The Corpse Reader

32

Ningzong suspended all royal engagements immediately and ordered the Imperial Judges to be summoned. With them in tow, and surrounded by a large retinue and all his guards, the emperor went in semiprocession to Kan’s rooms. Cí was allowed to go with them.

Kan’s flabby, naked body, hanging from the rafters, stopped them all in midstep. His face looked like that of a burst toad. Ningzong ordered the body cut down, but the Imperial Judges advised against it; they all agreed the first thing was for the room to be inspected. Cí was asked to take part in this.

While the judges commented on Kan’s appearance, Cí’s mind turned to the fine layer of dust on the tiles, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. He made a quick sketch of the layout of the furniture in the room, including the large dresser that Kan must have climbed on to reach the rafters. He was then granted permission to examine the corpse, and he was so nervous that it felt as if it were the first time he had ever performed such an examination.

Kan’s neck was grotesquely disjointed, his one eye was shut, and his partially open lips and what could be seen of the gums were black. The teeth were clamped down on the tongue. There was dried spittle at the corners of the mouth, and the rest of the face was tinged blue. His fingers and toes were curled unnaturally inward. His stomach and lower abdomen hung lower than they normally would and had turned blue-black. His thick legs had little spots of blood below the skin—much like the marks made by moxibustion. A pile of feces was on the floor beneath him.

Cí asked permission to approach the corpse and hopped onto the dresser. The rope, he now saw, was made of braided hemp the width of a pinkie finger, thin enough that it cut deep into the skin. It had a slipknot in it and crossed around the back of the head, ear to ear, where it had left a deep, blackish groove just beneath the hairline. To everyone’s surprise, Cí asked for a chair and stood on it on top of the dresser. Higher now, he was able to study the top of the rafter itself, over which the rope had been slung. Then he climbed down and announced he was finished.

Ningzong ordered that Kan be cut down and asked that the Councilor for Rites be brought so funeral preparations could take place.

Once Kan’s body was down, Cí quickly checked the neck to see if the trachea was broken. As the body was being carried out, Bo found a handwritten note on a table alongside Kan’s neatly folded clothes. He scanned it and brought it to the emperor, who read it to himself in a low voice. Then he crumpled the paper and threw it to the floor. When he looked up, his rage was plain for all to see. There would be no public ceremony, he announced, and the Councilor for Rites would not be needed. Kan’s body would be buried nowhere special, he said, and he forbade the utterance of even one word of sympathy for Kan.

A murmur of surprise went around. As the retinue followed the quickly departing emperor, Bo picked up the note and passed it to Cí, who smoothed it out. Kan’s handwriting was unmistakable, and his seal was there, too. He confessed to the murders and to an attempt to discredit Blue Iris.

Cí sat on the mahogany floor. He couldn’t believe it was all over.

Eventually, Bo helped him to his feet. Cí said good-bye, unsteadily, and headed out into the gardens.

There was nothing keeping him here now. Ming would be freed; Blue Iris would be exonerated. Any accusations Gray Fox brought against him, Feng had promised to divert. The Imperial exams were within reach.

So why, as he wandered through the willows, was he filled with fear?

Because he knew, and couldn’t have been more certain, that Kan’s death hadn’t been suicide, but homicide.

Cí made his way toward the Water Lily Pavilion determined to pack his bags and go. He’d made up his mind. He’d see to Ming’s release, and that would be all. Whatever was going to happen next wasn’t Cí’s concern. They’d made him carry out an investigation; had threatened, tortured, and blackmailed him; they’d locked Ming up…What more could they ask? In Kan they had their scapegoat. If someone was going to find out what had really happened, let it be one of the palace judges who’d been so disdainful toward Cí all along. Or Gray Fox, if he ever bothered to come back. And if he’d managed to find anything out in Jianyang, Cí would be long gone by then.

He saw Blue Iris in the garden. Now he’d never get to find out whether she was guilty or not. He hoped she wasn’t, but what did it matter? He’d been stupid to fall for a woman he knew he couldn’t have, and to betray the one man who had ever really treated him like a son. He cursed the night they met. And yet, he could still taste her kisses on his lips.

He went up the entrance steps and straight to his room to begin packing. He had to decide what to do with the bronze maker’s mold. If he really wanted to put the case behind him, he had to destroy the evidence. He took the plaster scepter and the spokelike piece from underneath the floorboards. Then he went to his wardrobe to retrieve the two parts of the mold. They were gone.

Clearly, this case wasn’t going to be easy to leave behind, but he was resolved on his course of action. Maybe this was the best thing that could have happened. If someone had collapsed the attic and tried to kill him because he’d been sifting through the remains of the workshop and assembling the ceramic pieces, then whoever had the mold now should keep it.

He finished packing and turned his thoughts to the strange scepter. He picked it up and examined it closely. Its outside was decorated with flower motifs, and he still thought the spoke-like piece somehow went inside. Could it have been some kind of musical instrument, he wondered?

No. Why was he still trying to work it out anyway? He lifted it above his head and was on the verge of smashing it on the floor, but something stopped him. He couldn’t help but think that, if it were relevant to the case, it couldn’t be a bad thing to keep. He’d hide it, just in case there was a chance he could make use of it.

But where? Thinking, he absentmindedly scratched his chest, and his hand caught the key hanging at his neck. He’d forgotten about it. The key to the secret compartment in Ming’s quarters at the academy.

That decided it. He hid the scepter in his clothes and left his room, luggage in hand. Blue Iris was in the main hall, standing beside the front door. She wore a silk dress beneath which he could make out her figure. He noticed, too, that she’d been crying and couldn’t help but feel a pang at this. He managed only a shamed good-bye before leaving.

He decided to enlist Bo’s help. He was concerned that by the time he returned from the academy, they might not allow him back into the palace. Bo eventually agreed, and together they walked to the academy.

When they arrived, Cí asked for Ming’s assistant, Sui. When he appeared, the middle-aged man looked out from under his bushy eyebrows at Cí with astonishment. But when Cí showed him the key, his expression suddenly became one of concern.

“The Master…?”

Cí explained that Ming was weak but that he’d be better soon, adding that he had asked Cí to bring him a book to read while he recovered. Sui nodded and told Cí to follow him. Bo waited in the garden.

Up in Ming’s quarters, Sui carefully removed a number of books from a shelf at the back, revealing a locked mahogany trapdoor. Cí waited for Sui to leave him, but the servant made no sign that he was going to do so.

Cí hadn’t foreseen this. He took the key from the chain and unlocked the padlock. Cí cursed. It was only a small space, and already full to the brim. Where was he supposed to put the scepter?

“What’s wrong?” asked Sui as Cí turned to face him.

Cí took out the scepter and a purse of coins.

“I need you to do me a favor. Not me, in fact. It’s for Ming.”

Now that Kan was dead, Cí’s only reason to go back to the palace was to secure Ming’s release. Bo went with him to speed the process along. When Cí was alone with Ming, he tried to cheer him. The wounds on his legs had improved, and the color had returned to his cheeks, so he’d be able to walk within a matter of days. He might as well recuperate back at the academy as in these lovely surroundings, joked Cí, making Ming smile. But when Cí recounted the circumstances of Kan’s death, Ming turned pale again.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he said, as if he could tell Cí was hiding something.

“Nothing,” said Cí, glancing at the sentries.

Ming seemed to believe this, which in a way annoyed Cí. He hated deceiving Ming. And Feng and Blue Iris, too. He bid Ming farewell, saying he’d do his best to get him back to the academy as soon as possible.

Leaving the room, Cí couldn’t shake his self-hate. Deceitfulness was precisely the thing he’d despised in his father these past months, but now he was acting just as unscrupulously. He was finding out firsthand what it was like to look the other way, to not be devoted to the truth, so he could look out for himself. Ignore the guilty, ignore the innocent. Feng and Ming—his compass points—were utterly against this kind of behavior. And his sister came to mind; she’d be far from proud.

What had he become? His head was telling him to flee, but something gnawed at him. He knew it was a feeling to which he had to pay attention.

And then there was Blue Iris, whom he could not forget. The warmth of her body, the sadness of her countenance…Suddenly, he knew he had to at least say good-bye to her. He headed for the Water Lily Pavilion, unsure whether he was obeying a carnal impulse or attempting to maintain a glimmer of dignity.

As he neared the pavilion, he could see Feng standing next to a carriage and horses while half a dozen workers rushed around. When Feng noticed Cí approaching, he stopped what he was doing and came toward him with a smile.

“Cí!” He hugged him warmly. “Iris told me you’d left, but I was sure you couldn’t have.”

Cí had never embraced someone whom he had deceived.

“You’re back early,” said Cí, sure Feng would pull away from the hug.

“Luckily, I managed to sort things out more quickly than I thought I could. Well! Give us a hand with the presents. Iris?” he shouted. “Have you seen? Cí’s back.”

Cí gazed at the nüshi, who was standing in the entranceway. He greeted her timidly, but she just turned and went back into the pavilion.

During lunch, Feng inquired as to events in his absence. He noticed that Blue Iris seemed distracted and said so, but she said she wasn’t feeling well and went on serving the caramelized chicken. Feng changed the subject willingly, having only just learned the news about Kan.

“Suicide! What I’d give to know what was going through Kan’s head! I always said he had secrets, but I never thought he’d do something like this.”

Neither Cí nor Blue Iris said a word. So Feng changed the subject again.

“And you, Cí, what are your plans now that your employer isn’t around anymore?”

Cí couldn’t bring himself to look Feng in the eye, especially with Blue Iris right there.

“Go back to the academy, I suppose.”

“Go and eat stale rice again? Not a chance. You’ll stay on with us here. Right, Iris?”

She said nothing, except to order the servants to take away the empty plates. Then she stood up and said she was going to retire, and when Feng offered to accompany her, she flatly refused the offer.

“You must excuse her,” said Feng as Blue Iris went off alone. “Women act oddly sometimes. But anyway, you’ll have plenty of time to familiarize yourselves now!”

Cí found it impossible to swallow his mouthful and spit it into a bowl before getting to his feet.

“Apologies,” he said. “I’m not feeling my best either.” And with that, he went to his room.

Cí’s thoughts were clouded—he felt awful about what he’d done, and Feng was being so generous by offering a place in his home. Feng didn’t deserve this deceit. Could Cí just own up? No, because of the harm it would obviously cause Blue Iris. The worst part was that the damage had been done, and nothing could change it. Still, he needed to do something.

Cí left his room, determined to speak to Feng—he wouldn’t go so far as to reveal what had happened between him and Blue Iris, but he would tell him absolutely everything else. He found Feng drinking tea in his library, a spacious, comfortable, high-windowed room. There were books everywhere, and the way they sat in neat piles seemed to mirror Feng’s relaxed attitude. A light breeze was entering, carrying the smell of jasmine. Feng smiled when he saw Cí and invited him to sit.

“Feeling better? Would you like some tea?”

Cí accepted the tea Feng offered. He took a sip and then blurted out, “Kan employed me to spy on Blue Iris.”

“On my wife?” Feng almost dropped his teacup.

Cí assured Feng that when he accepted the job, he had no idea who Blue Iris was. Then, when he found out, he tried to get out of the job, but Kan had blackmailed him.

“How?” asked Feng.

“By detaining Ming,” said Cí eventually.

Feng was half dumbfounded and half indignant. His lips quivered.

“That man!” he roared, getting to his feet. “If he hadn’t killed himself, I swear I’d rip him to pieces myself!”

Cí bit his lip, then looked Feng in the eye.

“Kan didn’t kill himself.”

“Eh? There are doubts? What about the suicide note?”

“Yes, I know. Even Bo said the handwriting was indisputably Kan’s.”

“Well?” said Feng. “So what are you saying?”

Cí said he might want to sit down for this. It was time for the truth. Then the emperor would have to be told.

He recounted the details of his examination of Kan’s corpse, beginning with the rope around the councilor’s neck.

“Plaited hemp. Slim but strong. The same as they use to hang up pigs.”

“Very fitting,” muttered Feng.

“Yes, but the thing is, I spoke to Kan the previous afternoon, and nothing that was in his demeanor fits the profile of a potential suicide.”

“People change their minds. Maybe his guilt overcame him later in the day. He fell apart.”

“And then went out before dawn to find a rope like that? If he’d really been overcome by anguish, he’d have used the first thing that came to hand. There were curtains, dressing gown ties, silk sheets—all kinds of things he could have knotted and used if he’d really been suddenly overcome. But no, in a moment of pure desperation, he goes out searching for this quite unusual plaited hemp rope…”

“Or sends someone to get it for him. It’s hardly grounds for suspicion, particularly in the context of a full confession.”

“Nowhere in the note did he actually say he was going to kill himself.”

Feng cocked his head.

“Go on.”

“It says he’s guilty of the murders,” continued Cí. “But that’s all.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure it would be a good idea to take something this flimsy to the emperor.”

“There’s more. His clothes, for a start. Beautifully folded and placed neatly on the table.”

“Again, that might not mean anything. You know as well as I do that people often take their clothes off before hanging themselves. And, if you’re saying you think it proves other people were in the room, I’m sure they were—at some point. After all, we’re not talking about a commoner here, but an Imperial Councilor. Such a man would never deign to fold his own clothes.”

Cí felt suddenly stupid but was heartened that at least it was his old teacher correcting him. And he hadn’t finished yet.

“Forgive me if I seem arrogant,” he said, “but what about the dresser?”

“What dresser?”

“Well, it seems Kan stood on a dresser before hanging himself. But it was so heavy. I tried moving it and couldn’t! It would have needed at least two people, maybe even three, to shift it.”

Feng frowned.

“It really weighed that much?”

“More than Kan. Why would you bother moving something as heavy as that when there are plenty of chairs?”

“I couldn’t say. Kan was a large man; maybe he thought he would break a chair standing on it.”

“A man who’s about to kill himself is worried about the furniture?” Cí paused. “Anyway, there’s more. The rope, OK, it was new. Never used. And yet, a stretch of it showed chafing. Two cubits, between the knot and the end. It just so happens, that’s exactly the distance I measured between Kan’s heels and the floor!”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me now.”

“OK. If he really had hanged himself, he would have tied the rope to the beam, put his head through the loop, and then jumped from the dresser. But then the rope would not have had this chafing.” Cí stood to try and present the scene as he saw it. “In my view, Kan was lying down, unconscious, before someone hanged him. In all likelihood, he’d been drugged. Two or three people lifted him up onto the dresser before introducing his head into the loop, then threw the end of the rope over the beam and pulled on the rope to lift Kan into the air. Kan’s weight as he was lifted was what caused the chafing; that’s why it’s exactly the same length as the distance I measured between his feet and the ground. That’s the distance over which his weight would have exerted pressure on the rope running over the beam.”

Feng squinted.

“And what makes you think he was drugged first?” he asked quietly.

“An almost unarguable detail. The trachea wasn’t fractured. Unthinkable in the case of a knot being situated beneath the Adam’s apple and then supporting a very large weight thrown from such a height.”

“Kan might have slipped rather than jumped.”

“Might have. But if we enter into the scene as if it were a crime, there’s no way Kan wouldn’t have resisted, had he been conscious. No scratch marks, no bruising, no sign of any kind of a fight anywhere on his body. We might think about the possibility of a fatal poisoning. But his heart was still beating when he was strung up. How do I know? The skin at his throat reacted as only living skin does. The tongue was jammed hard against the teeth. The lips were blackish. He must have been drugged.”

“Or they forced him to do it.”

“I just can’t see it. Whatever he was threatened with, when that rope was around his neck and he was hanging from a beam, his body took over. Instinctively, he tried to get free.”

“His hands could have been tied.”

“No marks to suggest it. Speaking of marks, I still haven’t mentioned the most conclusive one.” He glanced at the bookshelves and took down a dusty volume. Taking a cord from his shirtsleeve, he laid it along the length of the spine with the ends hanging free. “Watch,” he said. He took both ends at once and stretched the cord abruptly, and then lifted the cord up for Feng to see. “See how the mark left in the dust by the cord is clearly defined? Now watch this.” He repeated the action on another part of the broad spine, but this time shuffling it, making movements to simulate struggling. “See the difference?” The marks were wider and more diffuse. “When I climbed up to check the mark left by the rope on top of the beam, it was exactly like the first one. Clean, with no sign of any kind of agitation.”

“This is all very surprising!” said Feng. “But why haven’t you already told the emperor, since you’ve clearly already thought it through?”

“I wasn’t totally sure,” hedged Cí. “I wanted your opinion.”

“The way you’ve related it, I can’t see any doubts—well, maybe the note.”

“On the contrary, it fits perfectly. Think about it! Kan lets two men into his quarters, men he knows and trusts. But once they’re in, they threaten him and force him to admit guilt for the murders. Kan, fearing for his life, writes the note. There’s no mention of his own death in the note because the men don’t want him to know they’re going to kill him. Once the confession is written, they offer him a drink to calm his nerves, a drink that’s been laced with poison. This way they also avoid any noise from a struggle. Once he’s passed out, they take his clothes off, drag the dresser over, and tie him up with the fine hemp rope—I’m thinking they brought such a fine one so it would be easier to conceal coming into the palace. They lift him onto the chest and then hoist him up, technically still alive at this point.”

Feng’s jaw dropped. “Cí, this is exceptional work. We must communicate this to the emperor straightaway!”

But Cí wasn’t so enthusiastic. He pointed out that it might bring attention back to Blue Iris.

“Remember what happened with the bloody sickle and the flies?” Cí found his voice turn tremulous at the memory. “I helped find the guilty party, yes, but I’ll never forget that I lost a brother in the bargain.”

“By the gods, Cí! That’s in the past. Your brother condemned himself when he decided to kill a man. You only did what you had to, and anyway, I was the one who found the blood on the sickle; you’re hardly solely responsible. As far as my wife goes, don’t worry. I know the emperor, and I know how his mind works.” Feng stood. “Oh, I forgot. I saw that new judge you were worried about in the palace this morning. Gray Fox, isn’t it?”

Cí’s heart fluttered.

“Forget about him,” said Feng. “It’s late now, but tomorrow we’ll go to the emperor first thing, tell him about your discoveries and clarify your situation, too. I don’t know what Gray Fox found out, but if he thinks he might use it against you, I’ll see that he doesn’t.”

Cí thanked his old master. But he wasn’t sure he should go with him to see the emperor. “Please don’t be offended, but I imagine you’ll also be talking about Blue Iris. That’s private. I don’t really think I should be there.”

Feng admitted Cí had a point. But that didn’t mean he was going to let him reject the offer of a room at the Water Lily Pavilion.

“There’s no way I’m letting you go back to the academy,” he said, adamant. “You’ll stay with us here until your name is totally cleared.”

Cí couldn’t see any way of saying no.

Cí, Feng, and Blue Iris ate a light supper together, sharing an equally light conversation. Cí found it difficult to keep calm. Hard as he tried to control them, his hands kept bumping into Blue Iris’s, and Feng’s every smile felt like torture. As Cí chewed halfheartedly on the food, his mind turned again to the question of Kan’s murder. Who might have done it? The nüshi sprang immediately to mind, and he couldn’t help wondering if Feng would defend her so resolutely if he knew about her infidelity.

Before bed, Cí leafed through the Ingmingji, a manuscript on judicial process that Ming had written and which he’d borrowed from Ming’s library. It contained descriptions of some of the most intractable cases in recent legal history. He was interested but soon found he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He put the book away and immediately fell asleep, but not into restful dreams. Blue Iris was the only thing he saw.

And he saw her first thing in the morning, too. She came into his room without knocking. She placed a set of clothes at the foot of the bed and stood silently, waiting for something. Cí got out of bed. He was about to ask what she was doing, but she spoke first.

“You’re going to need clean clothes, aren’t you? If you’re going to see the emperor.”

Cí found himself so full of desire that he didn’t even trust himself to speak. But she wasn’t going away.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“I’ll wait for you in the dining room.”

When he got downstairs, there was already food laid out: small, piping-hot rice cakes; cabbage salad; steamed vegetable buns. Cí was surprised that Feng wasn’t there, but Blue Iris said he’d already gone to the palace. Cí nodded and sipped his tea. The light strained his puffy eyes. He glanced at Blue Iris. He had to get away from there.

He decided to go and see Ming, so he said good-bye to Blue Iris and headed to the palace. But on his way there he suddenly found himself surrounded by a group of soldiers. Before he could ask what was going on, one of them struck him across the face with a baton, drawing blood. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground being kicked and beaten. Soon his hands and feet were being tied, and then there was one last blow to his head—which meant that, by the time they announced he was being arrested for conspiring against the emperor, he was out cold and didn’t hear a word.