‘It’s just as well you do, Mr Ferry.’
‘Ah, it is, sir. It is. Things go missing.’
‘Ah, it is, sir. It is. Things ‘I’m sure they do.’
Again, he meant nothing by it. But it didn’t seem to assuage the petty officer’s uneasiness at all.
Midshipman McPhail’s thoughts, however, were turning, with the buoyancy of youth, away from the temporary tribulations of the store room and to more permanent interests.
‘I was wondering, sir,’ he said, as they walked away at the end of the afternoon, ‘whether your assistant would come to join us in the bar this evening?’
‘I’m sure she would. This evening, alas, she has an engagement already.’
‘A pity, sir. Perhaps some other time? We’re all rather eager to make her acquaintance, sir.’
I’ll bet you are, thought Seymour.
‘She is rather striking, sir.’
‘Yes, I think so, too.’
Perhaps it was time for a shot across the bows.
Perhaps it was time for a shot ‘She is, of course, married.’
‘She is?’ said McPhail, downcast.
‘Or very nearly,’ a slightly optimistic definition of the truth compelled him to add.
‘Knot not yet tied?’ said McPhail, cheering up.
‘Practically,’ said Seymour.
‘Oh, well,’ said the midshipman, ‘it would be nice to see her at the bar anyway.’
He seemed, however, to be weighing something in his mind.
‘She’s – she’s not an accountant, is she?’ he said hesitantly.
‘Good Lord, no! Nothing like that! She’s quite normal.’
The next day was the King’s birthday: a fact which had somehow escaped Seymour’s notice. But the Royal Birthday, Hattersley assured him, played big in Gibraltar. The Navy would dress ships, fire salutes, supply a band, march in procession, and hold a tea party for His Majesty’s loyal subjects. Everyone, but everyone, said Hattersley firmly, would be there, and he clearly took it for granted that Seymour would be, too.
Seymour was not so sure. True it could give him an opportunity to talk to members of Gibraltar’s trading community – Leila Lockhart would be there, for instance – which he quite wanted to do. They would all have known Lockhart and might be able to give him some useful information. On the other hand, however, he had arranged to spend a further, last, day in the stores and thought that by the time he had finished that, the last thing he would want to do would be to attend what was clearly going to be a heavily Imperial Occasion. No, if the day was to be cut short, he could put it to far better use. He and Chantale could –
But then he received an official invitation from the Admiral at the bottom of which was a pencilled request that Seymour should join him for a drink afterwards, together with a further request, underlined, that he should bring his Assistant (Intelligence) with him.
A roped-off enclosure on an immaculate green lawn overlooking the sea; a gigantic, seven-foot-high hat striding around, which, on inspection, had the Governor under it; ladies in feathers and ensembles which had been the glory of the London Season several seasons ago; Naval uniforms heavy with golden braid; besuited gentlemen, some of them ruddy-faced from England, others darker and browner and from a variety of places around the Mediterranean; a few unquestionably Spanish but keeping quiet about it – this was what struck Seymour when he arrived at the tea party.
There were quite a few children: cleaned up for the occasion but already sticky from the sugared cakes unwisely left unguarded on a table. And rather fewer presentable women in their early twenties, thought Seymour, with the usual male eye; although quite a lot of less presentable women in the over-twenties. Among them was Chantale, not, in her view, satisfactorily dressed, but surrounded by a gaggle – or should it be goggle? – of Naval admirers.
Seymour moved among the suits.
‘Sam Lockhart? Knew him well. Bad business, that. But that’s what you get, mixing with the Spaniards.’
‘And the Arabs,’ put in his neighbour.
‘And the Arabs, of course,’ conceded the first businessman.
‘Of course, that’s where his business was,’ said the second.
‘And look where it got him!’
Not a lot there, thought Seymour, and moved on.
‘Problems with the Spanish Customs? Who hasn’t had problems with them? But Sam had it more worked out than most of us. A little bit of this, I fancy!’ – rubbing imaginary banknotes between the fingers.
A uniform to outshine even the Navy, which could only belong to a Spanish Customs official.
‘Señor Lockhart? We will miss him. A reasonable man – and there are not, Señor, that many reasonable men in a place like this! Sympathies?’ A shrug. ‘We all have sympathies. But we learn to keep them quiet. Now Señor Lockhart never could do that. If it was not the anarchists it was the Arabs. Catalonians? There are no Catalonian Nationalists in Spain.’
His companion, also dripping with gilt:
‘Tragic Week? The name says it all. That’s what it was. A tragic week for Spain, not just for those unfortunates caught up in it. And why Señor Lockhart got caught up in it, I cannot think. But oh, yes, I can. He was a man, Señor, in whom feeling outran discretion. You know? He would see someone being robbed and then, instead of staying sensibly out of it, would rush to intervene. Killed? Frankly, Señor, I’m surprised he stayed alive so long! Especially in Barcelona. Especially in Tragic Week.’ The Customs official laid his finger alongside his nose. ‘You know, Señor. A week for paying off scores. Among so many, who would notice a few more? And that, maybe, was how it was with Señor Lockhart.’
More useful, perhaps, to talk to the women.
‘Ah, yes, Señor, that is Señora Lockhart. So sad! You have heard, yes? A wronged woman.’
‘Wronged?’
‘Well, yes, Señor. Señor Lockhart, although a good man, a very good man, and especially a good man to have a private tête-è-tête with in a carriage on a dark evening, was, nevertheless, a little bit forward. In too much of a hurry, yes? Spanish women like to hold back, to tease. But the Señor would accept only a little teasing, and then he would want to proceed to – well, you know, Señor! You know what men are! Are you like that, Señor?’ – taking his arm. ‘Señor Lockhart?’ – pouting. ‘Why are we talking about him? Well, if you insist . . . The fact is, Señor, he did not confine his attentions to unmarried ladies. Well, that is all right. Married ladies can tease, too. But sometimes men – husbands especially – do not understand. And that, I think, is perhaps what happened in Señor Lockhart’s case. A wronged husband. No, I cannot think of one in particular. There were –’ archly – ‘so many!’
An English lady was more specific.
‘Sam?’ – laughing. ‘A right one he was! A wife in every port – and there were a lot of ports in his business! It was only a question of time before someone caught up with him. And, if you really want to know what I think, I think that’s exactly what happened. They say there was a woman in Barcelona, the wife of a high-up official. And that he seized the opportunity of Tragic Week to settle the score!’
It might be worth looking into, thought Seymour. But, on the whole, he thought it was more likely to be romantic rather than real. Jealousy was supposed to be a big thing in Spain. He himself did not go in for jealousy.
He looked around to see how Chantale was getting on and if she was in need of any assistance. She didn’t seem to be, however. In fact, she seemed to be rather enjoying herself. Seymour was not a man to feel jealous, but . . . Well, on second thoughts, maybe he was a man to feel jealous. All those over-excited and, possibly, in her eyes at least, glamorous Naval officers clamouring round her. In a moment, he thought, he would go over and extricate her. Use their drink with the Admiral as pretext.
There was the Admiral. Talking to Leila Lockhart. They seemed to be deep in a serious conversation, not chattering idly. He half thought of going over but decided not to.
He shouldn’t interrupt them.
Standing not far away, on duty, so to speak, was Leila’s brother, alone. Seymour had seen him earlier talking to one or two of the businessmen, only to the men not to any of the women. But now he wasn’t talking to anybody, he was just standing there looking bored.
He noticed Seymour and came across to him.
‘Señor . . .? I am sorry, I have forgotten your name, but I do remember – you came to visit us, yes?’
‘Yes. Seymour.’
‘And your lady,’ He glanced round. ‘She is not here?’
‘Over there.’
‘Ah, yes.
He saw the knot of sailors.
‘You do not mind?’ he said.
‘I think she can look after herself.’
‘Yes, that is what Leila says. She can look after herself, she says. That is what women here say. But I do not think they are right. They are sometimes foolish. They let things go further than they should, and then it gets out of hand.’
He put up an apologetic hand. ‘I am not, of course, saying that your lady . . . But . . . It is different here. Your society and my society are different. I would never let my wife . . . But it is different here, yes. Leila is always saying that to me. “Things do not mean the same,” she says. “What looks to you like an immodest invitation means nothing of the sort over here. It is just social warmth.” Well, I take her word for it. But I find it strange.’
When Seymour got back to Barcelona he found a message from Manuel waiting for him. It said that Manuel would like to see him, so he went round to the café right away. It was late in the afternoon and the café was almost empty. It would fill up later when people on their way home from work started dropping in for their aperitif. Most of the staff came on duty then, too, and the only person there now was Dolores, wiping the tables.
‘Manuel?’
She disappeared inside. A moment later she came back.
‘He’s been having his siesta,’ she said. ‘He’s just getting up. He says to give you a beer.’
She put a beer on the table in front of him.
‘Where have you been?’ she said. ‘The cabezudos have been wondering. They think you might have gone back to England.’
‘I’ve been to Gibraltar.’
‘Ah? Where Mr Lockhart came from?’
‘That’s right. I’ve been talking to Mrs Lockhart.’
‘Mrs Lockhart,’ said Dolores bitterly. ‘Well, that must have been a pleasure.’
Seymour said nothing.
‘You might have been talking to me,’ said Dolores wistfully.
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ said Seymour.
‘Lockhart would still have been dead.’
‘How do you know?’ said Dolores. She bent over a table and rubbed it hard. ‘I would have looked after him better.’
Manuel came out and sat down beside him. Dolores scuttled away to the other side of the café. A moment later she went outside and began to wipe the tables there.
‘It has not been easy,’ said Manuel. ‘I have had to spend money.’
‘How much?’
‘Sixty.’ He put his hand on Seymour. ‘Don’t give it me now. We may have to spend more. Have you some cash with you? Good. We may need it when we get there. The sixty has all gone on just getting them ready to listen.’
‘I understand.’
Manuel got up from the table.
‘We’ll go now,’ he said, ‘if that’s all right. I don’t want to leave it too long or else they’ll change their mind. And that will mean more money.’
When they got to the prison, he didn’t go to the main entrance but to a little door round the side.
‘Ah, there you are!’ said the man who opened it.
They went in.
‘That’ll be twenty.’
‘You’ve had twenty.’
The man shrugged. ‘This was to square things inside.’
Manuel gave the man another twenty.
He led then along a corridor and then up some stone steps, and then along another corridor to a staircase. They went up the staircase to another long, bare corridor with doors along it. He stopped outside one of these.
‘You can have twenty minutes,’ he said.
He unlocked the door and they all three went in.
‘Right,’ said the man, who appeared to be a warder of some kind, ‘you’ve got visitors!’
It was pitch black and Seymour couldn’t see anything. He sensed people moving, however.
‘Just watch it!’ warned the warder. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
There was a window, high up and barred off, but what Seymour wanted now was as much ventilation as it was light.
‘I’ll leave you,’ said the warder. ‘Remember, no trouble!’ he warned.
‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Manuel.
‘Thanks.’
He might need the Spaniard to interpret if they got deep into Catalan.
‘Has he got any fags?’ asked someone.
‘I might have,’ said Manuel, who had come prepared.
He handed round cigarettes and soon to the stench of sweaty, unwashed bodies was added the acrid fumes of cheap cigarettes.
‘I want to ask about someone,’ said Seymour.
‘I want to ask ‘Okay, ask.’
‘An Englishman. His name was Lockhart.’
No one said anything.
‘He was killed. Here. In the prison.’
‘It happens,’ said someone.
‘How can it happen?’
There was a little laugh.
‘Why do you want to know?’ said someone.
‘The father is asking,’ said Manuel.
‘The father?’
‘The Englishman’s father.’
‘He shouldn’t have let his son come here.’
‘His son was killed during Tragic Week,’ said Seymour.
‘So were a lot of others.’
‘This one was killed after they had put him in prison.’
There was another silence.
‘He was a friend of the Catalonians,’ said Manuel.
‘And of the anarchists,’ said Seymour. Then he wondered if that was wise.
‘Lockhart?’ a voice questioned.
‘Si.’
‘He was a friend of Arabs, too.’
‘He seems to have been a friend of everybody!’ said a voice caustically.
‘But not of the authorities,’ said Seymour.
There was another silence.
‘Got any more fags?’
‘Here!’ said Manuel.
‘How can a man die when he is in prison?’ asked Seymour.
‘Accident,’ said someone. ‘On his way along the corridor. Or in his cell.’
‘The warders?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘They might let someone in,’ said another voice. ‘If they were told to.’
‘The Englishman was poisoned,’ said someone. He thought it may have been the Arab.
‘He was,’ said Seymour. ‘How could that happen?’
‘Easy. Get someone to poison the food.’
‘The warders?’
‘It would have to be, wouldn’t it? If it was in the kitchens, we’d have been poisoned, too, wouldn’t we?’
‘So between the kitchen and the cell?’
No one replied.
‘Do you always have the same warder?’
‘One on during the day, the other on during the night.’
‘The man who brought us?’
‘Not him, no. Two others.’
‘It would have been the last meal,’ said someone. ‘He was found dead in the morning.’
‘And who brings the last meal?’
‘The night warder.’
‘Enrico.’
There was a sudden hammering on the door.
‘One minute!
‘Señor,’ said someone urgently, ‘was this man truly a friend of Catalonia?’
�
�He was out on the streets in Tragic Week so that he could tell the world what he saw.’
‘So the bastards made sure that he couldn’t!’
The warder outside began to unlock the door.
Someone touched Seymour’s arm.
‘Señor,’ he whispered, ‘sometimes people bring food for those in the prison. It is forbidden but it is done. That is, perhaps, how the poison reached the Englishman.’
The warder came into the cell.
‘Right!’ he said. ‘Time’s up. If you’re still alive.’
‘It’s only bastards like you, Diego, that we kill!’
Chapter Seven
Looking out from the balcony of his room he saw the Chief of Police standing in the plaza below.
‘He’s been hanging around,’ Chantale said.
Seymour shrugged and then went back inside. But when he looked out again some time later the Chief was still there.
‘Does it matter?’ said Chantale.
‘No. I’m just curious.’
The Chief marched across the square to the little anarchist school.
‘I think I’ll go down,’ said Seymour.
The school had closed for the day but the two teachers were still busy in the playground doing something to one of the pieces of equipment. They didn’t look up when the Chief arrived but he spoke to them and Nina went across.
Seymour got there in time to hear the exchange.
‘So, Señora, you are still at work?’
‘So, Chief, you are again not at work?’
‘I am at work,’ retorted the Chief with dignity. ‘I am keeping an eye on things.’
‘The glasses in the bar?’
‘People,’ said the Chief heavily. ‘People who are up to something.’
‘Well, you won’t be keeping your eye on me, then,’ said Nina, and turned to go.
‘One moment, Señora!’
She stopped. ‘Si?’
‘I have come to warn you.’
‘Oh?’
‘You are mixing with bad people, Señora.’
‘Only when I talk to the police. Which isn’t very often.’
A Dead Man in Barcelona Page 9
