The Triple Goddess (34 page)

There was much clapping of backs amongst the successful parties and their supporters, and around the room hunched and arthritic veterans of the market, who under normal circumstances walked with the assistance of canes, jigged and bopped.

Imperfect, that was, except for one. For the greatest discovery, and the only thing that could have caused the brouhaha to subside as word was passed around, was the presence at the top of the slip—where Arbella knew it would be beneath the blank and sacred space that was reserved for Mr Carew’s leading line, when he had found his stamp and cleaned it and put it down and entered it, presumably with a numeric reference of zeros ending in one if he considered a lapse of a hundred-plus years worthy of starting afresh—of the glistering imprint of golden ink.

It was the right side up and as straight and even as if it had been aligned with a set square and put down by a jeweller, the pride of Goldsmiths’ Hall.

Pre-cast in the precious metal was Bullion Bill Goldsack’s signature flourish of overweening presumption; and against it, by way of asserting the impossibility of anything less, was the auric legend in emphatic capitals: ONE HUNDRED PER CENT.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Trust Bullion Bill to have upstaged everyone else! The man had flair and charisma and panache and chutzpah and
cojones
to spare, the attributes that at Lloyd’s were respected more than any, so long as they were combined with a modicum of intelligence and good judgement.

To demand a hundred per cent...even allowing for the “signing down” process whereby, in the event of oversubscription, underwriters’ lines would be reduced
pari passu
to percentages of one hundred…that was not just unreasonable but irrational and irresponsible—not least because it would deny the leader, Mr Carew, a share.

But Bullion Bill was not reasonable, rational, or responsible in his expectations; none of the fairies who had passed by his crib had come bearing such qualities.

Although the size of line that an underwriter wrote was up to him, he was expected not to be greedy on a popular slip, where there were other mouths to feed. It was not a question of security: the liability of each syndicate and the Names that it comprised, who had to show a minimum net worth or wealth before they were accepted by the Managing General Agents, was not only unlimited but backed by Lloyd’s Central Guarantee Fund.

As a courtesy, “following” syndicates did not take a bigger share than the leader, unless that leader was a small syndicate and had limited capacity; in which case, because reputation counted for more than size of line, as quality might be preferred to quantity, writing more than the leader was considered a compliment to his sagacity and insight, a recognition of his superior knowledge of the class of business and ability to make money out of it.

Even a half per cent line from certain underwriters was enough to ensure that the order was filled. Carew, for example, had taken only a two per cent share on Arbella’s risk, which would garner him very little premium on such a small contract; but Carew was in a one-man league—he could have kissed the slip and written nothing and it would be oversubscribed.

Back in the office, after the champagne and speeches from Chandler executives, and interminable questions from awed and jealous colleagues, and calls from jabbering journalists trying to make the evening deadline, and requests for interviews for the Sunday editions and magazines, Arbella begged off that evening’s dinner party amongst her social circle, and went to bed with a headache and a glass of hot milk.

She spent a restless night, which included a dream in which she was cast as an exotic character in
The Arabian Nights
. After flying through the night on a magic carpet of an underwriting slip, escorted by a golden phalanx of underwriting stamps, she descended onto the roof of the Lloyd’s building. It had sprouted minarets, and from an outside balcony a muezzin resembling Mr Archibald was summoning the ghosts of former underwriters to watch Arbella do a belly dance.

The following morning when she went up to the Room in a state of great trepidation to join Bullion Bill Goldsack’s queue, in order to attempt to discuss the size of his line with him, she was not allowed to walk unattended. A small crowd of brokers was waiting for her as she emerged from the Chandler building, eager to trail along and witness the follow-up to her epoch-making accomplishment of the day before.

As soon as she crossed Fenchurch Street she could tell, by the even greater than usual activity in the Lloyd’s Triangle between Fenchurch, Lime, and Leadenhall Streets, that the whole market was awaiting her arrival. For it was now her job to go round and pick up lines from every underwriter who had subscribed (if that is what throwing a stamp at it could be called) to the famous placement: and there were twenty-three identifiable syndicates recorded on the slip including that of Mr Carew.

In an attempt to throw off those who were tailing her, Arbella did not go into the south-east entrance as she did on most mornings but continued up to Leadenhall Street, where she turned right and, putting on a burst of speed, jinked right again into the ancient covered Leadenhall Market. There she followed her nose and dived into first a cheese shop, then one selling freshly ground coffee; and lastly a butcher’s, where she positioned herself behind the carcasses of pig and deer that were hanging on hooks across the windowless front, while packs of baying brokers, like foxhounds, having lost the scent of her Caswell-Massey rose bath soap ran querulously past.

When she could delay no longer she emerged at Moss Bros. on Lime Street and proceeded to the main entrance of Lloyd’s. There the doorman in his red and black uniform and top hat made such a fuss of her that he failed to greet the Chairman of Lloyd’s as he emerged from the back seat of his limousine and escort him to his private lift.

Some press photographers took pictures of her standing next to the doorman, demanding that she hold up her slipcase like a trophy. To her embarrassment a number of people began shouting bids for it as if she were auctioning it off, whereupon she excused herself and went inside.

Appending herself to Goldsack’s Conga line of petitioners, Arbella politely declined an offer that was passed back to advance her to the head of the queue. In addition to wanting to preserve her ordinary status she needed time to compose herself and adjust to the atmosphere of the Room, which was elevated to an unprecedented level for that time of the morning, when most underwriters and brokers were still in their offices or drinking coffee in the Captain’s Room.

Well aware that Goldsack’s cunning was deeper than Loch Ness, and murkier than Grendel’s mere, Arbella knew that the great man was expecting her. Although he did not look around she could tell from the way his glasses, which were skewed to the back of his head, were glinting that he sensed she was there.

On the morning after his
coup de théâtre
, Bullion Bill was behaving more ebulliently than ever. As the taurine pride of the Camargue treats incautious picadors in the ring, he was tossing slips and brokers with equal facility.

But when Arbella got in he relaxed and assumed a pleasant expression, stood up to greet her, shook her by the hand, inquired solicitously after her health, and complimented her on her as-ever
soignée
appearance. Arbella hoped that he had not noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Although she had no energy left to deal with histrionics, Goldsack’s courteous behaviour made her suspicious.

Goldsack sat down and waited while Arbella produced a clean copy of the celebrated document—the original, which she had brought with her to show as evidence, would be preserved for posterity. After noting the small limit and modest terms, Bullion Bill smirked at the perfection of his long-range handiwork.

‘Mr Goldsack, the whole market is singing your praises, and marvelling at the sheer balls of your…at the ballistic power of your arm and accuracy of your aim. I can’t thank you enough for your magnificent offer of support.’

Bullion Bill’s smile faded. ‘It’s not an offer, it’s a line. Using a sprat to catch a mackerel, apparently.’

‘And Chandler Brothers wishes me to convey how delighted they are with how the placement, er, went down. As is Berndt Lutefisk, the Scandinavian who is one of Oink’s…that is, my boss’s, fishing-fleet clients.’

‘So long as there’s nothing otherwise fishy about this deal.’

‘I can assure you, sir, that all of Oink’s business passes the smell test.’

‘Mine is the first stamp on the slip.’

Arbella braced herself. ‘Sir, Mr Carew is the leader. The rest of the market regards that as important.’

‘Please give Mr Carew my compliments and tell him how pleased I am to know he’s woken up. Lost his stamp, has he? He can borrow one of mine.’

‘Mr Carew’s promised line is still to be entered, sir. He is an active underwriter…’

‘That’s an oxymoron, like cheap gold. It’s not a promised line, it’s a suggestion of what he might write were he in business. Tell Mr Carew I’ve seen his suggestion and upped it times fifty.’

‘Sir, I do apologize for the unorthodox manner of presentation. Nonetheless…’

‘Nunlesswhat?’

‘I’m sure you’ll understand, sir, that a hundred per cent is out of the question. There are a lot of lines on the slip, the size of which have yet to be determined, and Mr Carew’s lead line is not intended as window dressing. You see the problem.’

‘Whaprob?’

‘There’s two per cent from the leader, Mr Carew, and twenty-two other stamps with no amounts specified that remain to be determined. You, Mr Goldsack, are the first person I have come to see, because in terms of size of line you are far and away the most important.’

‘Farnwaymos.’

‘Under the circumstances, sir, and in recognition of your most gratifying expression of confidence in the leader, Mr Carew, I’m wondering if you might consider taking a line of twenty per cent to stand. Twenty per cent, with no signing down. I don’t think Mr Carew would mind. In fact I’m sure he’d consider it an honour, and it would leave plenty for the small fry...for everyone else to share amongst themselves.

‘Your line shall be far and away the largest on the slip, Mr Goldsack, everyone will see that.’

To Arbella’s surprise Goldsack did not explode. Instead, a sly look crossed his features. ‘Very well.’ And without further ado he picked up his ordinary stamp and wrote twenty per cent on the copy slip, leaving room for Carew’s lead line above his, with unaccustomed tidiness and no spraying of ink from his quill pen.

‘In handing it back to Arbella he held onto it just long enough to mug for the telephoto camera lenses ranged along the gallery on tripods. Several dozen flash bulbs went off, and more from the cameras that a hundred brokers whipped out of their slipcases. Although photography was prohibited at Lloyd’s, today none of the waiters chose to intervene out of respect for Mr Archibald, whose first day of retirement this was.

Lastly Bullion Bill called loudly down the box for a pencil—definitive man that he was, he never had cause to use one—and crossed the syndicate numbers off the top right-hand corner of his stamp. Underwriters did this either when they could not be bothered, or did not have time, to enter the slip right away; or, as in Goldsack’s case, in order to ensure that they would get to see it again to find out how the placement had gone.

‘Bring it back when you’re done,’ he simpered, ‘and I’ll put my numbers back on.’

Arbella murmured her thanks and fled; casting a glance behind her, she saw to her relief that nobody was following her, and deduced that her fickle entourage must have decided that sport was over for the time being.

But in this she was very wrong, for as she rounded Carew’s pillar she saw with alarm that his usually deserted spot had been transformed into a bazaar. More brokers were waiting for Carew than for Goldsack on a regular day. Having concluded that he had at last emerged from his underwriting coma, and might have it in mind to make up for lost time by writing everything that moved, just as the neophytes had always been told, there was a queue of pustular youths, plus a number of grey-hairs who were hoping to revive their flagging careers by taking another shot at him.

The lure of getting a line from the most famous underwriter of all time, greater than any of the historic founders of the largest syndicates, who used to come in on Saturday mornings dressed in plus-fours, and occasionally hunting scarlet (only the non-sporting referred to riding pink these days)—was irresistible. Brokers were bringing Carew their “dogs”: the unplaceable risks that had long lain in their bottom drawers, but at some point had to see the light of day in order to secure the inevitable rejection for passing on to the client.

As out of practice as Carew was, with any luck he should be susceptible to a good broking story, and even if they only got a quarter of one per cent, it would be enough to see them home and enable them to share Arbella’s moment of fame.

Her risk, after all, had been very ordinary, and the terms were not attractive, only the broker.

If he felt like Pharaoh surveying his petitioners, Carew did not show it. It was a principle of the market that underwriters should at least look, however cursorily, at every risk that was brought to them.

But as pleasant as he was in turning away each applicant, it was clear that like Shakespeare’s Richard the Third Mr Carew was not in the giving vein today. All of the brokers’ hopes were dashed and one after another the doleful disappointed disappeared.