The Triple Goddess (46 page)

‘Of course the prospect of exercising free will again, after so long a period of inactivity during this…coda, I suppose would be the best way of describing it, to his life, must be frightening, even to a man of his courage. We’ll see.

‘In the meantime, giving up the treasure is a big step towards worldly divestment, and though you must decide for yourself, Arbella, I would encourage you to press on with the slip. If you can make anything of it I think it will mean a great deal to him.’

‘I am concerned about you, too. I can’t imagine what it must be like, being in such an indeterminate state of…I don’t know what to call it. Animated suspense, I suppose, rather than suspended animation.’

‘Marine-ating in my own juices, is the way I see it. But the older I get—though I don’t feel as if I am aging, it’s more a deepening than an elongation of my life—the greater understanding I have about what I already thought I knew, but did not, or only imperfectly.’

Arbella nodded. ‘It makes me wonder about the opposite condition, of those who die young, as to whether there is such a thing as premature death. I mean, if I were to get run over by a Number Twenty-Two bus while walking down the King’s Road, have I been short-changed of life? People would say that I had died “tragically”, “ before my time”, and what a cruel waste it was. Mind you, it’s unlikely: a Twenty-Two never comes along when I want one.’

‘I could only answer that by putting it the other way round: had you stepped out of the way in time, and called it luck, then yes, you might be said to have cheated death. If it was fated that you should get flattened, then it is impossible to say, because there is no definitive answer to whether or not there is such a thing as Fate, and whether it is a good thing or a bad thing.

‘But my opinion is that a life is a life, and whole, irrespective of its length. Living to a hundred does not make a person superior to a person who dies at seventy or eighty, or more complete or fulfilled. But I am no more qualified than the next person on the subject: my predicament is entirely artificial, and longevity has not made me any wiser than the next person...perhaps that answers the question better than anything.

‘What I
can
tell you about is Lloyd’s. Although this is a place, or space, created for the trading of risk, the truth is that there is not a natural-born risk-taker in the Room. If underwriters did not believe that risk can be underwritten—which means not just subscribed to but intelligently assessed and engineered—and that gamblers have short professional lives because they are always playing against the odds, they would not be here. The market is composed of cautious men who understand that risk is an enemy that one needs to keep closer than a friend, if it is to be managed and controlled.

‘In that respect, Bullion Bill Goldsack’s greed is as much a façade or ploy as another underwriter’s affectation of ignorance.

‘You should always bear in mind, Arbella, that however dismissively some underwriters may turn you down, they are only doing so reluctantly. Their livelihoods depend upon putting business on the books, not rejecting it, just as one cannot catch a fish unless one’s fly or bait is in the water. But it has to be the right business. The premium, or in your present case my father’s treasure, is the fly or bait, and you are the fisherman.’

Thus counselled, Arbella returned to the non-marine floor to see Black Jack Newbold.

Black Jack did not fit the image one might have of an underwriter. Like Carew, he never had a queue, but for a different reason: everyone, including his own employees, was terrified of him. Black Jack was a bare-knuckle prizefighter, a pirate who had no need for a patch over one eye to look the part. He had tight curls of jet-black hair, a curl to his iron lip that hammer and anvil would not straighten, and when he spoke it was in a murmur that chilled hearts.

When several years later Black Jack was jailed for “unorthodox accounting practices”, convoluted schemes to shelter syndicate members’ wealth from tax in
la famille
Newbold’s overseas bank accounts, the judge could not have been more polite as he passed sentence.

The judge was one of Black Jack’s Names.

Although Newbold headed up several important committees at Lloyd’s, he never seemed to do anything but sit at the box staring through his very underemployed claims underwriter opposite, and his very busy book-keeper; and, beyond them, through the plate-glass window into the old Lloyd’s building, now administrative offices, where someone’s secretary favoured low-buttoned blouses.

Only the most experienced brokers in the market, who knew how to escape with their hides intact, went to see Black Jack, and rarely. Neophytes who had not been warned that he showed psychopathic symptoms, and were attracted by the sight of an underwriter sitting “open” without a broker, were so damaged by their single encounter with him that they stayed away for the next forty years and had nightmares about him.

Although Arbella was as nervous of the man as anyone, she was determined not to bypass a powerful underwriter who commanded the respect of the following market; for Black Jack was a masterful assessor of opportunity and knew when to get out his pen. She knew that “broking” him was impossible, for he could sum up at a glance whatever was laid before him, and he had no tolerance for accompanying persiflage from twits in pinstriped suits...or skirts.

‘Good morning, sir.’ The white queen’s pawn advanced two squares, but the player kept her finger on the piece. Black Jack did not move his head, but hoisted an eyebrow to express disapproval of opinions regarding the fairness or foulness of the day; and that the likelihood of it being good was remote.

‘Hrr.’ Black Jack did not play chess. Rather, Shere Khan, Kipling’s tiger in
The Jungle Book
, emerged from the thicket where he had been dozing with one eye open.

Arbella unfolded her slip, placed it before him and affected nonchalance, to convey that it was of no interest to her; and either that she was merely going through the motions expected of a broker; or that she might not be responsible for putting it there. A Newboldian eye strayed below the horizontal, and the filament of courtesy was broken. Sensing that something was already amiss, Arbella withdrew her hand quickly, as if she had set down a baited mousetrap and feared for her fingers.

‘What the
fuck
is this?’ Newbold continued to review the slip.

Arbella reminded herself that this was just his way. It was an honour to be treated by Black Jack like any common or garden male drinking companion, comrade, or navvy. Aware that wild animals were antagonized by eye contact, she was relieved when her covert glance detected a smirk on Newbold’s face, as if he were amused at receiving confirmation that the world was mad. She frowned at the slip, as if she and Black Jack were on a judicial committee responsible for deciding whether or not to sentence it to be taken forth to a place of public execution and hung from the neck until it was dead.

‘The premium, sir,’ said Arbella in a condemnatory tone, ‘if one can call it that, is constituted of a long-lost collection of decorative items of unestablished provenance—the applicant assured’s proprietary right to them is unproven—and authenticity, and therefore of indeterminate value, popularly known as Colonel Barkstead’s Treasure. You are undoubtedly already aware, sir, of the stuff’s rumoured existence.

‘The postulant for contractual adoption by underwriters, Walter Ralegh, who is unemployed, alleges that he came across it whilst ferreting around under the floorboards in his apartment. For all one knows, he stole it. Many of the items of jewellery, I understand, are vulgarly large.’

Arbella fingered the mother-of-pearl brooch that she was wearing at the neck of her cream silk blouse, over her matching skin, and Black Jack’s other eyebrow rose to the same level as the first.

‘Fuck me sideways.’

‘This Ralegh, Mr Newbold, who has a less-than-stellar financial record, converted the trove to hard currency and invested it with the Rothschild Bank, where it grew to be worth a million and a half guineas—a pretentious moribund monetary unit, the guinea: one might as well round it down to pounds sterling—which he converted back into gemstones…one has to shake one’s head at the wisdom of the man’s financial adviser, (and Arbella did so, setting off a not-unattractive movement of her hair) given the erratic performance of such a commodity as an investment compared with that of, say, gold. There are no Diamond Reserves at the Bank of England, to which the House of Rothschild once
supplied enough coin to enable it to avert a market liquidity crisis
.

‘But notwithstanding Ralegh’s fickle allegiance to sound monetary practice, and impulse buying without regard to the prudent practice of diversification, in this instance the decision worked in his favour.

‘Now, although there are bound to be some duds among the jewels, Mr Newbold, some untrustworthy sources allege that many of them are of a better quality, and larger, and that there are more of them, and a greater number that are said to be flawless—expert opinions have yet to be sought—than those in the royal collection.

‘The current value is reckoned to be…well, as I say they have yet to be appraised. Though the Amsterdam cuts are laughably old-fashioned, one supposes that they might be redone, if anyone were remotely interested and could be bothered.

‘Perhaps you collect jewellery, Mr Newbold: not for yourself, of course, I was thinking of Mrs Newbold, who may on occasion have had her attention drawn to pictures of the Eugénie Blue, the Centenary diamond, the Cullinans, the Golden Eye, the Spirit of Grisogono, the Earth Star, the Golden Jubilee, the Ocean Dream, or the Hope diamond.’

Black Jack stirred and opened the side of his mouth. ‘Fuck Mrs Newbold. The fourth Mrs Newbold did a runner a few weeks back, and is shacked up in the Bahamas with a toy-boy. Neither of them have much of a future, if you ask me. There are sharks in those waters, more than previously after a recent restocking, and my men inform me that the happy couple are spending a lot of time swimming at a certain beach where nudity is permitted. Safety is a concern in such a hazardous environment.’

‘Mr Newbold, I’m touched by your solicitousness as to their plight.’ Unable to ascertain whether she had succeeded in stimulating the appetite of this fearsome plug-ugly Pavlovian dog, Arbella switched to Plan B. ‘I was going to suggest, sir, should you be moved to take a big line on this risk, that you might consider donating your share of the jewels to Lloyd’s, and trying to persuade other underwriters to do likewise. I fancy they would look very well in a new display next to the Nelson Room. The Newbold Room: the name has a certain cachet.’

‘Fuck Nelson and his room, I don’t know the meaning of the word “donate”, and the only cash-ay I want to my name is money. But since you offer, I will take a bit of what
I
fancy. Which is a pound of flesh.’ Black Jack leered at Arbella’s chest. ‘Or is it more? Talk metric if you like—how many of those are there to the kilo?’

‘I gather you are up on your Shakespeare, Mr Newbold. The alternative was for Antonio to repay Shylock three thousand ducats at no interest in three months. We are talking a lot more than three thousand ducats here, and it’s not a loan, and you would earn interest on it. So technically…’

‘John Newbold likes to get technical with his women, and he likes it when they reciprocate his love for technical detail. Jacked-up Jack gets down and dirty and sticks his nose in places that...’

‘With respect, Mr Newbold, philanthropy is a worthy motive for financial acquisition. “
Philanthropia
: the disposition or effort to promote the happiness and well-being of one’s fellow people; practical benevolence.” I looked it up in the
Oxford English Dictionary
, and made a note of it to pass on to underwriters, as an incentive to their participating on this historic placement. “Philanthropy” could be your middle name, sir.’

‘“Shark” is my middle name.’

‘Even were the Assured, who coincidentally shall also be occupying the same Bahamian waters as your wife, to suffer some accident of...’

‘Accidents,’ said Newbold, relaxing in his seat, ‘involving sharks happen more often than people know. Mostly they get hushed up so as not to put off the tourists. You’ve probably seen the film,
Jaws
. Sharks can smell a drop of blood a mile away, and rough up a body in less time than it takes a piranha to brush its teeth. Jagged flesh is the signature dental impression left by your shark’s overbite.’

‘Mr Newbold, you are a fount of oceanographic knowledge.’

‘Actually, I’m going to the Bahamas next week to put my affairs in order, both marital and financial. The area is crawling with sharks of the fish variety and offshore banks managed by the human sort. I speak the language of both fluently. You could accompany me: like sharks I have a strong appetite for flesh, and I’m ready to start interviewing for a fifth Mrs Newbold.’

‘Next week doesn’t work for me, I’m sorry to say, Mr Newbold. I’ve got a lot of work on at the moment, besides which I’ve used up my holiday allowance for the year. But were you to speed me on my way by writing…’

‘You could call it a business trip. If you agree to come along, I might give your slip a tickle with my big fat Montblanc
Masterstück
pen. It’s full of ink. There’s plenty of lead in my pencil, too, and I’m ambidextrous in their use.’

‘Oh, Chandlers wouldn’t allow me to travel on business, Mr Newbold. I’m only a junior broker.’