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 have taken 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 lost 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.
‘My 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. Otherwise he will 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 went 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 – though 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 towards 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.’
