A Christmas Garland (10 page)

He could hear no sound in the night air except his own breathing and the whine of an insect somewhere.

Then a thought struck him. Perhaps the act made no sense because it was not the result Tallis had intended. What if he’d wanted something quite different? Might he have known that Dhuleep had information about the patrol, and intended to kill him because of it? The original charge against Dhuleep was not serious, so in a few days he might well have been let go anyway. Maybe Tallis hadn’t wanted to risk that? And the plan had just gone wrong when he reached the cell?

But how would Tallis have known Dhuleep had such information? And why not plan to kill him in some more discreet way—medically, to make it look more or less like a natural death—instead of just barging into the cell?

Or might Chuttur secretly have been a traitor as well? These days, nobody knew who was on which side. People crossed from one to another. After all, it was a
mutiny, not a war with clearly defined lines. So maybe
Tallis
had been the one to kill Chuttur, but Dhuleep had managed to get away in the process.

But why would Tallis not mention such things if they were true? Was someone else involved, someone else he could not betray? Were there further traitors he must not warn? Narraway could not forget that Tallis had said he trusted him. Would he spend the rest of his life measuring himself against this one failure? Would he even have the courage to fight his hardest for Tallis, knowing he could only lose? And when it was all over, would he have the courage to watch the hanging, knowing that he had been the one hope Tallis had had?

Why the hell did Tallis not trust him with the entire truth, and yet believe he would still help, pull off some kind of miracle? They did not even know each other. Narraway had never represented anyone at trial before; he had no reputation for such a thing.

Maybe it was not Narraway that Tallis trusted, but British law? Then where the devil did he grow up, that he did not know there were miscarriages of justice at home as well?

A trust in the British? After the atrocities on both
sides of the mutiny, that would be absurd. And Tallis had surely seen the worst of all that. He was a medical orderly—no one could tell him about a horror that he had not already seen.

Narraway turned over again and pulled the blanket after him. He was cold and tired, and his head was pounding, but he was no nearer sleep.

Perhaps it was God Tallis believed in. That did not require reason. When circumstances were extreme enough, sometimes that was all there was to believe in. Tallis was a young man. He had chosen a noble path in life: healing others, even when it meant risking his own life. If he had stayed in Britain he could have been comfortable, respected, and safe. So maybe he had a right to expect something of God?

Was that the way he saw it? God would help him?

Why? God had not helped the thousands who had been murdered in the mutiny. He had not saved the women and children at the Bibighar well.

He turned over to the other side, then on to his back, eyes open, watching the starlight on the ceiling.

What did he believe in himself? What did he trust? That called for a harsh review. He had been brought up
to attend church. Most of the men here had. Did he believe in its teachings, its doctrine? Did he even believe in the God the church taught?

He realized with a sudden chill, as if someone had snatched his blanket away, that he had never really looked far enough into himself to know what he believed. If he had to answer now, tonight, staring at the starlight on the ceiling of his bedroom in this battered and rather shabby house, did he believe in God?

He certainly did not
disbelieve
. But he did not believe in the grand and rather distant God of the churches he had been to. If He was a God for everyone, then He must be equally so for the Indian, or the Chinaman, or the African.

And yes, that God he did believe in. Maybe it was because he needed to. For everything on earth to be pointless, accidental, and without love or purpose was a sterility he would not entertain. It left no room for true laughter, beauty, or even love. It did not allow for hope, for that in man that forgives, nor for that in woman that nurtures endlessly, that will sacrifice to save her children without ever thinking of the cost.

For what did he trust God, the good parent?

Mercy? Perhaps at Judgment Day, if such existed, but there was scant evidence of it now.

Justice? There was scant evidence of that, either. But then, if there were, if good were rewarded with good and evil with evil, would either of them really exist? Would there be anything more than enlightened self-interest? No true virtue, simply a system of barter?

That was a world so ugly, so barren and eventually hideous, that he thrust away the idea. It was a kind of universal death.

No justice, then; except what man himself strove to make.

No biblical promise that he could recall had ever said that justice would come without pain or loss: simply that in the end, it would be worth it.

Faith? Certainly. But blind faith that did not expect immediate reward, a trust that did not look to be vindicated and explained at every step along the way? Was that what he believed?

Yes, perhaps it was.

Could he live up to it? That remained to be seen.

But a plan was beginning to form in his mind, a way to discover the missing pieces that would make sense of
both Tallis’s act then and his silence now. The truth must lie in the characters of Dhuleep and Chuttur themselves; something Tallis knew of them and Latimer did not.

Gradually he drifted into an uneasy sleep, filled with nightmares that ballooned and faded, sometimes acutely sharp.

T
HE TRIAL OF
J
OHN
T
ALLIS BEGAN THE FOLLOWING MORNING
. Only the necessary attendees were present. Latimer had wanted as little attention brought to the details as possible. He sat at the top table with two officers Narraway did not know. Busby was at a small table on one side of the room with his papers spread in front of him, and Narraway was at the other.

Tallis, in uniform rather than his medical working clothes, sat beside Narraway. They had no suitable handcuffs or chains in which to keep him, but there were armed soldiers at the door, and in the room beyond where various witnesses were waiting. A couple of junior officers appeared to be ushers, and a third sat at a
small table off to one side, pen poised to record what was said. How on earth he would keep up with the conversation, Narraway had no idea.

As soon as the formalities were dealt with, Busby began by calling his first witness. It was clear even from the brisk way in which he spoke, from the neatness of his uniform and the immaculate way his hair was brushed, that he intended to observe the letter of the law.

Of course, he knew he was going to win. There was no battle, only the pretense of one.

Grant was called. He came in straight-backed but looking curiously tired. He faced Busby, waiting.

Busby stood, speaking quietly, as if there were only the two of them in the room.

“I’m sorry to have to take you through all this again, Corporal Grant,” he said gently. “I’m sure you understand the necessity. We must do justice here, not only to the dead and their families, but also to the living. It must also be seen by others, far beyond this regiment, or Cawnpore itself, that murder will be punished, fairly and justly, and that our actions are not taken out of revenge.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant responded, straightening his shoulders a little more.

Step by step, Busby led him through the events of the night in question: hearing the alarm, dropping what he was doing, and running toward the prison. He had him describe exactly what he did, what he saw, never dwelling on unnecessary horrors to give Narraway a chance to object that he was playing on emotions rather than facts.

“Thank you,” Busby said when Grant had come to the end of his description. “Please wait there in case Lieutenant Narraway has anything to ask you.”

Narraway stood up slowly. He was disgusted to find that he was shaking. It was absurd. He was going to lose. The battle was over before it began.

He cleared his throat. “Corporal Grant, when I spoke to you yesterday, asking you about this tragedy, you told me that Chuttur Singh was fatally wounded when you found him.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said too quickly. He also was nervous, his body tight under the fabric of his uniform, his shoulders high and rigid. He had liked both Chuttur Singh and Tallis. This was clearly painful for him.

“We appreciate that there was nothing you could do for him, Corporal,” Narraway said as gently as he could. “You said to Captain Busby that Chuttur Singh told you the prisoner had escaped and that recapturing him was more important than anything else, is that correct?”

Busby moved impatiently.

Latimer held up his hand to silence him.

“Yes, sir,” Grant agreed.

“He told you to leave him and pursue the prisoner, Dhuleep Singh?” Narraway persisted. “Because he knew the route and times of the patrol?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how he knew that?”

Grant looked slightly surprised. “No, sir.”

“Yet you did not question it?”

“No, sir.”

“You told me that Chuttur had said someone had come into the prison from outside and attacked him. I asked you if Chuttur Singh had told you who the other man was, and you told me he had not. Is that correct?”

Grant let his breath go slowly. “Yes, sir. That is correct. I … I don’t think he knew.”

“It isn’t that he told you, and for some reason or other you are concealing it?” Narraway pressed.

Busby rose to his feet. “Colonel Latimer, this is—”

Latimer held up his hand. “Perfectly fair, Captain. Thank you, Lieutenant Narraway. We have established that Chuttur Singh did not tell Corporal Grant who attacked him, and we may safely presume it was because he did not know. Have you anything further, Lieutenant, perhaps regarding Dhuleep Singh’s knowledge of the patrol?”

“Not at this time, thank you, sir.” Narraway sat down with relief washing over him, his knees feeling like water.

Busby then called Attwood, who said much the same as Grant had. However, his words were not so identical as to make it seem as if they had conferred. Narraway could think of nothing to contest, and he did not want to risk making a mistake that could cost him credibility.

Finally Busby called Peterson, who added nothing of value, except in his careful and clearly honest description of how he had left the prison block and gone searching for Dhuleep Singh. It was he who had found faint traces of blood showing the path of escape. Busby obtained
all the details from him, making the scene seem real and urgent, terribly familiar to those listening. It was Peterson who had gone in the direction of the Bibighar Gardens and the well.

“Did you search the Bibighar building for this man?” Busby asked.

Peterson was white-faced. “Yes, sir. He wasn’t there.” He was shaking very slightly.

“You looked inside the house?” Busby persisted. “You didn’t avoid it … because …”

Narraway knew what Busby was doing, and he could not bear it. He stood up, facing Colonel Latimer.

“Sir, Captain Busby is suggesting that Private Peterson failed in his duty because of the horror of what happened there, and possibly out of his own personal grief. Private Peterson has told the Court that he looked. He is an honorable man and a good soldier. He is not charged with anything, and should not have his courage or his honesty brought into question here.”

There was a murmur of approval from the man to Latimer’s right, and both the men acting as ushers nodded.

“Thank you.” Latimer nodded at Narraway. “Captain
Busby, we are satisfied that Private Peterson has answered your question. No one found Dhuleep Singh, as is only too evident to all of us. If you have nothing further to ask him, then when Lieutenant Narraway has spoken, we will adjourn for luncheon.”

Busby sat down, his face faintly flushed.

“Thank you, sir,” Narraway acknowledged. “I think what happened after the alarm was sounded is very clear. I have nothing useful to ask Private Peterson.”

Latimer nodded, his face expressionless.

“We are adjourned until two o’clock,” he told them.

Narraway left alone, not that he was offered much choice. As he walked away across the open space, the cold wind striking him through his uniform, he felt something of a panic. No one openly snubbed him, but neither did anyone speak to him. In a way he was grateful. He needed time alone in which to think. The answer did not lie with any of the soldiers questioned this morning. He was becoming more and more convinced that it had to do with Dhuleep and Chuttur, and the information about the patrol. If only he could grasp the missing fact that would make sense of it. How did Dhuleep
know? Was Chuttur involved after all? Was it Chuttur who knew, and was tortured for it?

That answer did not help Tallis’s case at all though. He was still missing the key!

In the officers’ mess he found a place in a far corner and sat eating absentmindedly. He had no hunger, but he knew that if he ate nothing he would regret it later. How could something as rich as a curry seem tasteless?