Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

  Otagi flared up. “What if I told him? There really was a man with her. I heard them together.”

  “And you called your master and sent him to her room?”

  Otagi avoided Akitada’s eyes. “It was my duty.”

  “I think you did it because you were furious that she had rebuffed your own desire.”

  Otagi flushed. “She lied about that. The master didn’t believe her. He believed me,” he cried. “She was nothing to me. I wouldn’t look at a woman like that.”

  Akitada went to pick up the silken under gown. “But you sleep with her clothing and in her quilts,” he said. “Look, Sergeant. It is perfectly obvious that he slept here.”

  The steward sagged to his knees and burst into tears of frustration and pain. “She was so beautiful,” he sobbed. “And he beat her. I would’ve done anything for her. I took her special delicacies from the kitchen, and flowers from the garden. The cosmetics … I gave her those … and some of the clothes. The master was mean with her, and I thought … but she wouldn’t … she said I disgusted her.” He rocked back and forth in his pain.

  Akitada asked more gently, “Why did you kill your master when you found him unconscious?”

  There was a long silence, and then Otagi said, “I heard him shouting that he would kill them both. It was terrible. He was a man with a violent temper, and I was sorry for what I had done. There was a fight, a lot of noise. Then it got quiet, and I heard a door close. When I went in, I found him unconscious on the floor. Chiyo had left with her lover, and I knew that he would see her dead for what she had done.” He sobbed softly. “I could not let him do that to her.”

  • • •

  That afternoon the rain finally stopped. Akitada was standing near the gate to the jail, when Hajimaro came out, a free man at last. He watched him amble off aimlessly, his muscular build shortened by the drooping shoulders and hanging head. Would he make his way to Rashomon, to join the hopeless poor there, perhaps to learn to lie and cheat, to rob out of greed rather than hunger?

  “Hajimaro,” he shouted.

  The other man turned.

  “Do you need work and a place to stay?”

  The robber’s face broke into its gentle smile. He nodded.

  At that moment, the clouds parted and the sun came out again.

  In 1014, Akitada undertakes his first major official assignment in Kazusa province. These adventures are described in The Dragon Scroll. Back in the capital the following year, he courts and marries his childhood sweetheart, Tamako, daughter of his former professor, whose death is part of Akitada’s investigation into the cases described in Rashomon Gate. The story that follows involves an incident that happened shortly after the events of Rashomon Gate, but before Akitada left the capital again to take up his duties as provisional governor of Echigo province. It features Tora, his loyal but disrespectful assistant, and the tradesmen and artists of the city.

  Instruments of Murder

  Heian-Kyo (Kyoto), 1015; Leaf-changing Month:

  AKITADA was playing his new flute to the breaking dawn. He was constrained to practice in the far corner of his garden, in a vine-covered shack, well away from the main house, because his efforts grated on the ears of his household. They were too polite to say so but had a habit of scattering every time he pulled out his beloved flute.

  Therefore he was surprised to see his secretary Seimei coming quickly toward him along the smooth stones of the old path. He broke off a tender rendition of “The village in the forest” and called out, “What’s the matter?”

  Seimei stopped breathlessly to wipe beads of perspiration from his wrinkled brow. In spite of the early hour, it was already hot and humid though summer was past. “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, “but there is a constable at the gate. He says that Tora has been arrested for a double murder.”

  Akitada’s mouth fell open. “Tora? A double murder?”

  “Yes, sir. It sounds serious. The earth always shakes when we least expect it.”

  Akitada sighed and tucked his flute into his sleeve. “There is some mistake, of course, but I had better go and see. Bring me my cap and tell my wife that I have been called away.”

  “I brought your cap, sir.” Seimei produced it from his voluminous sleeve, along with a small bronze mirror. Holding up the mirror, he said smugly, “They say ‘Have an umbrella ready before it rains!’”

  Peering into the mirror, Akitada adjusted the stiff black silk cap on his topknot and tied the black cords under his chin. “Very well. If you haven’t done so already, you might send to the ministry and tell them I’ll be a little late. It shouldn’t take long to clear this up.”

  • • •

  But he met with difficulties the moment he arrived at the office of the warden of the East River Village, a pleasure quarter on the left bank of the Kamo. His name meant nothing to the fat warden and red-coated constable, and the colored trim on his hat denoting his rank passed unnoticed. The warden merely stared rudely and said, “No one is admitted. Orders of the Metropolitan Police.”

  Akitada snapped, “Announce my presence to the person in charge of the case or I shall report your insolence.”

  The warden opened his mouth, thought better of it, and disappeared. The sound of muffled voices came from the rear of the building. Someone said loudly, “Did you say ‘Sugawara’?” The warden’s reply was inaudible, but the other voice was still raised in frustration: “Get rid of him -- any way you like. That’s all I need. The officious meddler from the ministry!”

  Nothing further happened. Akitada cast a glance at the impassive face of the constable on duty, sighed, and then went to sit on a grimy mat in the corner. After a moment he drew his flute from his sleeve and began to play the opening notes of “The village in the forest.”

  The inner door opened abruptly and an official, wearing a red tunic and the insignia of a police inspector on his black cap, burst into the room.

  “What’s this infernal noise?” he shouted. His eyes fell on Akitada. He took in the silk robe and the blue rank trim on his cap and swallowed. Then he bowed and said, “I beg your pardon, sir. This filthy hovel distorts sound dreadfully.”

  “Really?” Akitada looked about him vaguely. “I’m Sugawara. You have my servant in custody?”

  “Oh.” The inspector looked as if he had bitten on a cherry stone with a sore tooth. He waved his hands and said quickly, “It’s nothing, sir. Nothing at all to require your attention. Merely a small matter of obstructing the law, sir.”

  “Not a double murder?” Akitada asked, disappointed.

  “No, no. Just a silly mistake of the local authorities. Your man came across two bodies and called the warden who did not like his manner and arrested him. When I arrived and looked into the matter, it all become clear. Your servant is free to go. The case is solved.”

  “You have already solved both murders?”

  “Oh, yes. It was one murder only. A beggar stabbed a drunken wrestler during a robbery, and then succumbed to his evil deed.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He died of natural causes near his victim. It will close the case.” The inspector looked complacent.

  Akitada raised his eyebrows. “That is very strange indeed. Perhaps I might have a look at the bodies?” He rose and tucked the flute back into his sleeve.

  The inspector cleared his throat. “Er … ah … I’m expecting the coroner.”

  “No trouble at all, my friend,” Akitada said breezily and started toward the corridor. “It’s a particular interest of mine, you know. You may not be aware of it, but I have been able to solve a number of puzzling crimes in the past. I should be delighted to offer my views on this case.”

  The inspector gulped and moved aside. “Er … there is really no case … down the hall and to the left,” he said, but Akitada had already passed him and was stepping into the room in question.

  The dead men lay naked on grimy straw mats. One looked to be in his thirties or early forties, a
big, handsome man with muscular legs and arms and a belly which showed signs of turning to flab. Several stab wounds to the left chest and side had torn the thick skin, bleeding profusely down the left side of his belly, groin and upper thigh. The cause of death was obvious, but Akitada peered at the wounds, gauging their width and placement, touching the skin and dried blood, and moving fingers and wrists. Then he turned to the other body.

  This man was in most respects the opposite. He was elderly—at least sixty, thought Akitada—short, fat and unhealthy looking. His arms and legs were pitifully thin and weak. Akitada inspected every inch of the body, paying particular attention to the scalp and face, but found no wounds, only a trickle of blood from one nostril and ear. For a few moments he stood, pursing his lips and pulling his left earlobe. Then he bent again to check the dead man’s palms, fingernails, and the soles of his feet.

  The inspector, who had followed him and watched impatiently, offered a comment now. “That’s the killer. A common beggar. They hang about the river front begging from drunks returning from parties. When times get bad, they turn to robbery. This one must’ve found the wrestler sleeping it off—you can still smell the wine on him—and tried to get his money from his belt. No doubt the wrestler caught him at it, and the beggar had no choice but to kill him.”

  Akitada looked at the policeman. “With what?” he asked.

  The inspector pointed to a package wrapped in oiled paper. “A short sword. We found it in a rain barrel near the site.”

  Akitada unwrapped the parcel, exclaimed in surprise, and raised a short sword, perfectly clean, its slim graceful blade mounted on a grip of black metal heavily inlaid in pure gold with a design of waving grasses. “How did a beggar get a sword like this?” he asked. “For that matter, what makes you think he is a beggar?”

  “His clothes, sir.” The inspector indicated two bundles in the corner. “As to the sword, we cannot be sure yet, but he either took it from the victim or he stole it someplace earlier.”

  Akitada grunted. He undid the first bundle and found the beggar’s rags, a torn grey robe, its tattered bottom so short it probably barely covered his legs, for there was nothing else except the white loincloth. The robe was horribly stained with blood on the front, the right side, and the right sleeve. The loin cloth was quite clean. Akitada frowned, holding up the garments and looking from them to the corpses and back again. Then he put them down and took up the wrestler’s clothes: a loin cloth, a silk under robe, sky blue cotton outer robe with a large white pattern of waves and cranes, and a black and white checked cotton sash. Both robes were slashed and blood-soaked in the chest area, and the sash and loin cloth were deeply stained. He nodded and put them back.

  “May I now see my servant?” he asked.

  Tora crouched in the corner of a bare cell in the back of the warden’s house. His face was bruised, and his hands and feet were chained, and there was blood on his clothes, but he greeted Akitada with a grin.

  “Knew you’d come, sir. I told the fools you’d straighten them out in short order. Never saw a warden as stupid as this one. Have you seen the bodies? Any ideas what happened?”

  Akitada raised his hand. “Not so fast! I should be the one to ask you what happened.”

  “Oh. One of the victims is Kiyomura, a fourth-rate wrestler. I’ve never laid eyes on the other one. I ate supper last night with Kiyomura and some others in the Phoenix Pavilion. That’s a restaurant on the river. It was hot, and the Phoenix Pavilion has balconies hanging over the water. There’s a cool breeze with a fine view of the city and of pleasure barges with lots of pretty girls in them, and they serve an excellent cheap wine.”

  Akitada frowned. “Spare me the details of your frivolities. What about the wrestler?”

  “Kiyomura used to be a pretty decent wrestler, but this year he didn’t place at all. Too much high living, I think.”

  “How did he support himself?”

  Tora shook his head. “It’s a mystery. Last night he had plenty of money. Bragged that he’d found his own gold mine and talked about getting gifts from an admirer.”

  “Sometimes wrestlers enjoy the sexual attentions of male patrons. Could that have been the case here?”

  “Not him. He was always going on about women and how his latest lady love is a great beauty. Ando confirmed it.”

  “Ando?”

  “One of the other fellows. A raw youngster, but he’s a talented painter and he was nagging Kiyomura about this girlfriend. He wants to paint her as the goddess Kannon.”

  Tora chuckled. “Ando’s at an age where every pretty face looks like a goddess, and Kiyomura was his hero, even if he treated the poor kid like a stray dog. Come to think of it, Ando was supposed to take Kiyomura home. Kiyomura was drunk when I left.”

  “Might Ando have had a reason to kill him?”

  “He’s just a boy. Still, Kiyomura had a cruel streak, especially when he was drinking. He always made fun of Ando and Ando was getting pretty sensitive.” Tora shook his head. “No, I’ll never believe it. For that matter, Kiyomura quarreled with just about everybody last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, he made both Saemon and Hiraga angry. Saemon’s a pharmacist with a shop near the bridge, but most of his custom comes from the River village. He does a great business in aphrodisiacs, ointments, massages, needle therapy and moxa.” Tora shuddered. “Never could understand people who like to be stuck with needles or have those herbal pills burned on their backs. Hiraga’s a sword smith. What’s the matter?”

  Akitada’s brows had shot up. “A sword smith? A good one?”

  “The best! A real craftsman. I’ve wondered why he spent time with the rest of us. His family’s large, and he’s more serious and settled. Of course, Saemon’s married, but Saemon has a new wife and no children yet. Ugly fellow, Saemon, but his business is good and he saved up to buy out one of the courtesans in the village. Kiyomura never missed a chance to rib Saemon about it.”

  “So Kiyomura managed to insult the painter Ando and this Saemon last night. What about the sword smith?”

  “He did worse than that with Hiraga. He slapped him. I thought Hiraga would kill him then and there.” Tora broke off in dismay. “Forget that. Nothing happened. Hiraga calmed down, and Kiyomura apologized.”

  “I don’t suppose Hiraga had one of his swords with him?”

  Tora looked uncomfortable. “Well, he always carries a short sword. It used to drive Kiyomura crazy. Kiyomura wanted that sword, but Hiraga wouldn’t sell it to him. Told him to stick to wrestling, that swords were for swordsmen.”

  “Hm.” Akitada pulled his earlobe and thought. Then he got up. “Luckily that inspector does not seem to suspect you any longer, but I don’t like this case. I’ll have you released, and you can take me to talk to your friends.”

  As the inspector was seeing them out with ill-concealed relief, they met a constable walking in with a slight, sallow-faced man in a plain dark blue robe.

  “Saemon,” said Tora and stopped. “What are you doing here?”

  The pharmacist had a long, lantern-jawed face and sparse ill-kempt hair, but his black eyes were sharp and intelligent and moved instantly from Tora to Akitada. There was a flicker of interest, and then the man bowed very humbly.

  Tora made the introductions and added, “Saemon can testify to Kiyomura’s temper last night. Is that why you’re here, Saemon? To give a statement?”

  “No, Tora. I was called to examine the bodies. My place is just across the bridge, and I happened to be home. A terrible thing, but I’m afraid I know nothing about it. I left the restaurant hours before the rest of you.” Saemon clutched his bamboo case of medicines and instruments with long, sinewy fingers and looked at the inspector.

  “If you’ll excuse us?” The inspector pointedly held the door open for Akitada and Tora and bowed them out.

  “So the pharmacist lives nearby,” Akitada remarked as they were walking away from the warden’s office.

  “Yes.
Look.” Tora pointed at a stand of willows on the river bank where a huddle of locals stood talking and staring at a dark-stained patch of weeds. “That’s where it happened.”

  Akitada nodded without much interest, glancing briefly at the rain barrel of the first house they passed. “Let’s talk to the young painter first,” he said.

  Ando lived in the city, not far from the bridge, in a narrow tenement where he shared quarters with other single men and women of modest means. Many of them clearly kept late hours, for the doors were closed and sounds of snoring filled the narrow, dark hallway. A slatternly female, not much more than a child but with smudged rouge staining her lips, blinked sleepily at them from a doorway.