by Susan Spann
Father Mateo held Hiro’s gaze just long enough to make the shinobi wonder if the priest would ignore the instruction. Finally, the Jesuit nodded. “Will the magistrate punish Ginjiro’s wife and daughter?”
The yoriki shook his head. “The brewer’s guilt will not extend to his family unless they played a role in the crime. Based on the facts, that seems unlikely. I will tell the magistrate they are innocent.”
Hiro’s attitude toward the yoriki softened slightly at those words, though he disagreed with the man’s conclusions about Ginjiro.
“Please excuse me,” the yoriki said, “I must report to the magistrate.”
“What about the body?” Father Mateo asked.
“The eta will see to the corpse.” The yoriki indicated a trio of men approaching from the north. They walked unusually close together, heads low and faces bowed to the ground. Strips of cloth around their heads identified them as members of the untouchable caste.
The yoriki walked away. He paused to give instructions to the untouchables, who nodded in understanding but did not speak or meet his eyes.
Father Mateo watched the silent men walk past and enter the alley. “Are they outcastes?” he asked with interest. “I’ve never met one, until now.”
“You won’t now, either,” Hiro said. “Not even beggars converse with their kind.”
Father Mateo looked disappointed. “No man is untouchable to God.”
“If you want to help Ginjiro, you will leave them unmolested.” Hiro started toward the brewery. “Besides, we need to speak with Ginjiro’s family.”
The shutters across the storefront rattled open as Hiro approached. Tomiko stood alone in the doorway. Despite her reddened eyes, she shed no tears. Instead, she gave Hiro the even look of a competent merchant. Unlike a samurai woman, she had no need to act demure.
“Good morning, Tomiko,” Hiro said in formal Japanese. “Please accept our condolences.”
“My father did not kill Chikao,” Tomiko said. “I need your help to prove it.”
Father Mateo joined Hiro at the door. “We will help in any way we can.”
“Have you evidence to prove your father’s innocence?” Hiro asked.
Tomiko’s shoulders drooped. She shook her head. “We were sleeping when the murder happened.”
“The yoriki claims your father argued with Chikao last night,” Father Mateo said. “Did you hear it? Do you know what happened?”
Tomiko shook her head again. “I didn’t work in the shop last night.”
“Don’t worry,” Hiro said. “I was here. I saw the argument.”
Chapter 6
Father Mateo frowned. “You told the dōshin you stayed home all night. You let me confirm a lie.”
Hiro shrugged. “I stepped out during your prayer meeting, had one flask of sake, and returned. After that, I did stay home all night.”
“So you heard Chikao and Ginjiro argue?” the Jesuit asked.
Hiro found it surprising that the priest had not said more about the lie. Father Mateo’s love of truth, and Hiro’s selective honesty, had caused the two men problems more than once.
“I heard the argument start,” Hiro said. “Something about an unpaid bill and Ginjiro’s support of Chikao’s petition to join the brewers’ guild. After that, they went into the alley, along with a third man, likely Chikao’s son.”
“The alley?” Father Mateo asked. “The one where Chikao died?”
“Yes,” Hiro said, “but they all came out again a short while later. Ginjiro returned to the brewery. The others went down the street.”
“The bill belongs to Kaoru—Chikao’s son,” Tomiko said. “He owes us money and hasn’t paid.”
She paused, as if debating whether she should speak her mind. At last she said, “Forgive me this request. I know you’ve solved other murders … helped the families. You owe us nothing, but I have no one else to ask…”
She trailed off with a distant look in her eyes, as if remembering someone else—someone she might have asked under different circumstances. Hiro suspected she thought of Kazu, Hiro’s clansman and former drinking companion. Tomiko didn’t know that either man was a shinobi. Like everyone else, she believed that Hiro was only an interpreter and Kazu merely a clerk at the shogunate. Also, like everyone else of her gender, Tomiko had fallen for Kazu, despite the fact that she was an artisan’s daughter and could never marry a samurai.
Hiro wondered how much Ginjiro’s daughter knew about the recent shogunate murder and Kazu’s subsequent disappearance from Kyoto.
He would never ask.
Father Mateo took Tomiko’s silence as a question. “We will investigate this murder, too.”
“However, you must understand,” Hiro said, “if your father killed Chikao, our investigation will condemn him.”
“It will not.” Tomiko straightened. “You will prove his innocence. I know it.”
The noren that separated the shop from the rooms beyond pushed open. Ginjiro’s wife shuffled into the room and joined her daughter at the door. She blinked in surprise at the sight of the men in the entrance.
“Matsui-san,” Tomiko said, “I believe you know my mother, Yoka. Mother, do you remember our friend Matsui Hiro? His companion is a priest of the foreign god.”
Yoka’s wrinkled face and graying hair reminded Hiro of Father Mateo’s housekeeper, Ana, but the similarity went no further. Where Ana had a slender build, Ginjiro’s wife resembled an ancient Buddha, wrinkled and pale, with a swollen belly.
Yoka’s left eyelid drooped almost fully closed. Her lips pulled down on that side as well, and a bead of drool pooled at the side of her mouth. She tilted her head to the side and looked at Hiro like a puppy attempting to understand its master’s words. “Where is Ginjiro?”
“He went with the dōshin, remember?” Tomiko asked in a gentle voice. “To help them understand why Chikao died.”
The question, and Tomiko’s answer, made Hiro suspect that Yoka had suffered the fainting illness, which killed many elderly people and left the survivors weak in body and mind.
Yoka’s right eye opened wide. The left one didn’t flicker. “Chikao is dead?”
“He died this morning,” Tomiko said, “before the dōshin came.”
Yoka nodded slowly. “I remember. He died in the alley.” She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “Why did he die? Should we worry about his ghost?”
“No, Mother,” Tomiko said. “His ghost won’t harm us.”
Yoka lowered her hand. “Would you like some sake, Matsui-san?”
“No, thank you.” Hiro smiled. “It’s still early in the day.”
“Mother, could you measure some rice?” Tomiko gestured toward the rooms behind the noren. “I will help you wash and cook it when I finish here.”
“Measure rice?” Yoka’s forehead wrinkled, then smoothed. Her good eye took on a happy glow. “I can measure rice. I don’t need help. I remember how.”
She turned away and shuffled off, murmuring, “measure the rice, wash the rice,” as if to fix the task in her mind.
After she disappeared through the noren, Hiro asked Tomiko, “When did it happen?”
“The fainting illness?” Tomiko glanced over her shoulder. “About a year ago.” She smiled, though her lips stayed tight. “You may have noticed we keep her out of the shop.”
“I knew only that I hadn’t seen her.” Hiro saw no point in belaboring the obvious.
“It happened in the night,” Tomiko said. “She woke up paralyzed. She couldn’t speak or even move. The physician said she wouldn’t live, but we cared for her as best we could and gradually she recovered. That is, her body recovered. Her mind is not the same.
“Until today, the changes made me sad. But now—is it cruel to say I’m glad she doesn’t understand what happened?”
“Not at all.” Father Mateo looked at the wooden counter where the customers sat in the evening. “Can you manage the shop with your father gone? Will your patrons allow a woman to
serve them sake?”
Tomiko smiled. “Most of them buy more when I watch the counter. It lets them talk to a woman without paying teahouse rates.” After a thoughtful pause she continued, “Please forgive my boldness, but I would like to hire you—to pay you for finding Chikao’s real killer.”
“I am sorry,” Hiro said. “We are not for hire.”
“You’ve solved other murders. I know you helped Kazu—” Tomiko stopped abruptly, as if sorry she said the name. Her eyes widened with understanding. “I apologize. It is because my family is not samurai.”
“Your status makes no difference,” Hiro said. “We simply do not offer ourselves for hire.”
“Could you make an exception?” Tomiko bit her lip as if fighting tears. “If they execute my father, we’ll lose everything. Mother and I will have nowhere to go. Matsui-san, I beg you. I have nowhere else to turn.”
She bent forward in a bow.
“He didn’t mean we wouldn’t help,” Father Mateo said. “He meant we will not take your money.”
Hiro said nothing. The priest’s interpretation was correct.
Hiro admired Tomiko’s dedication to her parents. In addition, he owed her father a debt of honor. A month before, Ginjiro had bought the shinobi time to solve a murder and prevent an unjust execution. It seemed only fair to return the favor now.
Unless, of course, Ginjiro was the killer.
Hiro did not consider investigating Chikao’s death a conflict with his duty to guard the priest. Unlike the previous murders, this one seemed unlikely to create any special danger for Father Mateo. The Jesuit’s words or actions might offend a touchy samurai, but Father Mateo often did that anyway.
Moreover, Hiro liked the thought of catching another killer.
Hiro didn’t object to killing, under proper circumstances. He had done it more than once, with no regrets. That said, he never tried to blame his assassinations on someone else. Hiro believed a killer had the right to escape, or at least to try, but not to blame an innocent person for the crime.
“We will help,” Hiro said, “as long as you understand we cannot promise to save your father.”
“I understand,” Tomiko said, “and thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must help Mother.”
Hiro stepped away from the door as Tomiko slid the shutters closed. When he heard the latch click into the locked position, he started toward the alley.
“Where are you going?” Father Mateo asked. “Do you think they’ll let us examine the body again before they move it?”
“I don’t know,” Hiro said, “but I intend to try.”
Chapter 7
When Hiro and Father Mateo entered the alley, the three men standing around the corpse knelt and bowed their cloth-wrapped heads to the ground.
Hiro started toward the body without comment.
Father Mateo paused in front of the outcastes. “I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest, from Portugal.”
The men didn’t move or speak. In fact, they didn’t acknowledge the words at all.
Hiro frowned at the priest and shook his head. Men of rank didn’t speak to outcastes, except to deliver orders.
Father Mateo waited for almost a minute. As Hiro expected, the outcastes didn’t answer and didn’t move. Finally, the shinobi took pity on the cowering men.
“Leave us,” he ordered. “We wish to examine the body without you present.”
The outcastes scrambled to their feet and fled the alley, bowing as they went.
“Why did you do that?” Father Mateo asked.
“They wouldn’t have answered you,” Hiro said. “I told you, it’s not permitted.”
“Why haven’t they moved the body?” the Jesuit asked.
“Probably waiting for a priest.” Hiro knelt beside the murdered man. “They believe a special blessing will keep the dead man’s ghost from seeking revenge on those who touch the corpse.”
Chikao’s outstretched arms gave Hiro pause. The position suggested the victim hadn’t tried to block his fall.
Hiro wondered whether a pair of assailants had cornered the man in the alley. While one distracted the victim, the other could have struck him from behind. Bandits sometimes did that, but the crushing blows to the skull seemed inconsistent with a robbery. Thieves took a victim’s money and escaped as fast as possible. They didn’t stick around to abuse the corpse.
“How does a man get a bruise on his eye and end up lying face down in the street?” Father Mateo asked. “Shouldn’t that blow have knocked him backward?”
Hiro examined the dead man’s face more closely.
Chikao’s left eye looked grossly distended, the skin swollen tight with bruising beneath the surface. That kind of swelling took at least an hour to develop, sometimes more.
“Yes,” Hiro said, “but I don’t believe that blow is the one that felled him. Look at the blood on his head and shoulders. What do you see?”
“There’s a lot of it,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro nodded. “True, but I meant the pattern. It’s all spatter. If the cut on his scalp had occurred before he died, blood would have flowed down over his neck and shoulders. This wound oozed but didn’t bleed, which means his heart stopped beating before it happened. All this blood was driven out when the murderer smashed the skull with a solid object, over and over again.”
Hiro pantomimed striking the corpse.
“I get the idea.” Father Mateo raised a hand in protest.
Hiro stopped the reenactment. “The force of the killer’s strikes sent blood all over the body, the wall, and the ground, but the lack of a bloody pool beneath Chikao reveals he didn’t bleed much after he hit the ground.
“A strike to the eye is rarely fatal. It probably wouldn’t even cause a fall. The blow that knocked him out came from behind.”
As Hiro finished, a voice shouted, “Do not disturb the dead!”
Hiro turned. A Buddhist monk, far younger and cleaner than Suke, stood at the alley entrance near the street.
“We haven’t touched him,” Father Mateo said.
The monk approached. When he reached the body, he asked, “Do you know what happened?”
Hiro opted for the yoriki’s explanation. “An accident. He died in a fight.”
The monk bent down and examined the wounds. “Crushing blows to the head. What cut his scalp?”
Hiro wondered how a cleric recognized the cause of death. However, he also enjoyed the reversal—usually, it was Hiro’s understanding that startled others.
“I don’t think it’s a cut,” he said. “The skin tore open under the force of the killer’s blows. The fractured skull created an edge that split the skin.”
“Interesting,” the monk replied. “He didn’t defend himself?”
Hiro debated the best response. The yoriki told them not to discuss the crime, but Hiro didn’t want the monk to become suspicious and question their authority to view the murder scene.
Before he could make a decision, Father Mateo said, “The first blow knocked him senseless. When he fell, his opponent beat him to death.”
The monk shook his head. “This killer had an angry soul.”
“How do you know that?” Father Mateo asked.
The monk gestured toward the bloody wall. “Only an angry man strikes so many times, or with such force.” After a pause he added, “Also, I would guess the killer was not samurai.”
The statement put Hiro’s curiosity over the edge. “What makes you say so?”
The monk smiled. “I was a physician before I renounced the world. I cannot forget the man I was, or the things I saw, when I lived that life. A samurai kills a man with a sword. He doesn’t use his hands.”
Though accurate, it wasn’t the reason Hiro would have given.
“Also,” the monk continued, “a samurai would have stopped when the man was dead.”
Hiro disagreed. Furious samurai rarely showed much self-control. The shinobi leaned forward and laid two fingers on the dead man
’s neck.
“Why check for a heartbeat?” The monk inquired. “We already know he’s dead.”
“I’m feeling his temperature,” Hiro said. “His skin seems cool, but pliant. He died within the last few hours. Some time after midnight, before dawn.”
The monk nodded. “You are a physician also.”
It wasn’t a question, and Hiro saw no need to correct the error. He stood up and looked at Father Mateo. “We’ve seen what we need to see.”
The monk bowed. “I will care for his needs from here.”
* * *
Hiro and Father Mateo left the alley and headed north, but not toward home.
“I want to speak with Ginjiro before the hearing,” Hiro said. “That is, if we still have time.”
The magistrate’s compound lay north and west of the brewery, in the southern end of the administrative ward. Hiro and Father Mateo arrived to find the compound gates wide open.
Commoners filled the yard. They spoke in whispers as they waited for the magistrate.
Hiro bowed to the pair of stern-faced samurai guarding the compound gates. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m looking for a brewer named Ginjiro.”
“If you want a brewer, look in the sake district,” the taller samurai said with a grin.
His companion snickered at the joke, though neither Hiro nor Father Mateo smiled.
“The man I seek was arrested this morning,” Hiro said.
The samurai’s smile faded. “No one remembers a criminal’s name. The dōshin bring them in by the dozen.”
Father Mateo stepped forward. “This man is not a criminal. He was wrongfully accused. He has graying hair, and was wearing a blue kimono.”
The guard considered the Jesuit’s words. “I did see such a man. He’s accused of murder.”
“Wrongfully accused,” the priest repeated.
“I doubt it,” the guard replied, “but, innocent or not, he isn’t here. The dōshin brought him, briefly, to lodge his name and case with the magistrate, but his case will not be heard until this afternoon.”
Chapter 8
“Not until the afternoon?” Father Mateo repeated. “Why?”