Poets And Murder

by Robert Van Gulik

  After having left Szuchuan, the poetess changed her way of life completely. She bought the White Heron Monastery, a small Taoist shrine in the beautiful Lake District, and called herself a Taoist nun. She kept only one maidservant, no man was allowed inside, and she wrote only religious poetry. She had always spent her money as freely as she made it, and on leaving Szuchuan she had paid extravagant severance bonuses to all members of her numerous suite. The remainder she had invested in the purchase of the White Heron Monastery. But she was still considered well-to-do, for the notables living in that region paid her well for teaching poetry to their daughters. There Lo’s biography ended. ‘Please refer to the attached judicial documents,’ he had written at the end of the page.

  Judge Dee righted himself and quickly leafed through the bundle of legal documents. With his practised eye it took him little time to pick out the main facts. Two months before, in late spring, the constables of the local tribunal had suddenly entered the White Heron Monastery, and started digging under the cherry tree in the back garden. They found the naked body of Yoo-lan’s maidservant, a girl of seventeen. The autopsy showed that she must have died only three days previously, from a cruel whipping that had lacerated her entire body. Yoo-lan was arrested, and accused of willful murder. She scornfully denied the accusation. Three days previously, she said, the maid had asked for one week’s leave to visit her aged parents, and she left after she had prepared the evening rice for her mistress. That was the last the poetess had seen of her. After she had taken her meal, she had gone out for a long walk along the edge of the lake, alone. When she came back one hour before midnight, she discovered that the garden gate had been forced, and upon checking found the two silver candlesticks in the monastery’s chapel missing. She reminded the magistrate that the very next morning she had reported the theft to his tribunal. She suggested that the maid, having come back to the monastery because she had forgotten something, had surprised the robbers. They tried to make her tell where her mistress’s money was, and the maid succumbed under the torture.

  Then the magistrate heard a number of witnesses, who testified that the poetess had often quarrelled violently with the maid, and that they had heard the maid scream sometimes at night. The monastery was located in an unfrequented neighbourhood, but a few pedlars had passed there on the fateful night, and they had not seen a trace of robbers or vagabonds. The magistrate declared Yoo-lan’s defence a pack of lies, accusing her of having forced the garden gate herself and thrown the silver candlesticks into a well. Referring also to her lurid past, he was about to propose the death sentence, when armed robbers attacked a farmstead in the vicinity and cruelly hacked the farmer and his wife to pieces. The magistrate postponed judgement on Yoo-lan, and sent out his men to apprehend the robbers, who might prove Yoo-lan’s story true. In the meantime the news of the arrest of the famous poetess had spread far and wide, and the Prefect ordered the case transferred to his own tribunal.

  The Prefect’s energetic investigation-he was an admirer of Yoo-lan’s poetry-brought to light two points in her favour. First, it transpired that the magistrate had tried to obtain Yoo-lan’s favours the year before, and that she had refused him. The magistrate admitted this but denied that the fact had influenced his dealing with the case. He had received an anonymous letter stating that a corpse was buried under the cherry tree, and he had deemed it his duty to verify that allegation. The Prefect ruled that the magistrate had been prejudiced, and temporarily suspended him from his duties. Second, the military police caught a robber who until a few weeks previously had been a member of the band that attacked the farmstead. He stated that their leader had talked about the poetess having a hoard of gold in the monastery, and added that it would be worth while having a look around there some time. This seemed to bear out Yoo-lan’s theory about the murder. On the basis of these facts the Prefect passed the case on to the provincial tribunal, recommending acquittal of the accused.

  The Governor, flooded with letters from high-placed persons all over the Empire in favour of the poetess, was about to give a verdict of not guilty, when a young water-carrier from the Lake District came forward. He had been absent for several weeks, accompanying an uncle on a journey to the family graves. He had been the maid’s boy friend, and stated that she had often told him that her mistress importuned her, and beat her when she refused. The Governor’s doubts were strengthened by the fact that the maid had been found to be a virgin. He reasoned that if robbers had murdered the maid, they would certainly have raped her first. He instructed the military police to search the entire province for the robbers who had attacked the farmstead, for their testimony was of course of vital importance. But all efforts to track the band down were in vain. Neither could the writer of the anonymous letter be traced. The Governor thought he had better wash his hands of this ticklish case, and referred it to the Metropolitan Court.

  Judge Dee closed the dossier, arose from the table and went out on to the gallery. A cool autumn breeze rustled in the bamboos of the rockery, promising a fine evening.

  Yes, his colleague had been right. It certainly was an interesting case. Disturbing, rather. He pensively tugged at his moustache. Magistrate Lo had described it as a purely theoretical puzzle. But his wily colleague had known very well, of course, that it would present him, the judge, with a personal challenge. And now his meeting with the poetess had linked him directly with her case, squarely confronting him with the question: guilty or not guilty?

  The judge began to pace the gallery, his hands clasped behind his back. Secondary information was all he had on this disturbing, frustrating case. Suddenly the ugly, toad-like face of the sexton rose before his mind’s eye. That strange monk had reminded him that for the poetess this was a question of life or death. He was dimly conscious of a feeling of uneasiness, an inexplicable sense of foreboding. Perhaps he would rid himself of his vague discomfiture, if he tackled the dossier again and went over all the verbatim witness accounts. It was only five o’clock, so he still had two hours or so before the dinner would begin. Somehow or other, however, he didn’t feel like resuming his study of the legal documents. He thought he would postpone that task till he had had a longer talk with the poetess, at dinner. Then he would listen also to what the Academician and the Court Poet had to say to her, try to gauge their attitude to the problem of her guilt. Suddenly the gay dinner party promised by his colleague took on the macabre significance of a court of justice, deliberating a death sentence. Now he had a distinct premonition of impending danger.

  Trying to dispel these disquieting thoughts, he reviewed in his mind the murder of the student, Soong. That also was a frustrating case. He had taken part in the investigation of the scene of the crime, but now he could do nothing, had to depend entirely on what Lo’s men would bring to light. There again he would have to work with second-hand information.

  Suddenly the judge halted in his steps. His bushy eyebrows creased in a deep frown; he reflected for a while. He went inside, and took the booklet with Soong’s musical score from the table. Apart from the student’s historical notes, this was the only direct link with the dead man. Again he leafed through its closely written pages. Suddenly he smiled. It was a long shot, but it was worth trying! At any rate it would be better than sitting and moping here in his room, poring over statements by all kinds of persons he had never set eyes upon.

  The judge quickly changed into a simple blue gown. Having put a small black skull-cap on his head, he went outside, the book under his arm.

  Chapter 8

  DUSK WAS FALLING. In the front courtyard of the residence two maids were lighting the lampions hanging from the eaves of the surrounding buildings.

  When he had joined the teeming crowd in the broad thoroughfare in front of the tribunal’s main gate, Judge Dee heaved a deep sigh of contentment. His feeling of frustration had come mainly from his being cooped up in his colleague’s palatial residence, isolated from the pulsating life of the city, a city practically unknown to him
. Now that he was taking action, he felt better at once. He let himself be carried along by the throng, scanning all the while the gaudily decorated shop fronts. When he saw the shop-sign of a dealer in musical instruments, he elbowed his way towards the door.

  He was met by a deafening din, for half a dozen customers were trying out drums, flutes and two-stringed fiddles, all at the same time. On the eve of the Mid-autumn Festival, every musical amateur was keen to prepare himself for the gay gatherings on the following day. The judge went to the office in the rear, where the owner was hurriedly gobbling down a bowl of noodles at his desk, one watchful eye on his assistants who were helping the customers. Visibly impressed by Judge Dee’s scholarly air, the man got up at once and asked what he could do for him.

  The judge handed him the musical score.

  ‘All these are tunes for the straight flute,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you could identify them for me.’

  After one glance at the notation the music dealer gave the book back to the judge, saying with an apologetic smile:

  ‘We only know the simple score of ten signs, sir. This must be some ancient system of notation. For that you must consult an expert. Lao-liu is your man, sir. The finest flute-player in town, plays any tune at sight, in any notation, old or new. Lives close by, too.’ He wiped his greasy chin. ‘Only trouble is that Lao-liu drinks, sir. He starts at noon, after he has given his music lessons, and he is usually drunk by this time. He sobers up later in the evening, when he has to play at parties. Makes good money, but squanders it all on wine and women.’

  Judge Dee put a handful of coppers on the table.

  ‘Let one of your men take me to him, anyway.’ *

  ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir! Hey there, Wang! Take this gentleman to Lao-liu’s house. Come back here at once, mind you!’

  As the young shop assistant was walking with Judge Dee down the street, he suddenly pulled his sleeve. Pointing at a wine shop opposite he said with a sly grin:

  ‘If you want to do real business with Lao-liu, sir, you’d better buy him a little present. No matter how far gone he is, he’ll wake up when you hold a jar of liquor under his nose!’

  The judge bought a medium-sized jar of strong white liquor that was drunk cold. The youngster took him through a narrow passage to a dark, smelly back street, lined with ramshackle wooden houses, and lit only by the light that filtered through a dingy paper window here and there. ‘The fourth house on your left sir!’ Judge Dee gave him a tip and the boy scurried away.

  The door of the flute-player’s house was sagging on its hinges. From behind it came round curses, then a woman laughed shrilly. The judge put his hand against the panel and the door swung open.

  In the small, bare room, lit by a smoking oil-lamp, hung an overpowering smell of cheap liquor. A fat man with a round, flushed face sat on the bamboo bench at the back. He wore baggy brown trousers, and a short jacket that was open in front, leaving his gleaming paunch bare. A girl was sitting on his knee. It was Small Phoenix. Lao-liu stared up at the judge with bleary eyes. The dancer quickly pulled her skirt down over her thighs, muscular and startlingly white, and fled to the farthest corner of the room, a fiery blush on her still, mask-like face.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the flute-player asked in a thick voice.

  Ignoring the girl, Judge Dee sat down at the low bamboo table, and put the wine-jar down.

  Lao-liu’s bloodshot eyes grew wide.

  ‘A jar of real Rose Dew, by heaven!’ He came unsteadily to his feet. ‘You’re welcome, even if you look like the King of Hell himself, with that big beard! Open it up, my friend!’

  The judge put his hand on top of the jar.

  ‘You’ll have to earn your drink, Lao-liu.’ He threw the score book on the table. ‘I want you to tell me what tunes are there.’

  Standing at the table, the fat man opened the book with his thick but surprisingly nimble fingers. ‘Easy!’ he muttered. ‘I’ll freshen up a bit first, though.’ He half-stumbled to the wash stand in the corner, and began to rub his face and breast with a soiled towel.

  Judge Dee watched him in silence, still ignoring the dancer. What she was doing there was her own business. Small Phoenix hesitated, then she came up to the table and began timidly:

  ‘I… I tried to persuade him to play at the dinner tonight, sir. He is a beast, but a marvellous musician. When he refused, I let him fondle me a bit…’

  ‘I wouldn’t play the blasted “Black Fox Lay” even if you lay with me till morning!’ the fat man growled. He groped among the dozen or so bamboo flutes hanging from nails in the cracked plaster wall.

  ‘I thought you were going to dance “A Phoenix among

  A FLUTE-PLAYER QUARRELS WITH A DANCER

  Purple Clouds”,’ the judge told her casually. He thought the dancer looked rather pitiful, with her still face and her bent narrow shoulders.

  ‘Yes indeed, sir. But after … after I had seen the fine floor-space in the magistrate’s hall … and after I had been introduced to those two high officials from the capital, and the famous Sexton Loo, I thought this was a chance that would never come again. Therefore I thought I might try to dance the other tune. It allows for a quick, whirling movement… .’

  ‘Wriggle that small bottom of yours to decent music!’ Lao-liu snapped. ‘The “Fox Lay” is a bad tune.’ He sat down on a low stool and opened the score book on his large knee. ‘Hm, you don’t want to hear the first, of course. “White Clouds Remind Me of her Dress, Flowers of her Face.” Everybody knows that love song. The second looks like …’ He brought the flute to his lips and played a few bars that had a fetching lilt. ‘Oh yes, that’s “Singing to the Autumn Moon”. Quite popular in the capital last year.’

  The fat man went through the score book, now and then playing a few bars to identify the tune. The judge hardly listened to his explanations. He was disappointed that his theory had come to nothing, but he had to admit it had been a far-fetched idea. The fact that the tunes had no titles and no words, and were written in a complicated notation he had never seen before, had suggested the possibility that it was no musical score at all, but the student’s secret notes, written down in a kind of musical cipher. An obscene curse roused him from his thoughts.

  ‘I’ll be damned!’ The flute-player was looking fixedly at the last tune in the book. He muttered, ‘The first bars look different, though.’ He put the flute to his lips.

  Low notes came forth, in a slow, mournful rhythm. The dancer sat up with a startled look. The rhythm quickened; high, shrill notes formed a weird melody. The fat man lowered his flute. ‘That’s the blasted “Black Fox Lay”!’ he said disgustedly.

  The dancer bent over the table.

  ‘Give me that score, sir! Please!’ There was a feverish gleam now in her large, slanting eyes. ‘With that score, any good flautist can play it for me!’

  ‘As long as it isn’t me!’ the fat man growled, throwing the book on the table. ‘I prefer to stay in good health!’

  ‘I shall gladly lend you the book,’ Judge Dee told the dancer. ‘But you must tell me a bit more about that “Black Fox Lay”. I am interested in music, you see.’

  ‘It’s a little-known, old local tune, sir, not included in any handbook for the flute. Saffron, the girl who acts as guardian of the Black Fox Shrine in the south city, is always singing it. I tried to make her write it down for me, but the poor thing is a half-wit; she can’t read or write a thing, let alone a difficult musical score. Yet it’s the most magnificent music to dance to… .’

  Judge Dee gave her the book. ‘You can return it to me tonight, at the dinner party.’

  ‘Oh, thanks ever so much, sir! I have to rush off now, for the musician will want to practise it a bit.’ In the doorway she turned round. ‘Please don’t tell the other guests that I am going to do this dance, sir. I want it to be a surprise!’

  The judge nodded. ‘Get two large bowls,’ he told the fat man.

  The musician took two earthenware bo
wls from the shelf while Judge Dee removed the stopper from the jar. He filled Lao-liu’s bowl to the rim.

  ‘High-class stuff!’ the musician exclaimed, sniffing at the bowl. Then he emptied it in one long draught. The judge took a careful sip of his. ‘Strange girl, that dancer,’ he remarked casually.

  ‘If she’s a girl! Wouldn’t wonder if she turned out to be a fox spirit, with a plumed tail under her skirt. Was just trying to find that out when you came in, sir!’ He grinned, refilled his bowl and took a sip. Smacking his lips, he went on, ‘Fox or not, she’s great at squeezing the customers dry, the mercenary little bitch! Accepts their presents, lets them do a bit of kissing and patting, but as to real business, no, sir! No, never! And I have known her for over a year. Fine dancer she is, that I must say for her.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Well, perhaps she’s a wise one, after all. Come to think of it, I’ve seen many a good dancer go to pieces because of too much cavorting on the bed mat!’

  ‘How did you come to know the “Fox Lay”?’

  ‘Heard it many a year ago, from a couple of old crones. Midwives who made an extra penny by expelling evil spirits from the house of the expectant mother. Don’t know the music too well, to tell you frankly. But the witch over there in the shrine, she’s real good at it.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A blasted witch, that’s what she is! A real fox spirit, that one! An old woman who picks rags found her in the street, nice little tot. That’s what she seemed, at least! Grew up as a half-wit, didn’t talk till she was fifteen. Then she got fits every so often, would roll her eyes and say strange, horrible things. The old crone got frightened, and sold her to a brothel. She was a looker, it seems. Well, the owner of the brothel pocketed a good fee from the elderly amateur who was going to deflower her. The old gentleman should’ve known better than to fool around with a fox girl. Let’s have another one, sir, it’s the first real drink I have had today.’