Hirata rode across the Nihonbashi Bridge, alone in the scant traffic moving along its high wooden arch. He felt like a nobody even as peasants made way for him and samurai bowed polite greetings. Rigid with unhappiness, he inhaled deeply. Through the acrid smoke that obscured the night sky, he smelled the distant ocean, mountains, and forests. He longed for the faraway places where he’d traveled. How he missed his nomadic life, the blessed freedom from personal complications!
He recalled how ambitious he’d once been, how eager to climb the ranks of the bakufu. Now the high position he’d achieved didn’t matter. Without Midori’s love, there seemed nothing left in Edo for him. Hirata looked over the railing of the bridge at a boat floating down the canal to the river to the sea, and he wished he were on it. But he had his duty to Sano to fulfill.
That, at least, he could manage.
At the foot of the bridge was the first station of the Tokaido, the highway that led from Edo to points west. On one side of the road lined with inns and shops stood the post house. The white plaster building was the checkpoint through which everyone entering town must pass. Its courtyard contained stables for packhorses and an area where the men who carried kago-basket chairs suspended from poles-waited for fares. At this late hour, few people straggled into town.
A merchant in a kago, his servants carrying iron money chests, and his ronin security guards lined up outside the window of the post house. Inside by the window sat two clerks, examining the travelers’ documents by the light of a lantern. Hirata dismounted, marched up to the window, and cut in front of the merchant. The merchant looked annoyed, but noticed the Tokugawa crests on Hirata’s garments and didn’t object.
Hirata stated his name and title to the clerks. One was a gray-haired samurai who’d probably worked as an inspector for so long that no faked travel passes could ever fool him. “How may we serve you, master?”
“I’m trying to trace a man who recently arrived in town,” Hirata said. “Could you look him up in your records?”
The second clerk had a stout body and an expression that brooked no nonsense. “What’s his name?” He hefted a stack of ledgers onto the counter.
“He’s dead now. His name was Egen.”
Something about the tutor had never smelled right to Hirata. Although he couldn’t define exactly what, his senses had perceived a wrongness in the energy field that Egen had emitted.
The stout clerk paged through listings of people who’d entered Edo. “When did he come?”
Hirata didn’t know exactly. “Start three days ago and work backward.”
The gray-haired clerk helped, reading over his colleague’s shoulder, to the displeasure of the people waiting in the line. Finally the stout clerk said, “We’ve gone back five months and still haven’t found your man.”
Egen had lied to the shogun. Had he also lied when he’d told the people at the inn that he’d arrived recently? Hirata said, “Maybe you remember him. He was over sixty years old, and he was covered with terrible pockmarks.”
“As a matter of fact I do,” the gray-haired clerk said, his sharp eyes brightening.
“So do I. That face of his wasn’t something you’d forget,” said the other clerk. “He came through here not a month ago.”
“He was a good singer,” said his colleague. “He entertained everybody in line while he waited his turn.”
Hirata remembered Egen addressing the shogun in his dramatic, resonant voice. “He must be the same man. Why isn’t his name in the ledger?”
“Because his name wasn’t Egen,” said the gray-haired clerk. “I remember now-it was Arashi.” He leafed through the ledger, turned it around for Hirata to see, and pointed at a column of written characters. “Here he is.”
Hirata read the full name, Arashi Kodenji. In the space provided for recording the traveler’s place of residence was written Shinagawa, the highway post town nearest Edo. Hirata frowned in surprise as he saw what was listed as Arashi Kodenji’s occupation.
Actor.
Sano met up with Hirata on the main street that ran through the Nihonbashi merchant district. The moon ascended the smoky sky above the rooftops, pale as a dead carp floating in a polluted pond. Hirata maneuvered his horse into step beside Sano’s. They rode at the head of Sano’s entourage, past shops closed for the night. A brigade of firemen carrying ladders trudged across a side street. Their faces were black with soot. They trailed the odor of smoke.
“I have news,” Hirata said.
“So do I,” Sano said. “You go first.”
“The man we thought was Egen the tutor actually wasn’t.” Hirata described his visit to the post house. “His real name was Arashi Kodenji. He was an actor from Shinagawa.”
“Today is certainly a day for revelations.” As Sano recovered from his surprise, he absorbed the implications of Hirata’s news. “So this Arashi Kodenji impersonated the tutor.”
“He acted the part of Egen as if it were a role in a Kabuki play,” Hirata said. “His scars probably kept him from getting lead roles on the stage, but they were an advantage in this case.”
“If he happened to run into people who’d known Egen, they would think his face had been disfigured by the pox and that was why he didn’t look like the man they remembered. That’s what happened with my mother.” Sano recalled how shocked she’d been at seeing how much her onetime lover had changed.
“That was quite a show he put on at the palace,” Hirata said, his disgust tinged with admiration.
Sano smiled ruefully. “It must have been the biggest performance of his life. I recall thinking it seemed theatrical.”
“But why would he tell lies about a woman he didn’t even know? Certainly not just for the attention.”
“More likely for money,” Sano said. “We can assume that’s how he got rich.”
“And we can guess where the money came from.” But Hirata sounded uncertain. “Maybe I’ve underestimated Lord Matsudaira, but I never thought him devious enough to do something as original as hiring an actor to impersonate your key witness.”
Suspicions that had arisen in Sano’s mind since he’d begun investigating the first murder now revolved around the new facts about the second victim. “I don’t think he is. This situation smells more rotten than Lord Matsudaira.”
“You’re right. But then who-?”
Sano was beginning to get the idea. “Before I tell you, listen to my news.” He described how he’d learned that Lord Arima was behind the ambush of Reiko, the bombing of Lord Matsudaira’s estate, and the many other attacks that Sano and Lord Matsudaira had mistakenly attributed to each other. “Lord Arima wasn’t Lord Matsudaira’s ally as he pretended to be. But he wasn’t mine, either.”
Hirata shook his head, astonished. “Lord Arima played you off against each other, then betrayed Lord Matsudaira to the shogun. Why? Did he think he could make a bid for power himself?”
Sano’s ideas shifted in the new light cast by the revelation about the fake tutor. “At first I thought so. His chief retainer couldn’t supply any other explanation.” He’d interrogated Inaba about Lord Arima’s motives, in vain. Even the threat of being handed over to Lord Matsudaira had failed. Finally, realizing he’d exhausted the man’s knowledge, Sano had sent Inaba home. “But now I doubt Lord Arima wanted to make a power play. He’s not that reckless.”
“His army isn’t big enough, and he’s not popular enough to attract support,” Hirata agreed. “Besides, he skipped town instead of taking advantage of the upheaval he caused and moving into Lord Matsudaira’s position.”
They left the merchant quarter and entered the daimyo district. A procession of samurai on horseback rode toward them. “Aren’t those friends of yours?” Hirata asked.
Sano noted the banners that bore the crests of three feudal lords who’d sworn allegiance to him. As the men passed, they didn’t so much as look in Sano’s direction. He saw the other banners that their troops wore on poles attached to their backs. These sported the triple-hollyhock-leaf Tokugawa crests.