by Ben Stevens
Then appearing to notice the sharp, inquisitive gaze of the magistrate upon him, my master shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter now, in any case,’ he said decisively. ‘A tragic accident; very unfortunate.’
‘I believe that you and your servant’ – here the magistrate looked at me for the first time – ‘are staying at another inn nearby?’
‘That is correct,’ returned my master. ‘One a little less… opulent, shall we say, than the one to which this stable belongs.’
‘My establishment is the finest one to be found in any direction for quite some distance,’ stated the innkeeper quickly.
Ignoring this idiotic declaration entirely, the magistrate asked my master another question –
‘Are you… planning to stay long?’
‘Actually,’ said my master, ‘we were intending to leave this morning, before we heard about this unfortunate incident, and came to see whether we could be of any service.’
‘We?’ queried the magistrate, a faintly mocking smile playing upon his lips as he looked at me a second time.
‘In any case,’ continued my master, ignoring the pointed aside (as I also attempted to do), ‘we will be leaving now, with your permission.’
The magistrate suddenly looked a little doubtful; even slightly suspicious.
‘You’re… you’re certain that it was the horse which… struck, this man?’ inquired the magistrate hesitantly.
‘Quite,’ returned my master quickly. ‘Now, with your permission…’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the magistrate – and with that my master and I left the stable, leaving the innkeeper and the magistrate continuing to stand beside that body which no longer had a face.
2
‘Idiot,’ said my master coldly, as we traipsed the short distance back to the inn where we were staying. ‘How does a man like that occupy a position such as magistrate?’
‘Master?’ I returned, once again entirely bewildered by what was being said.
My master suddenly turned upon me almost with exasperation.
‘Am I the only one with eyes?’ he demanded. ‘Kukai, you have been with me some years now. We have investigated any number of cases, you and I. I am always grateful for your assistance, and loyalty. Undoubtedly, you know my methods better than anyone by now.
‘So, kindly try to think – how do I know that the Chinese merchant’s horse had absolutely nothing to do with that man’s death?’
I racked my brains, but could think of no reply to my master’s question. Indeed, the more I considered it, the more I felt certain that the horse had to be the killer.
‘The bloodstains on the straw!’ cried my master then. ‘Or rather, the lack thereof – ’
‘But there were bloodstains on the straw!’ I interjected. ‘Plenty of them, around that faceless body…’
I couldn’t help but give a slight shiver, again recalling that hideous sight.
‘And from the hoof that dealt the killing blow, as the horse left the stable – that would surely have left a series of bloody prints, would it not?’ demanded my master.
I pictured the mess of straw and dried mud leading to the door of the stable… I was certain I had not seen a single speck of blood there. My master was right. Again, only he had noticed what was so obvious – once it had been pointed out…
‘Yes, master,’ I said, a little shamefaced. ‘Had the horse caused such… catastrophic injuries with its hoof, it would certainly have left a series of bloody prints as it then walked to the entrance of the stable.
‘But,’ I continued hastily, recalling my earlier suspicions, ‘what of that innkeeper? How did he even come to ‘find’ this body this morning; for what reason was he even in that stable in the first place?’
My master emitted a sigh, and I felt my spirits sink further as he gave a slight shake of his head. I was at once certain that another few ‘facts’ I had managed to overlook, were about to be made abundantly clear to me.
‘There were two other horses in that stable – do you think they feed themselves, or change their own straw?’ asked my master wearily.
‘The innkeeper himself attends to such minor chores, rather than one of his employees?’ I protested, though I knew already I might as well not say anything.
‘Although his inn is undoubtedly one of the finest, and thus doing excellent business, that ‘keeper clearly runs something of what you might call a ‘tight-ship’,’ returned my master. ‘Or did you escape noticing the fact that his kimono is much-repaired in places?
‘Certainly, an undoubtedly prosperous man who still insists on re-sewing old and worn clothing that would better be replaced, is hardly going to employ anything other than the bare minimum of staff. As such, any chores he can do himself, no matter how minor, he most certainly will.’
I could picture that man’s kimono perfectly now. A few simple facts having again been pointed out to me, everything my master said made absolute sense.
Still, like a drowning man attempting to cling to the flimsiest piece of driftwood, I protested –
‘But his brow, master; you saw how sweaty that was? He was obviously nervous under the questioning of you and that magistrate. So why was he so nervous, if not because he had something to hide, concerning the horrific death of that Chinese merchant?’
Again, my master sighed. I avoided looking at him as (with somewhat faux-patience) he then explained –
‘The innkeeper was made most nervous by the presence of the magistrate. Having a faceless corpse lying by his feet in the stable attached to his inn didn’t help matters, of course, but it was the magistrate that caused him the biggest concern.
‘Because, as financially ‘careful’ as that innkeeper is, I have no doubt that he has not been paying all the tax he should to the daimyo of this area – the daimyo, of course, to whom the magistrate is responsible, the magistrate also dealing with financial concerns as part of his job.
‘As such, I suspect that our financially-frugal innkeeper is most concerned about the possibility that any ‘probing’ into the affair of the faceless Chinese merchant will uncover the fact that he has – to put it bluntly – been fiddling his books.
‘That would explain his sweaty brow, would it not?’
I briefly closed my eyes, and gave a slight sigh of exasperation.
‘Yes, master,’ I said then, a little tightly. ‘I suppose it would.’
‘In any case,’ resumed my master quickly, doubtless in order to skip over my feeling of embarrassment, ‘we must leave this area immediately, and head for the harbor town of Aoyama.’
Yet again, my master was giving me a clue. But this time, I did not even attempt to develop any sort of theory of my own.
‘We are not chasing a rider-less horse, I assume, master,’ I said wearily. ‘But the innkeeper said the merchant was frequently in the habit of going to Aoyama, on business…’
‘Exactly – to Aoyama, where ships from China and other countries frequently dock…’
‘The Chinese beggar!’ I cried, some sort of realization suddenly dawning. ‘You suspect the Chinese beggar – that man with no hands.’
‘A man with sown-up kimono sleeves, anyway…’ returned my master, his tone of voice so mysterious that I turned to look at him. We were by now close to the inn where we had been staying these past few days.
‘I must hear this man’s story; for if I think I know how the Chinese merchant was killed, I must still discover why. But for the moment I give that ‘Chinese beggar’ the benefit of the doubt, if only for the fact that the deceased merchant was clearly something of an unpleasant individual.’
‘How can you know that, master?’ I questioned, my own tone of voice just a little brusque. My master was speaking of a man now dead, after all.
‘Because he, a wealthy man, refused to give a poor beggar with no hands even just a few coins,’ replied my master mildly. ‘That innkeeper said so – didn’t you hear?’
3
/> We hired two horses, using that system which would allow us to return them to another stable situated near Aoyama, and there get back the sizeable deposit my master was obliged to pay, on top of the hire charge. (Obviously, this deposit was even greater than the combined worth of the two horses.)
Our bill at the inn having already been settled, we thus set out on horseback. We expected to arrive in Aoyama towards evening – that is, after almost a day’s hard riding – and now my master was taciturn and grim-faced.
I could only assume that this mysterious ‘Chinese beggar’ must have recently set out for Aoyama himself – possibly upon the horse of the deceased Chinese merchant which the innkeeper had heard leaving the stable early that morning. And once at the harbor town, to board a ship traveling to China…?
But merely the concept of a man with no hands riding a horse was absurd. How would he control the animal, its reins? Unless he had improvised some sort of tool, which he could attach to his stumps.
And how, exactly, had he killed the Chinese merchant? In what way had a man with no hands managed to cause such catastrophic facial injuries?
My mind full of such questions, I continued to ride behind my master’s horse – for he, of course, already knew the quickest way to get to Aoyama…
We returned the horses to a stable on the outskirts of the harbor town, and then proceeded to walk along streets thick with people and lined on either side with all manner of shops, inns and other businesses. The smell of the sea nearby mixed with the scents of cooking food, so that my mouth watered – for I had not eaten since having had an early breakfast that morning.
My master, however, was immune to such trivial concerns as hunger, when that peculiar, single-minded enthusiasm for a ‘case’ was upon him.
‘I need only to see the ships that are moored, and find out which one is leaving for China in the morning. It has to be morning; surely it has not left already…’
So mumbled my master worriedly, almost to himself as we walked quickly towards the harbor. And there were a number of square-sailed junks with three masts – the standard trading vessels which sail from China. I also identified a few Korean ships (not dissimilar to the Chinese ones), as well as the strikingly different, so-called ‘galleons’ which come from such impossibly faraway lands as Holland.
All the ships, varying greatly in shape and size, swayed and creaked on the water, some tethered by thick brown ropes to great wooden posts on the edge of the harbor, others by the anchors which had been dropped to the seabed.
‘Stay here, Kukai. I will return soon,’ murmured my master, and in the next instant he was moving along the edge of the harbor, stopping to talk to anyone who looked remotely like a ‘seafarer’. A few such men quickly shook their heads and my master moved on; then he stopped, having a longer conversation with what appeared – at least to my inexpert eye – to be a Chinese sailor. (Those who have read some of the other adventures I have written concerning my master – particularly the ones entitled The Cursed Temple and The Sixth Buddha – will know already that my master is fluent in Chinese.)
This sailor nodded, and pointed at one of the square-sailed junks. My master obviously thanked him, and then returned to where I was stood waiting. He wore a slight smile of satisfaction.
‘This ship departs for China at precisely eight o’clock tomorrow morning, when the tides are best for any vessel wishing to leave this harbor,’ said my master. ‘But we will be waiting from first light, observing the passengers as they queue in preparation for boarding. It is then that I fully expect to see this Chinese man with no hands.’
‘And until then, master?’ I asked hopefully.
My master looked at me, and smiled.
‘Poor Kukai! It has indeed been a long day. Come, we will find ourselves an inn in which to stay, and there also order some food and perhaps a little sake.’
In a rather more contented frame of mind, I followed my master back into the bustling streets of the harbor town.
As the dawn’s light broke tentatively through the inky darkness, the red lanterns lining the harbor-side thus being extinguished, my master and I observed those people already waiting to board the junk that would in just a couple of hours be beginning its voyage to China. They stood and crouched in a small group, holding their bundled luggage in their arms, or else using it as an improvised seat.
Then I caught my breath slightly, seeing a small but stocky male join the group. His kimono sleeves had been shown shut – this was the man with no hands! I glanced at my master, who without returning my look gave the slightest nod. We were stood a slight but still discreet distance away from the assembled passengers, none of whom, of course, were paying us the least attention.
‘Stay here,’ murmured my master, and with that he walked over to the group. As he did so, I observed the young man (he appeared to be only in his mid-twenties) with no hands pull out some sort of bottle from the bag he carried by his side – he did so by using both wrists, thus gripping the bottle on either side. He then wedged the bottle between his knees, and like this again used his wrists in an attempt to ‘twist’ open the top.
Before another of the waiting passengers could help him, my master quickly moved to take the bottle and open it. The small man nodded his gratitude; and when he had taken a sip and allowed my master to close the top, then returning the bottle inside the bag, my master suddenly moved his mouth close to the man’s ear and quickly said something.
The effect on the handless man was dramatic – he lurched back, staring at my master with an expression composed half of shock, and half of rage. Then he nodded, quickly recovering his composure so that he seemed merely a little disappointed, and exchanged a few further words with my master.
I was surprised when my master walked back towards me, followed by the maimed Chinese man. A couple of the waiting passengers observed their departure with vague interest, before quickly returning their attention to their own affairs.
‘We will return to the inn at which we stayed last night, Kukai, and there take a private room for our interview with this man,’ my master informed me. ‘There is still an hour or so to go until this ship sails – I have already informed this man that if he is absolutely truthful with me, and answers every question I have to ask him with total honesty, then he may yet leave upon it.
‘Otherwise…’
I glanced at the small man, whose expression was now completely impassive as he wordlessly followed my master, that bag containing his few pitiful possessions hanging from a strap on one shoulder. And eager to have the mystery of the apparent murder of the Chinese merchant solved, I joined them in hurrying towards the nearby inn.
4
(Here, I should say that the ensuing interview between my master and the man who gave his name as Fan Dong was conducted wholly in Chinese. But my master quickly interpreted for me as and when he could snatch just a few seconds, and, in any case, later ‘filled in’ any gaps in my understanding concerning what had taken place. Thus, I will describe the interview – and the remarkable, albeit ultimately chilling story told by Fan Dong – as though I understood it, in its entirety, at the time.)
…‘You say that you are Ennin,’ declared Fan Dong, sat at a low table facing my master and me. ‘You are quite famous in my country; some people say you trained in Buddhism along with… other things in China, as a young man.’
Conversation suddenly ceased as a waitress entered the private room at the inn, carrying a tray with three cups of green tea upon it. My master gave a curt instruction that we were not to be disturbed again until he rang the bell, and the waitress left, sliding the door shut behind her.
‘I would remind you that the boat you wish to be upon is leaving soon,’ said my master then. ‘We are not here to talk about me.’
‘Very well,’ said Dong, staring levelly at my master. I have already said he was small in height, yet stocky in built and with an absolute air of self-assurance about him that I have seldom, if ever encountered bef
ore. His handless arms in the sewn-up sleeves he kept below the low table; his cup of tea remained untouched before him. (Of course, had he shown any indication of wanting to drink it, I would naturally have assisted him.)
‘The first thing you said to me was ‘Buddha’s Hammer’,’ continued Dong. ‘So, instantly I knew that you knew just how a thieving, lying merchant named Haichuan Guo had met his demise. When you then gave me your name, I also knew that I was dealing with a man worthy of respect.
‘So – here is my story. Listen to it; and when I am finished, if you decide that I deserve to be turned over to the authorities here in Japan, for the crime of murder, then I give you my word that I will cause no further trouble.’
‘I understand,’ said my master quietly.
Dong was silent for a few moments, evidently marshalling his thoughts. Then he began –
‘You should know that I am a martial monk, who has lived and trained at the Red Dragon Temple, in the mountains of east China’s Fudan Province, since the age of six. It was my parents’ wish that I go there, after they lost my elder brother – aged just eight – to what they believed were ‘bad spirits’. At the temple of the Red Dragon, they reasoned, I would at least be protected by benevolent gods and such, although they would get to see me but rarely – for their village lay over one hundred miles away.
‘They were wealthy, accruing a small fortune by offering a money-changing service for some of China’s many different currencies. This is a job which obviously requires a quick, mathematically-minded brain, but also the ability to quickly detect anyone who seeks to cheat and deceive.’
Dong sighed, although his narrow eyes and general expression remained placid as he said then –
‘Sadly, while my parents – and particularly my father – excelled at the former requirement, they were not so gifted at the latter. Thus they entered into partnership with a certain merchant named Haichuan Guo, who seemingly proved his honesty by investing his own money in the business and promising further expansion – in return, naturally, for a hefty stake in an already profitable enterprise.
