Chapter 22
Next day
Veins jumpy with anticipation, Jake cleared the short trio of steps leading up to the humble doorstop and tapped the rusted door knocker twice. He took a wide-legged stance and waited. The day had arrived for him to silence the man on the other side of that door.
He leaned his long body back and peered up at the building’s façade, plain, gray, paint flaking, decrepit. He wasn’t certain if it was gray from age or coal soot, but one thing was certain: the building hadn’t been white in a great many years. Nothing could stay white for long in Limehouse.
An aged servant cracked open the door, and a wary eye examined him up and down as if he was street riff-raff. “Are you here for an art lesson?”
“No,” came his clipped reply. “Tell your master that Lord St. Alban is calling.”
“Mr. Jiro is not receiving,” the servant replied, succinct and implacable.
When she began to close the door in his face, his hand shot out and held firm against surprisingly sturdy oak, preventing her from shutting it. She wouldn’t block him out. He’d come to resolve this matter. “Tell Mr. Jiro that we have a mutual acquaintance. The Kimura family of Nagasaki.”
The servant nodded once, no light of recognition registering on her lined face as she closed the door against Jake’s now slack hand.
It was just as well that he was standing out here in the gunmetal gray mist. After a few days of respite, the typical dreary London weather had reasserted its supremacy. Perfect weather for his current state of mind.
He’d awakened this morning to a brain the consistency of a wet woolen sock, sodden and listless. After last night . . . well, he’d had a difficult time motivating himself to rise. Then Mina had strolled into his bedroom. “Father, I’ve had the carriage sent round to deliver me to school.”
A reason to leave bed suddenly struck him. He swept the blankets off his body and swung his legs off the bed. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”
“I am quite content to take the carriage alone.”
“I insist on seeing you settled.”
Mina’s eyebrows met in perplexity before releasing in acceptance. “I shall await you in the sitting room.”
If not hope—he knew that was lost—then something else bright and happy bloomed in his chest. He would see Olivia. That was all he needed, a glimpse of her. The scantest morsel would be enough to sustain him. He’d been sure of it.
However, as they’d passed in the corridor, she’d been true to her word and cut him dead. Her eyes held not even the slightest glimmer of recognition or acknowledgement, and a hollow of despair opened inside him.
He’d been wrong: he couldn’t live on morsels of Olivia. It would be better to do without her altogether. Which, of course, he must.
He shifted on his feet, restless and frustrated. He needed a bout in Gentleman Jackson’s ring. At least, the ring offered a man a straightforward fight.
The door swung open on silent hinges, and the taciturn servant beckoned him inside. As he stepped across the threshold, he saw that he was entering a proper Japanese household, spare, clean, and open. Even as he wanted to exhale in the specific sort of relief one felt in familiar surroundings, he wouldn’t. He must remain alert. This house sheltered his enemy.
The servant bade him stop and pointed toward a low wooden rack. He intuited her meaning and removed his boots before following her to a windowless, low-ceilinged room lit by a dim lamp centered on a low rectangular table. Plain seat pads set atop the tatami floor were the room’s only other furniture.
He stepped into the room alone, and the rice paper door shushed shut behind him on wooden tracks. Before he could gather his bearings, the door slid open to admit a man clad in plain white tunic and trousers, today dressed in clothing more Eastern than Western. Jiro.
He was taller than Jake remembered, but he’d only seen the man seated unobtrusively in a corner, once. Jiro lowered himself onto a mat, fluid and sure. Although his mode of dress and bearing conveyed the impression of an older man, Jake could see that the man was younger than he by a few years.
He was handsome, as well, but not in the narrow Western ideal. No doubt the strongly defined features of his face—cheekbones, jaw, chin, lips—would catch the attention of even the most small-minded Society lady, his appeal extending beyond that of a novelty here for the pleasure of the nobility.
Nobility. Another word that applied to this man. Strange and not at all what Jake had expected of an art master, or a thief. None of the individual pieces were coming together in a neat configuration.
The servant returned with tea service, and the floral scent of jasmine permeated the air. She poured tea into two cups and hastened out of the room on quick cat feet. The man wrapped long, elegant fingers around the cup and lifted it to his lips. Unhurried was yet another word for this man.
Jake’s patience ran out. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am.” A tight smile formed about the man’s mouth. “Jiro.” He took another insufferably long sip of his tea.
Jake curbed his annoyance and remained silent. The man would have to ask him to state his business sooner or later.
Jiro blew across the surface of his tea, the liquid a muted ripple, and took another sip. “At last, you’ve found your way to me.”
Jake shifted on his feet and tried to find his balance, both physically and mentally. His opponent had all the control. “You know me so well? I don’t recall two words ever having been exchanged between us before today.”
At last, Jiro’s eyes lifted to meet his. Those eyes were as impenetrable as the deepest, blackest night. Yet, in some strange way, they were familiar to Jake. Again, the feeling that there was a piece, a piece that eluded him, missing from this puzzle tickled the back of his brain.
“A father’s love for his daughter is that predictable,” Jiro replied, a flicker of emotion, unfathomable and quick, fleeting across his features. “I was counting on it.”
Twin flushes of anger and fear pumped through Jake. “Explain yourself lest I misinterpret your intent.”
More than ever, it struck him that he had no understanding of this man’s wants, only his own, which was to reach across the table, grab Jiro by the throat, and silence him forever. As quickly as it came, the impulse passed, leaving him seething with frustration, hollow and acid. More than one piece was missing from this puzzle.
Jiro uncrossed his legs and rose. “Follow me.”
~ ~ ~
Jake stood before the otherworldly glow of gold overleaf and vibrant color, basking in the beauty and warmth of the paintings that had stirred so much trouble. He’d never viewed them in full light, only in the semi-darkness of a windowless room and only once. He gravitated toward the bottom left corner of the final painting.
There she was. Clemence, soft and luminous, exquisite. Her loveliness had become almost an abstract idea these last fifteen years.
“Stunning, yes?” Jiro asked.
Jake’s gaze darted toward a more neutral spot. “Stunning, indeed,” he replied, on his guard. He couldn’t be sure of Jiro’s meaning. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected to be led straight to the paintings. He’d expected more of a struggle.
Jiro drew abreast with him, and they faced the paintings together. “Only noble families own such beauty, yes?”
Jake nodded. It was a fact of their time. For all time, he suspected.
“They were produced by the Kanō school during the volatile Momoyama period. It amazes that a time of such chaos yielded a work of such serenity.”
“They weren’t produced fifteen years ago?”
“No.”
“Then how did she”—He pointed toward the figure of Clemence—“come to be in the painting?”
Jiro stiffened. “A later artist placed her there.”
“And who would that have been?”
Jiro cleared his throat. “The Kimura family of Nagasaki acquired the paintings when their family were little better than warlords.”
“Until you stole them,” Jake said, hoping to catch Jiro flatfooted.
“Until I claimed them. You and your daughter were living in Singapore at the time, yes?”
Jake’s body tensed. Again, the man mentioned Mina. Was he interested in blackmail? “What is your concern in the whereabouts of my daughter?”
Jiro peered out the window. “The Kimura were great lovers of art through the ages. The older generations had seized power and influence for the younger ones to wield and waste as they chose. Choice is the privilege of the rich, yes?”
Jiro glanced at Jake, perhaps expecting a reply. Well, too bad. He had no interest in a history lesson.
“The youngest son of the current head of family wasn’t inclined to wield power or influence like his father or older brothers. Kai cared only for Beauty.” Jiro’s lips curved into a faraway smile. “You English have an expression for him: his head was in the clouds. Being the youngest son of many, his father indulged this quality, accepting it as proof of how far the Kimura had come since their warlord days.” Almost as an aside, he added, “An art master from the Kanō school was employed.”
“You?”
Jiro inclined his head. “The boy loved art in all its forms. His focus was like that of a butterfly, lighting upon one beautiful flower after another, be it music, painting, or poem. Beauty was life for him. Then one day, he saw the Dutch physician’s daughter at the koi pond in Dejima.”
The familiar pang of dread stirred within Jake. “I know about them,” was all he could trust himself to say.
“Kai needed his art master’s help to—how do you say?—court a girl from the West without his family’s knowledge.”
A thought occurred to Jake. “You didn’t fall in love with her, too, did you?”
Emotion, pure and raw, fleeted across Jiro’s eyes, and the hair on the back of Jake’s neck stood on end. Certain pieces of the puzzle were beginning to snap together, but not in the configuration he’d expected. The picture that was emerging made no sense.
“She was Beauty personified to Kai,” said Jiro. “I believe he loved the girl with all his heart. What could a loyal art master do in the face of such love?”
Jake held his tongue. He could think of a number of things.
“Then”—Jiro placed his hands flat on the room’s central table as if to shore himself up for what he must say next—“she was with child. Kai knew what he would do. He would marry her, and they would be a happy family. An indulged youngest son had no reason to believe this idea was anything other than possible. Of course, his father quickly disabused him of such romantic delusion. Clemence and the child were to be cast aside like so much Western rubbish and forgotten. Kai nodded his agreement to his father and began formulating another plan.”
“To take Clemence and the paintings and to flee,” Jake intuited.
“Kai had this idea that he could sell them and live off the profits until he and Clemence found a way to establish themselves.”
“Did she know of this plan?”
Jiro shook his head, and his fingers clenched into fists. “Kai made the decision to bide his time and wait until after the child was born. He’d not wanted to risk her health or that of the unborn child by sailing on the open sea. Besides, his father’s spies would know if he attempted any communication with her. After all, they would have the rest of their lives to be together. But then—” An unreconciled note of grief choked up Jiro’s voice.
“She died,” Jake finished for him.
Jiro nodded and cleared his throat. “Before Kai could surface from his grief, you left Dejima with the child.”
Jiro’s eyes found his, and Jake saw recrimination in their depths. Compelled to explain, he said, “Clemence requested I take her daughter. No one else would.”
“I thought this must be the case. Otherwise, why would you of all people—”
“Yes, why would I? Her cuckold?” Jake threw at the man like a rebuke.
“Unless she’d requested it,” Jiro finished as if he hadn’t heard Jake. “She had nowhere else to turn.” A low flame lit within the man’s gaze. “Did she have to beg you to take her child?”
Jake felt like he’d been gut-punched. “Yes.”
“She did nothing wrong,” Jiro stated. “Her only crime was to love in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was nothing wrong with her love.”
Jake wouldn’t argue with this man about the world’s opinion on that love. It was an entirely different conversation. From his perspective, and the only one he cared to give any consideration, Mina came of that union. There was, indeed, some right to it.
Again, Jiro cleared his throat. “Kai resolved to carry through with his plan anyway. The child was his, and all that was left of Clemence. He would claim her from you.”
Apprehension churned Jake’s gut. “I never received word from him.”
“Six months after Minako’s birth. That is her name, yes?”
Jake nodded, feeling more unbalanced by the second. His brain refused to speculate where this tale might lead. Certain possibilities were too extraordinary.
“Kai found a ship captain willing to take his gold and see nothing all the way to Singapore. I agreed to accompany him as I had more connections in the art market. But bad luck followed us across the water, and by the time we docked in Singapore, we had contracted breakbone fever.”
Jiro reached for a sketchbook and flipped it open to a blank page. Charcoal in hand, he began scratching across paper. “We found our way to a cheap boarding house in a neighborhood of vice to wait out the fever. Both master and servant were sick among strangers. One couldn’t discern who was who.” He glanced up from the paper. “Who is servant in that circumstance? Who is master? Sickness renders all men equals in that way.”
Jiro lay down his pencil and eyed the sketch before holding it up for Jake’s inspection. “You thought to find this man when you came here today?”
Jake studied the drawing. Without consciously realizing it, that was, indeed, the man he’d expected to see today. Certain extraordinary possibilities began to appear, unexpected puzzle pieces clicking into place. Impossible.
He looked up to find Jiro studying him with narrowed eyes.
“When the fever passed,” Jiro continued, “one rose and the other did not”—
Jake’s gaze darted from the sketch to Jiro’s face.
—“And master became servant.”
Possibility became reality. The picture was clear.
“Kai.”