text: Matsudaira Konnosuke had been restless the entire night. He had just decided that sleep was no answer, was about to reach for his senior concubine whose blonde figure slept beside him, when he heard his guard call at the entrance to his private chambers.
  
  "Lord, excuse me."
  
  Matsudaira slipped out of the bedding. Rosamund protested feebly as he walked quietly out, holding his short sword. He crouched several feet away from the entry. He could hear no indication of trouble.
  
  "What is it?"
  
  "Permit me?" the guard replied. "There is a message from Mr. Muto."
  
  Matsudaira opened the door. The messenger, a young samurai from the police office, bowed to the floor then rose to a one-knee crouch. Matsudaira recognized him as one of the samurai constables ...
  
  "What is it Yanagisawa?"
  
  "Lord, Muto-sama has instructed me to tell you that there has been another robbery. This time at a silk merchant's. He says there are some serious aspects. His men are chasing the culprits who were seen."
  
  Matsudaira nodded. "Get me a horse. It will be quicker than a palanquin." He turned and rushed back into his private quarters.
  
  Rosamund, blonde hair dishevelled and one full pink-tipped breast exposed, sat up in the bed.
  
  "What is it?" she asked.
  
  "Another robbery," he said, throwing on a day kimono. Over it he tied a pair of loose flowing trousers--hakama--that were the privilege of samurai alone. A black haori coat with his crest of three pine needles went on top.
  
  She pouted. "Again? You don't have any time for me now!"
  
  He was in no mood to quarrel, and lacked the time to soothe her properly. "I'm sorry. There are too many things to handle. I will see you in the morning." He hurried out of the room, peering regretfully over his shoulder. He knew the look she wore on her face: it meant a great deal of painful pleasure for him in the future.
  
  The silk merchant's warehouse was lit by the lampions of the magistrates office. Muto detached himself from a small group of assistants and rushed over as Matsudaira dismounted. His runners and guards puffed around him as the ride had been a long one.
  
  "Well?" Matsudaira demanded.
  
  "Same gang," Muto said. There was something in his voice that made Matsudaira signal him aside.
  
  "Lord, it was young Uemura." Muto's bulky face was blank.
  
  "And?"
  
  "I thought, since we know who it is that is heading these robberies, that we should perhaps wait with the arrest ... You may have some other use for him."
  
  Matsudaira grinned boyishly. "We might, you know. We just might. A second pipeline into the Ito household might prove to be useful ..."
  
  Muto started at the "second." The young master certainly was shaping up. He had had no idea the young magistrate had been able to move so swiftly.
  
  "What shall I do then?" he asked, a shade more deferentially.
  
  "Nothing for the meantime. I'm after much bigger fish."
  
  "It would be embarrassing to have him arrested," Muto prompted. "His father is a senior member of the fief council in Kanazawa."
  
  "What about his associates? Any knowledge of them?"
  
  "He has been going about with a group that is writing some new form of poetry to replace the traditional waka verse. But they are all commoners, or men of no antecedents. Some of them may be involved. In any case, we could arrest them without any problem."
  
  "Don't do it yet. Have them observed and be ready to arrest them if I decide to arrest ... or rather if he has an accident of any sort."
  
  Muto's respect for his superior grew another notch. He had an idea what form the accident would take. The large samurai who lived in the direction of Gion, visited the magistrate frequently. He taught fencing, among other things, and he seemed very close mouthed about his affairs. Well well well. The youngster was of the same mettle as his father. Muto remembered a couple of incidents from their shared youth ..."It will be done, Lord," he said formally.
  
  Matsudaira nodded an acknowledgement. "Let me see the scene of the crime. We cannot afford to be captives of our own preconceptions. Who saw Uemura?" They moved away, deep in discussion. Across the town an angry Rosamund was pounding her fists against her pillow. Suddenly an idea occurred to her. She smiled brilliantly and stroked her cheek thoughtfully, then went in search of a certain chest.
  
  In the early hours of morning a nun, her head wrapped in a purple hood and covered by a broad hat, scuttled out of a small side door in the magistrate's mansion. She kept her face down and her hands hidden. But on her black-clad shoulder a single strand of golden hair lay forgotten, fallen from a head that should have been shaven bald.