The lieutenant had been darting curious glances about the room. It had once been Akitada’s father’s and was elegantly furnished as a gentleman’s study. The tall shelves held document boxes, scrolls, and books accumulated by generations of Sugawara males. A handsome landscape scroll hung in the alcove, and the writing implements on the large old desk were fine antiques. He seemed impressed with the evidence of scholarly pursuits and did not balk at Akitada’s brusque order.
“The victim is a poor woman who may have earned a living by occasional prostitution. She was found in the room she rented from a stonemason in the ninth ward. She had multiple stab wounds. It is thought that your retainer was her customer and that they had quarreled.” He glanced about the room again and added apologetically, “Sorry to bring bad news in the middle of the night. Such women have very bad reputations. They have been known to steal from their customers. I am sure there will be extenuating circumstances.”
“Tora attaches little importance to casual sexual encounters or to money. In fact, I have never known him to purchase his pleasures. He is very handsome and never short of female company.”
The lieutenant shifted on his cushion. “Nevertheless, he was caught in the act.”
“When did the woman die?”
“The constable from the warden’s office claims she was still warm when he got there.”
Akitada frowned. This was not good. Unless the real killer was found quickly, Tora was in for a most unpleasant time. He asked, “How was the crime discovered so quickly?”
“The woman’s landlord and his family heard sounds of a struggle and screams. They sent their boy to the warden’s office for help.”
“Do I take it that they did not go to the woman’s aid themselves?”
“No. They were afraid.”
“Did they hear or see anyone arrive or leave prior to the crime?”
“No. All was quiet. They were preparing for bed. People go to bed rather early in poor households, to save on oil. The suspect entered by a back door.”
“What is known about the woman’s associates?”
“Not much. She worked in the market in the daytime and kept to herself. Being blind, she earned money by singing. She may have augmented that income by performing sexual services after dark.”
Akitada sat up in surprise and stared at the officer. “What? The blind street singer?”
The lieutenant was instantly alert. “The woman’s name was Tomoe. Was your honor, by chance, acquainted with her?” His tone and manner were rapidly changing back to suspicion.
Akitada came to a decision. There was little point in suppressing facts. Rather, if he hoped for cooperation, he would have to offer assistance. Besides, the little he knew was bound to come out in any case. “Yes,” he admitted, “you surprised me. Your calling the woman a prostitute made me think this a matter unrelated to any of us, but Tora had taken an interest in this blind woman because she was afraid of someone. He spoke to me about her, asking me to investigate. I refused to become involved. Apparently I was wrong in thinking her problem trivial. But it means that Tora’s presence can be explained by his being worried enough to check up on her. He must have arrived on the scene shortly after the murder.” Akitada clapped his hands, and Seimei appeared so promptly that it was clear he had been eavesdropping outside the door. Akitada asked him, “Seimei, when did Tora leave here?”
“Right after his evening rice, sir. Just before the gong announced the hour of the boar.”
“The alarm was given in the last quarter of the hour of the boar,” said the lieutenant.
Akitada thought. “Probably less than an hour after Tora left here. He must have gone directly to her place. What does he say?”
“That he found her dead. But it is what the killer would say, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Akitada sighed. “I should have listened to Tora. But this accusation against him is ridiculous and must be proven wrong. The dead woman’s ghost will not be at peace until we find who did this.” He got to his feet. “I would like you to show me the scene of the crime.”
The lieutenant shook his head stubbornly. “I’m sorry, sir. Impossible.”
Akitada stiffened. “What do you mean? Superintendent Kobe will vouch for me . . .” He stopped. His friend Kobe was superintendent of the police, but Akitada had no wish to cause him trouble unless Tora’s life was in danger. Kobe had earned his position by diligence and hard work, but his job was sought by one of the Fujiwaras, a distant cousin of the Minister of the Left and a man who, though more familiar with courtly protocol than criminal investigation, was known for his ruthless pursuit of advancement. If he caught Kobe in the slightest bending of the rules, he would see him ousted. Akitada said instead, “But if we wait until the authorities give permission, valuable clues may be lost.” On second thought, he decided that this young lieutenant would not take kindly to having police methods questioned and explained, “The local warden’s people are often untrained in looking at a crime scene. They deal mostly with ruffians and thieves. I have some experience in criminal investigations. Under the circumstances, I would be glad to offer my assistance.”
The lieutenant looked puzzled, then brightened suddenly. “Of course. How stupid of me! You are that Sugawara. I should have remembered. In that case, while it isn’t precisely according to the rules, an exception might be made. And as it is too early to get official permission, we could just go and have a quick look. I would be grateful for any suggestions from someone with your reputation, sir.”
“Thank you.” Sometimes notoriety was a good thing. Akitada’s interest in criminal cases, some of them involving the lowest type of criminal and crime, was so extraordinary in someone of his birth and position as an imperial official that it had caused him mostly trouble, especially with Soga.
The thought of Soga brought new worries. There was little chance now that Akitada would be safely behind his desk in his office when the minister arrived. But it could not be helped.
As they left his study, Akitada caught a glimpse of his wife at the end of the corridor. She stood in the dark, a pale, ghostlike presence in her white undergown. Her face was filled with anxiety. Akitada told his companion, “Please go ahead. I’ll catch up with you,” and turned back to Tamako.
Her eyes searched his face. “Something bad has happened,” she said with a little catch in her soft voice. “I was afraid for you.”
His heart filled with contrition. “It has nothing to do with me,” he said, taking her clenched hands in his—they felt cold and clutched his warm ones eagerly. “Tora was mistakenly arrested. I must see what I can do. Don’t worry. More than likely it will turn out to be nothing.”
“Oh, I hope so.” She bit her lip. “You will be careful? And Akitada, whatever you decide, it will be my wish also.” She paused, anxiously waiting to see if he understood her meaning. When he looked at her doubtfully, she said, “I think that something else has been troubling you.”
So she had guessed his problem with Soga. Ashamed, Akitada could not meet her eyes. He said, “I’m sorry that I’ve been so preoccupied.” He touched her shoulder and said again, “Do not worry!” and hurried after the lieutenant.
Outside, the night air was oppressive. The smoke from thousands of cooking fires, oil lamps, and torches hung in the still air. They encountered few people. A young nobleman hurried home from a tryst, and a page boy ran toward the palace with a flowering branch; somewhere a lady or her lover had attached a poem to the branch, to commemorate their lovemaking. Among the good people, nighttime was for romance, not murder.
As they walked along Nijo Avenue, they heard the gong in the palace grounds striking the hour of the tiger, and then faintly the voice of the guard officer, giving his name and the time. Shortly after, the soft twanging of bowstrings came from the imperial residence. Eternal vigilance was required to keep evil spirits from entering His Majesty’s chamber and wreaking havoc there.
Apparently evil did its dirty work unhampered in the great city beyond the palace walls. Akitada felt another twinge of guilt for having ignored Tora’s pleas. He walked silently and glumly beside the lieutenant, who led the way with his lantern.
It was a long way to the ninth ward, and Akitada had walked a great distance the previous day. He had a hard time keeping up with the young lieutenant’s long strides. Spending hours sitting or kneeling in his office bent over documents seemed to age a person beyond his years, and the old knee injury did not help. Eventually the lieutenant noticed and slowed down. Ashamed, Akitada forced himself to walk more briskly and evenly.
When they reached the street of shacks and dilapidated wooden houses where the stonemason lived, he was bathed in sweat and wished only to sit down. It was still dark, but there was enough light to see that the small yard was littered with samples of the mason’s work. More stones leaned against the walls of the house, and a light flickered inside. There was no one about. The lieutenant gave a grunt and pushed aside the front door curtain. Ducking in, he barked, “What are you doing, you lazy oaf? I told you to stand guard.”
Akitada followed. A family huddled in a corner of what must be the main room. They were curled up close together under quilts, their eyes startled and fearful. In the center of the room, a constable staggered to his feet and fell to his knees, beating his forehead against the dirt floor.
“I just came in for a moment,” he babbled. “To make sure all was well.” His sleep-puffed face gave away the truth.
“Outside!” snarled the lieutenant. The constable scrambled up and slunk past them to resume his guard duty. The lieutenant did not apologize for the negligent guard—Akitada rather liked that about the man. Instead Ihara told the family, “We’re having another look at the room. Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep.” Taking up one of the small oil lamps in passing, he headed toward the back of the house. Akitada nodded a greeting and followed him.
In the back of the house, the lieutenant stopped in front of a door and ripped off a strip of paper that had been placed there to keep people from walking in on the crime scene. When the door was open, he directed the lantern light at the scene of the murder.
The street singer’s room was small, windowless, and bare, a mere storage space for the main house. Once it might have been neat, but now it showed signs of a dreadful struggle.
A second door, old and badly warped but with a new wooden latch, probably led to a backyard. Someone had tried to cover the gaping cracks between the boards with strips of paper that would do little to keep out the icy blasts of the winter months.
The furnishings were meager. A single trunk for clothing stood askew in a corner, a broken shelf once held a bit of food and eating utensils, all of which now lay scattered about the floor. A small hibachi had fallen on its side, its coals and ashes spilled on the dirt floor. It must have served the blind woman as a stove. On top of a thin mat, some bedding had been spread. The bedding was also tumbled about.
They stepped across a pool of blood and closed the door.
The woman’s body was gone, but her blood seemed to cover everything she had left behind. Thick, dark puddles marked the floor where she had died; streaks and spatters covered the walls, the mat, the bedding; and smears and bloody handprints defaced the walls and the door they had come through.
“Would you describe the body for me?” Akitada said to Ihara.
The young man pointed to the blood in front of the door. “She was just there, on her stomach, her head toward the door, and her feet toward us. She was wearing a white cotton robe, which was soaked in blood from many deep cuts on her back and front. Her hair had come loose, and she was cold to the touch when I arrived. Is that what you had in mind?”
“Yes. Did she have any money on her?”
“No.”
Akitada began to move about cautiously, looking at everything. “She put up a terrible fight against her attacker,” he muttered at one point.
The lieutenant gestured to the bedding. “After she accommodated him sexually.”
Akitada bent to look at the blood-stained quilts more closely. “Really? How do you know?”
Ihara laughed. “Well, somebody’s used the bedding and her sash was off when we found her. She was half naked.”
“The coroner will tell us,” Akitada said, straightening up. His eye fell on the back door with its many paper strips. “Was that door latched?’ he asked.
“The suspect claims he found it open.”
“Hmm.” Akitada pursed his lips. “She did not try to escape that way,” he said. “I wonder why not.”
“I imagine she was trying to reach her landlord and his family.”
“Yes, perhaps.” Akitada studied the back door, then opened it. The flickering light from their lantern fell on a tiny veranda. Beyond lay a service yard containing a laundry tub, clothesline, some baskets, a small pile of faggots, a broom made of twigs, a rainwater barrel, and more stone tablets. A low wooden fence with a gate ran along a street that passed behind the houses.
“Bring the light closer.” Akitada crouched down and looked at the weathered boards of the wooden stoop. Dusty shapes marked the print of boots and of dirty bare feet. It looked as though the boots went only one way, into the room, but the bare feet were both coming and going and had also shuffled about near the threshold. Akitada placed his own foot next to the prints. The boot print matched his closely, but the bare feet had belonged to someone much smaller.
“Was the dead woman wearing shoes?”
Ihara frowned. “I don’t recall. Why?”
“Somebody barefoot was here.”
The lieutenant was unimpressed and said that the boot prints belonged to the killer, and the dead woman had probably left the others on an earlier occasion. Akitada revised his good opinion of the lieutenant’s intelligence and did not mention the small cut in one of the strips of paper on the door. He had had to bend a little to see it closely and confirm that it had been made from the outside. Someone had spied on the woman inside, someone who was shorter than either he or Tora and who had been barefoot and carried a knife.