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:
H.R.R. DEERING
1909–10–11
(KEBLE, BOW)
“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.”
Do Not Pass Go*
Hamid Zebari smiled at the thought of his wife Shereen driving him to the airport. Neither of them would have
