The Hell Screen (44 page)

The sergeant nodded eagerly. “You are right, sir. Let’s look for his footprints here.”

Akitada turned to Kobe, who had come up. “There was only one horse,” he said. “And only a single individual leading it. This individual lives within walking distance from here.”

Kobe glanced down the road where it disappeared among the trees in a haze of blowing snow. He scowled. “How far is the brother’s place?” he snapped at the sergeant.

The man flinched. “A couple of miles, sir. I can’t make out any footprints, except in this place here.”

In the growing darkness, they gathered and peered at a shallow impression. “Maybe a boot, not big, but not a woman’s, either,” guessed Kobe. Nobody could improve on this, and after another look around they gave up. The light was failing rapidly, and the snow fell more thickly.

“Let’s go to Kojiro’s farm,” said Akitada, swinging back in the saddle. “The weather is worsening and we will probably have to seek shelter anyway.”

Kobe scowled at the sky, but he nodded with a grunt, and the small cavalcade set out again.

They reached their destination just before it became necessary to light their lanterns. To Akitada’s amazement, Kojiro’s property was a manor house in a compound of buildings which was larger than his own in the capital. The entire compound was walled and had an imposing roofed gate.

“Are you sure we have the right place?” Akitada asked the sergeant. “This looks like some nobleman’s estate.”

The sergeant assured him that there was no mistake and applied the wooden clapper to the bell.

Kobe joined Akitada. “What do you make of this?” he asked, clearly thunderstruck. “The man acts like the merest peasant. If he has this much wealth, why didn’t he make an outcry? Where are all his wealthy friends? Or the poor officials who would gladly put in a good word for him for a small present?”

Akitada was completely out of his depth. “Perhaps he just does not have any connections and friends. Or maybe he does not believe in bribes.”

Kobe was snorting his derision when the gate opened on oiled hinges.

A boy of ten or eleven stood there, holding up a lantern and looking at them. Behind him an elderly man in a simple cotton robe came hobbling up, leaning on a stick. The wide courtyard was neat in the light of torches fixed to the walls of the manor house before them.

“You are welcome,” the old one said, a little out of breath. “I suppose you need lodging for the night?”

Akitada glanced up at the sky, which was nearly black and filled with swirling, dancing snowflakes. “Yes, thank you for your hospitality. The weather caught us unprepared. We are from the capital, investigating a murder which happened nearby. This is Police Superintendent Kobe with his men, and I am Sugawara Akitada.”

It was doubtful if the old man took in Akitada’s name, but when he heard Kobe introduced, his expression changed, and his eyes became fixed on the superintendent. “Are you the one that’s put my master in jail?” he asked, suddenly belligerent.

Akitada glanced nervously at Kobe to see how he would react to the sudden defiance of the old man.

Kobe scowled, being used to abject bows from mere peasants, then glanced around the compound again and cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “I am in charge of the prisons in the capital. Who are you?”

Completely unimpressed, the man stood a little straighter. “I’m Kinzo. Senior retainer in charge of the manor while my master is away, jailed, though he is as pure and innocent as Saint Zoga.” He glared back at Kobe.

Kobe cast a glance at the sky. “I don’t blame you for your feelings,” he said peaceably, “but your master cannot be released until the evidence against him is either disproven or we find another suspect. That is why we are here now.”

The old servant’s fierce expression softened marginally. “You’d better come in,” he said grudgingly, and turned to lead the way.

They rode in, and the boy closed and latched the gate behind them. Kobe and Akitada dismounted at the house, where the boy took their horses. The others followed him to the stables.

Not unexpectedly, the house was dark and empty. Kinzo lit a lantern in the entry while they removed their boots. Then they followed him down dark corridors into a spacious room with a fire pit in its center. Heavy shutters to the outside were closed against the night and the weather. The room contained little beyond necessities: a few mats and cushions, several candlesticks with candles, and a large wooden chest of the type used by traveling merchants. It was reinforced with decorative metal corners, hinges, and locks on its drawers and had metal hafts at both ends to push carrying poles through. The only item in the room which was not utilitarian was a large and very fine scroll painting of a waterfall in a mountain landscape.

“Your master must be prosperous,” said Akitada, looking around.

“He has been blessed by Daikoku, god of farmers, but suffers the injustice and cruelty of the emperor Chu.”

“A well-read peasant,” whispered Kobe to Akitada, as Kinzo removed the wooden lid from the fire pit and lit the neat pile of charcoal at its bottom. Then he arranged cushions around it and invited them to sit.

“You may spend the night,” he said to Kobe. “Like the sainted Kobo Daishi, my master would not turn his worst enemy out on a night like this. Maybe you are trying to help him, but you’ve taken your time about it. Four times I’ve traveled to the capital and asked to see him, and four times your constables have turned me away. May Amida grant my master the unshakable spirit of Fudo. Last time, one of the constables said that not even my master’s wife was admitted any longer. I ask you, what wife may that be? My master does not have a wife.”

Akitada and Kobe looked at each other. Akitada said, “The constable made a mistake. The visitor happened to be my sister. She met your master once, and when she heard of his troubles, she took him some food.”

Now he had the old man’s full attention. “Ah! Forgive me, your honor. I didn’t catch the name.”

“Sugawara. I am a government official, and I, too, have taken an interest in your master’s case and am here to help.”

Kinzo suddenly smiled and bowed deeply. “An illustrious name! You walk in the footsteps of your noble ancestor who defied tyranny. You are indeed welcome. May the Buddha reward you for your help and may he reward your noble sister’s kindness. It is good to work on the side of the just. My master would never have killed his brother’s wife. He loves his brother more than his life. I told him so only a week ago.”

“Told whom?” snapped Kobe, coming to attention.

“Why, Master Nagaoka, of course. Your guards would not let me see my master, remember. Master Nagaoka stopped by to check on things and bring me news. I told him what the constable at the prison had said about a wife, and Master Nagaoka said it wasn’t true. I don’t suppose he knew about your sister, sir. He said the superintendent had warned him away, too, and that we must hope for a miracle to happen, for there was nothing that could be done anymore.” Kinzo shot an accusing glance at Kobe, who was staring at him fixedly.

“You say Nagaoka was here a week ago?” the superintendent asked. “When did he leave?”

“Why, the very next day. He had business elsewhere.”

“And how did he look when he left?” Kobe asked, giving Akitada a meaningful nod.

The old man had sharp eyes. He frowned suspiciously, but said, “As you’d expect. Like Kume after he saw the washerwoman’s legs.”

Kobe looked blank. “Who is Kume? What washerwoman?”

“It’s another story. Kume was a fairy,” Akitada explained. “The story has it that he lost his supernatural powers because he lusted after a mortal woman.”

The old man nodded. “A woman ruined Kume. A woman ruined Nagaoka. Her and that father of hers.”

“What is he talking about?” Kobe asked. “All I want to know is if Nagaoka was sick when he left here.”

“There was nothing wrong with his health,” snapped the old man. “If you’re afraid to spend the night here, you can ride home in the storm.”

Akitada said quickly, “No, no. You misunderstood. Nagaoka was found dead not two miles from here. He may have died the day he left here. The superintendent and I are trying to find out what happened to him. Do you know where he was going?”

Kinzo’s jaw dropped. “Master Nagaoka’s dead?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, his karma was very bad! And now my poor master will be even more wretched than Fujiwara Moroie when his beloved died.”

“Come on, man,” snapped Kobe, “where was Nagaoka headed when he left here?”

Kinzo’s eyes widened. “Hah,” he cried. “That woman got him! I knew it. They say the spirit stays in its home for forty-nine days. Hers must have gone to Kohata. That’s where Master Nagaoka was going. Just over the hill to Kohata. And that evil demon was lying in wait for him.” He shook his head at the pity of it.

* * * *

Two Professors

Kinzo treated them well that evening. There was a hot bath for them, a substantial meal of hot rice and vegetables, with steamed fish fresh from a nearby river, and bedding for a restful night.

Akitada had rarely slept better. Outside, the snow fell silently and it was a cold night, but the large pile of charcoal in the fire pit continued to glow, making the room very comfortable.

When they rose the next morning, Kinzo reappeared, followed by the youth who had opened the gate and now brought a tray with steaming bowls of rice gruel.

“It stopped snowing,” announced Kinzo. “On horseback you shouldn’t have any trouble crossing the mountain to Kohata.”

It turned out to be a hard ride after all, but the weather had cleared and there was even some sun. The snow was so bright, it was almost blue in the shadows, and the trunks and branches of the trees stood out sharply like black brushstrokes against white paper.

They saw the village of Kohata when they made their way down the other side of the mountain. It consisted of a few straggling farmhouses, a post house, and a somewhat larger complex of buildings on the outskirts of the small town. The latter turned out to be the farm belonging to Nagaoka’s father-in-law, known locally as “the professor.”

It was certainly not as prosperous as Kojiro’s place, and had seen better days. The fence gaped in places, but the gate still had two panels, and the dwelling looked a comfortable size. Smoke rose in a thin spiral from a derelict outbuilding, no doubt the kitchen, and someone had swept a makeshift path to the entrance of the house.

No one was about, so the sergeant went to knock on the door. There was no answer.

After a few more attempts to rouse someone, Akitada and Kobe dismounted and walked around to the back. A leaning wooden gate led into what must once have been a small garden; now the overgrown plants were towering shapes under the snow. A single set of footprints skirted the corner of the house, and these they followed to a small pavilion at the back of the garden.

Its doors stood wide open, and inside huddled a figure. It was covered from head to toe with layers of old quilts and covers, and was bent over a desk spread with papers. Only one hand protruded, laboriously writing a few characters before raising stiff fingers to blow on them.

The occupant did not hear their muffled steps in the snow outside until they stepped onto the small veranda. Then he started and turned, the covers slipping to reveal an elderly man with bright black eyes and a dripping nose.

Kobe said, “Sorry to interrupt, but nobody answered our knocks. Would you be Professor Yasaburo?”

The elderly man sniffed and dashed the moisture from the tip of his nose with a stained sleeve. “No, I’m not, I’m glad to say.” He spoke in the nasal voice of someone with a bad cold. “Yasaburo is a disgusting tightwad, a damnable slave driver, a vulgar boor, an inferior poet, a vile cook, a contemptible conversationalist, a wretched scholar, a shocking father, an execrable calligrapher, and he serves inferior wine. No, thank the heavens, I’m not Yasaburo.”