It was nearly dawn when they reached home, but lights were blazing in the Sugawara residence. The gate was opened by the cook, a woman who liked her sleep and certainly never bothered with gates.
She was in a temper. After a perfunctory bow to her master, she told Genba, “I don’t know what Tora can be thinking of, arriving in the middle of the night with two sick strangers, and demanding that I cook for them. And you look terrible, too.”
Akitada, who was already crossing the courtyard to the house, swung around. “Tora’s back?”
When she nodded, they ran into the house, too relieved to consider the rest of the cook’s speech.
Tamako met her husband in the corridor. The meeting reminded Akitada unpleasantly of an earlier one when she had thought that Seimei might have smallpox. She held a lamp, and in the flickering light her eyes glittered.
“How could you permit this?” she cried, her voice shrill with panic. “Cook says Seimei admitted sick strangers to this house.”
Akitada was also uneasy about these unexpected guests, but he tried to calm her. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he said, “I doubt there’s any need for concern. Tora wouldn’t bring anyone who has smallpox. Where are they?”
She stepped back, letting his hand drop away. “In Seimei’s room. He’s treating them. You must make them go away. There are charity hospitals.”
All was quiet in Seimei’s room, but a thin line of light showed around the door. Akitada cleared his throat.
The door opened immediately and Seimei peered out.
“Oh, it’s you, sir,” he whispered. “Returned safely, may the gods be thanked.”
Akitada stepped in and saw three sleeping figures under quilted covers. He found Tora and gently shook his shoulder.
Seimei had followed him. “He was wounded in a sword fight,” he said anxiously.
Tora stirred, blinked against the light and slowly sat up, rubbing his face. “Ah, you’re back, sir,” he said with a yawn. “I meant to go looking for you, but Seimei wouldn’t let me.” He yawned again. “And the truth is, it’s been a long day and night.”
“I’m sorry to wake you.” Akitada squatted beside him. “How badly are you hurt?”
Tora grinned and whipped back the cover to reveal a thickly bandaged thigh. “Just a flesh wound. Seimei cleaned it and put some stinking salve on it. Feels better already.”
“And the others? Lady Sugawara is worried about smallpox.”
“They’ve just been knocked about a bit. The kid, Kinjiro, saved my life. The old man was locked up without food and water for days, but Seimei says he’ll come around.”
“Good.” Akitada hesitated. “Do you feel like talking now, or would you rather rest first?”
“Now. I’ve got to tell you. You’ll never believe it. That sword the swordsmith Sukenari lost? Matsue had it all along. And a lot of gold and silver besides.” Tora fumbled in his bedding and produced the sword.
Akitada glanced at it and laid it aside. “But what about the murder? Did you find out who killed the blind woman?”
Tora’s face fell. “No. I know who didn’t kill her. I figured it was Kata, but she was his good luck charm and he thinks his business is doomed now.” He gave a dry chuckle. “He may be right. It will be. He’s a gang boss.”
Genba came in and crouched on Tora’s other side. “How are you, brother?” he asked anxiously.
“I’ll do. What happened to your nose?”
“I put it where it didn’t belong.” Genba grinned. “Well, did you have any luck?”
Akitada said, “Apparently not. At least the court is not in session at the moment. The sickness has given us extra time. That reminds me. I’d better explain to my wife about our guests.”
Tamako still hovered in the darkness of the corridor. Akitada closed the door behind him and said, “They don’t have smallpox. Just assorted wounds and bruises.”
“Thank heaven.” She came a little closer. “You are quite sure?”
He was not, could not be certain that they did not have the seeds of the sickness inside them, but he said “yes” as firmly as he could.
“But to bring strangers here in the middle of the night. What can Tora be thinking of?”
“Since Tora has some serious wounds and lost a good deal of blood, I thought I’d ask for explanations later. He says the boy saved his life.”
“Oh.” She brushed a hand across her face, as if sweeping away the fears that had clouded her usual consideration for others. “How badly is he hurt?”
“I imagine he’ll be fine in a day or so.”
“I’m glad. Who are the others?”
“I know nothing about them, but they’re our guests until they can care for themselves. We must honor Tora’s word.”
“Yes.” It was dim in the corridor, but he thought he saw her flush. “Yori is… I’ll get a room ready for them.” She slipped away before he could thank her or wonder what she had started to say.
When Akitada returned to the others, Genba was pressing a smelly poultice to his nose and blinking watery eyes. Akitada grinned and went to look at the two strangers. The old man was asleep, curled up under his covers, and Akitada had to lift the quilt to see his face. He looked sick and fragile and vaguely familiar. The boy, a scrawny creature of twelve or thirteen, was awake and staring up at him.
“I’m Sugawara Akitada,” said Akitada with a smile. “I understand you did Tora a great service.”
“It was nothing. Tora told me about you. He thinks you’re one of the heavenly generals come back to earth.”
Akitada chuckled. “I doubt even Tora would accuse me of that. Do you have a family, Kinjiro?”
“No.” The boy scowled and sat up. “And you might as well know I’ve been working for Kata. Collecting his dues from the merchants every week. Don’t worry. I won’t stay long.” He said it defiantly, as if he expected Akitada would throw him out of the house.
“Kata was running a protection racket,” Tora said helpfully.
“Oh, I see.” Akitada sighed. The boy was a member of a criminal gang. He hoped Tamako would not find out. “I trust you’ve left Kata’s employ.”
Tora said, “He did. He’s a good kid. Couldn’t help himself. His father’s dead and his mother threw him out.”
“I can speak for myself,” muttered Kinjiro.
Akitada looked at his thin body and sharp features. Kinjiro was at the age when a child just begins to want to be a man, and this child had been plunged into the worst kind of adulthood before he was ready. He said a little more warmly, “I’m very sorry for your troubles, Kinjiro. Since Tora vouches for you, you’re welcome here and I will do my best to help you make a better start.”
“He wants to be a scribe like his father,” suggested Tora.
The boy swung around angrily. “I said…” But he did not finish. Instead he turned back to Akitada. “My father taught me to write, sir. I’m not very good yet. I think it would please him if I became what he was. If you could help me find a teacher, I’d work for you for nothing-for the rest of my life.”
Akitada was moved and amused by the offer. “Well, we must try to accommodate you then,” he said with a smile. “Now get some rest.”
Tora looked tired and in pain, but was blessedly alive. Akitada sat beside him and said impulsively, “Thank heaven you’re back with us. I was so worried.”
Tora grinned. “I know. I saw your face when you came in.”
They smiled at each other, while Seimei busied himself with Genba’s nose, and Kinjiro looked away.
“The sword I brought back,” Tora said after a moment. “Will you look at it? I think it’s the Sukenari sword. I wonder why Matsue had it.”
Akitada frowned. “Who’s Matsue?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? He’s the guy we’re looking for. The one that looks like Haseo. Only not up close. He’s Kata’s partner and a master sword fighter. He wounded me, but I cut off his fingers so he won’t ever fight again. He’s a nasty bastard. Enjoys hurting people.” Tora grimaced and rubbed his head.
Akitada stared at him. “You surprise me. I met him tonight. He acted very fierce in spite of his wounded hand, until I mentioned Haseo. Then he panicked. There must be some relationship between them.”
“There is. His real name’s Sangoro. There were papers in his trunk. Sword-fighting certificates mostly, and a couple of other things. He’s got a farm in Tsuzuki district. But I found another paper that had the word ‘Utsunomiya’ on it. I was going to give it to you, but they caught me before I could get home, and Matsue snatched it back. He was livid. Like I’d caught him in some crime or something.”
“They caught you? You mean Kata’s gang?”
Tora nodded. “That snake of a beggar from the market told them I was a spy for the police. When Matsue found his paper on me, I figured it was all over. They meant to kill me. Kinjiro saved my life by helping me get away.”
“You took a terrible and foolish risk.”
Tora nodded. “I know. But I did get the goods on Matsue.” Knowing Tora’s limited reading skills, Akitada wished he had the piece of paper Tora had found. He sighed and looked at the sword. “It seems to be the right sword,” he said doubtfully.
“Look at the tong.”
Akitada unfastened the blade and read Sukenari’s name and the date. He also saw faint traces of blood. “Yes,” he said, “you’re quite right. Sukenari will be very glad to have it back. It needs cleaning.”
“I’ll get some oil in a moment. It’s a very fine blade. Sliced right through Matsue’s sword hand.”
Kinjiro piped up, “You should’ve killed him. Real fighters always fight to the death. Matsue would’ve killed you.”
“If you prevailed against a great swordsman, Tora, then the gods were truly in it,” said Akitada. “I must give them my special thanks.”
The boy said, “You’re very lucky to have a man like Tora, sir.”
“I know.”
“Pah.” Tora looked embarrassed. “It was the spirit in the sword. Besides, he wasn’t such a great swordsman after all to lose to a mere soldier.”
The door opened and Tamako came in, followed by her maid. They carried trays of food and flasks of wine. Akitada jumped up. “Thank you, but we can serve ourselves,” he said, hoping the women would leave quickly.
Tamako peered over his shoulder. “Oh, Tora,” she cried, “how very sorry I am that you have been wounded.”
Tora covered his bloody bandage and tried to make her a bow. “It’s just a little scratch, my lady.”
“If you feel at all feverish, you must let me know. I have some herbs that are supposed to be particularly good when a wound becomes infected.” She passed the tray to Akitada. “Please make our guests welcome.”
The maid put down the wine, and the two women left.
“The old man seems very familiar,” Akitada said, setting the tray on the floor and nodding toward the sleeper.
“Mr. Chikamura says he knows you.” Tora reached and helped himself to a bowl of stewed fish and vegetables.
“Mr. Chikamura?” cried Akitada in surprise.
“Who’s calling?” muttered the old man and sat up slowly. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and broke into a toothless smile. “My lord,” he said. “What great kindness and honor you show a poor old man! You won’t believe it, but that depraved nephew of mine came back with his villains and they locked me up in my own storehouse because I threatened them with the police. I thought I was a dead man. I’d just about given up and assigned my soul to Amida, when Tora rescued me. May Amida bless both of you.” Wheezing with the effort, he got on his knees and knocked his head on the floor a few times.
Akitada said quickly, “Please don’t exert yourself. I’m very sorry for your ordeal and will see to it that your nephew is locked up instead. Now make yourself comfortable. Here is food. Come Seimei, and you too, Kinjiro.”
Mr. Chikamura crawled closer and accepted a bowl of rice from Kinjiro, “No need to bother about Buntaro,” he told Akitada. “Tora killed him.”
Akitada’s jaw sagged. He looked at Tora. “You killed a man?”
“He killed two,” Kinjiro corrected proudly. “He tricked the Scarecrow-that’s Buntaro-to slash Genzo’s throat from ear to ear, and then he took Genzo’s knife and rammed it all the way into the Scarecrow’s chest. They bled buckets of blood on the floor.”
“Heavens,” murmured Akitada. “You have been busy, Tora.”
“He’s a great warrior,” cried Mr. Chikamura, who had eaten with good appetite and was becoming talkative. “After he fought Matsue, he went out to get rid of my nosy neighbor, and then they put me on a ladder, along with the bags of money, and carried me most of the way. When some constables tried to stop us, they told them I was dead from smallpox and they were gonna take me to Toribeno.” Mr. Chikamura emptied a cup of wine and giggled. “The constables just backed away and covered their noses.” He held out his cup, drank down the refill, and continued, “This smallpox-they say it flies through the air and if your Karma is bad, it’ll enter your body. Maybe they should beat a drum to scare the flying devils away.”
“We must hope that we’re safe,” said Akitada with a smile, but he was concerned. Seimei passed around more food and poured wine for Akitada and Tora, but he only gave tea to Kinjiro, who drank very little and ate nothing.
Akitada saw that Tora looked tired and drawn. He felt guilty but asked, “Did you learn anything about the murdered woman?”
Tora made a face. “Not much. She may have been Kata’s good luck charm, but Matsue hated her. Kinjiro says he used to watch her in the market.” The boy nodded listlessly. “I’d made up my mind to kill the bastard for Tomoe’s murder, but he said he didn’t do it.”
Akitada raised his brows. “And you believed that?”
“I’d just cut off his sword hand. He figured he was a dead man, so why lie?”
“And nothing else turned up?”
Tora shook his head.
Akitada sighed. “All this trouble, and we’re back where we started.” He got up. “I’ve plagued you enough for tonight. We’ll talk again tomorrow, and I’ll see to Sukenari’s sword. Get some sleep now, Tora.”
Mr. Chikamura had listened and now piped up, “That sword is Matsue’s. He told Buntaro it belonged to his family, and he’s the last of them. Everybody else is dead.”
Tora said tiredly, “Then he lied,” and lay down and closed his eyes.
In Akitada’s room a candle shed unsteady light on his desk and shelves of books. The doors to the garden were open, the blackness beyond silent and unfathomable. Tamako had spread out his bedding for him. He was not sure whether to be grateful or take it as a signal that he was not welcome in her room. He laid a square of cotton across his desk, placed Sukenari’s sword on it, and got out the cleaning materials. His father had kept these in a fine old sandalwood box and had taken pains to teach Akitada to care for swords. Sometimes it surprised Akitada that a scholar like the elder Sugawara had never forgotten respect for the military traditions of their ancestors. In later years he had come to be grateful for his father’s teachings, though he would never feel love for his stern and cold parent. Even now, as he laid out the stoppered bottle of clove oil, the small silk bag containing the fine whetstone dust, the batch of thick cleaning papers, and the small picks and mallets, he cringed inwardly at the memories of his boyhood.
But the cleaning of swords had become such a habit that he soon lost himself in the activity. He thought of his own sword. It had become his after his father’s death. Anger at the thieves who took it helped ease the unpleasant feeling in his belly that memories of his father always brought. Unlike his father, he had used the sword, and in that he found a sense of validation, almost as if he were still competing with a dead man.
The Sugawara sword was longer than Sukenari’s and a good deal heavier, but it had a very good blade nevertheless. He intended to get it back, though perhaps Yori would some day decide to order another, more modern sword. Soon it would be time to initiate his son into the secrets of taking proper care of a real sword.
Akitada wondered if Yori would approach the lesson as fearfully as the young Akitada had. Unwelcome memories of tearful battles over Yori’s poor writing skills came to his mind. Was Tamako right? Had he been asking too much of the child? Was he repeating his father’s sins? He had meant it for the best. A father had a duty to equip his son for the challenges of adulthood. Thanks to his own father, Akitada had known how to face danger and hardship when he met them.
Suddenly his eyes burned with unshed tears for the lost chance to thank his father. Oh, how to bridge the chasm between father and son? Yori loved Tora, and Akitada had noticed that Tora became like a child when he was with children. Why could he not be more like Tora?
He sighed and looked at Sukenari’s sword. The blood stains on the scabbard were beyond him, but the blade must be cleaned before it rusted. Blood was as damaging as water to a fine blade. Tora had wiped off the worst, but he must make certain that none was left under the hilt. With one of the small tools, he removed the peg that held the blade inside the hilt and slipped it free. Matsue had cared well for the stolen sword. Whatever his background and current occupation, the robber had loved this weapon. As he rubbed on the cleaning oil, Akitada looked at the master’s signature. The date was six years ago, one year before his dead friend’s life had fallen apart. Strange that Sukenari should have made a sword for another Haseo.
With the last trace of the bloody encounter between Tora and Matsue removed, Akitada lightly dabbed cleaning powder on both sides of the blade and used a fresh piece of paper to polish it. The blade was beautifully made, and he was very tempted to order a new sword for himself. In the flickering light, the lines produced by fusing the layers of steel began to undulate and shimmer along the deadly edge. How very close were art and violence! The moment of creation already contained the seeds of death. And the gods governed both.
Akitada shivered. A cool breeze blew in from the garden. When he turned, he saw that the trees rose dark against a faintly lighter sky. If he hurried, he could get an hour’s sleep before going to work. Turning back to his chore, he applied the fresh oil carefully and then reassembled blade and hilt. The sword guard was very finely made. He looked at the gilded pine branches and the thatched roof of some dwelling. What had Sukenari said? Pines and a Shinto shrine. Family emblems of some sort. Yes, it was a shrine roof. And then he had the oddest thought. The words for pine (utsu) and for shrine (miya) would sound like the name Utsunomiya! Could it be? Was this Haseo’s sword after all?
Sukenari had known and liked a man called Haseo. Akitada searched his memory, but could not recall that man’s family name. Five years had passed since the day his friend had died in his arms on a distant island. Akitada had asked the dying man for his surname. But perhaps Haseo’s mind had wandered already on that dark path? He had suffered a deep and dreadful wound to the stomach and was bleeding to death and in great pain. Heaven knew Akitada had not been very rational himself.
The awful memories came flooding back then, and with them the awareness-often acknowledged but never acted on-that he owed a great debt to the man who had saved his life and then lost his own.
Akitada fingered the sword guard. The emblems had been important to its owner, whatever his name had been. No wonder none of the official records had turned up any trace of anyone called Utsunomiya Haseo. For all Akitada knew, Haseo’s story had always lain there among the dusty trial records on the shelves of the Ministry of Justice and in one of the document boxes of old forgetful Kunyoshi.
His heart beating with excitement, Akitada replaced the sword in its scabbard and rose. There was no time for sleep now. He must see Sukenari right away.
A short time later, without having bothered to change his robe or eat his morning rice, Akitada strode down Suzako Avenue with the sword slung over his shoulder. He probably made a strange and frightening sight, unshaven and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, in an old robe and armed. It did not matter. At this cool and slightly misty hour of the morning, the wide street was abnormally empty, and the few people he saw looked worse than he did. Dawn broke splendidly over the many roofs of his beloved city, gilding the roofs and sparkling off the distant tops of the twin pagodas of the Eastern and Western temples. Before him stretched the lines of willows in full leaf, their long branches sweeping the ground and reaching for the waters of the wide canal. But no children fed the ducks from the arched bridges that spanned the canal. No idlers rested under the trees. A monk and a few frightened creatures hurried on some urgent errands, keeping well clear of each other, and a solitary horseman headed for the palace. The city itself seemed to be sickening.
To his relief, Sukenari was awake and untouched by the disease. He welcomed Akitada with formal courtesy. Only a flicker of his eyelids showed his surprise when he saw the sword on Akitada’s back. He asked no questions until he had seated his guest and offered him a cup of warmed wine.
Akitada accepted gratefully. He presented the sword and explained how Tora had found it. Sukenari received it with a delighted smile and a bow. He immediately pulled the blade.
Akitada said quickly, “I cleaned it, but perhaps not as well as I should have. Tora had to use the sword against the man. He cut off the man’s fingers.”
“Ah, did he? It looks fine, just fine,” said Sukenari, turning it lovingly this way and that. “Yes, it is my sword-or rather, it’s not mine. I wonder if I can find its owner.”
Akitada tried to restrain his excitement. “That’s why I came so early. It just occurred to me… that is, you mentioned someone called Haseo. Was it his sword by any chance?”
“Yes, indeed. A very nice young man and a fine swordsman. He came to the capital to study swordsmanship, and when he thought he was worthy of a good sword, he came to me. After that he returned once or twice to let me polish the sword, but he’s not been back for many years now. I have forgotten where his home was, but it was near a famous shrine. That’s why he wanted the decorations. The shrine for a pure life and the pine for a long one. A family tradition, I believe.”
Akitada leaned forward. “What was his surname?”
“Tomonari.” The smith looked curious, but was too polite to ask.
“Tomonari. Yes.” Akitada sat back with a small sigh of satisfaction. “I think I met your Haseo. I thought he was telling me his name, but the detail on the sword guard makes me think that he was referring to a family motto. Did your young man say anything about his people?”
Sukenari was fascinated. “He didn’t explain, but he insisted on the decoration. We ask our clients what designs they want on the sword guard and the scabbard. But what happened to him?”
“He died in exile in Sadoshima.”
Sukenari became very still. “In exile?” he murmured. “But how could that be? He was a good man. Did he use this sword to kill someone?”
“I don’t know the circumstances of his crime yet, but he insisted that he was innocent. My friend was a big man, with broad shoulders and a strong black beard, but he wasn’t young. I would have judged him to be a little older than I am, perhaps in his forties.”
Sukenari looked dazed and sad. “Yes. He probably was. He had no beard then. I thought of him as young because he acted like a boy sometimes. He smiled and laughed a great deal, and he walked and moved with such energy-well, he seemed young to me. How very sad to suffer such a fate for no reason.”
“He saved my life.”
“Ah, at least he did not die in vain. Poor young man.”
Sukenari persisted in calling Haseo young. Akitada’s memory had been of someone who was both mature and joyless. Haseo had hardly spoken until the last few days of his life, and he certainly had not smiled until the moment when he had realized that he might see his family again. Akitada said, “Did he talk about his family? There were three wives and five children, I think.”
Sukenari shook his head. “Wives and children? How pitiful! No, we only talked about swords and sword handling. Once, early on, I got the feeling that his visits to the capital didn’t meet with his family’s approval. Sword fighting often becomes a passion. Men have been known to abandon their families for it.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think Haseo did. The one who had his sword seems to be such a man, though. His name is Matsue, I believe.”
“Ah, I’ve heard the name. He has a bad reputation, that one. How did he come to have this sword?”
“That I must find out.” Akitada rose and bowed. “I’ve taken up too much of your time. Thank you for your help and hospitality.”
Sukenari said quickly, “But the sword. It’s not mine. Will you take it? Perhaps it will help you find Haseo’s family.”
Akitada hesitated, then accepted and slung the sword across his shoulder again.
From Sukenari, he went to the ministry and found it was a day for more surprises. The main hall was deserted, though it was broad daylight by now and working hours had started a long time ago. Not even a scribe or attendant seemed to be in the building. He passed through the hall to his office and heard muffled voices behind the closed door. When he opened it, he found Nakatoshi and Sakae in deep conference at his desk. They both jumped up and stared at him.
He frowned his disapproval. “What are you doing?”
Nakatoshi bowed first. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “Sorry about using your office, but we didn’t want to be overheard.”
“Really? Why? Nobody else seems to be working today,” Akitada said peevishly, “and you two looked surprised to see me.”
They exchanged glances. Nakatoshi flushed, but Sakae was made of sterner stuff. He said excitedly, “We just had a messenger, sir. Minister Soga has died. Of smallpox. It seemed best to discuss the matter in private.” He extended a piece of paper.
Akitada stared at him, then at Nakatoshi, who nodded. The letter appeared to be from some abbot. It was addressed to the person in charge at the ministry and contained the brief announcement that the minister had succumbed the evening before. “To be reborn into the western realm,” the abbot had concluded. Perhaps the sickness in his village had prevented him from adding more detail.
“Did either of you know that Soga was ill?” Akitada asked, looking at the clerks sharply.
They shook their heads. Nakatoshi said, “You may recall, sir, that they refused to receive our messenger. I thought it very strange since his Excellency had demanded daily reports. I think he must have become ill very shortly after leaving here.”
Sakae was smiling to himself. Akitada cleared his throat pointedly, and his clerk adopted a mournful look. “We wondered,” he said, “if the Great Council has been notified. Now that you are here perhaps I could carry your message to them?” When Akitada looked at him in astonishment, Sakae added, “To save you changing into proper attire, I mean.”
Akitada glanced down at his old robe. He had neither slept nor shaved, and his clothes were by now dirty. He could hardly make an appearance in the highest office of the government looking like this. No doubt Sakae also had ulterior motives: It could not hurt one’s career to make oneself known to the chancellor and his staff. Akitada had intended to send Nakatoshi, but he could spare Sakae more easily. He had to see Kobe to tell him that Tora had returned, and he wanted to begin a search of the archives. So he nodded and sat down to write the short cover letter, impressed his seal, enclosed the abbot’s note, and handed the whole to Sakae.
Nakatoshi looked after Sakae and sighed.
“I would have sent you, but I need you to be here this morning,” said Akitada by way of an apology. “I have some urgent business to attend to.”
Nakatoshi’s eyes flicked over Akitada’s rumpled appearance and stopped at the sword that lay across the late Soga’s desk. “But,” he stammered, “the death of the minister… how shall I manage, sir?”
Akitada knew that his behavior was eccentric and inappropriate, but he was thoroughly tired of more problems. He had spent a night being attacked, had dealt with a hysterical wife and unexpected house guests with assorted wounds, and had tried to make sense of all the startling and puzzling revelations about Haseo and the villain Matsue. At the moment his duties at the ministry-and there could not be many while the epidemic raged in the city-were the least of his worries. He snapped, “What you have done all along. Receive messages and relay them to me. Don’t tell me that Soga’s death will change the routine. Sakae was eager enough to step into my shoes. Perhaps you can cover for the late minister for an hour or so.”
Nakatoshi turned red. “Yes, sir. Only, what will happen to us? Will they send someone else to take the minister’s place?”
“No doubt in time.”
Nakatoshi hung his head. “Yes, sir. I wish it could be you, sir.”
Akitada gave a sharp laugh. “Good heavens, what an idea! Ministers hold at least the senior fourth rank. I’m not likely to achieve that illustrious status in my lifetime.” He saw Nakatoshi’s dejected face and said more kindly, “Thank you for your high opinion. For a moment there I was afraid I’d lost it. I’m not exactly my usual self today because I’ve had no sleep. In fact, there was no time for a shave or to change my robe before coming here.”
“I hope all is well at your home, sir?”
“Yes, so far. Tora got into some more trouble. I’m on my way now to speak to Superintendent Kobe. I assume there’s no urgent business here?”
There was not, and Akitada left for police headquarters. But Kobe was not in. He had gone to supervise the rice distribution in the market. Since the markets had closed, the people in the capital, many of whom lived from day to day on food purchased in the market, were starving. Akitada felt a pang of guilt. Kobe was dedicated to his official duties, while he was occupied with a private matter. Even Nakatoshi disapproved, and Soga would have enjoyed proving his senior secretary unfit. Soga’s death meant a reprieve for Akitada, but how long before Soga’s successor would take exception to Akitada’s unorthodox behavior? Akitada left a note for Kobe, telling him that Tora had returned after doing battle with several gang members in Chikamura’s house. That should send some constables there who could deal with the bodies and secure the property. Then he returned to the ministry.
Two of the scribes had shown up late and were listening openmouthed to Nakatoshi’s explanations about Soga’s sudden death. When they saw Akitada, they fell to their knees. He scowled at them. How quickly people learned to abase themselves when they feared a new boss!
Brushing past them, Akitada went straight to the archives. It was a familiar and hated place. He had spent years here, condemned to doing worthless research in semidarkness among thousands of old records of legal cases, because Soga wished to humiliate him or punish him for having once again “disobeyed” by solving a murder in the city. But Soga was no longer alive. And Akitada would not have to resign.
The dreary work of the past paid off in one respect. He knew exactly where the records of criminal cases were and located instantly the shelf which held those from five years ago. Taking down the boxes one by one, he lined them up on a low table, and began to sift through them.
Halfway along, he found the case against Tomonari Haseo. It had been tried in the capital, because the crimes had taken place in the same province and were of such a heinous nature that the government had taken an interest in their disposition. Frowning with impatience at the vague comments, Akitada leafed quickly through the fat bundle of documents, looking for a description of the crime.
When he found it, he had to read the charges twice, so shocking were the murders and so solid the evidence against his dead friend.
One summer day, after a violent argument over control of the family estate, Haseo had slaughtered both his parents in the main hall of their mansion, and the deed had been witnessed by his own nurse.