Claws of the Cat (9 page)

After a couple of minutes he turned around. Three women knelt in a line before him. Their plain but expensive kimonos were made of silk. The woman in the center wore dark purple, while the ones to her sides were clad in pale pink and blue. The women’s faces looked strangely pale without their elaborate makeup, but their features remained as emotionless as masks. Even their eyes revealed nothing.

All three women were older than Sayuri, Hiro guessed in their twenties or early thirties.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he said.

The women on either side looked at the one in the center. She seemed more confident than the others, and she alone met Hiro’s gaze without faltering. Even before she opened her mouth, Hiro knew she would speak for the group.

“I am Okiya,” she said. “You have questions about last night?”

“Did you hear the killer, or anything else unusual?” These women were trained professionals. Hiro saw no reason to treat them as delicate flowers.

Okiya didn’t look at her companions. “No. We all had guests in the early evening, but the rest of our visitors left before midnight. I was the last one upstairs except for Sayuri. The others had already taken off their makeup and changed their kimono. We had tea and went to sleep.”

“You heard nothing?”

“Not until Sayuri screamed this morning.”

“She screamed?”

Before Okiya could answer the woman to her right said, “It was more like a yell.”

The speaker was younger than Okiya, and clearly more impulsive. As soon as the words left her lips, she covered her mouth with her hand and looked down at the floor. Her blue kimono emphasized the embarrassed flush that spread across her cheeks.

“Is there a difference?” Hiro asked.

The woman in blue uncovered her mouth. “A real scream doesn’t have any words in it. Sayuri called for help.”

“Riko is correct,” Okiya said. “It was more of a yell.”

“Who went to help her?”

“We all did,” Riko said, “but Mayuri blocked the door. She said it wasn’t something we should see.”

“I’m glad I didn’t look,” said the woman on Okiya’s other side. “I don’t want angry ghosts haunting me.” Her hands shook and her pink kimono trembled.

“Don’t be stupid, Yoko,” Riko said. “Ghosts don’t haunt you unless you do the killing.”

“Do you want to chance it?” Yoko hugged herself, then recovered her composure and returned her hands to her lap.

Riko shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Did any of you speak with Sayuri afterward?” Hiro asked.

“Mayuri wouldn’t let us,” Riko said. When Okiya gave her a warning look, Riko added, “Well, she won’t, and she didn’t tell me not to say so.”

“I wouldn’t go in that ghost room for anything,” Yoko said.

“It’s not a ghost room,” Riko retorted. “Mayuri had it cleaned and the priests are coming to bless it this afternoon.”

“Buddhist priests?” Yoko clutched her hands and looked nervously at the others.

“Shinto too,” Okiya reassured her, “from Kamigamo Shrine.”

Yoko still looked worried but managed a little smile.

“Is there anything more we can tell you?” Okiya asked.

“Who were your guests last night? Did they know Akechi Hideyoshi?”

“I don’t think so,” Riko said. “Guests who know one another often combine their parties. It’s more fun that way. We play games and sing songs. Men like that.”

“Our guests were not acquainted,” Okiya confirmed. “I entertained a silk merchant and his clients. They left about an hour before midnight.”

“And you?” Hiro asked Riko.

“I had a very early night. Magistrate Ishimaki fell asleep in his tea before the sun went down. His servants had to help him onto his horse.”

“Magistrate Ishimaki was here last night?” Hiro asked.

“Yes. He visits once a week, for dinner.” Riko’s eyebrows raised and her mouth formed a circle of surprise. She raised her hand to cover it and giggled. “But it’s not what you think. He’s much too old for a girl my age.”

Hiro doubted most men would consider her age an issue but said nothing. Riko gave Okiya a questioning look. The older woman nodded.

“Magistrate Ishimaki is my grandfather,” Riko said. “His son was my mother’s patron.”

“Is Mayuri your mother?” Hiro asked.

Entertainers often bore children out of wedlock. Most men would not flaunt tradition to marry a mistress, so the female children normally followed their mothers into the trade.

“No,” Okiya said. “I am, though I thank you in advance for your discretion.”

Hiro hid his surprise. Okiya did look older than her companions, but not old enough to have a daughter Riko’s age.

“Of course.” After a pause he asked, “Did you see the magistrate too?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t dislike me, but I am not his blood. Truthfully, even his interest in Riko came as a surprise.”

“Does he acknowledge her publicly?”

“Oh, no.” Riko sounded shocked. “He couldn’t possibly. I’m glad to know him, though. He’s nice.”

Hiro turned to Yoko. “Who were your visitors?”

“Only one,” Yoko said, “a merchant. I had never seen him before.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“I didn’t need to,” Yoko said. “He was visiting Kyoto on business from out of town and only staying for one day.”

“What kind of business?”

“Rice.” Yoko made a face. “It was all he talked about. He was boring and he stayed too late. By the time I got upstairs Riko was asleep.”

“Did he mention where he came from?”

Yoko thought hard. It was clearly an effort. “Nagoya? I think Nagoya. He didn’t like that we didn’t have red miso for his soup.”

“Did he pay in advance?”

Yoko nodded. “He gave me a gold koban and told me I could buy myself a present.”

A night’s entertainment cost only a small fraction of that, even in an upscale teahouse.

“He paid in gold?” Hiro asked.

Kyoto merchants used silver.

“Yes.” Yoko’s eyes grew round as she realized the implication. “You don’t think … did I entertain the murderer? The ghost is going to haunt me after all!”

She clutched herself and looked about to cry.

“Don’t worry,” Hiro said. “Ghosts don’t like teahouses much.”

“They don’t?”

He shook his head. He didn’t care about the girl’s emotional state, but it embarrassed him when women cried and he hated interruptions.

“Do any of you know her visitor’s name?”

“Shutaro,” Okiya said. “He arrived before my visitors, and I heard the introductions.”

He stood up. “Thank you for speaking with me. I appreciate your time.”

Okiya hung back as the others left the room. When they had gone she said, “Shutaro was actually the last guest to leave—aside from Hideyoshi, of course.”

“He claimed to come from Nagoya?” Hiro asked.

When Okiya nodded Hiro continued. “Lord Oda Nobunaga controls Owari Province, including Nagoya, and Lord Oda wants the shogunate for himself. He wouldn’t let his merchants sell rice to Kyoto.”

The woman nodded. “It sounded strange to me, too. That’s why I remembered.”

“Thank you,” Hiro said. “I know you breached etiquette by telling me.”

“Justice excuses a breach of etiquette.” Okiya lowered her voice. “Thank me by finding the killer. I don’t know what happened here last night, but Sayuri did not murder anyone. She does not deserve to be executed for someone else’s crime.”

Chapter 12

After Okiya left, Hiro crossed the teahouse and entered Sayuri’s room. Father Mateo knelt near the tokonoma with his back to the door. Sayuri faced him. Their heads were bowed in prayer.

A shamisen sat on the floor at Sayuri’s side. The instrument had a stringed neck about the length of a man’s arm, attached to a rounded body covered with animal skin. The skin was stretched taut like the cover of a drum, and three silk strings ran from pegs at the head of the instrument to a single anchor peg attached to the base of the body.

The shamisen took years to play badly and much longer to play well. Only women with genuine talent trained in the difficult instrument.

Hiro knelt beside Father Mateo. When the priest said, “Amen,” Sayuri looked up.

Hiro nodded toward the shamisen. “Do you play?”

“A little.” The confidence in her voice negated her socially mandated humility.

“Would you play something now?”

Sayuri picked up the shamisen. She cradled its neck in her left hand and settled its body against her right knee. When the position suited her, she picked up the ivory plectrum and strummed the strings.

She played right-handed, in the standard style, and exceptionally well. Hiro recognized the haunting lullaby. His mother had played it often, and equally well, though he doubted Sayuri’s shamisen pick had a blade concealed in its sheath.

When the final note died away Sayuri set the instrument on the floor as if lowering a sleeping child. Hiro felt a pang of regret. For a moment, the music had taken him back to Iga.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Did Okiya and the others hear anything?” she asked. “Mayuri said no, but I hoped…”

“They heard no intruders,” Hiro said.

The door whispered open. Mayuri knelt at the threshold.

“Have you finished?” she asked.

Father Mateo stood up. Hiro suppressed a desire to bait the woman by asking to remain. He didn’t dislike her exactly, but he never liked acceding to rude requests.

“Have faith,” Father Mateo told Sayuri. “God will protect you and we will find the killer.”

She nodded. “I will pray.”

As they left the room, Hiro leaned toward Father Mateo and whispered, “You need to use the latrine.”

“I do not.” Father Mateo blushed.

As usual, Hiro found the reaction amusing. He had never understood the Jesuit’s shyness about discussing bodily functions.

He raised his voice. “Mayuri, Father Mateo needs to visit the latrine.”

The priest turned a brilliant shade of red. His mouth opened and closed like one of his beloved koi.

Mayuri inclined her head and looked from one man to the other. “Did you say he needs to use the latrine?”

“Urgently,” Hiro said.

The woman and the priest exchanged a stare. Hiro didn’t mind embarrassing Father Mateo, and he knew Mayuri could not refuse the request.

After a very long moment Mayuri nodded. “Follow me.”

She led the men through the family room and into the narrow four-mat storeroom beyond. A hallway led off the east side of the storeroom, and at the far end of the hall a wooden staircase led to the second floor.

Mayuri gestured to the sliding doors in the north wall of the storeroom. “The latrine is outside—the building on the left.” She paused. “You will forgive me if I do not escort you there.”

“Of course,” Hiro said. “Thank you.”

As he stepped across the room and opened the door, he wondered what lay beyond the sliding door in the storeroom’s western wall. Another storage room, or perhaps a private office.

Hiro waited for Father Mateo to step onto the veranda, then followed him out and closed the door.

Three wide steps led down to the narrow yard, where a forked gravel path connected the teahouse to a pair of outbuildings. The latrine stood about forty feet from the house on the left-hand side of the yard. Hiro had seen it from the veranda earlier.

A second, larger building stood ahead and to the right. It had a thatched roof, wooden sides, and two entrances, one at the end of the gravel path and a slightly smaller one on the opposite end. A worn track in the grass led to the smaller door. Slatted screens covered the three narrow windows below the eaves, allowing light to enter but obscuring the interior from view. The design suggested a bathhouse, and the woodpile outside the smaller door confirmed it.

Hiro felt a twinge of jealousy. Like most residents of Kyoto he bathed several times a week, and like most people he used the public baths. Only the very wealthy could afford a private bathhouse, and the Sakura’s looked particularly fine.

At his side, Father Mateo hissed, “I do not have to use the latrine!”

“Fake it.” Hiro pointed at the left-hand building. “I need at least five minutes.”

“What are you doing?”

“No time.” Hiro hurried down the stairs and across the yard to the bathhouse. When he reached the smaller door he glanced over his shoulder. He noted with satisfaction that Father Mateo had started toward the latrine.

Hiro grasped the wooden handle and pulled open the swinging door. As he suspected, it led to the fire room adjacent to the larger bathing chamber. A large wood-burning stove dominated the tiny room. It was square and made from whitewashed bricks of clay, though dust and ash had darkened its sides to gray. A large iron cauldron sat atop the stove, and iron pipes ran from the cauldron to the wall, funneling steam and hot water directly into the bathing room beyond.