Seimei shook his head. “An angel outside often hides a demon inside.” He recalled himself quickly. “Of course, there are exceptions to this rule.”
Akitada, on his way out, chuckled.
A short walk brought him to the tree-lined street where Nagaoka lived. Once again he was struck by the quiet gentility of the wealthier merchants’ lifestyle. The trees were completely bare now, and it was possible to see many roofs beyond Nagaoka’s wall. A well-to-do antiquarian might easily live as luxuriously as a member of the imperial family, forever changing the displays in his house from goods stored away for sale or trade.
Nagaoka’s gate stood wide open, a fact which puzzled Akitada, considering his train of thought. Who was guarding the valuable contents of the residence? Last time he had seen only a single disgruntled servant; this time even that slovenly individual was absent.
He strolled in. The courtyard had not been swept in days and reminded him of his first visit. He called out, but no one answered. Taking this as an invitation to look around, he walked past the entrance of the main house and into the rear courtyards and gardens. Everywhere he went, he saw the same neglect. Furthermore, back here, away from visitors’ eyes, the buildings were in poor repair and the gardens as overgrown as his own. Paint peeled off the lacquered eaves and railings. A stair step had warped out of place. Shutters hung crookedly. There had been times when the Sugawara property had looked something like this because they had been too poor to fix the damage of time. But would a wealthy man allow his home to become run-down like this?
And the place was deserted. Where were the servants to look after things? Could Nagaoka have taken flight because he was afraid he would be implicated in the murder?
Akitada passed quickly through a small garden, its fishpond choked with leaves and empty of koi, and entered the service courtyard. In its center stood a large storehouse. Unlike the residence, it was built of stone and plaster and had a tile roof. Such storehouses stood in all the compounds of wealthier families for safekeeping of valuables and heirlooms from the many fires which plagued the wooden buildings of the capital. Nagaoka’s treasure-house stood open like his gate.
Akitada stepped on the large slab of rock at the door and peered in. The shelves which stretched along the windowless walls inside were bare except for a few small bags of what looked like rice or beans, a small pile of turnips, and some chestnuts. An earthenware pitcher and a sake barrel sat next to a large basket. Stepping inside, Akitada looked into the basket. It contained charcoal. He raised the pitcher and smelled its mouth: cheap oil. The sake barrel was empty, the dregs in the bottom as clouded and sour-smelling as the most inferior brew. Against the back wall stood some metal-bound wooden chests, their locks unfastened. He looked inside. They were empty except for remnants of packing material. Where were all of Nagaoka’s antiques?
Akitada reemerged and stood for a few moments in the courtyard, digesting the discovery and wondering about its significance. His first fear, that there had been some strong-armed robbery, possibly resulting in the death of the owner and his servants, was proved wrong by the fact that the storehouse had been put to use as a sort of pantry after its costlier contents had been removed. The types of foods stored were hardly what one expected to content the palate of a wealthy merchant, but someone seemed to have been living here since the treasures had disappeared.
Thoughtfully Akitada retraced his steps to the front of the house and pounded on the door.
“Stop that racket,” a voice shouted from the street. “I’m coming. Can’t a man have even a moment’s peace in this forsaken place?” The figure of the servant rounded the open gateway. He was walking in a leisurely fashion, perhaps a little unsteadily, and carried a slightly steaming bundle which looked like a hot meal from some eatery. His appearance had deteriorated further since last time. He had not bothered to tie up his hair or shaved in days, and his robe was filthy.
When he saw Akitada, he stopped, narrowed his eyes, and peered blearily at him. “Oh, it’s you again,” he finally said rudely. “What do you want this time? He’s not been home for days, and I have work to do.”
“Mind your manners,” Akitada snapped. “Where is your master?”
The man scowled. “Who knows? Took his money and ran, is my guess. Either that or he’s jumped off a bridge and is explaining his sins to the judge of the underworld. Leaving me behind with nothing to eat or drink, not to mention without my pay.”
Akitada regarded the man suspiciously. His appearance and behavior showed that he did not expect his master to return very soon. He said brusquely, “It is cold out here. You may take me to your master’s room and answer some questions.”
The servant bristled. “I don’t see why. Him not being here, I’m not allowed into the house.”
“What is in that parcel?” Akitada asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Just some food. A man’s got to eat.”
“And where did you get the money for it? You said you had not been paid.”
The servant’s bluster faltered. “I had some saved up,” he muttered sullenly.
Akitada glared. “You are a liar! I think you stole the money from your master. I shall inform the police.” Stepping down into the courtyard, he approached the man threateningly. “In fact, I don’t believe your master has left. Why should he do so, with his wife recently dead and his brother in jail and about to go on trial? Perhaps you murdered him. What have you done with him? Come on, you lout! Speak up!”
The servant, turning pale, backed away so suddenly that he dropped his parcel. An unappetizing mess of glutinous morsels spilled onto the gravel. Its smell and the man’s strong odor of sour wine and unwashed skin turned Akitada’s stomach.
“I told the truth,” the man wailed. “He went off last week, looking terrible, all white like a ghost. He never said a word. Just walked past me out the door. And he never came back. Maybe he is dead someplace, but I didn’t lay a hand on him.”
Akitada looked at him long and hard. “We shall see. Open the door to the house!”
The door was unlocked, as had been the gate, the storehouse, and the chests.
“Why are you not guarding this house better?” Akitada growled as he followed the fellow down the dark hallway to the room where he had last spoken with Nagaoka.
“What for? There’s nothing left to steal.”
And there was not. Akitada looked around the dim room, and went to throw the wooden shutters open. There were no picture scrolls on the walls, the shelves were empty, even the heavy carved desk was gone. Only the thick floor mats remained and the two cushions they had sat on during his last visit. “What happened to your master’s goods and furniture?” he asked, looking about him in surprise.
“He sold ‘em.”
“Everything? All his antiques? His stock as well as his own possessions?”
The servant nodded. “Every stick of it.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Business hasn’t been exactly flourishing for a long time, and her ladyship had to have fine clothes, maids, and baubles, not to mention what he paid for her to start with. The master just kept selling off stuff to pay for it all.” The man’s tone became increasingly resentful. “He paid that snooty maidservant of hers and the lazy cook better’n me. The maid took off the minute she heard of the murder. And the cook went when she saw that the master hardly had money left for a decent funeral. They knew the good life was over. Guess who got stuck with all the work and no pay? Call me the biggest fool, for hanging around!”
“I told you once to watch your tongue!” Akitada snapped. “I won’t do it again. You have eaten your master’s rice and owe him respect and loyalty.”