Island of Exiles

by I. J. Parker

  He suppressed a grimace. “There was little enough to do and no postmortem. The doctor seemed to think the prisoner died as a result of a fight.” He stared unhappily at the gruel his hostess had passed to him.

  “I am sorry it is only millet,” she said.

  “Oh, the gruel? No, no. It’s delicious,” he said. “No. It’s the dead man. I knew him, you see. He was kind to me when I first arrived.”

  “Ah,” she murmured. “I am very sorry the man died, but life is hard for the prisoners here.” She shivered a little.

  Akitada set the gruel down half eaten. There seemed to be different rules for different men. He was sitting here, at his ease and in the company of a gentleman of rank and his charming daughter, taking his morning gruel in new clothes, after spending a night in fine bedding in a room of his own. And only one night ago he had slept under the open sky along with the crippled wretches who were beaten regularly by cruel men and suffered from the festering wounds they got by crawling in and out of mine tunnels. Was this justice? He said angrily, “The prisoners are abused until they die, and the authorities permit this, if they don’t actively encourage it.”

  There was a brief silence in which father and daughter looked at each other. Then the superintendent said, “You speak very frankly but not wisely. In this house you are safe, but not so elsewhere. As you may spend the rest of your life on this island, you can hardly wish to make it a life of torment and suffering.”

  This was said in a tone of sad finality, and Akitada recalled himself. “Of course not,” he said humbly. “I was merely struck by the contrast between my condition and theirs.”

  Yamada nodded and fell into another bout of melancholy.

  Akitada looked at the daughter. “I wondered what had become of my clothes,” he said, giving up any effort at diplomacy.

  “Oh. I mean to clean them. You’ll have them back tonight.”

  Relief made him smile. “Thank you, but there is no need. If I may borrow a brush, I can do it myself.”

  “Very well.”

  Picking up his bowl, Akitada finished his gruel quickly, then rose to bid father and daughter goodbye.

  “Yes, ah,” said Yamada vaguely without raising his head, “delightful to meet you, young man.”

  “Father,” said Masako sharply. “Remember the governor’s message!”

  “Ah,” said the superintendent after a moment’s puzzlement, “yes, of course. How silly of me to forget! I shall need your skills for an hour or so. You see, I have no clerk, and a prisoner is to be questioned again. It is quite beyond Masako, who has other duties anyway, I’m afraid. So will you take notes?”

  “I’ll gladly do whatever you require of me, but is it permitted?”

  “Oh, yes. The governor himself said so.”

  So Mutobe had wasted no time to have him hear about the murder from his son’s lips. And that also explained his accommodations. Akitada suppressed his excitement and bowed again. “I’m quite ready to accompany you, sir.”

  As they walked across the courtyard toward the low building that served as jail, the superintendent muttered, “It’s so difficult. One doesn’t know how to behave.”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Akitada catching up a bit.

  “Young Mutobe. As assistant to the governor he was my superior, but now . . . well, he’s a prisoner charged with a capital crime. A crime against the imperial family.” He sighed heavily. “I’m fond of that young man. He and my daughter grew up together, and I had hopes . . . but never mind.”

  Akitada said, “That is difficult.” He was beginning to like Yamada. His moral sense was stronger than his self-interest. But why did such a man force his daughter to perform the most menial tasks for depraved criminals?

  When they stepped into the small jail building, they startled two drowsy guards, who sprang to attention. The guardroom was bare except for an old desk and a small shelf of papers, but its walls were liberally decorated with whips, chains, and other devices meant to put obstinate prisoners in the proper frame of mind.

  “We’re here to see young Mutobe,” announced the superintendent.

  “He’s got his usual visitor with him,” said one of the guards. He reached for a lantern and led the way down a narrow, dark hallway.

  Yamada followed without comment, and Akitada trailed behind. Apparently the visitor had raised no eyebrows. Akitada wondered if the governor was with his son.

  Most of the cells appeared to be empty. Prisoners from the mainland were put to hard labor upon arrival. Mutobe Toshito’s cell was toward the back. To Akitada’s surprise, the sound of a woman’s voice came from it.

  There was little light in the cell. A pale glimmer of sunshine fell through a single small window so thickly barred that it seemed the bottom of a basket. In the murky gloom, Akitada made out two seated figures. One was that of a young man of middle size, dressed in a pale silk robe; the other was an elderly nun in white hemp robe and veil.

  At their entrance, the nun rose awkwardly with the assistance of the young man, and turned to face them. As the guard raised his lantern, Akitada saw a thin figure with a narrow face that was darkened by sun and weather and dominated by enormous eyes like pools of ink. She looked frail, like a sliver of discarded wood, as if exposure and illness had destroyed a former great beauty by consuming what once gave it life.

  “Madam.” The superintendent bowed deeply. “Your visit honors this dismal place. You bring spiritual riches to those who have nothing else left in this life.”

  She shuddered at his words. “Let us hope for a better outcome in this instance, Yamada, but thank you. I shall leave now.” Her voice was beautiful, and the elegance of her diction reminded the startled Akitada of the faraway court at Heian-kyo.

  Turning back to the prisoner, she said, “Do not forget what I told you.” Then she slipped past them so gently that she seemed no more than a wraith on a breath of air.

  Akitada stared after her. “Who was that?” he burst out, forgetting for a moment his own position.

  Fortunately, Yamada was preoccupied. He was greeting the prisoner with a friendly courtesy which the young man seemed to return. Over his shoulder, Yamada said, “They call her Ribata. She’s a hermit nun who lives on a mountain not far from here. Sometimes she visits prisoners in need of spiritual counsel.”

  The guard added helpfully, “She’s been visiting him every day.”

  The young man with the pale, intelligent face smiled bitterly. “I suppose that means my case is desperate. We pray together. She is very holy.” His tone was casual, but Akitada did not quite believe it. Mutobe Toshito glanced at him and asked, “Who is that with you, Yamada?”

  “His name is Taketsuna, a new prisoner. He’s here to take notes.” Pulling a sheaf of papers from his sleeve, Yamada said apologetically, “I am to ask you some more questions. The answers are needed to prepare your case.”

  “You mean, the case against me,” the prisoner corrected him.

  Yamada fidgeted uneasily. “Let us sit down,” he said, seating himself on the dirt floor. When the young man reluctantly sat, he added soothingly, “You mustn’t be so downcast. Your father will speak for you, as will many others.” But he did not sound as if he believed it, and the prisoner gave a harsh laugh.

  “The governor is no longer my father. How could he be, when I have been charged with such a hideous crime?”

  “Now, now,” mumbled Yamada again. “Sit down, sit down,” he told Akitada, then turned to the guard. “Paper and ink for the clerk.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell as they waited. After a moment, Toshito addressed Akitada. “I would bid you welcome, but this prison and the island are a special kind of hell for people like you and me. So you have my pity instead. What did you do to have been sent here?”

  Akitada glanced at Yamada for permission to answer, but the superintendent was again lost in his own thoughts, his chin sunk into his chest. “I killed a political enemy,” he said.

  “Really? Muc
h the same crime of which I stand accused. With, of course, the major difference that I’m supposed to have murdered an imperial prince and will not live to see exile.”

  Akitada could not think of an appropriate response, so merely murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  Another silence fell, and then the guard reappeared to hand Akitada a lap desk, paper, and writing utensils. Akitada rubbed the ink, then glanced at Yamada, who still brooded. “Ready, sir.”

  “What? Oh. Oh, yes.” Yamada focused his eyes on the sheaf of questions in his hand. “Very well. Write: Interview between the prisoner Mutobe Toshito and Yamada Tsubura, superintendent of Sado Provincial Prison. The fourteenth day of the eighth month of the third year of Chogen.”

  Akitada wrote.

  “Now write down all the questions I ask and the answers the prisoner gives.” Yamada consulted his papers and addressed the young man. “Mutobe Toshito, how did you come to attend the banquet during which the Second Prince died?”

  The prisoner made a face. “I have already answered that several times. My fa . . . the governor often received invitations to dinners given for the Second Prince. Because of Prince Okisada’s illustrious rank, it was his habit to accept these, but on this occasion the governor was not well and did not wish to make the journey. So I went instead and carried his apologies.”

  Yamada frowned. “Ah, yes. You are right. These questions seem to have been asked before,” he muttered, scanning the list in his hands. “Feel free to add any information you may not have given earlier. Perhaps it will reveal something to your benefit.”

  Akitada knew very well why there were no new questions. They were meant to give him access to the evidence from young Mutobe’s own recollections.

  “Now, about that prawn stew you brought for the prince. Why did you bring food to the dinner?”

  A good question that had puzzled Akitada.

  The prisoner compressed his lips. “I know that is against me. It was customary to bring the prince a small gift. I never liked this custom and used to argue against it, but my fa . . . the governor insisted that it would offend certain people in the capital if we did not show such courtesy. When it was a matter of my going by myself, I decided to take something simple. I knew that the prince was particularly fond of the prawn stew a woman in Minato made, so I decided to take him this instead.”

  Ah! A second unplanned event.

  “This woman, did she know the stew was for the prince?”

  “I mentioned my purpose when I picked it up, I think. She lives not far from Professor Sakamoto’s villa and knows about the prince’s tastes.”

  “Could she have poisoned the stew intentionally?”

  Young Mutobe shook his head. “No. She’s just a simple fisherman’s wife who runs a small restaurant. She would never do such a thing.”

  That was naïve, but then the governor’s son seemed rather naïve in other ways, too.

  “Could the stew have become poisoned by accident?”

  “I don’t know. I expect the police have investigated.”

  The superintendent nodded. “They have. Apparently the woman served the same stew to her customers without ill effects. It seems you are the only one who could have added something to the dish after it left her premises.”

  Toshito said sharply, “What about Professor Sakamoto, his servants, or his other guests?”

  Akitada shot a glance at the prisoner. So the young man was not completely resigned to his fate.

  Yamada sighed. “The guests and servants testified that you arrived late and presented the dish to His Highness, who placed it on the tray before him. The servants had already served the prince and neither of his neighbors was close enough to add anything to the stew without being seen. I’m afraid the burden of the charge does fall on you . . . unless you can account for some other instance in which someone might have tampered with the food?”

  The superintendent was trying to help, but the prisoner shook his head. “I’ve had weeks to think about it, and I cannot understand what happened. Perhaps the stew was fine and the poison was in something else.”

  Yamada shook his head. “You forget the dog died.”

  “Perhaps the dog died from some other cause.”

  Yamada moved restlessly. “Too much of a coincidence. And such speculations are remote indeed when motive is considered. Who in that house that night would have had a reason to kill Prince Okisada?”

  “I don’t know,” cried young Mutobe, his voice rising in frustration. “How could I know? That is for the authorities to discover. Why ask me what I cannot speak to?”

  The superintendent cleared his throat. “I am sorry. You’re quite right. Let us return to the questions. You are accused of attempting to strangle His Highness the moment the other guests left the pavilion. You have testified that you were merely loosening the prince’s collar as he had asked you to do. Why then did he scream for help?”

  Toshito raised his hands helplessly. “I cannot say, except that he was in distress. He seemed to be gasping for breath.”

  “A man who is choking cannot call out,” Yamada pointed out. “And according to the physician, the poison caused pains in the belly and later convulsions.”

  The prisoner shook his head. “All I know is that it happened. I have no explanation.”

  With a sigh, the superintendent folded his papers and put them back in his sleeve. “Is there anything you can say in your defense?” he asked. “For example, do you know of anyone at all who might have wanted to kill the prince?”

  Toshito cried, “I did not want to kill him, but they arrested me. He was not a likable man, but why would anyone kill him for that?”

  There. It was out. The motive was not his, but his father’s. The charge would be that Governor Mutobe had prevailed upon his son to poison Okisada because the prince had become a threat to Mutobe’s career.

  Yamada rose abruptly. “That is all. We’ll leave you in peace now.” He looked distressed at his choice of words and muttered something.

  Akitada cleared his throat. “Your pardon, sir,” he said, “but being new at this kind of thing, I’m concerned about accuracy because my notes might be used in court. Could I clear up a small matter to make sure I wrote it correctly?”

  “What is it?”

  “Whose idea was the prawn stew? It seemed to me the accused said the prince had asked for it, and that was why he thought to bring it.”

  The superintendent turned to the prisoner. “Well, was it your idea or the prince’s request?”

  The young man looked confused. “I cannot recall. Surely it was mine. I believe the prince had talked about his fondness of stewed prawns on a previous occasion, but I was the one who decided that day to stop at the restaurant. The owner’s prawn stew is well known in the area.”

  Yamada pressed him, “Perhaps your father suggested it? I assume he was the one who told you of the prince’s taste for prawns?”

  The prisoner sprang to his feet. “He may have heard him talk about it,” he cried, his eyes flashing. “The prince was always talking about food. But no, he never made such a suggestion. It would never have occurred to him to take such a humble gift. He had nothing to do with the stew. The stew was my idea, no one else’s, do you hear?”

  With a sigh, Yamada nodded. Akitada, whose eyes had hung on the prisoner during his outburst, hurriedly wrote down the final questions and responses, then bundled up his notes. Bowing to the prisoner, he followed the superintendent out of the jail.

  Yamada looked dejected. “Poor young man,” he said. “It will go hard with him. And with the governor, too. He loves the boy dearly.” He heaved a deep sigh and added with a breaking voice, “Life is full of suffering, but nothing compares to a father’s pain when he causes misery for his child.” He stretched out his hand for the notes of the interview and said in a more normal tone, “Thank you, young man. Better report to Yutaka now.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Akitada spent the rest of the day in the archives
, wielding his brush and thinking over what Yamada had said. Apparently he believed the governor had used his son to carry out the murder of the prince. That was shocking enough, but Akitada could not rid himself of the conviction that Yamada had also spoken of himself. If so, he must have been thinking about the drudgery, which the lovely Masako accepted so readily, but which seemed shockingly cruel to Akitada. What would make a father demand such a sacrifice from his daughter?

  He decided to ask Yutaka.

  Taking one of the documents as a pretext, he left his cubicle and sought out the superintendent of archives.

  Yutaka was at his desk, bent over some papers, with his thin back to the entrance. Apparently the shortage of scribes kept him as busy as his clerks.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Akitada said, raising his voice a little, “but I have a question about this.”

  There was no answer, and Akitada saw that the brush had fallen from Yutaka’s hand. With a sudden sense of foreboding, he stepped quickly around Yutaka. The elderly man’s chin had sunk into his chest and his eyes were closed. The brush had left a jagged line on the paper, and his lifeless hand hung limp. Fearing that the man was dead, Akitada put his hand on his head to raise it.

  “Wh . . . what?” Yutaka, coming awake, jerked away, stared up at Akitada, and shrieked for help.

  “Sir! Sir!” cried Akitada, dismayed. “Please calm down. I did not realize you were asleep. I thought . . .” He did not get any further, because at that moment the other two clerks burst in and flung themselves upon him so violently that he crashed to the floor. Though he offered no resistance, they belabored him with whatever they could lay their hands on, a water container filled with inky liquid, Yutaka’s wooden armrest, and a document rolled around a wooden dowel.

  Akitada suffered a number of crushing blows to his skull, particularly from the armrest and the document scroll, before Yutaka, perhaps out of concern for his precious scroll, put a stop to the beating.

  It took a while to clear up the misunderstanding, because Akitada was too dizzy and nauseated to be able to say much. But eventually Yutaka grudgingly apologized, taking his embarrassment out in a tongue-lashing of the two clerks, who slunk away silently. Akitada staggered to his feet, wiping dazedly at some blood which was running down his cheek.