Terry Minahan - The Adventures of Thadeus Burke Vol 1

‘Unlimited liability under the Road Traffic Act?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about motorcycles? I ride a Royal Enfield 350cc.’

‘Yes, I write motorcycles, and can do a special deal for your one.’

‘Do you have a bike, or a car?’ enquired James Pooley of his friend.

‘Nothing at the present time. But I have been promised a bonus at the end of the underwriting year, and I intend to get something sporty at that time,’ informed James Payne.

Pooley returned to business. ‘How about horse boxes? Mr Burke is particularly interested in establishing a book of bloodstock business and that might be useful as part of his presentations.’

‘I do not see a problem with that. The only worry would be the loss of tack and rugs at shows or the racecourse, when the box is left unattended. More particularly they drive off and leave a bucket full of brushes, mane-combs and the like behind, or a horse-rug that they had been using to sit on the grass. Then later they report it as stolen.’ Jimmy knew his underwriting!

‘We could probably insert a large excess; say £25.’

‘That would suffice, for a start, but I’ll tell you now that I would keep a close eye on that section of the policy.’

‘What about liability for horses, the property of a third party, killed or injured in an accident? Say a maximum of £500 any one horse.’

‘We could try that. I would prefer half of that limit. And I will need to think about the premium required.’

They selected their cheese from the trolley and ordered two large glasses of the Warre.

‘When could we start?’ asked Jim

‘This afternoon if you like. Uncle Charles will have no problem with Mr Burke; he is a name on our syndicate. It is a pity that you went to STOGS with me rather than Harrow or Eton, but I expect I’ll swing that one,’ Jimmy chuckled.

‘Mr Burke will need to read all the papers and it will be his signature on the documents. Can I pick up a set of this paperwork when we get back to the Room?’

‘No problem!’ advised Jimmy Payne. ‘Now, what about some paperwork for your dad to do some claims work for us?’

‘I think that he will be very interest in the idea. He has had an apprentice working with him for about a year, but he has just recently taken on an experienced man. The new chap worked on bus engines at Camberwell Garage, so I expect that his expenditure has increased. He could probably use any extra income. I’ll talk to Dad at the weekend,’ said Jim Pooley.

Jackson came back to the table, but did not sit down. ‘On your feet, sleuth,’ he said, addressing Thadeus. ‘A Lloyd’s underwriter has just been shot dead in the Room.’

They hurried along the south side of Cornhill, crossed the road and went into the Royal Exchange building. As they bustled along Jackson explained that the dead man was Edward Thomas Thurlow, deputy underwriter to his brother George Thomas Thurlow, and Thadeus was just able to confirm that he knew both of the men and had placed bloodstock business with them.

‘Shot by a communist apparently!’ advised a sceptical Jackson.

‘At what time?’ questioned Thadeus

‘Ten minutes past two – that’s about five minutes ago,’ was the reply.

‘Odd,’ said Thadeus

They walked into the building and up to the ‘barrier’, an archway manned by a waiter at the entrance to the Underwriting Room proper.

A group of people were gathered around the body. Two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman kneeling beside the dead man, two uniformed Lloyd’s waiters in serious discussion with what looked like staff from the Superintendent of the Room’s office, and a handful of curious watchers.

The police sergeant recognized Jackson and saluted, with a smart ‘sir’, Jackson nodded an acknowledgement. The two kneelers rose and the sergeant introduced Drs Bryce and Ellington. They had been at a meeting with an accident underwriter, who was there in the crowd somewhere, explained the lady.

‘Two shots, both straight through the heart, by the look of it. Death would have been instantaneous,’ she explained.

‘Thanks,’ said Jackson. ‘We’ll need a full statement from each of you, I am afraid. Perhaps you would be good enough to give the constable your names, addresses and telephone numbers. The police doctor will be here in a short time and I would be obliged if you could wait and have a quick word with him. You did not see the actual shooting?’

The younger male doctor spoke. ‘No, we heard the shots as we came down the stairs, but when we reached the scene it was all over “bar the shoutin’” as they say, and there was a lot of that.’ His voice tailed off under a withering look from his more senior colleague.

‘We will wait over there,’ she said, pointing to a column a few feet away. Just next to where Thadeus was standing writing something into a pocket notebook.

Jackson turned to the sergeant who had the waiter ready and waiting.

‘This is Mr Malcolm, he was the waiter on duty at the time,’ explained the sergeant efficiently.

‘I would like the whole story, from the top,’ instructed Jackson.

Thadeus came over and stood in an adjacent position.

Mr Malcolm started his tale. ‘It was just after two o’clock, sir, when Mr Edward Thurlow came up to the barrier from inside the room. He stood for a moment or two deciding which direction he was going to take. Took a couple of steps towards the Bank of England exit, then “Bang!” he was shot by the communist.’

‘How do you know he was a communist?’ asked Jackson.

‘He shouted out, sir, if you will excuse the words used, “You capitalist bastard! Up the workers!” and he threw a red flag over the body.’

Jackson stuck his tongue into his cheek in order to hold back

a smile, Thadeus needed to turn his face away. Definitely a communist, they both thought.

‘Can you describe him?’ questioned Jackson.

‘He was an Orthodox Jew,’ stated Malcolm. Jackson waited for more and Malcolm, realizing this, continued. ‘He wore a long black coat, had a bushy black beard and a black hat,’ he explained, adding, ‘and he wore glasses.’

Again Jackson struggled to hold back a grin, and again Thadeus needed to turn his face away.

Definitely an Orthodox Jew, they both thought.

‘How did he manage to escape?’ Another question from Jackson.

‘There were not many people in the corridor at that time of day and I rushed over to see if I could assist Mr Thurlow. The communist ran down the corridor towards the exit on the Bank of England side. There were two chaps coming the other way carrying large bundles of papers and he pushed them both over, ran out of the doorway, and, as I have been told later, jumped on to the back of a motorcycle and rode off.’

‘Excuse me a moment,’ interrupted Jackson. ‘I need to consult with my colleague. Please wait here, Mr Malcolm,’ and with that he called the sergeant across and led the officer, and Thadeus, some distance from the scene. ‘Before I hear any more evidence about this incident I need an interval,’ he explained. ‘Is it a Jewish communist, a Jew disguised as a communist, a communist disguised as a Jew? Or a disgruntled Name who owns a theatrical costume shop?’

‘It is certainly a bizarre affair,’ commented the sergeant.

‘There could be a more serious aspect to this incident,’ warned Thadeus. ‘There is quite an established group of fascists in London, interested in slandering both Jews and communists. The University of London has been a nucleus for their efforts over the past two or three years, and this affair has a student flavour to it! However, I am of the opinion that their activities would be more convincing.’

‘True!’ said Jackson, ‘that should be taken into consideration.’ He turned to the officer. ‘Have you arranged for more men to come here?’