by I. J. Parker
The abbot attempted an alternate explanation. “Or it was a family matter, as I suggested. In that case, I trust you will bring the deed home to the guilty. As for Hossho, his accident has nothing whatsoever to do with this.”
Akitada sighed. The condition of the bodies made it likely that both men had died the same night. That meant that Hossho was killed because he had known something about Ueda’s murder and posed a danger to the killer. But who was the killer? He cringed inwardly at the prospect of reporting another failure to Sesshin.
But as he thought of the ailing bishop, a startling possibility crossed his mind.
The abbot waited a moment, but when Akitada made no comment, he left, muttering to himself and taking the young monk with him.
Akitada stood beside the corpse, thinking about the probable events of that night. After a while, he nodded unhappily and knelt beside the body. He touched the wrinkled hands and begged forgiveness. Ueda had been a courageous man, a man who had taken great risks in his life to do the right thing. In the matter of the court cat, it had cost him his rank and profession, and now his determination to save the second prince had cost him his life. Akitada wished he could measure up to such an example, but even though he knew who had murdered Ueda, he could not bring the man to justice.
As he looked at the poor battered face, Akitada wondered again at the dead man’s peaceful expression. He glanced around. The murder must have happened here, near the bell tower, or perhaps inside it. He got up and walked around the building to the small door used by the monks who rang the great bell.
Someone had rung the bell for the New Year, but that night the ringing had been unusually ragged. And Hossho had had a reputation of getting out of his chores. Yes, that explained it. Ueda had arrived, asking for lodging, and Hossho, the lazy gatekeeper and designated bell ringer, had installed the visitor in the bell tower on condition that he ring the New Year’s bell.
The door was unlocked. A narrow set of steps led to the ringing platform. The heavy wooden beam that was used to strike the great bell hung from the rafters. Akitada searched all the nooks and crannies of the interior, then turned his attention to the bell. It was very large, taking up most of the rest of the space. Its bottom rim was so close to the platform surface that a man would have to lie down to look inside. Ignoring the dust on the wooden boards, Akitada stretched himself out and peered up inside the bell.
He saw it immediately: a rectangular patch on the interior surface of the bell. Wriggling around to reach up, he touched paper and something sticky. He pulled back his fingers and smelled, then licked them. It was sweet bean paste like the filling in his wife’s moon cakes. Someone had used bean paste to stick the paper to the metal. He reached up and peeled it off carefully, unfolding the paper in the dim light that fell through the openings. And saw that he had found the prince’s letter.
His relief was almost dizzying. Smiling, he tucked the precious love note away and left the bell tower.
Outside, he brushed the dust off his clothes and remembered Ueda. His happiness faded. His assignment was complete and national disaster had been averted, but there would be no justice unless he could prove the murderer’s guilt. And even then, there was little he could do. He returned to the body of the old man.
The cat was back also, peering cautiously into the opening. When it saw Akitada, it twitched its tail in irritation and stalked off. Akitada was well inclined toward the animal. It had helped him find Ueda and the letter.
In the dry dust under the tower were the tracks of many mice. They were what had brought the cat. But what had brought the mice?
He recalled the bean paste and quickly searched the dead man’s robe again. In the folds near his thin waist, he found a few sticky crumbs. Of course. Hossho must have given a New Year’s cake to Ueda who had later used the paste to hide the letter, tucking the rest of the cake in his sleeve. That meant Ueda had suspected the killer. When the killer had demanded the letter, the old man had refused. In the ensuing struggle, Ueda had died. When his killer had not found the letter on him, he had hidden the body under the bell tower, hoping to delay the discovery until he was safely elsewhere. There the hungry mice had found the cake.
Yes, it must have happened that way, but there was no proof.
And what about Hossho?
Impossible to know the details of that encounter, but the gatekeeper had probably surprised the murderer before or after the deed. More likely after, when the killer would have been searching for the precious letter. Having been seen and recognized by Hossho, he had lured the monk to the veranda of the great hall and attacked him there. Hossho had fought harder than the aged Ueda, but the killer had broken his neck and pitched him into the ravine.
A terrible night’s work for the killer—who had ultimately failed to get what he wanted.
Akitada stayed only long enough to see Ueda laid out in one of the prayer halls and to leave silver for prayers to be said for his soul. Then he returned to the city, stopping first at the home of Ueda’s older son to give him the sad news. The son had expected it but wept anyway.
Then he went to see Sesshin. The door was opened with a jerk by Shinnyo, who looked hollow-eyed and jittery.
“Did you bring it?” he demanded.
Akitada did not answer but brushed past him and went in to Sesshin. The bishop looked a little stronger today, but his face was filled with anxiety.
“Any news?” he asked, putting down his string of beads.
In answer, Akitada handed him the letter.
Shinnyo joined them, his eyes on the small sheet of paper.
Sesshin opened the letter and looked at it. He said, “Oh, my dear Akitada, you have done it!” Heaving a sigh of deep satisfaction, he placed the sheet of paper on the glowing coals of his brazier. A flame shot up and it was gone.
Shinnyo made a choking sound. He was staring at the smoking ashes, his hand half extended until he dropped it. “Where was it?” he asked dully.
Sesshin was too happy to notice his secretary’s strange behavior. “Yes, where did you find it?”
Akitada’s eyes did not leave the secretary. “Ueda brought the letter to Kiyomizu-dera, but he hid it inside the temple bell because he expected trouble.”
Sesshin looked startled. “Trouble? Has something happened to him?”
“He was killed. Like the monk Hossho.”
“Oh, my poor friend. What have I done?” The bishop closed his eyes and reached for his beads.
Shinnyo still looked at Akitada, his expression unreadable. Sesshin prayed, his words a gentle murmur, the beads clicking softly between his fingers. It was so quiet in the room that Akitada could hear the secretary’s labored breathing. At some point, Shinnyo’s stare faltered and his eyes roamed about the room—like those of a cornered rat.
Eventually Sesshin raised his head. “But how could such dreadful things have happened?” he asked. “Nobody knew about the meeting at the temple but Ueda and myself.”
Shinnyo said harshly, “Any number of people might have known. His Highness, the prince, for example. Ueda’s family. The blackmailer. Even the abbot. And the gatekeeper.”
“Quite true,” Akitada agreed. “But there was one other. And of all of them, only he knew enough, and only he was in the right place to kill for the letter.”
Sesshin looked from Akitada to Shinnyo and back. “Who, Akitada? There is no one else.”
Akitada let the silence lengthen, then asked, “Are you certain, Reverence, that you can trust your secretary?”
Shinnyo sucked in his breath. The bishop looked at him. His face became set and his eyes flashed. Good, thought Akitada, his old spirit is back.
Sesshin asked in a dangerously calm voice, “Did you do this, Shinnyo?”
“No, Reverence,” the secretary said. “Of course not. How can you think so? I knew nothing about the letter. You never told me --”
“You lie,” the bishop said, his voice suddenly sharp. “You knew quite a lot. Simply by being
around me you found out about the blackmail. You admitted Ueda the night I asked him to buy the letter back. And that night at Kiyomizu-dera, I told you that I expected an important caller and to be on the look-out for him.”
Shinnyo blustered, “You have no proof, and neither does Lord Sugawara.”
It was true enough. Akitada and Sesshin looked at each other. “Heaven will not forget your deeds,” Sesshin said angrily.
Shinnyo relaxed. He almost smiled. “What deeds? Two old men died accidentally. That is all anyone will ever know about it.”
“Not quite, Shinnyo,” Akitada said. “Since there is no letter and since his reverence won’t protect you, your other master—and we can guess who that is—will find ways to silence you. You have become a danger to him.”
When the truth of that sank in, Shinnyo cursed. “You meddling fool,” he shouted. “I’ll pay you back for this.” He turned to the bishop. “And you! I cared for your miserable body. I wrote your long, rambling letters. I ran your errands. I put up with your dull conversation all these months for nothing. How dare you judge me?”
Akitada quickly stepped between them. The young monk was tall and strongly built and shaking with fury. Akitada thought for a moment that they were about to fight to the death, but the other stepped away, turned, and ran from the room. Doors slammed, then silence.
“Do you want me to go after him, Reverence?” Akitada asked, taking a deep breath.
“No.” Sesshin sounded tired. “Thanks to you, he failed to get the letter. And you are quite right about the chancellor. He does not tolerate such liabilities. Shinnyo will disappear. What matters is that you have saved the second prince. That is all I asked of you, my friend.”
Sometime later, as Akitada walked homeward, he thought how praiseworthy were men like Ueda—and how estimable in their own way were cats and moon cakes. Yes, even moon cakes. Fate had a way of balancing things, and his wife’s moon cakes, so lovingly prepared for him, deserved his appreciation. It was time to beg pardon and celebrate the season with his family.
By 1023, fifteen years after his inauspicious start in the Ministry of Justice, and after several dangerous provincial assignments and almost continuous battles with his superiors, Akitada finally begins to climb the career ladder. The turn in his fortunes dates back to the same smallpox epidemic which took the life of his son along with that of his archenemy, Minister Soga. After years of trying to patch up his private and professional lives, Akitada is finally comfortable in both. The case of another young clerk in the Ministry reminds him how fragile human happiness is.
The Tanabata Magpie
Heian-Kyo (Kyoto); 1123; at the time of the Tanabata Festival:
THE day before the festival did not start auspiciously. Akitada’s green cap ribbon with the diamond pattern, mandatory when on duty in the Greater Palace, had disappeared, and he tore a hole in one of his white silk socks.
Next, while crossing the courtyard in the dew-sparkling beauty of a summer morning filled with the scent of roses and birdsong, he stepped into dog feces and had to return to the house to change his slippers. When he set out again, the dog, aptly named Trouble, attempted to re-insinuate himself into Akitada’s good graces by shoving a drooling muzzle against his good green robe, leaving stains on it.
And now, seated behind the low desk in his office in the Ministry of Justice, he was about to confront a junior clerk with the news that he would be dismissed. Akitada, as senior secretary, intensely disliked such chores, but the minister was out of town and had left instructions that Akitada was to inform young Shigeyori of his deplorable performance evaluation.
To make matters worse, the minister had given Akitada this assignment to make a point about careless recommendations. Shigeyori was taken on against everyone’s advice because Akitada spoke up for him. Since then, he had lost track of the young man who was a mere presence in the archives which tended to be cluttered with eager young legal clerks trying to look busy whenever a senior staff member entered the room. He dimly recalled him as a rather good-looking youth who had lately adopted a mustache.
Remembering his own years at the bottom of the career ladder and the many times he had been glared at, threatened, reprimanded, mocked, and called to account, Akitada made an effort to verify the facts first. Shigeyori had a fine university record and had seemed very eager. It was incomprehensible and embarrassing for Akitada that he should have proved unsatisfactory after all.
The facts were dismal and disturbing. The senior scribe and others had complained repeatedly about absences and a lack of diligence in completing tasks in a timely fashion. Worse, a stack of legal documents which had passed through Shigeyori’s hands now lay on Akitada’s desk. Each and every one of them contained startling errors, omissions, mistakes in Chinese characters, and illegible entries. Since the performance of the entire ministry rested on accurate record-keeping and reliable archives, Akitada was appalled and angry when he sent for the young man whom he had sponsored and who had so signally disappointed his expectations.
Shigeyori sidled in, bowed nervously, and sat. He eyed the stack of documents and looked away quickly. A slow flush crept up his face.
“Um,” said Akitada, very ill at ease.
“Yes, sir?” The junior clerk’s voice trembled a little.
“You, ah, have been with us almost a year now, Shigeyori.”
“Yes, sir.” Shigeyori clenched his hands together. He looked young and vulnerable, his face still childishly rounded. The mustache was a mistake, Akitada decided and felt a pang of pity.
“As you know,” he started again, forcing his mind back to the long list of offenses committed by this young man and the embarrassment to himself, “we have to submit annual performance reports by the end of the seventh month.”
Shigeyori swallowed and nodded. The fear in his large, liquid eyes was almost palpable.
Akitada sighed. “This is a very good and proper rule and affects all of us, from the lowliest scribe to the highest minister of the realm. It assures that the people are served with virtue, duty, honesty, and conscientiousness. We must all demonstrate diligent service and devotion to the public good.” He meant to let the young man know that he was not being singled out unfairly, but for some reason Shigeyori’s eyes blazed with anger.
“I know all that,” he snapped.
Akitada frowned at his tone. He tapped an accusing finger on the documents and said sternly, “I have had a look at your work. And I have spoken to your co-workers. It was an embarrassing task, since I’m the one who spoke on your behalf when you applied for your position. To say that I am disappointed would be an understatement. I’m very much afraid that I cannot recommend any merits, and you know that means dismissal.”
Shigeyori went deathly pale. He gulped, then cried, “Everybody here hates me. It’s lies, nothing but lies, whatever they’ve said. As for the documents, I’ve been given so much work I couldn’t do it properly.” His voice broke.
Akitada opened his mouth to ask about this possibly extenuating circumstance, when Shigeyori jumped up and shouted, “I should have known that you’re just like the rest. There’s no pleasing any of you. There never was. I must have been mad to hope. What, a fellow with my background? It’s ridiculous. I bet you’re all going to have a good laugh about it after I’m gone.” He shook a fist at the unoffending door, then turned back to Akitada, tears in his eyes, to say stiffly, “I’ll save you the trouble of writing your report and resign now. Good bye, sir!”
His bow was spoiled when his cap fell off. He scooped it back up before slamming out of Akitada’s office.
Akitada’s jaw sagged. He was still staring at the door when he heard muffled laughter followed by a cry of pain.
He rose and opened the door to look out into the corridor. One of the other young clerks sat on the floor, holding a bleeding nose. His friends stood about him, looking after Shigeyori who was running out of the building.
Akitada was forced to issue another reprimand, t
his time to the troublemakers who had waylaid Shigeyori after eaves-dropping on his interview. He knew their type from experience. The strong always picked on the weak, and Shigeyori came from a poor provincial family, while they were the sons of court nobles.
• • •
That afternoon, Akitada’s bad day got immeasurably worse. Superintendent Kobe, Akitada’s friend and sometime rival, stopped by. After initial hostilities many years ago when the young law clerk Akitada had put his nose into police matters, Kobe had mellowed enough to ask his advice occasionally. The Superintendent was at least ten years older than Akitada, his hair and beard already gray, yet over time they had become close.
But this was no casual visit. After a greeting, Kobe said, “You have a clerk called Shigeyori?”
The young hot-head must have caused more trouble. Akitada felt vaguely responsible as he nodded.
“He’s under arrest for murder.”
