Jade Dragon Mountain (17 page)

“My errands did not take me past the Jesuit's room. And as for unusual activity in the mansion, it is all unusual at this time. The construction, the crowds, the foreigners—nothing is as it normally is.”

“And what were your errands?”

Jia Huan's brows drew together. “There have been so many small tasks,” he said. Then his face cleared. “There was more graffiti,” he said. “I removed it in the afternoon, and began to copy it. Then the banquet began and I had other obligations—accepting deliveries and seeing to the comfort of the guests. I returned to the library to finish my work while the storyteller was performing.”

“This graffiti—is it all the work of the same person?”

“I do not think so. There are at least two styles of writing.”

“And what is the content?”

Jia Huan looked slightly uncomfortable. “The usual rumors,” he said, “that do not bear repeating.”

“It is possible that they have some relevance to the case.”

“I do not think so. The messages are not creative. The same ugly stories that the Emperor has already proved to be entirely untrue.”

“I do not know them.”

Jia Huan spoke quickly. “The posters say that the Emperor is illegitimate. They say the fourteenth prince schemes against his father, that the last Ming emperor was murdered . . and all the expected imagery of the clear wind that cannot blow away the bright moon. As I said, trash that does not bear repeating.”

The bright moon still shines. The clear wind cannot blow it away.
Li Du remembered the line of poetry well. In any other language, it contained no offense. But
clear
, pronounced
qing
, and
bright
, pronounced
ming,
revealed the true meaning of the poem. The poet had been loyal to the Ming Dynasty. He had died for his words, but they had remained powerful among the dwindling ranks of those who still did not accept Qing rule.

“And you have no knowledge of who is responsible?”

Jia Huan shook his head. “No one in Dayan has yet caught sight of any culprit. But it is only a matter of time before someone does. And the magistrate will not be lenient. Not at this time.”

Li Du was quiet. Then he said, “The murderer was someone who was in the mansion that night, who knew where Brother Pieter was staying and also that he had traveled with the Khampa. Everyone who fits that description is a suspect.”

“I understand.” Jia Huan looked as if he were about to say more, but at that moment they were interrupted by a voice behind them. They turned to see a small maid standing in the late afternoon sunlight.

She bowed her head respectfully. Then she beckoned to Jia Huan. “The magistrate requires your assistance.”

Jia Huan bowed apologetically to Li Du. “I regret that I cannot be of more help to you. Please inform me if there is anything more you require.”

“I will. Thank you.”

As Jia Huan left, Li Du saw that his face had once more become that of the efficient secretary, his opinions smoothed away into the mask of intelligent servitude.

*   *   *

The titles of the books told Li Du little more than he already knew. Brother Pieter had been fluent in Chinese and Latin. He was an astronomer, and he had been working on a manuscript about the construction of observatories. Like Li Du, he carried with him the books of scholars who had preceded him, and like the scholar Xu Xiake, he had enjoyed correcting the errors in previous texts.

Li Du was retying the twine around the unfinished manuscript when he noticed that several of the pages were different from the others. Their content matched that of the rest of the manuscript, but the paper itself was different. While most of the pages were clean, separate sheets, these were rough along the left side. These were blank pages torn from a book, probably a journal. But there had been no journal among Pieter's possessions.

As he began again to retie the twine, he fumbled, and several pieces of paper fell to the floor. He knelt to pick them up, and saw that one page was not written in Pieter's handwriting. It was a letter addressed to Pieter. He read:

It was my great pleasure to partake of the hospitality of the Jesuit house in Agra. I am safely returned to Calcutta, and have had the opportunity to consult the books here on the matter that we discussed over that very fine dinner. Your cellars have brewed beer far better even than that of all the merchants in Calcutta, who consider themselves so superior in all things culinary and commercial.

The copy that we have here in Calcutta is, as you guessed, the translation made by Fr. Michael Boym, and contains the details you requested on the Chaldean priests that are not recorded in the text as it was translated by Fr. Athanasius Kircher in his
Prodromus Copticus
. I include a copy of the Boym with this letter, and hope it will aid you in your research.

The roses are in bloom here, and when the city is not overwhelmed by the stench of sewage, their fragrance is beautiful indeed. I hope this reaches you before your journey to China, and that said journey is a great success. As you know I have been only to the capital, and not a day goes by that I do not recall some small detail of what I saw there. I fear I speak of it too often, and am a great bore to my friends. I wish that I had the strength to attempt such a voyage myself, and to see with my own eyes the plants and strange flying creatures in Fr. Kircher's illustrations. I wonder, do they actually exist? I look forward to your report, and wish that my old bones were not as rickety, my mind not as wandering. If I could have my youth back I would travel to every corner, every village and mountain in the world.

And finally, as to our conversation before I left, I must admit that in my heart I agree with you. Our purpose, this conversion of the heathen, troubles me also. But we must not allow ourselves to stray too far from our orders. The Dominicans grow ever more determined to sabotage our brothers in China, and I urge you to be cautious. They speak ill of us to anyone who will listen, and while they are still forbidden to enter any part of China other than Portuguese Macau, they do what they can to do us harm from a distance. Did you know they had a Jesuit ship searched there? They spread the rumor that it was full of gold bars, coated in chocolate. What imagination! They say we are debauched, decadent, corrupt, when it is they who plot constantly against us. I am not easy in my mind when I think of our future in China.

I am eager to read your draft on the construction of small observatories for the study of astronomical phenomena. Your ideas and knowledge on that matter are unmatched. It is perhaps better that you have conducted your study outside of Rome, where there is still so much empty talk required before one can present new theories.

Your humblest servant

Fr. Martin Walpole.

Calcutta, Dec 8, 1707

Li Du stared at the name. The two men had claimed never to have met each other before. Yet this letter from one to the other was dated only several months ago, and implied that they had met in person. Had he misunderstood? He tried to recall their conversation at the banquet. They had conducted themselves in the manner of strangers. He was certain of it. Li Du read the letter again. Then he put it in his pocket.

He checked the other books, but found nothing further. Finally he picked up Pieter's Bible. After a brief hesitation, he tucked it under one arm, and left the room. Outside it was still light, but the sun was beginning to burn heavy and molten as it sank lower in the sky. The mansion was bustling with activity in preparation for dinner, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. Once he did, he set out deliberately in the direction of the library.

*   *   *

Mu Gao was there, sitting alone at his small table in the corner sipping a bowl of soup. He set the bowl down with an appreciative smile, which turned immediately to a scowl when he noticed that someone had come in.

“So you've come back?” he said, when he saw that it was Li Du.

“I have. I am investigating the murder.”

Mu Gao grunted. “Not surprised,” he said.

“You knew the Khampa were innocent?”

“Innocent? Not them. Horse-lovers and wife-thieves.”

“But you don't think they poisoned Brother Pieter.”

“Not the way they do things. Fought them myself, when I was young. Never knew them to poison their guests. I'm not saying they aren't yaks' asses.” In Mu Gao's thick accent, the words came out in a string of burring and growling punctuated by flat, emphatic syllables of affirmation or denial.

“I wondered if I could ask you some questions.”

Mu Gao looked doubtful, and Li Du prepared to be scolded for interrupting his dinner. But the old man did not scold him. Instead, he looked down at his steaming bowl of soup. “But I have no food for you,” he said, in a mournful tone. “We cannot sit and talk if you are hungry.”

Li Du protested that he was the one at fault, and encouraged Mu Gao to continue eating. It was only after many reassurances that Li Du was expected at the inn for dinner very soon that Mu Gao agreed to continue his meal in Li Du's presence.

“I wanted to ask you,” said Li Du, “about the man who died. Did you recognize him?”

“Recognize a strange-lander like that? I would if I'd seen him before—people don't look like that here. What do you mean?”

“He visited Dayan thirty years ago.”

Mu Gao's mouth dropped open in surprise, displaying his four remaining teeth.

“You do not remember?”

“Thirty years?” Mu Gao's expression was vague, bewildered. Then a hint of recognition sparked in his eyes and he began to wag his finger at the level of his ear, thinking. “Maybe I heard of him. The young foreigner in Dayan, or hereabouts. Just thought of him that way. That was about thirty years ago.”

“But you didn't meet him?”

“No. I was taking caravans to the tea forests then—fell in love with a southern girl and stayed there for a while. Pretty women in the south. And tea families are almost as good as yak families for money. But my wife had yaks—you can't do better than a pretty wife who owns yaks.” His gaze became distant and unfocused.

Li Du, realizing that he was tiring the man, said, “I will leave you to finish your dinner. Perhaps I may return tomorrow to speak to you a little more?”

Mu Gao nodded vaguely. But as Li Du rose to go, he raised his chopsticks in the air and clicked them together to get Li Du's attention. “Wait,” he said, “don't you want to know about the fight?”

“The fight?”

Mu Gao nodded vigorously. “The dead man. He fought with the other one. The bald one.”

“When?”

“On the day he died, of course. That's the important day, isn't it? Why would we talk about it if it wasn't that day?”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Mu Gao looked down into his bowl of soup, and for a moment Li Du thought his attention had wandered. But after he had plucked a dumpling from the broth and eaten it, Mu Gao spoke again. “Yes, I'll tell you. It was after you yourself spoke to him. In the sun room. You left the library. I saw you as I was coming back.”

“Where had you been?”

“I went to drink tea with my friend. I didn't want to be in the library when the bald merchant was having his boxes brought in. He was scolding all of us. I wanted none of it. But I came back, and saw you leave. The other one, though, the dead man, he went into the room of treasures. Stayed there a long time, rustling about with the boxes, I heard him.”

“And when did the argument occur?”

“Almost time for the banquet. The gongs were ringing. And the dead man, he came out of the treasure room. But the bald man had just come in, and saw him. That's when it started.”

“Why were they arguing?”

“How would I know? They weren't talking in any language I've ever heard. Didn't understand a word. Jia Huan—he was here copying that new graffiti. Very uncomfortable, we were. He and I looked at each other, but what were we going to do? None of our business.”

Li Du wondered if Jia Huan had been about to mention the argument when he had been called away by the maid.

“So you had no idea why they were angry at each other?”

Mu Gao grumbled. “Not really at each other. It was the bald one angry at the dead man. Seemed like he didn't want him in the treasure room. Maybe thought he was stealing. The other one—the dead man—he didn't raise his voice. He was polite. But the bald man's face, and his head, too, went red as a pepper. Thought he might fall over in a fit.”

“And how did it end?”

“The dead man left first. The other one went into the treasure room, then came out and went out toward the banquet.” Mu Gao ran his tongue across dry lips. “That's all I know,” he said. “But why have you made me talk so much? Look at my soup. It is almost cold.”

“I will not take any more of your time,” said Li Du.

Mu Gao sniffed. “At least you are more polite than most people. Doesn't mean you can take that book away from the library.” He pointed at the Bible Li Du still had tucked under his arm. It took him several minutes to convince Mu Gao that it had not come from the magistrate's library. Once he had, he wished the old man a pleasant evening and took his leave.

He made his way along the paths to the very back of the mansion until he came to the base of the wooded hill. He started up it, toward the tombs of the old Mu kings. The path was cobbled, and led steeply through the tall cypress trees from one brightly painted pagoda to the next. Each building was perched on an artificial outcrop, and surrounded by little waterfalls and rock gardens. Down the columns ran lines of ancient poetry painted in a romantic style. Inside, clean cushions gleamed in soft silk, viper greens and golds.

About halfway up the hill he glimpsed the white marble of the tombs through the trees, and followed a path that led to them through dense shrubs and rose vines. He came to the graves, which were set into the hill, their white marble covers like carved doors leading into the sloping ground. Scattered among them were low tables and stone benches, there for visitors to sit and consult their ancestors.