Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

  “They found no murder weapon?” Akitada sipped his gruel slowly, savoring it. “What about this adoption?”

  Seimei brought the teapot over and placed it on a small wooden brazier, warming his hands over it. “It’s quite true, sir. Kinjiro’s immediate family is dead, but his grandfather had a cousin called Itto, a rice merchant here in the capital. This Itto was childless and when he reached his eightieth year, he gave up hope and adopted Kinjiro as his heir.”

  “Great Heaven!” Akitada put down his bowl abruptly. “Not the Itto in the eastern market?”

  “The same, sir. The second richest rice merchant in the capital.”

  Akitada shook his head in amazement. “What an extraordinary stroke of good fortune for that ne’er-do-well. And it is this wealthy and most generous man that Kinjiro is supposed to have killed?”

  “It is. Fortune and misfortune are said to be like the twisted strands of rope. But if you have finished your gruel, may I bring Sumiko in? She is waiting outside in the corridor.”

  “Yes, of course. And inform my wife that she will stay with us for the time being.”

  Sumiko looked marginally better than before and had stopped crying. He presented her with the gold coin and his good wishes for a happier future. Without unwrapping it, she bowed and expressed her gratitude with a humility totally out of character for the pert young woman Akitada remembered. He sighed inwardly. No point in rubbing in that she should never have put her trust in Kinjiro, adoption or not.

  “Sit down, Sumiko,” he said in a kindly tone. “Seimei tells me that Kinjiro was adopted by a wealthy man.”

  She had folded her hands again protectively over her swelling abdomen. “Yes, and we thought ourselves blessed at first. But Kinjiro was unhappy from the beginning. He tried working for Master Itto until they quarreled and he left.” She looked at Akitada earnestly. “Kinjiro does have a temper, but he would never hurt the old man. He’s like Mount Fuji; he erupts, but there’s no harm in him.”

  Akitada doubted that. “What did they quarrel about?”

  She hesitated. “Master Itto wanted him to move into his house and run his business.”

  “But surely that is not too much to ask of one’s heir.”

  She lowered her head. “Without me, sir.”

  “Without you? You mean he wished you to keep separate establishments?”

  “I mean he wished Kinjiro to divorce me so he could arrange another marriage for him. You see, Kinjiro married me without his approval.”

  Akitada was appalled and did not know what to say. He began to have more respect for the unlucky Kinjiro. “And this quarrel happened on New Year’s Day?” he finally asked.

  “Oh, no. It was last autumn. Kinjiro came home drunk one day and refused to go back to the rice shop. When I asked him what was wrong, he said it was all over. The adoption wasn’t working out.” She paused and looked down at her hands which were now twisting restlessly in her lap. “I begged him to go back, but he was too proud. I offered to leave him, but I was with child, and he wouldn’t hear of it. He lost his job and the allowance Master Itto had paid him. The post house would not take him back, and he could not find other steady work. For a while he did small jobs here and there, but soon we had hardly any food and the landlord threatened to throw us out in the middle of winter. The day before New Year’s I thought I would have to go begging in the streets, but Master Itto sent a boy to invite Kinjiro to New Year’s dinner.” She sighed deeply.

  Kinjiro’s motive for murder and robbery could hardly be stronger. Akitada suppressed his apprehension and asked, “What happened?”

  “Master Itto was pleased to hear that there would be a child and changed his mind about me, but he wanted Kinjiro to give his first son to a monastery. You see, he was afraid of dying. He thought that the Buddha would look kindly on such a sacrifice made on his behalf, and that the boy would be a monk and pray for his soul. When Kinjiro refused, Master Itto accused him of heartlessness and ingratitude. He said he was not his son if he only wanted his money and would give nothing in return. Kinjiro told him to keep his money, and that Itto was certainly no father of his. It must have been a terrible argument, but I made Kinjiro go back that night to apologize. I told him it was a son’s duty to obey his father. Besides we were starving and soon would be in the street, and he would have neither a son nor a wife. So Kinjiro went back, and Master Itto was so pleased that he gave him two bars of silver to pay our debts and told him to bring me the very next morning to live with him and his wife so that I and my child would be properly looked after.” She sighed again and said forlornly, “We were so relieved.”

  The misery of this young couple, caught between starvation and selling their unborn child to win a selfish old man’s way into paradise, left Akitada speechless. After a pause, he asked, “What can you tell me about the Itto household?”

  “There is Master Itto and his wife. And Hayashi who’s the shop manager. And a boy for the rough work.”

  “Not many servants for a wealthy man,” commented Akitada.

  “Master Itto was careful with his money.”

  Akitada considered such economies miserly but did not say so. “Did Itto have any enemies that you know of?”

  She shook her head helplessly.

  There was little more to tell. The police had come the following day and arrested Kinjiro for the murder. Sumiko had spent a week appealing to constables, judges, and prison guards, hardly eating, and sleeping only from exhaustion. This morning she had run out of options and turned to Akitada.

  The case against Kinjiro did not appear particularly knotty, but neither was it hopeful. In fact, everything pointed to him: motive, opportunity, personality, and past history. Kinjiro was desperately poor, while Itto had been a wealthy man without heirs; Kinjiro had been seen at Itto’s place near the time of the murder; he was known as a man of violent temper, they had quarreled once again on the very day of the murder; and he had a police record.

  But apart from being unable to refuse Sumiko’s plea after her years of faithful service, Akitada was touched that Kinjiro had stuck by Sumiko even when tempted with a life of comfort and wealth.

  “Well,” he said in a bracing tone, “let me see what I can do. Meanwhile my wife will make you comfortable here until this matter is resolved.”

  Sumiko wept with gratitude.

  • • •

  Akitada found Itto’s shop in the market quarter. All the shop fronts were festively decorated for the season, and shoppers crowded the roads on either side of a narrow canal. A small Buddhist temple adjoined Itto’s property on one side, and an oil seller occupied the other. In front, a bridge spanned the canal, and on the other side stood a small wine shop, the Kingfisher Tavern. Its entrance was also decorated with pine branches, straw ropes, and paper twists in celebration of the New Year.

  The chilly wind had caused Akitada’s throat to ache again. He decided to have some of the hot spiced wine that was served during the holiday season and plan his strategy.

  It was early and there were no customers in the Kingfisher Tavern. The landlord, a morose looking elderly man in a black and white checked cotton robe, stood in the doorway watching the shoppers. His expression turned hopeful when Akitada approached, and he rushed over to welcome his noble guest with smiles and bows. Akitada ordered the wine and sat where he could watch the street. The wine arrived, pleasantly sweet and warm to his raw throat and chilled body.

  At the temple across the way, two old beggars sat on the steps in spite of the cold and boys skipped up and down between them. Just inside the gatehouse a monk sold incense to a couple of women who had come to pray for good fortune during the new year. The pervasive spirit of hopefulness was painfully at odds with his errand for Sumiko and her unborn child—and its father, who might not live out the month.

  Itto’s shop took up the front of a large property which extended far to the back. The rice merchant would not have had much trouble sharing his living quarters with Kinjiro’s
growing family. No doubt the old man had begun to feel lonely with just an aging wife to keep him company in his large house.

  The shop door was covered with a blue curtain bearing in white the symbol of a bale of rice and the characters of Itto’s name. It was decorated with the ubiquitous pine branches and led to the business premises, part of which could be seen under the propped-up shutters. A clerk was inside, serving a customer. An agile youngster behind him ground rice kernels into flour by running on a wooden wheel which kept large mallets pounding away and adding to the cheerful noise of the busy street.

  Akitada reached for his wine flask and found it empty.

  Instantly the landlord appeared at his side with a fresh one. “Good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, thank you. You must do an excellent business here.”

  “So, so. Now and then people grab a bowl of noodles or a plate of vegetables and rice and rush off again. But there’s only me, and it’s more than a man can handle by himself.” He looked wistfully across the street.

  “I suppose you get to know your neighbors pretty well,” said Akitada, following his eyes.

  “Have you heard about the murder?”

  Since the landlord seemed eager to chat, Akitada invited him to share a cup of wine. “What happened?” he asked.

  The landlord sat and poured. “The old man was killed the night of the first, and the police have arrested his adopted son. He was no good, that boy, always quarrelling with old Itto. Itto’s wife was beside herself with worry. She’s a great little woman, that Mrs. Itto, handsome and hard-working. The old miser didn’t treat her well. She’s free of him now and rich to boot.” He smiled. “Itto was past seventy when they got married,” he went on. “The old fool wanted children. No such luck!” He chuckled.

  Akitada raised his brows. “Men have been known to father children in old age,” he pointed out. “It’s women who become barren. How old is Mrs. Itto?”

  “Not yet forty. She’ll need a good man to look after her interests.” He turned to look across the street. “There she is now,” he said, “talking to that Hayashi. He’s the manager, a dry stick, but he knows the business. Fine looking female, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

  A small, brisk woman had appeared from the back and was speaking to the clerk. She wore a black silk gown belted rather tightly, which emphasized her generous bosom and round hips. Her hair was parted in the center and gathered behind her head. Even at this distance, she appeared overtly feminine. Akitada adjusted his image of a frail old widow.

  “An old man with a much younger wife,” he mused aloud. “Did the police suspect her of having a hand in the murder?”

  His host stared at him. “Heavens, no,” he said. “Why should she bother when old Itto had one foot in the other world already and all his wealth coming to her? No, no. The young fool did it all right. The Otogawas saw him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. That’s their shop next door.” The host leaned a little closer. “Otogawa gambles. There’s a rumor that he owed Itto some money and would have to sell his business, but since Itto’s died, he’s looked as happy as a starving sparrow who found a pot of rice.”

  “Surely he will have to repay his debt to Itto’s widow.”

  The landlord smiled. “If the widow asks for it.”

  Akitada watched the animated Mrs. Itto chatting with the customer and remembered that the Otogawas had pointed the finger at Kinjiro.

  “It’s a strange world,” he said, shaking his head. His cup drained, he reached for his string of copper coins and paid. Then he strolled across the bridge and into Itto’s shop.

  The manager rushed up, bowing deeply. He was a skinny man in his forties, with anxious eyes and an obsequious manner.

  “I wish to see the owner,” Akitada told him, raising his voice over the noise of the rice mallets.

  The man cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Might I be of some assistance, sir? I’m the manager and take care of all the business.”

  “Really?” Akitada raised his brows and eyed him sharply. “And your name?”

  “Hayashi. Most humbly at your service, sir.” Another bow.

  “Well, this does not concern you.”

  Mrs. Itto joined them. On closer view, she had a round, handsome face with full lips and bright eyes. The eyes took in Akitada’s appearance with minute interest. She, too, bowed deeply. “This insignificant person is the Widow Itto. How may I be of service?”

  “It’s very noisy here. My visit concerns your husband’s murder. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” Akitada glanced pointedly at Hayashi.

  She said quickly, “Mr. Hayashi runs my business. I have no secrets from him.” She hesitated. “There’s only my husband’s office.”

  “That will do very well. Allow me to express my condolences on your loss.” Thinking Hayashi’s promotion interesting, Akitada made no further objections to the man’s presence.

  She led the way to a large room behind the shop. Hayashi trailed behind. Itto’s office was a gloomy place with rich dark wood furnishings. The carved shutters over the single high window were closed. Mats, lamps, cushions, and chests were all of good quality, proof of the comforts enjoyed by wealthy merchant families.

  A corner of the room had been set aside for an ancestral shrine. Wooden plaques bearing the names of the deceased surrounded a small painting of a seated Buddha. Various vessels held food offerings to the spirits of Mr. Itto’s ancestors, among them a small pyramid of New Year’s rice cakes. The newest of the wood plaques occupied the center.

  Akitada approached the altar and bowed respectfully toward the late Itto’s plaque. “I see you honor your husband’s forbears. An admirable family custom.”

  Mrs. Itto joined him, lit some incense, and bowed also. Hayashi, clearly a reluctant companion, hung back.

  On a shelf behind the altar table rested some family heirlooms: an old ledger with purple silk cover, a finely made lady’s fan, and another for a man, a pair of spurs with silver mountings in a pattern of intertwined reeds, an old wooden baton of office with some faded writing on it, the breastplate of a suit of armor, also decorated with reeds, and a quiver of dusty arrows.

  “Apparently your husband’s family enjoyed an illustrious past,” commented Akitada. His eyes watered from the pungent smoke of the incense.

  “One of his ancestors was a general who won a big battle. My husband was very proud of his family.” She turned away, touching a sleeve to her eyes.

  The suffocating scent burned in Akitada’s sore throat and made his head hurt. He moved away from the altar. A low desk, littered with papers and documents, stood near one wall, a cushion, slightly askew, in front of it. Two plain wooden chests, the kind used to hold coins and silver, their doors and drawers heavily reinforced with metal and locks, stood on either side. This was where the rice merchant had transacted the financial side of his business, and where he must have been working late when surprised by his attacker.

  His widow, following Akitada’s glance, shuddered and averted her eyes quickly. “Forgive me for bringing you here,” she said. “We’re ordinary working people who cannot observe mourning customs. My husband was at his accounts when his relative attacked him and stole the silver from that chest. My husband’s spirit has been exorcised, but you may wish to go back to the shop.”

  “Not at all,” Akitada said, wishing his head would stop throbbing. “What a terrible crime! My name is Sugawara.” When she did not react to his name, Akitada added, “I’m with the Ministry of Justice and have been asked to look into the case.” He did not mention that the request had been made by his former maid. “Did you lose much silver?” The chest looked as though it held a great deal more than the two silver bars found in Kinjiro’s room.

  She raised a plump hand to her eyes. “I lost my husband. That’s enough.”

  “I suppose one of your servants discovered the crime?”

  She nodded. “The boy. I sent him to see if my husband wanted his morni
ng rice.”

  “You had not missed your husband during the night?”

  She flushed a little. “My husband was sleeping here when he was working on the accounts. At year’s end people pay their debts and the accounts must be kept carefully. But won’t your lordship sit down and take a cup of wine?” She placed some cushions and invited Akitada and a reluctant Hayashi to be seated, then clapped her hands. When no one appeared, she exchanged a glance with the manager, who got up quickly and left.

  They sat silently for a minute or so. Akitada’s headache made him dizzy, and his throat felt full of thorns. He swallowed painfully, hoping the wine would soon appear. In the shop the noise of the mallets ceased abruptly, a blessed silence, for each thump had raised an echoing throb in Akitada’s skull.

  Mrs. Itto said, “It is hard for the boy to hear anything over the sound of the mallets.”