Blade of the Samurai: A Shinobi Mystery (Shinobi Mysteries) (21 page)

Chapter 39

“Opium?” Masao looked startled. “What are you talking about? That’s tea.”

Hiro tilted the pot. An inch of tea still covered the bottom, but as it ran to the side he saw a dark brown smear on the porcelain. The cloying odor grew stronger as the remains of the opium resin met the air.

“There’s opium in the tea,” Hiro said. “An unreliable murder weapon, unless the killer can make the victim drink it, and you were the only one here with Den last night.”

He didn’t believe Masao had murdered his nephew, but Hiro also refused to make assumptions until he knew the facts.

“Where would I get opium?” Masao asked.

“Your cousin is an apothecary,” Hiro said. “Did you get the resin the night Saburo died, or did you make Den carry his death from
Ō
tsu?”

“If you were not a samurai, I would kill you for saying that. Den was the closest thing to a son I will ever have.” Masao looked at the body. “What made you think of poison? It looked to me like he hanged himself.”

Hiro set down the teapot. He wanted his hands free during the explanation, in case he needed to draw his sword. “The color of his nose and hands indicates death by asphyxiation, not by hanging. His throat doesn’t show enough discoloration for that.

“Den was dead when someone put him on that rope. The question is, were you the one who tied it around his neck?”

Masao clenched his fists. “Accuse me again and I’ll kill you, regardless of rank.”

“Then why did you write the confession?” Hiro asked.

Masao unclenched his fists and looked at the pillar. “I didn’t.” After a brief pause he admitted, “I wrote the first sentence—the one about me. When I woke up and saw the words on the pillar I was afraid the shogun would blame me for Den’s involvement in the crime.”

“Are you certain Den wrote the part that confessed to the murder?” Hiro asked.

“I assumed…” Masao looked at the pillar again. “But if he was murdered … I thought the writing looked strange because he was frightened when he wrote it. In truth, it doesn’t look like Den’s, exactly, though I was afraid to admit it earlier. A wise man does not argue with samurai.”

The stable master turned to Hiro. “I don’t understand. I drank the tea too. Why am I alive?”

“You’re substantially larger than Den. How much did you drink?” Hiro asked.

“Not much, maybe half a cup.” Masao pointed to the egg-sized teacups sitting on the platform near the pot. “Mostly to keep Den company while he ate.”

“You didn’t ingest a lethal amount, though someone probably wanted you to.” Hiro picked up the pot and smelled the remaining tea. “If you’d finished this, you would have died. You didn’t notice the sweetness?”

“Den liked sweetener in his tea. Sometimes Jun would sneak him some. I’d been drinking sake at dinner—I didn’t notice.”

“Whoever killed Den may well have intended to kill you also. If you know anything that might identify the person who did this, I suggest you tell me now.”

Masao seemed disinclined to answer.

Hiro set down the teapot and stepped off the platform. He looked at Den’s body, knowing the stable master’s gaze would eventually follow.

Death made the boy look pitifully young.

Hiro wished he knew whether Den was involved in the plot or just an innocent casualty.

“Den didn’t return to the stable after walking Jun to the kitchen that night,” Masao said slowly. “He hid in the yard to ensure that Ashikaga
-san
didn’t bother the girl again. But Jun didn’t stay in the kitchen. She went to the mansion, to Ashikaga
-san
’s office. Den followed and listened outside the door.”

“I can guess what he heard,” Hiro said.

Masao’s eyes reddened with unshed tears. “It crushed him. He said he walked the grounds for hours, crying.” The stable master shook his head. “That’s why I believed the suicide and that Den had written the message despite the unusual writing. I sent him out of town because of the argument, but when I heard about the murder the following morning I did wonder whether Den had killed Ashikaga
-san
after all.

“Last night, when Den returned, he said he hadn’t. But when I saw him this morning … and the message…”

Masao clenched his jaw, unable to finish.

Hiro decided not to increase the stable master’s grief with more accusations. He couldn’t rule out Masao’s involvement in the plot against the shogun and didn’t want to say anything that might assist his adversary, whoever that adversary was. He felt a flash of dark amusement. Instinctively, Hiro was treating the killer like a shinobi would treat a man he intended to kill.

The key was closing the distance before the target knew he was being hunted.

*   *   *

Hiro returned home hoping Father Mateo had recovered enough to discuss the investigation. He wanted the Jesuit’s insight.

When he reached the house, he found Ana cleaning the blood from the veranda. She looked up as he approached. “Hm. Decided to come back?” She gestured toward the house. “Father Mateo needs your help.”

The Jesuit lay on his futon, wearing the same bloodstained kimono he had on the day before. Hiro silently reprimanded himself for not helping the priest change clothes. In a Japanese home that task would have fallen to the housekeeper, but Hiro had forgotten the Jesuit wouldn’t allow a woman to see him naked.

Father Mateo forced a smile as Hiro entered the room. “I’m glad you’re back. I’m afraid the wounds are festering.”

The shinobi inhaled deeply, seeking the scent of infection. He smelled only medicinal herbs and sweet green tea, with a familiar opiate undertone that made him think of the corpse in the shogun’s stable.

Light footsteps approached behind him.

“Ana,” he said without turning, “I need hot salted water, clean bandages, and my medicine chest.”

The maid’s kimono rustled as Ana departed on nearly silent feet. The needs of her beloved priest would silence even Ana’s ascerbic tongue.

Hiro knelt beside Father Mateo and inspected the gash on the Jesuit’s neck. Father Mateo angled his head away, but the gesture stretched his skin and cracked the delicate scabs that covered the wound on his throat. A drop of blood welled up at the edge of the scab. Father Mateo winced, and the bloody droplet trickled down his neck.

“Don’t stretch it,” Hiro said. “You’ll reopen the wound.”

“I think I already did,” Father Mateo muttered as he faced the ceiling.

Hiro noted the healthy color of the skin around the scabs. “At least there’s no infection in your neck. If you keep it from bleeding too much more, it might even heal without a scar.” He smiled. “On the other hand, many women find scars attractive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Father Mateo closed his eyes. “I’m more worried about my hands. Even with your tea, they hurt more than I think they should.”

Hiro removed the bandages from Father Mateo’s left hand, which had swollen to almost twice its normal size. The bite marks looked more inflamed than the day before, but Hiro saw no pus. Pale, soft tissue covered the wounds. Hiro’s herbs and lack of air had kept the scabs from hardening, but the tissue itself looked normal on the surface.

Father Mateo opened his eyes. “Infected?”

Hiro shook his head. “Not yet.”

He unwrapped the priest’s right hand. It seemed less swollen than the left, but the flesh around the punctures felt unusually hot to Hiro’s touch.

Father Mateo exhaled slowly. “That looks better than the other. Maybe there’s no infection after all.”

Hiro considered a reassuring falsehood, but remembered his promise not to lie to the priest. “This one concerns me. I need to remove the scabs and clean beneath them. It’s going to hurt, but it’s our only hope to prevent infection.”

“Pain won’t kill me,” Father Mateo said. “Infection might. Do what you can to prevent it.”

Chapter 40

When Ana brought the water and other items, Hiro opened the medicine chest and removed the twist of paper that held the opium.

Father Mateo shook his head. “No more of that.”

“It helps your pain,” Hiro said.

“I can handle pain. The relief is not worth the risk.”

Hiro raised the twist of paper. “You know this drug?”

“I stopped in Macao on my way to Japan.” Father Mateo glanced at the twist of paper. “I’ve seen what opium does to men. I would rather have pain than permanent hunger.”

Hiro put the paper away and selected a pair of envelopes. He held them up for the priest to see. “Powdered willow and horse chestnut. Not as effective, but neither causes a lasting need.”

He handed the envelopes to Ana. “Use a pinch of each in a pot of tea, with sugar to cover the bitterness. Keep the envelopes. He’ll need them for several days, but he shouldn’t have it more often than every four hours.”

Ana nodded and left the room.

Hiro added an antiseptic to the water and swirled the end of a cloth in the steaming brine. As he hoped, the water felt almost too hot to touch.

As Hiro lowered the cloth to the wounds, Father Mateo shut his eyes and clenched his jaw in anticipation of pain. The shinobi admired the Jesuit’s strength.

Hiro inhaled the steam that rose from the cloth as he held it against the priest’s right hand. He smelled only salt and medicine, with a metallic undertone the shinobi recognized as a combination of softening scabs and blood.

He inhaled again, seeking the slightly sweet odor that indicated putrefaction. He didn’t find it. If an infection had started, it hadn’t yet found a foothold.

Hiro held the cloth to the wound until the pale scabs had softened enough to wipe away without tearing the skin around them. Father Mateo flinched but didn’t complain.

The reddened flesh beneath the scabs looked swollen but not infected. The shinobi dipped a fresh cloth in the water and pressed the dampened silk against the wounds. Father Mateo’s breathing grew measured and even.

Hiro watched for a moment or two, surprised the Jesuit knew about breathing techniques to master pain. He finished cleaning Father Mateo’s wounds and used the remaining silk for bandages.

Father Mateo opened his eyes as Hiro tucked the final strip into place.

“Have you found Ashikaga Saburo’s killer?” the Jesuit asked. “I wish I could help instead of just lying here.”

“I could use your help,” Hiro said. “I think the murderer has killed again.”

“What?” Father Mateo tried to sit up, but since he had no use of his hands the effort became a useless wiggle. “What’s happened?”

Hiro folded a quilt across a wooden back rest and helped the Jesuit into a sitting position. As he did, he explained about the “suicide” at the shogunate and briefly detailed his talks with Ozuru and Jun.

Father Mateo gave Hiro a grateful look. “Thank you. It’s nice to sit up.” He frowned. “Since Den is dead, he can’t confirm what he saw the night of the murder. That’s suspicious and does make his death look more like murder than suicide. Besides, if Den intended to kill himself he wouldn’t have poisoned the tea.”

Hiro hadn’t considered that, and the oversight surprised him.

“Assuming for the moment that Masao really drank it,” Father Mateo continued. “Do we know who made the tea?”

“Jun delivered it to the stable,” Hiro said.

“Lending credence to Lady Netsuko’s suspicions.” Father Mateo smiled at Hiro’s surprise. “Paper walls and open rafters aren’t the best for privacy. I heard part of yesterday’s conversation before I fell asleep.”

“But how would a maid obtain opium?” Hiro asked. “It isn’t well-known as a poison.”

“Any apothecary would know its properties,” Father Mateo said, “and if he knows, his customer doesn’t have to. The bigger question, for me, is whether the girl is strong enough to hang a body. From what I’ve seen, I doubt it.”

“Which means she carried the poison for someone else,” Hiro said. “But who? And who wrote the murder confession?”

“I know you doubt Masao as a suspect, but he has the strength to hang a body and could have poisoned the tea without Den knowing. We have only his word that he drank it, and he lied to us before.”

“Masao is Den’s uncle,” Hiro said. “His grief was real.”

“I’d like to think that changes things,” Father Mateo said, “but if Masao was involved in Saburo’s plot—or even trying to stop it—he might have needed someone to take the blame.”

The Jesuit’s eyes widened. “What if Saburo did recruit Den to his plot? Masao could have killed them both in order to save the shogun.”

“Possible,” Hiro said, “but complicated, particularly when we’re not even sure what the plot entailed. I’d rather eliminate easier answers first.”

“Like jealousy over a woman?” the Jesuit asked.

“Exactly.”

“There’s also the question of which woman.” Father Mateo shifted his hands in his lap. “Jun and Netsuko accuse each other, and each one’s story has elements of truth.”

“No one saw Netsuko at the shogunate the night her husband died,” Hiro said. “That and the poisoned tea shift suspicion to Jun. Also, the maid has lied to us, and from what I can tell Netsuko has not.”

“Do we know that for certain?” Father Mateo asked. “What if Saburo did intend to divorce his wife and marry Jun, and Netsuko learned the truth? She could have promised Den a reward for killing her husband before he could follow through.”

“That doesn’t explain why Den was murdered,” Hiro said.

“You’re assuming the two are connected.”

“The evidence connects them,” Hiro countered, “and I don’t believe Netsuko murdered Den.”

“Jun isn’t strong enough to hang a body,” Father Mateo said. “If a woman was involved, she was working with someone else.”

“I need to talk with Netsuko again,” Hiro said.

“I’d like to come with you.”

Hiro smiled. “You need to give those wounds more time to heal.”

“Eliminating the women for a moment, who else is still a suspect aside from Masao?”

“For a while, I suspected Hisahide.” Hiro explained about the ledger, concluding with Kazu’s admission that the shogun had made the changes. “So now the leading suspects are Ozuru and Masao.”

“There’s still one you haven’t mentioned,” Father Mateo said.