One was a formal transfer of rice land in the Tsuzuki district between a Lord Tomonari and his maid. The other was the title of ownership to a small farm. Tora was familiar with such legal papers, because his family had once owned a farm. This particular farm was slightly larger and probably on much better land, and it belonged to someone called Sangoro.
Sangoro was the name Kinjiro had used for Matsue before correcting himself quickly. Nothing unusual about that. Many an aspiring swordsman changed his name for any number of reasons. Perhaps Matsue wanted to hide his peasant background. What startled Tora was another word that jumped up at him from among the lines of spidery writing. It looked like the family name of the dead Haseo: Utsunomiya.
Tora was still trying to decipher this paper when he heard a distant squeaking noise followed by the clicking of a latch: the street door. Slipping the document inside his shirt, he hurriedly replaced the rest of the papers and closed the trunk. Then he stepped out into the corridor and listened. The house was as still as before. He checked the main room and then the entry, but found nobody. Belatedly it occurred to him that the door could have been closed by someone leaving the house. The thought that he had been watched made him nervous. Tora opened the door, verified the squeak, and looked up and down the street. Nobody. The neighborhood lay deserted.
Remembering the service yard, he went back to check there. It was as empty as the house. A couple of sparrows were bathing in the dust beside the storehouse. Tall walls screened out all but the roof of the neighbor’s house and some treetops. Tora pulled up a pail of water, drank thirstily, and splashed some on his face and head. His headache had dulled considerably.
The silence made him jumpy. He should have been hearing the voices of children and the sounds of men and women at work beyond the fence, but there was nothing but the soft twitter of small sparrows and the cooing of a few pigeons on the roof. He listened, then heard another sound. It was very faint, a sort of scrabbling accompanied by a whimper. Only a dog, he decided. It must be locked up somewhere. Perhaps it was thirsty. He filled the bucket again and left it on the well coping while he looked around. He peered behind the latrine and into the storage shack. No dog, but the whimpering continued. That left the storehouse. Storehouses were windowless because they were not intended for habitation, human or animal, yet it was from inside the storehouse that the sounds came.
Who would lock an animal in a storehouse? It was dark and airless in there. Was the dog being punished? Or was it supposed to guard some particularly costly haul the thugs had hidden there? He grinned at the thought of robbers afraid of being robbed. Poor beast, but he could do nothing about it.
As he turned away, he remembered the eerie groan the night before. Come to think of it, this faint wailing did not sound like a dog. Tora pressed his ear to the storehouse wall and gasped. Whatever was wailing in there did not sound human, either. He recoiled from the wall, a slow horror building inside his chest and taking his breath away.
It must be a ghost-the ghost of somebody the robbers had killed. That’s why they had taken to their heels without their clothes and valuables. Tora backed away slowly.
Another faint but horrible wail struck his ear, and he reached for his amulet before remembering that he had left it at home.
Home. That’s where he should be. Tora feared ghosts much more than a whole army of cutthroats in the flesh.
But it was broad daylight, and he had second thoughts about this particular ghost. What if the man inside was still alive?
He approached the storehouse again and checked the lock. It was heavy and unbreakable. Inside, the wailing stopped. A cracked voice called out, “Buntaro?” Tora skipped back a pace, thought about it, and decided that a ghost would not get his name wrong. And this Buntaro was one of the thugs, the owner of this place.
Relieved that he was not dealing with the supernatural, Tora put his mouth to the door, and shouted, “I’m not Buntaro. What are you doing in there?”
The voice inside broke into an agitated and incomprehensible babble and he heard fingernails scrabbling at the door.
“I don’t have a key and can’t understand you,” Tora shouted.
The babbling rose a few decibels but was still too agitated to make out. He thought he heard the word “police.” Did the person inside want him to get the police? A gangster, no matter how desperate, would never make such a request.
This cast a different light on the situation. It was one thing if gangsters dealt harshly with one of their own, but if they held an innocent person in there, Tora had an obligation to help him.
He considered the storehouse. Like all such buildings, it was made of very thick plaster walls, its roof was tiled, and its single door was of thick wooden planks. It had been built to withstand fire and robbers, and the lock was hopeless without a key.
He was taking another look at the lock when the door behind him flew open and someone cursed. A tall, thin man stood on the threshold. “What are you doing there?” he bellowed, adding another curse for emphasis.
Tora remembered him now. He had been the one with Matsue when they had found him giving the boy a lesson in sword fighting. Tora had nicknamed him the “Scarecrow” because he was ugly and his clothes hung like rags on his thin frame. The situation was awkward, but at least the fellow would remember him. He said quickly, “Oh, hello. I wondered where everyone was. I thought I heard a dog in there. Must’ve been mistaken.”
In reply, the Scarecrow pulled a knife from his jacket and started across the yard. Tora stepped back and crouched to defend himself, but the thug only checked the lock, then glared at him. “You’d better not be making trouble,” he shouted, pounding his fist against the door for emphasis, “if you know what’s good for you. Kata Sensei doesn’t like meddlers and neither do I.”
Tora straightened up. “Don’t worry, I don’t care what you keep in there. The emperor’s treasures, for all I care. I was washing myself at the well when I thought I heard a dog whining.”
The other man looked at the bucket and at Tora’s wet hair. “All right,” he said grudgingly, shoving the knife back into his belt. “Just keep your nose out of our business in the future. You’d better come along now. Kata Sensei wants you.” He took Tora’s arm, but kept the other hand on the knife handle.
“Where’s everybody gone to?” Tora asked, allowing himself to be dragged along.
“Moved to another place.”
“Why?” He remembered the ironbound chest. Why had they left their loot behind? Not to mention their prisoner.
The Scarecrow opened the street door and pushed Tora out. “Smallpox,” he said. “Next door and a few houses up the street and behind us. Almost everybody’s gone from this quarter. We found out this morning.” He locked up and motioned for Tora to start walking.
Smallpox.
Tora thought of the amulet seller in the market. It must be spreading fast. He wondered about the man in the storehouse. Maybe he had been locked up and left to die because he had smallpox. Tora shivered. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
The Scarecrow snapped, “I just did. Shut up and get your legs moving.”
Stupid question. They hadn’t cared what happened to him. It was Kata who had sent the Scarecrow back for him. And that might be an ominous sign, too.