“Carry it out!” the commander ordered.

While his men complied, he sped to the second room. There, the fire raged up the walls and across the tatami mats. The heat seared the commander’s face; his eyes stung. From the threshold he spied two figures lying together in the corner, one much smaller than the other. Burning clothing enveloped them. Shouting for assistance, the commander waded through the fire and beat his thick leather sleeves against the bodies to extinguish the flames. His men came and helped him carry the two inert burdens out of the house, just before the roof collapsed with a great crash.

Away from the other priests still fighting the blaze, they laid the bodies on the ground beside the one previously carried out. Choking and coughing, the commander gratefully inhaled the cool, fresh air. He wiped his streaming eyes and knelt beside the victims. They lay motionless, and had probably been dead before he’d entered the hoarse. The first was a large, naked samurai with a paunchy stomach; knotted gray hair looped over his shaved crown. There were no burns on him. But the other two…

The commander winced at the sight of their blistered, blackened faces. Breasts protruded through the shreds of charred cloth clinging to the larger corpse: It was a woman. The last victim was a very young child. With its hair burned away and the remains of a blanket swaddling its body, the commander couldn’t discern its sex or exact age.

Priests and nuns gathered near the sad tableau. Shocked cries arose from them, then the click of rosary beads as they began chanting prayers. Someone passed the commander three white funeral shrouds. He murmured a blessing for the spirits of the deceased, then tenderly covered the bodies.

Lying huddled behind a boulder, she watched the priests continue throwing water on the house while the fire brigade hacked apart the burning shell with axes. The flames and smoke had diminished; ruined walls and timbers steamed; the odor of charred wood filled the air. Soon the fire would be out. But she felt neither relief nor any desire to call out to the firemen, who were walking around the site, examining the wreckage with worried expressions. In her confusion and terror, she felt an overwhelming urge to flee.

She raised herself on her elbows and knees. Her throbbing head spun. Nausea convulsed her stomach; she retched, but nothing came up. Moaning, she crawled. Her body felt enormously heavy and cumbersome as she dragged herself across the ground. Gasps heaved her lungs. She mustn’t let anyone find her here. She had to get away. Gritting her teeth against the pain and sickness, she inched across coarse white gravel and damp lawn, toward shadowy woods and the temple’s back gate.

Then she heard purposeful footsteps approaching from behind her. Strong hands lifted her up, turned her around. She found herself looking at a fireman in leather robe and helmet. His stern face was daubed with soot; his eyes were red.

“What are you doing here, little girl?” he demanded.

His accusing glare sent tremors of fear through her. Whimpering, she writhed and kicked in a feeble attempt to escape, but he held her tight. She tried to speak, but panic choked her voice; her heart pounded. Dizziness overcame her. The world grew dim and hazy. As she descended into unconsciousness, her captor’s face blurred.

She wished she had a good answer to his question.

There was lamp oil spilled along the path to the cottage and on the ground around it.” In the private audience chamber of Edo Castle, Sano Ichirō addressed Shogun Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, Japan ’s supreme military dictator. “The fire brigade found a ceramic jar containing a small quantity of oil hidden in some bushes nearby. And a search of the garden turned up what appeared to be a torch: a stump of pinewood with a charred rag wrapped around the end. I’ve examined the scene and the evidence. The fire was definitely the result of arson.”

“Ahh, this is most serious.” A frown crossed the shogun’s mild, aristocratic features. Dressed in an embroidered bronze satin kimono and the cylindrical black cap of his rank, he stirred uncomfortably upon the dais, where he sat with his back to a mural of blue rivers and silver clouds, facing Sano, who knelt on the tatami floor below. Attendants rearranged the silk cushions around the shogun, filled his silver tobacco pipe, and poured more sake into the cup on the low table beside him, but he waved them away and turned toward the open window, contemplating the crimson sunset descending upon the garden. From the distance came the neigh of horses, the footsteps of patrolling guards, the muted bustle of servants. “I did hope that the, ahh, suspicions of the fire brigade would prove unfounded,” the shogun continued morosely, “and that the fire was just an accident. But alas, you have confirmed my, ahh, worst fears.”

That morning, a messenger had brought word of the fire at the temple of the Black Lotus sect, along with a report from the fire brigade commander, which stated that the blaze had been set deliberately. Zōjō was the Tokugawa family temple, where the clan worshipped and its ancestors lay entombed, and any crime against the main temple or its subsidiaries constituted an attack against the shogun. In addition, Tsunayoshi was a devout Buddhist, a generous patron of religion, and took a strong personal interest in the Zōjō community. Therefore, he’d assigned Sano to investigate the fire. Sano had begun inquiries at the Black Lotus Temple and had just returned.

Now the shogun said, “I suppose you have also confirmed the, ahh, identity of the man who died in the fire?”

“I regret to say that I have,” Sano said. “It was indeed Oyama Jushin, chief police commander. When I viewed the body, I recognized him immediately.”

Prior to becoming the shogun’s sōsakan-sama-Most Honorable Investigator of Events, Situations, and People-Sano had served on Edo ’s police force as a yoriki, a senior police commander. He and Oyama had been colleagues, although Sano hadn’t particularly liked Oyama. As a hereditary Tokugawa vassal whose family had served the shogun’s clan for generations, Oyama had scorned Sano, who was the son of a rōnin, a masterless samurai. Oyama had been promoted to his present higher rank last winter. From priests at the Black Lotus Temple, Sano had learned that Oyama had recently joined the sect. Now the death of an important official transformed the arson into a politically sensitive murder case and grave offense against the bakufu, Japan ’s military dictatorship. Fate had brought Sano the responsibility of catching the killer.

“The other two victims haven’t been identified yet,” Sano said. “One was a woman and the other a small child, but they were badly burned, and at the moment, it seems that no one knows who they are. Membership in the sect has grown rapidly; there are presently four hundred twenty holy men and women living on the premises, with more arriving every day, plus ninety servants and thirty-two orphans. Nobody seems to be missing, but I got the impression that the sect has difficulty keeping its records up to date. And because of the crowds that frequent the temple, they can’t efficiently monitor who’s in the compound at any given time.”

This situation sometimes occurred as a sect grew in popularity among people in search of spiritual guidance or a new diversion. The many new followers of the Black Lotus Temple could worship or even live together while remaining virtual strangers. Two particular individuals might have easily gone unnoticed by the sect leaders.