Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

  Akitada stiffened, remembering the grief and worry of Okamoto. “It is not a matter of money, and the young woman’s father is not yet aware that she is dead,” he said coldly.

  “Oh?” Masahira waited.

  Heavens, did the man think this was a blackmail attempt? Akitada flushed with fresh anger. “I shall, of course, report to him,” he said quickly, “but I came to you first because I hoped that you might wish to see him yourself to explain what happened.”

  Masahira turned away. “No. You may tell Okamoto that I am responsible for what happened and that my life means nothing to me now. I am at his disposal if he desires to discuss the affair or avenge his honor.”

  Akitada was thunder-struck. He had expected fury, denial, bluster, but certainly not this quick admission of guilt. He looked at the man’s back and wavered in his estimation. The broad shoulders sagged and his neck, bent, looked vulnerable for all its strong muscles and neatly brushed glossy black hair. But he could not afford to feel sympathy. Masahira was, at the very least, a sly seducer of innocent young women, at worst a heartless killer.

  “I am afraid, it is not going to be that simple,” he said, “not in a case of murder.”

  Masahira spun around. “What? Murder? She drowned herself. Because she thought I had deserted her.”

  “No. Someone knocked her unconscious, dragged her to the pond, and drowned her.” Akitada outlined his observations of the evidence.

  Masahira ran his hands through his hair. “It cannot be. Here! He fished a piece of paper from inside his robe. Read for yourself!”

  The letter was still warm from lying next to Masahira’s skin. Akitada unfolded it and read the childlike characters. “I cannot bear this lonely place any longer. I think you do not want me and will leave me to die alone. How could I ever have believed you? My sleeves are wet with tears. Soon they will be wetter still.”

  “Tomoe wrote this?” Akitada asked, returning it.

  Masahira nodded. “I blame myself entirely. I should not have left her alone there. She told me she was frightened and begged me to stay. When I refused …” He turned away.

  “You could have taken her back to her father,” Akitada offered, his anger melting rapidly along with his suspicions.

  “You don’t understand.” Masahira’s voice broke. “I loved her.” He put both hands over his face. “I could not bear to give her up.”

  “Then why did you not bring her here and legitimize the relationship,” Akitada asked. “A man in your position is expected to have secondary wives.”

  Masahira turned and looked at him bleakly from moist eyes. “I meant to. In fact, I was preparing my household to receive her when it happened,” he said stiffly.

  Akitada digested this information and decided to accept it. “Regardless of the letter, which is ambiguous at best, someone killed her,” he said at last.

  Before Masahira could respond, the door opened and a tall, handsome woman entered. Her robes were costly, and her glossy black hair swept the floor behind her, but her features were thin and pinched. Lady Chujo, Masahira’s wife and the chancellor’s oldest daughter. When she saw Akitada, she gave him a sharp, appraising look before addressing her husband.

  “I apologize if I am interrupting, husband,” she said in the soft, nasal tones of the upper classes. “I wished to know if there is any news.”

  “My wife,” introduced Masahira. “My dear, this is Sugawara Akitada. He has come from Okamoto Toson about Tomoe.” To Akitada he said, “My wife is aware of the tragedy, but not, of course, of the fact that murder is suspected.”

  “Murder?” Lady Chujo’s eyes flicked over Akitada without interest. “Impossible! My husband found the letter the unfortunate young woman wrote before walking into the pond. I suppose her father must be distraught. It is only natural. But you must convince him that he is wrong about this and that it is absolutely essential the unpleasantness be handled discreetly. Naturally you will also give him our condolences.”

  Akitada took an instant dislike to the woman. An unpleasantness, was it? To be resolved by a message of condolence? Aloud he said, “Madam, Tomoe’s father is not yet aware of her death nor of her connection with your husband. I came here because explanations had better come from Lord Masahira.”

  The proud head came up and the lady stared Akitada in the eye. “Impossible,” she said again. “A man in my husband’s position cannot be expected to deal with such low-bred notions. The girl was a foolish child frightened by hobgoblins and fox spirits. I am certain the proper authorities will rule her death a suicide.”

  Masahira interrupted at this point. “Did you say Okamoto did not know she went with me? But Tomoe wrote him a letter before she left with me.”

  A letter? Here was another puzzle. Of course there was only her sister’s word for the fact that Tomoe had left without notice. What if Otomi had known all along where Tomoe was?

  Aloud he said, “He did not … does not know. He only suspects that Tomoe was lured away by a man of high rank. It was the sergeant at the police building who told me that you had reported her death.”

  Lady Chujo said irritably, “They should make certain such people can be trusted not to blab confidential matters to every curiosity seeker!” She glared at Akitada who was once again reminded of his own precarious position. A word from Lady Chujo to her father, and Akitada could find himself banished to the island of exiles in the far north.

  He bowed and said apologetically, “Forgive me, but I was merely carrying out Mr. Okamoto’s instructions.” With brilliant inspiration, he added, “He is very distraught. No doubt the tragedy, when it becomes generally known, will win him much sympathy from his many friends and supporters.”

  Lady Chujo looked thoughtful, and her husband said quickly, “Yes, of course. I had better go and explain. Though I still don’t understand how he could have been so completely in the dark. I made no secret of my intentions to Tomoe. It is unfortunate that the empty villa frightened her, but I thought that the young women would arrange for someone to stay with her.”

  The young women? So Otomi had known!

  “Indeed,” cried Lady Chujo. “My husband was making even more generous arrangements for her, when she panicked. He was bringing her here. But, being a most superstitious person—one of those who are forever muttering spells and buying silly amulets against Heaven knows what—she simply went mad with fright.” Lady Chujo was warming to her subject. “If she did not drown herself, then she ran into the water out of fear. It was an accident. It is really no one’s fault, but the silly girl’s.”

  Masahira said unhappily, “Don’t! Tomoe was not silly. She was very sweet and very young. I should have looked after her better.”

  Lady Chujo bit her lip. She was clearly tired of the subject. Her eyes fell on the tray of food. “You have not eaten,” she said. “Let me get some hot food. This dreadful incident will make you ill, and you know you are on duty tomorrow for the emperor’s birthday.”

  “I am not hungry,” Masahira said with a grimace, but she went to pick up the tray anyway. She left the room, scented robes and long hair trailing, without so much as a nod to Akitada.

  “I do not wish to trouble you any longer, sir,” Akitada said nervously, “but could you direct me to your villa?”

  Masahira sighed and rose. “Come! I will take you myself. If you are right about its being murder, it would be a terrible thing, but at least I would not feel that Tomoe killed herself because of me.”

  Akitada had not expected the offer or the sentiment from such a powerful man and was surprised again.

  They rode—Masahira had superb horses—and crossed the city quickly. In the western district, they entered an almost rural setting. There were few villas and some, now abandoned, had become overgrown with vegetation. Empty lots were covered with tall meadow grass which was alive with rabbits and deer. They passed a few small temples, their steep pagodas rising above the trees, but the streets were mere dirt tracks and the bridges, which cros
sed small rivers and canals, were dilapidated.

  Yet here and there, in the midst of the desolation, a few secluded mansions and villas survived, their rustic fencing in good repair, and the thatched roofs mended. Masahira stopped at one of these, dismounted, and unlatched the gate.

  At that moment, a curious figure detached itself from the shadows of the large willow tree at the street corner and walked toward them.

  At first glance, the scrawny man appeared to be a monk. He was dressed in a stained and worn saffron robe, his head was shaven, and the wooden begging bowl, dangling from the hemp rope about his skinny middle, bounced with every shuffling step he took. When he reached them, he stopped and stared slack-jawed and with vacant eyes. Akitada saw that he wore several small wooden tablets with crude inscriptions around his neck.

  “He’s just a mendicant,” said Masahira. “They live in small temples around here.” He tossed a few copper coins to the man, while Akitada rode into the courtyard. Dismounting, he glanced over his shoulder at the beggar, who had not picked up the money, but was still standing, staring foolishly after them until Masahira closed the gate.

  They were in a small courtyard of a charming house in the old style, all darkened wood and sweeping thatched roof.

  Akitada looked curiously about him. A stone path led to the front door and then continued around the side of the house to what must be the garden. The cicadas were singing their high-pitched song in the trees.

  Inside there was only one large room, but this had been furnished luxuriously with screens, thick mats, silk bedding, and lacquered clothes chests. There was also an assortment of amusements suitable for an aristocratic young lady. A zither lay next to a beautiful set of writing implements, games rested beside several novels and picture books, and a set of cosmetics and combs accompanied an elegant silver mirror. Three tall wooden racks were draped with gowns of silk and brocade in the most elegant shades and detailing, and Akitada counted no less than five fans scattered about. In the short time since she had left her father’s house, Tomoe had been spoiled by her noble lover. He looked around for evidence of the sister’s having been here, but found nothing.

  Masahira wandered dazedly about the room, touching things. He brushed a hand over one of the gowns, then picked up a fan, looked at it, and let it drop again. “Well?” he asked.

  “I understand that you could not spend much time with Tomoe,” said Akitada, “but I have been wondering why she did not have at least a servant for companion?”

  “There was a need for secrecy at first. I wished to keep the affair from my household. Tomoe herself insisted that she needed no one. But, as I said, I thought surely her sister …” he passed a hand over his face, “at any event, she became fearful. The foxes make strange sounds at night. She was not used to it. She developed a fear that I might meet with an accident and never return. She had dreadful dreams. One day I found her nearly incoherent. That was when I decided to bring her into my home.” He sighed deeply. “Too late.”

  Akitada looked around the room distractedly. This had been the second reference Masahira had made to the sister. Had Otomi known of this place? If so, why had she lied? In his mind’s eye, he saw again the complacent look on the plain girl’s face as she stood beside her father and said, “My sister is very beautiful.”

  He became aware of the fact that Masahira was looking at him and asked, “May I see the pond now? And perhaps you could tell me how you came to find her body.”

  Masahira nodded. He led the way into the garden. They followed the stepping stones through dense shrubbery, but trees and weeds had grown up around the path and brushed and tore at their clothes. All around them the cicadas sang, pausing as they passed and resuming again a moment later.

  “I had gone home to speak to my wife about Tomoe,” said Masahira, holding a branch aside for Akitada. “To my surprise, she was immediately receptive to the idea. You must understand that I have no other women, and my wife is childless. She confessed that she looked forward to raising my children by Tomoe, and to having her companionship. Overjoyed, I returned the next day to tell Tomoe.” He fell abruptly silent.

  The stepping stones only went as far as a stone lantern. Here Masahira turned right. “The pond is this way,” he said. His voice shook a little. In a distance, Akitada could hear frogs croaking. There was no sign of foxes, but the dense shrubbery rustled with animal life.

  They emerged from the trees. The pond lay before them, basking in the hot sun.

  “When I got to the house, it was empty,” Masahira said, staring at the still water with a shiver. “I was puzzled, for I knew Tomoe was afraid of the garden, but eventually I went to search for her there. I almost turned around when I got to the pond without seeing her.”

  The pond was shaped like a gourd, and they stood near its widest end. Up ahead, where it narrowed, a small bridge arched across a dense growth of water lilies and lotus. Clouds of small gnats hung low over the water, and dragonflies skimmed the surface. The sound of the cicadas was less strident here, but the atmosphere of the pond, stagnant in the summer heat and choked with vegetation, embraced them like a suffocating shroud.

  Masahira pointed to a thorny shrub near the path. “I saw a small piece of silk there and knew she had come this way. That was when I went to look in the water.” He walked forward to the muddy edge and stared down. “She was here.”

  Akitada joined him. The water was brown but not deep. He could see the muddy bottom, pitted here and there by the feet of the sergeant and his constable. A huge silver carp appeared, rose briefly to look at them and sank again. Other fish, fat, their colors dull grey and copper in the muddy water, shifted lazily across the mud, and a large frog, suddenly conscious of their presence, jumped in with a splash and swam away. In this neglected garden, human beings were the intruders.

  Masahira said, “She could have slipped and fallen. But I cannot imagine what would have brought her out here.”

  Akitada glanced across to where a fallen pine projected over the water. “There are the foxes,” he said.

  Two young cubs had climbed up and looked at them curiously. Masahira cursed, clapping his hands sharply. The cubs yelped and ran. A moment later their mother appeared, a handsome vixen with a long bushy tail, her ears pointed and her sharp nose twitching to catch their scent.

  Masahira clapped again, but the fox stood her ground. “They behave as if they owned this place,” he complained. “I shall have workmen clean up this wilderness and drain the pond.” He turned abruptly and walked back.

  Akitada stayed another moment, looking at the fox. Then he also turned to go.

  What had happened here? He no longer suspected Masahira. It was clear that he had loved the girl and had made arrangements to bring her into his family. Who then? The envious sister? A jealous lover? Or a stranger, some vagrant coming across the lonely girl? The image of the scarecrow monk flashed into his mind, and he hurried after Masahira.

  He caught up with him in the house and asked, “That beggar outside the gate, do you know him?”

  Masahira was surprised. “Yes. He is one of the monks in a small temple a short distance away. Why do you ask?”

  Akitada, with the certainty of conviction, said, “He looked deranged. I think he got in and attacked Tomoe.” Masahira shook his head, but Akitada added quickly, “Perhaps she caught him stealing. He could have picked up something and knocked her out.” Looking around the room, he pounced on an iron candlestick, examined it and put it back disappointedly. Next he picked up the heavy silver mirror. “Yes,” he cried. “I see a dent here and …” He dashed out into the sunlight with it, squinting at the rim. “There!” he shouted triumphantly. “Do you see it? That is a drop of blood and a long hair is stuck to it. This was used to knock her out. Now do you believe me?”

  Masahira came to look and nodded. “Yes,” he said sadly. “You must be right, but the man has always been quite gentle. He has never hurt a living thing. He is not very bright and sells talismans that
the other monks inscribe with spells against demons.”

  “Of course,” said Akitada. “Fox magic. He knocked at the door, and when Tomoe opened, he offered her one of his charms. I suppose they are those wooden tablets he had around his neck. Then he saw all these fine things and no one to watch them but a young, delicate lady. He helped himself and, when Tomoe protested, they struggled, and he hit her with the mirror. He thought she was dead and decided to hide the body in the pond.”

  Masahira frowned. “Could not someone else …?”

  “No, no. It all fits,” cried Akitada, rushing out. “Let us go back and tell the police.

  • • •

  When they reached the police building, the sergeant was talking to Okamoto Toson, who had finally come to report his daughter missing, and had ended up identifying Tomoe’s body.

  An uncomfortable scene ensued.