A Christmas Garland (11 page)

He left the plate half-finished and went to look for the sergeant who had spent the most time with the Sikh troops, Gholab Singh. He found him in a small office in one of the barracks still largely intact.

“Yes, sir?” Gholab Singh said courteously, rising to his feet.

Narraway introduced himself and told the sergeant to be at ease.

“What can you tell me about Dhuleep Singh?” he asked as soon as the man was seated again. “Other than what I have read in his army record.”

Gholab looked uncomfortable. “I am ashamed for him, sir,” he said quietly. “To rebel openly I cannot fault him for, at least not greatly. But to betray behind the
back is another thing, altogether different. He was a sneaky bastard, sir. Very clever. Always listening and adding up in his mind, that one.”

“It doesn’t surprise you that he knew the times and routes of the patrol?” Narraway asked.

Gholab shook his head sadly. “He was a tricky one. He darkens all our names.”

“And Chuttur Singh?” Narraway asked.

“A good man,” Gholab said without hesitation. “I know his brother and his cousin. Good men, all of them. Maybe a bit too trusting. Not a bad fault in a man. Better than deceit.” He shook his head. “Cousin to a snake, Dhuleep. May he eat the dust.”

Narraway stayed a little longer, asking questions as they came to his mind, but Gholab could tell him nothing further. He had no idea if either Chuttur or Dhuleep had any personal acquaintance with Tallis.

T
HE AFTERNOON BEGAN WITH
B
USBY CALLING
R
AWLINS
. The room sat in total silence. Tallis stared white-faced
into the distance as the surgeon described the injuries to Chuttur Singh.

Busby’s expression was one of shock and deep grief. No one could imagine it. Each man in the room had seen the injuries of war, seen soldiers cut down beside them, friends, people with whom they had shared jokes and food, and dreams of home. This was different. Civilized men fought for their ideals, for their countries, sometimes whether they believed them right or wrong. To betray a man who had trusted you was an act that deserved no mercy. Indeed, if the law was to stand for anything, if it was even to survive, such an act must be punished. And Tallis knew that.

“Did Chuttur Singh fight back, Major Rawlins?” Busby asked.

“There were deep slashes on his arms, which suggest he may have tried to defend himself,” Rawlins replied. “And I believe there was a degree of blood on his own sword. I can’t tell you what that means because his sword may have been used against him.”

“To sum up,” Busby said grimly, “There was a blow to the back of his head, hard enough to have stunned
him, after which he was hacked to death with at least fifteen violent blows from a sword, most likely his own.”

“Yes,” Rawlins said with a catch in his voice.

“He bled to death?” Busby pressed.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen wounds like this before?” Busby continued.

Rawlins looked, if anything, even paler. “Of course I have,” his voice grated. “I was with the regiment that relieved Cawnpore after the siege. I stood almost ankle-deep in blood at the Bibighar, where the women and children were hacked to pieces. Some of them were the families of my friends. I refuse to describe it for you. Those who saw it will never forget, and those who did not can look at the faces of those who did and thank God for their escape.”

Busby looked at him with surprise, then glanced around at the other men in the room. Narraway followed his eyes and saw what he must also have seen. Every other man there had, at one time or another, received help from Rawlins. He had relieved their pain, sat with them through times of agony that could not be
helped, comforted them when they feared maiming or death, mourned with them over loss. Busby would be a fool to challenge him.

“And the men of the patrol that was ambushed,” he said, changing his line of approach. “Did you see their bodies when they were brought home … those that were?”

“They were buried where they fell,” Rawlins replied. “The two who were alive—yes, I saw them. One died shortly after being brought back. The other looks as if he will recover, but he has lost the greater part of one leg.”

“The dead, they too were hacked to pieces,” Busby said, making it a conclusion rather than a question.

“They were ambushed and died in battle,” Rawlins snapped. “You have no business, sir, to suggest that they did not fight back.”

Busby retreated. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply such a thing at all. They were surprised, betrayed, but I imagine they took a good few of the enemy with them—unlike poor Chuttur Singh, who was betrayed in quite a different manner, and outnumbered two to one.”

Rawlins said nothing.

Busby moved only slightly. The room was small, and there was no space to spare.

“Is there anything else that you can tell us of this terrible event that might help us bring the matter to resolution and allow justice to be done?”

Rawlins leaned forward a little, staring at Busby.

“Captain, it is not my job to judge any man, only to heal him if I can. I do not know exactly what happened in that prison, who did it, or why. I have told you what the injuries were to Chuttur Singh, who I examined after he was brought to the medical wing. I cannot deduce anything more than I have already told you.”

“Thank you, Major Rawlins. I had assumed as much.” Busby seemed about to add something further, then changed his mind and turned to Narraway. His expression was bland, polite even, except for a bright spark of anger in his eyes.

Narraway rose to his feet, knowing this was his last chance. He still had a small, gnawing pain inside him that he could not ignore. What if Tallis was innocent? What if there was still some different question none of them had thought to ask?

He turned to Rawlins. He was limited now. This was not his witness—he could only revisit the issues Busby had raised.

“How long have you been a surgeon with the regiment, sir?”

Busby was still standing. “Are you questioning Major Rawlins’s qualifications?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course I’m not!” Narraway said extremely tartly. “I am trying to establish his very considerable expertise. Do you think I should be questioning his qualifications?” He invested the same haughty disbelief into his own voice.

“For God’s sake, man!” Busby exploded.

Latimer banged on the table. “Captain Busby! We will not have the Lord’s name taken in vain in this court. We may be far from home, but that is all the greater reason to conduct ourselves with dignity. You will please allow Lieutenant Narraway to ask his questions. If they are inappropriate, then I shall tell him so.”

A flash of anger spread up Busby’s face, but he sat down.

Narraway was about to thank Latimer, then thought better of it. It would be rubbing in the point, probably
unwisely. He merely inclined his head and turned again toward Rawlins.

“How long have you been a surgeon with the regiment, sir?” he repeated.

“Seven and a half years,” Rawlins replied.

“And have you always had medical orderlies, such as John Tallis?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How long have you had John Tallis, specifically?”

“Approximately two years.”

“How has his conduct been, during that time?” Narraway could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breath catching. He did not know what Rawlins’s answer would be.

Rawlins stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. A tiny muscle ticked in his temple. His fair skin was sunburned, in places badly. He looked desperately tired.

“I found him undisciplined,” he said quietly. “His sense of humor was unreliable, to put it at its kindest. He was frequently insubordinate. He was also the best medical orderly I have ever had, and I tried to encourage
him to qualify as a doctor. He is highly skilled. He never gave up on saving a man’s life or attempting to save a limb. His compassion is extraordinary. He drove some of the more rigid officers to distraction, but I never met an ordinary man, Indian or white, who did not like him. I realize that is not necessarily what you want to hear, but it is the truth.”

At the table, Latimer closed his eyes. His face was bleak, reflecting the hurt of betrayal that he felt.

Narraway did not know what to say. The air in the room seemed too heavy to breathe in. His own mouth was dry. He could not look at Tallis. Rawlins clearly not only thought unusually highly of Tallis, he liked the man. This made Tallis’s perceived betrayal a profoundly personal one, perhaps even more than it was professional, to the army and the country they both served.

Everyone was looking at Narraway, waiting for him to continue.

He gulped. He must say something.

“Did Corporal Tallis know Dhuleep Singh, as far as you are aware? Did he ever mention him, or did you see them together, Major Rawlins?”

“No.”

“Can you imagine any reason whatever why Tallis should want to rescue Dhuleep Singh?”

“No.”

“Corporal Tallis is charged with this crime not because we believe he did such a thing, but simply because it does not appear possible that anyone else could’ve. It is an accident of exclusion and not something we understand or can trace back to any behavior of Corporal Tallis. Do you know of any other reason why we should think him guilty?”

“No.”

“Had he any hatred toward any of the men on the patrol that was ambushed?”

Rawlins was startled. “Good God, no!”

“Did he even know who they were? Is he given that information?”

“No! We deal with them when they come back, not before they go,” Rawlins said bitterly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to suggest, but it is rubbish.”

“That is exactly what I am trying to suggest,” Narraway answered. “There is some major element to this that we have not yet grasped.”

“If you are looking for sense in war, then you are even younger and more naïve than I thought,” Rawlins said wearily. “If you outlive the disease, it will cure itself.”

Narraway could think of nothing to say to that. He thanked Rawlins and sat down.

It was still early, but Busby asked permission to delay calling Major Strafford until the following day, as he had a great deal of evidence to give. There might be a way, with some consideration, of shortening it without impairing the course of justice. Latimer agreed, and they adjourned by half-past four.

Narraway walked out into the waning afternoon. He felt dazed, and he ached as if he had been in a physical fight. He had only this evening in which to come up with any witness to call for a defense when Strafford was finished testifying as to his investigation.

Tallis himself was no help. He still insisted that he had no idea who could have helped Dhuleep Singh escape, only that it hadn’t been him.

Unless he could find that missing piece tonight, Narraway had nothing left except to challenge the witnesses Strafford’s questioning produced. He could imagine how
successful that was likely to be. No one was going to admit to mistakes or go back on what they had first said. Continual repeating of it would have made it indelible in their minds, even if it had originally been tentative. Uncertainty would be wiped out by saying over and over again “I saw” or “I was there.” Even if doubt came, who would admit it now, with the Court looking on and the whole regiment watching?

He was walking across the open space beyond the rooms where the trial was held. The sky in the east was darkening, and little whispers of wind were stirring up eddies in the dust. Children were shouting in the distance, playing a game of some sort. A group of women stood close together, heads bent as they talked. Someone laughed: a soft, startlingly agreeable sound.

“Narraway!” a voice called out abruptly from behind him.

He turned and saw Strafford a dozen yards away, moving quickly, his boots sending up spurts of dust.

“Yes, sir?” Narraway answered obediently. This was a confrontation he would dearly like to avoid, but Strafford outranked him and so he had no escape.

Strafford reached him and stopped. He looked awkward,
but the muscles were tight in his jaw, and clearly he was not going to be put off.

“I intend to call the witnesses tomorrow who can rule out every man in Cawnpore, apart from Tallis,” he said without preamble. “Don’t drag this out any longer than you have to. You can question each one as much as you like, and I appreciate that you have to make it look as if you are attempting to defend the man. But you’re new here—relatively new to India, for that matter. These men have been through hell. Every one of them has lost people he served with, people who’ve stood side by side with him in the face of the enemy.” He swallowed. “Maybe you don’t know what that means yet …”

Narraway stiffened. “I’m not a lawyer, sir, I’m a soldier,” he said sharply. “I’ve fought in the line just like anyone else. I’ve seen men die—and worse than that, I’ve seen them horribly wounded. I don’t mean to be insubordinate, sir, but you have no grounds and no right to assume that all I do is defend soldiers in a back room in some military post. I’m doing this because I was ordered to, not because I chose it.”