by Elsa Hart
Recalling himself to the moment, he saw that Hamza was looking at him, waiting for him to continue. He drew in a deep breath. “I found a great deal more than I expected,” he said. “But none of it proved to be of use. Nothing led me anywhere, until finally, I found an account of the decision to close the library to outside scholars. The reason given was the attempted assassination, the very one Shu had been accused of planning. I learned that, two nights before the attempt, the conspirators met for a final time.”
“Ah,” said Hamza. “In the library.”
“Yes. This information came from the testimony of a man called Han Zongwan. He claimed that, unknown to the conspirators, he was in the library that night, and witnessed the meeting. He had not reported it because, unable to hear their words, he had been given no reason to think the meeting was not innocent. Later, news spread that there had been an attempt on the Emperor’s life, and that only eight of nine conspirators had been apprehended. A furious search began for the ninth man. Han Zongwan, upon learning the names of the would-be assassins, finally understood the significance of what he had seen. He was able to identify the ninth man, the one for whom everyone was searching.”
“Shu,” said Hamza.
Li Du nodded. “According to Han Zongwan, he saw Shu’s face distinctly.”
“But who is this Han Zongwan?” asked Hamza. “Was he also a librarian? Did you know him?”
Li Du’s mouth twisted slightly. “He was a librarian, and he wasn’t. I knew him, and I didn’t.”
“I am the storyteller,” said Hamza. “Do not taunt me with riddles. Explain your contradictions.”
“Han Zongwan’s testimony exists in the form of a letter, written and signed by him. As soon as I saw it, I knew who he was. I know that handwriting as well as I know my own. The letter of Han Zongwan was written by Shu himself.”
“Shu wrote a letter accusing himself of the crime?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
Li Du dropped his eyes to the shadows on the table. “I returned to Beijing with the belief in Shu’s innocence,” he said. “Which I thought meant that he was not in the library with the conspirators that night. I was wrong. He was in the library. I think it was Shu, not the fictional Han Zongwan, who witnessed the meeting, and who saw the ninth man. I think Shu wrote the letter in order to conclude the investigation before the identity of that man could be discovered. I think Shu implicated himself in order to protect that man.”
“Possible, perhaps,” said Hamza. “But what could have induced him to make such a sacrifice?”
It was the question Li Du pondered during sleepless hours of the night, while listening to the clerics chanting sutras in the temple halls. He didn’t have an answer.
“It is clear to me,” Hamza went on, “as clear, as I have heard you say, as scallions on tofu, that if this ninth conspirator exists, you must find him and speak with him.”
“That was also my conclusion,” said Li Du. “I devoted months to the search. Unfortunately, every path I followed led to one of those gray walls you say are too abundant within the capital.”
Hamza, inspired by wine to a literal interpretation, shook his head. “No wonder you didn’t find him, wandering through alleys and walking into walls.”
Li Du’s voice remained grave, but there was an amused twinkle in his eye. “The paths to which I refer are not made of dirt and stone, but of paper and ink. Each of the eight assassins who died on the night of the attack had deep ties to the Ming, some better obscured than others. But I was looking for something else they had in common. I was looking for a person. Finally, six months ago, I found him. His name is Feng Liang.”
“Ah,” said Hamza, leaning forward in anticipation. In the dark, the enunciation of the name seemed to conjure a presence at the table with them. Li Du nodded. “The first mention of him I read was in the employment record of one of the conspirators, who had served for a year on the Council of Princes and High Officials. Feng Liang was on the list of officials who were also members at that time. His name remained in my memory, but I would never have thought to pursue it, had I not encountered it again in the records of a second conspirator, a man who had published a well-received poem on the subject of his pilgrimage to Mount Tai in the company of a good friend. The friend was named—”
“Feng Liang,” finished Hamza.
“Yes. But I was so tangled in the documentation that the coincidence did not attract more than a moment of my attention. This changed when I encountered Feng Liang’s name in the records associated with a third conspirator, who had for some years occupied a place on the Examiner Selection Committee, along with six other scholars, among them Feng Liang. It was then that I began to search for his name in connection with each of the conspirators. With the exception of Shu, he knew them all.
“So I began to investigate Feng himself. He was born in Gansu to a scholarly family. He came to the capital to take the exams, attained high scores, and chose to remain in Beijing. He served on various advisory and academic committees within the palace, and tutored several of the princes. Over the past nine years, he has retreated into a solitary existence, which is not an unusual decision for a scholar of his age. To the casual observer, he is a successful man who has decided to spend the rest of his life working on his collection of books in peace and quiet.”
“In that case,” said Hamza, “why couldn’t you go and speak to him?”
“I tried, but was unsuccessful. First I wrote to him, but received no answer. Then I went to his manor, but was not admitted. He leaves only to attend meetings of the Examiner Selection Committee, on which he still serves, and occasionally to peruse the palace book market. This is held in a public square dense with soldiers, and is not the place to discuss treason, no matter how many years ago it occurred. That is when I had the idea to approach him directly with a book of immense worth. The trouble was that I had nothing here of sufficient value to tempt him. Now, thanks to you, I do.”
Hamza bowed his head in acknowledgment of Li Du’s gratitude. “So you wish to ask two questions of the reclusive Feng. First, was he in the library that night? Second, does he know why Shu died? Tell me, if you learn that Feng was involved in the conspiracy, what will you do?”
“I don’t want vengeance,” said Li Du. “I don’t want any more deaths. I only want to understand.”
Hamza considered this for some moments. “The wine is gone,” he said finally, turning the final bottle upside down. He looked up at the sky. “And what if he knows nothing, after all? Will you stop?”
“What do you mean?”
“You do not have to live like a mouse in a temple.” Hamza gestured into the darkness, toward the hill topped by the glazed tile kiln. “You are now a valued employee of the North Borough Office. Once a month, on sunlit afternoons, you teach Shu’s grandchildren the proper order of brushstrokes and consistency of ink. Are you tempted, now, to let the past fall away?”
Li Du thought back to his arrival in Beijing two years earlier. The decision to return had been clear, but the experience of it had been more difficult than he had anticipated. He had known that his house had been sold, and that his wife had left. He was not surprised when he learned that his aunts and uncles and cousins, with whom he had never been close, had long ago closed the gap left by his absence. But he had not known that the library would be gone, and in those early weeks, he had been overwhelmed and lost. Then he had received a letter from Shu’s daughter, inviting him to visit. Mei and Cao Yun had been the first to offer him friendship, and he had seen, in their family, the happiness that had once belonged to Shu.
Returning through a wine-blurred mist to the inn courtyard, he shook his head. “You misunderstand why I come to Mentougou,” he said. “It is not a reprieve from my task. It is a reminder of it.”
Chapter 18
Li Du arrived at the North Borough Office on the following afternoon to find Chief Inspector Sun pacing in his office, wearing only pants and a thin cot
ton robe. The room was redolent of ginger and garlic. The floor was papered with sodden documents spread out to dry.
“Noodles,” said Sun.
Li Du nodded. “Brought from Qi’s restaurant?”
Sun took a seat at his desk, looking profoundly aggrieved. “You know how generous Qi is with his portions. Of course the entire contents of the bowl were emptied just as I was preparing to go see Magistrate Yin. I’ve sent Ding to bring a change of robes from my residence. How was your journey to Mentougou?”
Sun nodded distractedly through Li Du’s account of his interview with Ji Daolong. “So the owner of the Glazed Tile Factory could offer no real insight into the unexpected death of his childhood friend,” he said, when Li Du had finished. “But, after all, we did not have high hopes that he would.”
“No,” said Li Du. “I was surprised, though, at how little he knew, given how close Lady Ai believed them to be.”
Sun stared broodingly at his desk, which gleamed with the oily residue of soup. “Magistrate Yin has summoned me to his offices because he believes Hong’s confession is imminent. As soon as we obtain that confession, this matter will be resolved, and we will be able to return our attention to more welcome tasks.”
Li Du knew that the welcome tasks to which Sun referred were official meetings accompanied by expensive food, with the space between them occupied by the usual administrative busywork. Repetition never bored the chief inspector. Rather, it reassured him. With an effort, Li Du repressed an urge to bring up the quote from The Bitter Plum again. He was Sun’s assistant, not his supervisor. “I wondered,” he said, “if you happened to see my request to leave early today in order to attend my aunt’s birthday celebration. I understand if, given the situation, you would prefer me to remain here, but—”
“Of course you must attend,” said Sun. His face broke into a genuine smile, the one he wore when the world seemed to him to be operating as it should. “I am happy to see you making more of an effort to reacquaint yourself with your relations. When you spend all your hours here, or in that old temple, I worry you might have wandered alone for too long away from civilization. I will—”
He was interrupted by a clatter of hooves. “At last,” he said. He stood up, crossed the room, and, clearly self-conscious of his thin robe, opened the door a crack so that he could see outside. Then he gestured urgently for Li Du to join him. Li Du saw Ding, a clerk whose naturally gaunt features had become decidedly haggard with the approach of the examinations, which he was registered to take for the first time. Ding stood at the center of the courtyard, pale and out of breath, carrying robes of dark silk draped over his outstretched arms. But he was not the only one who had just entered. Behind him were two mounted soldiers. A third man sat slumped on a horse between them, his bowed head obscuring his face.
“Gendarmerie soldiers,” muttered Sun. “Go outside, send Ding into my office, and stay with them until I am presentable.”
Li Du obeyed. The Gendarmerie was arguably the most powerful law enforcement entity in the capital. While their soldiers were concentrated mostly in the Inner City, their jurisdiction also extended into the Outer City. Li Du greeted the soldiers, who now stood on the cobblestones, their charge between them. The man wore rough laborer’s clothes. His hair was stiff with clay dust. His lips were pressed tightly together, making the skin around them bloodless and white. Li Du recognized him at once. It was Zou Anlin, the overseer at the Black Tile Factory.
“Is this the office investigating the recent murder at the Black Tile Factory?” asked the shorter soldier, whose authoritative bearing proclaimed him the higher ranking of the two. The other stood quietly, his stern presence alone serving to affirm and amplify what his partner said.
“It is,” said Li Du. “And I know who this man is. Why have you brought him here?”
At that moment, the door of Sun’s office opened. Sun stepped onto the veranda, looking much more the part of the competent administrator in robes of deep blue that fell to a richly embroidered hem. But for the aroma of broth wafting from his open door, the mishap might not have happened. He summoned them all to the reception room. Ding emerged from the office, still recovering from his rushed errand, and hurried across the courtyard to join Mi, Yuan, and the other clerks where they had gathered at the open door of their building.
The two soldiers, while respectful, held themselves somewhat aloof. Unlike the Green Standard soldiers who were available for use by the chief inspectors of the Outer City boroughs, the soldiers of the Gendarmerie reported to their own commandant, whose authority in matters of city security far outweighed Sun’s. “We were patrolling the Outer City alleys after being relieved from our posts at You’an Gate,” explained the soldier. “At the market, we were approached by a vendor who said that a laborer from the Black Tile Factory had just tried to exchange a large amount of silver for copper coins. We identified the man. A search of his possessions yielded this. It did not take us long to convince him to admit that he stole it.”
The soldier made a sign to his companion, who stepped forward and set down on a table a bag of pale leather, drawn closed with a blue string. It settled, heavy and clinking, across the empty surface. The soldier loosened the string and allowed the soft leather to fall open. Li Du and Sun leaned over it. Inside, silver ingots gleamed. It was Li Du who looked up first, and caught for a moment the expression of frustrated longing on Zou’s thin, pinched features.
“We are taking him to the Gendarmerie to await trial for theft,” said the soldier. “But as we have all been informed of the murders, we brought him here first, in case you have questions for him.”
“A courtesy I greatly appreciate,” said Sun. He examined the contents of the bag. “It looks like sixty taels to me.”
“Fifty-eight,” said the soldier.
Li Du took his turn to look. The sizes and shapes of the ingots made their values easy to ascertain. There were four large ingots worth ten taels each, and a collection of small one-tael pieces. It was not a vast sum, but it could feed six monks for a year. To a poor laborer, it would appear a fortune.
“A bag of this description containing approximately this much silver was seen in the possession of the male victim,” said Sun. He addressed Zou. “What explanation can you offer?”
Zou cringed, the longing gone from a face that now looked simply frightened. “I found it,” he said in a voice that was almost a croak.
“Where did you find it?” asked Sun.
The words came in a rush. “That morning, when I arrived at the factory, I did go into the office. I went inside, and I saw them.”
“You saw the bodies,” said Sun.
“Yes. I saw them dead. I will tell you the truth now. I found the bodies first. I found them in the morning. Blood all over them. Blood all over the room. I am a poor man, and a weak man. I repent my deed. I saw the silver, and I took it. But I tell you, they were dead already. They had been dead for hours.”
“What do you mean, you saw the silver?”
Zou clutched his arms as if he was cold. His voice was full of penitence. “I was so afraid. It was barely light outside. I thought whoever killed them might still be somewhere among the kilns. So I stayed in the room, terrified that I, too, would be attacked. Then it began to grow lighter. I could see their faces, and all the blood. I turned away, and that’s when I saw the bag on the floor. You must believe that I am not, by nature, a thief, but I was so frightened that I was not myself. I opened it, and there before me was more wealth than I have ever seen before. You must understand, I was at the mercy of temptation. I have always been a poor man. I told myself, What harm could it do them now?”
“So you took it,” said Sun. “Did you take anything else? Did you alter anything within the room?”
Zou shook his head vigorously. “Nothing.”
“Well?” asked the shorter soldier. “Do you believe his story, or should we inform the commandant that this man should be charged with murder as well as theft?”
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br /> “Murder?” Zou’s eyes were wide. “No, I’m not a murderer.” He turned a beseeching expression to Li Du and Sun. “I beg you to explain to them. I took the silver. I accept that I must be punished. I will reform. But I cannot have murdered them. Ask the monk who tends the shrine at the lodge. Ask the cook in the kitchen. I ate with my countrymen, as I do every night. And Old Gao can tell you I never left my bed.”
The soldiers looked to Chief Inspector Sun for confirmation. “It’s true,” he said slowly. “The murders took place during the night. This man has an alibi from sundown to sunup.”
“You’re sure?”
Sun nodded. “We’ve confirmed it.”
The shorter soldier shrugged, pulled the strings of the bag closed, and picked it up. “That is fortunate for him. In that case, I will inform my superior not to charge him with murder. He will await trial for theft in the Gendarmerie cells.”
Chapter 19
Hamza was waiting for Li Du at the place they had prearranged, a pagoda situated in a desolate corner of the East Borough. Upon reaching the top of the dilapidated, winding staircase, Li Du found the storyteller absorbed in contemplation of a column that had once been painted with a pattern of phoenixes. Though reduced to faded impressions of their former selves, the birds were still perceptible, frozen in ghostly orbits.
“I cannot read this language,” said Hamza, pointing to a line of graffiti over a bird’s wing. “What lost civilization has left its messages on your empire’s ruins?”
“It’s not a lost civilization,” Li Du replied, when he had caught his breath. “It’s Korean. This pagoda, despite its current state of disrepair, is listed as an attraction in the Korean guidebook to this city. No one knows why, but the result is that every emissary and traveler from that country asks to visit it.”