‘The Isle of Clouds hasn’t changed that much since the Ming dynasty more than five hundred years ago,’ Por Por says as we leave the house. ‘Everyone either walks or travels by boat as the alleyways are too narrow for cars.’

At the bottom of the hill is a wharf. A row of water taxis are lined up waiting for passengers. We take a two-seater and sit under its black canvas roof.

‘Where to, Mrs Bao?’ the boatman asks.

‘The marketplace, thank you,’ Por Por says.

The boatman positions himself in the back, takes up the long oar and manoeuvres the boat out into the middle of the canal. We glide silently under a stone bridge and pass a teahouse overflowing with people having their breakfast, or perhaps it’s their morning tea. I know how much the Chinese love their food – they like to eat all the time. The double doors open onto the canal and there are wooden tables and stools out on a balcony. Plates and chopsticks clink and clatter and there is lots of laughter. Then the noise slowly fades till the only sound is the water gently slapping the side of our boat.

Por Por waves and calls out to a lady wearing a blue-and-white jacket, with a pink scarf around her head. She’s squatting on some stone steps, washing vegetables. The lady’s round face stretches into a big smile when she sees Por Por.

‘Eh, Bao Min, hui lai le, you’re back! Let’s get together and play a game of mahjong sometime soon.’

The canals are narrow in some places, and when we meet other boats it’s like squeezing through the neck of a bottle. But the boatmen are good navigators and the boats glide past each other without even touching sides.

Soon we pull up at a large marketplace. It’s filled with chatter and animal noises and people selling meat and fruit and vegetables. We get off the boat and walk past the stalls with live chickens and ducks and small finches in pretty bamboo cages. Then we’re in the narrow alleyways again between rows of wooden houses. All the doors and windows are carved with patterns of mountains, trees, birds and flowers. I imagine what it must have been like in the olden days, the men strolling down these same alleyways, their long silk gowns swishing as they walked, while the ladies peeked out shyly from behind the lattice windows.

Mama told me that in those times, women weren’t allowed out of the house unless they were poor peasants who had to work in the fields. Even when the girls married, they were taken to the groom’s house in a covered sedan chair, their faces completely hidden under a red silk headdress.

It’s so quiet and peaceful as we wind our way deeper into the town. Por Por and I don’t talk. I like that because I want to listen and imagine. The houses seem to be talking to me, murmuring their old secrets. Some buildings feel as if they are smiling, others are grumpy, or sad. How is it that I know so much about this place, I wonder. Is it because my ancestors lived here for hundreds of years?

I hear footsteps behind us and we both turn.

‘Wei, Mrs Bao,’ a man calls out. He’s carrying a small boy in his arms. ‘I’ve been waiting for your return,’ he says to Por Por.

‘Mr Guo, you seem a little agitated,’ Por Por replies. ‘Is there something troubling you?’

‘We need your help. There are some strange goings-on in our house.’

‘Is your wife at home now?’ Por Por says.

‘No, she’s with a friend. She’s too scared …’

‘Good. What I want you to do is to stay away this evening. I will see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, thank you, Mrs Bao,’ the man bows, then hurries off, the little boy bobbing in his arms.

‘We won’t be able to visit Bao Mansion today, I’m afraid,’ Por Por says. ‘I’ll need to check out Mr and Mrs Guo’s house first.’

‘What does he want you to do?’ I ask, wondering what’s going on. First it was the Frenchman in Mrs Wang’s house in Shanghai, now there’s something weird happening in Mr Guo’s house. And why do they come to Por Por for help? Why don’t they just go to the police?

‘I’ll tell you when we’re on the boat, Little Cloud. We will need to go back to the house first and pick up a few things, though,’ she says.

As we catch the water taxi back home, Por Por looks at me then says, ‘I was going to talk to you later about all this business. But as there’s a job to do now, I won’t have time … Anyway, it was the way I learnt.’

‘Learnt what, Por Por?’

‘To be a ghost-hunter.’