Claws of the Cat

by Susan Spann

  “It could be a test of the shogun’s vigilance,” Father Mateo said. “Your whole family could be in danger.”

  “Such a test would not extend to a powerless son and an aged wife.” Yoshiko didn’t look concerned. “Still, I will take precautions. Thank you for the warning.”

  Hiro wasn’t quite ready to leave. The priest had ruined his chance of obtaining much information from Yoshiko, but the house itself might contain other useful clues. “May we pay our respects to your father?”

  Yoshiko looked surprised.

  “Father Mateo’s religion has special prayers for the dead.” Hiro doubted the woman had ever met a Christian, but he gambled that she would abide by the samurai code of hospitality, which required respect for all faiths. “He did not have opportunity or permission to say them earlier but would like to do so now.”

  Yoshiko stood up. “Very well, my father lies this way.”

  She led them to a sliding door in the eastern wall and opened it without kneeling. The six-mat room beyond had latticed doors on three sides and white tatami on the floor. Cedar panels covered the wall opposite the entrance, and weapons of every size and description hung from hooks embedded in the planks.

  Hiro counted no less than twenty swords—roughly split between long katana and the shorter wakizashi. A pair of halberds hung near the ceiling, just out of reach, though Hiro doubted they ever saw much use. Only monks used naginata regularly.

  Three unstrung bows, a dozen daggers of various sizes, and several tessen, or bladed fighting fans, hung between the swords. An arquebus perched at eye level in the center of the wall. Based on its polished, pristine appearance the weapon had never been fired.

  Empty hooks suggested a pair of missing swords, one large and one small. Hiro had no trouble finding them. They lay in the wooden coffin on the floor.

  Akechi Hideyoshi lay faceup in a cedar box with his hands folded over the hilt of his katana. His wakizashi was sheathed at his side. The body had been dressed in a lamellar breastplate and decorative armor with white lacing that stood out brightly against the new, dark leather and metal fittings. Even if Hiro hadn’t known that white odoshi was only used for the dead, the smell of fresh leather and untarnished metal plates would have told him the armor was purchased specifically for the dead man’s funeral.

  Hideyoshi’s topknot emerged from a hole at the peak of his helmet and lay across his shoulder, brushed and oiled until it gleamed like silk. The dark oil almost concealed the gray in his hair. A scowling mempo mask covered his face and hid the wounds in his neck.

  Although Hiro had hoped for a second glance at the wounds, he appreciated the care and respect inherent in the arrangement of the body. Hideyoshi almost looked as if he died of natural causes.

  Hiro wondered who had prepared the body for burial or, more likely, for cremation. The careful arrangement of the hair suggested a man, but only a woman would have dressed the body in new ceremonial armor instead of the set Hideyoshi had worn in life.

  The samurai’s real armor hung on a wooden dummy in the corner of the room. The scuffed leather plates showed years of use, and the dark-blue odoshi lacing was stained and frayed at the ends. That set, not the new one, would have been Hideyoshi’s choice.

  Father Mateo approached the corpse and bowed to show respect. As he clasped his hands in prayer, Yoshiko backed away and disappeared. Hiro wondered what prayers a Christian priest could say for the soul of a dead man who did not share his faith and whether Father Mateo was really praying or merely feigning to give Hiro an opportunity to look around the room.

  In addition to the unusual display, a tokonoma in the southern wall held a large tessen with elaborate paper panels at both ends. When folded, the paper and wooden ribs concealed the row of shining blades that transformed the delicate fan into a vicious concealed weapon.

  A semicircle of wooden pegs sat in front of the fan. Each peg held a small leather sheath with a metal blade protruding from the tip. The bladed sheaths slipped over a person’s fingertip and first knuckle to imitate the claws of a giant cat. Female shinobi, also known as kunoichi, considered the claws a weapon of choice, but neko-te were extremely rare and never put on display. Hiro had not seen any since leaving Iga, though three parallel scars on his shoulder and four more on his upper leg gave him more than passing familiarity with the weapon and its use.

  The memory of Hideyoshi’s mutilated body flashed through Hiro’s mind. Neko-te usually inflicted stabbing wounds, but the sharpened claws could also rip and slice, particularly when assassins stood above or behind the victim.

  Hiro stepped to the tokonoma for a closer look.

  Six of the ten claws sat askew on their pegs, and one had something wrong with its blade. It looked as if someone had replaced the claw with a piece of a broken dagger, and the blade was only lightly attached to the sheath. It might not even be attached at all. Hiro couldn’t tell without touching the blade.

  As he stifled the urge to reach out and examine what appeared to be the murder weapon, a female voice behind him said, “You have seen neko-te before.”

  Chapter 15

  Yoshiko stood in the doorway.

  Hiro turned his head and straightened, grateful for the instinct that stayed his hand.

  “No.” Father Mateo walked to the tokonoma and pointed at the fan. “Is that the proper name? I thought it was called tessen.”

  Yoshiko joined them at the alcove. “I meant the little blades. Assassins wear them like claws.” She raised a hand and hooked her fingers. “These belonged to a kunoichi who attempted to assassinate the shogun shortly after he came to power, almost twenty years ago. My father learned of the plot and killed her. The shogun gave him the weapon as a prize.”

  Father Mateo pointed to the claw with the strange-looking blade. “That one looks broken. Did it happen in the fight?”

  “No.” Yoshiko blushed. “That happened later.”

  “Recently?” Hiro asked.

  “Many years ago.” She smiled in memory. “I was playing, and disobeying, as children do.”

  “She sneaked the weapon out and caught a blade in a tree,” said another voice.

  Hiro turned. A miniscule woman stood in the doorway. Her head barely reached her daughter’s shoulder, and her hands looked as small and delicate as a child’s. Her white hair framed a face that reminded Hiro of a dying blossom, once beautiful but wrinkled and dried with age. A black kimono and obi enhanced her fragility, though her straight back and quick-moving eyes revealed both intelligence and strength. The hem of her inner kimono peeked out from beneath the outer one, in customary style. That kimono, too, was black.

  Hiro and Father Mateo bowed. The woman bowed in turn. As she rose, she tucked a necklace back inside her kimono, but not before Hiro noticed the tiny silver ornament at the end.

  Yoshiko extended a hand. “Mother, these men are Father Mateo and his translator, Matsui Hiro, the men of whom Nobuhide spoke.” She paused. “My mother, Akechi Sato.”

  Sato reminded Hiro of his own grandmother, down to the possibility of a dagger in her sleeve. The widow’s delicate appearance seemed too carefully cultivated for truth, though he suspected she used it more for self-defense than for deception.

  “I replaced the broken claw with a piece of dagger,” Sato said. “You have good eyes. My husband didn’t notice it for years.”

  Or pretended not to, Hiro thought, though that truth no longer mattered.

  “Thank you for honoring my husband,” the elderly woman continued, “I am grateful for your prayers. They bring me comfort.”

  “I apologize for disturbing you,” the Jesuit said.

  Sato shook her head. “I hoped you would come so I could thank you. I mourn my husband’s death, but I do not want an innocent girl to die if she is not to blame.”

  “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your husband?” Hiro asked.

  “He had no enemies.” Sato looked past them at the body. “He didn’t even have many relatives. He served
the shogun honorably until his retirement five years ago.”

  “And since then?” Hiro asked.

  “The shogun granted him a stipend, ten koku a year.”

  “Koku?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro wondered at the question. The priest already knew that word.

  “One koku is the amount of rice that will feed a person for one year,” Yoshiko explained. “It is the measure by which samurai salaries are calculated.”

  Father Mateo nodded as though learning something new. Then he asked, “Will you keep the koku, now that your husband has died?”

  The inquiry suddenly made sense. Samurai didn’t talk about money, but ignorant foreigners could, at least under the guise of education. Hiro was impressed. Perhaps the priest had become more Japanese than the shinobi gave him credit for.

  “I don’t know,” Sato replied. “It will depend on the shogun.”

  “I’m afraid I must ask an indelicate question,” Father Mateo said. “Were you both … home last night?”

  “Yes,” Sato said.

  “I went for a ride in the early evening,” Yoshiko corrected gently.

  “But you came home before dark, and we went to sleep early.” Sato raised her chin. “Despite her unusual appearance, my daughter knows how to behave.”

  Hiro wondered if the slight emphasis on “daughter” was intentional or merely coincidental.

  He bowed. “Thank you for your courtesy. We have bothered you long enough in your day of mourning.”

  They exchanged bows again and Yoshiko escorted them to the door.

  “Can you think of anything else we should know?” Father Mateo asked as they slipped their sandals on. “Anything at all that might help us find your father’s killer?”

  “No,” Yoshiko said. “He was a retired samurai with little income and no political connections. His only relative was his brother, Hidetaro, who depended on Father’s income to survive. I am glad you care about the truth, but in the end I think you will find Nobuhide is right. The girl is to blame.”

  Father Mateo said nothing until they reached the road. Then he turned to Hiro and said, “Well, I’m more confused now than when we started.”

  “Puzzles often grow more complicated as you solve them,” Hiro said.

  “Are we solving this one? I’m not sure.”

  “Five hours ago we had no suspects,” Hiro said, “now we have at least three.”

  “Which three?”

  “The merchant from Nagoya, Mayuri, and Akechi Hidetaro.”

  “The merchant I understand,” the Jesuit said, “but why the others?”

  “Mayuri burned her ledgers this morning. I retrieved some pages from the bathhouse fire.”

  “Is that why you made me use the latrine? And what made you look there? Why not in the kitchen stove?”

  “A teahouse kitchen is too public—too much chance that someone would see her do it.”

  “What do the pages say?”

  Hiro raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t have time to study them in the bathhouse.”

  “If not, why consider her a suspect?”

  “She owns the teahouse where Hideyoshi was murdered. She burned her records the morning after his death. She prevented the other women from helping when Sayuri screamed, and she’s too nervous to leave us alone with Sayuri for any length of time. Those reasons are sufficient even without the pages.”

  “Why Hidetaro, though? Nobody considers him a threat, and he depended upon Hideyoshi for his livelihood.”

  “Did you see Sayuri’s eyes light up at the mention of his name?” Hiro asked. “That’s enough to keep him on the list, at least until we talk with him in person.

  “And from now on, let me do the talking. Yoshiko might have said something useful if you hadn’t given everything away.”

  “I thought we went to warn her. You never said you suspected her of anything.” Father Mateo frowned. “I came to Kyoto to help people find the truth. I cannot fulfill that mission in silence.”

  “As I can’t fulfill mine if you get yourself killed,” Hiro countered. “You must not assume that anyone is innocent.”

  “She’s Hideyoshi’s daughter!”

  “The fact that she shares his blood does not bar her from spilling it,” Hiro said, “though I agree that an assassin seems more likely.”

  “Do you think we can find the man from Nagoya?” Father Mateo asked. “He may have left the city in the night.”

  “More likely early this morning,” Hiro said. “We need to talk with Luis.”

  Chapter 16

  A samurai paced the road in front of the Jesuit’s house as though trying to summon the courage to knock on the door. He walked with a minor limp, perhaps from a long-healed wound to a thigh or knee. Drying mud stained the hem of his faded blue robe and clung to the edges of his sandals. His tabi socks, though clean that morning, already showed transfer stains.

  By contrast, his topknot was freshly oiled, with every hair in place.

  He turned at the sound of Hiro’s and Father Mateo’s approaching footsteps. Hiro didn’t recognize the stranger’s face, but the five-petaled bellflower mon on the man’s kimono symbolized the Akechi clan.

  The samurai bowed as they reached him. Several days’ stubble dotted his shaven pate.

  “Are you the foreign priest?” he asked, “Matto-san?”

  “I am Father Mateo,” the Jesuit said as he returned the bow, “and this is my interpreter, Matsui Hiro. May we help you?”

  “I am Akechi Hidetaro. Hideyoshi was my brother.”

  Father Mateo waited for the stranger to continue.

  Hidetaro said nothing.

  Silence hung in the air and the pause grew awkward.

  “Invite him inside,” Hiro said in Portuguese. “Samurai do not talk in the street like merchants.”

  “Please come in,” the Jesuit said. “May we offer you tea?”

  A relieved smile lit Hidetaro’s face. “Yes, thank you.”

  Ana was cleaning the floor when the three men entered the house. When she saw the visitor she sprang to her feet and scurried toward the kitchen without a word.

  Father Mateo escorted the visitor to the hearth. Hiro followed them, noting the way Hidetaro raised his right leg carefully to ensure that his foot didn’t drag against the tatami. Even so, his right sock made a whispering sound as it moved across the floor.

  The men had barely seated themselves around the hearth when Ana returned with tea and a plate of sweet rice balls. She set down the refreshments and returned to the kitchen, pausing just long enough to scoop up the curious kitten that had poked its nose from Hiro’s room.

  Hidetaro looked around as he sipped his tea. “This looks almost like a Japanese home.” He looked at Hiro. “Can foreigners live like Japanese?”

  “Father Mateo does,” Hiro said. “He even speaks a little Japanese.”

  Hidetaro took the hint. “Can you drink tea?” he asked the priest. “What about Japanese food? Can your stomach handle it?”

  Father Mateo smiled. “Yes, in fact I prefer Japanese food.”

  It was not the first time he had heard the question or seen the surprised reaction to his response.

  “Really?” Hidetaro asked. “I have never met a foreigner before.”

  “There are only a few of us in Kyoto,” Father Mateo said, “though my superiors hope to build a permanent temple soon.”

  Hiro noted the substitution of “temple” for “church,” a deliberate choice on Father Mateo’s part, and one the shinobi had not taught him, though Hiro approved of it more each time he heard it. Kyoto had hundreds of temples dedicated to many deities. One more caused neither confusion nor concern.

  “That would be very nice,” Hidetaro said politely. “Every god should have a temple.”

  They sipped their tea. Hidetaro sampled a rice ball and made a surprised sound. “These are good!”

  The compliment seemed genuine but the comment sounded forced. Hiro suspected Hidetaro wanted to expl
ain the point of his visit, though convention prevented him from speaking directly until the host invited him to do so.

  Hiro raised his eyebrows at Father Mateo.

  “My condolences on your brother’s death,” the Jesuit said. “Can I do anything to help you in this difficult time?”

  Hiro noted with approval that the priest didn’t ask why Hidetaro had come, or how the samurai learned about their involvement in the murder. He was learning subtlety after all.

  Hidetaro looked at Hiro, “Can I trust the foreigner’s discretion?”

  “His religion forbids repetition of information told in confidence,” Hiro said. “If he reveals a secret, his god will banish him to the Hell of Everburning Flames forever.”

  Hidetaro leaned back and blinked in surprise at the mention of eternity. Buddhist hells were only temporary. After a brief pause he blurted out, “Sayuri is not responsible for Hideyoshi’s death.”

  Hiro gave him a sideways look. “Why do you say that?”

  Hidetaro’s gaze flickered to the hearth and back. “I just know. She would not kill him.”

  “Was she in love with him?” Hiro watched Hidetaro’s reaction carefully.

  “No.” The samurai’s face revealed nothing. His posture did not change.

  “She entertained him often,” Hiro said. “Perhaps she was.”

  “No,” Hidetaro repeated. He seemed to be struggling with something.

  Just before Hiro asked another pressing question Hidetaro said, “I am the one she loves. In fact, I had made arrangements to buy her contract and marry her.”

  Hidetaro’s words sounded genuine and he met Hiro’s eyes when he spoke, but his shabby clothes and aging face made the claim improbable at best. Hiro saw another problem too, but etiquette didn’t allow him to broach that subject.

  “Hideyoshi didn’t mind?” Father Mateo asked. “After all, he visited her often.”

  Hiro almost choked on his tea. It was precisely the question he never would have asked. He wondered whether the Jesuit was relying on his foreignness to excuse the indelicate question or whether the priest was really so socially ignorant. He suspected the former, but a glance at the priest revealed nothing. As always, Father Mateo’s face wore a pleasant and honest smile.