“I don’t know. Lady Harume sneaked him in. I only found out about him by accident-the maids heard a man and woman coupling in the room, which was unusual, because Lord Miyagi always stayed outside. Later I had the man followed, but was unable to learn his name, occupation, or where he lived, because he always got away.”
Was jealousy of Harume’s lover the daimyo’s motive for killing her? “What did the man look like?” Sano said.
“He was a plainly dressed samurai in his twenties. That’s all I can tell you. He was careful to avoid observation-as are many of our guests.” The proprietor gave a sardonic smile. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
So the lover wasn’t Lieutenant Kushida, but definitely a man, not a woman. Sano said, “Can I see the room they used?”
“It’s occupied now, and has been thoroughly cleaned since Lady Harume’s last visit.”
“Would you recognize the man if you saw him again?”
“Maybe.” The proprietor looked doubtful.
He might be someone from Edo Castle. Sano considered taking the proprietor there to try and pick out Harume’s lover. But he might also be someone she’d met outside, or known before she became the shogun’s concubine. “I’ll post a detective here in case the man comes again,” Sano told the proprietor. “Don’t worry; your guests won’t be bothered.”
As Sano left the inn, disappointment drained his initial elation. Confirming the existence of Harume’s lover brought him little closer to solving the case. Other troubles weighed heavily on his mind. He wondered whether he’d done the right thing concerning Hirata. Should he have removed Hirata from the investigation, lest he cause more problems? Or assigned other detectives to check his results on the scene of Choyei’s murder and the dagger attack on Harume? But that would betray their mutual trust, possibly driving Hirata to ritual suicide. And as for Reiko…
Sano’s heart swelled with love for his wife. But love brought worry, like a net that arrested the joyful flight of his soul. He yearned to know how she was faring with Lord Miyagi. Though he couldn’t think what else he could have done and still preserved the spirit of their marriage, he regretted sending Reiko on such a hazardous mission. If the daimyo was the killer, he’d already destroyed one young woman. Reiko, like Lady Harume, was beautiful and sexually appealing-tempting prey.
Then Sano’s practical side countered his fears. Reiko had promised to be careful. The daimyo wouldn’t dare attack the wife of the shogun’s sōsakan-sama. In any event, the more likely suspect was Lieutenant Kushida.
However, it was all Sano could do to keep from rushing off to defend his beloved. He fought the impulse, reminding himself of the promise he’d made Reiko and the cost of betrayal. Then he forced his attention back to the matter at hand.
He couldn’t help believing that the key to the mystery lay in this place that had harbored Lady Harume’s secrets. Instead of mounting his horse, he looked around. His gaze lit on the placard hanging from the gate across the street. It read, “ Hakka Temple.” Sano recalled the printed prayer he’d found in Harume’s room. She must have bought it there before or after meeting Lord Miyagi at the inn. With a sense of impending discovery, Sano entered the temple precinct.
The humble worship hall stood in quiet isolation, with no entertainment district to attract crowds. All the priests must be out begging alms. Yet Sano felt Lady Harume’s presence, like a ghost tugging at his sleeve. Heading toward the hall, he heard voices from the rear and followed them to a small cemetery. The leafless boughs of willow trees drooped over the grave markers; stone shafts nestled in dead grass. Four men stood by one large marker, conferring over something spread upon its flat top. Two wore dirty, ragged clothes. Their grimy faces bore the stamp of poverty. The other men looked clean and well fed, dressed in padded cloaks. As Sano approached, he heard one of these say, “Five momme for the whole lot.”
“But these are fresh, master,” said a ragged man. “We got them yesterday.”
“And they came from a young woman,” added the other. “Perfect for your business, masters.”
The second customer said, “I’ll give you six momme.”
An argument ensued. Moving closer, Sano saw the objects of trade: ten human fingernails, arranged in a row beside a pile of black hair. Sano recalled the nails and hair he’d found in Lady Harume’s room. He felt a glow of satisfaction as a piece of the puzzle dropped into place.
The dealers were eta corpse handlers who robbed body parts from the dead. The customers were brothel servants, buying the relics for the courtesans to give clients as love tokens, so they needn’t mutilate their own hands or coiffures. Lady Harume must have wandered into the temple after leaving the inn. She’d found the eta and bought their wares to give men, as her mother the nighthawk prostitute must have done. Sano’s initial guess was confirmed. But what, if anything, did this have to do with Harume’s murder?
Silver coins changed hands; the customers departed. The eta, catching sight of Sano, prostrated themselves on the ground. “Please, master, we weren’t doing anything wrong!”
Sano understood their terror: a samurai could kill outcasts on a whim, without fear of reprisal. “Don’t be afraid. I just want to ask you some questions. Get up.”
The eta obeyed, huddling together, eyes respectfully downcast. One was old, the other young, with similar bony features. “Yes, master,” they chorused.
“Did a young, pretty lady dressed in fine clothes ever buy hair and fingernails from you?”
The younger blurted, “Yes, master.”
“When was this?” asked Sano.
“It was in the spring,” said the young man, despite his companion’s frantic shushing gestures. Wide, dull eyes gave him a look of naïve stupidity.
“Was a man with her?”
The older eta hit the youth, who said, “Ouch, Father, why did you do that?” He withdrew into hurt silence.
“Tell me what you know about the lady,” Sano said.
Something in his voice or manner must have emboldened the young man, because he cast a defiant glance at his father, then said, “Our chief happened to be with us that day, making his tour of inspection.”
In Japan ’s rigidly controlled society, every class was organized. The samurai occupied ranks under their lords; merchants and craftsmen had their guilds; the clergy their temple communities. Peasants belonged to groups of households that governed one another. Every unit had a leader, and not even the eta escaped regimentation. Their chief held the hereditary name and position passed down from father to son. It was his privilege to wear two swords and don ceremonial dress when he appeared before Edo ’s magistrates on official business. With this honor came the responsibility of monitoring the activities of his people. Now Sano had a premonition of how the outcast chief fit into the mystery.
“While we were bargaining with the lady,” continued the young eta, “she kept looking at our chief. He looked back at her. They didn’t speak, but we could tell that something was happening between them, couldn’t we, Father?” The older man cowered, hands over his face, obviously ruing his son’s betrayal of their superior and wishing himself far away. “After the lady bought the hair and fingernails, our chief ordered us to go away. She stayed.
“But we were curious, so we stood outside the wall and listened. We couldn’t hear what they said, but they talked for a long time. Then she went to the inn across the street. He waited at the back gate until she let him in.”
Delight filled Sano. His hunch had paid off. Lady Harume’s ghost had led him to the surprising identity of her secret lover: Not a high official with a good reputation to protect, but a man whose outcast status had appealed to the low taste Harume had learned from her mother.
Danzaemon, chief of the eta. His two swords had misled the innkeeper to believe he was a samurai.