by Susan Spann
“The shogun wants me to question Ito-san,” Hisahide said, “and I will do so when he arrives for work this morning. In the meantime, you will make no assumptions about his guilt or innocence. Can you do this, despite your familiarity?”
“We can and we will,” Father Mateo said.
Hisahide’s gaze fell on Hiro.
“We will uncover the truth, however unpleasant,” Hiro said, though he wouldn’t promise what he would do with the information once he had it.
“You have three days to identify the killer,” Hisahide said.
“Three days?” Hiro repeated.
“It was sufficient to find Akechi Hideyoshi’s killer,” Hisahide said, “or so I am told.”
That crime had taken place a year before. The investigation hadn’t been public, but the Akechi clan had ties to the shogun and information traveled well in Kyoto.
“Three days is a very short time to catch a murderer,” Father Mateo said.
“Then you will work quickly,” Hisahide replied. “Daimyo Oda has sent an embassy to Kyoto. His men will arrive by the eighteenth day of the month—four days from now—and Saburo’s killer must be caught and punished before they arrive. The shogunate cannot seem vulnerable to attack.”
“What if we cannot solve the crime so quickly?” Father Mateo asked.
“A murderer will die before Lord Oda’s men arrive,” Hisahide said. “One way or another.”
Hiro understood the threat. Innocence wouldn’t save Kazu if the guilty party escaped. Unfortunately, with Kazu gone, Hiro and Father Mateo were next in line and equally viable candidates for punishment. The law would hold Hiro liable because he was Kazu’s friend. But the chain of responsibility extended upward too, and Father Mateo was Hiro’s official employer. If anyone suspected Hiro of helping Kazu escape, or decided to punish him in Kazu’s absence, the Jesuit would share the shinobi’s penalty.
Father Mateo frowned. “We will not help you kill an innocent man.”
Hiro glanced at the priest in surprise. He hadn’t expected Father Mateo to catch Hisahide’s meaning.
The samurai looked equally startled, though the surprise left his face as quickly as it appeared.
“Foreigners do not set conditions for obedience,” Hisahide said. “I will forgive your ignorance once, but you will not repeat this mistake.”
Hiro hoped the priest would apologize, or at least retract his objection, but he doubted Father Mateo would do either. The Jesuit had a dangerous dedication to moral truth.
The shinobi had almost decided to make an apology on Father Mateo’s behalf when the priest bowed deeply and said, “I apologize for my lack of discretion.”
Hiro’s momentary relief disappeared as the Jesuit continued, “I mistakenly believed the Bushido code required a samurai to seek justice rather than executing an innocent man merely to ensure that a crime is punished.”
Father Mateo held Hisahide’s gaze without faltering.
Hisahide smiled but his eyes were cold. “If I wanted empty justice, Ito Kazu would already be dead. That said, I will keep the shogunate out of Lord Oda’s hands at any price. One innocent life means nothing when compared with the cost of war.”
Hiro spoke up to keep the Jesuit silent. “We will find the real killer in three days’ time, provided you place no restrictions on our movement.”
“Impossible,” Hisahide said. “The shogun cannot be disturbed, and this murder must not be made a public spectacle.”
“We will use discretion,” Hiro said, “but we must have sufficient freedom to investigate.”
He hoped Hisahide would deny his demands and relieve them of the duty to solve the crime.
Instead, the samurai nodded. “I understand. You may investigate the bakufu mansion and grounds, but the shogun’s personal quarters remain off limits. You may speak with servants and guards without restriction. I will schedule interviews with officials upon request.
“Will that suffice?”
“Yes,” Father Mateo said. “We will abide by those constraints.”
Hiro still wished Hisahide had sent them away.
Akira appeared in the doorway and bowed. “A messenger has gone to fetch the girl.”
“Thank you, Akira,” Hisahide said. “You will assist Father Mateo and Matsui-san with their investigation.”
And report to Hisahide on our progress, Hiro thought.
Akira struggled to hide his dismay. Hiro didn’t blame him. A daimyo’s cousin was not a servant, but the order effectively made him one, at least for the next three days.
“If you will excuse me,” Hisahide said, “I have business to attend to.” He departed without awaiting a response.
Akira forced a smile. “Where would you like to begin?”
“Could we speak with the carpenters while we wait for the maid?” Hiro asked.
“The carpenters?” Akira sounded surprised. “Not Ito Kazu?”
“Matsunaga-san intends to conduct that interview himself,” Hiro said. “He did not ask us to join him.”
“What could a carpenter know?” Akira shook his head, suggesting typical samurai disdain for the lower classes.
“There is sawdust on the floor,” Hiro said. “A samurai might have tracked it here but the carpenters may have seen or heard something useful.”
Akira’s mouth opened slightly in surprise. It apparently hadn’t occurred to him that workers might listen to samurai conversations. He led Hiro and Father Mateo back through the outer office and into the audience room beyond.
A carpenter stood beside the sawhorses, plane in hand, surveying the cedar beam. He wore baggy trousers instead of the usual loincloth, doubtless a concession to shogunate formality.
When Akira entered the room the workman knelt and pressed his forehead to the floor.
On the opposite side of the room a second carpenter stood high on a ladder, measuring the transom space above the southern entrance. He had his back to Akira and didn’t notice the samurai right away. Like the other workman, he wore trousers and a long-sleeved tunic. He had his voluminous sleeves pulled high on his arms and tied out of the way with a strip of cloth.
Akira had barely started across the room when the second carpenter lowered his measuring stick and descended the ladder. When he reached the ground he turned and bowed. He did not kneel or lay his head on the floor.
As he straightened, his face became an expectant mask, though Hiro noted unusual intelligence in his eyes. The shinobi had little doubt this man noticed everything that went on around him.
The only question was whether he would reveal it.
Chapter 9
Samurai owed no courtesy to commoners, and Akira wasted no time on greetings. “Introduce yourself.”
The carpenter bowed again. “I am Master Carpenter Ozuru.” He gestured to the kneeling man on the other side of the room. “My assistant is called Goro.”
“This is Father Mateo of Portugal,” Hiro said. “I am his translator, Matsui Hiro.”
“These men are investigating a murder,” Akira said. “You will answer their questions honestly and tell the entire truth. The foreigner has captured many criminals. He can recognize a lie before you speak it.”
Ozuru’s face remained a mask.
Akira bristled at the carpenter’s lack of reaction, but before he could threaten the man again Father Mateo said, “Thank you for speaking with us.”
Ozuru glanced at Goro.
“We do not require your assistant at this time,” Hiro said.
Ozuru gestured to the kneeling man. “Up. I want the beam ready to hang when the others arrive.”
Goro stood up, bowed, and retrieved his plane. He tried not to stare at the foreigner, but his eyes kept darting to Father Mateo’s face, reminding Hiro how strange the Jesuit’s pale skin and Western features appeared to Japanese eyes.
Akira’s lips twitched in an unwilling smile. “Please excuse me. I must check on the messenger’s progress.”
He disappeared through
the southern door before anyone could respond.
Hiro turned his attention to Ozuru. The lines around the carpenter’s eyes were caused by sun, not time. His wiry, muscled arms revealed strength, and although his hands were gnarled by work they lacked the darkened spots of advancing age.
A samurai would see only a peasant in stained and dusty trousers, but Hiro understood that carpentry demanded precision, artistic talent, and physical prowess at least as great as those required for swordplay. Only men with impeccable skills would achieve a master’s title, and few of them would achieve it by middle age.
The shinobi knew, if Akira did not, that Ozuru deserved respect.
He was still deciding how to approach the interview when Father Mateo said, “Please tell us anything you know about Ashikaga-san’s murder.”
Hiro looked at the priest in disbelief. Directness was anathema to the Japanese.
“I know only that he was killed,” Ozuru said, “and learned that only when I arrived for work this morning.”
“Did you work yesterday?” Hiro asked.
“Yes, from dawn until two hours after sunset. I stayed late to work on the transom carving.” He pointed to the wooden screen that rested against the wall. When complete, the elaborate transom panel would cover the gap between the top of the doors and the ceiling while also allowing air flow between the rooms.
“You are skilled,” Father Mateo said.
Ozuru bowed his head humbly. “Thank you, Father-Mateo-sama.” He pronounced the name and honorific as a single word. “My father was a carpenter, my grandfather a master carver. They trained me in both disciplines.”
He spoke carefully, and with simple words, to ensure the priest understood.
“Would you like to see the screens more closely?” he offered.
Father Mateo seemed inclined to agree, but Hiro had no intention of letting the carpenter distract them from their objective.
“Do you work late often?” Hiro asked.
Ozuru paused before answering, as if he no longer remembered the previous topic. At last he nodded in understanding. “Yes, quite often. My assistants leave at sundown and I stay to work in silence.”
“Most artisans have a workshop,” Hiro said.
“As do I,” Ozuru replied, “but the shogun demands that I do my work on the premises. He believes it leads to faster completion, and I am in no position to argue with samurai.”
“The shogun wants the work finished quickly?” Father Mateo asked.
“Yes,” Ozuru glanced at the ceiling, “because of the rats.”
“Rats?” the Jesuit looked up quickly.
“They live above the ceilings, under the roof,” Ozuru said. “It would be most inconvenient for a rat to jump down on a passing samurai.”
“Does that happen?” Father Mateo’s eyes widened.
Ozuru shrugged. “It depends how long the roof goes unrepaired.”
Once again the conversation had drifted away from the murder.
“Where did you go when you left last night?” Hiro asked.
“Home, as always.”
“Did you stop on the way?”
“No,” Ozuru said, “and I live alone, so no one can tell you what time I arrived or confirm that I went directly to sleep, though I did.”
Hiro heard no defensiveness in the carpenter’s voice. If anything, Ozuru seemed amused.
“How long have you worked here?” Hiro asked.
“For the shogun? Or in this room?”
Hiro didn’t answer.
“This project began a month ago,” Ozuru said, “but I’ve worked in this compound off and on for several years. I succeeded the previous master when he retired.”
“Do you know why someone would want to kill Ashikaga Saburo?” Father Mateo asked.
“Walls have ears,” Ozuru said with a smile, “but intelligent workmen have none.”
“What about you?” Hiro asked. “Did you argue with Ashikaga-san?”
Ozuru’s smile faded. “What makes you ask?”
The question had been instinctive, but it seemed to have hit a mark.
Hiro hazarded a version of the truth. “I understand Ashikaga-san did not appreciate independent men, particularly those who fail to grovel.”
Ozuru gave Hiro an appraising look. “You have guessed correctly. I will not hide the truth. Last night Ashikaga-san complained about the noise of my chisel and ordered me to leave. I refused, and he grew angry.”
“You refused?” Father Mateo started to raise a hand to his hair, but lowered it. Hiro took the averted gesture as a sign of the priest’s surprise.
“The shogun imposed strict deadlines on this work.” Ozuru indicated the open ceiling. “My job depends on completing this room within the next three days.
“I have never missed a deadline. I won’t miss this one, despite the shortened time. The shogun gave me permission to work as many hours as necessary. Ashikaga-san had no right to countermand that order.”
“Did you tell Ashikaga-san about the shogun’s instructions?” Hiro asked.
Ozuru’s lips raised in a humorless smile. “Ashikaga-san was not a man to whom carpenters explain anything.”
Akira strode into the room. “The maid has arrived. She is waiting for you in the kitchen.”
Chapter 10
“Thank you for speaking with us,” Father Mateo said to Ozuru.
The carpenter bowed and returned to work as Akira gave the Jesuit a disapproving look.
Hiro and Father Mateo followed the samurai back into the passage that passed Saburo’s office and several other shoji, though the doors were shut, obscuring the rooms beyond.
At the opposite end of the passage from where they entered, they emerged from the mansion onto a covered veranda abutting a graveled courtyard. A covered walkway led to a one-story kitchen.
Hiro looked down and saw his geta, and Father Mateo’s, waiting at the edge of the veranda, along with a third pair of about Akira’s size.
Akira followed the shinobi’s gaze. “I had a servant bring our sandals.”
Hiro nodded and stepped down into his shoes. Akira and Father Mateo did the same.
The air carried a smoky odor of grilling meat. Hiro’s stomach growled as he followed Akira across the yard and up the two wooden steps to the kitchen entrance. The samurai pushed open the swinging doors, revealing a servants’ chamber.
The six-mat room provided a place for maids and other servants to wait between duties. A kettle hung from a chain above the central hearth, as it would in the common room of a home. Tatami covered the floor, though the mats were of lower quality than the ones in the bakufu mansion. The paneled wooden walls did little to muffle the chopping and clattering from the adjacent kitchen.
A woman knelt by the hearth. She wore a blue kimono and orange obi, and Hiro placed her age at almost twenty. She had an unusual face, the features attractive individually but mismatched as a whole. Full lips overwhelmed her almond eyes and her hair, though glossy, was far too unruly for beauty.
She saw Akira and bowed her face to the mat. As she straightened, she noticed Father Mateo. She smiled and clasped her hands in supplication.
“Do not stare!” Akira ordered.
“I apologize.” She ducked her chin and looked at the floor.
“These men have questions about Ashikaga-san’s murder,” Akira said. “They want to hear about how you discovered the body.”
The woman nodded. Her nose turned red. Pink blotches appeared on her cheeks.
Hiro knew Father Mateo could persuade the girl to speak, but only if Akira left the room. Few maids had the courage to speak in front of highly ranked samurai, and the girl’s initial reaction wasn’t encouraging.
Hiro bowed to Akira. “Miyoshi-san, may I beg a favor? I have heard that the bakufu keeps detailed records of visitors. Could you obtain a list of the people who entered the shogunate yesterday?”
“Every one?” Akira asked.
“Every one who did not leave by
sunset,” Hiro said. “I regret the inconvenience, but we would be grateful if you obtained this information before we leave.”
Akira frowned.
“We understand if you cannot do it,” Father Mateo said. “Please let us know who else to ask.”
The Jesuit seemed unaware of the insult in his words. No samurai could accuse another of weakness or incompetence without consequence. Fortunately, in a foreigner’s mouth the comment seemed only an ignorant oversight.
Still, Hiro wondered whether Akira would take offense.
After a moment, the samurai nodded curtly. “I can obtain the information.”
Father Mateo bowed. “We are in your debt.”
“Do not leave this room until I return.” Akira turned on his heel and left the building.
As Hiro hoped, the maid relaxed the moment Akira departed. She unfolded her hands and laid them in her lap. A quavering smile flickered over her face.
“May I offer you tea?” She raised her face to Father Mateo.
“No, thank you.” The Jesuit knelt opposite the maid. “May I ask your name?”
Hiro noted with approval that Father Mateo did not introduce himself. No samurai would offer his name to a woman of lesser rank. Few enough would bother to ask a servant’s name at all, though Hiro knew the Jesuit always would.
“I am called Jun,” she said.
“You serve the shogun?” Father Mateo asked.
“I am a maid at the shogunate.” Her gaze fell to the floor. “I have never seen the shogun. This is because I am not beautiful. My father says I look more like the pit than the peach.”
“Yet when the peach falls away the pit remains constant,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro doubted any woman would fall for such awkward and obvious flattery, but Jun blushed and covered her smile with her hands.
“My translator and I are trying to learn who killed Ashikaga Saburo,” Father Mateo said. “We would appreciate any help you can give us.”
Jun’s eyes widened. She shook her head. “I didn’t see the murder. I don’t know.”
She bit her lip.
