Chapter Five: Solving the Case (With thanks to the noble patron, "When Was History Real")

Zhang Yue lived on Xin Street by the southern waters, which linked Songxi and Ouning counties. Merchants passed through daily, and it was also the route pilgrims took when heading up to the Imperial Flower Temple. Both sides of the street were lined with two-story houses, their roofs tiled or thatched. Walking along the street, one could see eaves crowding each other overhead, leaving no space between them. Underfoot, water from vegetable and fish vendors after closing, filth, and refuse made the street reek unbearably. The dung collectors only came every few days, and the local folk would often simply empty chamber pots wherever convenient.

Zhang Yue remembered well how his elder brother, Zhang Xu, disliked the quarrels and disputes of these street-dwellers, their idle gossip, even the cries of vendors, which he felt disturbed his studies. Once he entered the county school and earned the magistrate Chen’s favor, Zhang Xu preferred to board at the school. Zhang Yue, his younger brother, saw him only during festivals.

The Zhang family occupied a house on the hillside side of Xin Street. Outside, two wooden doors opened onto a bamboo fence hastily put up. In front, facing south, was a shed for storing sundry items, and under the eaves were large jars. Such houses, extending into the street and joined by their eaves, were most prone to fire; when one caught, the whole row burned. Thus, every household kept a jar at the eaves, filled with rainwater. The region saw frequent rains, water flowed from the eaves into the jar, filling it, and sometimes live fish bought from the market were kept there.

Arriving at the door, Zhang Yue was surprised—this was not as it had been the day before. The family had been moved out yesterday, but today the broken door, kicked in by the bailiff Zhao, had been repaired. The warden and neighbors were helping, busy inside and out; some brought household items, others tidied up. These were the neighbors whom his second brother most despised, yet in the Zhangs’ misfortune, they showed warmth and care. Seeing Zhang Yue return, they came forward.

“Third Son, is this bedding sturdy enough?”

Zhang Yue glanced at the quilt, its corner torn and stuffing poking out, and quickly replied, “Mistress Lin, this quilt is enough, please don’t trouble yourself.”

She insisted, “Let the eldest and third sons have an extra layer, the nights are cold. Don’t refuse.”

“Sister Yu, I have clothes already,” Zhang Yue protested.

“Third Son, I just finished making some clothes, take them and change. Why be polite?”

Zhang Yue did not care for the style, but she pressed them upon him. “Don’t be shy, just take them, Third Son.”

The neighbors laughed, “Don’t refuse, we’ve all been neighbors for years.”

He remembered his second brother saying that after entering the county school and earning the magistrate’s favor, distant kin and neighbors would come forward, bringing up old favors the size of a sesame seed, and if he showed impatience, it was taken as disrespect. Their tone would turn sour, and they’d spread tales: “Now that he’s favored by the magistrate, he looks down on everyone,” or “He’s successful, so he forgets old kindnesses.” When these words reached his family and second brother, even their father and Zhang Shi had reproved him, and he watched his second brother become, day by day, the “cold-hearted” man of the neighborhood. Zhang Yue thought that the so-called warmth and coldness of human relations was just like this; his brother’s flight from marriage was just an excuse—the real cause was running away from home.

That night, Zhang Yue dared not return home, choosing instead to dine and sleep at the warden’s house. After dinner, his eyelids grew heavy and he did not bother with books, falling asleep as soon as he lay down.

Once more, Zhang Yue entered the realm he had visited the previous night. He intended to review the two chapters of Mengzi he had recited yesterday. But once asleep, the events of the day replayed in his mind like a film. He suddenly saw, as he left Carriage Street, a person following behind him. When he and Peng Jingyi went to the teahouse, this person peered in at the door. Searching his memory, Zhang Yue realized: wasn’t this man a former clerk from their sieve shop?

Why was he lurking behind him?

The next morning after breakfast, the warden consulted with Zhang Yue. “When Bailiff Zhao pressed urgently, your elder brother intended to sell this house to him. But now you’ve gained a month’s reprieve, so whether you find a buyer or pawn it, it’s good.”

There is a big difference between selling outright and pawning. To pawn is to mortgage: the buyer pays for the right to use the house, and when the owner’s fortunes improve, he can buy it back for the same price. In the meantime, the buyer lives there rent-free, only losing the interest. The seller gets cash to tide over hardship, and the property remains theirs. Zhang Yue was moved, but asked, “Isn’t my elder brother away in Jianyang, seeking help from his father-in-law?”

“Bailiff Zhao may have promised you a month to repay, but if your elder brother fails to raise the money in Jianyang, selling the house first avoids being forced into a low price.”

“What does the warden think the house is worth to sell or pawn?”

Zhang Yue had never understood why, with a shop in town and a hundred acres in the countryside, the Zhangs did not live in a grand house or move to town, but crowded in this small house outside the city. Hearing the prices offered, he was astonished. The two-story house had cost one hundred and fifty strings of cash when bought—yet it wasn’t even by the river. No wonder Song dynasty house prices were so steep; even the Chancellor Kou Zhun could not afford a home in Bianjing, earning him the nickname “the Chancellor with no place to build his pavilion.”

The warden smiled, “How could I presume to name a price?”

Zhang Yue was suspicious. “Then what do you suggest?”

The warden said, “Let’s first look for buyers and see what price they offer. Whether to pawn or sell can wait until your elder brother returns from Jianyang.”

Zhang Yue realized the warden’s good intentions, remembered what he had read online in his previous life, and said, “According to our Song laws, selling a house requires asking all relatives first, then neighbors.”

The warden chuckled, “It’s so with outright sale, but pawn sales don’t require asking relatives.”

Zhang Yue understood. Selling outright was troublesome: the owner could not decide alone, all relatives must be consulted and must sign, and if even one disagrees, the sale cannot proceed. Even if all agree, neighbors must be consulted before selling to outsiders. Thus, in the Song, pawning houses was far more common than selling outright.

“Pawn sales are better.”

The warden smiled, “Exactly! By the way, most of our neighbors here are renters.”

“Oh?” Zhang Yue was curious.

The warden explained, “Most of these houses on the street belong to Imperial Flower Temple up on the mountain.”

“The monks are compassionate, charging low rents for shops and not pressing for payment, sometimes even lending capital for business.”

Zhang Yue nodded. The court exempted temples from taxes, and they served as a kind of social welfare. Those who lived here had to follow temple rules and be accommodating: monks stopping by for tea were to be welcomed, and shopkeepers could not sell meat or alcohol to the monks, or the temple would reclaim the house and their capital.

“You should notify the temple, then go to the property agent to list the house. The monks are quick to help, and I know both the abbot and the vice abbot well—guaranteed you won’t be cheated.”

Zhang Yue considered. “My brother left instructions that I should follow the warden’s advice, so I’ll do as you say.”

Still, he borrowed a sheet of fine Gaoli paper and wrote a notice of sale to post at the door.

The next day, a vice abbot and a steward from the temple came down to appraise the house. They did not press the price, offering one hundred and twenty strings to buy it, or fifty for pawn. Either way, the brothers could stay, paying only two hundred coins rent per month.

Zhang Yue was satisfied, though he haggled as a matter of habit. He pointed out that when they bought the house for one hundred and fifty strings, Xin Street was not so busy. Now, the house served both as residence and shop; the street was a grass-market near town, and merchants could trade here tax-free. The vice abbot listened and, agreeing, raised the price to one hundred and fifty strings for outright sale. Zhang Yue was delighted, but said they must wait for Zhang Shi to return from Jianyang.

The warden then hosted the vice abbot and steward for a vegetarian meal on Xin Street.

Song dynasty taverns were interesting: the first floor was called the hall, the second, “the mountain.” Guests sat facing the eaves, enjoying the view of Nanpu Stream. In the distance, the green stream mirrored the mountains, flowing gently. Downstream, a dozen bamboo rafts and boats moved against the current. The boatmen used poles to dock at the water’s edge, where stood a warehouse for renting shops and storing goods. Before it, several bare-armed men pushed carts to and fro, moving cargo.

The vice abbot told Zhang Yue, “Second Son is exceptionally gifted—he hears one thing and understands ten, the most promising person I’ve met. I once wished to bring him into the Buddhist fold, but he declined, to my regret.”

That brother, who cheats his kin?

Zhang Yue asked, “Master, my second brother has no such fate! May I ask, has there been a silk merchant named Wu from Huzhou coming to the temple recently?”

The temple had guest rooms for pilgrims and sometimes sheltered homeless devotees.

The vice abbot replied, “Indeed, he has suffered much—lost money in business these years, and days ago, while heading to Fuzhou to sell silk, his goods were destroyed by fire. With nowhere to stay, he borrowed a room here for a few days.”

“Oh, is he still at the temple?”

“He’ll stay two more days, waiting for a friend to return to Huzhou together. Are you acquainted?”

More than acquainted.

Zhang Yue nodded with a smile. “My second brother knows him. Hearing of his misfortune saddened me, but I’d rather not visit; sometimes, not meeting is better than meeting.”

“That’s true, ‘not meeting is better than meeting’ is well said.”

When the vice abbot departed, the warden asked, “Third Son, why are you asking about this Wu? The court has judged, are you still hoping to recover the money? Don’t stir up trouble, or Bailiff Zhao will find grounds against you.”

Zhang Yue nodded, “Thank you for your advice. By the way, our shop had a clerk—about twenty, with a coin-sized birthmark on his right cheek. Do you recall him?”

This was the man Zhang Yue had seen in his dream—he remembered him as a clerk, but not his name.

The warden smiled, “Isn’t that Qiao San from Pingbu Island? I remember; when he was born, his parents wanted to abandon him, but your grandfather took pity and gave them a thousand coins, saving his life. When he grew up and had no work, your elder brother took him in as a clerk out of kindness.”

Zhang Yue understood now—there was an old favor there.

The warden continued, “By the way, on the night of the incident, Qiao San was there.”

Zhang Yue stood, “I’ll step out for a bit.”

“Didn’t your brother tell you to stay home and study, so he could find a tutor for you one day? Why are you always running about?”

Zhang Yue sighed, “With our situation, how could we afford a tutor? I want to look for work, see what I can find.”

The warden was surprised, then nodded, “You see the truth now. Help your elder brother shoulder the burden; you’ll get through this. With such resolve, I’m glad for you!”

Zhang Yue smiled—though the warden still didn’t understand him.

He had one principle: he didn’t mind being offended, but if someone who had benefited from him turned against him, he would do everything to bring them down.

He went out, crossed the southern bridge, and entered town, first visiting Qiao San’s home as the warden had suggested.

When he arrived, he knew their circumstances were poor, but was not prepared for the extent. Qiao San’s wife and children were starving, barely able to move at the door. From her, Zhang Yue learned they had run out of food, and Qiao San had borrowed money to buy food yesterday, but had not returned. Sensing trouble, Zhang Yue gave them some money for food and, amid their profuse thanks, hurried to the teahouse where he had met Peng Jingyi, and obtained the case file.

“On the fifth month, day of Gui Si, at dawn, silk merchant Wu Ping and clerk Zhou Er, porters Zhang Ma, Zhang Yu brothers, Chen Dang entered through the north gate. Officer Xu Youding checked, six loads of raw silk, tax paid, five hundred and twelve coins. Wu Ping and clerks Zhou Er and Guo Wu lodged in Room A; the three porters in the common room.”

Zhang Yue paused. In the Song, taxes on a thousand coins’ worth of goods was twenty coins. The five hundred and twelve coins meant the six loads of silk were worth over two hundred strings—a substantial sum.

“Night, fire broke out in the inn’s south kitchen. Wu Ping and his clerk escaped, but all possessions and six loads of silk were destroyed.”

The file was simple, nothing suspicious.

Peng Jingyi said, “See, now you can give up.”

Zhang Yue tapped the table, resolute. “No, the key to overturning the case lies with Qiao San.”

“What?”

Before Peng Jingyi could grasp it, Zhang Yue said, “I am confident in this case.”

Peng Jingyi laughed, “We’ve been classmates for years, and I never knew you had such ability. I went over the case last night, and saw nothing.”

Zhang Yue replied, “Find Qiao San and the truth will emerge. If Wu the silk merchant leaves, it will be too late for regrets.”

Peng Jingyi, determined to see it through, said, “Fine, if I don’t help, you won’t give up. I’ll ask my second uncle to help find Qiao San.”

He led Zhang Yue not to the magistrate’s office, but to the county marketplace.

Gambling was rampant there, but the authorities did not suppress it. The law allowed gambling only on New Year’s, Winter Solstice, and Cold Food Festival, three days a year, but the marketplace openly flouted this, right in the busiest part of town—obvious to all.

Zhang Yue saw both sides of the street lined with temporary stalls, people gathered in clusters at various booths. He looked closely: the items gambled included oil, clothes, tea, wine, porcelain, even children’s toys and sweets, fish and vegetables—anything could be won.

Peng Jingyi led Zhang Yue to an official tavern in the gambling market. The tavern’s sign hung by the eaves, and inside it was bustling. On either side, workers sliced meat and steamed rice. By a large wine jar sunk in the ground, another strained wine into bowls.

Zhang Yue knew that clerks in the official tavern were appointed by the authorities. The profits went to the government, but if there was a loss, the clerks had to make it up themselves.

At the tables, groups drank and gambled, with several low-rank courtesans pouring drinks.

He recalled that when Wang Anshi introduced seed loans, local officials exploited this by encouraging peasants to gamble in official taverns. Many lost their seed money and ended up indebted to the authorities. It was not forced sale, but from antiquity, it was always easier to extract money from the poor than from the rich.

Peng Jingyi asked Zhang Yue to wait outside while he entered. At the main table, piles of copper coins and scattered silver ingots were counted by two clerks, one tallying, another recording.

Peng Jingyi knew his second uncle came here every market day for accounting and profit-sharing.

“Second Uncle!” Peng Jingyi called.

Deputy Magistrate Peng Cheng said, “Who have you brought here?”

“Second Uncle, this is my classmate Zhang Third Son. He asks your help to find a clerk named Qiao San from his family shop. Will you help?”

Peng Cheng turned, “You’ve brought him here, why ask?”

Peng Jingyi said, “This involves Bailiff Zhao, whom you don’t get along with.”

Peng Cheng replied, “You dare meddle in my disputes with Bailiff Zhao?”

Peng Jingyi hung his head, “Zhang Third Son promised that if the money is recovered, half will go to you. It’s a small effort for you and an easy hundred strings.”

Peng Cheng took a sip and asked, “Just a few strings?”

Peng Jingyi asked, “Second Uncle, what do you mean?”

Peng Cheng shook his head, “You left out the most important thing.”

“Second Uncle, I am slow.”

Peng Cheng sneered, “Zhang Yue is your friend; isn’t it right to help a friend?”

Peng Jingyi.

Peng Cheng said, “I often tell you: don’t seek connections, but cherish them. Bailiff Zhao wants to marry into the Zhangs—that’s seeking connections, whatever he says, his aim is to gain much with little.”

“But Zhang Third Son is different—helping him is cherishing the connection. When someone is in trouble and you help, outsiders see you as righteous, and giving help in adversity is better than adding to someone’s glory. If Zhang Second Son succeeds one day, he may not value you, but Third Son certainly will.”

Peng Jingyi nodded, “So you still value Second Son. I don’t see what’s so great about someone who’d even flee a marriage.”

Peng Cheng stroked his beard, “You know nothing. I trust Magistrate Chen’s judgment. Besides, Zhang Second Son used to be too proud—I wouldn’t lower myself.”

“Recently, Bailiff Zhao sent his confidant to Fuzhou for investigation, but there’s been no news. Zhang Third Son is right—if I were Zhang Second Son, I wouldn’t go to Fuzhou now, but to Bianjing to seek Magistrate Chen. No matter how clever Bailiff Zhao is, what can he do?”

Ps: Thanks to reader History When Will It Be Real for becoming the second patron of this book.