The Masuda Affair sa-7 Read online

  The sun sparkled off the waters of the lake, and behind him rose the green mountains, Hieizan towering above the rest. The surface of the lake was dotted with slender fishing boats and the large white sails of ships making their way both north and south, carrying goods and people. Otsu was a harbor for the capital and bustled with business. Today was the day of parting from the dead for another year.

  Akitada set his mind on the needs of the living, on a small deaf-mute boy who might have a connection with an abandoned villa belonging to the Masudas. He left the business streets of the town behind and climbed the road to the green hillside overlooking it.

  The curving roofs of the Masuda mansion rose behind a high wall. Its large gate was closed, in spite of the festival. Perhaps the Masudas feared their ghosts. Akitada rapped sharply. A window in the porter’s lodge slid open, and a very old man peered out. Akitada gave his name, adding, ‘I’m calling on Lord Masuda.’

  ‘The master’s not well. He sees no one,’ wheezed the ancient one.

  ‘Then perhaps one of the ladies will receive me?’

  The window grate slid shut and there was the sound of steps shuffling off. After a moment, the gate creaked open, and Akitada was admitted to a large courtyard covered with gravel and shaded by trees. The splendor of the mansion amazed him. Blue tiles gleamed on the roofs, red and black lacquer covered doors and pillars, and everywhere he saw carvings, gilded ornaments, and glazed terracotta figures.

  The old man led the way. They climbed the wide stairs of the main building and passed through it. Akitada caught glimpses of a painted ceiling supported by ornamented pillars, of thick grass mats and silk cushions, and of large, dim scroll paintings. Then they descended into a private garden. A covered gallery led to a second, slightly smaller hall. Here the old servant asked him to wait.

  Akitada stood in the gallery and looked about him. This world was beautiful and remote from the bustle of the streets of Otsu and from the ragged boy. Great wealth had raised these many tiled roofs with their carved eaves and lacquered columns. Great wealth and exquisite taste had laid out the gardens that surrounded the halls and pavilions. But where were the maids, gardeners, stable boys, sweepers, cooks, carpenters, and pages who tended all this? The grounds were too quiet, almost deserted, though the buildings and the garden seemed in good repair.

  An artificial stream babbled softly past the gallery where he stood, then disappeared behind a small hill and reappeared again, spanned by an elegantly arched red-lacquered bridge. Akitada stepped to the railing to look down into a small pond. Its clear water was quite deep. A frog, disturbed by Akitada’s shadow, jumped in and sent several fat old koi into a mild frenzy.

  The sound of children’s laughter came from the garden, and two little girls skipped across the bridge, as colorful as butterflies in their silk gowns, their voices as high and clear as birdsong. A nurse in black followed more slowly.

  Lucky children, Akitada thought bitterly, and turned away. And lucky parents!

  The old porter returned eventually and took him to a beautiful room. Two ladies were seated on the pale grass mats near open doors. Both wore expensive silk gowns, one the dark grey of mourning, the other a cheerful deep rose. The lady in grey, slender and elegant, seemed to be making entries in a ledger; the other, younger lady had the half-opened scroll of an illustrated romance before her. The atmosphere was feminine, the air heavily perfumed with incense.

  The lady in grey was no longer in her first youth, but still very handsome. She regarded Akitada for a moment, then made him a slight bow from the waist and said, ‘You are welcome, My Lord. Please forgive the informality, but Father is not well and there was no one else to receive you. I am Lady Masuda, and this is my late husband’s other wife, Kohime.’

  Kohime smiled. She had a cheerful plain face and the robust body of a peasant girl. Akitada decided to address the older woman. ‘I am deeply distressed to disturb your peace,’ he said, ‘And regret extremely the ill health of Lord Masuda. Perhaps you would like me to return when he is better?’

  ‘I am afraid Father will not improve,’ said Lady Masuda. ‘He is old and… his mind wanders. You may speak freely.’ She gestured towards a cushion. Akitada sat down. She nodded at the account book. ‘Circumstances force me to take responsibility for running this household.’

  Akitada glanced again at Lady Kohime, who nodded and said in a high, childish voice, ‘Hatsuko is so clever. She can handle anything.’

  So these two women were the old lord’s daughters-in-law, and of the two, Lady Masuda had assumed the role of steward. She was apparently a remarkably capable and serious person. Lady Kohime, by contrast, smiled at him like a child who has been given an unexpected treat.

  Accepting Lady Masuda’s reticence, Akitada moved cautiously. He praised the town and its surroundings, and then expressed an interest in buying a summer place on the lake. He mentioned the beautiful setting and the fact that it was within easy reach of the capital. Lady Masuda listened politely, but he saw that her fingers moved nervously in her lap. Akitada got to the point. ‘I was told that the Masudas own the abandoned villa on the water. The property would suit me perfectly. Is it perhaps for sale?’

  She stiffened, and her fingers became still. ‘The Masudas own half of Otsu,’ she said coldly. ‘I would not know the house you refer to. Perhaps-’

  The cheerful Lady Kohime chimed in: ‘Oh, Hatsuko, that must be the house where our husband’s-’ She gulped and covered her mouth. ‘Oh.’

  Lady Masuda paled and gave her a warning glance. She said brusquely, ‘My sister is mistaken. In any case, none of the Masuda holdings is for sale. I am sorry, but I cannot be of assistance to you.’

  Akitada was too old a hand at dealing with suspects not to know a lie. He was instantly alert to reasons why such an accomplished woman would resort to clumsy untruths. And that expression of distaste surely was because a courtesan had lived there.

  Akitada’s familiarity with courtesans was limited. As a young man he had not had the funds to visit the pampered beauties who sold their bodies only to the wealthiest and most generous clients. Nowadays, he tended to dislike them on principle for their greed, but in his youth he had been very tempted to find out what delights lay so far beyond his reach. He thought a wife would feel differently, especially if such a woman had stolen her husband’s affections. In this case there were two wives. He glanced again at Lady Kohime, but met only the same bland and cheerful expression of interest.

  The situation teased his curiosity. He wondered about the late heir, the husband of these women. And he wanted to know very much what had caused the courtesan to take her own life. The watchman had said it was because her lover had abandoned her. But if the lover had been the younger Masuda, neither he nor his family had made any attempt to reclaim the villa or to sell the valuable property. They had allowed it to fall to ruin in a tangled wilderness. Why, when Lady Masuda had kept the mansion in such excellent repair?

  Kohime was the simpler of the two women and would surely pour out the story of the villa without much prompting, but he could think of no way to speak to her alone. Thanking the ladies, he left.

  Outside, the old porter waited. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said, ‘but there’s someone hoping to speak to you.’

  Akitada turned and saw an elderly woman in black peering over a large shrub.

  ‘The children’s nurse,’ the old man explained. ‘When I mentioned your name, she begged a few moments of your time.’

  Akitada was puzzled. ‘I don’t believe I know her.’

  ‘No, My Lord. But when her son was a student in the capital, he was accused of murder. You saved his life.’

  ‘Good heavens! Don’t tell me she’s the mother of that-’ Akitada gave the nurse another look. She must be near sixty, with anxious eyes in a careworn face. He had been about to call her son a rascal, but stopped himself in time. ‘Er, young Ishikawa.’

  ‘Yes. Ishikawa. That’s her name.’ The old man laughed, rubbing his
hands, as if Akitada had been very clever to remember. ‘When the gentleman is ready to leave, I shall be waiting at the gate,’ he said with a bow and trotted off.

  Akitada had no wish to be reminded of the Ishikawa matter. It had happened a long time ago, in happier years, when Akitada had been courting his wife, but he sighed and stepped down into the garden.

  On closer inspection, Mrs Ishikawa appeared to be a respected member of the Masuda household. Her black gown was of finely patterned brocade, and her grey hair was held by golden pins. He remembered young Ishikawa’s haughty manner. They had been a good family fallen on hard times.

  She bowed very deeply. ‘This insignificant person is conscious of the great honor of finally meeting Your Lordship,’ she said in a cultured voice. Our debt to Your Lordship has too long weighed on my conscience. I am the widow Ishikawa, mother of that unfortunate student whose life you once saved.’

  ‘Please don’t fret over the matter, Mrs Ishikawa. How is your son?’

  Her face lit up. ‘He is head steward for Middle Counselor Sadanori and lives in the capital,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he would wish to express his deep sense of obligation for your help in his difficulties.’

  Akitada doubted it. Ishikawa, a thoroughly selfish young man, had been innocent of murder, but had been deeply implicated in blackmail and in a cheating scandal that had rocked the imperial university, and he had held Akitada responsible for his dismissal.

  Perhaps she saw his irritation. Bursting into long and passionate expressions of gratitude, she fell to her knees and touched her forehead to the gravel of the garden path.

  Akitada looked down at the grey head and was glad he had spared someone the pain of losing a son, even if he was an unworthy one. He grimaced and bent to raise her. ‘I’m very glad I could be of some small service to you,’ he said. ‘I assure you there is no need for such gratitude, but it is fortunate that I should have met you here.’

  She brushed some dirt off her gown and looked at him uncertainly.

  ‘You’re the Masuda children’s nurse, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. I have served the family for many years. I raised both the son and the grandchildren of the old lord.’ She flushed a little. ‘After my husband died, I was in straitened circumstances and about to give birth. Lord Masuda is the head of our clan, and he took me in. His lady gave birth to her son soon after mine was born, and I nursed both boys.’

  It explained a great deal. The student Ishikawa had been very poor, very bright, and very hard-working, but those qualities had failed to produce the rapid success he desired. No doubt being raised in a wealthy household, side by side with the heir, had contributed to his criminal activities at the university. Akitada felt sympathy for his mother, even if he could not excuse the son.

  ‘Perhaps you can help me,’ he said. ‘There is an abandoned villa on the lake. I was told that it belongs to the Masudas.’

  The old lady looked startled. ‘You mean Peony’s house? Lady Masuda would not wish to be reminded of that.’

  Peony was a professional name used only by courtesans and entertainers. ‘I take it that Lord Masuda’s son used to keep this Peony in the villa on the lake?’

  Mrs Ishikawa flushed and squirmed a little. ‘We are not to speak of this.’

  Akitada had put her in an impossible situation. Using her gratitude to extort information about her employers was disgraceful. He retreated instantly. ‘I see. I will not trouble you then. But perhaps you can tell me about a cat I saw there, a white one with brown spots.’

  ‘Patch? Could it be Patch after all this time? Such a dear little kitten. I used to wonder what became of it. Oh.’ Shock at her indiscretion caused her to break off and clamp a hand over her mouth.

  Half ashamed of himself, Akitada pounced. ‘Was there not a little boy?’

  ‘Oh, the poor child is dead. They’re both dead and best forgotten.’ When Akitada raised his eyebrows, she flushed. ‘I did not mean it the way it sounds, but the story was so shocking that it is very unpleasant to think about it. You see, Peony killed her child and then herself

  Akitada’s face fell, along with his hopes.

  Mrs Ishikawa misunderstood. Oh, forgive me for not saying any more. And please don’t mention what I told you to the ladies. It was horrible, but there was nothing we could do. There is enough grief in this household as it is.’

  From the garden came the voice of Lady Masuda calling for her. Mrs Ishikawa looked over her shoulder. ‘I must go, My Lord. Please, forget what I said.’ And with another deep bow she was gone.

  THREE

  The Dying Wisteria

  Akitada stared after her. If she was right about Peony’s child being dead, then the deaf-mute boy belonged to someone else, most likely to the repulsive couple who had dragged him away.

  But here was a new mystery: why did Lady Masuda impose such secrecy on her household? Whatever jealousy she might have felt of her husband’s concubine, such arrangements were common enough and accepted. Mrs Ishikawa had known Peony and her son and had been fond of them. Perhaps the elegant lady who had been bent over the account book knew what was in the interest of the Masudas, and the dubious offspring of a former courtesan was best assumed dead.

  Whatever had happened, the Masuda problems were not his affair. Yet Akitada paused in his walk to the gate to look back thoughtfully at the Masuda mansion, testimony to the family’s wealth, all of it belonging to an ailing old man without an heir. He wondered about the deaths of the courtesan Peony and her child. He also wondered about the curse killing the male Masuda heirs. Perhaps the years spent solving crimes committed by corrupt, greedy, and vengeful people had made him suspicious. Or perhaps his encounter with the wailing ghost had made him think of restless spirits in search of justice. He was neither religious nor superstitious, but there had been nothing reasonable about the events of the past two days.

  For a few moments, the bleak and paralyzing hopelessness that had stifled his spirit lifted because he had stumbled on this mystery.

  He asked the old servant waiting patiently beside the gate, ‘When did the young lord die?’

  ‘Which one, My Lord? Lord Tadayori died last year, and the first lady’s son this year.’ He sighed. ‘Only the two little girls of the second lady are left now, but the old lord cares nothing for them.’

  Akitada’s eyebrows rose. ‘How did the grandson die?’

  ‘The great sickness, My Lord. Many children died from it.’

  Akitada’s stomach twisted. His son, that sturdy, handsome bundle of energy, had become a whimpering creature, covered with festering sores, as he watched helplessly. So Lady Masuda had also lost a son. And Peony and her son had died soon after. But their deaths were not clearly accounted for. A picture began to shape in Akitada’s mind.

  The story was not unusual. A wealthy nobleman falls in love with a beautiful courtesan, buys out her contract, and keeps her for his private enjoyment in a place where he can visit her often. Such liaisons could last for months or for a lifetime. In this case, there had been a child. Had the younger Masuda really ended his affair or had his death ended it? What if Lady Masuda, after losing both husband and son, had become distraught with grief and jealousy and killed both her rival and her child?

  But he was jumping to conclusions without facts. He could not even be certain that Peony’s child had been Masuda’s. He thanked the old man and left.

  Crowds were already filling the main streets of Otsu to celebrate the departure of their ancestral ghosts. For most people, death lost its more painful attributes as soon as duty had been observed – when the souls of those who were once deeply mourned had been duly acknowledged and could, with a clear conscience, be sent back to the other world for another year. After dark, people everywhere would gather on the shores of rivers, lakes, and oceans and set afloat tiny straw boats, each containing a small candle or oil lamp, to carry the spirits of the dear departed away. One by one, the lights would grow smaller until they were extinguished.

/>   Akitada’s bitterness had hardened him to human emotions. To his skepticism for supernatural events he had added a cynical distrust for the professed grief of the living. His sympathies were with the dead. What of those ghosts whose lives and families had been taken from them by violence?

  Feeling at odds with his world, he returned to the local warden’s office and walked into a shouting match between a portly matron and two prisoners, a nattily-dressed man with a mustache and chin beard, and a ragged youngster of about fourteen. The warden was looking from one to the other and scratching his head.

  Apparently, someone had knocked the matron to the ground from behind and snatched a package containing a length of silk from under her arm. When she had gathered her wits, she had seen the two ‘villains’ running away through the crowd. Her screams had brought a constable, who had set off after the fugitives and caught them a short distance away. The package was lying in the street and the two men were scuffling.

  The problem was that each blamed the theft on the other and claimed to have been chasing down the culprit.

  The ragged boy had tears in his eyes. He kept repeating, ‘I was only trying to help.’ He claimed his mother was waiting for some fish he was to purchase for their holiday meal.

  The man with the whiskers was outraged. ‘Lazy kids don’t want to work and think they can steal an honest person’s goods. Maybe a good whipping will teach him before it’s too late.’

  The matron, though vocal about her ordeal, was no help at all. ‘I tell you, Warden Takechi, I didn’t see him. He knocked me down and nearly broke my back.’ She rubbed her substantial behind.

  The warden shook his head. ‘You should have brought witnesses,’ he grumbled to the constable. ‘Now it’s too late, and what’ll we do?’

  The constable protested, ‘Oh come on, Warden. The kid did it. Look at his clothes. Look at his face. Guilt’s written all over him. Let’s take him out back and question him.’