Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

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.”