In Search of Lost Time

The cover of Pushkin Vertigo's 2023 English edition of Fūtarō Yamada's 1979 novel, Meiji Dantodai (translated as The Meiji Guillotine Murders) briefly describes the book as follows: "Death stalks Old Edo". It is, I feel, a curiously appropriate descriptor, for reasons that go beyond the initial impressions one gets from it.

Starting out as a mystery author, Yamada (1922–2001) is perhaps best known for his works of historical fantasy such as Kōga Ninpōchō (The Kouga Ninja Scrolls) and Makai Tenshō, many of which have been adapted to films, manga and anime multiple times. A prolific writer, he left his mark in the world of crime fiction as well—The Meiji Guillotine Murders being a top-tier example. It should come as no surprise, though, that what this book shares with his fantasy works is a preoccupation with all things historical.

For me, in a work of historical crime fiction, the historical elements should add to or elevate the experience of consuming the mysteries. These elements, however, should not lead to either of the two circumstances mentioned below:

The historical element basically becomes an excuse for the author to indulge in the dissemination of unsolicited history lessons that are not particularly pertinent to the mysteries themselves.

The historical element is of such critical and excessive importance to the plot that one cannot enjoy the mysteries without properly researching and understanding the aforesaid element, its relevance and context.

The Meiji Guillotine Murders stands out as a shining example of how to imbue a work of mystery fiction with historical details in a manner that does not come across as overbearing. It helps that Yamada is a gifted storyteller—The Meiji Guillotine Murders oozes with an old-world charm (replete with local, cultural details) that transports readers to the era it is set in. Even more important is the ways in which the narrative presents itself—the book unfolds first almost like a jidaigeki (period drama) with the flashy, dramatic appearance of the protagonists, then it evolves into a torimonochō (a somewhat ambiguous term for a style of fiction that imitated the personal 'case notebooks or logs' kept by investigators or police personnel). The use of both forms helps Yamada exercise a reasonable level of creative liberty and dramatisation while also accurately portraying real-life, period-specific politics, events, places and material things.

The novel is set in the aftermath of the Boshin War (1868–1869) and the onset of the Meiji Restoration (1868), the events spanning a three-year period between 1869 and 1871. An era of acute socio-political turmoil marked by several high-profile assassinations, these years saw the fall of the Tokugawa shogunate, the restoration of Imperial rule, and the opening up of the country to the West. Not surprisingly, this period of "chaos-cum-fallowness" was defined as much by "a nationwide sense of collapse" as it was by "a sense of heartfelt relief at the dawning of peace"—a time when "new government sprouted up like bamboo shoots, when new administrative orders came down from on high like rain, and when new customs and ideas came flooding in like a deluge from a harbour", but which also saw "even stranger offices, laws and notions from the old days [...] revived like the souls of the departed and combined, as though mixing together the seven colours of the rainbow—who could say then whether for better or worse—with the end result a chaos of ash-grey."

One of these "even stranger offices [...] from the old days" revived after the Meiji Restoration was the Imperial Prosecuting Office, a long-forgotten institution from the seventh and eighth centuries (CE) that tackled corruption within government departments. The opening two chapters establish the broader context in which the work is set, and introduces readers to the main cast of the book—the two shining lights of the Imperial Prosecuting Office, Chief Inspectors Keishirō Kazuki and Toshiyoshi Kawaji, a French woman Esmeralda Sanson, and five rasotsu ('policemen') who cheat and exploit commoners. The two chapters may not feature mysteries, but are very entertaining nonetheless—Yamada achieves this by presenting well-defined, distinctive characters and scenarios. Keishirō and Toshiyoshi can be recognised by their appearances—Keishirō flaunts a suikan, while Toshiyoshi wears a fuka-amigasa hat, and their apprehension of a vicious gang of robbers resembles scenes from a jidaigeki or a torimonochō drama. With her blonde hair, Esmeralda Sanson is even more of a rarity—a descendant of the infamous Sanson family of Parisian executioners, she is brought to Japan by Keishirō, along with a guillotine which the Imperial Prosecuting Office intends to use for executions instead of the traditional sword. The chapters also establish roles for supporting characters—in the first chapter, for instance, the five rasotsu, who serve as sidekicks, are portrayed as lazy, sleazy and greedy, through a series of amusing sketches. But, what also becomes evident is the reasons they resort to such dishonesty—ranging from the situations in their homes and families to the ways in which these ex-samurai are dealing with changing, conflicting loyalties, and the demands of the new era. Similarly, in the second chapter, readers are exposed to the simmering chaos of the times, and the far-reaching effects of a political assassination—from the way in which the different hierarchies in the Imperial Prosecuting Office and other government departments exploit the situation for their own ends, to how the assassination ends up affecting the conversations and relations between Toshiyoshi and Keishirō, and in their circle of friends and family. What is also established is the 'conceit' that will enable Esmeralda to stay and operate in a Japan that is almost hostile to her.

The mysteries start in earnest from the third chapter onwards, once the groundwork and the rules have been laid. Each tale of mystery (barring the last) begins with a brief segment of a report made by Toshiyoshi that provides a basic outline of the case in question, and ends with a 'performance' by Esmeralda dressed up as a miko (priestess) who communicates with the spirits of the deceased which reveals and denounces their killers. In the first mystery, "A Strange Incident at Tsukiji Hotel", a body is found sliced in half in the great hall of the hotel below the bell tower. In the next one, "From America with Love", a rickshaw with a man plunges into a river drowning its occupant. In the surrounding snow-covered landscape, however, no footprints of the rickshaw-puller are discovered, leading to rumours that the ikiryō (a vengeful, evil spirit) of a war criminal must have committed the deed. "The Hanged Man of Eitai Bridge", on the other hand, unfolds as an alibi-deconstruction story where the victim was hanged from a bridge with the suspect nowhere near the scene of crime. In "Eyes and Legs", people witness an act of decapitation through a telescope, and even though amputated legs are recovered from the site, the victim is never located. Lastly, "The Corpse that Cradled  its Own Head" concerns the investigation into a case in which the beheaded body of a certain person of interest, defiled with manure, appears at a farm. 

In brief, these puzzles form the crux of each story—and, for me, each puzzle and trick boasts of a level of chutzpah comparable to the pranks seen in the Home Alone series. Except, one also recalls how effective young McCallister's snares and traps were. The tricks seen throughout The Meiji Guillotine Murders are just as inspired, unexpected and deadly, if not more. But, that only reveals a part of the picture. A major reason why the books operates as an excellent historical crime narrative is because it blends tradition and modernity, even when it comes to the question of murder mechanisms. From a materialist perspective, it is wonderful to see recently introduced innovations and tools become contraptions of murder. For instance, the functioning of the novel guillotine inspires the perpetrator in "A Strange Incident at Tsukiji Hotel" to come up with his own instrument of execution involving traditional Japanese articles. "From America With Love" sees the newly introduced mode of transport, the hand-pulled rickshaw, become a terrifying contraption of death—one that can be used to move a corpse without leaving any human footprints behind. "The Hanged Man of Eitai" sees another new vessel that transformed waterways businesses and transport—the steamer—being used to reduce time taken to travel between places and thereby, create an alibi. In "Eyes and Legs", the telescope is used not only to gaze upon the changing physical and socio-economic landscape of Edo, but also to look at and reveal modern surgical practices and newer varieties of crime emerging in a new era. The collaborative performances of Esmeralda, Keishirō, and the rasotsu, in the denouement of each case, certainly adds a theatrical element to the proceedings by revealing how each of the contraptions was used.    

It is worth noting that the conversations, decisions and actions of several characters in the background play a significant role in influencing Keishirō, Toshiyoshi and Esmeralda. However, because they are used in a non-intrusive manner and blend seamlessly with the stories, the reader would be hard-pressed to realise that many of them are historical figures—Toshimichi Ōkubo, Takamori Saigō, Takayoshi Kido, Yukichi Fukuzawa, Shinpei Etō, Gensai Kawakami, Nagamichi Ogasawara, Dr. Hepburn, Ginkō Kishida, O-Den, Tomomi Iwakura, Kanzō Uchimura, Tanosuke Sawamura, Aritomo Yamagata, to name a few. In fact, the protagonist Toshiyoshi Kawaji is a real-life figure said to have revolutionised and modernised the Japanese police force. The fact that a lack of awareness about the historical import and significance of the characters does not detract the readers or diminish their enjoyment of the story is a testament to Yamada's superb skill as a storyteller that enables him to integrate these 'easter eggs' that only elevate the audience's experience of and engagement with the work.

From a literary standpoint, The Meiji Guillotine Murders seems to initially develop as a torimonochō story. Adding to this perception is the atmosphere the work creates and sustains, with an emphasis on the 'images-of-the-floating-world' aspect of old Edo—as seen in sections such as "when they saw the fantastic vision of a Heian courtier, seemingly floating before them in a moonlight-drenched Tokyo alleyway, they stopped, spellbound" and "the enormous windows on all four sides of the room had been flung open to the vast autumn night sky with its countless twinkling stars. None of the assembled guests was looking at them, however. It was as though everybody were floating in another dimension altogether." The immediate comparison is with Kidō Okamoto's The Curious Casebook of Inspector Hanshichi: Detective Stories of Old Edo, an anthology of atmospheric Holmesian short stories set in the Edo of the 1850s, with a languid, nostalgic air about it. The Meiji Guillotine Murders, however, does sketch the socio-political reality of the times to a greater extent and with more urgency, especially in the concluding chapter, "Can There be a Just Government?", which radically changes the nature of the story—from a series of chronological but disjointed stories to a linked-story novel. Not only does it tie up and resolve several discrepancies, it also fundamentally subverts and alters the role of the rasotsu—from being sidekicks and comic foils to being critical components of an all-encompassing criminal plan, plotting their own redemption (of sorts). And it is here that the metaphor of death stalking old Edo gains extra layers—as it turns out, just like the murderers in the individual stories stalk their prey, the rasotsu also follow and stalk these murderers, playing the role of masterminds and facilitators in the background, and providing them with insights, inspiration, and critical services at the right moments, for the furtherance of their objectives.

With its focus on corruption in the old shogunate order as well as in the new Meiji administration, The Meiji Guillotine Murders perhaps resembles Shōtarō Ishinomori's 1966–1973 manga, Sabu to Ichi Torimono Hikae (Sabu and Ichi's Detective Tales) more closely than it does Okamoto's Hanshichi. In Ishinomori's beautifully illustrated but bleak work set in the dying years of the Tokugawa shogunate, Sabu, a young thief-taker, and Ichi, a blind masseur, navigate the harsh Edo landscape populated by a society, impoverished and in ruins, dealing out their severe and fierce (but not unsympathetic) brand of justice to bandits, rouge samurai and corrupt officials, while bemoaning the decaying and rotten state of affairs in the upper echelons of the shogunate that spells unrelenting misfortune and tragedy for the common people Sabu and Ichi try to protect. Neither work quite explicitly puts forth a political opinion or standpoint, but they do share the common theme and agenda of portraying the inherent and deeply embedded corruption in both new and old world orders, and the effect it has on the people who bear its brunt. Even beyond Japan, the use of a linked mystery-story approach to reveal a larger issue in the background has grown in popularity, particularly in the recent spate of Chinese detective shows (such as 2022's Checkmate, an adaptation of a number of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot stories set against the backdrop of a Republican China) featuring Shanghai and/or Beiing of the 1920s or 1930s.

Reflections after vanquishing the misguided foe (panel from Shōtarō Ishinomori's Sabu and Ichi's Detective Tales, chapter 83, January 1973)

It is safe to say that The Meiji Guillotine Murders has been one of my best finds of the year. Taking inspiration from its predecessors in the genre, the book goes on to lay down an enviable template for future authors dabbling with the historical crime fiction genre to try and emulate—take, for instance, a completely different work such as Honobu Yonezawa's excellent The Samurai and the Prisoner that still feels quite similar to Yamada's work with regards to its modus operandi of stringing individual stories together in the climax. The Meiji Guillotine Murders comes highly recommended, indeed!

Night of the Living Dead

The tendency of Japanese mystery authors to fixate on apocalyptic, end-of-the-times themes has much to do with the country's own tryst with bloody conflicts, internecine strife and wars going back decades and centuries. This is visible in the settings and politics of works by prolific wartime authors such as Seishi Yokomizo (taking on the theme of the disfigured individual and society crippled by the Second World War in multiple novels) and Akimitsu Takagi (portraying the seedy underworld in the midst of bombed-out ruins in The Tattoo Murder Case). Images of the war continue to loom large in the works of authors writing a few decades later such as Natsuhiko Kyogoku (with a number of characters in the Kyōgokudō series suffering from post-war PTSD), and in manga series such as The Kindaichi Case Files and Detective School Q (both of which have stories with wartime biological experimentation in their backgrounds). And, if one includes historical crime fiction in the equation, the net has to be cast much wider, travelling further back in time — Honobu Yonezawa's The Samurai and the Prisoner takes place against the backdrop of the siege of the Arioka Castle (1578–1579), while the events of the Boshin Civil War (1868–1869) and the Meiji Restoration play an important role in Fūtarō Yamada's The Meiji Guillotine Murders.

When Masahiro Imamura's Shijinso no Satsujin (translated as Death Among the Undead, Locked Room International, 2021) first came out in 2017, it was widely hailed as a much-needed shot in the arm for the shin honkaku sub-genre. As Soji Shimada points out in his insightful introduction to the book's translation, the genre had been showing tendencies similar to the preceding 'social school of mystery fiction'—namely that the sub-genre was restricting and limiting itself too much by sticking religiously to a select few 'golden rules', as a result of which originality was being stifled. Indeed, if one simply glances, at the surface level, the elements the novel introduces and the genres it blends, Shimada's observation is warranted. Yet, as has happened with so many works in the past, Death Among the Undead is also driven by bloody violence, albeit in a modern avatar—a bioterrorist attack.

Imamura clearly loves popular Japanese mystery tropes—a university setting, mystery clubs and an incredibly young cast. In fact, the opening stretches resemble, in essence, Yukito Ayatsuji's groundbreaking novel, The Decagon House Murders. The wry, self-deprecating humour ("It was up for debate whether his 'deductions' could be considered logical, but I did agree that humans do not act as predictably as they do in books.") punctuating sections (such as the one where Shinkō University's Mystery Society members Kyōsuke Akechi and Yuzuru Hamura make idle deductions on the food a girl may order at the cafeteria, or the one where Akechi strikes a 'deal' with real-life detective Hiruko Kenzaki to enter the Film Club's summer trip) makes for easy reading in the early going. All the ingredients indicate a classic, closed-circle setup: the Film Club receiving a threatening letter on who the next 'sacrifice' will be, and all the members of the Film Club going ahead with the trip and gathering at the Villa Violet close to Lake Sabea, with Akechi, Hamura and Kenzaki as the 'invited' guests.

It is here that another thread in the form of a bioterrorist attack at the Sabea Rock Festival nearby collides with this closed-circle setup with the force of a freight train, and transforms the section into a scene straight out of George A. Romero's Night of the Living Dead. Even though the members could hear ambulance sirens since the afternoon and observe an unusual glow from the festival area, it is only during the evening-time Trial of Courage held between the Club members that things are thrown into disarray. By this time, there have been significant casualties, but it is during the main cast's encounter with wandering zombies that the novel acquires a personal touch. Both the Club members as well as Yuzura lose their friends to the horde of zombies wildly stumbling about. They are also forced to retreat into the confines of the Villa Violet, while closing, shuttering up all points of entry and egress, and barricading themselves. The book then purports to unfold as a zombie survival narrative. Or, does it?

The use of zombies to double down on the closed-circle and enforced isolationist aspects of the novel, besides positioning them as potential instruments and perpetrators of murders most foul, can indeed be considered to be revolutionary in textual or literary terms. However, in my view, Death Among the Dead can best be enjoyed as a cinematic experience*. Much of it has to do with how the novel transpires henceforth. First, Imamura carefully outlines the extent of the zombies' capabilities, laying out what they can and cannot do:

"[...] these zombies appeared to have badly-developed motor skills. Their speed of movement on the steps was much slower than on level ground, and they had trouble staying balanced. Any zombie that did somehow manage to make their way up found the barricades in their way, got their feet wrapped up in the sheets and tripped backwards, taking the zombies behind with them in their fall. The process kept repeating itself. [...]"

Despite all the precautions taken based on the collective observations of the gathered people, the following morning, one of the members is found dead in a closed room in a gross manner (with his face gnawed off), slowly transforming into a zombie before the witness' eyes. The victim is 'killed' a second time, before the observers find a note with the words 'let's eat'. This sets off a second wave of revised speculations and discourse on zombies, their abilities, and the process of zombiefication, with conversations on locked room mysteries and their applicability (in the current scenario) thrown in between. Some of the discourse has a surprising philosophical depth (which is, unfortunately, never really followed up on), despite being peppered with pop-cultural references to cult hits in the zombie fiction genre, such as Resident Evil and Shaun of the Dead:

"Zombies are not simply grotesque, horrifying monsters anymore. They are beings that can be used to cast a light on so many themes: the sin of man, economic class differences, the strong and the weak, or the tragedy of how friends and family can turn into enemies in the blink of an eye. Zombies are projections of our own egos and minds."

However, no amount of philosophising, theorising and notes-taking help the survivors prevent two other murders—one on the second night and the other on the morning of the third day. In the second case, the corpse is found with its head smashed to bits in a closed elevator stuck on the second floor of the building, while the third case involved the poisoning of a character in the room he had holed himself up in. In the meantime, the threat of the gathering multitudes of zombies breaking through the barriers put in place has increased exponentially.

So, these three incidents, featuring the involvement of zombies to varying degrees, form the crux of the narrative. The incidents are all explained in a rational manner—and to answer the question I had posed earlier, it is ironic to note that the way the novel unfolds after the introduction of the zombies makes it a celebration of logical and deductive reasoning, with the survival of characters against a zombie outbreak being presented as a consequential byproduct. In particular, I prefer the explanation of the first incident, which has a tragic and pathetic aspect to it, and merges the mystery and horror aspects very well.

Perhaps, it all unfolds a bit too logically and rationally for a reader invested in the setting of the work. The biggest failure here, in my opinion, is that Imamura sorely undersells the psychological impact of the zombie attack on the characters. The fact that they all display too much of a 'calmer heads should prevail, let's wait for help to arrive' attitude, accompanied by an almost placid acceptance of the situation, beggars belief and feels excessively unnatural, artificial and forced by the dictates of the author's plotting preferences and the need to conform to a particular brand of mystery fiction. There's no unpredictability or instinctiveness in the reactions of the characters holed up in Villa Violet in the face of a zombie invasion. Instead, even though the book had previously poked fun at the predictability of characters in fictional works, it all feels too premeditated, predictable and well-rehearsed, like a movie script. What's disappointing is that the zombies are almost peripheral in the central sections of the book, only serving as tools to advance the plot, and the sense of threat emanating from their presence is often severely underplayed. Paradoxically, therefore, the introduction of the zombie element that promised to add a new dimension to the dynamics of the shin honkaku sub-genre ends up restricting the narrative potential by imposing the dictates of a classically-constructed shin honkaku story on to the characters and their reactions that do not seem to be appropriate to the circumstances they face (except for the portion after the denouement leading to the rescue of the remaining characters). What's extremely lacking is a consistent level of panic and nervous/manic energy seen in, say, Frederic Brown's Night of the Jabberwock.

It begs the question: is the inspired use of zombies really essential to Imamura's debut work? Given the larger genre-wide implications it has wrought, the answer is a resounding yes. But, seen in the context of Death Among the Undead specifically, one cannot help but argue that Imamura fails to do justice to or explore the enormous potential of the zombies that he introduces in his fictional universe. Akechi indeed has the final say when he remarks, "... Things don't always go right."

*Thankfully, a 2019 movie version of Death Among the Undead, titled Murder at Shijinso, can be found online. In all respects, it is fairly faithful to the events in the book, but the use of dramatic tropes, some creative liberties and a stylised treatment focusing more on the action and survival elements, makes for a more entertaining, spectacle-filled view that could help one gloss over the identity-based issues one encounters when reading the book.

Sitting on Top of the World

And thus, 2023 concludes, for me, with a picture-perfect rendition of the proverbial 'save the best for the last' scenario ...

My acquaintance with Japanese historical (or period) crime/detective fiction is limited to only a handful of works: Kidō Okamoto's Hanshichi torimonochō (translated as The Curious Casebook of Inspector Hanshichi : Detective Stories of Old Edo, University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007) and a couple of manga and anime series such as Shōtarō Ishinomori's Sabu to Ichi Torimono Hikae (Sabu and Ichi's Detective Tales),  Shōtarō Ikenami's Onihei Hankachō (adapted into a long-running manga series by Sentaro Kubota and Takao Saitō, as well as a 2017 anime series), Yuichiro Kawada and Takase Rie's Edo no Kenshikan (Edo Coroner), Fuyumi Ono and Niki Kajiwara's Toukei Ibun (Strange Tales of Tokyo), Kei Toume's Genei Hakurankai, and maybe a couple more. To this list, I now have the privilege and good fortune of adding Honobu Yonezawa's acclaimed, award-winning novel from 2021, Kokurōjō (translated as The Samurai and the Prisoner, Yen Press, 2023).

The period in which The Samurai and the Prisoner is set—1578–1579, falling in the last quarter of the Sengoku era—predates the historical setting of the other aforementioned works. This makes for interesting outcomes. For one, this is a far more chaotic time in history, marked by incessant, excessive warfare and strife, compared to the Edo and later periods. Second, the more visible difference is that the resulting focus or the gaze of this novel, unlike that of the ones set in the later Edo, Meiji, Taisho or Showa eras, is not as much on introspection that seeks to shed light on the internal decay or rot in society, as it is on the 'insider-outsider' dichotomy and the intrigue surrounding the relationship and politics between different clans and warlords negotiating who they want to ally with and who to fall back on in case of a betrayal.

What also gives the novel a distinct identity is the fact that the events of the novel transpire within a fortified castle besieged by enemies, within and without. Honobu's story picks on the historical events of the second siege of the Itami Castle (or Arioka Castle), orchestrated by Nobunaga Oda, the famous daimyō (feudal) and one of the "three Great Unifiers" of Japan. His plans for the ruthless conquest of the northern Settsu province (consisting of parts of the modern-day prefectures of  Hyōgo and Osaka) hit a roadblock when one of his allies, the general Murashige Araki, betrays the Oda in 1578. Araki—driven partly by his own ambitions and mostly due to his horror at the excesses of the Oda's brutality—seeks to mount an opposition against Nobunaga, with the help and support of the Mōri clan, an influential and powerful family in the Aki province (the western portion of modern-day Hiroshima prefecture), and the Buddhist temple-fort of Hongan-ji in Osaka. Araki holes up in the Arioka Castle (effectively a castle-city in Itami) with his commanders and members of several other clans who contribute to the army/military efforts, and his concubine Chiyoho, a 'blessing' and a 'gift' from the Hongan-ji to Murashige for helping defend them. 

And so it is, at the start of the novel in November 1578, when Araki receives a visitor called Kanbei Kuroda, a retainer of Hashiba Hideyoshi (a lord under Nobunaga; later Hideyoshi Toyotomi, the second of "three Great Unifiers of Japan") of Chikuzen province, who arrives to ascertain whether Murashige had indeed turned his back on the Oda, and to advise him against taking such a course of action. However, Araki goes on to capture Kuroda after a brief but bloody struggle. Instead of having him executed (which was the norm back then, and a matter of honour), Murashige throws him in a cage in the dungeon in the depths of the castle, alive but severely wounded—a truly ignominious fate for Kanbei.

The four short stories that form the bulk of the novel span the following year, corresponding quite accurately to the historical timeline of the conquest of the castle. The stories, divided according to seasons (winter, spring, summer, and autumn) follow a common pattern—strange, unsettling events threaten to undo the goodwill and harmony not just among the clans and commanders, but also among the masses, for reasons directly or indirectly tied to the events. Each time, Murashige has to rely on Kanbei's extraordinary intellect to get to the truth behind the incidents. The bad blood and further developments between the two influences the evolution of their relationship, with the result that Kanbei does not provide outright answers to the mysteries narrated to him (instead, replying in convoluted riddles), and plots behind Murashige's back. 

In the first story, a young hostage from a clan that betrays Murashige's faction is found dead in a closely guarded storehouse surrounded by an unfinished garden covered in snow. In the second story, a successful, surprise, nighttime attack leads to the elimination of an enemy camp hidden perilously close to Arioka Castle. However, unrest brews when the decapitated heads of two high-ranking enemy officers are switched during a head-identification session, and the camp commander's head is not found despite definite reports of his demise. Ugly rumours spread within the city, and a Christian place of worship is burnt to the ground leading to the death of a person. In the third story, a revered priest-messenger and a member of Murashige's personal guard-force are murdered in an old hermitage and its environs. The priest had been entrusted to convey a secret message and a treasured possession of Murashige to a samurai serving under an enemy general Mitsuhide Akechi (who would later force Nobunaga to commit seppuku in the Honnō-ji Incident of 1582). The article in question was stolen, while the secret message, even though left intact, had already been read by parties unknown—a development that, apart from hinting towards the presence of a potential traitor within the castle, meant certain doom for Murashige and Itami, especially in the face of defections by the generals and commanders in neighbouring forts and castles, as well as the rapidly declining morale of the soldiers who still stood beside Araki. The fourth story ties some of the loose ends in the preceding chapter, sees Murashige try to uncover a conspiracy and Kanbei enact his 'revenge' before the castle's inevitable fall, and heads off towards a surprising but extremely logical conclusion.

Seen in a vacuum, the mysteries can be dissected fairly easily. But, to better understand Murashige's struggles against them, it is necessary to look at and identify the numerous battles he was fighting on multiple fronts. And, it is here that the novel excels—without passing judgement, Yonezawa continuously sprinkles the narrative with details that give great insight into the socio-cultural and economic status of samurai and commoners, cutting across different strata, while also depicting, time and again, the mindset of the people, their religious beliefs, and the rituals and practices they subscribe to. All of these myriad, divisive elements determine the context, and ensure that the characters do not act in ways that seem too forced, unnatural or absolutely out of sync with their historical persona. For instance, in the first story, Yonezawa describes the standing and importance of the multiple clans in the war council, delving into their background, and the story behind their participation in the faction and reasons for doing so. These details give readers some idea of the possible frictions between clans and individual members inside this faction, while also explaining why Murashige personally analyses the so-called 'betrayal' of his close allies in a very measured, sympathetic manner. Yonezawa also fleshes out the story and background details of each member of his personal guard in vivid detail (even pertaining to their mastery of individual weapons), to explore who would want to murder a hostage, going against his explicit orders not to. The problem is, nearly all of the influential personalities or the suspects who had an opportunity to and even the victim himself wanted the hostage dead, so that an example could be made out of him, with many of them expressing surprise and discontent at Murashige's decision to spare him. Furthermore, there is also the mystery of the vanishing weapon and the no-footprints-in-the-snow conundrum to deal with. On a different note, Murashige also has to deal with the curious incident of a fort near the castle borders not reacting to the summons to join a skirmish in time. Little wonder then that Murashige—who is also continuously planning and trying to maintain harmony between the individual clans and their heads, and uplift the spirit of his troops—finally has to take the help of the prisoner, Kanbei, despite his unwillingness. Ultimately, the solution, which makes great use of the positional awareness of the culprit, the details provided by the author regarding the weapons stored in the castle, and some inspired ingenuity on the culprit's part, is one that could only have been employed in the special setting of a besieged castle at its time of occurrence. In the second story, religious beliefs and the 'insider-outsider' dichotomy take centrestage, as the missing head of the commander becomes a flashpoint that ignites tempers between the members and followers of a clan subscribing to Buddhist faith and the adherents of another clan which has taken up Christianity. Once again, Yonezawa describes, in minute detail, the circumstances of the ambush and the sequence of events leading both to the replacement of heads and the commander's head going missing, paving the way for a simple, logical reveal. Additionally, the beliefs and religious alignments of the masses, the samurai and the clans are outlined with great care, providing more motives to a larger cast of characters. Then, there's the larger picture, with rumours and gossip about more potential defections among Araki's allies—and once again, Murashige finds himself besieged by too many enemies and wars to fight.

But, there are undercurrents to the novel as well. It can be read at several levels—but, for me, there are at least two major ones. One of them is, of course, the constant intrigue surrounding wars, battle strategies, potential alliances, betrayals—and this is mostly limited to the samurai class. Considerations of honour, prestige and status inform this level of narrative and its underlying rules—the interactions of Murashige with his commanders, guards and soldiers (both personally as well as in the war councils) and with Kanbei are representative of this. The other major level is the religious subtext, that assumes greater significance further into the novel. In the limited confines of the castle, the interplay between three major religious sects/practices—True Pure Land Buddhism (also known as Jōdo Shinshū or Shin Buddhism), Zen Buddhism and Christianity—propels the narrative in subtle ways. It is this subtext that unites the other spectrum of the population (the masses) through the promise of salvation and fear of divine punishment. Seen in this light, despite the overall chaotic atmosphere of doom and gloom, an uneasy peace does exist in the midst of the town's populace outside the inner citadel and the samurai quarters. In his quest to unearth the rational nature of the truth behind the incidents, Murashige fails to read the pulse of the people until late into the novel. For the common people, the deaths and the mysterious incidents could be attributed to a form of divine justice or the Buddha's wrath, reinforcing their faith in the real existence of these concepts, however abstract they may be, and providing solace to them in the face of a doomed war, unceasing brutality and killings, by suggesting that even the Oda and their allies will not be spared from such justice and that they would have to pay for their sins, sooner or later. This also explains why the sentiments of the masses are best seen after the murder of the revered priest and the subsequent divine punishment meted out to the perpetrator (a perfect cause-and-effect, or 'reap what you sow', scenario for the observers), and why passions rise against an 'outsider religion' like Christianity. Unfortunately, for Murashige, he is unable to bridge the gap between these two levels, ironically due to the lack of an introspective view of his own fiefdom. As a result, he is unable to stay true to his own tenet that the people make the castle, and finds himself, unwittingly or driven by circumstances, walking a path similar to that of Nobunaga Oda—a fact he rues late in the novel. The reason for his failure, as pointed out by his concubine Chiyoho, lies in a fundamental difference in the faith and creed of a samurai and that of a simple, god-fearing, common person, in those times. For a samurai clothed in armour and wielding weapons, the bravery and valour embedded in their being makes it impossible for them to understand that fabricated omens and concepts such as divine retribution could honestly be 'believed' by one. After all, the question of their survival depends on their cunningness on the battlefield and how attuned they are to their immediate reality and surroundings. Above all, as stated by Murashige, samurai fear death the most. For common people not protected by any armour or weapons, who are constantly on the receiving end of massacres by warlords, the reality is not so straightforward. It is possible to engender hope among them through talk of fabricated omens and the spread of ideas such as divine miracles, punishment and retribution, especially as they need something to hold to at a time when they are subjected to unending torture. And, that is why, as stated by Chiyoho, they fear not death itself but the fact that they may not achieve salvation or reach heaven even after dying. Besides adding another layer of historical authenticity (with events such as the Ikkō-ikki rebellion and the subsequent massacre of the sect at Ise-Nagashima serving as one of the backdrops), the religious subtext therefore also opens up a wealth of theological discourse of an admirably high quality, through the conversations between the characters who fulfil the role dictated by the needs of the mystery plot while staying true to their historical personas—a very difficult act to pull off, in my opinion.

A quick note about the translation—it is slightly inconsistent (words like 'damn' sharing space with archaic terms like 'prithee' and 'ye' feels anachronistic, to put it lightly), the setting may need some time to sink one's teeth into, and the need for footnotes is sorely felt. But it is well worth the effort, time and money to procure a copy. Yonezawa does not rewrite or reinvent history in this book—the Itami Castle siege ended in November 1579, and a total of 670 people (women, men and children included) were executed by Nobunaga, in Itami, Kyoto and Nanatsumatsu (near Amagasaki, in Hyōgo prefecture). No further worthy deeds of Murashige Araki have been recorded either. However, what he does most skillfully is weave in tales of mystery and intrigue into the seams of Arioka Castle—tales that elevate the work from the status of simply being a work of only mystery or historical fiction. By using real-life figures and events, Yonezawa bestows life upon his craft, turning it into a living, breathing, plausible document of the times that shares an extraordinary synergy with its mystery and historical elements, and its many other subtexts.