Sano nodded to Hirata, but Iwakura suddenly convulsed again. His body stiffened, his eyes closed, and the life deserted him. The touch of death had taken effect. As Sano beheld the corpse, he thought, That could be me soon.
“If only we could have arrived earlier,” Hirata lamented.
“But at least we know who the Ghost is,” Sano said, his spirits buoyed despite his disappointment. “That’s a big advantage. And we know that he and Yugao are together. A couple should be easier to find than a man alone.”
27
Noon had come and gone before Sano and Hirata returned to Edo Castle. As they rode through the passages with their detectives, the sun shone but clouds massed beyond the distant hills. The swampy, fetid scent of the river saturated the cool wind. The castle wasn’t as deserted as yesterday; soldiers escorted officials about their business. But their manners were subdued as they bowed to Sano in passing: Fear of the death-touch still pervaded the castle. Sano spotted Captain Nakai loitering near a checkpoint. Their gazes met, and Nakai seemed about to speak, but Sano turned away from his original prime suspect, an embarrassing reminder of the wrong turn his investigation had taken at the start. When Sano and his men arrived in his compound, Reiko came hurrying out of the mansion to meet him.
“What happened?” Her face was filled with gladness at seeing Sano alive. “Did you find them?”
Sano watched her air of expectancy fade at the discouragement on their faces. “You were right about Yugao and the Ghost. But we were too late.” He told her what had happened at the Jade Pavilion.
“Have you spent all night looking for him and Yugao?”
“Yes,” Sano said. “We questioned the other guests at the inn, but Kobori kept to himself while he was living there, and they couldn’t tell us where he and Yugao might have gone.”
“The sentries at three neighborhood gates near the Jade Pavilion saw a couple that fit their description pass by yesterday,” Hirata said. “But we couldn’t find any other witnesses who remember them.”
“They must have realized they were conspicuous and traveled separately,” Sano said. “My troops are out searching every neighborhood, starting near the Jade Pavilion, warning every headman and gate sentry to be on the lookout for Kobori and Yugao.” Exhaustion washed over Sano and his spirits fell. This massive search was like hunting for two bad grains of rice in a thousand bales. “We came home to put more men on the streets.”
“Well,” Reiko said, "it’s a good thing you came home, because there have been some urgent messages for you. Lord Matsudaira has sent his envoys here three times this morning. He wants to see you, and he’s getting impatient.”
Sano’s spirits plummeted lower. He could just imagine how Lord Matsudaira would react when he heard about last night’s episode. “Anything else?”
“One of your detectives came by, Hirata-san,” said Reiko. “He’s found that priest you were looking for.”
Sano was so tired that he had to think for a moment before he remembered what priest. “Ozuno,” he said. “The wandering holy man who might know the secret martial art of dim-mak.”
“Where is he?” Hirata asked Reiko.
“At Chion Temple in Inaricho district.”
Two days ago, when Sano had first heard of the priest, Ozuno had seemed crucial to the investigation, but he’d lost importance. “Now that we know who the Ghost is, we don’t need Ozuno to tell us.”
“He might still be useful,” Hirata said. “Two martial artists who share the secret of dim-mak, both in Edo, must know each other. Maybe the priest can help us find the Ghost.”
“You’re right. Go to Chion Temple and talk to Ozuno. I’ll expand the search for Yugao and Kobori, then deal with Lord Matsudaira.” Sano braced himself for an explosion. Maybe he would drop dead before Lord Matsudaira could punish him.
“I still think Yugao’s friend Tama knows more than she told me yesterday,” Reiko said. “I’ll pay her another visit.”
The sector known as Inaricho bordered on the edge of the Asakusa Temple district. Hirata and his detectives rode through streets crowded with religious pilgrims. Shops displayed Buddhist altars, rosaries, candleholders, statues, vases of gilt metal lotus flowers, and name tablets for funerals. Gongs rang in the small, modest temples that had proliferated in Inaricho. The rustic speech of pilgrims, the cries of roving peddlers, and smoke from crematoriums flavored the bright afternoon.
“Chion Temple is somewhere around here,” Hirata said.
They were passing one of the district’s many cemeteries when an unusual sight caught Hirata’s eye. Toward him along the road walked an old man, limping on a lame right leg, leaning on a wooden staff. He had long, unkempt gray hair and a stern face deeply lined and suntanned. He wore a round black skullcap, a short, tattered kimono, loose breeches printed with arcane symbols, and cloth leggings. A short sword dangled at his waist. Frayed straw sandals shod his bare feet. On his back he carried a wooden chest hung from a shoulder harness decorated with orange bobbles.
“It’s a yamabushi,” Hirata said, recognizing the old man as a priest of the small, exclusive Shugendo sect that practiced an arcane blend of Buddhist and Shinto religion laced with Chinese sorcery. He and the detectives paused to watch the priest.
“Doesn’t his sect have temples in the Yoshino Mountains? I wonder what he’s doing so far from there,” said Detective Arai.
“He must be on a pilgrimage,” Detective Inoue said. The yamabushi were known for making long, arduous trips to ancient holy sites, where they performed strange rituals that involved sitting under ice-cold waterfalls in an attempt to achieve divine enlightenment. Rumors said that they were spies for secret anti-Tokugawa conspirators, or goblins in human disguise.
“Is it true that yamabushi have mystical powers?” Arai said as the priest limped nearer. “Can they really cast out demons, talk with animals, and put out fires by sheer mental concentration?”
Hirata laughed. “That’s probably just an old legend.” The yamabushi was a just a cripple like himself, he thought glumly.
Five samurai ambled out from a teahouse opposite the cemetery. They wore the crests of different daimyo clans, and Hirata recognized them as the kind of young, dissolute men who sneaked away from their duties to rove in gangs about town and look for trouble. He’d arrested many such as them for brawling in the streets during his days as a police officer. Now the gang spied the yamabushi. They wove through the passing crowds and eddied around him.
“Hey, old man,” said one of the samurai.
Another blocked the priest’s path. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The yamabushi stopped, his expression unperturbed. “Let me pass,” he said in a gruff, strangely resonant voice.
“Don’t you tell us what to do,” the first samurai said.
He and his gang began shoving and mocking the priest. They yanked off his shoulder harness. His wooden chest fell on the ground. The samurai picked it up and heaved it into the cemetery. The yamabushi stood passive, leaning on his staff.
“Go away,” he said calmly. “Leave me alone.”
His apparent lack of fear enraged the gang. They brandished their swords. Hirata decided that their fun had gone far enough. Once he would have rescued the priest and sent the hoodlums on their way himself, but now he said to the detectives, “Break it up.”
Arai and Inoue jumped off their horses, but before they reached the gang, a hoodlum swung his sword at the priest. Hirata winced, anticipating the sound of steel cutting flesh and bone, the gush of blood. But the hoodlum’s sword hit the wooden staff, which the priest raised in such a swift motion that Hirata didn’t even see it. The hoodlum yelped in surprise. The blow to his sword knocked him reeling backward. He fell, obstructing the way of Detectives Inoue and Arai, who were rushing to the priest’s aid. Hirata gaped.