Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Know-It-All Learns the Daughter’s Whereabouts; A Strange Corpse Is Sent for Burial, Stirring Up Evil

Within the city, there was yet no sign of autumn; outside, white clouds parted above the Han River.

In the rear mortuary of Changning County’s yamen, the afternoon sun hung low.

Tang Yi stood with a grim face, staring at the empty table before him. “It’s vanished again, that’s the eighth one now,” muttered Liu Qi, the coroner. Fear had taken root in his heart, and he was already contemplating withdrawal.

Xia Yu, too, was troubled; he had barely settled into his new position as Chief Constable when this ordeal erupted—nothing could be more vexing. The bad characters clustered below were all on edge, each fearing they might fall prey to some malevolent force.

Tang Yi’s gaze fell upon the corpse laid on another table—it was Chen Aniu, the white-robed procurement agent, discovered only today.

After a moment’s hesitation, Tang Yi’s mind was made up. He spoke in a low, firm voice, “Quickly send this body to the mortuary in Jiannan’s southern district.”

Xia Yu was clearly taken aback, then replied uneasily, “Sir Tang, that’s against regulation. Besides, Chen Aniu has no kin, and there’s no one to pay for his interment.”

Tang Yi tossed a piece of silver onto the table. “I’ll pay the burial fee.”

Xia Yu seemed about to protest further, but ultimately held his tongue and strode swiftly outside.

Tang Yi examined Chen Aniu’s corpse once more, but—as before—nothing was found.

Suddenly, someone hurried in from outside.

Liu Qi glanced at the newcomer. It was the yamen’s informant.

“Sir Tang, there’s news of the woman in the portrait you asked me to investigate,” the informant reported.

Liu Qi’s expression shifted, and he lowered his head in silence.

…

Leaving Changning County’s yamen, Tang Yi mounted his horse and rode out of the city.

Thirty li east of the county seat stood the venerable Zhang family estate, a manor of a hundred years’ history. The courtyard was ablaze with light, and the grand premises still bore traces of recent festivities—red double-happiness characters pasted here and there revealed a wedding had just taken place.

Inside and out, servants and maids hurried about, their faces etched with unease, casting a strange, oppressive air over the household.

In the rear hall, several of the Zhang family’s key members sat in silence, their faces dark.

“Let’s speak plainly—do you think the recent murders in the county are connected to her?” At last, the old patriarch, Zhang Changlin, seated in the grand master’s chair, broke the silence.

Zhang Changlin wore a purple long robe and horse jacket; a stag-headed cane leaned against his seat. He was eighty-three, hair and beard like white frost, his skin gnarled as ancient pine bark—but his eyes still shone with intelligence.

“That’s the concern of the second branch. We have no wish to meddle, nor to wade into such turbulent waters,” said Ma Xiaolian, wife of the third son, her lips curled with dissatisfaction.

The old patriarch glanced her way. She was dressed in a perfectly tailored pink cheongsam, its hem slit high, revealing long, dazzlingly pale legs.

“Indecent,” the old patriarch murmured disapprovingly—he had never been fond of this daughter-in-law.

“Guang is still a member of the Zhang family. Speaking so coldly will chill the second branch’s heart.” Zhang Yuhe, eldest son of the patriarch, spoke in a measured tone.

“Hypocrite. When trouble struck, I didn’t see you stepping forward,” Ma Xiaolian retorted, her words quiet but piercing.

“You—!” Zhang Yuhe’s face flushed, finger quivering with anger.

“Third Brother, you ought to keep your wife in line,” snapped Sun Li, the eldest daughter-in-law, her brows furrowed.

Zhang Shanshui, the third son, a taciturn man, nodded awkwardly.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Ma Xiaolian remarked nonchalantly, casting him a sidelong glance.

Bang, bang, bang—the stag-headed cane struck the stone floor with force.

“Enough. Look at yourselves: is this how a family behaves? I’m not dead yet,” the old patriarch thundered.

“Take what belongs to others, and you’ll have to return it in the end,” Ma Xiaolian said coldly. Swaying her graceful figure, she left the hall.

The old patriarch’s face darkened, and the remaining family members sat, each lost in worry.

…

On the county road, an ox cart made its way toward Xuanle Gate.

As usual, a pitch-black coffin lay upon it.

“Brother Zhu, I just can’t swallow this,” Ma Xiaosi exclaimed, slamming his fist onto the coffin.

He had been grumbling non-stop since leaving the yamen, clearly displeased. The painting they had returned to Tang Yi contained clues to the recent murders; surely they should be involved in the case, and rewarded should it be solved.

Yet Fatty Xia had gone too far—not only denying their participation, but excluding them entirely. Instead, he put them in charge of delivering the body to the southern mortuary.

“He’s just bullying us, Brother Zhu!” Ma Xiaosi continued, addressing Zhu Ke, who remained silent and somber.

“Something’s not right,” Zhu Ke said at last, his tone grave.

“What is it? Did you notice something?” Ma Xiaosi asked, hopeful.

Zhu Ke shook his head, casting a glance at the coffin. “The body—Chen Aniu—is missing only his eyes. I’ve inquired: he was an orphan, with no family to cover the costs. Tang Yi himself paid for the burial. Normally, the body would simply be placed in a thin wooden coffin and buried. Why go to such trouble?”

Ma Xiaosi dismissed the concern. “You worry too much, Brother Zhu. Tang Yi’s a high official from the capital, maybe his conscience is just generous—or he has more salary than he knows what to do with.”

Zhu Ke said no more, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He couldn’t help recalling the rice-paper scroll Song Mo had brought him that morning.

“Could it be…” A sharp glint flashed in Zhu Ke’s eyes as he pondered.

The rest of the journey passed in silence. The ox cart entered Jiannan’s southern district through Xuanle Gate and proceeded to the mortuary.

…

In the mortuary, clerks He Yiming and Wu Wanlin had grown numb to it all.

They exchanged glances and said nothing further.

They ground ink.

They took up their brushes.

Three strokes of plum blossoms.

The corpse register bore a clear entry: “Thirteenth year of Jian’an, eighth month, nineteenth day—a body from Changning County, delivered to Room Seven.”

…

As the sun dipped low and the evening breeze carried songs across smoky dusk, Song Mo yawned and opened the door. A pale moon already hung in the sky.

At dusk, the registration office.

He took a stroll through the old street and bought a sesame cake to nibble on. Upon returning to the mortuary, he found the two brothers already waiting outside Room Seven.

“You’re here, gentlemen?” Song Mo smiled, putting away his snack.

Wei Xi and his uncle Wei Chen had grown numb as well; their feelings toward Song Mo mingled awe with a faint, inexplicable fear.

Song Mo glanced at the body shrouded in white cloth. He didn’t need to ask—another delivery from Changning County.

“What are you waiting for? Bring it in,” Song Mo said.

The body was placed on the table. The Wei uncle and nephew hurried off, eager to avoid any taint of the supernatural.

With two prior experiences, Song Mo no longer felt afraid.

He washed his hands and lit the Soul-Calming Lamp.

The lamp burned steadily. After placing it in the corner, Song Mo set about preparing needle and thread for the burial rites.

Oblivious, he failed to notice the shadow that slipped from the darkness, creeping step by step until it stood directly behind him.