A Christmas Garland (6 page)

“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.

N
ARRAWAY FOUND
A
TTWOOD
,
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.

“Then help me to do it as nobly as possible,” Narraway snapped. “When you were inside, what did you see, apart from Grant on the floor beside the dying guard?”

“No one else, sir,” Attwood answered dutifully. “I
looked into the cell where Dhuleep had been. No one there, just bloodstained bedding on the floor.”

“Lot of blood?”

“Quite a bit. As if there’d been a bit of a struggle, like someone—Dhuleep or Tallis—slashed at Chuttur, one man armed with one o’ them long Sikh swords—edges like a razor, they ’ave—the other one trying to defend ’imself and not making much of it. Bloody murder, it was. Hardly a battle at all. Thank Tallis for that. Must ’ave caught Chuttur a hell of a whack before ’e ever let Dhuleep out. Damn coward, if you ask me—sir.”

Narraway kept his temper with difficulty. It was not that he objected to what Attwood was saying, or to his contempt. He was angry with his own helplessness, and there was a degree of frustration inside him because he resented the fact that he had liked Tallis, that Tallis had even made him believe, for a moment, in the possibility of his innocence.

“Did you hear what Chuttur Singh said to Grant?” he asked aloud.

“No. Grant told us. Don’t remember the words exact, but ’e said that someone ’ad come in an’ caught Chuttur by surprise. Chuttur didn’t tell ’im ’oo, of course. Maybe
’e didn’t even see. Poor devil was dying when we got there. ’E’d been cut to bits.” Attwood’s face was bleak with anger and grief. He was a battle-seasoned soldier, but he was not immune to pain or the loss of a fellow soldier, even after the hundreds of deaths he had encountered and the whole brutal savagery of war.

“Couldn’t ’elp ’im,” he went on. “ ’e told Grant to go after the prisoner. Said ’e knew the patrol’s route an’ that we ’ad to get ’im. We didn’t, but by God, we tried.” He clamped his mouth shut and glared at Narraway out of tear-filled blue eyes, defying him to offer pity.

“Yes, Sergeant, I know that,” Narraway agreed quietly. “Corporal Grant said you found traces of blood, and boot prints. Although I suppose the prints could have been anyone’s. Nobody saw him, is that right?”

“Nobody that’s saying so,” Attwood agreed.

“He must have had blood on him,” Narraway pointed out.

“To some people, one Sikh soldier looks like another,” Attwood said drily. “And some folks are too scared, keeping their eyes shut to what they don’t want to see. Everybody’s frightened and sick and too tired to see where they’re going half the time, never mind tell one
Sikh from another. Lost too many people, sir. Too many women and children. What kind o’ people kill women an’ children, I ask you?” He blinked, glaring at Narraway. “Don’t you string this thing out, sir. We need to finish it. Get it all squared away before Christmas. Remember ’oo we are and why we’re ’ere. Get me?”

“Yes, Sergeant, I do,” Narraway answered him. “But it’ll never be over if we don’t do it properly.”

“Then do it properly—sir,” Attwood said abruptly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to my duty.” He saluted and, without waiting for Narraway’s permission, turned on his heel and marched back up toward the magazine.

N
ARRAWAY FOUND
P
ETERSON
,
THE THIRD MAN TO ARRIVE
at the prison, sitting at ease under a tamarind tree. He was off duty for another hour or so and was smoking a cigar alone, staring into the distance. He was a private soldier of two or three years’ experience. When Narraway stopped in front of him and asked his name, he scrambled to his feet and saluted.

“Sir,” he said obediently, stubbing the cigar out with reluctance.

“At ease, Private Peterson,” Narraway replied. “I don’t think I’ll take up much of your time.” He looked at the dry grass the man had been sitting on and decided it looked comfortable enough. He sat down gingerly and waited until Peterson did also.

“Tell me about the escape of Dhuleep Singh,” Narraway said.

Peterson looked at him with as much distaste as he dared show. “You the officer who’s going to defend Tallis?”

“Someone has to,” Narraway replied.