The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn Read online

  “Is the bon festival over?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then the spirits have left?”

  “Stop talking about spirits,” said Bunzo. “You kept me awake all night with your dreams. Get up and wash yourself. If you’re late, the judge will blame me.”

  Seikei dimly remembered that Judge Ooka had taken him away from Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki and brought him to this house. Seikei hadn’t even remembered falling asleep.

  “Late for what?”

  “Cha-no-yu,” a tea ceremony. Have you ever been to one?”

  Bunzo’s sarcastic tone indicated that he thought that was unlikely. So Seikei was pleased to respond, “Yes, I have. My father is a merchant of tea. I had to learn the ceremony so that I could be present when he welcomes business associates.”

  “Humph!” snorted Bunzo. “A merchant’s tea ceremony. Now that would be something to see.”

  “Is the judge having a tea ceremony?” asked Seikei.

  “No, but he’ll be there. Hurry up. Time for questions later.”

  Seikei washed himself, and then dressed in the clean clothing that Bunzo provided. Proudly, Seikei saw that it was the plain jacket and leggings that samurai in the service of great lords often wore. But when he began to tie his wooden sword around his waist, Bunzo stopped him. “No swords at a tea ceremony,” he said.

  Seikei was embarrassed. He should have remembered. When samurai and daimyos attended tea ceremonies, they left behind all the things that marked their rank. The ceremony was supposed to be an occasion where all who took part were equal.

  Outside, two horses were saddled and waiting, and Seikei recognized the slow old horse that he had first used when accompanying the judge to Ise. “You managed to stay on it before,” said Bunzo. “Try to do so now. We will not have far to go.”

  The streets were filled with people hurrying back and forth. All the shops were open now, and Seikei understood why his father often talked of opening a store in Edo. So many customers, and it was often said that the people of the shogun’s capital were spendthrifts, willing to pay far more for goods than those in other cities.

  With Bunzo leading the way, they passed through the commercial district into the area where the great daimyos lived. Seikei saw some yashiki that were even larger than Lord Hakuseki’s. The tragic outcome of Tomomi’s play crept into his mind, and Seikei suddenly wondered what happened to the rest of the actors. “Were you at Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki last night?” he asked Bunzo.

  The samurai shook his head. “You’ll hear about that from the judge, if he wishes to tell you,” he said.

  They turned a corner and Seikei saw an immense wall that stretched far down the street. He caught his breath. This was a yashiki that was so huge that it dwarfed any other in the city. In fact, it must be . . .

  “Is this the shogun’s palace?” he asked.

  Bunzo nodded. “That’s where you’re going.”

  Seikei felt his stomach jump. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  Bunzo gave him a little smile, the first time he had ever shown any sympathy for Seikei. “It’s a great honor. I have been there before, but my orders are to turn you over to the guards.”

  When they reached the entrance, Bunzo dismounted and Seikei followed. Bunzo spoke a few words to the samurai guards there, and then turned to Seikei. “They’ll show you the way from here. Remember, at a tea ceremony, you must act the way a guest would normally do. No matter who else is present.” Bunzo glanced at him. “Whoever that person might be. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Seikei.

  “Watch the judge and do whatever he does if you are uncertain,” said Bunzo.

  Seikei was bewildered. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be punished, but he was awed by the fact that he would be allowed inside the shogun’s palace. If only father could see me now, he thought.

  He had little time to think about it, for two of the guards motioned for him to cross the bridge across the moat and follow them. Inside, stone-covered paths led in all directions and Seikei saw dozens of the shogun’s officials hurrying from one of the many buildings to another.

  The guards led him toward the center of the huge complex, and Seikei gazed with awe on the mighty fortress that was the home of the shogun. That was not their destination, however. One of the paths wound through a high hedge of yew bushes. On the other side was a stone garden like the one Seikei had seen at the judge’s house. They walked around it, heading toward a small hut with a thatched roof at the far end.

  As he came closer, Seikei saw that the hut was constructed of wooden beams that looked very old. Wormholes and cracks covered the wood, and crumbling dried clay filled the gaps between the beams. On this side, the hut had two small windows, but both were covered with wax paper so that no one could see in or out.

  The entrance to the hut was a small opening, only as high as Seikei’s waist. One of the guards pointed to it, and Seikei quickly removed his sandals, setting them beside two other pairs next to the doorway. He glanced at the guards, and they nodded. Seikei was to go in alone.

  He stooped low, remembering that one must crawl through the doorway on hands and knees. This part of the tea ceremony was intended to humble everyone who went inside, another reminder that ranks were set aside. Within, even a merchant’s son was the equal of anyone he encountered.

  Inside, two men knelt on the bare wooden floor, sitting back on their heels. One was Judge Ooka, and the other... Seikei recognized him from the night before. Though the man was now dressed in a plain, undecorated kimono, it was he who had given the signal for the samurai to strike off Tomomi’s head.

  Seikei realized that he was in the presence of the shogun. He was relieved to see Judge Ooka smile and gesture for Seikei to join them. Seikei knelt as the others had, and lowered his eyes shyly. He stared into the hot coals that glowed in a small pit in the center of the hut. A stick of incense and some pine needles had been placed within the pit to sweeten the smell of the smoke. A teakettle rested on a small grill over the coals.

  “Here is the fine young man who has been so helpful,” he heard the judge say.

  “Welcome,” said the shogun. “The water is almost boiling. I hope you will enjoy the tea.”

  It was impolite not to answer, and Seikei forced himself to look up. “I am sure that it will be a pleasant occasion,” he replied, using one of the phrases he remembered from the ritual.

  The shogun smiled. He was a heavy-set man about forty years old, the same age as Seikei’s father. His face was soft and jowly, and when he smiled, tiny wrinkles appeared under his eyes. In fact, Seikei thought, he looked much like the merchants in Osaka who were his father’s friends. Seikei reminded himself not to speak such a thought aloud.

  All the utensils for the tea ceremony were set neatly beside the shogun. He picked up the bowl in which the tea would be brewed. At first glance, it appeared to be a simple bowl made of glazed clay. But Seikei saw that the glaze had been applied to make the bowl resemble a natural object, like something found in the forest by a hermit. The shogun poured a little hot water into it, swirled it around, and then discarded the liquid.

  Now he opened a shiny lacquer box, and the scent of tea wafted into the room. Using a bamboo dipper, the shogun scooped some of the dark green powder into the purified bowl. By now, the water in the pot over the fire was bubbling softly, and the shogun gently added some to the bowl, stirring it with a whisk. As the powdered tea dissolved, the water turned into a thick, soupy liquid. When the brew was ready, the shogun handed the cup to Judge Ooka, who bowed his head in thanks, took three sips, and complimented the shogun on its taste.

  Then he wiped the edge of the cup with a napkin and handed it to Seikei. Seikei accepted the bowl with both hands. Raising the bowl to his lips, Seikei discovered that the drink was smooth and full of subtle flavors. It was not mere politeness that caused him to take a second sip, and then a third.

  “This is a very rare tea,” he exclaimed.
“It must have been grown on the western slopes of Mount Fuji, near Shizuoka.” Remembering himself, he returned the cup to the shogun. “I thank you for allowing me to share such an excellent tea,” Seikei said.

  He noticed that both of the men were looking at him with interest. “I am pleased that you enjoyed the tea,” said the shogun. He paused. “May I ask how you were able to identify the place where it was grown?” Seikei’s face grew hot. “I have tasted it before. My father has many different kinds of tea...in his store.” The shogun’s eyes widened, and then he broke into a smile. Looking at Judge Ooka, he said, “Another of your surprises, my old friend.”

  “This young man has many talents,” the judge replied. “I commend him highly.”

  The shogun looked at Seikei, who was trying not to show how much pride he felt in the judge’s words. “As you know,” the shogun said, “a tea ceremony is intended to give relief from everyday cares. Guests usually discuss such things as the tea, art, the beauty of nature.”

  Seikei nodded. Those were the things his father’s friends spoke of at the ceremony he had attended. He had had to struggle not to let his boredom show.

  “However,” the shogun went on, “I always find it most enjoyable to hear how my friend Judge Ooka has solved a crime. In this case, I would particularly like to know how he contrived to bring the criminal before me to confess his crime and then demand his execution.” He looked sternly at the judge, who bowed his head to conceal a smile.

  The shogun looked back at Seikei. “Since you were involved in this matter, he thought you would enjoy it as well. But of course if you do not wish to hear about such a disturbing affair, it would not be polite to discuss it.”

  Seikei’s mouth dropped. “Oh, no. I mean . . . that would give me great pleasure.”

  The shogun nodded and offered Seikei a tray of sweet little rice and bean cakes. Seikei took one and passed the tray to the judge, who said, ‘You will probably want more than one. Keep the tray, for I am already too fat.” Then he reached out and murmured, “Perhaps just one, for the sake of politeness.”

  Seikei took a bite of his cake. “It has a delicious taste,” he remembered to say. He looked over to see that the judge’s cake had already disappeared. The shogun offered the judge another, but he shook his head firmly. “It is time to examine the path that we followed.”

  25: The End of the Path

  “Truthfully,” the judge began, “Seikei’s alertness provided me with all the information I needed. When the jewel was stolen, it was apparent that the thief could not have been the paper-maker and his daughter, in whose room it was found. Surely they would have expected to be searched and would have tried to escape before morning came.”

  The judge looked at Seikei. “You were brave enough to admit that you had seen a spirit during the night. That was unusual enough to cause me to investigate. The jewel might have been stolen by a spirit, but I have yet to find even one case in which that was the solution.” He shrugged. “Of course, life holds many strange things. But a spirit would not need to escape through a tunnel. So I advised you to follow it.”

  “But you were at the other end when I came out,” Seikei recalled.

  “Yes. I had heard that a kabuki troupe had performed nearby that evening. I thought that perhaps what you saw in the hallway of the inn might have been an actor, dressed in a costume.

  “As you followed the tunnel, I walked to the temple grounds where the play had been performed. Of course, if you had come out in some other place, that would have told me that I was wrong.”

  “You were right,” nodded Seikei. “It was Tomomi, dressed as a woman.”

  “If one of Lord Hakuseki’s guards had been as alert as you, Tomomi would merely have posed as a geisha come to serve the daimyo.” The judge paused for a sip of tea.

  “I now knew how the crime had been committed,” he continued. “However, the discovery of the tunnel showed me that the innkeeper was also suspect. For the kabuki actors could not have dug the tunnel. That required much time and work, and the innkeeper would surely have noticed such activity. So I ordered him arrested.”

  Seikei remembered the night of the bon festival when he had feared the spirit of the innkeeper. “But he killed himself under torture.”

  “Torture?” The judge shook his head. “No, I do not use torture. The shogun and I have discussed this before.”

  “And disagreed,” grumbled the shogun.

  “My feeling is that torture is useless in solving crimes,” Judge Ooka said. “Most people will confess to anything if they are tortured long enough, whether they have committed a crime or not. My assistants merely show suspects the instruments of torture. In this case, the innkeeper was left alone with them, and he used a sword to commit seppuku. That showed me how unusual a crime this was. It told me all I needed to know.”

  “I remember your telling me that it meant he was a samurai,” Seikei said.

  The judge nodded. “A samurai who was willing to give up his own life to protect the man he served. A samurai working as an innkeeper is quite unusual. Killing himself to protect a kabuki actor would have been unthinkable—unless the actor was his lord.”

  The judge’s hand crept toward the plate of sweet cakes, and Seikei moved it so that he could take one. By now, the second bowl of tea was ready—a sweeter, lighter drink than the first one. The judge gratefully sipped it and passed the bowl to Seikei.

  “So you and I pursued the path of the thief,” the judge went on. “He seemed unlikely to abandon his disguise, and I decided that he would try to lose himself in the crowds at Ise. When I discovered that a kabuki troupe was presenting The Forty-Seven Ronin, my suspicions were aroused.” He looked at Seikei.

  “You have certainly noticed the similarity between that story and this case.”

  Seikei nodded. ‘To avenge their lord, the ronin assumed roles that make people think they had lost their honor. Just as Tomomi did. But all the time, he was planning...”

  “His revenge,” nodded the judge. “That came later. Seeing Tomomi on stage, I realized what a cunning figure he was, and I sensed that he would be wary of someone pursuing him. I am too old and fat for that role, so I left you to follow the path.”

  Seikei shifted his legs. He wanted to ask the judge why he couldn’t have made the message a little clearer. But the judge smiled, as if he had read Seikei’s thoughts. “Left on your own, I assumed you would be resourceful. And don’t forget, Bunzo was following to keep you from harm. He had already informed me of your confrontation with Tomomi in the teahouse.”

  Seikei felt humiliated. The judge knew, then, how Tomomi had taken the sword from him. “The next morning, Tomomi placed the jewel at the shrine, asking me to tell you.”

  The judge nodded. “He hoped that I would concentrate my efforts on recovering the jewel. But as you now know, it was merely another false jewel. He kept the real one, for all along he intended to present it to the shogun himself.”

  Judge Ooka looked at the shogun. “You see, it wasnot through any cleverness on my part that you witnessed the end of the drama. That was intended by Tomomi, or should we call him by his real name? Takezaki Genji. He announced that name in response to a challenge by Seikei.”

  “You challenged him?” the shogun asked, surprised.

  “He only had a play sword,” confessed Seikei. “And I lost.”

  “But you obtained from him the information that allowed me to understand his motive,” said the judge. “I knew that the Takezaki family had been Kirishitans, and that their neighbor Lord Hakuseki had slain them and taken their lands. Lord Hakuseki reported that all the members of the family were dead, but as we saw, he lied.”

  “A dishonorable man,” growled the shogun. ‘You know, he didn’t even have the courage to commit seppuku properly. One of my samurai had to help him along.”

  Seikei felt a shiver run down his spine. Of course, that had been what Tomomi intended. By forcing Lord Hakuseki to draw his sword in the shogun’s pr
esence, he had condemned him to death. “What happened to the other actors?” he said, wondering how he dared to ask.

  The shogun glanced at him. “They’re in prison. Should I have them executed?”

  “Oh, no,” Seikei said at once. “They didn’t know anything about what Tomomi was planning.”

  “Hm. You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. Do you remember when Tomomi drew his father’s sword at the play? One of the actors, a boy named Kazuo, warned Lord Hakuseki that it was real.”

  “I don’t recall. It was confusing,” said the shogun. “You don’t think they deserve to be executed?”

  Seikei shook his head.

  “Well, then,” said the shogun, shrugging. “If you wish it, I’ll have them released.” He turned to Judge Ooka. “But you knew what Tomomi was planning. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “He would not have admitted his guilt so openly unless you were present. Tomomi had to be permitted to follow his own path. My samurai Bunzo followed Seikei, which was the only way I could learn of Tomomi’s movements. Two nights ago, as Bunzo watched, Tomomi went to Lord Hakuseki’s palace, disguised again as a woman.”

  “Bunzo followed me?” exclaimed Seikei.

  “Certainly. He would not have let you come to harm.”

  Seikei remembered that Tomomi had almost choked him to death near Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki that night. But he fought back the urge to point that out to the judge.

  “Tomomi seems to have met Lord Hakuseki, convincing him that the performance of a play would please the shogun, something that Lord Hakuseki wished.”

  “You could have told me then and saved all this trouble,” said the shogun.

  “But you would not have had the pleasure of seeing a criminal confess to his crime in such an unusual way,” said the judge.

  “Hm. Once was enough. Do not repeat it.”

  “You were pleased?” asked the judge.

  “Oh yes, it was exciting.” The shogun laughed. “Did you see how those officials of mine scrambled to get out of the way of the fighting? There really aren’t many true samurai anymore.”