Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories) Read online

  Akitada and the Way of Justice

  Tales of Murder in Eleventh Century Japan

  By

  I. J. Parker

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Pronunciation of Japanese Words

  Foreword

  Akitada’s First Case

  The Incense Murder

  Rain at Rashomon

  Instruments of Murder

  The Curio Dealer’s Wife

  A Master of Go

  The New Year’s Gift

  The O-Bon Cat

  Moon Cakes

  The Tanabata Magpie

  Welcoming the Paddy God

  About the Stories

  About the Author

  Also by I. J. Parker

  Copyright © 2011 by I.J. Parker

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Edition: November 2011

  In Memory of Cathleen Jordan,

  who was the first to publish

  the Akitada stories.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a great debt of gratitude to the editors of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine: Linda Landrigan and the late Cathleen Jordan. Without them these stories would not have been told. As always, my good friends and fellow writers, John, Richard, Jacqueline, Bob, and occasionally others, have helped by reading and commenting over the years. The stories led eventually to the publication of the novels and, in one case, a story (“The O-bon Cat”) became a novel, The Masuda Affair.

  Pronunciation of Japanese Words

  Unlike English, Japanese is pronounced phonetically. Therefore vowel sounds are approximately as follows:

  “a” as in “father”

  “e” as in “let”

  “i” as in “kin”

  “o” as in “more”

  “u” as in “would.”

  Double consonants (“ai” or “ei”) are pronounced separately, and o or u are doubled or lengthened.

  As for the consonants:

  “g” as in “game”

  “j” as in “join”

  “ch” as in “chat”.

  Foreword

  THE STORIES in this book were written over a number of years and in no particular order. By the time the first of them appeared in print in 1997, three of the Akitada novels were complete, and I had come to know Akitada very well. Though I keep the novels pretty much in sequence, I did not write the stories with any sort of order or chronology in mind. They were my chance to see Akitada at different times of his life, as the aging senior official, as the naïve youth, and also as the burdened man of middle age. “Akitada’s First Case” thus was not really my first acquaintance with him. It wasn’t even my first short story about him. Perhaps because it is a “coming-of-age” story, it brought me the Shamus award in 2000.

  But readers like to have things properly sequenced and I like to watch him change over the years, and so I have arranged the stories chronologically in this collection. Akitada is barely twenty in “Akitada’s First Case,” and fifty in the last story, “Welcoming the Paddy God.” In between lies a difficult and often troubled life that leaves its marks and shapes the man he is to become. I am not done with him. There are still great blanks in his life that must be filled, and I want to see him in his old age, looking back at his past and weighing the true importance of human experience.

  As a detective (a job that did not exist in eleventh century Japan) he does not fit modern categories. “Akitada’s First Case” was eligible for the Private Eye Writers Shamus award because, in this instance, he accepts payment for finding a missing girl. But he is just as likely to work from his position in the government, either in the Ministry of Justice or as a provincial governor or in some other official function. He also takes cases pro bono because they happen to come his way and his sense of justice or pity for the victims compels him. However, because of his legal training and his consistent personal interest in criminal affairs, he is never an “amateur detective.”

  A short story leaves little room for character development, so his private life – which plays an important role in the novels, is here often only touched upon. Similarly, his close associates, Tora and Seimei, and his wife Tamako, only make brief appearances. And the historical setting is more specific and narrow here: all the stories take place in eleventh century Kyoto and its immediate surroundings. The customs of the period usually focus on a seasonal and religious celebration, such as the New Year or the Festival of the Dead.

  And now to the stories!

  I. J. Parker

  November 5, 2011

  The events in the first story take place when Akitada is twenty. He is poor, very unsure of himself, plagued by a demanding mother, and bullied by his co-workers and his superior at the Ministry of Justice. Because he succeeds beyond his expectations in solving the disappearance of a young woman and bringing justice to her grieving father, he will pursue criminal investigation for the rest of his life. (This story won the Shamus award in 2000.)

  Akitada’s First Case

  Heian Kyo (Kyoto): 1008; during the Poem-Composing Month (August).

  THE sun had only been up a few hours, but the archives of the ministry were already stifling in the summer heat. A murky, oppressive air hung about the shelves of document boxes and settled across the low desks. These were normally occupied by scribes and junior clerks, but at the moment they were empty.

  Akitada, having celebrated his twentieth birthday with friends the night before—an occasion which involved emptying a cup of wine each time one failed to compose an acceptable poem—had overslept and crept in the back way. Now he knelt at his desk, feeling sick and staring blindly at a dossier he was supposed to be copying. He winced when two of his fellow clerks, Hirosawa and Sanekana walked in, chattering loudly.

  “Sugawara!” Hirosawa stopped in surprise. “Where did you come from? The minister’s been asking for you. I wouldn’t give much for your chances of keeping your position this time.”

  Sanekana, a pimply fat fellow, sniggered. “You should have seen his face,” he announced gleefully. “He was positively gloating at the thought of getting rid of you. Better go to him quick!”

  Akitada blanched. He could not afford to lose his clerkship in the Ministry of Justice. It had been the only position offered to him when he graduated from the university. If only the minister had not formed such an instant dislike for him. Inexplicably, His Excellency, Soga Ietada, had found fault with everything Akitada had done until he had become too nervous to answer the simplest questions. As a result, the minister had banished him to the archives to do copy work alongside the scribes.

  To make matters worse, his fellow clerks had recognized Akitada as a marked man and quickly disassociated themselves from him.

  Akitada eyed Sanekana and Hirosawa dubiously. “I don’t suppose you would cover for me?” he asked. “I might have stepped outside when you looked for me.”

  They burst into laughter.

  With a sigh, Akitada rose.

  His heart was beating wildly and his palms were sweating when he was shown into the great man’s office with the painted screens of waterfowl, the lacquered document boxes, and the broad desk of polished cryptomeria wood. On the desk stood the por
celain planter with a perfect miniature maple tree, the bronze brazier with its enameled wine flask, and the ministerial seal carved from pale jade—all of them witnesses to Akitada’s prior humiliations.

  The minister was not alone. A thin elderly man in a neat, dark grey silk robe was kneeling on the cushion before the great man’s table. “It is a matter of honor, Excellency, no, of life and death to me,” he said, his voice uneven with suppressed emotion. “I have, as I explained, exhausted all other possibilities. Your Excellency is my last hope.”

  “Nonsense!” barked Soga Ietada. Being stout, he was sitting cross-legged at his ease, tapping impatient fingers on the polished surface of his desk. “You take it too seriously. Young women run away all the time. She’ll show up one of these days, presenting you with a grandchild, no doubt.”

  The old man’s back stiffened. He did not glance at Akitada, who hovered, greatly embarrassed, near the door. “You are mistaken,” the man said. “My daughter left my home to enter the household of a nobleman. She would never engage in a fleeting, clandestine affair.”

  Soga raised his eyes to heaven, caught a glimpse of Akitada and glared, saying coldly to his guest, “As you say. I can only repeat that it is not in my power to assist you. I suggest you seek out this, er, nobleman. Now you must excuse me. My clerk is waiting to consult me on an urgent case.”

  Akitada’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe it was not another reprimand after all. A case? Would he finally be given a case?

  The older man bowed and rose. He left quickly, with only a passing glance at Akitada.

  When the door closed, the minister’s expression changed to one of cold fury. “And where were you this morning?” he barked.

  Akitada fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the floor. “I … I was feeling ill,” he stuttered. Well, that was the truth at least. His stomach was heaving and he swallowed hard, waiting for the storm to break over his head.

  “No matter!” snapped the minister. “Your work has been unsatisfactory from the start. As you know, you came here on probation. Since you have proved inept at all but copying work and are now far behind in that, you cannot afford the luxury of ill health.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. I shall make up the time.”

  “No.”

  Akitada looked up and caught a smirk of satisfaction on Soga’s face. “I assure your Excellency …” he began earnestly.

  “I said ‘no’!” thundered the minister. “Your time has run out. You may get your property and leave the ministry this instant.” He slapped a pudgy hand on the document before him. “I have already drawn up the papers of dismissal. They spell out your gross inadequacies in detail.”

  “But …” Akitada sought frantically for some promise, some explanation which might sway the minister’s mind, at least postpone his dismissal. “Your Excellency,” he pleaded, “you may recall that I earned my position by placing first in the university examinations. Perhaps if I had been given some legal work, I might have proved satis …”

  “How dare you criticize my decisions?” cried the minister. “It is a typical example of your poor judgment. I shall add a further adverse comment to my evaluation of your performance.”

  Akitada bowed wordlessly and left the room. He went straight to his desk, ignoring the curious eyes and whispers of Sanekana and Hirosawa, and gathered his things. These consisted of some writing implements and a few law books and were easily wrapped into a square of cloth, knotted, and tossed over one shoulder. Then he left the ministry.

  Suffering under the humiliation of his dismissal, he did not pause to consider the full disaster — the fact that he would no longer draw the small salary which had kept rice in the family bowls and one servant in the house to look after his widowed mother and two younger sisters — until he had passed out of the gate of the Imperial City.

  Then the thought of facing his mother with the news made his knees turn to water, and he stopped outside the gate. Lady Sugawara was forever reminding him of a son’s duty to his family and complaining about his inadequate salary and low rank. What would she say now?

  Before him Suzaku Avenue stretched into the distance. Long, wide, and willow-lined, it bisected the capital to become the great southern highway to Kyushu—and the world beyond.

  He longed to keep walking, away from his present life, with his bundle of books and brushes. Somewhere someone must be in need of a young man filled with the knowledge of the law and a thirst for justice.

  But he knew it was impossible. All appointments were in the hands of the central government, and besides he could not desert his family. A son’s first duty was to his parents. He despaired of finding a clerkship in another bureau. If only there were someone, some man of rank, who would put in a good word for him, but Akitada was without helpful relatives or patrons of that sort.

  He sat down on the steps of the gate, and put his head into his hands.

  “Young man? Are you ill?”

  Akitada glanced up. An elderly gentleman in a formal robe and hat regarded him with kindly interest. Belatedly recognition came. This was the man who had just been turned away by Soga, a fellow sufferer. Akitada rose and bowed.

  “Are you not the young fellow who came in while I was with the minister?” the man asked.

  “Yes.” Akitada recalled the embarrassing subject under discussion and blushed. “I am very sorry, but I had been sent for.”

  “I know. But I thought you had an urgent case to talk over with the minister?”

  Akitada blushed again. “I have been dismissed,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  A brief silence fell. Then the older man said sympathetically, “Well, it looks like we’ve both been dismissed. You look pretty low.” He paused, studying Akitada thoughtfully, then added, “Maybe we can be of assistance to each other.”

  “How so?” Akitada asked dubiously.

  The gentleman gestured for him to sit, then gathered the skirt of his gown and lowered himself to the step next to him. “I have lost a daughter and need someone to help me find her, someone who knows the law and can quote it to those who keep showing me the door. And you, I bet, could use the experience, not to mention a weekly salary and a generous reward?”

  Akitada looked at the gentleman as the answer to a prayer. “I am completely at your service, sir,” he said with fervent gratitude. “Sugawara Akitada is my name, by the way.”

  “Good. I am Okamoto Toson.”

  “Not the master of the imperial wrestling office?”

  The modest man in the grey robe smiled ruefully. “The same. Let’s go to my house.”

  • • •

  Okamoto Toson lived in a small house which lay, surrounded by a garden, in a quiet residential street not far from the palace. He was a widower with two daughters. It was the younger who had disappeared so mysteriously.

  Okamoto took him to a room which was, like the rest of the house, small, pleasant, and unpretentious. Yet Okamoto was known to be wealthy and he was well respected by nobility and commoners alike. He was a man of the people who had been drawn into the world of the great due to his knowledge of wrestling and his managerial ability.

  The walls were covered with scrolls showing the rankings of wrestling champions, but one scroll was a painting of a court match with the nobles seated around the circle where two massive fighters in loincloths strove against one another. The emperor himself had attended and was enthroned under a special tent. Over toward one side of the picture, the artist had depicted the small figure of Okamoto himself.

  Akitada wondered why the minister had dismissed such a man without giving him the slightest encouragement.

  Okamoto’s story was brief but strange. Recently widowed, he had been left with two young daughters. The older had taken over the running of the household, but the younger, Tomoe, was a dreamer who spent her time reading romantic tales and talking of noble suitors. Being apparently something of a beauty according to her father, whose face softened every time he spoke of
her, she had attracted the eyes of a certain nobleman and permitted his secret visits—no doubt after the pattern of the novels she had read—and the man had convinced her to leave with him.

  All this had taken place without the father’s knowledge, and Okamoto was apologetic. Akitada gathered that the death of his wife had caused him to withdraw from all but court duties, and since his older daughter Otomi had run the household efficiently, he had seen no cause to worry.

  It was, in fact, the older daughter who had reported her sister’s elopement with a nameless nobleman.

  At this point in the story, Okamoto excused himself to get his daughter Otomi. Akitada stared after him in dismay. Either the girl had been incredibly foolish or someone had played a very nasty trick on her. No member of the aristocracy would take a young woman as his official wife or concubine without her father’s knowledge.