A Christmas Garland Page 12

  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.”

  For all those who keep hope alive

  in the darkness

  THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS

  OF ANNE PERRY

  A Christmas Journey

  A Christmas Visitor

  A Christmas Guest

  A Christmas Secret

  A Christmas Beginning

  A Christmas Grace

  A Christmas Promise

  A Christmas Odyssey

  A Christmas Homecoming

  A Christmas Garland

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANNE PERRY 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.

  www.anneperry.net