“You are and will be.” Akitada’s conscience smote him. In his pique he had slighted the old man and hurt his feelings. “It was just an oversight, Seimei. Stop worrying so much. Er, how is Yori doing? Are you still teaching him his brushstrokes?”

Seimei sat up a little straighter. His smile widened. “The young master is improving. It is said that one is never too young or too old to learn the way of the brush. He is not always as patient as you were at his age, but he has a steadier hand, I think.”

Akitada chuckled, relieved to hear the old Seimei quoting his wise sayings again. “I am sure,” he said, “that you have reminded him that even the poorest archer will hit the target with enough practice.”

“Ah, yes. I did mention that, and also the one about a drop of water piercing a rock if repeated often enough. He did not care for that one too much. But the day he complained of his fingers being too cold to hold the brush, I explained that a turning waterwheel does not have time to get frozen. He worked quite industriously after that.” Seimei chuckled.

With a lighter heart, Akitada reached for his gruel. On second thought, he carried it out into the garden and fed grains of rice to the fish. They rose eagerly to the surface, twisting and splashing for the bits of food. Their excitement pleased him and he laughed.

“You remind me, my old friend, that I have neglected other duties,” he said, turning to Seimei, pleased to see the quick flush of joy the familiar form of address brought to the old man’s cheek. “I’m afraid that I have also not been much of a father lately.”

Seimei smiled. “Impossible, sir. A parent’s love for his son is greater than the son’s for his father.”

“Well, I hope Yori does not think too badly of me.” Akitada looked at the sky. It was still slightly overcast, but here and there a patch of blue showed and the sun shone fitfully. Two squirrels chattered in the pine and then chased each other up and down the trunk. The air smelled fresh and clean. “What do you say, shall we have a game of football in the courtyard? Tora and Genba can use some exercise, I expect, and you can keep score for us.”

Seimei clapped his hands. “Excellent, sir. The young master will be happy. A man may be known for his sportsmanship as much as his erudition.”

Akitada found Yori with his mother. The boy greeted the suggestion with whoops of joy, crying “kemari, kemari” while he looked for the leather ball. Father and son sat down together on the veranda steps to put on their leather boots and then ran out into the courtyard. Yori’s excited shouts brought Tora and Genba from the stables. Their playing field, ten feet square, was quickly marked out in the gravel. Four potted trees marked the corners, and the players, booted and their trousers tied up, arranged themselves between them.

The object was to kick the ball from player to player without letting it touch the ground. Yori, not yet four years old, was already amazingly adept at the game, and the others lost points rapidly. Akitada called for time out to remove his heavy outer robe, and noticed Tamako and Yoshiko on the veranda. Tamako was smiling, but his. sister still looked pale and dispirited.

Akitada’s performance gradually improved. It had been a long time since he had played the game. Once he had been very good at it. He took great care to make it easy for his young son, but Yori had the energy of ten and threw his whole small body into each effort. Tora and Genba, unaccustomed to this pastime of the “good people,” caused Yori to burst into gales of laughter at their clumsy efforts.

When they finally broke off, the adults were breathless and perspiring, while Yori, declared the winner, raced about the courtyard, shouting, “I won! I won!” as Seimei and the ladies applauded. In a sudden glow of happiness, Akitada caught up his son and swung him high into the air. Yori shrieked with delight and flung his small arms about his father’s neck. Akitada had not felt so well, so whole, in many months, and, hugging the child to him, he made a courtly bow toward the veranda.

Back in his office, his newly found optimism still with him, he called for his outdoor clothes. “I am going to pay another call on Nagaoka,” he told Seimei, who helped him dress. “There must be any number of things the man has not told. I did not pry into his relations with his wife last time, but her personality is the most intriguing mystery in her death. It now seems to me he avoided the subject.”

Seimei pursed his lips. “In autumn there is no need for a fan. From what you said, Mr. Nagaoka was too old for his wife. He may feel great relief.”

Seimei was a terrible misogynist, but Akitada considered the possibility that Nagaoka might have tired of an immature and expensive wife. He said dubiously, “From all accounts, she was very beautiful and he loved her.”

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?