Akitadas First Case

by I. J. Parker

  Aloud he said, “He did not . . . does not know. He only suspects that Tomoe was lured away by a man of high rank. It was the sergeant at the police building who told me that you had reported her death.”

  Lady Chujo said irritably, “They should make certain such people can be trusted not to blab confidential matters to every curiosity seeker!” She glared at Akitada who was once again reminded of his own precarious position. A word from Lady Chujo to her father, and Akitada could find himself banished to the island of exiles in the far north.

  He bowed and said apologetically, “Forgive me, but I was merely carrying out Mr. Okamoto’s instructions.” With brilliant inspiration, he added, “He is very distraught. No doubt the tragedy, when it becomes generally known, will win him much sympathy from his many friends and supporters.”

  Lady Chujo looked thoughtful, and her husband said quickly, “Yes, of course. I had better go and explain. Though I still don’t understand how he could have been so completely in the dark. I made no secret of my intentions to Tomoe. It is unfortunate that the empty villa frightened her, but I thought that the young women would arrange for someone to stay with her.”

  The young women? So Otomi had known!

  “Indeed,” cried Lady Chujo. “My husband was making even more generous arrangements for her, when she panicked. He was bringing her here. But, being a most superstitious person—one of those who are forever muttering spells and buying silly amulets against Heaven knows what-- she simply went mad with fright.” Lady Chujo was warming to her subject. “If she did not drown herself, then she ran into the water out of fear. It was an accident. It is really no one’s fault, but the silly girl’s.”

  Masahira said unhappily, “Don’t! Tomoe was not silly. She was very sweet and very young. I should have looked after her better.”

  Lady Chujo bit her lip. She was clearly tired of the subject. Her eyes fell on the tray of food. “You have not eaten,” she said. “Let me get some hot food. This dreadful incident will make you ill, and you know you are on duty tomorrow for the emperor’s birthday.”

  “I am not hungry,” Masahira said with a grimace, but she went to pick up the tray anyway. She left the room, scented robes and long hair trailing, without so much as a nod to Akitada.

  “I do not wish to trouble you any longer, sir,” Akitada said nervously, “but could you direct me to your villa?”

  Masahira sighed and rose. “Come! I will take you myself. If you are right about its being murder, it would be a terrible thing, but at least I would not feel that Tomoe killed herself because of me.”

  Akitada had not expected the offer or the sentiment from such a powerful man and was surprised again.

  They rode--Masahira had superb horses--and crossed the city quickly. In the western district, they entered an almost rural setting. There were few villas and some, now abandoned, had become overgrown with vegetation. Empty lots were covered with tall meadow grass which was alive with rabbits and deer. They passed a few small temples, their steep pagodas rising above the trees, but the streets were mere dirt tracks and the bridges, which crossed small rivers and canals, were dilapidated.

  Yet here and there, in the midst of the desolation, a few secluded mansions and villas survived, their rustic fencing in good repair, and the thatched roofs mended. Masahira stopped at one of these, dismounted, and unlatched the gate.

  At that moment, a curious figure detached itself from the shadows of the large willow tree at the street corner and walked toward them.

  At first glance, the scrawny man appeared to be a monk. He was dressed in a stained and worn saffron robe, his head was shaven, and the wooden begging bowl, dangling from the hemp rope about his skinny middle, bounced with every shuffling step he took. When he reached them, he stopped and stared slack-jawed and with vacant eyes. Akitada saw that he wore several small wooden tablets with crude inscriptions around his neck.

  “He’s just a mendicant,” said Masahira. “They live in small temples around here.” He tossed a few copper coins to the man, while Akitada rode into the courtyard. Dismounting, he glanced over his shoulder at the beggar, who had not picked up the money, but was still standing, staring foolishly after them until Masahira closed the gate.

  They were in a small courtyard of a charming house in the old style, all darkened wood and sweeping thatched roof.

  Akitada looked curiously about him. A stone path led to the front door and then continued around the side of the house to what must be the garden. The cicadas were singing their high-pitched song in the trees.

  Inside there was only one large room, but this had been furnished luxuriously with screens, thick mats, silk bedding, and lacquered clothes chests. There was also an assortment of amusements suitable for an aristocratic young lady. A zither lay next to a beautiful set of writing implements, games rested beside several novels and picture books, and a set of cosmetics and combs accompanied an elegant silver mirror. Three tall wooden racks were draped with gowns of silk and brocade in the most elegant shades and detailing, and Akitada counted no less than five fans scattered about. In the short time since she had left her father’s house, Tomoe had been spoiled by her noble lover. He looked around for evidence of the sister’s having been here, but found nothing.

  Masahira wandered dazedly about the room, touching things. He brushed a hand over one of the gowns, then picked up a fan, looked at it, and let it drop again. “Well?” he asked.

  “I understand that you could not spend much time with Tomoe,” said Akitada, “but I have been wondering why she did not have at least a servant for companion?”

  “There was a need for secrecy at first. I wished to keep the affair from my household. Tomoe herself insisted that she needed no one. But, as I said, I thought surely her sister . . .” he passed a hand over his face, “at any event, she became fearful. The foxes make strange sounds at night. She was not used to it. She developed a fear that I might meet with an accident and never return. She had dreadful dreams. One day I found her nearly incoherent. That was when I decided to bring her into my home.” He sighed deeply. “Too late.”

  Akitada looked around the room distractedly. This had been the second reference Masahira had made to the sister. Had Otomi known of this place? If so, why had she lied? In his mind’s eye, he saw again the complacent look on the plain girl’s face as she stood beside her father and said, “My sister is very beautiful.”

  He became aware of the fact that Masahira was looking at him and asked, “May I see the pond now? And perhaps you could tell me how you came to find her body.”

  Masahira nodded. He led the way into the garden. They followed the stepping stones through dense shrubbery, but trees and weeds had grown up around the path and brushed and tore at their clothes. All around them the cicadas sang, pausing as they passed and resuming again a moment later.

  “I had gone home to speak to my wife about Tomoe,” said Masahira, holding a branch aside for Akitada. “To my surprise, she was immediately receptive to the idea. You must understand that I have no other women, and my wife is childless. She confessed that she looked forward to raising my children by Tomoe, and to having her companionship. Overjoyed, I returned the next day to tell Tomoe.” He fell abruptly silent.

  The stepping stones only went as far as a stone lantern. Here Masahira turned right. “The pond is this way,” he said. His voice shook a little. In a distance, Akitada could hear frogs croaking. There was no sign of foxes, but the dense shrubbery rustled with animal life.

  They emerged from the trees. The pond lay before them, basking in the hot sun.

  “When I got to the house, it was empty,” Masahira said, staring at the still water with a shiver. “I was puzzled, for I knew Tomoe was afraid of the garden, but eventually I went to search for her there. I almost turned around when I got to the pond without seeing her.”

  The pond was shaped like a gourd, and they stood near its widest end. Up ahead, where it narrowed, a small bridge arched across a dense growth of w
ater lilies and lotus. Clouds of small gnats hung low over the water, and dragonflies skimmed the surface. The sound of the cicadas was less strident here, but the atmosphere of the pond, stagnant in the summer heat and choked with vegetation, embraced them like a suffocating shroud.

  Masahira pointed to a thorny shrub near the path. “I saw a small piece of silk there and knew she had come this way. That was when I went to look in the water.” He walked forward to the muddy edge and stared down. “She was here.”

  Akitada joined him. The water was brown but not deep. He could see the muddy bottom, pitted here and there by the feet of the sergeant and his constable. A huge silver carp appeared, rose briefly to look at them and sank again. Other fish, fat, their colors dull grey and copper in the muddy water, shifted lazily across the mud, and a large frog, suddenly conscious of their presence, jumped in with a splash and swam away. In this neglected garden, human beings were the intruders.

  Masahira said, “She could have slipped and fallen. But I cannot imagine what would have brought her out here.”

  Akitada glanced across to where a fallen pine projected over the water. “There are the foxes,” he said.

  Two young cubs had climbed up and looked at them curiously. Masahira cursed, clapping his hands sharply. The cubs yelped and ran. A moment later their mother appeared, a handsome vixen with a long bushy tail, her ears pointed and her sharp nose twitching to catch their scent.

  Masahira clapped again, but the fox stood her ground. “They behave as if they owned this place,” he complained. “I shall have workmen clean up this wilderness and drain the pond.” He turned abruptly and walked back.

  Akitada stayed another moment, looking at the fox. Then he also turned to go.

  What had happened here? He no longer suspected Masahira. It was clear that he had loved the girl and had made arrangements to bring her into his family. Who then? The envious sister? A jealous lover? Or a stranger, some vagrant coming across the lonely girl? The image of the scarecrow monk flashed into his mind, and he hurried after Masahira.

  He caught up with him in the house and asked, “That beggar outside the gate, do you know him?”

  Masahira was surprised. “Yes. He is one of the monks in a small temple a short distance away. Why do you ask?”

  Akitada, with the certainty of conviction, said, “He looked deranged. I think he got in and attacked Tomoe.” Masahira shook his head, but Akitada added quickly, “Perhaps she caught him stealing. He could have picked up something and knocked her out.” Looking around the room, he pounced on an iron candlestick, examined it and put it back disappointedly. Next he picked up the heavy silver mirror. “Yes,” he cried. “I see a dent here and . . .” He dashed out into the sunlight with it, squinting at the rim. “There!” he shouted triumphantly. “Do you see it? That is a drop of blood and a long hair is stuck to it. This was used to knock her out. Now do you believe me?”

  Masahira came to look and nodded. “Yes,” he said sadly. “You must be right, but the man has always been quite gentle. He has never hurt a living thing. He is not very bright and sells talismans that the other monks inscribe with spells against demons.”

  “Of course,” said Akitada. “Fox magic. He knocked at the door, and when Tomoe opened, he offered her one of his charms. I suppose they are those wooden tablets he had around his neck. Then he saw all these fine things and no one to watch them but a young, delicate lady. He helped himself and, when Tomoe protested, they struggled, and he hit her with the mirror. He thought she was dead and decided to hide the body in the pond.”

  Masahira frowned. “Could not someone else . . .?”

  “No, no. It all fits,” cried Akitada, rushing out. “Let us go back and tell the police.

  # # #

  When they reached the police building, the sergeant was talking to Okamoto Toson, who had finally come to report his daughter missing, and had ended up identifying Tomoe’s body.

  An uncomfortable scene ensued.

  Okamoto’s eyes went from Akitada to Lord Masahira. He recognized him instantly and prostrated himself. Masahira went to help him up, whispering something in his ear. Okamoto stiffened, then nodded.

  Masahira turned back to Akitada, saying in a tight voice, “Perhaps it will be best if you leave things to me now.”

  Akitada looked at Okamoto.

  The old man was very pale, but he nodded. “Lord Masahira is right. You have done your part and quickly, too. If you will excuse me now and allow me some time to mourn and bury my child, I shall reward your efforts in a day or two.”

  Akitada flushed with embarrassment. He stammered that nothing was owed, that he was sorry to have brought no better news, and left as quickly as he could.

  He slept poorly that night. Something kept nagging at him. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamt of foxes. At one point, the vixen appeared on the fallen pine. She raised herself on her hindlegs and paraded back and forth, dragging her tail behind like the skirts of a long robe, making a strange snickering noise. Then the fox’s black eyes and pointed muzzle changed into the sharp features of Lady Chujo, who laughed, baring her fangs. He sat bolt upright, staring at the stripes made by the sunlight falling through the closed shutters of his room.

  Stripes . . . lines . . . the thin, red line on Tomoe’s neck . . . the monk selling amulets . . . charms against fox spirits. Of course. The frightened Tomoe had bought one and she had worn it before her death. Someone, the murderer, had torn it off her and had caused the red line on her neck.

  Amulets! Lady Chujo had mentioned Tomoe’s belief in amulets. How had she known?

  Akitada threw on his clothes and ran to police headquarters. A yawning sergeant was just sitting down when Akitada burst into the office.

  “That monk,” cried Akitada. “Did you arrest him?”

  The sergeant’s mouth fell open again. He nodded.

  “What did he say? Did he visit the girl?”

  The sergeant nodded again.

  “Well?”

  The sergeant closed his mouth and sighed. “It’s too early,” he said reprovingly, “for so many questions, sir. However, the man absolutely denies killing the girl. He sold her a charm, that’s all, he says. Of course, we can still beat him and get a confession that way, but Lord Masahira has asked us not to.”

  Thank God for Masahira, thought Akitada. He, Akitada, had made a terrible mistake. He asked, “Did he say when he sold her the charm?”

  “Yes. The day before we found her.” The sergeant shook his head. “It didn’t do her much good.”

  “The monk is innocent. You must let him go.”

  The sergeant raised his brows. “On whose say-so?”

  Akitada’s spirits sank. He knew now who the killer was, but he would never prove it. No doubt the poor monk would be beaten into some form of confession and then condemned to forced labor at some distant frontier. And all of it was Akitada’s fault. He had been wrong about the identity of the murderer three times. He had lost his job, failed Okamoto and Tomoe, and added the burden of guilt to his other miseries.

  He went to see Lord Masahira.

  # # #

  Recalling too late that it was the emperor’s birthday, Akitada fully expected to be turned away. Instead he was admitted instantly to face who knew what additional disaster.

  He found the captain, dressed in the grey robe of mourning, standing on the veranda of his study. He held something in his hand and was staring at it fixedly.

  The face he turned towards Akitada was drawn and white. Today Masahira looked old beyond his years, and Akitada was about to intrude into the man’s grief with a dangerous knowledge. Reminding himself of the vacant-eyed monk in police custody, Akitada stammered, “Forgive the interruption, sir, but I have reconsidered the facts and I now know the monk is innocent. He merely sold one of his charms to Tomoe. It was the day before her body was found. I . . . believe someone else . . .” He broke off fearfully.

  “Yes.” Masahira’s voice was flat, his eyes weary. “So
you know what really happened?”

  Hanging his head, Akitada murmured, “I believe so. Your lady . . .” He broke off. “I am very sorry, sir.”

  Masahira sighed heavily. “No sorrier than I. I am responsible, even though I did not kill Tomoe. It was my foolishness that caused the tragedy. A double tragedy. I thought my wife was too accommodating when I asked her if I could bring Tomoe here. I should have suspected.” Masahira’s voice was bitter. “I found this in my wife’s writing box!”

  Akitada glanced up. Masahira dangled a small wooden tablet with an inscription. The hemp string was broken.

  The amulet.

  “Lady Chujo must have gone to the villa after you told her,” said Akitada. “She mentioned the amulet, but Tomoe had just bought it from the monk, and not even you could have known that.”

  Masahira said, “I did not.” He added heavily, “My wife will not be arrested. But she has agreed to renounce the world and spend the rest of her life in a remote nunnery. The monk will be released, of course, but I must ask your discretion. I already have Okamoto’s.”

  Akitada thought again of the dangerous ground he had trodden. Deeply grateful, he bowed. “Of course, my Lord. I only regret having brought such misfortune to you and your family.”

  Masahira waved this aside. “Okamoto is a most admirable character.” He paused to look at Akitada. “I think,” he said, “that, whatever your motives were originally, you acted from concern for him and pity for . . .” his voice shook, but he went on, “his daughter. You were quite right in your feelings about both.” He broke off abruptly and turned away, weeping.

  Akitada was backing from the room, when Masahira spoke again. His voice had regained the tone of authority. “About your position at the ministry. I have had a word with Soga. You are to return to work immediately.”

  The End.