by Elsa Hart
“At last I came to Etzina, the Black City, whose ruined ramparts contain but one door, through which they say the Mongol Khara Bator escaped his besieged domain in the hours before it fell. Following your instruction, I climbed the hill behind the silent city, passed the empty watchtower, and found the small temple beyond. It exhaled breath of juniper and smoke, which spoke of living inhabitants, though its exterior was as bleak and quiet as the desert.”
In the flickering light of the lantern, Li Du was drawn back to nights around the fire, deep in the mountains, when Hamza had entertained the caravan with tales.
“I went inside,” Hamza continued, “and passed beneath the quiet scrutiny of sculpted gods to a door behind the altar. There I encountered a monk with a face at once smiling and solemn. He was sitting just outside, in a comfortable chair, reading a book. When I asked its title, he told me it was called The Pearl and the Palm. When I asked what story it told, he informed me that it was a dictionary. I hid my disappointment, for I was aware that I was in the company of those who, like you, have a reverence for ink and paper.
“Goodwill thus established, I presented to the monk the small token you had entrusted to me, and told him your name. He remembered you. Over a cup of tea, he told me of the day, nine years ago, when he and the other monks had watched you approach, with your mule and your cart, like a peddler to their door. You told them that you had, until recently, been a librarian, and that you knew of the secret cave in the ruins of Etzina, where paper would never rot and ink would never fade. You asked, humbly, that they allow you to entrust your books to them. You had been sentenced to exile and could not carry them with you. It was a small collection, the monk informed me, but a fine one. When I told him what book you had sent me to retrieve, he sighed, and confessed that he would mourn its loss, for he had enjoyed many hours contemplating it.”
Hamza pulled from his satchel an object. For a moment, the scent of juniper hung in the air. He gave it to Li Du, who removed layers of coarse silk and oilcloth from the volume they protected. There was no title on its paper cover, which was golden brown and bound with white thread. Li Du took his spectacles from the purse at his belt and put them on. Ignoring Hamza’s incredulous look, he opened the book carefully. “A Song edition of The Commentary on the Book of Rites,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Printed in Lin’an. I was never a true collector, but this book, discarded by one who did not recognize it, is among the greatest treasures a collector could own. And it has not aged or altered in the nine years since I last saw it.”
“Nothing in those caves can age,” said Hamza. “I have seen the caverns, hidden within the stone, where books and scrolls of every size and shape and language rest in timeless sleep. Indeed, I suspect the monks who keep the books are themselves many hundreds of years old, preserved by the desiccated air.
“After passing a night in the temple, and promising to bring the monks any rare volumes I encounter on my adventures, I departed. I made the long journey to the gates of this city, which I entered this very morning. Once more following your instruction, I located the bookstore with the white curtain and blue sign, and asked the owner for your address. A true bookseller, he regarded me with a shrewdness that made me think he could perceive by some extra sense the value of the book I carried with me.”
Hamza drew in a breath, and concluded. “Now I am here, and have brought you what you asked me to bring. In return, I expect you to tell me why you wanted it.” He looked around, squinting in an effort to assess his surroundings outside the pool of lantern light. “And why are you living in a temple? I expected an imperial librarian to be ensconced within the palace walls.”
“I am not an imperial librarian,” said Li Du. “I am not, at present, a librarian at all. I am a secretary.”
Hamza looked incredulous. “That’s what the bookseller told me, but I didn’t believe him. A secretary?”
Li Du nodded, and raised a hand to forestall further questions. “One story is enough for such a late hour. My account can wait.” He gave a small smile. “It is good to see a friend. And since a room has been found for you here, I hope you will remain a guest in the city for at least some days.”
For a moment Hamza looked as if he would argue. Then, after a short assessment of Li Du’s expression, he appeared to change his mind. He yawned. “Certainly,” he said. “For I have every intention of enjoying myself.”
Chapter 12
Li Du entered Sun’s office the next morning to find the chief inspector sitting at his desk, absorbed in the perusal of a document. As he read, his eyebrows suddenly drew together so forcefully that only the deep furrow between them prevented mutual attack. “This is too much!” he exclaimed. He looked up, saw Li Du, and beckoned for him to sit in a sturdy chair across the desk from him.
“Yesterday’s reports,” Sun declared. “Apparently an examination candidate staying in the East Borough drank tea of nightshade because he thought it might improve his memory.”
Li Du raised his eyebrows. “I hope it didn’t kill him.”
“It would have, had the doctor arrived any later. As it is, he is recovering, and still plans to take the tests. What confounds me is that he might well pass them.” Sun let out a huff of exasperation so strong that it lifted the page in front of him. “These scholars can all recite the classics, but what of practical knowledge? What of sense? I’ll tell you—I didn’t do so badly on the exams myself, but nothing I’d studied prepared me to collect taxes in the provinces. If my mind had been less full of poetry, I might have fared better. And if these candidates would close their books and get some sleep, they might be less likely to poison themselves.”
The complaint was a common one, often expressed by examination candidates themselves who, after earning their hard-won degrees, received magistracies in the provinces and found their previous education left them woefully unprepared. Li Du, recalling the delirious days leading up to the examinations, was inclined to be sympathetic. “Most of the candidates will be more sensible once the tests are over,” he said. “The atmosphere in the capital can be unsettling at examination time. Unfortunately, there are many who are willing to take advantage of heightened nerves to make a profit.”
Sun conceded the point with a glower. “Charlatans on every corner,” he said. “Trying to relieve fools of their money. I expect some fraudulent fortune-teller sold him that potion. At least he didn’t wait until he was inside the examination yard before he drank it.”
Li Du nodded. Such tragedies were not unprecedented. The examinations consisted of three sessions, each lasting three days and two nights. During those periods, no one was allowed in or out of the examination yard. There were no exceptions. If a student became ill while writing his essays, he had no recourse. Of the four thousand students who had taken the tests with Li Du, two had died at their desks.
Chief Inspector Sun slid the report he had been reading to the corner of his desk. “Regarding the murders at the Black Tile Factory,” he said, “we are awaiting a report from Doctor Wan. No doubt he will have his conclusions to us before long. In the meantime”—he indicated a listing pile of documents—“there are the usual tasks to complete.”
Li Du looked at the pile that seemed to replenish itself daily. The safe course of action would be to pick up the pile, carry it to his office, and pass another day as he passed most of them, quiet and unnoticed. But how much harm could it do to draw a mere moment’s attention to himself? He hesitated. “Actually,” he said, “I wanted to mention that I had an idea.”
Sun looked startled. “Is this to do with the foreigners at the South Church? Did you discover something there?”
“No. I did speak to Father Aveneau, the man who visited the factory on the morning the bodies were discovered, but his account agreed with what the manager, Hu Gongshan, already told us. I saw for myself that the roof of the church was badly damaged.”
“In that case, where did you come by an idea?”
“I was thinking about th
e note we found at the scene.”
“The note,” said Sun. “Ah yes, you mean the love letter.”
“It looked like a love letter,” said Li Du. “The moon shines on my beloved in the old pavilion, green with moss. Do those words sound familiar to you?”
Sun considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Moons, moss, pavilions? They are common words in literature.”
“They are taken from a novel entitled The Bitter Plum.”
“That does sound familiar,” said Sun, the furrow returning to his forehead.
“That is because it was mentioned to us the day before yesterday, outside this very room.”
“The Bitter Plum,” said Sun, his expression clearing. “The book discussed at Hong’s party.”
Li Du handed Sun the volume he had purchased the previous day. “I have marked the page.”
Sun opened the book. He read silently for a moment, then leaned back a little in his chair and scratched the side of his beard. “The moon shines on my beloved,” he said. “The very same words.” He closed it and looked up. “But there is nothing strange about that. Pan Yongfa was at the party. Naturally, when he arranged to meet his lover, he would quote a book he had just read. It is a pretty sentiment.”
“That is what I would have thought, too,” said Li Du. “Were it not for the context.”
“What do you mean, the context?”
Li Du indicated the book still open in front of Sun. “The line is not about lovers. It is taken from a scene in which a blackmailer is rejoicing because he has been paid sixty taels. He takes the ingots to a hidden pavilion to count them. The moon, shining into the pavilion, is reflected in the polished silver. The villain uses the words to address his spoils: The moon shines on my beloved.”
Sun stared at Li Du. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I am wondering if the allusion could have been intentional. Of all the lines to choose, this line, from this book. What if Pan Yongfa and Madam Hong were not lovers surprised by a jealous husband? What if something else brought them to that room? What if Hong simply walked home drunk that night, and had nothing at all to do with the crime?”
To Li Du’s surprise, Sun let out a bark of laughter. “You know,” he said, his shoulders shaking a little, “when I agreed to give you a position in my office, my sister advised me not to do it. Why? I asked her. Because, she told me, my former husband has a tendency to make simple matters complicated. I always thought she was merely being spiteful.”
“It is not my intention to introduce unnecessary complications,” said Li Du, roused to defensiveness by the unexpected mention of his former wife. “I only wanted to point out a detail that could alter our perception of the case.”
A trace of mirth lingered in Sun’s expression. “Secret messages? Blackmail?” He grew serious. “Your idea suggests premeditation, corruption, conspiracy, all crimes far outside the jurisdiction of this office.”
“But shouldn’t the magistrate be informed?”
“The magistrate is not interested in idle speculation. Let me tell you something you do not yet know. Early this morning, an item was delivered to this office by two soldiers, a knife with a short blade covered in dried blood. It was found concealed in a pile of rubbish beside the door Hong used to enter his home that night.”
Li Du considered the new information. “Have you confronted Hong?”
“Hong has already been taken into custody. His story remains unchanged, but I expect we will have a confession soon.” Observing Li Du, who sat quietly before him, his hat slightly askew, Sun seemed to repent his bluntness. “I was not idle yesterday,” he said with a hint of contrition. “I have met with the commissioner of the Ministry of Rites and questioned him thoroughly about Pan Yongfa. He was, by all accounts, an upstanding official. He scored highly on the examinations and was given a temporary assignment in the capital. He had been here three years. His job, as we have already been given to understand, included management of construction contracts between the ministry and the Black Tile Factory. According to everyone with whom I spoke, he was diligent, reliable, and efficient, with a successful career ahead of him. There is no suggestion of anything unusual.”
“And Madam Hong?”
“He must have met her in the course of his business with her husband. I suspect he conveyed to her the note asking to meet that evening when he came to the factory in the afternoon.”
“Did you discover what his official reason was for going there?”
Sun nodded. “Ministry audit,” he said. “He was there to review previous contracts. As I said, he must have sent her the note then. Unless she was the one who sent it to him—the handwriting is inconclusive.”
“Where did he go between leaving the factory and returning to it?”
“He returned to the ministry, where he continued work as usual. He left, alone, well before the night watch was set. He would have had more than enough time before the alley gates closed to return to this neighborhood and wait in some concealed place near the factory for his assignation with Madam Hong. She, of course, lived so close that she would not have had to pass through any gates. She must have gone to bed, and slipped out through a side door of the manor once everyone else was asleep. Naturally, we are interviewing the soldiers at all the North Borough inspection points. So far, none have reported a single suspicious attempt to pass through a gate after dark. You see that I am being thorough. But it would require more than literary interpretation, now, to change the course of the investigation.”
From outside the office walls came the sound of bells and chimes, some near, others distant, tumbling over one another in their enthusiasm to report the hour of the day.
Sun heaved himself from his chair. “I’m expected at Dragon King Temple. I’ll be finished by the hour of the horse. We’ll meet on Seven Hearts Street after lunch.”
“Seven Hearts Street?”
“It’s in the West Borough,” said Sun. “It falls to us perform the unpleasant duty of interviewing the concubine of a murdered man.”
Chapter 13
For his sojourn in the capital, Pan Yongfa had selected a small but luxurious residence. Its entrance was framed in stone, carved in relief to form patterns of tiny, interlocking mazes. A polished plaque affixed to the lintel proclaimed the inhabitant to be the holder of a high degree. Li Du, late to meet the chief inspector, hurried through the door into an outer courtyard, where he found two soldiers stationed amid a forest of potted plants.
“You’re the secretary?” asked one.
Li Du said that he was, and the other soldier gestured to a circular gate that opened to a second courtyard. “The chief inspector is already here. Go through to the third courtyard. It’s the building on the right.”
Passing into the second courtyard, Li Du headed for the gate on the opposite side. He had almost reached it when he heard women’s voices coming from an open latticework window in a building on his left.
“But I’m frightened to talk to the officials.” The voice belonged to a young woman, who ended the declaration with a hiccupping sob.
Another woman answered, her voice calm and superior. “You’ll have to tell them. If the master of the Black Tile Factory is a thief, the law won’t forgive him.”
“But the chief inspector looked so stern. And did you see the soldiers? They make me so nervous that I can’t think. I’m sure I won’t be able to talk.”
Li Du had learned not to ignore opportunities to make use of his unassuming appearance. He hesitated only a moment before adjusting his hat so that it sat a little more crookedly on his head, climbing the stairs to the smooth veranda, and knocking on the door.
The woman who answered had an erect, authoritative bearing. She wore robes of pale blue silk. Her face was lightly powdered, and she wore a modest silver ornament in her hair, which was styled with elegant practicality. Li Du guessed her to be a senior maid.
“Sir,” she said, and bowed.
“My apologies for inte
rrupting you,” he said. He turned and indicated the courtyard with a look of helplessness. “I am the chief inspector’s assistant, and I am not sure where I should go.”
She bowed again. “He is with our mistress.”
From behind her, the maid who had been crying appeared. She was no more than a girl. Blue shadows under her eyes glistened with moisture. She was holding a slim porcelain vase in one hand and a dusting cloth in the other.
“Yes,” said Li Du. “Can you direct me to them?”
The elder maid paused thoughtfully, assessing him. “Of course, sir,” she said. “But I wonder, if you can spare a moment, whether you might listen to this girl? She is afraid to speak to your superior, but I think she might know something important.”
“I would be most grateful to hear it,” said Li Du. “She is brave to come forward. I know that I, myself, am often at a loss for words when soldiers are staring at me.”
The girl gave a wan, tearful smile. “I wouldn’t have hidden anything from the authorities, sir, but I think it will be easier to explain to you. I saw something strange on the morning our master left, the morning he didn’t come back.”
“What did you see?”
The girl looked to her companion for approval. “Speak clearly,” said the senior maid. “Don’t cry.”
The young maid took a long, shuddering breath. “That morning, our master called to me from his office. He had torn his jacket. He asked me to take it away and bring him a new one. When I came back, I saw him putting silver ingots into a bag. It surprised me. He didn’t usually carry more than a string or two of copper coins.”
