by Ben Stevens
The Ennin Mysteries: Collected Stories 26-30
Ben Stevens
The Village of the Dead
The Yellow Killer
The Beauty
The Patient Assassin
The Fourth Immortal of the Wine Cup
Amazon author account
To My Parents
SERIES 6
The Village of the Dead
1
‘…Your stories, it is true, have brought me a somewhat greater level of fame than I ever anticipated, Kukai…’
My master was speaking, one rainy afternoon as we sheltered in the room of a rather nondescript inn.
Taking another sip of sake, my master continued –
‘We have spoken before of these… accounts, of yours… How you frequently exaggerate what actually happened, with such fanciful titles as The Demon King, The Picture of Death and – dear, oh dear! – what must surely be your crowning glory, Attack of the Sixty-foot Buddha…’
‘Should you ever happen to come across a new and better biographer, master, I would be more than happy to relinquish my position,’ I returned, a little tightly. This was hardly the first time my master had criticized my literary efforts, of course; as such, I should have by now become immune to such deprecatory comments – and yet, I was not.
‘No, no,’ declared my master thoughtfully, as though he’d not even detected the irritation contained in my words. ‘There is no denying that you have a certain way of… appealing… to the general reader, and, as such, you have certainly caused more work to come my way…
‘And yet, for all the cases we have shared together – a number of which, I freely admit, have certainly contained great excitement and even danger – you are unaware of one case I experienced before we met, and which certainly remains one of the most thrilling, to say nothing of grotesque, I have ever experienced…’
‘Really?’ I said, my ears at once pricking up. The regular reader of these stories will know that my master had so far spoken only generally of his past – that is, of that period before I knew him. Really, all I knew was what he had told me during the case I ultimately entitled The Cursed Temple. That is, that he’d spent some of this ‘youth’ in China, ostensibly to study Buddhism as a trainee monk, although he’d quickly become involved in far darker pastimes, ultimately having to flee that country before the shadowy group of assassins he’d become a part of had him destroyed…
‘Yes,’ nodded my master. ‘It concerned a remote coastal village that lies to the east of Japan. It is – or rather, certainly was – a wretched, lonely, windswept place, and yet it contains a shrine that attracts a fair number of ‘pilgrims’, as it were, every year.
‘For some reason that is by now all but forgotten, this shrine is believed to be able to grant miracles – a reversal of bad fortune, ill-health repaired, that sort of thing. So groups of travelers or pilgrims from all over Japan regularly come into the village, which serves to provide some form of business for the poor people who live there.
‘I’d fallen in with one such group – for no other reason than that I was mildly interested in seeing this legendary shrine with my own eyes – when I entered into the village, to find that the inn-keeper there had just been arrested on the charge of mass-murder…’
There was only one inn in the village (continued my master). It was a poor excuse of a lodging house, weather-beaten and with its futon, tatami mats and general furniture almost in a state of disrepair (you could see such items through the open windows on the first-floor); and yet there was apparently nowhere else for the visitors to this village, and most importantly its shrine, to stay.
There were eight of us in the group with whom I was travelling – six men and two women. We’d hoped to obtain shelter at this inn – having quickly learned that it was the only one within this village – yet as the innkeeper was forcibly dragged outside by four scowling samurai, our modest intention seemed somewhat dashed.
‘I tell you that it’s got nothing to do with me!’ yelled the corpulent innkeeper, refusing to be silenced even as one samurai viciously backhanded him across the face. ‘Why the hell would I want to kill my customers, when they’re the ones who’ll tell others about my place, and so on? Does that make sense to you?’
In return to this plaintive last question, the inn-keeper received only another blow to his face. He was already cut up and bleeding, the samurai having obviously given him rough treatment even before dragging him outside.
‘What is going on here?’ I asked, stepping forward. I almost regretted my rashness, as the same samurai who’d been so engaged in striking the innkeeper now fixed me with a burning stare.
‘We are here under direct orders from the daimyo Nishidake, governor of this region,’ growled the samurai. ‘So if you value your liberty, to say nothing of your head, you will interfere no further.’
As I say, Kukai, this all took place during a time before I met you; when you had not yet had the chance to become my biographer. Yet still my name was at least known in certain quarters; I’d already solved a few cases where everyone else – magistrates, other ‘investigators’ and the like – had failed, and so earned myself just a little fame.
It was this which I counted upon, as I now informed the samurai –
‘I would be grateful if you would inform lord Nishidake that I – Ennin, is my name – will be visiting him shortly. Lord Nishidake may be aware that I have some experience in investigating matters such as this; and this case already interests me deeply. Chiefly because, as the innkeeper has already succinctly stated, there is little to no obvious motive for him to have murdered these alleged victims…’
The samurai again fixed me with a terrible stare, which I still managed to meet. I could see that he had heard of my name, at least.
Finally, he said in a voice rendered somewhat less harsh than the one of before –
‘Someone has been killing these people, Ennin, and a fair number of them. Over a number of years. What we now know for certain is that these people were last seen at this inn, signing themselves in or at least giving their mark, and then – pfft! They vanished shortly afterwards, never to be seen again. Some of them later revealed – by their relatives, back in their home village or town – to have been carrying a considerable sum of money, for the purpose of funding their travels.
‘So you tell me, Ennin’ (this was before the time when my name was almost invariably accorded the sensei-suffix, Kukai) ‘what would you have us believe? That all these people over the years – at least one hundred, probably more – just simply all disappeared, having coincidentally all stayed at this inn beforehand…
‘Or rather, that this innkeeper here, living in this remote, lonely little village, systematically murdered them all, for the money they were carrying?’
‘Tell me – which seems more likely to you?’
And as this samurai finished speaking, his eyes continuing to bore into mine, I had to concede that he had a point…
2
The group I was travelling with at last managed to obtain (at a quite exorbitant rate) the use of a small barn from a local farmer. This would have to suffice as shelter during our brief stay here; there was no other option.
We had travelled from a coastal town nearby, with a port where there was docked a large foreign vessel. A few of these foreign sailors, these Portuguese gaijin with their earrings, unruly curly hair and strange ‘pantaloon’ trousers, had delighted in showing us Japanese their slavering dogs, which they had brought with them aboard their ship.
Through an interpreter, they boasted of how these creatures had a sense of smell perhaps even a thousand time
s keener than that of a human. For this reason, they said, these dogs were invaluable for such pursuits as hunting…
…Now, I left my group, to travel the short distance to the ‘castle’ occupied by the daimyo Nishidake.
I use the word ‘castle’ loosely. It was actually a surprisingly small and rather crumbly building. I entered inside – there was certainly nothing so grand as a surrounding moat – and gave my name along with the purpose of my visit to two samurai.
They nodded, and declared that Nishidake had heard of me, and as such was prepared to grant me an audience. They led the way up several flights of stone stairs, torches attached to the wall giving a spluttering, insufficient light. It had lately become autumn, darkness now beginning to descend earlier in the evening.
The sturdy-looking daimyo was sat in a gloomy room, two rather dilapidated, six-paneled byobu positioned either side of him. The samurai remained, as Nishidake said –
‘Your name is Ennin, I believe. I’ve heard of you. I have some relation with the daimyo named Miyazaki, who I believe you assisted in finding his late father’s will some time ago…’
I nodded. A rather trivial case, I remembered, the father having declared that his son – Miyazaki – had exactly one year (from the date of the father’s death) to find this ‘will’ he’d left him. Upon this period of time expiring, Miyazaki could be daimyo no longer.
I forget now what, exactly, had led to the father actually making this rather strange declaration, but Miyazaki had had half his territory dug up and otherwise explored before I deduced (through a cryptic clue left by the father, in the form of a haiku poem) that the desired document was in fact contained within a hidden drawer, situated in the opulent Chinese desk at which the late father had usually been sat while attending to matters of business…
Anyway, such was how this Nishidake had heard of me.
‘I am most grateful to you for agreeing to see me, my lord,’ I said now. ‘The reason for my visit concerns the innkeeper who has only recently been arrested by your samurai, charged with – ’
‘Murder, Ennin; that is what this repulsive individual is charged with. The systematic, cold-blooded murder of a large number of his guests – men, women, children. He has damned himself, over the years keeping meticulous records concerning everyone who has stayed, how much they paid – and then the date they allegedly ‘ left’, never (in many cases) to be seen again…’
‘So when these guests left the inn, my lord, it was to return the way they had come, their visit to the shrine here having been concluded?’ I queried, adding, ‘Those guests who subsequently disappeared, I mean…’
‘Yes, yes, doubtless that was their intention,’ returned the daimyo irritably. ‘But having signed themselves out, no doubt the innkeeper then enticed them into some stable or such, and there – ’
‘But their horses, my lord… What would have been done with them, to say nothing of their other possessions…?’
‘Actually,’ said Nishidake, for the first time appearing slightly thoughtful, ‘from what I’ve been told, very few of the murdered guests came by horseback. In fact, it may even be true that they all arrived by foot.’
This was suggestive, I thought privately. Something to be considered more fully in due course. But first there was the matter of this already-condemned innkeeper, whom I was all but certain wasn’t the real killer.
‘And the wealth taken from these murdered guests, my lord – the very reason for their deaths… This money has been found…?’ I asked quietly.
‘No, not yet, but it will be,’ replied the daimyo confidently. ‘The innkeeper is being ‘encouraged’ to talk at this very moment, in one of the rooms located at the very bottom of this castle.’
‘Lord Nishidake, I beg of you to cease any further torture of this man until I have looked into this case more fully,’ I said. ‘There is far more here than first meets the eye, of that I am certain.’
The daimyo stared at me half in bemusement, and half in anger.
‘I agreed to see you because I am aware that you assisted an important acquaintance of mine in finding what was basically a sheet of paper,’ said Nishidake, obviously struggling to keep his voice even. ‘Now you speak as though you’ve suddenly become the chief investigating magistrate of my region…’
It wasn’t hard to read Nishidake’s character; something upon which I now based my reply.
‘My lord, I mean no impertinence,’ I returned, careful to keep my voice and expression humble. ‘But if there is any chance I could speak with the innkeeper for a short time, and then go out to check just a few things…’
The daimyo continued to eye me for a few more moments. Then he opened his mouth to speak (and I was certain that he was prepared to give me a favorable answer), when into the room there suddenly crashed another samurai.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ bellowed Nishidake, his face turning crimson.
‘Forgive me, my lord, but the prisoner…’ began the samurai, his voice breathless. He must have just run from the castle dungeon all the way up to this room.
Instantly, Nishidake got to his feet.
‘He has admitted to these murders?’ he conjectured, taking the opportunity to flash me a triumphant glance.
‘Well, no, not as yet, my lord,’ said the samurai. ‘But under… questioning, he has admitted to something else, which I believe shows that he is certainly capable of doing the principal crime he’s been charged with…’
‘I will go down to see him, to hear exactly what this ‘something’ is for myself,’ declared Nishidake. ‘Seeing as how you desired to meet this man, Ennin, perhaps you would care to come with me…’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said quietly.
3
The innkeeper was held upright only by the two chains, attached to his outstretched wrists, which in turn ran to two of the dungeon’s weeping, slimy stone walls. He’d been stripped to the waist, his torso cut and bleeding. He stared groggily at Nishidake and me as we approached him, one eye all but closed with the ferocious beating he’d recently received. Beside him stood a heavily-muscled man, holding a whip. This man was breathing a little heavily, no doubt worn out by his exertions.
‘So what is it, exactly, that he has admitted to?’ demanded Nishidake, of the samurai who’d come to fetch him down here.
‘The one other inn that was there in that village, my lord,’ returned the samurai quickly. ‘It caught fire, some years ago now… Well, now he has admitted that it was he who started this fire!’
‘Is this true?’ demanded the daimyo of the tortured man.
‘Yes…’ croaked the innkeeper, speaking through a mess of swollen lips and broken teeth. ‘But that… doesn’t… mean that I… killed those… people, though…’
‘Come, come,’ said Nishidake, almost soothingly. ‘You have just admitted to arson – no doubt committed in order to put your sole competitor out of business – yet still you stop short of confessing all your horrendous crimes…?
‘Surely it would be best just to make a clean breast of things – then, at least, this ill-treatment will cease. That I promise you; just tell us what actually happened, what you did, and you will suffer no more.’
‘As you… say, I set… fire to the other… inn, to make… mine… the only one in the… area,’ rasped the innkeeper, the one eye still showing itself gleaming its defiance. ‘But doing that and… killing many… people… Those are two very… different… things…’
In case we’d trouble understanding his exact meaning, he managed to finish –
‘I have killed… no one…’
‘You are a liar, and a fool,’ declared Nishidake contemptuously. ‘And you will continue to suffer until you admit your worst crime – or should I say, crimes… The multiple murder of men, women – children!
‘You will admit to their deaths – this I swear!’
With this bellowed declaration, the daimyo signaled to the torturer, who immediately brought his great w
hip cracking down onto the innkeeper’s back. The innkeeper let out a shriek of agony; he tried to fall to his knees, but the chains attached to his wrists prevented him from doing so…
‘Lord Nishidake,’ I said loudly, almost without thinking. ‘Give me just twenty-four hours, this I beg of you. Suspend your torture of this man, and before tomorrow evening, I will give you the real killer of all these people, over the years…’
The torturer had raised his whip again; but with the slightest movement of his hand, Nishidake bade him to be still.
The daimyo glowered at me, saying –
‘Again I find myself irritated, but also strangely intrigued by you, Ennin. You are really so sure of this innkeeper’s innocence?’
Was I? – this thought burnt itself in my mind, as I met Nishidake’s fearsome gaze.
Yes, I was. It just didn’t make sense for that innkeeper to have killed all those people; to have had to then secretly dispose of all their possessions and so forth; and also for him to have successfully evaded detection or capture for all those years until now… Surely, if he had killed those people and stolen their combined wealth, he would not still be running that wretched little inn in the village by the sea…
Still, I really had nothing more than this to go on. Certainly no idea as to who the actual killer – or killers – could be, other than a vague, murky suspicion...
I thought of that long, narrow and lonely path that ran between a craggy cliff-face and the sea, before you arrived at this remote village. And also the fact that no guests arriving on horseback seemed to have then ‘disappeared’, as it were…
No, no – this innkeeper was not the mass-murderer the daimyo believed him to be. A lowdown crook who’d set fire to his competitor’s inn – now that I could believe.
But not a killer...
‘I have no idea why, Ennin, but I will allow you the period of time you request. Twenty-four hours in which you will present to me the real killer. If you do not, believe me, you may well find yourself joining this innkeeper down here in my dungeon…’