The damos unbound Soyi from the chair, dragged her to her feet. The noise that escaped from her was neither a scream nor a cry, but something in between man and beast that tore out from her chest and exploded in the air.
And not once did Inspector Han flinch.
ELEVEN
THE HORRIBLE NOISE Soyi had made continued to ring in my ears.
A month ago, I had felt a morbid interest in murder cases, enjoying the thrill of chasing the truth. But the thrill had vanished, replaced by a heaviness in my chest that made breathing difficult.
The truth seemed as tangled as a lie, and the darkness seemed to grow darker, with no promise of a bright morning.
Officer Kyŏn, for one, seemed pleased by the turn of events, sowing anxiety among the other officers, whispering, “This bamboo hat man, he has outsmarted Inspector Han.”
For the next three days, I tried to visit Soyi to ask her questions about the man in the bamboo hat. I wanted to know whether he had told her anything else while persuading her to deliver his letter. I wanted to know even more, considering the same man had also delivered a letter to Scholar Ahn, who had disappeared soon after.
But I could not bring myself to enter the prison block. I feared her, and more than that, I didn’t want to see the accusation in her eyes. In confiding in me, in trusting me, she had lost her last chance to escape the bureau.
Then, on the fourth day, I mustered up enough determination to face her. I got so far as the prison block only for my courage to vanish at the sight of a man in a worn-out tunic and trousers crouched down next to Senior Officer Shim. Plunging his hands into a bucket of water, the man washed his blood-speckled face, a dazed look in his eyes. I did not know his name, and no one really did, for we all called him simply the executioner.
“There was an execution today?” I asked.
Shim kept his eyes downcast, so the executioner spoke into the silence. “By the southern gate. Traitors.”
Dread whooshed out of me, and I leaned against the prison-block wall, much relieved. A traitor had died, not Soyi. The fresh splattering of blood belonged to someone else … some other poor soul.
“So … what kind of treason did the rogue commit?” I asked.
“Gossiped about the queen regent. About the assassination by poison.” His dialect was from the eastern coast. I could tell because of its tonal nature, rolling up and down like the mountain peaks and low valleys, so different from the mild and flat capital speech. “She ordered that they be punished as traitors.”
“You will kill many more in the new year,” Shim said to the crouching man. “Catholics.”
Officer Shim continued to linger, his shadow stretching tall in the setting sun, and I wondered why he was here at all. No one got on friendly terms with baekjeongs like the executioner, for baekjeongs were the outcast group forced to live separate from the common people. Their communities were mostly left alone so long as they caused no disturbance, and they survived off money made from work others refused to do: the taking of life. They butchered, made leather, killed stray dogs. And they were the ones summoned by the police to execute criminals.
Then I realized why Shim might have more sympathy for the executioner. He was an outsider himself, a seoja, marked by shame since his illegitimate birth. For a moment, moved by pity, I almost forgot that Shim was the alibi of a cruel tyrant, Inspector Han.
“You were there for the execution too, sir?” I asked kindly.
“I always am,” Shim replied.
Now I noticed Shim’s police robe, red spots staining the white collar. He crouched and rested his hand on the executioner’s trembling shoulders. Perhaps Officer Shim’s words had troubled this baekjeong, a reminder of his inescapable fate: he would kill many more.
Death, it was so final. A finality that did not discriminate, stealing both the young and old, rich and poor.
“Officer,” I whispered, “do you ever grow accustomed to death?”
Shim peered up at me, his eyes reddish-brown, as though he had witnessed so many executions that if he were to cry, blood would flow out instead of tears. “No, Damo Seol,” he replied, his voice soft. As though he were a brother speaking to a little sister. “Seeing a dead person will continue to be difficult.”
Was it difficult even for Lady O’s killer? Surely no one could kill and hide the evidence so thoroughly as to evade Inspector Han’s notice.
“How can you tell if someone has seen death, as you have?” I asked.
“Some cry, some are desperate for distraction, but most of us … most of us go mad.”
* * *
In the early hours of the next day, when the morning dew soaked the ground, we were summoned to the central courtyard. Damos Aejung and Hyeyeon appeared, along with a group of officers. I examined each pale and tired face for a sign of madness, unable to forget what Officer Shim had said. Surely no human being could be so hardened and unfeeling as not to be affected by the murder of another person.
Inspector Han’s commanding voice filled the courtyard. “We do not have a warrant yet, but we will make our way to Lord O’s mansion and demand entry. I want a thorough search of the place. As for the women’s quarter, the damos will search Lady O’s chamber. Bring anything of interest to me or Senior Officer Shim, and keep your eyes open for her journal. I need that journal.”
From beneath my lashes, I glanced up. Inspector Han’s eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows smudged beneath; the face once shining with health was now gaunt and pale. The usual crispness of his robe had been replaced by wrinkles, and even from where I stood, a spot of crimson was visible on his sleeve, perhaps from a round of blood-splattering interrogation. Perhaps this was the appearance of an inspector gone mad.
Pain pulsated by my temple, growing stronger and stronger, until I felt my entire head vibrating, as though someone had struck me. I wanted this all to be over, I wanted to be done with this investigation, but I feared it never would be over.
* * *
Our journey did not take long; the sky was still a shade of purple-blue as we entered Lord O’s mansion and gathered in the main courtyard. Inspector Han stepped forward and bowed, paying his respects to only Matron Kim, for her husband had returned to his governing post in Gwangju after briefly mourning for his daughter here.
She did not look pleased. Her hands were clasped within her wide sleeves, and she was garbed in a white mourning gown, not only for the king but also for her daughter, it seemed. Her black hair was twisted back into a braided coil so tight that the corners of her eyes were tugged dagger sharp.
“You are here again, Inspector,” Matron Kim said, her voice brusque. “Why?”
“Forgive us for this intrusion. I have come to ask once again for permission to search Lady O’s private chamber.”
“My answer remains the same. You dishonored us by having my daughter examined without the presence of family. You will get nothing from me.”
“The killer is still out there, mistress. The longer we wait, the more evidence will be lost.”
Her lips tightened and her blank eyes showed remarkable restraint.
“Maid Soyi has confessed about your daughter’s affair during the torture session—about the son born out of wedlock, too. Now the duty of a mother is no longer to protect the honor of the deceased, but to appease her grieving spirit. Do you not wish to know the truth behind her death?”