Twelve Red Herrings (13 page)

“A half a pint
of your best bitter,” Bob said, trying to sound like one of his English friends
when they ordered a drink from the college buttery.

The landlord eyed
Bob suspiciously as he took his half-pint glass over to a small round table in
the corner and sat down quietly on a stool. He was pleased when two other men
entered the pub, so that the landlord’s attention was distracted.

Bob took a sip
of the dark liquid and nearly choked. When he had recovered, he allowed his
eyes to glance above the bar.

He tried to hide
his excitement when he saw the bronze cast of a massive arm embedded in a large
piece of varnished wood.

He thought the
object both dreadful and inspiring at the same time. His eyes moved down to the
bold lettering printed in gold beneath it: D. J. T. MORTIMER 1907--08--09

(T CATHARINES,
STROKE)

Bob kept his eye
on the landlord as the pub began to fill up, but he soon became aware that it
was his wife – everyone called her Nora who was not only in charge, but who did
most of the serving.

When he had
finished his drink, he made his way over to her end of the bar.

“What can I do
for you, young man?” Nora asked.

“I’ll have
another, thank you,” said Bob.

“An American,”
she said, as she pulled the pump and began to refill his glass. “We don’t get
many of you lot up ‘ere, at least not since the bases closed.” She placed his
half-pint on the counter in front of him. “So, what brings you to ‘ull?”

“You do,” Bob
replied, ignoring his drink.

Nora looked
suspiciously at the stranger, who was young enough to be her son.

Bob smiled, “Or,
to be more accurate, Dougie Mortimer does.”

“Now I’ve
figured you out,” said Nora. “You phoned this morning, didn’t you? My Christie
told me. I should ‘ave guessed.” Bob nodded.

“How did the arm
end up in Hull?” he asked.

“Now, that’s a
long story,” said Nora. “It was my grandfather’s, wasn’t it. Born in Ely ‘e
was, and ‘e used to spend his holidays fishin’ the Cam. Said it was the only
catch he managed that year.
which
I suppose is one
better than sayin’ it fell off the back of a lorry. Still, when ‘e died a few
years back, my father wanted to throw the bloody thing out with the rest of the
rubbish,
but !
wouldn’t
‘ear
of it, told ‘im ‘e should ‘ang it in the pub, didn’t I? I cleaned and polished
it, it came up real nice, and then I ‘ung it above the bar. Still, it’s a long
way for you to travel just to ‘ave a look at that load of old cobblers.” Bob
looked up and admired the arm once again. He held his breath. “I didn’t come
just to look.”

“Then why did
you come?” she asked.

“I came to buy.”

“Get a move on,
Nora,” said the landlord. “Can’t you see there are customers waitin’ to be served?”
Nora swung round and said, “Just ‘old your tongue, Cyril Barnsworth. This young
man’s come all the way up to ‘ull just to see Dougie Mortimer’s arm, and what’s
more, ‘e wants to buy it.” This caused a ripple of laughter from the regulars
standing nearest to the bar, but as Nora didn’t join in they quickly fell
silent.

“Then it’s been
a wasted journey, ‘asn’t it?” said the landlord.

“Because
it’s not for sale.”

“It’s not yours
to sell,” said Nora, placing her hands on her hips. “Mind you, lad, ‘e’s right,”
she said, turning back to face Bob. “I wouldn’t part with it for
a
‘undred quid,” said Nora.

Several others
in the room were beginning to show an interest in the proceedings.

“How about two
hundred,” said Bob
quietly.
This time Nora burst out
laughing, but Bob didn’t even smile.

When Nora had
stopped laughing, she stared directly at the strange young man. “My God, ‘e
means it,” she said.

“I certainly
do,” said Bob. “I would like to see the arm returned to its rightful home in
Cambridge, and I’m willing to pay two hundred pounds for the privilege.’

The landlord
looked across at his wife, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We
could buy that little second-hand car I’ve had my eye on,” he said.

“Not to mention
a summer ‘oliday and a new overcoat for next winter,” Nora added, staring at
Bob as if she still needed to be convinced that he wasn’t from another planet.
Suddenly she thrust her hand over the counter and said, “You’ve got yourself a
deal, young man.” Bob ended up having to supply several rounds of drinks for
those customers who claimed to have been close personal friends of Nora’s
grandfather, even if some of them looked rather obviously too young.

He also had to
stay overnight in a local hotel, because Nora wouldn’t part with her grandfather’s
‘heirloom’, as she now kept referring to it, until her bank manager had phoned
Cambridge to check that Robert Henry Kefford III was good for two hundred
pounds.

Bob clung onto
his treasure all the way back to Cambridge that Monday morning, and then lugged
the heavy object from the station to his digs in the Grange Road, where he hid
it under the bed. The following day he handed it over to a local furniture
restorer, who promised to return the arm to its former glory in time for the
night of the Blues’ Dinner.

When, three
weeks later, Bob was allowed to see the results of the restorer’s efforts, he
immediately felt confident that he now possessed a prize not only worthy of the
C.U.B.C but that also complied with his father’s wishes. He resolved not to
share his secret with anyone – not even Helen – until the night of the Blues’
Dinner, although he did warn the puzzled President that he was going to make a
presentation, and that he required two hooks, eighteen inches apart and eight
feet from the floor, to be screwed into the wall beforehand.

The University
Blues’ Dinner is an annual event held in the Boat House overlooking the Cam.
Any former or current rowing blue is eligible to attend, and Bob was delighted
to find when he arrived that night that it was a near-record turnout. He placed
the carefully wrapped brown paper parcel under his chair, and put his camera on
the table in front of him.

Because it was
his last Blues’ Dinner before returning to America, Bob had been seated at the
top table, between the Honorary Secretary and the current President of Boats.
Tom Adams, the Honorary Secretary, had gained his blue some twenty years
before, and was recognised as the club’s walking encyclopedia, because he could
name not only everyone in the room, but all the great oarsmen of the past.

Tom pointed out
to Bob three Olympic medallists dotted around the room. “The oldest is sitting
on the left of the President,” he said.

“Charles
Forester. He rowed at number three for the club in I9o8-o9, so he must be over eighty.”

“Can it be
possible?” said Bob, recalling Forester’s youthful picture on the clubhouse
wall.

“Certainly can,”
said the Secretary. “And what’s more, young man,” he added, laughing, ‘you’ll
look like that one day too.”

“What about the
man at the far end of the table?” asked
Bob.

“He looks even
older.”

“He is,” said
the Secretary. “That’s Sidney Fisk. He was boatman from 1912 to 1945, with only
a break for the First World War.
Took over from his uncle at
short notice, if I remember correctly.”

“So he would
have known Dougie Mortimer,” said Bob wistfully.

“Now, there’s a
great name from the past,” said Adams.

“Mortimer, D.J.T
19o7-o8-o9, St Catharine’s, stroke. Oh, yes, Fisk would certainly have known
Mortimer, that’s for sure. Come to think of it, Charles Forester must have been
in the same boat as Mortimer when he was stroke.” During the meal, Bob
continued to quiz Adams about Dougie Mortimer, but he was unable to add a great
deal to the entry in Bob’s History of the Boat Race, other than to confirm that
Cambridge’s defeat in 9o9 still remained a mystery, as the light blues
demonstrably had the superior crew.

When the last
course had been cleared away, the President rose to welcome his guests and to make
a short speech. Bob enjoyed the parts he was able to hear above the noise made
by the rowdy undergraduates, and even joined in the frenzy whenever Oxford was
mentioned. The President ended with the words, “There will be a special
presentation to the club this year, by our colonial stroke Bob Kefford, which
I’m sure we’re all going to appreciate.” When Bob rose from his place the
cheering became even more raucous, but he spoke so softly that the noise
quickly died away.

He told his
fellow members how he had come to discover, and later retrieve, Dougie
Mortimer’s right arm, leaving out only his exact location when he first learned
of its whereabouts.

With a flourish,
he
unwrapped
the parcel that had been secreted under
his chair, and revealed the newly restored bronze cast. The assembled members
rose to their feet and cheered. A smile of satisfaction came over Bob’s face as
he looked
around,
only wishing his father could have
been present to witness their reaction.

As his eyes
swept the room, Bob couldn’t help noticing that the oldest blue present,
Charles Forester, had remained seated, and was not even joining in the
applause. Bob’s gaze then settled on Sidney Fisk, the only other person who had
not risen to his feet. The old boatman’s lips remained fixed in a straight
line, and his hands didn’t move from his knees.

Bob forgot about
the two old men when the President, assisted by Tom Adams, hung the bronze arm
on the wall, placing it between a blade that had been pulled by one of the
Olympic crew of 9o8, and a zephyr worn by the only blue ever to row in a
Cambridge boat that had beaten Oxford four years in a row. Bob began to take
photographs of the ceremony, so that he would have a record to show his father
that he had carried out his wishes.

When the hanging
was over, many of the members and old blues surrounded Bob to thank and
congratulate him, leaving him in no doubt that all the trouble he had taken to
track down the arm had been worthwhile.

Bob was among
the last to leave that night, because so many members had wanted to wish him
good luck for the future. He was strolling along the footpath back to his digs,
humming as he went, when he suddenly remembered that he had left his camera on
the table. He decided to collect it in the morning, as he was sure that the
clubhouse would be locked and deserted by now, but when he turned round to
check, he saw a single light coming from the ground floor.

He turned and
began walking back towards the clubhouse, still humming. When he was a few
paces away, he glanced through the window, and saw that there were two figures
standing in the committee room. He strode over to take a closer look, and was
surprised to see the elderly blue, Charles Forester, and Sidney Fisk, the
retired boatman, trying to shift a heavy table. He would have gone in to assist
them if Fisk hadn’t suddenly pointed up towards Dougie Mortimer’s arm. Bob
remained motionless as he watched the two old men drag the table inch by inch
nearer to the wall, until it was directly below the plaque.

Fisk picked up a
chair and placed it against the wall, and Forester used it as a step to climb
onto the table. Forester then bent down and took the arm of the older man, to
help him up.

Once they were
both safely on the table, they held a short conversation before reaching up to
the bronze cast, easing it off its hooks and slowly lowering it until it rested
between their feet.

Forester, with
the help of the chair, stepped back down onto the floor,
then
turned round to assist his companion again.

Bob still didn’t
move, as the two old men carried Dougie Mortimer’s arm across the room and out
of the boathouse. Having placed it on the ground outside the door, Forester
returned to switch off the lights. When he stepped back outside into the cold
night air, the boatman quickly padlocked the door.

Once again the
two old men held a short conversation before lifting Bob’s trophy up and
stumbling off with it along the towpath.

They had to
stop, lower the arm to the ground, rest, and start again several times. Bob
followed silently in their wake, using the broad-trunked trees to conceal
himself, until the elderly pair suddenly turned and made their way down the
bank towards the river. They came to a halt at the water’s edge, and lowered
their bounty into a small rowing boat.

The old blue
untied the rope, and the two men pushed the boat slowly out into the river,
until the water was lapping around the knees of their evening dress trousers.
Neither seemed at all concerned about the fact that they were getting soaked.
Forester managed to clamber up into the little boat quite quickly, but it took
Fisk several minutes to join him. Once they were both aboard, Forester took his
place at the oars, while the boatman remained in the bow, clutching on to
Dougie Mortimer’s arm.

Forester began
to row steadily towards the middle of the river.