Текст книги "The Convict's Sword "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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CHAPTER FOUR

THE BLIND STREET SINGER

Seimei shook him awake long before he was ready. Heavy with unfinished sleep, he struggled to a sitting position. It was pitch dark outside, but Akitada customarily arrived at the ministry before sunrise. “Is it time already?” he grumbled. “I feel as if I’d just lain down.”

“No, sir. It’s Tora.”

“What?” Akitada rubbed his eyes and blinked against the light of the flickering candle. “What does he want in the middle of the night?”

“He’s been arrested for murder. Someone from the Metropolitan Police is outside. Tora gave your name, and they sent an officer.”

“It must be a ridiculous mistake. Tell them Tora is here. He came back with me.” Akitada lay back down with a sigh of mingled irritation and relief.

“Tora is not here, sir. He left again after you retired.”

Akitada sat up again, wide awake now. “He left again? Why? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Seimei held out Akitada’s trousers and robe.

Pushing aside the bedding, Akitada got up, stepped into the wide silk trousers and tied them around his waist and ankles. Then he put his arms into the sleeves of the silk robe he had intended to wear to the ministry, and felt his topknot to make sure it was reasonably tidy.

“Where is the constable?” he asked.

“In the reception room. But he’s a police lieutenant.”

“Hmm.” Barefoot, Akitada padded out of the room.

The lieutenant was young and excessively proper. Dressed in his uniform of white trousers, red coat, and black hat, he was still standing in the middle of the room and came to stiff attention when Akitada entered. His bow was snappy and precise. “Lieutenant Ihara, sir. Is it my honor to address First Secretary Sugawara?”

“Er, yes. Please be at ease, Lieutenant. What is all this about?”

“A female was murdered in the ninth ward. The man arrested at the scene of the crime claims to be your retainer, sir. Name of Tora?”

“I have a retainer by that name. Describe him!”

“Taller than I by a hand’s width. About thirty years old. Small mustache. Pale features. Good teeth. Wearing a plain blue robe with black sash. No other identifying marks that I could see.”

Akitada sighed. No doubt Tora had gone out after some female and got himself into trouble. “It sounds like him,” he admitted. “What happened?”

“The warden of the ninth ward received word that a crime was being committed and sent some constables. They walked in on the murder scene and found this Tora bent over the victim with a knife in his hand. The knife was covered with blood. The constable placed the killer under arrest and sent for us. We were notified two hours ago, and I was dispatched to the crime scene to interview the killer. That was when he gave your name, sir.”

“Did Tora confess to the murder?”

“No, sir. But then few killers will. At least not until they are questioned under torture.”

Akitada shuddered. “In that case,” he said, “you must not call him a killer yet. He is a suspect.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I meant the suspect.”

He did not look as if he thought there was a difference but probably had not made too many arrests that did not produce a guilty plea in court. Akitada thought of Haseo. He must have pleaded guilty once. Had he been tortured, too? His back had been deeply scarred, but he had blamed that on the cruel guards in Sadoshima. A commoner like Tora would hardly be spared.

“Where is Tora now?”

“He has been taken to the Western Prison.”

The Western Prison served the disreputable right half of the capital. It was more crowded than its counterpart, and the crimes punished there tended to be more sordid. Akitada asked, “Who is in charge of the case?”

“I am, sir.”

“Ah. Very good. I want to see the crime scene. Can you take me there?”

The lieutenant looked shocked. “I am very sorry, sir, but that is not permitted. Besides, the body has been removed already.”

“When do you expect the coroner to examine it?”

“Early this morning, I think. Doctor Okubo is very punctual.”

There was an indrawn breath behind him and Akitada turned. Seimei hovered near the door, his face drawn with worry. “What time is it now, Seimei?”

“The hour of the ox is nearly over. We should hear the gong striking the hour of the tiger soon.”

Two, perhaps three hours till dawn. Akitada would not be able to see Tora or the coroner until daylight. He pulled his earlobe and considered.

“Perhaps Tora surprised the real killer,” offered Seimei. “It isn’t like him to do such a thing.” He addressed the police officer. “You see, Lieutenant, Tora would never kill a woman. It isn’t in his nature.”

The lieutenant looked embarrassed. “As you say, sir. In that case, there is nothing to worry about. The authorities will have the truth out of him soon.” To Akitada he said, with another precise bow, “If there is nothing else, sir, I shall take my leave. I only needed verification of the suspect’s identity and to find out if anyone here knows anything about the murder. I see that you had no knowledge of the incident.”

“Wait a moment,” Akitada said quickly. “I must insist on the details of the murder. Also, surely you should ask when Tora left here. For all you know, the crime happened at a time when he was with us.”

The officer flushed. “Sorry. It being the middle of the night, I did not want to make a nuisance of myself. I thought I’d come back in the morning. But if it is no imposition . . .” Pulling a sheaf of paper from his sleeve, he glanced around helplessly for writing utensils.

Akitada took pity on him. “Come,” he said, taking his arm, “we will go to my study.”

His study was in some disarray, with his bedding and some of his clothes still on the floor. Seimei bustled about, muttering nervously under his breath. He lit more candles and brought paper and brushes, inkstones and water containers. For the lieutenant he supplied a small desk and settled him in front of it. Then he busied himself with the bedding and clothes.

“Never mind those, Seimei,” Akitada said impatiently. “The servants can take care of them later.”

Actually there were few servants in the Sugawara household. Akitada customarily put away his own bedding every morning, but the lieutenant would not understand this and might be less respectful if he knew of Akitada’s modest circumstances.

When they were alone, Akitada rubbed some ink and dipped his brush in it. The lieutenant was doing the same. He probably expected to conduct the interrogation himself. Akitada cleared his throat. “You may begin. Tell me about the victim.”

The lieutenant had been darting curious glances about the room. It had once been Akitada’s father’s and was elegantly furnished as a gentleman’s study. The tall shelves held document boxes, scrolls, and books accumulated by generations of Sugawara males. A handsome landscape scroll hung in the alcove, and the writing implements on the large old desk were fine antiques. He seemed impressed with the evidence of scholarly pursuits and did not balk at Akitada’s brusque order.

“The victim is a poor woman who may have earned a living by occasional prostitution. She was found in the room she rented from a stonemason in the ninth ward. She had multiple stab wounds. It is thought that your retainer was her customer and that they had quarreled.” He glanced about the room again and added apologetically, “Sorry to bring bad news in the middle of the night. Such women have very bad reputations. They have been known to steal from their customers. I am sure there will be extenuating circumstances.”

“Tora attaches little importance to casual sexual encounters or to money. In fact, I have never known him to purchase his pleasures. He is very handsome and never short of female company.”

The lieutenant shifted on his cushion. “Nevertheless, he was caught in the act.”

“When did the woman die?”

“The constable from the warden’s office claims she was still warm when he got there.”

Akitada frowned. This was not good. Unless the real killer was found quickly, Tora was in for a most unpleasant time. He asked, “How was the crime discovered so quickly?”

“The woman’s landlord and his family heard sounds of a struggle and screams. They sent their boy to the warden’s office for help.”

“Do I take it that they did not go to the woman’s aid themselves?”

“No. They were afraid.”

“Did they hear or see anyone arrive or leave prior to the crime?”

“No. All was quiet. They were preparing for bed. People go to bed rather early in poor households, to save on oil. The suspect entered by a back door.”

“What is known about the woman’s associates?”

“Not much. She worked in the market in the daytime and kept to herself. Being blind, she earned money by singing. She may have augmented that income by performing sexual services after dark.”

Akitada sat up in surprise and stared at the officer. “What? The blind street singer?”

The lieutenant was instantly alert. “The woman’s name was Tomoe. Was your honor, by chance, acquainted with her?” His tone and manner were rapidly changing back to suspicion.

Akitada came to a decision. There was little point in suppressing facts. Rather, if he hoped for cooperation, he would have to offer assistance. Besides, the little he knew was bound to come out in any case. “Yes,” he admitted, “you surprised me. Your calling the woman a prostitute made me think this a matter unrelated to any of us, but Tora had taken an interest in this blind woman because she was afraid of someone. He spoke to me about her, asking me to investigate. I refused to become involved. Apparently I was wrong in thinking her problem trivial. But it means that Tora’s presence can be explained by his being worried enough to check up on her. He must have arrived on the scene shortly after the murder.” Akitada clapped his hands, and Seimei appeared so promptly that it was clear he had been eavesdropping outside the door. Akitada asked him, “Seimei, when did Tora leave here?”

“Right after his evening rice, sir. Just before the gong announced the hour of the boar.”

“The alarm was given in the last quarter of the hour of the boar,” said the lieutenant.

Akitada thought. “Probably less than an hour after Tora left here. He must have gone directly to her place. What does he say?”

“That he found her dead. But it is what the killer would say, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Akitada sighed. “I should have listened to Tora. But this accusation against him is ridiculous and must be proven wrong. The dead woman’s ghost will not be at peace until we find who did this.” He got to his feet. “I would like you to show me the scene of the crime.”

The lieutenant shook his head stubbornly. “I’m sorry, sir. Impossible.”

Akitada stiffened. “What do you mean? Superintendent Kobe will vouch for me . . .” He stopped. His friend Kobe was superintendent of the police, but Akitada had no wish to cause him trouble unless Tora’s life was in danger. Kobe had earned his position by diligence and hard work, but his job was sought by one of the Fujiwaras, a distant cousin of the Minister of the Left and a man who, though more familiar with courtly protocol than criminal investigation, was known for his ruthless pursuit of advancement. If he caught Kobe in the slightest bending of the rules, he would see him ousted. Akitada said instead, “But if we wait until the authorities give permission, valuable clues may be lost.” On second thought, he decided that this young lieutenant would not take kindly to having police methods questioned and explained, “The local warden’s people are often untrained in looking at a crime scene. They deal mostly with ruffians and thieves. I have some experience in criminal investigations. Under the circumstances, I would be glad to offer my assistance.”

The lieutenant looked puzzled, then brightened suddenly. “Of course. How stupid of me! You are that Sugawara. I should have remembered. In that case, while it isn’t precisely according to the rules, an exception might be made. And as it is too early to get official permission, we could just go and have a quick look. I would be grateful for any suggestions from someone with your reputation, sir.”

“Thank you.” Sometimes notoriety was a good thing. Akitada’s interest in criminal cases, some of them involving the lowest type of criminal and crime, was so extraordinary in someone of his birth and position as an imperial official that it had caused him mostly trouble, especially with Soga.

The thought of Soga brought new worries. There was little chance now that Akitada would be safely behind his desk in his office when the minister arrived. But it could not be helped.

As they left his study, Akitada caught a glimpse of his wife at the end of the corridor. She stood in the dark, a pale, ghostlike presence in her white undergown. Her face was filled with anxiety. Akitada told his companion, “Please go ahead. I’ll catch up with you,” and turned back to Tamako.

Her eyes searched his face. “Something bad has happened,” she said with a little catch in her soft voice. “I was afraid for you.”

His heart filled with contrition. “It has nothing to do with me,” he said, taking her clenched hands in his—they felt cold and clutched his warm ones eagerly. “Tora was mistakenly arrested. I must see what I can do. Don’t worry. More than likely it will turn out to be nothing.”

“Oh, I hope so.” She bit her lip. “You will be careful? And Akitada, whatever you decide, it will be my wish also.” She paused, anxiously waiting to see if he understood her meaning. When he looked at her doubtfully, she said, “I think that something else has been troubling you.”

So she had guessed his problem with Soga. Ashamed, Akitada could not meet her eyes. He said, “I’m sorry that I’ve been so preoccupied.” He touched her shoulder and said again, “Do not worry!” and hurried after the lieutenant.

Outside, the night air was oppressive. The smoke from thousands of cooking fires, oil lamps, and torches hung in the still air. They encountered few people. A young nobleman hurried home from a tryst, and a page boy ran toward the palace with a flowering branch; somewhere a lady or her lover had attached a poem to the branch, to commemorate their lovemaking. Among the good people, nighttime was for romance, not murder.

As they walked along Nijo Avenue, they heard the gong in the palace grounds striking the hour of the tiger, and then faintly the voice of the guard officer, giving his name and the time. Shortly after, the soft twanging of bowstrings came from the imperial residence. Eternal vigilance was required to keep evil spirits from entering His Majesty’s chamber and wreaking havoc there.

Apparently evil did its dirty work unhampered in the great city beyond the palace walls. Akitada felt another twinge of guilt for having ignored Tora’s pleas. He walked silently and glumly beside the lieutenant, who led the way with his lantern.

It was a long way to the ninth ward, and Akitada had walked a great distance the previous day. He had a hard time keeping up with the young lieutenant’s long strides. Spending hours sitting or kneeling in his office bent over documents seemed to age a person beyond his years, and the old knee injury did not help. Eventually the lieutenant noticed and slowed down. Ashamed, Akitada forced himself to walk more briskly and evenly.

When they reached the street of shacks and dilapidated wooden houses where the stonemason lived, he was bathed in sweat and wished only to sit down. It was still dark, but there was enough light to see that the small yard was littered with samples of the mason’s work. More stones leaned against the walls of the house, and a light flickered inside. There was no one about. The lieutenant gave a grunt and pushed aside the front door curtain. Ducking in, he barked, “What are you doing, you lazy oaf? I told you to stand guard.”

Akitada followed. A family huddled in a corner of what must be the main room. They were curled up close together under quilts, their eyes startled and fearful. In the center of the room, a constable staggered to his feet and fell to his knees, beating his forehead against the dirt floor.

“I just came in for a moment,” he babbled. “To make sure all was well.” His sleep-puffed face gave away the truth.

“Outside!” snarled the lieutenant. The constable scrambled up and slunk past them to resume his guard duty. The lieutenant did not apologize for the negligent guard—Akitada rather liked that about the man. Instead Ihara told the family, “We’re having another look at the room. Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep.” Taking up one of the small oil lamps in passing, he headed toward the back of the house. Akitada nodded a greeting and followed him.

In the back of the house, the lieutenant stopped in front of a door and ripped off a strip of paper that had been placed there to keep people from walking in on the crime scene. When the door was open, he directed the lantern light at the scene of the murder.

The street singer’s room was small, windowless, and bare, a mere storage space for the main house. Once it might have been neat, but now it showed signs of a dreadful struggle.

A second door, old and badly warped but with a new wooden latch, probably led to a backyard. Someone had tried to cover the gaping cracks between the boards with strips of paper that would do little to keep out the icy blasts of the winter months.

The furnishings were meager. A single trunk for clothing stood askew in a corner, a broken shelf once held a bit of food and eating utensils, all of which now lay scattered about the floor. A small hibachi had fallen on its side, its coals and ashes spilled on the dirt floor. It must have served the blind woman as a stove. On top of a thin mat, some bedding had been spread. The bedding was also tumbled about.

They stepped across a pool of blood and closed the door.

The woman’s body was gone, but her blood seemed to cover everything she had left behind. Thick, dark puddles marked the floor where she had died; streaks and spatters covered the walls, the mat, the bedding; and smears and bloody handprints defaced the walls and the door they had come through.

“Would you describe the body for me?” Akitada said to Ihara.

The young man pointed to the blood in front of the door. “She was just there, on her stomach, her head toward the door, and her feet toward us. She was wearing a white cotton robe, which was soaked in blood from many deep cuts on her back and front. Her hair had come loose, and she was cold to the touch when I arrived. Is that what you had in mind?”

“Yes. Did she have any money on her?”

“No.”

Akitada began to move about cautiously, looking at everything. “She put up a terrible fight against her attacker,” he muttered at one point.

The lieutenant gestured to the bedding. “After she accommodated him sexually.”

Akitada bent to look at the blood-stained quilts more closely. “Really? How do you know?”

Ihara laughed. “Well, somebody’s used the bedding and her sash was off when we found her. She was half naked.”

“The coroner will tell us,” Akitada said, straightening up. His eye fell on the back door with its many paper strips. “Was that door latched?’ he asked.

“The suspect claims he found it open.”

“Hmm.” Akitada pursed his lips. “She did not try to escape that way,” he said. “I wonder why not.”

“I imagine she was trying to reach her landlord and his family.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Akitada studied the back door, then opened it. The flickering light from their lantern fell on a tiny veranda. Beyond lay a service yard containing a laundry tub, clothesline, some baskets, a small pile of faggots, a broom made of twigs, a rainwater barrel, and more stone tablets. A low wooden fence with a gate ran along a street that passed behind the houses.

“Bring the light closer.” Akitada crouched down and looked at the weathered boards of the wooden stoop. Dusty shapes marked the print of boots and of dirty bare feet. It looked as though the boots went only one way, into the room, but the bare feet were both coming and going and had also shuffled about near the threshold. Akitada placed his own foot next to the prints. The boot print matched his closely, but the bare feet had belonged to someone much smaller.

“Was the dead woman wearing shoes?”

Ihara frowned. “I don’t recall. Why?”

“Somebody barefoot was here.”

The lieutenant was unimpressed and said that the boot prints belonged to the killer, and the dead woman had probably left the others on an earlier occasion. Akitada revised his good opinion of the lieutenant’s intelligence and did not mention the small cut in one of the strips of paper on the door. He had had to bend a little to see it closely and confirm that it had been made from the outside. Someone had spied on the woman inside, someone who was shorter than either he or Tora and who had been barefoot and carried a knife.

Back in the dead woman’s room, Akitada considered the destruction. It looked accidental rather than intentional, a direct result of the victim’s attempt to escape her attacker. Being blind, she had kept to the walls, trying to reach the door to the hallway, and in her struggle against the knife-wielding killer, she had knocked her trunk away from the wall and grabbed for the shelf and torn it off. And all the time, the killer had been slashing and stabbing at her, for there was her blood on three of the walls and finally on the interior door, where the marks of bloody fingers had left vertical smears all the way to the threshold. She had died at the foot of this door, her lifeblood soaking into the dirt.

Akitada looked with pity at the things that had fallen from the shelf. The woman’s life must have resembled that of a starving hermit. The single small earthenware bowl was in pieces but had been chipped long before, and her chopsticks were of plain rough wood. She did not own a large pot to cook rice in, but then she had no rice either. Evidently she purchased small amounts of food in the market and cooked them in a little iron pot on her hibachi. Her food stores were pitiful. A handful of dry millet had spilled from a twist of paper, and among the shards of the bowl lay a few leaves of cabbage and a tiny piece of dried fish.

He tried to remember her. She had been thin, yes, but had she actually looked starved? Surely she had had enough customers, even without adding prostitution to her labors, to live better than this.

The tangled bedding also was quite old and had been mended many times, the stitches and patches grossly uneven. It must have been difficult to work by touch alone. The more he considered her struggle to survive, the more he was filled with wonder. That same spirit had caused her to fight against her killer even when it was hopeless.

He turned his attention to the trunk. It had intrigued him from the start, because it was lacquered and had once been expensive. He opened it, expecting more surprises, but it was nearly empty. Only a few pieces of rough clothing, neatly folded, lay on the bottom. He had no wish to paw through a dead woman’s private possessions, but made himself do a cursory check. A few cheap cotton scarves, two pairs of cotton trousers, and two cotton jackets, the sorts of clothes worn by peasant women, scullery maids, and outcasts, were all that she had owned. If she had plied a trade as a streetwalker, she had certainly made no attempt to look attractive to men. The trunk apparently also held her bedding in the daytime. How very different were the arrangements in most houses. Each member of Akitada’s family had four trunks, one for the clothing of each season. And bedding had a separate storage place.

Tomoe had been very poor.

Akitada was about to drop the lid again, when he noticed a faint bulge under the bottom layer of clothes. He pulled out a small black lacquer box, a box most beautifully decorated with a design of fish cavorting among waves. The pictures were drawn in gold lacquer and the fish scales inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It was an altogether exquisite piece.

He opened the lid, and found that the inside of the box was painted with flowers of the four seasons and that it contained cosmetics. A twisted paper held powder to whiten the face, and small compartments were filled with kohl to outline the eyes and paint eyebrows, tweezers to pluck eyebrow hairs so the new ones could be painted above them, rouge for the lips, and a vial of tooth-blackening liquid. They were the sorts of cosmetics used by highborn ladies or elegant courtesans. What possible use were they to a blind street singer? There was no mirror in the room, any more than the windowless space had needed any lamps. Had she stolen the box for resale? If so, why had she not sold it long ago?

Among the twisted papers containing various powders he found another puzzle. One of the paper packages felt hard under his fingers. He undid it and saw that it contained three pieces of silver, an astonishing amount of money for someone who lived on the edge of starvation.

He showed his find to the lieutenant, who was first excited, then angry.

“Those lazy louts should have found it when they searched the room. You were right, sir. The pieces of dung cannot be trusted with an investigation. When they told me the dead woman had no money, I wondered if she’d been robbed. I suppose this proves she wasn’t. So we are still working with an unpremeditated act, with a crime of passion?”

“Hmm.” Akitada flattened out the paper and saw some faint characters written on it, not with ink and brush, but with something like charcoal. The characters had become smudged from handling, but he thought they were names: Nobunari and Nobuko—the first male, the second female. Was the money theirs? Or had she simply wrapped the coins in a discarded piece of paper she had found somewhere? Paper was not readily available to someone who could neither read nor write. He corrected himself. It was theoretically possible for a blind person to write, provided that person had once had sight and had been taught. But a street singer? He shook his head and put the money back in its paper and replaced it. He closed the box and handed it to the lieutenant. “You had better take care of this,” he said. “It may turn out to be evidence. It either proves that robbery was not the killer’s aim—or that he was interrupted before he could ransack the trunk.”

The lieutenant pondered this. “I get your drift. You think your Tora arrived and the killer ran? Yes, I suppose it could have happened that way.” But he sounded dubious and peered into the open trunk, tossing the folded garments around. “Not much else in here except her rags. I suppose she put her bedding on top every morning. What do you make of her having such a fine box and the silver?”

“I don’t know. It’s strange.”

“Stolen, I expect.”

Though Akitada had just had the same thought, the lieutenant’s easy conclusion bothered him. “Not necessarily,” he said. “We must learn as much as possible about the victim and her past and current life. Now I would like to ask the mason and his family a few questions.”

When they got back to the main room, they found that the couple had crept out of their blankets and was sitting beside the central fire pit. The mason, middle-aged before his time, still wore his dusty jacket and short pants, and his hands and feet were encrusted with stone powder. His wife did not look much cleaner. Poor people had no bathing facilities, and the public baths charged too much money, but the contrast to their lodger Tomoe was striking. She had made a great effort to be clean, perhaps because her work required it, but Akitada rather thought that cleanliness had been important to her, a matter of pride.

“We are sorry to be so much trouble.” Akitada squatted down near the mason, though the man’s simian features did not promise much in terms of intelligent responses. After a moment, the lieutenant did the same.

“No trouble, no trouble,” the mason muttered, avoiding eye contact and bobbing his head.

“The lieutenant tells me that you heard your lodger cry out and sent for help. Is that so?”

“She was screaming. It was terrible. It was like demons were tearing her to pieces. I sent my son for the constables.”

Akitada thought of the blind woman struggling for her life, trying to reach the door and help. And these people had sat there, paralyzed with fear. Superstitions were common, but so were cowardice and ill will. He constrained his anger and said encouragingly. “You must have been very frightened.”

“Yes. We ran outside and hid. After a long time I went to listen at the door. I heard nothing. But I figured the demon must have heard us, and we went back outside.”

What a repulsive little toad this man was! In fact, Akitada felt nothing but revulsion for the couple. He looked from one to the other. “Did you hear or see anyone leave?”

They shook their heads.

“Did your lodger receive visitors in her room?”

The mason hesitated and looked at his wife. She glared back at him. The mason fidgeted and said sullenly, “I’m a busy man. I have no time to watch her.”

His wife gave a snort.

Akitada said, “Yes, of course. But perhaps your wife, being in the house most of the day, may know something?”

The woman smirked. “She looked down her nose at people. Men think that makes a whore special.” She snorted again. “Men are fools.” She glared at her husband.

Aha, thought Akitada, so the wife was jealous of Tomoe. He considered her with interest. She was a short, dumpy female with the sharp nose and close-set eyes of a rat and a permanent scowl of bad temper. The street singer had been no beauty, but to the stonemason she must have seemed a fairy compared to the mother of his children. Had she caught her husband with Tomoe and gone after her rival with her kitchen knife? If so, the mason would be bound to cover up for her.

As if she guessed what he was thinking, she said suddenly, “That fellow they arrested. He was here before, and they argued. He said he’d be back, and she’d better do something or he’d kill her.”