Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

‘She’s — she’s not an accountant, is she?’ he said hesitantly.

‘Good Lord, no! Nothing like that! She’s quite normal.’

The next day was the King’s birthday: a fact which had somehow escaped Seymour’s notice. But the Royal Birthday, Hattersley assured him, played big in Gibraltar. The Navy would dress ships, fire salutes, supply a band, march in procession, and hold a tea party for His Majesty’s loyal subjects. Everyone, but everyone, said Hattersley firmly, would be there, and he clearly took it for granted that Seymour would be, too.

Seymour was not so sure. True it could give him an opportunity to talk to members of Gibraltar’s trading community — Leila Lockhart would be there, for instance — which he quite wanted to do. They would all have known Lockhart and might be able to give him some useful information. On the other hand, however, he had arranged to spend a further, last, day in the stores and thought that by the time he had finished that, the last thing he would want to do would be to attend what was clearly going to be a heavily Imperial Occasion. No, if the day was to be cut short, he could put it to far better use. He and Chantale could But then he received an official invitation from the Admiral at the bottom of which was a pencilled request that Seymour should join him for a drink afterwards, together with a further request, underlined, that he should bring his Assistant (Intelligence) with him.

A roped-off enclosure on an immaculate green lawn overlooking the sea; a gigantic, seven-foot-high hat striding around, which, on inspection, had the Governor under it; ladies in feathers and ensembles which had been the glory of the London Season several seasons ago; Naval uniforms heavy with golden braid; besuited gentlemen, some of them ruddy-faced from England, others darker and browner and from a variety of places around the Mediterranean; a few unquestionably Spanish but keeping quiet about it — this was what struck Seymour when he arrived at the tea party.

There were quite a few children: cleaned up for the occasion but already sticky from the sugared cakes unwisely left unguarded on a table. And rather fewer presentable women in their early twenties, thought Seymour, with the usual male eye; although quite a lot of less presentable women in the over-twenties. Among them was Chantale, not, in her view, satisfactorily dressed, but surrounded by a gaggle — or should it be goggle? — of Naval admirers.

Seymour moved among the suits.

‘Sam Lockhart? Knew him well. Bad business, that. But that’s what you get, mixing with the Spaniards.’

‘And the Arabs,’ put in his neighbour.

‘And the Arabs, of course,’ conceded the first businessman.

‘Of course, that’s where his business was,’ said the second.

‘And look where it got him!’

Not a lot there, thought Seymour, and moved on.

‘Problems with the Spanish Customs? Who hasn’t had problems with them? But Sam had it more worked out than most of us. A little bit of this, I fancy!’ — rubbing imaginary banknotes between the fingers.

A uniform to outshine even the Navy, which could only belong to a Spanish Customs official.

‘Senor Lockhart? We miss him. A reasonable man — and there are not, Senor, that many reasonable men in a place like this! Sympathies?’ A shrug. ‘We all have sympathies. But we learn to keep them quiet. Now Senor Lockhart never could do that. If it was not the anarchists it was the Arabs. Catalonians? There are no Catalonian Nationalists in Spain.’

His companion, also dripping with gilt:

‘Tragic Week? The name says it all. That’s what it was. A tragic week for Spain, not just for those unfortunates caught up in it. And why Senor Lockhart got caught up in it, I cannot think. But oh, yes, I can. He was a man, Senor, in whom feeling outran discretion. You know? He would see someone being robbed and then, instead of staying sensibly out of it, would rush to intervene. Killed? Frankly, Senor, I’m surprised he stayed alive so long! Especially in Barcelona. Especially in Tragic Week.’ The Customs official laid his finger alongside his nose. ‘You know, Senor. A week for paying off scores. Among so many, who would notice a few more? And that, maybe, was how it was with Senor Lockhart.’

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.’