Free The Hell Screen by I. J. Parker

peered out.
     
    “I am Sugawara,” said Akitada in a businesslike manner. “I must speak to your master immediately.”
     
    This had the desired effect, for the gate opened wider and the servant let him enter. Akitada took in his surroundings. The unswept courtyard with its stone pathway was covered with fallen leaves, and the man had merely tossed a hempen shirt of mourning over his regular cotton clothes. He looked irritated, symbol of a household in disarray, but led Akitada politely enough into the house and helped him remove his shoes before bringing him to a small study in the rear of the building.
     
    The room was bathed in diffuse light which came through the paper-covered openings of doors to the outside. Faded silk paintings and calligraphy scrolls hung against the dark wood of the walls, and carved stands displayed translucent jade bowls and vases. In the center of the room sat a thin, bent figure at a low black desk.
     
    Nagaoka was a colorless man, gray from his hair to his dress. His clean-shaven face was ashen and deeply lined. He wore a robe of costly gray silk and was sitting hunched over, inert. When the door opened, he looked up without much interest. Even the sight of an unexpected guest caused no change in his expression. In a tired voice he said, “Not now, Sasho.”
     
    “The gentleman insisted, sir.” The servant’s tone was aggrieved.
     
    Akitada stepped fully into the room. “I am Sugawara Akitada,” he introduced himself formally, closing the door on the servant’s curiosity.
     
    After a moment’s hesitation, Nagaoka took in his rank and came to his feet with a deep bow. He was almost as tall as Akitada, but narrow-shouldered and much thinner. “How may I serve you, my lord?”
     
    “I came here for information about antiques,” said Akitada, seating himself, “but find instead that I may be of some use to you in your present difficulty.” At least he hoped he might. “Just now I met my old friend Superintendent Kobe outside your gate. He told me of the recent tragedy. You have my deepest sympathy on your loss.”
     
    Nagaoka still stood, looking down at him with a dazed expression. His face contracted suddenly. “My brother ...” he said, his voice catching. “My younger brother has been arrested for murder. If you can help, I would be...” Tears suddenly spilled from his eyes. He broke off, put a shaking hand to his face, and collapsed on his cushion. “Oh, there is no help,” he sobbed. “I don’t know what to do.”
     
    The fact that Nagaoka seemed to grieve, not for his wife who had been the victim, but for the brother who had murdered her, struck Akitada as strange. When Nagaoka finally stopped weeping and dabbed his face with a piece of tissue, Akitada said, “May I ask where the murder took place?”
     
    Nagaoka raised reddened eyes to his. “In the Eastern Mountain Temple. They were on a pilgrimage.”
     
    Akitada had expected it. The complexities of fate always had a way of catching him. The rains which had brought him to the Eastern Mountain Temple for the night of the murder, the old abbot’s rambling talk, the hell screen, and his frightful dreams of screaming souls had all inescapably led him to this moment in Nagaoka’s house. He felt a shiver of dread run down his spine.
     
    He asked Nagaoka, “Why do you believe that your brother is innocent?”
     
    Nagaoka cried, “Because I know him like myself. He is incapable of such a crime. Kojiro is the most gentle of men. Since he remembers nothing of the night and does not know how he got into my wife’s room, he should not have confessed to something he did not do.”
     
    Akitada reflected that a loss of memory hardly constituted innocence, even if it was genuine, but he only said, “Perhaps you had better tell me his story.”
     
    But now Nagaoka balked. “Forgive me,” he said, “but why is it that you are interested in my family troubles?”
     
    “Not at all. I happened to spend the