by Susan Spann
When he reached the house, he found Ana cleaning the blood from the veranda. She looked up as he approached. “Hm. Decided to come back?” She gestured toward the house. “Father Mateo needs your help.”
The Jesuit lay on his futon, wearing the same bloodstained kimono he had on the day before. Hiro silently reprimanded himself for not helping the priest change clothes. In a Japanese home that task would have fallen to the housekeeper, but Hiro had forgotten the Jesuit wouldn’t allow a woman to see him naked.
Father Mateo forced a smile as Hiro entered the room. “I’m glad you’re back. I’m afraid the wounds are festering.”
The shinobi inhaled deeply, seeking the scent of infection. He smelled only medicinal herbs and sweet green tea, with a familiar opiate undertone that made him think of the corpse in the shogun’s stable.
Light footsteps approached behind him.
“Ana,” he said without turning, “I need hot salted water, clean bandages, and my medicine chest.”
The maid’s kimono rustled as Ana departed on nearly silent feet. The needs of her beloved priest would silence even Ana’s ascerbic tongue.
Hiro knelt beside Father Mateo and inspected the gash on the Jesuit’s neck. Father Mateo angled his head away, but the gesture stretched his skin and cracked the delicate scabs that covered the wound on his throat. A drop of blood welled up at the edge of the scab. Father Mateo winced, and the bloody droplet trickled down his neck.
“Don’t stretch it,” Hiro said. “You’ll reopen the wound.”
“I think I already did,” Father Mateo muttered as he faced the ceiling.
Hiro noted the healthy color of the skin around the scabs. “At least there’s no infection in your neck. If you keep it from bleeding too much more, it might even heal without a scar.” He smiled. “On the other hand, many women find scars attractive.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Father Mateo closed his eyes. “I’m more worried about my hands. Even with your tea, they hurt more than I think they should.”
Hiro removed the bandages from Father Mateo’s left hand, which had swollen to almost twice its normal size. The bite marks looked more inflamed than the day before, but Hiro saw no pus. Pale, soft tissue covered the wounds. Hiro’s herbs and lack of air had kept the scabs from hardening, but the tissue itself looked normal on the surface.
Father Mateo opened his eyes. “Infected?”
Hiro shook his head. “Not yet.”
He unwrapped the priest’s right hand. It seemed less swollen than the left, but the flesh around the punctures felt unusually hot to Hiro’s touch.
Father Mateo exhaled slowly. “That looks better than the other. Maybe there’s no infection after all.”
Hiro considered a reassuring falsehood, but remembered his promise not to lie to the priest. “This one concerns me. I need to remove the scabs and clean beneath them. It’s going to hurt, but it’s our only hope to prevent infection.”
“Pain won’t kill me,” Father Mateo said. “Infection might. Do what you can to prevent it.”
Chapter 40
When Ana brought the water and other items, Hiro opened the medicine chest and removed the twist of paper that held the opium.
Father Mateo shook his head. “No more of that.”
“It helps your pain,” Hiro said.
“I can handle pain. The relief is not worth the risk.”
Hiro raised the twist of paper. “You know this drug?”
“I stopped in Macao on my way to Japan.” Father Mateo glanced at the twist of paper. “I’ve seen what opium does to men. I would rather have pain than permanent hunger.”
Hiro put the paper away and selected a pair of envelopes. He held them up for the priest to see. “Powdered willow and horse chestnut. Not as effective, but neither causes a lasting need.”
He handed the envelopes to Ana. “Use a pinch of each in a pot of tea, with sugar to cover the bitterness. Keep the envelopes. He’ll need them for several days, but he shouldn’t have it more often than every four hours.”
Ana nodded and left the room.
Hiro added an antiseptic to the water and swirled the end of a cloth in the steaming brine. As he hoped, the water felt almost too hot to touch.
As Hiro lowered the cloth to the wounds, Father Mateo shut his eyes and clenched his jaw in anticipation of pain. The shinobi admired the Jesuit’s strength.
Hiro inhaled the steam that rose from the cloth as he held it against the priest’s right hand. He smelled only salt and medicine, with a metallic undertone the shinobi recognized as a combination of softening scabs and blood.
He inhaled again, seeking the slightly sweet odor that indicated putrefaction. He didn’t find it. If an infection had started, it hadn’t yet found a foothold.
Hiro held the cloth to the wound until the pale scabs had softened enough to wipe away without tearing the skin around them. Father Mateo flinched but didn’t complain.
The reddened flesh beneath the scabs looked swollen but not infected. The shinobi dipped a fresh cloth in the water and pressed the dampened silk against the wounds. Father Mateo’s breathing grew measured and even.
Hiro watched for a moment or two, surprised the Jesuit knew about breathing techniques to master pain. He finished cleaning Father Mateo’s wounds and used the remaining silk for bandages.
Father Mateo opened his eyes as Hiro tucked the final strip into place.
“Have you found Ashikaga Saburo’s killer?” the Jesuit asked. “I wish I could help instead of just lying here.”
“I could use your help,” Hiro said. “I think the murderer has killed again.”
“What?” Father Mateo tried to sit up, but since he had no use of his hands the effort became a useless wiggle. “What’s happened?”
Hiro folded a quilt across a wooden back rest and helped the Jesuit into a sitting position. As he did, he explained about the “suicide” at the shogunate and briefly detailed his talks with Ozuru and Jun.
Father Mateo gave Hiro a grateful look. “Thank you. It’s nice to sit up.” He frowned. “Since Den is dead, he can’t confirm what he saw the night of the murder. That’s suspicious and does make his death look more like murder than suicide. Besides, if Den intended to kill himself he wouldn’t have poisoned the tea.”
Hiro hadn’t considered that, and the oversight surprised him.
“Assuming for the moment that Masao really drank it,” Father Mateo continued. “Do we know who made the tea?”
“Jun delivered it to the stable,” Hiro said.
“Lending credence to Lady Netsuko’s suspicions.” Father Mateo smiled at Hiro’s surprise. “Paper walls and open rafters aren’t the best for privacy. I heard part of yesterday’s conversation before I fell asleep.”
“But how would a maid obtain opium?” Hiro asked. “It isn’t well-known as a poison.”
“Any apothecary would know its properties,” Father Mateo said, “and if he knows, his customer doesn’t have to. The bigger question, for me, is whether the girl is strong enough to hang a body. From what I’ve seen, I doubt it.”
“Which means she carried the poison for someone else,” Hiro said. “But who? And who wrote the murder confession?”
“I know you doubt Masao as a suspect, but he has the strength to hang a body and could have poisoned the tea without Den knowing. We have only his word that he drank it, and he lied to us before.”
“Masao is Den’s uncle,” Hiro said. “His grief was real.”
“I’d like to think that changes things,” Father Mateo said, “but if Masao was involved in Saburo’s plot—or even trying to stop it—he might have needed someone to take the blame.”
The Jesuit’s eyes widened. “What if Saburo did recruit Den to his plot? Masao could have killed them both in order to save the shogun.”
“Possible,” Hiro said, “but complicated, particularly when we’re not even sure what the plot entailed. I’d rather eliminate easier answers first.”
“Like jealousy over a woman?” the Jesuit asked.
“Exactly.”
“There’s also the question of which woman.” Father Mateo shifted his hands in his lap. “Jun and Netsuko accuse each other, and each one’s story has elements of truth.”
“No one saw Netsuko at the shogunate the night her husband died,” Hiro said. “That and the poisoned tea shift suspicion to Jun. Also, the maid has lied to us, and from what I can tell Netsuko has not.”
“Do we know that for certain?” Father Mateo asked. “What if Saburo did intend to divorce his wife and marry Jun, and Netsuko learned the truth? She could have promised Den a reward for killing her husband before he could follow through.”
“That doesn’t explain why Den was murdered,” Hiro said.
“You’re assuming the two are connected.”
“The evidence connects them,” Hiro countered, “and I don’t believe Netsuko murdered Den.”
“Jun isn’t strong enough to hang a body,” Father Mateo said. “If a woman was involved, she was working with someone else.”
“I need to talk with Netsuko again,” Hiro said.
“I’d like to come with you.”
Hiro smiled. “You need to give those wounds more time to heal.”
“Eliminating the women for a moment, who else is still a suspect aside from Masao?”
“For a while, I suspected Hisahide.” Hiro explained about the ledger, concluding with Kazu’s admission that the shogun had made the changes. “So now the leading suspects are Ozuru and Masao.”
“There’s still one you haven’t mentioned,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro knew what the priest was going to say and wished he didn’t agree with the Jesuit’s judgment.
Chapter 41
Hiro didn’t wait for Father Mateo to say the name. “You mean Kazu.”
“I’m sorry,” Father Mateo said. “I know he’s your friend.”
“He is,” Hiro said, “and for his sake I hope he’s told the truth.”
Ana returned, teapot in hand. As she knelt to pour the Jesuit’s tea, Hiro caught a whiff of ichibancha. The grassy odor almost hid the bitter scent of powdered willow. Hiro hoped the expensive tea would suffice to mask the medicine’s bite, since he caught no hint of the recommended sweetener.
The medicinal odor grew stronger as Ana poured the steaming liquid into an egg-sized porcelain cup.
Father Mateo frowned. “Ana, it’s wrong to steal—even from Luis. That’s his tea.”
“Hm.” Ana raised the cup to the Jesuit’s lips. “He didn’t refuse permission.”
Hiro decided not to mention that lack of refusal wasn’t exactly permission.
Father Mateo sipped the tea. He scowled. “That tastes terrible.”
Ana’s eyes widened. She picked up the teapot and hurried from the room.
“She forgot the sugar,” Hiro chuckled.
“Not funny,” Father Mateo said. “It tasted foul.”
Hiro smothered a laugh.
Ana hurried back into the room, carrying a tray of sweetened rice balls. “This will take the bitterness away.”
Hiro reached for the tray but Ana pulled the treats out of reach. “Hm. None for you. You laughed.”
She laid the plate on the floor beside the Jesuit. “I’ll bring more tea as soon as the water boils. You won’t have to drink it tepid for my mistake.” She glared at Hiro and left the room.
The shinobi shrugged. “I think I’ll send a message to Lady Netsuko.”
“Will she see you?” Father Mateo maneuvered a rice ball toward his mouth. His bandaged hands made the process awkward. “You said Hisahide dismissed the investigation.”
“Netsuko seemed fairly certain that Jun was involved in Saburo’s murder,” Hiro said. “If she doesn’t accept that Den acted alone, I think she’ll welcome my visit.”
“And if she accepts Hisahide’s determination?” Father Mateo asked.
“As long as Netsuko believes I’m implicating Jun, I think she’ll see me.”
Hiro returned to his room and wrote a brief letter to Lady Ashikaga. He revised it twice before settling on a final version and setting the words to parchment. When it was finished and dry, he paid the neighbor’s son a copper coin to deliver the message.
While he waited for her response, the shinobi sat down to review the evidence.
Saburo’s letter suggested a plot against the shogun, as did Den’s confession. The altered ledger indicated the shogun suspected something, though Hiro couldn’t determine whether the guards were changed due to knowledge or merely caution. Unfortunately, he also didn’t know if the shogun had really changed the names or if Kazu lied about that too.
He wished he knew who Kazu was protecting.
Hiro had barely finished the thought when he fell asleep.
Two nights without rest had finally taken their toll.
* * *
A knock woke Hiro from sleep. He raised his head from the desk and wiped a tendril of drool from his lip. He stood and straightened his kimono. Lady Ashikaga must have answered his message in person.
A moment later, he heard the front door open and then the mumur of Ana’s formal greeting.
He crossed his room and opened the door just in time to hear Ashikaga Ichiro tell the housekeeper, “I have come to speak with Matsui Hiro.”
Hiro stepped into the common room and bowed as Ana led Ichiro into the house.
Ichiro returned the bow with a deep one of his own, suggesting he viewed the shinobi as an equal. Given the boy’s affiliation with the shogun’s clan, Hiro found the respect surprising.
“Please have a seat.” Hiro gestured to the hearth.
Ana bowed and left for the kitchen, doubtless intending to raid Luis’s private stash of ichibancha for the third time in less than a day.
Ichiro looked at the hearth but shook his head. “Will you take a walk with me?”
Hiro hid his surprise at the adult phrasing. Whatever the boy intended to say, he wanted to say it where nobody else could hear.
“If you please?” Ichiro asked. “It isn’t raining at the moment. Not much, anyway.”
“I don’t mind a little rain.” Hiro gestured toward the door and followed Ichiro back through the entry and out of the house.
The shinobi stepped off the porch and into his sandals. Ichiro did the same, and they walked together down the gravel path toward the road. Hiro listened for the neighbor’s dog but heard nothing. The wife must have recovered enough for her husband to return to work.
Hiro and Ichiro walked up Marutamachi Road toward the river. Clouds covered the sky, though here and there a wisp of blue peeked through, as if the storm could not decide between staying and moving on.
Hiro said nothing. Ichiro would speak when he was ready.
As they passed Okazaki Shrine the cloying odor of sandalwood incense rose from the braziers on either side of the gate, overwhelming the piny scent of surrounding trees.
Hiro stifled a cough.
“You don’t like incense.” Ichiro smiled. “I don’t either.” His smile disappeared. “My mother does. She burns it all the time, in the hope the kami will smell it and grant her prayers.”
“What does your mother pray for?” Hiro asked.
“The same thing as always: my father. Only now she prays for his soul.”
When they reached the river Ichiro turned onto the path that followed the eastern bank. Hiro matched the young samurai’s pace without comment.
As they left the bridge behind Ichiro said, “Matsunaga Hisahide says that Den, the stable boy, killed my father and that he acted alone. Do you believe this?”
“Do you believe it?” Hiro asked.
“I saw your message. Why do you want to meet with my mother?”
“She asked me to keep her informed,” Hiro said, deciding not to continue the question-for-question exchange.
“I don’t believe you.” Ichiro stopped walking. “Samurai do not report to women. Besides, the investigati
on is over and you are discharged from your duties. Matsunaga-san’s message mentioned that also.”
“That is true,” Hiro said, “but I didn’t know that Matsunaga-san sent word to your family. I intended to tell your mother that the investigation has been canceled.”
“You lie.” Despite his diminutive stature, Ichiro looked every inch a samurai. “Do not patronize me because I am young. I am still my father’s heir.”
He paused. “Unless my father’s mistress has borne another.”
“Not that I know of.” That much, at least, was true.
“But you know my father had a mistress.” Ichiro searched the shinobi’s face. Hiro wondered what the boy hoped to find there.
Hiro raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer.
“My mother knew,” Ichiro said. “She told me only after my father died. The mistress’s name is Jun, and she is a maid at the shogunate. My mother says this woman killed my father.”
Hiro blinked. Before he decided what to say Ichiro continued, “But I don’t think Jun murdered my father. I think my mother killed him.”
Chapter 42
“Why do you suspect your mother?” Hiro asked.
“I don’t think she held the dagger,” Ichiro said, “but she dismissed her suspicion of Kazu too quickly, as if she knew that he was not to blame. She also didn’t believe that Den confessed to my father’s murder. She made Hisahide’s messenger repeat the message twice.
“Later, when I asked why she didn’t believe it, she refused to discuss the matter at all. That isn’t like her. I think she knows who killed my father.” Ichiro looked at the river. “But if she won’t admit it, doesn’t that mean she’s involved in the crime?”
Before Hiro could answer, hoofbeats pounded on the bridge behind them. The shinobi turned, surprised by the sound.
The rider wore a dark-blue tunic emblazoned with the Ashikaga mon. His stallion’s barding bore the shogun’s crest. The samurai leaned over his horse’s neck, urging the beast to maximum speed. Moments later, horse and rider disappeared down Marutamachi Road toward Okazaki Shrine—and the Jesuit’s home.
Hiro started toward the bridge.
“Where are you going?” Ichiro asked.
