Shen Xian’s cramped side quarters sat at the far corner of the West Courtyard.
Slightly bigger than the firewood shed, at least it stood separate from other buildings.
Wangcai held a lantern, Laifu carried a wooden cudgel.
They stood on either side of the doorway, looking like bailiffs escorting a high‑risk prisoner.
“Third Young Master, what can we do to help with your investigation?” Wangcai scratched his head.
“Plenty.
You two are my temporary, unpaid auxiliary constables.
Room and board included, for now.” Shen Xian pushed open the door.
“Later I’ll issue you brass badges.”
Their eyes lit up, and they straightened their backs.
The room had been ransacked.
Bedding lay strewn across the floor, chests pried wide open; even mouse holes in the corner had been dug into.
Shen Xian stepped over the mess and walked to the bed.
He lifted the mattress and examined every inch by lantern light.
The bed sheet lay perfectly flat, no indentations.
Buckwheat husks spilled out of the pillowcase across the headboard —‑‑ debris left from the search the previous night, untouched since.
“Wangcai, have you ever slept on a hard stone pillow?”
“Sure.
Back home we slept on stone slabs.”
“If a heavy stone presses onto bedding, would it leave marks on the sheet?”
“Absolutely.
Ma would beat the bedding flat every single day.”
“Then look at this bed.” Shen Xian pointed down.
“That sandalwood box was one‑and‑a‑half feet long and wide.
Worth three hundred taels, solid and heavy.
If it had sat under my pillow for half a month, the mattress would bear a deep dent, and the sheet would show clear impressions of the box edges.
But look now?”
Wangcai leaned in for a long look.
“It’s completely flat.”
“Flat —‑‑ what does that tell you?”
“It… it never actually sat there?”
“Smart.” Shen Xian clapped his shoulder.
“The box was slipped under my pillow only last night, shortly before the manor‑wide search arrived.
This whole thing was rehearsed: plant the evidence one moment, raid the room the next.
Zero time for me to react.”
Laifu’s jaw dropped open.
“But —‑‑ how did the thief get inside?
The door was intact, window latched shut.”
Shen Xian walked to the window.
Paper covering it was unbroken, inner latch fastened.
He inspected the door lock.
Fresh scratch marks ringed the keyhole, copper filings still caught in the wood grain.
“The lock was not pried open.
It was unlocked with a key.
Who holds keys to every room in the manor?”
“The steward’s quarters, of course.” Laifu answered without hesitation.
“Uncle Zhong keeps all the manor keys hanging in a row along the veranda.”
Clue one: access to keys.
Clue two: the midnight raid was sudden and unplanned‑looking.
Shen Xian squatted beside the bed and replayed the whole affair in his mind.
To frame him, the culprit needed three steps: first, steal the ginseng from the manor storehouse.
Second, sneak it into Shen Xian’s quarters.
Third, stage the “caught‑red‑handed” raid to make everything convincing.
The hardest step was the first: sneaking the birthday ginseng out past guards, locks, and patrols.
Only an insider could get past those layers of security.
This was not merely framing.
They sacrificed me, the most disposable person in the household, to cover their mess.
He stood and brushed dust off his sleeves.
“Come.
We are going to find the guard Liu San.”
Halfway to the door, he glanced back toward the bed.
Something felt off, though he could not pinpoint what.
I will set that thought aside for now.
Investigating cases is like chasing year‑end bonuses: you keep thinking more will turn up, until you find out what you actually get.