“Jan Spaen was a brave, talented trader,” Iishino translated, hunching his shoulders against the damp wind—or Sano’s scrutiny? “He opened new markets and generated high profits for the East India Company. He was my partner for ten years, and I very much regret his passing.”

Sano paid minimal attention to the rest of this positive eulogy from a murder suspect who wouldn’t want to air his grievances against the deceased. He studied Iishino, trying with difficulty to imagine him as a murderer. Had this buffoon shot Jan Spaen? If the mere sight of Spaen’s corpse had shocked the jitters out of him, how could he have stabbed Peony?

Yet perhaps Iishino’s reaction to the corpse had been caused by fear of betraying guilt. He had access to Deshima’s warehouses. He had the language skills necessary for colluding with the Dutch. He’d seemed worried when Sano asked why Director Spaen had been updating the account books so long after the official sale of Dutch goods, maybe because he knew Spaen had recorded the smuggling transactions and didn’t want Sano to find out. And Iishino was the person most responsible for creating false evidence of Sano’s wrongful behavior toward the Dutch. Sano’s dislike for the interpreter deepened into loathing.

Iishino finished translating the assistant director’s recitation. Then it was Dr. Huygens’s turn to speak.

For a long time, the doctor remained silent, head bowed over the coffin. Drizzle misted the air. Dirt flew from the hole where the gravediggers worked chest deep. Then Huygens spoke two short phrases.

“May all our sins be forgiven. Rest in peace,” Iishino echoed.

The doctor’s ambiguous words seemed to imply that he himself was guilty of some offense. Distracted from his speculations about Interpreter Iishino, Sano again feared he’d trusted Huygens too quickly. Had he ignored clues during their meeting? Could the doctor have murdered Spaen?

The other Dutchmen spoke their pieces. The gravediggers placed ropes under the coffin and lowered it into the hole. Each barbarian cast a handful of dirt onto the coffin. Then the diggers shoveled earth into the grave. Sano’s skin crawled at the thought of the corpse slowly rotting underground. How much cleaner and more final was the Buddhist custom of cremation. But Sano had no time to ponder the differences between Japanese and Dutch funerary rites, or Dr. Huygens’s possible guilt. Interpreter Iishino was edging toward the road leading down the hill.

Sano cut through the circle of troops, pushed past spectators, and hurried after Iishino. The interpreter ran down the road, shoulders hunched, sandals flapping. Sano caught up with him, seized his arm, and swung him around.

“Not so fast, Iishino,” he said.

Grinning, Iishino shrugged. He let out a high, nervous titter, and said, “Excuse me, sōsakan-sama, excuse me.” When none of these ploys broke Sano’s hold on him, he whimpered.