Twelve Red Herrings Read online

  “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 backward 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.

  Dougie Mortimer stroked the Cambridge boat to victory in 1907, a feat which he repeated in 1908. But in 1909, when the experts 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 inquiries 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 that 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 center 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 Williams.

  “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 kids playing soccer. 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, gray 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 blond 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 watering hole.

  The proprietor 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 proprietor’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 proprietor 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 truck. 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 proprietor. “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