Claws of the Cat (12 page)

“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 explain 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.

“No more than I minded his visits to her,” Hidetaro said.

The ambiguous response was worthy of a shinobi. Hiro hadn’t expected such facility from a samurai.

“Hideyoshi enjoyed Sayuri’s company,” Hidetaro continued, “but he wanted me to buy her contract. He thought she deserved a better life than a teahouse.”

“He didn’t mind his brother marrying an entertainer?” Hiro asked. Samurai honor forbade most marriages to people outside the samurai class.

Hidetaro shifted slightly. “Until a few months ago, I wanted to become a Buddhist monk. In Yoshi’s eyes, any marriage was preferable to that.”

Samurai did not discuss family issues in public. The hint alone ended the conversation and made the ensuing silence awkward.

At last, Father Mateo said, “His death must have come as a terrible shock.”

“Yes,” Hidetaro said. “I learned of it this morning, at the teahouse. Mayuri would not take my payment. She said she could not accept it because Nobuhide intends to execute Sayuri. She also told me about your investigation and that you hoped to prove Sayuri innocent.”

“Did you see Sayuri?” Hiro asked.

“No. Mayuri would not allow it.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Hiro asked.

“A week ago, or possibly more. I can’t afford teahouses—that is, I have to save my money for her contract. You must prove her innocent. She did not do this.”

“We will do our best,” Father Mateo said.

Hidetaro stood up. He moved slowly, as though his injured leg still hurt a little. “Thank you for the tea.”

Hiro escorted the guest to the door. As they reached the entrance Hidetaro said, “This foreigner is a good man, I think. Do you find it strange to serve him?”

“He is a man, with good qualities and bad ones, like any other,” Hiro said as Hidetaro slipped on his muddy sandals.

Hiro nodded at the shoes. “Last night’s rain created a lot of mud.”

“Did it?” Hidetaro asked. “I was asleep at home.”

“Indeed.” Hiro bowed. “Thank you for honoring us with your visit.”

Hidetaro returned the bow and departed, walking slowly to prevent anyone from noticing his limp.

“Well, I guess we can take him off the suspect list,” Father Mateo said as they watched the samurai walk away on the narrow road.

“Quite the opposite,” Hiro said. “He just placed himself firmly on it.”

Chapter 17

“Do you really think Hidetaro killed his brother?” Father Mateo asked.

“I think he’s less than honest,” Hiro said, “which merits investigation. Speaking of which—where’s Luis?”

“Probably napping,” Father Mateo said. “I think he finished his business for today.”

“Exactly what we need to discuss.” Hiro walked across the common room and rapped on the paneled door to the merchant’s room. “Luis? Are you awake?”

He heard a rustling sound and a groan, followed by footsteps heading for the door. It rattled and Luis’s face appeared in the opening. His eyes were misty with sleep and his long hair stood out around his face. “No. What do you want?”

“Information about the rice merchant you sold weapons to this morning. Was he from Nagoya, by chance?”

Luis blinked and the sleepy look left his face. “How did you know that?”

“I think you may have done business with a murderer.”

“All of my clients are murderers. What Japanese isn’t?”

“Luis.” Father Mateo joined them at the door. “I think I understand what Hiro means. A rice merchant from Nagoya visited the Sakura Teahouse last night. We think he may have murdered Akechi Hideyoshi. If he’s the same man you met this morning, you may be able to help us find him.”

The door slid open further and Luis stepped into the common room. He wore the same white shirt as earlier and a clean pair of dark-colored breeches. He had taken off his tunic before his nap, and the end of his wrinkled shirt flapped loosely below his rounded belly. Hiro had rarely seen a less flattering costume.

“Akechi?” Luis repeated. “Is that the dead man’s name?”

“Yes.” Father Mateo nodded eagerly. “Do you know him?”

“It might just be a coincidence. These Japanese only have about twenty surnames between them.”

“Anything you can tell us might help,” Father Mateo said.

Luis scratched his chest while he thought. “A couple of months ago I sold a hundred arquebuses to a samurai named Akechi, but not Hideyoshi. The given name was different. Miso-something, I think. He was passing through Kyoto on his way to join some warlord in the south.

“The rice merchant from Nagoya mentioned Akechi’s name when he contacted me. Apparently they’re friends or something. He thought it would get him a discount.” The merchant looked smug. “I raised all the prices by twenty percent and then gave him a ten percent markdown. He never knew the difference.”

Hiro ignored his rising frustration and returned to the topic of interest. “Who introduced the samurai to you? The one from the Akechi clan.”

“I don’t remember,” Luis said. “I know several of the merchants, and most of them make introductions. It’s a ridiculous samurai custom anyway, needing to know someone personally before you can do business. Normal people just find what they want and buy it.”

“This is important,” Hiro insisted. “Who made the introduction?”

Luis thought for a moment. “It must have been the tailor, Yaso.” After a pause he added, “Definitely Yaso. He set up this morning’s meeting too.”

“Did either man tell you where he was staying?” Hiro asked. “Did they have relatives in Kyoto?”

Luis sneered and shook his head. “We only talked about muskets. I could care less about their personal lives.”

“Do you have records of the sales?”

“I keep detailed ledgers, but you won’t find what you’re looking for. I list names, but no addresses or other information about the buyer.”

“Good enough,” Hiro said. “Have you got the ledgers here?”

Luis turned back to his room and returned a moment later with a ledger, leather-bound in the Portuguese style. He flipped through the pages until he found the transaction he wanted.

“There.” He pointed to the page. “That’s the first one, the samurai.”

It took Hiro a moment to find the entry, and not only because it was written in Portuguese. The lines and columns made no sense until he realized that the merchant organized the pages horizontally, not vertically like a Japanese ledger.

Hiro examined the line Luis indicated. Everything except for the customer’s name was written in the Portuguese merchant’s even script. Hiro found it difficult to read but enjoyed the effort. Despite his irritating nature, Luis had beautiful handwriting.

The customer’s name was far more legible, because that wasn’t written by hand. Samurai and many merchants used a carved seal, or
inkan,
in place of a formal signature. The seals discouraged forgery and eliminated the need to carry a writing brush or ink. When pressed into a paste-like ink and then on a document or page, the seal displayed the characters representing the bearer’s name.

The characters on this one read “Akechi Mitsuhide.”

“And the other?” Hiro asked. “The man you met this morning?”

The merchant flipped two more leaves and ran his finger down the page until he came to the final entry. “Well, that’s interesting.”

He tipped the book toward Hiro and Father Mateo. The column for the customer’s seal contained an illegible smudge. “He must have rushed the impression.”

“Or deliberately marred it to obscure his name,” Hiro said.

Luis shrugged. “That’s going to make it difficult to track him, not that he’s still here anyway. He left Kyoto as soon as he picked up his weapons and wanted to start early to get ahead of the traffic on the road. That’s why I had to get up at such an abominable hour.

“Do you think this Akechi is related to your dead samurai?”

“It would astonish me to learn otherwise,” Hiro said.

“Interesting that no one mentioned a relative in Lord Oda’s service,” Father Mateo mused.

“But not surprising,” Hiro said. “This also means Yoshiko was mistaken, or lied. Both Lord Oda and the shogun have reasons to want Hideyoshi dead.”