by I. J. Parker
Saburo followed the young monk through the door he held open. For a moment he blinked against the light, then he saw an elderly monk of astonishing size peering up at him. The abbot must easily be of Genba’s build, though in his case, his shoulders and chest bulged with muscles rather than fat.
“It’s you!” the abbot said, his eyes widening.
“It’s me,” Saburo agreed.
“Leave us, Kangyo. He’s one of us.”
“Yes, Reverence. So he said.” The young man hesitated, looking from the abbot to Saburo and back. “Will it be all right? Should I stay close?”
Abbot Raishin frowned. “No, no. Get back to your rounds.”
They waited until Kangyo had closed the door behind him. The abbot said, “Sit down, Saburo. You look tired. I’ve often wondered how you are managing.”
“Thank you. I manage,” Saburo said drily.
“But not easily, I bet. I grieved over what happened, but we had no choice.”
“I know. Once people see my face, they remember.”
“Yes. Why have you come?”
“A friend of mine is in trouble because of something done by a shinobi. I came to get information about the man.”
“You know I cannot give you information about our people.”
“I think this man may not be one of ours.”
“I see. That’s different. Tell me about it.”
Saburo told Genba’s story from his encounter with the stranger and the dropped needle to his being arrested for Tokuzo’s murder. Then he waited.
The abbot had listened with a lively interest. Now he smiled and said, “That was very careless of him.”
“To be fair, he probably didn’t expect to collide with a wrestler,” said Saburo. “There’s more. I also encountered him. At least I assume it was the same man, because we both had taken an interest in Tokuzo’s place. I got there before him and took the women’s contracts. When I was leaving, he jumped me in the dark hallway. When I came to, the contracts and the needle were gone.”
Abbot Raishin frowned. “It could have been another burglar.”
“He found the needle, though I carried it in the seam of my jacket. Only someone in our business would know where to look.”
“Perhaps. Still, it’s not proof. If this Tokuzo was as evil and as wealthy as you say, he could well have had several enemies.”
Saburo’s heart sank. “It’s all I have, except that Genba remembers the man smelled as if he’d just come from a bathhouse.”
Raishin sat up. “A bathhouse? Now I wonder. Needles. Hmm.”
“Yes,” said Saburo, hope rising again. “It occurred to me also. I agree it’s far-fetched, but there’s a link.” He told the abbot how he had ended up in the beggars’ guild and how none of the beggars had wanted to answer his questions or Tora’s.
The abbot nodded. “We have taken note of this person. He’s not been here long. The first reports reached us a few weeks ago. He received his training in the north. But I must tell you he doesn’t seem to be an assassin. A shinobi, yes, but he hasn’t killed anyone to our knowledge.”
“Do you think it’s possible he killed Tokuzo?”
The abbot spread his hands. “All things are possible. I wish I could be more helpful.”
Saburo bowed. “Thank you, Reverence. I think I’ll take a closer look at him.”
Raishin said, “It’s a difficult issue, this question of justice. I don’t envy you.”
Saburo nodded and got to his feet. He was almost out of the room, when he heard the abbot say softly, “Most likely the killer has a very troubled conscience himself.”
The Journal
The ride to Koryu-ji had been more than Akitada should have undertaken so soon after his fall. When they reached his home, he slid from the saddle and clung to it while waves of pain washed over him. The worst of it was that he would not have been in condition to fight off another attack or protect his sister.
“What’s wrong?” asked Akiko, sounding irritatingly chipper as she got down from her horse.
“Nothing. I’ll be all right in a moment.”
“Here comes help,” she said. “I’ll run in and see Tamako.”
Tora appeared by his side, and then, to his surprise, Genba. They also wanted to know what was wrong. Akitada pushed himself away from the horse and took a deep breath.
“It’s just some soreness from the fall. Genba? I’m so glad to see you, but what happened?”
Genba regarded him with moist eyes. “Superintendent Kobe let us go, sir. I expect we owe you our thanks.” He bowed.
“It wasn’t my doing. We haven’t found the killer yet. Saburo is working on it. Kobe must have decided his case against you wasn’t strong enough.” Akitada embraced Genba. “Welcome home,” he said, then stepped back to look him over.
Genba wiped his eyes and smiled, speechless at this reception.
“Well,” said Tora, clearly embarrassed by all this emotion, “I think it was high time the superintendent realized you’re innocent. And what about all those floggings?”
Akitada said, “Yes, I’m sorry about all you’ve had to suffer. How are you?”
Genba grinned. “It was nothing, sir. I’m very well. But what about you? Tora told me what happened.”
“I’m also very well … now that you’re back,” Akitada said happily, patting Genba’s shoulder. “We really missed you.”
“Thank you, sir. Let us help you into the house.”
Akitada walked leaning on Genba’s strong arm. In his study, he got behind his desk. “Sit down, both of you. Genba, what about Ohiro? Is she free, too?”
“Yes, sir. She’s gone to stay with Shokichi.” Genba shot Tora a glance.
“But I thought you and she … I was under the impression … .” Uncertain, Akitada stopped.
“Well …” Genba looked to Tora for help.
“Genba thinks it will be best if he visits her in the city.” Tora was clearly uncomfortable.
“Oh.” Akitada looked from one to the other and frowned.
Tora bit his lip. “We thought you wouldn’t want another woman from the amusement quarter under your roof.”
“What nonsense! Another woman? You mean Hanae?” Tora nodded, and Akitada snapped, “You were wrong. Hanae is part of my family, as are both of you. You are like brothers to me. How could I deny either of you the joy of raising a family? My fortunes aren’t great and my future isn’t promising either, but if you’ll settle for what we can offer, Genba, and if you wish to take a wife, I will welcome her and your future children into my house. The same goes for Saburo. If I have given you a different impression in the past, I’m sorry. I tend to worry about the company you keep, but you’re both grown men, and I have no right to interfere in your lives as long as you respect my family.”
They both gaped at him.
When nobody said anything, Akitada smiled. “Are you happy here, Genba?”
“Yes, sir, but … are you sure? Ohiro … I love her dearly and she’s a sweet and good woman, sir, but she did work in a brothel. Hanae never did.”
“I’ve learned a few things lately about how young women end up in places they shouldn’t be, sold by their parents to men who mistreat them. Ohiro’s not to blame for what her life was like in the past, as long as she will be a devoted wife to you.” Seeing Tears well up in Genba’s eyes again, Akitada added quickly, “And now you two had better go and see about living quarters for Genba and his bride.”
They left grinning, with Genba muttering his thanks over and over again.
Having thus arranged his household to his entire satisfaction, Akitada stepped out on his veranda and stretched. The garden was peaceful in the afternoon sun. Sighing with pleasure, he drew Lady Masako’s journal from his sleeve and went back inside.
It was tastefully bound in pale green brocade with a pattern of golden shells and white cherry blossoms. He undid the darker green silk ribbon and opened it. The paper was of the finest quality, and the lady’
s brush strokes proved she had a good education. The journal was short and tended to skip days.
He settled down at his desk and started reading.
The entries were dated by the year and month, and it appeared she had started the diary soon after she had entered the palace. As was customary, she referred to herself in the third person and never by name. This device made the diary read like a tale about an imaginary character and was, no doubt, meant to protect the author’s identity.
It occurred to Akitada that he had no proof this was Lady Masako’s journal except for Lady Hiroko’s word. He would have to read the entries carefully, looking for internal evidence of the author’s identity.
The first pages described the season—it was spring, and the writer grieved at not seeing the cherry blossoms of her former home—but soon she mentioned incidents: visits from a father, then from a brother, court festivities, seasonal observations, more parental visits. Interjected poems began to suggest first melancholy, and then sadness: “Alas, each day brought deeper grief; each week another lament,” and “In sorrow her days passed without comfort.”
After the initial introduction to His Majesty, which dwelled in detail on the lady’s gowns, there were no more references to the emperor. To Akitada this implied that her hurt at being rejected by the young monarch was too great to allow her to make the slightest reference to Him.
Akitada had progressed this far, when quick steps approached. Then the door opened, admitting Akiko and his wife. The ladies were wide-eyed with curiosity.
“There you are,” said Akiko. “And you’re reading it. Why didn’t you wait for us?”
Akitada frowned. “I intend to absorb the contents in peace and quiet. I can’t think when women chatter in my ears.”
Akiko hissed. “Shameful! When I was the one who got the journal for you. You are the most ungrateful creature.”
Tamako smiled and came to sit across from him. “You look tired, Akitada. I had the water heated for your bath. It will soothe your aches and pains.”
He looked at her gratefully. “Thank you. I’ll bathe as soon as I’ve had a look at this.”
“What about us?” demanded his sister. “You cannot keep it to yourself.”
Tamako said, “She has a point, Akitada.”
Akiko sat down beside her, her chin in the air. “I’m not leaving until I’ve read the journal.”
Akitada sighed. “Very well. I’ll read it out loud. But don’t interrupt constantly.”
The ladies smiled triumphantly and settled themselves comfortably on their cushions. Akitada turned to the beginning and started reading. They listened, sometimes exchanging glances and nods, but remained quiet. It was not until he was well past the middle of the diary and had reached a passage where a page arrived and passed a branch of flowering orange to the lady that his sister spoke.
“A note from Prince Tametaka? Who is that? There is no Prince Tametaka.”
Akitada gave her a reproving look. “She probably means Atsuhira; she’s hiding his true identity.”
“Oh! How fascinating!” Akiko clapped her hands.
Akitada ignored this and continued. It seemed to him Atsuhira had pursued Masako rather early in her career at court, but he said nothing of this.
The writer passed over the incident of the flowering orange branch or the note attached to it, only composing the conventional poem in response. However, the poem was certainly suggestive: “The scent of orange flowers is welcome to one whose sleeves lack such perfume.”
The ladies gasped. Akiko said, “That’s an invitation.”
Tamako merely looked shocked.
Akitada was beginning to enter into Lady Masako’s frame of mind. The rejected young woman wrote of her loneliness. No wonder she longed for love.
The affair began soon after. The prince called on her and spoke to her through the lowered reed curtains. His poems suggested they make their dream a reality. She responded, “I dream sweet dreams; my sleeves are wet with tears. If I take the dark path alone, we will meet in paradise.”
A few nights later, he slipped into her room, and they became lovers. He marked the occasion with a poem on the meeting of their souls. She told him, “The cuckoo’s song was full of pain; now it is summer and he sings with full-throated joy.”
He paused. Had Lady Hiroko known of the forbidden meeting inside the palace? More than likely. And summer would soon be over.
Akiko sniffed. “Hurry on. We still have nothing to point to murder.”
Entries followed about more shared nights and exchanged poems. The meetings in the palace were deemed too dangerous, and the lady arranged outings so she could meet him in his villa. He talked of marriage. She worried about scandal. And still the time spent in the imperial palace hung heavy on her hands. She had no friends except Lady Hiroko, who appeared in the journal now and then as Lady Sakyo. Her father stopped his frequent visits but sent angry letters. At some point, he demanded she return home. She obeyed, but the journal contained nothing about the visit. It picked back up late in autumn, when she was back in the palace.
At this point the tone changed. She had made up her mind to leave her service to the emperor in order to live with the prince. However, there appeared to be difficulties. Lady Masako did not specify what they were, but they seemed to have to do with the prince’s household.
Having got this far, Akitada paused again. “My throat is dry. Let’s have some wine.”
Tamako rose quickly to get it.
Akiko said, “It seems strange nobody in the palace caught on. He managed to creep into her room a number of times, and then she was always going off on excursions. It must have been very dangerous. If he was so eager to take her to wife, he should have done so much sooner.”
Her brother nodded. “Yes. I thought so, too. Prince Atsuhira has played fast and loose with young women before. Perhaps he got cold feet?”
She nodded. “Men are such cowards.”
“Not all men, surely.”
“No, but there are enough of those like the prince at court. If you ask me, Masako was a fool. Even at eighteen, a girl knows better than to listen to such honeyed words.”
Akitada thought back to his last encounter with the prince. “He seemed very distraught over her death. I wonder if it was Lady Kishi who found out about their plans and made difficulties.”
“Kishi would have done more than make difficulties. She would have gone to the emperor.”
“Really?” Akitada was surprised by this and wondered what might have happened if she had done so. But, no, he did not believe the palace would engage assassins.
Akiko said, “No. Kishi doesn’t love her husband. You have to love a man madly to cause a scandal like that.”
Tamako came back, followed by her maid with a tray containing a wine flask and three cups. The maid set this down and poured, then left again. Akitada drank thirstily and refilled his cup immediately. The ladies sipped.
“Akitada thinks Kishi might have informed the emperor of the affair,” Akiko told Tamako.
“Surely that would simply have meant sending Lady Masako home in disgrace,” Tamako remarked.
“Exactly,” nodded her husband. “Still, might she have written to Masaie?”
They pondered this but found no answer.
“Go on with the reading,” urged Akiko. “If she did, we’ll find out soon enough.”
In the middle of the Gods Absent Month, Lady Masako went home again. Akitada paused, looking at the women.
“Strange,” murmured Tamako. “She couldn’t expect anything but more harsh reprimands from her father, yet it sounds as though she requested permission to travel.”
Akiko cried, “I have it. She found out she was with child. It’s the only possible explanation. She couldn’t stay in the palace in that condition.”
Akitada said mildly, “It wouldn’t have been noticeable under all those gowns you women wear.”
Akiko snorted and Tamako smiled. “There are other signs,
” she told her husband.
He flushed. “Oh, but would anyone know beside herself and her companion?”
Akiko said, “Certainly. In the imperial palace, there are ladies assigned to taking note of such changes.”
Akitada was embarrassed and decided to go on with the reading rather than pursue such matters.
As it turned out, Lady Masako returned to the palace a week before her death in the Frost Month. The entries were even shorter now. She noted the arrival of winter, perhaps because her visits to the mountain villa became more arduous. Somehow, Akitada sensed that a decision had been made.
“I try to read your heart,” she wrote in one poem to her lover, “while snow falls on my melancholy days.”
“It sounds as though she realized too late she couldn’t rely on him,” commented Tamako. “He’s not a good man. Could he have killed her?”
Silence fell as they considered this.
Akiko nodded first. “I like it. He’s never had a conscience when it came to women. I think he did kill her. How will you prove it though? Go on and read the rest. What does she say just before the day she died?”
“If he killed her, he didn’t try to cover up the affair,” Akitada reminded her. “It got him in all this trouble.”
Akiko pursed her lips. “The trouble happened because your friend insisted on going to the police.”
“True.” Akitada reluctantly gave Akiko credit for having seen this. “But his behavior seemed to be the reaction of an innocent man who was profoundly shocked by her death.”
“Oh, you’re just stubborn. Go on and read.”
There was not much more. Some court observances at the beginning of the Frost Month were briefly mentioned. The prince sent a note. She responded, “Are you also thinking of the moon over the mountain’s edge, lamenting how the days drag on?”
The decisions had been made, Akitada thought. And he read the final entry.
“’Oh winter storm! Your voice is thunder and my sleeves are soaked with tears.’”
“There!” cried Akiko.
Akitada said, “There is no more. She didn’t write another line.”
