Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

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:

D. J. T. MORTIMER

1907–08–09

(St CATHARINE’S, 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 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.