His men reluctantly desisted. The soldiers snickered and started to ride through Sano’s army.
Hirata blocked them. He’d moved so swiftly that they were startled to find him in their path. “Go around us.”
His voice was quiet, but his aura of power stopped the soldiers. Their fright showed as they recognized him. They knew he could kill them before they could strike him once. Nobody dared insult Sano in Hirata’s presence. Laughing as if at a joke that wasn’t funny, they slunk around Sano’s group.
Hirata steered his horse back into position beside Sano. Marume and Fukida nodded approvingly to him, but Sano sensed the tension among the three men as the procession continued down the avenue. The detectives didn’t object to Hirata taking his rightful place next to Sano; but when Hirata had been sosakan-sama and Sano had been chamberlain, Marume and Fukida had acted as Sano’s chief retainers. They’d enjoyed the status and responsibility, and they disliked being shunted to the background. And although the detectives liked Hirata, he’d changed since learning the mystic martial arts. They feared him, even though he was their comrade.
But today nothing could darken Sano’s or his men’s spirits for long. One murder investigation fourteen years ago had launched Sano on an extraordinary rise to power. One murder investigation now could be his redemption. His men were excited to be on an important mission, and the city had a festive air. White, sparkling snow covered roofs, streets, and dirt. Women swept their doorsteps, sending flurries of flakes over brightly dressed children pelting one another with snowballs. Pine boughs hung over doors, decorations for the coming New Year. Sano and his men crossed the Ryogoku Bridge, which arched over barges and fishing boats on the glittering Sumida River. They joked and laughed.
Their humor abruptly ended when they found the first evidence of the murder.
The snow in the street between the earthen walls of the estates in Kira’s neighborhood was red with bloody footprints and spatters. These originated at the gate of a mansion two stories tall, whose many curved tile roofs rose above surrounding barracks. As Sano and his men dismounted, Fukida said, “Merciful gods.”
“I thought we were coming to investigate one murder,” Marume said, his usual cheer sobered. “This looks like the scene of a massacre.”
Near an empty guardhouse, ladders leaned against the wall. “That must be how the killers got into the mansion.” Sano glanced up and down the street. People peered out the gates of other estates. When his gaze met theirs, they withdrew. “Let’s go in.” He and his men approached the gate. “Be careful. The messenger said that the killers are gone, but we don’t know what to expect.”
Swords drawn, they lined up on either side of the portals. Hirata gingerly opened the gate. They walked between the barracks, along a path that was covered with more bloodstained snow. Two men lay facedown, dead. Both were samurai, half naked, barefoot. Arrows protruded from their backs. Sano and his men proceeded to the courtyard. Here the blood was so plentiful that it had turned the snow into a crimson slush. Many more bodies were scattered about. Sano’s troops exclaimed and muttered. A few retched. Sano frowned at the gashed chests, the bellies oozing entrails, the throats cut. Vacant eyes gazed up at the sky. Sano almost stepped on a severed hand. His stomach lurched, even though he’d seen plenty of carnage in the past. This attack was surely the most brutal, inflicted on men who clearly hadn’t been prepared.
“This was no battle,” Marume said. “This was a slaughter.”
“But where is Kira?” Hirata asked.
They turned to the mansion. It huddled under the weight of the snow on its roof, its facade in shadow, the veranda dark beneath overhanging eaves. Crows and vultures perched on the gables, waiting to feast on the corpses. The house was as quiet as a tomb. Sano and his men followed bloody footprints up the steps and through the door. They didn’t bother taking off their shoes as polite custom required. The corridor they entered was awash in melted snow and more blood. They crept past silent, empty rooms.
A man rushed from around a corner. He was small and stooped, and he carried a spear. “Don’t come any farther! Get out!” He clumsily thrust his spear at Sano and the other men.
“Hey, be careful with that thing.” Marume seized the spear. The old man squealed and cowered.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Sano said, and introduced himself. He and his troops sheathed their swords.
The old man gasped, dropped to his knees, and bowed. “Sosakan-sama. A thousand apologies. I thought they’d come back.”
“Who are you?” Sano asked.
“Gorobei. I’m Lord Kira’s valet.” Grief contorted the old man’s face. “I was.”
“The shogun sent me to investigate Kira-san’s murder,” Sano said. “May I speak to his chief retainer?”
Gorobei sobbed. “He’s dead.”
“What about his other officials?”
“They’re either dead, too, or wounded.”
“Who’s in charge?” Sano said.
“Nobody,” Gorobei said.
“Who sent the messenger to Edo Castle?”
“I did. I also sent for a doctor to take care of the wounded men. They’re in the barracks.”
“You’ve done well,” Sano said. “Where are the women and children?” He knew Kira had a large family. “Are they all right?”
“Yes, thank the gods. The gang didn’t touch them. They’re in the private quarters, with the servants.” Gorobei added, “The watchdog was also spared. I found him tied up and muzzled outside.”
Tokugawa law forbade killing dogs. The shogun had been told by his spiritual advisors that if he protected dogs, then the gods would grant him an heir. It hadn’t worked so far, probably because he had sex with men much more often than women. Sano was amazed by the gang’s combination of violence and respect for the law.
“Can you take us to Kira?” Sano said.
Gorobei nodded, choking back tears. He led Sano’s party to the bedchamber. More bloody footprints soiled the tatami around a bed whose quilt was folded back as if the occupant had just risen. Gorobei lifted a scroll painting that hung on the wall, revealing a door.
“My master had this door built, in case of an emergency.” He preceded Sano through the door, into a courtyard. This contained a shed whose door was ajar, the interior filled with coal and firewood. A tarp lay on the ground. Sano could see the shape of a body underneath. Blood had soaked through the fabric.
“I didn’t want to leave him here,” Gorobei said, ashamed and regretful. “But I couldn’t move him by myself, and no one else would touch him.”
“It’s better that you left him until we got here.” Sano was glad to have any clues intact.
Fukida and Marume peeled back the tarp. Bony feet with bunions appeared; next came withered, veined calves, and a beige kimono with blood spatters that grew bigger as the tarp drew away. The whole upper garment was dyed red. Kira’s arms extended out from his sides, fingers stiff. The corpse ended at the neck. Bone, windpipe, and sinews showed through the blood that had clotted around the severed flesh and congealed into a half-frozen puddle.
The detectives let the tarp drop. Fukida sucked air through his teeth. Marume winced. Gorobei wept. Sano and Hirata gazed in silence, paying their respects to their colleague. Sano endured the spiritual pollution that the dead exude. He brushed aside the irreverent thought that he’d stepped in so much blood that he would have to burn his boots when he got home. Then he asked the obvious question.
“Where is Kira’s head?”
“They took it.” Gorobei clarified, “The men who killed him.”
“Who are they?” Sano said. “Did you get a look at them?”
“No. But I know who they must be. They’re former retainers of Lord Asano.”