dimness. At a shouted command from an obese man seated behind a desk, two young boys sprang to their feet, sweeping the floor and lighting incense sticks. Through the resulting fug of blue smoke, Madison made out a dozen clay statues: Hanuman the monkey god, the multi-armed Laxmi, Gannesh and Kali.
Begum snapped an order in Hindi, and the boys slipped from the room. He indicated the chair before the desk with a massive, complacent palm. “Please, be comfortable.”
The investigator was bald, hook-nosed, his eyes half-hooded in an aspect of judicial lassitude. A tikka spot marked the centre of his forehead like a bullet hole.
“How can I be of assistance, Mr...?”
“Madison, Charles Madison. You were recommended by a mutual acquaintance, Mr McAllister.”
“Ah! My good friend, the esteemed and venerable McAllister,” Begum beamed. “Please, tell me more. Elucidate...”
Behind the smokescreen of burning incense, Begum gazed lazily at Madison. The man’s verbal dexterity was at odds with his demeanour of bovine lethargy.
“I am looking for my wife,” Madison began, and recounted what McAllister had told him. The heat of the afternoon, and the airless atmosphere in the office, combined to make him drowsy.
The investigator listened to Madison and placed his palms together, as if in prayer, forefingers to his lips.
At last he said, “And you say that your wife, your beloved Caroline, had certain interests in... did you say, a cult?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you by any chance know the name of this cult, Mr Madison?”
“According Caroline’s notes,” Madison said, “it is called the Kurti sect.”
This had an immediate and surprising effect on the private investigator. Begum leaned forward and said, “Mr Madison, I can but express my condolences. You are an innocent player in this situation, a naive visitor to the city, as was your wife before you. I can but express my commiserations and furnish you with one piece of advice: leave Calcutta now.”
“But my wife—”
“Mr Madison...” this with a weight of weary compassion. “There is no hope for your wife. She is past all earthly help. Let her go, live with her memory, for this is all that remains.”
Only with difficulty did Madison find the words, “What has happened to her?”
“She has fallen foul of wicked men, Mr Madison. Are you aware of a drug known as chola?”
Madison shook his head, wanting to tell the detective that no, of course he wasn’t. “Tell me about it,” he said with trepidation.
“Some claim that he drug is an... an empathy-enhancer. It allows the subject to better appreciate, some might even say read , the emotions of others. It is especially effective in producing a certain empathy to pain.”
“To pain...?” Madison began, his voice catching.
“I know little of the sect,” the detective said, “and I prefer to keep it that way. But I have heard that the sect uses chola to share the mental agony of their victims.”
“Then Caroline...?”
“I’m so sorry, Mr Madison.”
Madison closed his eyes, sat in the silent darkness for a minute, trying to come to terms with what Begum had told him. At last he looked up. The investigator was as impassive as ever.
“Can’t something be done?” Madison said. “The sect rooted out, abolished?”
“But secrecy is their by-word, my friend. No one knows where they base themselves. There can be no contact to be had with the Kurti sect, or rather only the terrible contact of the damned.”
“If I were to hire you...?”
The investigator shook his head. “There are some commissions that even I would not dare to take. Since Independence, many strange cults have come into being, and the Kurti sect is one of the worst.”
Madison could not recall taking his leave of Begum, or making his way back through the thronged streets to his hotel. That period – an hour, maybe more – was a blur of disorientation and inner anguish, a visual kaleidoscope of jeering,
Begum snapped an order in Hindi, and the boys slipped from the room. He indicated the chair before the desk with a massive, complacent palm. “Please, be comfortable.”
The investigator was bald, hook-nosed, his eyes half-hooded in an aspect of judicial lassitude. A tikka spot marked the centre of his forehead like a bullet hole.
“How can I be of assistance, Mr...?”
“Madison, Charles Madison. You were recommended by a mutual acquaintance, Mr McAllister.”
“Ah! My good friend, the esteemed and venerable McAllister,” Begum beamed. “Please, tell me more. Elucidate...”
Behind the smokescreen of burning incense, Begum gazed lazily at Madison. The man’s verbal dexterity was at odds with his demeanour of bovine lethargy.
“I am looking for my wife,” Madison began, and recounted what McAllister had told him. The heat of the afternoon, and the airless atmosphere in the office, combined to make him drowsy.
The investigator listened to Madison and placed his palms together, as if in prayer, forefingers to his lips.
At last he said, “And you say that your wife, your beloved Caroline, had certain interests in... did you say, a cult?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you by any chance know the name of this cult, Mr Madison?”
“According Caroline’s notes,” Madison said, “it is called the Kurti sect.”
This had an immediate and surprising effect on the private investigator. Begum leaned forward and said, “Mr Madison, I can but express my condolences. You are an innocent player in this situation, a naive visitor to the city, as was your wife before you. I can but express my commiserations and furnish you with one piece of advice: leave Calcutta now.”
“But my wife—”
“Mr Madison...” this with a weight of weary compassion. “There is no hope for your wife. She is past all earthly help. Let her go, live with her memory, for this is all that remains.”
Only with difficulty did Madison find the words, “What has happened to her?”
“She has fallen foul of wicked men, Mr Madison. Are you aware of a drug known as chola?”
Madison shook his head, wanting to tell the detective that no, of course he wasn’t. “Tell me about it,” he said with trepidation.
“Some claim that he drug is an... an empathy-enhancer. It allows the subject to better appreciate, some might even say read , the emotions of others. It is especially effective in producing a certain empathy to pain.”
“To pain...?” Madison began, his voice catching.
“I know little of the sect,” the detective said, “and I prefer to keep it that way. But I have heard that the sect uses chola to share the mental agony of their victims.”
“Then Caroline...?”
“I’m so sorry, Mr Madison.”
Madison closed his eyes, sat in the silent darkness for a minute, trying to come to terms with what Begum had told him. At last he looked up. The investigator was as impassive as ever.
“Can’t something be done?” Madison said. “The sect rooted out, abolished?”
“But secrecy is their by-word, my friend. No one knows where they base themselves. There can be no contact to be had with the Kurti sect, or rather only the terrible contact of the damned.”
“If I were to hire you...?”
The investigator shook his head. “There are some commissions that even I would not dare to take. Since Independence, many strange cults have come into being, and the Kurti sect is one of the worst.”
Madison could not recall taking his leave of Begum, or making his way back through the thronged streets to his hotel. That period – an hour, maybe more – was a blur of disorientation and inner anguish, a visual kaleidoscope of jeering,
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