Chapter 303: The Accomplice (Part 2)

Dragged in all tied up, he looked less like a person and more like a sorry bundle of kindling.

He was a thin child, no more than eleven or twelve years old, his chest and back seeming to be held together by nothing but a thin layer of bone. His head hung low, as if he wanted to tuck it all the way into his chest.

If Yang Zheng were present, he would likely feel a wave of compassion the moment he laid eyes on this kid.

The reason was simple.

This child was about the same age as Hua Rong when he first entered the manor, just as thin, as if fate had run him over with a millstone.

Le Wuya stood there quietly, looking down at him for a moment, then asked, "You're the one who tended to A Shun?"

The kid—that bundle of firewood—lifted his head, his voice thin and raspy, still not broken yet: "Yes."

"Your name is Qingyun?"

"Yes. I had no name before; the magistrate gave me this one."

A good name, good ambitions behind it.

Whoever had given him that name must have been dead set on climbing straight to the top.

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"Doesn't look like it."

"Almost fourteen. Just never grew any taller."

"Where are you from?"

"Yuyang."

"That's close to a hundred li from Dansui. How did you end up here?"

"My family worked in the mines. The tunnel collapsed, and both my parents died. I was always sickly, so they didn't want me and kicked me out. The magistrate took me in, fed me, and now I do odd jobs around the yamen."

Whether it was the catastrophic disaster or the life-saving kindness, spoken through Qingyun's mouth, both came out with the same numb, deadpan tone.

Zhong Piaoping, standing off to the side, frowned a little.

He'd never seen Hua Rong back when he was a beggar kid, but he'd heard the stories.

It was like fate had planned it that way.

This kid was like a mirror image of Hua Rong, but on a totally different, twisted path.

"Do you know why you were tied up and dragged here?"

Qingyun shook his head twice, stiff as a board, then dropped it again.

Le Wuya grabbed his hands, tied in front of him with rope, and gave a light tug.

His arms were like twigs—even thick rope could barely hold them, and a little squirm would slip them right out.

Le Wuya asked him, "You don't know anything. I had you tied up and dragged here—aren't you scared? Aren't you mad?"

Qingyun answered matter-of-factly, "My life's not worth much."

Facing a kid so young yet so hollow inside, Le Wuya didn't beat around the bush: "Fine, I'll ask you. You're the one who looked after A Shun—how many of you were there?"

"Just me, that's all."

"How did you tend to him?"

Qingyun: "Gave him water, made his medicine, brought it to him..."

"Anything else?"

"He had a fever and couldn't eat. I tried feeding him porridge, but he wouldn't take it."

Le Wuya asked, Qingyun answered, and never said a word more than he had to.

"Nothing else?"

Qingyun stared back with those big, empty eyes, looking at Le Wuya like a zombie: "I forgot."

Even someone as calm and collected as Zhong Piaoping felt a wave of unexplained anger shoot straight to the top of his head after hearing such a stone-cold answer.

But Le Wuya's face stayed as calm as ever. He pulled a quilt out of the cupboard.

The quilt had been buried under four or five layers of bedding at the bottom, and when he yanked it out, the layers on top went flying, tumbling to the floor.

Le Wuya dragged the thick quilt over and dropped it in front of Qingyun.

Le Wuya asked, "Do you know what this is?"

Qingyun: "A quilt."

"What is it used for?"

"For covering."

"In the middle of summer, you use a cotton quilt?"

"I didn't use it. It was put away last winter—a spare quilt for the servants..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the scattered bedding on the floor, "They're all kept in here."

Le Wuya flicked his wrist and flipped the quilt over in one quick move.

Deputy Magistrate Jian took one look and gasped.

The front of the quilt looked fine, but when he flipped it over, the lining was covered in fingernail scratches!

Thin, yellowed cotton was spilling out of the tears, and each rip was stained with blotchy blood—dark red and bright red mixed together.

The blood was still fresh, like it still had a bit of warmth left in it.

Le Wuya asked him, "Were these scratches from last winter?"

Qingyun opened his mouth, looked blank, thought for a second, then dropped his head again, playing dead.

Deputy Magistrate Jian's heart was racing, and his eyes couldn't help but drift over to Zhou Wenchang.

Zhou Wenchang's brows were knitted tight too: "Qingyun, answer!"

Qingyun was obedient enough—when told to talk, he talked: "Probably not, I guess."

Having spent considerable time in His Honor's company, Zhong Piaoping was no longer the greenhorn he used to be.

His Honor had only begun to speak, and already the full picture of the case was forming in his mind.

His gaze drifted to A Shun's corpse lying on the bed.

The hand that had once tried to stab him, and which he had personally hacked to pieces, now hung limply over the edge of the bed, stained with blood—a gruesome, shocking sight.

Under normal circumstances, even if A Shun had died from severe wounds, convulsions, and spasms, the body might have arched, limbs curled, skin broken—but the wounds would never have burst open and bled to such an extent, nor would the fingernails have torn back so severely.

His Honor must have suspected something the moment he saw that hand.

This small room, hit by the afternoon sun, had only a tiny window and poor ventilation. Within moments of entering, Zhong Piaoping felt hot sweat trickling down his back.

A body dead from heatstroke looked nearly identical to one that had died from festering wounds and convulsions—easy to confuse.

Zhong Piaoping remembered that when they entered, the door had been open.

Yet a wave of hot, stagnant air, mixed with the stench of pus and blood, hit them full in the face.

A room meant for a wounded man to recuperate should have been aired out regularly, to keep the patient from sweating and breaking out in heat rash, adding to his suffering.

Yet in this stifling, steam-box of a chamber, there was not a single trace of sweat beneath A Shun. The bamboo mat felt remarkably dry, and his clothes were clean and free of any smell.

Clothes could be explained away as changed and washed, then taken out and gotten rid of.

But carrying a cotton quilt out in the middle of summer would have been far too conspicuous.

So these pieces of evidence, impossible to destroy on the spot, were fated never to leave this room.

Sure enough, after finding the quilt torn and scratched, Le Wuya, amidst the scattered bedding, deliberately pulled out another one.

—A complete, human-shaped sweat stain was burned starkly into the center of the quilt.

The stain was damp, its outline and dimensions matching A Shun's build exactly.

The shape was contorted, silently screaming of extreme agony.

Witnessing this, everyone present felt a chill run up their spines, the backs of their necks tightening and going numb.

Anyone suffering from heatstroke would sweat profusely at first. But as the body temperature rose, the pores would close, sweat would stop, and the internal organs would slowly fail under the boiling torment.

This quilt must have been laid under A Shun to soak up his sweat.

Once A Shun could no longer sweat, it would be folded up and put away in the cabinet, just like the blood-stained quilt originally wrapped around him.

And if Le Wuya had been fooled by this trick, believing A Shun died of his wounds, and left without further investigation, the one behind it all would have had ample time to destroy the evidence.

This method of death was shocking to hear and vicious to the extreme!

Once these two quilts were uncovered, the whole case would be easy to piece together.

The real difficulty lay elsewhere.

Seeing the evidence irrefutable, Qingyun dropped his earlier dull, sullen demeanor and admitted with surprising ease: "Back in our hometown, when someone had a fever, we'd wrap them in a quilt to sweat it out, and they'd get better."

At these words, the sweltering heat of midsummer instantly turned into a biting wind, chilling everyone to the bone.

Le Wuya let go and tossed the sweat-soaked quilt in front of him: "Oh? This was your idea?"

"Yes, it was this lowly one," Qingyun said, showing no fear in the face of the dead A Shun and the grotesque, yellowed sweat stain. "I was often sick as a child. Whenever I had a fever, I'd wrap myself up like this, and I'd recover. ...Who'd have thought it wouldn't work on him?"

Le Wuya: "Who discovered the body?"

Qingyun: "It was this lowly one. When I came to deliver medicine, I found he had already stiffened."

"You saw A Shun dead, and you still had the nerve to fold up the quilts and hide them?"

"I was afraid of being punished. Besides, who would have thought it would turn out like this? If he was too hot, why didn't he throw the quilt off himself? When I saw he didn't, I assumed he wasn't hot."

At such a heartless, twisted argument, Zhou Wenchang rebuked: "Absurd! He was gravely wounded—how could he struggle?! You worthless piece of trash!"

Qingyun knelt down swiftly: "Your Honor, this lowly one failed in his duty. Punish me as you see fit."

His posture was submissive, but his words showed not a trace of remorse.

Seeing this, Le Wuya burst out laughing.

As Zhou Wenchang and Qingyun both looked up in surprise, Le Wuya waved a hand casually, sat down by A Shun's bedside, and regarded the master and servant unhurriedly: "Sorry, go on."

Now this was a real show.

Zhou Wenchang's face showed real anger and exasperation: "Imperial Censor, I've troubled you to hear this case. The matter is clear—please give your ruling."

...A ruling?

Le Wuya teased: "Magistrate Zhou, your brother's choice of such a young lad to tend to the wounded—his judgment is truly something."

What a fine choice.

Such a scrawny twig of a lad—no need for harsh torture; a few strokes of the rod would shatter him, and no one would mourn his death.

Besides, he hadn't meant any harm—he meant well but messed up.

Who'd have thought a living, breathing man could be smothered to death?

At an age when he didn't yet understand the value of a human life, he had already become a blood-stained blade in someone else's hands.

Zhou Wenchang's face showed a look of shame at just the right moment: "Your Honor, please calm down. I'll summon Wen Huan immediately for a confrontation!"

To his surprise, Le Wuya countered: "Didn't you say it was an accident? Why call him in?"

Just to have him put on another performance of shock and outrage?

One show was enough. Any more, and Le Wuya was afraid he'd be sick.

Zhou Wenchang probed: "Then what does the Imperial Censor have in mind?..."

"Lock him up for now, in the room I stayed in," Le Wuya said, pulling a small fan from his robes. "I'm tired of looking at the dead here. Let's go see the mine."

"I'll accompany you."

Le Wuya nodded: "Fine. Let's eat first. I've been busy since morning and haven't eaten yet. We'll go once it cools down a bit."

Zhou Wenchang: "...?"

He had assumed Le Wuya would head straight to the mine without stopping.

But it didn't matter.

Every extra moment we delay works in our favor.

Time was working in his favor.

By now, the miner roster should have been matched up with the bodies one by one, and after the Surveillance Commissioner's review, the bodies were to be buried on the spot per protocol.

The whole process was by the book.

Even if Commissioner Wenren was a whiz at autopsies, so what?

Just as those who died of heatstroke look nearly identical to those whose wounds got infected and went bad, the miners who died in the landslide looked no different from Niu Sanqi, who was killed by blunt force.

Qingyun got exposed this time only because Commissioner Wenren showed up in such a hurry there was no time to destroy the evidence.

But Niu Sanqi's body had already gone soft and begun to rot—even though he'd died a few days before the others, Zhou Wenchang had stashed the corpse in icy spring water to slow the rot.

Let 'em investigate.

Let 'em take their sweet time.

Even if they uncovered something, it'd just be another murky cold case, like A Shun's death.

Le Wuya couldn't be bothered to guess what Zhou Wenchang was up to.

Before walking out with his hands behind his back, Le Wuya's gaze lingered on Qingyun a beat longer.

This kid's situation was indeed a bit like Hua Rong's.

An orphan adrift in the world—as long as someone was willing to take him in, feed him, and raise him for a few days, he'd give his all for that person, no questions asked.

But even a villain like Le Wuya had taught Hua Rong to read and think for himself, letting him make his own choices before dragging him into the dirty work.

Striding out the door ahead of the others, Le Wuya noticed Zhong Piaoping's dazed expression and gave his chest a little tap with his small fan: "Scared?"

Zhong Piaoping's heart was heavy, and he couldn't wrap his head around Le Wuya's lightheartedness.

Le Wuya reassured him: "A Shun's death has nothing to do with you. He tried to kill you, and you acted in self-defense. Letting him live and hauling him back to the yamen was already more than he deserved."

Zhong Piaoping shook his head: "Sir, it's not that. I just never expected they would push a child forward to take the blame."

Le Wuya tapped his palm lightly with the fan: "A ghost servant killed by another ghost servant—wish granted."

Zhong Piaoping lowered his voice, voicing his doubt: "Sir, the waters in Dansui run too deep. Shouldn't we race against time and hurry to the mine to head off any trouble?"

"Idiot. They've had a trap laid out waiting for us all along. If we hadn't split up into different groups and thrown them off, they wouldn't have shown their hand."

He slung an arm around Zhong Piaoping's shoulder and said with a smile: "Besides, who says it's them who'll be the ones to make a move?"