Twelve Red Herrings

Dougie Mortimer’s Right Arm*

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 1970s, 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 1907, -08, -09, stroke. He then read the short summary of Mortimer’s rowing career.

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 3.17 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 barmaid stepped forward and asked him what he would like.

“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:

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 I 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 recognized 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 1908–09, 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., 1907–08–09, 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 1909 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 1908, 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. His progress was slow, but his easy rhythm revealed that he had rowed many times before. When the two men calculated that they had reached the centre of the Cam, at its deepest point, Forester stopped rowing and joined his companion in the bow.

They picked up the bronze arm and, without ceremony, cast it over the side and into the river. Bob heard the splash and saw the boat rock dangerously from side to side. Fisk then took his turn at the oars; his progress back to the riverbank was even slower than Forester’s. They eventually reached land, and both men stumbled out and shoved the boat up towards its mooring, the boatman finally securing the rope to a large ring.

Soaked and exhausted, their breath rising visibly in the clear night air, the two old men stood and faced each other. They shook hands like two business tycoons who had closed an important deal, before disappearing into the night.

Tom Adams, the Club’s Honorary Secretary, rang Bob the following morning to tell him something he already knew. In fact he had lain awake all night thinking of little else.

Bob listened to Adams’s account of the break-in. “What’s surprising is that they only took one thing.” He paused. “Your arm or rather, Dougie’s arm. It’s very strange, especially as someone had left an expensive camera on the top table.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Bob.

“No, I don’t think so, old boy,” said Adams. “The local police are making enquiries, but my bet is that whoever stole the arm will probably be halfway across the county by now.”

“I expect you’re right,” said Bob. “While you’re on the line, Mr Adams, I wonder if I could ask you a question about the history of the club.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Adams. “But you must remember that it’s only a hobby for me, old chap.”

“Do you by any chance know who is the oldest living Oxford rowing blue?” There was a long silence the other end of the line.

“Are you still there?” Bob asked eventually.

“Yes. I was just trying to think if old Harold Deering is still alive. I can’t remember seeing his obituary in The Times.”

“Deering?” said Bob.

“Yes. Radley and Keble, 1909–10–11. He became a bishop, if I remember correctly, but I’m damned if I can recall where.”

“Thank you,” said Bob, “that’s most helpful.”

“I could be wrong,” Adams pointed out.

“After all, I don’t read the obituary columns every day. And I’m a bit rusty when it comes to Oxford.”

Bob thanked him once again before ringing off.

After a college lunch he didn’t eat, Bob returned to his digs and rang the porter’s lodge at Keble. He was answered by a curmudgeonly voice.

“Do you have any record of a Harold Deering, a former member of the college?” Bob asked.

“Deering… Deering …” said the voice. “That’s a new one on me. Let me see if he’s in the college handbook.” Another long pause, during which Bob really did begin to think he’d been cut off, until the voice said, “Good heavens, no wonder. It was just a bit before my time. Deering, Harold, 1909–11, BA 1911, MA 1916 (Theology). Became Bishop of Truro. Is that the one?”

“Yes, that’s the man,” said Bob. “Do you by any chance have an address for him?”

“I do,” said the voice. “The Rt Revd Harold Deering, The Stone House, Mill Road, Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire.”

“Thank you,” said Bob. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Bob spent the rest of the afternoon composing a letter to the former bishop, in the hope that the old blue might agree to see him.

He was surprised to receive a call at his digs three days later from a Mrs Elliot, who turned out to be Mr Deering’s daughter, with whom he was now living.

“The poor old chap can’t see much beyond his nose these days,” she explained, “so I had to read your letter out to him. But he’d be delighted to meet you, and wonders if you could call on him this Sunday at 11.30, after Matins — assuming that’s not inconvenient for you.”

“That’s fine,” said Bob. “Please tell your father to expect me around 11.30.”

“It has to be in the morning,” Mrs Elliot went on to explain, “because, you see, he has a tendency to fall asleep after lunch. I’m sure you understand. By the way, I’ll send directions to your college.”

On the Sunday morning, Bob was up long before the sun rose and started out on his journey to Tewkesbury in a car he had hired the previous day. He would have gone by train, but British Rail didn’t seem willing to rise quite early enough for him to reach his destination on time. As he journeyed across the Cotswolds, he tried to remember to keep the car on the left, and couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before the British started to build some highways with more than one lane.

He drove into Tewkesbury a few minutes after eleven, and thanks to Mrs Elliot’s clear directions, quickly found The Stone House. He parked the car outside a little wicket gate.

A woman had opened the door of the house even before Bob was halfway up the scrub-covered path. “It must be Mr Kefford,” she declared. “I’m Susan Elliot.” Bob smiled and shook her hand.

“I should warn you,” Mrs Elliot explained as she led him towards the front door, “that you’ll have to speak up. Father’s become rather deaf lately, and I’m afraid his memory isn’t what it used to be. He can recall everything that happened to him at your age, but not even the most simple things that I told him yesterday. I’ve had to remind him what time you would be coming this morning,” she said as they walked through the open door. “Three times.”

“I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble, Mrs Elliot,” said Bob.

“No trouble at all,” said Mrs Elliot as she led him down the corridor. “The truth is, my father’s been rather excited by the thought of an American blue from Cambridge coming to visit him after all these years. He hasn’t stopped talking about it for the past two days. He’s also curious about why you wanted to see him in the first place,” she added conspiratorially.

She led Bob into the drawing room, where he immediately came face to face with an old man seated in a winged leather chair, wrapped in a warm plaid dressing gown and propped up on several cushions, his legs covered by a tartan blanket. Bob found it hard to believe that this frail figure had once been an Olympic oarsman.

“Is it him?” the old man asked in a loud voice.

“Yes, Father,” Mrs Elliot replied, equally loudly. “It’s Mr Kefford. He’s driven over from Cambridge especially to see you.” Bob walked forward and shook the old man’s bony outstretched hand.

“Good of you to come all this way, Kefford,” said the former bishop, pulling his blanket up a little higher.

“I appreciate your seeing me, sir,” said Bob, as Mrs Elliot directed him to a comfortable chair opposite her father.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Kefford?”

“No, thank you, sir,” said Bob. “I really don’t want anything.”

“As you wish,” said the old man. “Now, I must warn you, Kefford, that my concentration span isn’t quite what it used to be, so you’d better tell me straight away why you’ve come to see me.”

Bob attempted to marshal his thoughts. “I’m doing a little research on a Cambridge blue who must have rowed around the same time as you, sir.”

“What’s his name?” asked Deering. “I can’t remember them all, you know.”

Bob looked at him, fearing that this was going to turn out to be a wasted journey. “Mortimer. Dougie Mortimer,” he said.

“D.J.T. Mortimer,” the old man responded without hesitation. “Now, there’s someone you couldn’t easily forget. One of the finest strokes Cambridge ever produced — as Oxford found out, to their cost.” The old man paused. “You’re not a journalist, by any chance?”

“No, sir. It’s just a personal whim. I wanted to find out one or two things about him before I return to America.”

“Then I will certainly try to help if I can,” said the old man in a piping voice.

“Thank you,” said Bob. “I’d actually like to begin at the end, if I may, by asking if you knew the circumstances of his death.” There was no response for several moments. The old cleric’s eyelids closed, and Bob began to wonder if he had fallen asleep.

“Not the sort of thing chaps talked about in my day,” he eventually replied. “Especially with its being against the law at the time, don’t you know.”

“Against the law?” said Bob, puzzled.

“Suicide. A bit silly, when you think about it,” the old priest continued, “even if it is a mortal sin. Because you can’t put someone in jail who’s already dead, now can you? Not that it was ever confirmed, you understand.”

“Do you think it might have been connected with Cambridge losing the Boat Race in 1909, when they were such clear favourites?”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Deering, hesitating once again. “I must admit, the thought had crossed my mind. I took part in that race, as you may know.” He paused again, breathing heavily.

“Cambridge were the clear favourites, and we didn’t give ourselves a chance. The result was never properly explained, I must admit. There were a lot of rumours doing the rounds at the time, but no proof — no proof, you understand.”

“What wasn’t proved?” asked Bob. There was another long silence, during which Bob began to fear that the old man might have thought he’d gone too far.

“My turn to ask you a few questions, Kefford,” he said eventually.

“Of course, sir.”

“My daughter tells me that you’ve stroked the winning boat for Cambridge three years in a row.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Congratulations, my boy. But tell me: if you had wanted to lose one of those races, could you have done so, without the rest of the crew being aware of it?”

It was Bob’s turn to ponder. He realised for the first time since he had entered the room that he shouldn’t assume that a frail body necessarily indicates a frail mind.

“Yes, I guess so,” he eventually said. “You could always change the stroke rate without warning, or even catch a crab as you took the Surrey bend. Heaven knows, there’s always enough flotsam on the river to make it appear unavoidable.” Bob looked the old man straight in the eye. “But it would never have crossed my mind that anyone might do so deliberately.”

“Nor mine,” said the priest, “had their cox not taken holy orders.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir,” said Bob.

“No reason you should, young man. I find nowadays that I think in non sequiturs. I’ll try to be less obscure. The cox of the 1909 Cambridge boat was a chap called Bertie Partridge. He went on to become a parish priest in some outpost called Chersfield in Rutland. Probably the only place that would have him,” he chuckled. “But when I became Bishop of Truro, he wrote and invited me to address his flock. It was such an arduous journey from Cornwall to Rutland in those days, that I could easily have made my excuses, but like you, I wanted the mystery of the 1909 race solved, and I thought this might be my only chance.”

Bob made no attempt to interrupt, fearing he might stop the old man’s flow.

“Partridge was a bachelor, and bachelors get very lonely, don’t you know. If you give them half a chance, they love to gossip. I stayed overnight, which gave him every chance. He told me, over a long dinner accompanied by a bottle of non-vintage wine, that it was well known that Mortimer had run up debts all over Cambridge. Not many undergraduates don’t, you might say, but in Mortimer’s case they far exceeded even his potential income. I think he rather hoped that his fame and popularity would stop his creditors from pressing their claims. Not unlike Disraeli when he was Prime Minister,” he added with another chuckle.

“But in Mortimer’s case one particular shopkeeper, who had absolutely no interest in rowing, and even less in undergraduates, threatened to bankrupt him the week before the 1909 Boat Race. A few days after the race had been lost, Mortimer seemed, without explanation, to have cleared all his obligations, and nothing more was heard of the matter.”

Once again the old man paused as if in deep thought. Bob remained silent, still not wishing to distract him.

“The only other thing I can recall is that the bookies made a killing,” Deering said without warning. “I know that to my personal cost, because my tutor lost a five-pound wager, and never let me forget that I had told him we didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Mind you, I was always able to offer that as my excuse for not getting a First.” He looked up and smiled at his visitor.

Bob sat on the edge of his seat, mesmerised by the old man’s recollections.

“I’m grateful for your candour, sir,” he said. “And you can be assured of my discretion.”

“Thank you, Kefford,” said the old man, now almost whispering. “I’m only too delighted to have been able to assist you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, thank you, sir,” said Bob. “I think you’ve covered everything I needed to know.” Bob rose from his chair, and as he turned to thank Mrs Elliot he noticed for the first time a bronze cast of an arm hanging on the far wall. Below it was printed in gold:

“You must have been a fine oarsman, sir.”

“No, not really,” said the old blue. “But I was lucky enough to be in the winning boat three years in a row, which wouldn’t please a Cambridge man like yourself.”

Bob laughed. “Perhaps one last question before I leave, sir.”

“Of course, Kefford.”

“Did they ever make a bronze of Dougie Mortimer’s arm?”

“They most certainly did,” replied the priest. “But it mysteriously disappeared from your boathouse in 1912. A few weeks later the boatman was sacked without explanation — caused quite a stir at the time.”

“Was it known why he was sacked?” asked Bob.

“Partridge claimed that when the old boatman got drunk one night, he confessed to having dumped Mortimer’s arm in the middle of the Cam.” The old man paused, smiled, and added, “Best place for it, wouldn’t you say, Kefford?”

Bob thought about the question for some time, wondering how his father would have reacted. He then replied simply, “Yes, sir. Best place for it.”