Sidney Street was in Seymour’s patch and what made it even more irritating was that he had had an inkling of what was planned and had been quietly taking steps to thwart it. In his view he could have wrapped the whole thing up without the need for heavy artillery.
He had been especially anxious to do this because the area had a considerable immigrant population. Indeed, some of the gang had immigrant connections. Seymour had been eager to avoid wider repercussions in the local community. But, of course, the immigrant connection, and also a later discovery that some of them had been anarchists, was too much for the press to resist and it had had a field day. Which had not helped either with solving the crime or in relations with the community.
So, yes, Seymour had heard of Churchill; and privately thought him a trigger-happy Boy Scout with an ego larger than one of the Admiral’s battleships, a man who, if there was not a war already going on, was just the person to start one.
Seymour had arranged to meet Chantale at the Pension Francia, where, unknowingly, he had previously booked a room, and he went there now with a certain amount of apprehension. Chantale met him with a smile, however, and took him up to their room almost with pride. It was certainly very clean and respectable. But, then, so, it appeared, was the hotel as a whole; not at all what Seymour’s fears had projected after what the midshipman had said.
It was clearly a place used by the Navy. There were sturdy, weather-beaten men standing around, often with sturdy weather-beaten ladies. These were not exactly houris, however, but motherly figures, homely rather than alluring, and talking practically about dhobi-men and dhobi-marks and when houses were going to come up. There were, it is true, a few ladies who might have been houris, slim, elegant but dressed just a little too nonchalantly, and with an over-easy familiarity of address. But it took all sorts to make a world, Seymour reflected, and, probably, especially the Naval world.
One thing was definitely clear: there was no colour-bar in that world. The ladies came from all parts of the globe. There were Chinese, Indians, South Americans and Caribbeans. And they seemed to mix on terms on which, possibly, in the wardroom they might not mix.
Their room had a little balcony and they went out on to it. There were some people standing below it, talking. One of the voices sounded familiar.
‘Yes, I can let you have some calico. There’s a new roll just come in. It’s slightly spoiled at one end where the sea water got to it but it’s nothing. You can cut it off, or I’ll cut it off for you, and the rest is as good as new. Or if you like, I’ll leave it on and adjust the price accordingly. It depends what you want it for. It’s only slightly spoiled so if you’re not too bothered, you can have that bit too and have it cheap. Only the thing is, see, I won’t be able to let you have it for a day or two. It’s got to be signed off, and that could take a bit of time just at the moment. The boss says things have got to be just so. Just at the moment.’
And now Seymour knew whose the voice was. It was that of the man he had heard in the guardroom, the one whom the midshipman had been so mercilessly teasing, Ferry.
‘You interested? I’ll make a note of it if you are. In my mind. No, I’m not going to write it down. These things are best not written down. But I’ll remember it. You can count on it, right? Price? I’ll have to come back to you on that, but say five quid. No, not for the roll. For the yard. A lot? No, no, no, no! It’s dirt cheap. This is best quality calico. Straight from Pompey. You won’t find this sort of thing in the souk and you won’t find it at this sort of price anywhere. You need to think about it? Well, don’t think too long or you’ll lose the chance. There’s others after it. Best quality, this is, apart from the little bit that’s spoiled. And there’s plenty of people interested. I can keep it for a day or two, but only for a day or two. Say Friday. By then the bastard will have gone.’
The people beneath moved away.
‘You don’t need some calico, do you?’ said Seymour.
‘Calico?’ Chantale stared at him. ‘What would I want that for?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Make a sail, perhaps? Is that the sort of thing they make sails from?’
‘Why would I want to make a sail?’
‘Maybe it had better be something else. Can you think of another material?’
‘Gingham?’
‘I don’t think they’re likely to have much of that in ships’ stores. Perhaps you’d better put it more generally? “Any chance of getting some material cheap?” That sort of thing.’
‘And who am I supposed to ask?’
‘Don’t go to him directly. Ask around. I have a feeling that the women here will know.’
Senora Lockhart’s house was a large white one with little balconies in front of the upper windows, over which bright red geraniums trailed in abundance. When he rang the bell an Arab servant girl came to the door.
She showed them into a dark entrance hall at the other end of which an open door led into a small inner courtyard, in the middle of which a fountain was playing. At one corner a broad flight of steps led up to a kind of halfverandah, on which were strewn some large leather cushions. They were shown up to these and the servant girl brought them glasses of lemonade.
Chantale looked around her in surprise.
‘It’s just like an Arab house!’ she said.
A moment later Senora Lockhart came on to the verandah and they saw why. She was an Arab herself; small, almost bird-like, with slender arms and feet, middle-aged, and with a sharp Arab face and bright intelligent eyes.
She advanced on Seymour and held out her hand.
‘Mr Seymour?’ she said in English. ‘I am very pleased to see you. My friend, ’Attersley, told me that you might be coming.’
‘And this is Mademoiselle de Lissac,’ said Seymour.
The sharp brown eyes took in Chantale. ‘From Morocco?’
‘Tangier.’
‘I know it well.’
‘You know my mother, perhaps? Madame de Lissac?’
She thought. ‘I think I’ve heard of her in some connection. But, no, I don’t think I’ve actually met her. It’s been a while since I was last in Tangier. And your father: he is French, of course.’
Seymour felt that the sharp eyes had grasped at once much of Chantale’s situation: just possibly because she had known it for herself.
‘Yes,’ said Chantale. ‘But he is dead.’
‘Ah, pardon!’ She took Chantale’s hand in both of hers and pressed it sympathetically. ‘ Un militaire?’
‘Oui.’
‘I am so sorry!’
Back in English. Like many people who were familiar with several languages, like Seymour himself, she moved readily from one to another.
‘You are welcome,’ she said softly to Chantale.
They sat down on the leather cushions.
‘I don’t know if Senor Hattersley explained,’ said Seymour, ‘but I am a policeman from England. And I have come to Spain — and to Gibraltar — to find out what I can about how your husband died.’
‘Yes, he did tell me that,’ said Senora Lockhart. ‘But what he did not tell me, was why anyone in England should be interested in how my husband died.’
‘Because he was English, Senora.’
She laughed. ‘He always denied that. He said he was Scottish and that was quite different.’
‘Perhaps I should have said British.’
‘He would admit to that on occasions,’ she conceded. ‘Especially,’ she added drily, ‘when it suited him.’
‘So I have heard. And I think it is probably partly because of that that people in England are interested in what happened to him.’
‘David ’Attersley again?’