Koshiro stared at him. “Been spying on her, have you, Yoshizane?” he sneered.
“No more than you, you dirty old man.”
Koshiro started up, fists clenched.
Tora stepped between them. “Sit down, both of you. We don’t care about you watching a pretty female, though I’m sure she might have. We want to know what you saw while you were ogling her charms from the bushes.”
Akitada gave him a look. “What Tora means,” he said, “is that you have all lived here together for a number of years. It stands to reason that you should know about each other’s lives, activities, moods, backgrounds, and even why each one of you came here to live.”
It was a mistake. Both men clamped their lips together and glowered. He heard Tora heave a sigh.
“So, “Akitada declared, “there was something wrong with her death, and you two know what it was.”
“No,” cried Koshiro, turning white.
“What do you mean?” protested the painter. “What could have been wrong?
“Could she have been murdered? Did someone have reason to kill her? Did she quarrel with anyone? Threaten anyone? Did she know something that made her dangerous to someone? Was she in someone’s way? Come on! There was something! Speak up!”
The painter gulped.
Koshiro, who was breathing fast, said, “The police have been here. They looked at everything. They said it was suicide. I found her that morning. There was no way anyone could have done this.”
Akitada raised his brows. “How so?”
“Well … it looked … you know … like suicide.” Koshiro wiped a suddenly sweaty brow. “She was alone, and she’d pushed a trunk under a rafter. She’d climbed up, tied a piece of silk around it and then around her neck and … and jumped off.”
“The only way you can know this for certain is if you saw her do it,” Akitada commented.
Speechless, Koshiro shook his head.
The painter said, “It probably did happen that way. What makes you think it was murder, sir?”
“It may have happened that way, but things could also have been arranged to make her death look like suicide. Your refusal to talk about her and the others suggests that there were secrets you hoped to keep hidden. It’s suspicious.”
Koshiro rose. “I have nothing else to tell you. You may as well go away and talk to the others.”
The painter nodded. “I also have no secrets to tell. Perhaps Lady Ogata shared her thoughts with the nun. She wasn’t likely to confide in any of the men.” He smiled. “Trouble is, Seikan’s not here at the moment. Gone on a pilgrimage. Left just after Lady Ogata died. To pray for her soul.”
He and Koshiro exchanged a glance. They seemed to have overcome their resentment of each other and decided to stick together on this matter.
Akitada sighed and rose. “In that case, we’ll be back.”
Outside Koshiro’s house, Tora said, “I think they’re hiding something. We should’ve pressed them harder.”
“To what point? Let’s go home.”
Akitada felt the darkness descending again. He had done enough, at least for one day. There was no point in any of this beyond the fact that Tora and the others cared about him and it would have been heartless not to make the gesture. But what was there for him except the eventual return to a home that had become empty and a life that was purposeless?
It would be a relief to become like these people living here in obscurity, each alone, each without obligations to anyone but him- or herself. Whatever had brought them here, he thought, must have been painful. Well, who was he to rob them of their peace?
Tora walked a step or so behind, as was fitting. “Will we really come back?” he asked.
Akitada heard the fear in his voice. “Yes,” he said and stopped to look at Tora. Tora’s concern filled his face, having wiped away the usual bright smile for once. “Thank you for making me forget for a little while. But you must be patient with me.”
“I will. We all will, sir.”
Now there were tears in Tora’s eyes. Overcome by so much devotion, Akitada turned and walked more quickly, perhaps fleeing a burden he could not escape.
8
Talk of the Town
Saburo was thunderstruck by Shokichi’s behavior. For the first time in many years he had given a woman his love, and she had broken his heart. And for no good reason. He did not recall hearing about this Sachi before today, and yet Shokichi was ready to break off their relationship because he had not rushed in to free the blind woman from the police. Shokichi was too stupid to see that this would have led to more trouble for the girl, and would have got him arrested. But clearly she did not really care about what happened to him.
She had ended it by saying very clearly and loudly, so everyone could hear, “You and I are nothing to each other.”
And he had actually considered marrying the woman. He had finally allowed a female to get close to him. He had trusted her, and this was what she did to him. Over a blind shampoo girl!
When Shokichi walked away from him, leaving him standing in the street, Saburo turned and started walking home, anger in his heart and the conviction that he would never find love or companionship.
The realization of what lay ahead in the Sugawara household depressed him further. He was still the outsider there. Both Tora and Genba had wives, and the master had at least his children. Only he, Saburo, had nothing.
Nothing but the raw pain of having been rejected again.
Then the thought of showing Shokichi what she had so casually thrown away occurred to him. Yes, he owed it to himself to prove that he was worth any number of her girlfriends. And the best way of doing this was to solve the murder of the moneylender Nakamura. Then Shokichi would be ashamed and would come to thank him and beg him to forgive her, and he would tell her quite coldly that she had been right all along: they had nothing in common and no future together.
Saburo walked back to the wine shop near the Daikoku-yu where he had intended to take his beloved only a few hours ago. Now he was a single man again, and there was no reason why he should be deprived of the meal and a few cups of wine while he thought about the moneylender.
After a bowl of tasty fish stew and some very decent sake, he had worked out a plan of sorts. His past training suggested surreptitious surveillance of suspects, but he had no suspects yet, merely suspicions.
Among those suspicions was that one of Nakamura’s customers had resorted to murder to close out a debt he could not pay. Another possibility concerned the heirs of a man who was, by all accounts, very wealthy.
Saburo had a low opinion of men who would lend money to the poor at very high interest. He considered them excessively greedy and assumed that their relatives were not much better.
Having paid for his food and wine, he set out briskly for the Daikoku-yu. By now it was the middle of the day, the slackest time for bathhouses and people who did not work. He was not surprised to see Jinzaemon standing outside, chatting with a couple. His expressions and gestures showed that the subject was the bloody murder committed on his premises.
Gossips gather at more places than wells, Saburo thought, and they were not all women. In this case, they were an old man and a middle-aged housewife. He sidled up and listened.
“Four years she’s worked here off and on,” Jinzaemon said to the old man who was leaning on his stick, listening avidly. “Four years I let her make money from my customers, and this is what she does to me? Nakamura was one of my best customers, regular like clockwork every morning for his shave and shampoo, and regular every night for his bath. Not many men take such good care of themselves.”
“I bet he came to ogle the women,” said the woman, who was quite fat and unattractive. “Some men cannot get enough. And that blind girl was young.”
The old man chortled. “And couldn’t see what an ugly bastard he was.”