by I. J. Parker
Stopping at the hostel, Akitada tied up his horse and ducked under the lintel of the low door. It was very dark inside. The smell of fermented rice wine met his nose. An elderly woman greeted him with many bows and led him to a wooden platform. Not bothering to remove his riding boots, he sat on its edge and ordered some wine and pickled radish.
The woman was a cheerful creature, small and quick, though her wrinkled skin looked like the leather of an old boot.
“Your Honor comes from the capital, no doubt?” she asked, bright black eyes scanning his plain clothes with interest as she poured his wine.
Akitada smiled. “You have sharp eyes.”
This encouraged her. “I make a sort of game out of guessing what people do, you know. Now, your Honor, for example, came to take a look around Higa, isn’t that right?”
Akitada smiled and nodded.
“Ah! So. It must be about the monk then. Let’s see. The big fool confessed, so it’s not about Tsume. If it’s not about the murder, it must be about Katahachi’s silver, right?”
She was quite good at her game. Akitada said, “I won’t say yes or no. Why do you call the murderer a fool?”
She shook her head impatiently. “Because he is. I knew it the first time I saw him. He acts like a baby for all he talks like a learned fellow. Mind you, he’s as ugly as a toad, and people don’t like him, but that’s no reason to aggravate them. A monk’s supposed to be modest and humble when he asks for alms. And he’s supposed to say some holy things to make you feel blessed. This fellow was always reprimanding and arguing. I can’t imagine how he managed to get food as long as he did. What’s more, he’s been buying wine—which he isn’t supposed to drink in the first place, is he?”
“Do you think he was a thief?”
“Maybe. How else would he get the coppers for the wine?”
Akitada peered into his cup. The wine was thick, grainy, and dull in color. But it was sweet to the tongue, burning his throat but leaving a pleasant glow in his belly. It had been quite cheap for its quality. The monk would not have needed much of this to get drunk.
Complimenting his hostess on her wine, Akitada asked, “Do you know the farmer he robbed?”
“Katahachi? Of course. One of my best customers this time of year, even if he claims poverty every time the tax man comes.”
“He’s been drinking a lot?” Akitada asked in surprise, wondering how reliable a witness the farmer was. A drunken farmer catching a drunken monk climbing out of a well stretched his imagination.
“Oh, no. Katahachi buys the wine for the god. Some farmers do. To welcome the paddy god. Katahachi buys only the best, and fresh every day.” She shook her head. “Katahachi really believed the god was in his paddies until Tsume’s murder. Now he says he’s ruined. The god has left because death has polluted his farm. He’s one unhappy man, is Katahachi.”
Akitada knew all about welcoming the paddy god. During the first months of the year, each farmer set up an altar to the paddy god in his home or near his paddies, and served up refreshments of boiled rice, nuts, and wine, thus tempting the god to take up his abode there during the crucial time of the new planting.
“You can’t blame him,” he commented. “Misfortune has struck his house twice already. He lost both his daughter and his savings.”
“And the paddy god, too.”
The door curtain flew back and two young men ducked in. The shorter one was muscular, with a pugnacious jaw, and wore the red tunic of a local constable; the other one looked frail and had a face scarred by smallpox. He wore a bright blue quilted jacket and patterned trousers like a city dandy. They were laughing at some joke.
The thin fellow tossed a silver coin on the platform. “Some of your best, Mrs. Endo,” he called out in a reedy voice. “None of that rot-gut you sell to strangers.” He glanced at Akitada. Akitada’s plain dark robe and worn boots must have looked shabby compared to his own colorful outfit.
“Back from the capital early, Hanzo?” asked the hostess sourly. “And with money to spare? What happened? Are all the dancing girls taken?”
The thin fellow glowered. “Never mind what I do with my money. Bring the wine.”
She served them, returning the change in coppers which he pushed carelessly into his sash.
His stocky companion had been staring at Akitada. Now he asked, “You’re not from here? Just passing through?”
Akitada raised his brows. “Don’t you have something more interesting to do in Higa than to question visitors?”
The young man flushed with anger. “I’m a police constable. It’s my duty to keep an eye on strangers. We’ve had a murder here.”
The hostess glared at him. “Mind your manners, Gombei. The gentleman is from the capital, come to check into the missing silver.” She told Akitada, “Gombei was fond of the dead girl, so he’s a bit jumpy, sir.”
Gombei apologized, “Sorry if I was out of line, sir.” But he added insult to injury. “Didn’t mean to be rude, but a man in my profession’s got to be on his toes. There’s a lot of riffraff on the roads nowadays.”
The thin young man now pushed himself forward. “I’m Hanzo, at your service, sir. We all hope poor Katahachi gets his few coins back. And so will the tax collector, I know.” He smirked.
“I see.” Akitada silently cursed the woman for giving him away. So Gombei was the constable who had beaten the monk. Akitada disapproved of unnecessary cruelty, but there appeared to be extenuating circumstances in this case. He added more mildly, “You take your responsibilities seriously, Constable. That’s commendable. Have you made any progress finding the missing silver?”
The two young men exchanged a glance, then Gombei said, “No, sir. We looked, of course, but I figured the police in the capital would have it out of the monk by now.”
“He’s been questioned but remembers nothing.”
Gombei shook his head. “That’s what he says. I bet we could’ve made him sing.”
“The law forbids the beating of prisoners without authorization,” Akitada said severely.
“Er, yes, sir. Of course. Well, we must be going. Good luck, sir, and feel free to call on me any time.” Taking his companion by the arm, Gombei left hurriedly.
Mrs. Endo muttered, “Young good-for-nothings, both of them. Think only of their pleasure. At least Gombei’s working, but that Hanzo just squanders his poor, doting mother’s money in the city.” She filled Akitada’s cup again.
He asked, “Did the monk buy his wine here?”
“Yes. I was sorry for him, poor ugly thing. The children mocked him and hardly anyone would give him anything. Some days he didn’t eat. After he first came, I’d feed him leftovers after hours sometimes. One day he had some coppers and asked for sake. Well, I stared at him and he turned as red as a maple leaf in autumn. ‘It’s so cold,’ he says and can’t look me in the eye. Well, he was shivering, so I gave him the wine and he thanked me with such nice words, like a poem a gentleman might recite for some fine lady. After that he came every night for wine.” She sighed. “Until that rascal Gombei arrested him.”
So she had a soft heart. Somehow that unprepossessing lump of helpless humanity in the Western Jail had touched some tenderness in the old woman. “Did you ever find out where he got the money?” Akitada asked.
She shook her head. “I asked him, but he clammed up. Acted ashamed somehow. It was never more than a few coppers, though.”
As he paid for his wine and asked directions to Katahachi’s farm, Akitada recalled the monk’s peculiarly guilty manner about buying the wine. He had thought it due to shame for drinking, but now he wondered.
• • •
Katahachi’s farm was the usual huddle of dwelling and outbuildings gathered under a grove of pines and surrounded by paddies in various stages of preparation. Katahachi must be a hard-working peasant, Akitada thought, for his dikes and ditches were in good repair, as were the roofs of his house and sheds. A few chickens and sparrows searched for millet in the c
ourtyard, but Katahachi was not home.
Akitada tied his horse to one of the pines and went to look for him. He passed a new well and peered at the water below. Then he stuck his head into every shed, calling out each time without getting an answer. One of the sheds was filled with low trays of rice seedlings, faint green wisps in black soil. The soil looked cracked and dry, and several trays of seedlings had already succumbed to neglect. Akitada shook his head. If Katahachi had given up, he would lose his farm and starve. Every man, woman, and child depended on a plentiful rice harvest. The nation’s welfare hung on the labors of even its humblest peasant.
The other sheds contained farming implements and a small stock of supplies. In one, a pile of dirty rice straw in a corner was covered with some rags; perhaps a bed for a dog. The rice barrels held just enough grain to see Katahachi through until harvest time. Akitada wondered if the peasant had already paid for his seed or had meant to use some of his silver to do so. Few peasants had enough seed rice by this time of year, having paid four tenths of the harvest as tax. Near the last shed, Akitada found the old well, now only a low ring of stones surrounding the opening. The peasant, or someone else, had placed some boards over the opening—rather belatedly. Akitada moved these aside. The well was not very deep, having been filled to within a man’s height with stones and dirt. The dirt was scuffed up, as were the stone walls of the well shaft, marked by the monk and the policemen scrambling in and out. There was a darker area in the dirt which might be blood.
Covering the opening again, Akitada thought about the box which had contained the silver. Twenty pieces, was it? If the monk had hidden the silver, why had it not been found by now? And the landlady had said that Ennin always paid with copper coins.
If someone else was the thief, who was it? And why had none of the silver shown up? In a small village, everyone knew everyone else’s business. Sudden spending would raise instant questions. But the landlady at the hostel, for all her inquisitiveness, had known nothing.
Musing in this manner, Akitada reached the rear of the farm, and here he found its owner.
Katahachi was kneeling at the edge of the first rice paddy. He had built a makeshift shrine there to the god who blessed the rice harvest. A young pine tree was placed upright into the ground and decorated with chains made from braided straw and twisted slips of papers inscribed with prayers for a good harvest. Before it, Katahachi had set small dishes filled with gifts for the god. Akitada had seen many such humble arrangements throughout the country.
The peasant, a small, lean man with a skin burned dark from work in the sun, wore a clean white cotton jacket and pants. He must have heard Akitada’s approach, but did not turn. His head bowed, he muttered prayers to the divinity.
Akitada bowed to the god and voiced his own request for a plentiful rice crop.
Without turning, Katahachi said bitterly, “It won’t do any good. He’s gone. It’s the pollution.”
No need to ask what pollution. Katahachi’s daughter had died on the property, and the Shinto divinities abhorred death. Akitada asked, “Then why do you pray?”
The peasant just shook his head in misery.
The man’s misfortune must seem overwhelming. Akitada looked out over the waiting fields, shimmering with their new growth of flowering weeds and buzzing with bees, a testimony to the rich soil awaiting cultivation and the young rice plants. But who would do the planting for him as he worked the paddle pumps which would keep the fields irrigated? He had lost his daughter—a pair of skillful hands and a strong young back, and hope for future generations. As if that were not enough, he had also lost all his savings. Twenty pieces of silver were a substantial testimony to a lifetime of working hard and saving even harder. And now he believed he had also lost the blessings of the god.
“Perhaps,” Akitada suggested, “the god had already bestowed his blessing and moved on before your misfortune.”
Katahachi pondered this and his shoulders straightened a little. He turned to look up at his visitor. His face fell and he immediately bowed, touching his forehead to the ground. “Please forgive this poor old man, your Honor. I’ve lost everything. No use asking me to pay. It’s all gone.”
Evidently he mistook Akitada for a tax collector. And the silver, or part of it, must have been ear-marked to pay off rice loans. Akitada said soothingly, “Never mind. I’m not here for money. Please get up. You’re Katahachi?”
The peasant scrambled up. “Yes, your Honor. How may I serve you?”
“I heard of your daughter’s death. You have my sincere condolence.”
“Yes. Terrible! The murderer took all my silver also,” he said disconsolately, as if this were the greater disaster. “Twenty-five pieces. And who will plant my fields now? Already the young plants are wilting. Tsume always took care of them. Ever since her mother died.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Akitada. “I heard your daughter had a soft heart and befriended the monk, but that you disapproved.”
Katahachi turned a shade darker. “That one! That vicious devil! I knew he was after my silver the first time I laid eyes on him. He’s as ugly as a demon, a devil from hell disguised as a monk. Look at what he did! And that foolish girl kept feeding him while he was waiting to have her and steal my silver. I thank the Buddha I won’t have a devil for a grandson.” He bowed three times in the direction of the monastery and murmured, “Amida, Amida, Amida.”
Clearly Katahachi was a simple-minded man with a strong attachment to superstitions. To distract him from his tirade against the monk, Akitada nodded toward the small shrine and said, “I see you made the paddy god welcome with special gifts.”
Katahachi looked at the little pine and the many small bowls, each filled with food, wine, or coins. “The god hasn’t been back since it happened. Do you truly think that he’s already blessed my paddies?”
“No doubt about it,” said Akitada firmly. “You had better hurry up to tend to your plants and weed the paddies. I expect your neighbors’ wives and daughters will plant for you.”
Katahachi brightened. “Yes. They’ll help. Thank you for your sage counsel, your Honor.” He looked longingly toward the shed with the trays of plants. Akitada walked back with him.
“How did you happen to have so much silver in the house?” he asked.
“Twenty-seven pieces.” Katahachi announced it with a mixture of pride and outrage. “Nearly thirty years I’ve been putting a silver coin in there whenever the harvest was good. Five of them my father left me. I was going to give those to Tsume’s husband.”
“You had picked her husband then?”
The peasant nodded. They had reached the seedling shed, and he peered in. “Look at that. Half of them dead as straw. Tsume always took care of them. Oh, it’s no use. I’ll never pay the next tax, even if the authorities forgive the loan.” He sagged to the ground in the doorway, squatting on his heels and shaking his head.
“Nonsense,” Akitada said briskly. “Up with you and fetch some water. Most of the seedlings will revive. Hurry.”
Katahachi muttered but he shuffled off, returning with a pail of water from the well. Akitada watched as he moved among the trays, moistening the parched soil. “You say your daughter was to be married soon? To a local man?”
Katahachi jerked his head in the direction of a neighboring farm. “Masazaemon’s son. His widow sent a go-between. A good marriage for my girl even if the son doesn’t take to farming. Tsume was very pretty and a good worker, but they were greedy. He and his mother told the go-between they wouldn’t settle for less than fifteen silver pieces and my farm when I die.” Katahachi left for another bucket of water.
When he reappeared, he said, “I might’ve done it, but then I heard that he’s visiting the whores in the capital, spending the last harvest’s money on women and wine there. I told the go-between that such a son-in-law is more trouble than he’s worth.”
“What about the constable? Wasn’t he interested?
Katachachi spat. “Go
mbei? He’s got nothing. No farm. No family. Besides Tsume couldn’t stand him.”
“How do you know?”
Katahachi gave a rasping laugh. “He kept bothering her till Tsume tossed him in the irrigation ditch.”
• • •
Akitada rode back to the capital in a thoughtful mood. His visit to the crime scene had left him more confused than ever. The biggest hole in the case against the monk, the question where the missing silver was, remained unanswered. In addition, he now had several new facts which teased his mind. The girl had almost married a wealthy farmer’s son, not the constable who had been in love with her and been rejected. And her father seemed more grieved over the loss of his silver than the death of his daughter. Had he loved her so little? The monk claimed that Katahachi had tried to beat the girl. And he had a reputation for being a tightwad. What if he had returned to find his silver gone and had taken out his fury on his daughter for allowing the theft to happen? Perhaps, having strangled Tsume, he had put the body and the empty box in the well, trying to pin her death on some robber. Katahachi was a liar, for the amount of his loss had grown even as he had told Akitada about it. Clearly he expected to be forgiven any debts because of the tragedy. Katahachi’s tale of woe took on a more sinister significance. And what about Ennin? If the monk had taken the silver, where had he obtained the coppers he had paid for the wine?
