by I. J. Parker
“The master is very kind, seeing he has his own troubles.”
“You’re family, Genba.”
Genba hung his head and muttered something.
“What? You did what?”
Genba sighed.
“You told the master you’re leaving him? You can’t be serious. You can never leave him. You’ve sworn to protect him and his family.”
“I’m no good anymore,” said Genba, his voice breaking.
Tora shook his head. He looked from Saburo to Genba. “So. Both of you have turned your backs on him. For shame!” He strode to the cell door and pounded on it. “We’re going,” he shouted.
Saburo got up. “He told me to leave.”
Tora just gave him a look.
The door creaked open. Behind them, Genba had gotten to his feet. “I think, “ he said, “he smelled like he’d just come from the bath house.”
The Mountain Villa
Having to wait for whatever Lady Kishi or his sister Akiko might report frustrated Akitada, who normally handled such errands himself. Since the ministries observed their two days of rest per week, he decided he would take a look at the place where Lady Masako had died. Thus, the day following Akiko’s visit, he got on his horse early in the morning and set out.
It was springtime in the countryside. He had almost forgotten about that in the capital. Or rather, he had been too preoccupied with his various troubles. Now he and his horse enjoyed the gallop through rice fields still under water and ready for their first seedlings. The sun was very bright and reflected blindingly from the watery surfaces.
Akitada’s spirits lifted. The sight of farmers planting their fields, ensuring rice harvests that would feed the nation, filled him with pride. It was hard and humble work, performed by poor, uneducated men and women, but it gave his country its strength. The gods watched over the rice culture, and the emperor himself worshipped them, bowing deeply to these kami, and praying for a good harvest every year. Surely, before such blessings, his own troubles counted for little.
When he reached the foothills, woods closed in on the narrow road, and the scent of pine and cryptomeria hung in the moist air. Bright green ferns uncurled from cushions of darker green moss, and small star-shaped flowers bloomed among them. Then the road turned rough and stony as it climbed ever more steeply into the mountains. Soon the trip became arduous for rider and horse.
Akitada’s thoughts turned to Lady Masako’s death and brought a feeling of danger that became more palpable the close he came to the top of the mountain. He looked over his shoulder from time to time, but saw no one on this path. Even so, he shivered with a strange foreboding.
At a turn in the path was a small clearing, and here stood a simple hut that must be the caretaker’s. On its wooden stoop an old man sat in the sun, dozing. Apparently he had not heard Akitada’s approach even though his horse made a good deal of noise on the loose rocks.
“Good Morning, Uncle!” Akitada called out. It was a common form of address for elderly men. But this old man seemed ancient, and he might have used “grandfather.” This time, he turned his head slightly and grunted a reply. Something about his unfocused glance told Akitada that he must be partially blind. It did not promise well for finding out who had visited the prince’s villa last winter.
His horse was tired, and Akitada dismounted to let it graze beside the path. Walking up to the old man, he asked, “Are you Prince Atsuhira’s servant?”
The old man blinked, cleared his throat, and asked in a cracked voice, “Who are you?”
“Lord Sugawara. A friend of your master’s.”
The old man reached beside him and brought forth an old kettle and a stick of wood that might have been part of a broom or rake once. With the stick, he beat on the kettle, producing high, reverberating sounds that sliced the air and sent a number of birds into flight and Akitada’s horse into the woods.
Akitada covered his ears. Was the man demented? “Stop that!” he shouted.
The man put the kettle and stick down and gave him a toothless smile. Then he leaned back against the door jamb, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.
It was hopeless. Akitada turned away. He could see the roof of the villa among the trees on the crest. How could such an old, blind, and demented man take care of anything, let alone a building easily half a mile and a steep climb away?
He shook his head and caught his horse.
He had just swung himself back into the saddle when he heard someone coming up the path and turned. An old woman was climbing toward him, bent double under a huge pile of brushwood tied to her back.
He watched her reach the hut, then stop and release the rope tying the load to her back. She straightened and looked at the dozing old man.
“What d’you want, old man?” she shouted.
He opened his eyes and pointed to Akitada.
So the banging on the kettle had brought the old woman, most likely the man’s wife. Akitada smiled. They had their own ways of communicating.
The old woman had turned and now regarded him with slack-jawed surprise.
Akitada dismounted again. “I’m Lord Sugawara,” he told her. “I’ve come to talk to you and your husband about what happened last winter and to have a look at the villa.”
She said, “I didn’t hear you coming up the road. Sorry, sir. My hearing’s not good anymore.” She glanced at her husband and chuckled. “But my eyes are still good. Between us, we manage. Nobody’s been here since then. His highness and the police were here then, and a gentleman who’s a friend of the master’s. His highness was in such a state. How is he now?”
“Still not very well. That’s why I’m here. Sometimes three pairs of eyes and ears are better than two. I suppose the police officer asked you if anyone went up to the villa the night Lady Masako died.”
She nodded. “Nobody came but the pretty lady and his highness, sir. That’s what I told them. It was a terrible thing, such a pretty young lady killing herself like that! And his highness never knowing what she was about.”
“You expected both of them that day?”
She looked down and twisted her hands in her mended robe. “They’d come when they could. They were in love,” she murmured. “You could tell. They were so much in love, so happy.” She sighed and wiped her eyes.
“These visits had happened before, and you had seen them together?”
She looked up briefly, then glanced in the direction of the villa. “Four times. The first two times they came together. His highness stopped and asked us to make a fire and heat some wine he’d had brought along. Then they sent us home. The other times, they didn’t come together. His highness told us to keep things ready for them, and they didn’t stop but went straight up. Him on his black horse with the white patch, and her on her gay one. Both looking so handsome. Like something in a fairy tale.” She dabbed at her eyes again.
She was clearly a romantic soul, but Akitada stuck to the important facts. “And the last time, the fifth time?”
“The last time was the fourth time, sir.”
Well, that was very precise; she seemed to have an excellent memory. Akitada glanced at her husband, who was awake now and was watching them with a smile. “Does your husband remember it the same way?”
The old man said, “It’s a busy day. Coming and going.” He chuckled.
“He’s not himself most of the time, so you can’t tell what he remembers. We’re getting old. Don’t know what’s to become of us now.”
There were more victims in this case than Lady Masako and her imperial lover. Akitada said, “I’ll try to remind the prince. Perhaps he’ll let you move back to the city and get someone younger to stay here.”
This did not make her happy. She looked at the little hut, her garden, the trees enclosing it all, and shook her head sadly. “Needs must, I guess. Thank you, sir.”
“I won’t trouble you now, if the villa is open.”
“If you don’t mind going on ahead. The shut
ters in back aren’t latched,” she said with a glance at the pile of brush she had gathered.
Akitada got back on his horse and completed the climb to the top of the mountain. The villa was astonishingly rough and rustic.
Why would a member of the imperial family use such a modest wooden house in this desolate and inaccessible wilderness? The Prince Atsuhira he had known, while pleasant and amusing in company, had certainly not appeared the sort of man who relished solitude and an ascetic lifestyle.
He swung himself out of the saddle and tied his horse to post. There were several of these here; clearly the prince and his visitors had all come on horseback. No carriages, wagons, or even palanquins had ascended the steep track. Over to one side of the clearing stood an open shed. There a horse or two might have sheltered on the days when he and Lady Masako used to meet here. Otherwise, the mountaintop was untouched. Birds flew through the branches of tall cryptomerias and pines, a fox appeared from nowhere, stared and melted into the brush again, and overhead some squirrels chattered at Akitada’s intrusion of their territory.
It should have been remote, safe, and very private, yet a murderer had known about the secret meetings and lain in wait.
For the first time, Akitada considered whether the prince might have been the real target, and that Lady Masako, arriving early, had caught the assassin waiting. He might have been forced to kill her because she would have warned the prince. But why had he not waited for his real prey afterward?
Atsuhira had been very late. Perhaps, the murderer, shaken by what he had just done, had been too terrified to face a night in the place where he had killed the young woman. Most people believed an angry ghost could not only haunt but kill the person who had been guilty of their death.
Yes, it could have happened that way, but this did not make his job easier. It complicated it further.
He inspected the villa first. The main door was secured with a lock. He walked around the building to the back. Here the land dropped off, and a broad veranda jutted out. He climbed the steps and turned to take in a vast view of hills and mountains, blue and misty, all the way to the distant capital, which beckoned like a golden jewel far below. No doubt, this prospect was why the villa was here, that and its inaccessibility. Had the prince brought his other women here also?
Akitada turned to the shuttered doors that ran along the back of the house. These, he found, opened easily. He flung all the shutters back to get light into the interior and entered.
The space had been subdivided with partial walls to make four rooms. The largest of these contained thick grass mats, two lacquered trunks, a few silk cushions, and a small lacquer desk evidently used to eat from, for it still held some clean bowls and ivory chopsticks. He saw also a lantern, two oil lamps, and two candle sticks with candles. A large brazier stood near the fire pit. Yes, this humble wooden house had a fire pit like any small farm house. It would have kept the room comfortable for romantic meetings in the middle of winter. The fire pit still contained charred timbers.
A thin layer of dust covered everything.
There were no painted screens here, but on two of the walls hung scroll paintings depicting deer and a family of foxes.
Akitada went to the trunks and opened them. Both contained bedding of luxurious silks and thick padding. He did not see any clothes. Apparently, the lovers rarely spent more than a few hours here.
Except for that last night when the prince had been detained.
What must have gone through Lady Masako’s mind? Had she worried about being found out if she spent the night here? But perhaps it had no longer mattered. Her pregnancy could not have been hidden much longer.
Whatever Kosehira’s role had been in the delay, the prince was the more to blame. He could surely have left at the usual time, had he really wanted to. This again spoke to Atsuhira’s irresponsible behavior toward women he claimed to love.
Apart from the dust and a lot of faint footsteps, the room was quite tidy, except that the cushions were not stacked neatly. Instead they lay oddly scattered, as if someone had kicked them about. Perhaps Kosehira and Kobe had done this when they searched the villa. He would have to ask.
Next, he looked at the other three rooms. One must have served as a rarely used kitchen. It held supplies of lamp oil and some wood to make a fire. A barrel contained water, but dust and scum had settled on the surface. The other two rooms were uninhabited, their wooden floors bare and very dusty. Here there were also scuffed tracks. Again, perhaps Kosehira and Kobe had left these, or the caretakers, though there was not much evidence of caretaking. In one of the rooms, various wooden staffs called bo were stored. They were of differing lengths and had perhaps been used by the prince and his male guests for practice bouts. He was about to turn away when he saw a tiny bit of something blue moving against the white-washed plaster wall. He went closer and found a few threads of blue silk attached to a nail protruding from a support beam. A draft of air from outside had made them move. It seemed strange that someone should have walked just there where there was no door.
And then he saw a slightly darker spot on the dark wood floor a few feet away from the wall and the blue threads. He licked a finger and bent to rub at it. It came away faintly reddish brown and smelled of blood. There was very little, just a few drops and a faint smear. If he had not seen the movement of the blue silk threads, he would not have noticed them. Now he squatted beside them and glanced from them up to the threads. He wished he knew what Lady Masako had worn that night, because the image in his mind was of the young woman cowering against the wall, trying in vain to escape her attacker.
Eventually, he stood and looked once more around the room. He could not rid himself of the feeling that a violent encounter had taken place here. Perhaps it had started in the main room, where the cushions had been kicked aside. Whoever had come in had found the young woman and frightened her. She had fled, hotly pursued, and she had been cornered just here.
But, of course, it might have been altogether different. There was nothing to show when or how the blood had got there and the blue thread could have come from anything.
He left the house and walked the steep path to the promontory. It was not far and a very pretty walk among trees and boulders. He could hear the waterfall before he reached it. The rocky site gave him an excellent view of the cascade which originated in a cleft to his left and plunged down in a series of steps, each misty with white spray, until it reached a small, shallow pool at the bottom. From there the water made its way down the mountain as a burbling stream.
An ugly memory intruded, as he looked down. His pursuit of Morito, the killer of the lovely lady Kesa, had brought him to a waterfall like this one, a famous place for suicides. He had expected Morito to have killed himself in remorse and had climbed down to look for the body. Morito, too, had been involved an ill-advised romance. Only in his case, the man had killed the woman he loved.
Could the prince have killed Lady Masako? Had she become adamant about marriage, and had he foreseen the fury of Lady Kishi and the subsequent loss of protection he had enjoyed from the family of the regent? The more Akitada thought about it, the more feasible this scenario became. The caretaker couple had seen the prince arrive after Lady Masako. Perhaps there had been a quarrel, and he had lashed out. She had fallen and, thinking her dead, he had taken her to the promontory to suggest a suicide. Yes, it might have happened like that. He wished he could ask Kosehira what they had talked about before the prince had left for his tryst.
Thinking glumly about the situation, Akitada returned to the villa. He wandered around the house and stood looking out at the view. The solid ground continued for twenty feet or so and then descended abruptly.
He was not quite sure why he went to look over the side. Perhaps he wondered that the young woman had not been tossed over here, rather than from the more distant promontory. He saw right away it would not have suited the killer. It was not a precipitous drop as on the promontory, but rather a steeply ste
pped descent of rocky outcroppings to a depth far greater than that of the waterfall pool. Here and there, stunted shrubs and trees clung to the rock and rubble. Any of these could have caught a body heaved over the side. On this rough mountainside, the chances of the young woman’s clothing becoming entangled were very high.
Besides, the idea had been to suggest suicide.
As he stood looking down at the rocky surface of the mountain, he saw a slender, polished bo caught in a struggling bush. It was an odd thing to find clinging to the mountainside. Even from the distance, it looked like one of the fighting sticks in the empty room.
He took off his hunting coat and started to climb down.
He reached the bo without too much trouble and saw it was a sword-length practice staff. Remembering the traces of blood in the villa, he leaned forward to examine it. The polish was badly chipped, showing paler wood beneath. And there on the underside, he saw what looked like a small stain as well as two or three long hairs. If it was proof that Lady Masako had been attacked with this weapon, the killer likely had rid himself of it by tossing it down the mountain.
He leaned forward and stretched out a hand to grasp it when he heard a noise above him. He looked up, saw a dark shape outlined against the sky. Then a large object hurtled down and struck his head before he could jerk away. Shocked and blinded by pain, he twisted. The rocks under his feet gave way, he slipped, arms flailing, and started to tumble down the mountain. Dirt and rocks shifted, sharp objects tore at him, and then he lost consciousness.
Panic
Saburo returned to his work for the rice merchant and his lodging with Mrs. Komiya. Tora went home, kissed his wife and son, and saddled a horse for the trip to Yasaka village. Genba stoically faced another interrogation. All three were in better spirits after their meeting in the jail.
Tora’s journey, while pleasant enough in the springtime weather, produced little in terms of results. Yasaka village turned out to be no more than a hamlet of rustic farmhouses gathered among pine trees on a slight hill. All around them stretched rice fields, most already flooded so that the village looked like a small island in a broad sea. The road to it led along a narrow dam between fields and was almost like crossing a lake on an extremely long bridge. The notion amused him, and he felt once again the pull of the simple peasant life. How good it would be to live in such a place, peacefully, close to the land, sheltered by the gods.
