Chapter 100: Yuan Yanshu’s Identity

Huan Zhen composed himself and replied solemnly, "Yes."

Around the well, a hemp rope cordon had already been set up. Inside its bounds, footprints, snow, mud, and ice formed a chaotic, muddled mess. Jia Qin's body, having been carried to the base of the tree beside the well last night, had not been moved since.

Ren Suozhi frowned. "The deceased is named Jia Qin. Age, twelve."

Huan Zhen murmured, "How pitiful. He'll never see thirteen."

"Tsk! Keep your voice down. The deceased was most likely pushed into the well, but with the villagers tramping around half the night, even if there were traces, they've been ruined." He crouched down, explaining the details he’d observed to Huan Zhen: "There’s blood-tinged froth in his mouth and nose. His clothes, the sides and soles of his feet, all show scrapes and abrasions. These indicate he was alive—and conscious—when he fell. Now, look at his hands. Normally, before drowning, one would clutch at anything in desperation, but there’s almost no grime beneath his nails. The tips of his fingers are scraped, the middle three fingers of the left hand, and the index and middle fingers of the right, most severely wounded. The latter two fingers appear fractured. The well water is too cold to judge the time of death by livor mortis, but that’s not critical."

Huan Zhen studied Jia Qin’s hands, his gaze shifting to the corpse’s wrists.

Ren Suozhi noticed, nodding inwardly in approval.

Huan Zhen produced a handkerchief, cushioning Jia Qin’s wrists as he gently pressed them. After checking both wrists, he sighed, "No bone fractures." He rose and went to examine the well’s edge, nearly slipping as he circled it. Carefully returning, he reported, "A thin layer of ice on the curb—no trace of blood. The villagers must have thoroughly cleaned it. There are too many chips and dents on the rim to determine where he might have grasped. Still, though we lack proof, it’s clear that when Jia Qin fell, he must have clung to the edge in an attempt to save himself, only to slip instantly. That would explain the pain in his wrists and his inability to grip, especially after soaking in the cold well water—hence, the clean nails."

"That matches my thoughts. No fractures in the wrist bones, but that doesn’t rule out injury at the time."

Ren Suozhi led Huan Zhen behind the widower’s house.

Near the base of the wall, the boundary between snow and earth was distinct. The soil within a step of the wall had been specially compacted when the house was built—hard as stone. Even as they walked back and forth, no footprints remained.

The stench here was strong, and there were plenty of tracks in the snow; at least one person had come here to relieve himself during the night. Ren Suozhi pointed to a spot on the wall. "This is about where I told you the old widower heard someone knocking. After Cheng Shuang and Shan Ying knocked, they ran to the well—it’s only a few breaths away."

"So if Jia Qin was murdered, the culprit could have had accomplices, or acted alone." Huan Zhen examined the back wall closely. The marks of age were deep and shallow, but nowhere did it look as if someone had climbed up. He could rule out anyone having gone onto the roof. As he looked, he spoke his thoughts aloud: "No sane person would approach the slippery well rim in this snowy weather. So we can preliminarily rule Jia Qin’s death as a homicide. Murderers usually have reasons. For money? Jia Qin and his mother rented here—they were penniless. For vengeance? Then why spare the widow?"

"Tsk! What widow? The woman’s surname is Wei!"

"That’s irrelevant. If it wasn't for money or vengeance… The widower and Wang Zhu corroborate each other’s whereabouts, so let’s set them aside for now. As for Madam Wei—she was the first to appear at the well. The widower and Wang Zhu rushed out as soon as they heard someone fall, yet she was already there! What was her reaction? What did she say? What expression did she wear? Did she try to rescue the one who fell?"

While Huan Zhen listed these points, Ren Suozhi was already striding away. Calling Ah Zhen to assist in the investigation had been the right move; the young man was astoundingly meticulous! Earlier, when questioning the widower and Wang Zhu, he’d completely overlooked how each of them, and Madam Wei, reacted upon meeting at the well.

Huan Zhen followed close behind, his face grave in contemplation, but inwardly he was recalling what Yuan Yanshu had said that morning: "The boy’s name is ‘Qin.’ The character ‘Qin’ connotes humility. But Jia Qin is malicious, cunning, skilled at manipulating others—he ought to be the ‘Qin’ that means beast. When he failed to win over Wang Ge, he turned his attention to Wang Erlang’s daughter, Wang Shu. You once said, after his father’s death, if this mother and son continued on a crooked path… the child’s sins would cost him his life."

If Yuan Yanshu spoke thus, then Jia Qin must indeed be dead, and he was confident that no trace would ever be found, just as Jia Qin’s father had died of a "blister rupture." Huan Zhen had not expected Ren Suozhi to send for him to investigate in Jia’s village. So be it—he’d pretend to know nothing, and take this chance to see just how skilled Yanshu truly was.

Yuan Yanshu was of the Yuan clan of Chen Commandery, a family whose fortunes had waned more than once, and now could not compare with the Xie of Chen or the Huan of Longkang, yet the Yuans still prided themselves on their scholarly and loyal heritage. He was unlike the Tie brothers, and not a dependent of the Huan, but had once been saved by Huan Zhen during a dangerous journey, and had promised three years of service in gratitude. Only Huan Zhen knew his true identity.

At the front of the house, Madam Wei sat collapsed before Jia Qin’s corpse, weeping herself hoarse.

Huan Zhen whispered to Ren Suozhi, "If I’m not mistaken, the body was left out here to freeze overnight. Does she truly mourn her son? Unlikely."

Nanshan Manor.

Wang Ge finally finished carving the complex "Wei" character into a wooden block. For such detailed characters, it was best to use pearwood, jujube, or willow—woods with just the right density. Softer wood would crumble under the knife where the strokes clustered thickest.

The light outside was dim, so she had to light a candle indoors. She uncapped a bamboo tube and poured some sesame oil into the lamp—she was allotted only one tube a month, and at this rate, it might not last.

She flexed her fingers, added the oil but left the lamp unlit, wrapped herself in a quilt and leaned on the desk, lost in thought. Had those four strings of coins been sent home by now? Had her grandfather’s back pain relapsed? Had her grandmother become upset over trifles again? Were her father and Hutou, like her, quick to grow homesick when idle? And her second uncle—what had so frightened him when he fell suddenly ill that night? His fear seemed somehow connected to Ah Shu. Wang Zhu still lived too close for comfort; the boy was base by nature, and his third uncle spoiled him…

Wang Ge stretched her wrists and fingers, put her worries aside, and struck a flint to light the lamp. She murmured, "How can a candle and darkness share a room?" Rather than live anxiously, she would decide now—better to split from her third uncle’s household and live independently.

"Earn more money!" She clenched her fist in determination.

A soft scratching at the door—Scarlet Dawn, the thieving crane, had returned. Just as in the morning, it opened the door in two hops, carrying three small fish in its beak, pacing and turning with a grace that was a pleasure to watch. It set the fish beside Wang Ge’s legs, then fixed her with its beady gaze.

What did it mean? Was this a robbery turned into a forced trade?

Scarlet Dawn nudged Wang Ge with its beak: three fish—fresh and tasty.

"Ahem! I… can carve you one right now, if you’re willing to wait. If not, take your fish and go."

Scarlet Dawn didn’t understand, only stared at her.

No, this wouldn’t do—she couldn’t keep locking eyes with the little creature. Stare too long, and it became a contest of wills.

She picked up a small wood block, gestured with it, then pointed at the carving knife on the desk. "I’ll carve it now."

She pointed behind herself. "You—quiet, wait."

Quiet? Her master often used that word—Scarlet Dawn understood. It stepped back and watched her intently.

She closed the door. For three fish, she’d carve it a "Solitary Joy."

"Jiangzhi"—in ancient times, the big toe or the middle finger.

(End of chapter)