by June Hur
“She was too pretty for her own good,” he mused, not answering me. I wondered if I was speaking to a man or the dozen empty bottles littered around him. “It’s a good thing that you aren’t pretty.”
I kept my expression blank, pretending not to feel stung. “Will you answer me or not? Why are Madam Song and the councillor not together now, ajusshi?”
“Ajusshi?” He barked out a laugh. “I have not been a middle-aged man in a long, long time. I’m old enough to be your grandfather!”
“Ajusshi!” I pressed, growing annoyed.
Finally, he answered. “There was another woman—Jumo!” he yelled out, shaking the empty wine bottle to catch the owner’s attention.
I wanted to reach out and yank the rest of the story from him, but before I could, Madam Song appeared. She had a broad forehead and pointed chin, full lips, and heavy-lidded, dreamy eyes. Eyes that watched me. I curled my lips into my mouth, hoping she wouldn’t see the taint of gossip glistening on them.
After setting a new bottle on the man’s table, Madam Song’s gaze drifted to one corner of my face. Her knitted brows straightened.
“What did you do?” she asked.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
She tapped the side of her face. It was then that I became aware of the hot summer’s air brushing my branded cheek. I loosened short strands of hair from my braid, letting them fall over the ugly mark. “I looked for my brother. When I couldn’t find his grave, I tried to run home,” I mumbled. “I was caught. That is all.”
“Home…,” she said in a steady voice. A series of emotions flowed through her dark eyes. “So my guess was right: we did meet before. You are the girl with the drawing. Have you found your brother’s burial ground yet?”
“Not yet, madam.”
“Let us see the sketch of him if you have it still,” the drunkard called out. “Perhaps I’ve seen him.”
“Yes,” Madam Song said, “let me see him again.”
“My brother?”
“That is why you have come, is it not?”
“It is, madam.” I fumbled for the sketch and thought to myself that this was a good way to continue my conversation with Madam Song. I doubted she would be pleased to know that I’d come for the sole purpose of learning more about a killing. Once I handed the drawing to her, I tensed as she studied my brother’s face.
“A fragile-looking young man,” she observed as she sat down on the edge of the platform, and I scooted over to sit next to her. A moment later, the drunkard also joined and looked over both our shoulders. “He traveled to the capital all on his own, you say … No, I never did see him.”
The drunkard chimed in, “Neither have I,” and returned to his drinking, finally leaving us to sit quietly together.
“I would remember a face like his. Does he have any other recognizable features?”
I often recalled my brother’s voice, his words and stories a clear echo in my ears, but the image of him had faded into a blur. I looked over Madam Song’s shoulder at the blank sky, trying to remember the last time I’d seen him. On a boat, surrounded by misty waters. A glimpse of his brown eyes, so light that it had seemed almost amber. The apple of his throat that had amused me, the way it would rise and fall with each uttered word. As my mind’s eye surveyed him, I frowned at a detail I had forgotten until now. On his lower right arm, a wound—a large patch of raw red.
“He had a burn on his arm,” I said, my thoughts still twelve years in the past. “A very bad burn.”
Madam Song nodded. “Then it would have left a scar. And do you know of any relatives here in Hanyang?”
“No, madam.” I knew very little about the details of my past. Older Brother and Sister had made sure of that, always speaking about our parents and relatives in whispers whenever I was around. As though stories about our family were a great and terrible secret.
“Was your brother clever?”
I nodded. “Neh.”
“Then he must have come to the capital knowing there was someone here,” she said. “When we first met months ago, you referred to your brother as someone who was dead. But he may be alive—and quite well.”
I lowered my head to avoid Madam Song’s gaze. She was wrong, and there was no point in considering a thought so preposterous. My brother had to be dead; I could feel this truth bone deep, this feeling that ties had been severed.
“Ajumma!” a maid yelled out, fracturing my thoughts. People called crude and tough middle-aged women “ajumma,” not queenly ladies like Madam Song. “Ajumma, a letter for you has arrived!”
Madam Song moved to leave, and at once, I remembered why I had come to the inn—to investigate. I threw out a question, letting it cling to her. “Madam, one last thing! Four nights ago, did you notice anything odd?”
“You mean the night of that young lady’s murder.”
“Yes, madam.”
Madam Song clucked her tongue. “An officer was pestering all my customers about that incident. He pestered me too, but I told him to leave.”
“Who was the officer?”
“A handsome one,” she answered, and when I stared blankly at her, she added, “Very obnoxious and arrogant.”
“Officer Kyŏn,” I whispered. “Did you see anything that night, madam? He claims that one of your customers saw something.”
“Hmm. I remember seeing a young maid, running into the inn to ask my customers if they had seen her mistress. Everyone said no, so she came to me next. She was so pale, the blood drained from her face, her lips nearly blue.”
“And what did you say, madam?”
“I told her no as well. It is busiest at night here at the Red Lantern. I hardly notice my own hunger as I’m too occupied tending to the needs of others.”
“And after that?”
“After that, she left, and I saw her hesitating before a drunk man on horseback. He was slumped forward, slightly swaying on his saddle. So I was worried for the young maid. A drunk man can trample a girl with his horse.”
The clamoring and yelling around me fell silent, as though someone had placed Madam Song and me under a bowl. So silent that I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears, and the long “hmm” that hummed out from between her lips.
“It was too dark to see him,” Madam Song noted. “He was wearing a hat, so it cast a shadow over his entire face.”
“What else was he wearing?”
“He was passing by a lamp…” Her eyes narrowed on a scene somewhere in the past. “I saw the color—blue. And the silver emblem of something. A tiger, I think.”
Inspector Han’s uniform, I thought. Everything Officer Kyŏn had told me matched with Madam Song’s testimony, only I’d learned something new. Something crucial he had not noticed, or had left out. The inspector had not remembered Soyi because he had been too intoxicated to notice anything. That was the reason for his silence. Not because he was hiding his memory of her. Not because he had a secret.
Relief rushed through me, melting every tense knot, making me want to lie flat on the platform. After Madam Song excused herself, I examined every corner of her statement again and again. Inspector Han had nothing to do with the murder, and I felt foolish for having even harbored a shred of doubt. Officer Kyŏn had surely intended this to happen and would likely laugh if he knew I’d come all the way to the inn to confirm his words.
But this meant the killer was still out there. Once the annoyance pinching my chest eased, I followed the gleaming thread of coincidences, and it led me back to Councillor Ch’oi.
Twisting around, I looked at the drunkard pouring himself another bowl of rice wine. “Ajusshi, you said their relationship ended because of another woman. How do you know?”
“Everyone knows,” he slurred, the alcohol finally unwinding his tongue, and flushing his face and eyes red. “She left the councillor ’cause of a necklace. Another woman’s gift to him.”
“A mere necklace?”
He gulped down the wine, and wiping his lips with
his sleeve, he let out a dry laugh. “My wife still wears a jade ring from her former sweetheart. Why am I so envious?” Through all his layers of ridiculousness, I caught a glimpse of a wound, and it slipped a hoarseness into his whisper. “The dead are gone, yet we live in their shadows.”
A necklace, I thought. Lady O had died clutching one in her fist.
* * *
In the western courtyard, a hanok building stood at the center, flared eaves offering shade to the raised wooden veranda surrounding it. Never had I requested Inspector Han’s audience before, but here I was. Inside, I knelt on the floor before him. He was in half-dress: hat off, his sword resting by the wall, his hair in a topknot and a silk band tied around his head. Seated behind a low-legged table, he rested his hands on his knees and watched me. Wondering, perhaps, what a girl like me had to say.
Sweat dampened my armpits, and I realized with a shock of horror that there was mud splattered on my skirt. Perhaps even on my face. My mind too occupied, I had forgotten to clean myself.
On my way to the police bureau from the inn, I’d come to the thatch huts and towering trees near the southern fortress wall. With a sturdy branch, I’d pushed at the mud around the crime scene. Nothing. A fallen pendant could have washed away into the gutters in the heavy rain. It could be anywhere.
Still, at least I’d returned with one certainty—a sliver of Inspector Han’s story. Kyŏn had forced his suspicion onto an innocent man. Wanting to lay before the inspector the secrets I’d withheld from him, I whispered, “Inspector, may I have permission to speak?”
“Speak.”
I clutched my hands tightly and stared at the sword by his side. “The man Maid Soyi saw that night was—was—” Do not be afraid, I reminded myself, Inspector Han is an honorable officer. “She saw you on the night of her mistress’s disappearance.”
Inspector Han’s expression remained as blank as paper. “I was returning home after having drinks with Senior Officer Shim Jaedeok,” he replied slowly. “I believe I did encounter one woman, but I did not know it was Maid Soyi. I had one too many drinks to remember clearly.”
“Oh, I see … I’m sorry, sir.”
“For what?” A note of surprise edged his voice.
“For not going straight to you after what Officer Kyŏn told me.”
“And why did you not?”
“I was afraid, sir.”
“You were afraid of me, and you are sorry for having questioned me.” He had taken the vagueness out of my words and laid the truth before us. “Do you know what it means to be a true detective, Seol?”
“No, sir.”
“A true detective should not have feelings involved when investigating a crime. The truth is far more important, and that is what you pursued. The truth. So do not be sorry.”
I bowed my head, hiding my flushed cheeks. I still couldn’t believe that Kyŏn had managed to slip a thorn of doubt into me. Scheming and petty Kyŏn, the last person I should have listened to.
“Is there anything else you wish to ask? Or tell me?”
“No, sir.” Then a memory splashed me with a cold reminder. “Actually, one more thing, sir. Soyi confided in me that Lady O was a Catholic.”
His expression turned to rock. “What?”
Had I done wrong? In panic, I babbled, “Lady O became a Catholic two years ago. She told her mother that she valued this teaching over blood relation. I learned of this because Maid Soyi had mentioned before that the lowborn class was man-made. When I questioned her, she confessed the truth, about how this remark was inspired by her mistress’s Catholic learning.”
“A Catholic…” In the inspector’s voice, the word alone carried the weight of iron. “Damo Seol, do you know why your discovery changes everything?”
“No, sir,” I replied breathlessly.
“With Catholicism comes rumors that a thousand foreign ships will dock along the coast between Bupyeong and Inchon Prefecture. Do you wish for our kingdom to be invaded by foreigners from the West?”
I did not know much about the West; all I knew was that I disliked change. “Absolutely not, sir.”
“Neither do I. For more than a hundred years, we have held our seclusion against Japanese warlords and encroaching Western powers, though now I am left to wonder whether it was all for naught.” He was only twenty-seven winters old, yet the graying hair behind his ear made him look a decade older, a decade wearier. “Lady O is the daughter of a Southerner, so I suppose I oughtn’t be surprised that she was a heretic.”
“From what I’ve heard, sir, the Southerners are the ones who first spread this learning. Is that true?”
“It is. And there is a reason why being the daughter of a Southerner attracts danger. You are a girl, so you may be unaware of politics—the controversy surrounding the Indong Revolt.”
“I know of it, sir,” I rushed to answer.
“Do you?” Interest lit his voice. “Tell me what you know.”
Ever since Lady Kang had shared with me the reason behind the pending Catholic persecution, my eavesdropping ears had grown sensitive to rumors about the revolt that had occurred a week ago. I drew from the well of stolen knowledge and shared all that I’d learned.
“Members of the Southerner faction, believing the king poisoned by the Old Doctrine with the help of the Queen Regent Jeongsun, raided the Indong administrative office in outrage. The regent executed all those involved. Now no one dares slander the new ruler.”
“You are correct. And the execution is a sign of a massive political offensive in the works; the regent intends to finally wipe out the Southerner faction after all these years.”
I pieced together his words. “So you think it possible, sir, that a political enemy killed Lady O?”
“I will need to further investigate, but what you shared does indeed complicate the case. It would help to search through her belongings. Yet only in cases of treason are we permitted a warrant to search a noblewoman’s home…”
As silence fell between us, I looked at my surroundings. It was my first time in the inspector’s office; his tea was always served to him by Hyeyeon and no one else, so I’d never had a reason to step inside. The office was small and clean. On either side of us were narrow shelves filled with scrolls and side-stitched books, as well as a black-lacquered document box with gold-painted decoration, the only pretty item in the stern office. There was also a folding screen behind the inspector, and on each panel, calligraphy of Chinese characters flowed down.
Inspector Han must have noticed my gaze, for he asked, “Can you read those words?”
“No, sir.”
“Hyo, che, ch’ung, shin, yae, ŭi, yŏm, and chi.” He read aloud the Hanja characters and then translated them into Hangul for me. Filial piety, brotherly love, loyalty, trust, propriety, justice, integrity, and a sense of shame.
“These are the highest Confucian virtues.” His eyes roved around my face, as though he were weighing and measuring my character. “Which virtues do you possess, Damo Seol?”
I bit my lower lip, then answered, “Loyalty. I may waver, but I always fight to return to it. And you, sir?”
It started raining, droplets tapping against the hanji screened window. I could hear the birds twittering and the splattering of mud as servants made their rounds.
“My sense of shame,” Inspector Han answered at length. “That I have in abundance.”
SEVEN
THE LONG HOURS of training were woven into my muscles as I knelt on the floor the next day like a butterfly would perch on a leaf. My heart felt lighter, the weight of Kyŏn’s lie lifted from me. I straightened my back as I poured tea into Commander Yi’s bowl, then stepped back slowly with my head stooped, never showing him my back.
I knelt by the screen wall with the other two damos. Commander Yi had invited Senior Officer Shim to take tea with him. They spoke about the weather, and of Councillor Ch’oi and his son, but the discussion then slowed to a halt around one name: Inspector Han Dohyun.
“You are so much the same.” Commander Yi’s voice usually reminded me of thunder, but today he sounded more like a weary old man. “Save for that Han clings to the past, while you are trying to escape yours.”
“And didn’t quite make it,” Officer Shim added.
“Double your efforts then and make something of yourself. Time waits for no man.”
Commander Yi made a gesture to drink. Officer Shim gulped down the tea, and my insides writhed in pain for him, knowing how hot the tea was. He seemed too nervous to notice, for all that he seemed composed.
“How old are you now, Officer?”
“Thirty,” Shim replied.
“Older than Inspector Han by three years. As an older brother to a younger brother, keep an eye on him. Make sure he does not act recklessly.”
“Of course, yeonggam.”
The air fell so still, the silence so complete, that I heard Aejung gulp down saliva. She must have noticed the tension, for her cheeks flushed. Then the blush only continued to burn brighter, until her face looked as red as a goji berry. It took me a moment to feel it as well, a pair of eyes watching us all. Commander Yi had stopped conversing with Officer Shim and had turned his attention our way. I slid my gaze back to the floor, holding my breath, my own cheeks stinging now.
“Pour us another bowl, then leave. All of you,” Commander Yi ordered.
I did so quickly, then shuffled backward to retreat from the room. But the commander’s deep, rumbling voice stilled me. “Except you, Damo Seol. You are to stay.”
Me? Dread balled into something tight, pounding sharp behind my left eye. The other damos, who normally obeyed immediately, remained petrified for a moment. Then they were gone, leaving me alone.
I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to stay. The sight of Commander Yi’s trembling hands further unsettled me, the reflection in the tea bowl he held rippling as he picked it up, then set it down, as though he feared it wouldn’t make it to his lips. The tremor moved into his voice.
“Inspector Han came to me today with his testimony. Apparently Damo Seol collected a secret from Kyŏn and Maid Soyi. I hope she did not share this detail with anyone else.”
