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.

Tamura ended with a series of flourishes so rapid that his sword was a silver blur. He halted, his chest heaving. His breath puffed white clouds into the chilly room. He lowered his weapon and bowed.

“Very good,” Hirata said.

Tamura appeared not to hear. Hirata walked up to Tamura and clapped his hands loudly. Tamura turned at the sound, which echoed through the hall. Irritation slanted his eyebrows at a sharper angle as he became aware of Hirata.

“Did the sōsakan-sama send you to pester me with more questions?” Tamura said. “I thought I heard you’d been barred from investigating the murder.”

“This is just a friendly, informal chance encounter,” Hirata said.

Tamura’s reply was a stare filled with distrust. He placed his sword on a rack, picked up a water jar, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth on his arm and waited for Hirata to state the purpose of his visit. A thought occurred to Hirata. That Tamura hadn’t at first heard him speak suggested that Tamura was deaf. Was that why he hadn’t heard anything the night Senior Elder Makino died? He wouldn’t have said so because a proud samurai like him never admitted to any physical defects. Rather, he would read lips and pretend he could hear. But deafness didn’t equal innocence. There were other reasons why Tamura might withhold the truth.

“Why are you in here, fencing with your shadow, instead of riding off to war?” Hirata said. “Are you preparing to carry out the vendetta you swore yesterday?”

Tamura showed no surprise that Hirata knew about the vendetta. “Yes, although it’s none of your business. My samurai duty to avenge the death of my master outweighs all other concerns.”

“Even though you despised him?”

A scowl darkened Tamura’s features, but instead of rising to Hirata’s bait, he took up a cloth and rubbed sweat off himself.

“Your arguments with Makino are a matter of record,” Hirata said. “You disapproved of his greed for money, the bribes he extorted, and his whore mongering. You called him dishonorable to his face. Yet you expect me to believe that you think his death is worth avenging?”

“Duty must be served regardless of the master’s faults.” Tamura sounded as if he were quoting some Bushido tract. “My personal feelings are irrelevant.”

He threw down the cloth and hefted his sword. His kind of pompous, old-fashioned warrior virtue always irritated Hirata, who knew that it was often nothing but hypocrisy. “So who’s the lucky target of your vendetta?” Hirata said.

“I don’t know yet.” Tamura crouched, holding his sword horizontal, sweeping it slowly across the room, and sighting along the blade. “But I’m not waiting for the sōsakan-sama to figure out who killed my master.” His sneer said he didn’t think much of Sano’s chances.

“Are you conducting your own inquiries, then?” Hirata said, displeased by the tacit insult to his own master.

Tamura raked a disdainful glance across Hirata. “There’s no need for inquiries. Meditation will reveal the truth to me.”

If meditation could reveal a murderer’s identity, it would save him and Sano a lot of trouble, Hirata thought skeptically. But of course it worked without fail when one already knew the truth.

“Maybe it’s appropriate for you to be fencing against yourself,” Hirata said. “Maybe your vendetta is nothing but a charade to hide your own guilt.”

A contemptuous grin curled Tamura’s lip as he carved a swath of air with his sword. “If the sōsakan-sama were sure of that, he would have already arrested me.”

Hirata couldn’t deny this. Maybe Tamura really was innocent and his vendetta genuine. The lack of witnesses and evidence argued in his favor. Yet Hirata had a strong hunch that Tamura would figure into the solution of the mystery.

“Supposing you didn’t kill your master,” Hirata said, “maybe you’ve already carried out your vendetta. One of the murder suspects was stabbed to death last night.”

A slight, awkward fumble interrupted the motion of Tamura’s blade. But Tamura said calmly, “So I’ve heard. The news about Lord Matsudaira’s nephew is all over Edo Castle.”

“Did you already know it?” Hirata said.

“Because I killed him?” Tamura snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. I had nothing to do with Daiemon’s death. You’re just fishing and hoping for a bite.”

“You went out yesterday evening.”

“I was nowhere near that filthy place where Daiemon died.” Pivoting, Tamura maneuvered his sword in a smooth arc.

“Where did you go?” Hirata circled Tamura, keeping his face in view.

“I inspected Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s army camp outside town. Eight of my men were with me. You can ask them.”

Hirata knew that men loyal to Tamura would say anything for him, but instead of challenging the man, he waited. Unlike the actor, Tamura didn’t fill the silence with self-compromising blabber. But Hirata noticed that even while Tamura performed strenuous lunges, the puffs of vapor from his mouth ceased momentarily: Tamura was holding his breath, anxious for Hirata to believe his alibi… because it was false?