Mo was a shrewd-looking businessman in his early sixties, who did not even ask Yang why he wanted a copy of Xuanji’s poems.

‘Yes, I did a limited edition for her,’ Mo said. ‘It’s titled Night Poetry Talk, but she took away all the copies. No more than one hundred of them.’

‘Such a small number?’

‘It’s for her men only – I mean, those special visitors to the nunnery – so the poems were written with their names mentioned in the titles, in the texts, or in the notes about the occasions of those poems. Most of the poems in the edition are fairly amorous. Not necessarily that explicit, to be fair to her. She gave them her signed copies as souvenirs – something for them to brag and boast about, and for those who had not yet had poems dedicated to them, they would hope that she might also come to write for them like that in the future. As a result, they went on showering money or gifts on her for the unique favor. After all, poetry is for thousands of autumns, and they believed their names would last forever in her lines. In the meantime, it further spread the name of her poetry parties in the nunnery. A very clever practice, I have to say, and it’s worth all the money she spent on printing.’

‘I see. But you may have a way of getting hold of a copy for me, I believe. I’ll pay you double the price for it.’

‘It’s not for sale,’ Mo said, waving his hand, and eying Yang with a suggestion of suspicion. ‘She took all of them, as I have just told you. It may only be a matter of time, however, before we have a reprint at the conclusion of the sensational case. A much larger print run, perhaps with some profit for me. Then I will be able to sell you a copy.’

Mo must have taken him for another in the publishing business, and he did not like the prospect of a copy of the earlier edition falling into the hand of a potential rival.

‘To tell the truth,’ Yang said, thinking that he had no choice but to play his trump card, ‘I’m here for my bookish master who is not interested in your line of business. He’s simply a fan of her poems, but at the same time, it’s also because of the murder case that he wants to read her poems.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Dee Renjie.’

‘Judge Dee! You should have told me earlier,’ Mo said, rising in a hurry to reach into a black-painted chest behind him and take a folder out of it. ‘I do not have a single copy left, that’s true, but I still have the proof of her poetry collection.’

‘The proof. That’s incredible.’