Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue: Farewell, Shakespearean Stage!

The imperial seal had already been affixed to the state documents.

Though childhood friends, two who thought each other venomous snakes—

Having undertaken the role of envoys, I shall clear the path ahead— A cunning scheme to guide the way. "Do whatever you will." With their own planted landmine, To watch it erupt skyward would be an amusing spectacle.

Rather than digging the hole ahead, we were excavating three feet below it here. "Aiming for the moon—if this were launched as such, wouldn't that make for quite the spectacle?" "If only both parties' schemes—" "—were to collide on the same path. Now that would be a true spectacle." [While saying this, he cast a glance at Polonius's corpse] "This man makes even me feel impatient!" "Well then, let's drag this gutted wretch to the next room." "Mother, please rest." "Well now, this Lord Councilor here..."

Now completely silent and solemn, with no secrets being divulged—it might even be called earnest. Though he had been a loquacious fool in life,

"Come now, I shall dispose of you as well." "Please rest, Mother." [The two exit separately—curtain]

And so, when Hamlet—dragging Polonius’s corpse—exited stage left, Act III, Scene IV of *Hamlet’s Concubine* came to an end.

The afterglow of the theater curtain, faintly tinged with pale red, continued dyeing the colonnade—from its upper corrugations downward—as though being caressed. The intermission lasted over twenty minutes, and the hallways were tremendously congested. On both walls, wall lamps alternating between chandeliers and old-fashioned gas lamp imitations were arranged at intervals, appearing hazy and blurred due to the dust stirred up by the commotion. From all around rose boisterous laughter, and aside from the coquettish voices exchanged by the upper-class patrons, nothing else could be heard—yet amidst that whirlwind, there was one group that remained aloof, ceaselessly muttering complaints as if in lamentation.

Those four or five people—each and every one had thin, pared lips, and whenever conversation turned trivial, they would invariably furrow their brows and adopt expressions as if recalling a bitter aftertaste. That group was what are called Viles (meaning "good-for-nothings"—a common epithet for disparaging theater critics). They spoke in unison—praising the integrity of Kazama Kyujuro, who had indignantly left this troupe—and derided Housui Rintarou’s *Hamlet’s Concubine* as a farcical verse that "crossed all bounds of absurdity," comparing it to *The Mourning Bride* (a play by William Congreve said to epitomize the licentiousness of Charles II’s court), declaring it quintessentially his brand of mockery.

However, curiously enough, not a single person made any mention of his performance as the lead actor. However, the next topic brought up concerned the peculiar line Housui had uttered during the current act. That Act III, Scene IV—Queen Gertrude’s private chamber—remained nearly identical to Shakespeare’s original work: Hamlet accuses his mother of infidelity and, mistaking Chamberlain Polonius for the King, stabs him through the arras. In that device, the backing was covered with panels of blackish-blue ※（糸＋尭）ed, and the space within the frame was deeply blue like a bottomless pool. This quiet, sorrowful air of resignation had of course flawlessly stylized the Queen’s character—her weakness mocked as “thou frail thing”—yet the two actors’ fierce performances, particularly Kinugawa Akiko’s neutral individuality in her role as the Queen, thoroughly overwhelmed the set’s lyrical breath.

However, throughout that performance, Housui kept his eyes roving over the audience, maintaining an attitude as if trying to seek out someone whose face he wished to identify. And then, as the act neared its end during his exchange with the Queen, he suddenly turned sharply to face front, "I have savored your most precious, most subtle essence through my own selfish senses. "So let’s not attempt to experience that in reality, shall we?" he shouted to no one in particular.

Of course, there was no reason for such words to exist within the script. It was even considered whether he—driven mad by daily vitriol—had vented his pent-up resentment upon the theater critics from the stage. Yet given how utterly composed he appeared, one could scarcely fathom why he would engage in such unseemly behavior. However, as they continued digging deep, applying all manner of scrutiny, something suddenly jolted their chests.

This referred to Kazama Kyujuro, who had been abandoned by the troupe members and had now been missing for nearly two months, with no word whatsoever about whether he was alive or dead. Depending on how matters stood, might Kyujuro have somehow returned to this theater without anyone noticing? And could Housui's penetrating gaze have discerned him secretly blending into the audience...? Needless to say, this was mere conjecture, but for those who knew Kazama's mystically fanatical nature and spared no sympathy for his tragic fate, it somehow began to loom as a somber portent.

Could some unforeseen silent struggle be unfolding within the shadows? As this thought took hold, an aura of secrecy already seemed to permeate the air—stirring a palpitation that yearned to peer into its deepest abyss at any cost.

Might it be that over this magnificently grand Shakespeare Memorial Theater—so soon after its opening—sinister clouds already loomed? Such was the dread that seeped into one’s very bones, for this theater had already stolen Kazama’s soul and drained his hopes to their last dregs.

However, dear readers, you would no doubt be astonished to learn that Housui not only penned the play *Hamlet’s Concubine* but also emerged as an actor performing its lead role as Hamlet. Yet to those aware of his expertise in medieval history, it must have been anticipated that such a work would one day emerge as a dramatic verse born of his predilections.

This work was created during a period of seclusion following the completion of *The Black Death Mansion Murder Case*, though it was originally a paean dedicated to the actress Suzaku Kujaku. In fact, Suzaku Kujaku portrays Horatio in the play; however, in this new work, Horatio is established as a woman—a prostitute who fell in love with Hamlet while studying abroad in Wittenberg. In other words, the act of making that prostitute dress in male attire and bringing her back became the seed of tragedy, and throughout the entire work, a vividly colorful court life unfolds. And first, Horatio kills Ophelia out of jealousy. Moreover, not only does she become involved with King Claudius and Laertes, but ultimately conspires with Prince Fortinbras of Norway to deliver Denmark into his hands after Hamlet’s demise.

That female Horatio’s alluring form—being so quintessentially Kujaku’s individuality—was said to surpass even the seductive charms of Agnès Sorel, once considered the most favored among royal mistresses. Consequently, debates over its merits and demerits raged with clamorous intensity around this supremely licentious chronicle of adultery. First of all, the model for the female Horatio was scrutinized from every angle—some claimed she was based on the enchantress Imperia or Clara Dettin—while works like Grammaticus’s *History of Denmark* and Mohl’s *Erotic Life in Literature and Art* were brought into the fray, with even the minutest details of textual analysis debated down to their finest points.

However, in theatrical circles, there were unexpectedly many voices of criticism, and ultimately, they denounced it as "ornate beauty kills tragedy." Of course, those voices were nothing but a surge of latent sympathy toward Kazama Kyujuro.

Kazama Kyujuro was likely unparalleled in past and present as Japan’s Shakespearean actor. Not only that, but he was said to be a Knight of the Swan Order—such was the intensity of his longing for the stages of the Elizabethan era of old. (Front, rear, upper)—the tripartite division of the early Shakespearean stage—. In an attempt to revive that style, he departed Japan in the first year of Taisho, twenty years ago. Then he traveled around the globe, beginning with Stanislavski’s institute, toured every theatrical troupe he encountered.

However, leaving aside his talent as an actor, no one deigned to lend an ear to his advocated staging theories except as the ravings of a madman. And then, accompanied by Kujaku in his exhausted state, he made his defeated return to his homeland—it was in Shōwa X, a mere three years ago—. Speaking of which, there had been rumors that during his time abroad, Kyujuro had taken a second wife who had passed away in Ravenna, but that baseless tale was ultimately substantiated by the mixed-race child Kujaku.

However, after returning to Japan, Kyujuro—due in part to his unfamiliarity with the language—developed a heinous misanthropic tendency. Not only did his voice change completely, but his rich chest voice now evoked the sensation of listening to a low-pitched metal instrument. Yet when it came to his subsequent life circumstances, they were by no means unfortunate. He even welcomed back his former wife Kinugawa Akiko—whom he had heartlessly abandoned twenty years prior—along with her troupe, while his only daughter who had been in swaddling clothes at that time now called herself Kume Hatae and became a shining star of the new theater world. And so Kyujuro, having built up formidable influence within a short span of time, secretly sought opportunities to realize his Shakespearean stage.

Then, riding the tide of favorable circumstances, an opportunity came to Kyujuro—none other than the construction of the Shakespeare Memorial Theater. Initially, that plan had been devised by one or two young wealthy patrons who were Kyujuro’s backers; of course, at that time, it had been arranged for his lifelong aspiration—the Shakespearean stage—to be realized. However, as other capital factions became involved, Kyujuro’s proposals eventually ceased to be heeded. In that case, he pleaded to at least have it resemble Krüger’s Shakespearean stage—but even that was flatly rejected, and finally, the theater came to take on the exact appearance of the Bayreuth Opera House.

Of course, the stage’s proscenium arch had become nothing more than a vast opera-style structure. Moreover, beneath it lay even a concealed orchestra pit, while the audience seating had transformed into fan-shaped box seats encircled by colonnades. Under these circumstances, no matter how one might try, there was no possibility of staging a complete Shakespearean drama. Kyujuro knew all hope had been severed in that instant. Moreover, at that very moment came an event that transformed him into a demon of grief and indignation. This was because the entire troupe had abandoned Kyujuro and defected en masse to the theater’s side.

The amount of remuneration was likely more than sufficient to dazzle the eyes of troupe members who lived in constant fear of financial instability and could find no security. Above all, since even his wife Akiko, daughter Hatae, and Kujaku had abandoned him, Kyujuro finally faced the defectors 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 had vanished from the earth—and it seemed there would be no further opportunity to hear that rich chest voice of his. However, on the other hand, it also served as the motive that cast scattered light upon Housui Rintarou. That peerless dandy of his generation—he who was proclaimed an unparalleled criminologist in past or present—now found himself setting foot not upon a crime scene, but upon the stage. However, it was neither an act of affectation nor, of course, anything remotely strange. During his past travels abroad, Housui had studied acting under Ruggero Ruggeri (who, alongside Alexandre Moissi, was one of Europe’s two great Hamlet actors), so it could be said that he surpassed even professionals—indeed, as a Hamlet actor, he may well have been second only to Kyujuro.

Therefore, even from a business strategy perspective, his special performance was an outstanding success, and every night this five-thousand-seat theater was packed to capacity. And that very evening—May 14th—marked the third night since the theater’s opening. *Hamlet’s Concubine*

**Characters** Hamlet　　　　　　　　　Housui Rintarou King Claudius　　　　　　Ludwig Ronne Queen Gertrude　　　　　　　Kinugawa Akiko The Ghost of the Late King　　　　┐ Awaji Kenji Lord Chamberlain Polonius┘ Polonius’s Son Laertes　　　　　　　　　Obochi Seiichi [His] Daughter Ophelia　　　　　　　　　Kume Hatae Horatio　　　　　　　　　Suzaku Kujaku One or Two Ghosts

Horatio　　　　　　　　　Suzaku Kujaku One or Two Apparitions

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

When he pushed open the door with the pommel of his longsword, there appeared before him—filling his vision—the white back of Hatae clad in Ophelia’s costume. And beyond the desk in front, Prosecutor Hasekura and Chief Kumashiro—who had remained seated since the previous intermission—were leaning back in their chairs.

When Prosecutor Hasekura saw Housui’s face, he pointed at Hatae beside him and said.

“Hey, Housui-kun, actually, this young lady here has been saying since earlier that you should quit being an actor—” “Anyway, she says she wants you to be the detective you are rather than the actor.” Those words seemed to harden Hatae’s expression. Kume Hatae was a frail girl, like a half-opened lily.

Her neck was slender like a stem; her skin was translucently pale to an unsettling degree; each blood vessel stood out like a blue silk cord. And even observing the trembling of her shoulders, she seemed to be struggling with some irrepressible emotion. Hatae turned to face Housui and stared fixedly into his eyes, but despite biting her lip to hold back tears, two streams soon trickled down her cheeks.

And then, Housui asked quietly.

“Now, why are you crying? Regarding your father’s whereabouts, I could confidently assert his safety, you know.” “No, it’s fine—even after the ten-day performance run concludes, there will still be sufficient time.” “In this morning’s English-language paper—you called me ‘worthy of reverence,’ was it?” “But which aspect exactly?” “As an actor? Or as Housui the detective?” “Yes... what I wished to discuss concerns my father...”

Hatae’s eyes became unnaturally fixed，and in an instant，her entire body tensed as if her muscles might burst. “You believe the ghost in this act to be Mr．Awaji’s dual role—” The ghost in question was，needless to say，the spirit of Hamlet’s late father and king．

However, during casting, when only that ghost role remained unassigned, Housui had no choice but to revise the script. This was because Ludwig Ronne—the German actor playing King Claudius—was also serving as an assistant director, while Obochi Seiichi in the role of Laertes was said to be unsuited for vocal parts. Consequently, they had no choice but to eliminate the ghost’s lines and keep Polonius’s corpse concealed until the curtain call. And during that time, they had no choice but to attempt having Awaji Kenji play dual roles.

In other words, they positioned the hanging curtain over the trapdoor, performed the ghost’s costume change within that space, and once that was done, Awaji would exit through the hole to the understage and reappear on stage left—such was the devised staging. However, why was Hatae harboring doubts about Awaji’s dual role? With that single instance, Housui found himself utterly ensnared by the reins of his curiosity.

“Then, have you asked Awaji-kun about the mystery of the costume change? As ill luck would have it, once that man took my sword, there was no going back. After all, it’s Polonius who was killed. In that cramped space, it’s precisely because he moves. And so, he came to me with these complaints—‘It was so suffocating—facing the hanging curtain, he couldn’t even manage to breathe properly.’”

“Yes, that person carelessly spun a web of lies to me.” “Because that ghost was none other than my father.”

The blood rushed to Hatae’s demure cheeks, transforming her face into one brimming with nervous, resolute conviction. But the moment they heard this, Prosecutor Hasekura and Chief Kumashiro rocked back in their chairs, convulsed with laughter, yet Housui alone appeared to place an uncanny trust in the girl’s vision.

“It was thus.”

“Hey, Mr. Housui.” “You alone will take me seriously, won’t you?” “During this intermission, I was in the stage left practice room.” “That was because I had actually been practicing to acclimate myself to the rotation during the drowning scene—Ophelia’s final moment of falling into the brook.” “You see, I wonder if it’s due to my physical condition—whenever I rotate, I start feeling this tightness in my chest.” “So both Mother and Miss Kujaku had been saying for some time that I should at least acclimate my body beforehand. That’s why I decided to practice using that swivel chair over there.” “However, as I sat on that chair rotating gently, suddenly my body trembled and froze rigid, and my heartbeat pounded thunderously up to the very crown of my head.”

“I see.” “However, your taking a leave from the performance at this juncture would be nothing short of a devastating blow.” “If at all possible, I’d like you to push through even a little overexertion.” “Truthfully, you should rest for a couple of days, though.” “Especially in such a hallucinatory state...”

Housui absently let his words trail off, but this instead stirred Hatae’s fervor.

“Ah, so you’re declaring it’s a phantom too, aren’t you? But Mr. Housui, that illusion—oh, but it appeared in such vivid form that I could hardly think it a 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, was it not none other than Father? Hey, Mr. Housui, that differs from other elderly roles—it must have been traced from Shakespeare’s visage according to your preference. So, both the mustache and beard were thin, and from there up to the nose—precisely due to the play of light—it looked like a cross. Then, the ghost’s beard was twitching incessantly.”

“But is there some particular reason that the beard moved?” “Yes, of course there is.” “Even if he tried to conceal it, he couldn’t possibly hide it completely—for it was Father’s habit.” “Father always had this habit of developing facial tics—unconscious movements where his face would twitch and contort.” “So, half out of nostalgia and half out of fear, my words caught in my throat, a mist-like haze appeared before my eyes, and when I thought, ‘What if Father is dead?’ I shuddered as though his face were peering into mine—before I could react, I snapped my eyes shut.” “Then, from the recoil, the swivel chair began rotating—but just as its motion seemed to slacken somewhat, someone grabbed it and suddenly spun it forcefully in the opposite direction.” “Father—I merely felt that it was him, and in that instant, I experienced a numbness as though my nerves had been shattered into fragments.” “But on the other hand, an oddly intense force welled up within me—I was driven by a desire to speak with Father outright.” “So, when I opened my eyes, the ghost’s retreating figure was no longer there, so I mustered my resolve and dashed toward the backstage.” “Then, behind the hanging curtain in the prop area—there was Mr. Awaji, though.”

“Ah, so that was Awaji-kun?” “In that case, you have no reason to find it so strange.” “It must be that man—the one who played that prank on you—” “And at that time—was he still in the ghost costume?” Only then did Housui take out tobacco as if drained of vigor. Yet now that dual role could no longer remain confined as mere phantoms within Hatae’s mind.

“No, he had already fully become Polonius and was lying there with the ghost costume beside him.” “Yet he wore an utterly nonchalant expression and hadn’t passed through the dance practice room—or so he claimed.” “Come to think of it, there’s a corridor branching off sideways in front of that room.” “But then there came a rustling sound—it seemed to come from near the staircase entrance leading up to the ceiling latticework.” “Since there were no footsteps before or after that noise, I grew suspicious and went to look.” “And what did I find there but a discarded ghost costume?” “Then I glimpsed a flickering shadow up near the latticework.” “But I couldn’t pursue it further.” “Because when I checked the clock nearby, it was exactly nine o’clock.” “No, Mr. Housui—Father must be somewhere in this theater right now.” “Yet all of us here are nothing but cowards.” “We destroyed Father’s life and cast him into that wretched abyss…”

Hatae’s knees trembled violently, and she seemed to barely remain standing.

Now, she had just mentioned the time as nine o’clock—the reason being that in case of delays due to stage preparations, they had arranged to skip the next two scenes and proceed directly to Ophelia’s mad scene. However, strangely enough, neither Prosecutor Hasekura’s watch nor Chief Kumashiro’s had yet reached nine o’clock. And if it were precisely 8:50 now, then when that clock had pointed to nine o’clock, it would have been around 8:30. Furthermore, as he considered whether advancing that clock held some unexpected significance beyond merely obstructing Hatae’s pursuit, Housui’s thoughts suddenly grew clouded.

But then, as if struck by a thought, he took something out from the dressing mirror’s drawer and placed the object on the table. But from that mouth, unexpected words were uttered.

“Miss Hatae, with this single item, I was able to discern a man’s heartbeat and catch the scent of his breath.” “As you can see, I’ve long since received word from your father.” Having said that, what he thrust out was a stylish lady’s square envelope. But when they finished reading the contents, all three simultaneously looked up at Housui with dumbfounded eyes. It was nothing more than the following fan letter, written in English verse that disregarded meter.

In his costumes herecites

The word the poet to his dear onescomposed: "Hinder Bortier, it is perstages. The flower of Heaven, once dreamed; now enabled. Fareatell happy field; wherejoy foreverdwells. Hail quake viles. Lo, unexpectedtort" [Translated Text] From upon the stage, he shall recite the verses the Bard composed for his most beloved. ――O concealed ruby of the innermost depths, thou art present in every scene. O flower of Heaven, what was once dreamed now is fulfilled. The aged prologue chorus speaks of the garden of bliss. There, it is said, dwell those who know joy and— Now then, let the critics do battle! Behold. This unlooked-for keenness.

Hatae raised her face, brimming with bewilderment across her entire face,

“What exactly do you mean by this, Mr. Housui?” “Doesn’t this amount to absolutely nothing?”

Although she had said that, overwhelmed by Housui’s extraordinary aura, Hatae could only stare fixedly at his parting lips.

“However, Miss Hatae, this is what we call a covert duel.” “In other words, you express the intent to mock and challenge in reverse and send it to your opponent.” “However, if it’s a person attuned to covert sensibilities, there will almost certainly be italicized characters mixed into this—and that alone can’t help but feel peculiarly enticing, don’t you think?” “After torturing it every which way, I finally managed to expose the opponent’s intentions using telegraph code notation.” “In standard telegraph code notation, since D is one dash followed by two dots (—‥), if we take the dash as T and two dots as I, wouldn’t D end up becoming TI—?” “In other words, using that technique, you alter a single location within the italicized characters.”

And Housui continued fluently adding the deciphered text beneath the italicized characters. Then before their eyes a strange transformation occurred—heaven itself turned into the understage, and from all over the paper emerged eerie claw-like shapes that chilled to behold.

"Hinder, Border, Upper Stages, the flower of Heaven, once dreamed; now fabled. Farewell, happy field; wherejoy foreverdwells, Hail, quake stiles. Lo. unexpectedmort. [Translated Text] Rear, front, and upper stage. O flower of Heaven. That was once dreamed, but now stands betrayed. Farewell, garden of bliss; where joy forever dwells. Come, let the colonnade quake and tremble. Behold the horn that heralds the death of unlooked-for prey. “Now, Miss Hatae—rear, front, upper… Regarding this Shakespearean stage style, if we were to speak of someone who envisioned it as their lifelong dream, who else could it be but your father?” “However, it is said that Pope Alexander VI was sent a poisoned letter by Caterina Riario, but even if he had read it, he would not have died.” “But this letter possesses an effect surpassing even the murder it foretells.”

As if enchanted by Kazama’s fervor, Housui continued speaking without blinking. “Now, isn’t that so? “They say truth breeds hatred.” “And nihilism and death—they cannot stray even a step from that fierce impulse.”

On that scrap of paper remained traces left by the hand of the person she missed most from before. Hatae tried to fold it in two as if shrouding a corpse. But when she felt unable to escape that unbearable agony any longer— “Father! You provoke me yet remain blind to this terror!” Ah! Must I endure this cruel phantom forever? Even now your voice—that crushing timbre—vibrates through my skull. Won’t you avert your eyes just once? Spare me alone? Father! That final night—you declared before us all: “This theater holds neither form nor beauty—merely daubs portraying buffoons!”

“Buffoon—. Ah, so you too are directing the same irony at me as Father did? Here lies the defiled one—begone elsewhere, I suppose? Ha ha ha ha!”

Having said that, Housui attempted to mask his feeling—as if emptiness itself had been pierced—with a brief burst of raucous laughter.

But at that moment, the opening bell rang.

And then, the next act—"Elsinore Castle’s Seashore"—began.

However, beginning with that act—though invisible to the audience—a dark cloud enveloped the entire stage.

The actors’ performances all fell out of rhythm, their lines losing all cohesion. Trivial matters agitated their nerves until it seemed almost desirable for some catastrophe to occur—as if only through such an event could these vessels clogged with stagnant blood be purged. Yet the next two scenes passed without incident, until finally came Ophelia’s mad scene.

However, whether it was due to the shock she had suffered earlier, or because her current state—resembling Ophelia—had awakened sad memories hidden deep within her heart... When the flower-giving scene arrived, she herself—or perhaps she had become such—so astonished Housui with the intensity of her madness.

And upon seeing that the flowers she took out for each person were entirely different, the three secretly exchanged glances. “Here—twinflower for you [Laertes], meaning farewell; then pansies—these are flowers of thought.” “For you—fennel [to the King]—and then columbine.” “For you—rue [to the Queen]—and I’ll keep a little for myself.” “This here is called the Sabbath prayer herb, you know.” “And for that one, I shall give a daisy.” “Ah—whether it’s this rosemary or fleur-de-lis… no, a lily would do just as well—they’re bound to wither away. When Father passed, it was a noble end, though…”

And so, the beloved Ophelia—springtime’s floral rose—scattered the remaining flowers along the edge of the stage.

But at that moment, Hatae stared fixedly at the space before her for a while, and there seemed to be something—like a figure wrapped in mist—receding into the distance.

As the stage next revolved, there lay the outskirts of Elsinore. At last, the female Horatio led Ophelia into the stream—the scene became the murder site.

There was a milky-colored stream that snaked through the painted backdrop like a serpent, with a large golden chain tree at its center, beside which flowed a stream mechanism made of pale blue tape. That poetic painted backdrop spread its dreamlike shadow, extending it out toward the auditorium.

Yet this depiction of ripe, overripe mid-spring was, in one aspect, none other than Kujaku’s very body.

Kujaku stood tall, her entire body wrapped in voluptuous flesh. In her eyes and lips lay a ferocity so intense that even their scent seemed potent enough to poison the soul. Indescribably subtle lines undulated from her shoulders to her hips. Kujaku expanded her voluptuous chest and thrust out her robust, firmly fleshed hips, proceeding to perform as the dreamlike concubine as if she were the very personification of the role. And this actress—who spoke with a man’s voice—were one to learn she was still only seventeen, anyone would feel terror at her abnormal maturity.

As the performance progressed to the murder scene, Ophelia—fragile in her madness—was led by Horatio into the stream. First, her hem spread across the water’s surface as if it were pure water itself, but then it wilted like a collapsing umbrella, and Ophelia sank deep into the watery depths. That was, above all, the true spectacle of this scene’s staging. Then, after Horatio’s gruesome soliloquy concluded, a faint breeze shook the golden chain tree overhead, and petals cascaded down like snow. And then, from beneath, the corpse floated up to the water’s surface.

And then, the floral rose of March adorned with a crown of flowers vanished into the understage through the trapdoor hidden in the shadows of the footlights.

However, when Ophelia’s corpse vanished from the stage, an utterly indescribable, astonishing event occurred in the auditorium.

No sooner had a voice from the rear of the gallery cried out "The pillars are shaking!" than the violent motion began to tremble through this great structure, and the five thousand tightly packed spectators rose to their feet with screams.

However, a few moments later, their faces took on expressions as if waking from a dream, and they realized that the vibrations they had distinctly felt had mysteriously ceased at that very instant. And when they turned their gaze back to the stage, what had happened there?

Suddenly clinging to the trunk of the golden chain tree, Kujaku let out a piercing scream.

When they looked, to their astonishment, Ophelia’s corpse—which should have vanished moments before—now reappeared from the trapdoor at the edge of the painted backdrop. She drifted along the glittering water’s surface toward stage left with the exact beauty of John Everett Millais’ Ophelia. And having crossed over the front trapdoor, her upper body leaned out from the proscenium’s edge—seeming poised to plunge into the audience—when at that very moment, the theater curtain fully descended, so she was caught barely at her chest.

At that very moment, her neck alone lolled heavily downward, and in that instant, a terrifying hue pierced the spectators’ eyes. On Ophelia’s neck, the left side had gaped open into a ghastly maw, from which a crimson spring now welled up thickly. Moreover, perhaps due to the weight of its sap, the jasmine flower crown gradually tilted until it began to drip, shifting away from the crimson cascade.

II. The Mystery of Ophelia's Madness

“It’s as if this face has gradually fallen asleep, don’t you think, Chief Kumashiro? Gradually, the smile on her lips became indistinguishable until it finally vanished. And then, just as they seemed to briefly touch, her lips parted again. But perhaps it’s my imagination—don’t you think her eyeballs seem slightly protruded? This is indeed an ineffable phantom of words. The ghost of this case lies neither in Awaji’s dual role nor in the pillars’ vibrations—I believe it lies in this single point.”

While gazing intently at the blood vessels upon the white skin, Housui uttered words that were almost poetic.

Due to the sudden tragedy, that day's performance was halted, leaving only these three standing on the deserted, empty stage. An otherworldly pallor spread across Hatae’s entire body. Her limbs lay sprawled limply, her face bore neither terror nor the shadow of pain, and the areas where shadows pooled deepest had taken on a hue verging on leaden. And her lips were curved like a gentle bow, filled with infinite sorrow. The incised wound on the right side of her neck, deep into the carotid artery, appeared to have been made by an exceedingly sharp blade—its sharp edges remained intact as it gaped open like a mouth. And there, coagulated blood had formed a deep pool, where under the afterglow of the theater curtain, seeped fat glistened gold, and the jasmine crown took on a faint hue. It was this that lent the entire gruesome scene an air of macabre splendor.

“Chief Kumashiro, you haven’t forgotten, have you? In Kazama Kyujuro’s challenge letter—it said, ‘Come, I shall make the colonnade tremble and quake—’. That has finally been realized, you see.”

The prosecutor, intoxicated by Kazama’s sorcery, had lost all composure in both voice and eyes. “Hmm… To shake this great structure like a toy without any earthquake—Kyujuro’s mysterious power truly seems unfathomable.” “But ‘the understage’—what an aptly named place.” Kumashiro pulled his face away from the corpse and puffed out smoke.

“In this case too, isn’t the stage’s single layer of flooring the boundary between heaven and hell?” “Well then, Housui-kun, shall we descend to the understage?”

In any case, since it was clear that the tragedy had occurred in the understage, the stage above had no connection whatsoever to the incident.

Then the three descended into the soot-blackened, ghastly understage, where all aspects of the situation were laid bare. However, before proceeding further, it was necessary to first describe the mechanical device of the stream that carried Ophelia away. It utilized two trapdoors at the front and rear, creating a channel between them, within which a conveyor belt mechanism rotated. Therefore, the device was constructed like the caterpillar tracks used in tanks, and when looking up at the ceiling from the understage, one could see a single large box-like object at the center of the double-layered conveyor belt.

This was the device for submerging Ophelia. When Hatae first entered that box, a fan blower installed below caused her skirt to spread out across the water’s surface as if floating. As it rotated while lowering her hips, it appeared to the audience’s eyes as though she were sinking into the depths of the mud. When Hatae finished that sequence, she lay on her back across the grid above the fan blower and gave the signal to the stagehands below. Then the conveyor belt rose up with Hatae still on it, carrying her in that state before dropping her into the understage through the front trapdoor.

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 was thought that the height—if nearly six feet—could be managed. However, no matter where they searched, the murder weapon could not be found, and aside from the latter half of the conveyor belt, there were no bloodstains at all. At that time, there had been two stagehands in the understage; however, as both were unfortunately inside the control room, there was no way to know who had entered during that gap.

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

“Anyway, just knowing the culprit isn’t some unknown entity comes as a relief, I’d say.”

The prosecutor sat in the chair, then immediately turned to Housui and spoke.

“In other words, the mystery of this case lies not in the criminal phenomena themselves.” “Rather, isn’t it in Kazama’s psychology?” “To think he’d kill his own beloved child without any pressing reason—I can’t help but feel Kazama’s mental state was far from normal.” “Yeah,” Kumashiro simply nodded in agreement.

But Housui shifted his hips from the chair and, rather in surprise, began to stare at the other party.

“Indeed, Prosecutor Hasekura—a legal monster like you would have no need for verse.” “However, what about the confession-tragedy just now?” “In that silent play filled with utmost anguish—what do you think Hatae was appealing to her father about?” “What’s this ‘confession-tragedy’... Anyway, spare me the jokes.”

In a grating tone, Kumashiro interrupted.

“What do you mean it’s a joke? In the previous act, didn’t Ophelia mistakenly take every single flower? But that was certainly no product of Hatae’s derangement. Her cerebral cortex was orderly beyond compare—as precisely arranged as a shogi board. Listen, Chief Kumashiro—I may not be Aimé Martin, the founder of flower language—but people don’t merely dirty their fingers with ink of forced bravado when conveying their sentiments. I believe one can entrust such things to flowers and send them forth.”

With that, Housui took out a bouquet from the shadow of the desk and placed it on the table. The two found themselves intoxicated not so much by its colors and fragrance as by the beautiful mist Housui was unfurling. "I’m sure this is still fresh in your memory, but at the curtain call, Hatae scattered all these flowers across the stage while speaking of her father’s final moments. First was the daphne—'Night and day, my heart is by your side.' Next is mignonette—'The only thing that can soothe my troubles is your appearance.' Then came nettle—'You are far too resentful.' And finally"—Housui’s finger brushed the last blooms—"Hatae tied together this anemone and red balsam. That woman cried out, 'Please forgive me—don’t touch me alone—'"

“Forgive me—I see, I understand perfectly.” With that, the prosecutor cast a sardonic smile at Housui.

“However, with just that, it can hardly be called profound.” “For one thing, that doesn’t explain the psychology behind why Kazama had to kill his own child.” “Then, despite having named two flowers to Queen Kinugawa Akiko, she handed her a broken snow-on-the-mountain...” Despite the prosecutor’s protests, Housui continued to speak bluntly. “It’s a mother’s broken love—that’s what it is.” “Well, Prosecutor Hasekura, what do you think of the severity of this analogy?”

“Then, to Obochi Seiichi as Laertes, she handed white flytrap grass and yellow dianthus, declaring, ‘Shame on you, traitor—’ As for that person—the absent Polonius actor Awaji Kenji—she handed him French marigolds and locust beans, crying out, ‘Revenge—retribution from below—’ Of course, she had sent those two a satirical message branding them as traitors to Kazama, but rather, it should have been directed at Ronne, who was the mastermind.”

“However,” he said sharply,“the flowers given to that man playing Claudius hold particular significance.” “First came lilacs—they signify first love’s tremors.” “Then coreopsis meaning ‘lost trust,’ culminating in red hollyhocks delivering this warning—” his finger tapped an invisible script “‘Beware! A dread foe draws near.’” From these floral indictments emerged clear testimony: though estranged from her former lover Ronne,Hatae yet sought his protection through botanical ciphers. Leaning forward,Housui’s voice dropped conspiratorially.“Yet mark this,Hasekura—by claiming scarlet narcissus as her own,Hatae confessed her heart’s sealed vault.”

“Hahaha, why don’t I take that flower for myself as well? “I want to leave this hand that touched the innermost depths of Hatae undisturbed for a while.” Housui coldly remarked and gulped down the now-lukewarm tea in one go.

Then, at that moment beyond the door—just as a rustling of fabric was heard—from the gap appeared Kujaku’s arm clutching her dressing gown. She barged in and called out to Housui. “Then, if I were to receive the blackberry, what would you do? As they say—justice would not be carried out—would it?” “I came here because I wanted you to listen to anything regarding Miss Hatae.”

“However, isn’t Hatae the very person with the least reason to be killed by her father?” With that, Prosecutor Hasekura looked up at Kujaku’s face and gazed intently at the beautiful veins tracing the edges of her eyelids. Anyone who looked even briefly at this lewd beast of a girl would feel an abominable temptation and grow dizzy. Kujaku unashamedly plopped her plump hips onto the chair, “Oh, you still haven’t noticed yet.” “Where in this cabin could a father like that possibly be?” “First of all, Miss Hatae did say that tonight’s ghost was played by father—but you couldn’t possibly believe the exact opposite of that, could you?” “If that were the case, then Mr. Housui’s new interpretation of Hamlet would be utterly unrelated.” “Oh Prosecutor General, you have no sense for that Freudian interpretation.” “That ghost was Hamlet’s hallucination—apparently born from his jealousy toward his mother, who married Claudius.” “Well, how about this? That might just be the secret key to this case’s eternal enigma.” "Moreover, if it were me—if I could work magic to make the pillars tremble—I probably would have sent such a letter to Mr. Housui." “No matter how much you search for father, it’s only natural you won’t find him.” “Moreover, hasn’t it been determined that everyone had an alibi for that time?” “Mr. Obochi and my mother have them too, I hear.” “Then, what about Ronne and Awaji?” “So just go ask Mr. Awaji already, I’m telling you.” “If you do that, then the dream of two people sharing one role will surely come to an end.” "And then Father said that night that he would never return again." “I grew sad, threw my arms around Father’s chest and squeezed tightly, but he still said the same thing, and so we parted in front of the theater—that was the last time.”

Kujaku bit down on the broom petals clinging to the tips of her curly hair with her moistened mouth and fell completely silent. Housui swiftly pulled out the flower and, “Indeed, this flower petal cascade was initiated tonight under police advisement, wasn’t it?” “But I sense a strange paradox in this, you know.” “The one who tried to conceal that lifelike murder scene has instead…” “So, are you saying I’m the culprit?”

Kujaku widened her eyes, then suddenly opened her mouth and flicked out a tongue like crimson velvet.

“Now, do look here. In Kiprus, they say if grains placed in one’s mouth lack saliva, that person is the culprit. Even if those snow-like falling petals had concealed me entirely at that time, how could I have possibly traveled to the understage and back in such a brief moment? Ah, I truly meant to keep this hidden, but I’ll speak plainly—I saw Father. Not just saw him...I was suddenly struck from behind...”

“What? Struck on the spine—”

Kumashiro threw away his tobacco and let out an involuntary cry. Kujaku blinked her left eye sharply with a nervous twitch, “People often mistake it for Ophelia’s coffin, but I was told to fetch another ghost costume from the chest in the dressing room.” “I knew from opening night that Father was among the stagehands.” “After all, who but Father would glance about like that when bringing food to his mouth?” “So I refused at first.” “Then, as I was changing clothes, they came again—the moment I froze at that enormous shadow figure’s appearance, I was struck on the spine with a brutal blow.” “So when I tried escaping toward the right-hand door, they blocked my path, until finally I was made to steal the costume.” “The pain then—it reverberated clear to my left wrist.”

Having said that and taken something out amidst the tobacco smoke, Kujaku began rubbing her bare arm. “Then, around what time was that?”

Housui glanced at her profile and adopted a businesslike tone of questioning.

“I want to know exactly where that conical shadow was pointing.” “Have you ever heard anyone speak of Milton’s *Paradise Lost*?” “This is a tale of Earth as seen from the heavenly realm—on the side cast in the sun’s shadow, a conical form takes shape, and when it reaches the zenith, midnight arrives.” “The interval between that and six o'clock is said to become nearly nine o'clock.” “In other words—it’s the clock seen by the god of fairy tales.”

“Ah, when that demon came…” Kujaku briefly revealed the white nape of her neck,

“The first time was probably around three o’clock. Then regarding the second time they came—though I remember this precisely—I believe it was six fifteen,” she said, filling her eyes with wanton flame.

And then, like something that envelops a peach, she bared her downy-haired arm—so inescapable even when struck—and there came a sensation as if a body were pressing against it. However, between Kujaku’s drooping eyelashes, a pensively glistening moisture began to well up. "If you have no more questions, then please listen to what I have to say now." "Truly, Mr. Housui, I’ve come to utterly despise being an actor through and through this time." "Once this production ends, I think I’ll change my life completely—maybe even try having a child or something."

Even after Kujaku had left, there remained something that seemed to loosen every limb and joint. Housui was puffing his tobacco into ash while lost in silent contemplation, but Kumashiro kept rubbing his hands together, thoroughly self-satisfied.

“Housui-kun, in the end, hasn’t your intellect ended up saving Kujaku?” "Otherwise, even if the crime had been committed in the understage—" “After all, everyone would initially consider that those vibrations might be Kujaku’s distraction tactic—wouldn’t they?”

Until now, Housui had remained strangely silent regarding those inexplicable tremors. Even then, he seemed preoccupied with other thoughts when he suddenly turned to face the prosecutor, “Now, Prosecutor Hasekura—regarding that psychological logic you wish to grasp—I hold one irrefutable piece of it. But aren’t Kyujuro and Hatae parent and child of the same flesh and blood? Even within that bond—no matter what motive might exist— Could the roots of nature and affection truly be uprooted so easily…”

Housui remained motionless for a while, still holding his tobacco, when Ludwig Ronne—having been summoned—entered.

At first glance, Ronne appeared to be in his early thirties, but he was a man who had passed forty by several years, with a cold obstinacy and a sharp nose. And then, immediately upon entering, he made a deliberate-looking gesture,

“Mr. Housui, surely a man of your standing wouldn’t believe in such fateful contrivances as alibis.” “As you see here, I possess no alibi—nor would I deign to feign slumber.”

“No—isn’t it Ophelia’s madness itself that’s fateful?”

Housui set his jaw and uttered an outlandish metaphor-like statement. "In truth, I've been waiting impatiently to ask you—surely there should be another... Now, Mr. Ronne, another corpse within this theater."

In that instant, Ronne’s tall frame stiffened as if frozen, and an almost impulsive look of anguish rose to the surface. And as he gulped audibly, trying to swallow his saliva, Housui seized the moment to press him. “Through an unexpected opportunity, I was able to learn of the relationship between you and Hatae—something no one else knows. However, when Hatae plucked a red narcissus for herself during her mad scene—interpreting this through flower language—it signifies ‘the secret of the heart.’ But putting that aside for now—why didn’t she deliver her lines as written in the script? She said, ‘Rosemary—’ then continued, ‘But whether it be lilies or whatever, they’ll surely wither away—’ Moreover, she pronounced ‘lily flower’ as *fleur de lys*, which compels me to invoke Freud himself. For the human psychological mechanism is most peculiar—when two similar words exist, the stronger inevitably exerts influence somewhere within the other. In other words, she misspoke *fleur de lys* as *fleur de rishii* because saying ‘rosemary’ conjured two words—Rose and Mary—which associatively drew it out. Now, Mr. Ronne—*fleur de lys* and Friedrich—these sounds’ remarkable similarity caused her to pronounce *rusu* as *rishii*. Thus, her line ‘Rosemary or lilies—’ meant this: if a girl were born, she’d name her Rosa or Maria; if a boy, Friedrich—a naming scheme Hatae had endearingly pondered for the child to come. Mr. Ronne—Hatae was carrying your child. And as of tonight, that child you tried to abort has been buried from darkness into darkness.”

Due to Housui’s unforeseen clairvoyance, the outcome was decisively determined in this single move. Ronne’s pale, shadow-like body staggered out from the door not long after that, and Housui—for reasons unknown—ceased his pursuit and allowed him to depart.

However, that single matter was equivalent to two flowers blooming on both sides of the case. Before long, the prosecutor briskly voiced its meaning. “You promptly narrowed this case’s dice to just two—for that, I must express my gratitude regardless.” “If Hatae could not leave Ronne—her own sworn enemy—and what’s more, was carrying his seed, then Kazama’s hatred would first and foremost be directed at his own flesh and blood.” “Moreover, for Ronne—a married man—how terrifying must the prospect of Hatae bearing his child have been?” “And if Hatae refused the abortion, then claiming he tried to bury both mother and child would no longer be a psychological mystery.” “Moreover, he has no alibi, and a strapping man of six feet like that could have pierced through Hatae’s throat from below.”

“No—the one who’ll be subjected to that will likely be you, Mr. Housui. Just now, Obochi kept growling, ‘Come the final act, I’ll rip that bastard’s heart clean out—’”

No sooner had a deep, hoarse voice sounded from behind than Awaji Kenji stood there abruptly.

This seasoned veteran of the new theater world showed not a trace of trepidation as he pulled a chair closer. He had a stout torso topped with a bull-like neck—a rugged-looking man in his forties who nonetheless gave an oddly scheming impression. "After all, Obochi has the lighting technician’s testimony." "While one could say he's quite headstrong, I’ve only now come to realize there exists a place as isolated as a lone island in the remotest seas—even backstage." "Now that I’ve said all this, I suppose there’s nothing else you need to ask—oh, right! I believe it was my turn to hear about Miss Hatae’s hallucination theory from you, wasn’t it?"

“Ah, as for that mystery of bilocation—the phenomenon of a single person appearing in two different places simultaneously—I ceased considering it an issue long ago.” Housui, with cunning wrinkles gathering at the corners of his eyes, began to speak. “At that time, after changing into the ghost, you certainly descended to the understage, didn’t you?” “Then an utterly unfortunate coincidence will arise for you.” “Have you read Critemnus’s *Hall of Lies*?” “Roman women were not merely content to exhaust men’s loins.” “It’s said they used frozen laurel leaves to sever the veins at the wrist.”

“What? Are you suggesting I set up some contraption during that time?” Anger suddenly welled up in Awaji’s face, and his hands trembled violently. But as this continued, those stiffened muscles gradually loosened, and it seemed as though some fervor was being dissolved away. Eventually, Awaji showed a look of sorrowful resignation and,

“I have no choice. “To prove my innocence, I’ve got to break my promise with my mentor, haven’t I? The truth is, I never actually descended to the understage at that time.” When Awaji uttered the word “understage,” his left eye twitched strangely, and he affirmed Kazama’s existence. And finally, he added,

“Because of that, both Obochi and I now regret having betrayed our mentor.” “And I’m sure you understand from Obochi’s words just now that there’s nothing pleasant in store for an intruder like you.” "But why would Master ever get caught?" “He’ll never ever get caught!” Finally, Housui’s ingenious trap forced Awaji to talk, transforming that hazy phantom into tangible reality. And so, as Kazama’s figure came into sharper focus through sequential revelations, it had become something beyond all doubt.

However, Housui’s face grew increasingly sullen, and he failed to notice when Kinugawa Akiko entered shortly thereafter. Kazama Kyujuro’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, hard flesh forming on her nasal wings—evoking a sense of ruthless emotion and fanatic-like dread.

She sat down, thrust out her chest, and spoke in a rough tone. “What on earth do you mean? That Medea-like man hasn’t been caught. That man wouldn’t hesitate to kill even his own child if it served his purpose. I want to tear out that man’s eyes and heart and leave him a crippled wreck!” “No, I would never believe such a thing.”

Housui vehemently denied, his tone acquiring an unprecedented solemnity. "If that were true, first and foremost—what would become of humanity's ironclad principles?" "Between father and daughter—though unconscious—there exists an extremely subtle xxx bond." "Might we not conclude this crime could never be perpetrated by the father—shall I phrase it thus?" "Then if it isn't the father—" Akiko uttered coldly, yet waves of hatred—impossible to contain—surged across her countenance.

“Therefore, I’d like you to revise the name Medea you invoked to Clytemnestra. Adultery—jealousy—revenge—tell me, Ms. Akiko, what sort of relationship existed between Ronne and Hatae until now?”

Even after Kazama had returned to Japan, Housui subtly hinted at the adulterous relationship between Ronne and Hatae that still persisted. And while observing Akiko’s frightened eyes, “Indeed, a child is part of one’s own flesh and blood.” “But what if hatred equal in intensity to that love existed alongside it?” “In that case, a mother’s cruelty would cease to be a psychological mystery.” “I’ll say it plainly—”

Just as he had begun to speak, Akiko stood up as though refusing to hear. And, fixing her convulsed face squarely at Housui,

“Very well, I will 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 course of action.”

And with that, Akiko left, but this recent exchange somehow struck one as Housui's sophistry. To claim he had manipulated four people at will—if you peeled back each layer—wasn't it nothing more than a premise for seeking out Kazama?

However, despite having ransacked every nook and cranny of the magnificent theater interior up to that point, Kazama had still not been found. And so, the first day of the case came to a fruitless end.

III. The Appearance of Kazama Kyujuro

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

However, whether stirred by curiosity from the previous night's tragedy or not, that evening saw such a packed house that even all auxiliary seats had been put out. Yet Ophelia's murder scene was ultimately prohibited, leaving disappointed those audience members who had sought to renew that ghastly dream. Throughout the ongoing performance, Housui kept his attention fixed on the actors' movements, and just as the fourth act concluded and intermission began—for reasons unknown—he summoned Akiko and Kujaku to his room.

“I have finally reached a conclusion.” “To put it plainly—at that time, Kazama was not in the understage.” “In truth, he was hiding at the front of the stage—within the concealed orchestra pit.”

At the words blurted out at the beginning, not only the two women but also the prosecutor and Kumashiro were left astonished. Kumashiro protested without hesitation. “Don’t be absurd. Your penchant for rejecting conventional methods remains as strong as ever, but isn’t the entrance to the concealed orchestra pit way off on the stage’s left side? And between there and the understage wall, there are merely two or three round windows barely large enough to fit a thigh through. So if you wait until confirming that the stagehands have entered the switch room, there isn’t enough time to get there. For one thing, you seem to have forgotten that she was stabbed in the center of the understage.”

“Is that so?” Housui retorted with a scornful laugh in his voice. “As you know, the corpse’s face displays an utterly serene expression.” “Yet strangely, the eyeballs protrude horrendously.” “That contains one telltale sign achievable only from that orchestra pit.” “Now, Kumashiro—the spot where Hatae’s throat was slit in one stroke—to tell you the truth, it wasn’t at the understage’s center. It was at its edge.” “To elaborate—as she fell from the stage into the understage, her body must have contorted into an L-shape, her chest compressed into an agonizingly cramped posture.” “However, once her upper half finally entered the understage, her chest would have relaxed, forcing her to expel all pent-up breath at once.” “At that precise moment, a hand reached through the orchestra pit’s small window—slashing both her carotid artery and vagus nerve in a single clean cut.” “You see this clearly in hanged men’s eyes—when exhaling violently, the brain swells, pressing the eyeballs outward.” “Moreover, when applying an acutely sharp blade at tremendous speed, blood vessels initially constrict at the cross-section—but as internal pressure mounts, blood gushes torrentially from the wound.” “Thus, Kumashiro, these two principles explain why blood first dripped from the understage’s center.” “Next comes how that sorcerous tremor was conjured—that’s the crux.”

Without pausing for breath, Housui went on speaking. “Certainly, the impression we received from that was the height of pathos—its very supernatural nature thoroughly defies the fundamental laws of dynamics.” “However, that phenomenon is inherent to this architecture and was absolutely not orchestrated by human hands.” “Naturally, it should have occurred during that scene; Kazama merely knew about it and exploited it to divert backstage attention from himself to others.” “Now, Prosecutor Hasekura—isn’t it said that mass psychology’s contagion surpasses even a plague?” “Yet the source of that contagion is none other than the famous Zöllner illusion.” “Observe the gallery columns.” “The lateral grooves are carved diagonally upward, alternating directions with each column.” “Thus when petals scatter down and their reflections flicker, the columns’ parallel lines appear to tilt alternately.” “I recall hearing that a nearly identical phenomenon occurred at the Leipzig Theater some thirty years ago.”

During that time, the other four remained blankly staring like lifeless husks. Indeed, even the theater’s vibrations—which they had convinced themselves were the pinnacle of aberration—proved utterly trivial when the lid was pried open, now thrust into the eyes of five thousand spectators.

Akiko nervously entwined her fingers and said.

“But what on earth will become of Kazama?” “I see. Such hypotheses may be indispensable for you all, but we only need Kazama’s body.”

“That will be in the next act…” Housui stood up, his conviction palpable. “In truth, knowing Kazama had used the orchestra pit, I drew the shortest possible line to that location.” “Where it led was precisely to the prop storage room.” “There were items there like Ophelia’s coffin for the next act, correct?” “I shall expose Kazama from the stage and hurl him into that coffin.”

When the curtain rose on the next scene, “Graveyard,” the painted backdrop depicted a vast grayish hill. Clouds hung low, the howl of the wind could be heard, and amidst that desolate landscape, Hamlet appeared accompanied by Horatio. When Hamlet finally leapt down into the grave containing Ophelia’s coffin, at that very moment, Queen Akiko let out a scream like tearing silk. Because Housui had begun to lift the oppressively heavy coffin lid with both hands.

Contrary to expectations that it contained weights and padding, an indescribable foul odor began to rise as the lid opened. And then, when it was fully opened, everyone’s eyes remained fixedly wide open until they adjusted to the darkness. Then, from within that dimness, something gradually took shape until at last it leapt into view before everyone’s eyes.

There lay the decomposed corpse of a man.

“Ah, it’s Kazama.” “Kazama…”

Akiko screamed in a voice that seemed to well up from the earth's depths.

Surprisingly, that was Kazama Kyujuro—the one regarded as Hatae’s very perpetrator. The clothing too—only where soaked in decayed liquid—had rotted and tattered, revealing yellowish skin like ganpi paper through those gaps. In the eye sockets, only... had pooled; where the black brittle hair... had fallen out, the surface of the flesh appeared a dull blackish-green. And on top of that lay an emaciated roundworm-like shape—………………………………………………….

Already upon Kazama Kyujuro, the mark of decay had been left with not a vestige remaining. "Hey, boy! Burn incense, incense—…"

Leaping out from the grave, Housui shouted a line not in the script. And he tried to prevent the audience from noticing the stench.

However, immediately after that, an incident occurred that made the entire audience rise to their feet.

The reason was that in the scene where Laertes challenges Hamlet, when Obochi Seiichi—playing the role—drew his longsword and charged, whether due to a sudden stagger or not, Suzaku Kujaku lunged toward the gleam of the blade. It happened with truly lightning-like swiftness—even Obochi, who sensed it with a start, had no chance to withdraw his sword—and the residual 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 cheek. Then as threads of blood streamed smoothly from both corners of her lips, her eyes—which had seemed to grope blindly—fixed upon a single point, until at last Kujaku collapsed like a felled log.

Through these two simultaneous events, the incident's outcome had become nearly clear; yet they found themselves compelled to doubt whether it truly represented the truth.

However, when the next night arrived, Housui gathered everyone at the theater and announced the truth of the case.

Under pale diffused light before the same painted backdrop as the previous night, Housui began recounting the full story of that beast of unparalleled seductiveness—Suzaku Kujaku’s crimes. “As my first procedural step, I wish to dispel Kazama’s shadow that has loomed over this case.” “Naturally, that letter was forged, and both Mr. Awaji’s experience and Kujaku’s testimony undoubtedly stemmed from the delicate psychology underlying their statements.” “Yet when Hatae saw Mr. Awaji’s ghostly form and believed it to be Kyujuro, that wasn’t precisely a falsehood.” “However, neither was it reality—it was merely an illusion born from Hatae’s delusion.” “This relates to a psychological term called apparent movement—one positions a small circle on a cross-shaped figure aligned with its center.” “Then alternates between these two positions.” “An illusion occurs where the tips of the cross’s horizontal line appear to twitch.” “Originally, given my inclinations, I’d superimposed Shakespeare’s countenance onto that ghost’s makeup—its rotation must have deceived Hatae’s eyes.” “Moreover, Hatae claimed that while she closed her eyes in terror and let the rotation continue, something abruptly reversed the chair’s direction.” “Yet this will likely linger as an eerie memory for those who experienced it—when the chair’s actual rotation wanes and nears its final dozen seconds before stopping, a sensation arises as if it suddenly began violently spinning the opposite way.” “Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes the full truth of the matter.” “But though it began as nature’s trickery, none could fathom how deeply those shadows grazing the edges of Hatae’s mind would stain the mysteries yet to unfold.”

Having dispelled the phantasmal image reflected in Hatae's mind, Housui's tongue then shifted its focus to analyzing Kujaku.

“Now, in the psychology of lies, there are instances where excessive talkativeness leads one to unconsciously expose themselves.” “This applies to Kujaku’s case as well—that woman claimed that when Kyujuro struck her in the middle of her back, she felt pain all the way to the back of her left hand.” “However, if that were indeed true, the fundamental laws of sensory transmission would have to be completely overturned.” “Of course, feeling pain in areas beyond the affected part is something commonly experienced in daily life.” “However, this involves what is called retrograde movement—in many cases, it is transmitted in the direction one would attempt to flee.” “Therefore, if the door is naturally on the right, one must find it suspicious why Kujaku lied.” “However, afterward, Kujaku carelessly corroborated it.” “The reason is, as you are aware, when Hatae chased down the shadow she presumed to be Kyujuro, she 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 resemble flipping a fifteen-minute right angle upside down.” “Having noticed that, I attempted to present Kujaku with the concept of a conical shape as a geometric figure.” “Then, when I asked about the times she had met Kyujuro, she stated the first instance was around three o’clock and the second at six fifteen—thereby making it clear that she was tracing that right angle.” “In other words, Mr. Awaji faithfully performed his duty, so after Kujaku discarded the king’s garments, she intercepted Hatae through the manipulation of the clock hands.”

Overwhelmed by the force bursting forth from Housui’s ferocious deductive power, the entire group hardened as if turned to stone. Hasekura exhaled a breath that had grown stifling with a whoosh,

“Now then, let me hear why you perceived Kazama Kyujuro from outside Ophelia’s coffin.” “I don’t want to relegate that to mere supernatural phenomena.”

“Well, Prosecutor Hasekura, the truth of the matter is this.” “Kujaku’s blink transformed into a subtle word and conveyed it to me.” “You often see this during conversations—when we feel that sour-like sensation, we tend to close one of our eyes.” “However, when I mentioned Ophelia’s coffin—Kujaku unconsciously did just that.” “So I thought that perhaps, in that sensation, Kujaku had experienced the stench of death.” “Moreover, that neural phenomenon also manifested in Mr. Awaji when I mentioned ‘the understage,’ but that ended up proving his innocence.” “The reason is that at the time, the understage was filled with the smell of varnish, so through the manifestation of that sourness, it became clear that Mr. Awaji had uttered an unavoidable falsehood.”

“So, when exactly was Kyujuro killed, and by whom?” Then this time, Kumashiro posed a perplexing question. “Needless to say, it was Kujaku. And as for the timing—about two months after she parted from her family—I believe it was immediately following that...” Housui said in a completely indifferent voice. “That’s because I was able to learn of Kyujuro’s astonishing characteristic. That man, though an actor, was half-deaf. However, since the basilar membrane of his inner ear retained faint functionality, it compelled Kyujuro to devise an intensely scientific vocal method.” “This becomes apparent when one speaks while covering their ears: except for voiceless sounds like those in the ‘ha’ and ‘sa’ rows, all others cause resonance in the inner ear via the Eustachian tube. Yet even those voiceless sounds become divided into multiple stages when resonated through the chest cavity and produced as chest voice.” By this means Kyujuro could distinguish his own utterances; naturally he would decipher others’ words through lip-reading or chest vibration techniques. However were this chest cavity compressed during speech production sounds would resonate differently within his inner ear. “Thus when Kujaku clung to Kyujuro’s chest during their farewell embrace—in effect transforming that delicate physiological law into an unknowable poison—he became convinced he had spoken words against his will.” “Therefore Chief Kumashiro—my knowledge of Kyujuro’s deafness stems from Kujaku’s remark about him glancing around while eating.” “For one half-deaf this represents peak anxiety—the moment when lips block external sounds entering through Eustachian tubes.”

There, as Housui paused to take a breath, the listeners finally regained their senses and let out sighs tinged with bewilderment. To play a human like an instrument—when Kujaku embraced Kyujuro at their final parting, was her purpose not precisely that? Just as one might pull out a harmonium's coupler to alter its tones, she tightened and loosened his chest cavity while changing the notes. And by sending unexpected reverberations to Kyujuro's inner ear, she induced a delusion within him.

Next, Housui cited examples such as the experiments of Professor Donders—a friend of Darwin—and the acoustical pathologist Gutzmann, all of which served only to corroborate his hypothesis. Certainly, within that subtle secret lay something that must have lured Kyujuro back to the theater. And it was likely during that very occasion that Kujaku had committed her initial crime. Kumashiro felt as though engulfed in a whirlpool of sinister mist, yet he still needed to organize two or three lingering doubts that remained.

“Then, how could Kujaku, who was on stage, have killed Hatae in the understage?” “That is the diabolical ingenuity of this case. To explain in detail—it’s because Kujaku applied astonishing techniques to Ophelia’s hem and the conveyor belt mechanism. As you know, when Ophelia is shown falling into the stream and Hatae enters the box, the wind from below causes her skirt to flare out abruptly.” And then, while adjusting the spread-out hem like an umbrella, she lowered her waist as if settling into place. “But then, Chief Kumashiro, since the wind blows violently around the hem, a cylindrical air current naturally forms above Ophelia’s head, following its contours. Therefore, due to convection, a descending air current would naturally form. Consequently, the golden chain petals above her head wouldn’t scatter about but instead fall into the hem along that current. However, those petals must have been coated with a skin-paralyzing poison—likely curare or something similar. As it was absorbed through Hatae’s nose, her entire body gradually grew lethargic. In particular, the numbness in her head and upper body made it difficult to stay upright, and though she finally managed to lie down, from that point on she was likely transported to the understage in a dreamlike state.” Then, just at that moment, the audience felt an illusion of swaying and rose to their feet in unison. “However, Kujaku alone remained composed and delivered the final blow to Hatae. The reason being, Kujaku had inserted a sharp, thin blade into one of the two conveyor belts beforehand. And then, blending into the commotion at hand, she kept stepping on that conveyor belt.” Then, as the loosely tensioned conveyor belt naturally tightened and its rotation accelerated, in the blink of an eye, that blade caught up to Hatae with terrifying speed. “And not only did it slash horizontally through her limp, drooping neck—the reason being that mere moments later, it had returned right before Kujaku’s eyes.”

When he had finished exhaustively explaining the crime, Housui took out a single sheet of paper from his coat pocket. At that instant, a feverish gleam flashed in his eyes, and his fingertips trembled violently, the paper quivering along with them.

However, within that fragment lay described Kujaku’s enigmatic psyche—one that yearned for the skies of her homeland.

—With little time before the curtain rises, I shall record this in pencil scribbles. You declared just now that you would expose Kazama in the next act, didn’t you? And so, I realized that everything had come to an end. Why, you ask? Because what else could appear in the next act but Ophelia’s coffin containing Kazama? I have had to steel my final resolve. But why did I have to kill Kazama and lay hands on Hatae as well?

To put it plainly—there is no other reason—that man Kazama is not my true father. At that time, my mother—widowed by my father’s death—wandered the roadside while carrying me in her womb. There, she was rescued by Kazama—but perhaps his intense impression influenced me even while I was in utero. In my hair and skin color—as you can see—the unmistakable traits of a mixed-race child have manifested themselves.

However, since being brought to Japan, day by day, a growing homesickness has welled up within me. That deep blue sea, a sky of the same hue—the town lay hushed in stillness, towers rising here and there, where even in the middle of the thoroughfare, one could occasionally hear the clocks from every house. Lord Housui, they say that when the southern winds unique to Northern Italy begin to blow, assault incidents suddenly increase among the Tyrolean regiments. However, there truly is an inexpressible, mysterious power in the very skin of the earth and the scent of the atmosphere.

And before I knew it, I had become utterly unable to do anything about that desolate loneliness. Although my exterior must have appeared composed and proud, I was constantly fixated on the storm raging within my body, thinking only of what I should do—how to deal with it. And so at last, I resolved to bury Kazama—who had become shackles to me—and tread once more upon that beloved soil.

Therefore, taking Miss Hatae’s life was due to the instinctive jealousy of my fatherless self. Father and daughter—that mystical bond of blood is nothing but mockery to those who lack it. I beg you, Lord Housui—please remember me forever. And when that time comes, I pray you will envision the phantom of that timeworn town…