Chapter Twenty-Eight: Selling the Golden Cat for a Thousand Silver Coins, the Mysterious Disappearance of the Corpse Handler

Outside the thirty-six mortuary rooms in the southern part of the city, the people who had been waiting began to place the stitched corpses into burial coffins. Most of those in the funeral trade were solitary by nature; after finishing their work, they hurried off for an early breakfast of cornmeal porridge.

This cornmeal porridge was a new hometown specialty introduced by Elder Lin at the old street’s breakfast shop—filling, cheap, and much loved by the morticians.

But Song Mo didn’t go.

Why not?

He didn’t have a single coin in his pocket.

After all, you can’t expect to eat on credit.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Just as Song Mo had expected, the family of Imperial Physician Zhang Shanshi hastily took the body away, and as for the reward promised by the mortuary office clerk, he never saw even half a copper coin.

And so, in the wind of August winding through chrysanthemums and reeds, the southern city gained another soul mourning the autumn.

Why? Because he had not a single coin.

Yet the days slipped by like water.

Unthinkingly, Song Mo glanced at mortuary room number six beside him.

The door to the mortuary hadn’t yet been opened. That fool Li Zheng was still enjoying his sleep inside.

Song Mo sat in front of the mortuary, practicing calisthenics—the seventh set, Eagle Soars…

A peal of silvery laughter sounded behind him. Song Mo stopped and turned his head. It was Swallow, carrying a simple food box.

She still wore a red ribbon in her hair, but today she had changed into an indigo dress.

“What brings you here?” Song Mo grinned at this girl-next-door.

“The other day, you overpaid by a copper coin. Grandpa Lin sent me to return it to you.” Swallow opened the food box as she spoke. Inside was a bowl of cornmeal porridge, half a cup of pickled radish, and two large steamed buns.

Song Mo swallowed and replied, “I’m not hungry, truly.”

His stomach, however, growled in protest.

“Just eat it without worry,” Swallow said, covering her smile with her hand.

Song Mo, no longer pretending, happily started on the buns.

When he finished, Swallow tidied the box. Her figure was a little thin, the red ribbon in her hair swaying in the wind, lending her a sprightly charm.

“In a few days, I’ll give you a jade hairpin,” Song Mo said after a moment’s thought.

“Stop boasting,” Swallow shot him a look and walked away with the food box, inwardly disappointed in him.

A man with empty pockets who still liked to brag—how could he win a woman’s heart?

Song Mo watched Swallow’s swaying waist, wiped his mouth, and thought it was time to get down to business.

…

West Market, Hongfeng Pawnshop.

“This gold cat weighs a full thirty taels—are you sure you want to pawn it?” asked a middle-aged man in a gray long coat, incredulous.

“Yes,” replied an unremarkable-looking old man beneath the counter.

The middle-aged pawnbroker was an honest sort. After a moment’s thought, he said, “This gold cat is exquisitely crafted, made of the finest sand gold. Do you want a permanent pawn or a temporary one?”

The old man hesitated. “How much for permanent? How much for temporary?”

“Since ancient times, pawnshops only lend half the value. The gold cat can fetch three thousand taels of fine silver. For a temporary pawn, I can give you fifteen hundred taels; for a permanent pawn, two thousand.”

Worried the old man did not understand, the broker explained, “A temporary pawn has a time limit. After the period, you can redeem it, but the interest is five hundred taels.”

The old man did not hesitate. “Permanent.”

The broker nodded. “Would you accept an East Exchange note?”

Large transactions were difficult with silver; the capital of Jian’an also used paper notes, issued by the imperial court and managed by the Eastern Exchange. These notes were called 'jiaozis.'

The old man shook his head. “I want a Shen family note. Give me thirty taels in silver first.”

With corruption rampant in the current government, the value of East Exchange notes fluctuated daily. What was worth two thousand taels today might only be worth fifteen hundred tomorrow, or even less. By contrast, the private Shen family, with their wealth and sterling reputation, was gradually supplanting official notes.

The broker agreed, wrote up a pawn ticket, and soon after took in the gold cat, handing over a Shen family note for one thousand nine hundred seventy taels and a pouch containing thirty taels of silver.

The deal was done—no debts on either side.

As the old man left the shop, the gold cat’s eyes on the counter flickered strangely.

The broker, busy with paperwork, noticed nothing.

…

Once outside the pawnshop, the old man ducked into a deserted corner and wiped his face. Instantly, all the deep wrinkles vanished.

It was Song Mo, using a disguise.

One should never display wealth openly—this much he knew well.

He strolled through the West Market, letting the sun’s yang energy cleanse away the gloom his profession attracted.

He passed many jade shops and, after a moment’s thought, entered one.

When he came out, there was a smile on his lips—but his money pouch was half as heavy.

…

Clouds shrouded the sun, shadows locked the long street in coolness.

The door to mortuary room six in the southern city had been removed; the inside was empty, but even sunlight couldn’t reach within. Two mortuary office clerks stood outside, faces gloomy.

“Another one gone. What on earth is happening?” grumbled He Yiming.

“Who knows? Could it be a corpse demon?” replied Wu Wanlin, equally annoyed.

Indeed, these two were the very clerks who’d pressed Song Mo into service the day before.

“It can’t be a corpse demon. There were no bodies sent out during the Lantern Festival last night,” He Yiming said, rubbing his temples in frustration.

“At this rate, with one disappearing every day, we’ll soon run out of people,” Wu Wanlin muttered, kicking a stone aside.

“Ouch! Who’s so careless?” someone called out, dodging aside as the stone bounced toward their feet.

The two clerks looked up and broke into smiles. Wasn’t this Song Mo, the one who’d helped in mortuary room seven yesterday?

Song Mo saw the two clerks standing before room six, looking troubled, and guessed perhaps that fool Li Zheng had caused them trouble. He stepped forward, saying, “Did Li Zheng do something foolish again? Don’t take it to heart.”

He Yiming managed a wan smile. “He won’t get the chance to bother us again.”

Song Mo frowned. “What—Li Zheng’s dead?”

Wu Wanlin scowled. “Why are you always cursing people?”

Song Mo gave an embarrassed laugh and let it pass.

He Yiming looked into room six and said darkly, “No, he hasn’t died. He disappeared.”

Song Mo was startled. “Disappeared? What do you mean?”

Wu Wanlin glanced furtively around, making sure no one was nearby, then lowered his voice. “Something’s off at the mortuary lately. Li Zheng is the third mortician to vanish mysteriously.”

Song Mo was taken aback. Could it be a thief targeting the mortuary?

But on second thought, that didn’t make sense; morticians were penniless, hardly worth a thief’s time.

Could it be human trafficking?

A chill crept over Song Mo. The world’s morals were crumbling…

“Don’t overthink it. Just be careful,” He Yiming warned kindly.

“You’re absolutely right, sir,” Song Mo agreed.

The two unlucky clerks left in dejection, while Song Mo returned to room seven and stashed away the large sum in notes, the matter to be set aside for now.

As dusk fell and frost tinged the air, the night grew cool and the stars glittered overhead.

The mortuary office had finished roll call. Song Mo waited inside, ready for business.

Sure enough, before long there was a knock at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Unlike the usual hurried rapping, tonight the visitor was patient.

He opened the door to find not a clerk, but a familiar face.

Tang Yi.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Tang Yi remarked.

Song Mo smiled. “If there’s no trouble in Jian’an, it must be thanks to you officials, holding up the roof as it’s about to collapse.”

Truthfully, seeing Tang Yi turn up safe and sound, Song Mo was genuinely pleased.

“I’ve come regarding—” Tang Yi began, but Song Mo interrupted.

“The case of the missing morticians, right?”

Tang Yi nodded. It wasn’t hard to guess; trouble had arisen at the mortuary during the day, and here was Tang Yi at night, surely to investigate the reason for their disappearances.

Song Mo welcomed him inside and closed the door, when a thought suddenly struck him.

“Take off your clothes,” Song Mo said with a mischievous grin.