“Well, that’s definitely worth discussing. I invite you to my house. Come, it isn’t far.”
He clapped Sano’s shoulder and nodded to the guards. Was he showing his innocence-or escaping his audience?
Outside the shop, the crowd engulfed them. Waving their swords, Matsui’s guards forced it back. Their threats and glares discouraged followers. Sano and Matsui continued down Suruga Hill unhindered, Sano on horseback, Matsui and his escorts on foot. Yet the guards’ presence didn’t relieve Sano’s fear of attack. If it was Matsui who wanted him dead, then they were not his protectors.
“Your guards seem very competent,” he remarked, wondering if they’d assisted their master with the murders. One had fresh cuts on his face and hands-from Brother Endō’s spear? “What services do they perform for you?”
Matsui’s knowing smile showed that he understood Sano’s intent. “They keep my enemies away. And since I carry lots of money, I’m a target for thieves.” He pointed at his guard’s cut face. “The man who did that looks much worse.”
“A thief?” Sano asked, remembering the priest’s wounds.
“If you wish.”
Sano realized that Matsui wanted to provoke an open accusation that he could deny, forcing Sano to either give up-or arrest the Tokugawa banker and disrupt the bakufu’s finances. Sano switched subjects.
“Do you know a fox-faced mercenary swordsman who eats melon seeds?”
Matsui shrugged. “ Edo is full of mercenaries.”
Suppressing his impatience, Sano tried still another tack. “I often see you traveling on foot. Don’t you own a palanquin?” One with a dragon on it, like the one Kenji had seen outside Zōjō Temple?
“I have three.” If this question disturbed Matsui, he didn’t let on; he’d probably had plenty of practice hiding his emotions during business negotiations. “But I leave them for my family’s use. I myself prefer walking. It’s good for the body. Ah, here we are. Welcome to my miserable home, sōsakan-sama.”
Matsui’s house was a large, two-story structure with weathered wooden walls, plain brown tile roof, and unadorned entryway, separated from the street and the neighboring merchant dwellings by a small, bare yard and bamboo fence. An open shed held the three palanquins-all black, with no decoration. However, the dragon palanquin hadn’t necessarily carried the killer, who could have traveled by other means. Matsui was still a suspect. And even if this interview cleared him, Sano had three others.
The house’s drab exterior didn’t prepare Sano for the treasure trove he found inside. Elaborate coffered and gilt ceilings decorated the long corridor they followed past rooms crammed with lacquer chests and cabinets, painted scrolls, embroidered silk cushions, life-size statues, tables and shelves crowded with ceramic vases and ivory and gold carvings. Each room had two maids and an armed guard. In a parlor, women dressed in gaudy, expensive kimonos played cards, smoked silver pipes, drank tea, and ate cakes made to resemble flowers. Windows overlooked a verdant garden and a miniature temple complete with halls, bell house, and pagoda. The whole place reeked of incense and perfume, and personified the vulgarity of the merchant class that earned them the samurai’s disdain and jealousy.
“I hope my poor little house pleases you, sōsakan-sama.” Matsui’s voice held a hint of mockery. The guards snickered.
Sano wondered what Matsui’s willingness to display his house meant. Nothing to hide? Aside from this obvious possibility, Sano glimpsed a more sinister one. The sumptuary laws prohibited merchants from flaunting their wealth; hence, the house’s simple exterior. Breaking the laws could result in confiscation of all an offender’s money and property. Last year, the bakufu had seized the Yodoya family fortune, including houses, rice fields, gold and silver artifacts, and 300, 000 koku in cash. Yet Matsui had allowed him to see his outrageous hoard. His expert management of the Tokugawa finances must give him understandable faith in their continued protection.
Did he also have the audacity to believe he could get away with murder?
“Now I’ll show you something that should interest you very much,” Matsui said.
He slid aside a panel in what had appeared to be solid wall, revealing a short, narrow corridor that led to an iron-clad door. “Extra security precautions,” he explained as he opened the door, “for my most prized possessions.”
Wondering what could be more valuable than the things he’d already seen, Sano followed Matsui into a small, windowless room. The bodyguards stationed themselves outside the door. Matsui summoned a servant, who lit a ceiling lantern, then left. The lantern’s light illuminated the clay walls of what looked to be a fireproof storehouse connected to the main building. The full-length portrait of a seated man covered the back wall. He wore armor, with his head bare and the helmet resting on his knee.
“My ancestor, General Fujiwara,” Matsui announced proudly.
Shocked, Sano stared at his host, then around the room, which he now realized was a shrine to the general. Beneath the portrait, an altar held incense burners, oil lamps, a cup of sake, oranges, and a bowl of rice. Low pedestals placed against the side walls held artifacts that Sano couldn’t identify in the dim light. But he could see the soot that blackened the walls. The lamp wicks were burnt, the food fresh. Matsui, with all the luxurious rooms at his disposal, spent much time in this small, dark chamber, communing with his ancestor’s spirit.
Matsui’s hearty voice overlaid Sano’s thoughts. “Just because I’m no longer samurai doesn’t mean I’ve renounced my heritage, sōsakan-sama. What’s in the blood can never be lost.” He gestured to the portrait. “See the resemblance between us?”
Sano did. General Fujiwara’s stylized face bore Matsui’s features. Only the expression was different: stern, rigid, befitting a great warrior.
Matsui circled the room, lifting items from the pedestals for Sano’s inspection. “These are the general’s relics that I’ve inherited. And I’ll spend whatever’s necessary to acquire those which have become lost over the years. This is his helmet.” Tenderly he stroked its battered metal surface. “And this is his war fan.” It was a gold disk, mounted on an iron shaft, bearing a crescent-moon crest in flaking red paint. “These scrolls tell of his heroic deeds. And this… ”
As Matsui extended to Sano a metal handguard with attached chain-mail sleeve, his voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “This is the armor he wore in the Battle of Anegawa. He was wounded; that dark stain is his blood.”
A shiver rippled Sano’s skin when he saw that Matsui’s smile had vanished. His eyes, fixed on his grisly relic, shone with fierce obsession. In that moment he looked strikingly like General Fujiwara.
Like a warrior capable of killing his enemies.
Cautiously Sano said, “You pay respect to your ancestor. Do you also wish you could live his life?”
“Often.” A sigh gusted from Matsui; his hands caressed the armor. “After a day spent making deals, counting money, and plotting against: my rivals, I long for the simplicity of Bushido. Absolute loyally and obedience to one’s lord. Dying in battle for him. What could be cleaner or more noble?” Matsui chuckled wryly. “So unlike the filthy business of making money. Do you know that my own cousins severed ties with me when I became a merchant?”
Either the shrine induced in Matsui an urge to confide, or he was displaying a show of candor to absolve himself of suspicion. Sano couldn’t tell which, but he nevertheless encouraged Matsui’s revelations.
“Your family’s rejection must have hurt you,” he remarked.
“Oh, yes,” Matsui said sadly. He returned the armor to its pedestal and knelt before the altar. “I like to think that I could have been a great general. But it seems my fate to lead others in the pursuit of making money. Still, my cousins’ disapproval hurts less than the thought of his”-Matsui bowed to the portrait-“had he known how I would disgrace our family.”