A Christmas Garland: A Novel Page 4

  Narraway stood in one place after another, checking the angles of sight, the possibilities of error or invention. Could any man have been so absorbed in his work as not to notice someone else pass by him? He did not believe it.

  Had anyone left his stated position and then had to cover his absence? It seemed like the only answer. Proving it would be almost impossible. Even the attempt to prove it would earn him enemies.

  He began his questioning with Grant. He had been the first man to reach the prison after Chuttur Singh had raised the alarm. He was not yet on duty now, having been on guard most of the night before. Narraway went to see him, feeling mildly guilty for waking the man when he must be tired. But lack of time left him no alternative.

  Narraway went in through the gate, past some ponies picketed near a magnificent mango tree. He walked briskly to the veranda and up the steps, and knocked on the door. He knocked a second time, not really expecting an answer, then pushed it open and went in.

  “Corporal Grant!” he called clearly.

  There was silence.

  Rather than call again, he crossed the sitting room. There was a large, rickety table in the center with a half bottle of brandy on it, four empty soda water bottles, and a corkscrew. Used glasses sat where four card players had obviously been the previous evening. There was also a box of cigars, a few odd magazines, a rather ornate inkstand, a bundle of letters, and a revolver.

  The rest of the furniture he ignored, going past more chairs, a battered Japanese cabinet, and a corner stand with assorted hog spears, buggy whips, and a shotgun. He did glance at the various pictures hanging on the wall, hoping they might give him some idea as to Grant’s origins and character. There was a school photograph. There was also a painting of a soldier with a woman in clothes of perhaps twenty or twenty-five years ago, judging from the style of the woman’s hair and the line of as much of her dress as he could see. They were probably Grant’s parents.

  “Corporal Grant!” he called again, more loudly. He did not want to intrude into the bedroom. It would be ill-mannered. He would not appreciate a senior officer doing the same to him. Also he wished to make an ally of the man rather than an enemy, at least to begin with. “Corporal Grant!” he repeated.

  There was a stirring from the room beyond, then the sound of feet on the floor and a rustle of fabric. A moment later Grant appeared in the doorway, tousle-haired, still half asleep. His trousers had been hastily pulled on, and his tunic was not yet fastened.

  “Yes, sir. I am Grant,” he said.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Narraway began after introducing himself. “I wouldn’t waken you now, except that I have only today to speak to everyone about the Tallis case. I’ve been detailed to defend him. Since you were the first on the scene, I thought I should begin with you.”

  Grant blinked. He was a good-looking young man, perhaps four or five years older than Narraway, with a slight country burr to his voice. Narraway placed his accent as Cambridgeshire, or a little farther north. His hair was brown with a touch of auburn, his skin burned by at least one Indian summer.

  “Oh.” Grant sighed. “I see. Well, I can’t tell you anything more than what I’ve already told Captain Busby. Sorry.”

  “Finish dressing.” Narraway made it more a suggestion than an order. “I’ll make us tea.”

  Grant gestured toward the third room. “Kitchen’s there. There are servants somewhere. Probably left me to sleep. I hate having them fussing around when I’m …” He did not bother to finish the sentence. Narraway already knew he had woken him.

  Ten minutes later they sat in the central room with tea in front of them on the table. Grant was in full uniform and freshly shaved. But he still looked tired, and there were dark smudges around his eyes. He seemed nervous, but Narraway attributed that to the stress of remembering a shocking experience and having to recount it, knowing that it would end in the execution of a man he had possibly known quite well and certainly trusted.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you that makes any difference,” Grant said.

  “Just tell me what happened,” Narraway replied. “If I know what you’re going to say to Captain Busby, at least I have the chance to prepare for it.”

  Grant shook his head. “It won’t make any difference,” he said unhappily. “I don’t know what the devil got into Tallis. I always thought he was a decent chap. In fact, I liked him. Everyone did. Well … one or two of the officers thought his sense of humor was a bit off.” He looked at Narraway quickly. “They just didn’t understand. When you deal with illness and injuries every day, if you don’t laugh sometimes, even at crazy things, you go mad.”

  “You have been out here long?” Narraway asked, looking at Grant curiously, wondering what his experiences had been that caused him to speak with such feeling.

  “Couple of years,” Grant replied. “I was in the Crimea before that.”

  Narraway winced. The disasters of that war, the fatal mistakes, were legend already. “Balaklava?” he asked, before he thought of the possible inappropriateness of the question in the present circumstances.

  Grant pulled a wry face. “Thank God for Colin Campbell,” he said briefly.

  Narraway was impressed, in spite of himself. “Were you there with him?”

  Grant straightened in his seat a fraction, some of his weariness disappearing. That was an answer in itself. “Yes. Another damn stupid war we got into by accident because we didn’t look where the hell we were going!” He rubbed his hand over his brow, pushing the heavy hair back. “Sorry. There are times when I’d put the whole damn government on horseback and order them to charge the enemy guns—with bullets coated in pig grease! Mixed metaphor. Sorry. I lost friends in that too.”

  Narraway sat silent, thinking of all the young men who had died needlessly because someone didn’t know, or didn’t think about, what they were doing. Every one of them had been somebody’s son, somebody’s friend.

  Grant rubbed his hands over his face and drew in a long breath, letting it out in a sigh. “Perhaps Tallis did go mad, poor bastard. I hate this more than facing the enemy in the field. But I can only tell you what I know.”

  Narraway jerked himself back to the present.

  “That’s all I want,” he said quietly. It seemed odd to be in this silent, rather shabby house, sitting over cups of tea, talking about betrayal and murder conversationally, but with hands that trembled and voices that every now and then rasped in the throat. “You heard the prison alarm,” he prompted. “Where were you?”

  “About a hundred yards away, in one of the outbuildings,” Grant replied. “I was checking munitions stores. I dropped what I was doing and went outside—”

  “Did you see anyone else?” Narraway interrupted.

  “Not ahead of me, and I didn’t look behind. It’s sort of cluttered there … sheds, outhouses, that sort of thing. There was a pony and cart off to the left. I just noticed it out of the corner of my eye as I ran to the prison.”

  “Anybody else moving? Running?” Narraway asked.

  “No. I must have been the nearest person.”

  “When you got to the prison block, the outside door was open?”

  “No. It’s a makeshift prison. The real prison was too badly shelled. This does pretty well because it was a magazine of some sort. Not hard to make a couple of cells inside, and the whole thing locks only from the outside. Ideal, really. Escape-proof, without help.”

  “Any other prisoners there at the time?”

  “None except Dhuleep.” Grant looked down at his lean, sunburned hands on the table. “Before the mutiny there would be the occasional insubordination, drunken fights and things, maybe even a theft or two. Since the siege and the massacre, no one steps out of line. Those of us left are … close.” He looked up, hoping Narraway would understand without the need for explanation.

  Narraway nodded. “What had Dhuleep done?”

  “Dereliction of duty. Off his guard post at night. I thought he’d just
gone to get some sleep or something like that. We’re all tired, a bit jumpy.” He sighed. “But of course he could have been anywhere.”

  “Most likely trying to find information about the patrol,” Narraway replied.

  Grant looked down at the table again. “Yes—I suppose so. Looks like it now, doesn’t it?”

  “How did you get in?”

  “It’s easy enough from the outside. The key’s there.”

  “What did you find when you entered?”

  Grant’s face tightened, his eyes suddenly bleak. “Chuttur Singh was on the floor in the main room outside, lying near the door. He must have used his last ounce of strength to reach up and pull the alarm. The cell door was open. There was no one inside, just Dhuleep’s bedding on the floor and a plate of food, spilled … and blood. Lots of it. There was a trail of blood from the cell across the floor to where Chuttur had crawled. He was in a terrible state, his uniform slashed half to pieces, scarlet with his own blood. His face was gray, what I could see of it. He could hardly move.” He stopped speaking for several seconds, emotion choking him at the memory.

  Narraway waited.

  A clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Somewhere outside a child shouted, its voice innocent, happy.

  “He was dying,” Grant went on with an effort. “He told me Dhuleep had escaped and to go after him. He had to be stopped because he knew about the route of the patrol. I wanted to stay and help him. He was … there was blood everywhere!”

  He looked up at Narraway, agony in his face. “I should have stayed,” he said hoarsely. “I left him and went after Dhuleep. I—I was desperate that he shouldn’t get away, because of what Chuttur said about the patrol.”

  “How long had Dhuleep been in the cell?” Narraway asked.

  “A day or two, I think,” Grant replied.

  “So they didn’t know he had this information, or they would have changed the patrol route, or time, or something?” Narraway said.

  “Can’t have,” Grant agreed miserably. “But the patrol was ambushed. I know that for a fact.”

  “How?”

  “Tierney told me.”

  “Tierney?”

  “The one man from the patrol who lived, although he’s in a bad way. He said they were taken totally by surprise and pretty well massacred. That’s what letting Dhuleep go did. That’s why they’ll hang Tallis.” His voice cracked. “God, it’s a mess. Not that Tallis doesn’t deserve it for what happened to poor Chuttur Singh. Regardless of what happened to the patrol, no one should die lying on the floor, alone. I shouldn’t have left him.” Grant stared into the distance, perhaps into a place inside his head rather than beyond the walls of the small, shabby house. “We didn’t even get bloody Dhuleep anyway!”

  “Did you find any trace of him?” Narraway asked, although he could not think what difference it would have made in the end.

  “Not then. I suppose we thought we were on his heels and we’d catch up with him if we went fast enough. Damn lot of use that was.” He sank into a silent misery, slumped in the chair, his tea ignored.

  “So the others arrived soon after you? Attwood and Peterson?” Narraway continued.

  “Yes.”

  “How long were you alone before they came?” Narraway asked.

  Grant chewed on his lip. “About half a minute, maybe more, maybe less.”

  “Tell me what you did again, exactly.”

  “I went to Chuttur Singh.” Grant was concentrating intensely, his mind back in those first awful moments. “I … I saw all the blood, and I knew he was fatally wounded. I just wanted to … I don’t know. To say ‘save him’ is ridiculous. There was so much blood on his clothes, on the floor, it was clear he was beyond help. I suppose you don’t think. You just …” He stopped. His face was ashen.

  Narraway tried to keep the image from forming in his own mind, and failed. “You went to Chuttur Singh on the floor and realized he was past help. Then what?”

  “He said … ‘Dhuleep’s gone,’ I think. Something about someone else coming in, took him by surprise. Let Dhuleep out. He was mumbling, choking. I remember he said ‘gone.’ And then, ‘Get him, he knows the patrol.’ The man must have gone in the time it took Chuttur to crawl from the cell to the alarm.” Grant was sweating, as if in his imagination he had made that desperate crawl himself.

  “Then what?” Narraway asked.

  “Then I looked into the cell, and he was right … of course. Dhuleep was gone. There was nothing there except blood and the heap of bedding, blood on that too. That was when Attwood and Peterson came.”

  “You told them what had happened?” Narraway pressed him.

  “I told them that Dhuleep knew about the patrol and we had to catch him. Someone—I don’t remember who—kneeled to see if he could help Chuttur, then we all went outside to hunt Dhuleep.”

  “Did you go together or split up?” Narraway was still clinging to the hope that one of them might have seen someone else.

  Grant’s voice took on a weariness. “We started within sight of one another, but when there was no sign of him, we split up. I went west. I think Attwood went south and Peterson went down to the river, but I’m not sure.”

  “Did you draw others into the search? Ask people? Send anyone else out?” Narraway asked.

  “Yes, of course. Anyone we spoke to.”

  “Did you find any sign of him?” Narraway went on. “What were you looking for anyway? Footprints? How would you recognize his? Anyone who’d seen him? Who else was around? Soldiers, women and children, civilians? Who could have seen him? Surely someone must’ve, with the knowledge of hindsight?”

  “Of course,” Grant agreed with a twisted smile. “With hindsight! A Sikh soldier in uniform. Not remarkable on any military station in northern India. No one knew that he was escaping. They probably didn’t give him a second look.”

  “He’d just slashed a man to death,” Narraway pointed out. “Those long, curved swords the Sikh soldiers carry are lethal! You said there was blood everywhere. Poor Chuttur bled to death. Dhuleep wouldn’t have escaped without a mark on him. His trousers might have kept out of it, being draped and tight at the ankles as they are, and if they were dark or striped, you might not have noticed. But his tunic would be light, and they’re loose and long-skirted.” He waited expectantly, watching Grant’s face.

  “Perhaps he took it off?” Grant replied after a moment or two. “He’d have had to. You’re right, there must have been blood on it. But he did get away, and it doesn’t matter now. He’ll be miles from here. God knows where. I certainly don’t.”

  “You said you didn’t find any trace of him then.” Narraway was not ready to give up. “Did you later?”

  “Yes.” There was no light of satisfaction in Grant’s face. “There was blood, just splashes here and there. And stains against a wall and a doorpost. Didn’t help. I’d like to think some of it was his, but I don’t know whether Chuttur even got a blow in or not.”

  He lowered his eyes, his mouth pulled tight. “I’m sorry. I liked Tallis. He seemed to be one of the best. But if he engineered Dhuleep’s escape, then I’ll be happy to see him hanged. I don’t have to do anything but tell the truth for that. Someone came in from the outside. Had to. No other way. That person must have struck Chuttur, stunned him at least, and then let Dhuleep out, and maybe gone with him, leaving Chuttur to die.”

  “And you’re sure you can’t open that door except from the outside?” Narraway asked.

  “Yes. Didn’t I say that?” Grant bit his lip. “Chuttur couldn’t even get out himself. All he could do was raise the alarm and wait, poor devil. You can’t save Tallis, and you shouldn’t.” He faced Narraway squarely. There was sadness in his eyes but no doubt at all.

  NARRAWAY FOUND ATTWOOD, THE SECOND SOLDIER TO arrive at the prison, working in the magazine. He had to ask his superior officer for permission to release him for as long as Narraway required him. It was given grudgingly, and Narraway and Attwood stood in the shadow of
the magazine’s huge walls to talk. Narraway could not help wondering why General Wheeler had not chosen this for his entrenchment, rather than the miserable earthworks.

  Attwood was in his late twenties, a career soldier with a scar down one cheek and a finger missing on his left hand. He was short, solid, and barrel-chested, and had a vigorous Yorkshire accent. He regarded Narraway, who was from the south of England, with good-natured contempt.

  “Nothing to help you, sir,” he said briskly. “Heard the alarm. Ran to the prison. Got in behind Grant. Found the poor lad kneeling on the floor with Chuttur Singh, the prison guard. Damned good man. Best soldiers on earth, that lot, them and the Gurkhas.”

  “And Dhuleep Singh?” Narraway asked.

  Attwood gave him a hard stare. “Gone, o’ course. ’E’s not going to hang around, once the door’s open, is ’e? Look, I know you’ve got to put up some kind of a defense fer Tallis. It’s the law, or we can’t ’ang the bastard. But you’re on a fool’s errand. Not that we’re short on fools around here,” he added grimly.

  Narraway’s temper flared. “Anybody particular in mind, Sergeant?” he said sharply.

  “Whichever damn fool put grease on the cartridges in Dum Dum, sir. Any idiot who’d served with Indians could’ve seen that one coming. Offend every last bleedin’ one of ’em in one go!” He shook his head. “Don’t tell me it was some genius who actually wanted this bleedin’ chaos from Delhi to breakfast time!”

  Narraway recalled what Grant had said about ignorance, but he could not afford to agree with Attwood, at least not openly.

  “Fool’s errand or not,” he replied, “I have to do the best I can.”

  Attwood grinned, showing a broken front tooth. “Don’t make a mess of it—sir,” he said cheerfully. The “sir” was definitely ironic. “We don’t want to have to do it all again, so as we can ’ang ’im with a clear conscience. Honor of the regiment that you fail nobly. Sir.” In his own mind—and probably that of most soldiers’—his own three chevrons were worth more than the one pip on Narraway’s shoulder. “But you’ll fail, either way. No question to it,” he added.