The Ninja's Daughter Read online

  Emi’s body lay on a woven mat at the center of the tiny room. Nori knelt beside her daughter, head bowed down in grief.

  “Nori,” Satsu said, “please leave us. Chou will pour you tea.”

  The woman rose, bowed deeply to Hiro and Father Mateo, and left the room without a word.

  Hiro walked to the body and bent to examine Emi’s corpse.

  The grass stains streaking the sides of Emi’s kimono barely showed in the brazier’s flickering light. Hiro would have missed them if he hadn’t known to look. He pulled at the girl’s kimono enough to reveal that the grass stains continued onto the back of the garment.

  “What do you see?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro withdrew his hand and gestured. “Grass stains, here—and on her back. The killer must have held her arms and dragged the body along the ground.”

  “How can you tell?” the Jesuit asked.

  “No stains on the sleeves,” Hiro said, “and none on her shoulders, suggesting those parts of her body didn’t touch the ground while she was moved.”

  He didn’t mention, but did observe, that the stains conflicted with Jiro’s story, unless the killer lured the girl away and then returned her corpse to Jiro’s side without him waking up.

  Hiro saw no open wounds on Emi’s hands, but noted a pair of broken fingernails.

  Father Mateo shuddered. “Do you know what happened to her eyes?”

  The crimson blooms in the whites of her eyes retained their shocking impact even in the darkened room.

  “Strangulation,” Hiro said. “It is common, in such cases, for the victim’s eyes to bleed.”

  Satsu nodded, confirming the words.

  “You’ve seen it before?” the Jesuit asked.

  “It’s worse when the victim struggles,” Hiro said. “She struggled hard.”

  Father Mateo turned away.

  “Her neck confirms she died by strangulation,” Hiro said. “The marks from the leather strap, and the bruising. Also, see the scratch marks here, and there”—he gestured to vertical scratches on Emi’s neck—“she tried to get away, but failed. Her fingernails made those moon-shaped cuts as she struggled to free herself from the killer’s grip.”

  Father Mateo didn’t answer. Hiro wondered why the Jesuit wouldn’t look at the murdered girl, though he doubted the priest’s objections matched his own. Hiro considered strangulation messy, slow, and painful. He preferred a faster, simpler method when he had to kill.

  Gentle footsteps approached the room. Chou appeared in the doorway, bowed, and stood at her father’s side.

  “Show me the coin,” Hiro said.

  “I tucked it back where I found it,” Satsu said, “beneath her clothes.” He turned to his daughter. “Show him, Chou.”

  The girl approached and knelt on the opposite side of her sister’s body. She bowed her forehead to the floor. “Will you permit me to assist you, sir?”

  Hiro made a noise to show assent.

  Chou rose to a sitting position, but kept her face turned down to show respect. She tenderly slipped the end of the thong from under Emi’s garment. As Satsu described, the leather strip passed through a hole at the center of a golden coin, allowing the coin to serve as a makeshift pendant.

  Hiro spoke to Father Mateo. “The width of the leather strip is a match to the injuries on the victim’s neck.” He looked at Satsu. “I will take the leather with me—along with the coin.”

  Satsu nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

  Chou attempted to untie the leather strip from her sister’s neck. The knot that bound the thong had tightened, possibly during the murder; it proved difficult to loosen. When she finally freed the leather, Chou offered it to Hiro with both hands.

  “Do you know where your sister got this?” Hiro asked as he accepted the coin.

  Chou shook her head but did not look up. Something—likely her mother’s slap—had made her remember that actors’ daughters did not speak boldly to samurai.

  “She didn’t tell you about it?” Satsu asked. “You are certain of this?”

  “I never saw it . . . before . . .” Chou’s voice trailed off, and her eyes filled with tears as she looked at her sister’s body.

  Satsu gave Hiro a meaningful look. Chou’s answer reinforced his assertion that Emi had not owned a golden coin.

  Hiro retied the knot to keep the coin from sliding off and tucked the coin and thong into his sleeve. “Why did your sister go to the river yesterday, in the evening?”

  “With respect, we did not know she went there,” Satsu said.

  “I did not ask you.” Hiro let an edge of frustration creep into his voice. “I asked your daughter.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “She wouldn’t—” Satsu began, but stopped as Chou began to speak.

  “Sometimes Emi had trouble sleeping. She walked by the river to clear her head.” Chou turned to her father and bowed her face to the tatami. “I am so sorry. I should have told you.”

  Rapid footsteps thumped in the outer room.

  Hiro drew his sword and leaped to the doorway. He pressed the katana’s blade to the neck of the man who appeared in the entrance.

  The newcomer froze, terrified by the unexpected steel against his skin. His eyes went wide, but he did not move or speak.

  “Who are you?” Hiro demanded.

  The man had a delicate build, effeminate features, and a mane of shimmering hair that nearly reached his waist. His narrow chin could not yet grow a beard.

  He straightened. “I am Yuji, shite of the Yutoku-za.” His red-rimmed eyes had the look of recent tears.

  Hiro did not like the arrogant tone in the young man’s voice. “You lie. The shite of this troupe is named Botan.”

  “I am his eldest apprentice, betrothed to his granddaughter,” Yuji said.

  Satsu bowed. “It is the truth.”

  Father Mateo extended his hands to Yuji. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

  Hiro narrowed his eyes but sheathed his sword.

  “My loss?” Yuji looked confused and frightened in equal measure.

  “You haven’t heard? Oh . . .” Father Mateo ran a hand through his hair. “I am so sorry.”

  Understanding transformed Yuji’s face. “I am betrothed to Botan’s eldest granddaughter—Chou.” After a pause, he added, “Not that Emi’s death does not upset me.”

  “Why were you running?” Hiro asked.

  Yuji’s eyes filled with tears as he saw the corpse. “I learned of the tragedy only now, after I finished my lesson with Master Botan. I had to see . . .” He raised a hand to his mouth and shook his head.

  “I told Haru—my son—to wait outside the practice room and deliver the message after the lesson finished,” Satsu said.

  Father Mateo looked horrified at the thought of delaying such important news.

  Hiro accepted that actors didn’t behave like normal people. “How old is your son?”

  “Haru?” Satsu asked. “He is eight, sir.”

  The answer eliminated the boy as a suspect. A child that age could not subdue and strangle a woman of Emi’s size.

  “Very well. We have what we came for.” Hiro glared at Yuji. “Clear the way!”

  The young man scuttled sideways, like a crab, and Hiro left the house with Father Mateo following in his wake.

  When they reached the bridge at Shijō Road, Hiro started across the river.

  “Where are we going?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro didn’t answer. The samurai guarding the bridge had already started in their direction.

  “Good morning,” the samurai said.

  Hiro bowed. “Good morning. I believe I dropped my dagger on the other side of the river.”

  “You were the ones who spoke with the yoriki earlier,” the samurai said.

  Hiro nodded. “I just noticed the dagger missing, so we returned. It’s a family heirloom.”

  The samurai looked over his shoulder. “The priests haven’t come to cleanse the ground. You might s
till find your dagger there, assuming a beggar hasn’t found it first.” He stepped away. “I hope you find it.”

  “Thank you.” Hiro continued across the bridge with Father Mateo.

  When they reached the western bank of the river, Hiro walked off the path and past the place where they had first seen Emi’s body.

  “What are you doing?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro frowned at the grass. “Trying to see where the murder happened, and failing.” He shook his head. “It’s useless. There’s broken grass near where she lay, but the trail fades away too quickly. I cannot tell how far the killer dragged her.”

  Father Mateo looked at the river. “Why would the killer risk moving her back to Jiro?”

  “Your question assumes Jiro isn’t the killer,” Hiro replied without looking up.

  “Why do you doubt his story?” Father Mateo asked. “I think Satsu lied to us. He may be your uncle, but I don’t trust him.”

  “I already told you, I don’t trust him either,” Hiro said.

  “Why help him, then?” the Jesuit asked.

  “Three reasons.” Hiro held up a matching number of fingers. “First, because the code of the ryu requires it. Second, because he is my uncle, which also makes his daughter my cousin. And, finally, because someone may have identified Satsu as a shinobi from the Iga ryu. If one of us is compromised, the rest could be in danger.”

  “That’s an assumption,” Father Mateo said.

  “Perhaps you cannot understand, but I have an obligation,” Hiro said. “Why do you object to helping Satsu?”

  “Because I think he killed the girl himself.” Father Mateo crossed his arms. “I think he learned about Jiro, and he couldn’t allow his daughter to love a merchant.”

  “If that’s the case, he wouldn’t ask for help.” Hiro palmed his dagger and pretended to pick it up from the ground, in case the guard was watching. “What’s truly the problem? You’ve never reacted this way to a murder before.”

  Father Mateo shook his head and ran a hand through his hair again.

  Normally, Hiro disapproved of the Jesuit’s nervous gesture, which samurai would consider a sign of weakness. Now, however, it revealed that something about the crime was unusually troubling to the priest. Hiro didn’t press the issue. He could bring it up again when time had given the Jesuit some distance.

  “I can hunt for Emi’s killer alone,” Hiro said, “if you would rather not participate.”

  Father Mateo turned away from the river, but didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 10

  Hiro matched Father Mateo’s pace as they followed the Kamo River north, toward home. As they walked, he listened to the muffled crunch of dirt and fallen leaves beneath their sandals. The autumn air had a tang of smoke, along with the musky scent of dead and decomposing leaves.

  Father Mateo didn’t speak until they had almost reached the bridge at Marutamachi Road.

  “I will help,” the Jesuit said.

  “With the investigation?” Hiro asked.

  Father Mateo nodded. “Emi deserves it, whether or not her father does.”

  As Hiro hoped, the Jesuit’s normally helpful nature had reasserted itself.

  “Where should we start?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro deferred his answer until they had crossed the bridge and entered the empty street beyond. Once they were alone he said, “We start with the coin. The killer left it behind for a reason, and Satsu suggested we follow that link. Whether or not he lied to us, it’s the logical place to begin.”

  “Do you think the killer panicked and left it?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro shrugged. “Inexperienced killers panic. Trained ones misdirect.”

  Luis looked up from his seat near the hearth as Hiro and Father Mateo entered the house. The merchant wore a purple tunic cut in the foreign style he favored. Its bulbous, puffy sleeves reminded Hiro of overripe plums. Beneath the tunic, form-fitting hose directed unfortunate attention to the merchant’s bulging thighs.

  “Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Luis said through a mouthful of rice. “Did the magistrate hang the boy without a trial?”

  “The yoriki released him,” Father Mateo said. “Unharmed.”

  “What? He confessed to murder,” Luis protested. “Never seen a samurai pass up the chance to cut off someone’s head.”

  “A beheading could be arranged,” Hiro said. He often wished the Jesuit didn’t like the obnoxious merchant quite so much.

  “See?” Luis raised a hand toward Hiro. “He makes my point exactly.”

  “The yoriki elected not to investigate,” Father Mateo said. “It appears the girl was an actor’s daughter, not a teahouse entertainer.”

  “An outcaste?” Luis said. “You know, they have a word for that. It translates, ‘pile of—’”

  “Thank you, I’ve heard it.” Father Mateo cut Luis off before he could speak the offensive word.

  “That’s not the proper term anyway,” Hiro said. “For actors, we use—”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Father Mateo said.

  Hiro shrugged. He intended correction, not encouragement.

  “Well, at least you won’t end up involved in another investigation,” Luis said. “Far too much of that nonsense going on lately.”

  Father Mateo glanced at Hiro, who reminded himself to teach the priest that ill-timed glances often suggested guilt.

  “Excuse me,” Father Mateo said. “I need to eat, and then attend to my morning prayers.”

  “Offer one up for me,” Luis said. “I’m spending the day at the city gates, waiting on a shipment from Yokoseura. Have to meet it personally—new orders from the shogun.”

  Hiro had heard enough, so he went into the kitchen, where Ana prepared him a bowl of rice. As he ate, she prepared a tray for Father Mateo and carried it into the common room, walking with a stiffness that betrayed her loathing for the merchant’s constant griping.

  She returned and scrubbed a teapot with frustrated vigor.

  Luis’s voice carried over the rafters. He grumbled to Father Mateo about the “obnoxious regulations” Matsunaga Hisahide placed on weapons shipments to Kyoto.

  If someone gave that man a kingdom, he would complain about the distance he rode to claim it, Hiro thought.

  After finishing his rice, Hiro went to his room and put on a tunic and practice trousers. He stepped out through the veranda door, trading the merchant’s whine for the burble of Father Mateo’s koi pond and the whisper of breezes through the cherry trees that lined the garden.

  He wondered, yet again, at Father Mateo’s exceptional patience. Luis’s sales financed the Jesuit’s work in Japan, and from that perspective Father Mateo needed the merchant, but their relationship went beyond financial dependence. Hiro didn’t understand how, or why, but he did recognize that only a rare and unusual man could consider Luis Álvares a friend.

  After Hiro finished his meditation and weapons practice, he changed back into his gray kimono and stood outside the door that led to Father Mateo’s room.

  “I’m going to visit Jiro now.” He spoke with just enough volume for his voice to carry through the door, but not enough to disturb a meditation.

  The door slid open, and Father Mateo appeared. “Jiro? Why now?”

  “At this hour, the rice shop will be crowded,” Hiro said, “which means our talk will not attract attention. The boy has less incentive to lie if his master isn’t part of the conversation.”

  Father Mateo rubbed his hands. The smallest finger on the priest’s right hand did not bend properly into the gesture.

  “You haven’t recovered use of that finger?” Hiro wondered why he hadn’t noticed.

  Father Mateo raised his hand. “This one?” He tried to bend it, and winced. “I can force it farther, but it hurts. It hasn’t healed as well as the others. The bone seems out of place.”

  Earlier, in the summer, the neighbor’s Akita had broken free and attacked the priest. Fortunately, Father Mateo suffered onl
y broken hands and a bite that left a scar across his neck.

  “The finger may need breaking again, in order to set it straight.” Hiro reached for the Jesuit’s hand. “I can do it.”

  “You most certainly will not!” Father Mateo pulled his hand away.

  “I didn’t mean right now,” Hiro said. “I was simply going to examine it.”

  Father Mateo clasped his hands together. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “The examination?” Hiro asked. “Or the breaking?”

  “Either.” Father Mateo changed the subject. “Do you think Jiro will speak with us? He heard the yoriki say we can’t investigate.”

  “Don’t worry.” Hiro drew the coin and strip of leather from his sleeve. “He’ll talk when I ask if he wants his koban back.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “I’m sorry, but that isn’t mine.” Jiro shook his head, eyes fixed on the golden coin that dangled before him on its leather thong.

  Hiro swung the pendant gently. “Didn’t you mention receiving a tip from a wealthy customer yesterday?”

  Jiro glanced nervously into the crowded rice shop.

  As expected, Basho’s apprentice had scurried forward the moment he caught sight of Hiro and Father Mateo in the entrance. He spoke in the muted tones of a man who didn’t want anyone hearing his conversation.

  “I did,” Jiro said, “but the customer paid me in silver, not in gold.”

  “So you didn’t give this to Emi?” Hiro lowered the coin to his other palm and closed his hand around it so the gold would not attract undue attention.

  “I have never owned a golden coin, and—if I may speak honestly—I wouldn’t waste one on a girl,” Jiro said. “I would buy myself a new kimono first.”

  “You’re lying,” Hiro said. “Perhaps Basho can help us learn the truth?”

  “No, please!” Jiro glanced into the shop again. “The coin’s not mine, but I know where it came from. I’ll meet you later, and tell you, but please—I beg you—don’t tell my uncle about Emi.”

  “He’s your uncle?” Father Mateo asked. “You never told us that before.”