Hiro doubled back from the south and reached the rice sellers’ street as the temple bells began to ring hour.
As Hiro expected, a samurai stood guard at the intersection of Sanjō Road and Karasuma Street. Hiro paused and observed the guard from the safety of the shadows. Unlike the samurai on the bridge, this one didn’t pace or seek distractions. He watched the road, bored but alert.
Hiro pulled a stoppered bamboo segment from his tunic. As he weighed the explosive in his hand, he considered its effect. The bombs had served their purpose at the bridge, but after dark, in a silent ward, another explosion would lead to trouble Hiro didn’t need.
He returned the bamboo tube to his tunic and bent to untie the thongs that held his trousers against his ankles. Once released, they fell into a standard hakama shape. Hiro hoped they would pass for normal trousers in the dimly lighted street.
He stepped from the alley and headed toward the guard, affecting the purposeful gait of a man on an errand.
The samurai turned as Hiro’s footsteps reached his ears. Light from a nearby lantern shimmered on his graying hair. The slenderness of his lower arms revealed advancing age.
Hiro hoped the guard was new and didn’t know the neighborhood too well.
When the shinobi drew within speaking distance, the samurai said, “Come no farther, sir. Please state your name and business on this street.”
Hiro stopped and bowed, encouraged by the samurai’s politeness.
“Good evening,” he said, “I am a physician on an urgent call.”
The samurai looked suspicious. “I didn’t see anyone go to call a physician.” He took a closer look at Hiro and frowned. “Is that blood on your clothes?”
Hiro looked down at his clothes as if just noticing the spray of bloody droplets down the front. The dark fabric muted the color, but, as he expected, an experienced samurai recognized it even so.
“I was called to a fight in a teahouse. A cook and a brewer, fighting over a girl. I didn’t even have time to put on proper clothes.” He hoped his tone was sufficiently nonchalant. He didn’t want to kill another samurai that night.
“Who won?” the samurai asked, suspicion giving way to curiosity.
Hiro shrugged. “The cook had a knife, but I think both men will live.”
“Who called you here?” the samurai asked.
“They sent a boy—he found me at the teahouse,” Hiro said. “I don’t remember the patient’s name. The shop lies two doors past the one of a merchant named Basho.”
The guard shrugged. “No idea who that is, but before you go—my wife has a problem with a recurring toothache. The physician we consulted couldn’t cure it.”
“Toothache?” Hiro asked. “Have you tried mint tea? Any apothecary should have mint leaves. Buy the fresh ones—they work better than the dried. Your wife should chop a handful of leaves, boil them in water for ten full minutes, strain the liquid, and let it cool. She can drink two cups at a time, three hours apart, until the ache subsides. If that doesn’t work, the tooth will have to come out.”
“Thank you!” The samurai reached for his purse. “May I pay you? I don’t want to take advantage.”
Hiro shook his head and bowed. “Not many men would treat a physician with courtesy and respect. I consider your generosity more than sufficient compensation.”
“I wish you great success with your other patient.” The samurai stepped aside.
Hiro continued down the street, pleased that the samurai’s personal needs played into his ruse so well. At the same time, his heart thudded in his chest and his stomach swirled with anxious tension.
As he approached Basho’s warehouse, he slowed and moved to the side of the street.
Lights flickered in the upper floors of half the merchants’ houses. Wealthy men could afford the oil to stay up after dark. Unfortunately, wakeful neighbors made the errand far more dangerous. Hiro would have to wait for them to sleep before he entered Basho’s shop.
Wooden shutters covered the front of Basho’s warehouse, blocking the light from within. The upper story had no windows on the front and angled slats across the windows on the sides. Hiro wouldn’t know for certain when the merchant’s family went to sleep.
Narrow alleys separated Basho’s building from the ones on either side. Hiro stepped into the alley on the east side of the warehouse. Squinting up, he thought he saw a light between the slats of the upstairs window. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell for certain.
Hiro returned to the edge of the alley and looked out into the street. He saw no one in the road and heard no sounds except cicadas and, more distantly, the hoot of an evening owl.
Halfway along the alley, a pair of barrels sat outside a door that probably led to a private storage room behind the shop. Hiro lifted the lid of the closest barrel. The grassy scent of rice hulls wafted out, along with a hint of dust.
Hiro reached inside and found the barrel empty. It seemed solid and smelled clean, but merchants rarely left undamaged barrels out unguarded overnight. Faulty or no, this one would serve his purpose. Hiro climbed into the barrel and returned the lid to its place above his head. The space was dark and cramped but smelled far better than many places Hiro had spent the night.
As he crouched in the barrel, Hiro considered Chikao’s murder, and why Ginjiro felt the need to hide the truth about his interactions with the brewer. Omissions seemed suspicious from a man who claimed he had nothing to hide.
Yet Ginjiro wasn’t the only suspect.
Kaoru’s temper, combined with his love of money, gave Chikao’s son a motive, too. However, in Hiro’s experience, laziness trumped avarice when a murder required work.
Yoshiko claimed innocence, but Hiro didn’t know how to interpret the samurai woman’s denials. He needed more information about her whereabouts at the time of Chikao’s death.
The lack of a clear investigative path made Hiro peevish. In both of the previous murders he solved—the one at the teahouse and the more recent one at the shogunate—specific facts had pointed the way to the killer. This time, the evidence didn’t point in any clear direction.
Hiro hoped he could find Basho and that the merchant’s information would prove useful. If not he had killed a man, and spent a night in a barrel, for no good reason.
Temple bells rang. An hour had passed. Hiro stretched his muscles as well as he could to keep from cramping in the tiny space. His foot and ankle went to sleep, sending painful tingling up his leg. Hiro wiggled his toes until the unpleasant sensation went away.
No sooner had he managed this when the other one started prickling.
The temple bells marked the passage of another hour.
Hiro lifted the lid of the barrel and listened. He heard no human sounds in the alley. All the houses he could see were dark. A cricket chirped near the base of the barrel, but only once. Then silence fell.
Hiro left the barrel. As he replaced the lid, he heard footsteps in the street. He crouched behind the barrel and pressed himself against the warehouse wall.
A shadowed figure passed the alley. Hiro saw a scabbard sticking up behind the shadow’s back and caught the faintest gleam of moonlight off the oiled chonmage on a samurai’s head.
Hiro pulled a strip of cloth from beneath his obi and secured it over his nose and mouth.
The thump of geta echoed on the porch of Basho’s shop, followed by the hollow bang of a fist on wooden shutters.
“Basho!” yelled a female voice. “Get up and open this door at once!”
The voice belonged to Akechi Yoshiko.