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“Greetings, Honorable Chamberlain.” He was a muscular samurai in his forties, with a tanned, open face and a deferential yet confident manner. Sano recognized him as the master of the racetrack. “May I ask why we’ve been kept here?” Irate mutters from the spectators echoed his question. “What’s going on?”
    Sano said, “Greetings, Oyama- san ,” then explained, “I’m here to investigate Chief Ejima’s death. Lord Matsudaira thinks it was murder.”
    “Murder?” Oyama frowned in surprise and disbelief. Low exclamations rose among the spectators. “With all due respect to Lord Matsudaira, that can’t be. Ejima fell off his horse during the race. I saw. I was standing by the finish line, not five paces away from him when it happened.”
    “He seemed to faint in the saddle just before he dropped,” said a spectator. “It looked as if his heart had suddenly given out.”
    Sano saw heads nodding, heard murmurs of agreement. Contradictory feelings beset him. If these observers were correct, then the death wasn’t murder, the other three probably weren’t either, and his inquiry would be short. He felt a letdown coming. Then he reasoned that at least this would mean the regime was safe, and he would be glad to put Lord Matsudaira’s fears to rest. But for now he must keep an open mind.
    “My investigation will determine whether Ejima was a victim of foul play or not,” Sano said. “Until it’s finished, this is a case of suspicious death. The racetrack will be treated as a crime scene, and you are all witnesses. I must ask you all to remain here and give statements about what you observed.”
    He saw irritation on the men’s faces. He sensed them thinking that Lord Matsudaira was too quick to see evil schemes everywhere and that he himself was wasting his time as well as theirs. But no one dared argue with the shogun’s second-in-command. Sano reflected that his new status had its advantages.
    “Fukida- san , you start taking the witnesses’ statements. Marume- san , you come with me,” Sano told his men.
    The thin, scholarly, serious detective began herding the crowd into a line. The brawny, jovial detective accompanied Sano as he strode along the track. The racetrack master followed them. As they neared the body, the soldiers surrounding it stepped aside. Sano and his companions halted and looked down at the dead man.
    Ejima lay sprawled on his back, his arms and legs bent, against a wide, smudged black line painted across the track. His iron helmet covered his head and face. Sano could see his eyes, dull and vacant, through the open visor. Ejima’s metal armor tunic was dented. Blood and grime stained his blue silk kimono, trousers, white socks, and straw sandals.
    “He looks like he’s been beaten,” Marume said.
    “The horses trampled him,” Oyama explained. “He fell right under their hooves. It happened so fast, and the other riders were so close behind him, there was no time for them to steer clear.”
    “At least he won his last race,” Marume said.
    “Has his family been notified of his death?” Sano asked Oyama.
    “Yes. My assistant went to tell them.”
    “Did anyone touch him after he fell?” Sano said.
    “I turned him over to see how badly he was hurt and try to help him. But he was already gone.”
    “Has the track been cleaned since he died?”
    “No, Honorable Chamberlain. When I sent the news to Lord Matsudaira, his troops came and brought orders that nothing was to be disturbed.”
    Sano felt hindered by the troops, who lingered too close, waiting to see what he would do. “Wait over there,” he told them and Oyama, gesturing down the track.
    When they’d moved off, Sano said to Marume, “Supposing Ejima didn’t die of a bad heart, the fall could have killed him. But then the question is, what caused the fall?”
    “Maybe someone in the stands threw a rock at him, hit his head, and knocked him unconscious. Everyone else there would have been too busy