by Anne Perry
Narraway left alone, not that he was offered much choice. As he walked away across the open space, the cold wind striking him through his uniform, he felt something of a panic. No one openly snubbed him, but neither did anyone speak to him. In a way he was grateful. He needed time alone in which to think. The answer did not lie with any of the soldiers questioned this morning. He was becoming more and more convinced that it had to do with Dhuleep and Chuttur, and the information about the patrol. If only he could grasp the missing fact that would make sense of it. How did Dhuleep know? Was Chuttur involved after all? Was it Chuttur who knew, and was tortured for it?
That answer did not help Tallis’s case at all though. He was still missing the key!
In the officers’ mess he found a place in a far corner and sat eating absentmindedly. He had no hunger, but he knew that if he ate nothing he would regret it later. How could something as rich as a curry seem tasteless?
He left the plate half-finished and went to look for the sergeant who had spent the most time with the Sikh troops, Gholab Singh. He found him in a small office in one of the barracks still largely intact.
“Yes, sir?” Gholab Singh said courteously, rising to his feet.
Narraway introduced himself and told the sergeant to be at ease.
“What can you tell me about Dhuleep Singh?” he asked as soon as the man was seated again. “Other than what I have read in his army record.”
Gholab looked uncomfortable. “I am ashamed for him, sir,” he said quietly. “To rebel openly I cannot fault him for, at least not greatly. But to betray behind the back is another thing, altogether different. He was a sneaky bastard, sir. Very clever. Always listening and adding up in his mind, that one.”
“It doesn’t surprise you that he knew the times and routes of the patrol?” Narraway asked.
Gholab shook his head sadly. “He was a tricky one. He darkens all our names.”
“And Chuttur Singh?” Narraway asked.
“A good man,” Gholab said without hesitation. “I know his brother and his cousin. Good men, all of them. Maybe a bit too trusting. Not a bad fault in a man. Better than deceit.” He shook his head. “Cousin to a snake, Dhuleep. May he eat the dust.”
Narraway stayed a little longer, asking questions as they came to his mind, but Gholab could tell him nothing further. He had no idea if either Chuttur or Dhuleep had any personal acquaintance with Tallis.
THE AFTERNOON BEGAN WITH BUSBY CALLING RAWLINS. The room sat in total silence. Tallis stared white-faced into the distance as the surgeon described the injuries to Chuttur Singh.
Busby’s expression was one of shock and deep grief. No one could imagine it. Each man in the room had seen the injuries of war, seen soldiers cut down beside them, friends, people with whom they had shared jokes and food, and dreams of home. This was different. Civilized men fought for their ideals, for their countries, sometimes whether they believed them right or wrong. To betray a man who had trusted you was an act that deserved no mercy. Indeed, if the law was to stand for anything, if it was even to survive, such an act must be punished. And Tallis knew that.
“Did Chuttur Singh fight back, Major Rawlins?” Busby asked.
“There were deep slashes on his arms, which suggest he may have tried to defend himself,” Rawlins replied. “And I believe there was a degree of blood on his own sword. I can’t tell you what that means because his sword may have been used against him.”
“To sum up,” Busby said grimly, “There was a blow to the back of his head, hard enough to have stunned him, after which he was hacked to death with at least fifteen violent blows from a sword, most likely his own.”
“Yes,” Rawlins said with a catch in his voice.
“He bled to death?” Busby pressed.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen wounds like this before?” Busby continued.
Rawlins looked, if anything, even paler. “Of course I have,” his voice grated. “I was with the regiment that relieved Cawnpore after the siege. I stood almost ankle-deep in blood at the Bibighar, where the women and children were hacked to pieces. Some of them were the families of my friends. I refuse to describe it for you. Those who saw it will never forget, and those who did not can look at the faces of those who did and thank God for their escape.”
Busby looked at him with surprise, then glanced around at the other men in the room. Narraway followed his eyes and saw what he must also have seen. Every other man there had, at one time or another, received help from Rawlins. He had relieved their pain, sat with them through times of agony that could not be helped, comforted them when they feared maiming or death, mourned with them over loss. Busby would be a fool to challenge him.
“And the men of the patrol that was ambushed,” he said, changing his line of approach. “Did you see their bodies when they were brought home … those that were?”
“They were buried where they fell,” Rawlins replied. “The two who were alive—yes, I saw them. One died shortly after being brought back. The other looks as if he will recover, but he has lost the greater part of one leg.”
“The dead, they too were hacked to pieces,” Busby said, making it a conclusion rather than a question.
“They were ambushed and died in battle,” Rawlins snapped. “You have no business, sir, to suggest that they did not fight back.”
Busby retreated. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply such a thing at all. They were surprised, betrayed, but I imagine they took a good few of the enemy with them—unlike poor Chuttur Singh, who was betrayed in quite a different manner, and outnumbered two to one.”
Rawlins said nothing.
Busby moved only slightly. The room was small, and there was no space to spare.
“Is there anything else that you can tell us of this terrible event that might help us bring the matter to resolution and allow justice to be done?”
Rawlins leaned forward a little, staring at Busby.
“Captain, it is not my job to judge any man, only to heal him if I can. I do not know exactly what happened in that prison, who did it, or why. I have told you what the injuries were to Chuttur Singh, who I examined after he was brought to the medical wing. I cannot deduce anything more than I have already told you.”
“Thank you, Major Rawlins. I had assumed as much.” Busby seemed about to add something further, then changed his mind and turned to Narraway. His expression was bland, polite even, except for a bright spark of anger in his eyes.
Narraway rose to his feet, knowing this was his last chance. He still had a small, gnawing pain inside him that he could not ignore. What if Tallis was innocent? What if there was still some different question none of them had thought to ask?
He turned to Rawlins. He was limited now. This was not his witness—he could only revisit the issues Busby had raised.
“How long have you been a surgeon with the regiment, sir?”
Busby was still standing. “Are you questioning Major Rawlins’s qualifications?” he asked incredulously.
“Of course I’m not!” Narraway said extremely tartly. “I am trying to establish his very considerable expertise. Do you think I should be questioning his qualifications?” He invested the same haughty disbelief into his own voice.
“For God’s sake, man!” Busby exploded.
Latimer banged on the table. “Captain Busby! We will not have the Lord’s name taken in vain in this court. We may be far from home, but that is all the greater reason to conduct ourselves with dignity. You will please allow Lieutenant Narraway to ask his questions. If they are inappropriate, then I shall tell him so.”
A flash of anger spread up Busby’s face, but he sat down.
Narraway was about to thank Latimer, then thought better of it. It would be rubbing in the point, probably unwisely. He merely inclined his head and turned again toward Rawlins.
“How long have you been a surgeon with the regiment, sir?” he repeated.
“Seven and a half years,” Rawlins repli
ed.
“And have you always had medical orderlies, such as John Tallis?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How long have you had John Tallis, specifically?”
“Approximately two years.”
“How has his conduct been, during that time?” Narraway could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breath catching. He did not know what Rawlins’s answer would be.
Rawlins stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. A tiny muscle ticked in his temple. His fair skin was sunburned, in places badly. He looked desperately tired.
“I found him undisciplined,” he said quietly. “His sense of humor was unreliable, to put it at its kindest. He was frequently insubordinate. He was also the best medical orderly I have ever had, and I tried to encourage him to qualify as a doctor. He is highly skilled. He never gave up on saving a man’s life or attempting to save a limb. His compassion is extraordinary. He drove some of the more rigid officers to distraction, but I never met an ordinary man, Indian or white, who did not like him. I realize that is not necessarily what you want to hear, but it is the truth.”
At the table, Latimer closed his eyes. His face was bleak, reflecting the hurt of betrayal that he felt.
Narraway did not know what to say. The air in the room seemed too heavy to breathe in. His own mouth was dry. He could not look at Tallis. Rawlins clearly not only thought unusually highly of Tallis, he liked the man. This made Tallis’s perceived betrayal a profoundly personal one, perhaps even more than it was professional, to the army and the country they both served.
Everyone was looking at Narraway, waiting for him to continue.
He gulped. He must say something.
“Did Corporal Tallis know Dhuleep Singh, as far as you are aware? Did he ever mention him, or did you see them together, Major Rawlins?”
“No.”
“Can you imagine any reason whatever why Tallis should want to rescue Dhuleep Singh?”
“No.”
“Corporal Tallis is charged with this crime not because we believe he did such a thing, but simply because it does not appear possible that anyone else could’ve. It is an accident of exclusion and not something we understand or can trace back to any behavior of Corporal Tallis. Do you know of any other reason why we should think him guilty?”
“No.”
“Had he any hatred toward any of the men on the patrol that was ambushed?”
Rawlins was startled. “Good God, no!”
“Did he even know who they were? Is he given that information?”
“No! We deal with them when they come back, not before they go,” Rawlins said bitterly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to suggest, but it is rubbish.”
“That is exactly what I am trying to suggest,” Narraway answered. “There is some major element to this that we have not yet grasped.”
“If you are looking for sense in war, then you are even younger and more naïve than I thought,” Rawlins said wearily. “If you outlive the disease, it will cure itself.”
Narraway could think of nothing to say to that. He thanked Rawlins and sat down.
It was still early, but Busby asked permission to delay calling Major Strafford until the following day, as he had a great deal of evidence to give. There might be a way, with some consideration, of shortening it without impairing the course of justice. Latimer agreed, and they adjourned by half-past four.
Narraway walked out into the waning afternoon. He felt dazed, and he ached as if he had been in a physical fight. He had only this evening in which to come up with any witness to call for a defense when Strafford was finished testifying as to his investigation.
Tallis himself was no help. He still insisted that he had no idea who could have helped Dhuleep Singh escape, only that it hadn’t been him.
Unless he could find that missing piece tonight, Narraway had nothing left except to challenge the witnesses Strafford’s questioning produced. He could imagine how successful that was likely to be. No one was going to admit to mistakes or go back on what they had first said. Continual repeating of it would have made it indelible in their minds, even if it had originally been tentative. Uncertainty would be wiped out by saying over and over again “I saw” or “I was there.” Even if doubt came, who would admit it now, with the Court looking on and the whole regiment watching?
He was walking across the open space beyond the rooms where the trial was held. The sky in the east was darkening, and little whispers of wind were stirring up eddies in the dust. Children were shouting in the distance, playing a game of some sort. A group of women stood close together, heads bent as they talked. Someone laughed: a soft, startlingly agreeable sound.
“Narraway!” a voice called out abruptly from behind him.
He turned and saw Strafford a dozen yards away, moving quickly, his boots sending up spurts of dust.
“Yes, sir?” Narraway answered obediently. This was a confrontation he would dearly like to avoid, but Strafford outranked him and so he had no escape.
Strafford reached him and stopped. He looked awkward, but the muscles were tight in his jaw, and clearly he was not going to be put off.
“I intend to call the witnesses tomorrow who can rule out every man in Cawnpore, apart from Tallis,” he said without preamble. “Don’t drag this out any longer than you have to. You can question each one as much as you like, and I appreciate that you have to make it look as if you are attempting to defend the man. But you’re new here—relatively new to India, for that matter. These men have been through hell. Every one of them has lost people he served with, people who’ve stood side by side with him in the face of the enemy.” He swallowed. “Maybe you don’t know what that means yet …”
Narraway stiffened. “I’m not a lawyer, sir, I’m a soldier,” he said sharply. “I’ve fought in the line just like anyone else. I’ve seen men die—and worse than that, I’ve seen them horribly wounded. I don’t mean to be insubordinate, sir, but you have no grounds and no right to assume that all I do is defend soldiers in a back room in some military post. I’m doing this because I was ordered to, not because I chose it.”
“I know that, Narraway, damn it!” Strafford said angrily. “Who the hell do you think chose you? Latimer doesn’t know you from the clerk who writes up the dispatches home.”
“Then he should bloody well look at the pips on my shoulders!” Narraway snapped.
Strafford almost smiled but stopped himself. “Would you prefer it if I said he doesn’t know you from any other newly commissioned young officer fresh off the boat? I do, however, at least by repute.”
Narraway’s heart sank. Here was the issue of Strafford’s brother again, the whole school record, the teasing, some of it less than good-natured, the inner contempt from the “swot” who preferred classics to sports—except cricket.
“Is that why you suggested to Colonel Latimer that he have me defend Tallis?” Narraway asked bitterly.
Strafford’s eyebrows rose. “Did you think I picked your name out of a hat? Of course it is. You’re a stubborn bastard, and you won’t be beaten until you can see it so close in front of you you’ll hit your nose if you take another step. Every man, no matter what he’s accused of, deserves someone to speak for him. And right here and now, in this gutted town with its ground still reeking of blood, we need to be sure we’re hanging the right man, and then we need to do it quickly. Fight, by all means, but when you’re beaten, which will be tomorrow, give up. Don’t give Tallis false hope. That’s like a cat playing with a mouse. Let the end be quick and clean.”
Narraway looked at Strafford, searching his face. He saw dislike in it, but not deceit.
“Are you absolutely certain Tallis is guilty?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” Strafford replied without hesitation. “I’ve looked into every other possibility, and it could have been no one else. Damn it, Narraway, the man may be an insubordinate clown, but he’s one of the best medical orderlies I’ve ever seen.
Men respect him. He’s probably saved as many lives over the last couple of years as Rawlins himself. Do you think I’d pin this on him if there were any other man it could have been? I want the truth—and I wish this weren’t it, but it is.”
“Why?” Narraway asked stubbornly. “Why would Tallis rescue Dhuleep Singh? They didn’t even know each other. If they did, you’d have produced a witness to say so.”
“I don’t know,” Strafford admitted, miserable but not disconcerted. “Why do people do half the desperate or idiotic things they do? When you’ve been here another year or two, you won’t ask questions like that. Where were you during the summer? Not here! Not watching men you know dying of heatstroke or cholera, getting weaker day by day, sharing what food and water there was, protecting the women, desperate to save them. You weren’t here crouching behind that pathetic wall of earth, with nothing to shield you but a few bits of wood planking and some boxes, knowing that devil Nana Sahib was massing his hordes around you, growing closer every hour.”
Narraway wanted to interrupt him, but he dared not.
“Some of these men have seen hell in a way few people ever do,” Strafford went on. “Look in their faces sometime, Lieutenant. Look in their eyes, then come back and ask me why they do crazy things, or forget who they are or why they’re here. Imagine what Tallis has seen, and ask me if he could have gone mad and acted in a way that makes no sense. Maybe he thought Chuttur Singh was Nana Sahib, or some other monster who cut up women and children. Maybe he simply lost his mind for a moment. I don’t know. I just know that no one else could have done it. Believe me, I wish they could have. I tried to find any other answer.”
Narraway felt as if he had suddenly tripped and fallen, or that the ground had risen up and struck him. Of course men who had endured what these men had could not be expected to keep the grip on sanity that men sitting comfortably at home could.
Tallis’s clear blue eyes did not look insane. Desperate, perhaps, lit with an occasional, wild, mocking humor; but was that madness or the ultimate sanity? The only way to survive might be to take life a minute at a time, laugh when you could, weep when you had to.
