“I am a Kabuki actor and star of the Nakamura-za Theater,” Koheiji said. He struck a brief pose, lifting and turning his head at an angle that flattered his profile. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Okitsu gazed at him in admiration. Ibe leaned against the walkway and looked bored. Hirata said, “Sorry, I don’t see many plays.” Kabuki was popular among people from all classes of society, but Hirata had little time for entertainment. “What was your relationship with Senior Elder Makino?”

“He was my patron,” Koheiji said.

Wealthy Kabuki enthusiasts often gave money and gifts to their favorite actors, Hirata knew. “What were you doing in this estate on the night Senior Elder Makino died?”

“He hired me to give private performances to his household. I’ve been living here for, oh, about a year.”

What a cozy, lucrative situation, Hirata thought. Makino had been generous to his protege, despite a reputation for stinginess. But Hirata wondered why Makino, a man so concerned about security, had moved Koheiji into his home, when actors were renowned as unscrupulous ruffians.

“What did you do to deserve the honor of sleeping in Senior Elder Makino’s quarters?” Hirata said.

Caution veiled Koheiji’s brash countenance. “I was his friend.”

Hirata eyed the actor skeptically, because friendship wasn’t the usual reason that a man wanted a handsome youth nearby at night. “Were you also his lover?” Hirata said, recalling Makino’s injured anus.

“Oh, no,” Koheiji said. Then, as Hirata looked askance at him, he added, “Makino didn’t practice manly love. Neither do I. There was never any sex between us.”

As Hirata counted more denials than necessary, he heard a squeak from Okitsu. She clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes bulged with alarm at the involuntary sound she’d made. Did it mean she knew the actor was lying?

Koheiji must have read Hirata’s thought, because he spoke with defensive haste: “Hey, maybe I don’t seem like the kind of person that Senior Elder Makino would have for a friend, but sometimes he got tired of the other people he knew. He liked to drink with me and talk about the theater instead of government business.” Koheiji moved, blocking Hirata’s view of Okitsu. “It was a nice change for him.”

This explanation didn’t convince Hirata. Had Koheiji penetrated Makino during sex that night and caused the anal injury? Had a quarrel later arisen between them and led to Makino’s death? If Koheiji should turn out to be the killer, what a letdown! The actor was a nobody and an unworthy opponent, in Hirata’s estimation.

Yet Hirata must conduct as thorough an investigation of Koheiji as Sano would expect. He must obey Sano’s slightest wish, or mire himself deeper in disgrace. “When did you last see Senior Elder Makino alive?” he asked Koheiji.

“The evening of the day before he was found dead,” Koheiji answered, too readily. “At dinner, I performed for him and some of his retainers.”

“You didn’t have any contact with him after the performance?” Hirata said.

“None whatsoever.” Koheiji spread empty hands. “I haven’t the faintest idea what happened to him later.”

Hirata peered around Koheiji. He saw Okitsu’s queasy expression. “You didn’t speak to Senior Elder Makino, or go into his chamber that night?” Hirata pressed Koheiji.

“No, I didn’t,” Koheiji said. “If you’re hinting that I killed him, you’re wrong. With all due respect,” he added, giving Hirata a courteous bow and another dazzling smile. “I had no reason to murder my own patron.”

Ibe, who’d been listening in silence, now said, “That’s a good point.” He sauntered over to Koheiji. His nose twitched, testing the actor’s air. “Now that the senior elder is dead, you won’t get any more money or gifts from him, will you?”

“Sad but true.” Koheiji sighed.

“And you’ll have to move out of Edo Castle,” Ibe said.

“Yes,” Koheiji said.

Consternation filled Hirata. “Excuse me, Ibe-san, but I’m conducting this interview.”

Undaunted, Ibe said to Koheiji, “I’ve seen you in plays. Your acting is good but nothing special.” Koheiji drew back from Ibe, miffed at the slight. “Without Makino’s patronage, you’d never have gotten your starring roles.”

“You’re just supposed to observe,” Hirata said, angry even though his own direction of thought paralleled Ibe’s. “Stay out of this.”

“In fact, Makino was worth more to you alive than dead, wasn’t he?” Ibe asked the actor. When Koheiji nodded, Ibe turned to Hirata. “Therefore, this man didn’t kill Makino.”

“He’s right.” Koheiji’s surly expression said he hadn’t forgiven Ibe, but he moved to closer to him, glad of any ally under the circumstances. “I’m innocent.”

“That’s for me to determine,” Hirata said. Ibe was undercutting his authority as well as intruding on his business. “Stop interfering, or I’ll-”

“Throw me out?” Ibe smirked. “You can’t, because I’m here under orders from Chamberlain Yanagisawa.”

Hirata gritted his teeth.

“Besides, I’m just trying to keep you from wasting your time on an innocent man,” Ibe said.

“Listen to him,” Koheiji eagerly urged Hirata. “He’s doing you a favor.”

Hirata eyed Ibe with contempt, for he knew that Ibe had other, less altruistic reasons to steer suspicion away from the actor. He asked Koheiji, “What did you do after you performed that evening?”

“I went to take off my costume and makeup.”

“Show me where.”

Ibe rolled his eyes, signaling that he thought Hirata was wasting more time. As the actor led him and Hirata out of the theater, the concubine lingered.

“You come, too,” Hirata told her.

She reluctantly trailed them into the private quarters. There, Koheiji showed Hirata the room he occupied on the opposite end of the building from Makino’s. The actor had furnished his lair as a theatrical dressing room. A table under a lantern held brushes and jars of face paint. On wooden stands hung kimonos assembled with cloaks, surcoats, trousers, and a suit of armor. Wooden heads on shelves wore helmets.

“I specialize in samurai roles,” Koheiji said.

That explained his hairstyle-the topknot and shaved crown usually reserved for the warrior class. While Ibe examined the armor and Okitsu hovered at the door, Hirata looked inside a trunk. It contained swords, daggers, and clubs.

“Those are my props,” Koheiji said.

Hirata lifted out a sword. Its blade was made of wood, as were the other weapons, so they wouldn’t cut anyone during simulated fights onstage.

“There’s no blood on those,” Koheiji said.

“How do you know what I’m looking for?” Hirata said.

The actor shrugged and smiled. “It was just a guess.”

Hirata sensed that Koheiji enjoyed matching wits with him. He grew increasingly sure that Koheiji knew more about the murder than he would admit. But although a club from the trunk could have killed Senior Elder Makino, the actor seemed too smart to leave incriminating evidence in his room. Hirata opened the cabinet. He beheld compartments crammed with clothes, shoes, and wigs; stacks of handbills displayed Koheiji’s portrait and advertised his plays.

“Please allow me,” Koheiji said.

He carefully lifted out and displayed garments for Hirata’s examination. Hirata supposed that if Koheiji had gotten blood on his clothes while beating Makino, he’d have destroyed them, but Hirata had to look anyway. He predicted that the clever actor would soon offer an alibi in an attempt to clear himself.

“You won’t find any proof that I killed Senior Elder Makino,” said Koheiji, “because I didn’t. In fact, I couldn’t have. I was here, in this room, all night. And I have a witness to prove it.”

There he went, Hirata thought. “Who might that be?” He could already guess.

“Okitsu,” the actor said, proving him right. “She can vouch for my innocence.”

Hirata turned to the concubine, who huddled in the doorway. “Is that true?”