THREE TALES
OF
LOVE AND MURDER

by
I. J. Parker

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Pronunciation of Japanese Words

Introduction

Death and Cherry Blossoms

The Incense Murders

Instruments of Murder

Bonus Chapter: from THE HELL SCREEN

About the Author

Also by I. J. Parker

Copyright 2012 by I. J. Parker

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission of the author or publisher.

Edition: February 2012

Pronunciation of Japanese Words

Unlike English, Japanese is pronounced phonetically. Therefore vowel sounds are approximately as follows:

“a” as in “father”

“e” as in “let”

“i” as in “kin”

“o” as in “more”

“u” as in “would.”

Double consonants (“ai” or “ei”) are pronounced separately, and o or u are doubled or lengthened.

As for the consonants:

“g” as in “game”

“j” as in “join”

“ch” as in “chat”.

Introduction

THE THREE STORIES in this book have all appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. They have long been out of print and I have had many requests from readers to make them once again available. I have recently released AKITADA AND THE WAY OF JUSTICE, a collection of eleven of the stories and am working to release all of them individually or in smaller collections. Two of the stories are also in the general collection. The third, “Death and Cherry Blossoms”, appears here for the first time again after many years.

The reason for combining them under a single topic was that these stories illustrate how the human passions related to love can lead to violence against women. In each of the stories, it is a woman who suffers either death or abuse. Historically, Japanese culture has left women especially vulnerable and helpless.

Sugawara Akitada, a young official in the imperial government, becomes involved in their stories, as do several other characters familiar from the novels. While Akitada is the sleuth in each case, the others have significant roles also. In the first story, Akitada is still very young and holds a subordinate position in the Ministry of Justice. Minister Soga, his immediate superior, is a man who has an almost irrational dislike for Akitada and tries his best to ruin his career. In the second story, there is Akitada’s mother. Lady Sugawara is sharp-tongued, ambitious, demanding, and harshly critical of Akitada whom she considers a failure. Next we meet Tora, his loyal friend and servant, a former highwayman with little respect for the nobility and an eye for pretty women.

The other characters are typical for the times and culture in and around Kyoto: noblemen and noblewomen; their household staff; artisans and tradesmen; courtesans and the servants of the law. The pursuits of the time are illustrated in Akitada’s flute playing, his cousin’s practicing the incense cult, young lovers exchanging poems, the celebration of the cherry blossoms, ancestor worship, wrestlers vying for prizes, pharmacists treating the sick with strange remedies, and sword smiths practicing their honored craft.

And now to the stories.

I. J. Parker
January, 2012

Death and Cherry Blossoms

Heian-Kyo (Kyoto): during the Flowery Month (May), 11th century.

IN the courtyards of the imperial palaces, cherry trees bloomed and nightingales sang, as beautiful court ladies and handsome courtiers wrote passionate verses to each other.

Just beyond the palace walls, the business of the government took precedence over the amusements of spring and young love. Akitada, junior clerk in the Ministry of Justice, toiled away in semi-darkness among the dull dossiers of ancient court cases. A punitive assignment this, because he had once again disobeyed and meddled in a criminal investigation when his proper sphere was estate law.

But on this day his dusty labors were interrupted by a summons from the minister himself, a summons which was about to catapult him once again into murder.

The minister, Soga Ietada, a fat man with bushy hair and brows, preferred the cultivated pleasures of aristocratic life to his civil service duties. He particularly resented young trouble-makers like Akitada, whose ancient family and top honors at the university had earned him a post in his ministry.

Knowing this, Akitada’s hands were clammy when he entered the great man’s office. As he knelt and bowed deeply, he wondered what new offense had been discovered and what additional punishment awaited him.

“Sugawara,” Soga said, “I am sending you into the country with some legal documents to witness the principals’ signatures. You are to leave immediately.”

“Yes, your Honor. Where am I going?”

“To Kiyowara’s summer villa on the Katsura river. His daughter is marrying Lord Kose’s son. You will take the settlement papers to them.”

Kiyowara Toyashi was the minister’s close friend and an imperial counselor of the junior fourth rank. Meeting him was an intimidating prospect for someone as young as Akitada. But it was offset by the trip to the Katsura river in springtime! Akitada’s face lit up.

Soga regarded him sourly. “Remember, this is strictly business. Watch your manners. I don’t want to hear any more complaints about you. And change into something decent. You look positively grimy. You own a horse, I trust?”

“Yes, your Honor.” Akitada did not, but he would rent one. Brushing at the dust on his threadbare robe, he asked, “Are there any instructions about the settlements?”

“No. You will do precisely as Lord Kiyowara tells you. You may leave.”

The cherry trees surrounding the pavilions, galleries, and courtyards of Kiyowara’s villa were in full, snowy bloom, gilded now by the setting sun. Here, too, the nightingales sang, mingling their notes with the tranquil sound of the slow-moving river beyond the garden.

Once the legal business was completed, Lord Kiyowara invited Akitada to spend the night before returning to the capital. Since he had been instructed to do as Kiyowara suggested, Akitada stayed, attending a festive banquet that evening. After a sumptuous feast, Kiyowara and his guests took turns at some extemporaneous verses in praise of marriage and cherry blossoms.

This threw Akitada into a schoolboy’s panic. High honors at the university and employment in the ministry had not helped him compose romantic poetry, a grave fault in an age which valued such things more than learning or character. To make matters worse, his host’s brother, already half drunk, had recited some highly salacious verses about the bride’s physical charms just before it was Akitada’s turn. Still flushing to the roots of his hair, Akitada was unable to think of some passable lines, when the first scream shattered the evening calm.

Beyond the open doors of the banquet room lay the gardens and the women’s quarters. The screaming came from there, a steady stream of “aiiihhs,” gathering other voices to gain in volume, like a fire on a dry straw roof.

The six men jumped to their feet, momentarily speechless. Across the gardens the screams died into a buzz of excited women’s voices.

“What happened?” cried Kose Masanobu, the bridegroom.

Lord Kiyowara frowned and clapped his hands for a servant. “Please do not concern yourselves, gentlemen. The women are easily frightened by mice in the country. No doubt it was just a silly maid. Please forgive the interruption.”

The groom’s father, the wealthy Kose Yoshiari, looked dubious. “We had better go and see that everything is all right.”

“Ah, I see what worries you,” said their host, smiling at young Masanobu. “Come along. It will not amount to much, but by all means reassure yourselves of her safety.”

Perhaps the invitation was only for the Koses, father and son, but the other two members of the party, the host’s brother Tadahira, and the family tutor Akimitsu, trailed along.

Akitada, the only real outsider, hesitated, then followed also.

In the garden, the blossoming branches hung ghostlike in the gathering dusk, their whiteness a mysterious veil against the encroaching night.

When they reached the bamboo gate to the women’s quarters, a male servant shot through. “My Lord,” he gasped, sliding to his knees before Kiyowara, “The Lady Umeko has killed herself.”

The Lady Umeko was Kiyowara’s daughter and Masanobu’s intended bride.

Kiyowara roughly pushed the servant out of his way and rushed toward the nearest pavilion. A group of sobbing maids clustered around the open door on the veranda.

Following with the others, Akitada smelled it first. Blood—the scent of death: cloying, sickening, hot, unmistakable. His stomach lurched.

The maids moved aside so they could see into the room. A single large candle was burning in a tall stand. Under it, on a thick grass mat, lay the young woman. She wore a beautiful gown of many-layered silks in shades of pink, rose, and soft green, and her long glossy hair made black ripples and waves across the voluminous pale folds. But her life’s blood had poured from the slashed throat and formed another, more horrible, pattern in crimson across her chest and the front of her skirt. She had fallen on her left side, her legs drawn up a little because she had been kneeling. Incongruously, a silver mirror and ivory comb lay near her, as if she had been rearranging her hair.

Akitada felt a great surge of pity for the young woman, soon to have been a bride. Beside him, Masanobu suddenly turned away retching. His father went to help him.

The dead girl’s father stood frozen in stunned disbelief. “Umeko,” he whispered. “Oh, no! It cannot be.” Turning away abruptly, he came face to face with Akitada.

“I am deeply sorry, my Lord,” Akitada said nervously. Seeing the older man’s blank look of shock, he offered, “Would you allow me to make certain she is … beyond help?”

Covering his face, Kiyowara nodded.

Akitada stepped into the room gingerly. So much blood! It had splashed widely, drenching mirror, make-up boxes, and painted screens with its crimson surge. It covered the front of the young woman’s gown and her sleeves, and it had soaked into the grass mat on which she lay, turning its pale green fibers the color of maple leaves in autumn.

Akitada knelt beside the young woman to touch her cheek. She was still faintly warm, and the blood still flowed, very slowly, from the gaping wound just beneath her chin. Moving his fingers below her ear, he could feel no pulse. The wound looked horribly like another mouth, vomiting forth life. She had been pretty, this young bride of eighteen, in the way that young women of ordinary appearance suddenly become quite lovely at that age. Akitada glanced around the luxurious room and then out at her stricken father who still averted his face.

“I am very sorry, my Lord,” he said rising. “The Lady Umeko is dead.”

Kiyowara turned a ravaged face toward him. “Oh my poor child! How could this happen? She was to be married this very night.”

“Look for yourself, my Lord,” Akitada said. Reluctantly, the father approached and Akitada pointed to the young woman’s right hand.

It lay flung out, partly covered by the long, blood-stained sleeve of her gown. The fingers curled loosely around the handle of a razor, the type women use to shave their eyebrows and hairline. The blade was covered with blood.

Kiyowara gave a half-choking cry, then turned abruptly and ran. A soft murmur passed through the women gathered outside. The two Koses followed, the father supporting the son, and Kiyowara’s brother stumbled drunkenly after them.

Only the tutor remained, kneeling at the edge of the veranda, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Akitada went to him, touching the young man’s arm. He started to his feet, groaned, and staggered away.

Akitada had seen violent death before. It always moved him profoundly. But always the emotional shock passed into something else, a need to acknowledge the victim’s life by knowing fully the circumstances of the death. He turned now to look again at the scene of this tragic suicide, wondering why a beautiful young woman on the threshold of a full and privileged life would turn her face toward darkness.

The contrast between the dainty furnishings and the gory scene was painful. The sliding doors to the veranda and the small private garden stood wide open. Outside, one of the flowering cherries reached its laden branches over bamboo fencing, and in an alcove stood more flowering branches in a large jar. The candlelight turned the white blossoms faintly golden, but outside, in the falling darkness, the splendor had faded into an insubstantial haze.

The poetess Komachi, in her old age, had written, “The cherry blossoms have passed away, their color gone; age takes my beauty as it fades in the long rain of my regrets.” Lady Umeko would never lose her youth now. Even before she had lived it, her life had become too sad to bear.

Akitada looked for that life in the room of painted screens, stacked lacquer clothes chests, musical instruments, dainty porcelain dishes, inlaid writing boxes, carved brush containers, rolled scrolls of illustrated novels and poetry collections, and gilded make-up cases. And he marveled again that, in the midst of her youth and hours before her marriage to a handsome and wealthy young man, in this pampered comfort of her pretty room and dressed in her loveliest gown, yes, at the very moment when she was combing her hair and looking into her mirror, she should have come to this desperate decision to end her life. It was inexplicable.

His eye came to rest on the toppled mirror. Blood, spurting from the severed neck arteries, had covered its entire polished silver surface. On the crimson ground lay the lovely ivory comb. Ancient symbols of marital harmony, a pair of mandarin ducks, swimming among reeds, decorated its spine. A marriage gift from Masanobu? How futile its auspicious message seemed now! Not one drop of her blood marred its pale perfection.

One of the poignant symbols of this senseless death, the comb made Akitada vaguely uneasy. It hinted at something else, something requiring a more detached and analytical explanation. And suddenly Akitada knew what was wrong. If she had laid down her comb to take up the razor, the comb should be covered with blood. This was no suicide. No, someone else had stepped behind her as she was combing her hair and had slit her throat. This person had then removed the comb from her lifeless hand and replaced it with the razor, tossing the comb carelessly on the bloody mirror. It had been a cold-blooded murder!

Outside some frightened maidservants still hovered. He asked, “Who was Lady Umeko’s maid?”

They ran away, but one young woman came forward and knelt, touching her head to the floor. “This insignificant person is called Otori,” she said.

“Did you find your mistress like this, Otori?”

The girl’s eyes were wide with horror. “Yes, sir. This person came to help her change her gown.”

“Did you touch anything?”

She shook her head violently.

“How long had she been alone in her room?”

“My lady returned after viewing the cherry blossoms with the young lord, but she sent me away to have my supper before getting things ready.”

“Getting things ready?”

“For the young lord’s arrival.”

Akitada flushed. Of course. This night Masanobu was to have consummated the marriage. He remembered seeing the young couple earlier from a distance. They had made a charming picture, moving about the gardens, looking up at the clouds of white cherry blossoms spread against the mountains’ hazy blue and the limpid azure sky. Someone had cruelly stopped their union. He asked the girl, “Do you know if she expected a visitor?”

A look of speculation passed over the girl’s face, but she shook her head.

“How long have you served your mistress?”

“Four months. Since my Lord brought my lady here.” She paused. “My lady was not happy here.”

“How so?”

Otori raised her shoulders helplessly. “Maybe she was homesick … or maybe she didn’t want to marry the young lord, sir.”

The Lady Umeko had been Kiyowara’s child by an earlier marriage and had been raised by her mother’s people after the first Lady Kiyowara’s death, but this was the first suggestion that the young woman had not welcomed her father’s choice of bridegroom. Akitada asked, “What makes you think she did not want this marriage?”

“She cried a lot and was forever writing. Maybe she was fond of someone else.”

Again that look of speculation, only this time Akitada knew what she was suggesting. “You mean she loved another man? Someone here, in this house?”

“I can’t say.”

But there was a smug secretiveness about her, and Akitada persisted. “Can’t or won’t? Come on, you have some idea, don’t you?”

Lowering her eyes modestly, she said, “My lady always sent me away to sleep with the other maids.”

The implication was clear and shocked Akitada. “You suspect that she was receiving some man at night?” Sternly, he drew himself up. “Why did you not report this to her parents as was your duty?”

The girl’s eyes widened with fear. “I know nothing,” she cried. Jumping up, she scurried away into the darkness.

Akitada cursed his foolishness. The girl had crucial information, and he had scared her away. Who was Lady Umeko’s secret lover? Had he killed her because he was about to lose her? Or had Masanobu discovered the affair and murdered his bride in a fit of rage?

Akitada realized belatedly that he faced a dilemma. If he insisted on reporting this murder, he would expose scandal in the family of Lord Kiyowara who was a notorious stickler for propriety. That would be the final straw for Soga who would dismiss Akitada instantly. The only safe option was to keep out of the affair and to depart for the capital as soon as possible.

But Akitada was incapable of doing this. After a nervous look around to make sure he was alone, he went into the pavilion to make a quick search for letters or a diary, anything which might provide a clue to her lover or killer. Even this was dangerous. If he, an unrelated young man, were caught pawing through a young noblewoman’s private possessions, her father would be justified in having him arrested. But Kiyowara did not know that his daughter had been murdered. Would he prefer it to have been suicide? Surely not; surely he would want her killer caught. Any father would want to know the truth, scandal or not.

The search produced nothing and that, perversely, seemed to prove a secret and illicit relationship. Dissatisfied Akitada left, extinguishing the candle and closing the doors to the garden. Then he went in search of Kiyowara.

Kiyowara’s private quarters lay in darkness, but from the adjoining guest quarters came the subdued sound of male voices and the glimmer of light. His heart pounding, Akitada stepped on a rock and peered over the top of the fence. This courtyard was much smaller than Kiyowara’s and served only a single room, its doors wide open on the candle-lit scene inside.

Lord Kiyowara and his brother sat side by side in conversation. Kiyowara looked dreadful, and his brother wept openly. Akitada felt his heart contract for the two men who shared the loss of a beloved young woman.

This was not the time to add new sorrow, and Akitada returned to the banquet room where he found the Koses glumly sipping wine. Masanobu was saying angrily, “You recall, sir, that I was against the alliance from the start, but you insisted.” The elder Kose saw Akitada and put a warning hand on his son’s arm. “Still up, young man?” he asked lightly. “We were about to retire. Let’s give the family some peace, shall we?” They got to their feet and, with nods to Akitada, departed.

Akitada wondered. Masanobu had sounded irritated rather than distressed by his bride’s death. So the marriage of Lady Umeko to the wealthy Kose had been strictly a matter of expediency, bringing financial benefits to the Kiyowaras and political influence to the Koses. Rumor had it that Kiyowara, though close to the emperor, had suffered grievous financial losses because of border wars and mismanagement of his northern estates. On the other hand, Lord Kose, round-bellied, triple-chinned, and florid, controlled great wealth and wanted his son to rise quickly to political eminence. Handsome and haughty, Masanobu looked every young woman’s romantic dream, but Lady Umeko’s father had not chosen him to please her. Neither had Masanobu desired her as his bride.

Akitada wandered into the cherry grove to think about the men in Lady Umeko’s life.

The tutor Akimitsu was Akitada’s age. He had hardly touched his food or wine during the banquet and had wept freely outside the lady’s room. Had Akimitsu been so foolhardy as to carry on an affair with Lady Umeko even as her father was arranging a brilliant match? Kiyowara’s rage would have been terrible, had he found out. For someone as obsessed with rank and status as he, a liaison between his daughter and a mere tutor would be intolerable.

In that respect the Kiyowaras and the Koses were quite similar. Young Kose, already opposed to the match, would have felt doubly offended by such a betrayal.

But foolish and dangerous as such an affair might be, it was not at all unlikely. Akimitsu, slender, gentle, and soulful-eyed, had lived in the same household with a lonely, homesick young woman; he was an accomplished poet, a fact which had not escaped Akitada during the aborted poetry contest, and might have won an impressionable young girl’s heart quite easily with his verses.

Akitada gazed up into the darkness which had all but swallowed up the pale blossoms of the trees, and was reminded of Tsurayuki’s famous lines. “In the depth of night, where have the bright blossoms gone? I am cast in grief for her too soon taken by the dark.” Had Akimitsu grieved for his beloved? Or had he been overcome by remorse? Had he murdered the lady in a fit of jealousy? Or because he feared she would reveal their relationship to her father?

Impossible to tell. Akitada switched his mind back to the murder scene. The body had still been faintly warm; the blood had not yet congealed. The murder must have happened within an hour or two, roughly during the time of the banquet. Who among the men had left their company? Akimitsu, he recalled, had gone out twice, having been sent to the kitchen with instructions to the staff. But all of them had left the room both before and during the meal. Kiyowara himself had gone to check on the food preparation. And Lord Kose had got up to relieve himself, as had Lord Tadahira, and Akitada himself. Masanobu had wandered off into the gardens just before the poetry contest.

The villa and its grounds remained shrouded in stillness. The Koses had retired to their guest quarters, and the Kiyowara brothers, worn out by grief, were no doubt also asleep. The corpse of Lady Umeko lay forgotten among her pretty things. Suddenly it seemed important to Akitada that she should not be alone in death and he went back.

Something rustled in the shrubbery of her garden when Akitada opened the gate. The shadows near the wall were too thick to see, but he felt a prickle of fear at the thought that the killer had returned to the scene of his crime.

“Who is there?” he cried softly, his heart racing. He heard someone breathing heavily. Then the slender figure of Akimitsu stepped from the shadows.

The tutor looked ghastly but seemed peaceable enough. “I didn’t know anyone would be here,” he said, looking past Akitada toward the pavilion.

“Why are you here?” Akitada asked.

The other man could have asked the same question, but he turned listless, red-rimmed eyes on Akitada. “I loved her. She killed herself because her father was forcing her to marry that spoiled brat. I’ll follow her into death as soon as I have seen her one last time.” He raised his pale face toward the flowering cherry tree and recited, “Lovely though they are, I shall not see them again: pale cherries in bloom. My heart, crushed by harsh fate, shatters like their blossoms.”

Very pretty, thought Akitada unsympathetically. He disliked emotional displays and felt the tutor talked romantic nonsense and was probably putting on an act. He said bluntly, “It was murder and I’m going to find her killer. What precisely was your relationship with the dead lady?”

Akimitsu stared at him. “Murder? We … I was employed to teach her about poetry, because her education had been sadly neglected. Somehow we … fell in love. What do you mean, murder? I saw her. She did it herself.” Tears began to gather in his eyes and spilled down his pale cheeks. “We loved each other hopelessly. When she told me of her marriage to Lord Kose, I was going to leave, but she begged me to stay. She was afraid.”

“Afraid? Of Masanobu?”

Akimitsu buried his face in his hands. “Yes. No. I don’t know. She wouldn’t say! What does it matter now?”

Akitada regarded him with irritation. Sentimental idiot. Such a highly improper relationship had been doomed from the start. Akimitsu’s behavior, apart from being reprehensible, had also been foolhardy. Nobody employed a young man in his house who might seduce his daughters.

Akimitsu was edging toward the pavilion. “Please, may I see her one last time?”

“I cannot stop you, but it’s not good to see violent death. You would do better to remember her as she was and help me find her killer.”

Akimitsu turned tragic eyes to Akitada. “I’m no longer of this world, but of hers,” he said sadly.

Akitada suppressed a snort, and climbed the steps to the veranda to open the door. He located the candle and struck a light. Akimitsu approached the corpse of his beloved reverently. Kneeling beside her, he looked at her face for a long time. Then he reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. The gesture was both caress and farewell. He bowed, rose, and turned to Akitada. “I shall be forever grateful to you, sir. Good night.”

Akitada followed him out. “Akimitsu?”

The tutor turned on the steps to the garden.

“You cannot serve her by killing yourself, you know. Help me find her murderer. Tell me about her life here.”

Akimitsu hung his head. “She’s dead and that is all that matters. I cannot help you. Her father brought her here four months ago and hired me to teach her. She was unhappy and very lonely, and we were drawn to each other. We both knew there was no hope for us. Lord Kiyowara had decided that she would marry Kose Masanobu.” Akimitsu grimaced. “He’s a rich dandy who is involved with the wife of another nobleman, not worthy of a pure spirit like Umeko.”

“Would he have killed her to be free of her?”

“He didn’t. You saw her.” His voice broke and his face contorted. Dropping his head, he wept silently.

It seemed very dark. The sky had clouded up, obscuring the stars. Suddenly the dark clouds parted, their outlines silvered by a hazy moon as it swam into view. The cherry tree sprang into a ghostly presence. “Thank you, Akimitsu,” Akitada said with a sigh. “Don’t do anything foolish!” The young man shook his head, then quietly turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Akitada looked at the moon for a while, then rose to make another search of Lady Umeko’s chamber. She was always writing, the maid had said. Surely she had confided her secrets to a diary and hidden it most carefully.

This time, he went over everything in the room, lifting the edges of the grass mats, feeling the panels which formed the walls, pulling the small drawers from her make-up box to look for false bottoms, and even climbing on a stool to run his hands along the wooden cross beams. Nothing. And yet he was convinced that she had hidden it in this room, and in such a way that it was readily accessible to her. He glanced at the slight figure on the mat. She was small and fragile and would hardly be able to reach the beams or lift heavy boards. He let his eyes scan the walls again. When they reached the doors to the veranda, he noticed the decorative panels which had been inserted around the frame. Through these grilles of narrow lacquered bamboo pieces one could easily slip a thin book. He went to inspect them. The vertical panels were useless as hiding places, for the doors slid into them; but those above the doors covered open space. He slid his fingers along the lowest bamboo slat and touched fabric. Coaxed out from its hiding place, the object proved to be a sheaf of papers, sewn together down its middle into a red brocade cover. Lady Umeko’s diary.

The smell of blood still hung cloyingly in the air, and Akitada carried the candle to the veranda to read by its flickering light what Lady Umeko had not dared confide to anyone.

He skimmed the artless entries, begun at the home of her maternal grandparents and kept up at greater length since her arrival here. The brush strokes were unformed, the style artless. Lonely and estranged in this new place, she yearned for her father’s affection. Akitada skipped until he encountered Akimitsu’s name. She seemed to have regarded him as a friend, someone her own age she could talk to. She had copied down every poem he had sent her, along with her own, rather clumsy, replies.

Impatient, Akitada turned the pages to more recent entries. In spite of her fondness for Akimitsu, she seemed to have accepted the betrothal to Masanobu to please her father. Umeko might have been unhappy, but she had certainly not been suicidal. In fact, she expressed the hope that she might be married soon and leave for her husband’s home.

Then what had she been afraid of? Akitada went back through the diary. Shortly after her arrival and before Akimitsu entered her world, he suddenly encountered the entry: “He came to my room tonight, smelling disgustingly of wine. He was very affectionate and I wished my father were as fond of me. But then he frightened me with strange talk. I cried out when he touched my breast, and he left.”

Akitada raised his head and listened. From beyond the fence to his right came a faint sound. Then a small branch snapped, and someone whispered. Akitada jumped up and cast a frantic look around; it took only a moment to shove the diary under an edge of the grass mat and return to the veranda. He looked for a place to hide. Too late!

Kiyowara’s voice demanded, “Who’s there?” Akitada froze as the dark figure detached itself from the gate. In the light of the flickering candle, Akitada stood on the veranda like a thief about to take flight. “Sugawara! What’s going on here?” Kiyowara growled.

“Ah …” stammered Akitada.

More people arrived. Someone lit a lantern: Kose senior. Masanobu stepped forward into the light. “Well? What are you doing here, Sugawara?” he asked nastily. “Surely you did not lose your way?”

Akitada pulled himself together and bowed to Kiyowara. “No, my Lord. I … thought it safer to stay here. To wait for the police.”

“The police?” Kose senior demanded, his voice heavy with disbelief.

“Yes. You see, I … I am afraid Lady Umeko did not kill herself. She was m-murdered.”

Kiyowara was momentarily speechless, then approached angrily. “What nonsense is this, Sugawara? There is the razor in her hand.” He pointed at his daughter’s body. “In fact, you showed it to me yourself. What do you mean by making up such a thing now?”

Akitada looked at the Koses, wondering if one of them was the killer. He said, “Nevertheless it was murder. You’ll have to send for the police, sir.”

“I will not! The village warden has been notified. He will certify suicide. And I forbid you to continue this outrageous abuse of my hospitality. You had better return to your room.”

Akitada flinched. If it turned out that he was wrong, he would be in the most serious trouble. He decided to plead with Kiyowara. “As her father, sir, you must wish to see her murderer caught.”

The elder Kose snapped, “You are over-stepping the bounds of good manners, young man. I suggest you do as you’re told. You have no business here.”

“Precisely.” Masanobu eyed Akitada as if he had suddenly turned into a disgusting and dangerous insect. “I think he should be sent back immediately, Father,” he said. “With a sharp warning. A scandal will hurt my career. With this talk of murder, people will make up all sorts of tales.”

Kiyowara Tadahira staggered toward them. He hiccuped, and raised a cup. “Poor li’l Umeko. Le’s say a prayer.” He stumbled on the steps and fell. Akitada moved to help him up.

His brother snapped, “Leave him alone.” He clapped his hands for a servant and told the man, “Put him to bed, and this time stay with him.” The servant hefted the mumbling, weak-kneed Tadahira to his feet and supported him out of the courtyard with expertise born from practice. Lord Kiyowara shook his head, then turned to Akitada. “I’m sorry, young man,” he said in a softer tone. “I should not have spoken to you that way. It has been a terrible day and we are all overwrought. The warden and his men will be here soon. It is late and you will wish to return to the capital early tomorrow. I regret that you should have become involved in my daughter’s death.”

Akitada bit his lip. “Since I was one of your guests when your daughter died, sir, the police will want to talk to me. Your daughter had not been dead long when we found her. They will ask all of us where we were when the crime was committed.”

Lord Kose flared up, “Just what are you implying, Sugawara? We were together at the time.”

“I believe each of us left the banquet briefly. They will verify your stories.”

“Our stories?” demanded Lord Kose, turning purple with rage. “Lies, do you mean? Something we have made up to cover a murderous impulse? Are you mad, Sugawara?”

Akitada was saved from answering by the arrival of the local warden, but the moment he saw the man, a local farmer, fall down on his knees to Kiyowara, Akitada’s heart sank.

Gesturing toward his daughter’s corpse, Kiyowara told the warden, “Do your duty, man, but honor my poor child’s body.”

The warden looked, blanched, then nodded vigorously and approached the corpse. He stopped at a safe distance and peered.

Akitada fidgeted. The man had not even bothered to take a light. Gathering his courage, Akitada protested, “We need a more experienced investigator, my Lord. This man may destroy evidence with his fumbling.” For good measure, he added, “As a representative of the Ministry of Justice, I cannot approve of such a slip-shod investigation.”

The warden froze and cast a frightened glance at Kiyowara, who sighed and said, “Go on, Warden. All you have to do is verify that she committed suicide.”

The warden bowed. He walked around the body slowly, studying it, shaking his head and muttering “Amida!” and “What a thing!” Finally he bent to look at the razor in Lady Umeko’s hand and asked, “Honorable Lord, was the young lady accustomed to doing most things with her right hand?”

“Certainly.”

“Ah. I thought so.” The man nodded. “Yes. Yes. In that case it is quite clear that the young lady must have done it herself, for she is still holding the razor in her right hand.”

Akitada cried, “The razor could have been put there by her murderer.”

The warden goggled at him. “Murderer?” He looked again, and said, “Yes. Yes. You’re quite right, noble sir; it could have been put there by her murderer.”

“You fool,” Kiyowara groaned. “It’s a clear case of suicide. My daughter was unhappy about her approaching marriage. She was highly strung and afraid to leave her home and family. Perhaps she left a note. Search her!”

Akitada protested again, again in vain. The warden approached the body and timidly felt the girl’s sleeves.

“She usually carried things in her sash,” Kiyowara said impatiently.

The sash was soaked with blood, and the warden flinched visibly. His function as local representative of the law had evidently not inured him to the taboos against touching the dead.

With an impatient grunt, Kiyowara pushed the warden aside and, carefully tucking aside his sleeve, bent to retrieve something from his daughter’s sash. “Here,” he said, holding up a square of paper smeared with blood.

The warden shrank back even farther. “I can’t read, my Lord. You read it. What does it say?”

“Very well.” Kiyowara unfolded the paper and read out: “My heart, cast down by harsh fate, shatters like the blossoms.” Sighing deeply he refolded the note. “It’s as I thought. Her unhappiness has caused her to end her life.”

There was something familiar about the words. Akitada extended his hand. “May I?” Kiyowara relinquished the paper. Akitada read the note. The writing was not hers, but he recognized the line. It was Akimitsu’s and he must have given her this. Returning the paper, he said only, “This note doesn’t speak of death specifically, only of unhappiness. I regret this deeply, my Lord, but I should like everyone to verify a small detail. There is a comb on Lady Umeko’s mirror. Would you please look at it?”

Lord Kiyowara glanced at it. “What about it? Young Kose gave it to her earlier. She was combing her hair with it before she …” He turned away and covered his face.

“There’s a great deal of blood on the mirror, but none on the comb,” Akitada persisted.

The warden stepped closer and looked. The Koses muttered together.

Still hiding his face, Kiyowara cried out in a pained voice, “Amida! What next? There is blood on the front of her gown, but none on the back. Who is to say at such a moment what will get stained?”

“There usually is a reason for things.”

“Sugawara,” said his host in a tired voice, “will you please leave and let the man get on with his duty? I’m at the end of my patience.”

Masanobu stepped up to the veranda and laid his hand on Akitada’s elbow. “Time to go,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ve outstayed your welcome.”

Akitada shook off his hand. “My point about the comb is that it cannot have been lying on the mirror when Lady Umeko died or it would be covered by her blood. This kind of fatal wound causes the blood to spurt. Someone put the comb there after her death.”

Silence. Then the warden nodded, “Yes, yes, quite right. That must be so. Someone came in later and put it there. Perhaps the person who found her?”

“Nonsense,” snapped Kiyowara. The warden jumped a little. His expression turned glum.

“The maid denies going near her,” said Akitada, “and if anyone else had been here, he or she would have given the alarm. No, it isn’t likely that anyone set foot in this room after the murderer until the maid arrived.”

Kiyowara groaned again. “Now I remember what Soga told me about you. You look for murder in everything. There is a perfectly simple explanation. Both you and I entered the room. One of us accidentally kicked the comb.”

The warden chuckled with relief. “Yes, yes!” he cried. “Very good. That explains it perfectly.”

Akitada cleared his throat. “I’m afraid not. You, my Lord, never went near the body, and I was careful. No, I’m afraid the comb was where it is now. In any case, I think there is sufficient cause for calling in the metropolitan police.” Seeing Kiyowara’s lips tighten, he added, “They will make a thorough search for other notes, or perhaps a diary, which may throw additional light on Lady Umeko’s frame of mind.”

The warden, whose face had fallen at Akitada’s objection, brightened instantly. “Yes, yes. The metropolitan police! What I was thinking exactly. I said to myself, ‘You must call in the metropolitan police.’ Yes. Yes.”

“Enough!” Kiyowara threw up his hands. “Have it your way! I shall deal with matters in the morning.”

Akitada hesitated, then turned to the warden. “Can you spare one of your people to guard this room until the police arrive?”

“Guard the room …?” began the warden. Kose senior interrupted. “This is an unbearable insult to your host and to myself and my son, Sugawara,” he snapped. “We shall not forget it.” He took his son’s arm and stalked off.

The warden moved uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Do you mean someone has to stay with the dead lady?”

Akitada sighed. Most people feared contamination by the dead, and country people also believed in possession by their spirits. “Very well,” he said. “I shall keep watch myself.”

“No.” Kiyowara’s tone was peremptory. “Seal the door, Warden, by pasting some paper over it. No one will enter. Good night to you, Sugawara!” He swung around, and walked quickly away. The warden obeyed as Akitada watched, then said apologetically, “With your permission, sir. I must dictate my report and send a messenger to the capital.”

Akitada walked back to his room, his mind in turmoil. The darkness was now dense, and there was a hint of coming rain on the light wind which had sprung up. He glanced up at the sky. Clouds had moved in, black rags blotting out the stars and moon.

There was something very strange about this murder, and murder it was, no matter what Kiyowara said. At least the warden’s habit of agreeing with any person of higher rank had allowed Akitada to prevail about the police. Tomorrow, by daylight, the efficient constables of the metropolitan force would search Lady Umeko’s room and interrogate every person in the household. They would find the diary, put the pieces together, and see the pattern—of anger, passion, or greed—which had led to this violent act.

But Akitada found sleep escaped him. Half-remembered bits and pieces kept worrying him. He went over each of the possible suspects again. Akimitsu, by his own admission her lover, had two strong motives. He seemed gentle and harmless, but the tutor was a bit of an exhibitionist and could have put on an act. And she had still had his last poem on her when she died. Proof that he had visited her?

Kose Masanobu had opposed the match from the start, possibly because of another strong attachment. If he had discovered Lady Umeko’s affair, he might have lashed out in fury. Masanobu, unlike Akimitsu, struck Akitada as a man with a violent temper.

His father’s motive was less strong, but he also might have avenged an insult to his family.

Surely it had not been Tadahira, a drunk, and a loving uncle more distraught over Lady Umeko’s death than her father.

Akitada sat up.

A loving uncle? Or a drunken sot bent on seduction? Yes, it had been Tadahira who had forced his caresses on her. Lady Umeko’s reference to her unwelcome visitor’s drunkenness and her pathetic wish that her father, instead of this man, would show her more affection made it a virtual certainty. Poor lonely Lady Umeko.

The shutters rattled in a gust of chill wind; Akitada shivered and rose to step outside. It was almost dawn. The clouds above the mountain range were turning a tarnished silver, and the first drops of cold rain struck the veranda.

He stood there for a moment, rubbing his arms to warm himself, and glanced at the gradually brightening cherry trees in the grey, rain-spattering dusk.

In the dismal weather, the mountain peaks towered like angry gods over the shadowy earth, and smoky clouds moved before the cold wind which shook the trees, tearing at their fragile springtime beauty and scattering blossoms across the rain dark earth.

And suddenly, with utter certainty, Akitada knew what must have happened. As she knelt before her silver mirror, Lady Umeko had seen her murderer’s image and had been as defenseless as the cherry trees before his fury.

The police officer was no stranger to Akitada. A lieutenant by rank and an ex-soldier, the grey-haired Ishida was a thorough professional who frowned on junior legal clerks meddling in criminal cases. To Akitada’s relief, he did not acknowledge their acquaintance.

While the police examined the body, they were herded into the banquet room, where some of the remnants of yesterday’s celebration still lay about. Under the watchful eyes of two constables no one felt like chatting. Lord Kiyowara had withdrawn into his own wretched thoughts, his brother looked ill, and the Koses apparently still simmered with resentment. Akimitsu, pale and silent, sat by himself near the door. Akitada bowed in the direction of the noblemen and was ignored. With a sigh he sat down beside the tutor.

Outside, in the ruined garden, the wind and rain scattered blossoms like snow across the sodden ground, but today no one intoned a verse comparing the brevity of cherry blossoms to human life.

They did not have long to wait. Lieutenant Ishida entered briskly, accompanied by more equally businesslike constables. After a glance around, he addressed Kiyowara. “I have some questions for those who were here last night, my Lord. Since Sugawara is the only outsider, perhaps I’d better start with him.”

Lord Kose growled, “You should be warned, Lieutenant. Sugawara has some insane fixation about one of us having murdered the young woman. His behavior has been shocking. I have every intention of speaking to his superiors.”

The lieutenant raised his brows, looked at Akitada, and asked, “What gave you such an extraordinary idea, Sugawara?”

“It was the comb, sir.”

He explained about the clean comb on the bloody mirror. Kiyowara immediately offered his own explanation. Ishida listened to both versions without comment.

Increasingly nervous, Akitada told of his activities during the night. When he came to the part where he found the diary, Kiyowara spoke up again.

“Pure fabrication. My daughter never kept a diary. Her education had been neglected to the extent that she could barely read and write. That is why she had a tutor. There never was a diary. Sugawara must have dreamed it.”

A soft voice said suddenly, “But there was a diary. I recommended she keep one for practice.”

They all looked at the tutor. Akimitsu saw Kiyowara’s glowering expression and bit his lip. “I am sorry, my Lord, but she showed it to me once to ask about a poem she had written in it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It must have been something else,” snapped Kiyowara. “I do think you’re singularly lacking in loyalty, Akimitsu.”

The tutor paled and shrank into himself. Ishida asked him, “Did you read any other entries?” Akimitsu shook his head wordlessly. “And you?” Ishida asked Akitada. “How much did you read before you were interrupted?”

“Enough to know it was a diary. I started at the beginning and had reached a passage where she expressed fear of some unnamed man who had come to her room at night and attempted to seduce her.”

“What?” Kiyowara was on his feet now, his face red with fury. “How dare you make such a shocking suggestion.”

“Please sit down, my Lord,” Ishida told him. “You will get your turn in a moment.”

Akitada said anxiously, “If you’ll send one of your men to her room, the matter can be cleared up quickly. I hid the diary under the edge of the mat near the veranda door.”

“There was no diary in Lady Umeko’s room. We looked under all the grass mats.”

Akitada stared at Ishida. “Then someone found it. You must search everyone’s room immediately. It’s a slim volume of some rather nice mulberry paper sewn together in a red brocade cover. The handwriting is childish, but perfectly adequate.”

“I do not need instruction in my job,” the lieutenant snapped. “As it happens, I have ordered such a search.” He paused and let his eyes move over the group. “It turned up some fragments among the ashes of one of the braziers in the guest quarters.” He drew a sheet of paper from his sash and unfolded it. In it lay a bit of charred red brocade. The paper was browned at the edges but covered with writing. Holding both paper and brocade up for them to see, he asked Akitada and Akimitsu, “Do either of you recognize this?”

Akimitsu nodded nervously. Akitada could not read the words, but there was no doubt in his mind that Ishida had found the diary. “Yes,” he said. “Is that all that’s left of the diary? May I look at it more closely?”

Ishida refolded the fragment and tucked it away. “Later. As to what is left, let’s just say someone was careless. Thank you, you have both been helpful. Please remain for the time being.”

Turning to Lord Kiyowara, Ishida said, “My Lord, it’s my duty to confirm that the death of your daughter was indeed murder and that there is evidence of a forbidden sexual relationship in the remnants of her diary. It is my belief that the murderer attempted to destroy this evidence before we arrived.”

Kiyowara demanded, “Let me see what you found.”

Ishida bowed. “Forgive me, my Lord, but there is no point. You have already stated that your daughter could barely write and will hardly be able to identify the sample.”

Kiyowara snapped, “I still deny the existence of such a diary. I don’t know what you found, but it did not belong to my daughter. She was illiterate.”

Akimitsu cried, “No, my Lord,” then blushed and cleared his throat apologetically. “Lady Umeko was far from illiterate. It grieves me that you have so little confidence in your daughter who was a beautiful, gentle, and loving young woman. She could both read and write very well before she died, and she showed considerable talent for poetry.”

Suddenly Masanobu was on his feet, eyes blazing. “According to the lieutenant, there was a forbidden sexual relationship between my future wife and some man. Was this … this mere hireling the person who dishonored her?”

Akimitsu turned perfectly white. “No! Never. I swear it by my ancestors.”

Kose senior pulled Masanobu down, whispering something in his ear. His son subsided with a frown.

The lieutenant regarded the Koses thoughtfully for a moment, then turned back to Kiyowara Toyashi, saying, “So it seems that the page I found was indeed written by your daughter. Fortunately we have enough evidence to bring charges. I regret to inform you that it was your brother who …”

“No!” Tadahira covered his ears, and burst into loud moans, “No. Oh, no! No.”

Ishida raised his voice a little. “Kiyowara Tadahira. I arrest you in the name of the emperor.” He gestured to his constables. Two of them approached and began to unwind thin chains from around their waists.

Kiyowara Toyashi rose and stepped in front of his brother. “Lieutenant, I don’t understand any of this. There must be a mistake. But even if you have proof, you cannot put chains on my brother as if he were a common criminal. We are descendants of the third emperor. Do you truly have grounds for such an arrest? If you have been influenced by the mad charges of that young puppy Sugawara, I’ll have both of you tried for slander.”

“Imperial blood or not, my Lord, it looks very much like your brother raped your daughter,” Ishida said brutally. “Yesterday he tried to repeat the assault, only this time she objected and he …”

“No!” cried Akitada, as shocked as Kiyowara by the lieutenant’s charge. “That’s not what happened.”

Ishida shot him a furious glance and snapped, “May I remind you, Sugawara, that you will be mentioned in my report to Minister Soga?”

“The whole charge is a foul lie,” insisted Lord Kiyowara. “No judge would take a silly girl’s over-heated imagination as evidence against my brother, whose only motive for a few harmless visits was a natural affection for a lonely young girl. Young women fill their diaries with all sorts of foolish notions. I will not tolerate your spreading such scandal about members of my family.”

The lieutenant smiled coldly. “So you now admit the existence of the diary, my Lord?”

Tadahira had become calm except for tears streaming down his face. He looked at his brother. “It’s no use, Toyashi. She …”

Kiyowara turned. “Say no more! They’ll use your words against you. I shall have you released as soon as possible.”

But Tadahira shook his head. “No, it’s too late, Toyashi.” He looked at the lieutenant. “You were quite right about my misconduct with my niece. The first time I simply mistook the room. She was so sweet and innocent. Too sweet and gentle for the rude hands of that young rake Masanobu, I thought. She had no mother and my brother had no time for her. I only meant to prepare her a little, but the wine … one night I went too far. Poor child!” He wept in slow, gulping sobs which shook his whole body.”

A flash of fury passed over his brother’s face. “You’ve lost your mind!” he said disgustedly.

The Koses had listened with increasing anger. Now the elder Kose exploded. “This is an outrage!” He got up and faced Kiyowara. “How dare you involve my family in such shameful doings? I should have suspected your haste to marry the girl off to my son, but I thought you were desperate for money.” He turned to Ishida. “Kiyowara misused funds in his office and was about to be found out. He approached me for a loan, offering his daughter and a captaincy in the imperial guards to my son. I accepted. Fortunately events have prevented the disastrous connection before it was too late. We shall not remain under his roof for another moment. With your permission, my son and I will return to the capital. You may call on us at any time for our testimony.”

When Ishida nodded, Masanobu joined his father. On their way out, they paused before Akitada, who rose quickly to his feet and bowed.

“We’re indebted to you, young man,” Kose senior said. “If it hadn’t been for your insistence that the young woman was murdered, I would have extended the loan against Kiyowara’s promise of the appointment for my son. We would have looked fine fools. I hope you will accept our apologies and call on us for future assistance.” Father and son bowed and walked stiffly away through the drizzle outside.

Struck with astonishment, Akitada was still looking after them when Tadahira cried, “Don’t try to protect me any longer, Toyashi. I have ruined everything.”

“Hold your tongue, you fool!” Kiyowara lunged for his brother and would have struck him if Ishida had not separated them. Two constables seized Tadahira and pulled him toward the door.

In a sudden panic, Akitada jumped up and barred their way. “Lieutenant,” he cried, his heart pounding, “you’re making a mistake.”

“Stay out of this, Sugawara,” Ishida warned.

“Just one question, Lieutenant, please. Are you arresting Kiyowara Tadahira because you think he burned the diary?”

“Since we found what is left of it in his brazier, it stands to reason he committed the murder.”

Tadahira gasped. “You think I murdered the poor child?”

His voice unsteady with nervousness, Akitada turned to Lord Kiyowara, “How did you know what your daughter wrote in her diary?”

Kiyowara stared at him blankly. “What?”

“You just said that she suffered from an over-heated imagination and that girls write foolish notions in their diaries. That means you read what she wrote. You also referred to a few visits your brother made to her room. How could you have known that if not from her diary? It was you who took the diary, wasn’t it? And you who tried to burn it in your brother’s room.”

“That’s an outrageous lie. I repeat, I knew of no diary.”

Tadahira struggled with the constables. “But that’s not true. You came and told me that you knew all. You said you would destroy her diary to protect me.” His eyes widened with sudden horror. “Oh, say you didn’t kill your own child to protect me!”

“Of course not, you fool! Stop ranting before you destroy us both.” Kiyowara’s features were distorted with rage.

Akitada could not restrain himself any longer. “Lord Kiyowara, you did kill your daughter,” he cried. “It had to be you. She wouldn’t have remained calmly at her toilet in front of the mirror if your brother had visited her. Only her father could have come close enough to her to reach for the razor and slit her throat.”

Tadahira became hysterical. “Dear heaven, it’s true. I heard you in her room last evening. I wanted to speak to her, to apologize and wish her well, but when I got to the door, I heard you shouting. I was afraid you’d found out what had happened. Oh, dear heaven, why did you do this?”

Kiyowara stood frozen. For a moment he looked murderous, then the fight went out of him. He sank to the floor. “You fool!” he muttered. “I tried to cover for you and you have ruined me. You miserable drunkard! Yes, I found out. Not only did you sleep with my daughter, but you got her with child. When I went to inform her that the marriage contracts were signed, the silly girl told me. She wanted me to tell Masanobu. When I refused, she threatened to tell him herself. You know I couldn’t allow that.”

Akimitsu gave a choking cry and jumped up. Looking at the Kiyowaras, he cried, “She would have done better to clutch a stone and leap into a deep pool than to come here, hoping for a father’s love. Only lust, cruelty, and death reside in the hearts of the great.” He turned and plunged into the rain outside.

A chilling silence fell in the banquet room. Kiyowara Toyashi sat, his head in his hands, and Kiyowara Tadahira stared down at him in horror. “Monstrous!” he whispered. “To kill your own daughter and my unborn child! But why, Toyashi, why did you burn the diary in my room?”

Kiyowara muttered, “There was no brazier in mine.”

Tadahira heaved a deep sigh, then sagged to the floor beside his brother and wept.

Later, after the Kiyowaras had signed confessions and been taken away, Ishida and Akitada walked through the garden toward the stables. The rain still misted steadily, and from the dripping trees fell showers of wet petals. Akitada was filled with sadness. Frail as the cherry blossoms had been Lady Umeko’s chance at happiness, brief as their season her place in her father’s house, and cruel as the rainstorm his rage when she proved a liability rather than an asset.

Compared to such tragedy, his own troubles seemed trivial, and he hesitated before he spoke. “It was very lucky,” he finally said shyly, “that enough of the diary remained. Otherwise it would have gone hard with me for meddling again. There was only my word against Kiyowara’s, and he’s a good friend of my superior.”

“Hmm,” said Ishida, glancing up at the denuded branches. “Actually there was just that page with some lines of bad poetry.”

Akitada stopped. “But,” he stammered, “but you said …”

Ishida regarded him quizzically. “You have good instincts, Sugawara, but you’re still very young. It’s much better to let a fish swim into the net than to throw stones at him.”

“Oh.” Akitada flushed and hung his head. “I suppose you will report to the minister …”

“That you’ve been most helpful and cooperative. You have, you know.” Ishida smiled a little, and put his hand on Akitada’s shoulder. “Come along, son. I’m an old man, but we’ve both had enough of cherry blossoms, I think.”

The Incense Murders

Heian-Kyo (Kyoto): 11th century; during the Clothes-Lining Month (March).

ON a gray spring morning in a week of cold, drizzling rains, Akitada was summoned by his mother.

Their relationship was strained at the best of times, but on this occasion she would get him involved in a case that nearly ended his career and perhaps his life. He would forever after fear dealings with his parent and doubt himself.

But that morning, unsuspecting, he walked along the covered gallery and saw that the roof had sprung another leak. He expected to be told to fix it and sighed. They had no money to spend on workmen and no servants able to carry out the heavy work.

Lady Sugawara was at her morning devotions, kneeling and bowing before the small Buddha statue on a shelf in her room. Akitada sat down to wait and looked around. At least the roof was solid here. The house might be falling down around their ears, but his mother’s quarters would remain as comfortable as ever. She would not have it any other way.

She made her final bow and turned. “Ah. Akitada, I want you to go to your Cousin Koremori.”

Otomo Koremori was a cousin on Akitada’s mother’s side and no connection to the Sugawaras, a fact for which Akitada was grateful. Koremori was past fifty now, a wealthy man who had married well and was a recent widower. Since he had lost his only son Akemori a few years earlier and was now childless, Akitada’s mother had initiated more cordial relations. She expected Koremori to leave his property to her or to her children when he died. Koremori knew it and behaved accordingly. Akitada could not abide Koremori.

He said, “I cannot go immediately, Mother. I am due at the Ministry.”

His mother raised her brows. “Nonsense. Why should you not make time for a close family member? Please remember who you are.”

What he was was a junior clerk in the Ministry of Justice and in enough trouble already. “I could go after work, Mother,” he said reluctantly.

She frowned. “Very well, but don’t forget again like last time. I want you to take him this fan. He admired it the last time he was here. Tell him it’s a small present to cheer him up. Oh, and write a suitable card for it.”

The fan was his mother’s favorite and dated back to better times. That she was willing to part with it meant she was embarking on a new campaign to influence Koremori’s final arrangements.

Akitada took the fan, bowed to his mother, and retreated.

He arrived at the Otomo residence that evening, feeling resentful. The weather had worsened. Wet, cold, and tired from an unprofitable day in the archives, he did not look forward to this visit and hoped to make it a short one.

Koremori sat behind the large desk in his elegantly furnished study. Handsome shades were lowered to keep the room cozy, and silk cushions awaited guests. Above him hung a scroll with the admonition: “Remember your duty to past and future generations.” When the servant admitted Akitada, Koremori looked up and stared at Akitada with his usual unpleasant expression.

As a child, Akitada had thought of him as a fat toad because of his bulbous eyes and broad face. Today he looked more than usually toadlike.

“Oh, it’s you,” Koremori said ungraciously and gestured toward a cushion.

Akitada sat down and sniffed the air. The room reeked, but the smell was not unpleasant, just powerful. Some of the redolence came from his cousin’s perfumed robe. Sandalwood and cloves. But other scents mingled, and Akitada saw that a table held preparations for an incense guessing game.

The game was an aristocratic pursuit in which the participants submitted their own concoctions anonymously, then guessed the ingredients and chose a winner for the best fragrance. Akitada disapproved of such waste of money, time, and intelligence.

He bowed and said stiffly, “My mother sent me, Cousin. She recalled that you admired this trifling object on your last visit and asked me to present it to you.” He took the fan from his sleeve and passed it to Koremori.

Koremori’s wide mouth twitched. He glanced briefly at the words Akitada had written on his visiting card and attached to the gift, then laid fan and note aside.

“Tell your mother I am obliged for her thoughtful present.” He stared at Akitada. “So. Still a clerk in the Ministry, are you?”

“Yes, Cousin. I hope I find you well?”

“Never better.” Koremori’s lip twitched again. “Be sure to tell your mother. She takes a great interest in my health.”

Akitada flushed. Koremori never missed an opportunity to make him feel small and his mother mercenary.

Koremori added, “Apart from her ill-advised marriage, she has always shown proper family feeling.”

Akitada resented the reference to the Sugawara family. Though innocent of the charge against him, his most famous forebear had been found guilty of treason and had died in political exile to the subsequent ruin of his descendants. Akitada reminded himself, as always, that he had nothing in common with Koremori, either in his values or appearance. Akitada, tall and as slender as a whip, regarded Koremori’s short, fat body as just punishment for over-eating and indolence. His cousin’s luxurious lifestyle was, to Akitada’s youthful idealism, immoral and indecent. But remembering his mother, he suppressed his anger and said nothing.

Instead he averted his eyes from the offensive Koremori to look around the room and noticed the incense table again.

A man given to excess in everything from family pride to fine food, Otomo Koremori was a connoisseur and passionate practitioner of the incense cult. He spared no expense in this pursuit and was counted among the most knowledgeable experts on exotic ingredients.

The paraphernalia on the table included packets of incense in neatly labeled envelopes or twists of expensive papers. The lacquer-ware utensils were dusted with gold and silver and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Small ladles of silver and gold lay beside burners of gilded bronze.

Akitada jumped when Koremori suddenly clapped his hands and shouted, “Out, vile creature!” Flushed with anger, his cousin had risen to throw his ink stone at a small black and white kitten. The stone brushed the little animal, which squealed and scurried under the desk.

Akitada said quickly, “It’s only a kitten.”

“I hate cats. Is it gone?”

“It’s gone,” Akitada lied. From the corner of his eye, he saw the kitten emerging and stretching a tentative paw for his red visiting card that dangled over the edge of Koremori’s desk.

Koremori sat down again. He clearly wanted Akitada gone as much as Akitada wanted to leave. He said, “As you see, I’m quite busy at the moment with preparations for another incense party, and the cat could spoil everything if it disturbed the samples.”

The kitten snagged the card and withdrew with it under the desk.

Akitada said politely, “Your expertise in that field is well known, Cousin. Under the circumstances, I won’t take up more of your time …”

But Koremori had heard the rustling of paper and peered under the desk. He roared, “Kenzo!”

A young boy ran in. His black hair was tied into two fat brushes over each ear and his bright eyes took in Akitada in a single measuring glance before he told Koremori, “Kenzo’s busy, Master. Will I do?”

“Why is this cursed cat running loose in my room?” Koremori pointed under the desk. “Take it back to its mistress this instant. If I ever find it here again, I’ll have you whipped.”

The boy got to his knees and scooped out the kitten, detaching Akitada’s card from its teeth and putting it back on the desk. “Come, little tiger,” he crooned, “let’s go into the garden and watch the goldfish.”

Koremori glowered after them. “Did you see that? Not so much as a bow!”

Akitada got to his feet. “I shall give Mother your message, Cousin,” he said.

Koremori nodded. “I wish I had more time to chat,” he said grudgingly. “My household has been standing on its head all day.”

As if on cue, the door flew open again, and a beautiful young woman came into the room, silk gowns fluttering and long, glossy hair trailing on the floor behind her. Her clothes were exquisite, the short sleeves of her embroidered Chinese coat revealing many layers of exquisitely hued robes of the thinnest silk.

“Oh, darling,” she cried, “Have you seen my kitten?” She stopped abruptly and looked in consternation at Akitada.

Koremori turned a deep red and cleared his throat. “Forgive the interruption, Akitada. This is Yoshiko. Yoshiko, my dear, do not worry. No harm is done. Akitada is only a cousin and he is leaving.”

Akitada bowed to the young woman. He wondered what his mother would make of the news that Koremori had taken a mistress.

The pretty Yoshiko blushed, fluttered her lashes at him, then sank gracefully on a cushion. “Cousin Akitada,” she murmured. “How very pleasant to meet you.”

“He is leaving,” snapped Koremori.

Akitada bowed again, to both this time, and departed.

When he made his report to his mother, she sat bolt upright. “Who is she?” she demanded.

“I don’t know, Mother. Just a pretty young woman. I thought she might be his mistress.”

Lady Sugawara hissed. “Mistress. Or concubine? And you say this so calmly? What if she gives him a child? What then?”

Akitada did not care, but he said, “He’s no longer young and not at all handsome.”

“Fool! What difference does that make? He is wealthy and she is beautiful. You did say she was beautiful?”

Lady Yoshiko was indubitably beautiful. Akitada nodded.

“Hmm. This is not good.” Lady Sugawara stared through her son, deep in thought. “Of course it may not last,” she finally said, “but meanwhile you must double your efforts to ingratiate yourself. Make yourself indispensable. Prove to him that blood ties outweigh all other bonds. Show a loving concern for his health by mentioning the risk of exertion at his age.”

Akitada sighed inwardly. “I’ll try, Mother.”

The following morning, the weather cleared a little and Seimei brought in Akitada’s rice gruel and another urgent summons from his mother. Akitada gulped down his food, and hurried to his mother’s room.

She looked excited. “Quick!” she said. “Run over to Cousin Koremori’s right away. He needs your help.”

Akitada shook his head. “I’m due at the ministry, Mother.”

“It cannot wait,” she snapped. “Someone is trying to kill him.”

Surprised by his mother’s concern, which was so exactly contrary to her hopes, Akitada asked sarcastically, “Should we interfere?”

Lady Sugawara stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Sorry. I meant, how do you know?”

“Never mind. Hurry up and go over there. He will explain. And remember what we talked about. Here is your opportunity to demonstrate your support.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Akitada bowed and went to work as usual.

When he arrived at his cousin’s house that evening, he found the police there and wondered if Koremori’s fears had been real after all. The servant who met him reassured him. It was not his cousin who had died, but an elderly maid.

As they passed the room that held Koremori’s ancestral shrine, the door opened and a constable stepped out. He recognized Akitada (who had spent too much time at court hearings and murder investigations, irritating the police captain, Kobe, and his superior, the minister of justice).

The constable grinned. “Is it you again, sir? It must be murder for sure then.”

Akitada grinned back and stopped. “Not guilty this time. I’m just paying a visit to a family member. What happened?”

“His lordship sent for us. He found his wife’s nurse dead on the floor in here.” The constable gestured over his shoulder.

Akitada peered past him. The tiny room was exquisitely furnished. On its walls were paintings of famous incidents involving Otomo forebears, and on the altar table a finely carved and gilded statue of the Buddha presided over the name tablets of the deceased, prominently among them that of Koremori’s son, Akemori.

In front of this altar lay an old woman, her body twisted, her hands clutching at her throat, and her tongue protruding from a blue-tinged face. Several of the footed bowls with offerings of food and money, incense burners, and candlesticks that had stood on the altar lay scattered across the floor. Oranges, coins, ashes, and a number of dead flies and moths were among the utensils on the polished boards. It looked as if the poor woman had done the damage before dying in painful convulsions. Her fingers had left fumbling traces in the ashes from the incense burners. A heavy, acrid smell still hung in the air.

“Was it murder?” Akitada asked, stepping inside and bending over the corpse. He saw no obvious signs of an attack.

The constable joined him. “I doubt it. No wounds. No contusions. No signs of strangulation.” He moved the body to show Akitada. “She was an old woman with a weak heart. The captain didn’t see anything wrong either, but Lord Koremori keeps insisting that she’s been poisoned by the incense and that the poison had been meant for him. The smell’s still pretty strong, but I ask you, who would die from sniffing incense? His lordship got huffy when we didn’t agree with him.” He gave Akitada another grin. “Maybe you can get this straightened out, sir.”

Akitada had a sinking feeling that he should not have come at all. Kobe would find out that he had been here and complain to the minister again. He shook his head at the constable’s suggestion and followed the servant to his cousin’s study.

Today Koremori sat behind his desk, chewing his fingernails. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “I sent for you this morning.”

“I was working,” Akitada said.

“You might have considered that my problem outweighed whatever it is you law clerks do all day long,” Koremori said. “You’re a great disappointment to your mother and me. At your age, Akemori was already a captain in the emperor’s personal guard.”

He was probably right about the work a law clerk did, but Akitada was not about to agree. Koremori’s son had died protecting the emperor against a madman who had charged the imperial palanquin with a drawn sword. By comparison to Akemori, Akitada was a dismal failure in his eyes. He had this opinion in common with Akitada’s mother.

“I wanted you to be here to make sure the police don’t gloss over this matter,” he continued when Akitada said nothing. “My assassin must be found. Frankly, this Kobe fellow struck me as a lazy official.”

“Kobe is a hard-working and conscientious officer,” Akitada said. “You can safely leave the matter in his hands.” It was the truth, even though the captain had never missed an opportunity to be ungracious to Akitada.

Koremori seemed to swell. “Are you refusing to help me?”

Akitada bit his lip. “What makes you think someone is trying to kill you and with incense of all things?”

His cousin settled down. “That’s better. There are many poisons that can be disguised in incense samples. As you know, I am preparing for another incense party. I believe the old crone helped herself to some of the incense from that table over there. With the judging to be tomorrow! And now I have a death in the house, and the whole affair will have to be called off. It’s outrageous.”

A house where there had been a death was taboo because contact with the dead made people ritually impure. But clearly this had not prevented Koremori from sending for Akitada, who said somewhat curtly, “Tell me about the dead woman.”

Koremori scowled. “She was my late wife’s nurse. I should not have kept her, when she was clearly past her duties, but she looked after my son when he was small. She always took care of the ancestral altar, replacing the food offerings and burning incense to the spirits of the dead every morning. When the servants found her dead, they called me.” He paused and gazed into the distance, perhaps to picture the scene in his mind. “‘Dead as dust and cold as copper coins,’ you might say.”

In addition to incense parties, Koremori was also devoted to poetry contests and practiced whenever an opportunity arose. Akitada could not control his sarcasm. “Dust and copper coins?” he asked, raising his brows.

“Don’t be dense. It’s what she was lying on. Ashes from the over-turned incense burner and a little pile of coins from one of the offerings to the dead. The line symbolizes the futility of human desires rather neatly, don’t you think?”

“Very appropriate.” Akitada felt slightly sick.

“I have jotted it down for future reference,” Koremori said complacently.

“What about the incense? How did she get it?”

Koremori rose. “Come and see for yourself.”

The tray on the table near the door now held only one small packet wrapped in paper, tied with silk, and labeled with an elegantly brushed phrase. One end of the paper twist had been opened and re-folded. Akitada bent and sniffed. The remnant of ground incense inside seemed to have the same odor as the ancestral shrine.

He had heard stories about people becoming ill after experimenting with exotic combinations of incense ingredients but, like the constable, he had never encountered a case where the victim had died. The opened package was labeled “Transcending Life.”

“How do you know this was poison?” Akitada asked. “Apparently the police think the nurse died from natural causes.”

“Hah! That shows you what they know. There was a very strange smell in the shrine. When we found the dead woman, my major-domo mentioned that she had complained about not having any incense, but clearly she got some somewhere. Then I came in here and I saw that this sample had been opened. It arrived late yesterday, and I decided to test it. After getting a pinch started, I was called away. When I returned later, there was the same strong odor in the room and Yoshiko’s cat lay dead on the floor. I held my breath and ran to open all the shutters to air out the room but nearly fainted anyway. There’s your proof that someone intended to murder me.”

Akitada regarded his cousin. He did not like the note of triumph in Koremori’s voice. But if the dead woman had burned poisonous incense that morning, it would indeed explain the dead flies in the shrine. There was something vaguely troubling about the affair, something that had nothing to do with Koremori’s fears. “Whose incense is this?” he asked, nudging the opened paper with his fingernail.

“I don’t know. Anyone could have left it. The samples are anonymous. We identify each sample by its title. Here!” Koremori detached the label and gave it to Akitada before returning to his desk.

Akitada followed, frowning at the label. “But why would the nurse help herself to a contest sample?” he asked.

“How should I know? She was a very unpleasant and disobedient servant and was probably too lazy to get fresh incense from the household stores. Really, it served her right.” Koremori paused, then added, “It was lucky in a way. If she had not helped herself, I would not have discovered the plot and would be dead by now.”

Akitada thought the luck depended on your point of view. His dislike for Koremori increased. He laid the label on the desk. “Whom do you suspect?”

“No idea. That’s where you come in, my dear Akitada. Your success in criminal investigations is well known. You’ll work it out quickly, I’m sure.”

“If this is a murder case, I’m afraid I cannot get involved. The minister has strictly forbidden it.”

“Soga?” Koremori waved a dismissive hand. “I will speak to him.”

“I doubt he’ll permit it. He has been very clear on that point. I regret that I cannot be of assistance, Cousin, but Captain Kobe is very efficient.”

Koremori was about to protest when the door opened and a teary-eyed and agitated Lady Yoshiko rushed in. “Oh, Koremori,” she cried wringing her hands, “it’s too dreadful! What shall be done about poor Oigimi? I’m too distraught to manage.” She saw Akitada and blushed. “Cousin Akitada,” she murmured, raising her sleeve to dab at her eyes.

Koremori looked embarrassed.

“Perhaps,” offered Akitada, “I may be of assistance, Lady Yoshiko. If you are worried about funeral arrangements for, er, Oigimi, I could stop at a temple and ask the monks to come and read the services.”

She looked at him with a tremulous smile. “You’re the kindest man, Akitada,” she murmured. “Do you think they would come?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Akitada,” snapped Koremori. “Oigimi was her cat.”

“Oh,” said Akitada.

The young woman looked reproachful. “She was a very beautiful cat, black with four white paws, and so sweet. She never left my side. I’m sure some divine creature’s soul inhabited her body.”

“Never mind, my dear.” Koremori was irritated but he restrained himself. “We are very busy just now. Please speak to one of the servants about the cat.”

“You never liked Oigimi,” Lady Yoshiko accused him with a charming pout. She turned to Akitada. “He always thought the poor little sweet thing would disturb his paperwork.” Her eyes fell on the desk and she saw the incense tag with the words “Transcendent Life.” “I shall ask Sakanoue,” she said with a heavy sigh and left.

An uncomfortable silence fell, then Akitada asked, “Who is Sakanoue?”

“Just a friend. A distant relation who amuses Yoshiko. But to get back to my problem: what will you do? Remember, the killer may try again.”

“Is there someone in your household who would want to kill you?”

Koremori threw up his hands. “How should I know. I treat my servants well.”

“What about your friends? Specifically the participants in the incense party?”

“Quite impossible! And don’t ask for their names. They are far too important to be troubled with questions.”

Akitada raised his brows. “You’re not making this easy. Who would benefit from your death?”

Koremori’s mouth twitched. “Apart from some small bequests for the servants, my property will go to your mother.”

Akitada felt trapped. “Very well. If you can get me permission from the minister, I’ll look into it.” He picked up the tag Yoshiko had looked at. “The handwriting is elegant. Any idea whose it is?”

“Not really. It’s vaguely familiar.”

Since further conversation seemed unprofitable, Akitada rose to leave.

As he had suspected, his mother took an avid interest in the news about Koremori’s will. “Very proper,” she concluded. “I daresay Koremori exaggerates his danger, but it is good to know that his affairs are in order. Still there is the young woman. From what you say, he is not deeply enamored and the affair may not last, but meanwhile you must spare no effort to ingratiate yourself. Make yourself indispensable. Exaggerate the danger. Convince him that, but for you, he might die. In short, act like Akemori would have, had he been alive.”

Akitada, sickened by these instructions, said, “I shall try, Mother.”

A messenger arrived early the following morning with a note from Koremori: “I have spoken to Soga.”

Reluctantly—it was amazing that even a dull day in the archives seemed preferable— Akitada returned to his cousin’s house to question the servants.

He found the major-domo Kenzo—a small, thin, middle-aged man of neat appearance—in the ancestral shrine, instructing the youngster who had removed the kitten from Koremori’s room in the proper polishing of the floor.

“A terrible thing,” Kenzo said. He shook his neatly coiffed head, on which every strand of hair had been pulled back sharply, wound about with a black silk cord, and tied at the precise apex into a smooth loop. As a result of this extreme tension, his thin eyebrows were permanently raised as if in astonishment at the oddities of life. “Tomoe—she was the dead woman—asked me for incense that morning. I went immediately to the store house, but the supply was gone. I think the maids must have helped themselves. I suggested she skip the incense just once, but she refused quite rudely. She should never have taken the master’s incense, but she always thought of herself as serving her dead mistress and her son.” He shook his head again and adjusted the black sash that held the stiffly starched blue cotton robe at his neat waist.

“It’s surely unusual for an experienced servant to disobey in this manner,” Akitada suggested.

Kenzo pursed his lips and nodded. “Tomoe has always been difficult. She came here as her late ladyship’s nurse and took orders from no one but her mistress. It was very frustrating. All the other servants disliked her.”

“Why was that?”

Echoing Koremori, Kenzo said evasively, “She was an unpleasant person.” When Akitada raised his brows, he added, “It is true. Even the master had trouble with her. Only two days ago, I heard them shouting at each other in the master’s study. Imagine a servant shouting at the master of the house! A very unpleasant woman.”

At this point, the boy looked up from his chore and said, “Tomoe took money and things from people. I told the maid not to give the old demon her best sash, but she slapped my face and said to keep my mouth shut.”

“And very good advice, too,” snapped Kenzo. “Nobody asked you.” He apologized, “He’s only a silly boy, and not very bright as you can see, sir.”

“Not at all,” said Akitada, smiling at the boy. “I’m sure he is quite clever.”

The boy nodded. “I watch and I remember.” He looked at Akitada. “You were visiting the master yesterday and the day before that. Go ahead, ask me something about the master and Tomoe.”

“Enough, Jiro!” snapped Kenzo.

But Jiro had something to prove. “The master was going to send Tomoe away, but she wouldn’t go. She talked about her mistress and Master Akemori, and the master got quiet, and when she came out, she was smiling.”

Kenzo was outraged. “Leave the room this instance, Jiro. Your chatter is as foolish as a monkey’s.”

Jiro gave Akitada an impudent grin, dropped his oily rag, and scampered off.

Akitada did not agree with Kenzo’s estimate of Jiro, but said nothing. Instead he asked, “Were any of Lord Koremori’s recent guests regular visitors in this house?”

“Ah, you mean the incense party. Only Lord Sakanoue is a regular visitor. He’s related to the young lady, I believe, and visits quite often. The other gentlemen only attend for the incense guessing.”

Koremori had refused to give Akitada the names of the contestants, but Kenzo had no such reservations. When Akitada asked, he listed them with relish. “In addition to Lord Sakanoue, there was the senior secretary of the imperial household office, the captain of the inner palace guards, the recorder in the ministry of popular affairs, the abbot of the Ninna Temple and Professor Tachibana from the university.”

All seemed men above and beyond reproach and clearly incapable of concocting poisonous substances in order to do away with Koremori. Akitada thanked Kenzo for this very precise and useful information and asked to speak to some of the other servants.

This effort produced little that was new. Clearly they had not liked Tomoe and had hoped the master would dismiss her. They denied taking or hiding the incense stores. They refused—quite properly—to comment on the master’s mistress or her relation, though Akitada caught a smirk or two from the maids. The general feeling was that Tomoe had died from old age and poor health and that they were glad to be rid of her. Akitada thanked them and went to find his cousin.

“Well,” Koremori greeted him, “have you learned anything?”

“Yes,” Akitada said grimly. “You were not the intended victim.”

Koremori’s jaw dropped. “But …”

“The nurse was meant to die.”

Koremori burst out laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who would go to such lengths to get rid of an old servant woman?”

“She was blackmailing the people in this household. I think she blackmailed you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What did you and Tomoe quarrel about the day before she died?”

Koremori fidgeted. “Who says we quarreled?”

“Kenzo. He overheard you. My guess is that you tried to dismiss her and she threatened you if you did. What did she know that would make you tolerate her in your house?”

Koremori flushed and looked away. After a moment, he said, “You’re quite right, Akitada. I’m ashamed to tell you that Yoshiko has been unfaithful. Look at me. Why would a young beauty want a man like me? I’m old and ugly. I was uneasy about those visits from the handsome Sakanoue, but I believed that he was her cousin and that she was lonely. Tomoe was supposed to keep an eye on them. Well, she didn’t. I walked in and found them caressing each other. I said nothing, but I called the old woman into my study to dismiss her. She became rude and threatened to tell everyone about my private household affairs. I had to give in and let her stay. That is what Kenzo overheard.” Koremori buried his face in his hands.

Akitada felt some pity for him and was vaguely ashamed of having thought him a toad, but this lasted only until Koremori dropped his hands and exclaimed, “Hah! It was Sakanoue all along. I should have seen it right away. Yes, of course. It was his handwriting on the tag. Yoshiko recognized it, too. They plan to murder me. Oh, what a fool I’ve been.”

“What motive do they have?”

Koremori’s face twisted. “Isn’t it obvious? They are lovers.”

“That’s ludicrous. Besides, the poisoned incense could have killed or at least sickened everybody at the party, including Sakanoue.”

“Have you forgotten that I test all samples first? He knew that and expected me to be dead before the judging. I don’t think I like your attitude, Akitada. What is the matter with you? You’re my cousin.”

“By marriage only, I’m thankful to say.”

“What?” Koremori turned red with anger. “You would do well to think before you insult your elders.”

“I think you decided to kill the old woman because she blackmailed you and that now you are trying to rid yourself of Yoshiko and Sakanoue by accusing them.”

Koremori’s eyes bulged. “Have you gone mad?”

“Sakanoue and Yoshiko have no motive. Yoshiko can leave you anytime. Your trouble is that your pride cannot tolerate scandal, and I expect the nurse demanded money for her silence.”

“That’s an outrageous lie. Get out of my house. Now!”

Akitada was too angry to obey. He got to his feet and towered over Koremori. “I’m not done. A man as versed in the preparation of incense as you are is familiar with poisonous substances, and you knew the nurse was fanatical about her shrine ritual. You purchased the poison—perhaps it was sap from the lacquer tree which could cause a person to choke after inhaling it—and made sure there would be no incense in the house except your own supplies. Then you prepared the poisoned incense, and left it where she would be sure to find it. You murdered her, Koremori.”

Koremori stared up at him. “I never really knew you, Akitada. I see now that your mother was right about you all along. You have no heart.”

That hurt.

Akitada said, “I never liked you very much, Koremori, but I didn’t think you capable of murder. I won’t let you use me to pin your crime on Sakanoue and Yoshiko. I know what you did. You prepared all the clues, attached the tag written by Sakanoue to the poisoned sample, and called the police. When they didn’t cooperate, you decided to get me involved.”

Koremori gave him his twisted smile. “You think you’re clever, but you’re a fool after all. Even if you were right, you could do nothing about it. There’s no proof.”

“Perhaps not. But I can lay charges against you. The police will question your friends, your servants, and Lady Yoshiko. The scandal of such an investigation will put an end to your social life. What would Akemori have thought of his father then?” Akitada stopped. He recalled suddenly that there had been some unpleasant gossip about Akemori’s true parentage shortly after his death. On that moment’s inspiration, he said, “Or did the old nurse threaten to reveal that he was not your son at all?”

Koremori turned perfectly white and began to shake. “You wouldn’t dare. Akemori was a hero and his memory is sacred. Our name must remain unblemished.” He pointed at the scroll about a man’s duty to his past and future generations. “Have you no family feeling? We are related. What about your mother? What about your sisters? Will you ruin them, too?”

Akitada stared at his cousin. He knew he had hit on the true motive for the nurse’s murder. For himself, he cared nothing whatsoever about Akemori’s reputation or Koremori’s family pride, and he did not want his money, but he knew his mother. In her world, the life of an aged servant was negligible when compared to the honor of an aristocratic house.

But more importantly, it seemed to him now that Koremori, the aging lover first betrayed by his mistress and a younger man, and then told by a servant that even his wife had betrayed him, had had great provocation.

Koremori saw him waver and pleaded, “Please, Akitada. Don’t do this. I’m an old man and lonely. Yes, I wanted to punish the old woman for her lies, but I didn’t know she would die. I just wanted to make her sick. It was an unfortunate accident.”

Akitada shook his head. “I’m sorry for you, Cousin,” he said, “but I must tell the police what I know.”

Koremori’s face became set and his eyes seemed to pierce Akitada. “I understand,” he said tonelessly. “You want my life. Very well, but you must at least give me enough time to put my affairs in order. Give me one day before you go to the police.”

The following morning Akitada sat in his room in a black depression that had seized him during a sleepless night. Soon he would have to turn in his mother’s relative, and that scandal would wash over his own family also. Nothing would be gained from it, except some money for the dead woman’s family, and he did not even know if she had any. His mother would never forgive him for what she would see as an ultimate betrayal.

When Captain Kobe was announced, he thought the visit merely awkward. Kobe accepted the offered cushion and looked at Akitada strangely.

“What brings you, Captain?”

“A tragedy at the Kiyowara mansion. Koremori was your mother’s cousin, I understand?”

Was? It dawned on Akitada that Koremori must have killed himself rather than face the arrest. He sighed. “Thank you for bringing the news, Captain.”

“You don’t seem surprised or curious.”

“No.”

“Then you already know that we found two bodies this morning?”

“Two bodies?” Akitada asked, now profoundly shocked.

“Yes. A very strange case. Your cousin and his mistress are both dead. Can you also guess what killed them?”

“Poison?” Akitada’s thoughts were in turmoil.

Kobe’s eyes narrowed. “I know you have a reputation for solving crimes that the police are too stupid for, but pray, enlighten me in this instance. How could you know that?”

Akitada flushed. “I guessed. Was it incense? Koremori dabbled in the stuff.”

“No.” Kobe let a long silence fall. Akitada watched him in growing consternation. “You paid several visits to Koremori lately,” Kobe finally said. “What was the occasion?”

Akitada bit his lip. He did not want to explain his part in Koremori’s suicide. “I delivered a greeting from my mother. A mere courtesy visit.”

“Three times? Did you take him a present each time?” Kobe’s tone was heavy with disbelief.

“No. Only the first time. Why?”

Kobe ignored the question. He drew a red card from his sleeve and pushed it across the desk. “Is this yours?”

Akitada nodded. “Yes, I wrote it and attached it to the fan.”

“Really? We found it attached to a package of poisoned sweets.”

“What?”

“The coroner thinks the poison was the root of wolfsbane. Apparently your cousin shared your present with his mistress.”

Akitada held his head. “How can this be? Koremori I can understand. But why Yoshiko? And why my card?” The answer came to him suddenly and shockingly. He looked up. “You cannot believe I could do such a thing.”

Kobe sighed. “I don’t want to believe it,” he said, “but you of all men will understand that I have my duty to perform. I had hoped that there would be another explanation, but you have confirmed the facts. I shall try to spare you and your family as much indignity as possible.”

Akitada clenched his hands. “Are you arresting me? No, you’ve got it all wrong, Kobe. It was suicide. Suicide and murder. It was revenge.” Akitada realized he was babbling and took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I made my cousin a foolish promise yesterday. I gave him time before turning him in for killing that old maid. The woman was blackmailing him. He admitted it. His new mistress was having an affair with a younger man. Koremori tried to use me to implicate the lovers in this murder.”

Kobe raised his brows. “You cannot kill people with incense. The old woman had a heart attack.”

“Perhaps, but it was brought on by poisoned incense that Koremori had prepared. He knew in a tiny closed room she would choke to death. Once she was out of the way, he claimed the poison had been intended for him by Sakanoue and Yoshiko, and that the nurse had died by accident.”

“Nonsense. This isn’t worthy of you, Sugawara.”

Akitada chewed his lip. He realized that a man like Kobe would not accept the convoluted reasoning behind Koremori’s action. He tried again, more desperately.

“Captain, you don’t know my cousin’s mind. His reputation meant everything to him. When I told him what I knew, he begged for time. I thought he wanted to settle his estate before making a clean breast of what he claimed was an accident. Instead, he committed suicide, taking Yoshiko along, and putting the blame on me.” Akitada grimaced. “I should have expected a trick. That’s the way Koremori’s mind worked.”

Kobe said coldly, “No, it’s the way your mind works. Your story is absurd. No one else could think up such a tale on the spur of the moment.”

Akitada swallowed. “Captain, you cannot seriously suspect me of such a heinous crime. You know me. Besides where is my motive?” But even as he said it, he knew and despaired.

“Where was his? As for yours, according to Koremori’s will, you were his favorite cousin. He left you his entire fortune, which is considerable. His precise words were, I believe, ‘in the hope that it may repay him for his kindness to me.’”

Akitada stared at Kobe in horror. “I won’t touch it. Give it to the families of the dead women.”

Kobe shook his head. He looked unhappy but determined.

“I bet Koremori wrote a new will before killing himself.” Akitada felt the beads of perspiration turn cold on his neck and face. “I tell you, he did this out of revenge. Because I knew what he’d done and threatened to expose him, he decided to take my life.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere.” Kobe got up. “Let’s go,” he said wearily.

Akitada looked around the room helplessly. What would become of them all? What would his mother do? “Wait,” he cried. “My mother selected the fan I took to Koremori. She will tell you so.” But he already quailed at the thought of that scene.

Kobe shook his head. “We know about the fan. You must have brought the sweets on your third and last visit. Time’s up.”

How quickly a man’s fortune can change! By not going to the police immediately, Akitada had caused Yoshiko’s death. Your actions will return to you, said the proverb. He had bungled, and now he was lost.

As he stumbled to his feet, his eyes fell on his card and a memory flashed into his mind. He saw a boy holding a black and white kitten and removing the red card from its teeth.

“The card. Look at it. It’s proof that I’m innocent.” He held out the slip of red paper to Kobe with a shaking hand. “Do you see those marks? Yoshiko’s kitten made those on my first visit. When I went back the second time, that kitten was already dead.” He took a deep breath. “There is a witness. If you don’t believe me, ask for Jiro, one of the servants. He’s only a boy, but very bright and observant. He came to catch the kitten while I was with his master on my first visit. The kitten was playing with this card.”

Kobe took the card and looked at it. Then he looked at Akitada. Slowly conviction gave way to doubt. “Very well. If the boy remembers, I’ll reopen the investigation,” he said. “If not, I’ll be back.”

When Kobe was gone, Akitada’s knees suddenly gave way. He sank on his cushion. But he was no longer afraid. Kobe, for all his coldness, was a fair man and a good officer, and Jiro would remember. They would talk to Sakanoue and to Kenzo and to the other servants. They would find the poison in Koremori’s house. Koremori’s will would be declared invalid, though the blood money would not console Yoshiko’s family for her death. And he would always bear the guilt for that.

Then he thought of the bright-eyed and observant boy Jiro who was about to save him, and was grateful.

Instruments of Murder

Heian-Kyo (Kyoto), 11th century, Leaf-changing Month:

LORD Sugawara—Akitada to family and friends—was playing his new flute to the breaking dawn. He was constrained to practice in the far corner of his garden, in a vine-covered shack, well away from the main house, because his efforts grated on the ears of his household. They were too polite to say so, but had a habit of scattering every time he pulled out his beloved flute.

For this reason he was surprised to see his secretary Seimei running toward him over the smooth stones of the old path. He broke off a tender rendition of “The village in the forest” and asked, “What’s the matter?”

The elderly man stopped breathlessly and wiped beads of perspiration from his wrinkled brow. It was already hot and humid, though summer was past. “I’m very sorry, sir,” he gasped, “but there’s a constable at the gate. He says that Tora has been arrested for a double murder.”

Akitada’s mouth fell open. “Tora? A double murder?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. The earth always shakes when we least expect it.”

Akitada sighed and tucked his flute into his sleeve. “There is some mistake, of course, but I’d better go and see. Bring me my cap and tell my wife that I have been called away.”

“I brought your cap, sir.” Seimei produced it from his voluminous sleeve, along with a small bronze mirror. He said smugly, “They say ‘Have an umbrella ready before it rains!’”

Peering into the mirror, Akitada adjusted the stiff black silk cap on his topknot and tied the black cords under his chin. “Very well. If you haven’t done so already, you might send to the ministry and tell them I’ll be a little late. It shouldn’t take long to clear this up.”

He met with difficulties the moment he arrived at the office of the warden of the Eastern River Village, a pleasure quarter on the left bank of the Kamo. Clearly his name meant nothing to the fat warden and red-coated constable, and the colored trim on his hat denoting his rank passed unnoticed. The warden merely stared rudely as the constable snapped, “No one is admitted. Orders of the Metropolitan Police.”

“Announce my presence to the person in charge or I shall report your insolence,” Akitada snapped.

The warden opened his mouth, thought better of it, and disappeared. The sound of muffled voices came from the rear of the building. Someone cried, “Not that Sugawara?” The warden’s reply was inaudible, but the other voice was still raised in frustration: “Get rid of him! Any way you like! That’s all I need! The amateur snoop.”

Akitada cast a glance at the impassive face of the constable, sighed, and then went to sit on a grimy mat in the corner.

After a moment he drew his flute from his sleeve and began to play the opening notes of “The village in the forest.”

The inner door opened abruptly and an official, wearing a red tunic and the insignia of a police inspector on his silk cap, burst into the room.

“Who’s making this infernal noise?” he shouted. His eyes fell on Akitada. He took in the silk robe and the blue rank trim on his cap and swallowed. Bowing deeply, he said, “Forgive this humble person, sir. This filthy hovel distorts sound dreadfully.”

“Really?” Akitada looked about him vaguely. “I’m Sugawara. You have a servant of mine in custody?”

“Oh!” The inspector looked as if he had bitten on a cherry stone with a sore tooth. He waved his hands and said quickly, “It’s nothing, sir. Nothing at all to require your attention. Merely a small matter of obstructing the law, sir.”

“Not a double murder?” Akitada sounded disappointed.

“No, no. A silly mistake of the local authorities. Your man came across two bodies and called the warden who did not like his manner and arrested him. The case is solved.”

“You have solved both murders?”

“Oh, yes, yes. One murder only. A beggar stabbed a drunken wrestler during a robbery. He then succumbed to his evil deed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He died of natural causes near his victim. It closes the case.”

Akitada’s eyebrows shot up. “That is very strange indeed. Perhaps I might have a look?” He rose smoothly and tucked the flute back into his sleeve.

The inspector cleared his throat. “Er … ah … I’m expecting the coroner any moment …”

“No trouble at all, my dear fellow,” Akitada said breezily, striding purposefully toward the door. “It’s a sort of hobby of mine, you know. You may not be aware of it, but I’ve been able to solve a number of puzzling crimes in the past. I should be delighted to offer my views on this case.”

The inspector gulped and moved aside. “Er … there’s really no case … down the hall and to the left,” he said, watching helplessly as Akitada disappeared into a room.

The dead men lay naked on grimy straw mats on the floor. One looked to be in his thirties or early forties, a big, handsome man with muscular legs and arms and a belly which showed signs of turning to flab. Several stab wounds in the left chest and side had torn the thick skin, bleeding profusely down the left side of his belly, groin and upper thigh. The cause of death was obvious, but Akitada peered at the wounds, measuring their width and placement, touching the skin and dried blood, and moving fingers and wrists. Then he turned to the other body.

This man was in most respects the opposite. He was elderly—at least sixty, thought Akitada—short, fat and unhealthy looking. He had a belly but his arms and legs were pitifully thin and weak. Akitada inspected every inch of the body, paying particular attention to the scalp and face, but found no wounds, only a trickle of blood from one nostril and ear. For a few moments he stood, pursing his lips and pulling his left earlobe. Then he bent again to check the dead man’s palms, fingernails, and the soles of his feet.

The inspector, who had watched impatiently, offered a comment now. “That’s the killer. A common beggar. They hang about the river front and beg from drunks returning from parties. When times get bad, they turn to robbery. This one must’ve found the wrestler sleeping it off—you can still smell the wine on the fellow—and tried to get his money from his belt. No doubt the wrestler caught him at it, and the beggar had no choice but to kill him.”

Akitada looked at the policeman. “With what?” he asked.

The inspector pointed to a package wrapped in oiled paper. “A short sword. We found it in a rain barrel near the site.”

Akitada unwrapped the parcel, exclaimed in surprise, and reverently raised a short sword, perfectly clean, its slim graceful blade mounted on a grip of black metal heavily inlaid in pure gold with a design of waving grasses. “How did the beggar get a sword like this?” he asked. “For that matter, what makes you think he’s a beggar?”

“His clothes, sir.” The inspector indicated two bundles in the corner. “As to the sword, we cannot be sure yet, but he either took it from the victim or stole it somewhere earlier.”

Akitada grunted. He undid the first bundle and found the beggar’s rags, a torn grey robe, its tattered bottom so short it must barely have covered his naked legs, for there was nothing else except the white loincloth. The robe was horribly stained with blood on the front, the right side, and the right sleeve. The loin cloth was quite clean. Akitada frowned, holding up the garments and looking from them to the corpses and back again. Then he put them down and took up the wrestler’s clothes: a loin cloth, a white silk underrobe, sky blue cotton outer robe with a large white pattern of waves and cranes, and a black-and-white checked cotton sash. Both robes were slashed and blood-soaked in the chest area, and the sash and loin cloth were partially stained. He nodded and put them back.

“May I now see my servant?” he asked.

Tora crouched in the corner of a bare cell in the back of the warden’s house. His face was bruised, and his hands and feet were chained, but he greeted Akitada with a grin.

“Knew you’d come right away, sir. I told the fools you’d straighten them out in short order. Never saw a warden as stupid as this one. Have you seen the bodies? Any idea what happened?”

Akitada raised his hand. “Not so fast! I should be the one to ask you what happened.”

“The victim is Kiyomura, a fourth-rate wrestler. I’ve never laid eyes on the other fellow. I had supper with Kiyomura and a few others at the Phoenix Pavilion, a restaurant on the river. It was hot, and the Phoenix Pavilion has balconies hanging over the water. There’s a cool breeze with a fine view of the city and of pleasure barges with lots of pretty girls in them, and they serve an excellent cheap wine.”

“Never mind all that.”

“Kiyomura used to be a pretty decent wrestler, but this year he didn’t place at all. Too much high living.”

“How did he support himself?”

Tora shook his head. “It’s a mystery. Last night he had plenty of money. Bragged that he’d found his own gold mine and talked about gifts from an admirer.”

“Sometimes wrestlers enjoy the attentions of male patrons. Could that have been the case here?”

“Not him. He was always going on about women. His latest lady love is supposed to be a great beauty. At least Ando claims she is.”

“Ando?”

“One of the other fellows. A raw youngster, but he’s a talented painter and he was nagging Kiyomura about this girlfriend. Wanted to paint her as the goddess Kannon.” Tora chuckled. “Ando’s at the age where every pretty face looks like a goddess. Kiyomura was his hero. But he treated the poor kid like a stray dog. Come to think of it, Ando was supposed to walk Kiyomura home. Kiyomura was drunk when I left.”

“Might Ando have had a reason to kill his idol?”

“Oh, come on! He’s just a boy. But Kiyomura had a cruel streak, especially when he was drinking. He made fun of Ando who was getting pretty sensitive.” Tora shook his head. “No, I’ll never believe it. For that matter, Kiyomura quarrelled with just about everybody last night.”

“Oh?”

“Well, he made Saemon and Hiraga angry. Saemon’s a pharmacist with a shop in the city near the bridge, but most of his custom comes from the River Village. He does a wonderful business in aphrodisiacs, ointments, massages, needle therapy and moxa.” Tora shuddered. “Never could understand people who like to be stuck with needles or have herbal pills burned on their backs. Hiraga’s a sword smith. What’s the matter?”

Akitada’s brows had shot up. “A sword smith? Is he a good one?”

“The best! A real craftsman. I’ve wondered why he bothered with the rest of us. He has a large family, and he’s more serious and settled. Of course, Saemon’s married, but Saemon has a beautiful young wife and no children. Ugly fellow, Saemon, but he saved up and bought out one of the top courtesans in the village. Kiyomura never misses a chance to rib Saemon.”

“So Kiyomura managed to insult the painter Ando and this Saemon last night. What about the sword smith?”

“He did worse than that with Hiraga. He slapped him. I thought Hiraga would kill him then and there.” Tora broke off in dismay. “Forget that. Hiraga calmed down and Kiyomura apologized.”

“I don’t suppose Hiraga had one of his swords with him?”

Tora looked uncomfortable. “Well, he always carries a short sword. Used to drive Kiyomura crazy. Kiyomura wanted to buy it, but Hiraga wouldn’t sell to him. Told him to stick to wrestling; swords were for swordsmen.”

“Hmm.” Akitada pulled his earlobe and thought for a moment. Then he got up. “Luckily that inspector does not seem to suspect you any longer, but I don’t like this case. I’ll have you released, and you’ll take me to talk to your friends.”

As the inspector was seeing them out with ill-concealed relief, they met a constable walking in with a slight, sallow-faced man in a plain dark blue robe.

“Saemon,” cried Tora, “What are you doing here?”

The pharmacist had a long, lantern-jawed face and sparse ill-kept hair, but the black eyes were sharp and intelligent and moved instantly from Tora to Akitada. There was a flicker of interest, and then the man was bowing very humbly.

Tora made the introductions, adding, “Saemon can testify to Kiyomura’s temper last night. Is that why you’re here, Saemon? To give a statement?”

“No, no, Tora. I was called to examine the bodies. My place is just across the bridge, and I happened to be home. A terrible thing, but I’m afraid I know nothing about it. I left the restaurant hours before the rest of you.” Saemon clutched his bamboo case of medicines and instruments with long, sinewy fingers and looked at the inspector.

“If you’ll excuse us?” The inspector pointedly held the door open for Akitada and Tora and bowed them out.

“So the pharmacist lives nearby,” Akitada remarked as they were walking away from the warden’s office.

“Yes. Look!” Tora pointed at a stand of willows on the river bank where a huddle of locals stood talking and staring at a dark-stained patch of weeds. “That’s where it happened.”

Akitada nodded without much interest, glancing briefly at the rain barrel of the first house they passed. “Let’s talk to the young painter first,” he said.

Ando lived in the city, not far from the bridge, in a narrow tenement where he shared quarters with other single people of modest means. Many of them clearly kept late hours, for the doors were closed and sounds of snoring filled the narrow, dark hallways. A slatternly young female, no more than a child, but with smudged paint staining her lips and round cheeks, blinked sleepily at them from a doorway.

“Ando?” she said vaguely. “Oh, he’s down that way. The last room on the right.” She called after them, “Stop by on your way out! I can show you something better than pictures.”

They found the painter, his failed attempt at growing a mustache emphasizing his boyish looks, in a frenzy of destruction. He was ripping apart a scroll of ink sketches, balling up the pieces, and flinging them violently about the room. The room was perfectly bare except for a large painting of a goddess and a box of paints. The goddess was impressive but faceless.

When he saw his visitors, a look of panic replaced his scowl. “Tora. What do you want?” He dropped the shredded sketchbook and kicked the pieces into a corner. Akitada picked one up and straightened it out.

“Please don’t look at it, sir,” cried the painter. “Here, give it to me. They’re just old scribbles. I have better stuff, if you’re interested.”

The sketch showed the face of a young woman, her hair coiled behind her head and a small caste mark between her eyes in the manner of Buddhist deities. Akitada glanced at the painting. “I think it’s a charming face for your Kannon,” he said. “Most of the paintings of the goddess depict round-faced Chinese matrons. I like this Japanese beauty very much better.”

The young painter snatched at the sketch. “No, it’s all wrong!”

“Ando, relax,” said Tora. “This is my master and we’re not here about your painting. Kiyomura was killed last night on the other side of the river.”

“Kiyomura dead?” Ando’s arms dropped to his sides. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“We did not imply that you did,” said Akitada, putting the sketch into his sleeve. “But you were to accompany your friend home last night. What happened?”

Ando paled. “I didn’t. He sent me away. He was quite well when I left. I swear it.”

“Don’t be a cursed fool, Ando!” said Tora. “He wasn’t well when I left. He was drunk and mean, and you know it. How did you expect him to get home in that state?”

Ando’s livid features flushed. “And why should I care?” he cried. “The bastard has never had a word of thanks for anything I’ve ever done. Just, ‘Hey, boy, fetch me some wine from the wine shop. I’ll pay you later!’ or ‘Stop hanging around like some hungry cur!’ or ‘When’s the last time your mother gave you suck, you baby?’ When I …” He broke off, and turned to the painting of the goddess. Picking up a small knife used to trim brushes, he slashed at the goddess’s elegant robes and veils, her dainty hands and feet, and the coiled dark hair on her bejewelled but faceless head. “I’m not a child!” he wept. “I’m a man! I’ll show him! I’ll show them all!”

“In the name of Buddha, Ando,” cried Tora.

“Come, Tora,” said Akitada, taking his arm. “He needs to be alone.”

Outside Tora said, “We should have kept at him. I’ve never seen him so upset. I bet there’s a woman behind it. Kiyomura’s latest courtesan, I expect.”

Akitada stopped abruptly. “Courtesan,” he muttered. “Perhaps … the motive is there … and it would explain … but how to prove it?” He shook his head in puzzlement.

At that moment they were rudely interrupted by two constables who ran up, twisted Tora’s arms behind his back, and tied them with chains before either of them could protest.

“Sorry, sir,” cried the inspector, panting up behind them, “but we must arrest your servant again. New information.”

“What, in the name of the ten judges of hell …?” snarled Tora, struggling between the scowling constables and getting viciously prodded with their steel rods.

“You were heard to threaten the victim,” said the inspector, catching his breath.

“That cursed Saemon! I might have known he’d make trouble.”

The inspector looked at Akitada, shook his head regretfully and said with feeling, “Believe me, sir, I’d do anything to avoid this. But your servant was found on the scene, his robe blood-stained,”—he cast a glance at Tora’s sleeve which did show some rust-colored splotches—”and now we have two witnesses who say that he was threatening the victim’s life only hours before the murder.”

Akitada looked at Tora, who had paled and mumbled, “We had a small disagreement at the Phoenix Pavilion. The waitress must’ve heard. And I checked Kiyomura’s body. That’s how I got his blood on me.”

“You should have told me. What did you argue about?”

Tora looked away. “He said some things about you, sir.”

Akitada bit his lip. The gossip about his fascination with crime was not flattering. Turning to the inspector, he pleaded, “Why not wait till you finish your investigation? What about the identity of the second man or the owner of the sword?”

The inspector stepped back. “The investigation is in the hands of the Metropolitan Police, sir,” he said in an official tone.

“Inspector, it is essential that a very careful autopsy be performed on the second victim.”

The inspector’s face stiffened. “Autopsies have been performed and confirmed earlier findings. That is all I may tell you at this time.” He turned his back on Akitada and motioned to his constables to proceed with their prisoner.

“Wait! I must have a word with my servant before you leave.”

“Are you not coming with us, sir?” Tora asked in a low voice.

“No, Tora. I think my time is better spent solving this mystery. How do I find the sword smith’s place?”

Tora explained, adding loudly, for the benefit of the inspector and the constables, “Don’t worry about me, sir. I know you’ll be back with the name of the real killer in no time at all.”

Akitada tried one last appeal to the inspector. “The so-called beggar’s identity must be verified…” he began, but they were already moving away from him.

Neither his certainty that Tora was innocent, nor his virtual certainty about the killer was particularly reassuring at this moment. Knowing a thing was not the same as proving it. Moreover, as Tora was now officially charged with murder, questioning would begin immediately, and this involved vicious beatings until the suspect’s resistance was broken and he confessed. The situation had suddenly turned ominous.

Hiraga lived in a street of prosperous craftsmen, but his home was modest. From inside Akitada could hear children’s voices and the sound of metal striking metal. As soon as he opened the creaking bamboo gate, a small boy appeared and was joined immediately by three others, each slightly bigger than the first. They stood and stared at him.

Akitada’s face broke into a big smile. “Good morning!”

The boys blushed furiously and retreated. The smallest took off running, shouting for his mother, a short chubby woman, who appeared, flustered, with a baby strapped to her back, and wiping wet hands on her apron.

“Welcome to this humble house.” She bowed several times, waking the baby which blinked at the bright sunlight and set up a wail. Its mother jiggled it, saying, “Please come in and forgive my rude children. If you have come to place an order, my husband will soon be free.”

“Mrs. Hiraga?” Akitada asked, slipping off his shoes and stepping up to the oiled wooden floor in his white socks. He smiled at the squalling child.

“Yes.” She blushed and touched her apron. “Please forgive my dirty clothes. There’s much work with the children. We have eight of them and they’re a constant shame to their parents.”

“On the contrary, you are blessed.” Akitada took out his flute and blew a few notes. The baby fell silent, gulped, and stared with open mouth.

Akitada exchanged a smile with its mother. “Your husband is a lucky man.”

She blushed with pleasure. “Five unmannerly boys and three useless girls,” she sighed. “We are a great burden to him.”

The noise in the back of the house had ceased abruptly, and the sword smith appeared.

“Welcome to my humble home,” he said with a bow, sliding open a door, and nodding to his wife. Akitada entered a large room that contained nothing but two or three cushions and many swords of all sizes displayed on carved wood stands or on hooks on the walls, some in beautifully worked scabbards, others showing their naked blades of bluish steel. Akitada admired them, taking one or two to test their weight and balance. He complimented Hiraga on his superb workmanship.

“I have far to go in my craft,” the sword smith said. “Is the gentleman a swordsman?”

“My name is Sugawara, and I’m here on another matter.”

Hiraga indicated the cushions, and Akitada seated himself. Hiraga joined him, looking politely expectant, while Mrs. Hiraga, without baby, brought wine and a plate of pickled vegetables. She served them and seated herself near the door.

Akitada praised the wine and then said, “The wrestler Kiyomura was murdered last night.”

“Kiyomura murdered?” Hiraga started up, then knelt and bowed. “Forgive me, sir. How stupid of me. You must be Tora’s master. What happened?”

“Please be seated. Tora has been arrested. He found the body, and a man called Saemon told the authorities that Tora threatened the victim’s life.”

“Saemon’s a fool.” Hiraga made a face. “Kiyomura was very drunk and made all of us angry last night. It meant nothing. How did he die?”

“He was stabbed several times on his way home, probably with a short sword found in a rain barrel nearby.”

Hiraga stiffened. “A short sword?”

“Yes. Possibly one of yours. The handle is very dark, almost black, with an inlay of golden reeds on the grip and sword guard.”

There was a loud gasp from the door.

Hiraga said nothing but rose and left the room. When Akitada turned to look after him, he caught an expression of abject terror on the wife’s face. Hiraga, however, returned in a moment, carrying another short sword. He extended it to Akitada, saying, “This is the one I carried last night.”

Akitada received it with a ceremonious bow. It was beautiful and very similar to the murder weapon, except that grip and hilt were ornamented with a silver filigree of leaves and flowers. Its blade, like those on display, had a fine blue sheen lacking in the sword found by the police. Akitada commented on this.

“Water damages the metal. No true swordsman would throw a fine blade into a rain barrel.” Hiraga’s voice was tight with anger or nerves. “That’s why I don’t sell my swords into improper hands. The other sword … It may be one of mine, but I didn’t have it last night.” There was an awkward pause, during which he glanced at his wife, then he added, “However, you said Kiyomura was stabbed. You will notice that the blade of a sword is bent slightly upward. The sharpness is underneath. It is not effective for stabbing, as anyone familiar with swords will tell you.”

Akitada nodded. “You’re quite right. Still, would it be possible to kill a man using this sword like a knife?”

“Yes. But only someone completely unfamiliar with swords would do such a thing.” Hiraga glanced again toward his wife who seemed to have become smaller, to have shrunk into herself.

“Or a man who wished others to think so,” Akitada said softly.

“As you say, my Lord.” The sword smith’s face was expressionless.

There was a soft sob, and the sound of the door closing.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Akitada got up, followed by his host. In the hallway they passed a hanging calligraphy scroll with a Chinese verse. It read, “Alive man is a passing traveller—dead, a man come home. One brief journey between heaven and earth.” Akitada paused and said, “It’s true that man’s life is short and uncertain, but his greatest blessing is his family.”

For a moment Hiraga looked surprised; then he nodded slowly and bowed.

The pharmacist’s house was on the river bank, two doors down river from the bridge. A large sign advertised all sorts of cures and treatments. An older woman with a suspicious look answered Akitada’s knock at the peeling door. “The doctor’s been called away, and his wife’s still abed,” she said sharply.

“I’ll wait till he returns. Please let your mistress know I’m here.”

“I’m the doctor’s sister,” she snapped, leading him to a room with dirty mats and a tattered screen decorated with garish flowers and birds. She muttered under her breath, “Mistress! That one? Honest women rise with the dawn and serve their husbands, but not this one. A harlot once, a harlot forever. Singing lewd songs, gallivanting about till all hours, and then sleeping the day away.” She tossed a cushion on the floor for him and flounced out of the room, leaving Akitada to bide his time.

Women’s voices, raised in lengthy and angry argument, assaulted his ears. Finally the door opened again.

The former courtesan surprised Akitada. She lacked the vulgarity he had expected. A slender young woman in a pale blue silk gown, she came in quietly, carrying a flask and two cups, and greeted him with the relaxed informality found only in upper class courtesans.

“Forgive the wine, your Honor,” she said in a melodious voice, giving him a practiced glance from under long lashes. “I’m afraid it’s not what you are used to.”

“Your company will more than make up for it,” Akitada said with a smile.

“My husband will return soon. I hope your Honor is not in ill health?”

“No. no. Tell me, do you know the painter Ando?”

She frowned prettily. “I don’t think so.”

Akitada pulled the sketch from his sleeve. “He drew this for the head of a painting of Kannon. It looks like you.”

She looked, smiled, shook her head. “You flatter me, sir,”—another sidelong glance and smile—”but it’s not of me. Only the hairstyle is similar.” Her hand touched the coil of glossy hair on her neck with practiced grace.

“My mistake. I stopped at his place to tell him of the death of a friend, the same reason I came to see your husband.”

“How sad.”

“Yes. A wrestler by the name of Kiyomura.”

“Ki—” Her voice failed.

Akitada, pretending not to notice her shock, the sick pallor of her face, took his flute from his sleeve and blew a few notes. “The police blame vagrants. They’re searching for the killer now.” He blew a few more trills. “The weapon was a sword by Hiraga. I hope you don’t mind my playing. I have so little time to practice.”

“No.” Her eyes wandered about the room. Akitada played and watched her hands twist the silk of her gown.

“Do you have to play that tune?” she cried suddenly.

Akitada lowered his flute with a look of surprise. “You don’t like love songs? Oh. The murder of Kiyomura. Forgive me. Yes. Very sad. An athlete in the middle of his career. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“Kiyomura had no honor,” she cried bitterly. “Why should I care if someone killed him? He used women like paper tissues, soiled them, and threw them away.”

“So you were his lover,” Akitada said softly. “The painter must have seen you together and made the sketch from memory.”

“You must despise me,” she said with a shudder. “Once a whore, always a whore. That’s what my husband’s sister says. But Kiyomura and I, we fell in love a long time ago, before Saemon met me. Back when I was very young and when Kiyomura was different. I would have gone to hell itself with him, but he was married to his sport.” She laughed bitterly. “We both changed.” She covered her face with trembling hands. “Kiyomura is nothing to me, nothing!” she cried.

Akitada looked thunderstruck. Then, in his gentlest voice, he lied. “You’re wrong. He loved you all his life, you know. That’s why he failed at wrestling.”

She lowered her hands. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “Truly?”

The sliding door flew back on squeaking tracks, and her husband walked in. “What’s this?” he cried, glaring at his wife. “How dare you dishonor my house by entertaining men in my absence?”

She rose with a quiet restraint Akitada admired, and said, “Lord Sugawara has come to see you, husband.”

Saemon recognized Akitada belatedly. He snapped, “Put on something decent! You look like the slut you are.” Seating himself across from Akitada, he muttered, “Sorry, my Lord.”

Akitada raised his brows and let his eyes move over Saemon’s shabby blue cotton robe.

Saemon fidgeted. “I hope you will pardon this humble place. I’m a poor man. Is it about the Kiyomura matter?”

“Yes. I am told you laid certain charges against Tora while suppressing other evidence. I wonder why.”

Saemon flushed. “I told the truth. It could not be helped.”

“All of you quarreled with the wrestler. All of you had cause to kill him.”

“Not I.”

“On the contrary. You had the best motive of all.”

Saemon bared yellow teeth in an attempt at a smile. “Your Honor jokes.”

The sliding door opened again, and Saemon’s sister came in with more wine and another cup. Noticing Saemon’s clothes, she asked, “Why are you wearing that old thing. What happened to your grey robe?” Without waiting for an answer, she deposited her tray, and grumbled, “If you didn’t let that slut spend your hard-earned money on that beggarly Hirata family, you’d have proper clothes for a man of your standing.”

Saemon hissed, “Stop your babbling, woman! Your foolish chatter offends our guest.”

The woman drew herself up sharply. Angry color suffused her face and the resemblance to her brother was startling. “Foolish am I? All day and all night I work and worry and that is what I get? I take care of your house, your clothes, your meals like a servant. I keep an eye on that whore you brought into our home who spends your money like water while we live like paupers. Hah! I hope she bought that sword to slit your throat some night.”

“Out!” Saemon was up, pointing a shaking finger at the door. His sister tossed her head and left. He followed her, saying over his shoulder, “I made the mistake of marrying a former courtesan. It has upset my household. I shall return in a moment.”

The walls were thin, and again Akitada could hear angry shouting from the back of the house. He took his flute from his sleeve and looked at it thoughtfully. There were sounds of a scuffle and a woman’s cry, abruptly stifled. Saemon returned, breathing heavily, and sat back down.

Akitada said, “You performed the autopsies. May I ask what you found?”

“Kiyomura was stabbed repeatedly. At least two thrusts went straight to his heart. The beggar died of an apoplexy, possibly brought on by witnessing the murder.”

“Ingenious.”

Saemon blustered, “I don’t think I like your tone. What are you suggesting? And what did you mean by saying I had the best motive.”

“The powerful motive of jealousy, although in your case envy, pride, and money enter into it, too. You’re an ordinary, hard-working man who toiled and saved for many years to buy the love of a beautiful woman. Then Kiyomura, by all accounts an obnoxious wastrel and womanizer, arrives on the scene and not only beds your wife, but allows her to support his luxurious life style.”

“That’s a lie,” cried Saemon.

“Ah. Is it? Kiyomura was particularly liberal with money last night, wasn’t he? And he enjoyed cruel taunts. He talked about an admirer and bragged that he’d found a goldmine, and when he looked at you, you realized suddenly you had been subsidizing his life style all along. Then there’s the matter of Hiraga. The sword smith’s presence reminded you of his wife’s visit to your house. You knew Hiraga thought you unworthy of one of his swords. His wife sold the weapon to your wife without her husband’s permission, because a large family of hungry children requires more income than a sword smith with such exacting standards in his customers can supply. It must have rankled that your money went toward the support of Hiraga’s family. In any case, the quarrel between Hiraga and Kiyomura gave you an idea of the perfect revenge. You rushed home for the sword your wife had purchased—out of compassion for Mrs. Hiraga, I suspect, although you assumed it was for her lover—and you ambushed the drunken Kiyomura, hoping to cast suspicion on Hiraga.”

A slow breath escaped from Saemon’s lips. His right hand crept to his sash as his eyes stared fixedly into Akitada’s. Exploding into sudden movement, he flung himself forward. Something flashed in his raised hand. Akitada twisted out of the way, and brought his flute down sharply on Saemon’s wrist. There was a crack, a cry of pain, and Akitada pinioned the pharmacist to the floor, twisting his arms behind his back.

The door opened abruptly.

“Ah, just in time, Inspector,” said Akitada, looking up from Saemon’s back. “Here’s your killer. I was wondering how to proceed. You must have the power of divination.”

The inspector gestured to two constables who quickly tied the dazed Saemon with the thin chains they wore around their middle. Saemon’s wife, dishevelled, one eye blackened, and bruises covering her pale face, came in slowly. She did not look at her husband. Her eyes were on Akitada.

“Thank heaven you’re all right, sir,” she murmured from swollen lips. “I hurried as much as I could.”

The inspector said, “She has accused her husband of Kiyomura’s murder and identified the sword as one she purchased recently. It seems Kiyomura was her lover.”

Saemon jerked on his chains and spat. “Demon!” His face was distorted with fury. “Whore! It’s all part of the plot. I’m charging her, Inspector! She killed the bastard herself because she found herself a noble lover.” He jerked his chin toward Akitada. “Yes! I caught them at their filthy game. They’re in it together, trying to get rid of me now.”

Akitada was as dumfounded by the accusation as everyone else. Not so Saemon’s sister, who burst in, crying, “It’s the truth. She was a whore before he married her, and she sleeps with every man who will have her still. I knew at once what this … this person”—she pointed at Akitada—”had in mind when he came. He made sure Saemon was gone and then asked for her. But I sent for my brother. He came at once and we found them … doing it right there, on the floor of her husband’s house. Slut!”

The inspector’s eyes went to Saemon’s wife, took in the bruises and the tearful look she gave Akitada, and asked, “Is that why your husband beat you?”

“Of course it is,” cried the sister. “Only a saint could have restrained himself.”

Saemon’s wife did the worst thing she could possibly do under the circumstances. She ran to Akitada, knelt and pressed his hand to her cheek. “Forgive me,” she sobbed. “I didn’t wish to cause you trouble. I would gladly die to undo this evil thing.”

Akitada saw suspicion in the inspector’s eyes, and satisfaction in her husband’s. The man was as slippery as an eel and about to escape the net. Worse, Akitada’s reputation, already damaged by his eccentric pursuits, would not survive this tale of sexual misconduct leading to a false murder charge laid against a solid citizen.

As he considered the situation, he knew that the inspector, too, was put to a test. If he threw in his lot with Akitada, his punishment for a miscarriage of justice could be exile. And what about Tora?

After an uncomfortable silence, the inspector walked to Saemon and bent to untie his chains. Saemon’s lips twitched. His wife released Akitada’s hand with a small cry of despair and ran from the room.

“You’re making a mistake,” Akitada said. “This man has killed twice; the other body you found is his second victim, not a beggar, but an innocent passer-by who must have happened upon a murder scene before the killer could wash the bloodstains off himself.”

“Even an idiot could see there were no wounds on the beggar. How was he killed?” shouted Saemon.

Akitada walked to the wall and bent to pick up a slender steel needle. “This,” he said, extending the needle to the inspector, “is the weapon that man tried to use against me before your arrival, and he used the same method to eliminate the witness to his crime. That is why I suggested a careful post mortem. Even if you don’t find the needle, you will find blood in the man’s ear or nose.” He turned to Saemon. “You may not know how to use a sword, but you are a skilled acupuncturist with medical training. Not only are the tools of your trade always with you in that satchel you carry, but you know how to inflict a fatal wound, whether it is a sword cut to the heart, or a needle puncture through an ear or nostril to the brain.”

“You’ll find no needle,” sneered Saemon, “and bleeding from nose and ears is common in cases of strokes.”

The inspector looked from the needle in his hand to Saemon and the chain which still lay at the pharmacist’s feet. Before Saemon could speak, his sister shouted, “Besides anyone can use those needles. It means nothing. He returned early last night. I can testify to that.”

“You cannot,” said Saemon’s wife from the door. All eyes went to her. She was very pale except for the bruises, and she was clutching a brown-striped man’s robe to her chest. “My husband left in a grey robe yesterday. I went to look for it and found this instead.”

The inspector snatched the robe from her hands and held it up. It was clearly too large for the thin Saemon.

“It is not his,” Saemon’s wife said unnecessarily. “I’ve never seen it before. What happened to your grey robe, husband?”

“It’s in the hands of the police,” said Akitada. “Your husband traded it for his second victim’s robe. He tore it to make the dead man look like a vagrant, forgetting that beggars rarely wear clean, white loin cloths.

“Tie him up again!” snapped the inspector to his constables.

Saemon cursed, and his sister wailed, “Don’t believe them! She’s an evil woman! What kind of wife turns on her own husband? Tell me that!”

They ignored her. The constables led Saemon away, and the inspector said to Akitada, “A strange case. It will depend on identifying the second man, easily done of course, but … er … my apologies for your inconvenience. Your servant will be released immediately.” He bowed and was gone.

Saemon’s sister stood uncertainly for a moment. She looked at the younger woman. “You have no right here anymore,” she said venomously. “Get out of my house! If you’re here when I return, I’ll have you whipped through the streets for the adulteress you are.” Then she ran after the police.

Saemon’s wife looked stricken. “She’s right,” she said, wringing her hands. “I’m a terrible wife. I betrayed my husband, again and again. Now he will die because of me. I know I’m worthless. There is nothing to do, but to die.”

Akitada put his hand on her shoulder. “No. Life thrusts difficult choices upon us. Your courage and sacrifice have saved my servant’s life and given peace to the spirits of the murdered men. Such acts will not go unrewarded. You may stay in my home, and count on me for money or any other help you desire.”

She flushed and her eyes moistened. “Your home?” She shook her head with a sad smile. “You’re very good, sir, but your ladies would not welcome someone like me. No, don’t insist. It cannot be.” She paused. “But if I might borrow travel funds? I would like to see my parents again. They’re poor farmers. Perhaps I can atone …”

The sun was setting. A refreshing wind blew from the western mountains, and here and there sere leaves drifted from the trees. The willows at the river had yellowed until their dancing branches looked like threads of golden silk against the brown brocade of the river. The heat had finally broken, but Akitada, who was walking toward the bridge, had a face full of gloom.

“Sir, sir!” Tora was running toward him, smiling broadly. “I knew you’d do it …”

Akitada stopped. “I paid a heavy price,” he said sadly, reaching into his sleeve and holding out his broken flute.

The following bonus chapter is from the beginning of the novel THE HELL SCREEN. It too deals with love and murder. In fact, the novel contains no less than three separate love stories, only one of which ends really badly.

In the excerpt that follows, you meet a woman who is definitely not a victim. She is strong, manipulative, and evil.

Happy reading!

The Hell Screen

Prologue

THE snoring behind her changed to an unintelligible mumbling, and she turned her head sharply. But it was nothing, part of a drunken stupor. She returned her attention to the dark, wet courtyard outside. In a moment the snoring resumed. Men were such weak-minded animals!

Surely enough time had passed. It must be done by now. She shivered and pulled her silk gown more closely around her shoulders.

Earlier, when she had entered this room, a place of rest and prayer for generations of pilgrims, she had read with amusement some of the inscriptions they had left behind on its walls. One was accompanied by the drawing of a seated Buddha and the judge of the dead, King Emma. Smiling and praying figures surrounded the smiling Buddha, but in front of the glowering king, a fierce demon was spearing screaming people to put them in a vat boiling over a fire. The unknown artist had taken pains and achieved a certain gruesome realism. The inscription said, “Release me, Amida, from desire! Save me from eternal torment!”

She was intimately acquainted with desire, but fortunately she was not superstitious. No, she had no time for the foolishness of the religious.

Stiffening, she leaned forward intently. Had that been the sound of a door closing?

This was the most dangerous time. A careless move by the one she was waiting for, some guest on his way to relieve himself, or a monk bent on predawn austerities, and all would be lost. But the courtyard lay silent again among the trees. Strangely, there were not even the cries of night birds or the stealthy rustlings of fox or badger. Perhaps the rain had spoiled their hunting.

There! This time she was certain. Another faint sound, closer this time, of gravel crunching underfoot. She closed the door a little farther, peering through a narrow crack.

The faint glow of the lantern at the end of the gallery was momentarily blotted out. Some large shape had moved across it. The loose board of the veranda steps creaked.

Her heart beating in her throat, she called out softly, “Is someone there?”

A grunt. “It’s me. Open up! Quick!”

She jumped and threw the door wide.

A man, dressed in a monk’s robe, entered, bent under a large burden. She closed the door behind him and shot the latch. In the darkness, his rasping breath made a counterpoint to the snores of the sleeper. She groped for the candle and lit it.

The flickering light revealed the small, simple room, and the bowed figure of the visitor. He let his load roll off his shoulder onto the floor. It fell heavily, like all dead weights. The girl lay on her back, her eyes staring at nothing and her tongue protruding slightly between swollen lips. A hemp rope was still knotted about her throat.

The man sat down abruptly and buried his face in his hands.

“You took your time!” said the woman, giving him an irritated look. Then, turning her back to him, she started to undress. “Did you have any difficulties?” she asked.

He grunted something, staring at her, then nodded toward the sleeper. “What about him? What if he wakes up?”

“He won’t! He’s never had a head for strong drink and this time he won’t wake until morning. And by then it will be much too late.” She giggled, dropping her underrobe. He devoured her nakedness with hot eyes as she was bending over the dead girl.

“Here! Hold her up for me.” When he did not move immediately, she added impatiently, “Why are men so useless?”

He got to his feet meekly, averting his eyes from her breasts and groin. “I wish you’d put on some clothes,” he muttered.

“What?” She looked up, then smiled. “In a moment, my precious stallion.”

His hands trembled as they worked, and when they were done, she came to him, passionately, pushing him back onto the floor, possessing his body with her own urgency, and bringing them both to gasping orgasm. When they were finished, she rose and dressed, grimacing with distaste, while he turned away abruptly and buried his head in his arms.

“Now what’s the matter?” she asked. “Come! We’re almost done. Don’t get weak-kneed now. You know what must be done next.” She went to a travelling box and picked up the sword that lay on its top.

“I can’t,” he muttered, watching her, his handsome face distorted with fear. “I can’t look at her. You do it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! In her condition she won’t feel a thing. You would think a man with your background wouldn’t balk at using a sword.” She pulled it from its scabbard and extended it to him.

He shuddered. “We shouldn’t have done it here. The spirits won’t like it.”

Coward, she thought, and cursed under her breath. She turned to draw the sharp blade across the dead girl’s throat. It bit deeply, nearly severing the head from the body, but there was very little blood. Then she said softly to him, “Please get up!”

When he stood, she came to him, the bloodied sword in hand, and looked up into his eyes pleadingly. She knew he could not resist her. “Come, my love. I have made a start. You are strong, and must do the rest. Just do this one last thing, and we can put the past behind us and live like princes the rest of our lives.”

His eyes wavered before hers. He nodded. She pressed the grip of the sword into his limp right hand and gave him a little push. He took the few steps to the corpse, raised the blade high, and brought it down. The bright steel flashed in the candlelight. Again and again he slashed, in a kind of frenzy, until the blade was black with blood and the girl’s face was no more.

She stopped him then, and took the dripping sword over to the sleeping man, to wipe the blade on his clothes before placing it into his limp right hand. “There!” she said with a nod. “It looks well. Now quick, back to your quarters. I’ll join you at dawn.”

He gulped, his eyes on the horror he had made of the girl’s head.

Opening the door cautiously, she listened, then waved to him.

When he had left, she glanced once more around the room, pushed the bloody head a little closer to the body with her foot, then extinguished the candle. Moving to the door, she raised the latch, listened, and slipped out.

The moist, chill night received her. Her nostrils flared with the excitement of this moment. It was done! She was free. Then she pulled the door shut behind her, tried it and when she found it still unlocked, slammed it more sharply. This time, the latch dropped into place with a click.

For a moment she stood undecided. The distant light caught her beautiful face, moist lips smiling, but the eyes were hard and bright, the mountain lioness returning from a nocturnal hunt, her bloodlust slaked, but every sense alert to danger. Then she slipped away into the shadows quickly, gracefully.

Silence hung over the night-shrouded roofs until, faintly from a distant courtyard, the high, clear note of a temple bell called to morning prayer.

About the Author

I.J. PARKER was born and educated in Europe and turned to mystery writing after an academic career in the U.S. She has published her stories in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, winning the Shamus award in 2000. Several stories have appeared in collections, such as Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense and the recent Shaken. A collection of eleven stories, AKITADA AND THE WAY OF JUSTICE, is offered electronically. The award-winning “Akitada’s First Case” is also available as a podcast.

The Akitada series of crime novels features an eleventh century Japanese nobleman/detective. It now consists of nine titles. Many of these books are available in audio format and have been translated into twelve languages. They are also published electronically.

A historical trilogy, THE HOLLOW REED, tells the story of a young woman and two men during the final years of the Heian era when the Heike wars ended imperial rule and marked the beginning of the age of shoguns.

Also by I. J. Parker:

The Akitada Novels (in chronological order):

THE DRAGON SCROLL

RASHOMON GATE

BLACK ARROW

ISLAND OF EXILES

THE HELL SCREEN

THE CONVICT’S SWORD

THE MASUDA AFFAIR

THE FIRES OF THE GODS

DEATH ON AN AUTUMN RIVER

The HOLLOW REED trilogy, a Kindle exclusive:

DREAM OF A SPRING NIGHT

UNSHEATED SWORDS

DUST BEFORE THE WIND

Short Stories in collections and as electronic books:

“The O-bon Cat” (Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense)

“The Kamo Horse” (Shaken)

“The Water Sprite”

“The Fox Spirit”

“Akitada’s First Case”

“The Curio Dealer’s Wife”

AKITADA AND THE WAY OF JUSTICE

(Eleven Tales of Crime in Imperial Japan)

You may order any of these from Amazon.com