Black Arrow (19 page)

A harsh voice from the back of the crowd shouted, “Let’s see you lazy officials do something for a change. Maybe we’ll get a verdict on this one next year.” The crowd guffawed.

Akitada walked over to look at the body and winced.

The monk, in his ragged robe was thin to emaciation. Someone had smashed his face to a pulp and cut off his hands and feet.

Akitada made a quick and superficial examination. The corpse was quite cold, but rigor had passed. He found no other wounds, and it was impossible to tell if the mutilations had killed him. Without glancing at his jeering audience, Akitada said loudly, “Have the body taken inside and notify the coroner. Then send to Abbot Hokko to ask if he is missing one of his monks.”

♦

A short while later Hitomaro joined him in his study. Akitada looked up from his paperwork.

“The abbot says everyone is accounted for, sir. We sent for Dr. Yasakichi, the coroner. He should be here any moment.”

“Hmm. I gather your friend Kaoru carried out his assignment without problems?”

“Yes, sir. In the middle of the night. We put that corpse into the armory for the time being. Tora left with Kaoru afterward. We thought it safer not to alert the constables.”

“Good. They won’t like getting a new sergeant, and we don’t need a mutiny before this afternoon’s hearing.”

“What about the dead monk, sir?”

“He was brought here and we will have to investigate it as murder. Since he is not a member of the local monastery, he must be an itinerant priest.”

Hitomaro pulled a dirty piece of paper from his sleeve and placed it on Akitada’s desk. “That was pinned to his robe when we found him.”

It was a crudely scrawled poem with the title “A Curse on all Governors.” Akitada read it aloud, his face tightening with anger.

Their ignorance appalls the skies.

Their idleness confounds the seas.

They take away our rice,

And let killers roam at ease.

“Well,” he said bitterly, “that explains the hostile crowd.” He crumpled up the paper in his hand. “This smacks of conspiracy to incite a popular insurrection against imperial authority.” He rose and began to pace, muttering under his breath. After a few passes, he stopped and smoothed out the message again. “Look at this,” he said. “The writing is rough and in the native style, but the verse is anything but illiterate. In fact, it is a translation of a poem by one of the Chinese political satirists, if I’m not mistaken. It is meant to look like the work of an ordinary person, but no commoner would know Chinese texts. We may be able to find out who is behind this.”

“Whoever he is,” said Hitomaro, with a grimace of distaste, “he’s enough of a fanatic to kill some poor begging monk to make a point. What kind of people are these?”

Akitada shook his head. “We don’t know if the monk was murdered, but certainly somebody has a warped mind. The mutilations prove that, if nothing else. It should be interesting to hear what the coroner has to say about it.”

“What about Uesugi?”

“Warlords would not hesitate for a moment to kill, mutilate, or torture if it became expedient. But in this case I doubt it. The verse was written by someone here in the city. It is in reaction to the notices we just posted. Uesugi could not have known in time to set up an elaborate scheme, dead body and all, even if he had not been preoccupied with his father’s funeral. I’m afraid someone else is acting independently but with the same purpose. I shall have another look at that corpse when the coroner arrives.”

“He should be here by now, sir. I’m afraid that crowd will not leave. I ordered the constables out to guard the gate.”

Akitada shook his head. “Like setting the cat to guard the fish. The sooner we come to grips with this situation, the better. I don’t like such open defiance of authority. Let’s go and see about that monk.”

The mutilated corpse lay on a plank table in an empty jail cell. A short fat man was about to remove the dead man’s tattered robe.

“Stop that!” Akitada said sharply. “Who are you?”

The man turned around and looked at Akitada from bleary eyes. He was dirty from head to toe: his hair greasy and matted, his gray gown stained, and his sandaled feet caked with mud. “Yasa ... Yasakichi, the cor’ner,” he mumbled, and a strong smell of sour wine and rotten teeth greeted their noses. “And who might you be, young man?”

Hitomaro growled, “Bow to the governor.” When the man merely gaped, he pushed him to his knees.

“Ouch. Let go,” the fat man whined, pulling away from Hitomaro’s grip. “How was I to know? It’s too early in the morning to see clearly.”

“Let him be,” Akitada said. “Get up, Dr. Yasakichi. Did you check the dead man’s clothing carefully before removing it?”

“Well, no need, is there?” The coroner staggered to his feet. He tugged at his robe, which was coming apart across his belly, and shook his head as if to clear away the fog of drunkenness. “Mere rags. Obvious what killed him. Mut’lated, then bludgeoned to death. Vicious but common crime among vagrants. I was just about to look for other wounds, though it won’t matter one way or ‘nother. Anything you can see with your naked eye is ‘nough to kill a man. I’ll get a report ready.”

“Hmm. What did you make of the rice husks on his robe and”-—Akitada bent over the body and pointed at the mass of torn flesh and bone that had been a face—”in those wounds?”

“What? Ah. Wouldn’t worry about ‘em. Look at his rags. He’s slept in all sorts of dirt.”

Akitada glanced at the coroner’s stained gown, but made no comment. He lifted the hem of the victim’s ragged robe and looked at the thin legs and thighs. They were as pale-skinned and flabby as the frail arms. Stepping back, he gave the coroner a thoughtful look and said, “I think perhaps we’ll dispense with your services in this instance. Hitomaro, send a constable for Dr. Oyoshi! And tell him it’s urgent!”

“What?” The coroner swelled with outrage and his robe parted again. “This is
my
duty,” he shouted. “Oyoshi’s a mere pharmashist. You can’t put a pill roller on important judish . .. legal matters like this! Why, he could comprom ... ruin the whole case!”

Akitada eyed him coldly. “You are insubordinate. In fact, I believe you are drunk on duty. Consider yourself dismissed.”

The coroner opened his mouth to argue, but Hitomaro took him by the arm and marched him out the door. When he returned, he said, “I think the fellow was drunk when he was at the Golden Carp. We both smelled wine on his breath as he passed us.”

Akitada was bent over the body. “I would not be surprised,” he muttered. Straightening up, he added, “Still, a slit throat is fairly simple to identify as cause of death. This, on the other hand, is no vagrant. With that pale skin on his arms and legs, he has spent his life indoors, and fully clothed. The muscles are also underdeveloped. An itinerant monk does a lot of walking. He should have muscles in those shanks.”

“Yes, I see. What about the rice husks?” Hitomaro asked.

“The body was kept somewhere where rice was being threshed.”

“Maybe he slept in a granary.”

“If so, he was probably killed there. The husks have stuck to the lacerated flesh of his face. But there was really very little bleeding from those wounds, don’t you think?”

Hitomaro frowned and scratched his head. “If he’s no vagrant monk, then those are not his clothes. And if the killers changed his clothes after death, there wouldn’t be much blood on them.”

“Yes, you’re quite right, but that still does not explain ... Ah, there you are already!” Dr. Oyoshi had entered and was bowing politely. “You are more than prompt, my dear Doctor.”

“I happened to be passing the tribunal on my way home from a patient, Excellency. I trust you are fully recovered?”

“Yes.” Akitada smiled at the ugly little man. “I’m much obliged to you for your medicine. Both my wife and my secretary are knowledgeable about herbal remedies and most curious about the ingredients. My wife used to have a fine garden and raised many medicinal plants at her home in the capital. Now she wishes to learn about the medicines of this region.”

“I shall write out the recipe for her, but I’m afraid some of the ingredients come from plants which grow only in remote mountain regions.” Oyoshi cast a curious glance at the body on the table. “How may I serve you today?”

“As coroner. I just dismissed the incompetent sot who held that office.”

Oyoshi bowed. “Thank you for your confidence, but I must warn you that Yasakichi has powerful friends. He was appointed by the high constable.”

“I need competence, not influence. Have a look and tell me what you think.”

Oyoshi set down his case and rolled up his sleeves. He stared at the wounds on the face and the stumps of the arms and legs, and shook his head. Reaching into his case, he took out a set of pincers and a sheet of paper, on which he carefully placed tiny bits of debris from the wounds. Next he checked the man’s rags, even feeling and smelling them.

When he was done, he looked up at Akitada. “Would you like a preliminary report now before I remove the clothing and wash the body?”

“If you please.”

“This man was about fifty years old and in poor health. In fact,” he said with a puzzled frown, “there is something oddly familiar about him. His head is shaven, so I assume he is a monk. Perhaps he belongs to our temple and I have had occasion to treat him in the past. But I don’t think the clothes are his. They are too large and too dirty, for one thing, whereas the body seems quite clean. The wounds to his face and the mutilations were inflicted several hours after death. I cannot speak to the cause or time of death until I have made a more thorough study, and it is possible that the mutilation will make a definite diagnosis impossible.”

“How do you know he was already dead when this was done to him, Doctor?” Hitomaro asked.

“There’s hardly any blood in the wounds, Lieutenant. A dead man does not bleed. Most likely the mutilation happened in a place where rice is threshed or stored. There are husks in the wounds.”

Hitomaro glanced at Akitada and was about to say something, but at that moment a loud clanging came from the tribunal gate.

“It’s that bell again!” Akitada said. “And to think that only a short while ago I complained about a lack of official business.” He told Oyoshi, “I must go. Please continue your examination. Later Hitomaro will show you another body. You may report when you have finished with both.”

Oyoshi raised his brows, but said nothing and bowed.

Outside, Akitada and Hitomaro found a small group of people standing in the main courtyard. More people pressed curiously forward at the gate. The armed constables made a halfhearted effort to hold them back, while carrying on an exchange of crude jokes. The courtyard group stood around a stocky man who wore only a stained shirt and loincloth. A powerful odor of fish emanated from him.

Sergeant Chobei detached himself from the group and greeted Akitada with a grin. “This man has a complaint, Excellency,” he announced loudly. “A local fishmonger, name of Goto. His shop’s at the western end of the market.”

Goto spat, stuck out his chest, and glanced around importantly. He said in a belligerent tone, “I want to see that dead man.”

“Why?” Akitada looked the fishmonger and his supporters over. They appeared the type that scraped by with a minimum of work and a maximum of resentment for authority. As a rule they proved too cowardly to cause real trouble.

“My brother’s missing and I’m thinking it may be him,” the fishmonger said. “And if it’s Ogai, you’ve got to arrest that bastard Kimura for his murder.” He looked at his companions, who muttered in agreement.

Akitada frowned but decided not to make an issue of the man’s disrespectful manner. “Is your brother a monk?”

“A monk? Not Ogai!” Goto and his companions burst into raucous laughter.