Текст книги "The Hell Screen"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Again Akitada felt an irrational hostility in the man. He said soothingly, “1 merely meant that your neighbors surely appreciate your generosity to their children.”

“My neighbors?” Noami’s voice rose shrilly. “They are all liars and thieves!”

“Never mind.” Akitada extended his hand for the scroll, adding coldly, “My name is Sugawara Akitada. If you decide to accept a commission for a screen, you may come to see me. Lord Toshikage can tell you how to find my house. But I should like to see some sketches before I approve a commission of that size.”

Noami bowed, and Akitada escaped the studio to the raucous cries of the crow.

On the whole it had been one of the most unpleasant afternoons Akitada had spent in a long time. By comparison even home with his dying mother seemed preferable. Tired and footsore from walking, chilled to the bone, and irritated by his encounter with the eccentric artist, he took a shortcut through the Imperial City. The tall halls and groves of pines were some protection from the icy wind which whistled down the thoroughfares of the capital, and he was safe enough from acquaintances. At this time of day the bureaucrats were busily planning and wielding their brushes inside their offices.

When he entered his half of the city, he found himself on Konoe again, but this time near the eastern prison. It was as good a way as any to take home and, miserably aware that his feet were so cold that they had lost all feeling and that his legs hurt abominably, he reflected that he was no longer used to walking such distances.

There were more people about here. The prison gate, its flags snapping in the wind, was guarded by red-coated constables who jogged steadily back and forth to keep warm. Other constables, city clerks, and ordinary men passed in and out. The problem of Nagaoka’s brother nagged at him again and he promised himself to look into it as soon as his family was safely home. Perhaps some news from them was waiting for him even now. He sped up a little. Ahead a woman walked in the same direction, her head wrapped in a large kerchief against the cold, and a basket over her arm. He wondered idly if she had come from the prison, perhaps a constable’s wife who had taken her husband his dinner. For a moment there was something oddly familiar about the way she moved and held her head, then she disappeared around a corner.

He thought of Tamako and Yori in this cold weather, wishing that he might find them waiting for him at home, hoping that there would be at least some message by now, and limped homeward at a steady pace.

Saburo let him in, crushing his hopes quickly. They had not come and there was no news. Sick with worry, Akitada cursed under his breath and staggered to the house. Saburo watched his master’s stumbling progress across the courtyard with open-mouthed concern.

“I’m home,” Akitada called out, sitting down in the entry to ease his swollen feet from the boots.

Yoshiko appeared behind him. She was in her outdoor clothes and folded a scarf into a basket. “Welcome, Brother,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

Akitada looked up at her and smiled in spite of his disappointment. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold air and she looked like the little sister of the past. “A bit, but mostly cold and footsore,” he said. “I have been all the way to the other end of the city to buy Tamako a painting.” He held up the scroll, then glanced at her basket. “Have you been out, too?”

“Yes. Just to the market for some things for supper. Let me check on Mother first and then we can have some tea in your room and you can show me the picture.” She padded off softly on stockinged feet.

Akitada stood up himself, groaned, rubbed his icy ears, and hobbled toward his room, wondering why his sister had claimed to have come from the market when her basket was empty.

EIGHT

Temple Bells

In his room, neatly folded on his cushion, Akitada found an elegant court robe. He unfolded it reverently, marveling at the tiny stitches with which his sister had sewn together the panels of rich silk. Now he was ready for the summons from the palace, whenever it would arrive, and would not have to be ashamed before arrogant youngsters like the secretary in the controller’s office. He took off his quilted outdoor robe and slipped into the new garment. It fit comfortably, and he was looking for a sash to wind around his waist when Yoshiko came in.

“Well?” she asked. “Do you like it? You look absolutely wonderful! Not even the chancellor will make a greater figure than you. I cannot wait to see you walking in the official procession to present New Year’s wishes to His Majesty.”

His pleasure and her words momentarily wiped all doubts from his mind. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, choking a little with emotion. “It is beautifully sewn and must have taken you many long, weary hours. I am afraid it was too much for you, when you already have Mother to take care of.”

She came closer, smiling, and gave his robe a little tuck here and there. “A sash,” she muttered, “it needs a sash, and I think I know just the fabric. The train of Father’s court robe is just the right shade of silver gray. It will look well with this dark blue.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Nothing of my father’s.” Seeing her startled eyes, he added lamely, “You can hardly mutilate his best robe. What would Mother say?”

“Nonsense! It is already damaged by mildew. You cannot waste things for sentimental reasons. And Mother won’t know. I have made up my mind that we must decide our future from now on. You and I have endured far too long the will of parents who cared nothing for our happiness.”

“Yoshiko!” Akitada stared down at his sister slack-jawed and shocked to the core. She, a woman and the youngest member of the family, had just rebelled against centuries of Confucian laws fixing immutably the duties of children toward their parents, and, for the first time in his hearing, voiced an outright criticism of their parents. Suddenly she seemed a stranger to him. What had happened to change her so?

“Well?” she demanded, her chin pushed out stubbornly. “Am I wrong? Has either of them ever demonstrated any love or care for either of us? Our father threw you out of the house, and Mother forbade me to get married because she wished to keep me around as a cheap bond maid. It is a credit to you that you have succeeded anyway. As for me”—she turned away abruptly and her voice broke—”any hope of happiness has come too late.”

His heart contracted at her despair. He put both hands on her shoulders to turn her toward him. “It is not too late. You shall have a fine dower and I will do my utmost to find a good husband for you. You will see, in another year you, too, may look forward to your first child.”

“You are very kind, Akitada.” It was no more than a breath; then she moved away from him, saying brightly, “Now tell me about your day and show me Tamako’s picture!”

He went to unroll the painting.

Yoshiko clapped her hands. “Oh, Akitada! It is charming. The little boy is adorable! Just so must Yori look, I think. We must get your son a puppy.”

“Yori is a little younger, but he is big for his age.” Akitada narrowed his eyes and made mental comparisons. “He has finer features, I think, and larger eyes. And his hair is quite thick so that the braids over his ears stick out more. But he has the same sturdy arms and legs—” He broke off. She looked at him, questioning, and he told her, “I am so worried that there has been no news from them that I can hardly think of anything else. Tomorrow I ride back to see what has become of them.”

“Oh, but Akitada,” cried his sister. “What if… ?” She paused, her eyes large with concern.

He misunderstood and said impatiently, “Mother has repeatedly refused to see me. She can hardly expect me to sit around at her door like those cursed monks. And if she should take it into her head to die while I am gone, it cannot be helped.”

“Yes, of course. I was thinking of the palace. What if they send for you?”

Her worried face made him smile. “I shall only be gone a day or so. Make my apologies and claim an urgent message has called me away.”

The next day was cold and overcast, but the post horse was fresh and Akitada, warmly dressed in a thickly padded hunting robe and lined boots, set out at a smart pace.

In the three weeks since he had passed this way, the colors of the mountains ahead had shifted from the golden bronze of late autumn foliage to a dull grayish brown of winter. Only the pines and cedars had kept their green, muted to a duller shade now under the cloudy sky. Nights of freezing cold had turned the roadside grasses sere, and the fallow rice fields looked nearly black.

He soon reached the foothills and began the steady climb. Once he encountered a small caravan of travelers and stopped to ask about his family, but they had come from the south and had no news. He wondered how far he should go. All the way to Lake Biwa? He could not stay away too long without incurring imperial displeasure if he were called to report. If only his mother had not insisted that he go and announce his return!

Eventually he came to the place where the road to the temple joined the highway. A wooden shack, boarded up and seemingly abandoned on his last visit, was now open, serving refreshments to travelers and pilgrims. With its shutters raised, Akitada saw a small wooden platform inside, with a woman in a blue and white scarf and gray apron sitting next to a tiny stove, an earthenware pitcher, and several bamboo baskets.

He dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. The woman, young and deeply tanned, shot up and skipped down from the platform. “Welcome! Welcome!” she cried, running and bobbing bows every few steps. “Welcome to the Abode of Celestial Mountain Breezes, your honor! First-class accommodations! Refined wines and delicacies from the capital! Served hot to warm you on a chilly ride. Please enter and allow me to wait upon your honor.”

With the end of her speech she came to a halt before him, bowing so deeply that he was looking down at her back and the nape of her neck, and so she remained in apparently rapt contemplation of his boots.

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “I shall have a cup of wine before I go on.”

She bobbed up, revealing briefly a round, smiling face with eyes so narrow that they were mere slits, before rushing back to her shack, where she busied herself with a cup and ladle, with which she dipped wine from a small container on the stove.

Akitada followed more slowly and sat on the edge of the platform. The wine was cheap and rough, as he had expected, but it warmed his stomach in the chill mountain air. He peered into one of the baskets and decided to buy a dumpling. It was hardly capital fare, being a cold rice dumpling stuffed with chopped vegetables, but none the worse for that. He ate hungrily, complimented her, and asked for another.

She had a pretty way of blushing and confided that she had started preparations the night before and risen well before sunrise to boil her dumplings before walking to this little shack with her food and wine supplies.

He smiled at her. “You are strong as well as a good cook. I missed you when I passed this way a few weeks ago. But it was raining very hard.”

“I remember the day,” she cried. “Did you go to see the temple dancers?”

Akitada shook his head.

“Oh, you missed a treat. I closed early that day and walked up to the temple with my husband. It was a fine show. The celestial fairies were so beautiful I thought I was in the Western Paradise.” She looked rapt, then added confidingly, “My husband says if business is good we’ll go to the plays in the capital. Have you ever seen those?”

“No, but since you recommend them, I shall perhaps go this year. Did you hear about the murder at the temple?”

“Yes. The next day. Horrible, wasn’t it? We missed all the excitement, my husband and I. We walked home in the rain right after the plays. Wet as drowned rats.” She laughed, then offered Akitada more wine.

“Perhaps one more cup,” he said. “Do you happen to recall the name of the performers?”

“They called themselves the Pure Land Dancers, but that name is just for temples. When they’re playing in the capital for ordinary people, they do more exciting stories about heroes and monsters, and there are acrobatics, and some things that’ll make you laugh. They call themselves Uemon’s Players then. That’s because the old man who runs the group is called Uemon, you see.”

“Yes. I see.” Akitada nodded with a smile at her enthusiasm. He glanced up the narrow, stony road which led to the temple. Perhaps he could make a brief detour and still reach Lake Biwa before dark. Farther than the lake he dared not travel. He hoped to meet his family on the way, or at least pick up some news of them from passing travelers. “Will you be here for a few more hours?” he asked the woman.

“Till dark,” she said with a sigh, glancing at her baskets. “Business picks up toward evening because travelers are trying to get to the capital before dark.”

Akitada took a silver coin from his sash and extended it to her. “For the food and a favor,” he said. “Would you keep an eye out for my family? My name is Sugawara and I expect my wife and three-year-old son, along with an elderly man and two strong young warriors on horseback and in wagons, with bearers and some mounted guards. If you see them, will you ask them to wait here for my return?”

She promised eagerly, tucking the coin inside her robe.

This time Akitada reached the temple quickly. It was nearly midday and cold, but the road was dry. The great roof of the gate where he had last seen Nagaoka’s wife and her brother-in-law still had silvery hoarfrost on its tiles. The colors of the vermilion columns and blue-tiled roofs were sharp and the gilded spire of the pagoda disappeared into the clouds above.

The sound of his horse’s hooves brought the gatekeeper running out to greet him. By good fortune it was the same man who had offered Akitada a glance at the plan of the temple that other morning. They recognized each other instantly and with mutual pleasure.

“Welcome, welcome, my lord!” cried the monk, taking the bridle of Akitada’s horse. “Have you heard the news? There really was a murder the night you visited.”

Akitada dismounted. “Yes. That is why I am here. The police in the capital have the suspect in custody, but there are some aspects of the story that trouble me and I thought I would come and take another look.”

“Then I have won my wager!” cried the monk happily, tying Akitada’s horse to a post.

“Wager?”

“I bet my friend that you would return. Oh, my lord, I hope you will forgive the impertinence, but after I spoke to you, I looked up your name in the visitors’ book. Then it came to me that you must be the same Sugawara who solved all those murders not many years ago.”

Akitada was astonished. “But how could you know about that? I have been in the far north for many years.”

“I have a cousin, my lord, who is a schoolteacher. He was one of your students when you taught at the university and told me all about those university murders. His name is Ushimatsu.”

Ushimatsu. Akitada instantly recalled the backward, shy, middle-aged student, the butt of his classmates’ jokes, who had humbly and cheerfully persisted in his studies. He smiled at the memory. “How is Mr. Ushimatsu?”

“Oh, very well. He teaches at a country school and has a wife and two little sons by now. He says he owes it all to you.”

Akitada was embarrassed. “Not at all. He was a very hardworking student who would have succeeded in any case. I am very glad to hear he is doing so well. Please give him my regards next time you see him.”

“Thank you, my lord, I will.” The gatekeeper rubbed his hands. “Now, what may I show you?”

“The service courtyard and the visitors’ quarters, I think. But are you at liberty to do so?”

They had climbed the steps to the gate. Inside the gatekeeper’s office, Akitada could see a young novice sweeping the floor with a straw broom. Somewhere a bell was ringing, its sound clear and high in the still cold air.

The gatekeeper rubbed his hands eagerly, “I am completely at your service, my lord. It’s too early for visitors. Just a moment.” He put his head in the door of his office and gave the novice instructions, then returned to Akitada’s side. “Ready, my lord! By the way, my name is Eikan.”

Akitada thanked him, relieved that he did not have to visit the abbot again to explain his purpose for the present visit. It had been bad enough last time, when he had used the temple to get out of the rain as if it were a roadside hostel. This time his reason for coming was even more dubious. He could claim neither official standing nor that he was acting on Nagaoka’s behalf.

Fortunately, his companion seemed to find nothing wrong in his curiosity. As they crossed the graveled courtyards of the public section of the temple, he told Akitada, “After the murder was discovered, I went back myself to look at the service yard where you thought you heard the woman screaming, but there was nothing to see. Still, you will have a better-trained eye for such things. I suppose not even the smallest drop of blood on a pebble would escape your attention?”

“I doubt we shall find any blood. It rained hard that day, and by nighttime the ground was still soaked with water.” Akitada did not mention that the murdered woman had been strangled before her face was mutilated. Strangulation rarely left traces apart from signs of struggle, and those would long since have been obliterated by the passage of monks and the incessant raking of gravel.

They passed through the covered galleries and reached a plain wooden door. Eikan opened it, and they stepped down into a courtyard, surrounded on three sides by low, plaster-walled buildings with thatched roofs and on the fourth by the gallery they had just left. A grayish column of smoke rose from a chimney of the central building. Long rows of firewood were stacked against its wall, and wooden kegs against the building on the right. In the middle of the courtyard stood a well, surrounded by a waist-high wall of darkened wood on a platform of large stones. A wooden bucket hung over it suspended from a winch.

“The kitchen yard,” said Eikan. “The building across from us is the monastery kitchen. To the right are the pantry and bathhouse, and to the left a storehouse for religious objects and statues. You may have passed through it on your way to your room.”

“Yes”—Akitada nodded—”yes, of course. I remember now. I was very tired, but you are quite right. My room must have been back that way. We passed through such a building. I recall being startled by a life-sized statue of a demon king.” He turned to gauge distance and direction. “Now that I see it in the daylight, I am more than ever convinced that it was near here, or in this service area, that a woman screamed in the middle of the night.”

Eikan shook his head dubiously. “There is no one here at night. The last hot meal is prepared at midday. We have midnight prayers and have to be up before sunrise for meditation. The bells remind us of our duties. Perhaps the scream came from the other side, the visitors’ quarters? If, as you say, you were very tired, you might have been drowsy and confused.”

“No. I am quite certain the sound came from here. And a murderer would hardly be deterred by a ‘no admittance’ sign. Neither, for that matter, would drunken youngsters bent on mischief.”

“Ah, you are thinking of the actors.” Eikan nodded. “It is possible. Do you suspect one of them of having killed the lady?”

“No. At this time I am merely wondering if someone might have seen or heard something unusual.” Akitada wondered again if Nagaoka could be the murderer, either by committing the crime himself or by hiring a killer. The police had checked the names of all the visitors that night, but Nagaoka would hardly have signed in under his own name.

The door to the storehouse suddenly opened and a figure in monkish garb hurried out with a pail. He was walking to the well. There was something familiar and unpleasant about him. After a moment Akitada recognized the eccentric painter Noami. He had fortunately not seen them and began to lower the creaking bucket into the well.

Akitada said urgently, “Come! I have seen enough here. Let us go to the visitors’ quarters now.”

But the creaking had attracted his companion’s attention. He cried, “Oh, what luck! Noami is here today. You must meet the famous painter who is working on our hell screen.” Paying no attention to Akitada’s gestures, he shouted across the courtyard, “Master Noami? A moment of your time. Here’s someone you must meet.”

The painter turned slowly to peer at them, then approached. He scowled when he recognized Akitada.

“Lord Sugawara,” said Eikan, looking from one to the other, “this is Noami. Noami, this is the famous lord who solves all the crimes in the capital. Imagine, he has come here to investigate.

Noami’s small, sharp eyes flicked from the monk to Akitada and back. “I have had the honor already,” he said in his strange, high voice, shrinking into his patched and stained robe.

“Really?” cried Eikan. “Oh, that’s right. You did spend the same night here, Noami. I had forgotten. Your comings and goings are so irregular.”

“What do you mean, ‘irregular’?” snapped the painter. “I am not a member of this monastery and consequently free to go as I please. Now, if you will excuse me, my lord, I have work to do.” He turned and went back to fill his pail from the well bucket. Picking it up, he trotted to the storehouse without another word or glance, went in, and slammed the door behind him.

“Oh, dear,” said Eikan apologetically. “So rude! He is peculiar, but the most gifted artist of this century.”

Akitada looked after the man thoughtfully and said, “The century is not over yet, and I cannot admire the gory scenes he seems to excel in.”

“Oh, you have seen the hell screen. Yes, it makes me shudder, too, but that is after all the purpose. It is said that if we can just save one soul from sinful living by impressing him or her with the sufferings of their afterlife, it has served its purpose.”

“I expect so,” said Akitada, and turned to leave, but at the gallery he paused and looked back. “You said Noami spent the night of the murder here. Where does he sleep?”

“Sometimes in the room where he works, sometimes in one of the empty monks’ cells. He used to be a monk, you know.”

“Used to be? Did he renounce his vows, or was he dismissed for improprieties?”

Eikan spread his hands. “Nobody seems to know, my lord.” He grinned suddenly. “And believe me, we have tried to find out. Though I shouldn’t say it, life has a certain sameness to it day after day in a monastery. You have no idea how interested everybody is in the murder. The abbot has already assigned three penitential meditations to stop such worldly concerns. For those we stay up all night, kneeling on the hard floor, our backs straight as pine trees. If we drowse off or slouch, we are struck with a bamboo cane by the hall steward. But even that has not stopped the young monks from whispering about it.”

“Under those circumstances I feel guilty asking your help.”

They looked at each other. Then Eikan said, “Not at all, my lord. It is my duty to aid in the investigation.” They smiled at each other in complete understanding.

The accommodations for lay visitors to the temple were in the southeastern corner of the temple grounds. Akitada’s own room, thanks to his rank and the abbot’s hospitality, had been in the monastery proper.

They entered the visitors’ courtyard through a small gate. The buildings of the quadrangle resembled monks’ cells. A rectangular courtyard with a few pine trees was enclosed by one-storied buildings, two long wings to either side and a shorter one closing off the end. Many doors led to rooms accessible from a veranda which passed around the quadrangle. Every six doors or so, steps led down to the courtyard, where two young monks were busy with chores.

Eikan turned to the right and they walked along the veranda until he stopped before one of the doors.

“This is the room which was given to Mrs. Nagaoka’s brother-in-law,” he told Akitada.

The door was not latched, and he merely pushed it open on an empty room. It literally held nothing, not so much as a clothes chest. The bare space was only ten feet deep and wide, perhaps to fit the monastic ideal of the ten-foot-square hermit’s hut, and had a floor of plain boards. The rough wooden walls, decorated with the scribbles or drawings of generations of pilgrims, had only two openings, the door and one small window in the back wall. As accommodation it was hardly luxurious.

“Have they removed the furnishings?” asked Akitada, astonished.

“No. All the rooms are like this. Bedding and a lamp are provided if there are guests. On cold nights also a brazier of coals. And, of course, water and a simple vegetarian meal. All of those things, except for the brazier, were left for the gentleman.” Eikan paused, clearing his throat meaningfully. “He did not make any use of them.”

“Oh?” Akitada noted a coy expression on Eikan’s face.

“It is one of those facts, my lord, which has filled the younger monks’ minds with conjectures of a worldly nature and imposed the penitential meditations on them.” Eikan winked with a straight face.

Akitada almost laughed aloud. He was beginning to like his companion. “You are suggesting that the lady’s brother-in-law joined her in her quarters soon after their arrival. What about his luggage?”

“Oh, he left that behind, money and all.”

Akitada’s brows shot up. “All but his sword,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Ah,” cried Eikan, rubbing his hands. “I follow your thinking, my lord. You believe that he had already made up his mind to murder the poor lady and proceeded immediately to her room, taking his sword along?”

“That is one explanation.”

“But that means that he was not bent on seducing his brother’s wife, as most of us have assumed. He did not kill her because she spurned his advances?”

“It would seem unlikely that he would take his sword on an errand of love.”

“A brilliant deduction, my lord.” Eikan eyed Akitada with admiration. “I am willing to wager that the police have not thought of that. They kept asking if anyone had noticed improper behavior between the two.”

Not being in Kobe’s confidence, Akitada could not pursue the subject. He asked instead, “Who discovered the crime?”

“One of the novices. His name is Ancho. The novices are assigned to cleaning duties in the guest quarters. Ancho and Sosei had the duty that week. I made a note of it and questioned Ancho after I discovered your identity, my lord, just in case you should return and ask me this question.”

Akitada thanked him gravely.

“It is a pleasure to be of service. In any case, Ancho and Sosei started their duties after the morning lecture. That is well after the hour of the dragon, when most guests have risen and are at their devotions or have departed. Ancho knocked at the lady’s door, and when there was no answer, he assumed the room was empty and used his special key. He was horrified to find the bloody corpse of a woman and the lifeless body of a man. Being young, he went screaming for help. Sosei came from another room and looked. He, too, ran, but he had the sense to get a senior monk from the monastery. Ancho, confused, stayed in the courtyard within sight of the room. He saw a few guests gathering to peer into the room until some of the senior monks arrived. It was only then that someone noticed the man was alive and merely in a drunken stupor. They tied him up, and the prior sent for the capital police.”

“Did the man sleep through all this commotion?”

“It took the police several hours to get here. He woke up in the meantime and had to be restrained. The monks got more ropes and sat on him when he got violent. The police felt it proved his guilt.”

Akitada had no trouble picturing the scene. Nagaoka’s brother, Kojiro, woken up by a rude shaking, and, while still dazed with the aftereffects of drink, tied up by a group of monks, would have panicked. He nodded and said, “I think I should like to see that room next.”

They walked along the veranda to the short wing of cells.

“This is where the women stay,” Eikan said. “The male actors occupied rooms across from this wing. It seemed better to separate them. The mind is supposed to be pure when preparing for worship.”

Akitada grunted somewhat disrespectfully. Eikan ignored it and threw open another door on a room identical to the last one. Akitada stepped in and looked around. The floorboards had been scrubbed, of course, and there would not have been much blood in any case. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he turned his attention to the door. There was a latch on the inside which could be lifted from the outside only by a special key inserted through a small hole. Akitada asked, “Who has keys for this lock?”

“There are only two. They are kept in the guest prefect’s office. Only the novices assigned to cleaning duties carry them. They are issued keys on the morning of their duties by the work supervisor, and they return them to him when they are done. Empty rooms generally are not locked.”

“I see. Do you suppose I could have a word with this Ancho?”

“Nothing easier. He’s outside.”

They stepped out onto the veranda, and looked toward a young monk who was raking the gravel at the end of the courtyard.

Eikan put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Ancho.” The young monk dropped his bamboo rake and came running.

“Ancho,” said Eikan, “this is the great lord I mentioned to you. He has come to investigate the murder and has a few questions for you.”

Ancho’s rosy cheeks, flushed by the cold air or his labors, paled a little and he cast a fearful look toward the open door. “I don’t know,” he said nervously. “Master Genno has forbidden us to think about such things. It is very difficult, but I have endeavored to obey.”