Текст книги "The Hell Screen"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Akitada had raised both hands to his head, which pounded viciously, and covered his ears.

“You filthy-mouthed bastard!” Genba shouted, purple with fury. He rose with clenched fists.

Tora shot up and bared his teeth in a snarl. “You call me that again and you’re a dead man.”

“Enough!” roared Akitada, stepping between them. He winced at an excruciating stab of pain, closed his eyes, and waited until the throbbing abated. When he opened them, he saw Tora and Genba staring at him openmouthed. He said more quietly, “Sit down, both of you!” and gingerly returned to his cushion.

They obeyed, and after regarding them bleakly, he said, “Tora, if your manners are as bad in public as they were here today, you are useless to me. Worse than useless, for your behavior reflects on me.”

Tora blanched.

“And you, Genba, seem to have allowed a casual acquaintance with a female of dubious background to get in the way of an investigation.”

Genba flushed and hung his head.

“Since neither of you can be trusted any longer, you will henceforth confine yourselves to duties around the house.”

“Sir!” they both protested.

“Please, sir. I promised to meet the little acrobat tonight,” Tora added.

It was the last straw. “Get out!” Akitada ground out between clenched teeth, fixing Tora with such a look that he flinched back. “Get out of my sight! All you’re good for is chasing women. Go clean the stable. Perhaps that will remind you of your place in this household.”

They trooped out with hanging heads, and Akitada sagged on his cushion, staring at his clenched hands. He slowly opened them and watched his fingers tremble. His heart pounded, and every heartbeat throbbed in his skull. He had lost control. The fact that he had passed a miserable day was no excuse.

Reaching for some paperwork, long postponed, he tried to distract himself with figures and accounts, but he could not shed his sense of failure.

Tora’s disparagement of actors resembled his own disdain for merchants and their kin. Tora’s attitude had severed the bond of friendship between himself and Genba, as he, Akitada, had destroyed the affection his younger sister had for him. The silent, pale young woman who had submitted to his commands today no longer looked at him with trust and fondness. He had seen resignation and fear in her eyes.

The hours passed. Seimei crept in with the evening rice and replenished the coals in the brazier. But neither warmth nor food cheered Akitada. He pushed his tray aside untouched, unrolled his bedding, and tried to forget the onerous and painful responsibilities of being a husband and family head.

FIFTEEN

The Empty Storehouse

Akitada woke up feeling exhausted and depressed. Nothing in his household seemed to be going right. They had barely returned from the long assignment up north when the very foundations of his life started crumbling. First Yoshiko got entangled with a commoner who was in jail on a murder charge. Then she rebelled against her brother’s authority and caused Tamako to take her side, the first rift in Akitada’s marriage. And now the quarrel between Genba and Tora further destroyed the peace and harmony he had hoped to feel after years of struggle and hardship.

Akitada knew he had been too harsh with Tora and Genba. How could he expect them to be all business on their first night out in the capital? So what if after years of near abstinence, Genba had been attracted to a woman who, from all accounts, combined feminine wiles with an interest in competitive sports? Such a thing was natural and human. And Tora had pursued every available light-skirt in town because that was his nature. The quarrel had been provoked by the actor Danjuro, not Tora. A man like Tora could not tolerate insults; his respectability had been too hard-won. No, the fault for all this trouble lay with himself, with his cursed temper. Instead of dealing calmly with the strain produced by recent events, he had flared up and become judgmental and punitive.

With a sigh, Akitada got up, folded his bedding, put it away, and started dressing. He felt old and tired. Apparently neither age nor experience had corrected his character flaws.

He thought about the Nagaoka case, where he had made no progress whatsoever because of all the family distractions. The wretched prisoner remained in custody and at the mercy of the brutal guards and their bamboo whips. The man had not fit the image Akitada had formed of him, that of an upstart commoner who seduces unprotected daughters of the aristocracy in hopes of bettering himself, and so he had made a poor job of questioning him. The truth of it was that Akitada could not even dislike this Kojiro who had caused all the trouble in his home. The man had behaved with unexpected dignity and courage. And Nagaoka had proved to be a man of culture, well-read and knowledgeable. This did not, of course, clear him of suspicion in his wife’s murder.

Akitada paced, considering the case against Nagaoka. Nagaoka took an interest in the theater, and actors stayed at the temple on the night of the murder. Nagaoka could have hired one of them to kill his wife when he discovered her infidelity. Tora, for all his prejudices, had been quite right about actors. An acting job, particularly with a traveling troupe, was often a cover for all sorts of criminals on the run from the authorities. What better place to find a killer for hire?

It had been foolish to dismiss Genba and Tora before they had had time for a full report, and even more foolish to prevent Tora from getting information from the girl acrobat.

Still feeling languid and vaguely ill, though the headache was much better, Akitada thought some tea might help. It was early and Seimei was probably still asleep. Making his way to the kitchen, where the sleepy-eyed maid Kumoi was just starting the water for the morning rice gruel, he made himself a pot of tea and took it back to his room.

Sipping on the veranda outside his study, he looked at his garden. It was barely dawn, but the clouds seemed to be clearing. In the pine, some sparrows rustled, chirping softly. The fish were sluggish. He must get them some food.

Seimei appeared suddenly. He glanced at the teacup in Akitada’s hand and apologized for having overslept, adding, “Genba is outside, sir. He begs for a moment of your time.”

“Good! Ask him to come!”

Genba came to him hesitantly, head still hanging low. He stood for a moment, awkwardly clenching and unclenching his big fists, then said hoarsely, “We are very sorry, sir.”

“Sit down, Genba.” Akitada made his tone friendly. “I have been too harsh and forgot that neither you nor Tora have had any leisure since our return. You have both served faithfully during the long years of hardship up north and on the strenuous journey back. Then you got back and had to deal with ruined stables and a funeral. I should have been more appreciative. Instead I lost my temper. Please forgive me, and take the rest of the day and the night off. Tomorrow we will discuss your new assignments.”

Genba’s face broke into a wide grin. “Whew!” he cried fervently. “Thank you, sir. But you were quite right. We shouldn’t have quarreled. Well, I came to tell you, we’ve made up. Tora’s been worried because you wouldn’t let him go see the little acrobat. He told her to meet him in the Willow Quarter, which is not a good place to send a nice young girl on her own.”

“I am sure she came to no harm.” Akitada wondered why Tora should be concerned about the reputation of a girl who had agreed so readily to sleep with him on first acquaintance. “You said very little yesterday. Do you have anything to add to Tora’s report?”

Genba scratched his head. His once-shaven pate was once again covered with a thick brush of hair not yet long enough to twist on top. Genba attempted to make it lie down flat by wetting it periodically and plastering it as close to his skull as he could. But as it dried, stubborn sections of hair popped up again. Having disturbed the careful arrangement, he quickly patted it back down. Watching him, Akitada noticed for the first time that Genba was turning gray. He had never asked his age but guessed that Genba must be well into his forties.

“About Tora’s worries, sir. Miss Plumblossom, the lady who runs the training hall, is very concerned about some villain who’s been going around slashing prostitutes. Her maid’s one of the bastard’s victims. She must’ve been good-looking until she lost her nose and part of her upper lip. Her whole face is a mess, what with all the knife scars. Being disfigured like that, she couldn’t work anymore and was starving. She was going through the refuse behind the training hall when Miss Plumblossom found her.”

Akitada frowned. There seemed to be many stories of disfigurement recently, but the matter hardly concerned him. “It is horrible, of course, but prostitution provokes abnormal behavior in some men,” he said carelessly. “Has she identified her attacker to the police?”

Genba shook his head. “Prostitutes don’t complain to the authorities. And she may not have got a good look at him. Probably met him on a dark street and went home with him. Miss Plumblossom says some people found her half dead in an abandoned temple. They thought she’d been attacked by demons.”

This sounded familiar, but Akitada could not immediately place it and put it from his mind. “A terrible tale,” he said, “but I don’t see that it helps us with the actors. We know they spent the night at the temple. Did they talk about the murder?”

“No. And that’s a bit queer. Tora says nobody would talk to him after Danjuro warned them off. By the way, the maid was spying on Tora and his girl and he grabbed her. She bit his hand and ran off screeching that she’d been attacked.”

“Not surprising under the circumstances,” Akitada said dryly.

“There’s some trouble between the actors and Danjuro. Seems Uemon recently turned over the running of the troupe to Danjuro, who’s come into some money.”

“Hmm.” Akitada slowly shook his head. “I don’t see that any of this gets us closer to the Nagaoka case. Well, perhaps Tora will have better luck with his girl tonight. If he turns up nothing, either, we will have to start interviewing the monks.”

Having made his peace with Tora and Genba, Akitada decided to speak to his wife.

Tamako was up, peering into a large round silver mirror. The shutters of the room were still closed, but daylight seeped in. Only a single candle was burning next to her, and in the golden light and the soft rosy glow from the glowing coals in the brazier, she looked ethereal. She was still in her undergown of white silk, which alternately clung and floated as she moved, revealing and concealing the soft curves of her body. Akitada felt a strong surge of desire, and an even stronger need to hold and touch her.

She barely looked up. “Forgive me, Akitada. I am hurrying to get dressed. It was a long day yesterday, and I overslept. Do you mind terribly if I go on with my makeup?”

Crushed, he turned to go. “No,” he mumbled, “of course not. I just came to … talk.”

She caught up with him before he reached the door. “Wait.” Peering up at him, she cried, “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

“No. Just tired. And worried about Yoshiko.”

“You look terrible. Yoshiko will get over it. Fortunately, both Toshikage and Akiko agreed with me and we convinced her to obey you in this matter. Come sit down.” She led him to the bedding, which still lay spread out, and made him loosen the upper part of his robe. He submitted meekly, marveling at how he had misjudged her. She had been on his side all along.

Kneeling behind him, Tamako massaged and stroked his neck and shoulders with her strong, gentle hands until he felt his muscles ease and allowed himself to relax, closing his eyes and sighing with pleasure.

He did not know how it came about, but at some point he caught one of her hands and kissed it gratefully. She paused for a moment, then moved around in front of him to slip his robe off his shoulders. Her fingers touched his skin like the wings of butterflies, or like the mouths of the fishes in the pool last night, moving over his chest, down to his waist, and back again. His breath caught in his throat. He looked at her, hoping she would read the naked hunger in his eyes.

Tamako extinguished the candle, and helped him out of his clothes.

Later, when he was back at his desk, warm and happy, Seimei brought fresh tea along with the morning rice. Akitada thought the old man looked pale and drawn. The tray seemed almost too heavy for him. Eating the thick rice gruel, he watched Seimei pour a cup of the tea with a hand that shook so badly that he spilled a few drops. Akitada lowered his bowl. “Are you feeling quite well, Seimei?”

“Yes. Fine, sir. Fine. Sorry about this.” Seimei dabbed at the drops of tea with the sleeve of his dark cotton robe. Then, instead of leaving quietly, he remained, his eyes downcast.

“Is anything else wrong?”

“Nothing wrong—precisely—sir. Only…”

“Only what?”

“I wondered if all is well with Miss Yoshiko, sir? Her ladyship mentioned to me that the policeman had brought some very disturbing news. I couldn’t help worrying.”

“Heavens. I thought you knew.” Akitada tried to remember: had Seimei somehow missed being told? He realized that this was the first time he had not discussed family matters or a case with the old man. He set down his bowl. “I am sorry, Seimei. I should have kept you informed, but so much has happened lately that I forgot. Please take a seat, for this will take a while.”

Seimei obeyed, his eyes suddenly moist. Akitada told him of Yoshiko’s relationship with Kojiro, her trips to the prison, and Kobe’s assumption that Akitada had used her to get to the prisoner. Then he explained the agreement he had reached with Kobe and the present status of the case. When he was done, Seimei nodded and dabbed his eyes.

“Why, what is the matter now?” Akitada asked.

Seimei smiled a little. “Nothing now, my lord. I’m overcome with gratitude. I was afraid that I had lost your confidence.” He made Akitada a deep bow. “I shall do my utmost to be always worthy of it.”

“You are and will be.” Akitada’s conscience smote him. In his pique he had slighted the old man and hurt his feelings. “It was just an oversight, Seimei. Stop worrying so much. Er, how is Yori doing? Are you still teaching him his brushstrokes?”

Seimei sat up a little straighter. His smile widened. “The young master is improving. It is said that one is never too young or too old to learn the way of the brush. He is not always as patient as you were at his age, but he has a steadier hand, I think.”

Akitada chuckled, relieved to hear the old Seimei quoting his wise sayings again. “I am sure,” he said, “that you have reminded him that even the poorest archer will hit the target with enough practice.”

“Ah, yes. I did mention that, and also the one about a drop of water piercing a rock if repeated often enough. He did not care for that one too much. But the day he complained of his fingers being too cold to hold the brush, I explained that a turning waterwheel does not have time to get frozen. He worked quite industriously after that.” Seimei chuckled.

With a lighter heart, Akitada reached for his gruel. On second thought, he carried it out into the garden and fed grains of rice to the fish. They rose eagerly to the surface, twisting and splashing for the bits of food. Their excitement pleased him and he laughed.

“You remind me, my old friend, that I have neglected other duties,” he said, turning to Seimei, pleased to see the quick flush of joy the familiar form of address brought to the old man’s cheek. “I’m afraid that I have also not been much of a father lately.”

Seimei smiled. “Impossible, sir. A parent’s love for his son is greater than the son’s for his father.”

“Well, I hope Yori does not think too badly of me.” Akitada looked at the sky. It was still slightly overcast, but here and there a patch of blue showed and the sun shone fitfully. Two squirrels chattered in the pine and then chased each other up and down the trunk. The air smelled fresh and clean. “What do you say, shall we have a game of football in the courtyard? Tora and Genba can use some exercise, I expect, and you can keep score for us.”

Seimei clapped his hands. “Excellent, sir. The young master will be happy. A man may be known for his sportsmanship as much as his erudition.”

Akitada found Yori with his mother. The boy greeted the suggestion with whoops of joy, crying “kemari, kemari” while he looked for the leather ball. Father and son sat down together on the veranda steps to put on their leather boots and then ran out into the courtyard. Yori’s excited shouts brought Tora and Genba from the stables. Their playing field, ten feet square, was quickly marked out in the gravel. Four potted trees marked the corners, and the players, booted and their trousers tied up, arranged themselves between them.

The object was to kick the ball from player to player without letting it touch the ground. Yori, not yet four years old, was already amazingly adept at the game, and the others lost points rapidly. Akitada called for time out to remove his heavy outer robe, and noticed Tamako and Yoshiko on the veranda. Tamako was smiling, but his. sister still looked pale and dispirited.

Akitada’s performance gradually improved. It had been a long time since he had played the game. Once he had been very good at it. He took great care to make it easy for his young son, but Yori had the energy of ten and threw his whole small body into each effort. Tora and Genba, unaccustomed to this pastime of the “good people,” caused Yori to burst into gales of laughter at their clumsy efforts.

When they finally broke off, the adults were breathless and perspiring, while Yori, declared the winner, raced about the courtyard, shouting, “I won! I won!” as Seimei and the ladies applauded. In a sudden glow of happiness, Akitada caught up his son and swung him high into the air. Yori shrieked with delight and flung his small arms about his father’s neck. Akitada had not felt so well, so whole, in many months, and, hugging the child to him, he made a courtly bow toward the veranda.

Back in his office, his newly found optimism still with him, he called for his outdoor clothes. “I am going to pay another call on Nagaoka,” he told Seimei, who helped him dress. “There must be any number of things the man has not told. I did not pry into his relations with his wife last time, but her personality is the most intriguing mystery in her death. It now seems to me he avoided the subject.”

Seimei pursed his lips. “In autumn there is no need for a fan. From what you said, Mr. Nagaoka was too old for his wife. He may feel great relief.”

Seimei was a terrible misogynist, but Akitada considered the possibility that Nagaoka might have tired of an immature and expensive wife. He said dubiously, “From all accounts, she was very beautiful and he loved her.”

Seimei shook his head. “An angel outside often hides a demon inside.” He recalled himself quickly. “Of course, there are exceptions to this rule.”

Akitada, on his way out, chuckled.

A short walk brought him to the tree-lined street where Nagaoka lived. Once again he was struck by the quiet gentility of the wealthier merchants’ lifestyle. The trees were completely bare now, and it was possible to see many roofs beyond Nagaoka’s wall. A well-to-do antiquarian might easily live as luxuriously as a member of the imperial family, forever changing the displays in his house from goods stored away for sale or trade.

Nagaoka’s gate stood wide open, a fact which puzzled Akitada, considering his train of thought. Who was guarding the valuable contents of the residence? Last time he had seen only a single disgruntled servant; this time even that slovenly individual was absent.

He strolled in. The courtyard had not been swept in days and reminded him of his first visit. He called out, but no one answered. Taking this as an invitation to look around, he walked past the entrance of the main house and into the rear courtyards and gardens. Everywhere he went, he saw the same neglect. Furthermore, back here, away from visitors’ eyes, the buildings were in poor repair and the gardens as overgrown as his own. Paint peeled off the lacquered eaves and railings. A stair step had warped out of place. Shutters hung crookedly. There had been times when the Sugawara property had looked something like this because they had been too poor to fix the damage of time. But would a wealthy man allow his home to become run-down like this?

And the place was deserted. Where were the servants to look after things? Could Nagaoka have taken flight because he was afraid he would be implicated in the murder?

Akitada passed quickly through a small garden, its fishpond choked with leaves and empty of koi, and entered the service courtyard. In its center stood a large storehouse. Unlike the residence, it was built of stone and plaster and had a tile roof. Such storehouses stood in all the compounds of wealthier families for safekeeping of valuables and heirlooms from the many fires which plagued the wooden buildings of the capital. Nagaoka’s treasure-house stood open like his gate.

Akitada stepped on the large slab of rock at the door and peered in. The shelves which stretched along the windowless walls inside were bare except for a few small bags of what looked like rice or beans, a small pile of turnips, and some chestnuts. An earthenware pitcher and a sake barrel sat next to a large basket. Stepping inside, Akitada looked into the basket. It contained charcoal. He raised the pitcher and smelled its mouth: cheap oil. The sake barrel was empty, the dregs in the bottom as clouded and sour-smelling as the most inferior brew. Against the back wall stood some metal-bound wooden chests, their locks unfastened. He looked inside. They were empty except for remnants of packing material. Where were all of Nagaoka’s antiques?

Akitada reemerged and stood for a few moments in the courtyard, digesting the discovery and wondering about its significance. His first fear, that there had been some strong-armed robbery, possibly resulting in the death of the owner and his servants, was proved wrong by the fact that the storehouse had been put to use as a sort of pantry after its costlier contents had been removed. The types of foods stored were hardly what one expected to content the palate of a wealthy merchant, but someone seemed to have been living here since the treasures had disappeared.

Thoughtfully Akitada retraced his steps to the front of the house and pounded on the door.

“Stop that racket,” a voice shouted from the street. “I’m coming. Can’t a man have even a moment’s peace in this forsaken place?” The figure of the servant rounded the open gateway. He was walking in a leisurely fashion, perhaps a little unsteadily, and carried a slightly steaming bundle which looked like a hot meal from some eatery. His appearance had deteriorated further since last time. He had not bothered to tie up his hair or shaved in days, and his robe was filthy.

When he saw Akitada, he stopped, narrowed his eyes, and peered blearily at him. “Oh, it’s you again,” he finally said rudely. “What do you want this time? He’s not been home for days, and I have work to do.”

“Mind your manners,” Akitada snapped. “Where is your master?”

The man scowled. “Who knows? Took his money and ran, is my guess. Either that or he’s jumped off a bridge and is explaining his sins to the judge of the underworld. Leaving me behind with nothing to eat or drink, not to mention without my pay.”

Akitada regarded the man suspiciously. His appearance and behavior showed that he did not expect his master to return very soon. He said brusquely, “It is cold out here. You may take me to your master’s room and answer some questions.”

The servant bristled. “I don’t see why. Him not being here, I’m not allowed into the house.”

“What is in that parcel?” Akitada asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Just some food. A man’s got to eat.”

“And where did you get the money for it? You said you had not been paid.”

The servant’s bluster faltered. “I had some saved up,” he muttered sullenly.

Akitada glared. “You are a liar! I think you stole the money from your master. I shall inform the police.” Stepping down into the courtyard, he approached the man threateningly. “In fact, I don’t believe your master has left. Why should he do so, with his wife recently dead and his brother in jail and about to go on trial? Perhaps you murdered him. What have you done with him? Come on, you lout! Speak up!”

The servant, turning pale, backed away so suddenly that he dropped his parcel. An unappetizing mess of glutinous morsels spilled onto the gravel. Its smell and the man’s strong odor of sour wine and unwashed skin turned Akitada’s stomach.

“I told the truth,” the man wailed. “He went off last week, looking terrible, all white like a ghost. He never said a word. Just walked past me out the door. And he never came back. Maybe he is dead someplace, but I didn’t lay a hand on him.”

Akitada looked at him long and hard. “We shall see. Open the door to the house!”

The door was unlocked, as had been the gate, the storehouse, and the chests.

“Why are you not guarding this house better?” Akitada growled as he followed the fellow down the dark hallway to the room where he had last spoken with Nagaoka.

“What for? There’s nothing left to steal.”

And there was not. Akitada looked around the dim room, and went to throw the wooden shutters open. There were no picture scrolls on the walls, the shelves were empty, even the heavy carved desk was gone. Only the thick floor mats remained and the two cushions they had sat on during his last visit. “What happened to your master’s goods and furniture?” he asked, looking about him in surprise.

“He sold ‘em.”

“Everything? All his antiques? His stock as well as his own possessions?”

The servant nodded. “Every stick of it.”

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Business hasn’t been exactly flourishing for a long time, and her ladyship had to have fine clothes, maids, and baubles, not to mention what he paid for her to start with. The master just kept selling off stuff to pay for it all.” The man’s tone became increasingly resentful. “He paid that snooty maidservant of hers and the lazy cook better’n me. The maid took off the minute she heard of the murder. And the cook went when she saw that the master hardly had money left for a decent funeral. They knew the good life was over. Guess who got stuck with all the work and no pay? Call me the biggest fool, for hanging around!”

“I told you once to watch your tongue!” Akitada snapped. “I won’t do it again. You have eaten your master’s rice and owe him respect and loyalty.”

“More like millet and beans of late,” grumbled the man.

“When did your master begin to liquidate his property?”

The servant stared at him. “Liquid what? He didn’t drink. Not like that brother of his!”

“I meant, when did he begin selling off everything?”

The man chewed on his lower lip. “He started selling the last of the antiques right after it happened. The buyers went away grinning. I guess word got around, for after that more and more people came, and then he sold all his wife’s things. Good riddance, I thought! We had a bit of fish with our rice after that, and the wine barrel was filled with better stuff.”

Akitada recalled Nagaoka handling the bugaku mask during his last visit. He had been planning to sell it below its value. In retrospect, he should have wondered then what would cause a shrewd antiquarian to sell a rare object at a loss. “Go on!” he told the servant. “When were the other things sold, his personal things?”

“After the visit of his wife’s father, I suppose. He lost his spirit. I guess it finally sank in that she was gone. And when that police officer came again to tell my master to stop visiting his brother in jail, that was the final straw. The very next day, people came and carried away the rest of the furniture, and when they were done, my master sat right there, on his cushion, looking around the empty room like a dying man. The next morning he left.”

“How long has he been gone?”

The servant pondered. Using his fingers to count off the days, he said, “Seven days, maybe.”

Seven days! What could have happened to Nagaoka? Had Kobe threatened him and sent him into a panic? Nagaoka had not seemed the kind of man who would leave a servant to look after a house without money for food.

The servant suggested, “Maybe he really killed himself.”

Akitada rejected that explanation. Having systematically sold all his things and taken whatever money he received for them, he was surely not planning to commit suicide. Unless … Perhaps he had left his affairs in the hands of another before ending his life.

“Does he have any family or friends whom he might visit?”

“Only his brother in jail.”

The other possibility was, of course, that Nagaoka, afraid of a murder charge, had made his escape, leaving his brother to his fate. Akitada did not want to believe this.

“When your master left here, was he carrying anything? A box, or bundle of clothes? Was he dressed for a long journey? Boots for riding? A warm robe?”

“He carried a bag, the kind you’d strap to a saddle. And boots on his feet and his best quilted robe.” The servant squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. “I think I saw the handle of a short sword in his sash, too.” Opening his eyes in wonder, he cried, “So the old b– he went off on a trip after all! How about that?”

“Where would he have gone? Does he have property in the country?”

“Just his brother’s place. At Fushimi. He’d hardly be going to see his father-in-law.” He guffawed.

Akitada raised his brows. “And why not?”

“They had a quarrel right after the funeral. You never heard such shouting! The master all but threw him out, and the old man left shaking his fist at him.”

“Really?” Akitada was intrigued. “Where does his father-in-law live?”