Looking resentful, the Chinese merchant agreed. Money changed hands, and Urabe’s porters loaded up the wood. Sano stepped forward. “Urabe-san. I’m Sano Ichirō, the shōgun’s sōsakan. I’m investigating the murder of the Dutch trade director, Jan Spaen, and I’d like a word with you.”

The merchant’s face took on a “what now?” expression. “Of course, master,” he said. His gaze roamed, seeking other deals.

“What happened between you and Spaen when you met him on Deshima the night before last?” Sano asked.

“Sorry, you’re mistaken.” Urabe edged across the aisle to a porcelain dealer’s stall. “Haven’t been to Deshima since the barbarians sold their goods there last year.”

Given that Urabe’s name hadn’t appeared in the visitor’s log, Sano had expected a denial. “Are you saying you haven’t seen Jan Spaen since then?”

The Chinese porcelain merchant came up to Urabe, smiling eagerly. “Ask him how much for these plates,” Urabe told the interpreter. To Sano he said, “That’s exactly what I’m saying. One hundred momme apiece!” he exclaimed when the interpreter translated. “That’s robbery. Forty momme, no more.” He turned back to Sano. “Who told you I was on Deshima the night before last?”

“A witness who saw you there,” Sano said, reluctant to reveal his source.

Urabe chuckled. “Bet it was Spaen’s whore, Peony. Ha, I’m right, aren’t I? Fifty momme,” he countered in reply to the Chinese man’s offer of eighty. “Whatever Peony says about me is a lie. To get me in trouble.”

Sano was tired of competing for his suspect’s attention. “Stop the negotiations until we’re done talking,” he ordered the interpreter. “Urabe, why would Peony want to get you in trouble?”

The porcelain merchant turned away to greet another customer. “Come back!” Urabe called. To Sano, he protested indignantly, “I have a living to earn. Can’t this wait?”

Seeing Sano’s glare, he shrugged, his head sinking deeper between his shoulders. “Oh, all right. I was at a party at the Half Moon last month. Went to buy a drink; reached for my money pouch. It was gone. Looked around and saw that ugly whore sneaking out of the room. I guessed she’d stolen my pouch, so I reported her to Minami. He went after her and got it back, then beat her. So now she hates me. When you asked her about the barbarian, she pointed you toward me, out of spite.”

The explanation sounded plausible, to Sano’s regret. If he couldn’t pin the murder on a prostitute, his next safest choice was a merchant. The bakufu might even welcome Urabe’s conviction as an excuse to seize his assets. Yet there was still hope of incriminating him.

“I hear your business is in trouble,” Sano said.