“Maybe the water-seller, and the priest, were the killer in disguise, stalking Ejima and Sasamura for the purpose of assassinating them,” Sano said thoughtfully. “And these ‘chance’ encounters were deliberate.
“I think they were the points of attack,” Hirata said. “Unfortunately, the guard couldn’t describe the water-seller, except to say he looked like all the rest of them.”
“I’d like to know where Captain Nakai was when Ejima went to the incense shop and Sasamura visited the money-lender,” Sano said. “By the way, we have a new potential lead.” He told Hirata about the priest Ozuno.
Rapid hoof beats clattered on the pavement behind them. A voice called, “Honorable Chamberlain!”
Sano and his party stopped and turned to see two men on horseback approaching. One was an Edo Castle guard, the other a samurai boy in his teens, dressed in a fancy black satin kimono printed with green willow branches and silver waves, as though for a festive occasion. Both halted their mounts and bowed to Sano. The guard said, “Please excuse the interruption, but this is Daikichi, page to Colonel Ibe of the army. He has an important message for you.”
The page spoke in a breathless rush: “I come on your orders to report any cases of sudden death directly to you.”
“Has there been another?” Sano said, exchanging alarmed glances with Hirata.
“Yes.” The page’s voice shook, and tears welled in his clear young eyes. “My master has just died.”
Consternation struck Sano. “Where?”
“In Yoshiwara.”
Edo’s notorious pleasure quarter lay on the northern outskirts of town. Many men bound for Yoshiwara, the only place in the city where prostitution was legal, traveled there by ferry up the Sumida River, but Sano, Hirata, and the detectives took the faster land route on horseback. Beyond the Dike of Japan, the long causeway upon which they rode, the flooded rice paddies spread lush and green. Peasants waded in them, pulling weeds and netting eels. Irises and lilies bloomed in the willow-edged San’ya Canal, where herons posed in waters swollen from the spring rains. Seagulls winged and jeered in a limpid turquoise sky. But Sano observed that the political strife had contaminated even this bucolic setting.
Squadrons of armed troops escorted mounted samurai officials. Merchants traveling in palanquins were protected by hired rōnin bodyguards. As Sano passed the teahouses that lined the approach to the Yoshiwara gate, he saw soldiers who wore the Matsudaira crest loitering around them, watching for fugitive rebels. Yoshiwara was a place of high fashion, lavish entertainment, and glamour, but Sano knew it wasn’t exempt from violence. Two winters past, he’d investigated a murder there; six years ago, he’d thwarted an assassination attempt. Now it was the scene of another death by foul play.
He and his comrades left their horses at a stable by the moat that surrounded Yoshiwara and crossed the bridge. Civilian guards let them through the red, roofed gate in the high wall that kept the courtesans from escaping. Inside, they strode past the pleasure houses that lined Naka-no-cho, the main street. Laughter burst from teahouses jammed with men; samisen music spangled the air. Customers strolled, gawking at the women who sat on display inside the barred window of each brothel except for one, the Mitsuba. It was located at the farthest, least prestigious end of the street and catered to clients who wanted women for lower prices or rowdier entertainment than was offered at the better houses. Here, according to his page, Colonel Ibe had died. Bamboo blinds covered the windows. A funereal vacuum shrouded the building.
Detective Marume lifted the entrance curtain and called, “Hello! Is anyone in there?”
A samurai emerged. He was a gray-haired man with thin, precise features, his air of dignity compromised by flushed cheeks from drinking too much. He courteously greeted Sano, then said, “I’m Lieutenant Oda, Colonel Ibe’s chief aide. You must have received the message I sent.”
“Yes,” Sano said. “Thank you for alerting me so promptly.” He and his comrades entered the vestibule, where the watchman sat. Voices murmured inside the building. “Where is Colonel Ibe?”
“I’ll show you.”
Lieutenant Oda led the way down a corridor. On the left were two rooms. One contained a group of samurai; in the other, a flock of women, dressed in bright kimonos and made up with rouge and white rice powder, huddled with a few men and older women who looked to be the brothel’s owner and servants. Sano glimpsed resignation or impatience on some faces, fright on others.
“I’ve detained everyone who was in the house when Colonel Ibe died and kept everyone else out,” said Lieutenant Oda.
“Your cooperation is most appreciated,” Sano said.
Oda slid open a door on the opposite side of the corridor. Sano entered a parlor. Its floor was littered with cushions, musical instruments, sake decanters, and cups. Lacquer trays held plates of half-eaten food that suggested a banquet interrupted. Colonel Ibe knelt alone and immobile, his upper body flopped across a tray. Sano, Hirata, and their detectives stood gazing down at the corpse. Colonel Ibe was in his fifties, his topknot streaked with gray. Sano had met him some months ago, at a meeting, but found him almost unrecognizable now. His neck was twisted sideways. His eyes were open but glazed; his moonlike face wore a surprised expression. Chewed food was visible in his open mouth. His stout body was naked except for a red-and-gold-striped dressing gown that had been tied around his waist and shrugged off his shoulders, leaving his top half bare.
“This must have been a wild party.” Detective Marume picked up a man’s loincloth and a woman’s white under-kimono from the floor. More clothing lay strewn about.
“Which is fortunate for us,” Sano said, aware of Oda listening by the door and glad that he and his men needn’t improvise a way to examine the corpse without breaking the law. “Right there is the sign of dim-mak.”
He pointed at Colonel Ibe’s back. A faint bruise, shaped like a fingerprint, nestled between two vertebrae. Lieutenant Oda came over and stared at the bruise in consternation.
“Then he was killed in the same manner as the metsuke chief?” Oda said.
Sano said, “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then it’s true. There exists someone who has the power to kill with a mere touch.” Amazed, Lieutenant Oda glanced around, as though afraid for his own safety. “Who can it be?”
“That’s what I must determine,” Sano said. After five murders, his mission was more urgent than ever: Another man was dead because he hadn’t caught the killer. Crushed by a sense of failed responsibility, Sano hid his emotions behind a stoic expression. The odor of death mingled with the smells of wine and stale food. Sano felt the presence of evil, although the killer was far removed in space and time. He walked to the exterior door and flung it open, admitting fresh air from the garden, then turned to Oda.
“I need your help.”
“Of course.” The lieutenant appeared shaken sober; the flush had paled from his complexion.
“Tell me everyone that had contact with Colonel Ibe, starting two days ago.”
“I know some of the people, but not all-I didn’t go everywhere with him,” Oda said, “but his bodyguards did. They’re in the room across the hall. Shall I fetch them?”
Sano assented, and Oda brought the two young samurai into the parlor. They recited a long list of family members, colleagues, and subordinates whose lives had intersected Colonel Ibe’s during the critical period. When they’d finished, Sano glanced at Hirata, and they shook their heads: As far as they could recall, none of the people mentioned were the same as those who’d had contact with the four other victims.
Sano addressed the bodyguards: “Was there any time when Colonel Ibe was out of your sight?”
The men looked at each other, clearly ashamed because their vigilance had lapsed and horrified that the lapse might have resulted in their master’s death. One blurted, “It was just for a moment.”