by Elsa Hart
“What about the storage room?” Sun indicated an opening into an adjoining space.
“I haven’t looked inside,” said Doctor Wan. He had returned his attention to the body and was holding the woman’s wrist with a furrowed expression of concentration.
At Sun’s request, Li Du made his way to the adjoining room. It was obvious that the space was rarely entered. Tangled piles of wire and crates of broken tiles filled the corners, draped in dust and cobwebs. His brief search yielded nothing. The edges of broken tiles were wickedly sharp, but none could have delivered the stabbing wounds to the woman. He returned to the other room. “No knives,” he said.
“Footprints?” asked Sun.
“None other than my own. I’ll make a note of it.”
Sun looked relieved as he saw Li Du’s stylus move rapidly and with confidence down the open page of his notebook. Sun disliked writing, and relied on Li Du to compose the letters, reports, and speeches that were required of the office. As for Sun, he spent the majority of his time promoting goodwill between local gentry and merchants, a task usually accomplished over generous meals and expensive wine. His methods were not ineffective, and Li Du gave him due credit for the atmosphere of calm security that generally permeated the neighborhoods surrounding the North Borough Office.
Sun peered over the shoulder of the doctor, who had taken out a small measuring stick and was holding it to the wound over the woman’s heart. “Madam Hong,” said Sun. “Wife of Hong, who owns this factory.”
It was difficult for Li Du to picture exactly what Madam Hong had looked like in life. She wore powder on her face, but the expressions that had accompanied her struggle for survival had carved deep lines through the white, making her appear older than Li Du estimated she was. Her hair was spread in a loose, dark pennant across the floor, several pins scattered within the strands. Even with the evidence of violence that altered her, she had a face that the citizens of the city would have called beautiful. Li Du wrote, in neat, clear handwriting, the measurements of the wounds as the doctor listed them.
When they had finished, Doctor Wan straightened his thin form carefully and stepped toward the body on the bed. Sun had said he was an official, but his dark robes were informal, and did not immediately indicate his rank.
“According to the manager,” said Sun, “his name is Pan Yongfa, and he was employed by the Ministry of Rites.”
“Was it the manager who discovered the bodies?” asked Li Du, writing.
“No. One of the laborers came to search for equipment in the storage room. His story seems to place him above suspicion. He arrived at the factory from outside the city, went straight to the room, emerged a moment later, and nearly fainted on the step.”
Li Du wrote quickly. “And the time of death?” he asked.
“During the night,” said Doctor Wan. “Certainly after midnight, before dawn.” He pointed to the man’s hands, which were bloodied but otherwise unmarked. “She has defensive wounds, but he does not. I would suggest, therefore, that he died first.” The doctor remained looking at the man, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Sun nodded. “He looks as if he barely moved.”
“It’s possible,” said the doctor, “that he was asleep.”
Li Du turned away from the bodies and allowed his gaze to rest on the papers scattered across the floor. At a distance, they appeared to be contracts and commissions, fallen in the struggle between the woman and her killer. But one piece of paper stood out from the rest. It was small, and crumpled as if it had been clutched in a fist. He picked it up and held it at arm’s length to examine it without his spectacles. The note was written in a neat hand, precise, educated, on quality paper. Though stained with dried blood, the words remained legible.
The moon shines on my beloved in the old pavilion, green with moss. Meet me in the office of the black tile kilns tonight.
“What do you have there?”
Li Du gave the note to Sun, who read it. “Well,” he said, passing the note to Doctor Wan. “That settles the question of why they were here. Either they planned to meet at the same time a thief decided to rob the kiln, or they were caught by someone who knew about their tryst. Either way, we’re looking for a murderer, unless—” His next thought appeared to cheer him. “Could it have been a lovers’ quarrel? He killed her, then himself?”
In which case, thought Li Du, there would be no one to find, and little left to do. Sun was not a lazy man, but he believed that the more complicated a situation, and the more steps necessary to resolve it, the greater the chances of inviting trouble.
Doctor Wan pointed, tracing the shape of the cut across the man’s throat. “No,” he said. “The manual states that a man who cuts his own throat will be found with his eyes closed, and his features fixed in a sad expression. You see that his eyes are open.” His perusal moved to the dead man’s limbs, crawled along the outstretched arm, assessing the musculature beneath the loose black silk sleeve. “It is straight,” he said. “If he had committed the act himself, the elbow would be slightly bent. The body, you understand, must work hard to overcome the mind’s resistance to self-destruction.”
A shadow fell across the floor, and they turned to see a soldier. “Hong is at home, sir,” he said to Sun. “But he is so drunk he cannot stand. What do you want us to do?”
Sun’s expression was gloomy. “A bad case,” he muttered. He continued in a stronger voice, “Revive him, and make sure he stays where he is. I will interview the manager now. As soon as I’m finished, I’ll come speak to Hong myself.”
* * *
At Sun’s request, a place to conduct interviews had been prepared in a corner of the premises shaded by the overhanging branches of a maple tree that grew on the other side of the wall. The kiln manager apologized for the primitive arrangements as he watched the chief inspector shift uncomfortably on the lumpy surface of a sack of coal.
“You are the manager here,” said Sun, once he had settled himself. “Your name is Hu Gongshan. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how you were able to identify both bodies.”
Despite the trepidation that was apparent in his furrowed brow, Hu emanated stern, paternal stability. “I have only been the manager for eight months, but I’ve worked here for almost ten years. I have seen Madam Hong on several occasions and was able to recognize her at once.”
“And Pan?”
Li Du noticed that Hu hesitated for a moment before replying. “Pan worked for the Ministry of Rites. I beg your forbearance. My understanding of his place within the ministry is limited to the work he commissioned from us. He was the one the ministry sent to negotiate contracts for roof repairs.”
“So he was here often?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Hu glanced at Li Du’s notebook. “Yesterday,” he said. “In the afternoon.”
Sun’s eyebrows went up. “Yesterday afternoon? Was he here to—what was it you said he did—negotiate a contract?”
“No. He said he was here on ministry business, but I don’t know what it was. He said he needed to review our records.”
“Can you be more specific?”
As if sensing incredulity from the chief inspector, Hu hastened to explain. “It wasn’t unusual. He often came to verify expenses and inspect our work. That was one of his responsibilities. But my own duties are to make sure the kilns are correctly maintained. I have little experience with contracts.”
“I see,” said Sun. “So Pan was here in the afternoon. If he was reviewing paperwork, I assume he did so in the office?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. He requested refreshments to be brought to him there.”
“And did he stay through to the evening?”
“No. He left in the afternoon, not long after the bells tolled the hour of the monkey.”
Sun frowned. “So he left the factory. Did he say anyt
hing about returning?”
“Nothing.”
“And what was his demeanor?”
Hu turned his head to the center of the courtyard, as if to observe his own memory. “As I told you, I didn’t speak to him at any length. But he seemed—” Hu paused. “He seemed in high spirits, but he usually did.”
“What about Madam Hong? Did you see her yesterday?”
“Oh, no.” Hu shook his head. “She only ventured outside the family residence for neighborhood festivals. I hadn’t seen her in weeks.”
Sun leaned over to watch Li Du write, and gave a short nod of approval. “Every detail,” he whispered. He turned back to Hu. “What time did you leave the factory yesterday?”
“Early. Before twilight. There were no fires to maintain, and therefore no reason for anyone to stay the night. I confess I was very tired. You must know about the renovation of the examination yard roof? We’ve had to produce more tiles than we expected.”
Sun looked at the courtyard, and the neatly stacked mountains of tiles. “But what about all these?”
“We can’t use them. The tiles of the examination hall are in an older style. They come from another province. But since we have no time to send for more, we are replicating them the best we can.”
“And were you the last to leave?”
“No. I left the foreman in charge. Zou was responsible for making sure the entrance was locked.”
“We will need to speak to him.”
From among the laborers, Hu summoned a man who took his time responding, seemingly reluctant to turn away from his work. Zou Anlin was wiry in build and wore his gray cotton sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing clay-crusted, sinewy forearms. Though he was not an old man, deep wrinkles formed tracks that sloped from the outer corners of his eyes, across his cheekbones, and down almost to his jaw. He knelt in front of Sun, bowed, and remained kneeling until Sun told him he could stand.
“Hu informs us that you were the last to leave the factory last night.”
Zou dipped his head. “Yes.”
“At what time was that?”
“The night watch had just begun. I heard the drums.”
“Was anyone here when you departed?”
“No. I’m sure there wasn’t. And I locked the doors.” His dark eyes darted to Hu. “I am sure I locked the doors.”
“If the night watch had started already when you left, how did you get home through the guarded alley gates?”
“I have a room at the Sichuan lodge. I’m a Sichuan man.”
Sun’s curt nod communicated his understanding. Throughout the city there were lodges built to house men from the provinces who traveled to the capital for work or pleasure. A man from Yunnan could be assured of a place to stay among others who spoke his language and could help him. The Sichuan lodge was only a stone’s throw from the Black Tile Factory.
“Who was the first to come in this morning?” This question was addressed to Hu and Zou together.
“I was,” said Zou.
Sun raised his eyebrows. “You were the last to leave, and the first to arrive. Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts during the night?”
For a moment, Zou stared at the chief inspector, his face frozen in fearful comprehension. Then he began to nod vigorously. “There is,” he burst out, “there is someone. I share a room with six of my countrymen. Old Gao suffers terribly from rheumatism. He was up all night. If you ask him, he will tell you I never left my bed.”
Sun watched Li Du make a note, then turned back to Zou. “We will speak to him. When you arrived, then, in the morning, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“No.”
“The entrance was locked?”
“Yes. I unlocked it.”
“You didn’t go into the office?”
“No, sir. What business could I have there? I inspected the tiles that had been drying yesterday in the sun to determine whether they could be put in the kilns. By the time I was finished, the laborers were starting to arrive. The only strange thing that happened all morning, before Wei found the bodies, was that foreigner coming to the factory.”
“What foreigner?”
Zou looked at Hu. “He spoke to you.”
Chief Inspector Sun turned a stern eye to the kiln master. “You should know that the activities of foreigners are of the first importance to any investigation. Who was this foreigner, and what was he doing here?”
“I apologize,” said Hu. “The only reason I failed to mention it was that, though the man himself was unusual, there was nothing unusual about his visit. He only wanted to commission a repair. The roof of a place called the South Church, in the Inner City.”
Li Du looked up from his notebook, surprised. “A Jesuit?”
Hu nodded. “He said the storm the other night had damaged the roof. He asked if we could come soon and fix it.”
“Did he tell you his name?” asked Sun.
After a pause, Hu shook his head apologetically. “He might have, but it was not a Chinese name. I can’t remember it now. I can tell you his hair was brown and gray, and his eyes were green, like a spring leaf.”
A breeze moved through the maple tree, making the yellow-tinted shadows shudder on the dusty ground. Sun stood up. “We’re going to speak to the factory owner,” he said. “I have one more question for you. In your opinion, is Hong a violent man? Inclined to jealousy?”
Again, Hu took his time with the question. He turned and looked across the courtyard at the open door of the office. When he returned his gaze to Sun, his eyes appeared filled with sadness. “I don’t believe he is a violent man. In his right mind, Hong would never commit such an act. But—”
“But if he had been drinking wine?” prompted Sun.
“I will not be the only one to tell you,” said Hu. “When he drank, no one could guess what he would do.”
Chapter 5
Hong Wenbin’s manor was enclosed by a gray brick wall. The main entrance was a recessed door, painted red and flanked by two white stone lions. Next to each lion stood a soldier, which gave the impression of two tamed beasts sitting obediently beside their owners. In answer to Sun’s query, the soldiers reported that Hong was conscious and awaiting the chief inspector’s arrival. At Sun’s knock, the red door opened, and he and Li Du were ushered in by a servant whose shock was evident in lines etched above his elevated eyebrows. He led them deep into the manor, along winding paths through courtyard gardens, until they reached a marble veranda crowded with painted pillars and birdcages inhabited by thrushes and small blue parrots.
The servant opened a door to a spacious parlor, where they found Hong slumped in a chair, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Hearing them enter, he stood up, performed an unsteady bow, and regarded them with pink-clouded eyes set in a swollen face. “Please sit,” he said in a hoarse voice. He waited for them to take their places in elegant chairs covered in red brocade before sinking back into his own chair.
While two maids with tear-streaked faces served tea, Li Du took in their surroundings. The room had been decorated by an astute collector with expensive taste. A fine copy of Spring Morning in the Han Palace dominated one wall. Li Du’s eyes traveled over the horizontal scroll, which depicted the private inner courtyards of the palace on a misty spring morning. It was a luxurious fantasy of genteel pleasures, with elegant ladies, flowering trees, and strutting peacocks rendered in precise lines and sumptuous colors. Li Du surveyed the rest of the room, the shelves of which were full almost to the point of being cluttered. Whoever had chosen the ornaments possessed, in addition to a discerning eye, a tendency toward excess.
“Have you been told why I am here?” asked Chief Inspector Sun, when the maids had gone.
A small convulsion rippled the silk stretched over Hong’s ample stomach and traveled upward. His chest heaved as if he was going to be sick. With an effort that made him shudder, he controlled himself, and exhaled a cloud of malodorous breath. “I have been
told almost nothing,” he wheezed. He recovered, and continued in a clearer voice. “Last night, I went out to enjoy the company of friends. This morning, I was pulled from my bed by soldiers and weeping servants, who tell me that my wife is lying dead in my factory. My own wife, and that is all they will say. I want to know what happened. I demand to know!”
“I understand you must be upset. Under different circumstances, I would be here to answer your questions,” said Sun. The words were conciliatory, but there was a cold current in his tone that Li Du rarely heard within the relaxed atmosphere of the North Borough Office. Sun continued. “Given the nature of the crime that took place last night, not a hundred paces from where we now sit, I must insist that we begin with the questions I have for you. Where were you between the time the drums set the night watch, and the time the bells announced the morning?”
Sweat broke out on Hong’s forehead. After a tense pause, he capitulated. “I went to Qi’s restaurant.”
“I know Qi’s,” said Sun. “It’s in the neighborhood, just across from the sentry post at the Xiping Alley Gate.”
Hong nodded, compressing the folds of flesh beneath his chin. “I am acquainted with the soldiers who are stationed there during the day. Sometimes, after the night watch comes to relieve them, they go to Qi’s. I was there with them last night.”
“When did you return home?”
Wariness crept into Hong’s voice. “I don’t know. It was late.”
“Did anyone walk with you?”
Hong rubbed his eyes. His large fingers pressed deeply into the sockets. “I was alone,” he said. “I think I was alone.”
“Do you think you were alone, or do you know you were?”
Hong reached for his cup with a trembling hand. He grimaced as the hot liquid touched his lips, and returned the cup to the table in front of him. “I don’t remember.”
“There must have been a servant at the door to let you in.”
The statement made Hong pause. “I don’t come in through the main entrance at night. I use the door in the alley.”
