A Christmas Garland (16 page)

The small courtroom was grim. No one looked as if they had slept, and the very idea of celebrating anything like Christmas seemed absurd, an idea belonging to a different world.

Busby stood up.

“I have no more witnesses to call, sir.” He addressed Latimer but included the other two officers in his gaze. “There is no question that Dhuleep Singh was released from his cell and Chuttur Singh was hacked to death. While it is possible Dhuleep killed Chuttur, I have demonstrated beyond any doubt that there was no one else who could have let Dhuleep out in the first place except Corporal John Tallis. I cannot offer any explanation for
why he did so. Whether he was threatened, or bribed, or simply lost his sanity under the pressure of events, I don’t know, nor do I believe that it matters. The facts remain.”

Latimer nodded slowly, his face furrowed deep with unhappiness. He turned to Narraway. “Do you have anything you would like to say, or to ask, Lieutenant Narraway? It is your duty to offer anything you can on behalf of the prisoner.”

Narraway stood up slowly. His brief sleep had been full of nightmares. His mouth was dry.

“Yes, sir.” He swallowed. “Captain Busby has presented a powerful case for Corporal Tallis’s guilt, but it rests solely on the fact that he was unable to find anyone else to blame. He has not shown that Corporal Tallis was actually seen at the time and the place, that he has behaved like a guilty man, or that he had any mark on him that would prove a fight: bruises, cuts, blood—not even a torn or stained uniform. He has given us no reason at all why Tallis should do such a thing, except in a bout of complete insanity, which must have come on without warning and went again without leaving any
mark behind it. As Captain Busby admits, he simply has no one else to blame.”

Busby stood up.

“Sit down, Captain,” Latimer said grimly. “Your disagreement is taken for granted. Give the man his chance.”

Busby’s face tightened, but he did not speak again.

“Sir,” Narraway resumed, “I believe there may be some explanation for all the facts we have other than Corporal Tallis’s guilt, but I need to question the witnesses again, very precisely, before I can be certain. I have already found some errors and dismissed them after investigating more closely, because I found them to be unrelated to Dhuleep Singh’s escape. I need now to explore certain other aspects that these errors may have thrown light upon.” That was something of an exaggeration. He had no intention of telling them about Carpenter and Ingalls, but he had to make it sound as if he had a better cause for recalling witnesses than speculation, however plausible.

Latimer hesitated, seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. “Proceed, Lieutenant Narraway,
but if you stray far from the point I shall stop you myself, never mind any objection Captain Busby may have.”

“Yes, sir. I call Corporal Grant again.”

Grant was duly reminded of his oath and, looking puzzled, faced Narraway.

The lieutenant was painfully aware that everyone in the room was looking at him with displeasure and a degree of suspicion. He avoided meeting Tallis’s eyes.

“Corporal Grant …” Narraway stopped and cleared his throat. Suddenly his whole idea seemed absurd. He was going to make a complete fool of himself, ruin his career, disappoint Latimer, see Tallis hanged. He cleared his throat again. “Would you remind us where you were when you heard the prison alarm, and what you did? Please be absolutely exact, and if there is something you don’t recall, say so. There is no shame in having your mind so bent in your duty, especially in times of emergency, that you don’t notice other things.”

Grant did as he was asked, slowly and carefully.

When he had finished, Narraway picked up the thread again, his voice shaking a little.

“The dying Chuttur Singh told you that the prisoner
had escaped,” he confirmed. “That he had valuable information regarding the patrol, and that at all costs you should go after him. He himself was beyond help, even had you found a doctor for him, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agreed. “I wanted to get help for Chuttur, but he insisted it was pointless and I should go after the prisoner.” He looked distressed, his face flushed.

“And then Sergeant Attwood and Private Peterson arrived?” Narraway needed every last detail clear, exact.

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it dark in the room? Was Chuttur’s face splashed with blood?” He held his breath for the answer.

“Yes, sir,” Grant answered, his voice wretched.

Busby rose to his feet, his face grim, his voice grating with anger. “Sir, these men all did exactly what they were trained to do, and what was the right thing. If the lieutenant is trying to suggest now that they were somehow mistaken and should have stayed with the man, when he was beyond all help, he is being cruel and is quite wrong. This only displays Lieutenant Narraway’s inexperience, and—”

Latimer held up his hand. “Enough, Captain Busby. Your point is perfectly clear.” He turned to Narraway. “Lieutenant, are you trying to suggest that any or all of these men should have tried to assist Chuttur Singh rather than go after the escaped prisoner? It was a judgment made in the heat of the moment, but I believe it was the correct one. Either way, what difference does it make to the guilt or innocence of John Tallis?”

Narraway felt the blood burn up his face. He knew he had sounded brutal, as if he were blaming Grant, but there was no other way. Please God, he was right!

“No, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “Grant, Attwood, and Peterson all behaved exactly as good soldiers should, sir. I intend no criticism at all. I just want to be absolutely certain, beyond any doubt at all, that that’s what they did.”

“If you do not reach some point soon, I shall be obliged to stop you for wasting our time,” Latimer warned. “Get on with it.”

Narraway turned to Grant again. “All of you left in pursuit of the escaped prisoner, Dhuleep Singh? You are sure of that?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant repeated, his face pale, his distress obvious.

“Thank you. That’s all,” Narraway said quietly. He hesitated, on the edge of apology, and missed the chance.

Busby declined to ask Grant anything further. His expression reflected his disgust.

It was all hanging on one gamble now. Narraway stood up again. “I would like to call Major Rawlins back, sir.”

“Is that really necessary, Lieutenant?” Latimer asked wearily.

“Yes, sir. I believe he may be able to complete my defense of Corporal Tallis, sir,” Narraway answered. The hope was taking firmer and clearer shape in his mind all the time. If he was wrong, then there really was nothing left to say.

Latimer agreed. There was a long, tense silence while someone went to find Rawlins. Narraway remained standing, simply because he was too tense to sit down. He did not dare look at Tallis. It was possibly cowardly of him, but the hope was so close, and yet still so farfetched, that he did not dare offer it.

Busby sat back in his chair, making no secret of his impatience and his contempt. He fidgeted, moved papers, twisted around to see if Rawlins was coming yet.

Latimer waited without moving or looking at either of the officers who sat with him. His dark face was haggard.

The seconds crawled by.

Finally Rawlins arrived. Everyone sat up straighter at once.

Rawlins was reminded of his oath and his position, and he waited, clearly surprised, to hear what Narraway wanted of him now. He too avoided looking at Tallis.

Narraway picked his words with intense care. Everything he said might hold the key to a man’s life. He cleared his throat.

“Major Rawlins, you described the injuries Chuttur Singh had received. I don’t wish you to do so again. Please just confirm that they were as you told us before. He was struck on the head, but not seriously enough to kill him, just to stun him. And his body was slashed with deep sword wounds from which he bled profusely,
so much so that his uniform was sodden with blood. Is that accurate?”

Rawlins’s face was tight, bleak with the memory. “Yes.”

“He bled to death?” Narraway said.

“I’ve already said that.” Rawlins was angry. “And there was nothing I could have done to save him. To suggest otherwise is not only ridiculous, it is offensive to the three men who found him.”

“That would be Grant, Attwood, and Peterson?” Narraway asked. He was aware of an electric tension in the room, almost a prickling. Any moment now, Busby was going to interrupt and break the spell. “Doctor?” he prodded urgently.

“Yes!” Rawlins snapped.

“And those men went after Dhuleep, to see if they could recapture him?”

“Yes!” Rawlins was all but shouting.

“Then who was it who brought the body of Chuttur Singh to you?” Narraway’s mouth was so dry he could barely form the words clearly, and yet his body was covered with sweat.

Rawlins froze.

There was a silence in the room that was somehow suffocating.

“Oh, God!” Rawlins cried in horror. “It was a Sikh … It …”

Narraway licked his lips and forced his voice to be steady. “Could it have been Dhuleep Singh, Major Rawlins?”

Rawlins had known what he was going to say. He stared back at him with eyes wide in his ashen face.

“Yes, it could have been.”

Busby sat upright, staring.

Latimer leaned forward, looking first at Rawlins, then at Narraway.

Narraway swallowed hard.

“Sir,” he said to Latimer. “I suggest that there is an alternative answer to this tragedy. John Tallis is innocent, as he has always claimed. The assumption that he is guilty arises only from the lack of any other answer.”

Now Busby was on his feet. “Are you saying Dhuleep made his own escape, without Tallis’s help? That’s ridiculous! How did he get out? He was gone before Grant, Attwood, or Peterson even got there.”

“No,” Narraway said firmly. “No, he was not.” He turned back to Latimer. “What if Dhuleep Singh tricked Chuttur, feigning an illness, offering information, or anything else? Then, when he had the opportunity, he struck Chuttur on the head and took his sword and keys. Then when he had killed him, he—”

“In that case, he still couldn’t have opened the door, Lieutenant, before Grant got there!” Busby interrupted.

“No,” Narraway said again. “You’re right. But what if Chuttur was stripped of his guard’s uniform and left concealed under the pile of bedclothes? The man Grant spoke to, who told him Dhuleep had escaped with vital information, was Dhuleep himself, with blood smeared over his features, wrapped in Chuttur’s bloodstained clothes. We all assumed that someone had opened the door from the outside, and Dhuleep had escaped, closing it behind him. But in fact it was Grant who first opened the door.”

There was a sigh around the room, but not a soul moved.

“Dhuleep urged Grant and the others to go as quickly as possible. As soon as they had done so, he took off Chuttur’s blood-soaked clothes, re-dressed him, and
took him to Rawlins. Then he slipped out and ran away! There was no third man.” He took a deep shuddering breath. “That answers all the questions, sir, and it shows John Tallis to be guilty of nothing more than being the only one in the immediate area who happened to be working alone.”

Rawlins rubbed his hand across his brow. “You’re right,” he said with amazement, and with a relief so intense his body shook with it, the color surging back into his face. “I barely looked at the man who brought Chuttur in; I had all my attention on the injured man. But he was definitely Sikh. And the only person unaccounted for other than Tallis was Dhuleep Singh.” His voice gained strength and urgency. “But we thought Dhuleep had gone. Of course the three who went looking for him didn’t catch him—he was behind them! He went out of the hospital door, in the opposite direction, and got clean away.” Rawlins looked across at Tallis. “I’m sorry, John. I was so bloody horrified at what had been done to Chuttur, I never more than glanced at the man who brought him to me.”

“He was counting on that,” Narraway observed. Then he faced Latimer. “Sir, I respectfully request that
Corporal John Tallis be found not guilty of any wrongdoing at all. There is no villain here.”

Slowly Latimer smiled, the light coming back into his eyes, the color to his face. He straightened in his chair and looked first to the man on his right, then the man on his left. Each one nodded, smiling.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Narraway,” he said quietly. “This Court finds Corporal John Tallis not guilty in any way whatsoever.” He looked at Tallis. “You are free to go, Corporal.”

Tallis tried to stand, but he was too weak with the sudden, almost unbelievable turn in his fortunes, and his legs folded under him.

Strafford walked across the courtroom to Narraway, holding out his hand.

“Strafford Minor was wrong about you,” he said with intense, burning pleasure. “You’re a damn good soldier. There won’t be a man or woman in the regiment who isn’t grateful to you for this. You’ve given us back a belief in ourselves. Happy Christmas.”

Narraway felt tears sting his eyes. “Thank you, sir. Happy Christmas to you also. I feel a bit more like celebrating now. In fact, I’ll go and put some decorations up
in my quarters. I’ve got a blue paper garland I want to hang somewhere special.”

Strafford did not ask him to explain. Not that Narraway would have. He simply took the lieutenant’s hand and clasped it, so hard he all but crushed his fingers.

“Thank you,” he said again. “Happy Christmas.”

A
NNE
P
ERRY
is the bestselling author of nine earlier holiday novels—
A Christmas Homecoming
,
A Christmas Odyssey
,
A Christmas Promise
,
A Christmas Grace
,
A Christmas Journey
,
A Christmas Visitor
,
A Christmas Guest
,
A Christmas Secret
, and
A Christmas Beginning
—as well as the William Monk series and the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt series set in Victorian England, five World War I novels, and a work of historical fiction,
The Sheen on the Silk
. She lives in Scotland.