He wondered if that also meant that the attendant approved of Lady Kiyowara’s relationship with Lord Ono and asked, ‘Lord Ono has expressed his complete devotion to you. Do you know of anything that might have caused him to kill your husband?’
‘As you have spoken to Ono Takamura, you must know that nothing would cause him to commit an act of violence. He is a poet.’
‘Poets express powerful emotions quite frequently,’ Akitada pointed out.
‘In poems, yes. But poetry is an exercise of the mind, not of passion. Do you write poetry?’
‘No, My Lady.’
‘Ah.’
Akitada blushed at that and asked quickly, ‘Did you know that your son quarreled with his father?’
‘No, but it is likely. Katsumi wished to join the guards. His father forbade it because he is only fifteen and our only son. He did not kill his father. You must believe that. I know my son.’
The young lord said nothing and remained hidden behind his mother. Perhaps, thought Akitada, but mother love could be as blind as romantic love. That thought caused him to ask, ‘Were you and your husband happy together?’
She did not blink, but the hand holding the fan tightened. She said tonelessly, ‘Of course.’
That was her second lie, but it was too soon to press her. Akitada asked, ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wished your husband dead?’
She frowned. ‘My husband rose quickly in the government and was a rich man. Surely that makes enemies.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
This time she hesitated. ‘Wives are rarely in a position to know their husbands’ associates.’
In general, this was very true, but perhaps her answer had hinted at something she did not want to mention. He let it go. Earning his fee would not be easy. He suppressed a sigh. ‘Very well, My Lady. I accept your offer with the conditions I made. Can I be given ready access to everyone in this house?’
‘Certainly.’ Nodding to her companion, she made him a slight bow, rose, and left by the door she had entered. The companion hurried after her. They left behind the memory of a swishing of silks and the scent of orange blossoms and sandalwood. The young lord, caught unawares, stared at Akitada with frightened eyes. Then he seemed to remember himself and got to his feet and out of the room quickly.
Akitada took up the heavy little box and tucked it under his arm, where the fullness of his sleeve hid it. He walked homeward, filled with new hope and a pleasant interest in solving the mystery of Kiyowara’s murder.
THE FRAGRANT PEACH
Tora looked forward to reporting the young lord’s furious departure on the afternoon of the murder. It surely meant that the quarrel his master had overheard had been between Lord Kiyowara and his son. In that case, most likely young Kiyowara could have been the killer. A rash-tempered youth was prone to knocking people out, and this one’s temper was proved when he had ridden down the old woman.
And if this information did not solve the case, then at least another suspect could be offered to the police.
All in all, a good day’s work, though it would have to wait. The next morning, the master was busy. Tora changed back into his rags.
Hanae’s face fell. ‘Are you going out again?’
‘The master thinks someone’s setting those fires. You know he needs all the help he can get.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Amida! Someone setting fires?’ She bit her lip and nodded. ‘Go then, but be careful and don’t stay out too late.’
‘Never fear.’ He ogled her. ‘Just be ready for me when I slip into bed.’
That made her giggle.
This time Tora passed through the Western Market, skirting Hoshina’s wine shop, and wandered through the dingy streets beyond. From time to time, he stopped a man or woman to ask for Jirokichi. People either denied knowing of him, their faces closing like slammed doors, or they smiled and nodded but had no idea where Tora might find him. It was frustrating.
Near midday he was in an especially depressing part of the city. Hunger gnawed and his legs were growing tired. He decided to look for a place where he might eat and drink and rest for a while. He found a low dive in the very next street.
The curtain hanging across the doorway bore the name of the establishment: Fragrant Peach. It was so old and tattered that the painted blossoms looked like dirty snow falling from a cloudy sky, and its smell resembled that of dung. Still, from the sounds within, there would at least be wine, and after a drink the place would look much better.
Tora pushed aside the curtain and stepped down into a dirt-floored room with a low, dark ceiling. It was a hot, airless hole. Fumes of smoke, burning oil, sour wine, and sweat hit him like a fist. A few oil lamps, fixed to the walls, accounted for the stink of oil. The smoke came from a central fire pit. At first glance, the place contained several customers, both men and women, all of them poorly dressed and dirty.
A few faces turned his way but showed no interest. In a dark and lonely alley, these men, and a few of the tattered females, would probably just as soon shove a knife in a man’s back to rob him of a few coins.
Tora gritted his teeth and looked for a place away from the fire. He would have his cup of wine, try for some information and, if things turned ugly, he would get out. Then he saw a familiar figure on a sort of dais in the far corner.
The fat rice merchant from Kaneharu’s cousin’s ward was standing there, talking to a couple of juveniles. Tora wondered what would bring him to a place like the Fragrant Peach. The merchant was waving his chubby hands, and the youngsters, who had their backs to Tora, nodded and laughed. Tora searched his mind for a name, found it, and started forward.
‘Hey, Watanabe!’ he shouted.
The fat man’s head jerked around. For a moment, there was puzzlement on the broad face, then he said something to the youths, who slipped away, and raised a hand in greeting.
Tora put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Well met, my friend. I’m parched and hate drinking alone. Join me in a cup.’ The merchant hesitated, but Tora called for wine and made him sit down. ‘You look surprised,’ he told Watanabe. ‘The name’s Tora. We talked outside your house about that fire the other day. Any news of Young Kaneharu?’
Watanabe’s double chin creased. ‘Ah, yes. He died yesterday. A release. He was in terrible pain – terrible! Ah, the anger of the gods!’ Jowls quivering, he shook his head.
Tora’s heart sank. So he had not been able to save the son either. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said heavily. ‘You don’t think it could have been an accident?’
Watanabe pursed his lips and suddenly resembled a frog. ‘I see what you mean. A senile father and a house full of dry grass and bamboo. Perhaps. But even then it might have been a sign. Did you notice the altar at the end of their street? I paid for that, and for the priest to perform rites.’
Tora had not, but he nodded. ‘Very pious,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right about the gods being angry. So many fires, that’s just not normal.’
A very young waitress in a stained pink robe slouched up and plunked down two cups. Her robe gaped open as she bent, revealing firm young breasts. She filled the cups from a flask, set down the flask, and held out a dirty palm.
Tora eyed her. She looked not much more than fourteen or fifteen and was surprisingly pretty. He felt pity for her. Already, she had lost her childhood. Her smooth face was painted like a trollop’s, and she looked sullen. Children grew up fast in this part of the city. Tora fished out three coppers and placed them in her palm.
‘Hey,’ she said with a pout. ‘That pays for the wine. What about the service?’
Tora flashed her a smile and let his eyes sweep over her again. ‘I don’t know. What do you offer?’
Watanabe shook with silent laughter. She glared at both of them and flounced off.
Tora looked after her. ‘Not bad looking, but she needs a bath.’
