The trainees exchanged glances. The looks directed at Ming Huashang were still full of suspicion: “You handed the wine to him with your own hands, and he died after drinking from you. Whatever you’re saying now, you could just be pulling others in to muddy the waters.”

Ming Huashang had nothing to say to that. She nodded: “All right — you don’t believe me. But you should believe what the victim has to say. Golden Bull, when you died, what did it feel like?”

Jiang Ling was lying peacefully, and said faintly: “You just told me the corpse shouldn’t talk. Now you want me to rise from the dead?”

“Stop complaining.” Ming Huashang gave him an exasperated tap. “We’re talking about something important.”

Jiang Ling thought carefully: “No particular feeling. Confused. Very quick.”

Ming Huashang said: “So before you died, you had no idea that you were going to die.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” someone muttered. “Who knows in advance they’re about to die? If you knew, you’d dodge out of the way.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Ming Huashang said. She asked Jiang Ling: “Everything you did just now — you were acting according to the General’s directions?”

Jiang Ling nodded. He had not known when he would die, why he was dying, or who wanted him dead. He had been in the middle of his performance with full energy when he was suddenly told he was dead — the experience had been thoroughly unsatisfying.

“Then my read is correct,” Ming Huashang said. “Every action a person takes reflects what is in their heart. The same circumstances can produce entirely different behavior depending on a person’s state of mind. At least in this banquet — the host was completely at ease, not guarding against anyone in the room meaning him harm, which is why his death came as such a shock. If there had been someone present he was at odds with, his manner wouldn’t have been so relaxed.”

Everyone felt Ming Huashang was stating the obvious: “So? Isn’t that self-evident?”

Ming Huashang didn’t take offense. Psychological profiling was always like this — before it was explained, no one noticed; once laid out, everyone became a brilliant observer in hindsight. She said: “Since the host trusted everyone in the room completely, it means there was no pre-existing enmity here. The motive for this killing was not aimed at the host personally. General — this banquet, aside from the host dying suddenly, must have involved something else as well, yes?”

Han Jie’s eyes held an unreadable depth. He smiled faintly: “Quite right. I didn’t expect you to find the hidden information — I underestimated you.”

He spoke words of regret, but his tone was clearly satisfied. Han Jie said: “Congratulations — you’ve found the concealed clue and haven’t been misled by the surface. Since that’s the case, let me give you a few more details. The host of the banquet was a well-known painter. Before the pipa performance, he had displayed his newest work for the guests, then had a servant take the painting away while he and his guests continued eating and drinking. After that, the scene you just played out occurred — the host died suddenly. Shortly after, a servant found the body of the man who had carried the painting, lying in a corner, and the painting had vanished without a trace.”

Ming Huazhang sat quietly below the stage and asked: “Was the painting valuable?”

Han Jie turned, meeting Ming Huazhang’s gaze. His smile was unreadable: “Extremely valuable.”

“Then it was greed,” Xie Jichuan said. “Someone at the banquet saw the painter’s new work, was overcome by desire, took the painting, and killed the host.”

Everyone murmured to one another, largely in agreement. Someone called out: “Then the killer is even more certainly her. A painter of such renown would only have distinguished scholars and men of talent as his honored guests — none of them would stoop to stealing a single painting for money. Only these women from the pleasure quarters understand and appreciate paintings, yet also need money, and might be driven to take such a desperate risk.”

Ming Huashang said: “I disagree with that. Even if a woman from the pleasure quarters were truly greedy, she moves constantly in and out of powerful households — asking a favored patron for gold and jewelry would hardly be difficult. Why go to all the trouble of stealing a painting and taking on the risk of two deaths for it?”

Both sides held their positions. The argument reached a deadlock. Ming Huazhang looked at Han Jie: “General, after the host died, what happened next?”

Han Jie was unhurried: “Naturally everything fell into chaos after the death. In the confusion, the host’s close friend Zhang San stepped forward, giving orders to send people separately to fetch a physician, the constables, and a monk. The steward dispatched carriages and horses to collect them, and afterward, when the authorities confirmed the host was dead, Zhang San also arranged the funeral rites — sending the steward to procure candles and other items for mourning. He himself had a bad leg and stayed on with his cane until deep into the night, and was greatly appreciated by the household. As for the other guests and the entertainers, they were escorted to side rooms when the killing was discovered and were not released until the authorities had taken their statements.”

Ming Huazhang asked: “Were their belongings searched?”

“They were,” Han Jie said. “The constables searched them. They carried nothing resembling a painting.”

“How large was the painting?”

“Rolled up, it would have been roughly three feet.”

Ming Huashang tried to gauge the size with her hands: “Three feet is already quite large. Not easy to carry out unnoticed.”

“Then that’s strange,” Xie Jichuan said, striking his palms together. “If the killer’s target was the painting, they would certainly have devised some way to get it out of the estate. Why did no one find a scroll three feet tall?”

Jiang Ling felt the discussion had gone too far astray and said: “Forget the painting for now. I died at the banquet, so I think we should focus on the scene of the death. Before, everyone was eating and drinking with no problems. Then the steward brought out a new pot of wine. Li Si poured a cup and offered it to me as a toast, the entertainer refilled my cup, and I drank it and died.”

He looked at the three playing the steward, Li Si, and the entertainer: “Whatever way you look at it, the killer has to be one of you three.”

The remaining trainees slowly nodded, evidently in agreement. And since Ming Huashang was the only one who had directly handled that cup of wine, she was without question the most suspect.

Ming Huashang felt there was a pressing need to defend herself: “Let’s use process of elimination. First — it’s not me. Second — it’s not Li Si. Third — it’s not the steward. Then it can only be Zhang San.”

Jiang Ling’s expression was beyond description: “So in listening to you at length, I have learned nothing at all. What on earth are you going on about?”

“My reasoning is perfectly sound,” Ming Huashang said, entirely earnest. “He died and I was completely surprised too. If I were the entertainer, I would never poison the very drink I handed out — I was sitting right next to him the whole time, and there was no shortage of opportunity to poison him at any moment. Why give myself away like that? Li Si is the same — he was the one offering the toast when the host suddenly died. If he were the killer, there would be no need to expose himself so blatantly and incriminate himself.”

Su Xingzhi, who had been silent for a while, suddenly asked: “What if the killer anticipated how the authorities would think, and did the opposite on purpose?”

“That possibility can’t be ruled out,” Ming Huashang said. “But I still don’t think Li Si was lying. When he toasted the host, he was pouring out flowery speeches at length — the kind that had too many rhetorical flourishes. It didn’t sound like someone lying; it sounded more like someone showing off their learning.”

Many people couldn’t follow this, and Su Xingzhi asked: “What does rhetorical flourish in his speech have to do with whether he was lying?”

Ming Huashang pressed her lips together, not sure how to explain: “I can’t quite put it into words — it’s just a feeling. Think about it from the other side: if I were planning to kill someone and I was standing before them, every bit of my attention would be on watching their face and reactions. I wouldn’t have any headspace left for elaborate figures of speech. So instinct tells me — the killer isn’t Li Si.”

This time it was Ming Huazhang who asked: “Then why is it not the steward either?”

“He had no reason,” Ming Huashang said. “If the steward wanted to steal the painting, he could easily have waited for the deep of night and slipped quietly into the study to take it. Why kill the host in front of everyone? While the host was alive, he would keep painting — the steward could steal from him indefinitely. Killing the goose that laid the golden egg was entirely pointless for him.”

“That’s fair,” Xie Jichuan said with entertained interest. “Then why do you suspect Zhang San? He was the host’s close friend and even helped arrange the funeral. By any reading, a man like that would have no wish to harm his dearest companion.”

Ming Huashang said slowly: “I haven’t seen Zhang San yet, so I don’t know his thinking — but with the evidence as it stands, it can only point to him. Perhaps we’ve all fallen into a trap. The host did die after drinking, but the poison doesn’t have to have been in the wine.”

Ming Huashang indicated the low couch. In the scene, this was where the square lacquered table with inlaid gold should have stood, laden with food and delicacies, positioned between the host and Zhang San. She said: “The poison could have been in the food. The host unknowingly ingested it while listening to the pipa, and it happened to take effect at the moment Li Si offered the toast.”

The trainee playing Li Si blinked, and then, belatedly: “Are you saying…?”

“We were all made into his scapegoats.” Ming Huashang sighed. “I recall you were originally standing by the screen. Zhang San said something to you, and that’s when you came back to make the toast.”

The trainee nodded: “That’s right. He said I was all ambition and no talent, that I’d come face to face with a true master famed throughout Chang’an and yet wasn’t thinking about learning from him — just consorting with women. I was stung by that, so I went over to propose the toast and show them all what I was made of.”

“And there it is,” Ming Huashang said. “He clearly knew your character well, and deliberately timed everything to set you up.”

Jiang Ling scratched his chin and clicked his tongue: “You two are finishing each other’s thoughts so neatly — could it be you’re in on it together, each helping to clear the other’s name?”

Ming Huashang shot him a furious glare, so exasperated she could have strangled him: “Believe it or don’t.”

The trainees were in heated discussion. Han Jie slowly swept his gaze across the room: “All right, everyone return to your seats. You have one more incense stick’s worth of time to think carefully about who the killer is. Write your answer on paper, and I’ll review them individually.”

The trainees filed back to their seats one after another. Su Yuji set down the pipa and, on her way past Ming Huashang, glanced at her with a look that held something unexpected.

No one had anticipated that Ming Huashang, who appeared to be the most useless of them all, could speak about a murder case with such clarity and conviction.

Xie Jichuan leaned over and asked Ming Huazhang: “Who do you think it is?”

Ming Huazhang had already written a name on his paper, and said coolly: “I seem to recall you were the one who proposed the wager.”

Xie Jichuan gave him a faint look: “You’re no fun at all. A lot of people suspect the entertainer. What do you think?”

“Not her.”

Xie Jichuan raised an eyebrow: “Why not?”

Ming Huazhang folded the paper, set down his brush and ink, and said in a level and unhurried tone: “Because she said it wasn’t her.”

Xie Jichuan hadn’t expected that answer, and was momentarily stunned. After a brief pause he laughed lightly: “How remarkably perceptive you are.”

Ming Huazhang accepted Xie Jichuan’s evaluation with perfect composure.

Around them, trainees whispered back and forth, quietly debating the killer. Ming Huazhang had written his answer long since. He waited out the incense stick, and Han Jie came to collect the papers.

This was the first classroom assessment, and everyone was curious about the results and couldn’t help asking: “General, who is the killer really?”

Han Jie went through all the papers, and with the same expressionless manner as always, closed them together and said: “A few of you gave an answer different from everyone else. Shuang Bi — what is your read on this?”

Han Jie was addressing Ming Huazhang as he spoke; “Shuang Bi” clearly referred to him. Ming Huazhang said: “She has already laid out her reasoning clearly — I can only say I have fallen short, and merely add a few details. The maidservant Seven Kill was playing, and the Yangzhou scholar Li Si, were actually both Xuan Xiaowei agents, weren’t they?”

His tone was calm, but the words landed on the room like a thunderclap. Ren Yao pressed her lips together. Jiang Ling stared at her with an expression of astonishment: “What?”

Han Jie smiled: “What makes you say so?”

“Conjecture,” Ming Huazhang said lightly. “Seven Kill, playing the maidservant, was not someone who would normally have much opportunity to enjoy pipa music — yet she showed no interest at all in the scholars and entertainers in the room, and instead, against the usual pattern, slipped behind the screen. Li Si was also leaning against the screen listening to the music at that time. The two of them appeared to have no exchange whatsoever — but I happened to notice the maidservant reaching through the screen and tapping lightly against the back of Li Si’s hand.”

Ming Huashang had completely missed all of that. She looked at Ren Yao in surprise. They had just finished the coded language class, so of course she understood — tapping on someone’s hand wasn’t just a flirtatious gesture; it could just as easily be transmitting information.

Was this maidservant actually a Xuan Xiaowei operative placed undercover in the painter’s household? Ming Huashang was suddenly intensely curious about the real identity of the dead man — to warrant being watched by the Xuan Xiaowei, this painter must have been far more than simply skilled with a brush.

Han Jie’s expression was ambiguous, neither confirming nor denying: “Is that all?”

“The killer should be Zhang San, the painter’s longtime friend,” Ming Huazhang said, glancing lightly at the props. “As for the missing painting — it should be concealed inside the walking cane Zhang San never let out of his hands.”

Again the room erupted. Xie Jichuan gave an almost inaudible sound of displeasure: “Same as my guess again. Tedious. I knew there was no use counting on him. Ah — who will help me copy my notes.”

“Really?” The trainees were half-convinced, half-doubtful, and called out: “General, what is the real answer?”

Han Jie rose from his seat: “All of your ideas are quite interesting. Looking through these papers, everyone has a different take — some even concluded the killer was the pipa entertainer. Go home and think it over carefully. Tomorrow, write up an analysis. Class dismissed.”

“Come on,” Ren Yao muttered under her breath. “Most annoying thing in the world is someone who keeps you in suspense. Can’t you just tell us who the killer is today?”

Ming Huashang privately raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Han Jie had staged such an elaborate production and yet given no answer. Was it possible — there was no answer?