Three Tales of Love and Murder (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

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

  “How sad.”

  “Yes. A wrestler by the name of Kiyomura.”

  “Ki—” Her voice failed.

  Akitada, pretending not to notice her shock, the sick pallor of her face, took his flute from his sleeve and blew a few notes. “The police blame vagrants. They’re searching for the killer now.” He blew a few more trills. “The weapon was a sword by Hiraga. I hope you don’t mind my playing. I have so little time to practice.”

  “No.” Her eyes wandered about the room. Akitada played and watched her hands twist 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 of Kiyomura. Forgive me. Yes. Very sad. An athlete in the middle of his career. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

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

  “So you were his lover,” Akitada said softly. “The painter must have seen you together and made the sketch from memory.”

  “You must despise me,” she said with a shudder. “Once a whore, always a whore. That’s what my husband’s sister says. But Kiyomura and I, 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 to hell itself with him, but he was married to his sport.” 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’re wrong. He loved you all his life, you know. That’s why he failed at wrestling.”

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

  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 dishonor my house by entertaining 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, “Put on something decent! You look like the slut you are.” Seating himself across from Akitada, he muttered, “Sorry, my Lord.”

  Akitada raised his brows and let his eyes move over Saemon’s shabby blue cotton robe.

  Saemon fidgeted. “I hope you will pardon this humble place. I’m a poor man. Is it about the Kiyomura matter?”

  “Yes. I am told you laid certain charges against Tora while suppressing other evidence. I wonder why.”

  Saemon flushed. “I told the truth. It could not be helped.”

  “All of you quarreled with the wrestler. All of you had cause to kill him.”

  “Not I.”

  “On the contrary. You had the best motive of all.”

  Saemon bared yellow teeth in an attempt at a smile. “Your Honor jokes.”

  The sliding door opened again, and Saemon’s sister came in with more wine and another cup. Noticing Saemon’s clothes, she asked, “Why are you wearing that old thing. What happened to your grey robe?” Without waiting for an answer, she deposited her tray, and grumbled, “If you didn’t let that slut spend your hard-earned money on that beggarly Hirata family, you’d have proper clothes for a man of your standing.”

  Saemon hissed, “Stop your babbling, woman! Your foolish chatter offends our guest.”

  The woman drew herself up sharply. Angry color suffused her face and the resemblance to her brother was startling. “Foolish am I? All day and all night I work and worry and that is what I get? I take care of your house, your clothes, your meals like a servant. I keep an eye on that whore you brought into our home who spends your money like water while we live like paupers. Hah! I hope she bought that sword to slit your throat some night.”

  “Out!” Saemon was up, pointing a shaking finger at the door. His sister tossed her head and left. He followed her, saying over his shoulder, “I made the mistake of marrying a former courtesan. It has upset my household. I shall return in a moment.”

  The walls were thin, and again Akitada could hear angry shouting from the back of the house. He took his flute from his sleeve and looked at it thoughtfully. There were sounds of a scuffle and a woman’s cry, abruptly stifled. Saemon returned, breathing heavily, and sat back down.

  Akitada said, “You performed the autopsies. May I ask what you found?”

  “Kiyomura was stabbed repeatedly. At least two thrusts went straight to his heart. The beggar died of an apoplexy, possibly brought on by witnessing the murder.”

  “Ingenious.”

  Saemon blustered, “I don’t think I like your tone. What are you suggesting? And what did you mean by saying I had the best motive.”

  “The powerful motive of jealousy, although in your case envy, pride, and money enter into it, too. You’re an ordinary, hard-working man who toiled and saved for many years to buy the love of a beautiful woman. Then Kiyomura, by all accounts an obnoxious wastrel and womanizer, arrives on the scene and not only beds your wife, but allows her to support his luxurious life style.”

  “That’s a lie,” cried Saemon.

  “Ah. Is it? Kiyomura was particularly liberal with money last night, wasn’t he? And he enjoyed cruel taunts. He talked about an admirer and bragged that he’d found a goldmine, and when he looked at you, you realized suddenly you had been subsidizing his life style all along. Then there’s the matter of Hiraga. The sword smith’s presence reminded you of his wife’s visit to your house. You knew Hiraga thought you unworthy of one of his swords. His wife sold the weapon to your wife without her husband’s permission, because a large family of hungry children requires more income than a sword smith with such exacting standards in his customers can supply. It must have rankled that your money went toward the support of Hiraga’s family. In any case, the quarrel between Hiraga and Kiyomura gave you an idea of the perfect revenge. You rushed home for the sword your wife had purchased—out of compassion for Mrs. Hiraga, I suspect, although you assumed it was for her lover—and you ambushed the drunken Kiyomura, hoping to cast suspicion on Hiraga.”

  A slow breath escaped from Saemon’s lips. His right hand crept to his sash as his eyes stared fixedly into Akitada’s. Exploding into sudden movement, he flung himself forward. Something flashed in his raised hand. Akitada twisted out of the way, and brought his flute down sharply on Saemon’s wrist. There was a crack, a cry of pain, and Akitada pinioned the pharmacist to the floor, twisting his arms behind his back.

  The door opened abruptly.

  “Ah, just in time, Inspector,” said Akitada, looking up from Saemon’s back. “Here’s your killer. I was wondering how to proceed. You must have the power of divination.”

  The inspector gestured to two constables who quickly tied the dazed Saemon with the thin chains they wore around their middle. Saemon’s wife, dishevelled, one eye blackened, and bruises covering her pale face, came in slowly. She did not look at her husband. Her eyes were on Akitada.

  “Thank heaven you’re all right, sir,” she murmured from swollen lips. “I hurried as much as I could.”

  The inspector said, “She has accused her husband of Kiyomura’s murder and identified the sword as one she purchased recently. It seems Kiyomura was her lover.”

  Saemon jerked on his chains and spat. “Demon!” His face was distorted with fury. “Whore! It’s all part of the plot. I’m charging her, Inspector! She killed the bastard herself because she found herself a noble lover.” He jerked his chin toward Akitada. “Yes! I caught them at their filthy game. They’re in it together, trying to get rid of me now.”

  Akitada was as dumfounded by the accusation as everyone else. Not so Saemon’s sister, who burst in, crying, “It’s the truth. She was a whore before he married her, and s
he sleeps with every man who will have her still. I knew at once what this … this person”—she pointed at Akitada—”had in mind when he came. He made sure Saemon was gone and then asked for her. But I sent for my brother. He came at once and we found them … doing it right there, on the floor of her husband’s house. Slut!”

  The inspector’s eyes went to Saemon’s wife, took in the bruises and the tearful look she gave Akitada, and asked, “Is that why your husband beat you?”

  “Of course it is,” cried the sister. “Only a saint could have restrained himself.”

  Saemon’s wife did the worst thing she could possibly do under the circumstances. She ran to Akitada, knelt and pressed his hand to her cheek. “Forgive me,” she sobbed. “I didn’t wish to cause you trouble. I would gladly die to undo this evil thing.”

  Akitada saw suspicion in the inspector’s eyes, and satisfaction in her husband’s. The man was as slippery as an eel and about to escape the net. Worse, Akitada’s reputation, already damaged by his eccentric pursuits, would not survive this tale of sexual misconduct leading to a false murder charge laid against a solid citizen.

  As he considered the situation, he knew that the inspector, too, was put to a test. If he threw in his lot with Akitada, his punishment for a miscarriage of justice could be exile. And what about Tora?

  After an uncomfortable silence, the inspector walked to Saemon and bent to untie his chains. Saemon’s lips twitched. His wife released Akitada’s hand with a small cry of despair and ran from the room.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Akitada said. “This man has killed twice; the other body you found is his second victim, not a beggar, but an innocent passer-by who must have happened upon a murder scene before the killer could wash the bloodstains off himself.”

  “Even an idiot could see there were no wounds on the beggar. How was he killed?” shouted Saemon.

  Akitada walked to the wall and bent to pick up a slender steel needle. “This,” he said, extending the needle to the inspector, “is the weapon that man tried to use against me before your arrival, and he used the same method to eliminate the witness to his crime. That is why I suggested a careful post mortem. Even if you don’t find the needle, you will find blood in the man’s ear or nose.” He turned to Saemon. “You may not know how to use a sword, but you are a skilled acupuncturist with medical training. Not only are the tools of your trade always with you in that satchel you carry, but you know how to inflict a fatal wound, whether it is a sword cut to the heart, or a needle puncture through an ear or nostril to the brain.”

  “You’ll find no needle,” sneered Saemon, “and bleeding from nose and ears is common in cases of strokes.”

  The inspector looked from the needle in his hand to Saemon and the chain which still lay at the pharmacist’s feet. Before Saemon could speak, his sister shouted, “Besides anyone can use those needles. It means nothing. He returned early last night. I can testify to that.”

  “You cannot,” said Saemon’s wife from the door. All eyes went to her. She was very pale except for the bruises, and she was clutching a brown-striped man’s robe to her chest. “My husband left in a grey robe yesterday. I went to look for it and found this instead.”

  The inspector snatched the robe from her hands and held it up. It was clearly too large for the thin Saemon.

  “It is not his,” Saemon’s wife said unnecessarily. “I’ve never seen it before. What happened to your grey robe, husband?”

  “It’s in the hands of the police,” said Akitada. “Your husband traded it for his second victim’s robe. He tore it to make the dead man look like a vagrant, forgetting that beggars rarely wear clean, white loin cloths.

  “Tie him up again!” snapped the inspector to his constables.

  Saemon cursed, and his sister wailed, “Don’t believe them! She’s an evil woman! What kind of wife turns on her own husband? Tell me that!”

  They ignored her. The constables led Saemon away, and the inspector said to Akitada, “A strange case. It will depend on identifying the second man, easily done of course, but … er … my apologies for your inconvenience. Your servant will be released immediately.” He bowed and was gone.

  Saemon’s sister stood uncertainly for a moment. She looked at the younger woman. “You have no right here anymore,” she said venomously. “Get out of my house! If you’re here when I return, I’ll have you whipped through the streets for the adulteress you are.” Then she ran after the police.

  Saemon’s wife looked stricken. “She’s right,” she said, wringing her hands. “I’m a terrible wife. I betrayed my husband, again and again. Now he will die because of me. I know I’m worthless. There is nothing to do, but to die.”

  Akitada put his hand on her shoulder. “No. Life thrusts difficult choices upon us. Your courage and sacrifice have saved my servant’s life and given peace to the spirits of the murdered men. Such acts will not go unrewarded. You may stay in my home, and count on me for money or any other help you desire.”

  She flushed and her eyes moistened. “Your home?” She shook her head with a sad smile. “You’re very good, sir, but your ladies would not welcome someone like me. No, don’t insist. It cannot be.” She paused. “But if I might borrow travel funds? I would like to see my parents again. They’re poor farmers. Perhaps I can atone …”

  The sun was setting. A refreshing wind blew from the western mountains, and here and there sere leaves drifted from the trees. The willows at the river had yellowed until their dancing branches looked like threads of golden silk against the brown brocade of the river. The heat had finally broken, but Akitada, who was walking toward the bridge, had a face full of gloom.

  “Sir, sir!” Tora was running toward him, smiling broadly. “I knew you’d do it …”

  Akitada stopped. “I paid a heavy price,” he said sadly, reaching into his sleeve and holding out his broken flute.

  The following bonus chapter is from the beginning of the novel THE HELL SCREEN. It too deals with love and murder. In fact, the novel contains no less than three separate love stories, only one of which ends really badly.

  In the excerpt that follows, you meet a woman who is definitely not a victim. She is strong, manipulative, and evil.

  Happy reading!

  The Hell Screen

  Prologue

  THE snoring behind her changed to an unintelligible mumbling, and she turned her head sharply. But it was nothing, part of a drunken stupor. She returned her attention to the dark, wet courtyard outside. In a moment the snoring resumed. Men were such weak-minded animals!

  Surely enough time had passed. It must be done by now. She shivered and pulled her silk gown more closely around her shoulders.

  Earlier, when she had entered this room, a place of rest and prayer for generations of pilgrims, she had read with amusement some of the inscriptions they had left behind on its walls. One was accompanied by the drawing of a seated Buddha and the judge of the dead, King Emma. Smiling and praying figures surrounded the smiling Buddha, but in front of the glowering king, a fierce demon was spearing screaming people to put them in a vat boiling over a fire. The unknown artist had taken pains and achieved a certain gruesome realism. The inscription said, “Release me, Amida, from desire! Save me from eternal torment!”

  She was intimately acquainted with desire, but fortunately she was not superstitious. No, she had no time for the foolishness of the religious.

  Stiffening, she leaned forward intently. Had that been the sound of a door closing?

  This was the most dangerous time. A careless move by the one she was waiting for, some guest on his way to relieve himself, or a monk bent on predawn austerities, and all would be lost. But the courtyard lay silent again among the trees. Strangely, there were not even the cries of night birds or the stealthy rustlings of fox or badger. Perhaps the rain had spoiled their hunting.

  There! This time she was certain. Another faint sound, closer this time, of gravel crunching underfoot. She closed the door a littl
e farther, peering through a narrow crack.

  The faint glow of the lantern at the end of the gallery was momentarily blotted out. Some large shape had moved across it. The loose board of the veranda steps creaked.

  Her heart beating in her throat, she called out softly, “Is someone there?”

  A grunt. “It’s me. Open up! Quick!”

  She jumped and threw the door wide.

  A man, dressed in a monk’s robe, entered, bent under a large burden. She closed the door behind him and shot the latch. In the darkness, his rasping breath made a counterpoint to the snores of the sleeper. She groped for the candle and lit it.

  The flickering light revealed the small, simple room, and the bowed figure of the visitor. He let his load roll off his shoulder onto the floor. It fell heavily, like all dead weights. The girl lay on her back, her eyes staring at nothing and her tongue protruding slightly between swollen lips. A hemp rope was still knotted about her throat.

  The man sat down abruptly and buried his face in his hands.

  “You took your time!” said the woman, giving him an irritated look. Then, turning her back to him, she started to undress. “Did you have any difficulties?” she asked.

  He grunted something, staring at her, then nodded toward the sleeper. “What about him? What if he wakes up?”

  “He won’t! He’s never had a head for strong drink and this time he won’t wake until morning. And by then it will be much too late.” She giggled, dropping her underrobe. He devoured her nakedness with hot eyes as she was bending over the dead girl.

  “Here! Hold her up for me.” When he did not move immediately, she added impatiently, “Why are men so useless?”

  He got to his feet meekly, averting his eyes from her breasts and groin. “I wish you’d put on some clothes,” he muttered.

  “What?” She looked up, then smiled. “In a moment, my precious stallion.”