Yan Qing set down her book and answered seriously, “We have too few clues at the moment. Even if we searched house by house, we might not be able to find the culprit.” She knew that the grand show of force Shi Ting had put on was meant to find a suspect with an injured right hand, but if the killer was hidden among military ranks or within other official institutions, the Jinlin Guard’s jurisdiction would still fall short — and she was certain Shi Ting understood this as well.

What gave her a measure of comfort was that Shi Ting had ultimately adopted her analysis, and acted with swift decisiveness. Regardless of whether the killer would be found, this person’s way of doing things earned her genuine admiration.

“How strange,” Jing Zhi said, placing the vase back in its spot. “Miss, you used to avoid this sort of thing at all costs. Why are you suddenly interested in solving cases?”

“Boredom, perhaps,” Yan Qing replied, returning to the heavy tome in her hands and quickly immersing herself entirely in its pages.

Neither Jing Zhi nor Murong could make sense of the change in their young mistress, yet she was still herself — she hadn’t become a different person. If they had to find a reason, it was perhaps that a brush with death had altered even her temperament when she returned.

Early the next morning, Murong brought in the day’s newspaper. Yan Qing leafed through it but found no news she was looking for.

It seemed the Chen Family Massacre would not be solved overnight. She was also fairly certain that Shi Ting’s side had far more details about the case than she knew — details that, given her current position, she had no right or standing to involve herself in.

“Miss, someone from the Jinlin Guard is here.” Yan Qing had just folded the newspaper when Jing Zhi came rushing in. “Word is there’s a death in the mansion.”

Murong wheeled Yan Qing to the eastern courtyard of the Yan Mansion. Besides Master Yan and his wife, the eldest son Yan Qi and his family lived there, along with the unmarried Yan Sheng and Yan Yong. Yan Sheng and Yan Yong each occupied one of the side rooms, while Yan Qi enjoyed a three-sectioned courtyard to himself.

The incident had occurred in the rear service building at the back of that three-sectioned courtyard — a row of neat brick-and-tile rooms at the very end of the complex, used ordinarily for storing odds and ends and housing the servants.

The passageway leading to the rear service building had already been cordoned off with yellow police tape by the Jinlin Guard. On the other side of the tape stood a crowd of curious servants, all murmuring among themselves.

When they saw Yan Qing approach, everyone made way for her without being asked. Although the Yan Family’s Sixth Miss had little in the way of commanding presence or intimidating authority, it was common knowledge that Master Yan doted on her above all others. No one would be foolish enough to offend this frail young lady.

“It happened at that well,” someone nearby said. “A maid jumped in and drowned herself.”

“Must be that Cui Nong — she was quite pretty, too.”

As they spoke, the uniformed officers inside had already hauled the body out of the well, laying it out spread-eagle on the ground.

If the deceased was supposed to be a maid, her clothing was a cut above the usual. Maids typically wore plain blue cotton garments, but this girl was dressed in a patterned cotton jacket and trousers — soaked through, yet still recognizable as a fabric of middling quality.

Her wet hair plastered over her face obscured her features, but her figure was very slender.

“It really is Cui Nong,” someone who recognized her cried out involuntarily. “She was perfectly fine yesterday — how did she suddenly lose the will to live and throw herself in the well?”

Jing Zhi, who was well-connected among the servants, leaned close and whispered, “Cui Nong was a maid in the First Young Master’s courtyard. The First Young Master always favored her.”

After the body was pulled up, a handsome-looking officer was speaking in hushed tones with a young man wearing a white coat over a police uniform.

A case like this wouldn’t bring Shi Ting out personally, but judging by the handsome officer’s rank insignia, he was no ordinary constable either.

The one in the white coat must be the forensic examiner — by his looks, no older than twenty, still quite young.

He crouched beside the body and conducted a careful examination from head to toe before quickly reaching his conclusion: “The deceased shows cyanosis of the face, conjunctival hemorrhaging of the eyeballs, with pronounced signs of asphyxiation. All four limbs show varying degrees of abrasion, consistent with scraping against the well wall during the fall. No obvious external trauma to the oral cavity. Preliminary assessment: death by drowning, presumed self-inflicted.”

At those words, Yan Qing’s eyes narrowed.

No. This was not a suicide. This was murder.

—