“Which Lord Matsumae is,” Hirata said.
A new idea occurred to Sano. “Sometimes a disturbed mind hides painful things from itself. And Lord Matsumae’s mind seems to have been disturbed long before Tekare died.” Sano opened the book and read aloud the passage about the wine and the pipe filled with native herbs. “I wonder what those herbs were? And what was in that wine?”
“Poisons that made him forget he killed Tekare and made him think he’s possessed by her spirit,” Marume suggested.
Sano wondered if enslaving and ruining Lord Matsumae had been another form of Tekare’s revenge against the Japanese who’d mistreated her. “Maybe they also drove him to all the other violent acts he’s committed since her death.”
“Supposing he did kill her,” Fukida said, “why would he have let you search the palace and find his diary?”
“Maybe a part of him wants to be caught and punished,” Hirata said, “and leaving his diary for you to find is his way of confessing.”
“I wonder what the spirit of Tekare would do to him if she found out that he killed her,” Fukida said.
“What do we do next?” Marume asked.
Sano had been pondering that question ever since he’d found the diary. He’d delivered many criminals to justice, but never one who’d been holding him prisoner. “Lord Matsumae won’t take kindly to my telling him that he’s the killer I’ve been commissioned to catch. Particularly if he doesn’t remember killing Tekare and believes he’s innocent.”
“We could arrest him,” Marume said.
Nobody laughed at his joke. The time might come when they must try to take Lord Matsumae by force. The samurai code of honor didn’t excuse them from suicide missions.
“I’m not willing to move against Lord Matsumae based on this alone,” Sano said, holding up the diary. “Not when there are still other suspects.” And not while he needed to stay alive to rescue his son.
“Where should we look for evidence against them?” Hirata asked.
“The funeral is a good place to start. Some if not all of the suspects should be there. Let’s watch how they behave.”
A tapping noise caught Sano’s attention. Puzzled, he got up, walked to the wall, and lifted the mat. Underneath was a window. He opened the panel of paper panes and the shutters.
Reiko stood on the veranda. “Let me in!” she said in a loud, urgent whisper.
Sano hauled her through the window and closed it. “I thought you were in bed. Where have you been?”
She was trembling violently, her eyes red-rimmed, face crusted with mucus, lips white. Sano brushed the snow off her, hung her coat and gloves over a drying frame, and helped her remove her boots. He seated her and himself by a brazier. Hirata offered her hot tea, but she pushed it away.
“I went to the keep.” Her voice quavered. “Wente took me. This time we got inside. But Masahiro wasn’t there. All we found was an empty cage and a blanket with blood on it. And this.” She gave Sano a leather pouch she’d been clutching in her hand.
Sano opened the pouch and saw the toy horse painted to resemble the real horse that Masahiro had been learning to ride. His worst fears solidified into reality. Hope withered like burnt-out ashes.
“Masahiro is dead!” Reiko began to cry with violent, wracking howls. “He probably has been since before we came here. We were too late from the beginning!”
Sano held her. Her sobs shook them both. He wanted to break down and weep with Reiko. All along he’d seen the signs that their son was dead and tried to ignore them. He couldn’t now.
“Maybe Masahiro escaped,” Hirata said.
“Yes, why not?” Marume said. “He takes after his mother. She’s pretty good at getting out of tight spots.”
Their efforts to cheer up Sano and Reiko failed. Sano had tried not to wonder why Lord Matsumae and Gizaemon wouldn’t just give him back his son; what harm could it do them? The reason was that they knew Masahiro was dead because they’d killed him. They didn’t want to admit it to Sano for fear of eventual consequences. But at this moment Sano was devastated beyond craving retribution. All sense of meaning and purpose drained from his existence. His son was dead. Nothing mattered anymore.
“Let me die,” Reiko moaned in Sano’s embrace. “Let my death reunite me with Masahiro. Masahiro! My baby, my firstborn, my dearest child!” Her frantic cries resonated through the hollowness inside Sano. “Just let me see him again!”
As the other men watched with stern pity, Sano ceased to care about the investigation, about whether he ever found out who’d killed Tekare. He no longer cared whether Lord Matsumae set him and his comrades free or put them to death. If he and Reiko died on Ezogashima, at least their earthly remains would be near their son’s.
Through all the past dark times, Sano had always believed a brighter day lay ahead of him, that he would not only survive but triumph.
Not this time.
Life as he knew and cherished it had ended tonight.
20
The morning of Tekare’s funeral was clear and bright. Reiko stood lost among the mourners and guests convened outside the palace’s main reception hall. It seemed impossible to her that the sun was shining, the sky brilliant turquoise, the snowdrifts pure, fresh, and beautiful. The light hurt her eyes, which were swollen from weeping. How incredible that the world should go on, indifferent to her sorrow; that she was still alive when her heart had been torn out of her; that she should attend a funeral for a stranger while she grieved for her son.
She hadn’t wanted to come, but Sano had said, “Lord Matsumae’s ordered everyone in the castle to go. You must.”
He’d acted calm and strong, although his eyes had an expression that she’d seen in them once before, while he convalesced after he’d been beaten almost to death by an assassin. Then he’d looked as if his body had been tortured to the very limit of survival. This time he looked as if his spirit had. They’d spent the night clinging to each other in bed, but although they’d conceived Masahiro together and should have taken comfort from sharing their loss, Reiko had felt utterly alone in hers. She now felt as distanced from Sano as if he were on the moon, even though he stood beside her.
The funeral party entered the hall, led by Lord Matsumae, his uncle Gizaemon, and their officials, clad in formal black ceremonial robes decorated with gold crests. The native men and concubines followed, wearing their usual animal-skin clothing and bead jewelry. Reiko saw Wente, but Wente was watching the native men. A small, thin, male commoner strode in after them, bundled in a luxurious fur coat. Reiko heard Hirata say to Sano, “That’s Daigoro, the gold merchant.”
Lady Matsumae and her three attendants, all in lavish silk robes, minced up the stairs. Reiko was surprised that her mind continued functioning despite her grief. She noted that Lilac was absent. She remembered that Lilac had promised her information about Masahiro, about the murder, today.
Troops resplendent in full armor ushered Sano, Reiko, Hirata, the detectives, and the Rat last through the door. Inside the hall, a fire burned in a native-style hearth. The corpse lay north of the hearth, on a woven mat, amid brass bowls from which rose yellow, acrid smoke.
“It’s the native custom to burn sulfur, to mask the odor of decay,” the Rat whispered.
Reiko smelled its vicious stench despite the sulfur. The natives hugged one another, hands positioned on shoulders or under armpits, in a gesture of mutual condolence. Lord Matsumae and his men knelt along the north wall. His face was hollow-eyed and drawn with misery, theirs stoic. The strong, handsome native that Reiko remembered from the beach squeezed in beside Lord Matsumae, who was nearest the corpse.
“You don’t belong here,” Lord Matsumae said, offended. “Sit somewhere else.”
The native blurted out angry speech. The Rat whispered, “Urahenka says that as Tekare’s husband, he’s the most important mourner, and he, not Lord Matsumae, should sit in the place of honor.”