Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

  Akitada was still staring at the spot when the soft flapping of straw sandals sounded behind him. An old man approached. A night watchman with his wooden clappers. In the distance sounded a faint temple bell, and the watchman paused to listen, then used his clappers vigorously, calling out the hour in a reedy voice. The middle of the night already.

  When the old man had finished, Akitada asked, “Do you happen to know who owns a brown and white cat hereabouts?”

  “You mean Patch, sir? She lives in the dead courtesan’s house on the lake.” He pointed at the wall up the street.

  Patch? Of course. The cat was spotted. And that must be what the boy had tried to say. “The dead courtesan’s house?” Akitada asked.

  “Nobody lives there anymore,” the watchman said. “It’s a sad ruin. The cat belonged to her.”

  “Really? Do you happen to know who owns the property now? I might want to buy it.”

  The watchman shook his head. “Dear me, not that place, sir. She killed herself because her lover left her. Her angry ghost roams about the garden in hopes of catching unwary men to have her revenge on. I always cross to the other side when I pass.”

  Akitada looked at the watchman doubtfully. It was the middle of the O-bon festival, and the man was superstitious. “How did she die?”

  “Drowned herself in the lake.”

  “Were there any children?”

  “If so, they’re long gone. The house belongs to the Masudas now.”

  Akitada thanked the man and watched him make a wide detour up ahead before following more slowly.

  When he reached the spot where the cat had disappeared, he saw that a section of the wall had collapsed and he could see into an overgrown garden hiding all but the elegant curved roof of a small villa. The night watchman turned the corner, and Akitada scrambled over the rubble, aware that he was trespassing. He felt foolish but was more than ever convinced that he must find the cat.

  A clammy heat rose from the dense vegetation. Everywhere vines, brambles, and creepers covered shrubs and trees. His feeble lantern picked out a stone Buddha, half-hidden beneath a blanket of ivy. Strange rustlings, squeaks, and creaks were everywhere, and clouds of insects hovered in the beam of his lantern. The atmosphere was oppressive and vaguely threatening. When he felt a tug at his sleeve, he swung around, but it was only the branch of a gaunt cedar.

  There was no sign of the cat, just dense, towering shrubs and weirdly stirring curtains of leafy vines and wisteria suspended from the trees. He would have turned back, had he not heard a door or shutter slamming somewhere ahead.

  When he reached the house, he was covered with scratches, itching from insect bites, and his topknot was askew. But there, on the veranda, sat the cat, waiting.

  The small villa was dark and empty, its shutters broken, the paper covering its windows hanging in shreds, and its roof tiles shattered on the ground. The balustrade of the veranda leaned at a crazy angle, and where once there had been doors, black cavernous spaces gaped in the walls. But once it must have been charming, poised just above the lake in its lush gardens, perhaps a nobleman’s retreat from official affairs in the capital.

  The lake stretched still and black to the distant string of tiny lights on the far shore where people were celebrating the return of their dead. No one had lit candles or set up an altar in this dark place, but Akitada suddenly felt a presence which sent shivers down his back. He looked about carefully, then walked to the villa. The cat watched his approach with unblinking eyes, motionless until he was close enough to touch it; then it slipped away and disappeared into the house. He called to it, the way he had heard young women and children call to their pets, but the animal did not reappear.

  The veranda steps were missing, as was most of the floor. The house, vandalized for useful building materials, had become inaccessible to all but cats. He was turning away, when he heard a faint sound, almost a wail and definitely not made by a cat. He swung back and caught a glimpse of movement inside the house.

  A tall pale shape—a woman trailing some diaphanous garment?—had moved across the opening to one of the rooms and disappeared. For a moment Akitada blinked, the hair bristling on his head; then he called out, “Who is there?” There was no answer.

  He ran around the corner of the house and climbed one of the supports, holding up his lantern to direct its beam into the room where he had seen the woman. The room was empty. Dead leaves lay in the corners and rainwater stood in puddles on the floor. In spite of the warm and humid night, Akitada felt suddenly cold.

  When he stepped down from his perch, his foot landed on something which broke with a sharp crack. In the light of the lantern, he saw a shimmer of black lacquer and mother-of-pearl, a wooden toy sword, proof that a small boy had once lived here. He picked up the hilt and saw that it was just like one he had bought Yori during the last winter of his life. It had been an expensive toy, its handle lacquered and ornamented to resemble the weapon of an adult, but Yori’s pleasure in it as father and son had practiced their swordplay in the courtyard of their home had been well worth it.

  A sudden irrational fear gripped Akitada. He felt as if he had intruded in a strange and forbidden world, and left quickly. When he reached the broken wall again, his heart was pounding and he was out of breath.

  Dejected, he returned to the inn. He was no closer to finding the boy or making sense of what was troubling him. A courtesan’s ghost, a cat, and an expensive toy? What did it all matter? He was too weary to bother.

  The Third Day: The Ghosts Depart

  In spite of his exhaustion he slept poorly. The encounter with the child had brought back all of the old grief and added new fears, for he lay awake a long time, thinking that he had abandoned the boy to his fate without lifting a finger to help him. When he finally did fall asleep, his dreams were filled with snarling cats and hungry ghosts. The ghosts all had the face of the boy and followed him about, their thin arms stretched out in entreaty.

  Toward dawn he woke drenched in sweat, certain that he had heard Yori cry out for him from the next room. For a single moment of joy he thought his son’s death part of the dream, but then the dark and lonely room of the inn closed around him and he plunged back into despair. Waking was always the hardest.

  The last day of the O-Bon festival dawned clear and dry. If the weather held, Akitada would reach Heian-Kyo in a few hours’ ride, but he decided to chance it and spend the morning trying to find out more about the boy, the cat, and the dead courtesan. He thought, half guiltily and half resentfully, of his wife, but women seemed to draw on inner strengths when it came to losing a child. In the months since Yori’s death, Tamako had quietly resumed her daily routines, while he had been sunk into utter despair.

  The curving roofs of the Masuda mansion rose behind a high wall, its large gate closed in spite of the festival. Did the Masudas lock in their ghosts? Akitada rapped sharply and gave his name to an ancient male servant, adding, “I am calling on Lord Masuda.”

  “My master is not well. He sees no one,” wheezed the old man.

  “Then perhaps one of the ladies?”

  The gate opened a little wider, and Akitada was admitted. The elegance of the mansion amazed him. No money had been spared on these halls and galleries. Blue tile gleamed on the roofs, red and black lacquer covered doors and pillars, and everywhere he saw carvings, gilded ornaments, and glazed terra cotta figures. They walked up the wide stairs of the main building and passed through it. Akitada caught glimpses of a painted ceiling supported by ornamented pillars, of thick grass mats and silk cushions, and of large, dim scroll paintings. Then they descended into a private garden. A covered gallery led to a second, slightly smaller hall. Here the old servant asked him to wait while he announced his visit to the ladies.

  From the garden came the shouts and laughter of children. An artificial stream babbled softly past the veranda, disappeared behind an artificial hill and reappeared, spanned by an elegant red-lacquered bridge. Its clear, pebble-strewn wat
er was quite deep. A frog, disturbed by Akitada’s shadow, jumped in and sent several fat old koi into a mild frenzy.

  Suddenly two little girls skipped across the bridge, as colorful as butterflies in their embroidered gowns, their voices as high and clear as birdsong. An old nurse in black followed more slowly.

  Lucky children, Akitada thought bitterly, turning away. And lucky parents!

  The old man returned and took him into a beautiful room. Two ladies were seated on the pale grass mats near open doors. Both wore expensive silk gowns, one the dark gray of mourning, the other a cheerful deep rose. The lady in grey, slender and elegant, was making entries into a ledger; the other, younger, lady had the half-opened scroll of an illustrated romance before her. The atmosphere was feminine, the air heavily perfumed with incense.

  The lady in gray raised her face to him. No longer in her first youth but very handsome, she regarded him for a moment, then made a slight bow from the waist and said, “You are welcome, my lord. Please forgive the informality, but Father is not well and there was no one else to receive you. I am Lady Masuda and this is my late husband’s secondary wife, Kohime.”

  Kohime had the cheerful plain face and robust body of a peasant girl. Akitada decided to address the older woman. “I am deeply distressed to disturb your peace,” he said, “and regret extremely the ill health of Lord Masuda. Perhaps you would like me to return when he is better?”

  “I am afraid Father will not improve,” said Lady Masuda. “He is old and … his mind wanders. You may speak freely.” She gestured at the account book. “I have been forced to take on the burdens of running this family.”

  Akitada expressed his interest in buying a summer place on the lake, within easy reach of the capital, and in a beautiful setting. Lady Masuda listened politely until he asked about the abandoned villa. Then she stiffened with distaste. “The Masudas own half of Otsu. I would not know the house you refer to. Perhaps …”

  But the cheerful Kohime chimed in. “Oh, Hatsuko, that must be the house where our husband’s …” She gulped and covered her mouth. “Oh!”

  Lady Masuda paled. She gave Kohime a look. “My sister is mistaken. I am sorry that I cannot be of more assistance.”

  Akitada was too old a hand at dealing with suspects in criminal cases not to know that Lady Masuda was lying. Of the two women, Kohime was the simpler, but he could think of no way to speak to her alone. Thanking the ladies, he left.

  Outside the old servant waited. “There’s someone hoping to speak to you, my lord. The children’s nurse. When I mentioned your name, she begged for a few moments of your time.”

  Turning, Akitada caught sight of the elderly woman in black peering anxiously over a large shrub and bowing. He returned her bow.

  “I don’t believe I have met her,” he told the old manservant.

  “No, my lord. But when her son was a student in the capital, he was accused of murdering his professor. You cleared him and saved his life.”

  “Good heavens! Don’t tell me she is the mother of that …” Akitada had been about to call him a rascal, but corrected himself in time, “ … bright young fellow Ishikawa.”

  “Yes, Ishikawa.” The old man laughed, rubbing his hands, as if Akitada had been very clever to remember. “When the gentleman is ready to leave, I shall be waiting at the gate.”

  Akitada had no wish to be reminded of Ishikawa. The case had happened a long time ago, in happier years, when Akitada had been courting Yori’s mother, but he sighed and stepped down into the garden.

  Mrs. Ishikawa was in her sixties and, it seemed, a much respected member of the Masuda household, having raised both the son and the grandchildren of the old lord. Akitada managed to end her long and passionate expressions of gratitude by asking, “How is your son?”

  “He is head steward for Middle Counselor Sadanori and has his own family now,” she said proudly. “I am sure he would wish to express his deep sense of obligation for your help in his difficulties.”

  Akitada doubted it. Ishikawa, a thoroughly selfish young man, had been innocent of murder but deeply implicated in a cheating scandal which had rocked the imperial university, and he had held Akitada responsible for his dismissal. But as Akitada gazed into her lined face with the kind eyes smiling up at him, he was glad he had spared someone the pain of losing a son.

  “Perhaps you can help me,” he said. “There is an abandoned villa on the lake. I was told it belongs to the Masudas, but Lady Masuda denies this.”

  The old lady looked startled. “Peony’s house? Lady Masuda would not wish to be reminded of that.”

  Peony was a professional name often used by courtesans and entertainers. Akitada guessed, “Lady Masuda’s husband kept Peony in the villa on the lake?”

  Mrs. Ishikawa squirmed. “We are not to speak of this.”

  “I see. I will not force you then. But perhaps you can tell me about a cat I saw there. It was white with brown spots.”

  Her face brightened momentarily. “Oh, Patch. Such a dear little kitten, and the boy doted on it. I used to wonder what became of it.” Tears suddenly rose to her eyes and she clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing that she had said too much.

  Akitada pounced. “There was a little boy then?”

  “Oh, the poor child is dead,” she cried. “They’re both dead. My lady says Peony killed him and then herself.” A stunned silence fell. “Oh, sir,” she whimpered, “please don’t mention that I told you. It was horrible, but there was nothing we could do. It’s best forgotten.” She was so distressed that Akitada nearly apologized. But his mind churned with questions and, while he respected her loyalty, he saw again the boy’s face as he was dragged away from him.

  “Mrs. Ishikawa,” he said earnestly, “two days ago I found a deaf-mute boy. He was about five years old, and when he saw the cat, he recognized it. I think he tried to say its name.”

  She stared at him. “He’s the right age, but Peony’s boy talked and sang all day long. It couldn’t be him.”

  From the garden came the voice of Lady Masuda calling for the nurse. Mrs. Ishikawa flushed guiltily. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must go. Please, forget what I said.” And with a deep bow she was gone.

  Akitada stared after her. If she was right about Peony’s child being dead, then the boy belonged to someone else, perhaps even to the repulsive couple who had dragged him away. But how did Lady Masuda come to tell such things to the nurse? Surely because Mrs. Ishikawa had known Peony and her son and had been fond of them. The elegant lady who had been bent over the account book knew what was in the interest of the Masudas, and the dubious off-spring of a former courtesan was best assumed dead.

  As he walked back to the gate, the glistening roofs of the Masuda mansion testified to the family’s substantial wealth, all of it belonging to an ailing old man without an heir. Akitada wondered about the deaths of the courtesan Peony and her child. Perhaps all the years of solving crimes committed by corrupt, greedy, and vengeful people had made him suspicious. Or perhaps his encounter with the wailing ghost had put him in mind of a restless spirit in search of justice. He was neither religious nor superstitious, but there had been nothing reasonable about the events of the past two days. Or about his own state of mind.

  And suddenly, there in the Masuda’s courtyard, he realized that the bleak and paralyzing hopelessness, which had stifled him like a blanket for many months now, had lifted. He was once again pursuing a mystery.

  Turning to the old servant who waited patiently beside the gate, he asked, “When did your young master die?”

  “Which one, my lord? The old lord’s son died three years ago when his horse threw him, but the first lady’s little son drowned last year.” He sighed. “Now there are only the two little girls of the second lady, but the old lord cares nothing for them.”

  Akitada’s eyebrows rose. “How did the boy drown?”

  “He fell into the stream in the garden. It happened a year ago when Mrs. Ishikawa was away on a pilgrimage an
d the other servants weren’t watching.”

  So Lady Masuda had also lost a son. And Peony, and possibly her son, had died soon after. Also by drowning. Were all these deaths unrelated accidents?

  A picture was beginning to shape in Akitada’s mind. To begin with, the story was not unusual. A wealthy young nobleman falls in love with a beautiful courtesan, buys out her contract, and keeps her for his private enjoyment in a place where he can visit her often. Such liaisons could last months or lifetimes. In this case, the death of the younger Masuda had ended his affair, but there had been a child. What if Lady Masuda, who had lost first her husband and then her only son, had, in a grief-maddened state, one night wandered to the lake villa and killed both the rival and her child?

  Akitada had much to think about. He thanked the old man and left.

  Crowds already filled the main streets of Otsu, most in their holiday best and eager to celebrate the departure of their ancestral ghosts. Akitada contemplated wryly that for most people death loses its more painful attributes as soon as duty has been observed and the souls of those who were once deeply mourned have been duly acknowledged and can, with clear conscience, be sent back to the other world for another year. Tonight people everywhere would gather on the shores of rivers, lakes, and oceans and set afloat tiny straw boats containing a small candle or oil lamp, to carry the spirits of the dear departed out into the open water where, one by one, the lights would grow smaller until they died out completely. But what of those whose lives and families had been taken from them by violence?