Free A Christmas Garland by Anne Perry Page B

every battle, every skirmish. They carry them in one after another, people who look to you to save them, and you can’t, but you try anyway. One thing you learn, Lieutenant: You can’t tell who’s going to live and who isn’t. You learn there’s something bigger than you, bigger than anything sense tells you. I believe in the impossible, good and bad. I’ve seen lots of it. I didnot kill Chuttur Singh, nor did I let Dhuleep go. I wasn’t even there.”
    Narraway wanted to have an answer, something brave and wise to say. He wished, with a hunger that consumed him, to believe in the impossible, but he could not. So he did the only thing he could bear: He lied.
    “Then I’ll believe in miracles too,” he said quietly. “And I’ll find you yours.”
    He did not remain. He had already asked all the questions he could think of. He left the prison and walked outside into the dark. The vast night sky arched over him, brilliant with stars. The faint wind stirred through the branches of the few trees, a black latticework against the sheen of light. And he felt just as boxed in, as locked and shackled, as Tallis.
    He walked for quite a distance. He knew that before he turned in he should report to Colonel Latimer, but he was putting it off as long as possible. He had learned nothing useful in the time he had been given to look into the case. Quite honestly, he did not believe any extension of the time would make a difference. It would just be putting off the inevitable and prolonging the misery for everyone, including Tallis himself.
    He turned and went in the direction of the officers’ mess, where he knew Latimer would be at this time in the evening. Probably Busby and Strafford would be with him, which would make it worse.
    He passed a couple of small buildings and heard someone tapping nails into wood. He wondered what they were making. Household furniture? Mending a chair or a table? Or maybe working on a toy for a child, a Christmas present? A wagon with wheels that turned, perhaps? He could dimly remember one in his own childhood. Only fifteen years ago he had been the right age to play with such a thing.
    Would the widow’s little boy have a wagon, or colored bricks this Christmas? Perhaps Narraway could make sure that he did. He didn’t have to give it to the boy himself; that might only embarrass her, make her feel obligated to him, and he did not want that. Would the boy even like a wagon? Wasn’t it worth trying? The little girl, Helena, had given him the blue paper chain, certain that he would like it because she liked it. He should find something for her too. He would have to ask somebody. A woman would know.
    He stopped and knocked on the door of the building where the banging came from. After several moments, a man in a leather apron came to the door. “Yes, sir?” he said politely. He was Indian, dark-skinned, black-haired.
    “Are you a carpenter?” Narraway asked.
    “No, I just mend things here and there. If you have a chair that is broken, perhaps I can help?”
    “Actually … what I want is a small wooden wagon … for a child,” Narraway replied, feeling foolish.
    The man looked surprised. “You have a son? You want something for him for a gift, sir?”
    “No … and yes. He’s not my son, but he’s lost his father. I just thought …” He trailed off, his confidence draining away.
    “I can do that,” the man said quietly. “I will make you one. Come back in a few days. I have many small pieces of wood. And red paint. It will not cost much.”
    “Thank you,” Narraway replied. “I’d like that very much. My name’s Lieutenant Narraway. I’ll be back.”
    As he walked past the next open door he heard a woman inside, singing. Her voice was soft and filled with music. He had no idea who she was, but she wassinging to someone she loved, of that he was certain. Probably it was a child. Reluctantly he moved on, out of earshot, toward the officers’ mess.
    At first Narraway was