by Elsa Hart
“And what—”
“No!” Hong lurched forward and slapped his palm on the table. “This has gone on too long. What are you insinuating? That I had something to do with the death of my wife? How did she die?”
“Your wife was murdered.”
Hong retreated slowly back into his chair. His palm left a damp mark on the lacquered wood. “Murdered,” he whispered. “But you cannot be saying that you suspect me? I didn’t do it. I had no reason to kill her.”
Sun regarded Hong in silence for a long moment. “When was the last time you spoke to your wife?” he asked finally.
Hong appeared at a loss. “The last time?”
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“Of course I saw her, but the day was just like any other day—” His voice caught. “I must write to my sons. Forgive me, but I cannot think. What was your question?”
“When did you last speak to your wife?”
Hong’s eyes wandered the room. “We spoke after the midday meal.”
“What did you discuss?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I told her about progress on the examination hall roof. She told me about a bowl she intended to buy. I can hear her voice. Decorated with pine trees and cranes, she said. At thirty taels, I told her, it had better come from the Emperor’s own private kilns.” Hong’s eyes were misted with tears. “But I intended to let her have it. How can this have happened? It cannot be possible.”
“Then you were on good terms with your wife?”
“Of course we were on good terms. What is this about? Do you think I am lying to you?”
Chief Inspector Sun cleared his throat. “Wine can steal a man’s reason, and his memory. You say you left the restaurant last night alone, which means that no one can account for what you did on your way home, not even you. Consider my position, when I ask myself whether I can believe what you say.”
Hong had picked up his cup again. Now he set it down so hard Li Du thought it would shatter. “So I don’t remember. When does a man remember his walk home when he is drunk and thinking of bed? But I will tell you what I would remember. I would remember murdering my wife.”
Li Du glanced sideways at Sun. He knew the chief inspector well enough to see that, though he maintained his professional demeanor, he was beginning to feel out of his depth. In the usual course of his work, Chief Inspector Sun rarely faced anything more dire than a disagreement between a merchant and a customer over the terms of a contract, or a complaint about a poorly maintained road. Violent crime was unusual within the walls of Beijing. Not only were civilians forbidden to carry weapons, but there were guards posted at every gate in the city, from the great gates of the outer wall to small latticework alley gates scattered throughout the boroughs. Deaths resulting from occasional robberies or tavern brawls were handled with practiced efficiency by Green Standard or Gendarmerie soldiers, and stories of lives lost to cruelties and abuses within families often remained, by tacit consent, within families.
Sun cleared his throat. “Your wife was not the only person killed last night,” he said. “She was found with a man, a love letter on the floor between them. Did you know your wife had a lover?”
It took Hong a moment to comprehend Sun’s words. When understanding dawned, he started up from his chair, his face suffused with rage. He remained that way, half standing, clutching the arms of the chair to support himself. Then, slowly, he sank back down. With obvious effort, he tried to compose his features. It was too late. He had revealed that while his wife’s death had upset him, the suggestion that she had been unfaithful infuriated him.
“The man’s name was Pan Yongfa,” said Sun.
“Pan?” Hong looked as if some force was pushing him apart from the inside. His eyes bulged, and the tendons on either side of his neck looked as if they were going to burst from his skin. His swollen fingers clenched and unclenched at his knees. “That is impossible.”
“I understand you knew him.”
“Of course I knew him. And he was here, in my own home, not three days ago!” Hong stopped, closed his eyes, and pressed his hands to his temples. “It is too much. I don’t believe any of it.” He opened his eyes and stared fiercely at Sun. “You’ve made a mistake. You’ve gotten it wrong. My wife isn’t dead. Has anyone looked for her? She likes to arrange flowers in the east courtyard. Has anyone looked there? Well? Has anyone looked for her?”
“I am sorry,” said Sun. “But the identification was made with certainty by your manager, Hu Gongshan. Unless he is an untrustworthy man—”
Hong seemed to deflate. “No,” he murmured. “No. Hu is reliable. But what you are implying about me is absurd. A man does not forget that he has done murder, no matter how much wine he drinks. I have no vision of this crime in my mind. Was there blood? You see there is no blood on my hands. Ask my servants. They will tell you there was none on my clothes.”
“We will conduct a thorough investigation, of course,” said Sun. “And I urge you to cooperate fully with the North Borough magistrate when he summons you. Rage is a natural response in a man confronted by his wife’s betrayal. You should know that there are statutes to protect a husband who temporarily loses his reason.”
Hong started to protest, then changed his mind. His pallor was pale and uneven, like paper disintegrating in water. “What should I do?” he asked.
“Make arrangements for your sons and your wife’s family to mourn her. They live outside the city?”
“In Jiangxi,” muttered Hong.
Sun nodded and stood up. “Write to them. Make offerings at the temples. When Magistrate Yin summons you, answer his questions wisely.”
Li Du closed his notebook. “You mentioned that Pan was recently here,” he said, prompting both men to turn to him with startled expressions. It was the first time he had spoken. He realized that his presence had been all but forgotten.
“Yes,” said Hong. “The day before yesterday. I invited him to my literary party.”
“Was your wife in attendance?” asked Sun.
“I would never have permitted my wife to appear at a gentlemen’s gathering,” said Hong. “She was a respectable woman.” Hong’s cheeks reddened, and he choked a little over his words. “At least, I believed her to be so.”
Chapter 6
When the emperors of the Ming moved their seat of power to Beijing, the Chinese aristocracy built their mansions in the area surrounding the Forbidden City. Opulent architecture met natural splendor, creating an enclosed world of green hills, clear lakes, island pavilions, and gleaming glazed tiles. These neighborhoods, which came to be called the Inner City, were bordered to the north, east, and west by the capital’s massive outer wall, and to the south by a sodden rectangle of muddy land, bereft of charming architecture, scenic vistas, or influential families, known as the Outer City.
With the fall of the Ming, and the invasion of the capital by Manchu horsemen, came a new dynasty. Among the early decrees issued by the first young emperor of the Qing was the transfer of the Inner City to the eight Manchu military units known as the Banners. The conquered Chinese were ousted from their mansions and relocated to the undeveloped boroughs to the south. Over the next sixty years, the humiliated elite worked hard to elevate their new surroundings to a higher standard, and to develop, despite the geographical deficiencies and distance from the palace, a bustling urban atmosphere within the Outer City.
It was into this mood of transformation that Li Du had been born, twenty years after the Qing came to power. His grandparents had been less resentful of the forced relocation than relieved that it had occurred as peacefully as it did. The violence of the dynastic transition had been centered in the empire’s southern provinces, where the heirs of the Ming had fought to retain some vestige of power. In the north, the primary concern, as Li Du’s grandparents had seen it, was not that they would lose their lives, but that they would never grow used to the bizarre Manchu military attire, manners, and hairstyles. They had bemoaned th
e inevitable effacement of centuries of Chinese culture.
Their fears had proved unfounded. The Qing emperors were enthusiastic scholars who did not see Chinese and Manchu culture as mutually exclusive. Eager to legitimize themselves in the eyes of Chinese intellectuals, they employed hundreds of Chinese scholars to tutor them. Li Du’s own father had been hired as a calligraphy instructor to the children of princes, and had traveled daily to the wide avenues and clear air of the Inner City from the Outer City’s narrow, pitted lanes.
It was along these narrow, pitted lanes that Li Du and Sun made their way back to the North Borough Office. They had remained at Hong’s manor long enough for Sun to ascertain from the servants that Madam Hong had gone to bed as usual on the previous evening, after having sat for a while with Hong’s grandmother in the east garden. The Hong family’s presence in Beijing was a small one, and the grandmother, having outlived Hong’s parents, was the only remaining member of the older generation. Hong’s two grown sons owned and operated a tile factory in Jiangxi Province.
“The news is beginning to attract attention,” said Li Du as they passed the Black Tile Factory. A small crowd had gathered outside. Gentlemen in cloud-colored silk robes, on their way to stroll the pavilions at Taoranting, stood speculating amongst themselves. Servants, tidy and self-important, watched and listened. They would justify their late returns from the markets by reporting all they had seen and heard to their mistresses. A few peasants with baskets on their backs lingered apprehensively, weighing their curiosity about what had happened against the chance that proximity to it would put them in danger’s path.
“Hurry, before they can start asking questions,” said Sun, quickening his pace. Despite the fact that the chief inspector was a head taller than he was, Li Du had no trouble keeping up. Preferring to feel the ground beneath his boots, he generally eschewed sedan chairs and horses. As his errands often took him from one side of the city to the other, he was used to walking fast.
When they had left the factory behind, Sun slowed to a more comfortable gait. “We’ll stop at Qi’s,” he said. “It’s just ahead. If Hong was there last night, he would have walked right past the factory gate on his way home.”
“Do you think he is guilty?” Li Du asked.
“Yes,” Sun answered, after a short deliberation. “What I don’t know is whether he’s telling the truth when he says he doesn’t remember doing it. It is clear from the state he was in this morning that he was as drunk as a man could be.” Sun screwed up his face in the effort of thinking. “And then there is the question of how the law will apply. Drunk or not, a man cannot be expected to retain his reason when he is confronted with his wife’s infidelity.” Appearing to give up, Sun relaxed and shook his head. “It’s up to Magistrate Yin to decide what to do.”
Sun’s superior, Magistrate Yin, was one of the city magistrates responsible for administering the five boroughs of the Outer City. Like all important government buildings, their offices were located in the Inner City. This meant that they relied heavily on their chief inspectors, stationed at offices within the boroughs, to monitor daily activity and make regular reports. Once Sun had completed the initial steps of the investigation, responsibility would shift from the North Borough Office to Magistrate Yin’s extensive and well-trained staff.
The entrance to Qi’s courtyard establishment was concealed by a tangle of unpruned vines. Li Du held aside the straggly vegetation and let Sun pass before him. In the shadows of the empty courtyard, seating was arranged around a central ash tree. A canopy of branches sheltered low tables and stools. An odor of tobacco and excrement hovered between the earthen floor and the dry, curled autumn leaves above. Qi, an elderly man with sleepy eyes and hands wet with oil, emerged from the kitchen. At the sight of Sun’s official attire, he dropped into a low bow, and apologized that he was not yet prepared to serve lunch.
“We haven’t come for a meal,” said Sun. “I would like you to tell me whether Hong Wenbin, the owner of the Black Tile Factory, was a customer of yours last night.”
“Hong? Yes, yes, he was here.”
“We understand that he consumed too much of your wine.”
Qi nodded guardedly. “My wine? Well, yes. He did insist on more cups than most men could drink in one night, but how could I refuse? He is a loyal customer. And his house is so near. I thought, what is the harm?”
“How late did he stay?”
“Very late. The soldiers had gone to sleep. It was the middle of the night.”
“And he left alone? There was no one with him?”
“Yes, he was alone. He was happy in his own company, sir, if you take my meaning. He was singing and reciting poems. I was worried the night watch would take him in for making so much noise. I don’t drink wine myself, sir. I don’t like its effect.” His eyes flickered anxiously over Sun’s expression, endeavoring to read it. “I hope nothing has happened.”
“Two people were murdered last night at the Black Tile Factory.”
“Murdered?” Qi looked shocked. “In the North Borough? Was it a robbery? Should I warn my customers not to walk alone?”
Sun spoke reassuringly. “It has all the appearances of an isolated incident. Did you notice anything unusual in Hong’s behavior last night?”
“Unusual, sir?” Qi chewed his lower lip. “No, nothing unusual. He was playing cards.”
“And did he at any point behave aggressively, or express violent intentions?”
“Well, sir, he could be like that, sometimes. He did not like to lose at games. But last night there were no incidents at all.”
“What were the subjects of conversation, before the singing and recitations began?”
“They didn’t talk very much while they were playing. But when they did talk, I suppose it was about the examinations. That’s all anyone is talking about, isn’t it? It’s the same every examination year. Yes, I remember now. Hong was talking about the work the factory was doing to repair the examination yard.”
“Did Hong, at any time last night, mention his wife?”
Qi’s wrinkled eyelids lifted, and he stared up at the chief inspector, unable to conceal his curiosity. He swallowed. “Madam Hong? No, sir.”
Sun glanced toward the kitchen and sniffed. He closed his eyes for a moment, and an involuntary expression of appreciation passed across his face. “Black chicken soup today?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. It is almost ready. Would you like to wait? Or I could have a portion brought to the North Borough Office if you wish.”
“I don’t have the time,” said Sun, with obvious regret. His appreciation of well-seasoned broths was known to all his staff. Li Du, glancing around the courtyard scattered with chewed bones, did not share Sun’s enthusiasm.
They left the restaurant and returned to the North Borough Office, where they observed a sedan chair decorated with beads and tassels waiting outside the gate. On entering the courtyard, they were informed by Mi that the scholar Bai Chengde was awaiting Chief Inspector Sun in the reception room.
Sun scowled. “I forgot that we had scheduled a meeting with him today. What is the complaint of the hour? Puddles in the roads? Noise from overcrowded inns? Graffiti?”
“Concerns about pollution in the air around Taoranting,” said Mi. “Shall I attempt to put him off?”
“No. He’ll just add our office to his list of grievances,” said Sun. “Take me to him.”
Bai must have sensed their return, for he appeared at the door of the reception room and approached over the cobbled courtyard, leaning on a walking stick. He wore a dark blue robe trimmed with pale fur that most would consider too hot for a warm autumn day. “Chief Inspector Sun,” he said in a reedy voice, “your clerks have informed me of the tragedy at the Black Tile Factory. The woman’s husband, I understand. What a painful thing to happen in our own neighborhood, and among educated individuals! It is a shock. Truly, it is a shock. I hope, though, that you do not intend to cancel our meeting?”
�
�Of course not,” said Sun stiffly. He was looking hungrily at the remains of bean cakes on the small plates waiting to be washed beside a bucket of water.
Bai’s attention, meanwhile, had shifted to Li Du. Suddenly his eyes brightened in recognition. “But you are none other than Li Du! Of course I knew you had come back to the capital, but I had no idea you were in my own neighborhood! How long has it been since you returned?”
“Two years.”
“So long! How is it I have not seen you at the literary clubs?”
“I have not been to them.”
“Not been to them! But you were always the wit of the group. Charming everyone with your memorized poems and innovative interpretations. And now you have come to advise the chief inspector, and I thought I was the important scholar of the North Borough. I must defend my territory,” he concluded with a dry chuckle.
“Not at all,” said Li Du. “I am employed here as a secretary.”
“A secretary?” Bai lifted a hand to his heart in exaggerated surprise. “But how can that be so? Am I misremembering? Your examination score placed you among the top twenty of your year. A most impressive set of essays. Of course, you’ve walked an unlikely path since then, eh? Exiled, then pardoned. Years in the southwest territories among the uncivilized of the empire. You must tell me about it, one of these days. I will invite you to see my gardens.”
Sun looked at Li Du as if he expected him to reply. But Li Du bowed his head deferentially. Bai sighed and turned his attention back to Sun.
“I was at a party at Hong’s house, you know, only the other day. A tiresome affair. It was supposed to be a discussion of that old novel, The Bitter Plum. Between you and me, it’s just the kind of text chosen by a man who cannot judge quality. But Hong was determined to be a literary man. Determined. And now we see that you can’t teach a merchant to be an intellectual, not really.”
Something stirred in Li Du’s mind, a memory of a day a long time ago, in the library, with raindrops plinking on the roof, and an open book with faded pages, illuminated by gray light through the window. The Bitter Plum, a story of romance and adventure.
