Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

  Akitada nodded. He remembered that there were no other servants.

  She twisted her hands nervously. “If only my husband had listened to me, this would not have happened. I felt it in my bones that the young man would do my husband harm.” She fidgeted some more, then got up. “Excuse me please, while I see what’s keeping the wine.”

  The moment she was gone, Akitada went to the merchant’s desk. A ledger lay open, the entries making tidy rows, listing sums of money paid to or received from various persons, and the purpose of the payment. The more recent entries were in a different, less precise hand. Akitada turned a few pages. Itto had not only bought and sold rice, but like other rice merchants had lent money against rice and other property, being in effect a sort of pawnbroker. The amounts collected before the New Year were impressive, but a few sums were still unpaid. Akitada found the name of Itto’s neighbor Otogawa with a substantial debt of twenty silver bars. It had been crossed out crudely and without Itto’s neat notation of date of repayment. Pursing his lips, Akitada glanced at the two chests. The lower door of the right one stood slightly ajar, and he gently eased it open. Inside were the tools of the merchant’s trade, four abacuses, two ink stones, several brushes in their holders, water flasks, a scale for weighing silver and coins, and, at the very back, a peculiar upright lacquer rack with a silver design of grain or grasses. He was bending to look at it more closely, when he heard steps in the corridor and hurriedly resumed his seat.

  The widow entered, followed by the boy with a tray. Having set this down on the floor between their cushions, he left. A moment later the mallets started up again.

  “Hayashi had to wait on a customer,” Mrs. Itto explained as she joined Akitada. “Please allow me to pour you a cup of spiced wine.”

  “Thank you.” He drank, but his throat still ached abominably, and he spoke with difficulty. He wished himself home. Only Sumiko’s pallid face and her little tortoise held him back. “I wanted to ask what your plans are for the future,” he told the widow.

  She stared at him, no doubt surprised because she had never laid eyes on him before this day, but answered readily enough. “I shall carry on my husband’s business with the help of Mr. Hayashi.”

  “How admirable! Most women shy away from the difficulties of worldly affairs. But then it is lucky that you have a man you can trust.”

  She flushed. “You misunderstand, sir. I am perfectly capable of looking after the business myself. My late husband taught me a little and I used to have my own shop before I married him. I wouldn’t think of turning money matters over to someone else, no matter how devoted.”

  She had spoken quite sharply. Mrs. Itto clearly was a woman who not only could take care of herself but also manage the faithful and accommodating Mr. Hayashi. Akitada said, “Forgive me for prying into your family affairs, but I had wondered what Master Itto’s arrangements are for his adopted son’s family.” Seeing her blank astonishment, he added, “Perhaps I should have mentioned earlier that Kinjiro’s wife Sumiko once worked for us. I continue to take an interest in her welfare.”

  For a moment she looked stunned. Then she cried, “Oh, it is too much! You expect me to support the wife of the man who murdered my husband? Imagine foully killing someone who offered a helping hand.” Her face was flushed with anger. “I warned my husband. ‘He is nothing but a common criminal,’ I said. But my husband worshipped the memory of his family and wanted to continue the line. At the same time he hoped to do a good deed for an unfortunate relative. He wished to present a good account to Emma-o when he appeared before the judge of the dead. So he chose this Kinjiro, a handsome fellow with a bad character. I told him it would do no good, but he said the boy could change. ‘Fast ripe, fast rotten,’ I said.’ In the end he agreed with me and cancelled the adoption.” Looking at Akitada with tragic eyes, she cried, “And that is why the young devil killed him. Oh, my poor husband!” and burst into tears.

  She appeared genuinely upset, and Akitada questioned his suspicious mind. After all, younger wives could be as devoted to their husbands as old ones. “Believe me,” he said apologetically, “I understand your feelings. It must seem shocking to you, but if the adoption papers are still in effect, Kinjiro’s wife and her unborn child have some claims on your husband’s estate.”

  She clenched her fists, crying, “I told you, he changed his mind! He tore up the papers.”

  “Ah,” said Akitada, rising, “in that case, of course, there is no more to be said. Please forgive my intrusion on your grief.”

  Sobbing into her sleeve, she muttered, “I shall not rest until my husband’s murderer is punished.”

  At the shop’s door, Hayashi was talking to a balding, red-faced man in a dark cotton robe. Both bowed deeply. Akitada paused to wish them an auspicious year and to comment on the weather. They returned his good wishes and agreed it was a long way from springtime yet.

  When Akitada lingered, Hayashi said, “This is Mr. Otogawa, our neighbor.”

  “Oh,” said Akitada, “you are the one who saw the killer.”

  Otogawa shook his head. “No, your honor. Actually it was my wife. From that window there. She shook me awake, crying ‘Get up! Something’s happened. You must go check on Mr. Itto.”

  Akitada put on a look of interest. “And did you?”

  The man gulped. “Er, no. No, I didn’t really. The fact is … too much wine at my son-in-law’s house.” He grinned sheepishly.

  Akitada nodded his understanding. He turned to Hayashi. “And you, of course, had the day off to spend with your family?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” The answer was prompt, but Hayashi looked nervous.

  Akitada glanced up the street toward the temple. “With a temple right next door, I expect the good monks were a great comfort to Mrs. Itto in her bereavement.”

  Otogawa gave a sharp, braying laugh. “Not that temple. Old Itto’s been feuding with the abbot for years about the property line. No, Mrs. Itto went to the Purple Cloud Temple for the funeral arrangements.”

  Hayashi cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me, sir, and Mr. Otogawa, I must get back to business.”

  Akitada looked after him. “A hard-working man.”

  Another sharp laugh from Otogawa. “Now more than ever.” He glanced toward his shop. “But I mustn’t gossip. My old woman says I have the big mouth of a fool.” He brayed again. “And the big laugh of a fool, too.” He turned to go.

  Akitada kept step with him to his shop door. A strong smell of cheap lamp oil met them. Inside a sharp-faced woman was measuring oil into small jugs.

  “I’m back,” announced Otogawa, walking in.

  “You’ve been long enough!” she scolded, intent on her task. “Talking to that henpecked Hayashi again?” Her eyes fell on Akitada in the doorway, and she got up, simpering and bowing. “Sorry! Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you.”

  “The gentleman was visiting the Ittos,” explained her husband.

  Akitada smiled at her. “I understand you are the one who identified the murderer.”

  She preened a little. “So I did. He was rushing out of the old man’s house as if all the devils of hell were after him. Carrying away Itto’s silver.”

  “You could see that much in the dark? Were you very close to him?”

  “I was at that window there.” She pointed towards a narrow slit, covered with a wooden grille. “He was this close”— she measured the distance with her hands—”and he was grinning like a fiend.”

  “No doubt you ran next door to warn the Ittos?”

  There was an awkward silence during which husband and wife looked at each other. “No,” she said. “I didn’t know he’d killed the old man.”

  He said, “It would’ve done no good.”

  “How do you know?” Akitada asked quickly. “Perhaps you might have stopped the bleeding in time.”

  “No way,” cried Otogawa. “He had too many wounds. In the belly, the chest, the throat. You never saw so much blood …” He broke o
ff abruptly when his wife jostled him. “Or so they say.”

  “Go see to the soup or it will be ruined,” she snapped.

  “Don’t let me keep you from your meal.” Akitada turned away.

  Taking a deep breath of clean winter air to clear the stench of oil from his stuffy head, Akitada considered Otogawa’s slip with great satisfaction. So the neighbor had gone to see Itto after Kinjiro left, and they had kept that fact to themselves. Only someone who had been there could describe Itto’s wounds so precisely, and to suppress such knowledge argued guilt. Kinjiro had not contradicted their testimony, but it was their testimony which had got Kinjiro arrested. Earlier Akitada had wondered if they had traded favors with the widow, a release from their debt in exchange for turning in Kinjiro, but now he considered another, much darker motive. Had Otogawa gone to see Itto, argued with him about his debt and killed him, knowing he could pin the murder on Kinjiro?

  Akitada paused in front of Itto’s shop to wipe beads of perspiration from his face. He felt feverish and dizzy and knew he should be in bed. Shivering, he wished once again that Sumiko had chosen a better time to ask his help. If only his head were not so fuzzy, or his limbs so infernally heavy. Still, he was done. All he had really needed to do was to find another suspect, one who could be offered to the police instead of Kinjiro. And Otogawa would serve admirably.

  But he stood undecided. Inside the shop Hayashi was busy with a customer. He too had raised certain suspicions in Akitada’s mind, but that would take more effort. No. He would go to Police Superintendent Kobe, convince him of Kinjiro’s innocence, and then return to his warm and comfortable home to be cared for by his family.

  The trouble was he was dissatisfied with the Otogawa solution. Something nagged at his mind, something he had overlooked on his visit to Itto’s place.

  Shivering in the icy wind, he wracked his muddled brain. It had been in the rice dealer’s room. Something had been out of place, or missing.

  Missing like the weapon used in the crime.

  And then, suddenly, he knew.

  The missing weapon was a sword, the sword of Itto’s illustrious ancestor. The shrine had held all sorts of mementos of the famous general except the most important one, the sword. And there had been one, for its lacquered stand, decorated with nodding grasses, had been tucked away in the back of Itto’s chest.

  The question was what had happened to the sword. His eyes fell on the adjoining Temple of the Four Heavenly Kings. Temples relied on the generosity of the community. The New Year’s season was a particular blessing in this respect because many people presented gifts on that occasion. Akitada decided to pay one more visit.

  The beggars looked at him hopefully. He gave both a few coppers, then climbed slowly to the temple gate. The incense-selling monk in the gateway, seeing the silk robe and stiffened hat of an official, jumped up in hopes of a generous contribution to the temple. “Welcome, welcome, your honor,” he cried, bowing with his palms pressed together. “May the Buddha bless you and guide your steps through this dark world.”

  Akitada dabbed at his face and nodded his thanks. “I was passing and thought I would pay my respects,” he said vaguely, looking around. “Perhaps someone can show me around?”

  Akitada’s rank produced a guide who was a senior monk. Burdened by advanced years and a large belly, he waddled slowly and spoke in a fruity, ponderous voice. He was determined not to leave out the smallest detail, and Akitada, who wished for nothing so much as a dark corner in which to sit and rest his aching body, had to pretend interest and devotion. In desperation he finally interrupted and croaked a question about the temple’s treasures.

  His guide, flattered by this thirst for knowledge, led him to a small treasure house. “I’m afraid we have little to impress your lordship,” he said apologetically. “Just gifts from ordinary people in the quarter, though there are one or two valuable items. A sutra copy commissioned by a wealthy patron is perhaps special enough to show to a person of your discernment.”

  The treasure was indeed modest, a collection of lacquer boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl or bone, an old lute with broken strings, and several pieces of porcelain. Akitada admired the sutra scroll, which was indeed fine, written in gold ink on deep blue paper, before he found what he had come for.

  Half hidden behind a large brass censer, lay a short sword, the kind called wakizashi, worn in the belt and used only for close combat on foot. This particular sword had been made for ceremonial occasions; its ornate grip was decorated with silver inlay, as was its finely lacquered scabbard. The silver decorations depicted swaying reeds, the same reeds which had decorated the breastplate on Itto’s altar and the sword stand in the merchant’s chest.

  Akitada pounced on it. “An instrument of death,” he cried, turning it in his hands. “Surely this is a strange gift for a temple.”

  “A family heirloom, we think,” the monk said. “Some of the craftsmen and merchants in the quarter are descendants of military families or have taken wives from noble houses.”

  The sword was old but well-kept. When Akitada pulled it free of the scabbard, it moved easily, and the blade, ordinary steel, was clean and quite sharp, with a fine edge along both sides and a sharp point.

  “You ‘think’? Do you mean that this was donated anonymously?”

  “Yes indeed. A special present on New Year’s Day. It’s common for people to leave small gifts of money or food at the gate during the night, but leaving a fine sword like this was a little unusual. Mind you, we were very glad to receive it. Some day it may pay for temple repairs.”

  Akitada put the sword back. “Thank you,” he said. “It has been a most enlightening tour.” Fishing a handful of silver coins from his sash and pressing them into the smiling monk’s hand, he added, “I feel deeply blessed by my visit and hope that you and your temple will enjoy a prosperous year.”

  • • •

  It was strange how much better he felt a little later when he walked into Superintendent Kobe’s office and said cheerfully, “The blessings of the New Year to you, my dear Kobe. I have found the sword used in the Itto murder.”

  Kobe, his old friend and sometime rival, raised his brows. “May you prosper and live a hundred years. How did you know we were looking for a sword?”

  Akitada chuckled and sat down. “I didn’t.” Then he explained about Sumiko and his visit to Itto’s shop and the temple. “The sword is Itto’s. It has the same pattern of reeds as Itto’s military heirlooms, and the sword’s stand is hidden in one of his chests. Someone left the sword at the temple gate during the night of the murder.” Akitada smiled with satisfaction. “And that means Kinjiro could not possibly be the killer.”

  “How so?”

  “Kinjiro was seen leaving by the nosy Mrs. Otogawa. He was rushing off in the opposite direction.”

  “True.” Kobe frowned. “If you’re right, where does that leave us? He was the only one with a motive.”

  “Not at all. In fact, Kinjiro was the only one without a motive. Old Itto had forgiven him. On the other hand, I chatted with a few neighbors and found at least six of them had reasons to wish Itto dead.” Akitada cleared his throat. “Do you happen to have some hot wine?”

  Kobe sent for it and poured.

  His throat eased, Akitada continued, “For example, there is the Kingfisher Tavern across from Itto’s shop. Its landlord has been lusting after Itto’s wife and expects his luck to turn, now that she’s a widow. And then there are the Otogawas. They owed Itto twenty bars of silver and were about to lose their business. The debt was cancelled in Itto’s account book, but not by Itto’s hand. Otogawa described the murdered man’s wounds to me and commented on the bleeding. That means he entered Itto’s house after Kinjiro left, but lied about it to your people. It’s possible that he found the old man alive, killed him, altered the books, and threw the blame on Kinjiro. Then there is the widow who seems to have formed a very close relationship with her manager Hayashi. Both had strong motives, fo
r when Itto reconciled with Kinjiro that night, the young man became his principal heir. Itto’s widow would have to depend on Kinjiro for support. It is likely that she listened at the door as the two men talked and, when Kinjiro left, she entered, took the sword from the ancestral altar and stabbed her husband to death. She may have been helped by Hayashi. After the murder, someone cleaned the sword and left it at the temple gate—a clever and quick way of disposing of the murder weapon. And that brings us to the monks who had a long-standing feud with Itto over the line between their properties.”

  Kobe grinned weakly. “Not the monks,” he said, “and I don’t see any of the neighbors taking the time to carry away the sword. The widow’s a possibility.”

  Akitada nodded. “Of course it was the widow.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Only she would have hidden the sword stand in her husband’s chest. A sword stand is a distinctive object. She could not leave it on the altar without the sword. Being only a woman of the common class, she would not have known that the absence of a sword among military heirlooms is a sign of dishonor. Itto would never have prided himself on an ancestor who had lost his sword.”