by June Hur
For the next three days, I tried to visit Soyi to ask her questions about the man in the bamboo hat. I wanted to know whether he had told her anything else while persuading her to deliver his letter. I wanted to know even more, considering the same man had also delivered a letter to Scholar Ahn, who had disappeared soon after.
But I could not bring myself to enter the prison block. I feared her, and more than that, I didn’t want to see the accusation in her eyes. In confiding in me, in trusting me, she had lost her last chance to escape the bureau.
Then, on the fourth day, I mustered up enough determination to face her. I got so far as the prison block only for my courage to vanish at the sight of a man in a worn-out tunic and trousers crouched down next to Senior Officer Shim. Plunging his hands into a bucket of water, the man washed his blood-speckled face, a dazed look in his eyes. I did not know his name, and no one really did, for we all called him simply the executioner.
“There was an execution today?” I asked.
Shim kept his eyes downcast, so the executioner spoke into the silence. “By the southern gate. Traitors.”
Dread whooshed out of me, and I leaned against the prison-block wall, much relieved. A traitor had died, not Soyi. The fresh splattering of blood belonged to someone else … some other poor soul.
“So … what kind of treason did the rogue commit?” I asked.
“Gossiped about the queen regent. About the assassination by poison.” His dialect was from the eastern coast. I could tell because of its tonal nature, rolling up and down like the mountain peaks and low valleys, so different from the mild and flat capital speech. “She ordered that they be punished as traitors.”
“You will kill many more in the new year,” Shim said to the crouching man. “Catholics.”
Officer Shim continued to linger, his shadow stretching tall in the setting sun, and I wondered why he was here at all. No one got on friendly terms with baekjeongs like the executioner, for baekjeongs were the outcast group forced to live separate from the common people. Their communities were mostly left alone so long as they caused no disturbance, and they survived off money made from work others refused to do: the taking of life. They butchered, made leather, killed stray dogs. And they were the ones summoned by the police to execute criminals.
Then I realized why Shim might have more sympathy for the executioner. He was an outsider himself, a seoja, marked by shame since his illegitimate birth. For a moment, moved by pity, I almost forgot that Shim was the alibi of a cruel tyrant, Inspector Han.
“You were there for the execution too, sir?” I asked kindly.
“I always am,” Shim replied.
Now I noticed Shim’s police robe, red spots staining the white collar. He crouched and rested his hand on the executioner’s trembling shoulders. Perhaps Officer Shim’s words had troubled this baekjeong, a reminder of his inescapable fate: he would kill many more.
Death, it was so final. A finality that did not discriminate, stealing both the young and old, rich and poor.
“Officer,” I whispered, “do you ever grow accustomed to death?”
Shim peered up at me, his eyes reddish-brown, as though he had witnessed so many executions that if he were to cry, blood would flow out instead of tears. “No, Damo Seol,” he replied, his voice soft. As though he were a brother speaking to a little sister. “Seeing a dead person will continue to be difficult.”
Was it difficult even for Lady O’s killer? Surely no one could kill and hide the evidence so thoroughly as to evade Inspector Han’s notice.
“How can you tell if someone has seen death, as you have?” I asked.
“Some cry, some are desperate for distraction, but most of us … most of us go mad.”
* * *
In the early hours of the next day, when the morning dew soaked the ground, we were summoned to the central courtyard. Damos Aejung and Hyeyeon appeared, along with a group of officers. I examined each pale and tired face for a sign of madness, unable to forget what Officer Shim had said. Surely no human being could be so hardened and unfeeling as not to be affected by the murder of another person.
Inspector Han’s commanding voice filled the courtyard. “We do not have a warrant yet, but we will make our way to Lord O’s mansion and demand entry. I want a thorough search of the place. As for the women’s quarter, the damos will search Lady O’s chamber. Bring anything of interest to me or Senior Officer Shim, and keep your eyes open for her journal. I need that journal.”
From beneath my lashes, I glanced up. Inspector Han’s eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows smudged beneath; the face once shining with health was now gaunt and pale. The usual crispness of his robe had been replaced by wrinkles, and even from where I stood, a spot of crimson was visible on his sleeve, perhaps from a round of blood-splattering interrogation. Perhaps this was the appearance of an inspector gone mad.
Pain pulsated by my temple, growing stronger and stronger, until I felt my entire head vibrating, as though someone had struck me. I wanted this all to be over, I wanted to be done with this investigation, but I feared it never would be over.
* * *
Our journey did not take long; the sky was still a shade of purple-blue as we entered Lord O’s mansion and gathered in the main courtyard. Inspector Han stepped forward and bowed, paying his respects to only Matron Kim, for her husband had returned to his governing post in Gwangju after briefly mourning for his daughter here.
She did not look pleased. Her hands were clasped within her wide sleeves, and she was garbed in a white mourning gown, not only for the king but also for her daughter, it seemed. Her black hair was twisted back into a braided coil so tight that the corners of her eyes were tugged dagger sharp.
“You are here again, Inspector,” Matron Kim said, her voice brusque. “Why?”
“Forgive us for this intrusion. I have come to ask once again for permission to search Lady O’s private chamber.”
“My answer remains the same. You dishonored us by having my daughter examined without the presence of family. You will get nothing from me.”
“The killer is still out there, mistress. The longer we wait, the more evidence will be lost.”
Her lips tightened and her blank eyes showed remarkable restraint.
“Maid Soyi has confessed about your daughter’s affair during the torture session—about the son born out of wedlock, too. Now the duty of a mother is no longer to protect the honor of the deceased, but to appease her grieving spirit. Do you not wish to know the truth behind her death?”
“No. All I wish,” she said, her voice steady, “is for the police to stop harassing our family. I wish for no more reminders of the horror my daughter endured.”
Inspector Han pressed on. “When murder is committed, grieving relatives of the victim will plead for sangmyŏng, ‘requital for a life.’ They appeal to us to redress the grievance suffered by the deceased with the sacrifice of another life, that of the perpetrator. Yet you do not ask for justice. Instead you ask that we forget it ever happened?”
Long shadows crept around us as the purple sky deepened, clouds gathering. There would be no sun today.
“It is because I am afraid,” Matron Kim said. “I am afraid of what more I will discover about my daughter. What more she was hiding from me.”
“Your daughter died alone on the cold ground, bleeding. Her nose was sliced off—”
“Must you remind me?” A tremor shook her voice.
“Her slender throat was slashed without hesitation or remorse, deep enough to sever her vocal cords, silencing her cries for help. How will you face your daughter in the afterlife when you have kept us from finding the truth? How will you look into her sad eyes?”
Matron Kim’s eyes turned red-rimmed, and in that moment, I remembered she was a mother. And I remembered my own mother’s eyes, the last time I had seen her, red-rimmed like the matron’s. My last warm memory of Mother was of a wooden bowl of rice prepared for us all. We had all eaten tog
ether, and Mother had looked at me with those red eyes. I hadn’t known it was a farewell before she’d jumped off a cliff.
“This investigation is nothing more to you than a mere crime among the multitude.” Matron Kim’s upper lip curled slightly. “My daughter died on her birthday. I made a jeogori jacket for her as a gift, sewed the silk pieces together myself, and I knew the length and circumference of her arms, the length and breadth of her torso, all measured meticulously. I knew her. She was my daughter. And from the day of her death, all you saw was a crime to be solved. From that day, you disrespected my affection for my daughter, and even now, you speak to me with a cruel, impatient look in your eyes.”
Inspector Han stood tall, not slumping forward in guilt as my own shoulders did. Never had I thought of the dead Lady O as someone who had been precious, as my own family was precious to me.
“I promise I will find the one who killed your daughter,” Inspector Han replied. “Should I not live up to my promise, I shall bear the consequences.”
She lifted her grieving eyes to him. “How?”
“I will submit a formal report and resign from my post.”
Senior Officer Shim frowned. Everyone else exchanged wide-eyed glances. I could feel what they were thinking: Inspector Han was putting too much on the line, and they couldn’t understand why.
“Do I have your word, Inspector?”
“You do.”
Matron Kim nodded and the dagger in her eyes softened into a well of tears. “Everything in my daughter’s chamber remains as is,” she whispered. “I have not permitted anyone to disturb her room since her passing.”
* * *
“The medical exam is in a few months,” Aejung whispered as we entered the women’s quarter. “I’ve hardly had any time to study. How are we expected to pass it and return to being palace nurses when half the time we’re solving crimes?”
Hyeyeon shook her head. “You must sacrifice something to achieve your goal, Aejung. I sleep only three hours a day, so I only need to master Injaejikjimaek now. But you’ve mastered none of the five required texts.”
“That is because I’m focusing on the investigation for now,” Aejung retorted. “Inspector Han will be forced to resign otherwise.”
“So it’s true,” I whispered. “He does mean to resign if he fails.”
“Are there no such things as consequences in the countryside?” Hyeyeon asked. Her voice was elegant, yet her eyes sent me a cutting look. “Someone must take the blame.”
With tension pressing in around us, we climbed up the steps to Lady O’s chamber, where stale air loomed over us like a lost soul. At the far end was a folding screen with a calligraphy of butterflies and flowers painted onto the panels. Before it was a silk cushion and a low-legged writing table. Furniture lined either side of the room.
Hyeyeon searched the two-tiered wardrobe made of pagoda tree, pulling open the miniature doors that revealed folded fabrics. She pulled everything out, but found nothing. There were also four small drawers in the wardrobe’s upper tier, all of which she examined, turning over every article. Again, nothing.
Aejung opened all the heavy chests, pulling out dusty books and pausing to read their contents. Her eyes flicked up and down, up and down, reading so quickly I watched with awe. “Verbose nonsense after verbose nonsense,” she murmured.
As Hyeyeon made her way to a ground-to-ceiling bookcase, where side-stitched books rested in piles, I moved over to a lacquer cabinet, with elaborate mother-of-pearl inlaid scenes of strange creatures with fish tails, turtle shells, and the heads of mammals. Butterfly-shaped brass lock plates and hinges decorated the double doors. Opening each door, I discovered porcelain pots of color, hair ornaments, and a brush with strands of hair in it. Lady O’s hair. I reached for one and the moment I pulled a strand free, it struck me how transient life was—one night a woman was brushing her hair, the next night she was dead.
I left the cabinet and checked behind the folding screen, then sat before the low-legged table, which had two drawers on either side. I tugged at the left drawer, and it slid open to reveal calligraphy brushes. I tugged at the next—
Surprise punched my chest. It was locked.
“Here, here!” I called out, excitement bubbling. “This drawer. It’s locked!”
“It’s locked?” Aejung threw the scrolls back into the chest and hurried over to me. She too tugged at the right drawer. Locked indeed. “I’ll look around for the key. Must be here somewhere. It wasn’t on her person when we found her.”
“Couldn’t we just break the desk?” I asked. “I have my club.”
“No.” Hyeyeon frowned at me from where she stood. “We were not given permission to sabotage. You are so thoughtless sometimes.”
Her rebuke stung. Trying to ignore it, I pulled at the drawer with all my might, but in vain. All we could do was find the key, but after what seemed like ages, Aejung shook her head, her forehead glistening with sweat.
“I’ve looked everywhere!” she whined. Wiping her brows, she glanced at Hyeyeon. “I’ll go ask if we can use force … There’s no other choice.”
We both waited on Hyeyeon for permission, for she was our senior and we never did anything without her agreement. And yet Hyeyeon stood frozen before the bookcase. She was examining a book, then flipped it shut. “These books are all journals, and this seems to be the most recent one, though dated four years ago.”
“There is nothing more recent?” Aejung asked.
“I have thoroughly inspected them all. This is still something.” She tucked the book under her arm, ill-disguised thrill straining her countenance as she hurried out of the room. Aejung followed her.
I settled my attention on the lock again, leaning forward to peer into the hole. There was something inside that was forbidden to me, like so many of the secrets kept away from me growing up. All my curiosity about Lady O’s death returned, though this time alone, no longer accompanied by my desire to please Inspector Han. I narrowed my eyes and squinted. In my childhood days, I had always wanted the skill of opening secrets. I would carry around a thin knife to see which locks would open and which would not. The cheap ones I’d managed to open quickly. The harder ones were the locks slammed onto expensive chests.
Remembering the lacquer cabinet from earlier, I crawled over to it and rummaged through the sparkling ornaments until I found the perfect hair accessory. It had a lotus attached to a steel pin, which was curved in order not to fall out when inserted into one’s hair. Lady O was dead already, so I hesitated only a moment before bending the steel into a straight line. I returned to the table and inserted the pin into the lock, wiggling it around, scratching my knuckles in the attempt. No luck this time, but I kept trying. My fingers became bruised red as I pushed the pin this way and that, shaking and twisting it.
I heaved out a sigh, the curiosity so unbearable that it turned into physical pain. Surely, whatever Lady O had hidden, it would peel off the skin of lies and reveal what lay within. I was tired of chasing after an elusive truth, tired of being surrounded by suspicion and speculations, tired of this investigation that seemed to choke up in smoke everything it touched.
I exhaled another sigh and looked around the room. Blankets were strewn across the floor, shaken out during the inspection, and all the drawers were pulled open, as were the lids of every chest. Aejung had searched every nook and cranny, so there was no point searching again.
I tugged at the locked drawer in frustration, shaking the brass handle. Why couldn’t it open smoothly like the other drawer? I wrenched at the handle of the left drawer, and the angry force sent the entire compartment flying to the ground. Brushes scattered everywhere. Then something hard struck a porcelain vase nearby, a high-pitched clinking sound.
I looked over my shoulder. An iron key rested on the floor.
I scrambled forward and grabbed the key, my hand trembling. Lady O must have hidden the key under the pile of brushes, perhaps in the far corner of the drawer. My heartbeat ac
celerated as I crawled back to the drawer. I took in a deep breath, then let it out, and at last inserted the key into the lock. I rotated it. Click. Swallowing a shout of excitement, I pulled open the drawer smoothly.
Piles of paper greeted me, but there was a lump in the way the sheets lay. I looked beneath and found a few sheets of folded paper tied together with a string. When I untied it and unfolded a page, I saw writing and ink blots. Could these be the letters from Scholar Ahn? They had to be. The one common thing all girls hid from their mothers were the boys they fancied.
The sound of distant footsteps reached my ear.
I clutched the letters against my frantic heartbeat. There was a feeling digging into me, sharp and persistent, as I stared down at the letters written on white mulberry paper. White. I dug through my mind, through the layers and layers, trying to pick out whatever was hidden in the whiteness. And I managed to draw out a sliver: Ryun. But I had no idea why.
I thought back to the day I had first talked at length with him, all the way to the moment when we had returned to the capital, bloody and bruised. I retraced each step, then returned to the beginning again, focusing on each detail about him, his every expression, our conversations—
My thoughts skittered to a halt. White. White meant mourning. Ryun had mentioned that he’d visited the House of Bright Flowers with a police uniform for Inspector Han, who had still been in his white mourning robe. Senior Officer Shim had also told the commander that Inspector Han had first arrived at the House dressed in a white robe. Yet in Maid Soyi’s first testimony, she had mentioned that on the night of the murder she’d recognized a man (who had turned out to be Inspector Han) by his blue uniform.
Panic licked down my back, a hot trail of sweat. I realized why Shim’s statement had bothered me from the beginning. He should have said, “Inspector Han arrived at the House dressed in his uniform,” not in his mourning robe. For the inspector had been wearing his blue uniform when he’d first left the House, when he’d encountered Maid Soyi before drunkenly stumbling back to Madam Yeonok. She must have changed him out of his soaked and muddy blue uniform into a spare white robe.
