‘But not on the Catalonians?’
‘No.’
‘Why was that?’
She looked surprised.
‘Because we are an oppressed people,’ she said seriously.
‘Clearly he felt so,’ Seymour said, ‘if he was prepared to go out into the streets that night.’
‘Yes.’
‘And was that why the police picked him up? So that he wouldn’t be able to bear witness?’
‘I think they were as frightened as we were and didn’t know what they were doing. They just picked everyone up, everyone who was there.’
‘You say “we”, Senora, does that mean that you yourself were there?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you weren’t picked up?’
‘Someone knocked me over, or I fell over. I lay there half stunned and then someone pulled me into a house.’
‘But Lockhart was taken to prison. Where he died.’
‘He was killed!’ she said passionately. ‘They killed him.’
‘ After he was taken into prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘They must have found out who he was.’
‘He was known to them, then?’
‘Lockhart was well known in Barcelona.’
‘Forgive me, Senora, known for what?’
‘Everyone knew him. He was always coming here on business.’
‘For business, then; not for anything else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For, shall we say, his sympathies?’
She laughed, a short bark of a laugh. ‘They knew his sympathies, too.’
‘But that would not be enough, surely, for them to want to kill him?’
‘It ought not to be enough. But, Senor,’ she said bitterly, ‘this is Spain.’
‘Even so-’
‘You have to understand, Senor, the kind of man that Lockhart was. It wasn’t enough for him to believe something. If he believed something, he also had to do something.’
‘He translated his beliefs into action?’
‘Yes. Yes!’
‘Catalonian beliefs? Catalonian action? But I thought you said, Senora, that he was neutral.’
‘He was neutral about the fighting. Or not neutral. He felt it was wrong. But he also felt that it was wrong to force young men into the Army and then to send them to Africa.’
‘Many would consider that stance laudable, Senora. I cannot believe that it would make a Government wish to kill him.’
‘It wasn’t just Catalonia.’
‘What was it, then?’
She didn’t reply for a moment but stood there thinking. Then she said: ‘You have seen our school. What did you think of it?’
‘Think of it?’ said Seymour, surprised. ‘Well…’
‘Different,’ said Chantale.
Nina seemed pleased.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we are different. This is a Ferrer school. You know about Ferrer schools? No? I will tell you. There are a lot of them. Especially here, around Barcelona. They were founded by Francisco Ferrer. He called them Modern Schools. You know about this?’
‘Well, I know what “modern” means…’
‘No, no, that is not it. That is not it at all. He called them Modern to mark them off from other schools. In Spain, schools are under the Church, yes? His schools were not. They were… how shall I say? Rationalist, yes? Not religious. Not under the Church.’ She paused for a moment, ‘Free-thinking,’ she said in English. ‘Is that right?’
‘Atheist?’
‘ Si. But that is not all. They were modern, too, in that the curriculum is modern. It includes, for example, science. In Church schools there is no science. It is frowned upon because it disturbs people. The Church does not like people to be disturbed. Nor does the Government, no?’
‘Well, I suppose science helps you to see things in a different way-’
‘Yes!’ she said eagerly. ‘That is it! And that is not allowed. Not in Spanish schools. It leads to children questioning. And if they question as children, they may continue to question as adults. That, say the authorities, we cannot have. In our schools. And so Ferrer started up his schools, different schools, which would offer an alternative. It is in the end a matter of freedom. Freedom from Church control. Freedom from control of all sorts! You have seen our school, yes? You have seen the children playing. It is free, yes? The children are happy, they are allowed to go their own way!’
‘Yes, I do see that. At least, that is what I gather from a first impression. And you are rightly enthusiastic about your school. But — but — forgive me, Senora — what is all this to do with Lockhart?’
‘The school was built with his money. He paid for the rooms, he bought the equipment. He helped to pay our wages. We need that because we are a private school and we have to charge. Oh, only a little, the families are poor, they can’t afford much. But each one pays something. This is important because it says that they are not beggars. But we couldn’t live on the money they give. So we wouldn’t be here if it were not for Lockhart’s money That is why I say Lockhart was not content with just words. He always had to do something.’
‘Well, that is very praiseworthy. As is his generosity. I always like people who are prepared to put their money where their mouth is. But, Senora, how does all this connect with his death? However strongly the Government might disapprove of his views on education, I cannot believe that-’
She cut him short impatiently. ‘Still you have not understood! This is an anarchist school. Anarchist, yes? You understand that?’
‘Of course I understand what anarchism is! But — look, I just can’t believe that it would be enough for the Government to want to kill him!’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ she demanded. ‘It was enough to make the Government kill Ferrer. And that was in Tragic Week, too!’
Yes, Seymour knew about anarchists. And he thought he knew about Nina, too. He had met women like her in the political East End: serious, articulate and committed; and usually a great problem for the ordinary police constable to handle. He didn’t know how to go about them. They didn’t respond to the badinage which was part of the East End policeman’s stock in trade, an essential tool in the soothing of relationships. They saw the badinage as sexual, which, admittedly, it often was, and took offence. In no time at all the policeman had bigger trouble on his hands, and he soon learned to give such women a wide berth.
Seymour didn’t mind them. He quite liked talking to them. There was an element of seriousness in their conversation that he responded to. Partly it was his own family again. They were an argumentative lot and used to holding their own corners. Seymour’s mother came from a revolutionary past in Herzegovina and his sister was a member of just about all the left-wing organizations that there were in the East End, and there were certainly plenty of those. She was a bit like Nina.
Sympathy, though, was one thing; credence quite another. He took what Nina said with a pinch of salt. He felt, though, that he had learned something about Lockhart. Several things, in fact. Perhaps there was more to the anarchist movement in Spain than he had supposed. And Lockhart seemed particularly prone to following his sympathies into all kinds of complicated political situations. The thought came to him that maybe the Deputy Commissioner had been right: this was not a thing for Scotland Yard. Or him personally. But, then, without that he wouldn’t be here, would he? And if he weren’t here, he wouldn’t be with Chantale.
Hattersley had pressed him to return for a drink that evening. Seymour had hesitated, reluctant to abandon Chantale.
‘I’m afraid I’m rather committed to a colleague,’ he said apologetically.
‘Bring him along! Yes, do!’ said Hattersley enthusiastically.
‘It’s not a him, actually-’
‘Bring her along! All the better!’
Colleague? How was he going to get out of this?
‘Not — not a police colleague, actually.’
‘No?’
Inspiration came. ‘A colleague on the Intelligence side.’
‘Really?’ Hattersley was impressed. ‘I suppose that will be on the Naval side,’ he said. ‘I must say, the Admiral has really got things moving!’