prince’s death. Akitada asked, “Were you surprised at the attachment?”
Sakamoto met his eyes, looked uncomfortable, and shifted on his cushion. “Not surprised, really. Need you write all that to the governor? Shunsei was with us when the prince died, and none of us sat close enough to put anything in his food. All that is well-known evidence.”
“Thank you. The final question concerns any friends, females, or business associates, anyone else who might have had a motive to kill the prince.”
Sakamoto was becoming impatient. He said testily, “We have been over all that with that police officer, Wada. As you may imagine, Prince Okisada associated with very few people, basically those of us who attended the dinner and the Kumo family. Kumo was not here, and besides, he had no motive.
There were no women in Okisada’s life. And he had no interest in business. He lived on the allowance made to him by the court. And now you really must excuse me.” He stood up. “I shall return after a while and sign the letter.” With a nod he left the room.
Akitada started rubbing more ink, his mind weighing what Sakamoto had said. If the professor was involved in the plot, he had handled himself very well just now. But last night he had been drunk and babbled wildly. Such a man was a risky confi-dant. Perhaps he really knew nothing. He seemed to have a good reputation. Even Mutobe had not made any adverse comments about him. If the prince had been murdered by someone other than Mutobe’s son, that only left the young monk and Taira as possible suspects. And, of course, the murder could be unrelated to the political issues. He was not really getting anywhere.
Taira, the man closest to the victim, was a complete enigma to Akitada. He must be nearly seventy by now and had once been favored by fortune. He had had a reputation at court as a superb diplomatist. Taira was in the prime of his life when he was appointed as tutor to the crown prince, a certain signal for a rapid rise in the government hierarchy. Then Okisada had been replaced by his half-brother, ending not only the prince’s future, but Taira’s career also. To everyone’s astonishment, Taira had followed Okisada into exile, although he was never clearly implicated in the prince’s rash action against his brother. Such loyalty became legendary. Would Taira murder the prince he had served so devotedly?
Akitada hoped that Taira would make his appearance soon, but the house remained silent, and he put his brush to paper to write Sakamoto’s reply to Mutobe.
When he reached the reference to Shunsei, he paused. Sexual relations between men were not uncommon either at court or in the monasteries, but as a staunch follower of Confucius, Akitada held strong convictions about family and a man’s duty to continue his line, and therefore he disapproved as much as Sakamoto. However, such an affair was not so different from a
man’s relations with a woman. It also involved lust, passion, possessiveness, and jealousy-all motives for murder. He looked forward to meeting this Shunsei.
The long-faced servant came in again. “The master asks if you’re finished. He’s in a hurry.”
Akitada looked out into the garden. The groom was running down the path toward the pavilion with a broom and rake.
“Just finished,” he said, laying down his brush and getting up. He gestured toward the garden. “After what happened, isn’t your master afraid to entertain his learned friends in the pavilion again?”
“Well, you’d think so,” said the servant. “It certainly gives me the chills. It’s not as if it were in good repair, either. It’s going to rack and ruin.”
“The setting is beautiful. I suppose the view inspires poetry.” The servant grimaced. “I don’t know about poetry. They always talk a lot and keep us running, but we’re not allowed to stay and listen. I doubt it’s poetry though, because mostly it looks more like they’re arguing. Especially Lord Taira. He’s got a terrible temper. I’ll tell the professor you’re done.” Akitada walked out on the veranda. The sweeping of the path and the pavilion completed, the fat servant was staggering down the path with a stack of cushions in his arms. Four. Kumo, Taira, Sakamoto, and one other. Shunsei? Like the disgruntled servant, Akitada doubted it would be a social gathering and wished again he could eavesdrop.
It was interesting that the servants were warned away between servings. It meant confidential matters were being discussed. It was impossible to approach the pavilion unseen.
Or was it?
Akitada was wondering if he could stroll down there for a closer look without causing undue suspicion when Sakamoto rushed in.
“Finished?” he cried. “Good.” He ran to the desk, snatched up the letter, skimmed it, nodded, and signed. As he impressed his personal seal next to the signature, he said, “My compliments. An excellent hand and the style is acceptable.” Letter in hand, he told Akitada, “I wish I had more time to talk to you. A man like you could be very useful. I shall speak to the high constable about you tonight.”
Akitada bowed. “Thank you, sir, but the high constable is aware of my abilities.”
“As you wish.” Sakamoto handed the letter over. “Well, good luck to you, then, and give my compliments to the inspector.
Tell him I’ll ask Dr. Nakatomi to take a look at him if he is still indisposed tomorrow.”
As Akitada walked back to the inn, he considered Nakatomi as the fourth guest. Nakatomi had not only been Okisada’s personal physician, but it was he who had determined that the prince had been poisoned by young Mutobe’s stew. Kumo, Taira, and Nakatomi. It was crucial to find out what these three men had to say to each other, and Akitada thought he knew a way to get to the pavilion unseen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Osawa was dressed and sitting in the sun on the veranda outside his room. The veranda overlooked a narrow dusty courtyard with a small empty koi pond and a twisted pine. Osawa no longer looked ill. In fact, there was a sleek look of contentment about him which changed quickly to disappointment when he saw who had come into the room.
“Oh, it’s you. I must say you took your time. That lazy slug Genzo has disappeared, too.”
Akitada explained and produced the letter.
Osawa made a face. “I suppose that means we’ll have to move on tomorrow. I don’t understand what the big rush is, but who am I to question the governor? Well, you two have had a nice rest, anyway. You’d better both be up by dawn and have the horses saddled. It’ll be a hard ride to Tsukahara.” They would start their homeward loop, spending the night in Shunsei’s monastery near Tsukahara. The monastery collected the local rice taxes, and Osawa customarily visited it on his rounds. Monasteries also offered accommodations for travelers, and, apart from the strictly vegetarian and wineless meals, these were far more comfortable than sharing some farmer’s hut or sleeping in the open. Osawa, Akitada knew by now, was not given to roughing it.
Asking for instructions, Akitada was told, with some hem-ming and hawing, to report to the landlady and make himself generally useful. This astonished him, especially since Osawa blushed and avoided his eyes.
In the kitchen a strange gray-haired woman was at work preparing a meal, while their hostess, dressed in a fetching robe with a colorful chrysanthemum pattern and with her hair neatly tied up in a silk ribbon, gave her instructions for an elaborate feast.
“And be sure that there are plenty of pine mushrooms and bamboo sprouts,” she told the older woman. “Master Osawa is particularly fond of those. I’ll be serving him myself, but you can bring the food and wine to the door of his room.” She saw Akitada then. “Oh, you’re finally back. Would you bring in more wood for the fire? There’s some soup left if you’re hungry, but eat it quickly. I need you to go to Haru’s husband and buy some
The older woman gave a snort, but Akitada grinned and bowed. “Ah! Osawa is a lucky man.”
“Thank you,” his hostess said, patting her hair, and walked away with a seductive wiggle of her slender
