The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [141]
Forester began to row steadily toward the middle of the river. His progress was slow, but his easy rhythm revealed that he had rowed many times before. When the two men calculated that they had reached the center of the Cam, at its deepest point, Forester stopped rowing and joined his companion in the bow. 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 toward 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 called 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 since 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 think 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 hanging up.
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 Right Reverend 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 in his rooms 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 aloud 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,