“That’s mere, unfounded supposition,” Ibe scoffed. “You know as well as I that the killer is most likely someone outside Makino’s circle.”
He cut a hostile glance at Lord Matsudaira’s men. They’d been listening in attentive quiet, but now one of them rose to Ibe’s bait: “I agree that we’re seeking the killer in the wrong place.” A young samurai with a hungry look of ambition, he said to Toda, “What information do you have about Chamberlain Yanagisawa that might indicate he’s behind the murder?”
Caution hooded the metsuke agent’s eyes. “I’ve nothing to say on the subject of the chamberlain.”
“How prudent you are,” Ibe said. His smirk expressed condescension toward Toda and triumph over the man who’d asked about Yanagisawa. “Remember that the chamberlain controls the metsuke,” he told the Matsudaira contingent. “Don’t expect it to serve your master.” He said to Toda, “What I want to know is, can you connect Lord Matsudaira to the murder?”
“I’ve nothing to say about him, either,” Toda said.
“Remember that your master’s position is subject to change,” the young samurai told Ibe. His gaze challenged Toda. “When the dust settles, you may find that the metsuke has lost the chamberlain’s protection and you need new friends. So you’d better answer my question.”
Toda’s face was perfectly still and calm; yet Sano sensed him trying to navigate a safe path between the two factions. At last he spoke: “Chamberlain Yanagisawa had a spy in Senior Elder Makino’s retinue.” Ibe exclaimed in angry protest, while the Matsudaira man grinned, triumphant. Toda continued smoothly, “So did Lord Matsudaira.” The Matsudaira man frowned; Ibe’s protests subsided. “Yanagisawa’s spy is a guard named Eiichi,” Toda said to Sano. “Lord Matsudaira’s is a guard named Sayama. You may want to ask them what they were doing the night Senior Elder Makino died.”
Ibe and the Matsudaira man looked nonplussed; neither spoke. Each was obviously glad to have the opposition incriminated yet at the same time fearful that Toda would further compromise his master. Although perturbed that Toda had handed him new evidence connected to the warring factions, Sano felt a reluctant admiration for Toda’s finesse at placating both sides but favoring neither.
“What I’ve told you should be enough to occupy you for a while.” Toda gave Sano a rueful smile that recognized him as a comrade in the same battle for survival. “If you need any more help, by all means ask me again.”
As Sano thanked Toda and rose to leave, the tension in him wound tighter; his misgivings about the investigation burgeoned. By this afternoon, Reiko would take her position in Makino’s estate, among four murder suspects.
13
Hirata and his comrades from Sano’s detective corps rode through the Nihonbashi merchant district. The shops that lined the narrow, winding streets crowded them together, and housewives, porters, and laborers on foot hindered their progress. After them hastened Otani, accompanied by Lord Matsudaira’s and Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s other men. As their horses trampled wares set outside for sale, shopkeepers cried out and mothers rushed to yank children out of their path. Hirata felt irritably conspicuous and hampered by his watchdogs in his efforts to solve the crime.
At least he didn’t have Ibe to rile him. And he did have an advantage that would help him investigate Makino’s concubine. The merchant named Rakuami, with whom Okitsu had previously lived, was an old acquaintance of Hirata’s.
Now Hirata arrived in a lane bordered on one side by a dignified row of substantial houses with heavy tile roofs, low earthen walls, and roofed gates-the abodes of prosperous merchants. Opposite stood a lone mansion. Its walls enclosed a spacious garden, and its eaves sported gay red lanterns. The gate was open, revealing a gravel path that led to the door. Samisen music and raucous laughter emanated from within the premises. As the detectives and watchdogs grouped around Hirata, a party of dandyish samurai strolled in through the gate.
“What kind of place is this?” Otani said.
“You’ll see,” Hirata said.
They secured their mounts to posts near the gate, then went inside the mansion. Beyond the entryway, which was filled with shoes and swords left by guests, men lolled on cushions in a parlor. Pretty young women dressed in colorful robes served the men drinks, flirted and played cards with them, or sat on their laps. A comely youth plinked the samisen, while maids circulated with trays of food. As Hirata and his companions paused at the threshold, a samurai and a girl walked together to a man who stood by a doorway. The samurai dropped coins into the man’s hand. The girl led the samurai through the doorway and down a corridor, from which came giggles, grunts, and moans.
“This is an illegal brothel,” Otani said.
“Good guess,” Hirata said.
Although prostitution in Edo was officially confined to the licensed Yoshiwara pleasure quarter, it flourished throughout the city. Private establishments served men who couldn’t afford the high prices in Yoshiwara or didn’t want to travel so far. This exclusive establishment catered to the wealthiest, most prominent clientele.
A man rose from amid the revelry. “Greetings, Hirata-san,” he called. His face was round, his head bald, his age nearing sixty, his manner genial. He wore a red-and-black-patterned dressing gown that exposed his bare chest, legs, and feet. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you hereabouts.”
“Greetings, Rakuami-san,” Hirata said. “Business is still thriving, I see.”
“Yes, yes.” Rakuami’s skin had an oily sheen, and his smiling lips glistened moistly, as if he ate so many rich meals that grease oozed from him. He added slyly, “Despite the police’s occasional attempts to arrest me and close down my operation.”
As a young, inexperienced patrol officer, Hirata had once raided the house and tried to enforce the law against prostitution outside Yoshiwara. He hadn’t realized that Rakuami had clients in high places who protected him from the law. Hirata’s mistake had earned him a reprimand from his superior and a cantankerous sort of friendship with Rakuami.
“To what do I owe the honor of a visit from you?” Rakuami said. “And aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
Otani elbowed Hirata aside. “My name is Otani,” he said with authoritative pomp. “I’m a retainer to Lord Matsudaira. I’m conducting an inquiry into the murder of Senior Elder Makino.”
“I’m conducting the inquiry,” Hirata said. Offended that his watchdog would try to seize control of the interview, he jostled Otani and reclaimed his position. “And I’ve come to ask for your assistance,” he told Rakuami.
Rakuami appraised Hirata and Otani with his shrewd, bright eyes. Then he smiled at Otani. “I’ll be delighted to give you all the help that I possibly can.”
Hirata saw, to his chagrin, that Rakuami was more concerned about pleasing an envoy from the powerful Lord Matsudaira than a retainer to the shogun’s detective. “Is there someplace quiet we can talk?” Hirata said, asserting his own authority.
“How about a drink?” Rakuami asked Otani.
“No, thank you,” Hirata said loudly.
“That would be most appreciated,” said Otani.
“Right this way.”
Rakuami ushered Otani to a corner of the parlor. Otani’s men followed, as did those sent by the chamberlain. Rakuami seated everyone and beckoned the maids, who poured the men cups of sake. The festivities continued noisily around them. The detectives looked at Hirata.
“Come on,” he told them. Resentment simmered inside him as he squeezed in beside Rakuami and the detectives sat at the edge of the group.
“Was a girl named Okitsu ever one of your courtesans?” Otani was saying to Rakuami.
“Yes,” Rakuami said. Eager to please Otani, he added, “I bought her from a broker who was selling farm girls.”
Brokers traveled the country, buying daughters from impoverished peasant families to sell to pleasure houses in
