Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Zadig nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, Bibiji. Bahram-bhai’s death has left him orphaned and adrift. He has no one in the world now, except a half-sister. He needs you now, more than ever.’

‘But how is it to be arranged, Zadig Bey?’

Zadig steepled his fingertips: ‘Bibiji, I have received the news that Freddie is now in Singapore. If you were to travel to China you would have to stop there. To arrange a meeting would not be difficult.’

‘You think you will be able to find him?’

‘Yes, Bibiji. I am certain that I’ll be able to trace him. If you make the journey you will surely meet him. It all depends on you.’

In preparation for his night-time appointment with Mrs Burnham, Zachary spent many hours walking around the Bethel compound, scouting the grounds and plotting his route. There were several stands of trees between the budgerow and the far corner of the house so he knew that he would not lack for cover. The only foreseeable hazard was the gravel border that ran around the mansion: he would have to tread softly when he crossed it, in case the sound gave him away.

But in the event, these calculations were rendered superfluous by the weather: shortly before it came time for Zachary to leave the budgerow a storm broke over the city.

Zachary found a piece of tarpaulin and wrapped the Treatise in it. A few minutes before eleven he tucked the parcel under his arm, stuck a cap on his head and threw an old oilskin over his shoulders. Then he went gingerly down the gangplank, which was slippery with rain, and sprinted across the grounds. With the help of a few flashes of lightning he quickly found his way to a tree that faced Mrs Burnham’s boudoir.

The house was in total darkness now, but he was able to detect a trickle of candlelight, spilling out from under Mrs Burnham’s curtains. He looked around to make sure there was no one about, and then darted over to the house, crossing the gravel border with a flying leap. The servants’ door flew open at the first try and he slipped quickly inside, sliding the bolt into place behind him.

A candle was waiting, as promised, on the first rung of the narrow staircase that lay ahead. His shoes were caked with mud, so he kicked them off, depositing them at the bottom of the stairs, along with his dripping cap and oilskin. Then he grabbed the candle and ran up the steps, to the landing above. A faint glow was visible in the distance, through a pair of interconnecting doors. He began to walk towards it, stepping carefully around the commodes, basins and racks of the goozle-connuh.

Ahead lay the boudoir, a large, comfortably furnished room illuminated by lamps that flickered gently in the draughts that were whipping through the house. At the centre of the room was a huge four-poster bed, swathed in a gauzy mosquito-net. On the far side of the bed were two armchairs: Mrs Burnham was seated in one of these and when Zachary appeared in the doorway she rose to her feet, holding her tall, Junoesque figure stiffly upright.

Until then, Zachary had allowed himself to imagine that the unusually intimate circumstances of their meeting might lead to a slight relaxation in Mrs Burnham’s unbending demeanour. This hope was quickly dispelled: the avatar of the Beebee of Bethel that stood before him now was even more forbidding than her other incarnations — in her hands, which were clasped against her chest, she was holding a gleaming, blunt-nosed pistol. Her clothing too was of a warlike aspect: on her head was a velvet turban, and her body was fully encased, from the base of her throat to the tip of her toes, in a garment that shimmered like armour. Only at second glance did Zachary realize that it was a silken robe — a voluminous and heavily embroidered ‘banyan’ gown, held together, at the waist, by a tasselled cord.

Mrs Burnham wasted no time on pleasantries: she greeted Zachary by wagging her pistol, to signal to him to step inside. But when she saw that his eyes were locked apprehensively upon her weapon, she permitted herself a slight smile.

‘I trust my little tamancha will not incommode you, Mr Reid,’ she said in a tone of mild amusement. ‘The hour of night being what it is I thought it prudent to make sure that it was you and not some unwanted intruder who had gained entry to my boudoir. Now that I am satisfied on that score I will disarm myself.’

Turning aside, she placed the pistol on a nearby teapoy — but although the weapon was indeed out of her hands, it did not escape Zachary’s attention that it was still within easy reach; nor did he disregard the note of warning in her voice when she added, offhandedly: ‘I am an excellent shot I might add — my father was a brigadier-general in the Bengal Native Infantry you know, and he liked to say that a memsahib’s honour is only as good as her marksmanship.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Zachary was glad now that he had taken the precaution of wrapping the Treatise in tarpaulin: he did not like to think of the reproof he might have earned had it been damaged or drenched. He stepped forward, extending the package towards her. ‘Here is the book, madam — untouched by rain, I’m glad to say.’

‘Thank you.’

She received the book with a nod and pointed to the armchair that faced her own, across a low table. ‘Please, Mr Reid, do take that cursy.’

‘Thank you.’ Zachary was glad to see that there was a tray on the table, with a decanter and two glasses.

Following his gaze, Mrs Burnham said: ‘I thought it might be advisable to have some brandy at hand, on a stormy night like this. Please pour some for yourself, Mr Reid — and for me too.’

Zachary filled a glass and was handing it to her when he noticed that she had now armed herself with a notebook and pencil.

‘We are pressed for time,’ she said by way of explanation, ‘and in order to make good use of it I have taken the precaution of listing a few of the questions that I will need to ask. Shall we proceed?’

Zachary made a half-hearted effort to procrastinate: ‘Well I don’t know …’

‘Of course you don’t,’ said Mrs Burnham tartly. ‘How could you, since I have yet to put any questions to you? It is important for you to understand, Mr Reid, that the malignancy of your malady varies greatly with the time of its onset and other early experiences. It is thus of the utmost importance to ascertain the precise history of your experience of this illness. So we must start by determining when you fell prey to the disease. Do you remember how old you were when the symptoms first manifested themselves?’

Zachary flushed and dropped his eyes: ‘You want to know when I … it … started?’

‘Exactly. And it is important also to establish how you contracted the infection. Did the symptoms present themselves spontaneously? Or were they, so to speak, transmitted by contact with another victim?’

At this, a cry of indignation burst from Zachary’s lips. ‘Good God, madam! Surely you do not expect me to tell you that?’

Mrs Burnham’s face hardened. ‘Yes, I most certainly do, Mr Reid.’

‘Well then you must prepare for a disappointment, madam,’ Zachary retorted. ‘It is none of your business and I’ll be damned if I answer.’

Mrs Burnham was unmoved by this show of defiance. ‘May I remind you, Mr Reid,’ she said, in an implacably steely voice, ‘that the question — and such answers as it may elicit — are likely to be far more distasteful to me than to you? Nor should you forget that it is through no fault of my own that I find myself in the unfortunate situation of having to make these inquiries. Indeed I cannot understand why you are now affecting these airs of modesty, considering that it was you who presented your … your symptoms … unbidden before my eyes. Not once but twice.’