At last we reached what seemed to be the main temple, with a heavily tiled roof supported upon towering pillars, the eaves richly carved and painted in blue, red, and green. Inside the open hall, monks with shaved heads sat on the floor, chanting the Heart Sutra, and at the far end was a child in a gray robe, sitting cross-legged and dozing off.
“Come, let us not disturb them,” Inspector Han said.
We had not traveled far when a voice spoke out from the stillness. “Don’t get lost in the mist.” We turned, and on the veranda built around a smaller hanok building stood a monk with a string of beads around his neck. “Have you come from afar?”
Ryun hurried up to the veranda and bowed to the monk. “We traveled here from the capital,” he announced, “and my master would like to make a few inquiries.”
The monk examined Inspector Han, and after a pause, said, “Why don’t you all come in and rest?” He pulled at a brass handle, sliding the door open onto a dark and drafty room. “I will prepare a tea table for your master.”
“No need, sunim,” Inspector Han intervened. “We will not be staying long.”
The monk bowed his head. “What is it you came all this way to ask, sir?”
Inspector Han joined the monk on the veranda, while Ryun and I waited in the courtyard. “Women often come here to pray and burn incense, do they not?”
“They do.”
“And when they flee to the temple to escape trouble, is it usual to take them in?”
“It is the way of Buddha to be compassionate to all.”
“Is that so?”
“Each new encounter is the result of karma; everything has its cause and effect. It would therefore be unwise to turn the desperate away.” The monk’s billowing sleeves engulfed his arms and hands as he crossed them at his waist. “It would worsen the karmic link and create future enmity rather than affinity. So Buddha’s way is to treat each new encounter with respect and consideration.”
“Might I ask then,” Inspector Han said in a low voice, “whether a woman by the name of Lady O Eunju ever came here for shelter?”
“The name is not familiar, sir.”
“Then do you have under your care a boy around the age of three?”
The corners of his lips tightened, though the rest of his expression remained pleasant and composed. “We do.”
“Would it be considered a liberty, sunim, to ask for information about this boy?”
“Not at all. Unfortunately, I really don’t know what to say about him, except that he is an orphan.”
“Any information will do. Where he came from, or anything concerning him, which might offer us a hint as to his connections.”
“I assure you,” said the monk, “that I know no more about where he came from than I know—”
“Why his mother left him here?” suggested the inspector, and the slightest look of surprise registered on the monk’s face. “Out of shame, perhaps. The truth that an unmarried young lady bore a child would surely ruin her family’s good name.”
“You know the mother?”
“She died several days ago.”
A pause. “Died?”
“Murdered.”
The monk’s brows pressed together. “Murdered!”
“We are trying to find out possible connections to her death.”
“You are her family? Or the police?” The monk’s intelligent eyes took him in. “Ah, yes, you must be the police. You look it.”
“Did any forgotten points occur to you just now?”
The monk hesitated a moment, then confessed, “Something did occur to me, now that you mention it.”
A lump formed in my chest, a single emotion that whispered, Amazing. As I followed them down the veranda, which wrapped around the pavilion, I thought about how skillfully Inspector Han had fished the secret out of the monk’s mouth, and whether I could one day be this good.
From where we now stood, I could see across the courtyard the boy sitting in the main temple. He looked ready to tilt forward in his sleep, but then an elderly monk poked him. The boy sat straight and looked up, his face round and bright.
Pop. I startled at the sudden sound—above on the tiled roof, faint, something hard and loose, rolling and rolling. Something tiny dropped from the eaves and tapped down against the stone. Leaving Ryun’s side, I picked up what I found to be a pebble. I stepped back to stare up at the rooftop. Nothing but green foliage.
“About three years ago, to the best of my belief,” the monk said, “was when the pregnant young lady first came to the temple.”
“Do you happen to remember her maid’s name?”
“Her name … Her name was … Yeoli? Chobi? Something like that.”
“Soyi, perhaps?”
“Yes, Soyi, I believe.”
Throughout the dialogue, Inspector Han stood aloof, with his hands behind him. To all appearances, he looked removed from the things pulling at my own attention—the twitching flesh beneath the monk’s eyes; the suspicious sprinkle of dirt falling off the eaves; a young novice sweeping the courtyard, staring our way. Inspector Han’s face remained inexpressive and unaffected. Was he even thinking? He revealed nothing of what was going on in his mind.
Then he spoke at last. “And has a man asked for the child during the past three years?”
The monk looked at the young novice and gestured at him to come over. “Well, sir. One afternoon only a few days ago I left to visit Hanyang—I know it is forbidden for a monk to enter the capital,” he quickly amended, “but my mother was ill.”
Inspector Han bowed his head, brushing the issue aside.
“When I returned the next day, I learned about a strange visit,” he said as the young novice walked over, dragging his bamboo broom. “Tell them, Uchan, about the visit. About the strange man who spoke with our little Minho. Go on, tell them.”
The novice, who had a sparse mustache above his upper lip, rubbed his nose. “I was just cleaning the temple that day”—his voice crackled, as though not knowing whether to dip low or high—“when a gentleman came in and asked for Minho. The child isn’t partial to strangers, but the gentleman still held him in his arms, telling him things.”
“What was being said?”
“I forget things easily so do not remember too much, but I do recall one thing he said. ‘Remember my name, never forget it.’”
“What did he say his name was?”
The novice rubbed his nose again. “Eummmm. I haven’t a good ear for names.”
I heaved out a sigh, and Inspector Han gave me a warning glance. He calmly proceeded to ask, “Do you recall anything unique about his appearance?”
“His eyes were curved at the end—like a phoenix’s eyes.”
“And his speech? What dialect did he use?”
“He was using the correct capital speech.”
“And his height?”
“Not very tall. I can’t remember too well, though.”
“What was he wearing?”
“He wore a bright yellow dopo.”
The slightest frown flitted across Inspector Han’s brows. A dopo was the overcoat robe of high scholars, or sometimes government officials on private business. No commoner could have worn such a garment. If this was Lady O’s lover, he most certainly belonged to aristocracy.