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.