MAGISTRATE LIN

AND THE FENG SHUI MASTER

by Charles Mossop

I, Lin Jiang, Magistrate in the city of Xiaolong in the province of Fujian, offer this chronicle in order that the full truth concerning the death of Feng shui Master Zhou Qing might be known. The case of Zhou Qing was as perplexing as any I have encountered in my thirty years as a magistrate, and tells a woeful tale of greed, dishonor and untimely demise.

And so I begin.

In the one-hundred-and-thirty-sixth year of the Great Rule of Ming, on the fifth day of the seventh month, a messenger arrived in the middle of the morning at my house in Xiaolong. The young man was all but chattering in his fear and agitation, but eventually I was able to understand that his village's most illustrious inhabitant, the renowned feng shui master Zhou Qing, had committed suicide.

I was astounded at such news, but the young man, a farmer's lad in rough clothes and bare feet, assured me it was so and begged me on behalf of the headman to go to the village at once.

Accordingly, my carriage was prepared and my trusty guard of five well-armed mounted soldiers assembled. I summoned my manservant, Chan Ping, to accompany me and we set off within the hour. Bamboo Grove Village lies some two hour's journey to the west along a rough and uneven country track that winds between muddy and foul-smelling rice paddies and past the isolated huts of tenant farmers. The carriage jolted and bumped in a most violent manner and I was soon in considerable pain. I am troubled by my back in such circumstances - an affliction doubtless attributable to my sixty-one years - and consequently I was greatly relieved when at last we arrived.

The sun was high when I stepped down from the carriage onto a dusty pathway that runs through the small village. I was dressed in my customary attire of long silk robe and within only a few moments the fine yellow dust was settling upon it.

I was at once struck by the prosperous appearance of the village. The houses are well built, their roofs red-tiled rather than thatched with straw as is usually the case. There is even a large ancestral temple, another rarity in a settlement of this size. I was later to learn, however, this prosperity had a sinister and deadly explanation.

Bamboo Grove is a lineage village, and therefore all the inhabitants save the wives bear the same surname. The population numbers eighty-three including men, women, children and a few bondservants. The oldest male in the village - and therefore the headman - at that time was Zhou Fuma, and he it was who made haste to greet me with a bow as I stood in the meager shade afforded by my carriage. He was a man of about my own age with a round, expressive face and a wispy grey beard. I requested water for my dry throat and a large cupful was quickly brought from the nearby well by a young girl who later proved to be Zhou Fuma's daughter.

After slaking my thirst and stretching a little to ease the burning in my back, I was taken by the headman to a wooden shed on the outskirts of the village in which pigs are customarily kept. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of rotten vegetables, dung and dried grain. The only light was provided by a single, aureate shaft of sunlight, glittering in the dust-laden air, which entered through a high window. There, hanging from a roof beam by the neck, was the body of Zhou Qing. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and his tongue, swollen and discolored, protruded from his gaping mouth.

“He has hanged himself,” wailed Zhou Fuma, but I shook my head.

“He has not killed himself, good sir,” I said. “He has been murdered.”

Zhou Fuma stared, wide-eyed, and a babble of excited voices broke out from the villagers gathered outside the shed's low doorway.

“But, Lord Magistrate,” said Zhou Fuma when he had recovered his powers of speech, “how can you say this? Surely the evidence of your own eyes…”

“Good sir,” I explained, “it is upon the evidence of my eyes that I base my conclusion. If a man wishes to hang himself, he must first climb upon a stool or chair in order to secure the rope. He then places the noose around his neck and jumps to his death. As you see here, however, there is neither stool, chair, nor indeed anything at all upon which Zhou Qing could have stood, and without it he could not have reached the beam to which the rope is tied. It is certain he was killed and his body placed here to create the illusion of suicide.”

Zhou Fuma wrung his calloused hands.

“But who would do so awful a thing?”

“That, good sir,” I answered, “is what I intend to find out.”

“But how?” asked Zhou Fuma, still gripped by alarm and consternation.

“I do not know for the present,” I replied, and it was perfectly true, “but we must begin the search as soon as we can. Please cut the body down and allow my manservant, Chan Ping, to examine it.”

An excellent man, Chan Ping. I employed him several years ago after it was discovered he had had a liaison with his former master's youngest wife many years before. Only his faithful service to the family saved him from the attentions of the executioner, and he was turned out of the house after a fearful whipping. He is now a little over forty, and possesses a keen intelligence and an observant eye. In his youth he trained as a physician, and his knowledge of the human body has proved invaluable to me on numerous occasions.

“Examine the body?” enquired Zhou Fuma. “But…”

“Do not distress yourself,” I hastened to assure the headman, whose expression showed great concern. “The body will be treated with all due reverence. Has Zhou Qing any family here or hereabouts?”

“No, Lord Magistrate, neither here nor anywhere else. We will attend to his funeral ourselves and see that he is honored.”

We emerged from the shed and the crowd fell silent and parted to allow us passage back into the dusty open space beyond. I instructed Chan Ping to examine the dead man's body and then turned to the headman.

“May I be so bold as to request that we go and sit in your house? The heat is hard to bear.”

“Of course, Lord Magistrate,” he replied. “Please forgive my inattention.”

After turning to the assembled villagers and telling them to disperse, Zhou Fuma conducted me to his house where we sat on four-legged stools while his wife busied herself preparing refreshments and boiling water for fresh tea. Many tenant farmers cannot afford tea save on festival days, but in Zhou Fuma's house it seemed to be abundant.

The floor was bare earth, made hard as stone by generations of bare feet, and curtained sleeping quarters were arranged along the back wall. Light entered through two high windows, and on a side wall stood a small shrine, replete with two small statues of the household gods and five or six ancestral tablets painted red and gold. An offering of food stood before the shrine, and I inferred Zhou Fuma held a proper respect for the world of the spirits and his ancestors. I have long believed that the observance of the laws of Li, the principles of appropriate ritual in all things, should be the center of a man's life, the foundation upon which he may acquire and personify all other virtues.

“Did anyone hear or see anything untoward last night?” I asked, returning my attention to the business at hand.

Zhou Fuma shook his head.

“I asked, Lord Magistrate, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“If Zhou Qing was without a family,” I went on, “did he live alone, or had he servants?”

“Only one maid, Lord, my daughter, Zhou Minghua.”

“I should like to speak to her, if I may.”

Zhou Fuma sent his wife to fetch their daughter, and in a few minutes the young girl who had brought me my drink of water stood before us. In common with all the villagers, she wore the loose shirt and baggy trousers of a peasant farmer. I judged her to be no more than twelve or thirteen.

“She is our adopted daughter, Lord Magistrate,” said Zhou Fuma, as though divining my thoughts. “She was the only child of my youngest brother and we took her into this house after he died of the black-spot fever when she was three years old. Her mother died when she was born.”

“I see,” I smiled. “I confess I could not help wondering at her age.”

“We have a son of our own,” the headman went on, his face clouding, “who is married with two children and lives nearby. I wish he and his family could live under our roof as is proper, but to my shame, this house is not large enough.”

“Spare yourself all shame, good sir,” I said. “Custom requires of us only what we can honestly fulfill. It is enough that a man does his best to live a virtuous life, and he may then observe custom whenever fate provides him the opportunity.”

The girl betrayed no hint of nervousness, but bowed politely as I turned my attention to her.

“How long did you serve Zhou Qing?” I asked.

“For one year, Lord Magistrate.”

“And did you see him yesterday?”

“Of course,” she answered. “I went to his house at dawn as usual, and prepared his morning meal.”

“And what did he do after his meal?”

“His custom was to walk a short way into the forest to a certain place and meditate for an hour, but…”

“You said a certain place,” I interposed. “Do you know where that is?”

Zhou Minghua hesitated, blinking.

“Answer, girl,” said Zhou Fuma, his tone surprisingly sharp, and she stiffened and drew in a quick breath before answering.

“Yes, but he made me promise never to reveal it to anyone. He said it must be our special secret.”

“Never mind,” I said. “You do well to honor your promise.”

The girl relaxed a little, but cast a nervous glance at Zhou Fuma.

“Please continue,” I said. “You were saying your master went to meditate.”

“Yes, Lord Magistrate, he meditated both morning and evening, but yesterday morning he did not do so. He departed at once, telling me he would not return until after dark.”

“And what time did he return?”

“He did not return, Lord Magistrate. I waited until past midnight but I did not see him, so I came home.”

“That is quite true,” said Zhou Fuma. “No one saw Zhou Qing until he was found shortly after dawn this morning by the owner of the shed.”

“Did Zhou Qing say where he was going before he departed yesterday morning?” I asked Zhou Minghua.

“He did not, Lord Magistrate, but he took his compass and several charts and tables with him.”

So, I thought. Compass and charts. He was in search of a site; but a site for what? A house? A tomb?

“Tell me,” I said, “are you aware of any work upon which your master had been previously engaged?”

Zhou Minghua frowned slightly and compressed her lips in thought.

“Well, the day before yesterday a messenger came to my master's house. He was away, so the messenger gave the note to me. He told me it was very important and I must give it to Zhou Qing as soon as he returned. He said it came from the family of the venerable Jiang Yi.”

I looked at Zhou Fuma.

“Jiang Yi?”

“The Jiang family,” he said, “has vast wealth. They own much of this county, and this very village pays rent to them. Jiang Yi died while on a pilgrimage four years ago leaving two sons: Jiang Baomin the eldest, and Jiang Erh.”

If Zhou Qing had gone to the house of the Family Jiang taking his feng shui compass and charts, it suggested the family was planning something upon which the advice of a feng shui master was considered necessary. I asked Zhou Fuma if he could tell me anything further about the family, and he smiled sadly.

“It is said, Lord Magistrate, that the two brothers despise each other.”

I sighed. Such family discord was all too common.

“Did you read the message?” I asked Zhou Minghua, and she shook her pigtailed head vigorously.

“No, Lord Magistrate. Truly I did not. I swear…”

“Peace, child,” I interrupted, “I do not accuse; I merely enquire. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

“It is said Jiang Yi was murdered, Lord.”

“Hush girl,” snapped Zhou Fuma. “This is no time for rumor and fanciful gossip.”

“Let her speak,” I said. “Go on, child. What is this story?”

“It has been whispered hereabouts ever since Jiang Yi died. He fell to his death while climbing the mountain path to the Monastery of the Pearl Waterfall. The story runs that he was pushed.”

“And does the story say who pushed him?” I asked.

“No Lord. He had several men with him, and all swore it was an accident.”

“And were those men from his household?”

“I do not know, Lord.”

“Enough,” Zhou Fuma interrupted. “Forgive her Lord Magistrate. This is a child's foolish chatter. We have all heard these rumors, but they are as empty as the air.”

Zhou Minghua subsided into silence, but I was not so quick as her father to dismiss the tale she had told. There may be more to learn, I thought. I dismissed Zhou Minghua with my thanks before turning to Zhou Fuma.

“I would like to send two of my guards to search the house of Zhou Qing. It is possible they may find the message your daughter spoke of.”

The captain of my soldiers and one of his men were summoned and given instructions. They bowed in salute and hurried away. We accepted fresh cups of tea from Zhou Fuma's ever-attentive wife, and I raised again the matter of the death of Jiang Yi.

“It is nonsense, Lord Magistrate,” said Zhou Fuma, waving a dismissive hand. "The path to the monastery is treacherous; he was not the first to slip and fall."

I was about to speak further, but the abrupt return of the captain prevented me from doing so.

“We have found it, Lord,” he said, handing me a small scroll. “It was left in plain sight.”

“Well done Captain. You may go with my thanks.”

I unrolled the paper and read the brief message.

“It asks Zhou Qing to go to the house of the Jiang family to discuss a certain matter with Jiang Baomin,” I said. “Do you have any notion of what that matter might be?”

“None whatever, Lord Magistrate.”

“Is the Jiang family building a new house, perhaps, or might they be seeking a site for a tomb?”

“I know of no new house,” said Zhou Fuma. “Men from this village would have been conscripted to work on it. And there has been no death in that family since the soul of Patriarch Jiang Yi rode the dragon to paradise.”

So, I thought, if it is not a new house or tomb, then it is likely to be a reburial.

I was about to voice this thought when Chan Ping's portly figure appeared in the doorway of the house. As my personal valet and manservant, he occupied a position in my household second only to my steward, and was therefore entitled to wear a robe, but he would not depart from his accustomed white jacket and trousers: the attire of an ordinary servant.

“I am able to report, Master,” he said, bowing.

“Proceed,” I said as he came to stand before us.

“I examined the body,” said Chan, “and found no blemish or wound save for bruises around his throat.”

“But Lord Magistrate,” put in Zhou Fuma, “you told me in the shed he was hung there after he died, and surely then the rope would have left no marks.”

Chan inclined his head.

“You are quite correct, sir. However, the marks were not left by a rope, but by fingers. Zhou Qing was strangled.”

“Did you find anything on the body? Money or papers?”

“Nothing, Master.”

"Thanks you Chan. You may go."

“Tell me more about the Jiang family, if you please,” I said to Zhou Fuma, as Chan departed. “What of this rivalry between the two brothers?”

“I do not know a great deal about it, Lord Magistrate. I know the house is very large and grandly furnished. I go there to pay our rent.”

“But do you know at least the reason for the discord?”

Zhou Fuma shrugged and spread his hands.

“Well,” I said, “I shall go and meet the Brothers Jiang. Please give my coachman directions.”

I had difficulty rising from the low stool, and Zhou Fuma assisted with a surprisingly strong arm before he hurried outside to do my bidding. As I emerged from the house Chan Ping awaited me and we stood on the dusty track in the naked glare of the sun until the carriage appeared. Zhou Fuma and a crowd of villages bowed and waved as we moved off.

“Do we go back to the city, Master?” asked Chan, and I shook my head. I told him where we were bound and what I had learned from Zhou Fuma and his daughter.

“Then it is probable Zhou Qing was not killed in the shed,” Chan observed when I had finished. “It is not easy to strangle a man and make no sound, let alone hang his corpse from a rafter.”

“Indeed not,” I agreed, gritting my teeth as the carriage crashed into some great hole in the track, sending an intense pain lancing through my spine.

“When we arrive at the house of the Jiang family,” I said, “I want you to mingle with the servants whilst I talk to Jiang Yi's two sons. Find out whatever you can about family life, and particularly the reason for the discord, if possible. Also see what, if anything, is said about this story surrounding the death of Jiang Yi.”

Servants have little opportunity for entertainment, and so gossip, being readily available and without cost, is a principal source of enjoyment. On numerous past occasions garrulous servants have provided Chan Ping with information impossible for me to obtain myself.

I shifted my position on the carriage seat in an effort to ease the strain on my arthritic spine, but to no avail. I groaned quietly, closed my eyes and endured.

#

It took us an hour to reach our destination, and when finally we alighted at the gates of the large house, I straightened my back gratefully, albeit cautiously. We were received with utmost courtesy by the steward, and while Chan went his way with the carriage and my guards, I was led across a wide, paved courtyard towards the red-columned house.

“This is the rent collection courtyard, Lord Magistrate,” said the steward, in answer to my question. “At harvest times it is a busy place.”

“Would a tenant ever enter the house to pay rent?” I enquired, and the steward chuckled.

“No, Lord, that would never be allowed. All payments in kind or cash are made out here. It has been so for generations.”

In the reception room I settled into a comfortably upholstered chair and refreshments were served immediately.

“I will inform Jiang Erh of your arrival, Lord Magistrate,” said the steward, backing towards the door, “and I am sure he will join you shortly.”

As I sipped cool fruit juice, I surveyed the room in which I sat. The furnishings were of expensive wood, deeply carved and inlaid with lustrous mother-of-pearl. Scroll paintings adorned the walls, and sculptures of emerald green imperial jade stood on the tables. Clearly, the Family Jiang enjoyed a more than generous share of the material goods of this world.

After a brief time the steward re-appeared and announced Jiang Erh, the youngest son of the late Jiang Yi. He was tall and well framed with an open, intelligent countenance, and wore a white robe and plain sandals as a sign he mourned his father. I judged him to be about thirty.

“Lord Magistrate,” he said with a smile and a bow, “you honor this house.”

“First,” I said, “I offer my sorrow for the death of your esteemed father.”

“Thank you, Lord, and what may I do for you this day?”

“I come on a somewhat strange mission, young sir,” I said. “I come investigating a murder.”

“A murder?” Jiang Erh appeared shocked.

“The dead man is Zhou Qing, the feng shui master. Did you know him?”

“By reputation, of course,” said the young man, “but how does his death concern us, Lord, sad though it undoubtedly is?”

“Zhou Qing was killed last night, but I have reason to believe he was here yesterday to talk to your brother.”

“I know nothing of that,” said Jiang Erh, a note of what might have been suspicion in his voice.

“So you did not see him?”

“I have never met Master Zhou Qing, either at this house or anywhere else. I swear it on the bones of my father.”

“Were you here yesterday?” I enquired.

“No, Lord. I left early to travel into Xiaolong to conduct some business with Liao, the rice merchant. I was away until late evening.”

“I see,” I nodded, “and is your brother here now?”

“Yes, Lord. He is at his studies, but I will have him summoned.”

“He is a scholar, your brother?” I asked, as the steward departed to fetch Jiang Baomin, and Jiang Erh nodded with what I took to be a sympathetic smile.

“My older brother studies hard, Lord, but has never succeeded in the imperial examinations. I passed the first level two years ago, but I have no wish to continue.”

“Congratulations,” I said with much heartiness. “To pass even the first level is a fine achievement, but why not go on to even higher distinction?”

“We study because it was our venerable father's wish that my brother and I pass at least the first level.”

I was about to speak when Jiang Baomin was ushered into the room. He also wore white and was as tall as his younger brother, although less sturdily built. He uttered no word of greeting, but bowed, seated himself and folded his hands, his ivory fingernail guards clicking gently together as he did so. I told him of the murder of Zhou Qing and to my surprise he responded angrily.

“Do you come to accuse us, Lord Magistrate? Do you imagine any of us here to be murderers?'

“I accuse no one, young sir,” I said. “I merely enquire, as is my duty. I have come because I understand Zhou Qing was here yesterday.”

“Yes,” said Jiang Baomin, subsiding a little.

“You did not tell me,” said Jiang Erh, his voice barbed.

“It was not your affair,” snapped Jiang Baomin, and on the instant the antipathy between the two brothers became palpable. Both sat rigid, their expressions as cold as the winds from the western snows.

“Young sirs,” I said, “I beg you not to dishonor the spirits of your honored father and his illustrious ancestors by allowing antagonism to flourish between you.”

The two young men sat in brittle silence, and for a time I wondered how best to proceed. At length, however, Jiang Erh spoke in conciliatory tones.

“Forgive us, Lord. My older brother and I have much on our minds, and in a few months he will write the examinations again.”

“Yes,” said Jiang Baomin with a bitter laugh. “Again. Three times I have failed, but you passed on your second attempt did you not, younger brother?”

“But,” I put in, “it is well known that most candidates fail several times. Persistence and determination in matters of learning are to be admired as virtues.”

Jiang Baomin snorted at my words, but I took no offence. Although it was many years ago, I still vividly remember the toil of preparing for the examinations: the interminable hours of reading, memorizing page after page, the endless copying of essays. It was not difficult to understand Jiang Baomin's frustration and loss of face at being bested by his younger brother.

“If I may continue,” I said, anxious to close this subject for Jiang Baomin's sake, “when did Master Zhou Qing leave this house?”

“About an hour before midday,” said Jiang Baomin, his expression still morose.

“And what was he doing here?”

“He paid a friendly visit,” said Jiang Baomin.

“Come now,” I said, “we do not play sticks and hoops here. I have read the message you sent to Zhou Qing asking him to come. What business had you with him?”

“I should like to know that myself,” said Jiang Erh, his eyes narrowed, and Jiang Baomin glowered at him.

“He came on a matter that concerns me alone, Lord Magistrate,” said Jiang Baomin. “I believe that is all you need to know.”

His disrespectful words astonished me. Wealthy though he was, my rank as a titled scholar and imperial official far exceeded his social standing. However, not wishing to make things worse between these two belligerent brothers, I decided not to press the matter.

“Very well, we shall leave that for the present, but if I should have cause to ask that question again, young sir, I shall require an answer.”

Jiang Baomin's flint-hard expression did not alter.

“You say Zhou Qing left here before noon yesterday,” I said. “Did he return to this house at any time after that?”

“No,” said Jiang Baomin, “he…” And he stopped abruptly.

“Do continue, good brother,” sneered Jiang Erh.

“He was returning to his village,” Jiang Baomin temporized, and Jiang Erh smiled his disbelief.

There was a tangle of lies and half-truths being wound here, and I perceived great caution would be necessary.

“There is one final matter,” I said. “I have heard a story concerning the death of your father. I am told…”

“That he was flung to his death as he climbed a mountain,” interrupted Jiang Baomin. “Everyone has heard that tale, and it is an absurdity. He slipped and fell. It was an accident and so say all who were with him.”

“I see,” I answered. “It is idle gossip then.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed Jiang Erh. “It is scurrilous.”

I rose to my feet. The two brothers followed suit at once, and I fixed them with as severe a look as I could contrive.

“It is likely I will have further questions for you, young sirs. Please do not leave these parts.”

The two young men bowed, and I requested my carriage and guard be sent for.

“There is a secret in that house,” I said to Chan Ping as the carriage moved away from the gate, “and I shall root it out somehow. Did you learn anything from the servants?”

“The rivalry between the two brothers is freely spoken about, Master,” said Chan. “It seems Jiang Baomin harbors a deep resentment of his younger brother.”

“That is abundantly apparent,” I nodded. “Is it because of Jiang Erh's success in the examinations?”

“Yes, in part, but it runs deeper than that. Jiang Baomin has no children, whereas Jiang Erh has two fine sons.”

“That is a bitter thing for Jiang Baomin to endure, and he the older brother into the bargain.”

“And there is more Master. It is generally believed that Jiang Erh wishes to divide the family's land between himself and his brother and establish two separate households and ancestral lines.”

“That would be more than regrettable,” I said. “The proper order of man and nature is served only by continuity.”

“I cannot see the advantage in such a division, Master.”

“Let us suppose the house divides,” I said. “If Jiang Baomin remains without a son, his side of the original family will die out, and Jiang Erh or his eldest son will lay claim to all Jiang Baomin's property. Thus the family will once more be united, but the line of Jiang Erh will have attained ascendance, and he, alive or dead, will be honored and venerated as patriarch.”

“I understand, Master,” nodded Chan, “but if Jiang Baomin does not have a son, the land need not be divided for Jiang Erh to become patriarch. It will happen anyway because all property will pass to him or his eldest son.”

“Quite true,” I nodded, “but the bad blood between the two brothers will not permit them to remain under the same roof much longer. By establishing himself independently, Jiang Erh can conduct his life as he chooses without fear of public calumny for his refusal to submit to the authority of his older brother while living in his house.”

Chan looked at me, his lips pursed in thought.

“But if Jiang Baomin does have a son,” he asked, “what then?”

“That is actually the cardinal reason Jiang Erh wants to divide the land,” I replied. “If the property remains intact and heaven grants Jiang Baomin a son, then Jiang Erh will be powerless to resist his brother, and will presumably end his days as an uncle, respected only for his age, living in the house of his nephew. Moreover, his sons and their wives and children will be subordinate in all things."

“Thank you Master,” Chan nodded, “but there is yet more I have learned.”

“Indeed?” I said. “This is truly a deep well.”

“You will be interested to know that when Jiang Yi died on the mountain, he was in the company of men from Bamboo Grove Village.”

“Was he so?” I said. “The threads of this web become ever more tightly knotted it seems.”

Chan nodded, his head cocked to one side in a characteristic pose he often adopts when bewildered or mystified.

"Well cone, Chan," I said.

“So you see once again, Master, why I do not choose to wear a robe.”

I smiled, then winced as the carriage gave a sickening lurch.

“Are these wheels square?” I groaned, and Chan Ping shook his head solemnly.

“Not at all Master. Surely they must be round.”

I nodded, but said nothing. Chan, while an excellent fellow, is at times far too literal.

What, I wondered, returning my attention to the matter at hand, did Zhou Qing do after he left the Jiang household? Was there a connection to his murder? For a fleeting moment I wished I had forced Jiang Baomin to tell me what business he had with Zhou Qing, but there was another way to find out.

“Chan,” I said, “after we reach home, I want you to go back to Bamboo Grove Village. Most feng shui masters have an apprentice or other such functionary to help with their measurements and calculations. Find out if Zhou Qing had an assistant, and if so, bring him to me.”

“As you wish Master.

As we neared the city the ache in my back intensified, inching its baneful way inexorably upwards until my head rang like a bronze bell. In the courtyard of my house I leaned heavily on Chan Ping as I struggled from the carriage and called my steward.

“Help me into the garden, and have my medicine brought to me, please.”

I eased myself gratefully into a cushioned chair in one of my garden's many high-roofed, circular pavilions, and its shade offered a welcome respite from the molten heat of the afternoon sun. After a minute or two a serving girl hurried out with a steaming cup of herbal tea, the preparation of which has been prescribed for me by a local apothecary. It smelled vile and tasted worse, but such was its efficacy that within a quarter of an hour the pain had subsided.

Feeling the need of relaxation, I entered the house and went to my study. There I laid out a large sheet of paper, found my colored inks and brushes and began to paint. I made long, bold strokes as I set forth mountains and valleys, and it was upon this pleasant pastime that Chan Ping found me engaged when he returned in the evening accompanied by a tall, gangling youth of about fifteen who promptly dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the floor as Chan introduced him.

“Wang Liang, Master. Apprentice and assistant to the late Master Zhou Qing.”

“Stand up, young man,” I said. “Your courtesy does you credit, but the kow tow is not necessary in the privacy of my house. A simple bow will do very nicely.”

Wang remained motionless on the floor until Chan tapped him with his foot.

“Be upright, boy. Respect is seemly; groveling is undignified.”

As he stood up I could see the lad was nervous; his face was as white as the peony blooms in my garden.

“Greetings, young man,” I began. “I offer my condolences to you upon the untimely death of your venerable master.”

“He…he would not have killed himself, Lord,” the young man blurted, the strength of his conviction evidently outweighing his fear.

“Indeed,” I nodded. “We know he met his death at the hands of another.”

“But, Lord Magistrate,” wailed the young man in anguish, “my master was a peaceful and kind man who revered the gods in heaven and respected the ways of nature. He harmed no one. Who would wish him dead?”

“That is what I intend to find out, my boy,” I replied, “and I shall need your help.”

“I will do anything, Lord Magistrate,” said Wang Liang, finding new confidence. “I served my master in life, and I shall serve him even in death.”

“Tell me, then, did you go with your master to the house of Jiang yesterday?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And do you know the commission your master received there?”

“I waited outside in the courtyard, and when my master came out he told me our task was to find a new site for the tomb of the venerable Jiang Yi.”

A reburial then, I said to myself. I was correct. No wonder Jiang Baomin did not wish his brother to know of it.

“And what did you do after receiving those instructions?”

“We went to the present tomb of the patriarch. Master Zhou Qing studied the site for several hours, and then we set off to search for a new burial place.”

“I see.”

Such reburials of the dead are by no means uncommon. The chi, the beneficial essences of nature, flow through the bones of a corpse to bring good fortune to the deceased's family only if the burial place is carefully chosen in accordance with the laws of feng shui and the horoscope of the dead. If the tomb is situated incorrectly, the chi will flow slowly, inconsistently, or at worst, not at all, and one or more of the surviving family members will soon suffer misfortune. In such a case, another feng shui master must be engaged, a more auspicious burial place found and the corpse reburied. Jiang Baomin no doubt believed his father's present burial site unduly favored Jiang Erh.

“Did you see anyone before or during your search?” I asked Wang Liang.

“No Lord.”

“From your surname I know you do not live in Bamboo Grove Village, so may I ask what time you and your master parted ways to go home?”

“Late afternoon, Lord. Almost dusk.”

“Thank you, young man,” I said. “This has been most instructive.”

Wang Liang bowed, and apparently uncertain of what to do next, bowed a second time. Making an exasperated sound with his tongue, Chan took the boy's arm and propelled him towards the door.

“Give him food and drink Chan,” I called as they departed, “and find him a bed for the night. It is much too dangerous for him to return home in the dark.”

Once alone, I turned back to my painting, but put down my brush with a sigh as I surveyed my handiwork. I am widely celebrated as a mediocre painter, and I could see this latest effort would do nothing to improve my reputation. I had envisioned a sweeping vista of the mountains and great forests of the Yunnan Plateau, but in truth it looked more like an ill-tended vegetable garden on the side of a hill.

I called for my evening meal, and when I had finished I sent for Chan Ping.

“Assuming Wang Liang spoke the truth,” I said, “Zhou Qing began his journey home just before dark. Somewhere on his way he was attacked and killed and his body hung in the shed.”

“It would appear so, Master.”

“But if he was killed somewhere in the open countryside as he walked home, why not simply leave his body where it fell? Why take it to Bamboo Grove Village?”

“To stage the appearance of suicide, as you have said,” answered Chan.

“If Zhou Qing's body had been found by the roadside this morning,” I said, “the chances of finding his attackers would be slim indeed, so why perform the dangerous and ultimately pointless charade of suicide?”

“Does it not clearly suggest a connection to the village?” asked Chan Ping, his head cocked to one side.

I stroked my chin and nodded.

“We must return there once again," I said. "And there is also this new matter of the death of Jiang Yi while in the company of men from Bamboo Grove Village. Unanswered questions abound.”

#

The sun was already strong when we set off shortly after dawn the next morning, but a storm loomed over the eastward sea, and great thunderheads lowered and blackened as they marched relentlessly towards us, as menacing as a Mongol army.

We reached the village, my back complaining bitterly as usual, and were conducted to Zhou Fuma's house where his wife received us most cordially and explained he had left early to take rice to market in the city.

Not wishing to alarm the good woman, I kept my tone light as I asked her where she had been the night Zhou Qing died.

“I take it you were here in the village?”

“No, Lord Magistrate,” she smiled, “almost no one was here that night.”

I found it difficult to conceal my surprise.

“I do not follow, good lady.”

“It was the night of the Children's Festival, Lord. All the women and children and most of the men were in the forest.”

“What is this Children's Festival?” I enquired.

“Its origins are lost in the temples of the past, Lord, but each year on the festival day, gifts of food and toys are hidden in the forest at night and our children hunt for them. It is a joyous occasion on which we thank heaven and our ancestors for blessing us with children. The festival was the night before last, Lord Magistrate, and we were all in the forest until long after midnight except for those few men who stayed behind to guard the village.”

“And how many men was that?”

“By custom, three men remain.”

“And how might those unlucky three be chosen?”

Here, she frowned slightly and a quizzical look crossed her face.

“Well, Lord Magistrate,” she said, “in past years lots were drawn, but this year my husband volunteered, and four others quickly stepped forward also.”

“So this year five men stood guard instead of the customary three?” I said, my eyebrows raised.

“Yes Lord,” she smiled. “I was surprised.”

“Did your husband tell you he intended to stay behind?”

“I did not see him until the evening, Lord. He went to the house of the Family Jiang.”

“And may I ask at what time of day the rest of you left the village?”

“About an hour after sunset.”

“Good lady,” I said, rising from the low stool with Chan's assistance, “you have been most helpful. I regret, however, we must take our leave.”

I bowed to Zhou Fuma's wife and asked Chan to fetch the carriage and guards. I stepped outside to find the sky black and threatening. The air hung moist and motionless as if the world held its breath in trembling anticipation of the coming storm.

As we moved out of the village I told Chan to order the coachmen to take us to the house of the Family Jiang, and he shouted instructions out of the carved latticework opening next to where he sat.

Hardly had he done so when a bolt of blue lightening sundered the sky, followed by a clap of thunder which might well have awakened the dead. A moment later the cataracts of heaven overflowed upon us in a deluge that beat on the roof of the carriage like a myriad drums. The track turned at once into a morass of viscous yellow mud through which our horses staggered and stumbled, and the motion of the carriage became even more uncomfortable.

“It will take us much longer at this rate,” Chan shouted over the cacophony of rain and thunder, and I nodded in reply. For one in my position, shouting should be avoided whenever possible; it lacks dignity.

The storm abated within half an hour, but the track remained a quagmire and our progress was tediously slow. It was, however, possible to talk easily once again.

“So, Chan,” I observed, “there were only five men in the village at the probable time of Zhou Qing's death. Five men, instead of three, and all willing volunteers.”

“Yes Master,” Chan nodded. “Vigilance was their duty, and yet nothing amiss was seen or heard. That is odd, is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” I agreed, “and it is also strange that Zhou Fuma did not tell me of the festival when I talked to him yesterday.”

The hot sun had reappeared by the time we reached the house of the Jiang family, but the storm had brought a welcome respite from the oppressive humidity which had preceded it. We were received by the steward once again, and Chan Ping was taken to the servants' quarters as expected. I was shown into the same room as before and I requested the two brothers be summoned.

“So, Lord Magistrate,” said Jiang Baomin as he and his brother seated themselves, “have you come to tell us who murdered Master Zhou Qing? If so, you have worked with admirable diligence.”

“I fear not, young sir,” I said, “but if you would be kind enough to answer another question or two, I might perhaps make some further progress. I shall not detain you long.”

The two brothers inclined their heads in assent, and although they did not speak I could once more feel the animosity between them. There was coldness in their eyes and anger tightened their lips. Howeverm I also sensed in them an air of caution, a tension unrelated to their dislike of each other. This was new, and it aroused my curiosity.

“I am told that on the day Zhou Qing came here, which was, as we know, the last day of his life, the headman of Bamboo Grove Village, Zhou Fuma, was here as well. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Lord Magistrate,” replied Jiang Baomin.

“Why did he come?”

“To pay rent, Lord.”

“I did not know that,” said Jiang Erh.

“Of course not,” retorted Jiang Baomin, “you were not here.”

“Why would he come to pay rent at this time of year?” I enquired. “Surely rent is paid at harvest times.”

Jiang Baomin appeared momentarily surprised, but answered in a voice as smooth as polished ivory.

“It was rent he owed us, Lord. I had allowed him to defer it.”

“Very well,” I said, “but now, young sirs, I regret to say I have another and more delicate matter to discuss with you. I had hoped I would not have to, but I have no choice. I trust it will not cause undue difficulty between you.”

“Please speak freely, Lord Magistrate,” said Jiang Erh, “we have nothing to hide.”

With a small nod I addressed myself to Jiang Baomin.

“I have been told you intend to rebury your father. Is that true?”

Jiang Erh's fury broke as violently as the recent storm. He sprang to his feet and spoke to his brother in scathing tones.

“How dare you? Could you not let our father rest peacefully?”

“Peacefully?” Jiang Baomin shot back, rising also. “While his bones rain blessings down upon you and I languish bereft? Oh yes, brother, I have no doubt you would most certainly like him left to rest peacefully.”

My hope, a somewhat unworthy one I do confess, was that by provoking their anger I might cause one of them to make an unguarded remark, but the stratagem failed. Anger is seldom a solution to anything. The brothers re-seated themselves and fell silent, apparently determined to keep their own counsel. I waited, and after a few moments of stilted silence, I decided withdrawal vas the wisest course. There was nothing more I could do; I had tried to be too clever.

We departed the house, and as the carriage lurched into motion I could tell Chan had something to say.

“Speak before you burst,” I told him, spreading my hands as if to receive his news.

“I spoke to the servants once again Master,' he said, “and met a porter named Fu. He told me his friend, Gau, valet to Jiang Erh, was sent to Bamboo Grove Village by his master to summon Zhou Fuma the day Zhou Qing was killed.”

“But,” I said, clutching a leather strap as the carriage bounced violently, “Jiang Erh said he was not at home that day and Jiang Baomin confirmed it.”

“If Fu has spoken the truth, then the Jiang brothers may not have.”

“Does no one speak the truth?” I fumed. “We are surrounded by lies and deception as if we were in a nest of vipers.”

Chan made no response.

“So,” I went on, “Jiang Baomin says Zhou Fuma went to see him to pay rent, and now we discover he was summoned by Jiang Erh who denied knowing he was there.”

“Did you say he went to pay rent, Master?”

“Yes, deferred from last harvest season according to Jiang Baomin.”

“But Master,” said Chan, “in asking idle questions about Bamboo Grove Village, I discovered its people have paid no rent to the Family Jiang for the last four years.”

“Indeed?” I said. “Small wonder they prosper. And why, I wonder, are they so generously favored?”

“I could learn nothing more,” said Chan.

“More lies,” I said. “Lies heaped upon lies.”

“Is it possible Jiang Erh wanted Zhou Qing murdered to prevent the reburial of Jiang Yi?” Chan ventured.

“To what purpose?” I replied. “Another feng shui master could easily be employed, but from his reaction, I do not believe Jiang Erh knew of his brother's plan.”

“Shall we return to the village then, Master?” Chan enquired, but I shook my head.

“Not now. I am tired and I desire an opportunity to think. We shall go home.”

Chan shouted instructions to the groom and as he did so another thought occurred to me.

“Chan, Jiang Erh told me yesterday he did not see Zhou Qing and did not know of his visit because he was in the city conducting business with Liao, the rice merchant. If we are to catch Jiang Erh in a lie we must talk to this Liao. Do you think you could find him?”

“Easily Master,” Chan answered. “I know his daughter.”

“His daughter?”

Chan shrugged.

“She is a comely and warm-hearted girl, Master, and I am unmarried. What is a man to do?”

“I have no need to hear such things,” I said, “but once we are home, you shall go into the city and find out if Jiang Erh did see Liao at any time that day.”

“I hasten to obey, Master.”

“No doubt,” I replied, and we passed the rest of the journey in silence.

At home I drank more herbal tea and spent the remainder of the day in my garden. The lily-scented air lay ponderous with heat and humidity as I watched the carp swim lazily amongst the lotus stems like undulating bars of pliable yellow gold animated by the spirits of the dark pool.

#

Early the next morning, Chan Ping entered my study looking cheerful if not particularly well rested.

“Jiang Erh has not been to see Merchant Liao for at least three weeks, Master.”

I nodded and sighed.

“I am not surprised to hear it,” I said, stemming the tide of my rising anger. "Do all of them take us for fools? Come, Chan, summon my carriage and guard. We return to Bamboo Grove Village and then to the house of Jiang. I will have the truth this time if I have to hurl them all into prison to obtain it.”

Anger leads to a loss of reason and self-control, and is thus most unseemly in an educated man, but throughout my life I have struggled against a volatile temper. I believe I have largely overcome it, however, and so by the time we arrived at the village some two hours later I had regained my composure without in any way blunting my determination.

“Now, good sir,” I said to Zhou Fuma once we were seated in his house, “I have before me such a collection of falsehoods and deceits as ever I saw, and I intend to have them swept aside. I have questions for you and I remind you before I start of my rank and my authority.”

Zhou Fuma nodded, but his eyes narrowed as I began to speak and a look of wariness settled on his face.

“Of course, Lord Magistrate.”

“You told me the Jiang house was opulently furnished. How do you know that?”

“As I said, Lord,” Zhou answered, “I go there to pay rent.”

“Think again, good sir. The steward of that house has told me no tenant ever enters the house. All rents are paid in the rent collection courtyard.”

“True, Lord,” said Zhou Fuma, with a facile smile that did not reach his eyes, “but when I went on the day of Zhou Qing's death, I was taken to Jiang Baomin's study room to spare him the inconvenience of coming to the courtyard.”

“I regret to say I do not believe you,” I said. “Why did you not tell me you had gone to the house of Jiang that day when I first questioned you?”

“I did not think it important.”

“Did you not?” I answered. “Then tell me why you failed to inform me that Gau, Jiang Erh's valet, came to this village after Zhou Qing and his pupil left the house of Jiang. Did you think that unimportant also?”

“Lord Magistrate,” said Zhou Fuma in an affronted tone of voice, “Gau came to see me on a trivial matter regarding our rice quotas and our cash rents in connection with my earlier meeting with Jiang Baomin. How could such a thing be of value to you in your search for Zhou Qing's murderer?”

“You met with Jiang Baomin, yet Jiang Erh's valet comes with further questions? I find that odd since I am told Jiang Baomin alone attends to matters of rent.”

For answer, Zhou Fuma offered nothing beyond an exaggerated shrug.

"Enough of this pretence," I said. "I know you were summoned to the house by Jiang Erh. For what purpose?".

Zhou Fuma said nothing, and I regarded him for a few moments before speaking again. Anger rose in me once more, but I quelled it and spoke as steadily as I could.

“The rattan cane is a most unpleasant form of persuasion, sir, but I will treat you to it without hesitation if I must. Do you stand by what you have just told me, because I say you lie.”

“I do stand by it, Lord Magistrate,” replied Zhou Fuma, but there was little conviction in his voice.

“Then listen well to me, Zhou Fuma,” I said. “You did not go to pay rent. I know this village has not paid rent for the last four years. I say again you lie, sir, and I will have it no longer.”

“Lord Magistrate…” Zhou Fuma began, but I forestalled him.

“When I first questioned you about the night Zhou Qing died, you made no mention of the Children's Festival. Why was that?”

Zhou Fuma looked momentarily confused and I pressed home my attack.

“Why did you volunteer to remain in the village the night of the festival, and why did four others agree to remain with you?”

“It was our duty, Lord,” said Zhou Fuma, as if grateful for a question he could answer.

“Why did five of you stay when only three was customary?”

“I…”

Zhou Fuma struggled for words, and I struck again.

“Were you the same men as those with Jiang Yi when he died?”

“How did you…?”

“Answer me please.”

“Not I, but the other four, yes.”

“And did they kill him, as your daughter's story says?”

Zhou Fuma stared at me, as a mortally wounded deer might stare at a hunter, awaiting the inevitable final blow.

“It was for the village,” he blurted. “They said we would pay no rent. They told us we would be prosperous and safe from famine.”

“They?”

“Jiang Baomin and Jiang Erh.”

The awful truth dawned upon me.

“Do you tell me it was the sons of Jiang Yi who plotted the death of their own father?”

Zhou Fuma's breath now came in gasps and stark terror blanched his face.

“Yes, yes, Lord,” he said, nodding vigorously. “It was not our plan. It was theirs from the beginning. They said our rents would be tripled if we did not do as they instructed. So four of our men were chosen and they agreed to murder Jiang Yi on the mountain. It was for the good of the whole village, Lord Magistrate, not for our personal gain. We had no choice.”

I sat in horror-stricken silence for a time. Patricide is the most heinous and abominable of crimes, and although I had begun to suspect it, its confirmation was no less appalling. I exhaled a deep breath and asked, “And what of Zhou Qing?”

Zhou Fuma's voice was now quiet and measured. He was doomed; his execution as certain as tomorrow's sunrise.

“Several days ago, Zhou Lihua, one of the four, attempted to rape my daughter while she worked in the house of Zhou Qing. Master Zhou returned just in time and she was able to run to safety. Zhou Lihua was enraged, and in his drunken fury he threatened to kill Zhou Qing. He said he had no fear of killing because he had killed once already, and would kill Zhou Qing as he had killed Jiang Yi.”

“And Zhou Qing told you of this, I take it?”

“Yes Lord. He had no idea I knew of it already. He urged me to go at once and tell the Jiang brothers so that they could have Zhou Lihua arrested for the murder of their father.”

“Why did he not tell them himself?”

“He believed it to be my duty as headman, Lord Magistrate. He said it was a village matter and told me he would do nothing himself.”

“So,” I said, “you went to the Jiang family house to warn them the crime was known and they would undoubtedly be implicated as soon as the four culprits were questioned.”

Zhou Fuma nodded slowly.

“And later that day Jiang Erh's valet summoned you to the house, and you were told to kill Zhou Qing. True?”

“Yes,” Zhou Fuma whispered, his eyes downcast. “I told Zhou Lihua and the other three, and we agreed to stay behind during the festival. We awaited Zhou Qing's return and I strangled him. I thought if we put his body in the shed as you saw it, his death would be accounted a suicide, and the matter ended.”

“Tell me one more thing,” I said. “Do you know why Jiang Yi's sons wanted their father dead?”

“The hatred between the two brothers has existed for years,” said Zhou Fuma, “and it grieved their father who said a divided family dishonored the ancestors.”

“And so it does,” I said.

“Jiang Yi left on his pilgrimage after threatening to disinherit his sons if they were not reconciled by the time he returned. “He said ending the family line was better than allowing it to continue in two parts.”

“So,” I finished, “notwithstanding their father's wish for a single family line, the two brothers set aside their hatred just long enough to agree to establish separate households. That, however, could not be done while their father lived, and so they had him murdered by men from this village before he could make good his threat to disinherit them.”

“Yes,” said Zhou Fuma, his voice all but inaudible.

“A mean and squalid crime,” I said. “Treachery heaped upon dishonor and disgrace.”

Zhou Fuma and the four other malefactors were arrested by my guards, and shortly thereafter I sent soldiers to arrest Jiang Baomin and Jiang Erh.

#

“I have a question, Master,” said Chan Ping to me that evening. “Why did the two sons bother to study for the imperial examinations? Why honor the wishes of a father they had murdered?”

“To avoid suspicion,” I answered. “It was necessary for them to present the appearance of pious sons mourning their father's untimely death and behaving with all due deference to his memory.”

“And the reburial was a case of simple jealousy?”

“Exactly. Jiang Baomin's jealousy of his brother overcame him. Hatred of their father drove them to their crime, and hatred of each other was their ultimate undoing."