Hirata’s mother and Captain Segoshi looked aghast. Hirata’s father surged to his feet. “How dare you insult me?” he demanded. Anger reddened his complexion. “I’m a man of honor, and I’ll not tolerate this disgraceful treatment from an outside lord. Take back what you said, or I’ll-”

Sneering in contempt, Lord Niu smacked Hirata’s father on the cheek. Then the two men were wildly hitting and kicking each other. Midori and the other women cringed away from the combatants. Hirata cried, “Father, stop!” while Okita begged, “Master, please control yourself.”

The musician onstage halted his performance as the audience stood up to watch the commotion. Lord Niu jumped up on a divider and drew his sword. Hirata’s father also drew his weapon, but his bad leg hindered his climb onto the divider. Men in the audience stamped on the floor, shouting, “Fight! Fight!”

Hirata grabbed his father, and, with Segoshi’s help, pulled him back inside the compartment and restrained him. Okita wrestled Lord Niu, grappling for the sword. The audience booed.

Lord Niu yelled, “I’ll get you yet, you despicable villain!”

Okita, panting from his effort to hold the daimyo, addressed Hirata: “You’d better go.”

As Hirata hurried his family out of the theater, he looked briefly back at Midori. His face reflected the despair in her heart. She buried her face in her hands and wept.

Sano, accompanied by Detectives Fukida and Marume and some troops, again rode to the pleasure quarter, this time in pursuit of the entertainer whom Treasury Minister Nitta had implicated in the murder. Arriving in late afternoon, Sano found that Yoshiwara had undergone a striking change since his last visit.

Gone was the dismal atmosphere. The rooftops gleamed bronze in the light of the descending sun, while in through the gates swarmed hundreds of men eager for sensual delight. Some wore basket-shaped rush hats that concealed their faces. Sano recognized these as samurai, whom the law prohibited from visiting Yoshiwara. Though many samurai disregarded the law, and virtually no one cared, the most upstanding or cautious came in disguise. Along Nakanochō, the lanterns on the eaves burned brightly. Courtesans sat in the window cages of the brothels. Visitors ogled the courtesans, jammed the teahouses, and thronged shops that sold souvenirs and guidebooks to the quarter. As Sano entered Yoshiwara with his men, he imagined all the money that would change hands in the morning, when the customers paid the exorbitant fees that the brothels charged for food, drink, service, and women.

“We’ll stop in a teahouse and ask where we can find Fujio,” Sano said to his detectives. “He’s sure to be performing somewhere.” Sano wasn’t personally acquainted with Fujio, but he’d watched the hokan play at parties and knew his reputation as an acclaimed entertainer.

Just then, two boys marched up the avenue, beating drums. “Hear the magnificent Fujio play at the Atami Pleasure House tonight,” they called.

Spared the trouble of hunting the suspect, Sano and his men walked to the Atami, located on Edocho, a side street bordered by rows of brothels. The recessed entranceway of the Atami held a low table. On it sat three folded futon, a quilt, and a coverlet, all made of rich colored silk.

“Tsumi-yagu no koto,” Sano said.

This was the practice by which a courtesan showed off her patron’s wealth and devotion. The patron would supply a small fortune for the courtesan to buy elegant bedding. She would place it outside her brothel for all to admire. Even if the women would prefer to use their patrons’ money to pay their debts and shorten their term of service, Yoshiwara custom required them to display a carefree, impractical attitude. A courtesan who didn’t spend lavishly would appear stingy, become unpopular, and never free herself.

Sano glanced at the paper label attached to the quilt, which bore a date three days before the murder, and an inscription. “ ‘This bedding was presented to Lady Takane by the Honorable Nitta Monzaemon,’ ” Sano read.

“Then the treasury minister is patron to at least one other courtesan besides Lady Wisteria,” said Detective Marume. He fingered the coverlet. “Pretty expensive goods.”

“Maybe he’s not really in love with Wisteria,” Sano said. “A client devoted to a particular woman will usually confine his spending to her.”

“Maybe he dallies with other women to cover his feelings for Wisteria,” Fukida suggested.

“Or maybe Senior Elder Makino lied,” said Marume.

This was a real possibility, given Makino’s nature. “If he did, and Nitta told me the truth,” Sano said, “then Nitta had no apparent reason to abduct Wisteria or kill Lord Mitsuyoshi.” And Nitta had seemed like a promising suspect this morning. “Marume-san, check into Nitta’s relations with the courtesans and find out whether he does spread his attention around. The Introducing Teahouses would be a good place to start.” These establishments matched clients with courtesans, arranged appointments, and negotiated fees.

“Fukida-san, look for witnesses who saw Nitta on the night of the murder,” Sano said. “We want to know everything he did. I’ll handle Fujio myself.” He hoped that if his case against Nitta dissolved, the hokan would prove to be the culprit.

The detectives bowed and departed. Leaving his troops outside, Sano went into the pleasure house. A guard stationed in the entryway greeted him.

“Welcome, master,” the guard said. “Have you an appointment with one of our ladies?”

Sano introduced himself, then said, “I’m looking for Fujio.”

“He’s about to perform in the banquet room.”

Sano walked down the corridor toward the sound of voices and laughter. In the banquet room a party of samurai and courtesans lounged and chatted. Kamuro served roasted sardines, salted ferns, quail eggs, steamed clams, and sake to the men. As Sano paused in the doorway, a man strode through a curtained entrance at the far end of the room. He carried a samisen in one hand and a large folding fan in the other. He snapped the fan shut with a loud, ritualistic flourish, and all heads turned toward him.

“Thank you, everyone, for your favor,” Fujio said.

The party cheered. As Fujio knelt, positioned his samisen, and played a cascade of notes, Sano studied the hokan. Fujio was perhaps thirty-five years old, tall and slender, and handsome in a raffish way. He had bold, sparkling eyes, a mischievous set to his features, and sleek hair knotted at his nape. He wore the traditional hokan’s black coat printed with crests, over a beige kimono.

“With your kind permission, I shall perform my new song, ‘The Mysterious Flood,’ ” he announced.

The audience eagerly settled down to listen. Fujio played a gay tune and sang in a smooth, vibrant voice:

“A big spender from Ōsaka,

Weary of the pleasures of his hometown,

Came to Yoshiwara with his entourage

To pluck some fresh blossoms.

All eager for conquest,

The men courted the best tayu,

Sake flowed, and they made flattering talk, but alas!

The proud beauties scorned them.

But the men would not accept disappointment,

For thirty nights they engaged the same courtesans,

Attempting to win favor,

For thirty nights they failed, their desire thwarted.

At last they decided to return to Ōsaka,

But so aroused were they,

That they paused by the Dike of Japan,

And each caressed his own manhood, spurting a mighty fountain of seed.

The torrent overflowed the dike,

The peasants in neighboring villages beat the flood-warning drums,

For many years they wondered,

What caused a flood on that rainless night?”

The samurai in the audience guffawed; their female companions tittered; Sano smiled. Lewd songs were Fujio’s specialty, and he performed with sly humor. The hokan bowed to enthusiastic applause. Then he caught sight of Sano. Recognition and stark fear erased his smile.