‘Hussein. The man in Lockhart’s office.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Seymour and I come from England.’
‘From England?’ said the man, astonished. ‘Why?’
‘Lockhart had friends there.’
‘He had friends here. But-’
‘They are interested in how he came to die.’
‘We, too, are interested in how he came to die. But what business is it of theirs?’
‘Naturally, as friends-’
The Arab shook his head firmly. ‘It is no business of people in England.’
‘Well, it is,’ Seymour insisted. ‘When an Englishman dies in a Spanish prison, the English Government is always interested.’
‘This is nothing to do with Governments.’
‘Did he not die in prison?’
‘Well, yes, but-’
‘And how did he come to be there? Was not that something to do with Government?’
‘I do not think — ’ began the Arab, but stopped.
‘And was he not taken in in Tragic Week when so many others were taken in? Including Arabs? And isn’t that something to do with Government?’
‘Yes. But it had nothing to do with Lockhart.’
‘Nothing to do with Lockhart?’ said Seymour, astonished.
‘No. It was a terrible thing. But it was quite separate.’
‘But did not Lockhart go out on to the streets so that he could bear witness?’
‘Well, yes, and that was the act of a good man. But that was not why he died.’
‘Why did he die, then?’
The Arab was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘Senor, this is really no concern of yours. Nor of people in England. It is a private matter.’
‘Private!’
‘Yes. To him, to us.’
‘As friends you may think that. But if the Government-’
The Arab shook his head. ‘This was nothing to do with the Government, either Spanish or British. It was, as I have told you, a private matter. That it happened during Tragic Week was, well, incidental. The confusion of Tragic Week provided them with an opportunity. But even then they couldn’t take it. They had to wait until he was in prison. Then it became easier.’
‘Easier?’ said Seymour incredulously. ‘To kill a man when he is in prison?’
‘Yes. Because then he didn’t have his bodyguard with him.’
‘What is this about a bodyguard?’
‘You don’t know about his bodyguard? No? Well, he had one. And they were very good, too. My people. People from the Rif. Good fighters, no nonsense. They would have protected him. But, of course, when he was in prison-’
‘Why did he need a bodyguard? Who was it against?’
‘Senor, you ask too many questions, when, really, this is no concern of yours. Go home to England. Leave it to us. We shall see that justice is done.’
He rose to his feet, took Seymour by the arm, and then escorted him firmly to the door. As they stepped up on to the street he caught sight of Chantale, waiting patiently outside, and stopped suddenly.
‘Is she with you?’ he said, surprised.
‘Yes.’
The Arab looked uneasy.
‘Are you from Leila?’ he asked her.
‘Leila? Lockhart’s wife? No.’
The Arab looked again at Chantale, as if he did not believe her.
‘I was thinking of going to see her, though,’ said Seymour.
The Arab shook his head.
‘I do not think that would be wise,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
The Arab disregarded his question. He kept studying Chantale, as if fascinated. ‘Why have you come here, Senora?’ he said abruptly.
Chantale, not unnaturally, was caught for a reply.
‘Because she must,’ said Seymour.
‘I have come to find out,’ said Chantale, cleverly.
‘Leave it to us, Senora. This is not for women. Go back to your own people.’
‘Who are her people?’ said Seymour.
The Arab looked at him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is the question, isn’t it? For all of us.’
Seymour and Chantale went for a walk along Las Ramblas. There was a slight breeze, which was very welcome because it was getting towards noon and the heat was already becoming overwhelming. The sunlight seemed to bounce back off the white boulevard. The flowers around the foot of the trees wilted. The onions on their strings seemed to hang more heavily. The piles of melons which had earlier shone green and gold seemed to whiten and lose their glow. The boulevard began to empty.
They found a little restaurant in a back street just off Las Ramblas. It was a humble place, consisting just of bare tables crammed together cheek by jowl, with the legs of the chairs often so interlocking that you could not get up or sit down without disturbing everyone else. But that did not seem to matter. It soon became apparent that most of the people there knew each other. Often they had children with them, who would crawl under the tables to escape or return. No one seemed to mind. In fact, the children appeared to be generally owned. Sometimes when they were very small and creating a hullabaloo an apparent stranger would reach over from one of the adjacent tables with a piece of bread dipped in sauce and give it to the child. Usually it worked and the child would calm down.
Once they had got used to the hubbub, Seymour and Chantale rather enjoyed it. There was so much of human interest going on. And somehow the family atmosphere was just what they needed at the moment.
A man in yellow oilskins came up carrying a bucket of freshly caught fish and the proprietor came out to study them.
‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘that’s fine. But, look, people are asking for sea bass tonight. We’ve got some coming up from the market but we’ll need more. Can you get us some?’
‘I’ll ask Juan, and Silvia will bring them up if he’s got any. I want to go out.’
‘The fishing will be good tonight, will it?’
‘Yes, God willing.’
‘Or maybe you’ve got something else in mind,’ said the proprietor, laughing.
‘There is that,’ said the oilskinned man.
‘Well, just be careful, that’s all.’
The proprietor took the bucket inside and the man in oilskins waited for his return.
‘Got time for a quick one?’ asked someone at one of the tables, holding up a glass.
‘Not just now, Vincente,’ said the man in oilskins respectfully
‘Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, good luck!’
The proprietor came out again with the empty bucket and the man in oilskins took it and went off.
There was a noisy group just beside them and Seymour and Chantale couldn’t quite make out what it was. In the end they decided that there had been a family christening and these were the family elders gathered to wet the baby’s head. Someone had produced a huge camera and set it up nearby and began to take a photograph of the group. It was taking some time. The photographer’s head disappeared under the cloth and he held up a hand. At the last moment a woman gave a cry, and the proceedings stopped while she took the bottles of olive oil and whatever off the table. She put them under the table so they would be out of the line of vision. Then the group recomposed itself. The photograph was taken and normal business resumed.
Then, suddenly, there was a dismayed cry. The woman, forgetting about the condiments, had kicked them over with her foot and now there was a great pool under the table and everyone was lifting their feet and inspecting their trousers and dresses.
The woman squeezed herself out and ran to one of the waiters to get a cloth. The waiter stood with arms akimbo and said with mock severity, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just stay on for a few hours and clean it up!’
The offender began apologizing profusely. Suddenly the waiter collapsed into laughter and put his arms around her. Everyone in the restaurant roared. A couple of waiters darted over with cloths and a bucket and began wiping the people down. The owner of the cafe appeared, chuckling, and suggested that the women go out into the kitchen and take their dresses off. ‘What, again?’ said someone, and everyone burst into laughter. ‘She can save that till later,’ someone said, and again the place erupted.