‘Admiral Comber, rather.’
‘Ah, yes. The Admiral.’
‘Does it surprise you that the Admiral should be interested?’
‘I knew about what Lockhart was doing for him, if that’s what you are asking.’
‘The Admiral thinks that could be something to do with his death.’
Senora Lockhart did not respond.
‘There are so many things,’ she said, after a moment, ‘that could be to do with his death.’
‘Yes. Public as well as private.’
‘Public?’
‘What he was doing for the Admiral, for example. But also, perhaps, what he was doing for the Catalonians. Or, for that matter, the anarchists. But also private.’
‘Such as?’
‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.’
The Senora did not reply for quite a long time. Then she said, ‘I don’t know that I can tell you that. Or would want to. These things are, as you say, private. And perhaps it is best if they remain so.’
‘I have no wish to pry. But if they are at all to do with his death, is it not right that they should be told?’
‘I do not know. Is there to be no end to the damage?’
She was silent again for a moment and then she said, ‘You spoke of rightness, and you think of truth and of justice. But you think of it in a cold English way. No, I am not fair. I do not know you, nor the way you think. And ’Attersley — well, whatever ’Attersley may be, he is not cold. He is hot that justice should be done to my husband. But there are different sorts of justice. There is the cold, English sort but there is also a justice to feeling, and I do not know what, in the end, is the sort of justice my husband would have wanted. He was English, of course: but he was also — ’ she smiled secretly to herself — ‘a man of feeling. “Why,” I said to him once, “you are almost an Arab!” “I am, I am,” he said. “And that is why you married me.”
‘And it was true. When I first knew him he seemed to me so cold, so stiff, so English. Always calculating. That was how he struck me. Always in control of himself so that he could control others. So unfeeling. But then, suddenly, the feeling would break out, quite unexpectedly, over all sorts of things, trifles, even, and sweep you away, and I loved him for it. Do you understand me, Mademoiselle?’ she appealed to Chantale.
‘I think I do.’
‘An Arab woman is passionate and responds to passion. Is that not so?’
Chantale laughed. ‘I think it is. But perhaps it is so of all women. But I am sure you are right that we do not always read our men. Sometimes we expect passion and it is not there.’
Seymour was not entirely happy about this.
‘And sometimes we don’t expect it but then it suddenly erupts and we are bowled over by it!’
‘Exactly so!’ said Senora Lockhart, delighted. ‘“Bowled over”. That is a good way of putting it. He would have liked that. But that, you see, was how he was. About all sorts of things. The Catalonians! The Algerians! The Moroccans — to make war on them seemed a terrible thing to him, and to use the Catalonians to do it-’
‘Senora,’ said Seymour, ‘forgive me, but you are slipping away. These things are public, but were there not private things, too, that engaged his feelings?’
She gave him a long, appraising look, as if he needed to be weighed up before she would tell him anything.
‘He was a man of feeling, as I have told you. He felt strongly, yes. And sometimes he felt strongly about people.’
‘Particular people?’
‘People are always particular.’
‘You are trying to slip away again, Senora.’
She laughed.
‘Perhaps I am,’ she admitted. ‘But, you see, sometimes with his strong, erratic feelings he hurt people. Unjustly. And why should I add to that injustice? There is, as I said before, a justice to feeling as there is to fact.’
‘Can you help me a little more with that justice to feeling?’
‘I don’t think I can. This is not something that can be approached in a cold, objective, English way. It is, I think, something you have to be an Arab to understand.’
As they were going down the steps into the courtyard, they met a man coming up.
‘Why, Abou!’ cried Senora Lockhart. ‘Where have you been? I expected you an hour ago! This is my brother,’ she said to Seymour and Chantale, ‘and he is always late.’
‘I am sorry, I am sorry. They caught me just as I was leaving the office and said that something had come through about that spoiled cargo.’
‘Abou has been helping me on the business side,’ said Senora Lockhart, ‘ever since-’
‘You don’t need help, really,’ said Abou.
‘Not now, perhaps,’ said Senora Lockhart, ‘but at first-’
‘I couldn’t leave you on your own,’ said Abou. ‘It wouldn’t be right. What is a brother for?’
‘He had come over from Algiers just before,’ said Senora Lockhart. ‘Just for a short visit. But then he decided to stay.’
‘I couldn’t do anything else, could I? Not with you left alone.’
‘Ah, family, family!’ said Senora Lockhart. She put her hand on her brother’s arm. ‘But I am glad you did stay,’ she said softly.
‘And now she wants to get rid of me!’
‘No, no!’ laughed Senora Lockhart.
‘Send me back to Algiers.’
‘You are needed there, too. And, anyway, you suggested it. We agreed to divide the management,’ she said to Seymour. ‘He would look after the marine side while I concentrated on the financial side.’
‘It is better like that,’ Abou said. ‘It is harder to accept a woman in Algeria than it is in Spain.’
‘This is Senor Seymour,’ said Senora Lockhart. ‘He is a policeman. And he has come out from London to look into Lockhart’s death.’
‘Really?’ said Abou, surprised. ‘From England?’ Then he laughed. ‘England doesn’t think the Spanish police are up to it?’
‘No, no-’
‘Nor do I,’ he said drily. ‘Well, I hope you get somewhere. It hangs over us, it hangs over us. Among my people these things cannot be left. They have to be resolved, one way or another. I wish you success.’
He shook hands and started off up the stairs. As he did so he appeared to register, for the first time, Chantale’s presence.
‘Senora! I beg your pardon.’
He gave her a little, quick, formal, Spanish bow.
‘Mademoiselle de Lissac,’ said Senora Lockhart.
‘A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle.’
He seemed to see her properly for the first time. And then there was the start back that Seymour had become used to.
‘Mademoiselle…’ he said, slightly puzzled, looking at his sister.
‘Mademoiselle de Lissac is from Tangier,’ she said.
‘Ah! You are, perhaps,’ he said hesitantly, ‘a friend of Senor Lockhart’s?’
‘No,’ said Senora Lockhart firmly.
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 welclass="underline" 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.