And now for the delicate, critical part of the interrogation, Sano thought. “Have you any children?” he asked the couple.
Neither husband nor wife altered expression, yet Sano’s trained senses detected a sudden pressure in the air, as though it had expanded to push against the walls. Lady Miyagi sat motionless, her gaze fixed straight ahead, a tightness about her jaw muscles. Lord Miyagi said, “No. We do not.” Regret permeated his words. “Our lack of sons has forced me to name a nephew as my heir.”
From the strained atmosphere between the Miyagi couple, Sano guessed that he’d touched a vulnerable spot in their marriage. He suspected that each harbored different feelings about their childlessness. And the answer to his question disappointed Sano. Harume’s pillow book portrayed Lord Miyagi as a voyeur who preferred self-stimulation to bedding a woman. Did this tendency, combined with his lack of offspring, mean that he was impotent? Was the shogun-weak, sickly, and inclined toward manly love-the father of Harume’s child after all?
Sano dreaded both telling Tokugawa Tsunayoshi that his unborn heir had died with the concubine, and the added pressure to solve the murder case. If he failed, the shogun’s unreliable affection wouldn’t save him from disgraceful death. And so far, this interview had not incriminated Lord or Lady Miyagi. Yet Sano would not give up hope.
“Lord Miyagi, I understand that Harume would undress and touch herself, while you watched through the window,” Sano said bluntly. He couldn’t spare the daimyo’s feelings at the expense of his own salvation.
“My, but the metsuke are efficient,” Lord Miyagi drawled. “Yes, that is correct. But I fail to see how my private habits are any of your business.” Lady Miyagi neither moved nor spoke, and the couple didn’t look at each other, but hostility radiated from them both: Though open about the daimyo’s affairs, they resented Sano’s quest for details.
“Did you ever penetrate Lady Harume?” Sano asked.
The daimyo gave a nervous chuckle, looking at his wife. When she offered no help, he said feebly, “Really, sōsakan-sama, this intrusion verges on disrespect toward me, and Lady Harume as well. What bearing can our relations have upon her death?”
“In a murder investigation, anything about the victim’s life can prove significant,” Sano said. He couldn’t mention Harume’s pregnancy before first informing the shogun, who would be angry to hear such important news via gossip instead of directly from Sano. “Answer the question, please.”
Lord Miyagi sighed, then shook his head, eyes downcast. “All right. No-I did not penetrate Harume.”
“Of course he didn’t!” Lady Miyagi’s outburst startled Sano, as well as Lord Miyagi, who jerked upright. Glaring at Sano, she demanded, “Do you think my husband would be so foolish as to violate the shogun’s concubine? And risk death? He never touched her; not even once. He wouldn’t!”
Wouldn’t-or couldn’t? Here was the passion Sano had sensed in Lady Miyagi, though he didn’t understand her vehemence. “You say that you organized your husband’s affair with Harume. Aside from the danger, why does the thought of his touching her bother you?”
“It doesn’t.” With an obvious effort, Lady Miyagi regained her composure, though an unattractive flush stained her cheeks. “I believe I’ve already explained my attitude toward my lord’s women,” she said coldly.
In the ensuing silence, the daimyo shrank into his cushions as if he wished to disappear behind them. His fingers played with a fold of his robe, savoring the feel of silk. Lady Miyagi sat rigidly still, biting her lips. From down the corridor came the concubines’ tinkly laughter. Sano could tell that husband and wife were lying about something: their relationship with Harume, or their feelings toward her? Did they already know about the pregnancy because the daimyo was responsible for it? And why hide the truth? To avoid scandal and punishment for the forbidden liaison-or murder charges?
“It’s getting late, sōsakan-sama,” Lady Miyagi said at last. Her husband nodded, relieved that she’d taken charge of the situation. “If you have any further questions, perhaps you would be so good as to return some other time.”
Sano bowed. “I may do that,” he said, rising. On impulse, he said to Lord Miyagi, “What inn did you and Lady Harume use for your meetings?”
Lord Miyagi hesitated, then answered, “The Tsubame, in Asakusa.”
As the manservant escorted Sano from the room, he looked back to see the Miyagi watching him with grave inscrutability. Once outside the gate, he could almost feel their strange, private world close against him, like a membrane sealing shut. A creeping, unclean sensation lingered, as though contact with that world had polluted his spirit. Yet Sano must probe its secrets, by indirect means if necessary. Perhaps when Hirata traced the poison dealer, the search would lead back to the Miyagi. And there was another side to the story of Lord Miyagi and Lady Harume’s affair: hers. An investigation into her life might provide answers that would avert the threat of failure and death that shadowed Sano. But now his thoughts turned homeward.
Mounting his horse, Sano headed up the boulevard. Lanterns burned at the guarded portals of daimyo estates. The moon rose in the evening sky over Edo Castle, perched on its hill, where Reiko waited. The, thought of her beauty and youthful innocence came to Sano like a purifying force that washed away the contamination of his encounter with the Miyagi. Perhaps tonight he and Reiko could settle yesterday’s quarrel and begin their marriage anew.
15
The baying of dogs echoed across Edo, as if a thousand beasts heralded the hour that bore their name. Night submerged the city in wintry darkness, extinguishing lights, vacating streets. Moonlight turned the Sumida River into a ribbon of liquid silver. At the end of a pier far upstream from the city rose a pavilion. Lanterns suspended from the upturned eaves of its tile roof illuminated banners bearing the Tokugawa crest and walls decorated with carved gilt-and-lacquer dragons. The water reflected its glittering, inverted image. Soldiers stood watch on the pier and in small craft anchored off the forested shoreline, guarding the safety and privacy of the pavilion’s lone occupant.
Inside, Chamberlain Yanagisawa sat on the tatami-covered floor, studying official documents in the flickering light of oil lamps. The remains of his evening meal littered a tray by his side; from a charcoal brazier, smoke drifted out the slatted windows. This was Yanagisawa’s favorite site for secret meetings, away from Edo Castle and any eavesdroppers. Tonight he’d heard reports from metsuke spies who’d just returned from assignments in the provinces. Now he awaited his final rendezvous, which concerned the most important matter of alclass="underline" the status of his plot against Sōsakan Sano.
Voices and footsteps sounded on the pier. Yanagisawa tossed his papers on a cushioned bench and stood. Peering out the window, he saw a guard escorting a small figure along the pier toward the pavilion. Yanagisawa smiled when he recognized Shichisaburō, dressed in multi-colored brocade theatrical robes. Anticipation quickened his heartbeat. He threw open the door, admitting a rush of cold air.
Up the pier came Shichisaburō, moving with ritual grace as if entering a No stage. Seeing his master, his eyes lit in convincing delight. He bowed, chanting:
“Now I will dance the moon’s dance,
My sleeves are trailing clouds,
Dancing, I will sing my joy,
Again and again while the night endures.”
This was a quote from the play Kantan, written by the great Zeami Motokiyo, about a Chinese peasant who has a vivid dream of ascending the throne of the emperor. Yanagisawa and Shichisaburō often enjoyed performing scenes from a favorite drama, and Yanagisawa responded with the next lines:
“And yet while the night endures,
The sun rises bright,
While we think it is still night,