official.
‘Señor Lockhart? We will miss him. A reasonable man – and there are not, Señor, that many reasonable men in a place like this! Sympathies?’ A shrug. ‘We all have sympathies. But we learn to keep them quiet. Now Señor 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 Señor Lockhart got caught up in it, I cannot think. But oh, yes, I can. He was a man, Señor, 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, Señor, 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, Señor. A week for paying off scores. Among so many, who would notice a few more? And that, maybe, was how it was with Señor Lockhart.’
More useful, perhaps, to talk to the women.
‘Ah, yes, Señor, that is Señora Lockhart. So sad! You have heard, yes? A wronged woman.’
‘Wronged?’
‘Well, yes, Señor. Señor Lockhart, although a good man, a very good man, and especially a good man to have a private tête-è-tête 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 Señor would accept only a little teasing, and then he would want to proceed to – well, you know, Señor! You know what men are! Are you like that, Señor?’ – taking his arm. ‘Señor Lockhart?’ – pouting. ‘Why are we talking about him? Well, if you insist . . . The fact is, Señor, 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 Señor 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.
‘Señor . . .? I am sorry, I have forgotten your name,
‘Señor Lockhart? We will miss him. A reasonable man – and there are not, Señor, that many reasonable men in a place like this! Sympathies?’ A shrug. ‘We all have sympathies. But we learn to keep them quiet. Now Señor 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 Señor Lockhart got caught up in it, I cannot think. But oh, yes, I can. He was a man, Señor, 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, Señor, 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, Señor. A week for paying off scores. Among so many, who would notice a few more? And that, maybe, was how it was with Señor Lockhart.’
More useful, perhaps, to talk to the women.
‘Ah, yes, Señor, that is Señora Lockhart. So sad! You have heard, yes? A wronged woman.’
‘Wronged?’
‘Well, yes, Señor. Señor Lockhart, although a good man, a very good man, and especially a good man to have a private tête-è-tête 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 Señor would accept only a little teasing, and then he would want to proceed to – well, you know, Señor! You know what men are! Are you like that, Señor?’ – taking his arm. ‘Señor Lockhart?’ – pouting. ‘Why are we talking about him? Well, if you insist . . . The fact is, Señor, 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 Señor 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.
‘Señor . . .? I am sorry, I have forgotten your name,
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