He did not share his wife’s bed that night but spent restless, guilt-ridden hours in his father’s room, trying to find answers to his family troubles. Tamako came once, perhaps in an effort to make peace, but he said, “Not now. I must think what to do.” She inclined her head and left silently, returning much later with his bedding, which she spread for him without a word. He felt intensely lonely after she had left again.
Sometime during the night it began to snow. When the shadows of the room began to close in on him, Akitada threw back the shutters onto a pitch-black night. It was cold, but there was little wind now. The light from his lamp caught the large flakes as they fell slowly, drifting a little on unseen air currents, spinning in circles before floating gently to the ground. Shimmering like moving stars, they seemed to arrive from a void beyond, materializing only within the reach of his study light. The nearer shrubs and trees showed dimly with faint white highlights, but the gravel and the veranda boards were solid sparkling silver. Only the surface of the fishpond lay like a black mirror reflecting a black universe beyond.
Akitada stood for a long time, watching the mysterious arrival of the snow, before he closed the shutters and returned to his bed.
When he woke the next morning, the blackness outside had changed to a uniform gray. The snow had stopped, but heavy low clouds seemed to brush the stark treetops, and the light was so faint that the snow on the ground and on the roof of his house looked dull like unbleached silk.
Akitada dressed quickly in a dark robe, his court hat with the taboo pendant, leggings, and boots. Seimei knocked and entered with a bow and murmured a greeting, bringing a dish of rice gruel and a pot of hot water for tea. He asked for instructions for the day.
Akitada sipped his tea. “Do what you like! Carry on with the accounts,” he said. “I have to go out this morning.”
Seimei hesitated, looking unhappy, then bowed and left.
In spite of the early hour, Kobe was waiting at the prison when Akitada was shown to the office set aside for his use. Kobe’s mood was almost conciliatory. He offered Akitada warm wine.
“No, thank you.” Akitada found it impossible to produce a polite smile. Seating himself across from Kobe, he plunged into his speech. “Last night I was shocked and angered by your accusations. Today I find that I must apologize for the foolish and dangerous actions of a member of my family. As head of the family, I take full responsibility for what happened, even though I had no knowledge of it.”
Kobe nodded. He looked politely attentive. “Please continue!”
“I am afraid that the woman your men followed from the prison to my house is my younger sister Yoshiko.”
At that Kobe’s eyes widened. “Your sister?”
“Yes. It appears that she formed an attachment to the prisoner many years ago. I am to blame for her visits, because I carelessly discussed the Nagaoka murder with her. At the time, I had no idea that she knew anyone in that family, and she did not tell me.”
Kobe seemed too astonished to doubt Akitada’s words. “I see,” he murmured. “How very unpleasant for you! It would hardly have occurred to you that your sister would form such a very unsuitable … relationship with a person of that type. You have my sympathy.”
For a moment, Akitada thought he was being mocked. But Kobe’s face expressed only shock and concern. Perversely, this easy acceptance of his explanation, entailing as it did revelations of a personally embarrassing nature, angered Akitada. Surely the man Yoshiko had become involved with was not so completely contemptible. Nagaoka was a merchant, but a highly respected one and a man of considerable culture. And the man Akitada remembered meeting in the rain at the temple gate had appeared gentlemanly. Then he realized that, to Kobe, Kojiro was a criminal, and that his sister’s reputation depended on clearing her lover of the murder charge.
He pulled himself together and said, “I am much obliged to you for believing me, Superintendent. Since my sister is now deeply implicated in the case, I wonder if you might reconsider your position and allow me to assist you.” He steeled himself for another refusal.
To his surprise, Kobe pursed his lips and studied the ceiling thoughtfully. He said, “Hmm,” and after a moment, again, “Hmm.”
Encouraged by this, his heart beating faster, Akitada promised rashly, “I would, of course, do nothing but what you had approved beforehand, work under your supervision, so to speak.”
Kobe brought his eyes back from the ceiling and looked at him. He seemed amused; the corner of his mouth twitched. “I did not think the famous Sugawara would ever say such words to me. Will you go another step, my lord, and promise to be bound by my decision?”
Akitada flushed with shame, but said steadily enough, “Yes.”
Kobe rose. “Come along, then. You shall speak to the prisoner. In my presence.”
Akitada hardly knew what to make of Kobe’s sudden compliance and assumed it had been bought with his own humiliation. So be it! As they walked through the outer offices and past scores of police officers and constables toward the wing of the building where the cells were, it occurred to him that he had no idea how to proceed. The man’s relationship with Yoshiko made any thorough questioning awkward. And Kobe’s presence at this first meeting between them was more than just embarrassing.
The figure who rose with a rattle of chains and stood, supporting himself against the wall, bore little resemblance to the sturdy young man at the mountain temple. Both his hair and beard had grown untended, he wore a ragged, stained shirt and loose cotton pants, and stood barefoot on the cold dirt floor of the cell. There was a smear of blood on his shoulder where the shirt had slipped, and more traces of bleeding on his chin from biting his lower lip.
Akitada had seen men look like this before—too many times—and he met the eyes of the prisoner. The eyes usually told the story. If they had that dull, hopeless look, a sign of having stopped fighting against a stronger force, one knew that the prisoner had told all he knew. He had come to wish for it as much as it sickened him, for it meant there would be no more beatings.
Kojiro did not have that look yet. He seemed both defiant and indifferent as he glanced from Kobe to Akitada. He frowned, then returned his attention to the superintendent. Apparently he did not remember their meeting. He neither bowed nor spoke, but an expectant silence hung heavy between them.
Akitada wondered what Yoshiko could have seen in this man. True, he was not at his best at the moment, but even cleaned up, he would only be an ordinary man of middling height, certainly shorter than either Akitada or Kobe, squarely built, with a face which was neither distinguished nor handsome. The cheekbones were broad, the nose flat, and the lips too wide and thick. He looked like what he was, a peasant. To be sure, he was not as blackened by the sun, nor as stringy and bent from labor in the rice paddies, but he certainly lacked every vestige of male grace as it was defined by people of Akitada’s rank. Akitada was not vain and thought poorly of his own appearance, but he had formed certain ideas about the sort of men women admired. Kojiro did not fit them.
It was Kobe who broke the silence first. “Well, Kojiro. I understand you continued your stubbornness during questioning yesterday.”
The prisoner did not answer, but he moved his shoulders slightly, as if he wanted to remind himself of the occasion. Akitada had seen the backs of “stubborn” prisoners and knew the man was in pain.
Kobe continued, “It was a waste of time, you know. We found out who the young lady was.”
Something flickered in Kojiro’s eyes, but he said nothing. He fears a trap, thought Akitada, mildly surprised that the peasant had attempted to protect Yoshiko’s honor with his own skin.