The Triple Goddess (32 page)

Not only was this rude to the underwriter, and verging on offending the unwritten rules of the market, but it implied Arbella lacked negotiating skill.

Carew read the terms and thought for a moment. Then he took a pencil from his drawer, and made a notation at the top of the blank space where underwriters’ lines would go in the event of a firm order. Whatever he was writing, as Arbella looked at it upside down, was in a very small and neat hand.

‘I’ll put my stamp down and enter it later if you don’t mind. It’s going to take me a while to find the thing.’ He laughed. ‘When I do it’s sure to need cleaning. Anyway, that should get you going, Arbella. I think you have an interesting day ahead of you. I must confess to feeling rather strange, which is understandable given that I haven’t written a risk in a hundred and fifty years.’

Arbella stared from the slip to Carew, and from Carew to the slip, several times.

The underwriter redux looked at her mischievously. ‘There’s an expression you may have heard brokers use about whatever they’re hyping, if you’ll pardon the word, that it’s like pig iron under water because it’s hardly going to burst into flame or blow away…what can happen to it?, it’s money for old rope, as it were. The point being that those in peril are floating on the sea in destructible ships. My usual observation is that, well, pig iron under water gets silted over and rusts.

‘There’s another saying: that it’s so well paid you could drop the slip off the balcony, and it would be covered in lines before it hit the lower floor. I’ve always wondered what would happen if one did that.’ Carew made a wry expression. ‘Not that this one is well paid, far from it. Nonetheless, it might be worth a try.’

He folded up the slip, returned it to Arbella, winked, shook open his copy of Lloyd’s List and disappeared behind it.

Whispering a thank-you, Arbella edged away from the box without taking her eyes off the newspaper, holding her breath in case Carew should call her back and say that he had changed his mind, or that he had been a bloody fool and wanted to cancel what he had written, or that it was a joke.

But Lloyd’s underwriters did not change their minds or joke about their participations, and as soon as she was safely on the other side of the pillar Arbella placed the slip reverently in her case and buttoned it. Then, clutching the leather folder tightly to her chest, she walked to the centre of the room and up the circular staircase to the non-marine floor.

Several acquaintances tried to engage her in conversation on the way, but she murmured a greeting without stopping. At the top of the stairs she paused, her heart beating fast and hard, to peek in her case to make sure the slip was still there, with Carew’s writing on it…that it had not dissolved, or faded in disbelief at its own existence.

“2% CAR”. It was real enough.

The “upstairs rostrum”, unlike the grand canopied original downstairs, was nothing more than a small desk manned by a waiter. It was so called because, as a convenience for the non-marine brokers to save them having to go downstairs to call anyone, it was linked to the Podium proper by means of a polygraph machine. The contraption was a modern electrical version of the pantograph that Thomas Jefferson designed to make transcripts of his letters.

On a roll of paper, the upstairs waiter would inscribe with a stylus the names of non-marine brokers who were to be called. As he did so a facsimile of the name emerged, as on a Ouija board, on a similar roll downstairs for the Caller on duty to announce...once, twice, three times as the protocol was. Because the inscribing waiter’s writing was often illegible and the pen was scratchy, the Caller—who was in line of sight of his colleague upstairs—would often raise his hands in incomprehension, or pick up the telephone that connected the two stations and demand clarification.

When a certain party had successfully been alerted that someone wanted to communicate with him, and was wending his way to the main Rostrum for a rendezvous with whoever it was, the broker upstairs might attempt to attract the attention of his colleague by snapping his fingers from the balcony, to indicate who was calling him and point to a more convenient place to meet.

Although Arbella’s was a minor and unexceptional contract, she knew that the unique presentation to underwriters of a slip led by Mr Carew would cause uproar in the Room. Such was the man’s reputation—a reputation for sitting at his box and doing nothing all day—that instead of waiting for her to come and see them she would likely be besieged by underwriters importuning her for a line…which was unheard of.

As to the senior brokers’ practice of misleading rookies about Carew’s insatiable appetite for business: little did they know how right they would have been a century and a half ago. And as a return for Freddie Garbanzo-Myers’ duplicitousness, and Chumley and Ramses’ unprecedented shifty behaviour—it must have been difficult for the honest dyad to play dumb—and her boss Oink’s insulting treatment…the laugh, were Arbella the laughing sort, would be on them and a very loud and long laugh it would be.

The more she thought about it, Carew’s mention of dropping a slip off the balcony and letting people fight over it seemed the fairest and easiest method of allowing everyone an equal opportunity to subscribe to the contract. It was a silly thing to do; but everything about the last couple of days had been so out of the ordinary that she was prepared to try it and take the consequences.

When she arrived at the upstairs rostrum, the man on duty turned out to be the Head Waiter, Mr Archibald, the same Puckish fellow whose sport was to make imaginative play with her name when he was in the caller’s chair downstairs.

‘’Ello darlin’. As you can see, I’m slummin’ it this mornin’. I’m a little ’oarse.’

‘Horse, Mr Archibald?’

‘Not as in foal or colt, love. ’Oarse. Me voice is a little ’oarse.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Archibald.’

‘Self-inflicted wounds, darlin’, and undeservin’ of sympathy. I was out last night at the White ’Art wiv me mates, and then we adjourned to the King’s ’Ead, and thereafter proceeded to the Pig and Whistle. We ended up at the Goose and Firkin; and firkin awful it is that I feel today. Anyway, ’ow are
you
, luv?’

‘All right, thank you, Mr Archibald. I…’

‘Today’s me last day, ducky. Today it is that I retire. Got me pension and ’er indoors to look forward to for the rest of me days, till death us do, which ’enceforth may be sooner rather than later on account of the aforementioned proximity. Says she, “I married yer for better or worse, but not for lunch. Get yerself an ’obby, an’ I don’t mean liftin’ yer elbow at the Fox Revived.” Gor’ blimey, revivement is what I need right now, spot of ’air of the dog wot bit me.’

‘Congratulations, Mr Archibald. I’ll miss you. Mr Archibald, I want you to ask ’im…I mean the caller, to ring the Bell. Twice, for good news.’

‘The bell, luv?’ As she was speaking Mr Archibald, who greatly looked forward to his periodic josh and banter sessions with Arbella, was rewriting a name on the polygraph that his colleague below had failed to call, probably because he could not read the shakier than usual hand, on behalf of a broker who had left the upstairs rostrum just before she arrived.

‘The Bell, Mr Archibald. The Lutine bell. The thing that hangs orf…’

The words took a moment to sink in, but when they did the pen jumped in Mr Archibald’s hand and described the sort of peak associated with an earthquake of considerable magnitude on the Richter scale.

‘’Strewth, Miss Arbella, surely you jest.’

‘I’m serious, Mr Archibald.’

‘What’s got into yer, midear? It’s retribution, I s’pose, for me messin’ wiv yer name. Fair enuffski. But you know it’s more than me life’s worth to go an’ ring the Bell wivart instruction from upstairs. The Committee’ll ’ave me guts for garters. I ain’t got no clearance for to do that, as well you know.’

‘Mr Archibald, I just got a promised line from Mr Carew and he suggested that I drop the slip off the balcony and give everyone in the Room equal opportunity to write it. I need to get people’s attention all at once. Otherwise I risk being torn to shreds by importunate underwriters as soon as I start the rounds and word gets out.’

‘Nah nah nah, miss, it can’t be true. I’ve bin ’ere a long time, and me farver afore me, an’ I knows for a fact along wiv the rest of the world that Mr Carew ain’t never written no line. An’ I can’t tell no lies on the Bell, not even in fun.’

‘Look, Mr Archibald, here’s his promised line. It’s for real, on my honour as a broker.’

As the shortly to be ex-Head-Waiter looked at it, first his upper lip quivered and then the lower. ‘Lor’ luv a duck. ’Onest Injun? I wouldn’t know ’is writin’, nor would anyone else. Anyone who forged...’

‘Cross my heart, Mr Archibald. I wouldn’t pull a stunt like this on you with your pension at stake, and the Trouble and Strife to stay on the right side of. And there’s my own reputation to consider.’

Mr Archibald looked at the calendar on the desk. It was not April Fool’s Day. ‘What’s the announcement?’, he said weakly.

Arbella was struck by a reckless idea, and decided to take Carew’s suggestion literally. ‘Tell the caller to announce that a marine risk has been led by Mr Carew with a two per cent line. A Chandler Brothers’ placement. Slip to be thrown off the balcony in three seconds precisely after the second reading of this message. Every underwriter whose syndicate number is legible when the slip hits the floor, upon which the placement ceases with no exceptions, will get a line to sign as a percentage of one hundred per cent of order.’

‘Gawd. Guide’s Honour? If you ever were a Girl Guide, that is.’

‘No, but Guide’s Honour anyway.’

‘Are you sure no one’s settin’ you up for this, as a prank or merry jape? I need to be sure, Miss Arbella, no bull. I know the games that go on, I play ’em misself.’

‘Yes you do, Mr Archibald. But on this I assure you, it’s no bull. If it’s not straight up, you can leave your wife, if you like, and come and live with me.’

The phone on the desk buzzed and the head waiter picked it up. Observing his superior’s more than usually ruddy face in Arbella’s presence, the caller on duty at the downstairs, main, rostrum, was full of curiosity. But his boss was in no mood for ribaldry or insubordination.

‘What is it?’ said Archibald. ‘Nah, I’m not. Nah I wasn’t. You wish, puddin’ ’ead. Very funny. Now listen carefully, yer big dummy. Ring the bell twice, on my order. Yes, ring it. Twice—ding bloody ding. Don’t worry, it’s on my shortly-to-expire authority. Yer got that? Yes, I’m sure I’m sure. Hang on, yer twit, I ain’t finished. Write this down on yer pad, and call it word for word as I tell yer. Ready? “Announcing: a Chandler Brothers marine placement. Two per cent lead by Mr Carew.” Yes. Car-ew, as in the tu-whit tu-whoo of a bleedin’ owl. Carew the underwriter. Nah, not that bit, yer bloody fool. There’s more. “Slip will be dropped off the balcony…by Miss Arbella Stace in three seconds—three seconds as in tick tick tick—followin’ the second readin’ of this message. Every leegible syndicate number…marine underwriters only…gets a line. Placement closes when the slip touches the floor…no exceptions.”

‘Got that? Here it is again anyway.’ Mr Archibald repeated the instruction. ‘Now read it back to me. …God ’elp us, it’ll ’ave to do. Now go, and give it all you’ve got. Look, I’m still yer boss till tonight. Do it, and don’t forget to repeat it arter ringin’ the bell not once but twice, as in two times one. When it ’its the ground, I’ll be dahn wiv Miss Arbella so that she can pick it up. Clear a space for us and don’t let nobody touch it but ’er.’

Mr Archibald put down the phone, stood up and glared at the man downstairs, and signalled to him to proceed by motioning vigorously towards him with both arms. Then he collapsed into his chair. ‘What the ’ell,’ he said; ‘they can’t do nuffin’ to me, it’s me last day. Me pension’s safe. Some send-orf, eh? Forty years, and such a thing comes along a few hours afore the end of me career.’ He folded his hands over his paunch to enjoy the show. ‘Guy Fawkes night won’t be nothin’ to this. Chocks away, darlin’.’

As Arbella stepped to the balcony the Lutine bell rang twice, and an immediate hush fell upon the Room. It was extraordinary how instantly such a cacophony of commerce, such a babel of barter, such a natter of negotiation, in the heart of the City could be silenced. It was so quiet that the gentlemen farmers amongst the underwriters might have expected skylarks to start trilling above.

Then there was the sound of tapping on the microphone and several puffs of wheezy breath.

‘Announcing: A two per cent lead from Mr Carew. Marine placement by Chandler Brothers. Slip to be dropped orf the balcony in three seconds after second reading of this message. Miss Arbella is the broker. Every lee-gible marine syndicate will get a line. Placement to cease immediately upon landing, no excuses, no ’ard luck stories. To repeat…

‘...upon landing.’

Unfolding the slip, Arbella held it horizontally over the railing, counted to three and let go.

Slowly, very slowly, the length of grey cardboard began its see-saw drift. As it wafted from side to side, it was buffeted by the turbulent air set up by hundreds of sharp exhalations and inhalations and gasps of disbelief and amazement around both levels of the Room.

Non-marine underwriters, cursing the dryness of their portfolios that disqualified them from participating in the ruckus and mêlée below, stampeded to the railing for a birds’-eye view and the vicarious thrill of witnessing triumph and defeat. Each risk-assumer was on his feet and thrusting aside the brokers who had been standing or sitting next to them, who reciprocated with interest as respect for authority was abandoned and bodies scrambled to action and viewing stations.