Текст книги "The Dragon Scroll "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“Oh, yes!” Akitada thought of his feelings for the lovely creature in her embroidered silks and felt a little foolish.

Motosuke eyed him shrewdly. “A beguiling flirt like her mother?”

“Perhaps.” Actually, he was certain of it now that he knew her story. And—he was honest enough to admit it—because he had found Ayako and was no longer vulnerable to childlike beauties with their appealing ways. He recognized the sudden faintness, the tears, the small hand creeping into his for what they had been: the wiles of a seductress.

“Could Yukinari be the lover?” Motosuke asked.

“He was. In fact, I suspected him of the murder. His refusal to see her struck me as very strange. Then one of the maids told me of the affair. She is the woman who thought she saw him leave the night of the murder. But Yukinari was out of town the entire night and swears he broke off the affair last summer.”

Motosuke scowled. “He met my daughter.”

“Yes. He is very distraught.”

“Infernal fool! And you think Lady Tachibana then took up with someone else?”

“Yes. Perhaps the man is another officer.”

Motosuke pursed his lips. “Women are vengeful creatures. Perhaps she killed Tachibana. Wouldn’t a soldier have used his sword?”

“It seems unlikely that an armed man would bludgeon his enemy to death. Tachibana was hit over the head with some heavy piece of glazed tile or ceramic utensil. I found a green shard in his topknot. That suggests an unpremeditated act by an unarmed man.”

Motosuke asked, “What will you do next?”

Akitada sighed. “I promised Lady Tachibana some help in settling her estate. It may serve as a pretext to snoop a little.”

“Excellent. I shall begin to make plans for the temple affair and let you know as soon as I have talked to Yukinari.”

Now that he had got his way, Akitada began to feel uneasy.

“Be careful,” he said. “The fewer people know, the better.”

♦

When he returned to his rooms, Seimei was watching Tora, who was pacing the floor impatiently.

“There you are,” Tora greeted Akitada. “I found a man who knows where Hidesato eats and sent him a message. Can we go right away? It’s getting late.”

Akitada raised his hands. “Slowly, Tora. I have just come from the governor. There may be more urgent work.”

“You’d better read this first.” Seimei took a curious object from Akitada’s desk and held it up: a bare branch with a slip of mulberry paper tied to it with crimson silk. “The boy who brought it is waiting for an answer.”

Akitada reached for the letter, then pulled back his hand as if bitten by a snake. He knew the sender. Unfortunately, he could not avoid it. Reluctantly, he untied the note, dropping silk and branch carelessly on the floor. The paper was expensive and heavily perfumed. He read: “How sad the barren branch, the blasted flower, when friendship cools, and deadly frost kills budding love.” It was a poor poetic effort, too stilted and lacking in subtlety, but she had reason to complain. He had not kept his promise because of Ayako. For a moment he stood undecided.

“What’s a fornicator?” asked Tora.

Akitada started. “What?”

Seimei, always the mentor, explained, but Tora shook his head. “You must be wrong, old man. There are no women there. Was the old monk crazy, sir?”

Understanding dawned belatedly. Tora and Seimei had discussed the incident at the temple while his own mind wandered along the twisted paths of love. “No, Tora,” he said with a grimace. “I expect the old monk spoke the truth. It is a practice among some monks to enjoy the love of boys.”

“Swine!” Tora shook his head, then asked, “Now will you come talk to Hidesato, sir?”

Akitada let Lady Tachibana’s note drop to the floor. “Yes, Tora. Lead the way.”

♦

The Inn of the Eight Immortals was a ramshackle two-storied building in the brothel quarter. From its upper story eight garish banners with the figures of the sages fluttered dispiritedly in the cold wind. Tora gave his master an uneasy look.

“Go on,” said Akitada, pointing at the narrow doorway covered with strips of dingy brown grass cloth. His peers in the capital would have shunned this place like a smallpox-infected house, and he wondered what Motosuke would think of his “elder brother” now.

The restaurant was large and instantly enveloped them in raucous noise and pungent smells. Four cooks, stripped to the waist and wearing checked towels around their heads, worked over the bamboo steamers, while some fifty customers were busy eating, drinking, and chattering.

Akitada’s eyes followed a tray of succulent shrimp, balanced precariously on the shoulder of a youngster who stepped nimbly between the seated parties to serve a group of men.

“There he is,” Tora cried. “Hidesato!”

Near the steaming cauldrons, a tall, bearded man rose, looking as if he wished he were elsewhere. He gave Tora a tight smile and bowed to Akitada.

Tora embraced him and slapped his back. “We’ve searched for you everywhere, Hito. Why did you run off like that?”

Hidesato’s eyes went to Akitada. “Later, brother.”

Akitada liked the sergeant’s open face and soldierly manner, even though the feeling was not mutual. Hidesato was openly hostile. Akitada’s heart sank, but for Tora’s sake he would try. “I’m hungry,” he said, sitting down. “Come, let’s order.”

Hidesato cleared his throat. “They serve only common fare here,” he said.

Akitada ignored this comment and ordered three large servings of shrimp and a pitcher of wine, then said, “Tora can tell you what we ate on our journey here. This is a feast.”

Hidesato muttered, “Oh.” His eyes kept wandering toward the entrance.

“Are you expecting someone?” Akitada asked.

“No. That is...sometimes a friend stops by.”

When the food and wine appeared, Akitada reached for his bowl, shelling his shrimp nimbly. Tora did the same and after a moment Hidesato joined them. Silence prevailed until the bowls were empty. Tora wiped his hands on his old robe, and Hidesato did likewise, then watched Akitada.

“Excellent,” Akitada said with a sigh of satisfaction and fished a paper tissue from his sleeve to clean his hands. “Now for some wine.” He filled their cups. Tora bit his lip and looked down at his clenched hands. Akitada urged, “Why don’t you give your friend the good news?”

Tora looked up. “Oh. Looks like you’ll be in the money again, Hito. The garrison’s been looking for you. They need another experienced sergeant.”

Hidesato’s face lit up. “Truly? I’d given up hope. I suppose I should have gone back after I lost my lodging.” His eyes went to the entrance again.

“Well,” said Akitada, waving to the waitress to bring more wine, “drink up! You have something to celebrate after all. By the way, I am obliged to you. Tora has been teaching me the art of stick fighting. He tells me you taught him.”

Hidesato stared at him, then at Tora, who said quickly, “He’s good, Hito. I’m at the end of my tricks. Bet you’d make a better teacher.”

Hidesato shot Akitada an angry glance and snapped, “You shouldn’t have done that, Tora. Your master’s not one of us. What need has a nobleman for the simple skills of poor people? Fighting sticks are for those who aren’t allowed to wear swords.”

There was a pregnant silence, then Akitada said, “Please don’t blame Tora. No man could ask for a more loyal friend than you have in him. As for myself, I cannot help my birth any more than you can yours. In fact, I’ve had little cause to consider myself more fortunate than other men. I wished to learn your skills because I might need them someday and because I believe a man should have many skills.”

Hidesato glowered silently.

“I am sorry you will not accept me,” Akitada said heavily after a moment. “Tora wanted to leave my service when he found out how you felt, but I would not let him go without talking to you first. He was honor-bound to an agreement we made when we met. I mention this so you will know that he deserves your friendship. But he is free now. I won’t stand between you.” He fished a string of coppers from his sash and rose. “It’s been a long day, and I am weary. Use the coppers to pay the bill, Tora.”

“I’m tired also,” Tora said, dropping the money on the mat and getting to his feet. “Let’s be on our way. Good luck, Hidesato.”

Akitada stopped, dismayed. He had not intended to force a choice on Tora. Before he could speak, Hidesato said, “Sit down, little brother. You, too, sir, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s hard to believe you find Tora at all satisfactory, but I’ll take your word for it.” He reached for the pitcher and filled their cups. “Now that I’m to be employed again, I look forward to returning your hospitality, sir.”

Akitada and Tora sat down dazedly. Hidesato smiled and nodded. “I’m not much for making speeches,” he said to Akitada, “but Tora’s judgment is good enough for me. I don’t hold with the nobility as a rule, but I’ll make an exception in your case if you don’t mind the company of a rough soldier.” He raised his cup to Akitada and drank.

It was not much, but Akitada was grateful. Raising his own cup, he said, “I’m glad and honored to know you.”

With the ice finally broken, they told Hidesato about their exploits, and after some questions about the monks and Higekuro and his daughters, he offered his help whenever his military duties permitted it. This pleasant state of affairs was interrupted when a waitress whispered something to Hidesato. He rose and looked toward the entrance.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “the friend I mentioned waits outside.”

Akitada felt companionable. “Invite your friend to join us,” he suggested.

Hidesato flushed crimson. “She’ll refuse,” he said.

“A lady? But I insist,” said Akitada, fascinated. Looking around the room, he added, “I see other women eating here.”

Hidesato said stiffly, “As you wish, sir.”

He returned with a young woman who was wrapped in a quilted jacket that partially covered a soiled and garish gown. Her face wore the heavy makeup of brothel women.

“This is Jasmin,” Hidesato said awkwardly.

The young woman nodded timidly.

“Come,” said Hidesato. “Sit down. You must be cold and hungry.” He helped her remove her jacket while Tora called for more food and wine.

Without the thick quilted jacket Jasmin looked pitifully thin. Akitada thought she was probably young and coarsely pretty under the layers of pasty white powder, but at the moment she looked merely unhealthy and pathetic. The wind had tangled her hair, and her hands were grimy and had bitten fingernails. Yet Hidesato fussed over her with a devotion only a son or lover could show such a woman. Akitada exchanged a glance with Tora.

“My,” the girl said in a throaty voice, looking about her, “a woman’s life’s a thousand times harder than a man’s. Here you sit with your friends, keeping warm and filling your stomach, while I’m earning a living freezing my toes on the dark streets. In this weather there’s hardly any custom. Only the poor are out—and they like it for free.” Unconcerned about their reaction, she went on, “They wouldn’t let me in till you came to get me. Oh, food!” She reached hungrily for the shrimp the waitress set before her and began to eat so greedily that the shrimp disappeared half-shelled between her small teeth. Hidesato watched her with a besotted smile and pushed the wine cup toward her. She nodded her thanks, and chattered between bites and gulps, and picked shells from her teeth. “Mmm, that’s good...It’s been a bad night... only one trick, an old tightwad ... carpenter from the slums. Pour me another, will you, Hito dear? The bastard gave me ten coppers ... can you believe it? And not even a room! Just an alley, standing up! Ten coppers! Roku had the rest out of my hide earlier.”

She looked tired and drawn all of a sudden. Absently she rubbed her left cheekbone with sticky fingers and dislodged enough caked powder to reveal an ugly bruise.

“That bastard beat you again,” Hidesato said hoarsely. “I told you to let me teach him a lesson. Listen, Jasmin, I got the job. At the garrison. I’ll be a sergeant again. The money’s good. You can give up this life and get away from that brute. Move in with me. I’ll look after you.”

Jasmin shook her head. “I can’t, Hito. You know why. And you mustn’t touch him. Promise? If you’re truly my friend?” She looked at him piteously.

Hidesato opened and shut his big hands in helpless misery. Then he pushed the wine cup toward her again. “Well, eat and drink. You still look half frozen. I’ve got some money and there’ll be more. So don’t worry, eh?” He fished in his sleeve and brought out a handful of coppers that he pressed into her hand.

Tora was beginning to look very angry, and Akitada decided it was time to leave. Hidesato gave them a brief, distracted smile before turning his attention to the woman again.

Akitada left enough money with the waitress to cover the bill for all of them, then joined Tora in the street. “You know the girl?” he asked.

Tora cursed fluently. “I thought he was rid of her. Jasmin is from his hometown, daughter of a cousin or something. He’s looked after her for years. Fool woman wants nothing to do with decent men like Hidesato. Look where it’s gotten her. I bet he lost his lodging because he gave her all his money so she won’t get beaten up by her latest boyfriend. It’s tearing him apart.”

The perversity of human relationships struck Akitada painfully. Women played havoc with the men whose hearts they touched. The burly sergeant loved a common harlot who discussed her customers and her abusive lover with him. Yukinari had succumbed twice to women and was a broken man because he had had the bad luck to fall in love with Motosuke’s daughter. Lady Tachibana, like her mother before her, had manipulated men, leaving them ruined or dead. Bright butterflies were fatal. Why did men become so enmeshed in their desire for certain women that they lost all sense of proportion and propriety?

They walked home in silence.

* * * *

FOURTEEN

GREEN SHARD,

BLUE FLOWER

S

eimei and Akitada arrived at the back gate of the Tachibana mansion at midmorning the next day. Akitada’s visits to the bathhouse took time not only from his practice bouts with Tora but now also from his work. Feeling both tired and guilty, he was short-tempered and hardly spoke to the boy Junjiro who admitted them.

Junjiro trotted beside Akitada toward the studio, looking up at him expectantly. When they reached the steps, Akitada glanced down and said brusquely, “We won’t need you, but don’t mention our presence to your mistress.” He glanced nervously across to the main house lying peacefully in a deserted garden. The snow had disappeared everywhere except under shrubs and against the north side of the hall. He had no wish to see the winter butterfly.

“The monks are gone,” offered Junjiro.

“Good,” snapped Akitada, setting his foot on the bottom step.

“Shall I bring you some tea and a brazier?”

“No, thank you. We shall not be long.”

The boy turned to go, and Akitada sat down on the veranda to remove his shoes. Seimei joined him. Below them Junjiro turned and asked, “Have you arrested the captain?”

“The captain?” Then Akitada remembered what the boy’s mother had claimed to have seen. “No,” he said. “Captain Yukinari was not in town during the night your master was murdered.”

Junjiro’s eyes grew round. “But who else could it have been?”

“Your mother made a mistake.”

The boy flared up. “My mother doesn’t make mistakes. I’ll be back.” And he ran off.

Akitada sighed and got up. “Come on, Seimei. Let’s get this over with.”

They were bent over the documents, sorting and reading, when Junjiro reappeared. He had a stubborn look in his eyes and announced, “My mother says it was the captain’s helmet she saw. He used to wear it sometimes when he came to visit. It has red cords and big silver stripes all around it. She’s sure because she remembers how the red showed up against the blue robe.”

Astonished, Akitada put down an account of provincial silk production and said, “A blue robe? Why would the captain have worn his helmet with a blue robe? Surely he would have been in uniform, that is, armor.” He reached up to massage his neck, which ached abominably, and tried to focus bleary eyes on the boy.

Junjiro’s jaw dropped. “That’s right,” he said. Then he grinned. “I’m glad it wasn’t him.” He turned and skipped away.

Akitada shook his head, winced at the pain, and returned to work. They finished in time to return to the tribunal for their noon rice, a meal that Akitada merely picked at. Tora came, and when they had eaten, Akitada said, “We found nothing among Tachibana’s papers. Either the man was too careful to write his suspicions down, or the killer took the incriminating documents.”

Tora nodded and turned to Seimei to discuss the brushstrokes he had been practicing under the old man’s direction.

“Pay attention, both of you,” Akitada snapped irritably, aware that this was meant as much for himself as for his companions. His head felt incredibly fuzzy, and the little he had eaten had left him mildly nauseated, perhaps due to the previous night’s overindulgence in shrimp and wine. “Let’s think about the murder,” he said. “The sequence of events starts with Lord Tachibana’s whispered invitation to me. We must assume that he had a secret to communicate, which was dangerous, and that he did not trust someone who was present. We have eliminated Motosuke and Yukinari as suspects, so that leaves only Joto or Ikeda.”

“I think they’re in it together,” pronounced Tora. He belched and stretched out on his back, arms folded under his head. “The baldpate sleeps with boys and buries old monks alive, and Ikeda is a crooked official. That’s good enough for me.”

Seimei said, “You don’t make sense. How could they both be guilty of the same crime?” He poured Akitada a cup of tea.

“Is there any more wine?” Tora asked him, rolling onto his elbow.

“You drink too much. Wine makes you say stupid things. And sit up properly in the master’s presence.”

Tora rearranged himself somewhat. “What is so stupid about the prefect and the abbot being in it together?”

Akitada was massaging his temples. A headache had joined his upset stomach. He was aware of a general soreness but was not sure whether to blame it on the nighttime exertions at the monastery or his lovemaking with Ayako. Putting such thoughts away, he said, “Tora makes sense in a way. They would make excellent allies. Joto provides the manpower and Ikeda the information about the convoy.”

“You see, old man?” Tora said.

“Even a blind turtle finds a piece of driftwood sometimes.” Seimei looked at him sourly.

“But,” said Akitada, “it does not help us with the Tachibana murder or provide us with the proof we need to arrest the two.”

“Maybe somebody used the captain’s helmet as a disguise. It would be perfect to hide the shaven head of a monk,” offered Seimei.

Akitada thought of Otomi’s scroll and nodded. “Perhaps,” he said, “the lady was carrying on with a lover and her husband surprised them. But Joto does not fit the picture of the secret lover.” He rummaged in his writing box for the green shard from Tachibana’s topknot. His fingers encountered another small hard object. It was the tiny blue flower ornament from the peddler’s tray.

How long ago that seemed now. He wondered what had caused him to save the useless fragment. But he felt it again, that oddly unpleasant sense that the flower was significant. He picked up the fragment. Beyond the fact that it resembled a morning glory, fashioned from pure gold and blue enamel by a mysterious and probably foreign process, he had no clue what it might be. He had assumed that it must belong to a religious statue. If so, was it somehow related to Joto and the shipments of religious objects?

“Seimei?” he asked. “Do you recall this little scrap?”

Seimei peered at it. “You paid that rascal too much money for his trumpery goods.”

Akitada replaced the flower in his writing box. “I want you to go to the market with Tora. The waitress at the inn was quite taken with you, especially after I gave her the peddler’s wares with your compliments. Ask her if she knows where he lives. He is probably a regular. Then find him and ask him where he got the flower.”

“Sir,” protested Seimei, his face lengthening with horror, “I’d rather not. Can’t Tora go?”

“Sorry, old friend. You are the only one who can identify him. Tora was chasing Otomi and the two monks.” Seeing Seimei’s dismay, Akitada relented. “I would not ask it if it were not important.”

Then he picked up the little green shard. Tucking it into his sash, he rose. “It’s getting late. I’m going to call on the widow and this time I’m determined to find the murder weapon. Tachibana was bludgeoned to death somewhere in that house. It is likely that it happened in his wife’s rooms and that she knows. It always seems to come back to her.” He did not say that he suspected her or how much he dreaded the visit.

Akitada was crossing the tribunal compound when he remembered Ikeda and stopped. He must be unusually distracted to forget that Ikeda, who was a potential suspect in the tax robberies, must not know of Akitada’s activities in the Tachibana case until after the temple ceremony. Akitada could not call on the prefectural constables if the need arose. He was tempted to postpone his plans but decided against further delay. Instead, he turned his steps to the governor’s residence, where he discussed his problem with Akinobu.

♦

The Tachibana residence looked peaceful in the pale wintry sun. The sightseers were gone, and Junjiro opened the gate instantly. Beside him on the gravel of the courtyard stood a box and a bulging basket. The boy’s mother and another woman, bent under large bundles of clothing strapped to their backs, came from the hall and passed Akitada with a bow.

“What is happening?” he asked the boy, looking after them.

“We’re leaving. Sato’s already gone. His niece came for him. The mistress sent for her. The old dragon gives all the orders now and she told us to get out.”

“I’m sorry,” said Akitada, and meant it. There was nothing he could do to help them. “Don’t worry. Any master will be glad to get as good a pair of servants as you and your mother.”

Junjiro drew himself up proudly. “We’ll manage, sir. I’m clever. Perhaps we could serve you?”

Suddenly utterly fatigued, Akitada wanted to get his distressing visit over with as quickly as possible. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “But you can take me to your mistress now.”

There was some delay at the door to Lady Tachibana’s apartments. When he was finally admitted, Akitada saw that the room was empty except for himself and the big nurse. The woman, more deferential today, took Akitada to the same low screen, placing a silk cushion for him. “We did not expect your honored visit,” she said, bowing for the third or fourth time. “The mistress will come in a moment.” She left by another door, presumably to help Lady Tachibana with her toilet.

The moment she was gone, Akitada searched the room. It looked unchanged from the last time he had seen it. The thick, patterned carpet was underfoot. The scroll of cranes hung between its two stands, one displaying the tall Chinese vase, the other an artificial tree with jade leaves and gold blossoms. Though, come to think of it, the tree had not been there before. Akitada went to look at it. It was a pretty bauble, but this stand had been empty on the day of the funeral. He recalled noticing the lack of symmetry and being bothered by it. Two matching stands required two matching vases.

And then it clicked. The vase was green.

He went to the remaining vase and took the shard from his sash. Yes, the same color and glaze. One of the pair had been used to kill Lord Tachibana. He hefted the vase by its slender neck. It was heavy and made an excellent club. Had not Junjiro complained that the servants were being blamed for breakage when they had been innocent? It should be easy enough to find out if someone had been accused of breaking a green vase the morning of the murder. Replacing the survivor of the pair, he got on his hands and knees to inspect the Chinese carpet. He found the spot almost immediately. Near the outside border was a rough and matted area. It felt faintly moist. He parted the thick threads. Yes, there was a brownish residue farther down. He touched his finger to it and then smelled it. Blood. Head wounds bleed copiously, and there had been only a small stain in the studio. Lord Tachibana had died here. He had his proof.

Hearing a sound from the next room, Akitada managed to reach his cushion and sit down barely in time to watch the widow enter.

Lady Tachibana tripped in. She wore a dark gray silk gown as prescribed for mourning, but over it was a lovely rose-colored Chinese jacket embroidered with butterflies. The pattern reminded him of the first time he had seen her, of his image of a poor butterfly caught in a wintry garden. Against his better judgment, he softened a little toward the small, childlike beauty as she approached with lowered lashes, her beautiful hair trailing behind her. Life with an elderly husband who devoted all his time to his garden and his studies was difficult for a spoiled young girl who had never tasted the pleasures of love.

He bowed.

Much had changed in his own life since he had seen her last. Ayako had taught him that women could be passionate and desire men. Little wonder the poor butterfly had succumbed to temptation. Her beauty was the epitome of a standard that celebrated youth and frailty in women. Many men would be attracted. Yukinari had been, and so had he himself. To his relief, he no longer felt at all tempted by the soft, perfumed creature seating herself behind the screen.

The nurse poured wine for Akitada, then left them alone. Though he knew the wine would make his headache worse, he drank thirstily. His throat hurt, and the wine soothed it a little. He wondered for the first time if he might be getting sick—at the worst possible time.

“I am touched by your kindness,” the soft voice said from behind the screen. “You must forgive my note. It was written at a moment of unspeakable grief and loneliness.”

“Not at all. It was charming. I regret that important matters kept me from fulfilling my promise earlier.”

“My only wish was to withdraw from the world to mourn my husband’s passing, but I find I cannot do so when suspicious people raise questions about the manner of his death.”

Ah. She had picked up some gossip. Probably from the servants. It would explain their sudden dismissal. He hardened against her again. Knowing what he knew now, he ignored the pretense of grief. The room seemed much too hot, causing perspiration to bead up on his face. Wishing he had remembered to carry a paper tissue, he decided that there was no sense in protracting the matter any further.

“Your husband was murdered, madam,” he said brusquely. His voice sounded strangely muffled to his ears and he could feel moisture trickling down his temple.

A wail sounded behind the screen and then another, followed by a gasp. “Oh, I have been afraid of this. And I’m all alone in this evil world.” She suddenly folded aside part of the screen, looked at Akitada from huge, tear-filled eyes, and stretched out her arms beseechingly. “You are my only hope, my lord,” she sobbed. “I’m afraid. I’m left completely without protection. My husband’s servants are gone and no one is left in this house but two weak women. What if the killer returns? Please take me away from here.”

Akitada, irritated by her dramatics, gave her a long stare, watching as her lower lip began to tremble and two small teeth caught it. She reminded him of a mouse. Under normal circumstances, he might have enjoyed playing cat and mouse, but his head was aching abominably now and he wished for another cup of wine. He said, “I might be of more assistance if I knew who it is that you are afraid of.”

“But I told you. The monster who killed my beloved husband,” she wailed. Her small white hand touched his beseechingly. Akitada folded his arms, and she let it fall on his knee instead. “Why are you so...distant? You were kind to me before,” she pleaded. When he said nothing, she said, “This big house is empty. You cannot be very comfortable at the tribunal. If you were to stay with me, I would feel safe.” The hand squeezed his knee gently. “I would serve you with all my heart. From the first moment I saw you, I knew ...”

If he had felt better, he might have laughed, but as it was, Akitada regarded her with rising disgust and moved his knee out of her reach.

She cried, “Why do you dislike me so? I have been told that I am beautiful to look at.” She paused, then said softly, “I know how to please a man. My late lord was not interested in matters of the pillow, but you are young. From the moment I saw you I knew it was my karma to serve you or die.” Crawling to Akitada, she clasped his knees, burying her face in his lap. Her action was so powerfully erotic that Akitada rose abruptly and stepped away from her. She stood up. Her eyes on his, she loosened her sash, letting both gown and Chinese jacket slip off her shoulders to reveal the nakedness beneath. “Do not abandon me, my love,” she whispered.

Akitada turned away. “Cover yourself.” Her body, with its small breasts and shaved pubic area, looked like that of a child of twelve. The effect, together with her overtly seductive gestures, nauseated him. He wondered what sort of man her paramour was and said sternly, “You bring shame upon yourself and upon the memory of your husband. As for your fear of the murderer, you will know best. Your husband was killed in this room by your lover and in your presence.” As soon as he had spoken, he knew he had made a mistake, but he was determined to see it through.

“You must be mad,” she cried, grasping her gown to cover herself.

Akitada took the porcelain shard from his sash. “This was caught in your husband’s topknot. It matches the green vase over there. Your lover used the other vase to kill Lord Tachibana. It broke and you blamed the breakage later on careless servants. But by that time you and your lover had already removed the body to the studio to make the death look like an accidental fall. His wound could not have happened accidentally. Besides, Lord Tachibana’s clogs were dry and unstained in spite of the recent snow. Yet someone walked to the studio, and that person or his helper swept the path to destroy his tracks.”