Текст книги "The Crane Pavilion "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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5

The Student

The pavilion, for all its distance from the main house and its location in an untamed jungle of plants and vines, was a far more elegant abode than the professor’s room off one of the galleries. Akitada wondered what this might suggest for Lady Ogata’s importance or her closeness to the abbot. Tasuku was his own age, and the lady had been in her twenties. It was an age well past the time when women were courted, but she was younger than Tasuku. She could well have been his lover, for apparently she had been beautiful.

And what better place to stash away a lover than this hidden pavilion on his own estate? The abbot could visit any time he wished without exciting comment, yet hardly anyone would know about the woman waiting for him here.

Tora voiced the same thought. “Nice place for an occasional cuddle,” he said, grinning.

They climbed the steps to the door. Perhaps the interior would offer more clues to the lady’s character and her relationship to the saintly abbot.

When Akitada pushed open the door, he thought he heard a sound inside, but the room was empty when he stepped inside, Tora at his heels.

“She didn’t have much,” Tora commented, looking around at the bare floor and the two clothes chests pushed against one wall. There was also an empty clothes rack and a small bare writing desk.

Akitada said nothing. Tamako had owned four trunks for her clothing, one for each season of the year, and her pavilion had contained many more things for her comfort. Thick tatami mats had covered her floor, and there were cushions to sit on. For her enjoyment, she had had several finely painted screens, book cases filled with books, writing desks and utensils, scrolls of paintings and all the more useful items such as candle sticks, braziers both for heating the room and for heating water for tea, water containers, mirrors and cosmetics boxes and so forth. All of these comforts were lacking here. He wondered how Lady Ogata had eaten and where her meals had come from. Had she gone out like the professor to buy a small prepared meal from a stand or a peddler? Who had supported her? The abbot? Where were her servants? Had there been at least a maid?

Tora went to fling open the shutters and let in more light. The dark floor was badly scuffed and dusty. Both Akitada and Tora raised their eyes to the beams overhead.

“The police report said she’d climbed on one of the trunks to reach the rafter,” Tora said. “I guess someone put it back.”

The floor was scratched and showed where the trunk on the left had been dragged to the center of the room and then back again. Akitada eyed the scratches, then walked across to inspect the trunk. He started back with a cry when a tall figure suddenly rose from behind it and confronted them.

“What are you doing here?” demanded a pale-faced youth with glaring eyes. “This is private property. You have no permission to be here. Get out! Get out this instant!” His voice rose hysterically on the last words.

Akitada caught his breath. “And you? What is your business here?” he demanded. “I believe you were hiding.”

Tora moved to block the young man’s escape.

Cornered, the youngster looked from one to the other and tried to bluster. “I live here. And I don’t know you, so you’ve no right to be here.”

Akitada flung open the lid of the trunk. It was filled with clothes. He held up a red Chinese jacket embroidered with butterflies. “And on what occasion do you wear this?” he asked.

Tora guffawed and mimed fanning himself. “He must be one of those man-women,” he said in a high voice, “who dress up in girly finery in private.”

The student’s face flushed with fury, and he went for Tora, fists flying. Tora stopped him by catching one hand and twisting his arm. With a choking cry, the student fell to one knee.

“Let him go, Tora.” Akitada folded the jacket carefully and replaced it, closing the lid of the trunk. “You must be the student Takechi Akushiro. My name is Sugawara. This is Tora, my retainer. We are here to look into Lady Ogata’s sudden death. I know these are her quarters and her clothes.”

The student rose and rubbed his wrist. He was suddenly subdued and looked frightened. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You’re the one who investigates crimes. She … she took her own life.” His voice shook over the last words.

Akitada had taken note of the young man’s red-rimmed eyes and guessed that there had been a romantic attachment. The question was how far this had gone. Had it been merely a young man’s infatuation with an older woman or had they been lovers? He said, “I take it you live in the mansion at the invitation of Abbot Genshin, just like the others?”

The student nodded without lifting his eyes.

“How did this come about?”

Takechi Akushiro glanced at him. “How do you mean? I needed a place to stay. He offered.”

“But why? Are you paying for your room?”

“No.” A slow flush crept up the student’s neck. “It was a kindness,” he said. “My parents were too poor to send me to the university. He convinced them to let me come. He also pays my fees and for my books, and paper and ink. I work evenings and earn the money for my food.”

“Good for you,” Akitada said. “And how are your studies coming along?”

“All right.” Akushiro avoided Akitada’s eyes and fidgeted.

“I see. But none of this explains what you are doing here in the lady’s room.”

The flush returned to the youth’s slightly pimply face. “I … I come here sometimes. To remember her.” He shuddered. “It was terrible.”

“Were you lovers?”

The student jerked upright and stared at him. “No. Never. She wouldn’t have me,” He nearly sobbed. “I wouldn’t have dared. Oh, dear heaven!” And now he broke down. Turning away, he hid his face in his hands. Akitada could see his shoulders shaking as he wept. “Let me go!” he pleaded. “I can’t bear it.” He started for the door.

Tora moved to stop him, but Akitada said, “No. Let him go.”

The student having disappeared at a run, they looked at each other.

“Did you believe him?” Tora asked. “I mean that there was nothing between them?”

“I think he was in love with her. At that age, love is a very powerful emotion. Perhaps she rejected his advances, or else she was unaware of them.” He looked around the room. “Not very luxurious,” he commented. “Hardly the accommodations one provides for a mistress. I may have misjudged Tasuku.” He opened the trunk again and looked at the Chinese jacket. Tamako had one like it. Hers was a rose color and had been a fairly costly present he had given her some years ago. In time it had become worn. This looked hardly worn and had been folded most carefully on top of the other clothes. He laid it aside and unpacked the trunk. It was filled with sumptuous gowns and undergowns, with shimmering trouser skirts, and embroidered slippers, with exquisitely painted fans and embroidered sashes. All of it seemed new, or nearly so, and each piece was deeply creased in the folds as if the clothes had rested in the trunk for a long time. He replaced everything, not as neatly as he wished, then opened the second trunk. This one held very different clothes. Only two gowns were silk, and they were badly worn. The rest of the clothes were as ordinary as what a shopkeeper’s wife might wear. And there were not many of them: two gowns for summer and two quilted ones for winter, plus some ordinary ramie undergowns and a few much mended white socks. The final garment was a white nun’s robe and shawl, the kind worn by women on pilgrimages. On top of these clothes, lay a small silk bag containing a few coins, hardly enough to buy food for a month.

The very bottom of the trunk was taken up by two books of scrolls and some writing paper. Akitada unrolled the books and found they were tales from Genji, the famous novel about the imperial prince with the many love affairs and his one true love for his Lady Murasaki. Lady Ogata, or someone else, had annotated the novel here and there. The handwriting was elegant. Replacing the contents of the second trunk, Akitada sighed.

She had once led an elegant life, perhaps at court or else as wife or daughter of a powerful nobleman. The expensive clothing proved this much. Her education had made her a woman with refined tastes in reading. But something had happened, and she had found refuge here, no longer protected by wealth, but so poor that she wore ordinary clothes and mended her socks. What had brought her to this?

Tora called from a dark corner under the far eaves. “Come look at this.”

Akitada joined him and saw a rough wooden board that held a plain brazier with some remnants of ashes, an iron pot, two bowls, a basket with half a turnip and a bundle of wilted greens, a small sack of rice, and another of beans. On a shriveled leaf rested two dried-out slices of yokan, a sweet made from bean paste, honey, and chestnuts. “Surely she didn’t cook her own meals,” he said, shocked by the poor fare and equipment.

Tora was unmoved. “Oh, it’s easy enough to boil a bit of rice gruel and add some radish and greens. Quite tasty, I’d say.”

“Hmm. Perhaps. But for a wellborn lady this spells abject poverty. If the good abbot was a truly charitable man, he would not have let her live like this. Let’s go find this caretaker. He should know more about the owner, the people he has taken in, and their stories.

6

Murder in a Bathhouse

After hurrying to finish with the Sugawara accounts, Saburo left the main house and went to the kitchen. The cook, a new member of the household, hired by Lady Sugawara while they had been in Kyushu, was a round, short country woman who was missing some of her front teeth. Unlike her predecessor, she was cheerful and did not mind work.

Saburo had asked her what had happened to her teeth. It appeared that her husband had knocked them out one night when he had come home drunk and she made the mistake of telling him he shouldn’t have spent their last coppers on wine.

Saburo had pitied her, but she just laughed. “It was a good thing, Saburo,” she explained. “It made me leave the bastard before he got me with child. I’m done with men now. No offense.”

Ever since, Saburo had treated her with the greatest respect.

Today he found her starting the fire under the rice cooker. “Do you need anything from the market, Masumi?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I’ve already been. Went early.” She straightened up and gave him a smile. “Go see your girl. Nobody’ll miss you. Not much happening since our lady died and her babe with her.”

Saburo nodded. The sadness was creeping back, and he hurried off into town. Shokichi would drive the demons of darkness from his mind.

Shokichi had given up prostitution and was earning some money by applying the make-up for entertainers and courtesans. Recently she had also begun to arrange their hair and select their costumes. She had always had a knack with this sort of thing, helping her friends get ready for their customers. Now she worked for a number of “aunties” who sent for her when they were rushed and needed to get a number of women ready for a party. Shokichi’s income was very small compared to what she could earn as a prostitute, but it was getting better and Saburo augmented it. She rented a room near the amusement quarter.

Saburo was glad she had given up her trade. Quite apart from the fact that he did not want to share her with other men, Shokichi was thirty. She was younger than he by fifteen years but becoming too old for her former occupation. On the other hand, her changed circumstances and their changed relationship presented new problems. Lately he had noticed a certain possessiveness in her. He loved Shokichi, but he did not want to get married. For one thing, he could not very well bring another ex-prostitute into his master’s house, expecting him to support an additional family, and for another … well, he really was not the marrying type. The present situation was what he liked: knowing she was there for him whenever he needed a woman’s touch.

When he turned down her street, he saw Shokichi come flying out of her door and taking off at a run.

“Shokichi,” he shouted, hurrying to catch up.

She turned, flushed with excitement. “Saburo, I’m so glad you’re early. You must come quickly.”

First things first. Saburo took Shokichi in his arms and swung her around. “I’m happy to see you, too,” he murmured into her ear.

She struggled free. “No time for that now. A terrible thing has happened. They’re going to arrest Sachi. They say she killed a customer.”

Saburo searched his memory. Ah! Sachi was one of Shokichi’s friends. She was the blind girl. He asked, “Why did she kill him or her?”

Shokichi stamped her foot impatiently. “She didn’t. And it was a man, a horrid man. His name’s Nakamura. They say she slit his throat with the razor. Come on. You must stop them.”

The blind Sachi earned a living by shampooing and shaving customers. Blind people frequently took such jobs because they could perform them by touch. Sachi was supposed to be popular with her customers for her gentle hands, and possibly also because she was pretty.

“Could it have been an accident?” he asked. “Maybe her hand slipped?”

“I don’t think so. Let’s go.” Shokichi pulled at his arm.

He resisted. “If the police have been called, surely it’s too late. What’s the rush? There’s nothing I can do.”

“Oh, Saburo,” she wailed. “Why do you do this to me?”

He gave up. They ran down the street together and cut over to the next thoroughfare, Shokichi in front, her skirts gathered with one hand so that he could see her shapely legs moving swiftly and seductively in front of him. “Is it far?” he cried, trying to keep up and hoping that this would at least earn him some lovemaking later on.

“Next street. In the Daikoku-yu.”

The Daikoku-yu was a bathhouse. The next street marked the boundary between the amusement quarter and the business area of the city. The owner of the Daikoku-yu, which was named for the god of wealth, had chosen an excellent location where he could draw his clientele from both ways of life and earn the largest possible income. In the nature of things, the shopkeepers and businessmen were not averse to sharing a bath with the pretty women from the quarter and so both benefitted, and the Daikoku-yu did an excellent business.

A crowd had gathered outside the bathhouse, craning their necks. Through the double doors, Saburo could see the red coats of police. But before he and Shokichi reached the entrance, the crowd parted, and a line of policemen came marching out. In their midst was a slight figure in a white gown now terribly stained with blood. Sachi was still young and quite good-looking but for her fixed eyes. Now her head was raised, the sightless eyes seeming to search the sky for rescue. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she moaned softly. Her hands were chained together in front and two burly policemen dragged her along by this chain. As she could not see, she stumbled and started to fall once or twice. The policemen jerked her upright with a shout to “walk faster!”

Before Saburo could stop her, Shokichi screamed “Sachi!” and rushed among the policemen to throw her arms around the blind woman. This earned her a back-handed slap from one of the constables. For good measure, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her aside so roughly that she fell to the ground. The police escort marched its prisoner away, and Saburo went to pick Shokichi up.

She wept and railed at him for not stopping the police while he searched for a tissue in his sash to stem her tears.

“Please,” he begged, “calm down, my love. Are you hurt? That animal! How dared he strike a woman. I’ll file a complaint against him. Hold still and hush.”

She snatched the tissue from his hand, blew her nose, and said angrily, “This is not about me. Didn’t you see how they treated Sachi? She’s also a woman. And she’s blind.”

“Yes, but there was no point in making matters worse. Let’s find out first what happened.”

Shokichi looked upset but followed him inside.

The wet steamy smell of the bathhouse met them, but there was also a whiff of something else, both sickening and disturbing. Saburo knew the smell. He had smelled blood before, his own and that of others. It seemed to come from a room at the end of the hallway to the left. Its door was open, and a few people had gathered there. Another redcoat stood at the door beside a fat man in a brown ramie robe that showed large sweat stains under the arms and around his neck.

Saburo stopped. Shokichi had turned rather pale. He said, “I think it will be best if you stay back. Find someone who knew Sachi. Start with the bathhouse staff. Ask them if they know what happened and who the victim is. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “What will you do?”

“I want to have a look at the room where it happened. I’ll come to find you.”

To his relief, Shokichi went off obediently. For a moment there, he had been afraid her anger over Sachi’s treatment by the police had spilled over to him.

Saburo approached the fat man who was talking to the policeman. “Your pardon for the interruption,” he said, peering past them. “We came for a bath and wondered what happened.”

The fat man turned and bowed to the customer. “Please forgive the inconvenience,” he said in an oily voice. “A small disturbance merely. I’m Jinzaemon, the owner. Allow me to show you the way.”

Saburo eyed him with disfavor. “Someone died in there. I can smell the blood. What happened?”

Jinzaemon fluttered a fat hand. “Sssh! No need to upset other guests. It was just a quarrel between a harlot and her customer. We discourage women soliciting here, but I’m afraid it happens anyway. The police have taken her away. It’s perfectly safe now.” He reached out to take Saburo’s elbow and lead him away, but Saburo side-stepped and slipped past the policeman to peer into the small room.

It was barely large enough for a reed mat. Apparently it was used for massages or moxa treatments, but the scattered metal bowl, towels, and bloody shaving knife showed that Sachi had worked here, giving shampoos and shaves. Across the reed mat lay a skinny man on his side. His gray hair was undone and still wet. He wore only the thin cotton yukata provided by the bathhouse. The yukata, the reed mat, most of the towels, and part of the floor were covered with his blood. The blood had also spattered across one of the walls, making a strange swirling pattern as if the dead man had turned the moment his throat had been cut.

A black-robed monk was rising to his feet beside the body. He wiped his bloody hands on a towel, then dropped it. “You can take him away now,” he told the policeman.

The policeman elbowed Saburo out of the way, and let the monk out of the room. “Did she do anything else to him?” he asked the monk.

The monk shook his head. “Just the slashed throat. It was quick.”

The policeman noticed Saburo and opened his mouth to speak.

“Who is the dead man?” Saburo asked quickly.

The monk glanced at him. “Nakamura Minobe. To live is to die.”

The policeman growled, “Get out! This is an official investigation.”

Saburo retreated to stand with some of the other watchers, as the monk walked away. Several young women, prostitutes to judge by their colorful wraps and the smudged makeup on their faces, stood about. The one closest to him said, “He was a bastard. Sachi did a lot of people a favor.”

Saburo eyed her with interest. “How so?”

She glanced at him, stared at his scars and his rolling eye, and stepped back a little. Close-up, Saburo was still a shocking sight to women. He made an effort to control his eye and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Nakamura’s got more money than the emperor,” she said. “The stingy bastard’s a regular here. People think he’s Daitoku himself.” She laughed harshly. “He lends money to people and charges twice the monks’ rate. The monks are choosy who they lend money to, but Nakamura doesn’t care as long as they pay or own something he can sell.”

A money lender? Saburo was pleased with the information. “A lot of people want a moneylender dead. And if he was wealthy, there’ll be some who’ll benefit from his death. So why would the police arrest a blind shampoo girl?”

The woman gave another laugh. “Because she did it. Don’t ask me why. Sachi’s crazy. Who knows what such a person will do? Maybe her hand slipped, or maybe she made it slip. But if you ask me, I think he made a pass and she killed him for it. He’s a dirty old man and she doesn’t like to be touched.”

“Really? How do you know?”

The woman made a face. “She acts like she’s better than us. Some of us took pity on her and tried to get her work in one of the houses, but she wouldn’t do it. Now look at her. No better than a beggar and a murderess.”

There was an interruption as some sweepers came in with a litter. They went into the small room, wrapped the dead man into the blood-soaked mat, and placed him on the stretcher. The onlookers, shying away from contamination by the dead, dispersed, and the prostitute gathered her skirts and scuttled away on her wooden geta.

Saburo stayed. The sweepers carried the corpse away at a brisk trot. He got only a brief glimpse of the man’s face between the folds of the mat. Nakamura’s face was gray and his fleshy lips had opened in an expression of surprise.

The observation was not helpful. Saburo imagined he would have been as surprised at being cut by the shampoo girl as by one of his disgruntled clients attacking him. With a sigh, he went in search of Shokichi.

He found her near the entrance where the owner loitered, attempting to reassure possible customers. Shokichi was talking to the prostitute. When she saw Saburo, she bowed to the woman and came to him. “Komachi says there was blood everywhere,” she informed Saburo.

He nodded. “People bleed out quickly when you cut their throat,” he said, looking after the prostitute. “Do you know her?”

“Yes. Komachi’s a bitch and hates Sachi.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s because Sachi wouldn’t sell herself. Some of the women wanted to help her because she’s pretty. You saw her.” She gave Saburo a searching glance.

He nodded absentmindedly. “So the prostitutes hate her because she refused to become one of them?” Shokichi said nothing for a moment. “Well? Is that all they hold against her, that she tried to keep her self-respect?”

Shokichi flushed and stared at him. “I guess so,” she finally said tonelessly.

“Then they should be ashamed!”

“She was starving. They meant to help. They tried very hard to get one of the houses to take her on. The woman who owns it didn’t want a blind girl. She said it would be a turn-off for the customers. But in the end she agreed, and they got her to offer Sachi a place. Sachi absolutely refused. She made a lot of enemies in the amusement quarter.”

“Hmm.” Saburo thought this over. “I wonder what she said when they accused her of murder,” he muttered.

Jinzaemon, overheard him. “The stupid bitch called for help,” he said. He directed one of the bath attendants, who carried two buckets of water, to the room where Nakamura had died. “Hurry,” he told the woman. “We’ll need the room later.”

Jinzaemon was clearly above all a businessman. A murder on his premises was something that must be erased from people’s minds as quickly as possible.

“Now, then, sir,” he said to Saburo. “Let me show you and the little woman where to go. You’ve paid already, haven’t you?”

Saburo shook his head. “We’ve changed our minds.” He took Shokichi’s arm and started to walk out.

Shokichi shook him off. “Look,” she pleaded with Jinzaemon, “Sachi’s my friend. We need to help her. Could someone else have done this?”

Jinzaemon lost his good humor. “You should pick better friends,” he said and started to walk away.

“Wait.” Saburo reached into his sash and pulled out a handful of coppers. “Here,” he said. “I bet you lost some business over this.”

Jinzaemon stopped and took the coins. “You’re right,” he said, bowing. “And he was a very good customer, too. A real loss.”

“You said she called for help. Did she know what she’d done?”

“I would imagine. She’d enough common sense to say she’d stepped out the room for something and found him dead when she got back. Of course, no one believed that. She was covered with his blood. She would’ve been better off just running away as fast as possible.”

“A blind girl?”

“Whatever. Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the tip. Come back another time. This isn’t a good day.”

No, it was not a good day.

Saburo found Shokichi staring into space, her face white and frozen. He thought the smell of blood must have nauseated her. Somehow the mix of steam and blood had settled in his own nose and throat. He put an arm around her and walked her outside.

Shokichi asked tonelessly, “What will you do next?”

“The owner says your friend claimed she was out of the room when Nakamura was killed.”

“If she said so, it’s true.”

Saburo chuckled. “Why?”

She glared at him. “Because she doesn’t lie. Poor Sachi.” She wrung her hands. “They’ll beat her till she confesses. This is so unjust.”

Saburo cleared his throat and spat. He needed some wine to wash away the taste of blood. “Well, there’s nothing to be done at the moment,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders again. “Let’s go have a bite to eat and a cup of wine.”

She flung his arm off. “You don’t care because we’re nothing to you.” And with that she walked away.

“Wait!” Saburo ran after her. “Please, Shokichi, don’t be stupid!”

It was the wrong thing to say. She flung about. “You think I’m stupid? Maybe you’re right. I’ve been stupid to think you cared for me. Go away, Saburo. This is my problem, not yours. I made a mistake. You and I are nothing to each other. I don’t want to see you again.”