Philip Hargraves, a blacksmith and motor mechanic, was walking along the upper reaches of the Thames outside the village of Maidenton with his teenaged son, Bertie, just as the sun was coming up. He planned to get in some early fishing before starting work.

It was a truly beautiful morning and the dawn chorus sounded from the trees along the grassy bank.

‘Look at that, Dad,’ said Bertie, stopping short. ‘Tyre tracks going straight into the river.’

Philip joined his son and together they looked down into the waters of the Thames. The water may have been pitch-black at night, but in the brightening rays of the sun it was still and clear along the stretch outside the village. There was a strong current in midstream, but by the bank the water was as clear as glass.

And so, looking down, they were able to see a figure in a car sitting on the bottom.

‘Better call the police,’ said Bert.

‘No, wait a bit,’ said his father. ‘Let’s get that car out first. I’ll go back and get the tractor and winch it out. You keep a look-out.’

‘But, Dad!’

‘Do as you’re told or I’ll take my belt to you!’

The motor car and body were slowly winched up out of the Thames.

Philip’s face was red with excitement. ‘Let’s get this back afore anyone sees us,’ he said. ‘Hop in the tractor.’

‘But, Dad, the body.’

‘I’ll tell you about that.’

Philip drove carefully back to his smithy, looking carefully left to right to make sure no one was watching. It was still very early and his smithy was on the outskirts of the village.

Outside the smithy, he unhitched the motor car and pushed it inside. ‘Now, you,’ he said ferociously to his son, ‘not a word of this or I’ll beat the living daylights out of you. Run along. You say one word and I’ll get to hear of it. Poor gentleman probably was drunk and drove straight into the river.’

The boy scampered off. Philip shut the double doors of the smithy and locked and bolted them. Then he stood and stared at the car in delight. It was a Spyker six-cylinder engine, four-wheel drive. Other cars only had rear-wheel brakes. He had seen a photograph of it in the London Illustrated News showing it parked outside the Crystal Palace. The Spyker factory was in Trompenburg, Amsterdam. The family name was Spijker, but the firm’s name was Spyker, largely because the motor cars were exported to English-speaking countries.