Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue: Farewell, Shakespearean Stage! The imperial seal on the state documents had already been affixed. Though childhood friends, two people who regarded each other as venomous serpents

Having undertaken the role of envoy, I shall clear the path ahead as your vanguard.

A nefarious scheme to guide them along the path.

I shall do whatever I must. With the landmine I have planted, watching my own device erupt would prove most diverting.

Rather than the hole they dig ahead, I would excavate three feet beneath here—were I to aim for the moon and launch it upward, how wondrously strange that would prove. If only both parties’ stratagems...

If they were to meet upon the same path, that would indeed prove most diverting.

[While uttering this, he glanced down at Polonius’s corpse]

This man does make me feel hurried, I tell you. Come now, let’s drag this gut-stuffed wretch to the next room.

Your Majesty, retire to your rest. Well now, this Councilor Lord... Now utterly silent—if he does not leak secrets, he is even earnest.

Though he was a loquacious fool in life, Come now, shall I dispose of you as well?

Retire to your rest, Your Majesty.

[Exeunt separately—Curtain]

And then, when Hamlet—who had dragged off Polonius’s corpse—exited stage left, Act 3, Scene 4 of "Hamlet’s Beloved" came to an end. The lingering glow of the velvet curtain, faintly tinged with pale red, continued to stain the pillars—descending from the bellows above as if caressing them downward.

The intermission lasted over twenty minutes, and the hallway was in utter chaos. Along both walls, wall lamps—imitations of chandeliers and old-fashioned gas lamps—were spaced at intervals, but due to the dust stirred up by the commotion, they appeared halated and hazy. And though from every direction rose what seemed like boisterous laughter, with nothing audible beyond the coquettish voices exchanged by the upper-class attendees, there existed within that vortex a group that stood aloof, ceaselessly reciting a lament-like litany.

Those four or five individuals all had thin, chiseled lips, and during their discussions, they would invariably furrow their brows, their faces perpetually taking on expressions as if recalling a bitter aftertaste. That group was none other than the so-called Viles (a term meaning ‘good-for-nothings’—the common epithet for theater critics). They spoke in unison, extolling the integrity of Kazama Kujuro—who had indignantly departed the troupe—and deriding Housui Rintarou’s *Hamlet’s Beloved* as “a ridiculous farce typical of him, one that exceeds mere jest,” comparing it to *The Mourning Bride* (a play by William Congreve said to epitomize the decadence of Charles II’s era).

But, strangely enough, not a single one of them made mention of his performance in the lead role he had taken on. However, the next topic brought up concerned the strange line Housui had uttered during that act. As for Act 3, Scene 4—Queen Gertrude’s private chamber alone remained nearly identical to Shakespeare’s original text. Hamlet accuses his mother of infidelity and, mistaking Lord Chamberlain Polonius for the king, stabs him through the arras. The device had paneling with a blackish-blue tint covering its back, and within the frame, it was radiantly azure like a bottomless pool. This quiet, sorrowful air of resignation—though it flawlessly stylized the Queen’s character (her fragility mocked as “weakling”)—was utterly overwhelmed by the two actors’ ferocious performances. Above all, Kinugawa Akiko’s androgynous portrayal of Gertrude suffocated even the set’s lyrical breath.

However, during the performance, Housui kept his eyes scanning the audience, maintaining a demeanor as if trying to seek out someone whose identity he wished to uncover. And then, as the curtain neared its close, during his dialogue with the Queen, he suddenly turned sharply to face front, “I, with my self-indulgent senses, have savored to the fullest your most precious and most delicate thing.” “So, trying to experience that in reality—let’s not do that, shall we?” he shouted to no one in particular.

Of course, there was no reason for such words to exist in the script. It was even considered that he, driven to frenzy by the daily vitriol, might have vented his accumulated resentment upon the theater critics from the stage. Yet how on earth could one imagine that he—the very picture of composure—would engage in such unbecoming conduct? Yet, as they dug deeper and deeper, applying every conceivable scrutiny, something abruptly jolted their chests.

This referred to Kazama Kujuro—who had been deserted by his troupe at the outset and whose disappearance now spanned nearly two months—yet not a single word had been heard regarding whether he was alive or dead. Depending on the circumstances, might Kujuro have returned unbeknownst to all to this theater? And might it be that Housui’s piercing gaze had discerned him stealthily blending into the audience…? But needless to say, though this remained mere conjecture, to those who knew Kazama’s mysterious and fanatical temperament and spared no sympathy for his tragic fate, it somehow began to take shape as an ominous portent.

Could some unimaginable silent struggle be unfolding within this shadow-draped gloom—the mere thought conjured an aura of clandestine machinations, igniting a palpitating urge to pry open its innermost sanctum.

Could it be that over this magnificent Shakespeare Memorial Theater—so soon after its grand opening—a sinister shadow now loomed? Such was the dread that seeped into their bones, for this theater had already stolen Kazama’s soul and devoured his hopes down to the last drop.

However, dear readers, you will no doubt be most astonished not only that Housui penned the play *Hamlet’s Beloved*, but also that he emerged as an actor portraying the lead role of Hamlet. Yet those familiar with his expertise in medieval history must have anticipated that such a work—a dramatic verse he would come to favor—would eventually emerge.

This work was created during a period of seclusion following the completion of *The Kuroshikan Murder Case*, though it was originally conceived as a paean dedicated to the actress Suzaku Kujaku. In fact, Suzaku Kujaku portrays Horatio in the play; however, in this new work, Horatio is a woman—a courtesan who fell in love with Hamlet while studying abroad in Wittenberg.

In other words, the act of making that courtesan cross-dress and bringing her back became the seed of tragedy, with resplendent courtly life being depicted throughout the entire work. Then Horatio first killed Ophelia out of jealousy. Moreover, not only did she become involved with King Claudius and Laertes, but ultimately colluded with Prince Fortinbras of Norway to deliver Denmark into his hands following Hamlet’s demise.

The female Horatio’s seductive form—perhaps because it embodied Kujaku’s very essence—was said to surpass even the most favored of concubines, Agnès Sorel, in alluring decadence. Therefore, in this chronicle of unbridled licentiousness and illicit affairs, clamorous debate could not help but arise. First of all, the model for the female Horatio was scrutinized from every angle—some claimed she was the seductress Imperia or Clara Dettin—and even Grammaticus’s *History of Denmark* and Mol’s *The Erotic Life in Literature and Art* were brought forth, with even the minutiae of such trivial academic inquiries being debated down to their finest details.

However, within theatrical circles, there were unexpectedly many voices of condemnation, and ultimately, it was denounced as "ornamentation murders tragedy." Of course, those voices were a surge of latent sympathy toward Kazama Kujuro. Kazama Kujuro was likely unparalleled as a Shakespearean actor in Japan. Not only was he called the Knight of Cygnus—but he also harbored a profound longing for the stages of the Elizabethan era. (Front, Rear, Height)—the tripartite division of early Shakespearean stages—. In an attempt to revive that style, he departed Japan in the early Taisho era, twenty years prior. Then, traversing the globe, starting with Stanislavski’s institute, he toured every manner of theatrical troupe.

However, putting aside his talent as an actor, no one would lend an ear to his theories on directing—as if he were a madman. And it was in Showa X, a mere three years ago, that he—exhausted and accompanied by Kujaku—reappeared in his homeland in the guise of a broken remnant. Speaking of which, there had been rumors that during his time abroad, Kujuro had taken a second wife who had died in Ravenna—and now those baseless tales had finally been substantiated by the mixed-race child Kujaku.

However, after returning to Japan, Kujuro—partly due to his linguistic disorientation—had developed a vile misanthropic tendency. Not only had his voice transformed, but his once-resonant chest tone now resembled the timbre of a low-pitched metal instrument. Yet regarding his subsequent circumstances, they could hardly be called unfortunate. Twenty years prior, he had callously discarded his first wife Kinugawa Akiko—yet now she too had been welcomed back alongside his troupe. Moreover, his infant daughter, once swaddled in those days, now bore the name Kume Hatae and shone as a luminary of the modern theater world. Thus Kujuro—having cultivated formidable influence within mere years—now lay in ambush for the moment to clandestinely realize his Shakespearean stage.

Then, riding the tide of favorable fortune, something came to Kujuro—none other than the construction of the Shakespeare Memorial Theater. Initially, that plan had been devised by one or two young wealthy patrons who supported Kujuro; of course, by that time, the realization of his lifelong wish—a Shakespearean stage—was already underway. However, as other capital groups joined in, Kujuro’s proposals eventually ceased to be heeded. In that case, he pleaded that they at least make it akin to Krüger’s Shakespearean stage—but even that was flatly rejected, and in the end, the theater came to take on the exact appearance of the Bayreuth Festspielhaus.

Of course, the stage’s proscenium had become nothing more than a vast, opera-style frame. Moreover, beneath it, even a concealed orchestra pit had been installed, and the audience seating had been transformed into box seats surrounded by pillars in a fan-shaped arrangement. Under these circumstances, no matter how one might try, there was no way a Shakespearean drama could be fully staged. Kujuro knew that all his hopes had been severed in that instant.

Moreover, at that very moment, an event occurred that would transform him into a demon of grief and indignation. This was because the troupe had abandoned Kujuro and defected en masse to the theater’s side. The amount of that salary was likely sufficient to dazzle the eyes of troupe members who lived in constant fear of financial instability, never securing a stable livelihood. Above all, from his wife Akiko to his daughter Hatae and even Kujaku—all had abandoned him. Thus, Kujuro finally faced the deserters one night and delivered a farewell address of utmost vehemence. And with that, he vanished into thin air—this being precisely two months prior, on the night of March 17th.

Thus, his Balzac-like massive frame vanished from the earth, and it seemed there would be no further chance to encounter that rich chest voice of his. However, on the other hand, this very circumstance also cast a glaring light upon Housui Rintarou’s motives.

That peerless dandy—he who was proclaimed unparalleled through the ages as a crime researcher—now found himself treading not a crime scene, but a stage for the first time. Yet this was by no means an act of ostentation—nor was it in any way peculiar, of course. During his travels abroad, Housui Rintarou had studied theatrical arts and even apprenticed under Ruggero Ruggeri (who, alongside Alexander Moissi, ranked among Europe’s two foremost interpreters of Hamlet). Thus one might say he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with professionals—indeed, as a Hamlet actor, he may well have been second only to Kujuro himself.

Therefore, even from a show business strategy perspective, his special performance was a resounding success, and every night this five-thousand-seat theater was packed to the rafters with not an inch of space to spare. And that very night—May 14th—was the third night since the theater’s opening.

*Hamlet’s Beloved* Characters Hamlet: Housui Rintarou King Claudius: Ludwig Ronne Queen Gertrude: Kinugawa Akiko The Ghost of Hamlet’s Father　　　　┐ ├ Awaji Kenji

Lord Chamberlain Polonius┘ Polonius’s Son Laertes: Obochi Seiichi *Polonius’s Daughter* Ophelia: Kume Hatae Horatio: Suzaku Kujaku Two Ghosts

Housui’s dressing room faced a great river, offered a distant view of the starry sky, and had white window drapes that billowed like sails in the gentle breeze.

When he pried open the door with the pommel of his longsword, Hatae’s white back—clad in Ophelia’s costume—filled his entire vision.

And beyond the table, Prosecutor Hasekura and Chief Investigator Kumashiro—who had remained seated since the previous intermission—were leaning back in their chairs.

The prosecutor saw Housui’s face, then pointed at Hatae beside him and said.

“Hey, Mr. Housui—the truth is, this young lady’s been saying since earlier that you should quit acting.” “In any case, she wants you to be the detective you are rather than the actor.” Those words appeared to stiffen Hatae’s expression. Kume Hatae was a frail girl, like a half-opened lily. Her neck stretched slender as a stem, her skin disquietingly translucent with each blood vessel visible like blue silk cords. Even the trembling of her shoulders suggested she was wrestling against some irrepressible emotion.

Hatae turned to face Housui and stared fixedly into his eyes, but despite biting her lip to hold back tears, two streaks soon streamed down her cheeks.

And then, Housui calmly inquired.

“Hey, what are you crying for? As for your father’s whereabouts, I can confidently assert that he’s alive and well. No—it’s all right. Even after the ten-day run ends, there’ll still be ample time. In this morning’s English newspaper, you said I should be revered—or was it...? But which one exactly is that? As an actor—or as Detective Housui?” “Yes… What I wanted to talk about is my father, but—”

Hatae’s pupils became unnaturally fixed—then, in an instant, her entire body tensed as if about to burst. “You believe that the ghost in this act is Mr. Awaji’s dual role—” That ghost—needless to say—refers to the spirit of Hamlet’s father-king.

However, during casting, when only that ghost role remained unassigned, Housui had no choice but to revise the script. That said, since Ludwig Ronne—the German actor playing King Claudius—was also serving as an assistant director, and Obochi Seiichi in the role of Laertes was ill-suited for vocal roles, they had no choice but to eliminate the ghost’s lines and keep Polonius’s corpse concealed until the curtain fell. And so, during that interval, they had no choice but to have Awaji Kenji—already cast in that role—attempt a dual performance.

In other words, they positioned a hanging curtain over a cut-out hole where Awaji would change into his ghost costume; once done, he would exit through the hole into the stage trapdoor and reappear stage left—such was their devised staging. But why did Hatae harbor doubts about Awaji’s dual role? Housui found himself utterly caught in curiosity’s snare from that single exchange. “Then, did you ask Mr. Awaji about the quick-change mystery?” “Once that man took up my sword through ill luck, it sealed his fate.” “After all, he’s Polonius—the murdered one.” “Precisely because he moves within that cramped space.” “So he came complaining to me—” “Said facing the curtain made it unbearable—could hardly even breathe properly.”

“Yes, that person strung together a bunch of half-hearted lies to me.” “After all, that ghost was unmistakably my father.” Blood rushed to Hatae’s gentle cheeks, transforming her face into one filled with nervous intensity and resolute conviction. But the moment they heard this, the prosecutor and Kumashiro laughed so hard they shook their chairs—yet Housui alone appeared to place strange trust in this girl’s vision. “It’s just like this.” “Mr. Housui.” “You’re the only one who’ll listen seriously, aren’t you?” “During this intermission, I was in the stage-left rehearsal room.” “I’d actually been practicing there to get used to the spinning motion for the drowning scene—Ophelia’s final moment in the brook.” “You see—maybe it’s my physical condition—but whenever I spin around, this tightness wells up in my chest.” “So since Mother and Miss Kujaku kept saying I should at least train my body beforehand... I decided to practice on that rotating chair over there.” “But as I sat spinning gently on that chair, my body suddenly froze with a shudder, and a pounding heartbeat thundered right up to the crown of my head.”

“I see.” “However, your taking leave from the performance would be nothing less than a devastating blow at this juncture.” “If at all possible, I’d like you to push through even a bit of strain.” “Truthfully, it would be best if you could rest for two or three days.” “Especially in such a state where you’re seeing hallucinations…”

Housui trailed off with a bewildered air, but that instead stirred Hatae’s fervor.

“Oh, so you’re saying it’s an illusion too.” “But Mr. Housui, that illusion—oh, but it appeared in such vivid form that one could hardly think it a mere phantom.” “As you know, that room has two entrances—one leading backstage and the other connected to stage left—but when the ghost exited from the stage at that moment, who do you think it turned out to be? None other than my father.” “Hey, Mr. Housui, that one was different from the other veteran actors—you had it traced from Shakespeare’s likeness out of your own preference, didn’t you?” “So, both the mustache and jaw beard were thin, and from there up to the nose, the way the light hit made it look exactly like a cross.” “Then, the ghost’s beard was twitching incessantly.”

“However, is there some special reason that the beard moved?” “Yes, of course there is.” “Even if one tried to hide it, they couldn’t conceal it completely—it’s my father’s habit.” “Father always had this facial tic—an involuntary twitching and contorting of his face.” “So, half-nostalgic and half-afraid, my words clogged in my throat. A mist-like haze appeared before my eyes, and when I wondered if Father might be dead after all, I shuddered as if his face were peering into mine—until, helplessly, I jolted my eyes shut.” “Then, from the recoil, the swivel chair began to spin—but just as its motion had somewhat slowed, someone grabbed it and suddenly swung it sharply in the opposite direction.” Father—I felt it was him, nothing more. In that instant, my nerves shattered into fragments, and I was gripped by numbness. Yet at the same time, an uncannily potent force surged within me—I became compelled by a desperate urge to speak with Father. When I opened my eyes, the ghost’s retreating figure was no longer there, so I mustered my resolve and dashed toward backstage. “Then, behind the hanging curtain in the props area—there was Mr. Awaji.”

“Ah, so that was Mr. Awaji.” “Then there’s no reason for you to find it so strange, is there?” “It must be that man—the one who played such a prank on you—” “And at that time, was he still in his ghost costume?”

It was only then that Housui, as if deflated, took out his cigarette case. However, in the end, that dual role could no longer be contained as mere illusion within Hatae’s mind. “No, he had already fully transformed into Polonius and was lying there with the ghost costume beside him.” “But he maintained an utterly nonchalant expression and didn’t go near the dance rehearsal room—or so it was said.” “Speaking of which, there’s a corridor branching off to the side in front of that room, isn’t there?” “But then, a rustling sound—certainly near the ceiling toward the latticed area around the stairway entrance—was what I perceived.” “Since there were no footsteps on the floorboards before or after that sound, I grew suspicious and went to investigate.” “What lay there was none other than a discarded ghost costume—wouldn’t you agree?” “Then at the top of the latticed area, a flickering shadow came into view.” “But I could no longer pursue it further.” “When I glanced at the clock beside me—it had just struck nine.” “No, Mr. Housui—my father is undoubtedly somewhere in this theater right now.” “Yet every one of us here is nothing but a coward.” “We ruined Father’s entire life…plunged him into that cruel downfall…”

Hatae’s knees trembled violently, and she appeared to be barely standing.

Now, she had mentioned the time as nine o’clock. The reason was this: due to stage mechanics considerations, if delays occurred, it had been predetermined to skip the following two scenes and proceed directly to Ophelia’s madness scene.

However, strangely enough, neither the prosecutor’s watch nor Kumashiro’s had yet reached nine o’clock. And if it were precisely 8:50 now, then when that clock had pointed to nine, it must have been around 8:30. Furthermore, as Housui considered whether advancing that clock held some unexpected significance—perhaps to obstruct Hatae’s pursuit—his thoughts suddenly grew hazy.

But, as if struck by a sudden thought, he took something out from the drawer of the dressing mirror and placed the item on the table. However, from that mouth spilled forth utterly unexpected words.

“Miss Hatae, with this single item, I was able to discern a man’s heartbeat and sense the fragrance of his breath.” “I have long since received word from your father, as you can see.”

Having said that, what he thrust forward was a stylish lady’s square envelope. However, when they finished reading the contents, simultaneously, the three of them looked up at Housui with stunned eyes.

It was nothing more than the following fan letter—written as an English poem that disregarded meter.

In his costumes herecites

The word the poet to his dear ones composed: "Hinder Bortier, it is perstages. The flower of Heaven, once dreamed; now enabled. Fareatell happy field; wherejoy foreverdwells. Hail quake viles. Lo, unexpectedtort" From upon the stage shall he recite the verses that the Bard composed for his most beloved. O ruby concealed in deepest sanctum—it dwells within every scene. O flowers of heaven, what was once dreamed now stands fulfilled. The aged prologue actors speak of the blessed garden. There does joy dwell eternally—or so they say. Now then, set you critics to battle. Behold. Lo—this unexpected keenness.

Hatae raised her face, her features brimming with bewilderment,

“What exactly are you claiming this signifies?” “Doesn’t this amount to absolutely nothing?”

Though she had said this, overwhelmed by Housui’s uncanny presence, Hatae could only fixate on his lips as they began to part. “However, Miss Hatae, this is what we call a concealed duel.” “You express mockery and challenge through inverted writing before sending it to your adversary.” “Yet those with secret-sensitive dispositions nearly always mix slanted characters into such messages—doesn’t that alone feel strangely tantalizing?” “After twisting my thoughts every conceivable way, I ultimately exposed the opponent’s intent using telegraphic cipher methods.” “In standard telegraphic code, D consists of one dash and two dots (—‥). So if we take a dash as T and two dots as I, doesn’t D transform into TI—?” “In essence, you progressively modify one element within these slanted characters using that very principle.”

And Housui proceeded to smoothly write down the deciphered text beneath the slanted characters. Then, before their very eyes, an uncanny transformation occurred: heaven itself transformed into the abyss, and across the paper emerged claw-like shapes—eerie to behold.

"Hinder, Border, Upper Stages, the flower of Heaven, once dreamed; now fabled. Farewell, happy field; wherejoy foreverdwells, Hail, quake stiles. Lo. unexpectedmort. Rear, front, and O raised stage! O flowers of heaven. That which was once dreamed, but now is betrayed. Farewell, blessed garden, though joy dwells eternally.

“Come, set the pillars trembling and quaking. Behold, the horn proclaiming death’s unexpected prey. ‘Now, Miss Hatae—rear, front, raised… this Shakespearean stage style. Who but your father could have envisioned it as his life’s ambition?’ ‘Yet they say Pope Alexander VI received a poisoned letter from Caterina Riario—but reading it would not have killed him.’ ‘But this letter holds power surpassing even the murder it portends.’”

As if enthralled by Kazama’s mania, Housui continued speaking without blinking.

“You see? That’s how it is.” “Truth breeds hatred, they say.” “And nihilism and death are entities that cannot stray even a single step from that fierce compulsion.”

The scrap of paper bore traces of handwriting left long ago by the person she missed most dearly. Hatae, as though concealing a corpse, tried to fold the scrap of paper and look away. But when it seemed that she could no longer endure that unbearable pain—that she could not possibly rid herself of it—a convulsive tremor suddenly assailed her.

“Father, you’re making me shudder—you can’t possibly be contemplating such horrors.” “Oh—must I be haunted eternally by that cruel illusion?” “Even now your voice—that oppressive resonance—vividly echoes in my ears.” “Yet for my sake alone, you’ll feign ignorance and pass me by, won’t you?” “Father, on that final night before us all, you spoke these very words—” “This theater lacks both form and beauty—it is naught but a canvas portraying what a jester might be.”

“A jester— Ah, so you’re directing the same irony at me as your father did? Here lies an impure one; begone to yonder place—or something like that? Ha ha ha ha.” Having said this, Housui attempted to mask his emptiness-stricken state with a burst of raucous laughter.

But at that moment, the curtain bell rang.

And thus, the next act—"Elsinore’s Seashore Outside the Castle Walls"—began.

However, starting from that act—though invisible to the audience—gloomy clouds completely enveloped the stage. Every actor fell out of tune in their performances; the rhythm of their lines collapsed into disarray. And so trivial matters agitated their nerves until they found themselves thinking—if only something would happen, anything—that these vessels clogged with foul blood might finally be emptied. Yet the subsequent two scenes passed without incident, until at last came Ophelia’s scene of madness.

However, whether it was due to the shock she had suffered or because her current state resembled Ophelia’s—thereby awakening sorrowful memories buried deep within her heart—remained unclear. When it came to the flower-giving scene, the sheer force of her derangement—so intense that she herself seemed to have succumbed to madness—left Housui astonished.

And upon seeing that the flowers she produced to hand to each person were entirely different, the three secretly exchanged glances. (Ophelia’s line) “Here, twinflower (to Laertes)—for farewells—and pansies, these are flowers of thought.” “For you, fennel (to the King), and then wood anemones.” “For you, rue (to the Queen), and I’ll keep a little for myself.” “This here is rosemary for Sabbath prayers, you know.” “Then, for that person, I shall give daisies.” “Oh—whether this rosemary or fleur-de-lis—no, even a lily would do—they will surely wither. When Father passed away, it was a noble end, though.”

And so Ophelia, beloved rose of March’s spring blossoms, scattered the remaining flowers along the edge of the stage. But at that moment, Hatae gazed fixedly into the space before her for a while, and there it seemed—something wrapped in mist, retreating into the distance.

As the stage revolved next, there lay the outskirts of Elsinore. At last, it became the murder scene where the female Horatio led Ophelia into the brook.

There flowed a milky-hued brook winding serpent-like around the unified stage backdrop. At its center stood a towering golden chain tree, alongside which ran a brook mechanism fashioned from pale blue tape. This poetic tableau spread its dreamlike shadow, pressing it outward toward the audience seats. Yet this depiction of mid-spring's ripe decay was simultaneously Kujaku's very physical form. Kujaku stood tall, her entire body swathed in plump flesh. Both her eyes and lips contained something fierce—a quality that could intoxicate hearts through scent alone. Lines of indescribable subtlety rippled from shoulders to hips. Expanding her ample bosom and thrusting out her sturdy, well-fleshed waist, Kujaku performed the phantom consort as though she embodied the role itself. Should anyone have discovered that this actress—emitting a man-like voice—remained but seventeen years old, all would surely have trembled at her monstrous maturity.

As the performance advanced to the murder scene, Ophelia—frail in her madness—was led by Horatio into the brook. At first, her skirt spread across the water’s surface as though it were pure water, but then it closed like an umbrella, and she sank deep into the depths. That was, above all, the highlight of this scene’s staging mechanism. Then, after Horatio’s ghastly soliloquy concluded, a gentle breeze stirred the golden chain tree overhead, and petals began to fall like snow. And from beneath it, the corpse floated up to the water’s surface.

And so March’s flower rose, crowned with blossoms, vanished through a trapdoor hidden in the footlights’ shadow, descending into the stage abyss.

However, when Ophelia’s corpse had vanished from the stage, an indescribable, astonishing event occurred in the audience seats.

First, from the back of the gallery came a voice crying out that the pillars were shaking—and in that instant, the violent tremor began shaking the great structure, and the five thousand spectators packed to capacity rose to their feet with screams. However, mere moments later, their faces took on a dream-awakened look as they realized that the tremor they had distinctly felt had, mysteriously, vanished in that very instant. And when they turned their gaze back to the stage—what had transpired there? Suddenly, clinging to the trunk of the golden chain tree, Kujaku let out an ear-splitting scream.

When they looked—to their astonishment—Ophelia’s corpse, which should have vanished moments before, now reappeared through a trapdoor at the edge of the painted backdrop. She, with the exact beauty of John Everett Millais’s *Ophelia*, flowed along the glittering water’s surface toward stage left. And after crossing over the forward trapdoor, she leaned her upper body out from the edge of the proscenium arch—appearing about to plummet into the audience—but at that very moment, the main curtain descended fully, and she was barely caught at chest level.

Then, at that very moment, her neck jerked downward with a snap—and in that instant, a terrifying crimson flash pierced the audience’s vision. On Ophelia’s neck, a ghastly mouth had gaped open with a sickening tear on its left side, from which a crimson spring of blood now gushed forth, thick and viscous. Moreover, whether due to the weight of that viscous liquid, the jasmine flower crown gradually tilted until it began to drip—was it not now slipping away from the edge of the bloody cascade?

II. The Mystery of Ophelia’s Madness

“Mr. Kumashiro—this face seems to be gradually falling asleep, doesn’t it? The smile upon her lips gradually became indistinct until finally vanishing entirely. And then, just as her lips seemed to barely touch, they parted once more. However—perhaps it’s my imagination—but don’t her eyeballs seem slightly protruded? Indeed, this is a phantom that defies description. The ghost of this case lies neither in Awaji’s dual role nor in the pillars’ tremor. I believe it lies in this single point.”

Gazing intently at the veins upon the pale skin, Housui uttered words that might as well have been poetry.

Due to the sudden tragedy, the day’s performance was halted, and standing on the deserted, echoing stage were only these three. Hatae’s entire body was suffused with an unearthly pallor. Her limbs sprawled limply, her face showed no shadow of terror or pain, and the deep shadows were nearly leaden in color. And her lips formed a gentle arc, imbued with infinite sorrow. The laceration that had severed the right carotid artery appeared to have been made by an exceedingly sharp blade, its jagged edges gaping open with a sickening tear. And there, coagulated blood had formed a deep pool; under the lingering glow of the main curtain, oozed fat glistened golden, and the jasmine flower crown was faintly tinged. It rendered the entire gruesome spectacle strangely resplendent.

“Mr. Kumashiro—you haven’t forgotten, have you? In Kazama Kujuro’s letter of challenge—‘Come forth—I shall make the pillars tremble and shake’—that passage. It has at last been brought to fruition.” The prosecutor—intoxicated by Kazama’s sorcery—had lost all restraint in both voice and gaze. “Yeah… Not an earthquake, yet he shook this colossal structure like a plaything… Kujuro’s uncanny power defies comprehension.” “But ‘stage abyss’—what an inspired naming.”

Kumashiro moved his face away from the corpse and puffed out smoke.

“In this case as well, isn’t the single layer of the stage floor the boundary between heaven and hell? Come now, Mr. Housui—shall we descend into the stage abyss?”

In any case, it was clear that the tragedy had occurred in the stage abyss; the stage itself bore no relation to the incident. Then the three of them descended into the soot-blackened, dismal stage abyss, and there all particulars of the situation were made clear. However, before that, it became necessary to touch upon the mechanical device of the brook that carried Ophelia away.

It utilized two trapdoors—one in front and one behind—to create a groove between them, within which a conveyor belt rotated as part of the mechanism. Therefore, the device was constructed like the continuous track used in tanks and such, and when one looked up at the ceiling from the stage trapdoor, a single large box-like object could be seen at the center of the conveyor belt, which was built in two layers. This was the device that would submerge Ophelia. When Hatae first entered that box, a fan installed below would create a breeze, causing her skirt hem to spread out as if floating on the water’s surface. And as it rotated while lowering her waist, it must have appeared to the audience’s eyes as though she were sinking into the muddy depths.

After finishing that, Hatae lay supine on the latticed platform above the fan and gave the cue to the stagehands below. This time, the conveyor belt carried Hatae upward as it steadily rose, then immediately dropped her through the forward trapdoor into the stage abyss.

However, the blood drips began precisely around the center of the conveyor belt, with none present between the first trapdoor and that point. Even upon seeing this, the location where Hatae had been stabbed was evident, and it seemed a height of nearly six feet would have sufficed to accomplish it. However, despite searching everywhere, the murder weapon was nowhere to be found, and aside from the latter half of the conveyor belt, there were no bloodstains at all. Furthermore, at that time, there had been two stagehands in the stage trapdoor area; unfortunately however, both were inside the control room during that gap, leaving them no means of knowing who might have entered.

However, the investigation concluded simply, and the three withdrew to Housui’s dressing room.

“Anyway, just knowing the culprit isn’t some unknown entity is a relief, I think.”

The prosecutor sat in a chair and immediately turned to Housui， saying— “In other words，the mystery of this case lies not in the criminal phenomena themselves.” “Rather，doesn’t it lie in Kazama’s state of mind?” “First of all，to kill one’s own beloved child when there was no need—I can’t help but feel Kazama’s mind was unhinged.”

“Yeah,” Kumashiro gave a simple nod of agreement.

However, Housui shifted his hips from the chair and began to stare at the other party as if rather surprised.

“Ah, Mr. Hasekura—for a legal monstrosity like yourself, verse must seem superfluous.” “But what of that tragic confession earlier?” “What do you imagine Hatae was entreating from her father in that silent pantomime of exquisite anguish?” “What—a confession tragedy… Let us dispense with this farce.”

In a harsh tone, Kumashiro interrupted. “Why would that be a joke? In the previous act, didn’t Ophelia mistakenly take every single flower? However, that was by no means born from Hatae’s derangement. Her mental cortex—truly orderly beyond compare—resembled nothing less than a shogi board. Now then, Mr. Kumashiro—though I’m no Aimé Martin—” “People don’t merely stain their fingers with obstinate ink when conveying their sentiments. I believe one can entrust such things to flowers.”

Having said that, Housui took out a bouquet from behind the desk and placed it on the table. The two found themselves intoxicated not so much by the colors and fragrances as by the beautiful mist Housui continued to weave. “I imagine this remains fresh in your memories as well—at the curtain call, Hatae strewed this many flowers across the stage while speaking of her father’s demise.” “First came kadsura—‘Day and night, my heart stays by your side.’” “Next was mignonette—‘Only your presence can soothe my anguish.’” “Then nettle—‘You harbor too much resentment.’” “Finally, she bound them with Japanese anemone and red balsam.” “That woman cried out—‘Please forgive me! Don’t touch me alone—’”

“Forgive me—Ah, I see. Now I get it.”

“With that, the prosecutor directed a sarcastic smile at Housui.” “However, that alone can hardly be called profound.” “First of all, in that case, Kazama’s psychological compulsion to kill his own child remains unexplained.” “And yet, despite telling Queen Kinugawa Akiko two flower names, he handed her broken snow-on-the-mountain…”

Despite the prosecutor’s protests, Housui continued to speak bluntly. “That is broken mother’s love—is what that is.” “Hey, Mr. Hasekura—what do you think of the sharpness of this metaphor?” Then, to Obochi Seiichi as Laertes, she handed white catchfly and yellow dianthus, declaring, “Shame on you, traitor—” and, As for that person—to Awaji Kenji, absent while playing Polonius—she handed French marigold and locust weed, crying out “Revenge! Retribution from below—”

“Of course, she had directed that satire—signifying traitors to Kazama—to those two men, but rather, it should have been sent to Ronne, who was the mastermind.”

“However, the flowers given to that man playing the king are quite strange indeed. First, lilac—this signifies the throbbing of first love. Then the butterfly pea means ‘no longer to be trusted’—and finally, by handing over red campion, she issued a warning: ‘a fearsome enemy draws near.’”

Seeing this, despite the two having once been lovers and recently grown estranged, Hatae was nevertheless trying to shield Ronne. "But Mr. Hasekura—Hatae has taken the red narcissus as her own. That is to say, a secret of the heart."

“Ha ha ha ha—perhaps I should take that flower as well.” “I wish to let my hand—the one that touched the innermost depths of Hatae—rest undisturbed for a while.”

Housui declared coldly and drank the now-tepid tea in one gulp. Just then, from beyond the door came a rustle of fabric—and through the gap appeared Kujaku’s arm, gripping her dressing gown.

She stomped into the room and called out to Housui. “Then, if *I* were to receive the blackberry—as they say, ‘justice shall not be done’—wouldn’t you agree? I came here because I wanted you to hear everything about Miss Hatae.” “However, isn’t Hatae the very person with the least reason to be killed by her father?”

With that, the prosecutor looked up at Kujaku’s face and gazed intently at the delicate veins tracing the edges of her eyelids. If one looked upon this lascivious, beast-like girl even for a moment, all would feel an abominable temptation and begin to grow dizzy. Kujaku unabashedly plopped her plump hips down onto the chair, “Oh? So you still haven’t realized it yet.” “Father? Where in this hut could he possibly be?” “First of all, Miss Hatae said tonight’s ghost was portrayed by Father—but you don’t actually believe the *exact opposite* of that, do you?” “If that were the case, you would stand at an extreme remove from your own new interpretation of *Hamlet*.” “Hey, Mr. Prosecutor General—you have no sensibility for that Freudian interpretation.” “That ghost was Hamlet’s hallucination—apparently born from his jealousy toward his mother, who married Claudius.” “Now how about this—that might just be the eternal key to this case.” “Moreover, if it were me—if I could perform magic that makes pillars tremble—I probably would’ve sent you a letter like that, Mr. Housui.” “No matter how much you search for Father, it’s only natural you won’t find him.” “Moreover, haven’t you found out everyone’s alibis from that time?” “I hear even Mr. Obochi and my mother have them.” “Then what about Ronne and Awaji?” “So just go ask Mr. Awaji already, I’m telling you.” “Then surely the dream of two people sharing one role will shatter.” “Then, Father said that night that he would never return again.” “I grew sad, clung to Father’s chest, and tried squeezing him tightly, but he just repeated the same words, and that was how we parted in front of the theater for the last time.”

And Kujaku, biting the broom petals clinging to the tips of her curls with moistened lips, fell completely silent. Housui smoothly plucked that flower,

“It’s true this flower-scattering began tonight under police advisement, wasn’t it? Yet I perceive a curious paradox here. The very one who sought to conceal that brutally authentic murder scene has instead—” “So you mean to say I’m the culprit?” Kujaku’s eyes widened momentarily before she abruptly parted her lips, unfurling a tongue crimson as velvet.

“Now do look here. “In Cyprus, they say if a grain placed in one’s mouth lacks saliva, that person is the culprit. “Even if those snow-like petals had concealed my body then—how could I have possibly gone down to the stage trapdoor and back in such a brief time? “Ah, I’d truly meant to keep it hidden, but I’ll muster the courage to say it now. “The truth is—I saw Father. “Not just saw him—suddenly I was struck from behind…”

“What? Struck from behind…”

Kumashiro discarded his cigarette and involuntarily cried out. Kujaku nervously snapped her left eye shut,

“People often mistake it for Ophelia’s coffin, but I was told to retrieve another ghost costume from the chest in the dressing room.” “I’d known since opening night that Father was lurking among the stagehands.” “Who else but Father would glance around like that while eating?” “So I refused at first.” “But then while I was changing, he came back—that enormous shadow made me flinch, and then his fist smashed into my spine so hard I couldn’t breathe.” “When I tried running toward the right-hand door, he blocked me... until I had no choice but to steal the costume.” “The pain shot straight through to my left wrist—I still feel it when I rub here.”

Having said that and taken something out—amidst the cigarette smoke—Kujaku began rubbing her bare arm.

“So—around what time was that?”

Housui glanced sidelong at her profile and adopted a businesslike tone of questioning. “I want to know exactly where that conical shadow was pointing.” “Have you heard about Milton’s Paradise Lost from anyone?” “This describes Earth as seen from heaven—the side cast in the sun’s shadow forms a conical shape, and when it reaches the zenith, midnight arrives.” “They say the span between there and six o’clock amounts to nearly nine hours.” “In other words, it’s the clock seen by the god of fairy tales.”

“Ah, that time when that demon came…”

Kujaku briefly revealed the white nape of her neck, but—

“The first time was probably around three o’clock, I suppose. And when he came the second time—I remember this precisely—I believe it was six fifteen,” she said, her eyes blazing with unrestrained flame. And she exposed her downy-haired arm—peach-soft in its texture—in such a manner that even if struck, one could not evade it; there arose a sensation as if something were pressing against her body, seeking to rub itself against her.

However, the space between Kujaku’s lowered eyelashes grew quietly damp,

“If you have no more questions to ask, then this time please listen to what I have to say.” “Truly, Mr. Housui—I’ve come to utterly despise being an actress this time around, you know.” “Once this production ends, I think I’ll change my life completely—maybe even have a child, you know.”

Even after Kujaku left, something lingered that seemed to loosen every limb and joint. Housui sat puffing his cigarette to ash, engrossed in silent contemplation, while Kumashiro rubbed his hands together incessantly, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Housui, doesn’t this mean your intellect ultimately saved Kujaku? Otherwise, even if the crime had been committed in the stage trapdoor—after all, wouldn’t everyone initially assume that tremor was Kujaku’s disruptive tactic?”

Until now, Housui had remained strangely silent regarding that inexplicable tremor. At that moment too, he seemed to be pondering something else entirely when he abruptly turned to the prosecutor, “Hey, Mr. Hasekura—the psychological logic you’re trying to grasp—but I hold one irrefutable piece of it. But aren’t Kujuro and Hatae parent and child of the same flesh and blood? Within that context—even if there were any kind of motive— Could the roots of nature and affection truly be swept away so easily…?”

He remained holding the cigarette in silence for some time—then Ludwig Ronne, who had been summoned, entered.

Ludwig Ronne appeared no older than thirty at first glance, but he was a man several years past forty with a cold, stubborn air and a sharply pointed nose. And immediately upon entering, he assumed a deliberately affected manner, “Mr. Housui, surely someone of your caliber wouldn’t believe in something as fateful as an alibi.” “As you can see, I have no alibi—nor would I even feign sleep.” “No—isn’t the fateful thing Ophelia’s madness itself?”

Housui rested his jaw on his fist and uttered an outlandish metaphor-laden remark. “Actually, I’ve been waiting impatiently to ask you—hey, Mr. Ronne—there should indeed be another corpse in this theater.”

At that moment, Ronne’s tall frame stiffened as if petrified, and an almost impulsive look of anguish surfaced. And as he gulped noisily, trying to swallow his saliva, Housui seized the moment to press him.

“I—through an unexpected opportunity—have come to know of a relationship between you and Hatae that no one else is aware of.” “However，during her mad scene，Hatae took a red narcissus for herself—but when interpreted through flower language，this signifies a secret of the heart.” “But，well—putting that aside—then why didn’t you deliver your lines as written in the script?” “Even rosemary—” you said，then continued，“but whether it’s a lily or whatever—it will surely wither away.” “Moreover，you pronounced that lily flower as ‘Fleur de Lis’—in which case，I’m afraid I must by all means invoke Freud.” “For you see，the human psychological mechanism is an utterly bizarre thing—when two similar words exist，the stronger one will inevitably exert influence somewhere within the other.” “In other words，you misspoke ‘Fleur de Lis’ at the end because when you said ‘rosemary,’ you had thought of the two words ‘Rose’ and ‘Mary’—and that association inevitably drew out the error.” “Hey，Mr. Ronne—Fleur de Lis and Friedrich—” “It’s because these two sounds are so remarkably similar that you ended up pronouncing ‘Rusu’ as ‘Rishii.’” “In other words—the meaning behind your line ‘Even rosemary or lilies—’ was this：If the child had been a girl，you’d have named her Rosa or Maria；if a boy，Friedrich.” “Because Hatae had been so poignantly fixated on deciding the name of the child to be born.” “Now，Mr. Ronne，Hatae was carrying your child.” “And as of tonight，the child you tried to abort has been buried from darkness into darkness.”

Due to Housui’s clairvoyance that surpassed all expectations, the outcome was conclusively determined in this single stroke.

It was not long before Ronne’s pallid, shadow-like form staggered out through the door. Housui—for reasons known only to himself—ceased his pursuit and allowed him to leave. Yet this single incident bloomed like twin flowers upon the case’s obverse and reverse.

Before long, the prosecutor eagerly voiced its meaning.

“You’ve swiftly narrowed the dice of this case down to just two faces—for that, I must thank you.” “If Hatae cannot tear herself away from Ronne—her own archenemy—and is even carrying his child, then Kazama’s hatred would first and foremost be directed at his own flesh and blood.” “Moreover, for Ronne—a married man—how terrifying it must be that Hatae would bear his illegitimate child.” “And if Hatae refused the abortion, then claiming that he tried to bury both mother and child would no longer be a psychological enigma.” “Moreover, he has no alibi—and a six-foot-tall man like that could have stabbed through Hatae’s throat from below.”

“No—the one who’ll be targeted is most likely you, Mr. Housui.” “Right now, that Obochi bastard was ranting about how he’ll stab through that guy’s chest in the final act—”

No sooner had a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from behind than Awaji Kenji stood planted there.

This seasoned veteran of the modern theater world pulled a chair closer without showing any hesitation. He was a forty-year-old man with a stocky torso and a bull-like neck—sturdy in appearance yet strangely cunning. “After all, we have testimony from the lighting technician about Obochi.” “One might call it a matter of innate disposition, but I’ve only now realized that even backstage contains what you might term a desolate island in the remotest sea.” “Now that I’ve laid this all out, I doubt there’s anything left to ask—ah yes, come to think of it, I was meant to hear your theory about Miss Hatae’s hallucinations.”

“No, as for that mystery of dual presence—where a single person appears in two different locations simultaneously—I’ve long since ceased to consider it an issue.”

Housui, with a cunning wrinkle at the corner of his eye, began to speak.

“After transforming into the ghost at that time, you certainly descended to the trapdoor, didn’t you? Then an unfortunate coincidence will arise for you. Have you read Clytemnus’s *Hall of Lies*? Roman women weren’t merely in the business of exhausting men’s loins. They say they used frozen bay leaves to sever the veins at the wrist.”

“What? So you’re saying I set up some sort of mechanism during that time?” Awaji’s face suddenly flooded with rage, his hands trembling violently. Yet as this unfolded, his stiffened muscles gradually relaxed, as though some pent-up passion were being released. Before long, Awaji showed a look of poignant resignation. “I have no choice. To prove my innocence, I suppose I must break the promise I made to my mentor. The truth is—I never actually descended to the stage trapdoor that time.”

When Awaji uttered the word “stage trapdoor,” his left eye twitched strangely, thereby affirming Kazama’s existence. And finally adding, “For that reason, both Obochi and I now regret having betrayed our mentor.” “And as for you being an intruder—this disagreeable truth must be clear even from Obochi’s words you just heard.” “But why on earth would Master ever get caught?” “Never ever—there’s no way Master will get caught!”

Finally, Housui’s ingenious trap cracked Awaji’s resolve, transmuting that hazy illusion into tangible reality. And one after another, Kazama’s figure—arranged upon the focal plane—became something beyond all doubt.

However, Housui’s expression grew increasingly sullen—so much so that he failed to notice when Kinugawa Akiko soon entered. Kazama Kujuro’s wife and Hatae’s mother, Akiko, had already been fighting for new theater for over twenty years. Perhaps because of this, Akiko’s appearance had lost all femininity—her eyes sunken, her nostrils lined with hardened flesh—evoking a sense of ruthless emotion and fanatical dread.

She took her seat, thrusting her chest forward, and spoke with fierce intensity. "What are you trying to say?" "That Medea-like man still hasn't been caught?" "That bastard wouldn't hesitate to kill even his own child if it served his purpose." "I want to rip out that man's eyes and heart—I'd rather just make him a cripple!" "No, I would never believe such a thing." Housui vehemently denied this, his tone taking on an unprecedented solemnity.

“If that were to happen—first and foremost—what would become of humanity’s ironclad rule? Father and daughter—though unconscious, there exists an exceedingly subtle xxx bond between them. Indeed, one might assert this crime could never have been committed by the father—wouldn’t you agree?”

“Then if it’s not the father—” Akiko said coldly, but waves of hatred—impossible to conceal no matter how she tried—swelled across her face. “Therefore, I’d like you to change the name you just mentioned from Medea to Clytemnestra. Adultery, jealousy, revenge—tell me, Miss Akiko, what kind of relationship have Ronne and Hatae had until now?” Even after Kazama’s return from abroad, Housui darkly alluded to the still-unbroken illicit relationship with Ronne. And then, while observing Akiko’s fearful eyes,

“Indeed, a child is a fragment divided from your own flesh and blood. “But what if hatred equal to that love existed alongside it? “Then your cruelty as a mother would cease to be a psychological mystery. “I shall speak plainly—”

When he was about to speak— Akiko stood up as if refusing to listen. And fixing her contorted face squarely upon Housui,

“Very well, I shall find Kazama myself.” “But you want to say this to me, don’t you?” “You’ve forgotten the grief of my child’s death, and even so, you try to protect only yourself—.” “In the end, I too understand full well that exposing Kazama is the best method.” And so Akiko departed, but their recent exchange somehow seemed like sophistry on Housui’s part. That they had made four people dance at their whim—if one were to break open the depths of each instance, might it not be nothing more than a premise for seeking out Kazama?

However, despite thoroughly ransacking the grand auditorium down to every corner, Kazama was ultimately not discovered. And so, the first day of the case came to a fruitless end.

III. The Advent of Kazama Kujuro

The next day, with an actress hired from another troupe to fill the role of the missing Ophelia, the Shakespeare Memorial Theater opened its doors as usual.

However, whether it was because the previous night’s tragedy had piqued curiosity, that evening saw a full house so much so that even supplementary seats had been laid out. Yet the Ophelia murder scene was ultimately canceled, disappointing the audience who had sought to rekindle that gruesome dream.

Throughout the performance, Housui Rintarou kept a watchful eye on the actors’ movements. Yet when the fourth act concluded and intermission began—what had come over him?—he summoned Akiko and Kujaku to his chamber.

“I have finally reached a conclusion.” “To clarify—Kazama was not in the stage trapdoor at that time.” “In truth, he lay concealed before the stage—within the hidden orchestra pit.”

The words uttered at the outset left not only the two women but also the prosecutor and Kumashiro utterly astonished. Kumashiro protested without hesitation.

“This is no joke.” “Your penchant for rejecting conventional methods remains evident—but isn’t the entrance to the concealed orchestra pit far off stage left?” “And between there and the stage trapdoor’s wall lie only two or three round windows barely wide enough for a thigh.” “So if you wait until confirming the stagehands entered the switch room—there’s no time left to reach it.” “First off—you’ve forgotten she was stabbed at center stage trapdoor.”

“Do you really think so?”

Housui said, his voice laced with a sneering laugh.

“As you know, the corpse’s face wears an expression of utmost serenity.” “However, the strange thing is that the eyeballs are protruding grotesquely.” “In that lies a symptom that could only have been produced from that orchestra pit.” “Now, Mr. Kumashiro, the place where Hatae had her throat slashed in one stroke—to tell you the truth, it wasn’t at the center of the stage trapdoor. It was at its edge.” “In other words, while falling from the stage into the trapdoor, her body must have bent at a sharp angle, her chest compressed into a grotesquely cramped posture.” “However, once her upper body finally enters the stage trapdoor, her chest relaxes, causing her to expel all the pent-up breath in an instant, you see.” “At that moment, a hand reached out from the small window of the orchestra pit, and Hatae’s carotid artery and vagus nerve—along with her very self—were slashed in a single straight stroke.” “Because, as one can discern from the eyes of a hanged person, when expelling breath violently, the brain swells, causing the eyeballs to protrude under its pressure.” “Furthermore, when a sharp blade is applied with tremendous speed, the cross-sections of blood vessels contract temporarily—but as internal pressure rises, blood begins to gush out from the wound in torrents.” “In other words, Mr. Kumashiro, with those two theories, you can understand why blood began to drip from the center of the stage trapdoor, can’t you?” “Next, what I want to address is how that sorcery-like tremor was caused—that’s the question.”

Without pausing for breath, Housui continued. “Undoubtedly, the impression we received was one of utmost pathos—that supernatural force thoroughly tramples upon the great laws of mechanics.” “However, that phenomenon was inherent to this architecture—it was never wrought by human hands.” “Naturally, it was destined to manifest in that scene—Kazama merely exploited his knowledge of it to divert backstage attention from himself to others.” “Tell me, Mr. Hasekura—doesn’t crowd psychology’s contagion surpass even pestilence?” “Yet its pathogenic source lies in the renowned Zöllner illusion.” “Observe the gallery’s cylindrical pillars.” “The horizontal grooves spiral diagonally upward from their bases, alternating directions with each successive column.” “Thus when scattered petals catch the light—their reflections flickering intermittently—the pillars’ parallel lines appear to tilt in alternating sequence.” “I recall a nearly identical phenomenon occurring at Leipzig Theater some thirty years past.”

Meanwhile, the other four remained in a daze like lifeless husks. The theater’s tremor—which they had been convinced marked the pinnacle of aberration—proved utterly trivial upon closer inspection, reduced to nothing more than a phenomenon confined within the eyes of five thousand spectators. Akiko said, nervously twisting her fingers.

“But what about Kazama?” “I see. Such hypotheses may be indispensable for you all, but we need only Kazama’s body.” “That will be in the next act—” Housui rose to his feet, hinting at his conviction. “In truth, knowing Kazama had utilized the orchestra pit, I drew the shortest line to that location.” “Then what it intersected was the prop storage room, wasn’t it?” “I believe Ophelia’s coffin for the next act was placed there.” “I’ll expose Kazama from the stage and hurl him into it!”

When the curtain rose on the next scene, "Graveyard," the backdrop revealed a vast expanse of grayish hills. Clouds hung low, the wind howled, and through that desolate landscape, Hamlet made his entrance accompanied by Horatio.

Soon, when Hamlet leapt down into the grave pit containing Ophelia’s buried coffin, Queen Akiko let out a scream like rending silk in that very instant—for Housui had begun heaving up the ponderous coffin lid with both hands.

However, inside it—contrary to their expectation of finding only weights and padding packed within—an indescribable stench began to rise as the lid opened. And when it was fully opened, the eyes of all present were wide open—fixedly—until they adjusted to the darkness. Then, from within that dimness, a form gradually took shape—until at last, something leapt into view before their eyes.

There lay a single decomposed male corpse.

“Ah, Kazama!” “Kazama—”

Akiko screamed in a voice that seemed to gush from the depths of the earth.

Surprisingly, it was Kazama Kujuro—the very man suspected of being Hatae’s killer.

The clothing too had rotted and tattered only where soaked in putrid fluid, from which peeked yellowed, parchment-like skin. In the eye sockets, only…………………………had pooled; where the black, brittle hair………………………had been, the surface of the flesh appeared a murky green. And on top of that was a shape like an emaciated roundworm,…………………………………………………. By now, upon Kazama Kujuro had been etched the unmistakable marks of decay, leaving not a vestige of his former self.

“Hey you! Burn incense, burn the incense…” Leaping out from the grave pit, Housui shouted a line not in the script. And he tried to prevent the audience from noticing the foul stench.

However, next—this time—an event occurred that made the entire audience leap to their feet.

For it was at the moment when Laertes challenges Hamlet—where Obochi Seiichi, playing that role, drew his longsword and charged—that Kujaku suddenly staggered and lunged toward the blade’s gleam. It happened with lightning-like swiftness—even as Obochi gasped in realization, he had no chance to withdraw his sword, and the momentum drove straight through Kujaku’s heart.

In that instant, Kujaku’s entire body froze like a statue, and something resembling words—a convulsive spasm—quivered across her twitching cheeks. Then, as slick trails of blood dripped from both corners of her lips like threads, her eyes—which had seemed to search blindly—fixed rigidly on a single point, and Kujaku toppled like a log. Through the two incidents that had occurred simultaneously, the outcome of the case had become roughly clear, yet they had to doubt whether it was indeed the truth.

However, the following night, Housui gathered everyone at the theater and announced the truth behind the incident. Under the pale diffused light, before the same backdrop as the previous night, Housui began to recount the full account of the crime committed by that exquisitely alluring beast—Suzaku Kujaku.

“First, in order, I wish to eliminate Kazama’s specter that has appeared in this incident. Of course, that letter was a forgery, and both Mr. Awaji’s experience and Kujaku’s testimony were undoubtedly born from the subtle psychology of their statements. However, when Hatae saw Mr. Awaji’s ghostly form and believed it to be Kujuro, that was not falsehood itself. Yet neither was it true reality—in truth, it was merely an illusion born from Hatae’s delusion. This is a psychological term called ‘apparent movement,’ where small circles are placed on a cross shape and aligned at their centers. Then those two are alternately swapped. An illusion occurs where the tip of the cross’s horizontal line appears to twitch. Originally, given my proclivities, I had traced Shakespeare’s visage onto that ghost’s makeup—its rotation must have deceived Hatae’s eyes. Furthermore, Hatae said that while she had closed her eyes in terror and surrendered to the rotation, something abruptly spun the chair in reverse. However, for those who have experienced it, this will likely remain as an eerie memory—when the chair’s actual rotation diminishes and approaches a halt several seconds before stopping, a sensation arises as if it has suddenly begun spinning violently in the opposite direction.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes the full truth.” “Yet though it began as nature’s trickery, what grazed the outermost reaches of Hatae’s psyche had cast shadows over subsequent mysteries—their true depth remaining forever unplumbed.”

Having thus erased the demonic idol reflected in Hatae’s mind, Housui’s tongue shifted to an analysis of Kujaku.

“Now, regarding the psychology of falsehoods—when one becomes overly talkative, there are instances where they unconsciously expose themselves.” “This also applies to Kujaku’s case—that woman claimed she felt pain all the way to the back of her left hand after being struck on the spine by Kujuro.” “However, if that were indeed true, the fundamental laws of emotional transmission would have to be completely overturned.” “Of course, it is an everyday occurrence for pain to be felt in areas beyond the affected part.” “However, in such cases—what we call retrograde movement—the pain is most often transmitted in the direction one would attempt to flee.” “Therefore, if the door was naturally on the right, one cannot help but find it suspicious why Kujaku lied.” “However, afterward, Kujaku inadvertently corroborated it.” “To explain—as you all know—when pursuing the shadow Hatae presumed to be Kujuro, they suddenly noticed the clock on the side pointing to nine o’clock.” “However, since the actual time was eight thirty, the manner in which it had been advanced would have been akin to inverting a right angle of fifteen minutes.” “Having noticed that, I attempted to impart to Kujaku the conceptual image of a conical shape.” “Then, when I asked about the times she met Kujuro, she stated the first instance was around three o’clock and the second at six fifteen—thereby clearly exposing how these times aligned with that right angle.” “In other words, Mr. Awaji faithfully fulfilled his duty, so after discarding the king’s garments, Kujaku intercepted Hatae through the altered clock hands.”

Overwhelmed by the force erupting from Housui’s ferocious deductive power, the entire group had turned rigid as if fossilized. The prosecutor exhaled the breath that had grown stifling in his chest with a whoosh,

“Now then, let me hear why you were able to perceive Kazama Kujuro from outside Ophelia’s coffin.” “I don’t wish to consign it solely to the realm of supernatural phenomena.” “That, Mr. Hasekura—the truth is as follows." “It was Kujaku’s blinking—transformed into a subtle word—that conveyed it to me.” “It’s something you often see in conversations—when one feels a piercing sensation, we instinctively close one eye.” “However, when I mentioned Ophelia’s coffin and—Kujaku unconsciously did just that.” “So I considered whether Kujaku might have experienced the stench of death through that sensation.” “Moreover, while that neurological phenomenon also manifested in Mr. Awaji when I mentioned the stage trapdoor—it conversely ended up proving his innocence.” “The reason is that, at the time, the stage trapdoor was permeated with varnish fumes, so through the manifestation of that sour response, it became clear Mr. Awaji had been compelled to utter a falsehood.”

“So when exactly was Kujuro killed, and by whom?”

And now, Kumashiro posed a perplexing question. “Needless to say, it was Kujaku.” “And as for the timing—about two months ago when he parted from his family—I believe it was immediately after that.”

Housui stated in an utterly dispassionate voice.

“That is because I came to know Kujuro’s astonishing characteristic.” “That man—though an actor—was partially deaf.” “However, since the basilar membrane of his inner ear retained residual function, this very fact compelled Kujuro to devise an intensely scientific vocal method.” “This can be understood by speaking with one’s ears covered—all voiced sounds resonate through the Eustachian tube to the inner ear.” “Yet even unvoiced consonants like [ha] and [sa], when resonated through the thoracic cavity as chest voice, fracture into multiple harmonic stages.” “Thus through this method, Kujuro could discern his own utterances—though naturally he interpreted others’ speech through lip-reading and thoracic vibration analysis.” “However—were one to compress that thoracic cavity—the sounds produced would resonate discordantly within his auditory labyrinth.” “When Kujaku embraced Kujuro’s chest during their farewell...that delicate mechanism’s transmutation into venom became unfathomable.” “In short—words he believed had escaped him against his will became hooks dragging Kujuro toward death.” “So Mr. Kumashiro—my deduction of his partial deafness stems from Kujaku’s remark about him glancing about while eating.” “For such men—that moment proves most unnerving—as lip closure blocks external sounds through the Eustachian tube.”

When Housui paused to take a breath, the listeners finally regained their composure and sighed in bewilderment. To play a human being like an instrument—wasn’t Kujaku’s embrace of Kujuro during their final farewell precisely for that purpose? As if drawing out a harmonium’s coupler to alter its timbre, she tightened and loosened his thoracic cavity, modulating the notes. And by sending an unexpected reverberation to Kujuro’s inner ear, she induced a delusion within him.

Next, Housui cited examples such as the experiments of Gutzmann—an acoustic pathologist—and Professor Donders, a friend of Darwin’s, but all served only to corroborate his hypothesis. Undoubtedly, within those intricate mechanisms lay whatever had lured Kujuro back to the theater. And it was likely during that very occasion that Kujaku carried out her first crime.

Kumashiro felt as though he were caught in a swirling vortex of eerie mist, yet he still had to organize the two or three remaining doubts.

“So how was Kujaku, who was on stage, able to kill Hatae in the trapdoor?”

“That’s the cunning magic of this case,” Housui explained. “To elaborate—Kujaku employed extraordinary ingenuity on Ophelia’s hem and the conveyor belt mechanism. As you’re aware, Mr. Kumashiro, when Ophelia feigns falling into the brook and Hatae enters the compartment below, wind from beneath makes her skirt flare open abruptly.” He demonstrated with a sweeping gesture. “While smoothing that spread hem like an umbrella—as though settling perfectly into position—she lowered herself.” “But under those conditions,” he continued, “the wind whipping around her skirt’s circumference would naturally create a cylindrical air column above Ophelia’s head matching its outline.” His fingers traced an invisible vortex. “Through convection principles, this downward current would carry the broom petals from overhead not randomly about, but directly into her skirt’s folds.” “However,” his voice sharpened, “those petals were undoubtedly coated with a dermal paralytic—likely curare derivatives.” A clinical edge entered his tone. “As Hatae inhaled through her nose, gradual systemic languor ensued.” His hand mimicked a wilting motion. “Particularly numbing cranial sensation until she could barely recline—then dreamily conveyed through the trapdoor.” “Precisely then,” he concluded, “the audience experienced that swaying illusion and rose collectively.” Leaning forward intently: “Yet Kujaku alone kept composure to deliver Hatae’s coup de grâce.” “The mechanism?” He answered his own question: “She’d preinserted a razor blade between two conveyor belts.” A slashing motion accompanied his words. “Amidst commotion’s cover, she persistently stamped that belt.” The detective’s hands pantomimed mechanical tension: “The slackened belt naturally tightened—rotation accelerating—until...” He snapped his fingers: “That blade overtook Hatae at horrific velocity.” “Not merely slashing her limp neck,” his fingers drew a horizontal line through air, “but rebounding instantly back to Kujaku’s very gaze through recoil mechanics.”

Having thus exhaustively concluded his explanation of the crime, Housui retrieved a single leaf of paper from his garment pocket. In that instant, a feverish glint entered his eyes as his fingertips quivered violently against the paper itself. Yet upon that solitary sheet lay an account of Kujaku’s mysterious psyche—a longing for her homeland’s skies.

—With barely time before the curtain rises, I shall hurriedly write this down in pencil. You declared moments ago that you would undoubtedly expose Kazama in the next act. Thereby I came to realize everything had already reached its conclusion. Why do I say this? For what could possibly appear in the coming act but Ophelia’s coffin containing Kazama? I now found myself compelled to fortify my final resolve.

But why did I have to kill Kazama and lay hands upon Hatae as well?

To explain why—it is merely that the man called Kazama is not my true father. At that time, my mother—widowed while carrying me in her womb—wandered the roadside. It was there she was saved by Kazama, though his forceful presence likely influenced me even within that darkness. As you see, my hair and skin bear the indelible marks of a mixed-race child.

However, ever since I was brought to Japan, day by day, my nostalgia has only grown stronger. That deep indigo sea, a sky of the same hue—the town lies hushed and still, towers standing here and there, and there are times when the clocks from every house can be heard even in the middle of the thoroughfare. Ah, Master Housui—when the southern winds unique to Northern Italy begin to blow, they say incidents of harm suddenly multiply within the Tyrol regiments. However, there is, in fact, an indescribable mysterious power in the skin of the earth and the scent of the atmosphere.

And before I knew it, I had become powerless against that desolate loneliness. Outwardly, I must have seemed calm and collected—yet ceaselessly I stared at the tempest raging within my body, thinking only of what I ought to do. Thus at last, I resolved to bury Kazama—who had become my shackles—and tread anew upon that nostalgic soil.

Therefore, the reason I took Miss Hatae’s life was the instinctive jealousy of one bereft of a father. Father and daughter—that mystery of blood ties amounts to nothing but derision for those deprived of it.

Please, Master Housui—do remember me always. And when that time comes, may you deign to conjure the phantom of that timeworn town…