He saw Agemaki’s throat contract as she swallowed: He’d shaken her composure. But she said calmly, “My father was a samurai retainer to the Torii clan.”
“Your friends at the shrine say not.”
Her gaze briefly touched his; pride flashed like a torn banner in her eyes. “I know better than they do.”
“Very well.” Sano understood that her background was her vulnerable spot. That he’d exposed it might open her up to more revelations. He strode closer to her. “You were a prostitute, a woman of uncertain parentage and few prospects.”
Agemaki flinched at the words as though he’d flung nightsoil on her expensive robes. Sano knew of other women in her position who liked to forget the past and pretend that their existences as wives of rich, powerful men were the only lives they’d ever known. He hoped he was tormenting a criminal, not an innocent victim.
“Senior Elder Makino brought you to his house… as his concubine. He was still married to his first wife then, wasn’t he?” Sano said.
“Yes.” Involuntary movement shifted Agemaki’s body.
“What happened to his first wife?”
“She died,” Agemaki whispered.
“How did she die?”
“From a fever.”
“According to the Edo Castle physician, you nursed her when she took ill,” Sano said, bringing into play the information Hirata had given him.
“She wanted me to take care of her.” As self-defensiveness overrode her feminine reticence, Agemaki explained, “She wouldn’t let anyone else. She trusted my healing skills.”
“But she got worse instead of better,” Sano said.
He watched Agemaki twist and rub her hands together, as if washing them. He was interested that she seemed more upset now than while discussing Makino’s murder. She must have been prepared for questions about his death but not his first wife’s or her own past. Maybe she’d not expected the subjects to come up. A person’s ability to dissemble stretched only so far.
“I did my best to save her,” Agemaki said, “but she was too ill.”
“According to the Edo Castle physician, you were the one who mixed her medicines,” Sano said. “You fed them to her. What did you put in them besides healing herbs?”
“Nothing!” Agemaki’s head came up; her eyes glittered.
“Did you poison her?” Sano said.
“I didn’t!” Panic crumbled Agemaki’s sedate mien. The guise of the demure, grieving widow deserted her. “It wasn’t my fault that she died! Anyone who says otherwise is lying!”
Sano wished he could tell whether she’d killed Makino’s first wife and feared due punishment, or if she was panicking because she was innocent and wrongfully accused. He’d seen similar reactions from guilty as well as innocent people.
“You gained by the death of Makino’s first wife,” Sano reminded Agemaki. “Makino married you. But then he took a new concubine. History repeats itself. You knew that Okitsu could replace you just as you’d replaced his first wife. Did you kill him to prevent him from divorcing you, marrying Okitsu, and cutting off your inheritance?”
Agemaki relaxed her body, stilled her hands, and spread a mask of false serenity across her features. “I did not.”
“Lord Matsudaira’s nephew, Daiemon, was in this estate the night your husband was murdered,” Sano said. “Did you see him?”
“No. If he was here, he must have come while I was asleep.”
“You’re not investigating Daiemon,” Otani said with a dark frown at Sano. “No more questions about him.”
“While you were asleep, or while you were beating your husband to death?” Sano said, ignoring Otani. “Did he catch you in the act?”
“Careful, sōsakan-sama,” said Ibe.
Agemaki repeated quietly, “I didn’t see him. I did nothing for him to see.
“Last night Daiemon was stabbed to death in a house of assignation,” Sano said even as the watchdogs glared at him. “What were you doing then?”
“I went out for a ride in my palanquin.” Agemaki seemed indifferent to the news of Daiemon’s death.
“Where did you go?” Sano said.
“Nowhere in particular. Just around town.”
“Enough of this,” Ibe told Sano.
Sano nodded. He’d learned what he’d wanted to know. Agemaki had been in the city last night. Perhaps she was Daiemon’s missing paramour-and killer.
“I’m satisfied that she killed Makino’s first wife,” Ibe said.
“And Makino as well,” Otani said. "Once a murderer, twice a murderer.”
“Go ahead and arrest her,” Ibe told Sano. “If you’re so anxious to solve Daiemon’s murder, let her take the blame for that, too.”
Agemaki sat frozen between the watchdogs, like a cat who thinks that if she doesn’t move, predators won’t notice or attack her.
Sano said, “The evidence against her is indirect. It’s not sufficient for me.”
“It’s sufficient to convict her in the Court of Justice,” Ibe said.
Sano knew that for a fact, but he also knew that virtually all trials in the Tokugawa justice system resulted in conviction, even if the defendant was innocent. Agemaki might be guilty of multiple murders-or not. He was by no means certain which. Even while the watchdogs held his son hostage, Sano refused to let them rush him into a faulty decision.
“You gave me a choice of two suspects,” he told them. “I’ll interrogate Okitsu before arresting anyone.”
A silent consultation ensued between Ibe and Otani. “Suit yourself,” Ibe said at last. “But don’t tax our patience.”
As they and their troops ushered Sano and his detectives out of the room, Sano looked backward at Agemaki. She stayed kneeling and immobile, her head bowed, the bare nape of her neck white and vulnerable, as though waiting for the executioner’s sword to descend.
25
Hirata knew better than to march into Makino’s estate, accost Tamura, and start asking questions. He couldn’t risk running into Ibe or Otani after they’d banned him from the murder investigation. After leaving the theater district, he went home and sent Detective Inoue to Makino’s estate, with orders to find Tamura and lure him someplace that Hirata could talk to him. Detective Inoue returned with the news that Tamura was at the Edo Castle martial arts training ground. Hirata decided that was as good a place as any. The training ground was virtually deserted in winter, when most Tokugawa samurai would rather laze indoors than practice their combat skills.
But when Hirata entered the grounds, he found them crowded with squadrons of mounted soldiers roving the field. More soldiers dressed themselves and their horses in armor. Some sparred together, eager for combat. Weapons masters hauled cannon, guns, and ammunition through the sleety rain. Commanders roamed, trying to establish order. Everyone wore the crest of Lord Matsudaira. The training ground had become a staging area for his army. Hirata looked around in amazement. He wondered why Tamura, who belonged to the opposing faction, had come here. And where was he in all this commotion?
Hirata elbowed his way through the crowd. He caught snatches of conversation: “Lord Matsudaira has summoned Chamberlain Yanagisawa to battle in the fields north of town.” “The fighting has already started. We’ll be on our way soon.” Battle fever was contagious. Hirata felt his samurai blood roil with excitement. As he scanned the crowds, light and movement inside a building near the wall of the enclosure caught his attention.
The building was a barnlike hall used for sword practice. A lone figure threw fleeting shadows against paper windowpanes screened by wooden bars. Hirata slipped through the door, into a cavernous space that smelled of male sweat, urine, blood, and temper. Burning lanterns hung from the bare rafters; straw dummies stood along walls nicked by blades. Tamura, dressed in white trousers, darted and lunged across the hall, wielding his sword. As he slashed at an imaginary opponent, his bare feet stamped the dingy cypress floor. He took no notice of Hirata. Sweat gleamed on his naked torso and shaved crown; his severe face wore a look of intense concentration. His muscles were defined and tough, his movements fluid, his form impressive for a man nearing sixty.