I feared we had now passed the point at which I could tell Duncan the truth.
“Right, now I have three terrorists in the cab with the
chef de train.
They've killed the co-driver, and there are just four passengers still left on the train, plus the black ticket collectorâwho may turn out to be SAS in disguise, I haven't decided yet.”
“Coffee, madame?” the maître d' asked when Duncan paused for a moment.
“Irish,” said Christabel.
“Regular, please,” I said.
“Decaf for me,” said Duncan.
“Any liqueurs or cigars?”
Only Christabel reacted.
“So, at the start of chapter eleven the terrorists open negotiations with the British police. But they say they can't
deal with them because the train is no longer under their jurisdiction. This throws the terrorists completely, because none of them speaks French, and in any case their quarrel is with the British government. One of them searches the train for someone who can speak French, and comes across the Greek millionaire's wife.
“Meanwhile, the police on either side of the Channel stop all the trains going in either direction. So, our train is now stranded in the tunnel on its ownâthere would normally be twenty trains traveling in either direction between London and Paris at any one time.” He paused to sip his coffee.
“Is that so?” I asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.
“It certainly is,” Duncan said. “I've done my research thoroughly.”
A glass of deep red port was being poured for Christabel. I glanced at the label: Taylor's 55. This was something I had never had the privilege of tasting. Christabel indicated that the bottle should be left on the table. The waiter nodded, and Christabel immediately poured me a glass, without asking if I wanted it. Meanwhile, the maître clipped a cigar for Duncan that he hadn't requested.
“In chapter twelve we discover the terrorists' purpose,” continued Duncan. “Namely, blowing up the train as a publicity stunt, guaranteed to get their cause onto every front page in the world. But the passengers who have remained on the train, led by the American father, are planning a counteroffensive.”
The maître lit a match and Duncan automatically picked up the cigar and put it in his mouth. It silenced him â¦
“The self-made millionaire might feel he's the natural leader,” I suggested.
⦠but only for a moment. “He's a Greek. If I'm going to make any money out of this project, it's the American market I have to aim for. And don't forget the film rights,” Duncan said, jabbing the air with his cigar.
I couldn't fault his logic.
“Can I have the check?” Duncan asked as the maître d' passed by our table.
“Certainly, sir,” he replied, not even breaking his stride.
“Now, my trouble is going to be the endingâ” began Duncan as Christabel suddenly, if somewhat unsteadily, rose from her chair.
She turned to face me and said, “I'm afraid the time has come for me to leave. It's been a pleasure meeting you, although I have a feeling we won't be seeing each other again. I'd just like to say how much I enjoyed your latest novel. Such an original idea. It deserved to be number one.”
I stood, kissed her hand, and thanked her, feeling more guilty than ever.
“Goodbye, Duncan,” she said, turning to face her former lover, but he didn't even bother to look up. “Don't worry yourself,” she added. “I'll be out of the apartment by the time you get back.”
She proceeded to negotiate a rather wobbly route across the restaurant, eventually reaching the door that led out onto the street. The maître held it open for her and bowed low.
“I can't pretend I'm sorry to see her go,” said Duncan, puffing away on his cigar. “Fantastic body, great between the sheets, but she's totally lacking in imagination.”
The maître d' reappeared by Duncan's side, this time to place a small black leather folder in front of him.
“Well, the critics were certainly right about this place,” I commented. Duncan nodded his agreement.
The maître bowed, but not quite as low as before. “Now, my trouble, as I was trying to explain before Christabel decided to make her exit,” continued Duncan, “is that I've done the outline, completed the research, but I still don't have an ending. Any ideas?” he asked, as a middle-aged woman rose from a nearby table and began walking determinedly toward us.
Duncan flicked open the leather cover, and stared in disbelief at the bill.
The woman came to a halt beside our table. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your new book,” she said in a loud voice.
Other diners turned around to see what was going on.
“Thank you,” I said somewhat curtly, hoping to prevent her from adding to my discomfort.
Duncan's eyes were still fixed on the bill.
“And the ending,” she said. “So clever! I would never have guessed how you were going to get the American family out of the tunnel alive ⦔
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 strived every bit as hard to come in 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 traveled over to England to watch his son take part in all three races from Putney 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 poking 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.”
Since Bob had never known a girl who talked about another man while he was in bed with her, he was unable to think of an immediate response.
“And are they?” he eventually inquired, 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 pack of Player's cigarettes. I've never seen
your
picture in a cigarette pack, 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 backward until he reached the entry he sought. “Douglas John Townsend Mortimer (St. Catharine's), Cambridge 1907, â08, â09, 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 that 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 Williamâor, 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.
“That'd be the 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 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 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 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 wifeâeveryone called her Noraâwho 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 around and said, “Just âold 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 when 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 secondhand 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.