Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

Akitada was thunderstruck. He had expected fury, denial, bluster, certainly not this quick admission of guilt. He looked at the back of the man and wavered in his estimation. The broad shoulders sagged and his neck, bent, looked vulnerable for all its strong muscles and neatly brushed, glossy black hair. But he could not afford to feel sympathy. Masahira was, at the very least, a sly seducer of innocent young women, at worst a heartless killer.

“I am afraid it is not going to be that simple,” he said, “not in a case of murder.”

Masahira spun around. “What? Murder? She drowned herself. Because she thought I’d deserted her.”

“No. Someone knocked her unconscious, dragged her to the pond, and drowned her.” Akitada outlined his observations of the evidence.

Masahira ran his hands through his hair. “It cannot be. Here!” He fished a piece of paper from inside his robe. “Read for yourself.”

The letter was still warm from lying next to Masahira’s skin. Akitada unfolded it and read the childlike characters. “I cannot bear this lonely place any longer. I think you do not want me and will leave me to die alone. How could I ever have believed you! My sleeves are wet with tears. Soon they will be wetter still.”

“Tomoe wrote this?” Akitada asked, returning it.

Masahira nodded. “I blame myself entirely. I should not have left her alone there. She told me she was frightened and begged me to stay. When I refused...” He turned away.

“You could have taken her back to her father,” Akitada offered, his anger melting rapidly along with his suspicions.

“You don’t understand.” Masahira’s voice broke. “I loved her.” He put both hands over his face. “I could not bear to give her up.”

“Then why did you not bring her here and legitimize the relationship,” Akitada asked. “A man in your position is expected to have secondary wives.”

Masahira turned and looked at him bleakly from moist eyes. “I meant to. In fact, I was preparing my household to receive her when it happened,” he said stiffly.

Akitada digested this information and decided to accept it. “Regardless of the letter, which is ambiguous at best, someone killed her,” he said at last.

Before Masahira could respond, the door opened and a tall, handsome woman entered. Her robes were costly, and her glossy black hair swept the floor behind her, but her features were thin and pinched. Lady Chujo, Masahira’s wife and the chancellor’s oldest daughter.

When she saw Akitada, she gave him a sharp, appraising look before addressing her husband.

“I apologize if I am interrupting, husband,” she said in the soft, nasal tones of the upper classes. “I wished to know if there is any news.”

“My wife,” introduced Masahira. “My dear, this is Sugawara Akitada. He has come from Okamoto Toson about Tomoe.” To Akitada he said, “My wife is aware of the tragedy, but not, of course, of the fact that murder is suspected.”

“Murder?” Lady Chujo’s eyes flicked over Akitada without interest. “Impossible. My husband found the letter the unfortunate young woman wrote before walking into the pond. Her father must be distraught. It is only natural. But you must convince him that he is wrong about this and that it is absolutely essential the unpleasantness be handled discreetly. Naturally you will also give him our condolences.”

Akitada took an instant dislike to her. An unpleasantness, was it? To be resolved by a message of condolence? Aloud he said, “Madam, Tomoe’s father is not yet aware of her death nor of her connection with your husband. I came here because explanations had better come from Lord Masahira.”

The proud head came up, and the lady stared Akitada in the eye.

“Impossible,” she said again. “A man in my husband’s position cannot be expected to deal with such low-bred notions. The girl was a foolish child frightened by hobgoblins and fox spirits. I’m certain the proper authorities will rule her death suicide.”

Masahira interrupted at this point.

“Did you say Okamoto did not know she went with me? But Tomoe wrote a letter before we left.”

A letter? Here was another puzzle. Of course there was only her sister’s word for the fact that Tomoe had left without notice. What if Otomi had known all along where Tomoe was?

Aloud he said, “He did not — does not know. He only suspects that Tomoe was lured away by a man of high rank. It was the sergeant at the police building who told me you had reported her death.”

Lady Chujo said irritably, “They should make certain such people can be trusted not to blab confidential matters to every curiosity seeker.” She glared at Akitada, who was once again reminded of his own precarious position. A word from Lady Chujo to her father and Akitada could find himself banished to the island of exiles in the far north.

He bowed and said apologetically, “Forgive me, but I was merely carrying out Mr. Okamoto’s instructions.” With brilliant inspiration, he added, “He is very distraught. No doubt the tragedy, when it becomes generally known, will win him much sympathy from his many friends and supporters.”