A few minutes later the guard returned. “Magistrate Ishimaki will see you at once. Follow me.”
Hiro and Father Mateo followed the guard across the graveled court toward the wooden building that dominated the yard. Wide-spreading eaves overhung the weathered veranda. Slatted covers barred the windows, allowing the passage of air but forbidding light, and a pair of dark stone lanterns flanked the doorway like tusks beside a gaping mouth.
The guard led them through the entrance and into a wood-paneled room with a pit of white sand at the center. Behind the pit sat a wooden desk on an elevated platform. Even seated, the magistrate would look down on everyone in the room. Charcoal braziers and oil lamps provided a flickering light that dispelled the darkness but filled the room with a gentle haze of smoke.
“What’s the sand for?” Father Mateo whispered.
The guard had left, but the dark, low-ceilinged room inspired respect.
“It represents justice and purity,” Hiro said. “The accused kneels there while awaiting the magistrate’s judgment. Don’t stand in it.”
“Won’t we have to?”
“We’re here as informants, not supplicants.”
A door to their left slid back with a soft rustle as the magistrate entered the room. His black kimono blended with the shadows, but his hair and forehead glowed pale in the dim light. For a moment he looked like a ghostly head floating through the room.
His shape took on definition as he climbed the stairs to his desk. Once seated, he looked at the visitors. His snowy eyebrows raised at the foreign priest, though not enough for real surprise. The guard must have warned him about the Portuguese.
Hiro bowed. Father Mateo followed.
“I am Matsui Hiro,” Hiro said, “translator and scribe for Father Mateo Ávila de Santos of Portugal. Thank you for meeting with us in private.”
The magistrate nodded slowly. “A
yoriki
has been murdered? May I ask his name?”
“Akechi.” Hiro paused, suddenly aware that he didn’t know the dead man’s given name.
“Nobuhide?” The magistrate’s expression did not change. “A pity, though murder is not unheard of in Pontocho. May I ask the circumstances of his death and why a foreigner is involved?”
“Not Nobuhide,” Hiro said. “His father. Akechi-san was killed last night in a teahouse across the river from Pontocho.”
The magistrate leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk. “Akechi Hideyoshi was not a
yoriki
. He was a general, retired from the shogun’s army.” His forehead wrinkled with concern. “You say he was murdered? In a teahouse?”
Hiro suddenly wished they had not come. This wasn’t turning out as he expected.
“How is the foreigner involved?” the magistrate asked.
“He is not involved,” Hiro said. “He is merely the spiritual counselor of the accused, an entertainer named Sayuri.”
“Of the Sakura Teahouse?”
Hiro struggled to hide his surprise. “You know her?”
The magistrate nodded. His white pigtail bobbed gently atop his head. “I am familiar with the house, though not personally acquainted with the girl. The priest is her counselor, you say?”
“Yes, she has accepted the foreign god.” There was no harm in speaking. The damage was done. “She sent for him this morning after the crime. Nobuhide arrived a few minutes after we did. He wanted to execute the girl at once, but Father Mateo intervened.”
The magistrate raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked intently at the priest. “Why would he do that?”
“His religion grants the accused an opportunity to exonerate herself. As an adherent, Sayuri has this right. In addition, the followers of the foreign god treat one another as siblings. Father Mateo considers Sayuri his sister, and on that basis he asked Nobuhide to give her a chance to prove her innocence.”
“Really?” The magistrate leaned forward. “Fascinating. I would like to hear more. Does he speak Japanese?”
“A little,” Hiro said. “Not well.”
The magistrate leaned back again. “A pity. I would have liked to discuss this law with him in depth.” He folded his hands on his desk. “I take it Nobuhide did not appreciate the finer points of foreign religious laws.”
“Not exactly,” Hiro agreed. The magistrate’s joke suggested a possible ally. “He granted the request, but intends to hold Father Mateo responsible if Sayuri cannot prove her innocence. He threatened to execute them both in two days’ time.”
The magistrate raised a hand and rubbed his chin. “Most unfortunate indeed. I assume you came to ask me to intervene.”
Hiro nodded.
“I’m afraid there is nothing I can do. Had the murder occurred within Pontocho, I could order Nobuhide not to touch the foreign priest, but the Sakura Teahouse lies outside his jurisdiction. His authority there stems from his status as Hideyoshi’s son. I cannot control his actions in that capacity, and, as you know, the law permits a samurai to avenge his father’s death.”
“I also know that the death of a foreign priest could complicate the shogun’s relations with the Portuguese,” Hiro said.
The magistrate nodded. “I will speak with Nobuhide and see what I can do.”
“You can do nothing.”
Hiro spun around with his hand on his sword, chastising himself for letting down his guard. Nobuhide stood by the supplicants’ entrance, face and forehead red with ill-contained rage. He bowed perfunctorily to the magistrate.
“I have the legal right to avenge my father.” Nobuhide pointed at Father Mateo. “This man inserted himself into a private matter. He chose to assist the woman. For all I know, he helped her commit the crime.”
“Ridiculous,” Hiro snorted. “He was at home all night. I was there.”
“He could have helped her plan, or given her the weapon,” Nobuhide said. “Doesn’t the other Portuguese sell firearms?”
“Enough!” The magistrate thumped his hands on his desk.
He looked at each man in turn. His hand crept back to his chin, and he rubbed it as he thought his way through the problem. The gesture suggested uncertainty, but when the magistrate spoke his voice conveyed both confidence and regret. “If you cannot prove the girl innocent within the allotted time, I cannot stop Nobuhide from taking vengeance.”
He shifted his gaze to the young samurai. “But I can require you to cooperate with their investigation. You may not interfere with their efforts in any way.
“Have I made myself clear?”
Nobuhide scowled but bowed in assent. As he turned to leave, he pointed at Hiro and said, “Sakura Teahouse, noon, two days from now. Make sure the priest is there.”
He stalked from the room, feet thumping the wooden floor.
“I wish I could do more,” the magistrate told Hiro. “Justice is in your hands now.”
Chapter 6
As they left the magistrate’s compound, Hiro asked Father Mateo, “Have you got a plan?”
“A plan?”
“Yes, to find the killer.”
The Jesuit ran his hand through his hair. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”
“I didn’t think so,” Hiro said. “You should leave Kyoto. Nobuhide cannot kill what he cannot find.”
“Run away? I have to help Sayuri prove her innocence.”
“Assuming she is innocent,” Hiro said, “which is far from certain. The bloody footprints in the room were a perfect match to her tiny feet.”
“She might have walked in blood by mistake.”
Hiro gave the priest a disbelieving look. No one should take trust and forgiveness that far.
“How many Japanese willfully touch defiling blood?” Hiro asked. “If Sayuri didn’t commit the murder she is certainly an accomplice.”
They turned left past the police compound and followed Shij
ō
Road back toward the river. A gentle breeze fluttered the indigo
noren
in the doorways, indicating the shops had opened for business. Meaty scents wafted across the road, and Hiro’s mouth watered at the thought of fresh stuffed buns. He looked for the bun shop but didn’t see it.
“Sayuri couldn’t kill a man,” Father Mateo said. “She’s just a girl.”
The words brought Hiro back from his hungry reverie. “Japanese women are stronger than they seem, and entertainers are trained to feign innocence.”
“But Sayuri is a Christian.”
“She’s also a liar.”
“I don’t like you saying that, even if you think it’s true.”
“Almost everything she told us was a lie,” Hiro persisted, “and the way she looked at Mayuri suggests they both know what really happened. They’re covering something up.”
“Impossible,” Father Mateo said. “You have no proof of that.”
“But I do. Someone moved the body shortly after the crime. Given the bloodstained kimono, I’m guessing it was Sayuri.”
“Why would she do that?” the priest asked. “And even so, moving him doesn’t mean she killed him. She could have moved him this morning when she woke up and discovered him dead.”
“The evidence says otherwise.” Hiro made a sweeping gesture. “Neck wounds spray blood everywhere. You saw the droplets on the wall and on the floor.
“Hideyoshi was facing the tokonoma when someone attacked him from behind. The drops all sprayed in the same direction, which means he didn’t fight. He probably didn’t have time. Blood spattered the wall and pooled on the floor in front of the alcove, but there were only minor bloodstains on the futon, the kind that happen when blood has ceased to flow actively through the veins.
“Had Sayuri moved him hours after death, as her story implies, there would have been no blood on the futon at all.”
“Maybe the killer moved him after the attack.”
“Why would a killer do that?” Hiro waited, but the priest didn’t answer. “A killer who rips out throats and gouges eyes doesn’t stop to arrange the victim on a futon.”
“Unless he wanted to throw suspicion on Sayuri,” Father Mateo said.
“Did he smear blood on her kimono while she slept?” Hiro shook his head. “If you want to discover who killed the samurai, you have to stop accepting lies as truth.”
“But how will we find the truth? If we can’t trust Sayuri, who can we trust?”
“Trust the evidence,” Hiro said. “Facts don’t lie, and when people do, their stories still lead to the truth eventually. Follow a lie far enough and you will reach a fact.
“We know where and when the killer struck, but why that time and place? Why did someone want Hideyoshi dead? If we can answer those questions I think we can find the killer, but you must understand, if Sayuri is guilty I will turn her over to Nobuhide and you must not interfere.”
“Agreed,” Father Mateo said, “but Sayuri is innocent. You will see.”
* * *
Four samurai stood guard outside the Sakura Teahouse, one at each of the garden gates and two more leaning against the stone dogs near the path. They wore baggy trousers and wide-shouldered surcoats, like Nobuhide’s but more cheaply made. All four wore swords and carried hooked
jitte
, which identified them as
d
ō
shin,
low-ranking policemen undoubtedly under Nobuhide’s command.
The dead man’s son had wasted no time putting his underlings on guard.
Hiro leaned toward Father Mateo as they approached. “Speak Portuguese if you have to speak at all.”
Three of the
d
ō
shin
had graying hair and the confident calm of experienced policemen. The fourth was no more than twenty, with the rounded face and slightly overweight build of a pampered son. His scraggly mustache, grown to show his manhood, had the opposite result.
The older
d
ō
shin
nodded as Hiro reached the walk. The younger man leaned back against his statue, withholding respect to reinforce his authority.
“What is your business here?” the young
d
ō
shin
demanded. “No one enters this house today.”
Father Mateo began to bow but Hiro stopped him with a look.
“Is the house under quarantine?” Hiro asked.
The older
d
ō
shin
glanced at his young companion, but the silent warning went unnoticed. The young man raised his
jitte
to block the path. The weapon shone like new, in sharp contrast to the
d
ō
shin
’s fraying sleeves and faded trousers.
“We are guarding this establishment. There has been a crime.”
Nobuhide must have told him not to mention murder.
“Precisely the reason for our visit,” Hiro said. “Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, of the Portuguese foreign mission, is investigating the death of Akechi Hideyoshi.”
The older
d
ō
shin
stepped back to clear the path, but the younger man stood up and blocked the way.