Twelve Red Herrings (12 page)

Consuela
returned to the suite at the Ritz, undressed, took a shower, opened another
bottle of perfume, and slowly began to change into the second outfit she had
purchased the previous day. Before she left the room she turned to the
commodities section of the Financial Times, and checked the price of green
coffee.

She emerged from
the Arlington Street entrance of the Ritz wearing a double-breasted navy blue
Yves Saint Laurent suit and a wide-brimmed red and white hat. Ignoring her
chauffeur, she hailed a taxi, instructing the driver to take her to a small,
discreet hotel in Knightsbridge. Fifteen minutes later she entered the foyer
with her head bowed, and after giving the name of her host to the manager, was
accompanied to a suite on the fourth floor. Her luncheon companion stood as she
entered the room, walked forward, kissed her on both cheeks and wished her a
happy birthday.

After an
intimate lunch, and an even more intimate hour spent in the adjoining room,
Consuela’s companion listened to her request and, having first checked his
watch, agreed to accompany her to Mayfair. He didn’t mention to her that he
would have to be back in his office by four o’clock to take an important call
from South America. Since the downfall of the Brazilian president, coffee
prices had gone through the roof.

As the car
travelled down Brompton Road, Consuela’s companion telephoned to check the
latest spot price of green coffee in New York (only her skill in bed had
managed to stop him from calling earlier).

He was pleased
to learn that it was up another two cents, but not as pleased as she was.

Eleven minutes
later, the car deposited them outside the House of Graff.

When they
entered the shop together arm in arm, Mr. Graff didn’t so much as raise an
eyebrow.

“Good afternoon,
Mr. Carvalho,” he said. “I do hope that your estates yielded an abundant crop
this year.” Mr. Carvalho smiled and replied, “I cannot complain.”

“And how may I
assist
you ?
” enquired the proprietor.

“We would like
to see the diamond necklace in the third window,’ said Consuela, without a
moment’s hesitation.

“Of course,
madam,” said Graff, as if he were addressing a complete stranger.

Once again the
black velvet cloth was laid out on the table, and once again the assistant
placed the Kanemarra heirloom in its centre.

This time Mr.
Graff was allowed to relate its history, before Carvalho politely enquired
after the price. “One million pounds,” said Graff.

After a moment’s
hesitation, Carvalho said, “I’m willing to pay half a million.”

“This is no
ordinary piece of jewellery,” replied the proprietor.

“I feel...”

“Possibly not,
but half a million is my best offer,” said Carvalho.

“The sheer
beauty, not to mention the craftsmanship involved ...”

“Nevertheless, I am not willing to go
above half a million.”

“...the word unique would not be
inappropriate.”

“Half a million,
and no more,” insisted Carvalho.

“I am sorry to say,
sir,” said Graff, ‘that with this particular piece there is no room for
bargaining.”

“There’s always
room for bargaining, whatever one is selling,” the coffee grower insisted.

“I fear that is
not true in this case, sir. You see...”

“I suspect you
will come to your senses in time,” said Carvalho.

“But,
regrettably, I do not have any time to spare this afternoon.

I will write out
a cheque for half a million pounds, and leave you to decide whether you wish to
cash it.” Carvalho took a chequebook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top
of his fountain pen, and wrote out the words “Five Hundred Thousand Pounds
Only’. Consuela looked silently on.

Carvalho tore
out the cheque, and left it on the counter.

‘I’ll give you
twenty-four hours to decide. I leave for Chicago on the early evening flight
tomorrow. If the cheque has not been presented by the time I reach my office...”
Graff
bowed his head slightly, and left the cheque on
the table.

He accompanied
them to the door, and bowed again when they stepped out onto the pavement.

“You were
brilliant, my darling,” said Consuela as the chauffeur opened the car door for
his employer.

“The Exchange,”
said Carvalho. Turning back to face his mistress, he added, “You’ll have your
necklace before the day is out, of that I’m certain, my darling.” Consuela
smiled and waved as the car disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly, and on
this occasion she felt able to agree with her lover’s judgement. Once the car
had turned the corner, she slipped back into the House of Graff.

The proprietor
smiled, and handed over the smartly wrapped gift.

He bowed low and
simply said, “Happy birthday, Mrs. Rosenhelm.’

ROBERT HENRY KEFFORD III, KNOWN TO HIS
friends as Bob, was in bed with a girl called Helen when he first heard about
Dougie Mortimer’s right arm.

Bob was sorry to
be leaving Cambridge. He had spent three glorious years at St John’s, and
although he hadn’t read as many books as he had done for his undergraduate
degree at the University of Chicago, he had
striven
every bit as hard to come head of the river.

It wasn’t
unusual for an American to win a rowing blue in the early 97os, but to have
stroked a victorious Cambridge eight for three years in a row was acknowledged
as a first.

Bob’s father,
Robert Henry Kefford II, known to his friends as Robert, had travelled over to
England to watch his son take part in all three races from Puthey to Mortlake.
After Bob had stroked Cambridge to victory for the third time, his father told
him that he must not return to his native Illinois without having presented a
memento to the University Boat Club that they would remember him by.

“And don’t
forget, my boy,” declared Robert Henry Kefford II, ‘the gift must not be
ostentatious. Better to show that you have made an effort to present them with
an object of historic value than give them something that obviously cost a
great deal of money. The British appreciate that sort of thing.” Bob spent many
hours pondering his father’s words, but completely failed to come up with any
worthwhile ideas. After all, the Cambridge University Boat Club had more silver
cups and trophies than they could possibly display.

It was on a
Sunday morning that Helen first mentioned the name of Dougie Mortimer. She and
Bob were lying in each other’s arms, when she started prodding his biceps.

“Is this some
form of ancient British foreplay that I ought to know about?” Bob asked,
placing his free arm around Helen’s shoulder.

“Certainly not,”
Helen replied. “I was simply trying to discover if your biceps are as big as
Dougie Mortimer’s.” As Bob had never known a girl talk about another man while
he was in bed with her, he was unable to think of an immediate response.

“And are they?”
he eventually enquired, flexing his muscles.

“Hard to tell,”
Helen replied. “I’ve never actually touched Dougie’s arm, only seen it at a
distance.”

“And where did
you come across this magnificent specimen of manhood?”

“It hangs over
the bar at my dad’s local, in Hull.”

“Doesn’t Dougie Mortimer
find that a little painful?” asked Bob, laughing.

“Doubt if he
cares that much,” said Helen. “After all, he’s been dead for over sixty years.”

“And his arm
still hangs above a bar?’ asked Bob in disbelief.

“Hasn’t it begun
to smell a bit by now?” This time it was Helen’s turn to laugh. “No, you Yankee
fool.

It’s a bronze
cast of his arm. In those days, if you were in the University crew for three
years in a row, they made a cast of your arm to hang in the clubhouse. Not to
mention a card with your picture on it in every packet of Player’s cigarettes.
I’ve never seen your picture in a cigarette packet, come to think of it,” said
Helen as she pulled the sheet over his head.

“Did he row for
Oxford or Cambridge?” asked Bob.

“No idea.”

“So, what’s the
name of this pub in Hull?”

“The King
William,” Helen replied, as Bob took his arm from around her shoulder.

“Is this
American foreplay?” she asked after a few moments.

Later that
morning, after Helen had left for Newnham, Bob began searching his shelves for a
book with a blue cover. He dug out his much-thumbed History of the Boat Race
and flicked through the index, to discover that there were seven Mortimers
listed.

Five had rowed
for Oxford, two for Cambridge. He began to pray as he checked their initials. Mortimer,
A.J. (Westminster and Wadham, Oxon), Mortimer, C.K. (Uppingham and Oriel,
Oxon), Mortimer, D.J.T.

(Harrow
and St Catharine’s, Cantab), Mortimer, E.L. (Oundle and Magdalen, Oxon).
Bob turned his
attention to Mortimer, D.J.T biography page 129, and flicked the pages
backwards until he reached the entry he sought. Douglas John Townsend Mortimer
(St Catharine’s), Cambridge x9o7, -08, -09, stroke. He then read the short
summary of Mortimer’s rowing career.

DOUGIE MORTIMER
stroked the Cambridge boat to victory in 1907, a feat which he repeated in
1908. But in 1909, when the experrs considered Cambridge to have one of the
finest crews for years, the light blues lost to an Oxford boat that was
regarded as the rank outsider.

Although many
explanations were suggested by the press at the time, the result of the race
remains a mystery, to this day. Mortimer died in 1914.

Bob closed the
book and returned it to the shelf, assuming the great oarsman must have been
killed in the First World War. He perched on the end of the bed, considering
the information he now possessed.

If he could
bring Dougie Mortimer’s right arm back to Cambridge and present it to the Club
at the annual Blues’ Dinner, it would surely be a prize that met his father’s
demanding criterion.

He dressed
quickly and went downstairs to the pay phone in the corridor. Once directory
enquiries had given him the four numbers he required, he set about trying to
remove the next obstacle.

The first calls
he made were to the King William – or, to be precise, the King Williams,
because the directory had supplied him with the numbers of three pubs in Hull
which bore that name. When he was put through to the first, he asked, “Does
Dougie Mortimer’s right arm hang above your counter?” He couldn’t quite make
out every word of the broad northern accent that replied, but he was left in no
doubt that it didn’t.

The second call
was answered by a girl who said, “Do you mean that thing that’s nailed to the
wall above the bar?”

“Yes, I guess
that will be it,” said Bob.

“Well then, this
is the pub you’re looking for.” After Bob had taken down the address and
checked the pub’s opening hours, he made a third call. “Yes, that’s possible,”
he was told. “You can take the 3.

7 to
Peterborough, where you’ll have to change and catch the 4.09 for Doncaster,
then change again.

You’ll arrive in
Hull at 6.32.”

“What about the
last train back?’ asked
Bob.

^”8.52, change
at Doncaster and Peterborough. You should be back in Cambridge just after
midnight.”

“Thank you,” said
Bob. He strolled off to his college for lunch and took a place at the large
centre table, but proved unusually poor company for those around him.

He boarded the
train to Peterborough later that afternoon, still thinking about how he could
possibly relieve the pub owners of their prize possession. At Peterborough he
jumped out, walked across to a waiting train on platform three and climbed
aboard, still deep in thought. When his train pulled into Hull a couple of
hours later he was no nearer to solving the problem.

He asked the
first taxi on the rank to take him to the King William.

“Market Place,
Harold’s Corner or Percy Street?” asked the cabbie.

“Percy Street,
please,” replied Bob.

“They don’t open
until seven, lad,” the cabbie told him once he had dropped Bob outside the
front door.

Bob checked the
time. Twenty minutes to kill. He walked down a side street at the back of the
pub, and stopped to watch some young lads playing football. They were using the
front walls of two houses on either side of the street as goals, and showed
amazing accuracy in never hitting any of the windows. Bob wondered if the game
would ever catch on in America.

He became so
captivated by the youngsters’ skill that they stopped to ask him if he wanted
to join in. He said, “No thank you,” confident that if he did play with them,
he would be the one person who ended up breaking a window.

He arrived back
outside the King William a few minutes after seven, and strolled into the empty
pub, hoping that no one would pay much attention to him. But at six feet four
inches, and dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer, grey flannels, a blue
shirt and college tie, the three people behind the bar might well have wondered
if he had dropped in from another planet. He stopped himself from looking above
the bar, as a young blonde harmaid stepped forward and asked him what he would
like.