Текст книги "The Hell Screen"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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“Excellent!” cried Masayoshi, clapping his hands. His tone was that of a teacher praising a bright child. “But come, how then did she die?”

Irritated by the coroner’s manner, Akitada looked at the corpse again. Except for the carnage about her head and shoulders, there were no wounds on the front of her body. He gently rolled her onto her stomach. The silken hair was tied in back with a bow, once white but now mostly dark with dried blood. The young woman’s back was also without wounds. “Perhaps a head wound,” he muttered, feeling the skull through the soft hair. Whatever blood the facial wounds had produced had run down her neck to gather between the shoulders. Her hair and bow had soaked up what little there had been. The skull itself proved to have neither cuts nor the soft depressions caused by bludgeoning. “No,” he said, sitting back on his heels and looking at her thoughtfully. “If we eliminate poisoning, the cause of death must be hidden by her wounds. Her face and throat are slashed so badly that it is hard to tell how she died, but it could have been many things. An arrow or knife thrust through the eye or mouth, or through the throat, for example, in which case she would have bled to death elsewhere.”

“I’m impressed.” Masayoshi nodded, smiling broadly. “They do teach you young gentlemen something after all.” His tone was openly offensive.

Akitada got to his feet slowly. From his full height he looked down at the short coroner and said coldly, “I gather from your remark that you know nothing about a gentleman’s education. It would have been wiser to hold your tongue under the circumstances. Your specialized training is what put you in your present occupation. Confine yourself to that in the future.”

Kobe gave a snort which could have been either surprise or satisfaction, but the coroner’s face froze. He bowed stiffly, saying, “I beg your pardon, my lord. I forgot myself.”

The man had a careless tongue, and Akitada did not like the manner of the apology, but he controlled his anger. He had no wish to humiliate people who performed useful tasks, but the coroner had taken intolerable liberties. A coroner was a mere functionary of the courts and he, Akitada, had held the rank of governor. He had been the one who administered justice and maintained good order among his people. He said brusquely, “Very well. Please explain your findings now.”

Masayoshi bowed again and turned to the corpse. He pushed aside the woman’s hair and pointed to the back of her neck. The blood had been washed off, and the skin gleamed softly white—except for a thin pink line, hardly noticeable, beneath one ear. “There it is,” he said dryly.

“It is nothing,” said Kobe quickly. “Anything could have done that. It certainly did not kill her.”

Akitada bent to look. He slowly turned the woman’s head, following the thin line until it disappeared in front under the torn flesh of the severed throat. Straightening up, he looked at the coroner. “I believe you are right. You think she was strangled with a rope or cord of some sort?”

Masayoshi nodded. “There are no other wounds on the body, and there is no evidence of poison, or of disease.” He bent to lift the lid from the undamaged eye. The pupil was turned upward, but the white was suffused with broken blood vessels. “This is what happens when people cannot breathe,” he said dryly.

“But,” complained Kobe, “it makes no sense! Why would the man first strangle her and then hack her to pieces?”

“That, my dear Superintendent,” said the coroner, rising, “is your job. May I be excused now?”

Kobe muttered, “Yes, yes. Sorry to have kept you, Masayoshi.”

Akitada cleared his throat. The doctor’s eyes flicked in his direction. “May I be of further service, my lord?” he asked tonelessly.

“I wondered if you had found any sign of sexual, er, activity.”

“If you mean intercourse, the answer is no. Anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Akitada felt that, quite unreasonably, he was being told that he had given offense and was being put in his place. When Masayoshi had left, he said to’ Kobe, “What a very unpleasant fellow! Where did you dig him up?”

Kobe frowned. “He’s a good man. In his own way, he is as stubborn and opinionated as you are. But he is no respecter of the aristocracy, and your reprimand has made him angry. Now it will take me days to soothe him sufficiently to get any work out of him. You had no cause to humiliate him that way. Especially when you were wrong and he was right.”

Akitada felt himself redden. “He was disrespectful. Remember, Kobe, I, too, am not the same man I was eight years ago. Up in the deep snow country I have learned some hard lessons about authority. The man was disrespectful of my position. Respect for distinctions of rank is necessary to maintain harmonious order. Common sense dictates that respect must be given and demanded or social chaos ensues. By mocking me, he mocked the order established by our emperor and the gods, and that cannot be not permitted.”

Kobe burst into shouts of laughter.

Akitada froze, then turned to leave.

“Wait,” cried Kobe. “Don’t be ridiculous! I grant you the man lacks manners, but I have to take a more practical view. Masayoshi is a damned fine coroner, so I don’t pay attention to his oddities. For instance, in this case, if he says she was strangled, then she was. Though it makes the case against Nagaoka’s brother damned awkward.”

Akitada snapped, “Well, it could not matter less, for the dead woman is not Nagaoka’s wife.”

Kobe turned to stare at him. “Not his wife? Have you lost your mind? The husband has identified her. There is no doubt about it. Besides, even Kojiro identified her as his sister-in-law.”

“Nevertheless, they are mistaken.” Akitada glared back with the certainty of conviction. “Perhaps they are lying for their own reasons. Without a face, the body could belong to a lot of young women. This particular one is well muscled, her palms are callused, and the soles of her feet are toughened from walking. She may not be a peasant woman, but neither is she a lady of leisure, as Nagaoka’s wife surely was. I don’t know how she came by the gown, but I think you should look for a missing servant girl. Apparently neither you nor your clever coroner have wondered why her face should have been destroyed.”

Kobe started to laugh again. “This is your unlucky day! It so happens I asked about the muscles and calluses. Nagaoka says his wife was raised in the country and used to ride horses and climb mountains and everything. A regular tomboy, according to him.” He stood, rocking back and forth on his heels, his eyes filled with glee.

Akitada gaped. “Are you sure? But why cut up her face like that, then? What was the purpose?”

Kobe took his arm to lead him out. “Never mind! You have done enough damage for one day. Why don’t you go home now? You said earlier that your mother was very ill. Surely you are needed at home.” His tone was paternal and thoroughly insulting.

Akitada shook off his arm. Through clenched teeth he said, “Could I have a few words with Nagaoka’s brother first?”

“No.” Kobe’s tone was firm, and his eyes cold. “Not today or anytime. Put the matter from your mind! It is not your concern.”

FIVE

The Shrine Gate

Perhaps four years earlier Akitada, less conscious of his consequence, might have persisted in his plea to see the accused, but now, meeting Kobe’s implacable eyes, he merely executed a stiff little bow, turned on his heel, and left.

In his fury, he walked straight home without noticing the change in the weather. The city shivered in a cold wind and under a sky which was clouding up rapidly. People rushed along, holding on to their hats and pulling their collars up against the chill breeze. Leaves danced along the street, swirled up in little eddies, and subsided in odd corners of buildings and along the bottom of bamboo fences.

Saburo opened to his knocking, his wrinkled face breaking into a welcoming smile. Akitada brushed past him. The chanting monks had withdrawn from the windswept courtyard into the shelter of the house. Their droning voices reverberated through the corridors.

Yoshiko heard his step and came running, her eyes shining. “Oh, Akitada,” she cried.

“How is she?” snapped Akitada, his face and voice stormy.

Yoshiko’s happiness faded abruptly. “There is no change.” She faltered. “Is … is anything wrong?”

“No. Yes. Never mind! It has nothing to do with you. If Mother has not sent for me, I’ll go to my room.”

“No, she has not. But… what has happened? Can you not speak about it?”

She looked anxious, and Akitada felt guilty that he had inflicted his outrage with Kobe on her. “I am sorry,” he muttered. “There is nothing for you to worry about. Just an injury to my own cursed pride and self-consequence. Come and I’ll tell you about it, if you like.”

She brightened at that and followed to his room.

“Did they deliver the silks?” he asked, glancing at her severe dark blue cotton dress.

“Oh, yes,” she cried. “That is what I wanted to tell you. But Akitada, you should not have bought such very gorgeous fabrics for me. And why two sets, and with all the stuff for under-gowns? I have never had anything half so expensive or lovely. It must have cost a fortune?”

He smiled at that. “Not quite a fortune. I am reasonably well-to-do these days, Little Sister, and it gives me great joy to imagine you in the finished gowns.”

“I am so very grateful, my dear, but I may not get much use out of them, especially the rose-colored one.”

“Why not?”

“Because of Mother.”

For a moment his anger rose at the thought that the meanness of his mother might extend to forbidding her daughter a pretty gown. Then he understood. “Oh, dear,” he said, ashamed of his thoughtlessness. “Yes, I suppose we must be prepared to go into mourning when the time comes. But it may not be for some time.”

Yoshiko shook her head. “Certainly before spring. It will be soon, I am afraid. She has been spitting up some blood.”

Misery settled on Akitada. “What does the physician say?”

Yoshiko looked down. “He says the end is not far away.”

“And she has not asked for me?”

Yoshiko shook her head mutely. He sat, staring sightlessly at his clenched hands. How much she must hate me, he thought. And he knew that his mother was leaving him a legacy of self-doubt along with the memory of rejection. He sighed deeply.

“She is very ill,” said Yoshiko gently, “not really herself, you know.”

He said nothing.

“You look tired and … have you had your meals in the city?”

“What? No. There was so much to do I forgot.”

She left and came back with a bowl of noodle soup and some rice cakes on a tray, and watched him as he ate. He had little appetite, but the food made him feel better. He put the half-empty bowl down and said gratefully, “It is so good to be back,” then corrected himself quickly with a grimace: “I meant with you. This has never been a happy house for me.”

Yoshiko looked stricken. “You mustn’t feel that way! This is your home, not Mother’s or mine,” she cried. “Do not let her spoil it for you and Tamako and your son. It will be a happy home again. Our family has lived here for many generations and will continue to live here through you.”

Akitada glanced around his room and out to the overgrown garden, now as covered with leaves at Nagaoka’s courtyard had been. From the direction of his mother’s room the voices of the monks penetrated even into his sanctuary. Like Nagaoka’s, this, too, was a house in disarray, but Yoshiko’s words touched something in his heart. She was right! It was up to him to give life back to the family home. Tamako would make short work of the weeds and choking vegetation outside and turn the garden into a flowering grove, while his son Yori, and in due time other children, would play outside, filling the place with their shrill shouts and laughter instead of the horrible drone of prayers for the dying. He smiled.

“There,” said Yoshiko. “That looks much better. Now tell me what happened to upset you so.”

He decided not to mention Toshikage’s problem, but told her of his night at the temple, and how he had run into Kobe in the city and ended up becoming involved in the murder of Nagaoka’s wife.

“It was foolish,” he said, when he was done, “to become so angry with Kobe for refusing what I considered a courteous request, but I have become used to being obeyed. No one has spoken to me in that manner for a long time now.” He added with a smile, “It will take some patience before I will become properly humble again.”

Yoshiko did not smile. She was sitting very still. He was dismayed to see her so pale, her eyes large with shock. Cursing himself for frightening her with his gory tale of murder and nightmare, he apologized.

“No, no,” she said, smiling a little tremulously. “It is nothing. But what will happen now? Who will help that poor man? Oh, Akitada, can you not do something? You could use your rank, perhaps. Or get some of your powerful friends to intercede.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “Of course not. My arrogance is not quite that great. Besides, it is by no means clear that the man is innocent.”

“Oh, but he is. He must be. You said yourself that you were not convinced of his guilt.”

Akitada sighed. “Yes, my dear. But that is not the same as believing him innocent. I am not satisfied that he had a motive, and the fact that Nagaoka’s wife was strangled before being hacked about suggests that she was not murdered by a drunken maniac. It is not logical. That is all.”

“Anybody could have done it. What about the husband? He must have been angry with his brother, if he suspected him of being his wife’s lover. Perhaps it was he who killed her and made it look as if his brother had done it. It would be the perfect revenge, wouldn’t it?”

She had spoken fervently, leaning forward a little, her eyes pleading with him to agree, and he was amused. Of course, she was quite right about Nagaoka’s motive, and he told her so. “But,” he said, “my hands are tied. Kobe will not let me speak to his prisoner, and I must do so before I can get any idea of what happened at the temple and of the relationship between the two brothers and Nagaoka’s wife.” He paused, and gave Yoshiko a glance of concern. “Are you quite well? You look a little feverish. Perhaps we had better not talk about the matter anymore. Do you think I should go to see Mother?”

His sister looked down at her hands and took a moment to calm herself. “Perhaps tomorrow. I am afraid that she may excite herself too much and bring up more blood.”

Akitada nodded. No doubt Yoshiko thought the sight of him would be so abhorrent to his mother that it might hasten her death. “I think I shall read a little,” he said, and watched his sister rise and leave without another word.

He spent the rest of the day depressed by his inability to cope with the assorted miseries he had found on his return. His mother’s hatred for him, even in her present condition, was sufficiently demoralizing, but then there was the matter of Toshikage, potentially dangerous not only to Toshikage but also to Akiko and their unborn child. Yoshiko’s unhappiness and his own pending report to the great men who held his future and that of his people in their hands also weighed heavily on his mind.

He missed his wife and son. Tamako and Yori, short for Yorinaga, had been his whole life until now. He hoped they were safe. Yori was only three, and by no means safe from the many illnesses which could strike young children so quickly and often fatally. And they might encounter highwaymen. He reminded himself that Tora and Genba rode with them and were both strong and experienced fighters. Besides, there were the bearers and some hired horsemen. Seimei, Akitada’s secretary, was too old, of course, to be much use against robbers, but his wisdom would keep them well advised. Still…

Akitada eventually went to bed. He spent a restless night, tossing and turning as he revolved all his troubles in his mind. Outside, the monks’ droning chants continued their unabated hum. He wondered at the cost and knew he would soon have to ask Yoshiko how large a gift the temple expected. Once during the night, he heard someone running, and the monks began a more frantic burst of chanting. Akitada rose and flung on some clothes, waiting for the summons which would call him to his mother’s side.

But it did not come. The house fell quiet again, and Akitada returned to his bedding. Toward morning he finally dozed off.

He sought out his sister as soon as he was dressed the next morning. She met him, looking exhausted, at the door of her room.

“Is Mother all right?” Akitada asked. “I heard some excitement during the night.”

“Another hemorrhage. A bit worse than last time. She finally fell asleep.” Yoshiko passed a hand over her dark-ringed eyes. “At least I think so. It is hard to tell if she is asleep or simply too weak to bother.”

“You are tired. Shall I go sit with her today?”

Yoshiko gave him a grateful look. “If you would. For just a few hours. I have not had any sleep. Don’t wake her, though.”

In the corridor outside his mother’s room, some five or six monks sat in a line, their eyes closed and their lips moving continuously, while prayer beads passed between their fingers. Akitada stepped over them and opened the door. They neither looked up nor paused in their chant.

His mother’s room was in semidarkness, the air overheated and thick with the smell of blood and urine. Braziers glowed here and there. The sturdy maid looked up at him with startled eyes, but Lady Sugawara lay still. She was on her back, hands folded across her stomach, sunken eyes closed, nose and chin jutting up sharply from a face which already looked more like a skull than a living human being.

Akitada gestured for silence and took a seat near the maid, whispering, “I shall stay for a while. Please do not let me trouble you. How has she been?”

“ ‘Twas bad in the night,” the maid whispered back. “But she’s been asleep the last hour or so.”

“Good.” Akitada prepared himself for a long vigil, but suddenly his mother’s eyes opened and fixed on him. “Mother?” he asked tentatively. When she said nothing, he tried, “How are you feeling?”

“Where is my grandson?” Her voice was shockingly loud and harsh in that stillness. “Have you brought my grandson?”

“Not yet. They will be here shortly. In a…” He stopped, seeing her face contract into a mask of fury.

“Get out!” she gasped, choking. “Get out of my room! Leave me alone!” The gasping turned to convulsive coughing. “I can… not even die in… peace … without you rushing me along…. Curse you … for …” She raised up suddenly, pointing a clawlike hand at him accusingly, her eyes filled with implacable hatred. But whatever she had meant to shout at him was never said. A gush of dark blood spilled from her mouth and over the bedding, and she fell back choking.

Akitada jumped up in horror and stood helplessly by as the maid busied herself, mopping blood and holding the gasping, coughing figure of his mother.

“A doctor,” said Akitada, “I’ll get the doctor. Where does he live?”

The maid glanced up impatiently. “No, sir. He can’t help. She’ll calm down in a moment. But you’d best go away. It upsets her to see you.”

Akitada almost ran from the room. In his haste he stumbled over one of the monks outside. The man grunted, and Akitada mumbled an apology as he fled.

In his room his breakfast waited. He stared at the bowl of rice gruel, then rushed out onto the veranda and vomited into the shrubbery.

Feeling slightly better, he returned to his room to put on his outdoor clothes. Then he left the house.

The weather was still overcast and chill. Now and then the frigid wind picked up and shifted some of the dead leaves. Most trees were bare already. A good time for death, Akitada thought morosely, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

He no longer hoped for a reconciliation with his mother. Her venomous hatred of himself had to be accepted. It seemed to him that it must always have existed, contained for all those years under a mantle of propriety. Now that she was dying and no longer cared what anyone, least of all himself, thought of her, she spat out the stored-up bitterness of a lifetime as if it had been her life’s blood. At least it absolved him from further attendance on her.

But the thought gave him no peace. His mother’s words had poisoned something in him, and for the first time in his life he wished her dead. In fact, he hoped fervently that she would die soon, before his family arrived, before she could poison also his beloved Tamako and the child she had given him! He hated the thought of those skeletal hands touching Yori, those wrinkled, hate-dripping lips kissing the soft, rosy cheek of his son. Bitter resentment twisted inside him like an awakening dragon. How dare his mother destroy the peace and happiness he had finally won after leaving his home? He clenched his fists in helpless misery and wished he had not returned. By heaven, now that he was here, he would not allow her to spoil his future and that of his family.

In his aimless walking, he had reached a quiet street in he knew not which quarter, but before him rose the tall gates to a shrine. It was one of the many Shinto shrines which occupied small tranquil spaces in the middle of the mercantile bustle around them. The torii, gateways of two tall upright wooden pillars topped with a gently up-curved top beam, marked the entrance to sacred space. A grove surrounded the modest thatched shrine building, but the trees were bare of leaves now, and the weather had driven worshipers away. The isolation of the place exerted a powerful pull on Akitada, and the shrine gate seemed to beckon. As if under a spell, he obeyed.

Once through the torii, he entered a world of silence. A thick carpet of leaves under his feet muffled his steps, and the human sounds of voices and wagon wheels dropped away behind. Somewhere a bird chirped. Turning a corner, Akitada found a stone basin. With a soft flutter of wings, a sparrow landed on its rim and drank. Akitada stood very still and waited until the bird had his fill and flew away. Then he approached and dipped some water with a bamboo ladle which lay on the basin. He rinsed his mouth with it, a familiar and comforting action, then spat the water on the ground. Next he rinsed his hands. The water tasted and felt cool and fresh, and it seemed to him that the symbolic cleansing had eased his mind and he approached the shrine with a calmer heart. Above the doorway, small paper twists tied to the sacred rice-straw ropes rustled softly in the wind, as if whispering the prayers inscribed on them by the troubled worshipers who had come here before him. He had brought no paper and, surprised at the impulse, regretted it.

At the door to the shrine he bowed. The sweet smell of fruit and rice wine, gifts presented to the god in small bowls on the plain wooden veranda, mixed pleasantly with a trace of incense. He looked into the dim interior, a space too sacred to enter. There were no images in this particular shrine, just a large carved box in the center of a table. It housed the spirit of the deity, an ancestral god associated with the neighborhood, perhaps. Akitada was about to turn away when his shoulder touched a thick straw rope suspended from the eaves of the roof. It was for ringing a bell which would announce a request. Akitada paused.

Then he turned back to the face the shrine, clapped his hands three times, concentrated his thoughts, and pulled the rope sharply. A muffled clanging sounded in the roof. He bowed again, stood a moment longer, and then left.

The ritual was as ancient as his people and familiar to him from his earliest childhood. He felt strangely calm and at peace, as if performing the simple act of worship had exorcised his demons and had helped him see his way. He was grateful to the god of the shrine.

At home, in the house filled with his dying mother’s curses, it had been impossible to think clearly, but now he knew that he must turn his back on a past which was dying with his mother and care for the future of the living. His sisters needed his help. His heart had gone out to Yoshiko, no longer the laughing young girl he remembered, but a sadly changed young woman who rarely smiled these days. He would find her a husband as soon as he had settled back into his work and met eligible men. Someone, he hoped, that she could laugh with.

But Akiko’s problem was her husband. There was nothing Akitada could do about her marriage, of which, in any case, Akiko herself seemed to approve. He wondered if she would if she knew the trouble Toshikage was in.

And so, because of Toshikage, Akitada went to see Nagaoka again. He still had Toshikage’s list of the treasures which had disappeared from the Imperial Treasury, but had never consulted the antiquarian about them.

When he knocked at Nagaoka’s gate, the same servant opened. To Akitada’s surprise, he was back in ordinary clothes, and the courtyard looked raked and tidy. Apparently Nagaoka had reestablished some order in his house and put aside mourning his wife.

Nagaoka was in his study, sitting behind his desk much as the day before, except that he was busy inspecting an object in a wooden box. When he saw Akitada, he rose and invited him to sit. There was something cool and formal about his manner which told Akitada that he was not really welcome.

“I apologize for another unannounced visit,” said Akitada, taking the offered seat, “but there is something I forgot to ask you. I hope I do not intrude?”

Nagaoka sat also and pushed the open box aside. “Not at all, my lord,” he murmured formally. “May I offer you some refreshments?”

Having left without his morning rice, Akitada became aware of feeling ravenously hungry, but in the present chill ambiance he decided against accepting hospitality. “Thank you, no.”

A brief silence fell. Nagaoka apparently had no wish to discuss the murder. Akitada was puzzled and wondered what had brought about the change. He glanced at the box. “Have I interrupted your work?”

“I was merely looking at an antique I may sell. Are you interested in theatrical performances?” He tipped the box toward Akitada, who suppressed a gasp.

His first shocked impression was of a man’s severed head. From the brocade folds surrounding it, a human face glared back at him. Disconcertingly, the disembodied head appeared alive. The forehead was wrinkled in a deep frown, bushy eyebrows nearly meeting above a large hooked nose, and the thick lips were compressed in a scowl. Fathomless black eyes stared angrily at Akitada. The head wore a folded cap resembling formal court hats, but the face was demonic rather than human.

Nagaoka’s dry voice cut through the blur of Akitada’s confusion. “A very fine specimen, don’t you think?” His eyes lingered on the mask with an intent, almost passionate expression.

“Er, yes. Very lifelike. What precisely is it?”

“Oh, a bugaku mask. Quite old. Either Chinese or Korean in origin. It represents one of the Indian characters in a Buddhist play.”

A mask for a dancer! Akitada reached across and lifted it from the box. He saw now that it was the hollow wood carving of the face and top of the head only. The ribbons with which the performer tied it on dangled from its edges. The mask’s cap was really quite different in style from those worn at court, and the large hooked nose was definitely foreign. But the workmanship was masterful and it was painted in lifelike colors. The piercing eyes were holes through which the actor looked during a performance.

Bugaku dances were much admired at court and occasionally put on by great nobles to entertain the emperor and his family. A connection of this mask to the Imperial Treasury was quite possible. To be sure, no mask was mentioned on Toshikage’s list, but perhaps this was a more recent theft.

“Is it valuable?” he asked Nagaoka.

Nagaoka pursed his lips. “It is almost certainly two hundred years old and in excellent condition. Yes. I would think for a collector or someone wishing to make a present to a great man or to a temple it might well be worth twenty rolls of brocade.” He looked down at his hands, adding, “However, I do not expect an offer of that size.”

“How do you come by rare objects like this?”

“Usually someone needs money and unearths something from the family treasure-house. Sometimes, more rarely, it is an import from Korea.”

“And this?”

Nagaoka met his eyes with a hooded glance. “Part of my reputation, my lord, rests on the absolute confidentiality with which I transact business.”

“Of course. But do you not wonder if such a precious object might really belong to the person selling it?”

Nagaoka smiled thinly. “I make certain. Besides, the buyer usually asks about the provenance. It adds to the value of the piece.”

Akitada raised his brows. “What about the confidentiality, then?”

The smile widened a fraction. “It may be said to be confined to six ears only.”

Akitada thought for a moment, then fished Toshikage’s list from his sash. Handing it to Nagaoka, he said, “This does not involve a sale, so I hope the matter will be confined to only you and me. These items have been removed from a collection illegally and may have been offered for sale during the past month. Can you give me any information about such a transaction involving any or all of the items listed?”

Nagaoka stared at him a moment, then read the list. Frowning, he reread it, then looked at Akitada with a strange expression on his face. “You say these things were stolen?”

Akitada shook his head. “They were stolen only if they are being offered for sale. Otherwise they have merely been removed without permission.”

“Ah.” Nagaoka returned the list. His fingers shook slightly. “I am happy to say that I have no news to give you. Indeed, if they have been stolen, then someone has committed a sacrilege of the most serious nature. Such things would not be offered for sale to a reputable dealer like myself. Handling the transaction and being in possession of any one of the objects could mean death or deportation. I would most certainly report any rumors circulating among my colleagues, as I trust would they.”