The Rain Song

I had initially planned to discuss Suishakan no Satsujin (1988; translated and published as The Mill House Murders by Pushkin Vertigo in 2023), the second novel in Yukito Ayatsuji's Yakata series, alongside The Decagon House Murders, but my fanboying of the latter turned too long for my taste. Hence, the decision to write about The Mill House Murders in a separate post.

The way things ended in The Decagon House Murders, it was hard to envision a sequel to the work. The Mill House Murders, while not exactly a sequel in the truest sense of the word, serves as a great example of how even a minor, almost inconsequential, detail can serve as the basis of a series in continuity — in my very limited reading of the Yakata series (only two works in English translation so far), the two connecting threads would be that they share a common detective and that they are all set in mansions and buildings constructed by the eccentric architect, Seiji Nakamura, introduced and killed off in the first novel itself. The result seems to be a series whose works can be enjoyed both as standalone entries (featuring the odd tribute to previous masters of the craft) as well as part of a loosely-connected chronological set. And on that note of continuity, The Mill House Murders is a work that is fascinatingly similar and dissimilar to The Decagon House Murders, in ways both good and bad.

My first impression of the second entry in the Yakata series was that the sprightly, breezy nature of the first novel had been replaced with a heavy, brooding atmosphere. While The Decagon House Murders had a lightness of touch to it, replicating the essence of an Ellery-Queen puzzle plot, The Mill House Murders is heavy-handed in its execution, doffing its hat instead to the works of another master, John Dickson Carr. However, the main trickery employed here makes it another Christie tribute novel, in my opinion, even though it may not be as evident as seen in The Decagon House Murders.

The Mill House Murders is narrated from the perspective of one of the characters, a resident of the eponymous Mill House (named so after the mill wheels generating power), another strange creation of Seiji Nakamura. The narrator is introduced as the current owner of the Mill House — and is the son of a 'visionary' painter who drew a number of remarkable surrealist scenes and landscapes before dying. Every year, he hosts a diverse group of guests — a disciple of the deceased visionary painter, an art dealer, a professor of art history, a director of a surgical hospital, and a few others — all of whom gather to marvel at the painter's works and to chance their luck at buying one of the masterpieces (particularly The Phantom Cluster, a painting that no one has seen). However, tragedy struck when the group met a year prior to the events of the novel — "a woman fallen from the tower", "a painting disappeared", "a man vanished under seemingly impossible circumstances", and "another man ... killed, cut up in pieces and burnt in the incinerator". The novel does a great job, straight-up mentioning the past mysteries in the prologue itself. And, thrown into this mix is the series detective, Kiyoshi Shimada, who arrives to the mansion in the present day, to solve the mystery of his friend's impossible disappearance the year previous. 

But then, it starts to suffer from a few design issues. Unlike The Decagon House Murders, the division of the narrative in The Mill House Murders is mostly time-based as the movements of the characters are limited to the confines of the mansion and its tower. What this essentially means is that most of the action in the novel consists of a cast of mostly familiar faces roaming over the same grounds in different combinations and circumstances. While this is not a bad thing by itself, the novel goes out of its way in the early stages to demonstrate how eerily the events of the present day and the previous year parallel each other. Consider, for example, the two opening sections of the first two chapters:

I woke as I usually do. The amber curtains were drawn over the windows facing the courtyard to the east, but the bright morning sun shone right through them into the room. It was quiet outside, but if I listened carefully, I could just make out the faint chirping of the mountain birds, as well as the distant sound of flowing water. I could also hear the heavy rumble of the mill wheels, always revolving by the western side of this house. It was a peaceful morning.

We’d had good weather ever since September came along, but the news last night had reported an approaching typhoon. The forecast said it would start raining in the Chūgoku region this afternoon. This morning was thus, truly, the calm before the storm.

I slowly sat up in the spacious bed. The clock on the wall showed half past eight. The same time I always woke up.

Leaning back against the headboard, I reached for the nightstand with my right hand, picked up my old briar pipe and packed it with tobacco. Soon a mellow scent filled the room, accompanied by cream-coloured smoke.

“A typhoon, eh?” I mumbled out loud to myself. My voice was unnaturally hoarse.

I had to think back to exactly one year ago, 28th September. The morning of that fateful day had been the same as today. There’d been reports of an approaching typhoon then too. And it arrived just as forecast.

One year… A whole year had passed since that blood-soaked night.

I became lost in thought, my hand swaying with the pipe. The tentacles of my mind crept towards the events of that night one year ago, to everything that occurred the following day, and even to what happened afterwards.

I stole a glance at the door in the corner of the room, the bronze doorknob and dark mahogany panelling. That door, which led to the study, would never be opened again…

My lean body suddenly shuddered. An indescribable, inescapable shiver welled up from deep within and ran through my whole being.

It was a quarter to nine now. The phone on my nightstand would ring soon, softly signalling the start of another day.

“Good morning, sir.”

The familiar voice on the other end of the line sounded calm. It was the butler, Kuramoto Shōji.

“I will be bringing you your breakfast right away.”

“Thanks.”

I placed my pipe on its stand and started getting dressed. I took my pyjamas off, put on a shirt and trousers, and a dressing gown on top. When I had managed to do all of this, I put the cotton gloves on both my hands. And finally, it was time to put on my face.

My mask.

That mask was a symbol of my whole life at this time, a symbol of everything that Fujinuma Kiichi now was.

A mask. Indeed, I had no face. I wore that mask every single day to hide my accursed features. The white mask was now the real face of the master of the house. The rubber clung to my skin. A cold death mask worn by a living man.

and

He woke as he usually did. The amber curtains were drawn over the windows facing the courtyard to the east, but the bright morning sun shone right through them into the room. It was quiet outside, but if he listened carefully, he could just make out the faint chirping of the mountain birds, as well as the distant sound of flowing water. He could also hear the heavy rumble of the mill wheels, always revolving by the western side of the house. It was a peaceful morning.

The news last night had reported an approaching typhoon. The forecast said it would start raining in the Chūgoku region on the afternoon of the 28th.

He slowly sat up in the spacious bed. The clock on the wall showed half past eight. The same time he always woke up.

Leaning back against the headboard, he reached for the nightstand with his right hand, picked up his old briar pipe and packed it with tobacco. Soon a mellow scent filled the room, accompanied by cream-coloured smoke.

Three days ago he’d caught a cold and ran a fever, but he’d recovered now. He could savour the scent of tobacco again.

He slowly closed his eyes as he puffed his pipe.

28th September. Ōishi Genzō, Mori Shigehiko, Mitamura Noriyuki and Furukawa Tsunehito. Today was the day the four of them would visit him in the afternoon, just as they had done in previous years.

Their annual visit was not a joyous occasion for him, living as he did in this house deep in the mountains, hiding from the outside world. He honestly felt their visit was a great annoyance.

Yet he was also in denial about his feelings. He could easily tell them not to come if he genuinely did not want them to. But his inability to turn them away all these years was perhaps partially due to guilt.

He kept his eyes closed as a low sigh escaped his cracked lips.

Anyway, they’re coming today. It’d all been decided, so nothing could be changed now.

He had no intention of making a detailed analysis of his own contradictory thoughts. The visit plagued him, but he also welcomed it. That was all there was to it.

It was a quarter to nine now. The phone on his nightstand would ring soon, softly signifying the start of another day.

“Good morning, sir.”

The familiar voice on the other end of the line sounded calm. It was the butler, Kuramoto Shōji.

“How are you feeling, sir?”

“Better now, thanks.”

“I can bring your breakfast immediately if you wish.”

“I’ll come down myself.”

He placed his pipe on its stand and started getting dressed. He took his pyjamas off, put on a shirt and trousers, and a dressing gown on top. When he had managed to do all of this, he put the cotton gloves on both his hands. And finally, it was time to put on his face.

His mask. 

The mask could be considered the symbol of the last twelve years of his life, a symbol of everything that Fujinuma Kiichi was.

Indeed, he had no face. He wore this mask every single day to hide his accursed features. This white mask bearing the features of Fujinuma Kiichi, the master of this house. The rubber clung to his skin. A cold death mask worn by a living man.

There are important reasons, both stylistic and plot-based, behind such a narration, which are revealed towards the end of the novel. But, I am not sure that this style of closely mirroring prose over long stretches and/or entire chapters is necessarily in the best interests of the book. If nothing else, it invites the allegation that the narration is lazy, long-drawn and stretched—an allegation that is justifiable for the first half of the novel. Even more infuriating is the fact that the repetition spills over into the conversations between the characters during this stretch, with the result that, time and again, readers are forcibly reminded of the multiple events that occurred in many of the characters' pasts, to the point of memorising them. Even though a sense of unease (that things are not as they seem) persists—and despite Shimada's constant needling—any fair, outright indication of the deception behind the events of the past is not explicitly revealed till a much later period in the novel.

The experience of reading the first half/three-fourths of the novel is akin to that of playing a challenging, laborious dungeon-crawler game where one knows the entry- and exit-points of the maze and, seemingly, the major boss to be overcome. However, they still need to explore the same dungeon time-and-time again to unravel different secrets (spaces, quests or resources) that reveal themselves only during a replay and which have a bearing on the game and its completion, and can potentially change the nature of the dungeon-space itself. In the case of The Mill House Murders, readers are likely to retread the same incidents, stories from the past and developments in the present time from the mostly similar perspectives of multiple characters—and each time, they are likely to have to refer to the previous mention of said incident to spot the critical difference/change in viewpoint. Besides not making for a smooth, fluid read, this is, indeed, an excruciating exercise in patience—not unlike taking on and staring at an extremely difficult spot-the-difference challenge where the differences are microscopic to a visible eye.

It does not help that a superior treatment of this narrative style, in my opinion, is seen in Taiwanese author Szu Yen Lin's Death in the House of Rain (translated and published in English by Locked Room International, 2017)—a far more fluid, fast-paced read than The Mill House Murders because of the simple fact that the individual incidents do not overstay their welcome and the characters are hardly given time to obsess endlessly over past events. Even more damning is the fact that The Mill House Murders itself does not really provide a framework with which one can appreciate the narrative style employed (even though it is tepid and off-putting in its execution), or a solid rationale for its application. For instance, a recent chapter of Motohiro Katou's manga, Q.E.D. iff, employs two legal principles that may be used to cultivate a somewhat begrudging admiration of the way things unfold in The Mill House Murders. In chapter 46 of the manga series (a story titled "Legal Realism"), a character provides a beginner's introduction to the judicial principles used to resolve civil and criminal cases—namely, 'legal realism' and 'legal formalism', respectively. In 'legal realism', which is employed in civil cases, the 'matching parts' of conflicting testimonies are upheld as 'the truth', even though they may oppose each other completely in other respects. However, in 'legal formalism' (used in criminal cases), the minutest details, facts, testimonies, perspectives and discrepancies are gathered and thoroughly investigated to establish and verify 'the truth'. Analysed from this perspective, it can be argued that the opening half of The Mill House Murders adheres more to the 'legal realism' principle, whereby certain core 'facts' are established to be 'the truth' through their constant repetition, whereas the other half goes about subverting, unravelling and undoing the aforesaid, established 'facts' and the core 'truth' by employing 'legal formalism' through the disruptive activities of the detective, Kiyoshi Shimada.

It is a shame then that the first 150-odd pages are so challenging to get by, because when the revelations emerge in the latter half, they come in fast and hit real hard. Architecture plays a greater and more central role in this story than it did in The Decagon House Murders, with one particular resolution evoking the spirit of Gaston Leroux's Le mystère de la chambre jaune (The Mystery of the Yellow Room, 1907) in a wonderful way. Ayatsuji also shows a marked improvement in certain aspects of his craft—the characterisation, in particular. He fleshes out the characters of his cast well, and gives them motivations and more pronounced roles than he did in The Decagon House Murders—from the very young, Rapunzel-esque wife of the narrator who is confined in the fairy-tale setting of the tower, to the brash and extremely forward hospital director, to the meek and subdued art professor, all of whom have different reasons for their presence at the Mill House, that are independent of the motives of the protagonist or antagonist. Personally, I also like the atmosphere here, with its constant evocation of the rainy, drenched and soaked weather in both of the years the work traverses between, particularly as I find it conducive to the setting up and maintenance, throughout, of a brooding, overwhelming mood that is appropriate for the story.

But alas, I cannot help but feel that The Mill House Murders would have been far better served as a novella (with better design choices, less narrative repetition and experimentation, and more impact) rather than as a full-blown novel. There are cases in which the saying 'less is more' rings true—this is certainly the case with Ayatsuji's second outing as well, despite him showing definite improvement as a writer.

Killing Floor

Yukito Ayatsuji's Yakata (literally, mansion) series, starting with the 1987 novel Jukkakukan no Satsujin Shinsou Kaiteiban (translated and published in English as The Decagon House Murders by Locked Room International in 2015, and republished by Pushkin Vertigo in 2020), is widely considered to have heralded the much-revered shin-honkaku (new orthodox) school of mystery writing in Japan. At the heart of this sub-genre was a shift to a more classical style, in sharp contrast to the social-commentary-on-crime approach that was more prevalent back then.

In many ways, The Decagon House Murders marks a break from pre-existing conventions and reads like a mission statement for a new, upcoming era. In a previous post on Alice Arisugawa's The Moai Island Puzzle, I quoted a segment from the early sections of The Decagon House Murders that reads like a statement of authorial intent:

"In my opinion, mystery fiction is, at its core, a kind of intellectual puzzle. An exciting game of reasoning in the form of a novel. A game between the reader and the great detective, or the reader and the author. Nothing more or less than that.

So enough gritty social realism please. A female office worker is murdered in a one-bedroom apartment and, after wearing out the soles of his shoes through a painstaking investigation, the police detective finally arrests the victim's boss, who turns out to be her illicit lover. No more of that! No more of the corruption and secret dealings of the political world, no more tragedies brought forth by the stress of modern society and suchlike. What mystery novels need are—some might call me old-fashioned—a great detective, a mansion, a shady cast of residents, bloody murders, impossible crimes and never-before-seen tricks played by the murderer. Call it my castle in the sky, but I'm happy as long as I can enjoy such a world. But always in an intellectual manner."

Ayatsuji faithfully sticks to the essence of this declaration throughout the novel—a fact evident from the premise itself. Seven university students, all members of a mystery club, head to Tsunojima Island to solve an unsolved case involving the death of an architect who built the only two places of residence on the island (the Decagon House and the Blue Mansion), and the members of his household (including the gardener and the servants). The students—Agatha, Carr, Ellery, Leroux, Orczy, Poe and Van Dine—put up at the Decagon House, the Blue Mansion having burnt down during the murder incident, six months ago. The members are however unsettled by a number of strange events that happen soon after their arrival and sow discord and doubt between them. Soon, the events turn out to be too ominous as, one by one, they are all killed in different ways—strangulation, poisoning, a blow to the head and burning. It all ends in a manner eerily reminiscent to what had happened six months earlier—just like the Blue Mansion was burned to the ground back then, this time, the Decagon House is set ablaze by the culprit, with the "extraordinary light even visible in S— Town across the sea."

Back in the mainland, Taka'aki Minami, a former member of the mystery club, and Kiyoshi Shimada, a self-styled investigator, find themselves entangled in the case of the death of the aforesaid architect, Seiji Nakamura. They indulge in a bit of sleuthing, armchair and on foot, with the occasional help of Kyōichi Morisu (another member of the mystery club who didn't make the trip to Tsunojima), hoping to uncover the truth of the previous incident. The reason for their sudden interest is that both Taka'aki and Kyōichi receive an anonymous letter accusing them of murdering Chiori Nakamura, a student who passed away during a New Year's party the previous year. Incidentally, Chiori happened to be the daughter of Seiji Nakamura. With the incidents all intertwined, will Shimada and company be able to solve the mysteries of the deaths of the Nakamura family members, as well as those of the university students condemned to a fiery funeral?

It goes without saying that many individual elements of this work are a nod to the Agatha Christie classic, And Then There Were None: the isolated island setup, the modus operandi of bumping off characters one after the other, the bottled 'confession'. But, what Ayatsuji crafts with these elements is something refreshingly original, in which the sum of the parts is larger than the individual elements. The Decagon House Murders is a sprightly, breezy read driven by a narrative structure that moves across space and time. The chapters place the reader either on the mainland or the island—almost always at the spot of (potential) crime and the investigation occurring in parallel—for each of the days, spanning from when the mystery club travels to Tsunojima till the day the Decagon House ends up in flames. The flowing narrative always clues readers in on the action—whether it be the increasingly pointed dialogue signifying increasing tension and suspicion between the club members or the intricacies of the investigation on the mainland that uncovers hidden truths. And yet, Ayatsuji finds space enough for subtle trickery that subverts reader expectations. As astute observers will point out, Ayatsuji fleshes out several important but minute background details, that may slip by unnoticed, to strengthen plausibility and the logical foundations of the work.    

Perhaps, the fact that Ayatsuji does not really try to overdo the mysteries works most in favour of the novel. Neither does he go out of his way to pile on twists and red herrings just for the sake of adding them. As a result, readers are invited to think for themselves and make deductions for themselves. For instance, after a certain point, the distance and the connecting bridges between the two key mysteries become evident—and despite the actions, thoughts and obsessions of a certain 'detective' on the island, perceptive readers should be able to fathom the extent of his mistaken perceptions. And, though the persistence of said character does end up solving an enduring puzzle, it ultimately provides little relief for him and the readers. What the novel also does really well is to present the execution of a flexible murder scheme—even though the rough outlines are in place, the culprit always manages to find a way to tweak and make minor adjustments depending on the circumstances, to avoid detection. However, my only minor gripe is that The Decagon House Murders does not really make use of architectural elements in the story. They become a footnote and are used to resolve a side-plot too late in the story. Furthermore, some of the impossible situations set up in the Decagon House are pretty much explained by the first, commonsensical thought that's likely to occur to people when faced with such a conundrum.

Despite the clever little puzzles and tricks and the overall playfulness of the narrative, The Decagon House Murders is not a bombastic read by any means. It also doesn't pass judgement on the culprit or their actions. In fact, the conventional 'denouement scene' where the sleuth exposes the criminal before an audience is entirely absent in the novel. This makes for a sombre and subdued atmosphere, marked by a rather tender prologue and epilogue that adds unexpected depth to the culprit's character. Consider, for instance, the following soul-searching internal conversation at the very start:

"The sea at night.  A time of quietude. 

No flickering of the stars, no light of the ships off-coast could disturb the darkness into which he gazed. He contemplated his plan once again. 

Preparations were almost finished. Soon they, his sinful prey, would walk into his trap. A trap consisting of ten equal sides and interior angles. 

They would arrive there suspecting nothing. Without any hesitation or fear they would walk into the decagonal trap, where they would be sentenced. 

What awaits them there is, of course, death. It is the obvious punishment for all of them. 

And no simple deaths. Blowing them all up in one go would be infinitely easier and more certain, but he should not choose that route. 

He has to kill them in order, one by one. Precisely like that story written by the famous British female writer—slowly, one after the other. He shall make them know. The suffering, the sadness, the pain and terror of death. 

Perhaps he had become mentally unstable. He himself would be the first to admit to that. 

I know—no matter how I try to justify it, what I am planning to do is not sane. 

He slowly shook his head at the pitch-black roiling sea. 

His hand, thrust into his coat pocket, touched something hard. He grabbed the object and took it out, holding it in front of his eyes. 

It was a small transparent bottle of green glass. 

It was sealed off securely with a stopper, and bottled inside was all he had managed to gather from inside his heart: what people like to call “conscience.” A few folded sheets of paper, sealed. On it he had printed in small letters the plan he was about to execute. It had no addressee. It was a letter of confession. 

I know Man will never become a god.

And precisely because he understood that, he did not want to leave the final judgment to a human to make. It didn’t matter where the bottle ended up. He just wanted to pose the question to the sea—the source of all life—whether, ultimately, he was right or no."

Or, for another example, the culprit's futile attempt at gaining emotional closure:

"The sea at dusk. A time of quietude.  

The waves shining red in the setting sun came from far away to wash against the shore and retreat back from whence they came. 

Just as once before, he was sitting alone on the breakwater, staring at the sea at sunset. 

Chiori…. 

He had been repeating her name in his mind for a while. 

Chiori, Chiori…. 

He closed his eyes and the fire of that night came back vividly alive. A giant fire of remembrance, which enveloped the decagonal trap that caught his prey and burnt through the night. 

Her image joined that sight in his mind. He tried calling out to her. But she was looking away and did not answer him. 

What’s wrong, Chiori? 

The flames danced more furiously and burnt brighter. The image of his love was caught in the fire, until its contour was swallowed completely and she disappeared. 

Silently he stood up. 

Several children were playing in the water. He stood there, staring at that scenery with narrowed eyes. 

‘Chiori.’ 

He muttered her name once again, this time out loud. But she did not appear anymore, whether he closed his eyes or looked up at the sky. A fathomless sense of emptiness tortured him, as if something had been ripped away from his heart. 

The sea was about to blend in with the night. The waves carrying the last light of the setting sun resonated silently."

It is a narrative device that one sees in a number of storylines in the far more dramatic series, Kindaichi Shounen no Jikenbo, especially in segments following the climax. In fact, there are more than a few interesting similarities between the two. And, just as And Then There Were None served as a template here, I would argue that The Decagon House Murders also serves as a prototype for future mystery works across different media. For instance, the Kindaichi series shares a penchant for island mysteries (Uta island and Seiren island being cases in point). Additionally, and more specifically, the 'Lake Hiren Murder Case' (in the Kindaichi series) employs a variation of the trick used to 'connect' the mainland and Tsunojima in The Decagon House Murders. On the other hand, the entire motif of a certain architect's creations as the setting for a series of murder mysteries has been replicated in manga such as Tantei Gakuen Q (Detective School Q) and Tantei Xeno to Nanatsu no Satsujin Misshitsu (Detective Xeno and the Seven Locked Murder Rooms).

Its narrative credentials aside, The Decagon House Murders proved to be a watershed moment for a new, emerging style of mystery fiction in literature, the success of which then led to its widespread popularity in popular culture (manga, anime and films) within a decade of its publication, and the influence of which can be seen in this decade as well. From a literary and cross-media perspective, it is a work of monumental importance for scholars and aficionados of the genre—and it rightfully deserves every bit of the reputation it has earned and continues to, to this day.  

(This post was published on the Scroll website with the following title: ‘The Decagon House Murders’: A watershed moment for a new, emerging style of mystery fiction)