“There’s been a problem with the supreme court,” Sano said. “One of the judges was ambushed and beaten the night before last. He’s unconscious. Another judge was hurt in a riot.” Sano had checked on Minister Motoori and learned he’d broken his leg. “The court has postponed deciding on a verdict. You’re safe for a while.”
Chikara betrayed his relief with a sigh. Oishi said blandly, “So we’ve heard.”
“How?” Sano asked.
“Our hosts have been kind enough to fetch us news from town,” Oishi said.
“Did they also tell you that the judge who was beaten is my father-in-law?”
“They mentioned it.”
“Did they mention that the supreme court is divided on the issue of whether you should live or die?”
“No.” Puzzlement crept into Oishi’s scowl. “How could they know? The supreme court proceedings are secret.”
“Why are you asking us these questions?” Chikara demanded.
“Mind your manners,” Oishi warned.
“Why should I?” Chikara grinned at Sano despite the fear that showed in his eyes. “The Hosokawa men brought us some news about you, too-you’re out of favor with the shogun. Nobody cares what you think.”
His insolence stung. Sano controlled his temper. “You should care. What I think will affect my investigation, which could influence the supreme court one way or the other.”
“My son’s question was a good one,” Oishi said. “So your father-in-law was beaten: What has that to do with us?”
“I want to know if you or your men are responsible,” Sano said.
“How could we be? We’ve been under house arrest for the past five days.”
“What else have the Hosokawa men been kind enough to do for you besides bring you news?”
Caution settled over Oishi; he exuded a stillness the way a tree does when the wind dies down and its branches cease to toss. “I don’t get your meaning.”
“Did you ask them to prolong your life by attacking the supreme court?” Sano asked. “Did they hire an assassin to kill my father-in-law? Or let you out so that you could?”
Oishi turned away, massaging his jaw with his fingers. It was the same reaction as when Sano had told him that his mistress was in town. Oishi seemed even more discomfited now, by Sano’s accusation. Maybe he was innocent and the idea that anyone would think him responsible for the attack had never occurred to him. Or maybe he was guilty but he’d counted on nobody connecting him with the crime because it had happened while he was imprisoned.
“I didn’t ask them.” Oishi spoke slowly, as if buying himself time to think. “Even if I had, they wouldn’t have done it. And they haven’t let me or any of my men outside.”
A Hosokawa retainer who was fanatical about Bushido and idolized the prisoners might have thought them worth risking the consequences of murdering an important official like Magistrate Ueda. Sano wasn’t ready to give up his theory, especially since he sensed that Oishi had something new to hide.
“My father didn’t arrange the attack.” Chikara moved to stand beside Oishi.
“Then maybe you did,” Sano said.
“Me?” Chikara drew back in surprise and fright. He looked to Oishi.
“He didn’t do it.” Oishi flung out his arm, a barrier between Sano and his son.
Sano remembered making the same gesture himself, when Masahiro had tried to run into the street as a group of samurai on horseback raced by. “If you’re guilty, then you’d better admit it,” he said, “or I’ll take Chikara to Edo Jail and torture him until he confesses.”
Although clearly dismayed by the threat, Oishi declared, “We’re both innocent.” He stood. “And we’re through with this conversation.”
Sano rose, too, his bluff called. “You haven’t seen the last of me. If I discover that you or your comrades were responsible for the attack on my father-in-law, I’ll execute the whole pack of you even if the supreme court pardons you for the vendetta.”
As he stalked from the room, he was astonished to recall that not long ago he’d respected the forty-seven ronin as exemplars of Bushido. Now he suspected them of trying to murder his kinsman. Even if they were innocent, he believed that their vendetta had led to the attack on Magistrate Ueda, and they were therefore indirectly responsible. If they were truly guilty, he would have their blood and his own revenge.
* * *
After thinking over the conversation he’d overheard between his parents last night, Masahiro had decided what to do.
He would conduct his own investigation into the attack on his grandfather.
The first step was to interview the suspect.
His heart pounded as he went to Okaru’s room. He wanted to see Okaru as much as he wanted to find out if she was involved in the attack. Peering through the open door, he discovered that she wasn’t there. Bedding lay in a heap on the floor. A maid stood at the cabinet, taking out clothes.
“Where’s Okaru?” Masahiro asked.
“Your mother moved her into the servants’ quarters. She doesn’t want her so close to your family.”
Masahiro felt a stab of apprehension. “Why not?”
“She thinks Okaru might have had something to do with the attack on Magistrate Ueda.”
If his mother thought Okaru was guilty, then perhaps she was. Masahiro’s heart sank.
“Lieutenant Tanuma is guarding Okaru,” the maid added.
So much for Masahiro’s plan to interview her. He couldn’t do it in front of Lieutenant Tanuma, who would tell his mother, who probably wouldn’t approve. It was time for the second step in his investigation.
“You can leave,” he told the maid.
“Your mother told me to move these things to Okaru’s new room.”
“Come back later,” Masahiro said.
He was the master’s son. The maid went. Masahiro hesitated, feeling guilty about snooping and afraid of what he might find. He gingerly sorted through the kimonos on the floor. Okaru’s sweet scent wafted up from them. He caught up a robe and buried his face in the soft, bright floral fabric. Embarrassed, he dropped the robe as if it were on fire. He didn’t find anything suspicious among Okaru’s clothes, shoes, and few other personal items in the right side of the cabinet. He examined a doll that had a chipped porcelain head. A girl who still liked dolls couldn’t be a criminal, could she?
Masahiro moved to the left side of the cabinet. Here robes and trousers were neatly folded, their material sturdy, their colors drab. They must belong to the servant named Goza. All were masculine in style. Masahiro searched the cabinet until he came upon a bundle on the floor. The bundle was a brown kimono wrapped around a pair of gray trousers with rope drawstrings. Both garments were blotched with stiff, reddish-brown stains.
A bad feeling came over Masahiro.
The stains were dried blood.
A high, feminine, angry voice behind him demanded, “What are you doing?”
Taken by surprise, Masahiro yelled. He dropped the clothes and banged his elbow painfully on the cabinet as he turned.
Goza stood there, her fists clenched, a savage look on her mustached face. Masahiro stammered, “I was just looking-”
“For what?” Goza towered over him, trapping him against the cabinet.
Masahiro remembered that this was his house, he was a detective, and he was the one supposed to ask the questions. He snatched up the clothes he’d dropped and thrust them at Goza. She stepped back. Moving away from the cabinet, he said, “Where did this blood come from?”
Goza’s eyes were like a pig’s, small and mean, sunken into the thick flesh of her broad face. “None of your business,” she said, and grabbed the clothes.
“You have to answer,” Masahiro said. “Or I’ll get my father, and you can tell him.”