With uncertain smiles, the women nodded; yet Reiko didn’t need to see their guilty reactions to know they were lying. Yoriki Hoshina’s report had placed the ladies-in-waiting in their quarters together just before the murder, not with Lady Asagao. And if Lady Jokyōden had been walking around the pavilion as she claimed, she would have noticed the lights and noise of a party. The evidence supported Jokyōden’s story and refuted Asagao’s.
The consort huffed, “All this talk about murder upsets me terribly. Let’s have no more of it.” She inspected Reiko, and a pleased smile banished her nervousness. "I think you’re ready for the stage.” She held up the mirror so Reiko could see herself. “How do you like it?”
Reiko stared at her reflection, aghast. Her hair was sculpted into mounds and coils studded with gaudy floral ornaments. Exaggerated brows arched on her forehead; pink half-moons colored her eyelids. A circle of rouge dotted each cheek, and large, curving red lips masked her own. She looked the exact picture of a low-class courtesan.
“I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, cringing in shame. Asagao’s handiwork disgraced her rank, samurai heritage, and natural modesty. Reiko knew that many men admired the style of prostitutes, but Sano would be horrified to see her this way.
Asagao laughed in delight. “You look beautiful!” The ladies-in-waiting chorused their agreement. “Come along!”
The women ushered Reiko to the stage, which now sported a new backdrop showing a street in the pleasure quarter where the play’s doomed lovers had met. Lord Gojo and the other courtiers positioned a large wooden cage that represented the window of a brothel. Asagao, Reiko, and the ladies-in-waiting sat inside this. Someone handed Reiko a silk-covered book.
“We’re ready. Let’s begin!” Asagao cried.
Courtiers strolled back and forth in front of the window cage, cracking lewd jokes and ogling the women.
“Oh, how this sordid life saddens my spirit,” Asagao recited in a tragic voice. "I wish my darling Jihei could buy my freedom and marry me!” She opened Reiko’s playbook, whispered, “Your character’s name is Snowdrop. Start reading here,” and pointed to the correct line.
“How unfortunate that you’ve fallen in love with a poor potter who already has a wife,” Reiko read in a barely audible voice. As a leering courtier approached her, she continued, “Ah, master-the cherry blossoms are in full bloom tonight. Would you partake of their sweetness?”
Flirtatious banter followed. Ready to die of humiliation, Reiko blushed under her makeup. The daughter of a magistrate and wife of the shogun’s sōsakan-sama, behaving thus! She longed to rush off the stage, yet determination held her captive. Lady Asagao had reason and probable opportunity to commit murder, and still no alibi. If Reiko wanted to find evidence against Asagao, she must stay in the good graces of the emperor’s consort.
The play progressed. Between lines, Asagao nudged Reiko and whispered happily, “Isn’t this fun?”
9
The merciless afternoon sun illuminated the tile roof and half-timbered walls of the imperial study hall, a small structure within the conglomerate of buildings that comprised Emperor Tomohito’s residence. While Sano interviewed the emperor’s attendants inside the hall, Right Minister Ichijo stood on the shaded veranda, eavesdropping through the open window. Watching several of Sano’s troops pacing through the landscaped grounds between the study hall and the Pond Garden, he was secretly anxious because the sōsakan-sama hadn’t questioned him regarding Left Minister Konoe’s murder.
Was Sano unaware of his relationship with Konoe? Ichijo had no doubt the metsuke records described it in detail, and couldn’t believe that Sano hadn’t targeted him as a suspect. Sano had learned that Emperor Tomohito, Prince Momozono, Lady Jokyōden, and Lady Asagao had been away from their quarters, their whereabouts unknown, at the time of the murder; why didn’t he also know that the same incriminating circumstance applied to Ichijo?
Still, Sano’s ignorance was a stroke of good fortune, because Ichijo knew that if Sano found out about him and accused him of murder, he would be convicted; virtually all trials ended in a guilty verdict. Ichijo envisioned his distinguished career ending at the public execution ground, amid uproarious scandal. All morning he’d hovered around Sano, listening to the interviews in constant fear that someone would tell Sano what many in the court knew and might reveal if asked the right questions. Although Sano didn’t need his services at present, Ichijo was too anxious to keep track of the investigation to force himself to leave.
Yet he realized that his behavior might provoke Sano’s suspicion. Now he forced himself to walk away, out the gate, and down the passage through the kuge district toward his residence.
Suddenly, a Tokugawa soldier stepped from around a corner. Solid and grim-laced, he blocked Ichijo’s path. “Honorable Right Minister, please come with me,” he said.
“Where?” Ichijo said, startled. “Why?”
The soldier merely repeated, “Come with me,” in a tone that discouraged refusal.
Alarm seized Ichijo. Every instinct warned him not to go, but disobeying a bakufu order would bring harsh punishment. Longing for the days when his ancestors ruled Japan and the power of the Imperial Court was supreme, Ichijo let the soldier escort him out the northern palace gate.
In the street outside waited more soldiers, and a black palanquin manned by four bearers. “Sit inside,” the soldier ordered Ichijo.
Ichijo reluctantly complied. When the soldier closed the slatted blinds over the windows of the sedan chair and barred the doors shut, Ichijo’s alarm turned to fear. “What’s going on?” he called. “Am I under arrest?”
No answer came. The palanquin rose as the bearers shouldered the poles, then began moving at a brisk pace. Ichijo didn’t dare try to break out or call for help. He desperately sought a reason for his abduction. Perhaps the bakufu did suspect him of killing Left Minister Konoe; perhaps he was on his way to trial. But if so, then why this secretive capture? The Tokugawa usually made a spectacle of criminals as a warning to the public, and Sōsakan Sano, officially in charge of the murder investigation, didn’t appear to be involved in this. Fighting panic, Ichijo tried to determine where his captors were taking him.
He heard the noise of the crowds on Imadegawa Avenue. Then the palanquin turned right, heading north. Familiar smells of fish and lacquer emanated from some shops, and the noise of saws on wood from others; gongs rang in a shrine. Ichijo deduced that he was traveling along Karasuma Avenue. The motion nauseated him; nervous sweat drenched his body. Soon the traffic noises diminished. The palanquin tilted upward at a gradually increasing angle as it wound into the hills. Birds sang above the bearers’ labored breaths and the steady tramp of their feet. Inside the dim, hot compartment, every breath Ichijo drew reeked of his own terror.
Abruptly, the ground leveled. Ichijo heard the creak of a gate swinging on rusty hinges. The bearers set down the palanquin. The door opened, but before Ichijo could glimpse his surroundings, a soldier leaned in and dropped a black cloth sack over his head. Strong hands dragged him from the palanquin.
Gasping in the smothering darkness, Ichijo tried to pull off the sack and struggle free, but the soldiers pinned his arms behind him and marched him across grassy earth. He felt wind whipping his garments, and the heat of sunlight. Then a door slid open. The wind and heat abated as the atmosphere around him condensed into the vacuum of an interior space. The soldiers kicked off his shoes; his feet stumbled along a wooden floor. Ichijo wanted to protest, but in his terror, he feared he would vomit if he tried to speak.