“Mateo.” Luis’s face grew red. “You need to leave Kyoto now. Don’t martyr yourself for a prostitute.”
“I became a priest because I believe in the truth,” Father Mateo said. “I will not run away to save myself and abandon an innocent woman to die. I fear God’s judgment far more than any death.”
Hiro excused himself and returned to his room. The priest would not leave Kyoto until the facts freed Sayuri or condemned her, no matter what Luis said. But the merchant’s ledger reminded Hiro of the pages hidden in his sleeve, and he wanted to see what further clues they revealed.
Chapter 18
Hiro knelt before the writing alcove in the south wall of his room and slipped the burned pages from his sleeve. He laid them in a row on the low wooden desk. After studying them for a while he reached for the narrow box that sat at the far end of the desk.
The cedar box had several compartments. One held parchments, another ink sticks. A third held various papers, including the scrap Hiro retrieved from Mayuri’s kimono. He removed the paper from the box and added it to the others.
The pages looked identical in thickness, but accounting books all looked similar and the scorch marks made it impossible to tell for sure.
Father Mateo entered the room and knelt beside Hiro.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would one page be ripped and others burned?”
“She might have tried to rip out the incriminating pages and then realized torn ledgers looked suspicious.”
“It is a ledger, then?”
“Several of them.” Hiro explained what he had seen in the fire room.
“But what was Mayuri trying to hide?” Father Mateo asked. A few seconds later his mouth fell open in surprise. “Do you think she’s using one brother’s death to defraud the other?”
“What?” Hiro pulled his gaze from the scraps. “What are you talking about?”
“Won’t Mayuri have to give Hidetaro’s money back if Sayuri is executed? But if there’s no record of the payments…”
“That’s not a bad theory,” Hiro said, “although, if you’re right, Hidetaro has known Sayuri longer than either of them admits.
“Businesses start a new ledger every year on New Year’s Day. Whatever Mayuri is trying to hide goes back at least three years.”
“And Sayuri only had her debut this spring,” Father Mateo said.
“Exactly,” Hiro said. He continued, thinking aloud. “An apprentice spends at least four years in training, so it’s possible Hidetaro saw Sayuri before her debut. I didn’t think to ask if Hideyoshi visited another girl before Sayuri caught his eye.”
Father Mateo picked up one of the burned pages. He examined both sides and handed it to Hiro. “Do you see anything useful? I don’t recognize anything but numbers.”
Impeccable calligraphy ran down both sides of the paper in straight vertical lines. Fire and ash rendered most of the figures illegible, but Hiro could tell the numbers were high. That didn’t surprise him. Cedar floors and fancy kimonos weren’t cheap.
Most ledger pages had headings at the top of every column, but the top and sides of the page in question had perished in the fire. The others looked the same.
Hiro laid the scrap on the desk. “It’s too badly burned. Without the headings I can’t tell whose accounts the columns contain, or even what the numbers stand for. It was a slim chance anyway. Accounts alone won’t explain what Mayuri is hiding.”
Father Mateo pointed at the unburned page. “Now that we know it’s a ledger, can you tell anything from that one?”
Hiro picked up the original jagged scrap. It had come from the top of a page and contained one intact column heading and part of a column on either side.
“The center column has a name.” Hiro pointed. “Tanaka Ichiro.”
“Do you know him?”
Hiro cocked an eyebrow at the priest. “Tanaka is a popular clan name in Kyoto, and Ichiro means ‘first son.’ We could find a thousand men in Kyoto by that name.
“More importantly,” he continued, “only nobles have two names, and the Bushido code disapproves of samurai patronizing teahouses. Even if we found the right Tanaka Ichiro, he won’t admit it.”
The priest looked disappointed.
“It wouldn’t help anyway,” Hiro continued. “We can’t track down every visitor to the Sakura in the hope that someone will know what Mayuri might want to hide. Her secret might not relate to the murder at all. The opposite seems more likely—this was just a convenient excuse to cover up an embarrassment.”
“Or another crime,” Father Mateo said. “Can you read any more of the page?”
Hiro looked at the scrap. “The numbers don’t start at zero, which suggests a running tally. The figures are large, but that’s hardly unexpected.” He squinted at the torn column to the right of Ichiro’s name. “The next column heading might say ‘Akechi,’ but it’s ripped in the middle and the given name is missing.”
“Then it could be either Hideyoshi or Hidetaro.”
“Or someone else entirely. We can’t tell without a given name.”
“Could Hidetaro have killed his brother to ruin the teahouse’s reputation and lower Sayuri’s price?”
Hiro looked up, impressed. “For a priest, you think of some intricate schemes.”
“I was a man before I was a priest, and the Bible describes some very ingenuous sinners. It might even teach you a thing or two, if you read it.”
As usual, Hiro ignored the invitation. “Hidetaro wouldn’t kill his brother in the teahouse.” He turned the ripped page over in his fingers while he thought. “Too much chance Sayuri would take the blame.”
“Was it a shinobi after all?”
Hiro set the scrap on the desk. “Perhaps a hired killer. Not a shinobi or
kunoichi
—at least, not an experienced one.”
“Why not?”
“The wounds. Hideyoshi’s throat was slashed from behind, which suggests an assassin, but the execution showed a remarkable lack of skill. His throat looked ripped as well as cut, so the killer was strong—probably a man, though a woman might have done it. No one creates that many wounds with a knife, which means
neko-te,
but the jagged cuts indicate an inexperienced user.”
Hiro raised his hand and hooked his fingers in imitation of claws. “
Kunoichi
use
neko-te
to stab or cut, but rarely both at once.” He pantomimed stabbing himself in the heart and then slitting his own throat. “It takes too much time. A professional would have known that.”
“Maybe the killer wanted to be sure he was dead?”
“Again, a sign of a novice,” Hiro said. “The stab wounds barely bled, which means Hideyoshi was already dead or so close that it made no difference.”
“How do you know all this?” A hint of suspicion crept into the Jesuit’s voice.
“I’ll show you.” Hiro stood up and positioned himself behind the priest. “You’re Hideyoshi, kneeling on the floor in front of the alcove.”
Father Mateo twisted around with a concerned frown on his face. “Wait a minute.”
Hiro pointed at the desk. “Trust me. Look there.”
He waited until the priest complied.
“Now,” Hiro continued, “while you’re looking at a mediocre flower arrangement—which probably looks slightly better because you’re drunk—the killer sneaks up behind you and slashes your throat with
neko-te
.”
Hiro’s right hand hovered over the Jesuit’s hair while his left snaked around the priest’s neck and then pulled away with violent speed. Father Mateo jerked backward, startled, though the shinobi had not touched him.
“Your blood spurts out on the wall as the killer attacks again,” Hiro pantomimed a second, slower cut across the priest’s throat, “and again. That’s when the ripping happens. The blades get stuck in the grooves from previous cuts. One blade also comes loose.”
“How?” Father Mateo asked. “Weren’t they sewn into the finger cuffs?”
“Yes, but it’s hard to sew a blade into leather securely. That’s why the weapon is normally used to stab instead of slice. The blade must have caught on Hideyoshi’s collarbone or in the sinews of his neck. Either way, it came loose during the attack.”
Hiro put his hands on the priest’s shoulders. “Back to the killing.
“You slump forward, nearing death, but the killer doesn’t leave as a shinobi or
kunoichi
would have. He, or she, pulls you onto your back to finish the job.”
Father Mateo let Hiro lower him backward to the floor. The shinobi extended his fingers, still hooked like claws. “The killer stabs you in the eyes and then in the chest, where the loosened blade pulls free. An experienced assassin would have noticed and removed it from the scene, but this killer leaves it behind.”
“So that’s why you didn’t suspect a shinobi.” Father Mateo pushed himself back to a kneeling position.
Hiro nodded. “Also, shinobi and
kunoichi
rarely stab a victim in the eyes. Defiling the dead invites retribution on the assassin’s clan.”
Father Mateo looked surprised. “Divine retribution? I thought you didn’t believe in superstition.”
“Not all retribution is divine.”
“A shinobi would never defile a corpse?”
“A professional will do anything if the price is right,” Hiro said, “but shinobi or not, the person responsible for the killing must have hated Hideyoshi.”
“Or hated the look of his dead eyes,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro turned to the priest in surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that, but I think you’re right. Shinobi are trained not to mind a dead man’s eyes, but it does take training and fortitude. I didn’t like it the first time I saw it myself.
“If this wasn’t a professional with orders to desecrate, our killer is probably someone who’s never seen a freshly slaughtered corpse.”
Chapter 19
Hiro looked back at the papers, trying to decide what Mayuri would want to hide. As he stared at the scraps and wished for an answer, a tiny black and orange paw slipped over the side of the desk and edged toward the ledger pages.
Hiro looked under the desk. The tiny kitten sat at the edge of the alcove, ears flattened and foreleg fully extended as if reaching for the papers. She froze when Hiro’s face appeared, then whipped her paw away and dashed from the room.
Hiro shook his head. “So much for spiders.”
“I don’t think Sayuri could have done it,” Father Mateo said, too absorbed in the problem to notice the kitten’s antics. “She’s far too gentle to stab a man in the eyes. Besides, she’s become a Christian.”
“I’ve heard you talk about the heroes of your Bible, your David and Joshua and the rest. Your Scriptures prove that accepting your faith doesn’t stop a person from killing.” Before the priest could reply Hiro continued. “However, Sayuri would have to be much stronger than she looks to overpower a samurai from behind.”
Father Mateo took a deep breath and released it with nearly the force of a sigh. “Then you finally agree she’s innocent.”
“I agree she may not have held the
neko-te,
” Hiro corrected. “I won’t go as far as innocence.”
Father Mateo scratched his nose and then shook his head. “I can’t believe you really train women as assassins.”
“Why does it surprise you?” Hiro asked. “Women are far more vicious than men.”
“I just can’t imagine a woman sneaking around with a dagger in her hand.”
“
Kunoichi
don’t sneak. They pose as priestesses, or prostitutes … or entertainers. I’m not convinced this was a
kunoichi,
though, or even a woman. We can’t make any assumptions. Only facts provide answers.”
Hiro cast a glance at the sliding door in the western wall, which led to the porch and yard. The panels glowed crimson with the light of the setting sun.
He stood up and straightened his kimono. “I think I’ll go have a drink.”
Father Mateo hid a frown. “Sake?”
“Did you think I gave it up?”
The Jesuit’s shrug indicated yes.
“Ana dumping the last flask in the koi pond cured me of bringing it home,” Hiro said, “but you should both give up the idea that I will stop drinking it elsewhere. Don’t men drink together in Portugal?”
“There are other things to drink.”
“True enough,” Hiro said, “but there’s one problem with all of them. They are not sake.”
Father Mateo accompanied the shinobi to the door.
Hiro started toward the road, turned back, and asked, “Do you want to come along? I promise to drink enough that Ginjiro won’t mind if you don’t indulge.”
“No thank you.” Father Mateo’s lip twitched. “I have a prayer meeting tonight.”
Hiro concealed his amusement behind a nod. The Jesuit wouldn’t have fooled a five-year-old, let alone a shinobi trained to read men’s faces. Still, he respected the effort. The priest was trying to act like a samurai and a friend.
As he walked toward the river he imagined how surprised the priest would be if he ever learned that Hiro hated sake. The brewery, and Hiro’s drinking, served a very different purpose.