by I. J. Parker
It was doubtful if the old man took in Akitada’s name, but when he heard Kobe introduced, his expression changed, and his eyes became fixed on the superintendent. “Are you the one that’s put my master in jail?” he asked, suddenly belligerent.
Akitada glanced nervously at Kobe to see how he would react to the sudden defiance of the old man.
Kobe scowled, being used to abject bows from mere peasants, then glanced around the compound again and cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “I am in charge of the prisons in the capital. Who are you?”
Completely unimpressed, the man stood a little straighter. “I’m Kinzo. Senior retainer in charge of the manor while my master is away, jailed, though he is as pure and innocent as Saint Zoga.” He glared back at Kobe.
Kobe cast a glance at the sky. “I don’t blame you for your feelings,” he said peaceably, “but your master cannot be released until the evidence against him is either disproven or we find another suspect. That is why we are here now.”
The old servant’s fierce expression softened marginally. “You’d better come in,” he said grudgingly, and turned to lead the way.
They rode in, and the boy closed and latched the gate behind them. Kobe and Akitada dismounted at the house, where the boy took their horses. The others followed him to the stables.
Not unexpectedly, the house was dark and empty. Kinzo lit a lantern in the entry while they removed their boots. Then they followed him down dark corridors into a spacious room with a fire pit in its center. Heavy shutters to the outside were closed against the night and the weather. The room contained little beyond necessities: a few mats and cushions, several candlesticks with candles, and a large wooden chest of the type used by traveling merchants. It was reinforced with decorative metal corners, hinges, and locks on its drawers and had metal hafts at both ends to push carrying poles through. The only item in the room which was not utilitarian was a large and very fine scroll painting of a waterfall in a mountain landscape.
“Your master must be prosperous,” said Akitada, looking around.
“He has been blessed by Daikoku, god of farmers, but suffers the injustice and cruelty of the emperor Chu.”
“A well-read peasant,” whispered Kobe to Akitada, as Kinzo removed the wooden lid from the fire pit and lit the neat pile of charcoal at its bottom. Then he arranged cushions around it and invited them to sit.
“You may spend the night,” he said to Kobe. “Like the sainted Kobo Daishi, my master would not turn his worst enemy out on a night like this. Maybe you are trying to help him, but you’ve taken your time about it. Four times I’ve traveled to the capital and asked to see him, and four times your constables have turned me away. May Amida grant my master the unshakable spirit of Fudo. Last time, one of the constables said that not even my master’s wife was admitted any longer. I ask you, what wife may that be? My master does not have a wife.”
Akitada and Kobe looked at each other. Akitada said, “The constable made a mistake. The visitor happened to be my sister. She met your master once, and when she heard of his troubles, she took him some food.”
Now he had the old man’s full attention. “Ah! Forgive me, your honor. I didn’t catch the name.”
“Sugawara. I am a government official, and I, too, have taken an interest in your master’s case and am here to help.”
Kinzo suddenly smiled and bowed deeply. “An illustrious name! You walk in the footsteps of your noble ancestor who defied tyranny. You are indeed welcome. May the Buddha reward you for your help and may he reward your noble sister’s kindness. It is good to work on the side of the just. My master would never have killed his brother’s wife. He loves his brother more than his life. I told him so only a week ago.”
“Told whom?” snapped Kobe, coming to attention.
“Why, Master Nagaoka, of course. Your guards would not let me see my master, remember. Master Nagaoka stopped by to check on things and bring me news. I told him what the constable at the prison had said about a wife, and Master Nagaoka said it wasn’t true. I don’t suppose he knew about your sister, sir. He said the superintendent had warned him away, too, and that we must hope for a miracle to happen, for there was nothing that could be done anymore.” Kinzo shot an accusing glance at Kobe, who was staring at him fixedly.
“You say Nagaoka was here a week ago?” the superintendent asked. “When did he leave?”
“Why, the very next day. He had business elsewhere.”
“And how did he look when he left?” Kobe asked, giving Akitada a meaningful nod.
The old man had sharp eyes. He frowned suspiciously, but said, “As you’d expect. Like Kume after he saw the washerwoman’s legs.”
Kobe looked blank. “Who is Kume? What washerwoman?”
“It’s another story. Kume was a fairy,” Akitada explained. “The story has it that he lost his supernatural powers because he lusted after a mortal woman.”
The old man nodded. “A woman ruined Kume. A woman ruined Nagaoka. Her and that father of hers.”
“What is he talking about?” Kobe asked. “All I want to know is if Nagaoka was sick when he left here.”
“There was nothing wrong with his health,” snapped the old man. “If you’re afraid to spend the night here, you can ride home in the storm.”
Akitada said quickly, “No, no. You misunderstood. Nagaoka was found dead not two miles from here. He may have died the day he left here. The superintendent and I are trying to find out what happened to him. Do you know where he was going?”
Kinzo’s jaw dropped. “Master Nagaoka’s dead?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, his karma was very bad! And now my poor master will be even more wretched than Fujiwara Moroie when his beloved died.”
“Come on, man,” snapped Kobe, “where was Nagaoka headed when he left here?”
Kinzo’s eyes widened. “Hah,” he cried. “That woman got him! I knew it. They say the spirit stays in its home for forty-nine days. Hers must have gone to Kohata. That’s where Master Nagaoka was going. Just over the hill to Kohata. And that evil demon was lying in wait for him.” He shook his head at the pity of it.
* * * *
EIGHTEEN
Two Professors
Kinzo treated them well that evening. There was a hot bath for them, a substantial meal of hot rice and vegetables, with steamed fish fresh from a nearby river, and bedding for a restful night.
Akitada had rarely slept better. Outside, the snow fell silently and it was a cold night, but the large pile of charcoal in the fire pit continued to glow, making the room very comfortable.
When they rose the next morning, Kinzo reappeared, followed by the youth who had opened the gate and now brought a tray with steaming bowls of rice gruel.
“It stopped snowing,” announced Kinzo. “On horseback you shouldn’t have any trouble crossing the mountain to Kohata.”
It turned out to be a hard ride after all, but the weather had cleared and there was even some sun. The snow was so bright, it was almost blue in the shadows, and the trunks and branches of the trees stood out sharply like black brushstrokes against white paper.
They saw the village of Kohata when they made their way down the other side of the mountain. It consisted of a few straggling farmhouses, a post house, and a somewhat larger complex of buildings on the outskirts of the small town. The latter turned out to be the farm belonging to Nagaoka’s father-in-law, known locally as “the professor.”
It was certainly not as prosperous as Kojiro’s place, and had seen better days. The fence gaped in places, but the gate still had two panels, and the dwelling looked a comfortable size. Smoke rose in a thin spiral from a derelict outbuilding, no doubt the kitchen, and someone had swept a makeshift path to the entrance of the house.
No one was about, so the sergeant went to knock on the door. There was no answer.
After a few more attempts to rouse someone, Akitada and Kobe dismounted and walked around to the back. A leaning wooden gate l
ed into what must once have been a small garden; now the overgrown plants were towering shapes under the snow. A single set of footprints skirted the corner of the house, and these they followed to a small pavilion at the back of the garden.
Its doors stood wide open, and inside huddled a figure. It was covered from head to toe with layers of old quilts and covers, and was bent over a desk spread with papers. Only one hand protruded, laboriously writing a few characters before raising stiff fingers to blow on them.
The occupant did not hear their muffled steps in the snow outside until they stepped onto the small veranda. Then he started and turned, the covers slipping to reveal an elderly man with bright black eyes and a dripping nose.
Kobe said, “Sorry to interrupt, but nobody answered our knocks. Would you be Professor Yasaburo?”
The elderly man sniffed and dashed the moisture from the tip of his nose with a stained sleeve. “No, I’m not, I’m glad to say.” He spoke in the nasal voice of someone with a bad cold. “Yasaburo is a disgusting tightwad, a damnable slave driver, a vulgar boor, an inferior poet, a vile cook, a contemptible conversationalist, a wretched scholar, a shocking father, an execrable calligrapher, and he serves inferior wine. No, thank the heavens, I’m not Yasaburo.”
“Your name, then?” demanded Kobe.
The elderly man wiped his nose again and sniffed. “Cursed cold,” he muttered. “I don’t remember an introduction. Your turn first.”
Kobe snapped, “I’m Kobe. Superintendent of police.”
“Ridiculous.” The man chuckled. “What would a police superintendent from the capital be doing out here? Try again.”
Kobe bristled. “Don’t waste my time!”
Without rising, the little man managed to sketch an obeisance. “Harada. Formerly professor of mathematics at the Imperial University. Presently a lowly drudge.”
“I am investigating a crime. Are you familiar with the name Nagaoka?”
The little man stared at him. “Nagaoka’s in trouble? You surprise me. He was just here.” “
“When?”
Harada sniffed and turned the leaf of his account book, running a finger blue with cold down a line of entries. “That’s the day,” he mumbled. “Yes, I make it the second day of this month.”
“Ah!” Kobe was hitting his stride. “We’re getting somewhere. By the way, what in hell are you doing out here?”
“In hell or not, I’m working. True, at the moment I’m in hell: cold sober, suffering from a bad cold, and keeping the tightwad slave driver’s accounts in an unheated garden pavilion while a policeman’s shouting at me.”
Akitada suppressed a smile. Kobe was certainly not getting much respect in the country. He asked the irreverent Harada, “Where is your master?”
“My master?” Harada drew himself up and attempted to look at Akitada over his nose. The effect was spoiled by another droplet forming at its end. He dashed it away with the much-abused sleeve and said haughtily, “If you—a total stranger to me, by the way—are referring to Yasaburo, you have not been listening. That man is nobody’s master. He’s incompetent at everything, a total failure. I work for him, but I am certainly his master in most things. A fine distinction, young man. Remember it!”
Akitada smiled. “Forgive me, Master Harada. My name is Sugawara. I take an interest in the case of one of Superintendent Kobe’s prisoners, Nagaoka’s brother.”
“Hah! The unfortunate Kojiro.” Harada eyed him, then said, “Hell opens its jaws in many nooks and corners. Beware of the demons among the living.”
“What do you mean?” asked Akitada sharply.
But Harada had turned away, shaking his head. “Nothing, nothing. You’d better wait for Yasaburo. He’s out with his little bow and arrow, wreaking death and destruction among the crows.” He huddled back into his quilt and rubbed more ink.
Kobe angrily opened his mouth to show Harada who gave the orders, when there was the sound of shouting from somewhere beyond the house. They turned.
Another strange-looking creature was approaching rapidly through the snow-covered garden, this one tall and thin and with a gray-streaked beard and bristling eyebrows. He was dressed in an old-fashioned fur-trimmed hunting cloak, fur cap, and long, snow-caked fur boots. Except for the fact that he was carrying a bow and had several arrows sticking up from a quiver behind his left shoulder, he might have been an emaciated old bear walking on his hind legs.
“Who in the name of the forty-eight devils are you and what do you want here?” the creature shouted shrilly, shaking his bow, as soon as he saw them. “Get away from him! He’s working. That’s what I pay him for, not to chat with every fool who’s lost his way.”
“Are you Yasaburo?” roared Kobe, his patience gone.
The furry man—well into his sixties, to judge by the beard—stopped to glare at them. “I asked first,” he snapped.
Kobe’s face darkened. He had clearly had it with insubordinate civilians. “Police,” he snapped. “We have some questions. In the house.”
Yasaburo s glance flicked over them. “I am retired,” he grumbled. “If you want an expert, go to the young fellows at the university.”
Kobe jumped down into the snow. “I said, in the house. If you don’t move now, I’ll have my constables tie you to a horse and trot you back to the capital.”
Wordlessly Yasaburo turned and marched toward the house. A string of birds tied to his belt flopped and swung like the tail of some large upright beast. Akitada thought he heard a soft cackling behind his back, but when he turned, Harada was bent over his account books making entries.
The main house was an old manor with a steep roof, sturdily built of massive timbers, but blackened by age and generations of smoky fires. In the dirt-floored entry, Yasaburo flung the string of birds into a corner and sat down to remove his snow-caked boots on a stone step leading up to the wooden flooring of a dark corridor. “Cursed birds!” he grunted. “Nothing worse than crows for making a racket.” He issued no invitations to his guests to join him.
Neither Akitada nor Kobe commented, but simply removed their own boots and followed Yasaburo. He shuffled ahead and brought them to a large room with a central fire pit, much like Kojiro’s, except that this room contained along the back wall a wide wooden dais, raised about two feet above the rest of the flooring. On this dais rested many strange objects, indistinctly seen in the general gloom until Yasaburo struck a flint to a couple of oil lamps.
They stared in surprise at a large hide-covered drum decorated with wood carvings of orange flames and a black and white yin-yang symbol, several smaller shoulder and hip drums, folding stools, a zither, and a couple of lutes. Suspended from nails in the wall hung several flutes, both the long, transverse kind and the short ones.
“I see you have musical performances out here in the country,” Akitada said.
Yasaburo grunted. “Not anymore. Used to when the girls lived here. Nothing to do now but sit around and wait to die.” He kicked a few dusty, faded pillows their way, and stirred the coals in the fire pit. Tossing some dried wood and pinecones onto these, he started a fire, which shot several feet up toward the soot-blackened rafters. Smoke filled the room.
Kobe and Akitada sat on the cushions at a safe distance from the pit.
Their host barely waited for the flames to die back before suspending a blackened iron kettle from the chain above the pit and filling it with wine from an earthenware pitcher. Then he pulled off his fur cloak and cap, tossed both on top of a huge clothing trunk in a corner, and sat down with his visitors.
“Well, what d’you want to know?” he demanded. His manner was belligerent, but Akitada thought he sounded uneasy.
“I’m Kobe. Superintendent of police in the capital,” Kobe told him. “You have had a recent visit from your brother-in-law, Nagaoka?”
Yasaburo did not quite suppress a start. “What about it?”
“Why did he come here?”
Yasaburo shifted on his cushion, then said, “A con
dolence visit.”
“Involving money, I gather,” Akitada put in.
Yasaburo glanced at him from under his bristling brows. Instead of answering, he got up and ladled wine into three cups, passing two to Kobe and Akitada. “You don’t look like police,” he said to Akitada. “Who are you?”
“I am Sugawara Akitada and represent the interests of Nagaoka’s brother.” The warm wine was sour and cloudy. Either the man was desperately poor or the miser Harada had called him.
Yasaburo glowered. “The bastard who killed my girl? You have no business in my house. Get out!”
Kobe said, “He stays. And you talk. Now!”
“What do you want from me?” Yasaburo’s voice took on a whine. “I have lost my child, my beloved daughter, beautiful and talented beyond compare, and you come and torment me with stupid questions. So what if Nagaoka showed up a week ago? He took his time. It’s only right he should apologize for what his brother did to my little girl. And he did not stay. Arrived one morning and left again. Had business elsewhere, he said.”