'I still don't see the connection with Madras in January 1898,' said Urmila.

'I was just getting to that,' said Murugan. 'In her youth La Pongracz was a kind of prototype of a sixties jet-setter, travelling around the world, picking up gurus and stuff. And in January 1898 she was nineteen years old, just starting on her long career. And where do you think she was?'

'Where?' said Urmila.

'In India,' said Murugan. ' Madras to be exact. Now you'd reckon that if a guru-groupie was down in that part of the world at that time they'd home in on Madame Blavatsky and the Theosophical Society like a heat-seeking missile seeks heat. But you'd be wrong. This Countess Pongracz was a real guru-gourmet and she didn't go in for any of that heat-and-serve stuff. The guru she settled on was Madame Blavatsky's arch-rival – a Finnish number called Madame Liisa Salminen, who ran her own little outfit called the Society of Spiritualists. The Countess was Madame Salminen's leading disciple, and she noted down everything that happened to her guru.'

Chapter 31

ON THE NIGHT of January 12 1898, records the Grofne Pongracz, a select few Spiritualists gathered, as was their custom, at a house rented by the Society for their weekly seance with Mme Salminen. Several independent sources attest that these seances were generally stately, highly regulated affairs. They usually began with a small reception, with Mme Salminen holding court and handing out cups of China tea. On this occasion however the solemnity of the tea-party was rudely interrupted by an unlikely and unexpected intruder. There were many in Madras who coveted invitations to join Mme Salminen's circle of intimates. Some had been known to go to considerable lengths to infiltrate the group. Thus it was not the mere fact of the arrival of an uninvited guest that took the assembled Spiritualists by surprise: rather it was because the man in question did not seem to be even remotely the kind of person who might wish to be associated with such a group. Quite the contrary. It ought to be noted that in general the Spiritualists, Theosophists and their fellowtravellers looked upon British civilian and military officialdom with undisguised loathing – a sentiment that was reciprocated in more than ample measure. Such was their mutual revulsion that in the barrack-rooms of Madras 's Fort St George, the phrase 'I would rather be a Spiritualist', when uttered by a cavalryman, was generally regarded as the equivalent, in connotative association, to such statements as 'I would rather be dead'.

Conversely, the sentence 'I would rather be a Lieutenant-Colonel' might be held to constitute a similarly firm statement of preferences amongst Spiritualists and their kin. Yet it would appear from the Countess's brief but vivid description that the intruder in question was precisely a man of military affiliations. She describes him, in her inimitable Magyar way, as a portly, ruddy-faced Englishman in his late fifties, with sparse hair and a Hussar's moustache. The man was clearly in a state of extreme emotional distress, for he was observed to be wringing his hands and tugging his moustache, while his eyes were bloodshot and inflamed, as though he had not slept for several days. Yet something in his bearing belied his overwrought state: the Countess, for one, immediately took him to be an officer of high to middle rank, possibly in an infantry regiment. Imagine her surprise, then, when the intruder made no mention of a rank or regiment while introducing himself. She took it as a rebuff, as a slight on her powers of observation: and it is worth remembering that the Countess Pongracz claimed descent from no less a soldier than the great Attila himself, and moreover was as accustomed to a place of honour in the courtly circles of Imperial Buda as she was to the taverns Of soldierly Pest. She was unlikely to be mistaken in recognizing the attributes of a military man.

The Spiritualists' suspicions were further aroused when the intruder appeared to have some trouble remembering his own name, introducing himself finally (and not without some hesitation) as C. C. Dunn. No sooner had this cursory introduction been effected, however, than the self-styled Mr Dunn leant over towards the imposing head of Mme Salminen and began to whisper. The countess happened to be close at hand at the time and now, without appearing to pay the slightest attention, she contrived to direct her hearing in this direction. But adept though she undoubtedly was at this rare aristocratic art, she managed to catch no more than a few disjointed syllables: 'Great distance… see you… dreams… visions… death… implore you… madness… annihilation.'

The countess, like many others in the room, fully expected Mme Salminen to give the stranger short shrift, as she had so many others before him. But here they underestimated the formidable Finn. Mme Salminen took a particular interest in people who exhibited signs of extreme emotion: it was her belief that violent passion, when efficiently channelled, can create the conditions for what she called 'psychic breakthroughs'. Thus, far from turning away the distraught Mr Dunn, she extended him a warm welcome and invited him to join the assembled company when they withdrew to the seance table.

It is worth emphasizing here that Countess Pongracz's accounts of seances were not always entirely coherent. She would often jot down her impressions immediately after the session when she was herself in a state of considerable excitation. Often in these situations, the impeccable High German in which her accounts were composed would begin to show signs of strain; sometimes her beleaguered sense of syntax would yield altogether, and instead of complete sentences she would jot down strings of apparently disconnected syllables. Intensive computer analysis has demonstrated that these phonemic clusters were drawn from a melange of Central European dialects such as Slovenian and certain unusual Carpathian variants of Finno-Ugrian (all learned, no doubt, below stairs from the vast staff of the Kastely Pongracz).

The point, of course, is that we cannot pretend that the Countess was a reliable witness or that an accurate narrative can be constructed from the skeletal word-associations of her diary. However, her accounts can frequently be corroborated with what is known of the protocols and procedures of Mme Salminen's seances, and these facts are not in general dispute. As a rule Mme Salminen and her little flock would withdraw after tea to a room that was lit with only one candle. Sitting around a heavy wooden table, the assembled company would join hands' and attempt to bring their powers of concentration into focus, with Mme Salminen acting as a lens, so to speak, for the dispersed energy of their minds. To be counted as a success a session such as this would have to produce some of the 'manifestations' of psychic energy that were so dear to the Spiritualists – such phenomena as table-tapping, automatic writing, incorporeal voices and so on. On certain special occasions the lucky few were even rewarded with the most highly valued of psychic prizes, so to speak, that is to say a kind of light that was termed an 'ectoplasmic glow'. That 'manifestations' of this kind can very easily be manufactured in circumstances of collective hysteria has of course been repeatedly demonstrated and needs no comment here.

It must be noted however that the 'glow' phenomenon was a rare and unusual occurrence. It was usually produced only towards the end of a session, and was invariably preceded by other manifestations such as table-tapping, etc.

On the occasion with which we are currently concerned, it so happened that the Countess Pongracz was chosen to sit beside Mme Salminen and opposite the uninvited guest – the self-styled Mr C. C. Dunn. Now it appears that, despite Mme Salminen's explicit instructions to the contrary, the Countess was in the habit of casting occasional glances around the table at these sessions. It was thus she noticed that after twenty minutes or so Mme Salminen and Mr Dunn appeared to have fallen into a kind of trance, with their heads slumped forward, almost touching the table. When this condition persisted for a considerable length of time, the Countess began to consider the otherwise unthinkable step of interrupting the proceedings (unthinkable because it was the current belief that an interruption would cause a 'spirit' to be trapped in inter-plasmic limbo).