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By Root 280 0

not required; another ten minutes of brisk walking and he had located the narrow winding street, the long high wall of whitewashed stone topped with green tiles, and the door with the brass birds embossed on it. All as described in the letter. He knocked, but there was no response, so he pushed on the door and it opened into the sound of birdsong. Upcott stepped into the cool shade and damp green fragrance of a small garden. A servant bowed before him. The mans eyes were sunk deep in a sallow face that had no more flesh than a skull's. The mans body was equally emaciated. He wore a dirty loincloth of some kind of brown material and his near naked body was little more than a frail boned skeleton. The man trembled as he moved, his pitiful wasted musculature all too obvious and the gaunt serrations of ribs threatening to cut through his thin pale skin.

This spectre moved slowly and painfully, pushing the heavy brass studded door shut again behind Upcott. Finally he bowed and withdrew, trembling.

Upcott turned away from the man, dismissing his appalling condition. Years in the East had accustomed him to the sight of such suffering. The garden was exquisite, a tiny gem dense with shrubs and ornamental trees with silver birdcages hanging from the branches. Brightly coloured birds jostled inside, competing in song. Beneath these, brilliant goldfish darted in a pond and a jovial Chinaman with a long sparse black beard sat waiting on a chair.

He was a fat man with jowls that sagged below the tapered black ends of his moustache, and small, pale, delicate hands. His lavish blue silk robes figured with flowers marked him as a man of considerable wealth. His eyes twinkled as he sprinkled some kind of coarse pink powder from a small white saucer into the pond.

'Fragments of prawn shell,' explained the Chinaman, smiling. He set the saucer aside and bowed to Upcott. 'Part of the diet of goldfish.' His English was superb, quite the best Upcott had ever heard. The jumped-up little heathen could have held his own in any debate among learned dons at Cambridge. 'They love to eat it,' he explained. 'It's good for the health of their scales and fins.' Upcott looked at the small glowing fish, so deeply golden coloured that they were almost red. They darted eagerly after the crumbs drifting in the pond. He watched them for a moment then he looked up and met the Chinaman's smiling eyes.

'I'm a blunt man,' said Upcott. 'I came here to do business, not talk about your fish.'

The Chinaman smiled at him patiently. 'Come inside and drink tea with me.' He led Upcott into a long narrow room that smelled pleasantly of roasting pork. Despite the tension and potential danger of the situation, the Englishman felt saliva flow in his mouth and heard his stomach rumble. His host smiled at him and gestured for him to sit. The room contained two low sofas set in front of a large wall hanging, and a big black oblong iron box that occupied the centre of the rug-covered wooden floor. The box was about two feet high by eight feet long and six wide. Silk pillows were strewn across the broad iron lid of the box, turning it into a sort of wide bench. Upcott moved to sit on one of the sofas, but his host gestured instead to the bench. The Chinaman sat down at one end and Upcott perched tentatively at the other. 'Nice and warm, yes?'

'Yes,' said Upcott. The iron box apparently contained some kind of oven and as a consequence the broad bench was pleasantly warm with a strong, subdued and even heat. The warmth gradually crept into his muscles and soon he found himself relaxing onto the cushions. Trust the Chinese to think up such sybaritic comforts to ease a man's existence. He looked at his host sitting opposite him on the big iron box, smiling at him, steadily and silently. The delicious roast pork smell seemed even thicker now. Upcott's mouth watered once more. He wondered if the old boy's hospitality would extend to offering him dinner.

The light in the room was dim and it took a moment for Upcott to register the design on the wall hanging behind