Authors: Laura Joh Rowland
The fugitives were desperate for money to support themselves and their cause, and they often brutalized citizens who had the bad luck to encounter them. Reiko wore a dagger under her sleeve, ready to defend herself if necessary.
The procession halted outside Magistrate Ueda’s mansion, which housed the Court of Justice. Guards at the gate confronted Reiko’s entourage. “State your names,” they ordered. “Show your identification documents.”
As her escorts complied, other guards peered suspiciously into her palanquin. Recently an outlaw had disguised himself as a porter, sneaked into an estate, pulled a dagger from the crate he carried, and slain five people before he was captured. Security had tightened everywhere. Now the guard recognized Reiko and let her procession through the gate. In the courtyard she climbed out of her palanquin. More police than usual stood guard over more than the usual number of prisoners awaiting trial. The prisoners were mostly samurai who appeared to be troops from Yanagisawa’s army. Shackled by heavy chains, they were disheveled and bloody, as if they’d fought savagely while resisting capture. No matter that Yanagisawa had been an evil, harsh master, Bushido—the samurai code of honor—demanded their unwavering loyalty to him. Reiko’s bodyguards led her past them and other prisoners, tough-looking commoners. Crime was rampant among the townspeople; many had taken advantage of the general disorder and an overworked police force.
Inside the low, half-timbered mansion, Reiko entered the Court of Justice and found the trial ready to begin. On the dais at the end of the long hall sat her father, Magistrate Ueda, portly and dignified in his black ceremonial robes, one of two magistrates who maintained law and order and settled disputes in Edo. A secretary, equipped with a desk and writing implements, sat on either side of him. Except for the courtroom guards, only two other people were present. One was a
doshin
—a police patrol officer. Clad in a short kimono and cotton leggings, he knelt near the dais. At his waist he wore a single short sword and a
jitte
—a steel wand with two curved prongs above the hilt, used for parrying and catching the blade of an attacker’s sword. The other was the defendant, a woman dressed in a hemp robe. She knelt before the magistrate on a straw mat on the
shirasu
, an area of floor covered by white sand, symbol of the truth. Her hands were chained behind her; her long black hair straggled down her back.
Magistrate Ueda acknowledged Reiko’s presence with a slight nod. He signaled one of his secretaries, who announced, “The defendant is Yugao from Kanda district.”
Reiko knelt at the side of the room, where she had a view of the woman’s face. It was sternly beautiful, with a high forehead and cheekbones, a thin, elegant nose, and carved lips. Yugao seemed a few years younger than Reiko’s own age of twenty-five. She sat with her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the white sand. Her slender body was rigid under the baggy robe.
“Yuago is charged with the murders of her father, her mother, and her sister,” the secretary said.
Shock jarred Reiko. Murdering one’s family was a heinous crime that repudiated the morals of society. Could this young woman have really done it? Reiko wondered why her father had wanted her to see this trial.
“I will hear the evidence against Yugao,” said Magistrate Ueda.
The
doshin
came forward. He was a short man in his thirties, with blunt, weathered features. “The victims were found lying dead in their house,” he said. “Each had been stabbed many times. Yugao was found sitting near the bodies, holding the knife. There was blood all over her.”
That a daughter could commit such an atrocity against her parents, to whom she owed the utmost respect and affection! For one sister to slay another! Reiko had seen and heard of many terrible things, but this exceeded them all. Yugao neither moved nor changed expression; she gave no sign of innocence or guilt. She appeared not to care that she was accused of a crime for which the penalty was death and that most trials ended in convictions.
“Did Yugao say anything when she was arrested?” said Magistrate Ueda.
“She said, ‘I did it,’ ” the
doshin
replied.
“Is there any evidence to the contrary?” Magistrate Ueda said.
“None that I saw.”
“Have you any witnesses who can prove that Yugao did indeed commit the crime?”
“No, Honorable Magistrate.”
“Have you looked for or identified any other suspects?”
“No, Honorable Magistrate.”
Reiko began to have a strange feeling about this trial: Something wasn’t right.
“The law allows accused persons to speak in their own defense,” Magistrate Ueda told Yugao. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Yugao spoke in a flat, barely audible voice: “I killed them.”
“Is there anything else?” Magistrate Ueda asked.
She shook her head, apparently indifferent to the fact that this was her last chance to save her life. The
doshin
looked bored, waiting for Magistrate Ueda to pronounce Yugao guilty and send her to the execution ground.
A frown darkened Magistrate Ueda’s face. He contemplated Yugao for a moment, then said, “I will postpone my verdict. Guards, take Yugao to an audience chamber.” He turned to his secretaries. “There will be a recess before the next trial. Court is adjourned.”
Now Reiko knew something unusual was going on. Her father was a decisive man, and as quick to serve justice as the law demanded. She’d watched many of his trials and never before seen him delay a verdict. Nor, it seemed, had the secretaries and the
doshin
, who gazed at him in surprise. Yugao’s head jerked up. For the first time Reiko got a full view of her eyes. They were flinty black, inside curved slits beneath smooth lids. They blinked in confusion. As the guards led her from the courtroom, she went meekly. The secretaries departed; Magistrate Ueda stepped off his dais. Reiko rose, brimming with curiosity, and hurried over to join him.
“Thank you for coming, Daughter,” he said with a fond smile.
They’d always been closer than most fathers and daughters, and not just because Reiko was his only child. Reiko’s mother had died when Reiko was a baby, and the magistrate cherished her as all that remained of the wife he’d adored. Early in her life, he’d noticed her intelligence and given her the education normally reserved for sons. He’d employed tutors to instruct her in reading, calligraphy, history, mathematics, philosophy, and the Chinese classics. He’d even hired martial arts masters to teach her sword fighting and unarmed combat. Now they shared an interest in crime.
“What did you think of the trial?” Magistrate Ueda asked.
“It was certainly different from most,” Reiko said.
The magistrate nodded agreement. “In what way?”
“To begin, Yugao confessed so readily,” Reiko said. “Many defendants claim they’re innocent even if they’re not, to try to avoid punishment. Yugao didn’t even speak in her own defense. Maybe she was too shy or frightened, as women sometimes are, but if so, I couldn’t tell. She showed so little emotion.” Most defendants were beset by remorse, hysteria, or otherwise agitated. “She didn’t seem to feel anything at all, until you delayed the verdict. I sensed that she didn’t exactly welcome a reprieve, which is also strange.”
“Go on,” Magistrate Ueda said, pleased by Reiko’s astute observations.
“Yugao never said why she killed her family, if in fact she did. Criminals who confess tend to make excuses to justify what they’ve done. This is the first trial I’ve seen where a motive for the crime wasn’t presented. The police don’t seem to have looked for it.” Puzzled and disturbed, Reiko shook her head. “They seem to have arrested Yugao because she was the obvious suspect, despite the fact that the evidence against her isn’t proof of her guilt. In fact, they seem to have done no investigation at all. Have they become so negligent lately?”
“This is a special case,” Magistrate Ueda said. “Yugao is a
hinin
.”
“Oh.” Comprehension flooded Reiko.
The
hinin
were “non-humans”—citizens demoted to an outcast class near the bottom of the social order as punishment for crimes that were serious but not bad enough to warrant the death penalty. These crimes included theft and various moral transgressions.
Hinin
were prohibited from dealings with other citizens; the few thousand in Edo lived in settlements on the fringes of the city. The only people who ranked lower were the
eta
—hereditary outcasts due to their traditional link with death-related occupations, such as butchering, which rendered them spiritually unclean. One major distinction separated
hinin
from
eta:
The
hinin
could finish their sentences or be pardoned, obtain amnesty, and regain their former status, while the
eta
were permanent outcasts. But both classes were shunned by higher society.
“I suppose the police don’t waste their time investigating crimes among the
hinin
,” Reiko said.
Magistrate Ueda nodded. “Not when a case seems as clear-cut as this one. Especially these days, when the police are busy rounding up renegades and quelling disturbances.” Concern deepened the lines in his face. “My verdicts depend on information from them. When they provide so little, I find it difficult to render a just decision.”
“And you can’t tell any better than I can whether Yugao is guilty or innocent based on the testimony at her trial,” Reiko deduced.
“Correct,” said Magistrate Ueda. “Nor can I tell from what I was able to learn beforehand. When I heard of the case, I knew the police wouldn’t have conducted a thorough investigation, so I made a point of questioning Yugao myself. All she would say was that she killed her parents and sister. She declined to explain. Her demeanor was the same as you saw.”
He expelled a breath of frustration. “I can’t let a confessed murderess go free just because I’m not satisfied with the case against her. My superiors would disapprove.”
And his position depended on their good will, Reiko knew. Should they think him lenient toward criminals, he would be expelled from his post, a calamitous disgrace.
“Yet I can’t convict a young woman and sentence her to death on such incomplete information,” he said.
Reiko knew her father had a soft spot in his heart for young women; she supposed that he saw her in them. And unlike many officials, he cared about serving justice even when an outcast was involved .
“This brings me to the reason I invited you to the trial,” Magistrate Ueda continued. “I sense there’s more to this case than meets the eye. And I want to know the truth about the murders, but I haven’t the wherewithal to seek it myself. My schedule is packed with trials; my staff is fully occupied. Therefore, I must ask you a favor: Will you investigate the crime and determine whether Yugao committed it?”
Joy and excitement leapt in Reiko. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I would love to!” Here was a new, unprecedented opportunity—a whole mystery of her own to solve, not just a part of one of Sano’s cases.
Magistrate Ueda smiled at her enthusiasm. “Thank you, Daughter. I know you’ve had time on your hands lately, and I decided you are the right person for the task.”
“Thank you, Father,” Reiko said, warmed by the respect that his words implied. Once he’d disparaged her detective abilities and thought she belonged at home tending to domestic duties; back then, he wouldn’t have allowed her to undertake a job usually reserved for men. No ordinary official would ask his daughter to do such a thing. No one except her father, who understood her need for adventure and accomplishment, would expect such a favor from the chamberlain’s wife.
“I’ll begin immediately,” Reiko said. “First I’d like to talk with Yugao. Maybe I can get her to tell me what really happened the night of the murders.”
Maybe Reiko would also have the satisfaction of proving a young woman innocent and saving her life.
3
Sano and Detectives Marume and Fukida hastened through the stone-walled passages that led down the hill from the palace, past checkpoints manned by sentries. They found two of Lord Matsudaira’s soldiers guarding the gate to the racetrack. The soldiers let them inside. As the gate shut behind them, they surveyed their surroundings.
A crowd of men, who looked to be spectators at the race, loitered in clusters or sat in the stands. Their gaudy robes made bright spots of color against the backdrop of dark green pines that fringed the premises. Lord Matsudaira’s soldiers hovered, watching everyone. A small band of them stood in a circle at one end of the bare, dusty oval track. Sano presumed they were guarding the corpse. Horses neighed in stables arrayed along one wall. The sky was still bright, but the sun had descended, and the hill above the compound cast a shadow over the track. The afternoon’s warmth had begun to cool as evening approached.
Now the spectators noticed Sano and rushed toward him. He recognized some as minor bureaucrats, the sort with vague duties and enough idle time to watch horse races. He experienced the surge of excitement with which he’d begun each new investigation when he’d been
sōsakan-sama.
But he also felt sad because he missed Hirata, his chief retainer, who’d once lent his expert, faithful assistance to Sano’s investigations. Hirata now had other duties besides being at hand whenever Sano needed him.
A man stepped forward from the crowd. “Greetings, Honorable Chamberlain.” He was a muscular samurai in his forties, with a tanned, open face and a deferential yet confident manner. Sano recognized him as the master of the racetrack. “May I ask why we’ve been kept here?” Irate mutters from the spectators echoed his question. “What’s going on?”
Sano said, “Greetings, Oyama-
san
,” then explained, “I’m here to investigate Chief Ejima’s death. Lord Matsudaira thinks it was murder.”
“Murder?” Oyama frowned in surprise and disbelief. Low exclamations rose among the spectators. “With all due respect to Lord Matsudaira, that can’t be. Ejima fell off his horse during the race. I saw. I was standing by the finish line, not five paces away from him when it happened.”