A Traveller's Tale

Introduction

Neither the burning down of the shed on Mr Lister's allotment in the small town of Shinford, nor the hoisting of an assortment of ladies' underwear up the flagpole of the Red Lion in the village of Nutcombe a hundred and fifty miles away and two years later, occasioned more than a short lived interest in their own localities. Indeed, to describe either as a nine-day wonder would be to exaggerate. An elucidation of the close connection between the two disparate events, separated as they were in time and space, may however intrigue those interested in the incongruous nature of life. It is for the satisfaction, and hopefully entertainment, of such persons that this narrative is offered.

* * *

Prologue

On a sunny September morning in the year 1925, three dozen apprehensive five-year-old mixed infants were about to have their first lesson on their first day of school. As they sat at the desks to which they had been led, with instructions to keep still and stay quiet until told otherwise, they stared in awe and expectation at the teacher standing before them. She spoke. "Now then, children, I shall call your names, one by one. When you hear your name, you will stand, say 'Here, Miss,' and sit down again." She looked over the class, and was satisfied that she had their attention and comprehension.

Miss Beatrice Brittain had been trained at the London School of Economics, and therefore believed that her pedagogical function was not merely to impart factual information, but also to mould the minds of her pupils to equip them to fulfil their function in bringing about a new social order. She had a theory that towards this end her charges' self-esteem and confidence should be boosted by giving them to understand that they were entitled to have their identity officially recorded not only by their praenomen and cognomen, but also by the appropriate honorific, and she put this concept into practice as she called the roll.

"Master William Rogers?"

Billy Rogers stood, said "Here, Miss," and sat down wondering why that peculiar woman didn't use his proper name.

"Miss Violet Briggs?"

Violet Briggs stood, said "Here, Miss," looked smugly around the class, and sat down hoping that the other girls had duly noted that she had been the first of her sex to be called.

"Master Lester Lister?" Miss Brittain had automatically read the name in the register, not realising, until she heard the words issuing from her mouth, the peculiar assonance. As it struck her, she could not suppress the instinctive smile that twitched her mouth.

As Les Lister stood and said, "Here, Miss," the other children noticed the teacher's involuntary grin, and a number of them giggled. Their amusement was infectious, and soon they were all laughing. Angrily frustrated at being laughed at for no good reason, Les burst into tears. A wave of despair engulfed him, and the tears streaming down his cheeks were soon matched by a flow lower down as he wet his brand new knickerbocker trousers. The rest of the class hugged each other in glee at his shameful humiliation.

It was thus that his very first lesson on his very first day at school taught Les that he was born to be one of life's victims, that Fate had marked him for her nastiest tricks, and that ill fortune would dog him relentlessly all his days, a conclusion that the next forty years would do little to mitigate.

* * *

The Fire

The conflagration of the allotment shed took place late on a Thursday morning. It was, from a pyrotechnical standpoint, impressive. At its height flames shot through the window and roof, and every now and then there were small explosions inside, occasioning extra jets of flame.

On his way to do a bit of digging on his allotment, Fred Stubbs was alarmed to see the cloud of smoke and sparks rising above the allotment site. There had been occasional instances of unruly youths lighting small bonfires on the site, but nothing of this order. It must be a shed on fire he thought, and he hurried to the scene, hoping that it wasn't his. On his arrival he was relieved to see that it was not his shed, but a neighbouring one. There were two fire brigade vehicles and two police cars in the lane that ran alongside the site. Firemen were playing hand-held extinguishers on the flames. Two uniformed police constables were urging a handful of bystanders to move further away. Fred was surprised at the police presence. They had never taken much notice of vandalism on the site previously.

A police sergeant detached himself from an earnest conversation he had been having with the senior fireman, and came forward. "Does anyone here know who this shed belongs to?" he asked the small knot of onlookers.

Fred spoke up. "Yes, it's Lister's."

The sergeant took Fred aside. "Who's this Lister, then? Are you a friend of his? What can you tell me about him?"

"No, I wouldn't call him a friend, but I see him quite often. I'm a ticket collector at the railway station, and Lister is a season ticket holder. Every other Monday morning he leaves on the 9.15, and returns at the end of the fortnight on the 4.20 Friday afternoon. Has done for years. I think he's a commercial traveller. Always carries two small suitcases."

"So he's away now then?" the sergeant asked.

"Well, actually no, funnily enough. This week he came home yesterday, Wednesday, on the late train that gets in at 9.23. Never known him to do that before."

"Did he say why he had come back early?"

"No. Not the chatty type, our Mr Lister. Putting it more bluntly, he's a miserable old bugger. Never cracks a smile. I remember thinking to myself, 'I hope your missus is expecting you. If she's already locked up and gone to bed, you'd better sleep in the shed rather than rouse her.'" Fred grinned at his own wit.

The sergeant looked at him sharply. "Do that often, does he? Sleep in the shed?"

"Not that I know of, but he could easily if he wanted to. Like a home from home, his shed. As you can see, it's big, or was, rather. He had a fancy deck chair in there -- you know, one of those with a padded head cushion and an adjustable footrest." Fred could not hide the envious overtone in his voice. "He had a primus stove and lamp, a table, and even a wash stand. That still left plenty of room for his tools and other stuff. On the weekends that he was home he seemed to spend most of his time in that shed."

The sergeant tried to sound casual as he asked, "So he kept paraffin in there, did he, for his stove and lamp?"

"Well, naturally. I've seen him bring a fresh gallon can of it more than once. Blimey, that could have been what made the place go up so fierce, couldn't it?"

"I suppose it could have been," the sergeant replied grudgingly. "Did he keep any other flammable materials in the shed?"

"Not that I can think of offhand," Fred answered, frowning in thought. His face suddenly cleared and he said eagerly, "No, wait a minute, he had a bale of straw in one corner!"

"Straw?" asked the sergeant incredulously. "What would he want with that?"

"For his strawberries, of course. He'd spread it under the plants when they started coming into fruit, to keep the strawberries off the soil. It's the old-fashioned way, but then he is old-fashioned. It's why they're called strawberries, you know."

The sergeant didn't know, but he wasn't going to admit as much. He turned to the bystanders and announced, "Right, you lot. Off with you now. This allotment site is out of bounds until further notice. If any of you know anything about what has happened here, or anything relevant about Mr Lister, give your name and address to the constable before you go."

By this time the firemen had quelled the flames, and all that remained of the shed was a low heap of smouldering ash. The police and fire vehicles in the lane alongside the allotments were joined by a saloon car, from which emerged a man of professional appearance carrying what looked like a doctor's bag.

Fred left, puzzled to see the police erecting screens around the remains of the shed. "Anyone'd think they were investigating a murder or something," he told his wife later, "not just a blooming shed catching fire."

* * *

Shinford Police Investigate

Back at the police station, Sergeant Lucas reported to Inspector Chandler. "Any identification of the corpse in the shed, Bob?" Chandler asked.

"Yes, got a good probable. One of the neighbouring allotment holders came by, and was able to tell us that the shed's owner is a Mr Lister, and that Mr Lister might well have slept in the shed last night."

"What?" Chandler exclaimed. "Not Lester Lister of 39 Laburnum Drive?"

"That's the one," Lucas confirmed. "Why? Do you know him?"

"No, I never heard of him until today, but earlier this morning we were contacted by Polyphema Fashions Ltd, complaining of embezzlement by one of their sales reps, to wit, Lester Lister."

"Oh blimey," Lucas moaned. "The plot thickens. I hate it when things start to get complicated. What's Lister supposed to have done, then?"

With a glance at a report on his desk the Inspector explained. "From what I can gather so far, Lister is alleged to have paid cheques made out to Polyphema into his own account, and then drawn them out as cash."

"What, before the cheques were cleared?" Lucas asked.

"It seems so. Apparently Lister flimflammed the teller with some complicated yarn and got him all confused."

"Do you mean to say that the teller didn't think to consult the bank manager before paying out?" Lucas was incredulous.

"Ah! Well, it seems that over time a very lax habit has arisen. Thursdays are usually a slack time at the bank apparently, so the manager has taken to playing golf in the morning, leaving his assistant to take charge. The assistant manager in turn gives himself an extra hour in bed on Thursdays, and catches a later bus, which makes him twenty minutes late arriving, so he lets the teller Digby, who's third in line, open up, trusting that there will be no business to transact. And so far there hasn't been -- until today that is."

"Good God!"

"I know. Digby was uneasy about it however, and told the Assistant Manager what had happened as soon as he turned up for work a little later. The Assistant Manager immediately phoned Polyphema Fashions, and the balloon went up. "

"You mean that if Digby had kept Lister talking for a few minutes longer, he wouldn't have got away with it?" Lucas asked.

"Seems like it," Chandler responded.

"Wait a minute," Lucas observed suddenly. "This rather knocks on the head the theory that Lister came home late, slept in the shed to avoid disturbing his wife, and was overcome by flames in his sleep. Now we know that he was out and about at ten o'clock, and the fire started afterwards. I should tell you as well that the fire officer told me that the fire was almost certainly a case of arson, though he has not submitted an official report yet."

"Hmm." Chandler scratched his chin. "Preliminary hypothesis: Lister came back early with the intention of pulling the bank stunt, knowing that for a few minutes on Thursday mornings only a junior would be manning the fort. He gets away with it at the bank, but some criminal type sees that he has a packet of dough on him, follows him back to the shed, knocks him on the head, pinches the money, sets fire to the shed, and scarpers."

Lucas agreed. "Sounds likely, but I can't think of any of our local villains with that sort of form. I'll start enquiries for possible sightings of suspicious types hanging about. In the meantime I'll call on Mrs Lister with a female officer and see what she can tell us."

* * *

Muriel Interviewed

Number 39 Laburnum Drive was a single-fronted semi detached house of 1930s vintage. WPC Adams gave two sharp raps with the chromium plated knocker, supplemented with a single short depression of the doorbell. She stood aside to permit Sergeant Lucas to face the door. For several seconds there was no response, but just as Lucas was about to instruct the policewoman to try again they heard a shuffling from inside and the door opened just enough to allow a harassed looking female face to examine them and ask tetchily, "Yes, what is it?"

"Mrs Lister?" Lucas asked. He had expected someone older. His information was that Lister was forty-five. This woman looked fifteen years younger than that.

"Yes, I'm Mrs Lister. What do you want?"

Lucas introduced himself and WPC Adams as they both showed their warrant cards. "And is this the residence of Mr Lester Lister?" he asked.

"That is my husband's name but he's not at home. He's away on business and won't be back until tomorrow evening." Mrs Lister began to close the door.

"May we come in and talk to you?" Lucas asked, extending a hand to obstruct the door closing.

Mrs Lister seemed hesitant, and uttered a long drawn-out "Well..."

The policewoman spoke in her most winning tone. "We have some information about your husband, Mrs Lister, and it really is frightfully important."

"Oh, all right then, if you must," Mrs Lister conceded, and opened the door fully to let them in. "In here," she said, and ushered them into the front room, glancing anxiously up the stairs as she did so.

Once they were all seated, Lucas said, "We have good reason to believe, Mrs Lister, that your husband actually returned to Shinford some time after 9 o'clock yesterday evening." Muriel Lister gasped and her eyes widened. "You were not aware of that then?" Lucas said.

There was a noticeable pause before a reply came. "No. I went to bed early last night."

Lucas studied the toecap of his shoe. "Does your husband have a door key, Mrs Lister?"

"Yes, of course he does," she replied, "but when I lock up I put the snib on and bolt the door, top and bottom." She looked sharply at Lucas and added tartly, "Of course, we wouldn't have to be so careful if we could rely on the police to keep burglars off the street."

Lucas ignored the provocation. "If you husband came home after you had locked up, and didn't want to disturb you, what would you expect him to do?"

"Oh, he'd probably go and sleep in the shed on his allotment. He's slept there before." Noticing that Lucas and Adams were keeping unnaturally rigid straight faces, Muriel swiftly explained, "Of his own free will, I might add, around Firework Night and so on, if he thought vandals were about."

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that the shed on your husband's allotment burned down today," Lucas said.

At first Muriel showed no interest in this news, but gradually the implication sank in and she asked tremulously, "Was... was... was anybody hurt?"

WPC Adams gently said, "I'm afraid so, Mrs Lister. A body was found in the ashes."

Muriel blanched, and covered her mouth with her hand. "And was it...?" she asked fearfully.

"No formal identification has been made yet," the policewoman said. "Actually, we wanted to ask you if you would be willing to view the body and see if you could identify it. It's a lot to ask, I know -- the body is so very badly burned -- but it would help us no end if we knew for sure who it was."

"You mean now?" The rising inflection of Muriel's voice alarmed WPC Adams.

"If you feel up to it." The policewoman's voice was sympathetic. "It really would be very helpful."

Muriel sat silently thinking for a while. Then she suddenly stood and said, "All right. Let's get it over with," and she led them to the front door. As the two police officers stepped outside, she said, "I must just go up and get my coat." She swiftly closed the door, leaving them on the doorstep. When she reappeared after a few minutes it did not escape the notice of WPC Adams that she was wearing a coat that had been hanging in the hall when they arrived.

At the mortuary Muriel was shown two items which had been removed from the corpse: a ring and a pocket watch on a chain. The watch was engraved inside the cover with the monogram 'LL.' She identified both ring and watch as belonging to her husband.

With a grimace and a shudder she also identified the body as being her husband. When asked if she was sure, she snapped, "Yes, I'm sure. You asked me to identify the body, and I just did. That's him. That's my husband Lester."

* * *

Evidence Reviewed

By the time that Inspector Chandler and Sergeant Lucas reviewed the case that evening, additional evidence had come in. There were reports from the scene of crime officers, from the pathologist who conducted the post-mortem, from the fire investigation officer, and from the police team looking for suspicious characters.

Sifting through the ashes of the shed, SOCO had found nothing other than the body and the remnants of the usual contents of the shed. There was nothing indicative of wads of bank notes. There were no suit case handles, hinges, or locks.

The pathologist had found no smoke in the lungs of the deceased. Its absence suggested that death had occurred before the fire started. There was severe cirrhosis of the liver, typical of a long history of heavy drinking. The body was generally malnourished, and the condition of the teeth and nails was indicative of neglect of health and hygiene. The tip of the little finger of the left hand was missing, but otherwise there was no sign of injury other than that caused by the fire. The pathologist estimated the age of the dead man to be at least sixty-five, and judged the cause of death to be liver failure.

"Sounds like your typical vagrant," Lucas observed.

The fire service investigation concluded that the fire was deliberately set, with the use of paraffin as an accelerant. It recommended that the borough council should limit the quantities of hazardous materials permitted in allotment sheds, particularly paraffin, fertilisers containing ammonium nitrate, and weed killers containing sodium chlorate.

The fourth report was to the effect that there had been recent sightings of a vagrant living rough over several days and in different localities. He had been seen sleeping in a parked car, had been chased from a farmer's barn, had knocked on doors soliciting food, had been found asleep in a church porch, and so on. An enterprising constable with a penchant for cartography had plotted his progress by a line on a map. This showed him to be moving across the countryside at a rate of five to ten miles per day, terminating at Shinford the day before the fire.

The inventive constable had been so industrious as to extrapolate the tramp's projected movements thereafter (modestly using only a dotted line), but in fact there had been no further sightings, neither in the forecast locations nor elsewhere. Enquiries were not assisted by the lack of a consistent description, the only common element in those so far obtained being that he looked like 'a dirty old tramp.'

Lucas observed that the tramp's disappearance off the map near the time and place of the fire suggested that his was the body in the shed. Chandler agreed, but pointed out that if the tramp stole Lister's ill-gotten gains he would have enough funds to travel further and faster than before.

"It all turns on whose is the body in the shed, doesn't it?" Lucas said. "The only evidence that it is Lister are the ring and the watch, which could easily have been planted, and Mrs Lister's identification, which was suspiciously quick and definite, considering the state of the corpse."

"On the other hand," said Chandler, "the only evidence that the body is not Lister is the pathologist's estimate of the deceased's age and general state of health, and the fact that a vagrant seems to have gone missing in that locality around that time. Inquest juries are sometimes sceptical of expert witnesses -- come to that, so am I. The vagrant's disappearance off the map is purely circumstantial."