“There was nothing wrong with his health,” snapped the old man. “If you’re afraid to spend the night here, you can ride home in the storm.”
Akitada said quickly, “No, no. You misunderstood. Nagaoka was found dead not two miles from here. He may have died the day he left here. The superintendent and I are trying to find out what happened to him. Do you know where he was going?”
Kinzo’s jaw dropped. “Master Nagaoka’s dead?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, his karma was very bad! And now my poor master will be even more wretched than Fujiwara Moroie when his beloved died.”
“Come on, man,” snapped Kobe, “where was Nagaoka headed when he left here?”
Kinzo’s eyes widened. “Hah,” he cried. “That woman got him! I knew it. They say the spirit stays in its home for forty-nine days. Hers must have gone to Kohata. That’s where Master Nagaoka was going. Just over the hill to Kohata. And that evil demon was lying in wait for him.” He shook his head at the pity of it.
EIGHTEEN
Two Professors
Kinzo treated them well that evening. There was a hot bath for them, a substantial meal of hot rice and vegetables, with steamed fish fresh from a nearby river, and bedding for a restful night.
Akitada had rarely slept better. Outside, the snow fell silently and it was a cold night, but the large pile of charcoal in the fire pit continued to glow, making the room very comfortable.
When they rose the next morning, Kinzo reappeared, followed by the youth who had opened the gate and now brought a tray with steaming bowls of rice gruel.
“It stopped snowing,” announced Kinzo. “On horseback you shouldn’t have any trouble crossing the mountain to Kohata.”
It turned out to be a hard ride after all, but the weather had cleared and there was even some sun. The snow was so bright, it was almost blue in the shadows, and the trunks and branches of the trees stood out sharply like black brushstrokes against white paper.
They saw the village of Kohata when they made their way down the other side of the mountain. It consisted of a few straggling farmhouses, a post house, and a somewhat larger complex of buildings on the outskirts of the small town. The latter turned out to be the farm belonging to Nagaoka’s father-in-law, known locally as “the professor.”
It was certainly not as prosperous as Kojiro’s place, and had seen better days. The fence gaped in places, but the gate still had two panels, and the dwelling looked a comfortable size. Smoke rose in a thin spiral from a derelict outbuilding, no doubt the kitchen, and someone had swept a makeshift path to the entrance of the house.
No one was about, so the sergeant went to knock on the door. There was no answer.
After a few more attempts to rouse someone, Akitada and Kobe dismounted and walked around to the back. A leaning wooden gate led into what must once have been a small garden; now the overgrown plants were towering shapes under the snow. A single set of footprints skirted the corner of the house, and these they followed to a small pavilion at the back of the garden.
Its doors stood wide open, and inside huddled a figure. It was covered from head to toe with layers of old quilts and covers, and was bent over a desk spread with papers. Only one hand protruded, laboriously writing a few characters before raising stiff fingers to blow on them.
The occupant did not hear their muffled steps in the snow outside until they stepped onto the small veranda. Then he started and turned, the covers slipping to reveal an elderly man with bright black eyes and a dripping nose.
Kobe said, “Sorry to interrupt, but nobody answered our knocks. Would you be Professor Yasaburo?”
The elderly man sniffed and dashed the moisture from the tip of his nose with a stained sleeve. “No, I’m not, I’m glad to say.” He spoke in the nasal voice of someone with a bad cold. “Yasaburo is a disgusting tightwad, a damnable slave driver, a vulgar boor, an inferior poet, a vile cook, a contemptible conversationalist, a wretched scholar, a shocking father, an execrable calligrapher, and he serves inferior wine. No, thank the heavens, I’m not Yasaburo.”
“Your name, then?” demanded Kobe.
The elderly man wiped his nose again and sniffed. “Cursed cold,” he muttered. “I don’t remember an introduction. Your turn first.”
Kobe snapped, “I’m Kobe. Superintendent of police.”
“Ridiculous.” The man chuckled. “What would a police superintendent from the capital be doing out here? Try again.”
Kobe bristled. “Don’t waste my time!”
Without rising, the little man managed to sketch an obeisance. “Harada. Formerly professor of mathematics at the Imperial University. Presently a lowly drudge.”
“I am investigating a crime. Are you familiar with the name Nagaoka?”
The little man stared at him. “Nagaoka’s in trouble? You surprise me. He was just here.” “
“When?”
Harada sniffed and turned the leaf of his account book, running a finger blue with cold down a line of entries. “That’s the day,” he mumbled. “Yes, I make it the second day of this month.”
“Ah!” Kobe was hitting his stride. “We’re getting somewhere. By the way, what in hell are you doing out here?”
“In hell or not, I’m working. True, at the moment I’m in helclass="underline" cold sober, suffering from a bad cold, and keeping the tightwad slave driver’s accounts in an unheated garden pavilion while a policeman’s shouting at me.”
Akitada suppressed a smile. Kobe was certainly not getting much respect in the country. He asked the irreverent Harada, “Where is your master?”
“My master?” Harada drew himself up and attempted to look at Akitada over his nose. The effect was spoiled by another droplet forming at its end. He dashed it away with the much-abused sleeve and said haughtily, “If you—a total stranger to me, by the way—are referring to Yasaburo, you have not been listening. That man is nobody’s master. He’s incompetent at everything, a total failure. I work for him, but I am certainly his master in most things. A fine distinction, young man. Remember it!”
Akitada smiled. “Forgive me, Master Harada. My name is Sugawara. I take an interest in the case of one of Superintendent Kobe’s prisoners, Nagaoka’s brother.”
“Hah! The unfortunate Kojiro.” Harada eyed him, then said, “Hell opens its jaws in many nooks and corners. Beware of the demons among the living.”
“What do you mean?” asked Akitada sharply.
But Harada had turned away, shaking his head. “Nothing, nothing. You’d better wait for Yasaburo. He’s out with his little bow and arrow, wreaking death and destruction among the crows.” He huddled back into his quilt and rubbed more ink.
Kobe angrily opened his mouth to show Harada who gave the orders, when there was the sound of shouting from somewhere beyond the house. They turned.
Another strange-looking creature was approaching rapidly through the snow-covered garden, this one tall and thin and with a gray-streaked beard and bristling eyebrows. He was dressed in an old-fashioned fur-trimmed hunting cloak, fur cap, and long, snow-caked fur boots. Except for the fact that he was carrying a bow and had several arrows sticking up from a quiver behind his left shoulder, he might have been an emaciated old bear walking on his hind legs.
“Who in the name of the forty-eight devils are you and what do you want here?” the creature shouted shrilly, shaking his bow, as soon as he saw them. “Get away from him! He’s working. That’s what I pay him for, not to chat with every fool who’s lost his way.”
“Are you Yasaburo?” roared Kobe, his patience gone.
The furry man—well into his sixties, to judge by the beard—stopped to glare at them. “I asked first,” he snapped.