“Let her speak,” said Akitada.

“It’s stupid, really,” stammered Mika. “I thought Hideo must have the runs. He had a sleeve full of paper and he was running back to the gallery and that leads to the latrines.”

There was a stunned silence, and Mika put her hands over her face.

“You are very observant.” Akitada remembered his own visit to the convenience that night. He had not seen the unfortunate Hideo, but that meant nothing. “If that is all, then perhaps this young woman has something to add?”

The red-cheeked girl cast another glance over her shoulder, then bowed and said quickly, almost as if she feared being interrupted, “This humble person is called Sumi and has served at Takata for five years. I look after the children when their parents are busy with their duties. Hideo’s grandson Toneo has been in my charge since his parents died four years ago. The morning after Lord Maro died, very early, at dawn, Toneo came to my room and woke me. He said his grandfather had not slept in his bed and he couldn’t find him. I got up, and we went to look for him. There was much confusion because the old lord had died during the night, but Hideo was nowhere and nobody had seen him. Finally in the afternoon we went to Master Kaibara. Master Kaibara said Hideo had been so sad that he had gone to the mountains to pray for the old lord’s soul.”

Akitada had hoped for more than this. “Thank you,” he said. “I met Hideo’s grandson at the funeral. The boy told me about it.”

“Oh,” she cried. “I didn’t know if Toneo was telling the truth. He said the governor himself would help him find his grandfather.” A gate slammed, and she tensed.

Akitada followed her eyes and saw that Kaibara was back. “Was there anything else on your mind?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, Excellency,” she whispered, twisting her hands in her lap. Akitada bent forward to hear her. “I am worried about Toneo. He’s gone.”

* * * *

ELEVEN

THE MERCHANT SUNADA

H

itomaro found Genba in front of the Temple of the War God, amusing himself by taking on street urchins who wished to test their strength against the big wrestler. He had removed his bright red quilted jacket and was jumping about in shirt, knee-length pants, and wrapped legs.

“New clothes?” Hitomaro asked sourly. In his present mood, he felt neither admiration nor tolerance for Genba’s unexpected rise to fame among the local people. He regarded Genba’s occupation as a liability that interfered with his job.

Genba chuckled. “Presents from my fans.” A new contender flung himself at him.

“Stop that and let’s go!” Hitomaro pulled Genba’s sleeve. “There’s work to be done.”

“Of course, brother.” Genba removed the clutching arms of a skinny youngster from his massive thigh and swung him high into the air with a shout. The lad screeched with delight, his fellows waiting hopefully as Genba set him back on the ground. “Practice!” he told them, waving an admonishing finger, “and eat everything your mother gives you.”

There was a chorus of protests when he snatched up his red jacket. Hitomaro strode off down the street.

“What’s so urgent?” Genba, in spite of his bulk, caught up easily.

“We have work to do. What news do you have?”

“Not much. I think there’s not much more to be had. The judge is said to be in Sunada’s pay. That’s why his thugs act the way they do. Every time they’re in trouble, Hisamatsu dismisses the charges.”

Hitomaro nodded. “Makes sense. I spent hours at the garrison yesterday, talking to Ogai’s fellow recruits. Goto told the truth about his brother being absent without leave. The punishment is such a cruel caning that some don’t survive, so his disappearance is either involuntary or he’s deserted. I figured you could help me talk to some of the neighbors. People seem to open up to you. We need an unbiased account of that fight between Ogai and Kimura.”

Genba glanced dubiously at Hitomaro’s neat blue robe and official black cap. “You didn’t wear your old clothes.”

“Not much point in it. We’re past that charade.”

Genba gave him a startled glance but said only, “I’ll try my best to help.”

They passed through streets of modest dwellings. It was cold in spite of the sun that reflected blindingly from patches of snow that lingered on roofs and in yards where bare trees made traceries against the pale blue sky. Lines of frozen laundry hung stiffly and icicles dripped from the eaves. A skinny dog sniffed and licked the icy street where a woman had just emptied steaming kitchen slops.

But even on these side streets, business was transacted in the open air. Smoke curled from portable cookers and ovens, and tattered straw matting protected food stalls. These were of considerable interest to Genba, who stopped and peered periodically, much to the ill-concealed irritation of Hitomaro.

“Brother,” Genba finally said with a worried look at his friend’s face, “are you feeling quite well? I would’ve thought you’d be over that beating by now, but you look ill.”

Hitomaro’s “illness” had nothing to do with Boshu but he had no intention of discussing it with anyone. He glared. “Seeing you drooling into every pot since we left the Temple of the War God would turn anyone’s stomach. Come on. We must be near that fishmonger’s place.”

They turned down a narrow, dirty backstreet. Across from them was a small wineshop. In spite of the cold weather, the owner had placed a rickety table and stools in the street. Three bare-legged laborers perched on them soaking up the feeble rays of the sun and the harsh and potent brew of the establishment.

Genba stopped. “Close enough. Let’s talk to them.”

“How do they stand this cold without shoes or leggings?” asked Hitomaro, shaking his head.

“Used to it. Also, they’re very hairy people hereabouts. Some look more like monkeys than men.” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell fried fish?”

“No time for food. We have work to do.” Hitomaro crossed the street and asked the drinkers, “Anyone here know Kimura? He’s a plasterer and lives around here.”

The three men looked at his neat blue robe and black cap, then at each other. To a man, they shook their heads.

Hitomaro frowned. “I don’t believe you. This is official business. It concerns a case before the governor. We need Kimura’s testimony.”

The hairy men stared back and shook their heads again.

Genba came and took a precarious seat on one of the stools. He nodded to the men and called for service. “Sit down!” he told Hitomaro. “I’m thirsty. Tagging along with you is hard on a man. Wish you were in some other business.” Turning to the three men, he added, “He’s with the tribunal, but he’s not a bad fellow when you get to know him. Pay no attention to the official manner. I’m Genba, by the way. Wrestler by profession. I’m in the competition this year.”