He entered the teahouse and knelt beside her. “Hello, Nobuko-san,” he said.

She turned a homely, pleasant face to him. “How nice to see you again,” she said with a bucktoothed smile.

“What brings you here?” Hirata gestured toward the dancing girls. “More daughters to marry off?”

“Yes, indeed,” Nobuko said with a gloomy sigh. “Why was I cursed with five girls? If they don’t marry soon, we’ll all starve.” She ventured hopefully, “Do you need a wife?”

“No, thank you. But I do need your help.” Hirata explained that he was investigating the murder of Lord Mitsuyoshi. “What have you heard?”

Though usually glad to share gossip, Nobuko hesitated. She held up her fan to shield her mouth, and whispered in Hirata’s ear: “They say that Lord Mitsuyoshi owed money all over Yoshiwara because his family cut off his spending allowance. But nobody could refuse to serve him, or force him to pay.”

Because he was a Tokugawa clan member and the shogun’s heir, thought Hirata. Had an angry proprietor killed Mitsuyoshi to punish him and stop his freeloading?

“Who in particular had a grudge against him?” Hirata asked.

Nobuko turned away and fixed her gaze on her dancing daughters. “I’ve already said too much.”

Clearly, she didn’t want to incriminate the owners of the establishments where her daughters performed. And although Hirata welcomed a new clue, his heart sank because pursuing this one would take him into dangerous territory. The shogun had forbidden Sano to investigate Lord Mitsuyoshi, and hunting the dead man’s enemies would constitute disobedience. Regretting the shogun’s orders, Hirata thanked Nobuko and left the teahouse.

Through the crowds ambled a man clutching a bucket filled with jars and cloth soap bags in one hand, and a wooden staff in the other. A bell hanging from the top of the staff tinkled as he stepped. His head was bald, his gaze sightless.

“Yoshi-san,” Hirata called. “Isn’t it a little late for washing hair? All the courtesans must be dressed by now.”

The blind shampoo man paused, and recognition illuminated his face. “Ah, it’s you, Hirata-san. I was just heading home. Is there something I can do for you?”

Hirata knew that Yoshi was privy to many secrets because he worked inside the brothels. The courtesans seemed to think blindness equaled deafness and talked in front of him. When Hirata asked him for news associated with the murder, the blind man replied with the same caution as had Nobuko.

“A certain young dandy made himself unpopular among my customers,” he said, avoiding the use of Mitsuyoshi’s name and protecting himself from accusations of treasonous slander. “He would promise to free a courtesan and take her home as his wife if she satisfied him. She would do her best, but when he tired of her, he would drop her.”

Hirata wondered whether Mitsuyoshi had tricked Lady Wisteria. Had she killed him in revenge for his faithlessness?

“I know tayu who must now spend years longer in Yoshiwara because they refused other clients to serve him,” Yoshi said.

“Give me their names,” Hirata said, and pressed coins into the blind shampoo man’s hand.

“Thank you, master. They are Lady Columbine, Lady Takao, and Lady Kacho.”

“Not Lady Wisteria?”

“I don’t know, master.”

Yoshi trudged off, his bell tinkling. Hirata bought rice dumplings from a street vendor and leaned against a wall, eating as he watched drunks flirt with courtesans seated in the window cages, and reviewed what he’d just accomplished. He’d identified three more suspects and could probably find others by canvassing the quarter; yet the shogun’s prohibition seemed like a stone wall protecting the murderer. Hirata must find a different path to the truth.

A stout man dressed in a thick padded cloak and wicker hat rushed by. Fast on his heels followed a younger, smaller man with a wiry frame and pugnacious expression.

“Get lost, you scum!” the first man shouted over his shoulder.

“There’s only one way to get me off your tail,” the second man shouted back.

Hirata recognized the pursuer as a “following horse”-a debt collector hired to hunt down people who owed money in Yoshiwara and chase them day and night until they paid. And he recognized this one as his old friend Gorobei.

The following horse grabbed hold of the debtor, who turned and began throwing punches. While they scuffled, pedestrians gathered round, egging them on. Hirata, anxious to prevent a brawl, wrenched the combatants apart. The debtor escaped into the crowd, and Gorobei faced Hirata.

“You let him get away!” he said, his jaw jutting in rage. “I’ve just lost my commission.” Then, as he recognized Hirata, dismay came over his face. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want with me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Maybe not this time.” Hirata had once arrested Gorobei for his sideline occupation-selling stolen goods. Gorobei made a habit of carrying small items on his person, in case he happened to meet a customer, and Hirata noticed an unnatural bulge at Gorobei’s waist, under his coat.

“What have you got in there?” Hirata said.

Gorobei leapt away from Hirata’s reaching hand. “Nothing. I’m just getting fat in my old age.”

“Give it over.” Hirata yanked on Gorobei’s coat, and out dropped a gold Buddha statue. “Ha! Either you’ve just given birth to the Buddha, or you’re up to your old tricks.”

“I bought and paid for that with my own hard-earned money,” the following horse exclaimed, picking up the Buddha and dusting it on his sleeve.

“A likely story. You’re under arrest.”

Panic gleamed in Gorobei’s eyes. “Can’t you give me a break this time?”

Hirata wasn’t really interested in small-time theft, or in arresting Gorobei. The following horse collected something else besides debts: information that he picked up around town.

“That depends on you,” Hirata said.

Gorobei’s expression turned cunning. “I can give you something you need more than my pitiful self.”

“Oh?”

“Your master wants to find the person who killed the shogun’s heir, doesn’t he?”

“So what if he does?” Hirata feigned indifference, but his heartbeat quickened.

Gorobei thrust out his jaw and looked wise. He spoke in a low voice so passersby wouldn’t hear: “Maybe I can tell you something about that.”

“Then tell,” Hirata said, “before I haul you off to jail.”

Holding out his palm, Gorobei said, “A man’s got to live.”

The nerve of him, expecting payment in addition to his freedom! “Well, I’ve got the law to uphold,” Hirata said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Come along.”

“Wait! What I have is so good, you should be glad to pay what it’s worth.” Gorobei added slyly, “If you don’t, I bet Police Commissioner Hoshina will.”

Hirata puffed out his breath. Clearly, Gorobei knew about the rivalry between Sano and Hoshina. If Hirata didn’t pay, Hoshina would jump to buy information that might help him solve the case before Sano did. Hirata couldn’t let that happen. Nor did he want to leave Yoshiwara empty-handed.

“All right,” he said grudgingly.

They went into an alley behind a cookhouse where men labored over steaming pots, preparing food for brothels. Smoke that smelled of garlic and roasting fish drifted through the alley. Hirata and Gorobei haggled over the price. The following horse insisted Hirata pay cash in advance. Hirata reluctantly agreed; coins changed hands.

“This had better be good,” he said.

Gorobei rummaged inside his coat and removed a wad of papers, which he handed to Hirata.

In the dim light from the cookhouse doors, Hirata examined the papers. They consisted of small pages of fine white rice paper, covered with black characters and folded in half. When Hirata unfolded them, he saw that their edges were ragged, as though they’d been torn out of a binding. Oily stains blotched the outer sheet.