Black Arrow (40 page)

At that moment in his ruminations, Hitomaro himself appeared. He walked in abruptly, accompanied by a dazed-looking constable, and sat down across from Akitada without a greeting.

Akitada frowned at the constable. “You may wait outside,” he said, wondering what the man was doing here. The constable hesitated just a fraction of a moment, then left and closed the door behind him.

Akitada’s first impression was that Hitomaro was ill. He was perfectly white, and his eyes met Akitada’s with the blank fixity of a corpse’s stare. His voice, when he spoke, was flat and emotionless.

“She’s dead.”

Akitada jumped a little. “What? Who is dead? Are you feeling all right?”

One of Hitomaro’s hands moved slightly in a dismissive gesture. “Ofumi. The woman you know as Mrs.. Sato,” he said in the same remote manner.

Akitada’s eyes went from Hitomaro’s hand to his robe. There were dark splotches on the deep blue cotton. They spread across the chest and down the front. Hitomaro’s right sleeve was stained all the way to the wrist. It dawned on Akitada that Hitomaro wore no sword. He controlled a wave of fear.

“Report.”

At first there was no answer. Then Hitomaro’s shoulders straightened. Looking past Akitada, he recited in the official manner, “I proceeded to Hisamatsu’s villa as ordered and found it deserted. Making inquiries of the servant, I found out that Hisamatsu and Chobei had left during the night, taking a pack horse with them. The servant claims he does not know where they went. I returned to the tribunal to make my report. When I heard from Tora what happened at the court session, I was seized by anger and shame that my foolish indiscretions should have warned Hisamatsu and compromised the case against the widow Sato. I immediately went to the Omeya house. She— the Sato woman was there.” He stopped and looked Akitada squarely in the eyes. “I’m under arrest for her murder, sir. The constable brought me here.”

* * * *

THE BROKEN LUTE

kitada found it nearly impossible to raise his eyes from the blood-soaked sleeve. “Hitomaro ... ?” he began and faltered.

Hitomaro’s voice was abject and his tone oddly detached. “Forgive the trouble I have caused. You saved my life once, but I should have known it was forfeit. I’ll make it easy for you. Once a killer, always a killer, they’ll say.”

A furious anger seized Akitada, and his voice shook. “Make it easy for me? Like Tora, you mean? You think that will make it easy? Why did you do it? You had your life before you. The other time you killed to avenge your wife’s honor. And I... I thought I had found a man I could trust with my life, a friend, and I counted myself lucky. I would have done anything, faced anything in this godforsaken place to avoid this.” He struck the desk with both fists. “Why, Hitomaro?”

Hitomaro lowered his eyes and shook his head mutely.

“Did you think to save me by killing the woman?”

“I thought of it. Also because I was angry that she had lied to me and used me to get to you.”

Akitada put his face in his hands and groaned.

After a moment, Hitomaro continued in the same dreamy tone, “I was so angry I could’ve killed her, perhaps I would’ve killed her . . . but when I saw her, she looked asleep. Her head was turned away and I couldn’t see at first. She wore that white robe—she must have changed into it after she got back from the tribunal—and I thought she was covered with a piece of crimson silk. Strange, I wanted to kill her, but I also felt desire. She was so beautiful. . . lying there.”

Slowly Akitada raised his face from his hands and stared at Hitomaro. “You did not do it? She was dead? When you found her, she was already dead?”

Hitomaro nodded very slowly. His eyes were unfocused, staring past Akitada as if at a memory indelibly etched on his brain. “I could see what was wrong when I came closer,” he said in the same terrifyingly detached voice. His right hand touched his neck. “Her head was almost cut off. She was lying there in her own blood. It was still flowing... and warm. It was her blood that had turned the white silk red.”

“Dear heaven.”

The toneless voice went on. “I drew my sword and went to look for her killer. In every room. There was no one there, not even the maid servant. Then I went back to her. I... I tried to hold her, but her head ... I thought, perhaps she’s not quite dead. So I tried to tie up the wound. I cut some of the fabric of her gown with my sword. That’s when they found me. The maidservant and the constables.”

“But you did not kill her,” Akitada confirmed again, relief washing over him like a warm spring shower.

Hitomaro shook his head mutely.

“Have you any idea who did?”

Hitomaro plucked at his blood-soaked sleeve. The glazed look was still with him.

“Hitomaro.” Akitada leaned forward. “Think! We must find the killer to clear you. Anything may help. Did she complain about anyone? Who were her friends? Was she worried about anything?”

Hitomaro shook his head to every question. He frowned, seemed to make an effort to think. “She asked a lot of questions about the murder investigation. But she also asked other questions, once about the judge.” His voice turned bitter. “I was the last man she would have confided in. She used me to get information.” His eyes met Akitada’s for a moment. “Let it go, sir. This way she cannot make any more trouble. If you start looking for her killer, the enemy will take other action. Now it will just be seen as a lover’s quarrel.”

“And you will die for it. Even the most lenient court in the capital will balk at passing over a second murder.”

Hitomaro’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smile. “Do not worry so. I am done with life.”

“What?” With that angry shout, Akitada rose. “Well, then, go to jail, for I cannot save you from that, but do not think that your friends will rest while you submit to trial, sentence, and execution because you are tired of living.” He strode to a clothes chest and threw it open, rummaging until he found his quilted hunting robe, heavy leggings, and an old fur-lined cap. Hitomaro watched without comment as Akitada put those on, snatched his sword from its stand, slung it over his shoulder, and then clapped his hands.

The constable peered in.

For so big and strong a man, Hitomaro looked oddly shrunken and helpless, sitting there slumped, his head bowed, and his broad hands resting limply on his knees.

“Take the lieutenant to the jail and lock him up,” snapped Akitada.

♦

There was the usual crowd of ghouls when Akitada got off his horse in front of the Omeya house. Only Tora and Genba, both grim-faced, accompanied him. In his hurry, Akitada had dispensed with the usual runners, banner bearers, and scribes, but he was recognized nevertheless, and the people parted before him silently.

Akitada glanced at them, then looked up and down the street, at the neighboring houses, and at the rear garden of the Fox Shrine across the road. When he had an idea of the surroundings, he entered the Omeya house.

A thin girl with a grotesquely large head and thin, greasy hair twisted into a bun tried to fade into the wall of the hallway leading to the rear of the house. Behind her, steep steps led up to the second floor.

“You there!” Akitada called to the girl. “Come here!”

She shook her head violently and turned to scramble up the steps with the agility of a monkey.

“Get her!” Akitada snapped to Tora and walked into the first room. It was furnished as a reception room and empty. He continued down the corridor, opening doors and closing them again on unoccupied rooms. Upstairs he heard Tora’s pounding footsteps and the squeals of the girl.

At the end of the corridor a constable suddenly appeared from one of the doors. “Out!” he shouted, waving both hands. “No one is allowed! How many times do I have to tell you bastards ... ?” As Akitada stepped from the shadows, the constable fell abruptly silent and dropped to his knees. Akitada walked around him and into the room the man had come from.

The murder scene was as Hitomaro had described. Genba, who came in behind him, gasped audibly, then went to feel for a pulse behind the dead woman’s ear. A heavy, sweet smell of blood mingled with an exotic blend of incense. The bloodied gown, which had seemed like crimson satin to Hitomaro, was now a dark rust color, and the puddle the woman lay in had partly congealed and partly soaked into the grass mat.

Akitada bent to undo the blood-soaked bandages Hitomaro had wrapped around the severed neck. Both neck and chest looked like a single massive wound, but the pale face and glossy black hair were untouched and still achingly beautiful. Akitada stood looking down at the woman he had known as Mrs. Sato, but who had also been Hitomaro’s Ofumi.

Tora walked in, dragging along the maidservant. “She won’t talk, sir. Doesn’t make a sound. Maybe the shock has addled her brain.” He glanced at the body and whistled. “Merciful Amida! I can see how it would.” He released the girl.

She scuttled into a corner, where she cowered on her knees and bobbed up and down in silent obeisance.

Akitada approached her cautiously. “Don’t be frightened, girl,” he said. “Nobody is going to harm you.”

She bobbed more violently.

“Stop that!” Akitada ordered, stamping his foot. “Look at me!”

She became still and raised small, anxious eyes to his face. Her bony, work-reddened hands hovered before her face and then touched her ears.

“Were you here during the day?” Akitada asked.

She only looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Did you see anyone in this house after the midday rice?”

Still no answer.

“Were you here when this woman returned? Speak, girl! You won’t be punished.”

“Sir?” Genba joined him. “I think she’s a deaf-mute. I’ve seen them make that sign with their hands. You know, pointing to their mouth and ears.”

“Good heavens, what next?” said Akitada in disgust. “A witness who may have seen the killer and can’t speak.”

“She may read lips. Let me try, sir,” Genba offered and crouched down next to the girl.

Akitada turned away. The room’s luxury and good taste astonished him. Even the mat on which the body lay was at least two inches thick and woven of the finest grass, its edges bound in purple brocade. He bent to touch its surface. The mat was smooth, soft, and springy and must have cost a great deal. Around it stood curtain rails of painted lacquer draped with robes embroidered in silk and gold threads with a design of cherry blossoms, birds, and pine branches. The brazier, its coals barely glimmering under a thick layer of ashes, was a finely chased bronze replica of a pair of mandarin ducks, symbol of faithful lovers. The four clothing boxes of gold-dusted lacquer, each decorated with symbols of the season—plum blossoms for spring, wisteria for summer, chrysanthemums for autumn, and snow-covered grasses for winter—stood stacked against a wall. He flung them open one by one. Each contained a rich wardrobe of women’s robes for that time of year.