Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

  “Ando?” she said vaguely. “Oh, he’s down that way. The last room on the right.” She called after them, “Why don’t you stop by on your way out? I can show you something better than pictures. Two for the price of one.”

  They found the painter in a frenzy of destruction. He was ripping apart a scroll of ink sketches, balling up the pieces and flinging them violently about a room which was perfectly bare except for a large silk painting of a goddess and a box of paints. The goddess was impressive but faceless.

  When he saw his visitors, a look of panic replaced the angry scowl on his face. His attempt at growing a mustache emphasized his boyish looks. “Tora,” he said, “what do you want?” He dropped the shredded sketches and kicked the pieces into a corner. Akitada picked one up and smoothed it out.

  “Please don’t look at it!” cried the painter. “Here, give it to me. They are just old scribbles. I have better stuff, if you’re interested.”

  The sketch showed the face of a young woman, her hair coiled behind her head and a small caste mark between her eyes in the manner of Buddhist deities. Akitada glanced at the painting. “I think this is a charming face for your Kannon,” he said. “Most of the paintings of the goddess depict round-faced Chinese matrons. I like this Japanese beauty very much better.”

  The young painter snatched at the sketch. “No. It’s all wrong.”

  “Relax, Ando,” said Tora. “This is my master, and we’re not here about the painting. Last night Kiyomura was killed on the other side of the river.”

  “Kiyomura’s dead?” Ando paled and his arms dropped to his sides. “I had nothing to do with it,” he said quickly.

  “We did not imply that you did,” Akitada assured him, putting the sketch into his sleeve. “But you were to accompany your friend home last night. What happened?”

  “I didn’t. He sent me away. He was quite well when I left. I swear it.”

  “Don’t be a cursed fool, Ando,” cried Tora. “He wasn’t well when I left. He was drunk and mean, and you know it. How did you expect him to get home in that state?”

  Ando’s livid features flushed. “Why should I care?” he said. “The bastard’s never had a word of thanks for anything I’ve ever done. Just, ‘Hey, boy, fetch me some wine from the wine shop. I’ll pay you later,’ or ‘Stop hanging around like some hungry cur!’ or ‘When’s the last time your mother gave you suck, you baby?’” He broke off, and turned to the painting of the goddess in a fresh fury. Picking up a small knife used to trim brushes, he slashed at the goddess’s elegant robes and veils, her dainty hands and feet, and the coiled dark hair on her bejewelled faceless head. “I’m not a child!” he sobbed. “I’m a man. I’ll show him. I’ll show them all.”

  “Stop, Ando,” cried Tora, trying to take the knife away from him.

  “Come,” said Akitada, taking Tora’s arm. “He needs to be alone.”

  Outside Tora said, “We should have kept at him. I’ve never seen Ando so upset. I bet there’s a woman behind it. Maybe it’s Kiyomura’s latest courtesan.”

  Akitada stopped. “Courtesan,” he muttered. “Perhaps … the motive is there … and it would explain … but how to prove it?” He shook his head in puzzlement.

  At that moment, two constables ran up, twisted Tora’s arms behind his back, and tied them with chains before either of them could protest.

  “Sorry, sir,” gasped the inspector, panting up behind them, “but we must arrest your servant again. New information.”

  “What, in the name of the ten judges of hell?” snarled Tora, struggling between the scowling constables and getting viciously prodded with their steel rods.

  “You were heard to threaten the victim,” said the inspector, catching his breath.

  “That cursed Saemon! I might have known he’d make trouble.”

  The inspector looked at Akitada, shook his head regretfully and said with feeling, “Believe me, sir, I’d do anything to avoid this. But your servant was found on the scene, his robe blood-stained,”—he cast a glance at Tora’s sleeve which did show some rust-colored splotches—”and now we have two witnesses who say that he was threatening the victim’s life only hours before the murder.”

  Akitada looked at Tora, who had paled and mumbled, “We had a small disagreement at the Phoenix Pavilion. The waitress must’ve heard. And I checked Kiyomura’s body. That’s how I got his blood on me.”

  “You should have told me. What did you argue about?”

  Tora looked away. “He said some things about you, sir.”

  Akitada bit his lip. The gossip about his interest in crime was not flattering. Looking at the inspector, he pleaded, “Why not wait until you finish your investigation? What about the identity of the second man or the owner of the sword?”

  The inspector shook his head. “The investigation is in the hands of the Metropolitan Police, sir,” he said in an official tone.

  “Inspector, it is essential that a good coroner take a very close look at the second victim …”

  The inspector’s face stiffened, and he cut in, “The coroner has seen both bodies and confirmed earlier findings. That is all I can tell you at this time.” He turned his back on Akitada and motioned to his constables to proceed with their prisoner.

  “Wait! I must have a word with Tora first.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us, sir?” Tora asked, his voice filled with panic.

  “No, Tora. I had better solve this mystery as quickly as possible. How do I find the sword smith’s place?”

  Tora explained, adding loudly for the benefit of the inspector and the constables, “Don’t worry about me, sir. I know you will be back with the name of the real killer in no time at all.”

  Akitada made one last appeal to the inspector. “The so-called beggar’s identity must be verified…” he began, but they were already walking away from him.

  Neither his certainty that Tora was innocent, nor his virtual certainty about the killer was particularly reassuring at this moment. Knowing a thing was not the same as proving it. Moreover, as Tora was now officially charged with murder, questioning would begin immediately, and this involved vicious beatings until the suspect’s resistance was broken and he confessed. The situation had suddenly turned ominous.

  • • •

  Hiraga lived in a street of prosperous craftsmen but his home was modest. Akitada could hear children’s voices and the sound of metal striking metal. As soon as he opened the creaking bamboo gate, a small boy appeared and was joined immediately by three others, each slightly bigger than the first. They stood and stared at him.

  Akitada saw them and smiled. “Good morning.”

  The boys blushed furiously and ran away. The smallest took off, shouting for his mother. A short chubby woman appeared, flustered, with a baby strapped to her back and wiping wet hands on her apron.

  “Welcome to this humble house.” She bowed several times, waking the baby, which blinked at the bright sunlight and set up a wail. Its mother jiggled it and said, “Please come in and forgive my rude children. If you have come to place an order, my husband will soon be free.”

  “Mrs. Hiraga?” Akitada asked, slipping off his shoes and stepping up to the oiled wooden floor in his white socks. He smiled at the squalling child and tickled it into gurgling laughter.

  “Yes.” She blushed and touched her apron. The baby set up another wail. “Please forgive the noise and my dirty clothes. There is much work with all the children. We have eight, and they are a constant shame to their parents.”

  “On the contrary. You are blessed.” Akitada took out his flute and blew a few notes for the baby. It fell silent, gulped, and stared with open mouth.

  “Ah, your son has a fine ear for music.” Akitada exchanged a smile with its mother. “Your husband is a lucky man to have such a fine family.”

  She blushed with pleasure. “Five unmannerly boys and three useless girls,” she sighed. “We are a great burden to him.”

  The noise in the back of th
e house had ceased, and the sword smith appeared.

  “Welcome, “ he said with a bow, sliding open a door, and nodding to his wife. Akitada entered a large room that held nothing but two or three cushions and many swords of all sizes on carved wood stands or on hooks on the walls, some in beautifully worked scabbards, others showing their naked blades of bluish steel. Akitada went over to look at them, taking up a few to test their weight and balance. He complimented Hiraga on his superb workmanship.

  “I have far to go in my craft,” the sword smith said modestly. “Is the gentleman a swordsman?”

  “No. My name is Sugawara, and I am here on another matter.”

  The sword smith’s face fell, but he indicated the cushions, and Akitada seated himself. Hiraga joined him, looking politely expectant. Mrs. Hiraga, without baby, brought wine and a plate of pickled vegetables. She served them and then seated herself near the door.

  Akitada sipped and praised the wine, then said, “The wrestler Kiyomura was murdered last night. I believe you know him?”

  Mrs. Hiraga gasped and her husband started up. “Kiyomura murdered?” He stopped and looked at Akitada more sharply. “Forgive me, sir. How stupid of me. You must be Tora’s master. What happened?”

  “Tora has been arrested. He found the body, and a man called Saemon told the police that Tora threatened the victim’s life.”

  “Saemon’s a fool.” Hiraga made a face. “Kiyomura was very drunk and made all of us angry last night. It meant nothing. How did he die?”

  “He was stabbed several times on his way home, probably with a short sword found in a rain barrel nearby.”

  Hiraga stiffened. “A short sword?”

  “Yes. I wondered if it might be yours. It is very similar to some of your work. The handle is very dark, almost black, with an inlay of golden reeds on the grip and sword guard.”

  There was a cry from the door.

  Hiraga said nothing but rose and left the room. When Akitada looked after him, he noticed an expression of terror on the wife’s face. Hiraga, however, returned in a moment, carrying another short sword. He extended it to Akitada, saying, “This is the one I carried last night.”

  Akitada received it with a bow. It was beautiful and looked like the murder weapon except that this grip and hilt were ornamented with a silver filigree of leaves and flowers. Its blade, like those on display, had a fine blue sheen that had been lacking in the sword found by the police. Akitada commented on this.

  “Water damages the metal. No true swordsman would throw a fine blade into a rain barrel.” Hiraga’s voice was tight either with anger or nerves. “That is why I do not sell my swords into improper hands. The other sword … It may be one of mine, but I did not have it last night.” There was a pause during which he glanced at his wife before adding, “However, you said Kiyomura was stabbed. You will notice that the blade of a sword turns slightly upward. The sharp edge is underneath. It is not effective for stabbing, as anyone familiar with swords will tell you.”

  Akitada nodded. “You are quite right. Still, would it be possible to kill a man using this sword like a knife?”

  “Yes. But only someone completely unfamiliar with swords would do such a thing.” Hiraga glanced again toward his wife who seemed to have become smaller and shrunk into herself.

  “Or a man who wished others to think so,” Akitada said.

  “True, my lord.” The sword smith’s face was expressionless. There was a soft sob and then the sound of the door closing. Mrs. Hiraga had left.

  “Thank you. You have been very helpful.” Akitada got up, followed by his host. In the hallway they passed a hanging calligraphy scroll with a Chinese verse: “Alive, man is a passing traveler—dead, a man come home. One brief journey between earth and heaven.” Akitada gestured at the saying. “It is true,” he said, “that man’s life is short and uncertain, but his greatest blessing is his family.”

  For a moment Hiraga looked puzzled; then he nodded slowly and bowed.

  • • •

  The pharmacist’s house was on the river bank, two doors down river from the bridge. A large sign advertised all sorts of cures and treatments. An older woman with a suspicious manner answered Akitada’s knock. “The doctor’s been called away and his wife is still abed,” she said sharply.

  “I shall wait until he returns. Please let your mistress know I am here.”

  “I am the doctor’s sister,” she snapped, leading Akitada to a room with dirty mats and a tattered screen decorated with garish flowers and birds. She muttered under her breath, “Mistress! That one? Honest women rise with the dawn and serve their husbands, but not this one. A harlot. Singing lewd songs, gallivanting about till all hours, and then sleeping the day away.” She tossed a cushion on the floor for him and flounced out of the room, leaving Akitada to bide his time. Women’s voices, raised in lengthy and angry argument, assaulted his ears as he waited.

  Saemon’s wife surprised Akitada. She lacked the vulgarity he had expected from a former courtesan. A slender young woman in a pale blue silk gown, she came in quietly, carrying a flask and two cups, and greeted him with the relaxed informality found only in upper class courtesans.

  “Forgive the wine, your Honor,” she said in a melodious voice, giving him a practiced glance from under long lashes. “I’m afraid it is not what you’re used to.”

  “Your company will more than make up for it,” Akitada said with a smile.

  “My husband will return soon. I hope your Honor is not in ill health?”

  “Not at all. I’m here on a different matter. Tell me, do you know the painter Ando?”

  She frowned prettily. “I don’t think so.”

  Akitada pulled the sketch from his sleeve. “He intended this for the head of a painting of Kannon. It looks like you.”

  She looked, smiled, shook her head. “You flatter me, sir,”--another sidelong glance and smile--”but it is not of me. Only the hairstyle is similar.” Her hand touched the coil of glossy hair on her neck with practiced grace.

  “My mistake. I stopped at his place to tell him of the death of a friend. It was the reason I came to see your husband.”

  “A death? How sad.”

  “Yes. A wrestler by the name of Kiyomura was killed last night.”

  “Ki—” Her voice failed.

  Akitada, pretending not to notice her shock and the sick pallor of her face, said “The police blame vagrants. They are searching for the killer now. Do you mind if I pass the time practicing my flute?” Without waiting for her permission, he took the instrument from his sleeve and blew a few notes. “The weapon was a sword made by the sword smith Hiraga.” He blew a few more trills. “I hope you don’t mind my playing. I have so little time for it.”

  “No.” Her eyes wandered about the room. Akitada played, watching her restless eyes, her hands twisting the silk of her gown.

  “Do you have to play that tune?” she cried suddenly.

  Akitada lowered his flute with a look of surprise. “You don’t like love songs? Oh. The murder. Forgive me. Yes. Very tragic. An athlete at the beginning of his career. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  “Kiyomura had no honor,” she said bitterly. “Why should I care if someone killed him? He used women like paper tissues, soiled them and threw them away.”

  “Ah. You were his lover,” Akitada said softly. “I think the painter must have seen you two together and made the sketch from memory.”

  “You must despise me,” she said with a shudder. “Once a whore, always a whore. That is what my husband’s sister says. But we fell in love a long time ago, before Saemon met me. Back when I was very young and when Kiyomura was different. I would have gone with him to hell itself then, but he was married to his profession.” She laughed bitterly. “We both changed.” She covered her face with trembling hands. “Kiyomura is nothing to me, nothing!” she cried.

  Akitada looked thunderstruck. Then, in his gentlest voice, he lied. “You are wrong. He loved you all his life, yo
u know. That is why he failed at wrestling.”

  She lowered her hands. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “Truly?”

  Before Akitada could confirm his lie with other lies, the sliding door flew back on squeaking tracks, and her husband walked in. “What’s this?” he cried, glaring at his wife. “How dare you entertain men in my absence?”

  She rose with a quiet restraint Akitada admired, and said, “Lord Sugawara has come to see you, husband.”

  Saemon recognized Akitada belatedly. He snapped to his wife, “Put on something decent! You look like a slut.” Seating himself across from Akitada, he bowed and muttered, “Sorry, my Lord.”

  Akitada put on his haughtiest manner and let his eyes move over Saemon’s shabby blue cotton robe. “Hmm.”