The Triple Goddess

by Ashly Graham

  ‘I know that now, but my grandfather would never tell me the secret of how he did it: no matter how much I cajoled, he just tapped the side of his nose and winked and said it was an old sailor’s trick. He had been in the Navy during the First World War.’

  An involuntary movement of Arbella’s arm caused a stab of pain, which turned out to have been caused by a hook that had lodged in the back of her hand. She stared at the thing. Barbed hooks could not be removed without tearing the flesh, she knew that, unless they were in a finger in which case the larger ones might be pushed through, the point clipped off with pliers, and the shank withdrawn.

  Arbella was horrified: she was squeamish and could not stand the sight of blood, especially her own.

  Carew said soothingly, ‘Don’t worry, it’s barbless, I shouldn’t trust myself to have them around them otherwise. If you will permit...’ Reaching across the desk and taking Arbella’s hand, he picked a curved haemostat from his collection of instruments, and gently removed the hook with the pincers.

  ‘There, see, it’s not even bleeding.’ He gave her the fly. ‘For you, as a memento of your visit, a number twelve Greenwell’s Glory, an original imitation tied by Canon Greenwell himself. Hardly glamorous, but it’s one of my favourites.’

  Arbella, not knowing what to do with it, opened her slipcase and stuck the hook in the leather inside pocket at the back that was designed to hold folded slips. Hers had in it only the new one from Oink; all the rest were unfolded in the main section for ease of access and had scratch panels on them.

  ‘Gosh [Gosh?!], I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. Thank you very much.’ As surprised as she was, Arbella was also ashamed: usually people gave her prettier things...today, perhaps an attractor pattern such as a Wickham’s Fancy.

  ‘It’s my fault for not clearing everything away. I should do that now.’

  Mr Carew unscrewed the vice from the edge of the desk, stowed it in a cupboard, and busied himself putting the tools and accessories of his hobby in the differently sized drawers around the box that should have held the appurtenances of his trade: the stamps, and the record and premium and loss advice cards.

  When everything unprofessional was gone, he swept a few fragments of fur and feathers onto the floor, and folded his hands. The box now looked like that of any underwriter; there was a silver inkwell, a tortoiseshell pen-holder, and a pointed and notched swan quill. A clean sheet of pink blotting-paper, torn from one of the ubiquitous rectangular pads, was clamped in a semicircular wooden roller.

  Briefly Arbella wished that Carew might invite her to become his deputy. She wondered what he would give her to do...nothing, probably. What a lovely change it would be, to be reprieved from having to traipse round the market all day on murderous heels, not peddling proper business like a real broker but taking care of the dull detail side, and returning to the office to send telexes to ungrateful and nit-picking clients.

  Instead she would spend all day watching Mr Carew tying his fishing flies, perhaps lending a hand and learning to do it herself. Daydreaming, reading—Mr Carew did not seem to be an exacting sort of person, and frankly there did not seem to be much that might require to be exacted. It really was a very quiet and peaceful spot here, so near and yet so far from everything else that was going on.

  There was a lot to be said for such a life, one in which no demands were made of one, and where there were no major issues to confront or be confronted by, and no decisions to be made.

  It would be just like home.

  After a short silence Arbella realized that, now her leather slipcase was open, there was nothing for it except to do her best to interest Mr Carew in Oink’s risk. But something rebelled within her, and she closed the case and buttoned it. There was one excuse she could use.

  ‘Look, sir, I’ve got a risk I could show you, if you didn’t mind sometime—not now, because trading has been suspended while the Gold Medal presentation to Dum…to Mr Dodge-Bullitt is going on—if the Bell has rung again so that everyone can carry on I didn’t hear it. But to be honest I don’t think it would appeal to you. I’ll come back when I’ve got something more worth your while. Thank you very much for your time, however, it was a pleasure to meet you.’

  And she stood up.

  Chapter Nine

  Before she could leave Arbella was smitten with an idea, one that had nothing to do with having had second thoughts about “broking” Carew, but an idea prompted by a surprising pang of hunger. As a rule, in the strict sense of never, Arbella did not get hungry.

  ‘Mr Carew, would you like to go to lunch?’ she said; ‘I mean, as in have lunch…you know, eat lunch, rather than “go” to lunch as in being entertained like brokers entertain underwriters in order to soften them up to write their business. Soften is the wrong word. Sorry. What I mean is, presuming you don’t always have lunch at your desk, perhaps we could have it jointly somewhere. Nothing fancy. If we went now we could beat the rush because if the speeches are over and it’s business as usual, then there’s still forty-five minutes or so left before the rush.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have an expense account. Anyway, the decent restaurants are probably all booked, and I don’t see you as the sort of person who would be comfortable at the Jampot. I know, perhaps we could pick up a sandwich and take it over to the Tower. The weather’s decent enough.’

  Carew stared at her. ‘Lunch? The Tower? What…Why…I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.’

  Again Arbella felt a tweak of injury, at not being recognized. ‘Sorry…my, we are doing a lot of apologising, aren’t we? Sorry, I should have introduced myself at the beginning. It’s Arbella, Arbella Stace. Not Arabella, and never Abby, which hints at the hateful Abigail. Arbella Mary Stuart Stace. At your service, sir.’

  Carew’s body stiffened against the high back of the box, and he went even paler than he already was. Then he slowly leaned to one side and his mouth opened and closed, like a trout that had just been released after a strenuous contest with a fisherman.

  Slowly he righted himself. ‘It is an unusual name. One doesn’t hear it much these days, if at all.’

  As averse to revealing anything about herself as she was, Arbella was proud of her name. Somehow it seemed as though, in the limbo that she felt she was in at the moment, there was no need for secrecy.

  ‘That’s very true,’ she said. ‘The most famous Arbella, Arbella Stuart, was the niece of Mary Queen of Scots, and cousin to Henry, the Prince of Wales. She was the daughter of Charles Stuart and Elizabeth Cavendish, and the granddaughter of Bess of Hardwick. She had red hair, and was described as the eighth wonder of the world, and the phoenix of her sex.’

  Carew said faintly, ‘“More fairer than fair, more beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself.” How came you by the name?’

  ‘I’m descended from Arbella Stuart on my mother’s side. My hair has only a hint of red in it, though. My father’s surname is Stace, of course, and his name is Charles, too; though nobody has called him that in years. He was made a baron for his services to industry.

  ‘I often go to the Tower at lunch-time. It’s the perfect place to get away from insurance, and there are never any Chandler people there. I’ve felt an affinity with the Tower ever since I learned that Arbella Stuart was imprisoned in the Bell tower, on the upper floor.’

  ‘She was in the Lennox tower as well,’ said Carew.

  Arbella’s eyes widened. ‘You know that?’

  ‘I’m a student of things other than fly-fishing. I can go on if you like.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘When Arbella was released but remained under supervision, she gave her guards the slip and—disguised in a peruque, doublet, and black cloak, and wearing russet boots and a rapier—she sailed for France. Her plan was to unite with William Seymour there, the man she’d married without permission from her royal cousin King James. William himself had been imprisoned in the Tower, the fourth of five generations of Seymours to spend time there, but he e
scaped to Ostend. You might finish the story for me.’

  ‘Arbella didn’t know William’s whereabouts. Though her boat was within sight of Calais, she gave herself up to those who were pursuing her, who were convinced of her identity by her “marvellous white hand”. She was taken back to the Tower, and died there of starvation, having lost the will to live.

  ‘William was pardoned by King James and went on to live another fifty years. He became a Member of Parliament, Earl of Hertford and Duke of Somerset, a Privy Counsellor and a Marquis. He offered to be executed in place of Charles I.’

  Arbella was shocked to have found someone whose knowledge of the Tower, and her eponymous antecedent, rivalled hers. She decided to throw in a personal detail. ‘Arbella’s diary makes interesting reading. She had a chain of fifty-one pearls, or marguerites as they were called. My father had a similar chain made, which he gave me for my twenty-first birthday.’

  ‘You had to dress the part in those days,’ said Carew, ‘if you were to make a good impression at Court.’

  ‘So, would you like to go? If you’ve got time, that is. I know all the Yeoman Warders, and they let me go where I want. There’s the best sandwich shop on the way.’

  ‘Very well, miss…Arbella, I accept. We’ll take the door in this corner. Nobody uses it and if there’s a waiter there, which I doubt, he won’t stop me even if things are still going on at the rostrum.’

  As he stood up Arbella noted how elegantly Carew’s custom-made suit hung on his lanky frame.

  They crossed Fenchurch Street and walked past Plantation House and turned left down Mincing Lane, where the precious metals of the world, as well as its spices, grains, tea, and coffee used to be traded. At the delicatessen on the other side of Great Tower Street, Arbella was greeted by a chorus of Italian. The owner came out from the back to kiss her on both cheeks, and make sure that she got what she wanted, issuing curt instructions to the waiter behind the counter.

  Although Arbella tried to persuade Carew to order something more imaginative, he asked only for an egg-and-cress baguette and the largest-sized cup of coffee, which they had to wait some time for because the owner insisted, as Carew was with Signorina Arbella, on a fresh pot being made. After much ceremony and banter amidst gouts of steam from the coffee machine, it was poured into a big doubled Styrofoam cup and capped with a spouted plastic lid.

  For herself Arbella ordered smoked salmon on granary bread without butter, and a bottle of still mineral water; which disappointed the owner but she would take nothing more. Despite the underwriter’s protestations she insisted on paying, and the sandwiches were wrapped and put with the other items into a small carrier bag.

  After walking through the subway under Byward Street to Tower Place where the Chandler building was—neither of them commented on it—they passed All Hallows church and, opposite the gardens at Trinity Square, turned down to the Middle tower entrance to the Tower of London.

  ‘Oh, look,’ said Arbella, as they approached the main gate; ‘George the Beefeater has spotted us and is waving us to the front of the line. It always makes me feel special coming here; or rather I am made to feel special. It’s as if, in consideration of my ancestor having been locked up here, I’ve been granted a free pass by way of compensation for what my family went through.’

  Carew said gravely, ‘Freedom to come and, more importantly, go. Yes, I can understand that.’

  They approached George, a Beefeater whose florid features matched the roseate trimmings on his uniform, and Arbella was astounded when he smiled at her companion first and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Carew. Nice to see you as always.’

  Then George beamed at her and made his usual courtesy of bowing and kissing Arbella’s hand. ‘Hello, missy, I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mr Carew.’

  As they walked through the gate, Arbella looked sideways at the mysterious underwriter; put out at the deference that her intended guest had received, she sharply corrected one of the guides they passed in fluent French on a point of history.

  Jostled by a tourist, Carew looked tense. ‘Usually I try to come in when it’s a bit quieter,’ he said; and he put on such a burst of speed that Arbella had trouble keeping up in her unsuitable shoes.

  They were lucky to find an empty bench on the edge of Tower Green; where no sooner had they sat down than a raven waddled over. From his piebald appearance Arbella recognized the bird as Corvax, known to the Yeoman Warders as Bloody Nasty.

  Cocking an eye at Carew, Corvax squatted on his shoe, shook out his feathers, and went to sleep. Although he must have been heavy, Carew paid no attention to him and kept his foot still as, ignoring the spout on it, he removed the lid from his coffee cup and eyed the steam coming off the liquid.

  ‘It smells delicious,’ he said, ‘but it’s still too hot to drink.’ And he placed the open container carefully on the bench beside him.

  Looking around them, Carew frowned and drew a deep breath as if he had come to an important decision and wished to make either an announcement or a confession. ‘You know, as historic and permanent as the Tower of London is, Arbella,’ he said slowly, ‘I always find it a sober reminder of the transitory nature of life, and how quickly fortunes change. Those who were in favour one day, and had the ear of the sovereign, the next were out on their own ears and languishing in a cell on a charge of High Treason. The Bastille is as nothing compared to it, I assure you.’

  Arbella registered the strangeness of phrase and tense. It was as if Mr Carew had first-hand experience of imprisonment, or knew those who had suffered it. She took her time about responding, determined to recover the feeling of superiority that she was accustomed to enjoying whenever she was at the Tower of London, her home from home. Also, it was her subject and she did not like being lectured on it.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but the kings and queens who sent their upper-class enemies and offenders to the Tower still respected their lineage and position. Even in disgrace rank was important; which is why the aristocrats, the men and women who were “a cut above”, if you’ll pardon the levity, were executed here on Tower Green. Lesser prisoners were delivered by writ to the Sheriffs of London and taken to the scaffold at Tower Hill, or to Tyburn.

  ‘It’s not difficult to understand the fascination this place continues to exercise over people. For those condemned to die it was a bridge to the afterlife, a transition place or purgatory where they might attempt to divest themselves, either through prayer or meditation, of their attachment to the world and ease their departure from it. I think a lot of them succeeded in that.

  ‘Others…well, the atmosphere here seems imprinted, even saturated, with the intense sensations of fear and horror and pain that every imprisoned soul endured within these walls—doubly imprisoned, one might say, within their bodies and the walls, sooner or later to be liberated from both.’

  Carew appeared taken aback by Arbella’s knowledge and forceful delivery, and said nothing, so she took the opportunity to keep going. ‘Time does not seem to pass here, only elongate, if that’s not too fanciful a conceit. Further, I think that some of those who were here were comforted by their confinement despite the knowledge of how their stay was likely to end. Because they had no choices left to make in life, the absence of responsibility came as a sort of release. By the time of their execution many were already halfway to death in their minds.’

  Carew bit into his baguette and chewed fiercely. Having swallowed, he relaxed a bit. ‘Or half reborn. One has only to consider the quality of the writings penned within these walls by some of the condemned, which have endured as classics of literature. Most of those who came here were highly educated, and even the scratchings on the walls speak volumes. Their farewell speeches were often heartfelt and memorable. There’s nothing more conducive to eloquence and economy of thought than a confrontation with mortality, for as Samuel Johnson observed, “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.” Regarding the valedictory words sp
oken from the block, even at the last it was considered disrespectful to insult or rail against the monarch who had caused one to be tortured, and signed the execution order. The opportunity to speak was granted as a privilege and one was expected to rise to the occasion. Here Death came not as a lengthy and excruciating disease but quickly, and attended by rapt crowds and pomp and circumstance. Attention was paid. Drums rolled, and the prisoners mounted the stage and gave, in not a few instances, the performance of their lives. Then for the lucky ones it was over at the stroke of an axe—a single stroke, they hoped, because some of the executioners weren’t very proficient in the art of severance. Anne Bullen knew that, which is why she sent to France for an expert swordsman, and managed to be so merry on the day of her death. She was treated very badly, and ended bravely.’

  By now Arbella had shed her pique and was beginning to appreciate Carew’s sharing of her enthusiasm. ‘Of course there were other fearsome prisons that date from the same period: Pontefract Castle for example, where Richard the Second met his end. However nobody wants to know about Pontefract. The Tower, which was not only a royal palace but a fortress and treasure-house and site of the Royal Mint, is much more interesting. It was a town in its own right, and home to soldiers and trades-people.’

  Carew nodded. ‘Some of the inmates had large and expensively furnished apartments. Not for them the filthy rat-infested cells containing emaciated figures hung from the walls in chains, and torture chambers where the most unfortunate prisoners were taken to have the thumbscrews applied and be stretched on the rack. By arrangement with the Lieutenant of the Tower, a wealthy nobleman might be accompanied by a sizeable household. Chaplains, chirurgeons, apothecaries, scribes, tailors, laundresses, drapers, haberdashers, barbers, hatters, furriers, glovers, shoemakers—they were all allowed to come and go freely. Some of the most important prisoners were attended by their wives and children—not always willingly…on the part of the prisoners, I mean.’