Текст книги "The Hell Screen"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

EIGHTEEN

Two Professors

Kinzo treated them well that evening. There was a hot bath for them, a substantial meal of hot rice and vegetables, with steamed fish fresh from a nearby river, and bedding for a restful night.

Akitada had rarely slept better. Outside, the snow fell silently and it was a cold night, but the large pile of charcoal in the fire pit continued to glow, making the room very comfortable.

When they rose the next morning, Kinzo reappeared, followed by the youth who had opened the gate and now brought a tray with steaming bowls of rice gruel.

“It stopped snowing,” announced Kinzo. “On horseback you shouldn’t have any trouble crossing the mountain to Kohata.”

It turned out to be a hard ride after all, but the weather had cleared and there was even some sun. The snow was so bright, it was almost blue in the shadows, and the trunks and branches of the trees stood out sharply like black brushstrokes against white paper.

They saw the village of Kohata when they made their way down the other side of the mountain. It consisted of a few straggling farmhouses, a post house, and a somewhat larger complex of buildings on the outskirts of the small town. The latter turned out to be the farm belonging to Nagaoka’s father-in-law, known locally as “the professor.”

It was certainly not as prosperous as Kojiro’s place, and had seen better days. The fence gaped in places, but the gate still had two panels, and the dwelling looked a comfortable size. Smoke rose in a thin spiral from a derelict outbuilding, no doubt the kitchen, and someone had swept a makeshift path to the entrance of the house.

No one was about, so the sergeant went to knock on the door. There was no answer.

After a few more attempts to rouse someone, Akitada and Kobe dismounted and walked around to the back. A leaning wooden gate led into what must once have been a small garden; now the overgrown plants were towering shapes under the snow. A single set of footprints skirted the corner of the house, and these they followed to a small pavilion at the back of the garden.

Its doors stood wide open, and inside huddled a figure. It was covered from head to toe with layers of old quilts and covers, and was bent over a desk spread with papers. Only one hand protruded, laboriously writing a few characters before raising stiff fingers to blow on them.

The occupant did not hear their muffled steps in the snow outside until they stepped onto the small veranda. Then he started and turned, the covers slipping to reveal an elderly man with bright black eyes and a dripping nose.

Kobe said, “Sorry to interrupt, but nobody answered our knocks. Would you be Professor Yasaburo?”

The elderly man sniffed and dashed the moisture from the tip of his nose with a stained sleeve. “No, I’m not, I’m glad to say.” He spoke in the nasal voice of someone with a bad cold. “Yasaburo is a disgusting tightwad, a damnable slave driver, a vulgar boor, an inferior poet, a vile cook, a contemptible conversationalist, a wretched scholar, a shocking father, an execrable calligrapher, and he serves inferior wine. No, thank the heavens, I’m not Yasaburo.”

“Your name, then?” demanded Kobe.

The elderly man wiped his nose again and sniffed. “Cursed cold,” he muttered. “I don’t remember an introduction. Your turn first.”

Kobe snapped, “I’m Kobe. Superintendent of police.”

“Ridiculous.” The man chuckled. “What would a police superintendent from the capital be doing out here? Try again.”

Kobe bristled. “Don’t waste my time!”

Without rising, the little man managed to sketch an obeisance. “Harada. Formerly professor of mathematics at the Imperial University. Presently a lowly drudge.”

“I am investigating a crime. Are you familiar with the name Nagaoka?”

The little man stared at him. “Nagaoka’s in trouble? You surprise me. He was just here.” “

“When?”

Harada sniffed and turned the leaf of his account book, running a finger blue with cold down a line of entries. “That’s the day,” he mumbled. “Yes, I make it the second day of this month.”

“Ah!” Kobe was hitting his stride. “We’re getting somewhere. By the way, what in hell are you doing out here?”

“In hell or not, I’m working. True, at the moment I’m in hell: cold sober, suffering from a bad cold, and keeping the tightwad slave driver’s accounts in an unheated garden pavilion while a policeman’s shouting at me.”

Akitada suppressed a smile. Kobe was certainly not getting much respect in the country. He asked the irreverent Harada, “Where is your master?”

“My master?” Harada drew himself up and attempted to look at Akitada over his nose. The effect was spoiled by another droplet forming at its end. He dashed it away with the much-abused sleeve and said haughtily, “If you—a total stranger to me, by the way—are referring to Yasaburo, you have not been listening. That man is nobody’s master. He’s incompetent at everything, a total failure. I work for him, but I am certainly his master in most things. A fine distinction, young man. Remember it!”

Akitada smiled. “Forgive me, Master Harada. My name is Sugawara. I take an interest in the case of one of Superintendent Kobe’s prisoners, Nagaoka’s brother.”

“Hah! The unfortunate Kojiro.” Harada eyed him, then said, “Hell opens its jaws in many nooks and corners. Beware of the demons among the living.”

“What do you mean?” asked Akitada sharply.

But Harada had turned away, shaking his head. “Nothing, nothing. You’d better wait for Yasaburo. He’s out with his little bow and arrow, wreaking death and destruction among the crows.” He huddled back into his quilt and rubbed more ink.

Kobe angrily opened his mouth to show Harada who gave the orders, when there was the sound of shouting from somewhere beyond the house. They turned.

Another strange-looking creature was approaching rapidly through the snow-covered garden, this one tall and thin and with a gray-streaked beard and bristling eyebrows. He was dressed in an old-fashioned fur-trimmed hunting cloak, fur cap, and long, snow-caked fur boots. Except for the fact that he was carrying a bow and had several arrows sticking up from a quiver behind his left shoulder, he might have been an emaciated old bear walking on his hind legs.

“Who in the name of the forty-eight devils are you and what do you want here?” the creature shouted shrilly, shaking his bow, as soon as he saw them. “Get away from him! He’s working. That’s what I pay him for, not to chat with every fool who’s lost his way.”

“Are you Yasaburo?” roared Kobe, his patience gone.

The furry man—well into his sixties, to judge by the beard—stopped to glare at them. “I asked first,” he snapped.

Kobe’s face darkened. He had clearly had it with insubordinate civilians. “Police,” he snapped. “We have some questions. In the house.”

Yasaburo s glance flicked over them. “I am retired,” he grumbled. “If you want an expert, go to the young fellows at the university.”

Kobe jumped down into the snow. “I said, in the house. If you don’t move now, I’ll have my constables tie you to a horse and trot you back to the capital.”

Wordlessly Yasaburo turned and marched toward the house. A string of birds tied to his belt flopped and swung like the tail of some large upright beast. Akitada thought he heard a soft cackling behind his back, but when he turned, Harada was bent over his account books making entries.

The main house was an old manor with a steep roof, sturdily built of massive timbers, but blackened by age and generations of smoky fires. In the dirt-floored entry, Yasaburo flung the string of birds into a corner and sat down to remove his snow-caked boots on a stone step leading up to the wooden flooring of a dark corridor. “Cursed birds!” he grunted. “Nothing worse than crows for making a racket.” He issued no invitations to his guests to join him.

Neither Akitada nor Kobe commented, but simply removed their own boots and followed Yasaburo. He shuffled ahead and brought them to a large room with a central fire pit, much like Kojiro’s, except that this room contained along the back wall a wide wooden dais, raised about two feet above the rest of the flooring. On this dais rested many strange objects, indistinctly seen in the general gloom until Yasaburo struck a flint to a couple of oil lamps.

They stared in surprise at a large hide-covered drum decorated with wood carvings of orange flames and a black and white yin-yang symbol, several smaller shoulder and hip drums, folding stools, a zither, and a couple of lutes. Suspended from nails in the wall hung several flutes, both the long, transverse kind and the short ones.

“I see you have musical performances out here in the country,” Akitada said.

Yasaburo grunted. “Not anymore. Used to when the girls lived here. Nothing to do now but sit around and wait to die.” He kicked a few dusty, faded pillows their way, and stirred the coals in the fire pit. Tossing some dried wood and pinecones onto these, he started a fire, which shot several feet up toward the soot-blackened rafters. Smoke filled the room.

Kobe and Akitada sat on the cushions at a safe distance from the pit.

Their host barely waited for the flames to die back before suspending a blackened iron kettle from the chain above the pit and filling it with wine from an earthenware pitcher. Then he pulled off his fur cloak and cap, tossed both on top of a huge clothing trunk in a corner, and sat down with his visitors.

“Well, what d’you want to know?” he demanded. His manner was belligerent, but Akitada thought he sounded uneasy.

“I’m Kobe. Superintendent of police in the capital,” Kobe told him. “You have had a recent visit from your brother-in-law, Nagaoka?”

Yasaburo did not quite suppress a start. “What about it?”

“Why did he come here?”

Yasaburo shifted on his cushion, then said, “A condolence visit.”

“Involving money, I gather,” Akitada put in.

Yasaburo glanced at him from under his bristling brows. Instead of answering, he got up and ladled wine into three cups, passing two to Kobe and Akitada. “You don’t look like police,” he said to Akitada. “Who are you?”

“I am Sugawara Akitada and represent the interests of Nagaoka’s brother.” The warm wine was sour and cloudy. Either the man was desperately poor or the miser Harada had called him.

Yasaburo glowered. “The bastard who killed my girl? You have no business in my house. Get out!”

Kobe said, “He stays. And you talk. Now!”

“What do you want from me?” Yasaburo’s voice took on a whine. “I have lost my child, my beloved daughter, beautiful and talented beyond compare, and you come and torment me with stupid questions. So what if Nagaoka showed up a week ago? He took his time. It’s only right he should apologize for what his brother did to my little girl. And he did not stay. Arrived one morning and left again. Had business elsewhere, he said.”

“What sort of business where?”

“How should I know. Probably tracking down some rare object, hoping to cheat semiliterate monks so he could sell it in the capital for a fortune. That’s all he was good for, money. That’s why I let my little girl marry him. So she would have some of the better things in– life. Hah!” He made a choking sound, shook his head, and covered his eyes with one hand.

Akitada thought the show of emotion unconvincing. This Yasaburo was full of contradictions, playing many roles simultaneously. One moment he was the rustic hermit, then an eccentric academic, then again the grieving father or the worldly cynic. He was intensely curious about this man, but thought it better to let Kobe do the questioning, particularly since he was no longer a welcome visitor.

“Speaking of Nagaoka’s wealth,” continued Kobe, “how much blood money did he pay you?”

There was a startled pause; then Yasaburo growled, “Not enough!”

Kobe turned to Akitada. “Well, that explains what happened to the money. Not highway robbery, then.”

Yasaburo’s head came up. “He might have carried more. How do you know he was not killed for his money?”

“Did I mention he was killed?”

Yasaburo said angrily, “What else would a superintendent of police be doing here? Well, he deserved it. He is responsible for my daughter’s murder by that depraved brother of his. And how much do you think her life was worth to him? A mere eighteen bars of silver, that’s all! I told him what I thought of him, my wealthy son-in-law. He tried to excuse himself. Said business had been bad. Even had the nerve to claim Nobuko’s tastes had been expensive. Hah! The miser kept her locked up in his house day and night like a slave.” He paused, drank deeply from his cup, and slammed it down. “And then the cold fish sent her off with his randy brother. For all I know, he told the bastard to get her with child. When my poor girl fought the fellow off, he killed her. No, no, Superintendent, eighteen bars of silver is not enough for such an outrage!”

A brief silence followed that shrill outpouring of venom. Then Akitada said, “That is a scandalous accusation. And a cowardly one. It takes little courage to heap abuse on the head of the dead.”

“Spare me that drivel.” Yasaburo glared at Akitada, then asked Kobe, “Well, have you got what you came for?”

Kobe said, “Not quite. We have reason to believe that Nagaoka died here and was taken later to the place where he was found.”

Yasaburo stumbled to his feet. “What? When? He left here the way he arrived. Alive. On his horse. My boy can tell you. You’re not going to pin this on me.”

“Sit down! Let’s talk about his visit.”

Suddenly both strength and fight seemed to go out of the old man. He muttered, “I know nothing about Nagaoka’s death. He left here alive. Must have run into robbers on the way.”

“No. Tell me about the blood money.”

“Eighteen bars. He owed me more. We agreed on thirty-five bars when I went to see him in the capital. He gave me five bars then and promised me the rest later. But he brought only eighteen.”

Akitada interjected, “Why would he pay you? He did not believe in his brother’s guilt.”

Yasaburo sneered. “What difference what he believed? The police said he was guilty. The moment I heard about it, I went for my money. And Nagaoka did not refuse. Just asked for time.”

“Hmm,” said Kobe, scratching his short beard. “Let me get this story straight. You made certain demands on Nagaoka, he gave you a down payment, and was bringing the rest here in person?

“That’s what I said.”

“But he did not bring enough, and so you got angry, eh? Very angry, I would say.”

Yasaburo bit his lip. “I was not pleased and let him know it. He left right away.”

“What about refreshments? After a long, cold journey?” Kobe raised his cup. “Some of your hot wine? After all, the man was related to you by marriage.”

Was there a nervous flicker in Yasaburo’s eyes? He definitely hesitated before answering. “A cup of wine, that was all.”

“Ah!” Kobe nodded and smiled. “Do you keep poison? For the birds, perhaps?”

Yasaburo paled. He was clearly frightened now. “He was alive. I swear he was!”

Kobe clapped his hands. A thin boy with bulging eyes and open mouth appeared so instantly that he must have been eavesdropping. “Where are the other servants?” Kobe barked.

“There’s only me and Mr. Harada.” The boy was lost in amazed contemplation of his master, who sat wringing his hands and moaning into his beard.

“Do you remember a visitor a week ago?” asked Kobe. “Middle-aged. Thin. Came on a horse?”

“A horse?” The boy was still staring at Yasaburo, who had turned beseeching eyes on him.

“His name is Nagaoka. The antique dealer who married your master’s daughter.”

“Oh, him.”

“Pay attention!”

The boy reluctantly took his eyes off Yasaburo. “He came in the morning. On a horse. I took the horse. Then he came for his horse.” The boy frowned. “He was scared, maybe. Like there were demons after him.”

Yasaburo gave another moan and hid his face in his hands. “The boy’s a half-wit,” he mumbled. “Tell them that he rode away!” he cried.

Kobe glared at him and snapped, “Stay out of this!” Then he asked the boy, “Did he look ill? You know, like he needed to vomit or relieve himself ?”

The boy fell into a fit of giggles.

Kobe looked disgusted. “We had better call Harada!”

“Can’t. He’s gone,” the boy volunteered.

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“He took the master’s horse.”

Yasaburo cried, “The dissembling cheat has stolen my horse and run. No doubt with my money. Quick, after him!”

Kobe snapped, “Fetch my sergeant!”

The sergeant was sent in pursuit of the flighty Harada, and Kobe began pacing, muttering under his breath. The boy stood staring at Yasaburo and picking his nose. Akitada got up to wander about the room.

“You!” Kobe snapped suddenly at the boy. “Look at me! Who was here the day Nagaoka visited?”

The boy said, “She was here. With him. He gives me coppers.”

Yasaburo cried, “I told you the boy is slow. He is confused and remembers an earlier visit by my daughter and her husband.”

Akitada paused in his examination of the musical instruments to cast a surprised glance at Yasaburo. So the man had another daughter. Come to think of it, he had referred to daughters earlier. There was no reason why he should not, but neither Nagaoka nor his brother had mentioned this.

Kobe asked the boy, “Did they come the same day as Mr. Nagaoka?”

The boy thought. “It was before. He gave me five coppers.”

“A boat without oars,” Kobe muttered under his breath. He tried again, “Your master’s daughter and her husband, did they meet Mr. Nagaoka? Talk to him?”

But he had run out of luck. The boy shook his head. “Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t.”

“What about Mr. Nagaoka’s horse? Did he leave his horse behind?”

The boy grinned. “I was tending his horse.”

With a sigh, Kobe let him go. Yasaburo started up again about Harada’s duplicity. Kobe snapped, “Shut up! You’re in enough trouble,” and started pacing and muttering again.

After a while, Yasaburo tried again. “I confess I’m as surprised as you at Harada’s flight, Superintendent,” he said. “It must mean he is involved in this murder. Frankly, I never did like the man. With all his crazy talk, I always thought he was half-mad, but I never dreamed he would kill anyone. He knew about the eighteen bars of silver. No doubt he thought Nagaoka carried more. Harada drinks like a fish, and nobody knows what he does in the capital. Maybe he gambles.” Yasaburo glanced nervously at the dais, where Akitada was still looking at the instruments.

“I am curious, Professor Yasaburo,” Akitada asked him, “what made you employ a man as untrustworthy as Harada?”

Yasaburo fidgeted. “Oh. He was a colleague. Lost his university position because of his drinking after his family died. Smallpox. But he was good with numbers. His fingers play tunes on that abacus of his, and his bookkeeping is immaculate. He got no wine from me while he was working, but once a month I let him off for a few days in the capital.” Seeing disbelief in their faces, he added grudgingly, “And he worked cheap.”

Akitada drifted on. In a niche hung a calligraphy scroll above a vase filled with dead branches. Both the scroll and the ledge for the vase were covered with thick dust, but a large trunk next to it looked clean. Idly Akitada opened it. It was filled with brilliant robes and gowns. On top lay a carved mask of some magic creature. He opened his mouth to ask if Yasaburo’s daughters had taken part in theatrical performances, but thought better of it.

It was becoming obvious that Harada had made good his escape. Kobe stopped in front of Yasaburo. “We will take you back to the capital for further questioning. You may pack some clothes and enough money to purchase food from the prison guards.”

“Why?” wailed Yasaburo. “I’ve done nothing. You cannot do this!”

While Kobe had Yasaburo readied for the return journey, Akitada made a quick tour of the house.

At one time, the dwelling and an adjoining smaller building must have accommodated comfortably a family and several servants, but now Yasaburo seemed to be living in one room, for the other rooms were not only shuttered and empty, but thick layers of dust lay on everything. Managing with only Harada and the boy, Yasaburo would not expect much in terms of service. However, in the other wing, one room was the exception to the general state of dereliction. Here a few grass mats covered the floorboards and trunks held clean bedding. Several braziers and oil lamps stood around and the room had been cleaned recently. No doubt this was where Nagaoka’s other daughter stayed with her husband on their visits.

He walked back to the courtyard. The sergeant and his men were getting off their horses with glum faces. No Harada. Since the man knew the area better than the constables, he could have hidden anywhere and nobody the wiser. Harada was the biggest puzzle of all.

Kobe came out with Yasaburo and two constables. Yasaburo’s hands were tied behind his back. Kobe said, “One of the horses in the stable bears the marks of a post station in the capital, and my men found poison. Arsenic. He says it’s for the birds, but I charged him. Dr. Masayoshi will be able to tell what Nagaoka took. Ready? It’s a long ride back.”

They rode ahead of the others. Akitada felt vaguely uneasy. He asked Kobe what he thought about the visit of the other daughter and her husband.

“That half-wit of a boy! I doubt they are involved, but we’ll get the truth out of Yasaburo.” After that they fell silent, each caught up in his own thoughts.

Akitada found the recent revelations confusing rather than enlightening. Until now they had not been aware that the dead woman had had a married sister. And the costumes in Yasaburo’s trunk were even more intriguing. Yasaburo had claimed his interest had ended when his daughters had moved away, but as dusty as the rest of the room had been, Yasaburo seemed to have cared lovingly for the reminders of a happier past. Most troubling were the ubiquitous ties to the acting profession. Everyone connected with the case so far had some interest in or involvement with actors.

The snowy landscape was mostly empty. Few people took to the road this time of year, and those were walking, mainly local peasants or itinerant monks. But when they topped the final rise, they saw a lone horseman ahead of them.

The rider, covered in some large colorful garment, slouched and drooped, leaning alarmingly first to one side, then to the other, and was alternately kicking the beast into bursts of speed and reining it in again.

“Heavens,” cried Kobe, “that’s Harada, isn’t it?” and kicked his own horse into a gallop.

It was. When Harada heard the pursuit, he glanced over his shoulder and whipped up his mount. The animal reared and took off madly across a barren, snow-covered field, with Harada clinging on for dear life, the strange robe fluttering behind like a huge pair of multicolored wings. At first they gained only slightly on him. Then, abruptly, his horse became airborne, and Harada flew off.

When they reached him, he was sitting on the edge of a frozen irrigation ditch, shaking his fist after the escaping horse. He was surrounded by the colorful folds of a quilt, one of those which had covered his shivering body in the unheated pavilion. He seemed to have fashioned it into a cloak by cutting a hole in it for his head.

Kobe swung himself out of the saddle and said happily, “Not a bad haul. Two prisoners on a single murder charge. Trouble is, I don’t have chains or rope to tie him up with. Do you?”

Akitada shook his head and dismounted. “It’s just as well,” he said. “I have a feeling this man is a witness rather than an accomplice. Let’s go easy with him.”

Harada made no effort to get up. Instead he greeted them with the words, “I hate horses and they hate me. It’s a measure of the misery to which I have been reduced since I entered the service of that man that I should choose his horse to escape it.”

Kobe looked baffled. “Better than facing a murder charge, surely,”

“Is it murder, then?” Harada shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”

“Then why did you steal the horse and run away?” Kobe growled.

“From the purest of motives, Superintendent, I assure you. Even Confucius would approve. A man should not add to his employer’s troubles if he can avoid it.”

Akitada asked, “Are you hurt?”

Harada felt various parts of his body and shook his head. “Good thing I brought the quilt against the cold. It cushioned the impact.” He eyed his surroundings. A little distance from them one of the many little groves of trees hid a small farmhouse. “I suppose I must impose on the good farmer’s hospitality tonight.”

“Nonsense. You’re under arrest,” snapped Kobe. “Who do you think you’re dealing with? A couple of yokels? This is a murder case.”

Harada heaved a shuddering sigh. “I knew it wouldn’t work, but it was worth a try. I’m not getting on a horse, though.”

Kobe raised his brows. “You want to walk?”

“Perhaps a palanquin?”

Kobe roared with laughter. “You think you’re the emperor himself, do you? You either ride or walk. And seeing that we are in a hurry to get your master locked up, you may have to run.”

“You’ve arrested Yasaburo for the murder of his son-in-law?” Harada finally made a move to disentangle himself from the quilt, and get to his feet.

“I did. What do you know about it?”

“Not much. I was drunk at the time.”

“I thought you were supposed to have no wine except on your visits to the capital,” said Akitada.

“Yes, yes. Part of the contract, A roof over my head and a bit of food, plus a monthly binge. Except that day. He sent me a pitcher of wine—very superior stuff, by the way, which is astonishing in itself—with the message that I was to take it for my cold. I did. All of it before the sun went down. And forgot my cold and slept. When I woke up it was the middle of the next day, I was feeling a lot worse, and Nagaoka was gone.”

Kobe said, “What about Yasaburo’s daughter and husband?”

“Them? A more disreputable pair you’ll never meet. I stay out of their way when they show up. They cavort about, dressed up like lions with masks and long manes of hair, the daughter in man’s pants, lifting her legs up in the air, screeching like a demon possessed. And the old man is beating a drum and shouting encouragement. And he complains about my drinking! I ask you, would you let your daughter act that way?”

Kobe looked baffled by the question. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly. “We can’t spend the rest of the afternoon chatting in a field.”

Since Kobe climbed back on his horse and seemed to expect the shivering Harada to trot behind, Akitada said, “You can ride with me. If you sit in front, I’ll hold you and make sure you don’t fall again.”

Harada thought about it and nodded. The ascent was accomplished with difficulty, observed by a smirking Kobe, but eventually they were on their way to the highway, where the others awaited them.

Yasaburo greeted Harada with abuse and demands for his horse. He was ignored.

Slowed down by Harada, Akitada fell in behind the cortege. Harada gradually relaxed, and talked a little about his life. The loss of his family had shaken him to the point that he cared for little but periodic wine-induced bouts of forgetfulness.

“How long have you worked for Yasaburo?” Akitada asked.

“Almost a year.”

“Then you don’t know much about the performances they used to give?”

“Not much. I watched once, then stayed away when they played the fools.”

“So you did not take your meals with the family?”

Harada looked back at him over his shoulder. “What, me? Never. I would not have accepted had they asked. I stay in the garden pavilion and sleep in the stable.”

Akitada had suspected as much from close contact with Harada’s quilt.

By the time they reached the capital, Harada had unburdened himself about his work: Yasaburo rented out plots to poor farmers in exchange for rice, which he traded for silver or invested in more land purchases. Harada’s function had been to collect rents, and to keep the books in such a way that the annual tax collector’s visit might pass with minimal losses. He glossed over illegalities, but his tone implied them. He had disapproved, but, unattractive as working for Yasaburo was, he had little choice in the matter. Besides, he pointed out, it left him time to read and write, and to make periodic trips to the capital.

He shivered a little and sighed. “I suppose I could have saved myself that terrifying ride out of loyalty to a man I have no respect for.”

Long before they reached the eastern jail, Harada began to sag more heavily against Akitada, and when they arrived, he had fallen into a fitful sleep.

“We’ll put him in one of the cells,” said Kobe when he saw them trudging into the prison courtyard, Harada slumped forward across the horse’s neck and Akitada grimacing as he tried to keep him from falling off.

“He feels feverish,” Akitada said. “I think he is too ill to stay here. It is not just that Harada should now die in prison because of Yasaburo’s misdeeds. If you agree, I will take him home, where Seimei can look after him. Besides, I have a feeling he knows something about the murders without being aware of it.”