She shook her head violently and turned to scramble up the steps with the agility of a monkey.

“Get her!” Akitada snapped to Tora and walked into the first room. It was furnished as a reception room and empty. He continued down the corridor, opening doors and closing them again on unoccupied rooms. Upstairs he heard Tora’s pounding footsteps and the squeals of the girl.

At the end of the corridor a constable suddenly appeared from one of the doors. “Out!” he shouted, waving both hands. “No one is allowed! How many times do I have to tell you bastards ... ?” As Akitada stepped from the shadows, the constable fell abruptly silent and dropped to his knees. Akitada walked around him and into the room the man had come from.

The murder scene was as Hitomaro had described. Genba, who came in behind him, gasped audibly, then went to feel for a pulse behind the dead woman’s ear. A heavy, sweet smell of blood mingled with an exotic blend of incense. The bloodied gown, which had seemed like crimson satin to Hitomaro, was now a dark rust color, and the puddle the woman lay in had partly congealed and partly soaked into the grass mat.

Akitada bent to undo the blood-soaked bandages Hitomaro had wrapped around the severed neck. Both neck and chest looked like a single massive wound, but the pale face and glossy black hair were untouched and still achingly beautiful. Akitada stood looking down at the woman he had known as Mrs. Sato, but who had also been Hitomaro’s Ofumi.

Tora walked in, dragging along the maidservant. “She won’t talk, sir. Doesn’t make a sound. Maybe the shock has addled her brain.” He glanced at the body and whistled. “Merciful Amida! I can see how it would.” He released the girl.

She scuttled into a corner, where she cowered on her knees and bobbed up and down in silent obeisance.

Akitada approached her cautiously. “Don’t be frightened, girl,” he said. “Nobody is going to harm you.”

She bobbed more violently.

“Stop that!” Akitada ordered, stamping his foot. “Look at me!”

She became still and raised small, anxious eyes to his face. Her bony, work-reddened hands hovered before her face and then touched her ears.

“Were you here during the day?” Akitada asked.

She only looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Did you see anyone in this house after the midday rice?”

Still no answer.

“Were you here when this woman returned? Speak, girl! You won’t be punished.”

“Sir?” Genba joined him. “I think she’s a deaf-mute. I’ve seen them make that sign with their hands. You know, pointing to their mouth and ears.”

“Good heavens, what next?” said Akitada in disgust. “A witness who may have seen the killer and can’t speak.”

“She may read lips. Let me try, sir,” Genba offered and crouched down next to the girl.

Akitada turned away. The room’s luxury and good taste astonished him. Even the mat on which the body lay was at least two inches thick and woven of the finest grass, its edges bound in purple brocade. He bent to touch its surface. The mat was smooth, soft, and springy and must have cost a great deal. Around it stood curtain rails of painted lacquer draped with robes embroidered in silk and gold threads with a design of cherry blossoms, birds, and pine branches. The brazier, its coals barely glimmering under a thick layer of ashes, was a finely chased bronze replica of a pair of mandarin ducks, symbol of faithful lovers. The four clothing boxes of gold-dusted lacquer, each decorated with symbols of the season—plum blossoms for spring, wisteria for summer, chrysanthemums for autumn, and snow-covered grasses for winter—stood stacked against a wall. He flung them open one by one. Each contained a rich wardrobe of women’s robes for that time of year.

“She lived pretty well for a whore,” Tora commented.

“What?” Akitada was still looking about for an object that should have been there but was not.

“It’s clear where Hito’s money went,” Tora said, pointing at the clothes chests.

“Not Hitomaro’s money. Someone else’s,” said Akitada. “All of these things are of extraordinary quality and consummate taste. The innkeeper’s widow, though apparently a woman of many talents, did not have the education to select such treasures. Neither would she have found them in this city.”

Genba scrambled to his feet and joined them. “Sorry,” he said. “The girl’s not just deaf and dumb, but a bit slow. She kept shaking her head when I asked if Ofumi had had any visitors. It seems she found the body when she came to turn down the bedding and she ran to get the constables. When they returned, they found a man, covered with blood, and with a bloodstained sword in his hand, crouching over the dead woman. I think it must’ve been Hito. She believes he was the killer. She kept pointing to the curtain stands. Apparently she thinks that he was hiding behind them when she came the first time.”

“That is no help at all!” Akitada snapped. He caught a glimpse of the girl’s pale, frightened face as she slunk from the room.

“If it wasn’t Hito, then who?” asked Tora. “I mean who else would want her dead? The bastard who hanged the Omeya woman in jail so she wouldn’t testify against this one wouldn’t turn around and kill her, too. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe not,” Genba said hotly, “but it wasn’t Hito. I’d bet my life on it. He loved that fox of a woman. And besides, he would never kill a defenseless female.”

“Hmm,” muttered Akitada. “Genba? When you asked that servant if anyone had come to see Ofumi, did you use the word ‘visitor’?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Look around you. Someone may have called who was not, in the servant’s eyes, a visitor but had a right to be here. Come on, both of you. We are going to Flying Goose village.”

♦

The road to the coast was wide and lined with stands and roadside eateries, among them the shrimp shack where Hitomaro had first tangled with Sunada’s henchman Boshu. The wind carried the tangy smell of the ocean. Now, in this icy weather and at this time of day, the road was deserted. The gusts buffeted them and tossed the horses’ manes and tails. They were thankful when the gray eastern sea came into sight beyond a forlorn cluster of fishermen’s wooden shacks and more substantial warehouses. There were only traces of dirty snow about here, but the sky was an ominous gray and the waves roared and crashed onto the rocky shore. Far out, a fleet of three merchant vessels tossed and bucked on their anchor ropes. All the smaller fishing boats, hundreds of them, lay pulled up on the beach, weighted down with heavy nets and rocks.

Barely glancing at the whitecapped sea, Akitada rode straight through Flying Goose village toward the only buildings important enough to be Sunada’s residence. The large compound was enclosed by dirt walls and shaded by windswept pines.