Father Mateo looked up the street. “Are the dōshin arresting Ginjiro, the brewer? And did that monk say ‘murder’?”
Hiro nodded.
Father Mateo had met Ginjiro a couple of months before, while investigating a murder at the shogunate. Hiro knew the Jesuit would want to help the brewer, even though most Japanese would turn away. The priest cared more for justice than for etiquette.
Father Mateo switched to Portuguese. “We have to help him.”
Hiro appreciated the language shift. The noodle vendor didn’t need to hear this conversation.
“Not our business,” Hiro said, also in Portuguese, though he slipped his coin purse into his kimono as he spoke. He intended to help Ginjiro, too, but hoped an argument would cause the priest to show some caution. “The yoriki could arrest us for interfering.”
“That man is your friend,” Father Mateo said. “You cannot turn your back on his distress.”
“He owns a brewery I frequent,” Hiro said. “He’s not a friend.”
Father Mateo shook his head in disapproval. “Ginjiro helped when you needed him. I think that makes him more than just a brewer.”
The time had come to let the Jesuit win.
“Agreed,” Hiro said, “but let me lead. We cannot anger the yoriki.” He turned to the noodle vendor and switched back to Japanese. “Regrettably, we will not need noodles after all.”
Kenji bowed as Hiro and Father Mateo walked away.
The two men walked toward the brewery at the leisurely pace of samurai enjoying a morning stroll.
Ahead, the balding cleric shouted, “I am the murderer! Listen to me!”
The yoriki ignored the monk’s confession.
Hiro didn’t believe it either. The monk, whose name was Suke, spent his evenings drinking Ginjiro’s sake and mornings sleeping it off in the narrow alley beside the brewery. He might be guilty of vagrancy, but not of murder.
Suke turned to the dōshin who held Ginjiro. “I am a dangerous man!” the monk declared.
The wooden shutters covering the brewery storefront rattled open, revealing Ginjiro’s adult daughter, Tomiko, and a tiny, gray-haired woman that Hiro recognized as Ginjiro’s wife, though at the moment he could not recall her name.
The elderly woman squinted and blinked like an owl caught in sunlight. When she saw Ginjiro between the dōshin, she clutched at Tomiko’s sleeve and whispered something in her daughter’s ear.
Tomiko bent her head and whispered back. When the elderly woman released her sleeve, Tomiko bent down and set a pair of geta in the street. She stepped down into her sandals, approached the yoriki, and bowed, hands crossed before her body to show respect.
Hiro noted with approval that Tomiko did not tremble. Women rarely showed such courage when addressing the police.
Suke pushed himself between Tomiko and the yoriki.
“You fool!” the monk declared. “Are you deaf, or merely stupid?”
The yoriki turned away.
Suke drew a breath but let it out, the words unspoken, at the sight of Hiro and the priest.
“Hiro-san!” Suke ran toward them, long sleeves flapping like a pair of greasy wings. “He wants to arrest Ginjiro, but I’m the killer.”
The yoriki met Hiro’s eyes and shook his head.
Father Mateo approached and asked, “Has a murder been committed?”
Hiro wondered how the Jesuit always managed to ask the most obvious question possible.
Suke pointed to the narrow space between the brewery and the restaurant next door. “In the alley. He’s still lying where I killed him.”
The dōshin holding Ginjiro’s arms looked around, as if for instructions. The yoriki made a motion for them to wait.
“Good morning, Father.” The yoriki bowed.
Hiro wondered whether the yoriki knew that “Father” was a title or whether he omitted the suffix “-san” to slight the priest.
“Good morning.” The Jesuit returned the bow. “I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, and this is my interpreter, Matsui Hiro.”
The yoriki gave Hiro a cautious look. Father Mateo’s introduction didn’t mention the translator’s rank or province of origin, indicating Hiro was ronin, a masterless samurai forced to adopt a trade.
“What happened here?” Father Mateo asked in Japanese.
The yoriki looked at Hiro. “Please inform your master we do not require his aid.”
Hiro translated into Portuguese, mostly to delay the priest’s response. Father Mateo’s Japanese was better than his patience.
“We know this brewer,” Father Mateo said. “He’s not a killer.”
Hiro felt a rush of pride as the Jesuit made a Japanese-style gesture toward Ginjiro. The priest remembered that samurai considered pointing rude.
The yoriki scowled at Hiro. “Tell your master he is misinformed.”
“I am not misinformed,” Suke said, “and I already told you, Ginjiro is not the killer.”
“Shut up, old man,” the yoriki said in a voice that sounded more bored than angry. “Don’t make me arrest you for causing trouble.”
“Arrest me for causing a murder!” Suke shrieked.
The yoriki raised his hands in exasperation.
“Who was murdered?” Father Mateo asked. “I see no corpse.”
“No one important,” the yoriki said.
Father Mateo started toward the alley. “I want to see.”