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The thick scent of burning aloe and sandalwood made Akitada’s eyes water and his nose burn. He blinked and perceived in the center of the flickering candles the funeral palanquin with the shrouded body of the late Lord Tachibana seated like some deity about to be carried in procession.
Behind and toward the side of the palanquin, a screen had been placed. The corner of a full sleeve showed at its bottom. The widow.
Suddenly aware that she had a clear view of him from behind the wooden lattice, Akitada approached the palanquin, bowed, and took a seat as close to the screen as he dared.
He could now see the monks and mourners better. The servants, only five of them, were clustered about old Sato and looked not so much sad as fearful. The visitors, all male and strangers to Akitada, wore the politely pious expressions of people who would rather be elsewhere. Where were Tachibana’s friends? Had he outlived them all? Where were the friends of the widow?
Poor young girl! She had no family of her own, he knew, and was too young and too timid to have cultivated friendships with ladies from neighboring families. His heart went out to her and he glanced toward the screen. He thought he heard a soft sob, but the sound was drowned out by a renewed tinkling of brass bells.
The monk who handled the bells was young and emphatic in his movements, too emphatic perhaps. The drumming also rolled along unevenly, and Akitada, who was no co
His thoughts wandered to his distant friend Tasuku, who by now must be a novice himself, perhaps chanting sutras at this very moment. It seemed to him that only great personal tragedy could make a man like Tasuku give up both his pleasures and a promising career.
This time he was certain he heard a sigh from behind the screen. When he glanced that way, the sleeve twitched a little. He bowed, trying to convey his pity with his eyes.
A silken rustling. Then the sleeve was abruptly withdrawn, followed by more rustling and the sound of a door closing softly in the rear of the hall. Akitada felt oddly bereft. Ashamed, he turned his attention back to the service.
The shape of the dead man was only a vague outline in its shrouding and looked insubstantial and shrunken. They must have broken his joints, Akitada thought, to achieve the customary seated position. The body had already been stiffening when he found it. An old man, done with life. Akitada recalled how Tachibana’s skeletal, age-spotted hand had stroked the shell pattern on the dark blue silk robe he had worn to Motosuke’s di
If Tachibana had been killed to prevent him from speaking to Akitada, then someone at Motosuke’s di
Yukinari was hiding something. The young captain had appeared too opportunely on the scene this morning. What had he been doing there? Since the crime must have happened in the dark, a murderer might have wanted to check the scene by daylight, before Akitada’s visit, to make sure nothing had been overlooked. Akitada’s early arrival would have surprised and dismayed the killer, and Yukinari had looked upset. Akitada recalled that the young man had acted strangely at Motosuke’s. Somehow he must be co
What about the abbot? Akitada glanced at the chanting monks and noticed for the first time an elderly man, the only old monk there. As Akitada stared at him, the man lifted his eyes and looked back. A strange expression crossed his face and he raised his hands to make the gesture of the praying Buddha before looking down again. Very odd! Everything about Joto and his monks was strange. Could Joto have sent, one of his disciples to remove the troublesome ex-governor? Very possibly. The villainous monk in the marketplace would make a good assassin. Akitada decided to look into the wealth of that temple.
Lastly there was Ikeda, who had persistently called the death an accident when he should have known by training and experience that it was not. Seimei’s explanation that Ikeda was a mere provincial booby was not convincing in view of the very knowledgeable way in which the prefect had quoted local laws and ordinances to Akitada. But Ikeda seemed too colorless and cautious a man to plot and mastermind criminal activities on this scale.
Akitada shifted uncomfortably. He was stiff and cold, and his back was begi
But it was only one of the servants, a large, middle-aged female wrapped in the stiff folds of hemp. She was kneeling next to him, staring at him from eyes that looked like blackened seeds in a large, doughy moon cake.
“My mistress begs the gentleman for a moment of his time,” she said in a harsh whisper accompanied by a thin spray of spittle.
This must be the nurse, Akitada thought. Dabbing at his face, he rose stiffly on feet that prickled painfully from the cold and followed her from the hall.