Jade Dragon Mountain (27 page)

“And this position in Beijing? I may be mistaken, but it is possible that Lady Chen is not as eager for it to happen as the magistrate thinks? After all, it may mean her dismissal from the family.”

Jia Huan's face was solemn. He said, “What Lady Chen wants is to remain first consort to the magistrate. She will do what she must in order to keep her place. If the magistrate does invite her to Beijing, his wives and other consorts will present new challenges for her. But she does not confide in me, of course—you must speak to her yourself, if you think this matter has any relevance to your investigation.” He looked at Li Du curiously.

Li Du sighed and rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. He was tired and stiff, and there was something about Jia Huan's presence that calmed him. The quiet, earnest intelligence that the young man emanated was reassuring, like the first sip of good tea, and Li Du understood why Tulishen relied on Jia Huan in so many areas of governance.

Li Du said, “I confess I do not know what is relevant. I am searching for an enemy in a world that is opaque to me.”

“What do you mean? Do you refer to your time in exile?”

Li Du smiled slightly. “Before I was an exile,” he said, “I was a librarian, and that gave me little more insight into current politics than I have now.”

“So you believe the motive was political?”

“Not necessarily, but I ask myself who could have hated Pieter, who could have wanted him dead. And my mind returns again and again to the Dominicans. Pieter was a Jesuit, and the Dominicans are the rivals of the Jesuits.”

Jia Huan considered. “The Jesuit did refuse to support the Company's suit, but it would be foolish indeed for Sir Gray to have reacted so violently, and at such risk to his mission. And yet—” He stopped.

Li Du, who had been glancing idly again at the titles of the books, looked up and raised his square little eyebrows in question. “You have an idea?”

Jia Huan spoke slowly. “The young man, the Jesuit who is here—something about him has always seemed false to me.”

Li Du kept his face expressionless, waiting for Jia Huan to continue. But Jia Huan shrugged. “I am not saying that I think he is a Dominican assassin. And I have expressed to you my feelings about the foreigners who try to woo our empire. In my opinion the Dominicans do not have the creativity or the resources to send an assassin, though I allow that they have motive.”

“Do you know very much about them?”

“Some. My assignment in Macau was to observe their behavior. The Jesuits irritate me, but the Dominicans are far worse. They understand nothing of China. They know only their own rules, and care only for their own comfort. I am glad that the Emperor holds them all to be fools and idiots.”

“I seem to recall that the Emperor granted one of them an audience some years ago—a Dominican was allowed to travel to Beijing.”

Jia Huan nodded. “That is true. I met the man—Father De Tournon. I was part of the escort who traveled with him from Macau to the capital. I even tried to instruct him in our language.”

With a rueful, frustrated movement of his hands, Jia Huan went on: “It was a waste of time. The Emperor's scorn was ignited from the moment he met De Tournon. The man was sick, and unable to kowtow, so the Emperor ordered his eunuchs to bring a couch so that he could recline during the interview.” Jia Huan shuddered slightly at the memory. “The man
accepted
. And he was not aware of the loss of face.”

Li Du understood Jia Huan's revulsion, though he did not share it. If De Tournon had attempted the kowtow and had fainted halfway through it, he would have had a better chance of earning the Kangxi's respect. But to accept a chair in the Emperor's presence would be unthinkable to a Chinese person.

“And what was the result of the interview?” Li Du asked.

“The Emperor asked him why he had come. De Tournon made a speech that was as obsequious as it was absurd. He said that the Pope wished to thank the Emperor for his hospitality toward his brothers the Jesuits. But of course the Emperor knew that there was no love between the Jesuits and the Dominicans. He told De Tournon that this was a very flimsy reason for making such a perilous journey. And De Tournon did not even understand that he was being mocked. He began to ramble. He said that the Jesuits were no longer to be trusted, and that their Pope wished to install Dominicans in Beijing instead. I will never forget the Emperor's reply. He said, ‘But how can this be true? Your religion forbids you from lying. If the Jesuits cannot lie, then how it is possible that the Pope does not trust them? Are you telling me that your religion is false?' De Tournon stammered and blustered and could make no reply. He was banished in disgrace.”

As Li Du was absorbing this story, they were interrupted by one of the maids from Hoh's inn. She curtsied to Li Du. “Sir,” he said, “your friend the storyteller says that you must return now to the inn, because the man you wished to speak to has come back.”

Li Du thanked the maid, and turned to Jia Huan. “I kept you too long from your assignments. I hope that you will not be chastised.”

“It is nothing. The hour is not yet over, and I will see to the magistrate's schedule immediately.”

They were about to part, the maid having left to do another errand elsewhere in the mansion, when Jia Huan said to Li Du in a low, intense voice, “I hope that you will not be offended, but I must offer you some advice. I feel that you and I are not so different as we may appear to others. We share concern for the empire. I do not wish to see a fellow scholar destroyed by a situation that, perhaps, you do not entirely understand.”

Li Du, wondering at Jia Huan's uncharacteristically urgent tone, said, “Your concern is very kind. But what would you have me do?”

Jia Huan regained his composure. He said, very quietly, almost in Li Du's ear, “For your sake, you must give the magistrate an answer. I have great respect for you because you have tried to find the truth, but if you cannot find it, you must not admit failure. He wants an answer that will satisfy—he will not demand more of you. An answer.
Any
answer. Do you understand?”

And without waiting for Li Du to respond, he bowed respectfully, and hurried away.

 

Chapter 15

“If this man is a killer of holy brothers,” said Hamza, “then he will not hesitate to kill a librarian. I will go with you.”

“If he is guilty,” replied Li Du, “then he is too clever to kill me in his room in the middle of the day when anyone might have seen me go in.”

“Then I will come with you in order to intimidate him, so that he will not waste your time with more lies.”

Hamza was determined to play the bodyguard, so they went together to Brother Martin's door. The carvings in the wood panels were too dense to admit a clear view of who was inside, but Li Du had the impression of a figure pacing through the shadows. He knocked, and the movement stopped abruptly.

“Who is it?” came Brother Martin's voice. Li Du replied in Latin, and the door opened. Brother Martin's face was pale, except for where it had been burned by the sun. The skin was reddened on his cheeks and under his eyes, which were green as emeralds in contrast. The scruff that had glowed on his jaw when he had arrived in Dayan had grown into a short, full beard, and darkened to copper. He wore his usual black robes, but they were rumpled, torn at the seam of a sleeve, and adorned with holly-oak where the spiked leaves had caught in the fabric.

“Yes?” he asked, looking first at Li Du and then, nervously, at Hamza.

“I am glad that you have returned safely from your excursion with the doctor,” Li Du said, pleasantly. “May we come in?”

Brother Martin's expression wavered between welcome and trepidation. A glance at Hamza's stern countenance pushed him decidedly toward the latter state of mind, and he spoke in a rush of words. “I—I am afraid that I am very busy this evening. The landlord has even offered to have my dinner brought to me here, because I cannot take the time away from my work. The plants need to be pressed, you see, and if I do not do it quickly they will lose their color as they dry. And—and I must write down my observations before I forget them. Perhaps we could speak at another time?”

Li Du pushed his worn cap back slightly on his head, and looked up at Brother Martin, standing tall and thin in the doorway before him.

“The matter,” Li Du said, “is quite urgent. And I believe it would be safer for us to speak outside of public hearing.”

“S-safer?”

“Safer for you.”

Brother Martin was looking over Li Du's shoulder, as if expecting a line of archers to be standing there, arrows pointed directly at him. He finally stepped back away from the door. “I suppose I have no choice, really,” he said. “Come in.”

Closing the door behind them, Brother Martin turned and seemed to see the room for the first time as it must appear to other people. The place was even more of a shambles than it had been that morning. The floor was as leaf-strewn as a mountain path. The stacks of paper by the desk had grown taller, and were beginning to list precariously to one side. The desk itself was a jumble of leaves and branches and flowers. Ink had dried and cracked in the inkwell, on which was propped a single chopstick and a broken pencil. Footprints were tracked through a layer of dirt on the floor. Brother Martin hurried to brush debris from the chairs so that they could sit.

“I—I have been lost in my work. Here—this is the gingko leaf. And this orchid—I could barely bring myself to pluck it from its place, it was so beautiful there by the stream. Tea—I am sorry. I should offer tea. I am always offered tea. Would you like tea?”

After he had babbled out the offer of tea, he bit his lip as he glanced around the room. Li Du guessed that Brother Martin had not the first idea of what he would do if they accepted. It was strange to think of this, one of the simplest gestures of hospitality, as an intimidating obstacle.
How different our country must be from his
, thought Li Du. He declined the offer, and sat down in one of the chairs least covered with leafy detritus.

Hamza, meanwhile, walked slowly about the room. He opened a small side door and peered outside at a little private garden. With a grunt of appreciation he descended the short set of marble stairs into it, leaving the door open. He cast a meaningful glance over his shoulder at Brother Martin, then proceeded to circle a pear tree with slow, deliberate steps. This accomplished, he sat on the bench beneath the tree and set his gaze straight in front of him, his arms crossed against his chest, his chin jutting forward slightly. Li Du assumed this to be Hamza's best impression of a bodyguard.

“What is he doing?” asked Brother Martin, with a bewildered look at Hamza, who was now adjusting the point of his beard.

“He is assisting me in my investigation. There are several questions I must ask you.”

“Questions?” The pitch of Brother Martin's voice rose a little. He steadied it and went on: “But I told you everything I know when we spoke this morning. I have nothing to add. I have no idea who killed Brother Pieter. I hope the culprit is caught very soon, but—but what more can I do? I don't even speak Chinese.”

“That plant, there,” Li Du said, pointing at a humble twist of pale root on the corner of the desk. “Do you know what it is?”

Brother Martin glanced at the place Li Du indicated and shook his head, perplexed. “No—I have not identified that one yet. I collected it from the garden at the mansion. Is—is it valuable? The gardener told me I could take a little of anything. I—I didn't mean…” He trailed off.

“That plant you claim not to recognize is called jewelvine. And it was jewelvine that killed Brother Pieter.”

“It—it was? But you cannot think that I … But I had nothing to do with his death. I told you already. You must—you must believe me. I would never kill anyone.” His voice cracked, and his face flushed mottled pink.

“And what if Pieter had threatened to reveal your true identity?”

The change was immediate and startling. The bright color drained from Brother Martin's face, leaving it pasty white. His voice was thin and quiet, almost a whimper: “Wh-what do you mean?”

Li Du leaned forward slightly and said, “I would like you to tell me who you really are, and why you are here.”

Tears welled in Brother Martin's eyes, and his throat worked as he tried to speak. Finally he managed a ragged whisper. “M-m-my name is Martin Walpole.”

Li Du shook his head. “I am quite sure that it is not, as I am sure that you are not a Jesuit.”

In response to this statement, Brother Martin made a final, valiant effort to collect himself. He wiped the tears from his eyes and cleared his throat. He drew himself up a little straighter. “I do not know why you are subjecting me to this—this injustice,” he said. “I have all the proper documents. Please look at them. I am here to study the plants of the province for—for the glory of God and the church.” He rose, took the leather folder from the desk, brushed the dirt from it, and presented it to Li Du with a shaking hand.

Brother Martin sat down again and watched Li Du intently, his whole posture canted forward with anxiety, his hands clasped. Li Du drew the papers from the folder and pretended to look at them. He knew their contents already, and another glance reassured him that his conclusions that morning had been correct. He held up the document granting permission to enter China. “This paper is old,” he said, simply. “It was written and sealed at least ten years ago for the real Martin Walpole. You smudged the date with oil, here.”

The muscles of the other man's jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Li Du went on in a matter-of-fact tone. “This other letter, the one that gives you permission to collect plant specimens, is new, but it was not written or sealed by any Chinese official, unless perhaps by one who is corrupt.”