible fire in Nihonbashi.”
Sano remembered that some two hundred people had died in the blaze.
“Our son was killed when a burning house collapsed on him. Afterward, my husband returned again and again to the site. We tried to keep him home, but he always managed to sneak out.” Her voice broke as she added, “In the end, his sly escapes were the only sign that he could still think.”
Now Sano knew why Kaibara had gone to Nihonbashi, and why he’d been such easy prey for the killer. But the widow had failed to identify anyone with a motive for the murder.
“I’d like to speak with the other members of your family,” he said. A needy relative might have killed in hopes of inheriting Kaibara’s meager property, and arranged the crime so as to conceal the motive behind it.
A spasm of pain stiffened the widow’s features. “There are no other family members. Most of them died in the Great Fire of Meireki. Others have died of fever, in accidents. And with our son’s death, my husband was the last of his clan.”
“I’m sorry.” Sano allowed a moment of silence to lapse in respect for a venerable family line now ended. He was beginning to believe that the Bundori Killer had chosen his victims out of pure convenience. How tragic for the Kaibara clan! And how much harder for Sano to find the killer.
The widow was literally sagging under the weight of her grief, and Sano concluded the interview with a last question. “Does the name Araki Yojiemon mean anything to you?”
He didn’t expect the name to have any connection with the Kaibara, or the old woman to possess a knowledge of history. So he was surprised when she said, “Why, yes. Araki Yojiemon was my husband’s great-grandfather. He was head of the clan and served Tokugawa Ieyasu during the wars.”
As a history scholar, Sano knew that tracing samurai lineages was complicated because members of his class frequently changed their names for various reasons: Perhaps Araki’s son had done so to celebrate a rise in status, to mark an important family event, or because a more auspicious set of syllables might bring good luck. And the new names often bore little similarity to the originals.
“The family name was changed to Kaibara after the Battle of Sekigahara, when Ieyasu became shogun and the clan came to Edo with him,” the widow explained, confirming Sano’s guess. “But what has this to do with my husband’s murder?”
That Sano couldn’t answer, but he intended to find out. He thanked the widow for her help, repeated his condolences, and bid her farewell.
Out in the street again, he mounted his horse, glad to leave the gloomy estate. He breathed deeply, willing away griefs debilitating onslaught. Once more he prayed to his father’s spirit, seeking the wisdom to understand the new mysteries he’d uncovered. Again the spirit remained silent. He slapped the reins and started down the street in search of Hirata.
He didn’t have to look far. When he turned a corner, he saw Hirata running toward him, shouting and waving. Hard on his heels followed what looked like half the samurai in the banchō.
“Sōsakan-sama!” Hirata called. “There’s been another murder! The Bundori Killer has struck again!”
Chapter 10
The rouged, pigtailed, perfumed, and mounted head resting on the ground at Sano’s feet had belonged to a man perhaps forty years of age. He had heavy jowls, thick, bristly eyebrows, a lumpy, large-pored nose, and the shaven crown of a samurai. His glazed eyes stared straight ahead, and his thick lips had parted to reveal broken teeth. Even in death his features reflected the shock he must have experienced when the killer attacked.
An hour’s fast ride north out of the banchō, through the suburbs of Edo and the fields outside town, had brought Sano here to the Dike of Japan, a long, willow-shaded causeway that ran west from the Sumida River, paralleling the San’ya Canal, to the Yoshiwara pleasure quarter. News of the murder had spread along it via the men returning home to Edo after a night of revelry. Now, as Sano contemplated the trophy that the Bundori Killer had brazenly placed in the middle of the road, the bitter taste of guilt eclipsed his horror. There had been three murders, despite the extra security precautions he’d instituted. While no one could reasonably fault him for not solving the case in such a short time, or for not knowing where the killer would strike next, he berated himself for the poor service he’d rendered the shogun, and for costing this unknown man his life.