Hirata cleared his throat and said, “Sumimasen. Forgive my forwardness in speaking, sōsakan-sama. If the killer owns the house, the property records might tell us who he is.”
Sano regarded his assistant with new respect. He’d guessed that the killer had simply taken over the old house, but Hirata’s alternative made sense.
“That’s a good idea,” he said. “If we don’t catch him tonight, we’ll check the records when we get back to town.” But he fervently hoped that they would, and that a long search wouldn’t be necessary. “Now let’s look around.”
Tethering their horses inside the wall, they circled the property. At the house’s rear, an overgrown trail ran west, probably to link up with a road leading toward the city. It bore no visible foot- or hoofprints or any other signs of travel. Around them, as far as Sano could see, stretched the marshes: a vast level spread of land, accented by occasional trees. The only sound was the wind rustling through the grasses.
“Let’s go inside,” Sano said, swallowing his misgivings.
From their saddlebags, they fetched candles and matches, then crossed a jagged flagstone path through an earthen courtyard that sprouted knee-high grass as the marshes slowly reclaimed it. The front door was unlocked, but the wooden planks had swollen in the damp climate, and opening it took their combined strength. Lighting their candles, they cautiously stepped inside the house.
The candle flames illuminated a single large room with earth floor and mud walls. Gaps between the ends of the ceiling’s exposed beams admitted light and air. Walls, beams, and the rough pillars that supported the upper stories were blackened by smoke from past fires in the clay hearth that stood near one wall. The room was empty, almost as cold and damp as the outdoors, and showed no signs of recent occupation. Sano conjectured that the killer needed more than one hideaway, each near enough to a murder site for him to bring the head back, make the trophy, and take it to its final resting spot. Such a scheme bespoke the killer’s intelligence and forethought. If this was the lair he meant to use for a murder in Honjo tonight, wouldn’t he have prepared it better? Again Sano experienced doubts.
“Maybe he uses the upstairs.” Hirata’s voice echoed Sano’s hope as he raised his candle to a ladder that ascended to a square opening in the ceiling.
Sano examined the ladder. Finding it sturdy, he climbed to the second story, holding his candle above him. At the top he found himself in a small empty room, probably a bedchamber, with a plank ceiling and floor, and one tiny window. A doorway in a wall of torn paper and broken wooden mullions led to more rooms.
Another ladder rose to the attic. Sano waited for Hirata to emerge through the hole.
“Search these rooms,” he said. “I’ll check the attic.” A perverse reluctance kept him from assigning his subordinate the more hazardous, less promising task. By doing so, did he think he could ensure that they would find the evidence he sought? Shaking his head at his foolish attempt to manipulate fate, Sano mounted the second ladder. With his head and shoulders in the attic, he paused and lifted his candle, looking around the tent-shaped space.
On the attic floor, exposed wooden joists formed a neat pattern of intersecting strips. The ceiling sloped steeply upward to the roofs apex. From the thatch between the beams came sinister squeaks and rustlings: The roof was full of vermin. Gingerly Sano raised the rest of himself into the attic. He began to explore, testing the joists with each step before putting his whole weight on them.
Panning his candle from side to side, he saw a latticed vent window in the peak of the roofs far gable. Below this, a pile of objects lay on the floor. Restraining his eagerness, Sano carefully moved toward the pile.
Suddenly a loud squeal split the silence. A huge rat dropped from the thatch and landed with a thump at Sano’s feet.
He cried out in surprise and instinctively reached for his sword. But even as his mind dismissed the threat as insignificant, he made an involuntary jump backward. His feet left the joist. With a loud, splintering crack, they burst through the unreinforced ceiling of the room beneath. He was falling. In a desperate effort to save himself, Sano threw out his arms, experiencing a shattering jolt as his elbows caught on the joists that framed the hole he’d made.
“Sōsakan-sama!” From below him, Sano heard Hirata’s shout, and running footsteps. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
Braced on his arms, Sano hung with his upper half still in the attic, legs and feet dangling. He closed his eyes, gasping as panic subsided, feeling ridiculous.
“I’m all right,” he called. “Just give me a boost up, will you?”
With Hirata pushing on his feet, Sano raised himself through the hole. He winced as the splintered boards scraped his already abraded legs. Inside the attic once again, he saw his candle, still lit, lying in a small bonfire of thatch. Sano hastily retrieved the candle and stamped out the fire. Then he said to Hirata, “I think I’ve found something. Go to the ladder and help me bring it down.”
He walked carefully over to the pile he’d seen: two large hemp sacks containing hard, heavy objects, which he hauled to the ladder for Hirata to lower to the second level. Then he descended and gave Hirata his candle to hold while he upended the first sack.
Two square boards the length of his forearm clattered onto the floor, along with two sharp, flat-headed iron spikes long enough to penetrate a board and hold a human head severed at the neck.
“These are his. He’s been here!” Sano could hardly contain his jubilance as he and Hirata exchanged grins. He wanted to shout for joy and dance around the room. Refraining from such an unseemly display of emotion, he said, “Let’s see what else we have.”
The second sack held a wooden bucket and toolbox. In the box Sano found a saw, an iron mallet, incense sticks, a sanding block, and a jar of rouge.
“His trophy-making equipment.” Sano breathed.
Hirata cleared his throat. “I found something, too, sōsakan-sama.”
He led the way to the adjacent room. On the floor lay a blue and white cotton bedroll. The cloth looked too new, unfaded, and intact to have lain in the damp house for long. The Bundori Killer must have brought it recently, in anticipation of an upcoming murder.
“Good work,” Sano complimented his assistant. Hirata’s boyish smile flashed. “We’ll take these things back to Edo as evidence. Now let’s get ready for him.”
They repacked the Bundori Killer’s paraphernalia, and carried it downstairs. Then they went outside. Only a faint orange luminescence hazed the western horizon. Stars shone in the cobalt blue sky; the moon’s waxing crescent soared amid them. The marsh winds carried a cold, bitter edge. Sano and Hirata brought the horses inside the house, both to shelter the animals and to prevent the killer’s discovering them. Then they set up camp near the door and unpacked their provisions: mochi-hard, sticky cakes of compressed rice-pickled vegetables, dried fish, flasks of water. They ate ravenously by candlelight, sitting on the floor with heavy quilts draped over their padded garments to ward off the chill. Then Sano extinguished the candles and they settled down to await the Bundori Killer’s arrival.
The silence was oppressive; the damp cold bone-numbing. To pass the time, and to satisfy his curiosity, Sano decided to get better acquainted with the young subordinate whose able, steadfast service had favorably impressed him.
“How long have you served on the police force?” he asked.