Текст книги "The Fires of the Gods"

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

THE MAJOR-DOMO

As soon as Tora left his study, Akitada got up to pace. A new energy had seized him. He wanted to run off and do any number of things immediately. Foremost in his mind was Kobe’s visit. Tamako’s suggestion that Kobe’s behavior could only be explained by some event Akitada knew nothing about made him want an instant explanation, but he could not confront Kobe, not after what had passed between them. He wasted time wondering who might know, and eventually accepted that he must wait for the answer.

Well, he still had two cases to solve. Tora was making a start on Abbot Shokan’s lost acolyte, though perhaps that would not bring any results. What then? He would have to return to Seikan-ji and talk to the other acolytes and the monks who knew him. It struck him that he had neglected to probe for details about the mother’s background – an embarrassing oversight, even if it was likely that Shokan had intentionally suppressed the information. There had been something almost coy in the way the imperial monk had parted with the smallest possible bits of information. Yes, perhaps he would return to the monastery in the woods tomorrow.

That left the Kiyowara case for today. He must go back and interview the servants. Someone must have seen something. Strange that Lady Aoi had insisted he suspected the wrong person when he had no suspects.

Or rather, they were all suspects: the heir, Katsumi, who was now Lord Kiyowara; his mother; Ono, if he was the mother’s lover; and perhaps even that stiffly proper major-domo. In fact, the late Kiyowara could have been killed by anyone on the property that afternoon. It meant he would need to spend considerable time with the servants to find out who else might have had a motive or access.

He stopped his pacing when he reached this conclusion and clapped his hands for Seimei. The old man appeared promptly. When he saw his master’s face, he smiled. ‘You have found an answer, sir. Truly, there’s blessedness even in adversity.’

‘I’m afraid I’m sadly short of answers, Seimei. No, I only wanted to tell you that I’m off to revisit the Kiyowara mansion. I may be late. Please inform my wife.’

‘Very good, sir. May misfortune turn into success.’ Then he chuckled. ‘The common people in the provinces believe that if a man has eyes and a nose, he may go to the capital. You have both and are already here.’

That made Akitada laugh, and he left in good spirits.

His hopes were dashed immediately when he reached the Kiyowara mansion and encountered a policeman at the gate. The policeman barred his way and demanded his name. When Akitada gave it, the man drew himself up and put his hand on his short sword.

‘You are forbidden to visit, sir, by order of His Majesty.’

Akitada was stunned for a moment. Then he realized that the emperor had had nothing to do with this. Kobe had simply applied the standard formula to an order, and the policeman had recited it. Anger rose again and nearly choked him. He turned away.

What could he do without access to possible witnesses of the crime? And why force him away from the case? Was this again politics? It made him think that one of the Kiyowaras or the Minister of Central Affairs was guilty, and that the chancellor or one of his powerful sons was protecting a murderer.

If that was the case, it was sufficient warning for him to stay away. He would have to return the gold Lady Kiyowara had paid him. The thought that he was made part to a cover-up sickened him.

But perhaps someone was simply making sure he would be ruined. Akitada almost hoped that was all it was. As for the Kiyowara murder, there was still one thing he could try. He set out at a brisk pace for the home of Major-domo Fuhito.

The sun was setting over the western hills in a spectacular conflagration of sky and clouds, and the heat was marginally less breath-taking. Fuhito’s house was one among several old villas in an equally old neighborhood. Akitada was familiar with this part of the city. Not only did his wife still own a piece of property here – a herb-, vegetable-, and flower-garden on the land where her late father’s home once stood – but also some of the people in this neighborhood had played significant roles in his past cases.

As he walked beneath the trees shading the street with green branches that overhung the walls and fences, Akitada thought of Hiroko – not the Hiroko who was Lady Kiyowara, but the woman he had loved in vain. The familiar longing still twisted his heart. He had never known a more beautiful creature, and even now the memory still made him dizzy with desire. He had been tempted, had offered her marriage, but nothing had come of it. Worse, her memory was forever tied to another loss that was more painful than hers.

Akitada reined in his memories, saddened and feeling mildly guilty of disloyalty towards Tamako.

Fuhito could still be at work – Akitada had no idea what hours a major-domo kept – but his servants must be home. Akitada would wait. When he reached the house, he saw that here, too, many old trees grew behind the cypress fence, promising green coolness after the sweltering day. He used a bamboo clapper to strike a small bell at the gate.

As he waited, he looked around. It was a quiet, peaceful street that resembled Akitada’s own and probably dated to the same time two centuries ago, though these lots were smaller, having been designed for lower-ranking officials and clerks. It was pleasant here, far from the clamor and clangor of the merchant quarters. Birds sang, and the scent of flowers drifted over the tall fence.

Akitada rang the bell again, more impatiently. Where were the servants?

This time, he heard a woman’s voice call out, ‘A moment. I’m coming.’ Then the gate creaked open and a rattle sounded. He looked down at a short old woman who was leaning on a cane and peering back at him. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘I don’t know you. Are you lost?’

To judge from her clothing, she was an upper servant, perhaps Fuhito’s housekeeper. Akitada smiled at her. ‘I hope not. My name is Sugawara Akitada, and I came to speak to Fuhito.’

‘He never comes home until dark,’ she said. For her age – the hair she wore twisted into a bun at her neck was snow-white – she held herself still proudly erect, in spite of the frailty and hollowness of great age.

‘Perhaps I might wait for him?’ he suggested.

She hesitated, and he wondered if she was afraid to admit him because she was alone in the house. He prepared to reassure her of his good character when she smiled quite sweetly, made him a bow, and said, ‘But of course, My Lord.’ She stepped aside, and he walked into a garden.

Perhaps this place had once had a courtyard and outbuildings to stable a horse or two, and to keep a cart or small carriage, but these were long since gone. Instead a narrow path of large, flat stones wound through shrubs and among trees towards a partially hidden home. The scent of flowers and the song of birds seemed intense.

‘Allow me to show you the way,’ she said, since the path was narrow and custom did not allow a servant or a female to walk ahead of a man.

Akitada nodded and followed. ‘How beautiful!’ he said, looking around. ‘Who made this garden?’

‘My son did most of it, though the trees were here long before our time.’

‘Ah, your son is a very talented gardener.’

She turned and smiled that charming smile again. ‘Yes, Fuhito loves this garden. It gives him peace.’

Taken aback, Akitada asked, ‘You are Fuhito’s mother? I beg your pardon.’ He searched his mind for a family name and failed.

She was clearly amused. ‘You are wondering why I answered the gate? We live very simply here. Today my maid went to market to buy something for our evening rice. She doesn’t trust me to do the shopping.’ She chuckled. ‘Or the cooking. Kosue is becoming very bossy in her old age.’

Akitada was charmed by the old lady, for ‘lady’ she surely was. Did she know why he was here? Apparently not. He wondered once again about Fuhito’s background as he followed her down the winding path through cool and moist greenery and emerged into an open area around a small house. Apparently, there was a main house and a second, smaller pavilion. Both were old, but in very good repair, and Akitada suspected that they had been part of a larger compound.

All around him, lush shrubs and flowering plants spread, climbed, and cascaded from tall trees. Tamako would know their names, but he only recognized azaleas – still in bloom so late in the season – peonies, roses, and a late-flowering wisteria.

‘I wish my wife could see this,’ he said, looking all around.

‘Then you must bring her next time.’

How simple and gracious that invitation was. She did not know him, nor why he had come, yet she had done him the courtesy of treating him as a welcome visitor. He was ashamed for taking her for a servant, and worse, for suspecting her son of murdering his master. Thanking her, he explained about the imminent birth at his house.

She clapped her hands in delight. ‘What happy news. You must be overjoyed.’

Was he overjoyed? There was still a large element of fear involved in the birth of his second child. But Tamako had looked and felt much stronger lately, so he allowed himself some joy and said, ‘Yes, thank you. And you? Do you have other children? Or grandchildren?’

She shook her head. ‘Alas, no. Fuhito is my only surviving child, though no mother could have been more blessed in a son. And he, poor man, still mourns his only child. Now, there are only the two of us here.’ She brightened. ‘But don’t listen to an old woman’s carping. If you have quite decided on waiting for him, would you prefer to do so alone or in my company?’

He said quickly, ‘Oh, in your company, of course. Thank you for offering. And perhaps you would not mind showing me a little of this wonderful garden?’ He stopped himself, seeing her cane and her great age. ‘I beg your pardon. It is too much to ask.’

But she looked so pleased and was so eager that he accepted. She led the way, explaining graciously and with considerable pride. ‘My son has studied the art deeply,’ she said at one point. ‘He has a library of books, both in our language and in Chinese. It has helped him deal with his grief.’

Akitada asked, a little diffidently because it was a personal question, ‘His grief? Forgive me, but he seemed calm and businesslike when we met. I confess I have had little chance to get to know him well.’

She was silent for a long time. Finally, she said, ‘My son was widowed early, but this sadness concerns the loss of his daughter, my granddaughter. Motoko was beautiful and young and full of happiness. He loved his child entirely. Some would say too much. She was his whole life. This garden makes a poor substitute.’

Akitada’s thoughts flew back to the horrible death of his beloved son Yori. He, too, had loved his child entirely. He still loved him. Taking a deep breath, he said softly, ‘I know. They call it the darkness of the soul.’

She turned and searched his face. ‘You also?’

He nodded. ‘My five-year-old son. Last year, from smallpox.’

She reached out impulsively to touch his arm. ‘Oh, I am so very sorry. And now you fear for this child?’ Hushing, she withdrew her hand. ‘Forgive me. That was quite improper.’

He managed a smile. ‘Not at all. You are very kind. A kindness is never improper. And yes, I am afraid – for the child and its mother.’

She nodded. ‘I shall remember them to Amida when I worship.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t you think it is terrible when you have nothing left to fear?’

He thought about that for a moment because there was a good deal of pain in his fears, but he nodded. Old people became lonely if their children died before them. He was sorry for her even as his own heart lifted a little. Soon there would be another child in his home, another son to raise and to carry on his name, and this time the chances of his surviving into adulthood would surely be better. Yori had been a healthy child until the disease had struck him down. They would be more careful this time.

They finished their stroll through the garden.

Fuhito had created banks of flowering azaleas, a miniature mountain with a small waterfall that became a watery rill, winding about in more intricate curves even than the paths they walked. They passed over three different small bridges and walked beside a pond filled with water lilies. Tiny frogs swam there, and carp jumped for clouds of small gnats.

It was dusk when they reached the house again. The first fireflies sparked among the darkening boughs. Into that peaceful world broke the sudden rattle of bamboo from the gate.

‘That will be my son now,’ she said, and even in the fading twilight, Akitada saw her face light up. Perhaps she was not really so bereft that she had nothing to fear. She loved her son, and Akitada might take him from her.

Steps approached, and there was Fuhito, stopping in surprise – or terror, for he turned quite pale when he recognized Akitada.

His mother said quickly, ‘See who has come. Lord Sugawara has honored our house with a visit and taken a great interest in your garden.’

Akitada smiled and nodded. ‘Indeed, I have had great pleasure seeing this beautiful place. Surely this is what the Western Paradise must look like. You are to be congratulated.’

Fuhito bowed. ‘Thank you, My Lord. The garden is a poor thing, a mere dabbling for the sake of passing time.’

Akitada explained his presence, and Fuhito nodded. ‘Yes, Her Ladyship was very upset about the policeman at the gate. She would be even angrier if she knew that you have been forbidden access.’ He turned to his mother. ‘This concerns the death of His Lordship. We will talk in my room.’

Her smile faded, and she looked quickly from her son to Akitada. ‘Of course,’ she said softly. With a bow to Akitada, she walked quickly away.

Fuhito took Akitada into the main house. It was not only of modest size, but also sparsely furnished and nearly dark. In a corner room, he lit an oil lamp. Akitada saw that many unmatched old shelves and stands held books. Whatever former wealth the books represented was disproved by the bare wood floor and the flimsy, scratched desk and cheap writing set. There were not even cushions to sit on.

Akitada nodded towards the books and said, ‘What a very fine library you have.’ He hoped that Fuhito would unbend just a little. He was disappointed.

Fuhito’s expression did not change. ‘A few books are about gardening; the rest are what is left of my grandfather’s and father’s libraries. I found I could not sell them, or only for a negligible sum.’

Akitada asked, ‘What happened?’ then saw the other man’s face and wished he had not asked. ‘Forgive me. It’s none of my business.’

Fuhito turned away. ‘It doesn’t matter. My father was disgraced. It was not a criminal matter, but he lost his rank and position. He committed suicide. I had to leave the university and find employment.’

‘I am very sorry. The shadow of karma follows us everywhere.’ Akitada was himself all too well aware of the precarious nature of an official post, but at least his misfortune had not yet reached the level of destroying his family. Fuhito’s story made him more determined than ever to fight for his future.

Fuhito hunched his shoulders and said, ‘I wouldn’t have minded so much as long as… if my daughter had lived.’

Akitada did not know what to say to that. He felt very sorry for the other man, but there was still the matter of murder. He sighed and asked, ‘Could you answer a few more questions about your master?’ Determined to stay until he had learned what he needed to know, he sat down on the bare floor.

Fuhito made a helpless gesture with his hands and sat down across from him. ‘I apologize for the lack of comforts,’ he said miserably.

‘I’m quite comfortable. I take it from what you said earlier that Lady Kiyowara expects me to continue with the case in spite of the police?’

‘Yes, I think so. She will be very angry with the superintendent.’

The way of heaven was just. Let Kobe deal with Lady Kiyowara’s fury. The lady might well make him cease his opposition. She was quite formidable, and then there was her relationship to the regent’s wife. Encouraged, Akitada began his quest anew. ‘Have you found out anything else useful from the servants?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘No disgruntled members of the household? No dismissed and angry servants?’

Fuhito looked surprised by the notion. ‘Hardly. Servants do not lift their hands against their masters.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Even the mildest and most obedient man can be pressed too hard and lose his self control.’

The major-domo shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

‘Let’s go back to the scene you found when you entered your master’s room that afternoon. It’s strange that there shouldn’t have been a weapon that might have dealt the fatal wound. While it is barely possible that the murderer entered and left the room without being noticed, surely that becomes highly unlikely if he was carrying a weapon.’

‘I’m afraid I cannot help you. It is, as you say, inconceivable.’

‘If he or she entered from the garden—’ Akitada paused to let the image of that sun-drenched landscape flash across his memory. The poet had been there, walking along the stream. And yes, it would have been easy enough to pick up one of the large stones that followed that waterway, slip into Kiyowara’s room and kill him, then slip back out to replace it. Oh, if only he could go back there. There might still be traces of blood, or some hair, perhaps, on that fatal stone.

He came back to Fuhito, who was watching him nervously. ‘The poet Ono – he’s a particular friend to Lady Kiyowara. Are they lovers?’

The bluntness of that took Fuhito’s breath away. He colored to his ears. ‘I could not say, sir.’ It was said flatly, before he had time to become angry. Then he glared at Akitada. ‘Surely that is a very improper suggestion under the circumstances. Both you and I are in Her Ladyship’s employ.’

‘When it’s a matter of murder, no question is improper. Are you yourself involved with her?’

Fuhito’s jaw dropped. He was speechless.

‘You must realize that it looks very much as if this murder is a personal affair. From the beginning, the most obvious suspects have been the son and his mother. I took on the case, assuming they are innocent. That means I must consider others who might have had motives and opportunity to kill the man.’

Fuhito brushed a hand over his face. ‘I am a mere servant,’ he said, ‘and my position is such that I would not risk my livelihood by approaching my mistress with improper suggestions. She would not, in any case, tolerate it. As for her private life, I know very little about it. Her husband always showed her the greatest regard, but their relationship had become formal over the years. His Lordship loved his son and honored the mother. As for His young Lordship, he would not raise his hand against his own father. He is hot-headed but also gentle.’

‘Hmm.’ Akitada tried another approach. ‘I’m told your late master engaged in affairs outside his marriages. In fact, he had a bad reputation with women. Lady Kiyowara might have felt threatened or decided to pay him back in the same coin. In the latter case, a lover would have a motive. In the former, a husband or other relative.’

Fuhito flushed again and shook his head. ‘I cannot believe it of Her Ladyship.’

Akitada snapped, ‘But you do not deny your master’s habits regarding females? I expect you know all about it. Who better than you?’

Fuhito gasped. ‘I?’ His hands clenched convulsively. He asked in a shaky voice, ‘Has my mother told you?’ Then the words tumbled out. ‘It’s not true. There was no truth to it. I never believed—’ He broke off and buried his face in his hands.

Akitada was stunned. What had he said? He had only assumed that a major-domo would be aware of his master’s affairs. Whatever nerve he had touched, this must be important. It must be the secret of Fuhito’s relationship with Kiyowara. Though he pitied the man and his mother, he could not let it pass.

‘I think you’d better tell me about it yourself,’ he said gently.

He had to wait until Fuhito calmed down and raised a distraught face. ‘I lost my only daughter a number of years ago. Motoko was only sixteen. A mere child when she… she was raped. She could not live with that misery.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘They say suffering is like the forging of rough iron into a sharp sword. It has not been that way in our family.’

Akitada drew in a breath and glanced out through the open veranda doors at the elaborate landscape, then looked at the man’s grief-torn face and wondered if losing a grown daughter to suicide was more or less devastating than having carelessly exposed a small son to smallpox. He said heavily, ‘I am very sorry for your pain. Your mother mentioned your loss, but gave no details. I, too, lost a child. They say there is no greater grief. Can you tell me what happened?’

Fuhito’s hands made a helpless gesture before he tucked them into his sleeves. His voice shook a little. ‘Motoko was both beautiful and good. That summer she had just started to serve Her Ladyship and seemed very happy. They said later that the gods must have become jealous.’

This did not answer the question, or only partially. Akitada searched for a way to probe for what he suspected. In the end he was blunt. ‘Given Lord Kiyowara’s reputation with women, might he have been responsible?’

Fuhito flushed a deep crimson. He did not answer right away. Then he said, ‘If I had thought that he had behaved improperly towards my child, I would certainly have spoken to him. The house was always full of guests in those days. Taking advantage of someone of her birth would have meant nothing to a high-ranking noble.’

Akitada considered this. It was possible. And it would explain why Fuhito had stayed in the Kiyowaras’ service. Another dead end. He bowed his head. ‘Thank you, and forgive me for bringing back painful memories.’

Fuhito nodded. They rose and walked outside. It was fully dark now, but someone, perhaps Fuhito’s mother, had left a lighted lantern at the beginning of the path. Fuhito picked it up and lit the way to the gate. There they bowed to each other again, and Akitada walked out into the dark street. The gate rattled shut behind him, and the warm darkness received him like a stifling blanket of sadness.

And yet, was not the man who had nothing left to fear more likely to commit murder than anyone else?