The Crane Pavilion (7 page)

No, it was not a good day.

Saburo found Shokichi staring into space, her face white and frozen. He thought the smell of blood must have nauseated her. Somehow the mix of steam and blood had settled in his own nose and throat. He put an arm around her and walked her outside.

Shokichi asked tonelessly, “What will you do next?”

“The owner says your friend claimed she was out of the room when Nakamura was killed.”

“If she said so, it’s true.”

Saburo chuckled. “Why?”

She glared at him. “Because she doesn’t lie. Poor Sachi.” She wrung her hands. “They’ll beat her till she confesses. This is so unjust.”

Saburo cleared his throat and spat. He needed some wine to wash away the taste of blood. “Well, there’s nothing to be done at the moment,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders again. “Let’s go have a bite to eat and a cup of wine.”

She flung his arm off. “You don’t care because we’re nothing to you.” And with that she walked away.

“Wait!” Saburo ran after her. “Please, Shokichi, don’t be stupid!”

It was the wrong thing to say. She flung about. “You think I’m stupid? Maybe you’re right. I’ve been stupid to think you cared for me. Go away, Saburo. This is my problem, not yours. I made a mistake. You and I are nothing to each other. I don’t want to see you again.”

7
The Caretaker and the Artist

Tora was pleased that the plan had worked so well. Not only had they lured his master out of the house, but he already looked a changed man. Gone was the mild, abstracted manner, the urge to flee from conversations, the lack of interest in the outside world. Instead, his master looked more like the man they had feared left behind in Kyushu. His expression was intent, his eyes sharp, and he had developed a new energy.

The trouble was they had tempted him with a case that was not really a case. He might be curious about the lady’s death now, but once he was satisfied that no crime had been committed, he would be angry with them and retreat again. In fact, Superintendent Kobe had pointed out just such a possibility. With so clear-cut a case of suicide, the Sugawara interest would flag almost immediately.

But all was still well. His lordship, purposeful and energetic, announced, “Let’s go see the caretaker next. He should know more about this odd group of people.”

Akitada was dimly aware of Tora’s worries. His initial irritation at being manipulated had given way to the knowledge that only real friends would go to such extremes. He was very moved by this. Furthermore, this alleged suicide—and Akitada was by no means convinced that the lady’s death had not been murder—touched on that other case in his past. It, too, had involved Tasuku and the death of a woman. Akitada believed there must be a story linking this woman with his former friend, and he very much wanted to know what it was.

He was instinctively suspicious of Tasuku, or Abbot Genshin as he had become. Perhaps it still rankled that Tasuku had escaped punishment for his callous behavior in the past by taking the tonsure and was now living comfortably as a wealthy and respected cleric. Or perhaps it was the conviction that a womanizer of Tasuku’s cut could not possibly become a celibate saint.

In any case, he wanted to know more.

When they emerged from Lady Ogata’s pavilion, they found another odd-looking individual waiting for them.

The man was short and stocky, in his forties, and clearly curious what they were doing. He was also unkempt. His hair stuck out from a carelessly tied topknot, his face was covered with three days’ worth of stubble, and his green robe and yellow trousers appeared ragged, filthy, and stained with paint.

His manners left something to be desired also. “Who are you?” he demanded, looking them over rudely.

“I’m Lord Sugawara.” Akitada eyed the paint-stains with a frown. “And you?”

The man cocked his head and scratched his jaw. “Yoshizane,” He jerked his head toward Tora. “And that one?”

Akitada ignored this. “You must be the painter.” His frown deepened. He had reason to dislike painters. One of them had abducted his young son and had drugged, tortured, and nearly killed Akitada. Since then, he had an ingrained suspicion that painters were madmen at heart who would stop at nothing for the sake of their profession.

Seeing his master’s scowl, Tora interceded. “We’re looking for the caretaker. Can you direct us?”

Yoshizane laughed. “Lucky coincidence! I was just going to see the lazy bastard myself. Come along, Come along.” He turned and skipped off along a path.

Akitada grumbled but followed. They passed empty stables and kitchen buildings and reached a small house built against the outer wall of the compound.

The painter pointed at it. “That’s his. Koshiro and I take a cup of wine together this time of day.” He chuckled. “Or any other, if truth be told. He buys better wine than I. Heaven knows where he gets the money.” He shouted, “Ho, Koshiro?”

The door opened and a man with short, gray hair put out his head.

“You got visitors,” the painter called out. “Important ones by the look of them.”

Koshiro emerged fully. He was tall and muscular and wore an ordinary checked jacket and short black pants. On his feet were straw sandals.

The man clearly did not welcome the visit. In fact, he looked curiously uneasy.

Akitada approached. “I’m Sugawara. I came to talk to you and the others about Lady Ogata’s death.”

Koshiro blinked, then opened the door wider and invited them in. “We’ve told the police everything we know,” he said with a glance at the painter who followed, smiling and nodding.

Koshiro’s quarters were simple but clean. To Akitada’s surprise, the man owned a number of books. Caretakers were not usually literate. They derived their appointments from the fact that they were trusted family servants, but here was an educated man, someone who could earn a good deal more by using his skills elsewhere or in another capacity. In the capital, there was always a great demand for scribes and men who could manage bureaus, offices, archives, and documents.

Koshiro brought some rush mats for them to sit on, then sat down himself. The painter looked around for the wine, but decided to wait.

Akitada began by asking the question that had just occurred to him. “How did you come to take on this work?”

Koshiro met his eyes briefly and looked away. He will lie, thought Akitada, fascinated.

“His Reverence needed someone to look after the place,” the caretaker said, “and I needed a place to live. I’m alone in the world and like the arrangement.”

Ah. Not a lie perhaps, but certainly not an answer that contained any information. How did the two men meet? Why was Koshiro alone in the world? Why would he accept such a lowly position? And finally, perhaps most intriguingly, what was it about his life here that was so attractive?

Akitada did not get to ask those questions, because the painter said cheerfully, “We all like it here. It’s peaceful, and we’re peaceful people.”

Akitada eyed him without pleasure. “You almost make it sound as if the residents are hiding from someone or something.”

Koshiro made a sudden movement, and the painter said quickly, “People. We hide from people. I have my work and hate interruptions; the student has his studies, the nun lives like hermit and does her devotions, and Koshiro’s shy.”

Akitada eyed the caretaker. “Shy?” The caretaker did not seem shy. He seemed very uncomfortable. “And Lady Ogata?”

“Well,” said the painter with a laugh, “women without families must find refuge someplace, right?”

“So she had no family? How did that come about?”

“How should I know? I don’t ask questions. It was enough to see her sometimes.” The painter’s eyes closed, and he smiled. “An exquisite beauty! A man could go mad with desire for such a one.”

Koshiro snapped, “Shame on you, Yoshizane! You’re disrespectful of the dead.”

The painter opened his eyes and grinned. “No offense, Koshiro. I’m an artist after all. My eyes are always searching out the most memorable and revealing features of the world around me.”

These words must have carried some secret meaning, for Koshiro now looked at the painter with a murderous expression. Akitada became convinced that the men who lived here had not been indifferent to the beautiful woman among them. He had already noted that the student, though younger than the dead woman, had been enamored of her. Such passions could create jealousies and bitter resentments, and these frequently led to murder.

But he said nothing of this. Instead he changed the subject to Abbot Genshin’s charity. “How is it that all the residents live here by Abbot Genshin’s generosity?”

Koshiro said quickly, “I work here. I’m the caretaker of the property. This small house is part of my pay.”

The painter smirked. “Not that his work is very heavy, considering there are always people from the outside coming in to sweep and rake, to trim and tidy up. As for me? Yes, I have use of some space in one of the wings. I do my painting there and pay for its use by donating some of my work to the abbot’s temple.”

Koshiro snorted.

By now both men glared at each other, and Akitada decided to change the subject again. “Tell me what you know about Lady Ogata.”

The painter said, “She kept to herself. Well, we all do mostly. The student, of course, leaves for his classes. I think the nun might know more about her than the men. The two women did visit each other sometimes.”

“How do you know that? From what I gather, both Lady Ogata’s pavilion and the nun’s are hidden by trees from the main house.”

The painter flushed.

Koshiro stared at him. “Been spying on her, have you, Yoshizane?” he sneered.

“No more than you, you dirty old man.”

Koshiro started up, fists clenched.

Tora stepped between them. “Sit down, both of you. We don’t care about you watching a pretty female, though I’m sure she might have. We want to know what you saw while you were ogling her charms from the bushes.”

Akitada gave him a look. “What Tora means,” he said, “is that you have all lived here together for a number of years. It stands to reason that you should know about each other’s lives, activities, moods, backgrounds, and even why each one of you came here to live.”

It was a mistake. Both men clamped their lips together and glowered. He heard Tora heave a sigh.

“So, “Akitada declared, “there was something wrong with her death, and you two know what it was.”

“No,” cried Koshiro, turning white.

“What do you mean?” protested the painter. “What could have been wrong?

“Could she have been murdered? Did someone have reason to kill her? Did she quarrel with anyone? Threaten anyone? Did she know something that made her dangerous to someone? Was she in someone’s way? Come on! There was something! Speak up!”

The painter gulped.

Koshiro, who was breathing fast, said, “The police have been here. They looked at everything. They said it was suicide. I found her that morning. There was no way anyone could have done this.”

Akitada raised his brows. “How so?”

“Well … it looked … you know … like suicide.” Koshiro wiped a suddenly sweaty brow. “She was alone, and she’d pushed a trunk under a rafter. She’d climbed up, tied a piece of silk around it and then around her neck and … and jumped off.”

“The only way you can know this for certain is if you saw her do it,” Akitada commented.

Speechless, Koshiro shook his head.

The painter said, “It probably did happen that way. What makes you think it was murder, sir?”

“It may have happened that way, but things could also have been arranged to make her death look like suicide. Your refusal to talk about her and the others suggests that there were secrets you hoped to keep hidden. It’s suspicious.”

Koshiro rose. “I have nothing else to tell you. You may as well go away and talk to the others.”

The painter nodded. “I also have no secrets to tell. Perhaps Lady Ogata shared her thoughts with the nun. She wasn’t likely to confide in any of the men.” He smiled. “Trouble is, Seikan’s not here at the moment. Gone on a pilgrimage. Left just after Lady Ogata died. To pray for her soul.”

He and Koshiro exchanged a glance. They seemed to have overcome their resentment of each other and decided to stick together on this matter.

Akitada sighed and rose. “In that case, we’ll be back.”

Outside Koshiro’s house, Tora said, “I think they’re hiding something. We should’ve pressed them harder.”

“To what point? Let’s go home.”

Akitada felt the darkness descending again. He had done enough, at least for one day. There was no point in any of this beyond the fact that Tora and the others cared about him and it would have been heartless not to make the gesture. But what was there for him except the eventual return to a home that had become empty and a life that was purposeless?

It would be a relief to become like these people living here in obscurity, each alone, each without obligations to anyone but him- or herself. Whatever had brought them here, he thought, must have been painful. Well, who was he to rob them of their peace?

Tora walked a step or so behind, as was fitting. “Will we really come back?” he asked.

Akitada heard the fear in his voice. “Yes,” he said and stopped to look at Tora. Tora’s concern filled his face, having wiped away the usual bright smile for once. “Thank you for making me forget for a little while. But you must be patient with me.”

“I will. We all will, sir.”

Now there were tears in Tora’s eyes. Overcome by so much devotion, Akitada turned and walked more quickly, perhaps fleeing a burden he could not escape.

8
Talk of the Town

Saburo was thunderstruck by Shokichi’s behavior. For the first time in many years he had given a woman his love, and she had broken his heart. And for no good reason. He did not recall hearing about this Sachi before today, and yet Shokichi was ready to break off their relationship because he had not rushed in to free the blind woman from the police. Shokichi was too stupid to see that this would have led to more trouble for the girl, and would have got him arrested. But clearly she did not really care about what happened to him.