“Officer, Wang Dachun hasn’t shown his face for eight days. He didn’t pay a single coin of rent—just vanished. His belongings are still here at the inn. We couldn’t throw them away, nor keep them, so the shopkeeper ordered them tossed into the storeroom.”
At the shopkeeper’s instruction, the waiter brought out the bundle. Yao Shu opened it—inside were only some personal clothes, nothing else.
“Waiter, was there any money in his bundle?” Since rent hadn’t been paid, Yao Shu wondered if the shopkeeper had taken silver to cover the debt.
The shopkeeper waved his hands frantically, pleading innocence. “Officer, there wasn’t a single coin in that bundle! I wish there had been, so I could have taken it for rent. He said he’d settle the bill when he left, but he never paid a thing!”
The Yue Lai Inn yielded no results. Though they found no new leads, Yao Shu and her companions were certain Wang Dachun’s death was tied to his sudden fortune.
After a day of running around, with no lunch and the misfortune of drinking corpse-tainted wine at breakfast, Deng Xunfeng refused to return to the Court. He dragged Deng Lingyun off to a teahouse instead, leaving Yao Shu and Fu Xiujin to hurry back to continue the investigation.
Zhao Shaobai and Fan Zhongliang were already waiting at Xiuyuan Pavilion. As soon as Yao Shu and Fu Xiujin entered, Zhao Shaobai ran up.
“Zhidian Hall has already delivered the body. Old Fan and I went to the scene too. We questioned the staff and examined the site. The last person to see Wang Dachun was steward Qi Liang. He said Wang Dachun collected his wages and left without another word.”
“Was there a third witness?”
Zhao Shaobai nodded. “Yes. Zhao, the grain supplier, happened to be there collecting payment. He confirmed it.”
There was no doubt—the corpse was Wang Dachun. But the killer left no trace.
Fu Xiujin instructed Fan Zhongliang to investigate the gambling den where Wang Dachun had won money, while he himself took Yao Shu elsewhere.
“Where are we going now?”
“The Court doesn’t intend to starve its own coroner.”
Yao Shu never expected Fu Xiujin to be taking her to lunch. Her mood lifted, and she teased him.
“Who would have thought—you care for your subordinates. Or is it that you care especially for your fiancée?”
She followed closely behind him. Unexpectedly, Fu Xiujin turned, calm as ever, and replied, “Since we blocked the marriage proposal in front of General Deng and his children, we must keep up the act.”
The implication was clear—it was for Deng Xunfeng and Deng Lingyun’s sake, not hers.
The sun had shifted, blazing hotter. They wound through alleys until the smell of meat wafted out, making Yao Shu’s stomach growl.
At a small door, Fu Xiujin knocked politely. A round-faced little girl opened it.
“Brother, you finally came! Father said you hadn’t visited for days. Come in, come in!”
Clearly familiar with Fu Xiujin, she tugged his sleeve eagerly.
Yao Shu followed inside, only to be greeted by another child, head tilted, grinning. “Sister, are you brother’s sweetheart?”
Before Yao Shu could answer, a hearty laugh rang out. “Er Ya, don’t talk nonsense. Xiujin rarely visits—go fetch tea quickly.”
The girl made a face at Yao Shu and skipped off. A man approached, greeting her warmly.
“Don’t be offended, miss. My little girl lacks manners. I’m Zhou Chuan—please accept my apology.”
Yao Shu brushed it off politely. Once Zhou Chuan went to cook, Fu Xiujin explained this was a small eatery he’d frequented since childhood.
“They don’t serve strangers—only regulars bring guests. When the food runs out, they close. Their sweet rice ball wine is excellent, and the braised meat noodles are authentic.”
The dishes arrived quickly. Yao Shu, famished, devoured her noodles. Across from her, Fu Xiujin sipped his rice ball wine slowly, the corners of his lips faintly curved.
When Zhou Chuan returned after serving other customers, Yao Shu had just finished her last sip of rice wine.
“Boss, your rice wine is so fragrant—sweet, with a refreshing hint of rice. Truly unique.”
Zhou Chuan sat down casually. “The secret is the rice. This is autumn rice from Zhao’s grain shop. Only this rice produces the flavor. Others won’t do. Right, Zhao Kang?”
“Old Zhou, stop flattering me.”
Yao Shu turned toward the voice. A man about Zhou Chuan’s age approached, holding a ledger, walking toward their table.