Father Mateo frowned. “You told the dōshin you stayed home all night. You let me confirm a lie.”
Hiro shrugged. “I stepped out during your prayer meeting, had one flask of sake, and returned. After that, I did stay home all night.”
“So you heard Chikao and Ginjiro argue?” the Jesuit asked.
Hiro found it surprising that the priest had not said more about the lie. Father Mateo’s love of truth, and Hiro’s selective honesty, had caused the two men problems more than once.
“I heard the argument start,” Hiro said. “Something about an unpaid bill and Ginjiro’s support of Chikao’s petition to join the brewers’ guild. After that, they went into the alley, along with a third man, likely Chikao’s son.”
“The alley?” Father Mateo asked. “The one where Chikao died?”
“Yes,” Hiro said, “but they all came out again a short while later. Ginjiro returned to the brewery. The others went down the street.”
“The bill belongs to Kaoru—Chikao’s son,” Tomiko said. “He owes us money and hasn’t paid.”
She paused, as if debating whether she should speak her mind. At last she said, “Forgive me this request. I know you’ve solved other murders … helped the families. You owe us nothing, but I have no one else to ask…”
She trailed off with a distant look in her eyes, as if remembering someone else—someone she might have asked under different circumstances. Hiro suspected she thought of Kazu, Hiro’s clansman and former drinking companion. Tomiko didn’t know that either man was a shinobi. Like everyone else, she believed that Hiro was only an interpreter and Kazu merely a clerk at the shogunate. Also, like everyone else of her gender, Tomiko had fallen for Kazu, despite the fact that she was an artisan’s daughter and could never marry a samurai.
Hiro wondered how much Ginjiro’s daughter knew about the recent shogunate murder and Kazu’s subsequent disappearance from Kyoto.
He would never ask.
Father Mateo took Tomiko’s silence as a question. “We will investigate this murder, too.”
“However, you must understand,” Hiro said, “if your father killed Chikao, our investigation will condemn him.”
“It will not.” Tomiko straightened. “You will prove his innocence. I know it.”
The noren that separated the shop from the rooms beyond pushed open. Ginjiro’s wife shuffled into the room and joined her daughter at the door. She blinked in surprise at the sight of the men in the entrance.
“Matsui-san,” Tomiko said, “I believe you know my mother, Yoka. Mother, do you remember our friend Matsui Hiro? His companion is a priest of the foreign god.”
Yoka’s wrinkled face and graying hair reminded Hiro of Father Mateo’s housekeeper, Ana, but the similarity went no further. Where Ana had a slender build, Ginjiro’s wife resembled an ancient Buddha, wrinkled and pale, with a swollen belly.
Yoka’s left eyelid drooped almost fully closed. Her lips pulled down on that side as well, and a bead of drool pooled at the side of her mouth. She tilted her head to the side and looked at Hiro like a puppy attempting to understand its master’s words. “Where is Ginjiro?”
“He went with the dōshin, remember?” Tomiko asked in a gentle voice. “To help them understand why Chikao died.”
The question, and Tomiko’s answer, made Hiro suspect that Yoka had suffered the fainting illness, which killed many elderly people and left the survivors weak in body and mind.
Yoka’s right eye opened wide. The left one didn’t flicker. “Chikao is dead?”
“He died this morning,” Tomiko said, “before the dōshin came.”
Yoka nodded slowly. “I remember. He died in the alley.” She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “Why did he die? Should we worry about his ghost?”
“No, Mother,” Tomiko said. “His ghost won’t harm us.”
Yoka lowered her hand. “Would you like some sake, Matsui-san?”
“No, thank you.” Hiro smiled. “It’s still early in the day.”
“Mother, could you measure some rice?” Tomiko gestured toward the rooms behind the noren. “I will help you wash and cook it when I finish here.”
“Measure rice?” Yoka’s forehead wrinkled, then smoothed. Her good eye took on a happy glow. “I can measure rice. I don’t need help. I remember how.”
She turned away and shuffled off, murmuring, “measure the rice, wash the rice,” as if to fix the task in her mind.
After she disappeared through the noren, Hiro asked Tomiko, “When did it happen?”
“The fainting illness?” Tomiko glanced over her shoulder. “About a year ago.” She smiled, though her lips stayed tight. “You may have noticed we keep her out of the shop.”
“I knew only that I hadn’t seen her.” Hiro saw no point in belaboring the obvious.
“It happened in the night,” Tomiko said. “She woke up paralyzed. She couldn’t speak or even move. The physician said she wouldn’t live, but we cared for her as best we could and gradually she recovered. That is, her body recovered. Her mind is not the same.
“Until today, the changes made me sad. But now—is it cruel to say I’m glad she doesn’t understand what happened?”
“Not at all.” Father Mateo looked at the wooden counter where the customers sat in the evening. “Can you manage the shop with your father gone? Will your patrons allow a woman to serve them sake?”
Tomiko smiled. “Most of them buy more when I watch the counter. It lets them talk to a woman without paying teahouse rates.” After a thoughtful pause she continued, “Please forgive my boldness, but I would like to hire you—to pay you for finding Chikao’s real killer.”
“I am sorry,” Hiro said. “We are not for hire.”
“You’ve solved other murders. I know you helped Kazu—” Tomiko stopped abruptly, as if sorry she said the name. Her eyes widened with understanding. “I apologize. It is because my family is not samurai.”
“Your status makes no difference,” Hiro said. “We simply do not offer ourselves for hire.”
“Could you make an exception?” Tomiko bit her lip as if fighting tears. “If they execute my father, we’ll lose everything. Mother and I will have nowhere to go. Matsui-san, I beg you. I have nowhere else to turn.”
She bent forward in a bow.
“He didn’t mean we wouldn’t help,” Father Mateo said. “He meant we will not take your money.”
Hiro said nothing. The priest’s interpretation was correct.
Hiro admired Tomiko’s dedication to her parents. In addition, he owed her father a debt of honor. A month before, Ginjiro had bought the shinobi time to solve a murder and prevent an unjust execution. It seemed only fair to return the favor now.
Unless, of course, Ginjiro was the killer.
Hiro did not consider investigating Chikao’s death a conflict with his duty to guard the priest. Unlike the previous murders, this one seemed unlikely to create any special danger for Father Mateo. The Jesuit’s words or actions might offend a touchy samurai, but Father Mateo often did that anyway.
Moreover, Hiro liked the thought of catching another killer.
Hiro didn’t object to killing, under proper circumstances. He had done it more than once, with no regrets. That said, he never tried to blame his assassinations on someone else. Hiro believed a killer had the right to escape, or at least to try, but not to blame an innocent person for the crime.
“We will help,” Hiro said, “as long as you understand we cannot promise to save your father.”
“I understand,” Tomiko said, “and thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must help Mother.”
Hiro stepped away from the door as Tomiko slid the shutters closed. When he heard the latch click into the locked position, he started toward the alley.
“Where are you going?” Father Mateo asked. “Do you think they’ll let us examine the body again before they move it?”
“I don’t know,” Hiro said, “but I intend to try.”