Chapter Twenty: The Value of Life

Zhen Qian stood up, hands clasped behind his back, pacing about the room as he reviewed the Song Yi case in his mind. The case itself was straightforward, yet riddled with perplexing doubts. The deceased had no prior dealings or entanglements with Song Yi; even the victim’s family admitted as much. The crux of the matter lay in the fact that, after eating at Song Yi’s restaurant, the victim went home and soon suffered violent vomiting and diarrhea, dying before the physician could arrive.

“If everyone ate the same food at the restaurant, why did nothing happen to the others, and only the victim was struck down?”

The coroner, akin to a modern forensic examiner, relied on primitive methods; the case files revealed little about the true cause of death. “Food!” The thought flashed in Zhen Qian’s mind, prompting him to pick up the dossier and pore over it once more. The deceased had eaten only some mutton and wheat cakes at Song Yi’s restaurant—ingredients common and unremarkable in Tang times, certainly not lethal.

“This suggests the victim consumed other food after leaving Song Yi’s establishment. Yet witnesses testified that the victim went straight home, so any additional food must have been eaten there. But the family would never admit to that.”

Suddenly, Zhen Qian asked, “Where is the body now?”

“Still at the county office. They say burial is imminent.”

“Hurry! Go back to the county office, take extra money for the coroner, and have him examine the victim again—this time focus on the stomach. It’s vital to determine if there was any food other than mutton and wheat cakes; this is crucial. If any doubts arise, bribe the servants at the victim’s home to find out if anything else was eaten after returning home. Go quickly!”

Wang You’s face was twisted with bitterness; he’d been sent running all over, simmering with suppressed anger. He felt cursed to be saddled with such tasks.

“Eldest Brother, what does Song Yi’s lawsuit have to do with us? What good does it do?”

“You know nothing. If you say another word, I’ll have Uncle Wang break your legs!” Zhen Qian rebuked him.

“I’ll go, no need to get so angry!” Wang You shrank back, unused to Zhen Qian’s ire, and slipped out.

Watching Wang You’s departing figure, Zhen Qian still felt uneasy and summoned Wang Qun to inquire about Magistrate Wen at the county office. Wen was an old acquaintance; he had judged Zhen Qian’s own case of amnesia after his fall from horseback. Not a paragon of virtue nor a fool, Wen was competent but somewhat bookish.

Zhen Qian ought to visit the county office himself, but given his current circumstances, he preferred not to show his face just yet; better to wait until the facts were clear before meeting Magistrate Wen.

This time, Wang You was gone longer, returning near dusk, his face sour but daring not to vent his anger at Zhen Qian, only looking aggrieved as he reported, “It’s clear now. The coroner found, besides mutton and wheat cakes, traces of white fungus and lotus seed soup in the victim’s stomach. The servants said the victim drank a bowl of white fungus, lotus seed, and jujube soup after getting home and then went to bed. At midnight, he cried out with stomach pain, and before the doctor arrived, he was gone…”

“White fungus, lotus seed, jujube soup…mutton, wheat cakes!” Zhen Qian muttered, thinking it innocuous, but then a thought struck him, and his eyes brightened: “Could the food have spoiled?”

Initially, he suspected some ingredient might have caused discomfort, but the foods found in the victim’s stomach were ordinary. That left only one possibility: food spoilage. Mutton and wheat cakes couldn’t be the cause—otherwise, more than one person would have died. Among the soup’s ingredients, white fungus, lotus seeds, and jujubes, any could spoil, but upon careful consideration, only spoiled white fungus produces symptoms like dizziness, stomach pain, and diarrhea—hallmarks of poisoning, matching the victim’s symptoms perfectly. At this realization, a smile of irrepressible delight spread across his face.

Thinking thus, Zhen Qian said to Wang You, “It’s late—go rest. Tomorrow morning, you and I will visit Magistrate Wen at the county office.”

Wang You was reluctant. “Why go to the county office?”

“To save a life, of course!”

Wang You, having made several trips to the office, was weary of it. Without money to grease the wheels, the officials wouldn’t even see him; asking favors was thankless.

“Eldest Brother, do you know who killed the victim?” Wang You immediately linked Zhen Qian’s visit to the county office with the murderer’s identity.

Zhen Qian feigned mystery: “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Wang You, worn out from the day’s errands, muttered as he went to sleep.

The next morning, Zhen Qian rose early, reluctant to leave the warmth of his bed. The two young girls had grown accustomed to sharing his bed; at first, bashful and coy, but now both vied for his attention, neither willing to yield for fear of losing out, leaving Zhen Qian both blessed and exhausted.

Xiao Zhu helped Zhen Qian dress, cautiously reminding him, “My lord, the Song Yi case has already been judged and filed with the prefecture. If you overturn the verdict now, won’t that embarrass Magistrate Wen?”

“Is Wen’s reputation more important, or the injustice suffered by Song Yi?” Zhen Qian replied, knowing that confronting Wen would put him in an awkward position, but his plans demanded he press forward, regardless of difficulties. To retreat might be wise, but with the tenth year of Tianbao upon them and the An Lushan Rebellion looming, Zhen Qian felt a prickling sense of urgency that outweighed concerns for Wen’s dignity.

Sighing, Xiaomei chimed in, “My lord, Magistrate Wen is somewhat pedantic but decent, especially mindful of his reputation. When you lost your memory after your accident, he refused to let the Meng family be enslaved, and your family’s aggressive stance only fueled his resentment. If you confront him directly, it may backfire. Better to have outsiders appeal at the office—there may be hope.”

Zhen Qian shook his head, cupping Xiaomei’s delicate face and kissing her lips, prompting a flurry of playful punches to his chest.

“It’s precisely because Wen values his reputation that outsiders must not drum up grievances. If they do, the matter will become irreversible!”

“Why is that?” Xiaomei asked, puzzled.

Having dealt with officials in business, Zhen Qian knew their pride: even when proven wrong, they stubbornly refused to admit fault, angered by being corrected in public. Such cases were common. If he followed Xiaomei’s advice, Song Yi would surely be doomed.

“You don’t understand an official’s mindset. Privately and publicly, saying the same thing can yield vastly different results. Some people, though lacking ability, prize their reputation above life itself. If I’m not mistaken, Wen is one of them. Therefore, this must be explained privately; only then is there hope!”

“Then, my lord, be careful—mind your words and don’t offend Magistrate Wen!” Xiaomei urged anxiously.

“That goes without saying!” Zhen Qian replied. He had no intention of risking himself in a battle between commoner and official.

In the rear hall of the county office sat a man in his fifties, his hair tinged with grey, dressed in a subtle patterned robe, his demeanor refined as he read documents.

At that moment, a clerk appeared at the door, announcing, “Sir, Zhen family’s eldest son requests an audience!”

“Zhen family’s eldest…,” the middle-aged man—Magistrate Wen of Zhen Ding County—pondered, “Is it Zhen Qian?”

“Yes,” the clerk replied.

“Wasn’t he supposed to have lost his memory?” Wen wondered, “Has he recovered? Why haven’t I heard of it?”

“Let him in!” Wen, curious, instructed. He had no idea why Zhen Qian sought him out.

Soon, Zhen Qian entered, dressed in everyday attire. Though Wen had met the old Zhen Qian before, the current Zhen Qian did not recognize Wen. Luckily, with only one person in the room, there was no risk of confusion. Zhen Qian bowed respectfully, “Greetings, Magistrate Wen.”

Wen recognized Zhen Qian; the last time he’d seen him was bedridden. Today, he noticed a subtle shift in Zhen Qian’s demeanor; the bookish air was gone, replaced by calm and composure. Wen was quietly astonished—after just a month, Zhen Qian seemed transformed, little knowing that the man before him was no longer the same as before.

“Wasn’t Zhen Qian supposed to be amnesiac? Seeing you today, it seems that was not the case!”

Zhen Qian anticipated Wen’s doubts and was prepared. Bowing again, he said, “Thank you for your concern, Magistrate Wen. Since my memory loss, my family sought renowned physicians far and wide, burned incense at temples, invited priests to perform rituals at home. Perhaps Heaven is merciful; my illness was cured just days ago. I have come today to thank you, Magistrate Wen!”

Scholars seldom believe in the supernatural; Confucians say, “Respect spirits but keep your distance,” and, “The Master never spoke of strange powers or spirits.” Wen was somewhat displeased by Zhen Qian’s mention of such things, but since it was the Zhen family’s doing and not Zhen Qian’s, he could not fault him.

“It’s good that you’ve recovered!” Wen said. When he had judged Zhen Qian’s amnesia case, the Zhen family’s aggressive tactics had left an impression. Were they not a powerful clan in Hengzhou, Wen would not have shown them any favor, nor would he have yielded and let Meng Xiaoya become their concubine. Yet, even then, the Zhen family’s relentless attitude persisted, and Wen remembered it to this day.