by Susan Spann
After several minutes they entered a ten-mat audience room with renovations in progress. The tatami flooring was stacked in the southeast corner and covered to protect the woven mats against damage and dust. An assortment of brooms and carpentry tools lay neatly against the western wall beside an elaborate but unfinished transom screen and a waist-high pile of wooden ceiling slats.
Nearby, wooden props supported a thick cedar beam. A section of missing ceiling indicated the place where the beam would become a rafter.
Akira paused as if embarrassed. “I apologize for the mess. The shogun wants this work completed before … as soon as possible.” He indicated a sliding door on the north side of the room. “Ashikaga Saburo’s office is on the right, just through those doors.”
“Did he work alone?” Father Mateo asked.
“He had one assistant, Ito Kazu.” Akira looked at Hiro. “A friend of yours.”
Chapter 6
“I do know Ito Kazu,” Hiro said, “but I consider him an acquaintance, not a friend.”
Akira gave Hiro a look that neither accepted nor denied the shinobi’s statement.
“Touch nothing in Ashikaga-san’s office,” Akira said as he led them across the room and into a narrow hall with doors on either side. “His family has not arrived.”
Akira drew open the right-hand door and waited for the other men to enter.
Hiro stepped back to let Father Mateo lead, but not before his sensitive nose caught the mingling odors of documents, jasmine, and blood. The Jesuit entered the room and moved aside, giving Hiro his first clear view of the murder scene.
The six-mat room had a built-in desk and cabinet on the southern wall, to the right of the entrance. Piles of parchments lay on the desk, some neatly stacked and others spread out as if for examination. A monochromatic landscape scroll adorned the tokonoma, or decorative alcove, on the wall beside the desk. The room was otherwise empty of furniture and adornments.
An oblong pool of congealing blood the size and shape of a fallen man spread across the center of the room. A trail of bloody spots and streaks led from the pool to an open shoji in the northern wall. Rusty drops and elongated bloody spatters marked the floor and wall to the left of the door.
Judging by the size and location of the stains, the killer surprised Saburo in or near that northern entrance.
Hiro looked at the pool on the floor. The edges were crisp and linear, with very little smudging. Saburo hadn’t moved much after falling, though Hiro felt fairly certain the victim had bled to death on the floor.
A single set of bloody footprints led from the pool to a sliding door in the eastern wall of the office. Judging from the natural light that streamed through the paper panels, the door opened onto some kind of garden or courtyard.
Father Mateo pointed to the door. “Where does that lead?”
Hiro wished the Jesuit would remember that samurai considered pointing rude.
“Nowhere,” Akira said. “That is, it leads outside, but nowhere in particular. There’s a veranda and a garden with a path that leads across the grounds. We think that’s how the murderer escaped.”
“So it seems.” Father Mateo eyed the smudges of rusty blood around the door. “Do the tracks continue outside?”
Akira shook his head. “The killer must have removed his tabi.” He looked at Hiro. “The priest understands the word ‘tabi,’ socks?”
Hiro nodded. “Were the tabi left behind?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Hiro glanced at the desk. The document on top of the pile was a handwritten list of names. Elaborate characters flowed down the page with a rare precision that Hiro recognized as Kazu’s. He examined the desk and the floor around it but saw no sign of blood.
As he turned, he noticed something in the bloody pool. He crouched and squinted, trying to identify the object without touching it.
“What room is that?” Father Mateo indicated the open door at the northern end of the room. This time, to Hiro’s relief, the priest remembered to gesture like a Japanese.
“Saburo’s private office,” Akira said.
Hiro returned his attention to the floor.
A hair pin lay near the center of the pool of congealing blood. The pin resembled a chopstick with a spray of delicate silver flowers attached to the thicker end. The wood appeared to be lacquered, and possibly inlaid, but the blackening blood obscured the finer details.
Hiro leaned in for a closer look.
Father Mateo joined him. “What is that?”
“A kanzashi,” Hiro said, “a woman’s hair pin.”
“Don’t touch it,” Akira snapped. “We’re not to move anything before the family arrives.”
Except the body, Hiro thought.
“Was Ashikaga-san lying faceup or facedown?” Hiro asked. “Who found him here?”
The lack of a body made it hard to reconstruct the murder scene, though Hiro hadn’t really expected to find the corpse in place. Murder dishonored the victim, and leaving Saburo where he fell would embarrass the shogun’s clan.
“A maid discovered the body,” Akira said. “I didn’t see it before it was moved and didn’t ask about the position.”
“Didn’t the shogun order the scene preserved?” Father Mateo looked confused.
“That wouldn’t include the body,” Hiro said. “Respect for the dead takes precedence.”
“Where did they take him?” the Jesuit asked.
Hiro gestured toward the opposite side of the room. “To his private office.”
“How did you know that?” Akira’s eyes widened with surprise.
“A guess, but it seemed the logical place until his family arrives.” Hiro stood up. “May we see the body?”
“If you wish.”
Hiro crossed the room, taking care to avoid the rusty drops on the floor. He could only imagine Ana’s wrath if he stained his socks with blood.
Saburo’s inner office also measured six mats, large for a clerk of Saburo’s rank but consistent with his relationship to the shogun. A free-standing wooden desk near the eastern wall meant Saburo could face the veranda or the inner door, depending on the weather and his mood. A wooden back rest sat on the far side of the desk, indicating Saburo had faced the inner office the night he died.
A bloody tanto lay on the near side of the desk. Dark smears encrusted the dagger’s blade and stained the lacquered wooden handle.
Even at a distance, Hiro recognized the weapon as a perfect match to Kazu’s custom swords.
Saburo lay on his back beside the desk with his arms at his sides and his feet toward the door. The front of his torn kimono was drenched in blood, while more blood crusted the right side of his face. His hair had come loose from its samurai knot, presumably during the struggle. The crusty strands clung to his face like leftover noodles inside a dirty bowl.
Someone had closed Saburo’s eyes, but the gesture didn’t do much to improve his appearance.
Hiro knelt beside the body to confirm the cause of death. The amount of blood suggested exsanguination, and the tanto appeared to confirm it. The shinobi saw no injuries to Saburo’s head or neck, but the three wounds in the samurai’s chest all could have proven fatal. At least one, and possibly two, had pierced his heart.
A heavy metallic odor rose from the corpse, along with a faint, sickly sweet smell that Hiro recognized as the scent of death.
He looked over his shoulder. “May I touch him?”
Akira blanched. “Why would you want to?”
Hiro laid his thumb on Saburo’s left cheek. The mottled skin had cooled to match the surrounding air and the muscles resisted pressure. They felt tense and hard beneath Hiro’s thumb. Several hours had passed since the samurai’s death.
The flesh beneath the bloody side of Saburo’s face looked purple, though not very dark. Hardly surprising, given the copious blood loss.
“How long do you think he’s been dead?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro looked up, surprised that the
Jesuit guessed—correctly—what the shinobi was trying to discern. “At least nine hours, maybe more. I’d say he died after dark, but before midnight.”
“You didn’t have to touch him.” Akira sounded disgusted. “We already know he was killed last night. Besides, how does a translator know so much about death?”
Hiro forced the bitter smile of a ronin. “I was not always as I am now.” He indicated Saburo’s ragged and bloody sleeve. “See the slash marks? He fought his killer.”
“Why would a killer strike the arm?” Akira asked.
Hiro raised his hand to cover his face. “Ashikaga-san was protecting himself.”
Father Mateo pointed to a sheath at Saburo’s side. “Why didn’t he draw his sword?”
“Because he had nothing to grip it with.” Hiro reached across the body and raised the corpse’s rigid arm. Three of the right-hand fingers were missing. The last one dangled from the hand like a fish on a line, attached by only a paper-thin flap of skin.
Father Mateo paled and ran a hand through his hair. “How did that happen?”
Hiro nodded to the desk. “I’m guessing the tanto.”
“That is the murder weapon,” Akira confirmed. “It was lodged in Saburo’s back.”
Father Mateo closed his eyes and looked away. “Would you put that arm down please?”
Hiro shrugged and laid the arm at Saburo’s side. “Did someone recover the fingers?”
Akira nodded. “The family will want them for the funeral.”
Hiro took hold of Saburo’s bloody kimono. “Let’s turn him over.”
“Stop,” Akira protested, “You shouldn’t—”
But the objection came too late.
Chapter 7
Hiro and Father Mateo rolled the corpse onto its stomach.
“Don’t do that,” Akira objected.
“Don’t worry,” Hiro said, “I’ll turn him over again before anyone sees him. We need to know exactly how he died to determine who killed him.”
Saburo’s back looked cleaner than his chest. The single wound between his shoulders had barely bled enough to stain the surrounding fabric.
“That’s where the dagger was found?” Hiro indicated the wound.
“I don’t know,” Akira said. “I wasn’t there. Is that the wound that killed him?”
“No,” Hiro said. “He was already dead when this happened, or very close.”
“You can tell that?” Akira asked. “How?”
“Men don’t bleed after death,” Hiro said. “Blood drains from the wounds, but only for a little while and only in the direction of the ground.”
“Which means Ashikaga-san died facedown,” Akira said. He straightened as if remembering that death defiled everyone who came in contact with it. “How can you stand to touch him?”
Hiro smiled. “Fortunately, I live with a priest who can bless the defilement away.”
Father Mateo gave the shinobi a sideways look. Hiro would rather receive a beating than a blessing.
They rolled the corpse back to its original position. Saburo’s blood-drenched kimono left smudges on the pale floor, but Hiro doubted anyone would notice. With all the blood, some stains would be expected.
He had learned all he could from the body. He stood up and studied the room.
Neatly organized bookshelves covered the western wall. Bound volumes occupied the upper shelves while the lower ones held both books and scrolls. Spaces revealed where volumes had been removed, though Hiro didn’t notice an obvious pattern.
Saburo’s desk looked equally in order. An inkwell and a pitcher of water sat in the right-hand corner, alongside a round ceramic container of pasty vermilion ink. A cylindrical marble seal stood upright beside the container. The seal represented Saburo’s official signature, and Hiro found it interesting that the murderer didn’t steal it.
A tray of dirty dishes sat on the floor beside the door to the outer office.
“Did Saburo often eat here?” Hiro asked.
Akira followed his gaze. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t have much contact with this office.”
Hiro noticed some tiny particles on the floor between the desk and the doorway. He picked one up and rubbed it between his fingers as he raised it to his nose.
“What are you doing?” Akira asked.
Hiro inhaled, then lowered his hand and balanced the speck on his finger. “This is sawdust. Cedar, to be exact.”
“Carpenters’ dust,” Akira said. “It gets everywhere from the construction.”
Hiro remembered the spotless floor around the construction site. Before he decided whether to mention it, Father Mateo asked, “How often are these offices cleaned?”
“Every evening.” Akira frowned. “Someone must have tracked that in last night, or this morning when they moved Saburo.”
“We would like to speak with the carpenters,” Hiro said, “and also with the maid who discovered the body.”
“The carpenters should be here soon,” Akira said, “but Hisahide sent the girl to spend a few days with her parents.”
Hiro noted the use of Matsunaga Hisahide’s given name. It surprised him. Most men would never refer to their superiors so casually, and until that moment Akira had seemed unusually polite by nature.
“Does the girl’s family live far away?” Father Mateo asked.
“I believe they live in Kyoto,” Akira said.
“Would it be possible to send a messenger for her?” Hiro asked. “I would like to know exactly what she saw.”
“A wise request,” said a voice from the outer office.
A samurai stepped into the room with the silent grace of a tiger. His graying hair was pulled back from a shaven forehead that crowned a handsome, emotionless face. He wore a black kimono adorned with the double-diamond Miyoshi mon, and his swords were sheathed in expensive scabbards. His confident posture and slender but muscular build suggested unusual fitness, especially in a man of middle age.
Hiro bowed. Father Mateo followed. The samurai merely nodded in return.
“Greetings, Matsunaga-sama,” Akira said, using the higher honorific expected of an assistant addressing a master. “May I introduce the foreign priest, Father Mat-teo Avilo, and his translator, Matsui Hiro.”
Hiro bowed again, an unnecessary gesture but one that obligated Hisahide to speak first.
“You are the man who captured Akechi Hideyoshi’s murderer.” Hisahide looked at Hiro as he spoke.
“Father Mateo solved the crime,” the shinobi said. “I am merely his translator.”
Hisahide smiled. “You are Matsui Hiro of Iga Province, second and only surviving son of Matsui Jiro. Your father served his daimyo with honor, though his early death forced you to come to Kyoto and seek employment as a scribe. Three years ago, this foreigner hired you as a translator—a most unfortunate turn of fate, though reports suggest you bear the burden honorably.”
“Thank you, Matsunaga-sama,” Hiro said with another bow.
The information was mostly wrong, but it accurately reflected the story Hiro had planted upon his arrival in Kyoto. He was glad to know his cover story had fooled the Miyoshi spies.
“The shogun expects me to find and punish the man who killed his cousin,” Hisahide said, “and I expect both of you to help me do it.”
“We would be honored to assist your investigation,” Father Mateo said.
Hisahide turned to Akira. “You may leave us and send a messenger for the maid who found Saburo.”
Frustration flickered across Akira’s face, but the man bowed and left the room without a word.
When he had gone Hisahide said, “The shogun believes there is no real need for investigation. The dagger that killed Saburo belongs to a man named Ito Kazu.” He looked at Hiro. “I also know that Ito-san is a friend of yours.”
Hiro returned Hisahide’s stare. He suspected the Akechi investigation was just a convenient excuse to get him to the shogunate. If Kazu couldn’t be found and punished, a friend or family member w
ould have to do.
“Ito Kazu is an acquaintance,” Hiro said. “We met at Ginjiro’s brewery shortly after I arrived in Kyoto. When we realized we were both from Iga, Kazu offered to help me find a job. Unfortunately, his efforts were unsuccessful.”
“I am told you drink together often,” Hisahide said.
“Sometimes,” Hiro said. “We reminisce about Iga. All men miss their ancestral homes.”
Hisahide’s face revealed nothing. “Where is Kazu this morning?”
“If he murdered a man, he probably fled the city,” Hiro said. “It’s what I would have done in his place.”
“Perhaps, but your response does not answer my question.”
Chapter 8
Hiro admired Hisahide’s resistance to distraction. “I do not know where Ito Kazu is this morning,” he said.
It was technically true. He hadn’t seen Kazu since dawn.
“Forgive my ignorance,” Father Mateo said, “but if you know who committed the murder, why did you ask for our help?”
Hiro suspected the ignorance was feigned. Father Mateo knew enough about samurai justice to recognize the danger.
“The shogun requested you, not me,” Hisahide said, “and I believe he wanted you more for your connection to Kazu than anything else. But since you are here, I see no reason not to utilize your skills.”
Hisahide glanced toward the outer office. “Many people—Akira included—agree that the evidence leaves no room for doubt, but I am not completely convinced of Ito-san’s guilt. He is known for competence, yet no competent man would leave his weapon behind. This troubles me, even though I cannot question the shogun’s interpretation of the evidence without proof to the contrary.”
“I understand,” Hiro said. A seed of doubt about Kazu’s innocence sprouted in his mind. A shinobi assassin might leave his weapon as a distraction, precisely because no samurai would do so. Hiro might have chosen to do the same in Kazu’s place—assuming Kazu was the killer, which suddenly seemed more likely than Hiro wanted to admit.
