Blade of the Samurai: A Shinobi Mystery (Shinobi Mysteries) (20 page)

“At home, sleeping,” Kazu said. “I went there directly after I talked with you.”

Hiro looked at the parchment on Kazu’s desk. Tiny characters streamed down the page in perfect vertical lines. Kazu’s calligraphy marked him as a highly intelligent, educated man. No person in Iga, and few in Kyoto, could match his skill with a brush. Words fell from the bristles as swiftly and lightly as snowflakes from a cloud, making it easy to underestimate the strength of the hand that formed them.

“There’s no point comparing my letter to Den’s confession,” Kazu said. “I’m better at forgeries than you are at detecting them.”

Hiro frowned. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

“Would you care to share your insight, then?”

“How much do you know about Den’s confession?” Hiro asked.

“Only that he wrote one. I haven’t seen it.”

“The handwriting had a flaw that might interest you. The message contained two lines with different characteristics, almost as if two different people had written them. The first line exculpated Masao. The second confessed to Saburo’s murder.”

Kazu leaned forward, intrigued despite his frustration. “What kind of brush?”

“No brush,” Hiro said, “charred wood. It lay on the ground beneath the message.”

“Easy enough to add to the writing, then,” Kazu said. “Which line had cruder strokes? Den was young and poorly educated. His writing would lack precision.”

“The second line seemed larger,” Hiro said, “and also less skillfully written, but not by much. If someone added to the message, he—or she—attempted to mimic the author’s style.”

“What did Masao say about it?”

“He claims Den wrote the entire thing.”

Kazu shook his head. “Then Masao is the person who altered the message.”

“Not necessarily,” Hiro said, “but likely.”

“You didn’t need my help to figure that out,” Kazu said. “Why come here instead of confronting Masao?”

Hiro gave Kazu a sideways look. “Hisahide considers the matter resolved. In fact, he ordered me to leave the shogunate.”

“But you didn’t,” Kazu said. “You came here instead.”

“Hisahide allowed me to tell you that you are no longer a suspect.”

Kazu smiled wryly. “I wish you meant that—and also that you’d obey Hisahide’s order and go home. You won’t, though. You never give up until you win.”

“This isn’t about winning,” Hiro said. “If Saburo’s killer is working with Lord Oda, the shogun is still in danger—”

“When did you start caring about the shogun?” Kazu asked.

“I care about Lord Oda starting a war in Kyoto.” Concern for Father Mateo made Hiro’s stomach feel like a lantern beset by moths.

“There’s not going to be a war,” Kazu said. “The shogun is safe. Hisahide has doubled the compound guards and plans to add more this evening.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Hiro asked. “After he altered the ledger?”

“Hisahide didn’t do it. When I compared the writing it wasn’t his.” Kazu blushed. “The changes were made by the shogun himself. I’m sorry … I should have recognized the writing, but the shogun has never written in Saburo’s ledgers before, and the alterations surprised me so much, it didn’t occur to me that Shogun Ashikaga might have made them.”

“You’re positive?” Hiro asked.

Kazu nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you in this at all. Would you like me to escort you to the gates?”

“No need to interrupt your work. I can find my way.” Hiro bowed and departed, glad that Kazu didn’t insist on walking him out.

The shinobi had no intention of leaving the compound.

As he slid the door shut behind him, Hiro heard the distinctive tapping of a chisel. He hurried quietly toward the sound.

Hiro felt certain Ozuru knew more about the night Saburo died than he had told them, and the stable boy’s death presented an opportunity to renew the conversation.

The shinobi paused at the entrance to the audience hall and inhaled the slightly musky scents of cedar and fresh-cut pine. Ozuru stood halfway across the room with his back to Hiro. The shinobi saw no sign of the other carpenters. The new support beams were installed and partially covered with ceiling slats, though the southern end of the ceiling remained unfinished, presumably waiting for installation of the transom screen.

The screen itself lay sideways across a pair of wooden horses. Ozuru bent over it, focused on his work. He tapped his chisel with a wooden hammer, and delicate slivers of wood peeled off the screen and fell to the floor with no more sound than a maple tree shedding leaves.

Hiro started across the room. Just before he reached Ozuru, the carpenter turned and bowed. The shinobi struggled to hide his surprise that the carpenter heard his approach.

“Good morning, Matsui-
san
,” Ozuru said. “Have you more questions for me?”

“I wondered about that transom,” Hiro said. It wasn’t what he intended, but it was the first thing that came to mind when he recovered from his surprise.

“This?” Ozuru followed Hiro’s gaze to the wooden carving. “I should have finished it days ago, but the guards don’t let me work late anymore. I am ordered to leave at sunset like everyone else.”

He gestured to the empty room. “That’s why my assistants aren’t here today. I needed quiet to finish the screen.”

Hiro looked at the carpenter’s callused hands. “You like your work.”

“Wood speaks to me.” Ozuru smiled. “That probably sounds strange to a samurai.”

“My father painted landscapes.” It wasn’t a lie. “He claimed the ink could speak to a man who developed the ears to listen.”

Ozuru nodded. “He sounds like an artisan … as well as samurai.” He brushed a hanging sliver of wood from the screen.

“He often said that painting reminded him of life’s fragility.”

Ozuru gave Hiro a knowing look. “I heard about the stable boy’s suicide. Please forgive my directness. I appreciate the respect your politeness shows me, but the shogun will punish me if I do not finish this work today. Again, I apologize, but if you have questions for me please ask them plainly.”

“Den let you out of the compound the night Saburo died,” Hiro said.

“That is correct,” Ozuru said.

“Before he killed himself, the boy confessed to Ashikaga Saburo’s murder.”

Ozuru glanced over Hiro’s shoulder and then looked over his own as if to ensure that no one had entered the room. He lowered his voice.

“I don’t care what the confession claims. That boy didn’t kill the samurai.”

Chapter 38

“How do you know Den didn’t kill Ashikaga Saburo?” Hiro asked.

“Because Ashikaga-
san
was alive when the boy left his office that night,” Ozuru said.

“Den was in Ashikaga Saburo’s office? When? Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

The carpenter showed no emotion. “I didn’t think it was my place to chronicle Ashikaga-
san
’s personal interactions the night he died.”

“I’m making it your place,” Hiro said, taking note of Ozuru’s unusual phrasing. “Tell me everything you heard and saw that night.

“You may work while we talk, if you wish.”

Ozuru rubbed his thumb idly along the handle of his chisel. “After my … conversation … with Ashikaga-
san,
I returned to work and tried to keep noise to a minimum. I hoped eventually Ashikaga-
san
would go home for the night and leave me to work in peace.

“About two hours after sunset, I heard voices from Ashikaga-
san
’s office. He was arguing with someone else.”

“Who was it?” Hiro asked.

Ozuru shook his head as he set the chisel against the transom and raised his hammer. “I don’t know. Ashikaga-
san
was the only one yelling. The argument lasted two or three minutes. After that, I heard nothing for a while. Almost everyone else had already left for the evening.

“An hour later, Miyoshi-
san
passed through, presumably on his way to the kitchen.” Ozuru tapped the chisel gently and sent a flake of wood to the floor.

“Miyoshi Akira?” Hiro asked. “He passed through here?”

“Yes. He didn’t speak to me. I doubt he even registered my presence.” Ozuru made a gesture with the hammer. “If I’m not making noise, most samurai don’t notice me at all.

“A while after that the maid ran through with Ashikaga-
san
close behind her.” Ozuru shook his head. “A man his age shouldn’t compromise his dignity by chasing foolish girls.”

He paused as if expecting Hiro to chastise him for the inappropriate comment.

“What happened then?” the shinobi asked.

“Sometime later I heard Ashikaga-
san
returning, cursing under his breath.” Ozuru ran a finger along the carving, checking for roughness. “I crouched behind the screen. I don’t know what upset him, but I didn’t care to be yelled at twice in one evening.”

“What time was that?” Hiro asked.

“Four hours after sunset?” The answer sounded more like a question. “Maybe a little less. I worked for a while longer and then realized how late it was. Just before I left I heard footsteps approaching from Ashikaga-
san
’s office, but softly, as if the person didn’t want to be heard. I hid behind the screen again—I know better than to be seen when I’m not wanted.

“It was the stable boy, and he was crying quietly. He passed through the room and disappeared.”

“How could you tell he was crying?” Hiro asked.

Ozuru indicated the braziers near the door. “I keep the fires lit when I’m working. I saw the glint of tears in his eyes.”

“What happened after that?” Hiro asked.

“I waited a few more minutes and went home. The stable boy opened the gates for me. I didn’t mention seeing him in the mansion.”

“He could have returned to Ashikaga-
san
’s office after you left,” Hiro said.

“No,” Ozuru said, “he was crushed, not angry. I believe he saw something he didn’t want to see but couldn’t change.”

“What do you think he saw?” Hiro wondered how much the carpenter knew about Jun and Saburo.

“Rumor has it the boy was in love with Ashikaga-
san
’s mistress,” Ozuru said. “That kind of infatuation never ends well. My guess is it ended that night.”

“That’s a very strong motive for murder,” Hiro said.

“For a samurai, maybe. Not for a stable boy.”

Hiro thanked Ozuru and hurried off to the stable. He had one more conversation to finish before he left the compound, and he hoped to conclude it before Hisahide returned.

*   *   *

Hiro found Masao kneeling beside Den’s body. The stable boy lay on his back with his arms at his sides, clothing straightened in semblance of sleep.

Hiro noted again the unusual mottled darkness of the corpse’s nose and fingers. He inhaled deeply but still smelled only the stable.

Masao turned at the sound of Hiro’s sandals. He stood and bowed. As he straightened he glanced past Hiro as if making sure the shinobi had come alone.

“Thank you.” Masao gestured toward the body. “You will never know how much it meant to me that you cut him down.”

“Did Den know he was your son?” Hiro asked.

Masao stepped backward, startled. “He was not—” His shoulders slumped as he surrendered the argument. “He was my nephew. How did you guess?”

“Your behavior before his death suggested kinship,” Hiro said. “Your grief confirmed it.”

“He never knew.” Masao shook his head. “I wanted to tell him, many times, but my sister made me promise. She did not want him to know his mother was a prostitute.”

Hiro didn’t ask why Masao’s sister worked in the pleasure quarters. The question was inappropriate, and the answer easy enough to guess. Parents sometimes sold a daughter they couldn’t afford to keep, especially when a poor harvest left them with debts they could not repay. Other girls went willingly, in search of fortune, though Masao’s comments suggested his sister wasn’t one of those.

“Den never asked you?” Hiro said.

“He thought he was an orphan.”

Hiro looked at the body. “Does his mother know he’s dead?”

“Not yet.” Masao clenched his jaw and shook his head. “He was her only child.”

Hiro shifted his gaze from the boy to the charcoal characters scratched on the pillar. “When did he learn to write? Who taught him?”

“I did,” Masao said, “with sticks and scraps of wood. When we finished, we burned them in the fire.”

“Why hide the evidence?” Hiro asked. “Commoners are allowed to read and write.”

“We didn’t hide it, though not many people knew,” Masao said. “Only a fool brags of skills above his station.”

Hiro understood the value of keeping talents secret. As he looked at the characters scratched on the pillar, he had no doubt that two people had written the message. He also suspected they both were still in the stable.

“I think there was more to Den’s argument with Ashikaga Saburo than he told you,” Hiro said, hoping indirection might yield results. “The scene you described would hardly justify murder.”

“I’ve told you all I know,” Masao said, “though Ashikaga-
san
was not a nice man when angered. Den may have killed him in self-defense.”

Hiro pointed to the message. “That doesn’t sound like self-defense to me. Did Den have a temper?”

“Not usually,” Masao said.

“Not even over Jun?” Hiro asked. “Did she return his affections?”

Masao glanced at Den’s body and quickly looked away. “She was kind to him, though I can’t say she knew him well enough to understand what she felt about him. Den wasn’t the type of boy who would speak before he could follow through, and he knew he couldn’t marry until he completed his apprenticeship.”

Hiro thought of Father Mateo’s injuries and of Hisahide’s imminent return. The shinobi couldn’t afford to delay any longer. It was time to force the stable master’s hand.

He stepped onto the wooden platform, picked up the teapot, and raised the lid. The musty odor of used-up tea leaves rose from the pot, along with the expected sweetness that told the shinobi exactly how Den died.

“Tell me,” he asked, “what would you have done if the opium hadn’t killed him?”