“The law states that you must have confessions to find men guilty.”

“Trust me, Takagi will confess.”

Akitada said dryly, “Yes, I suppose you will find a way. But your way is not mine. And I will investigate the case myself.”

Hisamatsu’s high color changed to purple. “What? You can’t do that. There’s no precedent. It’s ... it’s not legal.”

“I fear, Hisamatsu, that I have a better notion of the law than you. In the future, confine yourself to really minor cases and make certain that transcripts of all your findings are submitted to me before judgment.”

Hisamatsu shot up. “That is insulting. I serve under the high constable.”

Akitada looked up at him and shook his head sadly. “The high constable has died—or hadn’t you heard? And I have no intention of appointing another until I am convinced that this province is loyal to his Majesty. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Hisamatsu made a choking sound, bowed, and left.

Akitada smiled and got up. He stretched and walked to a small carved chest. After rummaging in it, he pulled out a narrow brocade case and a notebook and carried them back to his desk. Undoing the silk cord of the brocade case, he lovingly removed a plain bamboo flute and turned it in his hand. He had not played since the capital. For some reason neither his wife nor any one else in his household had shown much interest in flute music. A pity.

He really felt extraordinarily well after his meeting with Hisamatsu. The man had folded quickly when faced with firm authority. The present troubles would soon be past.

He lifted the flute to his lips and blew experimentally.

Ah! The fullness of its sound! His heart lifted. He opened the notebook and studied a page. Perhaps he would begin with a passage from “Cicadas in the Pine Trees.”

Halfway through the first scale, the door flew open and Hamaya burst in, his two assistants peering wide-eyed over his shoulders. Akitada lowered his flute. Their expressions changed from shock to intense embarrassment.

“Yes?”

Hamaya turned to the other two and motioned them away. To Akitada he said with a bow, “Forgive the intrusion, sir, but the sound was so unexpected that we thought... we were afraid ... please forgive the interruption.”

“I was only playing my flute,” Akitada explained, holding it up. “The song is called ‘Cicadas in the Pine Trees.’ Here, if you listen carefully, you can distinguish the cicada’s cry.” He lifted the flute and produced a series of shrill squeaks and grating rasps.

“Indeed, sir,” stammered Hamaya, “it does sound something like, that is, just like ... I must return to work.” Bowing again, he retreated and closed the door softly.

Akitada stared after him. Curious. It was almost as if they had never heard flute music before. He shook his head. What a godforsaken province this was! Well, they would soon learn to appreciate it. He returned to his practice.

♦

In the private rooms, Tamako was sipping tea with Seimei. He had reported that her husband seemed quite well again, much to her relief because she knew he had not come to bed the night before. Now they heard the squeal of the flute and looked at each other. Tamako smiled.

“Oh, I am so glad. He is better. Was it something you gave him?”

Seimei frowned. “No. He has not taken any of my infusions. He can be very stubborn. Against unreason even the Buddha cannot prevail.”

♦

Outside, Tora and Hitomaro, on their way from the constables’ barracks, stopped and looked at each other.

“He’s started again,” said Tora in a tone of horror. “It’s that devil’s instrument. People will say he’s mad. As if we didn’t have enough trouble. I wish he’d left the cursed thing in the capital.”

Hitomaro, who was in an unusually good mood, laughed. “Don’t complain, brother. It means he’s feeling better.” He looked up at the sun. “I must go, but I should be back for the evening rice.”

Tora watched him stride out the gate. Something was up with Hito. He had never seen him so excited. Or so concerned with his appearance. One would almost swear he was on his way to meet a girl.

♦

Several hours after Akitada had wrapped up his flute again and returned to his paperwork, he was startled by the loud clanging of the bell outside the tribunal gate. This was meant to be rung by persons who wished to lay a complaint against someone or report a crime. Finally! He sat up in anticipation.

Hamaya showed in three people. “Mr. Oshima and his wife, sir, and their daughter, Mrs. Sato,” he announced, looking unhappy. “Mrs. Sato is the widow of the slain innkeeper.”

The elderly couple in their neat cotton gowns knelt and bowed their heads to the mats. The young woman lifted her veil, then followed their example more slowly and gracefully. Akitada tried not to stare. She was quite beautiful and wore silk, very inappropriate for the widow of a mere innkeeper. But his primary reaction was disappointment. No new case after all. Still, at least these people acknowledged his authority.

“You may sit up,” he told them, “and inform me of your business.”

The parents settled themselves on their knees and cleared their throats. They cast uneasy glances at Akitada’s official brocade robe, at the elegant lacquer writing set and the document stacks on the desk, and at the thick, silk-trimmed floor mats— Akitada’s own property, which his wife had insisted on installing when she saw his office.

“Don’t be afraid,” Akitada said pleasantly. “I am glad you came and will do my best to help you.”

The old man murmured, “It’s our daughter, your Honor. She says that her husband’s death must be avenged because she’s troubled by his spirit.”

Astonished, Akitada asked, “The dead man’s ghost appears to her?”

“My husband’s ghost resides in our inn,” said the widow in a surprisingly firm voice. “He’s everywhere, in all the dark corners. I live in fear that one of the guests will see him. And at night he hovers over me as I lie on my mat. Sometimes I hear his blood dripping. I have not slept since he died.” She touched a sleeve to her eyes.

“But surely you should call an exorcist.”

“Of course I did that. It was no use.”

Akitada frowned. “I don’t see how I can be helpful.”

The widow’s chin came up and her eyes flashed. “Where am I to find justice, if not from the law? And is not the tribunal the place where we have our wrongs redressed? Ghosts walk only when murder goes unpunished.”