He needed time and proof. The Omeya woman was his only hope at present. She was a witness against the widow—or Ofumi, as she had called herself there—and she also knew Ofumi’s patron. And Mrs. Omeya, at least, was safe and sound in Akitada’s jail.

In less than an hour, he learned differently. Tora burst into his office, crying, “The prisoner has hanged herself.”

When Akitada got to the jail, he was met by Oyoshi, who confirmed Mrs. Omeya’s death.

Akitada pushed past him and strode to the cell. The three other prisoners, Takagi, Okano, and Umehara, huddled fearfully in a corner of the main room. Kaoru was in the cell, bent over the inert body.

Mrs. Omeya looked much frailer in death. She was lying near the cell door, the cut pieces of her patterned silk scarf beside her.

“Kaoru found her and cut her down,” said Oyoshi, who had followed him. “Since I was in the kitchen with the others, I came at once. She must have hanged herself with her own scarf from one of those bars.” He pointed to a metal grille in the wooden cell door. Part of the scarf was still tied to the topmost bar.

Akitada said nothing. He tasted sour bile on his tongue, and his blood thrummed in his head like a large temple bell. He did not believe that she had committed suicide. She was innocent of the charges laid against her. He had meant to protect this woman—for purely selfish reasons, to be sure—but had instead hastened her death. His every action seemed to turn to disaster, not only for himself, but for those he came in contact with. If he could not guarantee the life of this one female for more than a few hours, how was he to govern a province? How, for that matter, was he to save himself and his wife and unborn child?

Oyoshi cleared his throat, and Akitada made an effort to pull himself together. Turning to Kaoru, he demanded, “How could this happen? Was she not being watched?”

The young sergeant looked wretched. “She seemed to calm down quickly, and after eating a bowl of soup, she lay down to sleep. So we all had our own dinner.”

Akitada looked from the cell of the dead woman to the outer room. The three prisoners stared back with pale faces. He noted absently that Okano was wrapped in some trailing purple stuff and clutched a large paper lantern. “Someone must have been close enough to see or hear what was happening,” he pointed out.

Kaoru shook his head. “We ate in the kitchen, sir.”

Akitada stared at him. “What? Everybody? There was no one in this jail except Mrs. Omeya and the prisoners?”

There was a pause. Then the sergeant said, “Just Mrs. Omeya, sir. Takagi, Okano, and Umehara were eating with us.”

Akitada clutched his head. This, too, was his fault, of course. He had known of the liberties the three had been given since Kaoru had taken over the administration of the jail. It had seemed humane at the time. Now it was one more example of his own unfitness for his office.

Kaoru was distraught. “You see, sir,” he tried to explain, “Umehara is the cook, and Takagi said it was his birthday today. So Okano offered to put on a little show. To celebrate Takagi’s birthday” When Akitada said nothing, Kaoru muttered, “I know it was against the rules, but we all thought the woman was asleep.”

“Did anyone leave the kitchen during your celebration?” Akitada asked tiredly.

A look of understanding flashed in Kaoru’s eyes. He paled, thought a moment, and said, “I cannot be certain. At one point, Okano wanted the lights out to do a lantern dance.”

Akitada turned to Oyoshi almost ferociously. “Well, Doctor? Was it suicide?”

Oyoshi winced. “Possibly,” he said.

“Are you just being mysterious or is something wrong?” Akitada snapped.

Oyoshi seemed to shrink within himself. “What I meant is that one can hang oneself in just this manner with the help of a thin garment and a handy hook or bar.”

Akitada went to look at the knot, then turned abruptly to kneel by the dead woman. He checked her face and throat. “There is a small bruise here,” he said, pointing.

“When she dropped, her temple may have hit the door,” Oyoshi suggested.

Akitada measured the distance between the grate and the floor with his eyes. “She is very short. Were her feet touching the floor when you found her, Kaoru?”

“Not quite, sir.”

“Why didn’t she use that stool over there?”

There was no answer.

Akitada picked up the cut scarf. He recalled how proudly she had worn it and sighed. “Hand me that chain over there, Kaoru, and help me measure.” Between them, they straightened the body and measured it. Then they held the marked piece of chain against the door. Akitada nodded. “As I thought. She could not have reached high enough to tie that knot, which is in any case on the outside of the grate.” He looked at Oyoshi. “Do you still think it likely that she committed suicide?”

Oyoshi regarded Akitada warily. “I thought it was possible.”

Akitada bent to spread the scarf over the dead woman’s distorted face. “I see,” he said. “Thank you.”

♦

After a cursory meal of rice and pickled vegetables shared with Tamako who, after one glance at her husband’s face, refrained from making conversation, Akitada sat alone in his office, sipping lukewarm wine and glumly considering his situation. Someone had murdered the Omeya woman in his own jail. The murderer had come into the jail, called the prisoner to the door, reached through to strangle her, and then hanged her from the grate. It had taken remarkable nerve, but this person had taken such risks before. Hitomaro’s testimony against the widow was now useless, and Akitada had lost his gamble. Neither an orderly retreat after resigning his office nor precipitate flight was possible, even had he been able to resort to such shameful solutions.

At that moment in his ruminations, Hitomaro himself appeared. He walked in abruptly, accompanied by a dazed-looking constable, and sat down across from Akitada without a greeting.

Akitada frowned at the constable. “You may wait outside,” he said, wondering what the man was doing here. The constable hesitated just a fraction of a moment, then left and closed the door behind him.

Akitada’s first impression was that Hitomaro was ill. He was perfectly white, and his eyes met Akitada’s with the blank fixity of a corpse’s stare. His voice, when he spoke, was flat and emotionless.

“She’s dead.”

Akitada jumped a little. “What? Who is dead? Are you feeling all right?”

One of Hitomaro’s hands moved slightly in a dismissive gesture. “Ofumi. The woman you know as Mrs.. Sato,” he said in the same remote manner.