by Susan Spann
“I also know that the death of a foreign priest could complicate the shogun’s relations with the Portuguese,” Hiro said.
The magistrate nodded. “I will speak with Nobuhide and see what I can do.”
“You can do nothing.”
Hiro spun around with his hand on his sword, chastising himself for letting down his guard. Nobuhide stood by the supplicants’ entrance, face and forehead red with ill-contained rage. He bowed perfunctorily to the magistrate.
“I have the legal right to avenge my father.” Nobuhide pointed at Father Mateo. “This man inserted himself into a private matter. He chose to assist the woman. For all I know, he helped her commit the crime.”
“Ridiculous,” Hiro snorted. “He was at home all night. I was there.”
“He could have helped her plan, or given her the weapon,” Nobuhide said. “Doesn’t the other Portuguese sell firearms?”
“Enough!” The magistrate thumped his hands on his desk.
He looked at each man in turn. His hand crept back to his chin, and he rubbed it as he thought his way through the problem. The gesture suggested uncertainty, but when the magistrate spoke his voice conveyed both confidence and regret. “If you cannot prove the girl innocent within the allotted time, I cannot stop Nobuhide from taking vengeance.”
He shifted his gaze to the young samurai. “But I can require you to cooperate with their investigation. You may not interfere with their efforts in any way.
“Have I made myself clear?”
Nobuhide scowled but bowed in assent. As he turned to leave, he pointed at Hiro and said, “Sakura Teahouse, noon, two days from now. Make sure the priest is there.”
He stalked from the room, feet thumping the wooden floor.
“I wish I could do more,” the magistrate told Hiro. “Justice is in your hands now.”
Chapter 6
As they left the magistrate’s compound, Hiro asked Father Mateo, “Have you got a plan?”
“A plan?”
“Yes, to find the killer.”
The Jesuit ran his hand through his hair. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”
“I didn’t think so,” Hiro said. “You should leave Kyoto. Nobuhide cannot kill what he cannot find.”
“Run away? I have to help Sayuri prove her innocence.”
“Assuming she is innocent,” Hiro said, “which is far from certain. The bloody footprints in the room were a perfect match to her tiny feet.”
“She might have walked in blood by mistake.”
Hiro gave the priest a disbelieving look. No one should take trust and forgiveness that far.
“How many Japanese willfully touch defiling blood?” Hiro asked. “If Sayuri didn’t commit the murder she is certainly an accomplice.”
They turned left past the police compound and followed Shijō Road back toward the river. A gentle breeze fluttered the indigo noren in the doorways, indicating the shops had opened for business. Meaty scents wafted across the road, and Hiro’s mouth watered at the thought of fresh stuffed buns. He looked for the bun shop but didn’t see it.
“Sayuri couldn’t kill a man,” Father Mateo said. “She’s just a girl.”
The words brought Hiro back from his hungry reverie. “Japanese women are stronger than they seem, and entertainers are trained to feign innocence.”
“But Sayuri is a Christian.”
“She’s also a liar.”
“I don’t like you saying that, even if you think it’s true.”
“Almost everything she told us was a lie,” Hiro persisted, “and the way she looked at Mayuri suggests they both know what really happened. They’re covering something up.”
“Impossible,” Father Mateo said. “You have no proof of that.”
“But I do. Someone moved the body shortly after the crime. Given the bloodstained kimono, I’m guessing it was Sayuri.”
“Why would she do that?” the priest asked. “And even so, moving him doesn’t mean she killed him. She could have moved him this morning when she woke up and discovered him dead.”
“The evidence says otherwise.” Hiro made a sweeping gesture. “Neck wounds spray blood everywhere. You saw the droplets on the wall and on the floor.
“Hideyoshi was facing the tokonoma when someone attacked him from behind. The drops all sprayed in the same direction, which means he didn’t fight. He probably didn’t have time. Blood spattered the wall and pooled on the floor in front of the alcove, but there were only minor bloodstains on the futon, the kind that happen when blood has ceased to flow actively through the veins.
“Had Sayuri moved him hours after death, as her story implies, there would have been no blood on the futon at all.”
“Maybe the killer moved him after the attack.”
“Why would a killer do that?” Hiro waited, but the priest didn’t answer. “A killer who rips out throats and gouges eyes doesn’t stop to arrange the victim on a futon.”
“Unless he wanted to throw suspicion on Sayuri,” Father Mateo said.
“Did he smear blood on her kimono while she slept?” Hiro shook his head. “If you want to discover who killed the samurai, you have to stop accepting lies as truth.”
“But how will we find the truth? If we can’t trust Sayuri, who can we trust?”
“Trust the evidence,” Hiro said. “Facts don’t lie, and when people do, their stories still lead to the truth eventually. Follow a lie far enough and you will reach a fact.
“We know where and when the killer struck, but why that time and place? Why did someone want Hideyoshi dead? If we can answer those questions I think we can find the killer, but you must understand, if Sayuri is guilty I will turn her over to Nobuhide and you must not interfere.”
“Agreed,” Father Mateo said, “but Sayuri is innocent. You will see.”
* * *
Four samurai stood guard outside the Sakura Teahouse, one at each of the garden gates and two more leaning against the stone dogs near the path. They wore baggy trousers and wide-shouldered surcoats, like Nobuhide’s but more cheaply made. All four wore swords and carried hooked jitte, which identified them as dōshin, low-ranking policemen undoubtedly under Nobuhide’s command.
The dead man’s son had wasted no time putting his underlings on guard.
Hiro leaned toward Father Mateo as they approached. “Speak Portuguese if you have to speak at all.”
Three of the dōshin had graying hair and the confident calm of experienced policemen. The fourth was no more than twenty, with the rounded face and slightly overweight build of a pampered son. His scraggly mustache, grown to show his manhood, had the opposite result.
The older dōshin nodded as Hiro reached the walk. The younger man leaned back against his statue, withholding respect to reinforce his authority.
“What is your business here?” the young dōshin demanded. “No one enters this house today.”
Father Mateo began to bow but Hiro stopped him with a look.
“Is the house under quarantine?” Hiro asked.
The older dōshin glanced at his young companion, but the silent warning went unnoticed. The young man raised his jitte to block the path. The weapon shone like new, in sharp contrast to the dōshin’s fraying sleeves and faded trousers.
“We are guarding this establishment. There has been a crime.”
Nobuhide must have told him not to mention murder.
“Precisely the reason for our visit,” Hiro said. “Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, of the Portuguese foreign mission, is investigating the death of Akechi Hideyoshi.”
The older dōshin stepped back to clear the path, but the younger man stood up and blocked the way.
“Foreigners have no jurisdiction here. This is a police matter.” His knuckles whitened as he clutched the jitte.
“A police matter?” Hiro asked. “Under your jurisdiction?”
The older man’s eyes shifted downward. The younger one drew his shoulders back and said nothing.
&n
bsp; “Who is your supervisor?” Hiro asked. He knew the answer. The question served a different purpose.
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
Hiro looked at the older dōshin, raised an eyebrow, and waited.
“Akechi Nobuhide,” he said, “Yoriki of Pontocho.”
“Pontocho.” Hiro glanced over his shoulder toward the bridge. “This teahouse lies outside Pontocho.”
“That’s none of your business,” the younger dōshin snapped. “Go away before I call the magistrate.”
The words rolled off his tongue with the facility of frequent use.
“A fine idea,” Hiro said politely.
The dōshin’s eyes went wide as Hiro continued. “Magistrate Ishimaki ordered full police cooperation with the priest’s investigation, but I’m sure he won’t mind you interrupting his morning audience to ask for repetition of those instructions.”
The young dōshin narrowed his eyes and seethed. His older companion shifted from foot to foot. Policemen did not disagree with their partners in public, but the more experienced man seemed on the verge of speaking.
At the garden gates, the other two men watched the scene with interest. They were too far away to hear the conversation, but would close the distance instantly if anyone drew a sword.
The young dōshin pointed his jitte at Hiro’s chest. “No funny business. When you leave, you leave alone. No companions and no parcels. Is that clear?”
Hiro wanted to take the bully down a notch or two, but pragmatism required otherwise, for the moment at least. He bowed slightly and allowed the tension to defuse.
“Thank you for your cooperation. You are indeed an example for your companions.”
What kind of example, Hiro didn’t say.
Instead, he nodded to the older dōshin and followed the Jesuit up the path to the teahouse.
Chapter 7
Mayuri opened the door just as Father Mateo reached out to knock. He withdrew his hand awkwardly and lowered it to his side. Mayuri lowered her own hands even faster, but not before Hiro saw the dark smudges on her fingers and an angry burn on her left hand that hadn’t been there earlier in the day.
Father Mateo noticed too. “Are you injured?”
Mayuri pulled her hand into her sleeve. “It is nothing. I burned myself lighting a fire. The servant ran away when she heard about the murder—superstitious little fool. Why do you think I’ve answered the door myself all morning?”
She cast a harried glance toward the road as though hoping the servant would return. As her eyes shifted back to Hiro, she forced a smile. “Did you forget something earlier?”
Father Mateo bowed. “We hoped to speak with Sayuri.”
“And also the other women who work in the house,” Hiro added.
Mayuri’s smile wavered. “No one saw or heard anything. I spoke with each of them myself.”
“Then it will be a short conversation,” Hiro said. “Thank you for accommodating us.”
“It will take some time,” Mayuri said. “We are not prepared for company so early.”
“We can talk with Sayuri while we wait.” Hiro smiled pleasantly, knowing the teahouse owner could not refuse without bringing more suspicion on herself.
When she realized Hiro had no intention of leaving, Mayuri tilted her head in consent and turned to lead the men into the house. Her kimono rustled slightly, like a mouse in a sack of grain.
As Mayuri turned, Hiro noticed a scrap of paper caught on the back of her kimono. The trailing end of her obi had trapped it just above the hem. Hiro bent and plucked the paper from her dress, slipping it into his sleeve as he straightened. He said nothing. Teahouse culture valued neatness and beauty above all else. Mayuri would have been mortified to learn she was trailing scraps, and, although Hiro didn’t care about her feelings, he also saw no reason to cause her unnecessary embarrassment.
Mayuri led the men to the first door on the western side of the large common room. As she knelt she said, “You may speak with Sayuri here, but please do not take too long. I have priests coming to purify the house.”
Father Mateo entered the room as soon as Mayuri opened the door, but Hiro paused just long enough to ask, “You will tell me when the other girls are ready?”
Mayuri’s mouth pressed shut in a very thin smile. “Of course.”
Hiro stepped over the threshold and joined the Jesuit inside.
The room was identical to the adjacent one except for a welcome lack of blood and the absence of a corpse. An unspoiled vase of hydrangeas adorned the tokonoma. The flower arrangement showed more skill than the one in the room where the murder occurred. Hiro recognized it as a master’s work. The spoiled arrangement was likely the work of a student.
Sayuri knelt in front of the alcove, facing the door, with her back to the vase of flowers. She had bathed and changed into a simple kimono of patterned silk. Without her makeup, she looked younger than before, and also more beautiful.
A shamisen lay on the floor to her right. The lack of ornate decoration suggested a practice instrument, something to pass the time.
“Make a useful comment,” Hiro said in Portuguese.
Father Mateo recognized the coded cue at once. “What something would you have me say? Do you need more than this or have I said enough already?” He kept his voice even so the questions would sound like statements.
“That will do.” Hiro turned. Mayuri knelt in the doorway as though she intended to stay.
“I apologize for the foreign exchange,” Hiro said. “Father Mateo does not know the proper words for his request.
“His religion has a rite called ‘confession,’ in which an accused person speaks confidentially with a priest. Father Mateo requests permission to have confession with Sayuri now.”
Mayuri frowned. “Is privacy required?”
Hiro nodded. “A translator may assist if necessary, but no one else is permitted to remain.”
Mayuri looked at Sayuri. To Hiro’s surprise, the girl nodded in agreement.
“Very well.” Mayuri sighed. “I have business to attend to anyway.”
Hiro remained by the door to ensure that her shadow disappeared.
Sayuri burst into tears the moment the door closed. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I would not have asked you to come if I thought Nobuhide would kill you too.”
“Don’t worry,” Father Mateo said. “Hiro and I will find the real killer.”
Sayuri stopped crying and looked up through her tears. “Do you really think you can?”
Hiro fought the urge to laugh at her attempt to manipulate the priest until he realized, with dismay, that it had worked.
“Of course we will,” Father Mateo said, “but we need you to tell us what really happened last night.”
“I already did. I woke up and Akechi-san was dead.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” Father Mateo’s unexpected firmness made Hiro wonder if the Jesuit saw through Sayuri’s performance after all. “Are you scared to tell the truth? Has someone threatened you?”
“Of course not,” she said, a bit too quickly for the truth. “A shinobi must have killed him.”
“Who would want to assassinate Akechi Hideyoshi?” Hiro asked.
Sayuri looked at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. Akechi-san was a good man. Mayuri says he always paid his bills.”
“He was wealthy?” Hiro asked.
Sayuri thought it over. “He didn’t buy me presents like the other girls get sometimes, but then, he wasn’t my patron, just a regular visitor.”
“Did he ever bring guests to the teahouse?”
Sayuri smiled. Her eyes sparkled. “He brought his brother, Hidetaro.”
Hiro found it curious that Sayuri’s first genuine smile came at the mention of Hideyoshi’s brother. Nothing in teahouse culture prohibited a girl from entertaining both a man and his relatives, though a girl who accepted a man as her patron would generally refuse separate visits from his brothers or male relations.
> “Anyone else?” Hiro asked.
Sayuri squinted at the ceiling. Her forehead wrinkled in thought. “A couple of months ago he entertained a cousin from out of town. Masuhide? No, but something like that.”
“You don’t remember?” Hiro asked. Entertainers were trained to remember names, to make a client’s friends feel special on subsequent visits.
“No.” Sayuri pushed a stray hair behind her ear as her cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. “I got the impression they had only met a couple of times. They didn’t seem close, and Hideyoshi said the cousin was just passing through on business. I didn’t think I would need to remember his name.”
“What about Hideyoshi’s brother … Hidetaro? Did he visit you often?”
“A few times, with Hideyoshi.” Sayuri’s radiant smile returned, but faded quickly. “Hidetaro can’t afford teahouses. But he’s very nice.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Hiro asked.
Sayuri looked at the floor. “Several weeks ago.”
“What about Nobuhide?” Father Mateo asked.
“He’s not allowed here anymore.” Sayuri’s eyes widened. She lowered her voice. “He got drunk and forced himself on one of the girls. We’re not that kind of house. It made Mayuri furious. She told Hideyoshi his son was not welcome anymore.”
“Do you know the girl’s name?” Hiro asked.
“Umeha?” Sayuri shook her head. “I think it was Umeha, but I’m not sure. She hasn’t worked here in over a year. I think—”
The door rustled open and Sayuri cut herself off midsentence.
Mayuri knelt in the doorway.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” she said, in a tone that said the opposite. “My women cannot speak with you this morning. It appears you have waited for nothing.”
Chapter 8