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Family Secrets
When Akitada rejoined the warden, he asked, “I wonder why Ishikawa was interested in my affairs. What did you tell him?”
“Well, he asked about your arrest. I said you’d taken an interest in a lost child, and his parents were trying to extort money. He seemed satisfied with that.”
Akitada could well imagine Ishikawa gloating at the news. “I had rather not alert anyone else to my investigation at this point,” he said. “To get back to Peony’s death, why is there so little information available?”
“It was in the third month, sir. Not a good time. We had our hands full.”
Akitada frowned. “The maid must have spoken to a constable. Is he available.”
“No, sir. He died.”
“Great heaven,” cried Akitada in frustration. “Don’t you keep track of people?”
“Impossible, even in good times. We register who owns property, but not who uses it. The house belongs to the Masudas. We don’t count transients.”
Akitada shook his head. “Incredible.”
The warden said, “Otsu is a city with special problems, sir. We have a busy harbor here, and everybody who travels to and from the eastern and northern provinces passes through.”
Akitada nodded grudgingly. “But Peony was no transient. She had been living here for about five years,” he pointed out. “I’m told she used to be a courtesan of the first-class and was under the protection of the Masuda heir. You would think the authorities would take notice of her household.”
The warden shook his head. “We don’t interfere with the Masudas’ private affairs. And when she died, we had the epidemic to worry about.”
It seemed incredible that he had forgotten. It certainly explained the superficial investigation and the lack of interest in the child’s fate. Conditions would have been as chaotic here as they had been in the capital. “I’m sorry, Warden,” he said, embarrassed. “I forgot. Of course. But the coroner did have a look at the body and was sure she had drowned?”
Takechi sighed at Akitada’s persistence. “He was sure she drowned.”
Akitada accepted it. If Peony had died from drowning, a coroner would have known the signs. It meant Sadanori was not responsible. Unless . . . “Could someone have drowned her? Taken her into the water and held her down?”
“I don’t know,” the warden said. “We were all terribly rushed, the doctor especially.”
Since the investigation into Peony’s death had been the merest formality, Akitada could only guess at the reliability of Inabe’s verdict. In times of epidemics, individual deaths lose importance and, when tending many desperately sick patients, the doctor might well have rushed the job. Eventually both she and her child had been forgotten among all the other tragedies.
Akitada sighed. “I’m going to have another talk with the Masudas.”
# # #
He knocked at the Masuda gate, and the same old man opened the window in the porter’s lodge and blinked at him.
“May name is Sugawara,” Akitada said, raising his voice. “I called here before.”
The man nodded, disappeared, and the gate opened. Stepping in, Akitada said, “I want to speak to your master this time.”
“The master sees no one.”
“He will see me. This concerns a murder.” And perhaps it did at that.
The servant was taken aback. “Who died, sir? We haven’t heard.”
Akitada hesitated, then said, “Dr. Inabe.”
“The doctor? Murdered? Oh, you must not tell the master. It would kill him.”
“Why?”
“The doctor’s his friend. He’s been tending him like a brother. Oh, dear. What will I do?” To Akitada’s surprise the old man began to weep.
Akitada said gently, “You must tell him, you know. He would wonder why his friend isn’t coming to see him anymore.”
“Oh, oh, oh.” Moaning to himself, the old man shuffled off and Akitada followed. They climbed the steps to the main house and took off their shoes. The servant held the heavy door for Akitada. They through a dim hall with a painted, coffered ceiling, and turned to the right, down a dark corridor. The old man’s sniffling sounded unnaturally loud. The floors were dark with age and beautifully polished. A subtle scent of sandalwood incense hung in the still air.
The servant stopped at a carved door. Opening it softly, he put his head in and asked, “May I trouble you, Master?”
Akitada heard nothing, but he could see part of a room lit by candles or oil lamps. After a moment, the servant opened the door a little wider and slipped in.
Akitada followed. The room was large, very clean, and very plain. A dais with silk cushions ran along one wall. On it sat a figure that resembled the ancient Chinese sages on old silk scrolls: a gaunt old man with long, loose white hair and a beard that fell into his lap. The old man’s eyes were closed, and rosary beads twisted through the gnarled fingers of one hand.
The whole scene was vaguely religious. The old man wore a black silk robe and brocade stole like a Buddhist clergyman. A small Buddha statue rested on a carved table across from him, and two tall candles burned on either side of the figurine. Incense, expensive sandalwood incense, curled up from a gilt censer. Akitada thought the old man had fallen asleep at his prayer until he saw one of the beads move through his fingers and the thin lips form a soundless word. Lord Masuda was a lay monk. And he was either deaf or so immersed in his spiritual world that nothing else penetrated.
The servant approached him on soft feet, knelt, and bowed deeply. “Master?” he said again, softly, pleadingly. There was no reaction.
Akitada stepped into the room and cleared his throat. The servant jumped and sent him a shocked glance. Akitada decided to wait.
Another bead slipped through the fingers.
He has hands like claws, thought Akitada. And a nose as sharp as a beak. A sleeping vulture. Old age takes away the softness of rabbit or mouse and turns us into creatures of prey.
The servant’s voice rose a little. “Master, Lord Sugawara is here.”
The rich brocade of the stole shimmered in the light of fat candles in two tall candlesticks. The room also contained a scroll painting of a young man seated in court robes. He was handsome, his face still round but with the same bushy eyebrows and sharp nose as his father, but he was smiling, a proud young noble who knew he was among the fortunate. Someone had placed flowers before the painting, bronze chrysanthemums and white hydrangeas.
“Master.” The servant’s voice rose in desperation. “Bad news. Dr. Inabe is dead.”
There was no reaction. Another bead fell, and one of the candles sputtered. The old lord had not moved except for the infinitesimal release of a finger on the rosary.
The old servant’s voice was now quite loud. “Lord Sugawara says the doctor has been murdered! Do you wish to speak to him, Master?”
Apparently not. The eyes remained shuttered behind the thin lids. Another bead was released and made a tiny clicking noise. Some wax spilled over, a drop sliding slowly down the candle into the holder where it congealed. The old servant sighed. He bowed again, touching his head to the polished floor, then rose and came to Akitada.
They left the room without speaking. The servant slid the door to very softly and said, “I’m sorry, sir. This is not one of his good days.”
“Is your master deaf?”
“No. His spirit has left.”
“But he was praying.”
“Maybe.” The servant shook his head. “I bathe and dress him every morning. Then I feed him some gruel and put the rosary in his hand, and he sits like this all day. If I don’t give him his rosary, he weeps.”
“Dear gods. How long has he been this way?”
“Ever since the young lord died. A year or more. Some days he’s a little better. The doctor can get him to open his eyes and speak a few words. Oh, dear. What will happen to him now? They used to sit together and the doctor would tell him what was happening in the town and what the weather was like and what he planned to have for his supper that night. I always listened, for the master would eat a little of that same food that night. He doesn’t eat well as a rule. And now, who knows? Maybe he’ll just give up and die.”
The darkness of the heart. The death of his son had taken the father’s will to live.
Akitada suppressed a wave of empathy for the old lord and asked, “You do all this work by yourself? Are there no other servants?”
“There’s only Mrs. Ishikawa. And she’s not really a servant. The ladies help.”
“But surely there’s enough money for a large staff.”
The old man turned away and started back toward the front of the house. “The first lady pays people from the town to come and clean the rooms and do odd jobs,” he said. “A cook comes every day. Sometimes there’s a seamstress. But nobody lives here except the family.”
“Do his lordship’s daughters-in-law keep him company during the day?”
“No.” It was a statement of fact, neither rancorous nor complaining.
Akitada wondered at the strangeness of this household run by women. The fact that only workers from outside were being used suggested that the family had something to hide. Surely that something was Peony and her relationship with the younger Masuda. When they reached the main hall, Akitada asked, “Was the picture of Lord Masuda’s son?”
The old man’s face softened. “Yes. It’s just like him. Wasn’t he handsome?”
“I expect the ladies thought so. What did Lord Masuda think about his keeping a courtesan from the Willow Quarter in the lake villa?”
The old man’s face closed and he shuffled away. Akitada caught up and stepped in his path. “Come, you know very well what I mean. Young Masuda fell in love with the courtesan from the capital and installed her in the lakeside villa. Everyone knows.”
The servant bowed his head. “We’re not to talk about it, sir.”
Akitada said acidly, “Yes, I heard. His first wife has forbidden the subject. She who also holds the purse strings. She had reason to be jealous of the beautiful woman from the capital who took her husband’s heart and gave him a son.” The old man said nothing. Akitada snapped, “There was a son, wasn’t there?” Silence. “Why did his father not take care of the young woman and her child, his own grandchild?”
To his surprise, the servant became angry. “The first lady doesn’t tell me what to do,” he said. “I’ve served his lordship since we were boys. It was his lordship who forbade mention of the woman’s name in this house.”
“But why in heaven? She gave him an heir.”
“Because she killed the young lord.”
“What?”
“That devil woman—that cursed demon . . .” The old man trembled with fury and choked on the words.
Akitada put a steadying hand on his bony shoulder and said, “Calm down. The story I heard is that he deserted her and his son and later died of an illness. Now you tell me he was murdered?”
The servant dabbed his sleeve to his eyes, sniffed, and said fiercely, “He left her when his father insisted, but she bewitched him with her tears, and he went back to her. That’s when the vengeful demon poisoned him. He died at her house.”
Akitada stared at the old man. “He died there? When?”
“My young master died on the tenth day of the third month after many days of pain and suffering. Oh, the she-devil!”
“But she was not accused of the crime or arrested. In fact, she stayed on in the house for another year.”
“They couldn’t prove it. She was too sly. Called the doctor in. But it was too late. The young master died, and his father lost his mind. There was nobody left to punish her. The first lady’s son was still a baby, and he died, too. They said it was the curse.” He suddenly raised a finger toward the coffered ceiling. “Heaven’s net is large and nothing escapes it.” Giving an odd dry chuckle, he hobbled away.
Akitada looked after him, appalled. The humble and devoted old man had sounded positively malevolent. He pieced this new information together with what he already knew. If the servant was right, then someone other than Sadanori had had a motive to kill Peony, a much stronger motive. It certainly explained the puzzling behavior of the Masudas to Peony and her son. If Peony had murdered the Masuda heir, then her death was far more likely the work of someone in this family.
Had Peony really killed her lover? Akitada decided that it did not matter if she did, so long as the killer thought she had. And who in this household would have had such a motive? The old lord? His servant? One of the wives?
The empty hall lay dim and silent around him. He thought of the passions that had torn this family apart and the guilty secrets they hid from the outside world. The dead man’s wives must have hated the beautiful woman from the capital. His father seemed to have disliked the relationship from the beginning and he certainly hated her after his son’s death. And, being loyal in every way, so did his servant. What about Mrs. Ishikawa? Her role seemed negligible, but she had visited Peony and her son. Why had she done so, when the ladies she served were hostile to their husband’s concubine?
And what was her son’s role in all of this? Akitada knew Ishikawa well enough to be convinced that he would look for profit in a situation of this sort. Ishikawa was a blackmailer.
And there was another thing. Whatever had happened, whatever Peony had done or someone had done to her, nobody here would claim her son. Akitada heaved a deep sigh. Perhaps this was after all just another interesting murder case, and he would return home with a small boy.
He started to leave when he heard a silken rustling in the dark recesses of the hall. A moment later, a woman entered the back of the hall on soft feet. She came from the left and headed toward Lord Masuda’s room. She carried a footed tray and vaguely resembled one of the Buddha’s handmaidens as she glided across the polished floor toward the corridor.
The younger wife. What was her name again? Lady Kohime.
When he spoke her name, she gave a little cry and stopped, peering at him through the gloom.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said quickly. “I’m Sugawara. We met a few days ago. I paid a visit to your father-in-law and was on my way out.”
She came, still clutching the tray, her eyes on his face. “Oh, it is you,” she cried, as if she had not believed him.
He saw that the dress was a brilliant copper red, and that she wore white paint and rouge on her face. She smiled at him with red lips and blackened teeth. An upper-class lady would not have revealed an open mouth to a strange male visitor, nor stood so close to him that he could smell her scent. He moved away a little.
“How silly of me to be frightened of you, sir,” she simpered. “Only we never have company here. It’s very dull. But why did you visit Lord Masuda? He never says anything. He just sits there like a statue.” She lifted the tray a little. “I was just going to feed him. He’s like a baby.” She heaved a sigh.
He looked at her round face with the round, childish eyes, and at the half-open mouth and disliked her stupid coyness. It seemed unfair to take advantage of a silly woman, but there had been murder, and Akitada had no more patience with family secrets. He put on a smile and made her a little bow. “You’re right, Lady Kohime. He didn’t speak to me either. What a pleasure therefore to see you.”
She giggled and fluttered her lids. “Oh, I’m nobody. A widow with two daughters. Not much more than a servant here, really.”
He let his eyes travel over the rich silk of her gown which covered lush curves underneath. If he was not mistaken, she was flirting with him. Lady Kohime had struck him from the first as a silly and shallow woman of common background. Clearly she was bored with her life, even if it entailed wearing fine silks and living in a great mansion. Putting aside his remaining scruples, he said, “Surely not. You are entirely charming. It would have given me much greater pleasure to chat with you, but I’m afraid I brought bad news. Dr. Inabe, is dead.”
She gave a small gasp. “Dead? But then he was quite old, so . . . I mean old people die, don’t they?” She cast a glance towards Lord Masuda’s room. “Eventually.”
More than shallow, thought Akitada, she is as blatantly self-centered and uninhibited as a small child. He wondered if Inabe’s murder had been news to her. Something had not rung true in her reaction. He said, “Sometimes even young people die. Forgive me for raking up old pain, but I understand you lost your husband last year. Was it some illness?”
“Something he ate didn’t agree with him.” She eyed the covered bowl on her tray thoughtfully and added, “My husband was very fond of warabi shoots. I used to gather them and cook them for him the way my mother and grandmother did. He loved that, especially warabi mochi. Perhaps someone was careless.”
It was artlessly said. Fern shoots were a springtime delicacy, but if not picked at the right stage and cooked properly, they could make a person very ill and possibly kill him.
“He died from eating warabi shoots?
Her eyes widened in shock. “Oh, no. I didn’t say that.”
“You said someone may have been careless in the preparation of his food. He didn’t die here?”
“My husband had gone elsewhere when he became ill.”
A vague answer and uttered primly. Akitada asked, “Was it in Peony’s house that he died? In the house by the lake?”
She cast a glance over her shoulder. “Ssh! We’re not to speak of her.”
“Was a doctor called?”
“Dr. Inabe. He couldn’t help.”
“Did the doctor suggest your husband had been poisoned?”
The sound of a sliding door, then quick firm footsteps and more silken rustling: Lady Masuda appeared. Akitada almost took her for a ghost because she wore a very dark gown today, so dark that it looked black, and her narrow pale face seemed to float across the hall disembodied.
Lady Kohime gasped and moved away from Akitada with a small nervous laugh. “Just look who’s here, Sister,” she cried in a girlish voice. “I was just taking Father’s gruel when Lord Sugawara surprised me.” She made it sound as if he had made improper advances.
Lady Masuda changed course and approached like an angry spirit. Giving Akitada a hostile glare, she said sharply, “I wondered what had happened to you, Kohime. That gruel must be quite cold by now.” She whisked the lid off the bowl and bent over the pale broth. “Just as I thought. Back to the kitchen and reheat it. Hurry. Father must be quite famished by now.”
Lady Kohime pouted, but she made a small bow in Akitada’s direction and danced off toward the kitchen, her colorful gown fluttering around her as if she were a bright butterfly.
The contrast between the two women could not be greater. Kohime had been all childlike softness and gayety while tall Lady Masuda, for all her well-bred elegance, was stern discipline. The eyes that regarded him coldly were intelligent. He would not be able to trap this woman into indiscretions.
Her silence meant that she waited for him to account for his presence. He cleared his throat and said, “As I explained to Lady Kohime, I brought news of Dr. Inabe’s death. Lord Masuda’s servant admitted me.”
She frowned. “Foolish man.” For a moment Akitada took the comment personally, but she went on. “He should not have done so. Servants get old and make mistakes. My father does not receive visitors.”
He thought it interesting that she had not seen fit to comment on the doctor’s death. “Yes,” he said, “I could see that it was a mistake.”
“He actually took you to meet my father?”
Lord Masuda was not really her father, though it was customary for a wife to accept a husband’s parents as her own. Still, the emphasis was unnecessary here. She was establishing her position in the household. Akitada nodded. “It was an honor to meet him, though I’m afraid he took little notice of me.”
She said nothing, but her eyes were wary.
“I understand that Dr. Inabe treated his son, your husband, during his final illness?”
Was there a flicker of fear in her eyes? But she only said, “Yes.”
Lady Masuda was not a type Akitada admired: unemotional, intelligent, and with a man’s authority in her voice and manner that was confrontational. On the whole he preferred the silly and seductive Kohime. What were these women hiding, for he was convinced by now that there was a dangerous secret in their past? And what had possessed the dashing young Masuda to choose two such dissimilar women as his wives and then rush off to the arms of a former courtesan?
“Well,” Akitada said, retreating after a moment of being stared down, “I shall be on my way then. I regret having been the bearer of bad news. I understood Dr. Inabe was the family physician and Lord Masuda’s friend.”
She waved this away with an impatient hand. “Naturally it is sad. I am sorry you were troubled. We do not receive visitors. The arrangement seems much safer for two women and an ailing old man.”
And what did that mean, apart from the fact that she had just warned him away from future visits? His face set, and without acknowledging her words, he gave her the merest nod, and left. Let her think she had offended him. He was irritated with both the Masuda women.
He walked down the winding road, through the trees and past the small shrines and modest houses, wondering what he should do next, when it struck him suddenly that the one name that had cropped up again and again, the name that linked Peony most closely to the Masudas, was that of Dr. Inabe.