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

Lady Chujo looked thoughtful, and her husband said quickly, “Yes, of course. I had better go and explain. Though I still don’t understand how he could have been completely in the dark. I made no secret of my intentions to Tomoe. It is unfortunate that the empty villa frightened her, but I thought that the young women would arrange for someone to stay with her.”

The young women? So Otomi had known!

“Indeed,” cried Lady Chujo. “My husband was making even more generous arrangements for her, when she panicked. He was bringing her here. But being a most superstitious person — one of those who are forever muttering spells and buying silly amulets against Heaven knows what — she simply went mad with fright.” Lady Chujo was warming to her subject. “If she did not drown herself, then she ran into the water out of fear. It was an accident. It is really no one’s fault but the silly girl’s.”

Masahira said unhappily, “Don’t! Tomoe was not silly. She was very sweet and very young. I should have looked after her better.”

Lady Chujo bit her lip. She was clearly tired of the subject. Her eyes fell on the tray of food. “You have not eaten,” she cried. “Let me get some hot food. This dreadful incident will make you ill, and you know you are on duty tomorrow for the emperor’s birthday.”

“I am not hungry,” Masahira said with a grimace, but she picked up the tray anyway. She left the room, scented robes and long hair trailing, without so much as a nod to Akitada.

“I do not wish to trouble you any longer, sir,” said Akitada nervously, “but could you direct me to your villa?”

Masahira sighed and rose. “Come on. I will take you myself. If you are right about its being murder, it would be a terrible thing, but at least I would not feel that Tomoe killed herself because of me.”

Akitada had not expected the offer or the sentiment from such a powerful man and was surprised again.

They rode — Masahira had superb horses — and crossed the city quickly. In the western district they entered an almost rural setting. There were few villas and some, now abandoned, had become overgrown with vegetation. Empty lots were covered with tall meadow grass alive with rabbits and deer. They passed a few small temples, their steep pagodas rising above the trees, but the streets were mere dirt tracks and the bridges, which crossed small rivers and canals, were dilapidated.

Yet here and there, in the midst of the desolation, a few secluded mansions and villas survived, their rustic fencing in good repair and the thatched roofs mended. Masahira stopped at one of these, dismounted, and unlatched the gate.

At that moment a curious figure detached itself from the shadows of the large willow tree at the street corner and walked towards them.

At first glance the scrawny man appeared to be a monk dressed in a stained and worn saffron robe, his head shaven and the wooden begging bowl, dangling from the hemp rope about his skinny middle, bouncing with every shuffling step. When he reached them, he stopped and stared slack-jawed and with vacant eyes. Akitada saw that he wore several small wooden tablets with crude inscriptions around his neck.

“He’s just a mendicant,” said Masahira. “They live in small temples around here.” He tossed a few copper coins to the man while Akitada rode into the courtyard. Dismounting, he glanced over his shoulder at the beggar, who had not picked up the money but was still standing, staring foolishly after them until Masahira closed the gate.

They stood in a small courtyard of a charming house in the old style, all darkened wood and sweeping thatched roof.

Akitada looked curiously about him. A stone path led to the front door and continued around the side of the house to what must be the garden. The cicadas were singing their high-pitched song in the trees.

Inside there was only one large room, but this had been furnished luxuriously with screens, thick mats, silk bedding, and lacquered clothes chests. There was also an assortment of amusements suitable for an aristocratic young lady. A zither lay next to a beautiful set of writing implements, games rested beside several novels and picture books, and a set of cosmetics and combs accompanied an elegant silver mirror. Three tall wooden racks were draped with gowns of silk and brocade in the most elegant shades and detailing, and Akitada counted no fewer than five fans scattered about. In the short time since she had left her father’s house Tomoe had been spoiled by her noble lover. He looked around for evidence of the sister’s having been here but found nothing.

Masahira wandered dazedly about the room, touching things. He brushed a hand over one of the gowns, then picked up a fan, looked at it, and let it drop again. “Well?” he asked.

“I understand that you could not spend much time with Tomoe,” said Akitada, “but I have been wondering why she did not have at least a servant for companion?”