“I say we should look for more clues that Chamberlain Yanagisawa is the murderer,” Otani hastened to object.
Sano lost all patience with his watchdogs. He was regretting that he’d let Reiko convince him to let her spy on Makino’s household. Tense and edgy, he couldn’t tolerate any more trouble from Otani or Ibe.
“We’ll do as I say,” Sano curtly told them.
He didn’t mention that he would investigate Chamberlain Yanagisawa and Daiemon when necessary. He also forbore to tell them of Reiko’s plan. Only Hirata and a few of his most trusted detectives knew he’d called in a favor and arranged her employment at Makino’s estate.
Now he said to Otani and Ibe, “If you want to see anything to report to your masters, come with us.”
He and five detectives mounted their horses and started up the street. Hirata and the other five rode in the opposite direction. Otani and Ibe exchanged indignant glances. Then Ibe sent half his men to follow Hirata, while he and the others hurried to catch up with Sano. Otani also divided his party, then he chased after Hirata.
“Where are we going?” Ibe asked Sano as they and their men cleared a checkpoint in the winding, walled passage between the official district and the palace.
“To metsuke headquarters,” Sano said.
The metsuke was the Tokugawa intelligence service that guarded the regime’s power over Japan. Its agents collated and interpreted information gathered by a widespread network of spies and informers. Sano now hoped to tap the metsuke’s treasure trove of facts about citizens.
He and his entourage left their horses outside the palace compound. They walked through the palace’s labyrinth of corridors, government offices, and reception rooms to a chamber divided by paper-and-wood screens. Here, men rushed back and forth between desks that overflowed with scrolls, message containers, and writing implements. They smoked tobacco pipes while they pored together over maps hung on the walls; they conversed in urgent mutters. Sano observed that the political unrest had the metsuke agents working hard to keep abreast of developments and anxious about their own fate.
As he hesitated near the door, the agents noticed him and his fellow intruders. Talk gradually ceased. Sano scanned the faces turned toward him but didn’t find the one he sought.
“I’m looking for Toda Ikkyu,” he finally announced.
A samurai dressed in gray stepped out from a group of agents. He bowed to Sano. “Greetings, Sōsakan-sama.”
Sano returned the bow. “Greetings, Toda-san.”
Toda, a senior intelligence agent, had such an indistinct appearance that Sano always forgot what he looked like, even after consulting him often during past investigations. He was neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, old nor young. He had a face that no one would remember-an advantage in his profession.
“Let me guess,” Toda said. “You’ve come to get my help in investigating Senior Elder Makino’s murder.” Now his world-weary voice and manner jibed with Sano’s vague memory. Toda’s gaze took in the men ranged behind Sano. “And you’ve brought the observers assigned to you by Chamberlain Yanagisawa and Lord Matsudaira.”
As usual, he demonstrated his knowledge about what went on in the bakufu. He moved partitions, enlarging the space around his desk. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said.
“Thank you,” Sano said.
He and his detectives knelt on the floor; Ibe and his men, and Lord Matsudaira’s, crowded around them. Sano knew that despite the ready welcome, Toda wasn’t eager to part with information: The metsuke jealously hoarded knowledge, the basis of its unique power. But Toda dared not refuse to help apprehend the killer of the shogun’s friend and high official.
“I have Makino’s dossier right here.” Toda sat behind his desk and placed his hands atop a ledger. “Which of your murder suspects among his associates do you wish me to tell you about?”
“Start with Makino’s wife and concubine,” Sano said.
Toda paged through the ledger. “I’ve nothing listed on them except the dates that Makino married Agemaki and brought Okitsu into his house. There was no reason to think they merited our attention, until now.
Sano reflected that the entire bakufu considered most women too unimportant to notice. Reiko had proved more helpful in this instance. “What about the actor?”
“Here he is,” Toda said, pointing to a column of text. “Born Yuichi, son of a teahouse owner, twenty-five years ago. Present stage name Koheiji; employed at the Nakamura-za Theater; specializes in samurai roles. Formerly known as Kozakura and employed at the Owari Theater. There’s no record that he’s ever been in any trouble. He was considered harmless company for Senior Elder Makino.”
Sano memorized the information for later use. “What do you have on Tamura?”
Toda scanned several pages, then summarized, “Tamura Banzan, age forty-seven. Hereditary vassal to Makino. He’s renowned as a sword fighter, but his combat experience has been confined to the training grounds.” Toda met Sano’s eyes and added, “A samurai with his taste for the martial arts has usually blooded his sword at least once by his age. But there’s no record that Tamura has ever killed.”
“A record free of killings doesn’t exonerate him,” Sano said, “nor does it prove he’s incapable of murder.” A bureaucrat like Tamura had few occasions to fight to the death. “What can you tell me about Tamura’s relations with Senior Elder Makino?”
“Sources within Makino’s retinue have reported frequent altercations between him and Tamura.”
“Altercations about what?”
“Makino had a habit of demanding money from lesser bakufu officials,” Toda said. “Since he had the power to ruin them if they didn’t pay, they seldom resisted him. Tamura disapproved of this habit. He also disapproved of Makino’s profligate relations with women. Tamura told Makino that his extreme greed for money and sex was a transgression against Bushido.”
The warrior code of honor decreed that money was dirty and beneath the notice of a samurai, who should rise above material concerns. He should also abstain from overindulging in the pleasures of the flesh, which distracted him from duty. Sano observed that the conflict between Tamura and Makino had run far deeper than Tamura had suggested.
“How did Makino react when Tamura accused him of dishonor?” Sano asked.
“Makino was understandably insulted,” Toda answered. “He said his personal affairs were none of Tamura’s business, he would do as he pleased, and if Tamura didn’t keep his mouth shut, he would lose his post.”
To be dismissed from the servitude that gave him a livelihood, a respectable place in society, and meaning to his existence was a catastrophe for a samurai.
“Tamura should have humbly accepted Makino’s judgment and never raised the subject again,” Toda said. This was the custom when a samurai exercised his duty to criticize his master and the master spurned the criticism. “But Tamura considered Makino’s faults a personal insult to himself. He kept after Makino to change his habits. His objections, and Makino’s threats, grew louder and more violent over the years. They came to despise each other. But Tamura was a competent, valuable chief retainer. Makino needed him.”
“Makino died before their problems could result in Tamura’s dismissal,” Sano said thoughtfully. “And now that Makino is gone, one of his sons will take his place as head of the clan.”
Toda nodded, giving credence to this suggestion that Tamura had killed Makino to keep his post and gain a new master more worthy of him.
“But Tamura prizes his own honor,” Ibe broke in, obviously displeased to see suspicion gathering around the chief retainer instead of Lord Matsudaira. “He wouldn’t have committed the ultimate sin of murdering his master.”
“Allow me to remind you that there’s one instance when murdering one’s master is justified,” Toda said.