A Christmas Garland Read online

  “Yes, sir, very good. Healed up real well. And …” He stopped, looked at the floor. “There was a lot of blood, sir. I was scared. He made me laugh, and I felt as if it would be all right. It—it was the first time I’d been hit … sir.”

  “So you know Corporal Tallis?”

  “Yes, sir.” Avery looked so wretched, it was as if he were in physical pain.

  “Could you see the door of the prison from where you were working?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see him during that hour? Did you see him anywhere near the prison?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Narraway sat down again because he could think of nothing further to say.

  Latimer adjourned the Court, and Narraway walked out into the late afternoon. The sun was sinking low to the horizon, painting the west with burning color. The coming night had already shrouded the east, spreading a veil of shadow across the sky. He felt as if the darkness were enclosing him, wrapping around him and reaching inside.

  It was a time not to be alone.

  And yet only in solitude could he even attempt to concentrate his mind. Nothing so far helped. Every piece of testimony proved that no one else could have gone in through the prison door. And more than that, no one had an ill word to say about Tallis. None of them wished to believe him guilty.

  Strafford’s evidence had been even worse than Rawlins’s. He was a good man desperately bereaved, who had nevertheless done his duty without expecting anyone else to ease his burden. He had not wanted Tallis to be guilty. It betrayed everything he had trusted, even the past help that Tallis had been to him personally.

  Did all this make Strafford doubt his own judgment now? If he could trust and admire a man and be so bitterly mistaken, could he have faith in himself in any other judgment? If Tallis could be so infinitely less than his estimation, then who else might also be?

  And if Strafford, with his knowledge, could be wrong, why on earth did Narraway imagine that he was any better? He barely knew Tallis. He liked his humor and admired his courage. But Strafford had known the man, day in and day out, for years. He had seen his work. They had faced horror and the final, rending grief of loss together. But he’d also had the courage to accept that Tallis was guilty. What must that have cost him?

  Narraway could not shake the evidence. No one was lying; no combination of men had conspired to make the situation look this way.

  Perhaps Strafford was not being sarcastic when he said he had chosen Narraway because he believed in his stubbornness and intelligence. Maybe he really did—and far from ending up feeling furious and duped, if Narraway could find a way out, a way to restore their faith in Tallis and thus in their own judgment, Strafford would be intensely grateful?

  If that was the case, then by failing he was not only letting Tallis die, he was also letting down the whole regiment. It was a lonely and terrible thing to live without the faith you had once leaned on when all else was broken. Death might not be preferable, but there must be times, like at two o’clock in the morning, when it seemed a whole lot easier.

  And there were women and children left without their men—like the widow whose shopping he had carried and whose little girl had given him her blue paper chain, made for a Christmas her brother had said was for everybody.

  Then, suddenly, he was ashamed of his own self-absorption. Whoever was betrayed, bereaved, accused falsely or not, it was not he. He was supposed to be part of the resolution, the one who fought for justice, whether that was Tallis’s vindication or his death.

  He was still walking, aimlessly. He had intended to go to his own house and spend the evening revising all that he had learned so far, in the hope that some inconsistency would emerge or some new fact or deduction would appear.

  However, as he walked along the road, he found himself turning aside from the way to his own bungalow and going instead toward the house of the widow with the little girl who had given him the blue paper chain.

  It was almost dusk, and night would come quickly, as it always did in India. There was no lingering twilight of the north here. Soon there would be lights in the windows. Women would begin to cook an evening meal. The comfortable smells of food would fill the air. It would only be after the children had gone to bed that they would sit in the empty rooms downstairs and face the long aloneness of the night.

  Helena was sitting on the front steps, holding a doll in her arms and talking to it. She became aware of him standing at the gate and looked up. She smiled at him shyly.

  He remained where he was, smiling back at her.

  The woman came to the door. He had learned that her name was Olivia Barber. Perhaps she had seen him from the window and had come to make sure her child was safe.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant,” she said, clearly enough for him to hear her from where he was.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” he replied. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you.”

  “It’s supper time,” Helena said, still staring at him. “Are you here for supper?”

  He felt embarrassed, as if he had tried to invite himself in.

  Olivia put her hand on the child’s shoulder, pulling her back a little. “You are welcome to join us, if you would like, Lieutenant,” she said quietly. “I apologize for Helena’s forwardness.”

  He felt even more awkward, but he very much wanted to accept. He wanted the comfort, the normality of it. And he would love, above all else, to forget defeat for an hour or two.

  “Are you sure it will not inconvenience you?” he asked hesitantly.

  “I’m quite sure,” she answered, opening the door a little wider behind her.

  He went up the path and inside, Helena watching him carefully all the way. He wondered with a flash of pain if she understood yet that her father was never coming home. Was she too young for that? Had her mother even tried to explain it?

  Inside, the house was warm and tidy, full of the smells of cooking, clean laundry and some kind of polish. There were a few toys on the floor, not many. He was pleased to see that there was no wagon. But then, perhaps at five David was too big for such things? Should he ask, or was that clumsy?

  The food was not ready yet. He was invited to sit down.

  “Aren’t you going to play with me?” Helena looked disappointed. “David’s reading.”

  “Helena!” Olivia said chidingly. “The lieutenant has been working all day. He’s tired.”

  Helena’s face crumpled.

  “I’d love to play with you,” Narraway said quickly. “What game would you like?”

  He was rewarded with a beaming smile. “Hide-and-seek,” she said immediately.

  “Helena …” her mother began, but the little girl was already running away, giggling with excitement.

  Narraway stood up. “Where should I look for her?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to find her too soon. Please tell me where it’s all right for me to try.”

  Olivia laughed and gave a slight shrug. “Anywhere in this half of the house,” she replied. “You’re fairly safe to try behind all the doors and in the cupboards. She hardly ever hides there.”

  “Thank you.” He set off uncertainly. This was a house in which he was a guest, a woman’s house, full of personal and family things. It would be inexcusable to intrude. To start with, he moved tentatively, silently, then he realized it would be no fun for Helena if she could not hear him looking, puzzled, not finding her.

  “I’m coming to find you!” he said clearly. He went out into the central entranceway. “I think you’re in the coat cupboard.” He opened the door and was relieved to see nothing but coats and capes. He closed it again and saw a boot box. “Could you be in there?” he said. “Far too small—but maybe!” He opened it, sighed, and closed it again. “No. Then where can you be?”

  He kept it up, with a running commentary, going to one room after another and still not finding her. Finally there was only one room left, which was clearly her bedroom. He opened it tenta
tively, afraid of intruding.

  “She can’t be in here,” he said aloud. “It isn’t bedtime yet.” He looked around. The small bed was neatly made, except for a coverlet dropped on the floor. She wasn’t here. He was perplexed. He thought he had looked everywhere that had been suggested, excluding only the other bedrooms—Olivia’s and the one where David was reading.

  “I give up!” he said dramatically. “She’s gone!”

  There was a giggle from the coverlet on the floor, and very slowly a tousled little girl squirmed out of it, leaving it in exactly the same shape. Her face was alight with victory, eyes shining.

  “I won!” she said happily. “You didn’t find me! I’m hungry. Let’s go down for supper.” Dancing from one foot to the other, she led the way.

  Narraway followed her to the dining room and took his place at the table, opposite David, already there. He felt awkward then. He appreciated the welcome but was acutely aware that he was in another man’s place. So much of the warmth was a pretense, meant to comfort them all for a short time. It was a game that gave a few hours’ respite from reality.

  They spoke of other times and places, not India. Christmases past, the day with its promise of hope for those with the courage to accept its message and believe it.

  But when the housemaid came to take David and Helena to bed and they had all said good night, Narraway remained a little longer in the quiet room. Now that pretense had ended, he could see how tired Olivia was, what an effort it cost her to always hide her grief from them so they would not know how much everything had changed. War raged around them in every direction, but they were not afraid because, to them, she was not afraid.

  Suddenly his troubles seemed very small.

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “You have reminded me of the sanity of things that last, and that they are not always bought cheaply.”

  She looked at him in surprise, not quite sure what he meant. The meal had been simple, mostly rice.

  He seized on the first thing that came to his mind. “Have you any more garlands, paper chains? Perhaps I can help you put them up?”

  “Lieutenant, they’re only—”

  “It’ll need two of us,” he pointed out. “One at each end. Wouldn’t the children like to see them all up when they come down in the morning?”

  “You don’t have to …” she began.

  “I’d like to. We shouldn’t ever forget Christmas, or make little of it. We give presents when we can, but there’s no gift as precious as Christmas itself.” He stopped, feeling self-conscious.

  She smiled at him and stood up. “You’re quite right. Of course I’d love you to help hang the garlands up. We have five or six, and there are some wreaths of dried flowers, and ribbons.”

  She fetched them, and together they put them up with pins and tacks—not always very straight, but an hour later, when they were finished, the room was transformed. As far as Narraway was concerned, it was like nailing your flags to the mast, a statement of hope.

  “Do you think they’ll like it?” he asked, looking carefully at her face, seeing the light in it again, even a hint of laughter.

  “They’ll love it,” she said without hesitation. “I think I shall pretend to be as surprised as they’ll be, if you don’t mind?”

  “An excellent idea,” he agreed.

  “Would you like a cup of tea before you go?” she said with a smile.

  “Thank you, I really would,” he answered, following her into the kitchen while she made it.

  Afterward, thanking her again, Narraway went out into the darkness, smiling.

  Far above him, a flight of birds crossed the clear night sky and circled down toward the trees. There always seemed to be birds, except over the ruined part of the town—lots of different kinds, unfamiliar to him. He loved their easy flight, which gave an illusion of freedom, an almost magical ability to rise above anything and be wherever or whatever you wished.

  He knew perfectly well they were as subject to hunger, cold, exhaustion, and predators as anyone else, but the momentary illusion was still worth something.

  He would have to call all the witnesses again and find some discrepancy, some error or contradiction. He hated the thought of arguing and trying to trip them up. The only thing that would be worse was letting Tallis be hanged without giving it the best fight he could.

  And that brought him to the fact that he could no longer put off going to see Tallis, perhaps for the last time. The wind was rising a little whispering, murmuring. It was nearly dark, no more birds left in the sky, just a thin ribbon of red fading in the west.

  And then suddenly he had an idea—tremulous as the last light, elusive, but perhaps possible!

  FOR A FEW MOMENTS, HE THOUGHT THE TIRED GUARD would refuse to allow him in. However, he looked again at Narraway’s face, at his eyes, and must have decided that arguing with him would be a great deal more trouble than simply giving in.

  Tallis was lying on his back on the bunk, eyes wide open. He stood up as Narraway came in. He was even paler than before, and there were bruises on his skin.

  “You look terrible,” Narraway said with some concern. “Can I get Rawlins for you?”

  Tallis’s face broke into a smile. “I like your sense of humor, Lieutenant. I couldn’t have done better than that myself. To do what? You have to wait until the patient is dead before you certify it. Or have you given up on proving me innocent, and you’re going to smuggle me out as already dead and say I escaped? Stupid, but I like a man who doesn’t know when he’s beaten.”

  Narraway heard the edge in his voice, the fear just under the surface. “I was actually going to suggest that he give you something to make you look better, even if you don’t feel it,” he replied, making an effort to smile back. “I intend to finish the course, whether there’s any point to it or not. It’s one thing to be beaten; it’s another to give up.”

  “It won’t do your career any good,” Tallis observed.

  “Sit down before you fall over,” Narraway told him. “I may need your answers tomorrow.”

  “It won’t make any difference,” Tallis assured him. “In civilian life they think twice about hanging a sick man, but in the army they don’t give a damn. You can be missing arms and your legs be out cold, and some helpful bastard’ll tie you up so they can still put the noose around your neck.”

  “Thank you,” Narraway said wryly. “If I’m ever accused back at home, I’ll remember to be ill at the time. Now sit down and try to pay attention.”

  Tallis sat. In fact, it was more of an overbalancing because he had temporarily forgotten there was no chair, only the mattress on the ground. He looked up at Narraway, a flare of hope in his eyes for a moment before he remembered to disguise it.

  “Did you kill Chuttur Singh?” Narraway asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you release Dhuleep?”

  “No.”

  “What do you know about him? And don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ You’ve treated half the men in this regiment. I need you to tell me everything you know about him, whether you think it’s relevant or not. I don’t care if it’s military-related, personal, or medical. It’s not just your life that depends on it; it’s the matter of finding the man who did this, if it isn’t you. It’s about saving some kind of honor for the regiment. Unless you’re covering for someone for that very reason.”

  Tallis looked amazed. Then laughter welled up in him, and died instantly.

  “No,” he said croakily. “I’m not noble enough to swing on a rope for a crime I didn’t commit, if that’s what you think. I don’t want to be executed out here and my name to go down as traitor.” He blinked rapidly, trying to stop his eyes from filling with tears. “I don’t want my family to live with that … my mother. She was once … terribly proud of me …”

  Narraway found his own throat tight. He refused to allow in thoughts of his last parting with his own mother. She was a woman of immense elegance and quiet, very private but passionat
e, just as he was.

  “Then tell me!” he said in sudden fury, sitting down on the floor, opposite Tallis. “Tell me everything you know about Chuttur Singh and Dhuleep Singh. And be quick. I’ve only got tonight, and I’d like to get enough sleep to be able to stand straight in court and not need anyone to prop me up. It won’t make any difference if you collapse, but it might if I do!”

  “No, it won’t,” Tallis said quickly. “Not really. It’ll just look silly.”

  “Now, Corporal!” Narraway snapped. “Tell me every last detail you know about Dhuleep and Chuttur. You’ve got until midnight.”

  “What are you going to do at midnight?” Tallis asked curiously. “You need a hell of a lot of sleep, for a young and supposedly healthy soldier.”

  “I’m going to find out more about these men and put the pieces together, of course! Paint a different picture. So, Corporal Tallis, get on with it.”

  But Tallis could tell Narraway little more than he already knew. He only drew more vividly the horror and the exhaustion of the last few months. There was no anger in him, except at the circumstances that cost young men their lives, and seemingly for so little in return. There was pity and wry, twisting humor here, between the men, snatches of companionship, gulfs of loneliness and, always at the back of it, a courage that climbed up to its feet every time it was beaten down.

  Nothing Tallis said made the new theory in Narraway’s mind impossible, and at midnight, as he had promised, he left Tallis and began finding the other men, waking them up if necessary, asking the same questions of all of them.

  What had Dhuleep been like as a soldier, as a man? Obviously he was a Sikh. Some Sikhs had remained loyal to the British, some had joined the mutiny. Why had he changed sides, and—more urgently—why had no one noticed? Was he guilty of the charge for which he was imprisoned?

  “Yes—and for theft earlier on,” one weary sergeant told him, sitting half asleep in the canteen. He was blinking at Narraway with a better temper than Narraway would have shown if he had been woken up at two in the morning by some man senior to him in rank but years junior in experience.