“Will you let me go after I tell you?”
“How do I know whether this person really could have infected Tsuruhime or if you’re going to feed me a lie to divert my suspicion from you?”
Namiji chuckled. “You don’t.”
Although she distrusted Namiji and was vexed by her insolence, Reiko needed any clue she could get. “All right. But you’d better convince me that your information is good. If I think you’re just pointing the finger at someone you don’t like, then I’ll tell my husband that I think you killed Tsuruhime. He’ll send you to trial for murder.”
Everyone knew that virtually all trials ended with guilty verdicts and the punishment for murder was death by decapitation.
“Oh, it’s good,” Namiji said confidently. “Eight days before Tsuruhime took ill, she had a visitor. I saw him. It was the shogun’s new son.”
Surprise jolted Reiko. The child inside her rolled. This was the first clue that connected Yoshisato-and Yanagisawa-with Tsuruhime. Hiding her excitement, Reiko said, “Go on.”
“Yoshisato came to the estate. Tsuruhime received him in her chambers. She didn’t ordinarily let men in there, but he was her half brother. He brought her a fancy chest full of presents. They were together for almost an hour. Alone.” Namiji put a gloved finger to her temple, as if an idea had just occurred to her. “I wonder if there was a stained sheet inside that chest. And if he sneaked it in with her things while she wasn’t looking.”
Reiko couldn’t wait to tell Sano what she’d heard. But he would want to check Namiji’s story. “Can anyone vouch for what you’ve just told me?”
“Tsuruhime’s servants and ladies-in-waiting. They saw him, too. Can I go now?”
Honor-bound to keep her part of the bargain, Reiko told the guards, “Take her back to Lord Tsunanori’s estate.”
“In case you’re thinking of bringing me back for another chat-” Namiji leaned close to Reiko, whipped her scarf away from her mouth, and coughed in Reiko’s face.
Reiko cried out in horror as she recoiled from Namiji’s moist, sour breath. Terrified despite knowing that Namiji wasn’t contagious, Reiko scrubbed her face with her sleeve.
Namiji burst into malicious laughter. “That will teach you to stay away from me!”
The guards seized her and dragged her away from Reiko. Reiko heard her laughing all the way down the corridor.
10
Masahiro hurried through Edo Castle, on his way to help his father with the most important investigation of their lives. He wore a leather shoulder pouch and a pole attached to his back that flew a banner printed with the Tokugawa triple-hollyhock-leaf crest-his page’s uniform. An official stopped him, said, “Take this message to the north army command post,” and pushed a scroll container into his hands.
Unable to refuse because his position in the regime was already shaky, Masahiro delivered the scroll. Afterward, he met two fellow pages. They blocked his way down the passage.
“What have we here?” said one of them, a surly, thickset boy named Ukyo.
“It’s the great Masahiro, who used to be head of the shogun’s private chambers,” said Gizaemon, the other boy. His little black eyes glinted with mean pleasure in a face like a rat’s. “But he got kicked out of the palace today.”
These boys and others had resented him because the shogun had chosen Masahiro to serve as head of his chambers and bypassed them. Masahiro stood his ground even though Ukyo and Gizaemon were two years older, taller, and stronger than he. “Get out of my way.”
“‘Get out of my way,’” Ukyo mocked him in a girlish falsetto.
Gizaemon snickered. “Say ‘please.’”
Masahiro knew he could beat them in a sword fight. He’d done so at martial arts practice, another reason they were tickled by his downfall. But drawing a weapon inside Edo Castle was against the law, punishable by death.
“‘Please,’” Masahiro said through gritted teeth.
The two boys stood aside. As he passed them, they grabbed him. They wrestled him onto the ground, seized his hair, and banged his face against the paving stones. Then they released him and walked away, laughing.
Masahiro stood up. He wiped his face with his hand, which came away bloody from a cut on his nose. He burned with shame and anger. Remembering how he’d been demoted in front of the assembly at the palace, he blinked back tears. That, and seeing his father brought down by Yanagisawa, had been the worst experience of his life. And this attack was only a taste of trouble to come, Masahiro knew. Yanagisawa would never leave his family in peace. Masahiro held his head high while he strode through the castle, avoiding the gazes of the people he passed. As he exited the castle gate, he swore to solve the murder of the shogun’s daughter and prove Yanagisawa was guilty.
By the time he reached the crowded, bustling daimyo district, the temple bells began tolling noon. The sun shone with a force that promised a hot summer. Laborers repairing the estates had stripped down to their loincloths. Their naked legs and torsos gleamed with sweat. Sawdust choked the air. Masahiro loitered near Lord Tsunanori’s gate and pondered what to do.
The sentries wouldn’t just let him walk in and start asking people, “Did you see Yanagisawa kill the shogun’s daughter?” Masahiro reached in his bag, took out a scroll container, and approached the sentries. “I have a message for Lord Tsunanori, from the shogun.”
“Thanks, I’ll give it to him,” one of the men said.
“My instructions were to put it into his hands myself,” Masahiro lied.
“I’ll see that he gets it.” The man snatched the scroll from Masahiro.
Masahiro wondered what Lord Tsunanori would think when he opened the empty container. He walked around the estate, peering up at the surrounding barracks, until he reached the back gate. It was open and unguarded. A group of carpenters sauntered in, carrying boards over their shoulders. Masahiro followed.
Although repairs had been finished on the lord’s mansion and the parts of the estate visible from the outside, new stables and servants’ quarters were still under construction, amid hammering and sawing. Smoke billowed from hearths under a huge tent where cooks prepared food for the daimyo’s entourage. Oxcarts, workbenches, piles of lumber and stones, and trash heaps took up much of the grounds. Masahiro saw shaved crowns and topknots on many workers. There weren’t enough peasants to rebuild Edo. Samurai who normally spent their time loafing now had to work for their stipends. As Masahiro looked around, wondering where to start his inquiries, he heard shouts, then a loud shattering noise.
Four samurai stood atop a building. They’d been affixing ceramic tiles on the roof. Below them a box lay on the ground amid broken tiles. Two of the samurai cursed angrily. A third yelled, “Look what you did, you clumsy fool! It’s a good thing nobody was standing down there. Go pick those tiles up!”
The fourth man, who’d knocked the box off the roof, climbed down a ladder. He was younger than the others, in his early twenties. While they had strong, tough muscles and faces, he had a slender build and handsome, sensitive features.
“Save the unbroken ones,” a man on the roof ordered. “There’s a shortage of tiles.”
Masahiro hurried over to help. “Thank you,” the young man muttered as he and Masahiro sorted good tiles into the box and threw fragments onto a trash heap.
The other men sat on the roof and watched. Disgruntled because they were forced to do menial labor, they took out their anger on their comrade, talking about him as if he weren’t there. “I never saw anybody so careless.” “He doesn’t pay attention to what he’s doing.” The young man’s sensitive mouth tightened as he sorted tiles. “His head has been in the clouds.” “Do you think it’s because of the mistress?” The men chuckled.
Masahiro’s attention perked up. The mistress-that must mean Lord Tsunanori’s wife, Tsuruhime. He studied the man he was helping. Could he have something to do with the shogun’s daughter and her murder?