by Elsa Hart
The servant addressed the curtain, and received from behind it a request to wait. The servant, embarrassed, explained that there were two men from the North Borough Office who had come on urgent business. At this, the curtain was jerked back. Erchen emerged, half tripping. Seeing Li Du, he dropped into a formal bow and began to apologize profusely.
“I should not have spoken so rudely,” he said. “Even if I did think one of my brothers or sisters wanted to interrupt me again. I beg you to forgive my behavior, and allow us to serve you tea. My father is at the factory, and my mother and grandparents have gone to visit our uncle outside the city.”
A small voice piped up from the corner. The speaker was the smallest child, a girl who was gently dangling a string over the kitten. “We want to play that the bushes are kilns, and when we go inside them we turn into animals.”
“Fire is dangerous,” said Erchen. “You should never go into a kiln, not even when you are pretending.” Erchen’s face was thinner and sharper than his father’s, but his expression as he spoke these words made the resemblance obvious. His look was stern, but the sternness was all in the brow. His eyes remained gentle, his mouth soft. The girl looked ready to argue, but was prevented by her elder sister, who picked her up and carried her into the courtyard.
“We came from the North Borough Office to speak to you,” Li Du said, responding to the look of anxious inquiry from Erchen. “As the matter pertains to the crime at the Black Tile Factory, perhaps there is a more private place—?” He glanced meaningfully at the children who remained in the room.
“Of course. Yes.” Erchen bobbed his head. “We’ll sit in the courtyard.” After asking the servant to bring tea, he led Li Du and Hamza through the curtains of laundry to the narrow outdoor space between the home’s outer and inner walls. Nestled among tangled vines was a low stone table with three stone stools. With a look of embarrassment, Erchen removed a wooden toy from where it rested in the center of the table, and brushed dry leaves from the seats with his sleeve as he invited them to sit.
Li Du introduced Hamza, implying vaguely that he was an assistant. Erchen seemed barely to be listening. His cheeks were flushed. “When I spoke to you at the South Church,” Li Du began, “you told me that, on the night Madam Hong and Pan Yongfa were killed, you were here at home.”
Erchen nodded. “I was.”
“Studying.”
Erchen nodded again, but said nothing.
“You also said that you knew Pan Yongfa only slightly.”
“That’s the truth. I saw him at the factory sometimes, but I—I didn’t know anything about him.”
“Apparently, you knew that he would be eating dinner at The Green Door on the night he was murdered.”
The color drained from Erchen’s face. “I don’t know what you mean,” he whispered.
“You were seen,” said Li Du. “You were seen speaking with Pan only a few hours before he died. I am sure you understand that by withholding this information, you have given me good reason not to trust you. I should bring you into the North Borough Office to be questioned by Chief Inspector Sun.”
“Please don’t,” Erchen pleaded with a look of broken, exhausted desperation. “Please don’t take me away from my books. I have only three days left. There is so much still to review. I promise I had no idea that Pan was going to meet Madam Hong. It was only a terrible coincidence that I spoke to him that night. When I heard that he was dead, I was frightened. I didn’t want to be accused of having something to do with it. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then tell me why you met him that evening, and what passed between you.”
“I can’t tell you.”
Hamza spoke gravely. “I have heard accounts of spirits that haunt the examination yard, reminding candidates of their past crimes.”
Erchen’s eyes widened. “I know,” he said. “They say that inside, the examiners unfurl black banners with words painted on them in red. Wrongs will be righted, they say. Those aggrieved will take revenge. And they say there is a demon who pretends to be the god of literature, and tricks candidates into spilling ink on their papers.”
Hamza leaned forward, his eyes alight with interest. “What else do they say?”
Erchen hesitated, then turned confused eyes to Li Du. “I haven’t committed any crime.”
“Then tell me what happened.” Erchen was silent. Li Du started to stand up. “If you will not, I have no choice but to summon—”
“Wait.” Erchen stopped him. “Wait.”
“A wise decision,” said Hamza, as Li Du returned to his seat. “You will not find a fairer questioner than the one who now sits across from you.”
Li Du was relieved. He strongly suspected that whatever Erchen was hiding did not merit martial intervention. “I know that Pan once offered to help you cheat on the examinations,” he said. “And I know that when your father found out, he forbade you from speaking to Pan again. Was it your purpose, when you met him that evening, to take him up on his offer?”
As Erchen began a stammering denial, Li Du interrupted him gently, but firmly. “I am not here to trap you, or to enforce the rules of the examinations. It is my opinion that, because they have not yet been administered, you have not yet committed an infraction. Trust me, please, and tell me the truth.”
Erchen let out a shuddering sigh. “I did talk to Pan,” he said. He glanced furtively toward the door into the main courtyard, as if he was afraid someone was listening. Then he leaned forward, so close that Li Du could see tears gathering in his eyes. “I just wanted to ask him for help. Please don’t tell my father.”
The same servant who had greeted them at the door arrived with tea. They waited silently until he had gone, at which point Erchen began, meekly, to tell his story. “I obeyed my father. I never spoke to Pan again, after the night he made the offer. But when I saw him at Hong’s gathering, I—The exams seemed so close, and my father, well, my father doesn’t speak like any of the men who hold degrees. I thought he might have been wrong. I thought—I couldn’t stop thinking—that someone like Pan could help me. I know that many candidates have advantages. My father doesn’t believe it. He thinks that because I have studied hard, I will pass the test. But he doesn’t understand that there are so few places and that, well, I don’t know for certain, but that—”
“Corruption exists,” said Li Du.
Erchen nodded miserably. “I just thought that Pan might be able to tell me if my father was being naïve.”
“So you went to The Green Door in search of him?”
Erchen bit his lip. “No. I went to the Ministry of Rites. I waited outside the gate. When I saw him come out, I followed. There were so many ministry and palace officials around us that I was afraid to speak to him. I just—followed a little way behind. It was stupid. I see now how stupid it was.”
“And you followed him all the way to the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Did he go directly there?”
“No. He stopped to speak with someone. Well, not to speak. To deliver a letter, I think.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In an alley market not far from the palace—just southeast of Rainbow Bridge.”
“And did you recognize the person to whom he delivered this letter?”
Erchen seemed to concentrate on the memory. “It didn’t really look like a letter. The shape of the paper—it was more like an official document. It looked white, but it might have been pale blue. The ink was dark, not red or green. And yes, I did recognize the man he gave it to, because I’d just been told who he was the day before, at Hong Wenbin’s home. He was there, you see. His name is Kirsa.”
The Manchu name was familiar to Li Du from the list of guests who had attended Hong’s party, but it was the first time he had heard it mentioned in connection with Pan Yongfa. “What were you told about him?”
“Not very much. Only that he is a very high official in the Imperial Household Agency, and has been for m
any years. They say he’s very influential, and that he knows all the most important people in the palace and the ministries.”
“So Pan met Kirsa, and gave him a document. Did they converse?”
“I couldn’t hear them, but they cannot have spoken more than ten words. Kirsa seemed as if he was in a hurry. They parted as soon as Pan had given him the document.”
“Other than Kirsa being in a hurry, what was the tenor of their interaction? Did they seem friendly with each other?”
Erchen hesitated. “If you speak to Kirsa, you will see that he does not—That is, I’m not certain I can imagine him appearing friendly. He has a—a stern aspect. I think it would be intimidating to speak to him.”
“I see. What happened after they parted?”
“Kirsa went in the direction of the palace, and Pan Yongfa went to Zhengyang Gate. I followed him through it, and that’s how we came to the restaurant.”
“Where you paced outside, waiting for Pan to emerge.”
“Yes.” Erchen’s head sank a little in shame. “I couldn’t find the courage to go in and speak to him. I kept telling myself to walk away, only to think, What if he is my only chance. I hardly noticed the time passing, I was so caught up in trying to decide what to do. Then suddenly he was at the door, and starting to walk away. I reached out and found myself clutching his sleeve. I think he would have struck me, thinking me a thief, but then he recognized me. He asked me what I wanted, but I think he guessed right away why I was there. He was smiling.”
“He was amused?”
Erchen struggled for words. “No. It was more as if—as if I’d proven him correct about something. But it was that smile that made me see clearly what a mistake I’d made. We walked together to a quieter alley to talk, but by the time we got there I was certain that I was not going to ask him for anything, that I wanted nothing from him. It is less disgraceful to fail than to cheat.”
“Is that what you told him?”
“I told him I’d made a mistake. That I hadn’t come to speak to him at all.”
“What was his reply?”
“He told me that he had somewhere to be, and to enjoy my evening.”
“And that was the last you saw of him.”
“Yes.”
“Did you return home after that?”
Erchen blinked. “I couldn’t. By the time I parted from Pan, the gates were closed. I had no money, so I—I found a place on the street and slept there. I told my father I’d stayed late at the South Church. I know I am not in a position to ask for anything. I know that you could send me to the examination officials for judgment. But please, please don’t tell my father.”
Li Du sighed. “I remember being a candidate,” he said. “There were always whispers from the alley shadows, offers of connections, of the names of officials who could be bribed, of advance knowledge of the questions, of hidden places within the examination yard. You are fortunate you did not follow temptation any further. Not only would you be wrong to have done so, but many of these offers are traps.”
Erchen waited, hope shining in his frightened, gentle eyes. Li Du stood up. “My advice to you is that joining your little brothers and sisters in their games of pretend will serve you much better than joining your fellow candidates in schemes and shortcuts, and indeed may serve you very well. Close your books, and rest your mind. When the time comes to enter the examination yard, don’t be afraid of spirits. Remember to bring enough food, and keep your hand steady as you write.”
They left Erchen standing in the doorway of his home, watching them go with a look of puzzled gratitude, and renewed determination in the set of his narrow shoulders.
Chapter 33
“This must be Narcissus Temple. It’s where Wu’s compendium said it would be.” Li Du studied the dilapidated plaque above the entrance. Whatever words had once been painted onto it were gone. The wood was rotten, swollen from moisture and chewed by insects. The door below it was closed, wedged crookedly into its warped frame. Dry leaves covered the threshold.
“A ruined temple,” said Hamza, “is an ideal place to hide a secret.”
“I hope it is not too well hidden,” replied Li Du, looking at traces of paste on the door where a paper god, long since disintegrated, had been affixed. “I don’t think we’re going to find any helpful clerics here, ready with answers to our questions.”
They were in a corner of the West Borough. Similar to its corresponding corner in the East, it was sparsely populated. Temples and homes were separated not by alleys, but by marshes and fields, through which ran faint dirt paths. It was on one of these paths that they now stood, their backs to a marsh that exuded drifting odors of waste.
The door required a hard shove from Hamza’s shoulder before it gave way, allowing them to enter a small, dingy courtyard with a single building at its center. Dense weeds obscured the pattern of colored cobblestones on the ground. After taking in his surroundings, Hamza crossed to a section of wall and pointed to the flower painted on it. “Narcissus,” he said. “There are stories about this blossom.”
They decided that Hamza would explore the courtyard while Li Du searched the central shrine. As Hamza began to pace the perimeter, studying the crumbling wall and looking for objects hidden in the tall weeds at its base, Li Du climbed the stairs to the veranda and opened the doors of the shrine wide to let in the light. There was an altar toward the back of the room, in the center of which was a bronze statue of a man in scholar’s robes, one of a multitude of virtuous men rewarded, over the course of the empire’s history, with deification. Cobwebs seemed to bind him where he stood. Old incense sticks littered the floor in front of the altar like a crooked line from a child’s calligraphy exercise.
Li Du’s careful examination uncovered nothing beyond more signs of neglect and abandonment. He exited to find Hamza crouched over a pile of leaves and fluff in a sun-soaked corner of the courtyard. The storyteller looked up at his approach. “I have found the goddess of the temple,” he said. “She has been reduced to the humble form of a mouse.” He opened the small purse at his belt and drew from it a tiny stone, which he placed in the center of the nest. “A gift, so that she knows she is not forgotten.” He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees. “Unfortunately, I found no secret passages leading to the impossible tunnels of Beijing, no coded messages concealed in pots, and no buried trove of agates. Was there anything inside?”
“No,” said Li Du, turning to face the shrine. “It resembles every other small, forgotten temple in the city. There are dozens of them. The only detail that is unusual about this one is the roof.”
“The roof?” Hamza looked at it. “The roof!” he repeated. “Of course. We must search the seams between the tiles. There could be numerous items hidden there.”
“That is not exactly what I meant,” said Li Du. “Look at the rest of the temple. The walls are crumbling, the wood is infested with insects, the incense is unlit, and the bowls for offerings are empty. It is clear that no one has cared for this property in years. Now look at the roof.”
Hamza raised his eyes obediently. His eyebrows rose. “It’s new,” he said.
“So new,” Li Du echoed, “that it looks as though its tiles could still be warm from the kiln. I see no cracks, no moss, not even a trace of debris.”
“And they are black tiles,” said Hamza.
Li Du nodded. “Exactly. It certainly would seem that these tiles were produced by the only kilns within the city that make them, those of the Black Tile Factory. This raises several questions. First, why repair the roof of a temple that is not in use? Second, who commissioned the repair? Third, why was Pan talking about it two days before he died?”
“And with whom?” asked Hamza. He resumed his amble around the inside of the wall, studying the ground as if for inspiration.
Li Du fell into step beside him. “Pan worked for the Ministry of Rites,” he continued. “The Ministry of Rites is responsible for the upkeep of public temples. Perhaps the min
istry wants this place restored, but has not yet completed the restoration. If Pan was involved, the conversation Bai overheard him having at Hong’s party might have been entirely innocent.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to think clearly. “What do we know?”
“We know,” said Hamza, “that this Pan Yongfa was not an innocent sort of man.”
Li Du considered this, then nodded agreement. According to Pan’s coworkers at the ministry, Pan had been an intelligent and efficient civil servant, but most of what Li Du had learned over the course of the investigation had eroded the image of Pan as an upstanding citizen. Not only had Pan’s charm failed to convince the scholar Bai, who despite his arrogant obsession with his own importance was a keen observer of human behavior, but Pan had also earned the enmity of Hu Gongshan by trying to set the kiln master’s son on a potentially ruinous course of examination misconduct. And while the business Pan had intended to conduct on the night of the murder remained a mystery, there was now little question that it was of a criminal nature. “It would help,” Li Du said, “to review the events leading up to the murders.”
“Facts are more your area of expertise than mine,” said Hamza. “I am listening.”
Li Du collected his thoughts, his head bowed as he rested his eyes on the weeds, now trampled into a path by their boots. He began. “Pan attended the literary gathering at Hong’s manor, where, according to Bai, he had a conversation with two men, a conversation that was not intended to be overheard. We don’t know who these two men were, but we know that Pan spoke of tunnels, and of the temple in which we now stand.”
Hamza gestured for Li Du to continue. “On the following day,” Li Du went on, “Pan left his home in the morning with sixty taels of silver. He had it in his possession when he arrived at the Black Tile Factory that afternoon to review contracts in connection with a ministry audit. We know this from Zou Anlin, to whom he paid two taels in exchange for a promise to leave the factory door open that evening.”
“And for all Pan’s connections to the city’s web of corruption,” Hamza interjected, “it was that simple act of bribery that issued Death an invitation to seek him out. But I am pulling your account out of its proper order. Continue.”