Claws of the Cat

by Susan Spann

  “Your husband must have been pleased,” Father Mateo said.

  “Most men would prefer a son,” Sato said, “but Kannon helped there too. Yoshi loved Yoshiko from the moment she was born. He raised her as a samurai, exactly like a boy.” She paused. “I didn’t like that much at first, but they seemed so happy that in time I grew happy too. Now I am very glad it worked out this way.”

  She glanced at Yoshiko like a child who reveals a family secret and doesn’t know what to do. Hiro wondered which part of the story Sato wished she hadn’t told.

  Just before the silence grew awkward, Yoshiko prompted, “You were telling them about the foreign god.”

  Sato nodded. “The year Yoshiko turned thirteen she had her genpuku.” She wrinkled her brow in concern and looked at the priest. “Do you know this word?”

  “The ceremony when a samurai becomes a man.” Father Mateo glanced at Yoshiko and added, “That is, an adult, with the right to wear two swords.”

  Sato nodded, pleased that she didn’t have to explain. “Yoshiko—her name was Chiko before genpuku—learned very fast. She had her ceremony at thirteen. Her father gave her a pair of heirloom swords.”

  “So he didn’t mind that he had a daughter and no son.” Father Mateo said.

  “He was satisfied,” Sato agreed, “but I felt like a failure. Just before the genpuku I heard that strangers from across the sea had brought a new god to Japan. I thought perhaps this foreign god might give me another child, so I asked Hideyoshi to take me to see the foreigners.

  “He didn’t believe your God would hear me, or even speak Japanese, but he agreed because he wanted one of the foreign weapons for his collection.”

  “Did you meet Francis Xavier?” Father Mateo asked.

  “No, a foreigner called Pinto-san,” Sato said. “He was not a priest, though he said he intended to become one when he returned to his land across the sea. He was tall, with skin like a ghost and a nose the size of a rice bowl. I felt badly for him, because he smelled terrible and the stink made his big nose red and runny.”

  Hiro suspected the running nose was red from alcohol rather than stink, but interrupting would only delay their departure even more.

  “Pinto-san told me the Jesus god walked on earth like a man. That gave me hope. A god who had a mother might have pity on a woman who wanted a son. Pinto-san taught me a prayer and said I could ask this Jesus god for anything, but he also said that the Jesus god would only give me things if his father, the Almighty God, wanted me to have them. He said this many times, that Jesus could always hear me but only granted prayers when his father allowed him to.”

  “Yes,” Father Mateo said. “That’s how it works with Jesus.”

  “No different than our Japanese kami,” Sato said, “except that kami don’t even listen unless they want to.”

  Hiro’s foot went to sleep. Ordinarily he would have suffered through the prickling irritation, but his patience with Sato’s story was at an end. He wiggled first his foot and then his leg, hoping the widow would notice and conclude her recitation.

  Yoshiko gave him a look that hovered between disbelief and understanding. He raised his eyebrows a fraction in return. Yoshiko started to speak but Sato continued. “I promised your Jesus the same thing I promised Kannon. Within a month I was pregnant with Taromaru—that is, Nobuhide.” Sato smiled apologetically. “We called him Taromaru as a child.”

  Yoshiko leaned back and frowned at her mother. Sato did not notice or did not care.

  Hiro suspected the latter.

  “When I became pregnant,” Sato continued, “I tried to have a statue made for God, but then I learned that He prefers to be worshipped as a cross.”

  “Not exactly,” Father Mateo said. “The cross is a symbol to remind us of His sacrifice. We don’t worship the image itself.”

  “Just like kami,” Sato agreed. “The god is in the tree, except that the kami is the tree and Jesus is not the cross.”

  Hiro smothered a smile. He could see theology struggling with pragmatism in Father Mateo’s thoughts. Pragmatism won.

  “I am glad you know Jesus,” the priest said. “I hope you continue to pray to Him.”

  Sato looked offended. “I promised, didn’t I?”

  Yoshiko stood up and bowed. “Thank you for your visit.”

  “Thank you for listening to us,” Hiro said.

  “Please tell Akechi-sama that we are sorry to have missed him,” Father Mateo added.

  Hiro was just about to use that opening to ask for additional time when Yoshiko narrowed her eyes and said, “You may refer to my brother as Akechi-san, not -sama.”

  “I apologize for my imperfect Japanese,” Father Mateo said. “I thought an heir was addressed with the highest honorific.”

  “Your Japanese and your understanding are correct,” Sato said, “but Nobuhide is not my husband’s heir. Yoshiko is.”

  Chapter 28

  Hiro found it difficult to hide his surprise. “Yoshiko is the heir?”

  “Yes,” Yoshiko said, “since before Nobuhide was born.”

  “Does the law recognize a female heir?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Only if the patriarch leaves a will that names her specifically,” Hiro said.

  “Which my husband did,” Sato said. “He wrote it years ago.”

  “Before Nobuhide’s birth?” Hiro asked.

  “No,” Sato replied. “Fortunately he wrote it after that, so no one can claim an accident or omission.”

  Hiro wanted to see that will, but needed a reason that wouldn’t sound suspicious. He glanced at Father Mateo and tilted his head slightly, hoping without real hope that the Jesuit would understand and find a reason to ask.

  “How fascinating,” Father Mateo said. “I have never seen a Japanese will. I wonder if they differ much from the Portuguese tradition.”

  Months of teaching the Jesuit to understand coded looks and unspoken signals finally paid off in earnest.

  “Would you like to see it?” Yoshiko asked.

  “I would be honored.”

  “Please sit down,” Yoshiko said. “I will retrieve it for you.”

  She left the room as the guests returned to their positions by the hearth. Sato accompanied them with a pleasant smile, though her forehead wrinkled with something that looked like sorrow.

  Yoshiko returned, carrying a weathered but expensive bamboo case. She knelt by the hearth, opened the cap at the end of the case, and shook a parchment scroll from the bamboo cylinder. The scroll held its shape, expanding only a little when released.

  Yoshiko extended the scroll to Father Mateo, using two hands. He accepted it the same way and unrolled it carefully.

  “May I ask Hiro to translate?” he asked. “I do not read your language well enough to comprehend such an important document.”

  “Of course.” Yoshiko dipped her head in consent.

  Hiro took the scroll and read it quickly to himself. It was written in tiny characters composed of fine, narrow strokes. The calligraphy showed both native skill and years of careful study. Not a single misplaced brush mark marred the scroll.

  Akechi Hideyoshi’s personal seal was stamped at the bottom in vermillion ink to verify the will. The pasty ink was glossy and slightly raised, as required for a documentary seal. Hiro saw no deficits in construction or execution.

  He traced his finger down the page as he read the scroll aloud.

  “‘I, Akechi Hideyoshi, set these words to parchment in the seventh year of the Shogunate of Ashikaga Yoshifuji.’” Hiro paused and looked at the priest. “Yoshifuji was the Shogun’s childhood name. He took the name Yoshiteru in adulthood.”

  “Thank you.” Father Mateo gave a little laugh. “Does that explain when the will was written? I’m still not very good with the Japanese calendar.”

  “It means this was written twelve years ago.” Hiro looked down and continued reading. “‘It is my will that upon my death, my daughter, Akechi Yoshiko, will inherit my entire estate, inc
luding all money, lands, and property owned by me or to which I am entitled. If my stipend continues beyond my death, it should transfer to her in its entirety.

  “‘I wish for Yoshiko to provide financial support for her mother, Akechi Sato, and for my brother, Akechi Hidetaro, as long as they live. She should permit my son, Akechi Nobuhide, to continue to reside in the family home. In all matters affecting the clan, Yoshiko’s decision is final. I trust her judgment as though she were my son.

  “‘Life is short and sorrowful. A wise samurai spends his life prepared to die. When I leave this life, know that I was prepared.’”

  Hiro’s right finger grazed the seal. “Akechi Hideyoshi.”

  He rubbed the finger against his thumb but felt no waxy transfer. The seal was not soft or wet.

  “It is very well drafted,” Father Mateo said.

  Yoshiko laughed. “I agree, but my brother did not think so.”

  “Was he angry?” the priest asked.

  “Extremely. Nobuhide expected the will would name him as our father’s heir.”

  “Can he challenge it?” Father Mateo wondered.

  “No,” Sato said. Her voice was firm. “That is my husband’s will. I knew when he wrote it and where he stored it, and I retrieved it after his death.”

  Hiro explained. “A wife’s testimony is final if she saw the will and knew its contents before her husband died.”

  Sato nodded. “I did, and that is Hideyoshi’s will.”

  Hiro returned the scroll to Yoshiko. She rolled it tightly and returned it to its case. As she laid the bamboo cylinder on the tatami she asked, “Did you have any other questions?”

  “We had hoped you might persuade Nobuhide to give us a few more days to find Hideyoshi’s killer.” Hiro answered Yoshiko but his eyes met Sato’s as he spoke. “It would be most unfortunate if an innocent woman died tomorrow just for lack of time.”

  Sato nodded agreement. She looked at Yoshiko, eyebrows raised in a silent request.

  “I am sorry,” Yoshiko said, “but I cannot grant your request. Not without further evidence. If, by tomorrow, you have found this spy or have proof that he killed my father I will reconsider.”

  “Thank you.” It was the only response Hiro could give.

  “May I ask another question?” Father Mateo asked.

  Yoshiko looked at the priest with interest.

  “I apologize for my presumptuousness,” he said, “but I am curious about Japanese laws and customs. Will your father’s stipend continue after his death?”

  “They usually do not,” Yoshiko said.

  “Did he have other income?” the priest asked. “Business interests, or an inheritance?”

  Yoshiko and Sato exchanged a look.

  The older woman answered. “Hideyoshi was his father’s heir, but that money has been gone for many years. We are hopeful that the shogun will show mercy and allow us to retain his stipend.”

  “How do Japanese address the issue of creditors?” Father Mateo asked.

  Yoshiko tilted her head to the side. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Did your father owe anyone money when he died? Like rice merchants or tailors? Take the teahouse, for example. How will his final bill be paid? Will there even be a bill, since he died there?”

  Hiro was impressed with Father Mateo’s unexpected subtlety. The shinobi had wondered how Hideyoshi managed to afford the Sakura on a subsistence-level stipend, but convention prohibited him from asking. He hadn’t thought to address the topic as a legal issue, not that the tactic would not have worked. Only a foreigner could ask such intrusive questions without causing serious offense.

  “I would be … disappointed if Mayuri expected payment for the night my father died.”

  “Did he have other debts?” Father Mateo asked. “How would they be paid?”

  “We have a little savings,” Sato said, “and Nobuhide’s income.”

  “The will mentioned support for Akechi Hidetaro,” Father Mateo said. “Will you still provide that support if the stipend is revoked?”

  “It was my father’s wish,” Yoshiko said.

  “Did your father support his brother during his lifetime?” the priest asked.

  “It was his duty as the Akechi heir.”

  “Did Hidetaro request more money recently?” Hiro asked.

  Yoshiko seemed to realize that an informative conversation had just become an interrogation. She thought longer than usual before responding. “Yes, he did. He did not say why, but he came here the night my father died to ask for money. My father refused.”

  “Do you know why he wanted it?” Hiro asked.

  Yoshiko shook her head as she looked him in the eye. “No.”

  “Did they argue about it?”

  “No. Where there is no money, there is no point in argument.” Yoshiko leaned backward. “But your questions suggest that you suspect my uncle as well as an unknown spy.”

  Chapter 29

  “I apologize if my question held an inappropriate implication.” Hiro dipped his head in humility. “That was not my intention.”

  Yoshiko nodded acceptance, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  Father Mateo stood up and bowed. “Thank you for teaching me about your customs. May I pray again for your father before I leave?”

  “I would like that,” Sato said quickly. Yoshiko’s lips pursed in objection but she said nothing.

  Sato led them across the room and slid open the paneled door to Hideyoshi’s armory. The room looked almost exactly as it had the previous day, except that a bowl of cooked rice sat on the floor outside the coffin at the end nearest Hideyoshi’s head. A single chopstick stood upright in the rice. As Hiro entered the room he noticed a second object beside the bowl. A thin vase held a single hydrangea blossom, the same type and color as the ones in the room where Hideyoshi died.

  The coincidence seemed too great for an accident. Hiro’s new theory about the spy gained momentum in his head.

  Father Mateo knelt beside Hideyoshi and bowed his head in prayer. Hiro stood just inside the doorway and studied the room for anything out of place. He saw nothing else new or different.

  His gaze lingered on the tokonoma. The neko-te seemed to mock him from their semicircle of pegs. He couldn’t shake the conviction that those claws had murdered their owner, despite Sato’s explanation for the broken blade.

  The priest finished his prayer. As Yoshiko led them to the door Hiro said, “Your mother selected a fine set of funeral armor.”

  The samurai woman glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “My mother did not select the armor. Nobuhide did.”

  “Well, you have done a fine job preparing him for…” Father Mateo’s voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “Cremation,” Yoshiko said. “My mother requested a Christian burial but Nobuhide insisted our father should not decay in the ground. I agree with that disposition, though not with the way my father appears.”

  She paused as if consumed by an inner struggle. Hiro wondered what she wanted to say but felt that she should not.

  “My father should have worn the armor he wore in battle,” she said at last, “not the ceremonial breastplate my brother chose.”

  At last Hiro understood. A samurai did not criticize family members, but Yoshiko wanted him to know that the inappropriate armor was not her fault. He wondered why she cared what he believed. Given her earlier comment about women’s gaits, he sincerely hoped she didn’t have an interest in him beyond the investigation.

  “By the time I returned from my morning ride and learned about Father’s death, Nobuhide had already washed and dressed the body,” she continued. “It was too late to change it.”

  Hiro nodded. There was no point in platitudes or false reassurances. They both knew Nobuhide had chosen wrong, and that further handling would only dishonor the corpse. Some things could not be changed.

  In the entry they exchanged bows.

  “If I may ask,” Hiro said, “who knew about yo
ur father’s will before he died?”

  “Only my mother,” Yoshiko said. “She was there when he wrote it. I saw it for the first time yesterday.”

  “Yet you knew you were his heir?”

  Yoshiko smiled. “My father has always favored me. I didn’t need a will to tell me his intentions.”

  “Who knows about the will now?”

  “Nobuhide, of course, and my uncle Hidetaro.”

  “Who told Hidetaro?”

  “I did, yesterday, when he came to pay his respects and to pray for my father’s soul. I do not believe in gods myself, though I understand that some people find comfort in faith.”

  “How long did he pray?”

  She looked up at the door frame, thinking. “Half an hour, perhaps? He may not have prayed the entire time. I left him alone with my father and saw him only when he left.”

  Hiro bowed. “Thank you again for your courtesy.”

  * * *

  As they approached the Kamo River bridge, Nobuhide rode toward them on a dappled gray gelding. He appeared to be heading home, but when he saw the foreigner he pulled his horse to a halt and glared.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “This is a public road,” Hiro said. “We are walking on it.”

  “You are walking away from my house,” Nobuhide accused. “The magistrate’s order gives you no right to harass my mother.”

  “Or your sister,” Hiro added.

  Nobuhide snorted. “That fox spirit can take care of herself. I suppose she told you how she cheated me out of my inheritance.”

  “She showed us your father’s will,” Hiro said. “Have you reason to suspect a trick?”

  “Not a new one.” Nobuhide scowled. “She has always been his favorite, but I never suspected he would give her the inheritance too. No wonder he kept his will a secret.”

  He pointed at the priest. “But I still have the right of vengeance, and I intend to carry it out. Tomorrow your head will roll.”

  “Not if we find the real killer first,” Hiro said.