A dead man of Barcelona

Chapter Six

To his surprise, that afternoon he saw someone he recognized at the Pension Francia. It was Nina, the anarchist schoolteacher. At first he thought he must be mistaken. Wasn’t this term-time and wouldn’t Nina have been at her school on the other side of Spain? But, no, it definitely was her, and Chantale confirmed it.

She was with an older lady and they were standing at the other end of the corridor. A moment later they disappeared into a room.

He hesitated, and then went along the corridor. The door of the room was open and he looked inside. It led into a small sitting room, one reserved for the use of guests. He hesitated again and then went in.

Nina and the older lady were sitting together on a sofa. They obviously knew each other well: but there was clearly a tension between them. It was almost as if Nina was glowering at the other woman. Certainly the relationship seemed prickly, but then, thought Seymour, that could well have been true of most of Nina’s relationships with people.

She looked up in surprise when he and Chantale came in and gave them, if not, perhaps, a welcoming smile, at least an indication of recognition.

‘Senor-’

‘Senorita!’

‘And Senora!’ said Nina, looking at Chantale. Wrongly, because Chantale was still a senorita; unless being slightly older than Nina entitled her to extra respect.

She turned to the woman sitting beside her. ‘These are friends who came to the school.’

‘Ah, yes?’ said the lady.

‘And this is my mother.’

‘Your mother?’ said Seymour, slightly surprised; slightly surprised, in fact, that Nina had a mother, or was prepared to acknowledge one. But if she was her mother that probably accounted for the tension.

‘ Si. I am visiting her.’

‘I expect you don’t often get a chance to see your daughter, Senora, with her living in Barcelona.’

‘Once or twice a year,’ said the woman. ‘Which is not nearly enough.’

Nina gave a sort of petulant shrug.

‘And you, Senor?’ said the mother. ‘You are not from Spain, I think?’

‘From England,’ said Nina. ‘He is a policeman. He has come out to investigate Lockhart’s death.’

Her mother seemed to flinch.

‘My mother knew Lockhart,’ said Nina.

‘Did you, Senora?’

‘Yes,’ she said, unwillingly. ‘Yes. I have known him for a long time. Ever since he came over to Spain, in fact. From when he first came to Gibraltar.’

‘He was very good to my mother when my father died,’ said Nina.

‘Yes,’ said her mother; again, almost reluctantly.

‘My father was in the Spanish Customs Office. Here in Gibraltar. And Lockhart and he were great friends.’

‘Yes,’ said her mother.

‘It was hard for her when my father died. Especially at first, before the pension came through. He paid the rent, and other things.’

‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘He was always generous in that way.’

‘And took an interest in me as I grew up. He was a sort of — godfather? Is that the right word?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Seymour.

‘He was the only one who was kind to me at the convent.’

‘Nina!’ protested her mother. ‘That is not true!’

‘It is!’ said Nina fiercely. ‘The nuns were horrible old women, and I hated them!’

‘Nina-’

‘Well, it’s true!’ Nina insisted. ‘They used to beat me.’

‘Nina-’

“They liked it, I think.’

‘Nina, that is not true. They may have seemed hard, been a little hard to you, but you were unruly and perhaps sometimes you deserved it.’

‘I always said that when I grew up, I would fight them,’ said Nina. ‘And I have.’

Her mother gave a little, despairing shrug. ‘It is wrong to bear hatred in your heart, Nina.’

‘It is better to bear hatred than to let them do what they want with you!’

Her mother shrugged again, but looked sad. This was probably familiar ground to her.

‘And, perhaps your school, as opposed to their school, was a way of fighting back?’ suggested Seymour.

Nina beamed.

‘That is precisely so!’ she said.

‘And was that why Lockhart helped the school? Gave money to start it and support it?’

‘Yes, for me, yes. And because he wanted children to be free.’

‘He should have wanted them to be good,’ said her mother.

‘Good, yes, perhaps,’ said Nina. ‘But free first!’

‘Anyway, it was right that he came to see you at the convent,’ said her mother.

‘It was, yes. Otherwise I think I might have died.’

‘Nina-’

‘Killed myself.’

‘Nina, Nina! That would be a sin!’

‘I wanted to sometimes. There was no escape. Either from them or from the place. I felt suffocated. For years I seemed to live in endless darkness.’

‘It was, perhaps, a mistake to send you to that one,’ her mother admitted. ‘I should have chosen another. Where it was less harsh. But at the time-’

Nina put her hand on her mother’s arm.

‘I understand that,’ she said, with awkward tenderness, ‘but-’

‘I am glad that at any rate he came to see you.’

‘He was a candle in the darkness,’ said Nina. “The only ray of light!’

Her mother shook her head.

‘It was very good of him,’ she said. ‘But sometimes I wish he had not.’

Seymour went out early the next morning to sniff the sea. The smell was a different one from that of the murky waters of the East End docks; he never felt inclined to go down in the morning and sniff those! They were dirty and oily and acidic, the tang so strong some days as to make you retch. That was when the fog lay heavily over London, when the smells of the docks were reinforced by the fumes rising from the old, closed courts of the east, the working, end of the city, where small workshops fed smoke into the thick, choking air that he had known from childhood.

Gibraltar was not like that. It opened out at once into the blue, glittering width of the bay and the air came in straight from the open sea. In front of him the long arm of the Old Mole curled round with just a few small boats this side of it. Behind him were the tall, thin buildings of the Old Town, with its narrow streets rising up the hill to the crenellations of the ancient Moorish castle. And, over to the side, stretching away into the far distance, were the peaks and crests of the mountains of Andalusia.

Everywhere there was warmth and light. The sun, only just becoming hot on his face, was burning the last early morning mists off the sea. The air, which later would become hot, and possibly unpleasantly so, still felt fresh in his face. He breathed deep.

Chantale would like this, he thought. He must bring her here tomorrow morning. She would enjoy the continuation of freshness and warmth, which would remind her of Tangier, and respond to the feeling of openness which came from the great bay opening up with the sea and escaping from the hills closing in behind.

And then a second thought struck him, the old, nagging doubt: could he ask her to exchange this — the sun and warmth and light — for the constricted, choking darkness of London’s dockland? Was it fair? Was it right?

Seymour had come down to the sea front so early because he was reckoning to spend the whole day making his nominal inspection of the stores. With luck that would be enough to establish a reason for his being in Spain and divert attention from the real purpose of his inquiries.

He met McPhail, still the Duty Officer, at the guardroom and walked over with him to the stores.

‘Are you finding the Francia to your taste, sir?’ the midshipman said, with a knowing smile.

The reason for the knowing smile was soon apparent. Word had got round that Seymour had Chantale with him. As he went into the stores he heard the petty officer’s voice at the far end. For a moment he was obscured by the shelving and Ferry did not see him.

‘ And he’s brought his bird with him!’

‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ asked another voice. ‘Wouldn’t you do the same?’

‘Yes, but he’s on duty, like. How did he manage that? Fly bastard, isn’t he? I wonder who’s paying?’

‘Not him, I don’t suppose. What’s she like?’

‘A bit of all right. I wouldn’t mind having a quiet evening walk along the Mole with her myself!’

‘What would Bella say to that?’

‘Bella would never know!’

‘How do you know he’s brought his bird with him?’ challenged another voice.

‘I saw them at the Francia.’

‘Well, that’s the place to stay, isn’t it, if you’re like that.’

‘Your fame precedes you, sir,’ murmured McPhail.

‘Just as it should!’ said the Admiral, over a drink at lunch in the wardroom. He gave Seymour one of the knowing looks. ‘Got your girlfriend with you, I gather?’

It didn’t take long for the news to get around, thought Seymour. He began to wonder if it had, after all, been such a good idea to bring Chantale over. Suppose word got back to London?

‘Ah, I think you’re thinking of Mademoiselle de Lissac,’ he said. ‘She’s assisting me at this end.’

‘Good-looker, I hear. You obviously know how to pick them.’

‘Purely for their Intelligence skills,’ said Seymour, hoping that that would get around, too.

‘Are we going to have a chance of seeing your assistant, sir?’ asked McPhail, as he was taking Seymour back to the stores, after lunch.

‘Maybe. But she’s busy pursuing her own line of inquiries.’

‘That would be, I understand,’ said McPhail hesitantly, ‘in the way of Intelligence?’

‘Yes. She’s Intelligence, I’m policing. I think there’s a question of broadening the inquiry.’

‘Jesus!’ he heard Ferry say. ‘They’ve brought bloody Intelligence in as well?’

‘Here, I don’t like the sound of this. It sounds a bit bigger than we thought.’

‘What the hell’s Intelligence got to do with this?’ said Ferry’s worried voice. ‘Just how deep are they going?’

Not very deep, if Seymour’s own inquiries were anything to go by. He was never at his best on this kind of thing. His mind glazed over as he went from one section of the stores to another, and seized up completely when he was confronted with that mysterious thing, ‘the Books’.

‘He don’t look happy!’ he heard someone whisper to Ferry.

‘Jesus!’

Even McPhail was impressed.

‘Are you on to something, sir?’

‘Just a few questions in my mind, that’s all.’

Like, when could he decently stop for a drink?

‘You’ve got to remember, sir,’ said McPhail, already beginning to see a need to come to the defence of his men, ‘that the Navy is not quite the same as a shore establishment. We’ve got our own ways of doing things.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ said Seymour.

It was a neutral, fobbing-off remark, and he intended nothing by it; but it had a disconcerting effect in the stores generally.

‘You’re going to have to smarten up your act, Ferry,’ Seymour heard the midshipman say.

A little later Ferry approached Seymour.

‘Of course, things may not be quite shipshape, sir. The fact is, there’s a lot of pilfering when you’re on shore. These bloody natives!’

‘The Gibraltarese?’

‘That’s right. Bloody get their hands on anything. You’ve got to watch them like a hawk. And that, though I say it myself, sir, is what I do. Keep my eyes skinned all the time. Even come here after dark occasionally, when I’m not really on watch. Just to see nobody’s breaking in. Because that’s what they do, sir, all the time. Unless you’re keeping a good lookout.’

‘It’s just as well you do, Mr Ferry.’

‘Ah, it is, sir. It is. Things go missing.’

‘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 like to. 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.

‘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.

‘Senor Lockhart? We miss him. A reasonable man — and there are not, Senor, that many reasonable men in a place like this! Sympathies?’ A shrug. ‘We all have sympathies. But we learn to keep them quiet. Now Senor 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 Senor Lockhart got caught up in it, I cannot think. But oh, yes, I can. He was a man, Senor, 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, Senor, 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, Senor. A week for paying off scores. Among so many, who would notice a few more? And that, maybe, was how it was with Senor Lockhart.’

More useful, perhaps, to talk to the women.

‘Ah, yes, Senor, that is Senora Lockhart. So sad! You have heard, yes? A wronged woman.’

‘Wronged?’

‘Well, yes, Senor. Senor Lockhart, although a good man, a very good man, and especially a good man to have a private tete-a-tete 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 Senor would accept only a little teasing, and then he would want to proceed to — well, you know, Senor! You know what men are! Are you like that, Senor?’ — taking his arm. ‘Senor Lockhart?’ — pouting. ‘Why are we talking about him? Well, if you insist… The fact is, Senor, 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 Senor 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.

‘Senor…? 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 cafe right away. It was late in the afternoon and the cafe 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 cafe. 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 them 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.

‘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!’

‘Senor,’ 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.

‘Senor,’ 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!’