A Traveller's Tale

"There's the missing fingertip," Lucas suggested. "Don't forget that."

"True," Chandler conceded. "That's the only solid characteristic that we have. Pity it's so small. I mean, you could meet and talk with someone and never know that they were minus a fingertip. I suppose we are sure that Lister had all his digits entire?"

Lucas looked embarrassed. "Actually, it never occurred to me to take evidence on that point. Nobody ever mentioned it. I'll get onto it."

"Do that."

Keen to change the subject, Lucas said, "Policewoman Adams and I both got a strong impression that there was another person in the house when we first interviewed Mrs Lister. She seemed determined not to let us see any further than her front room."

"What? Could it have been Lister?"

"I don't think so. She seemed genuinely taken aback to hear that he had returned to Shinford -- alarmed even. Probably for the usual reason that a wife is worried at the thought of her husband returning home unexpectedly. We asked around the neighbours. No definite statements, but a few nods and winks suggesting that Mrs Lister didn't go lonely while hubby was away."

"Oh God," Chandler moaned, "not a bleeding eternal triangle case, please."

* * *

The Case Goes Cold

From the point of view of the police, the coroner's inquest was a disaster. Mrs Lister was clearly intent on frustrating any suggestion that the deceased was not her husband. She had hired a solicitor to represent her, a Mr Fenning, well known to the police for his unscrupulous tactics when defending guilty criminals.

Mrs Lister attended the court dressed in rather dowdy widow's weeds, and without a trace of make-up on her face. She firmly attested that she had recognised the remains as those of her husband. The coroner asked her if she was sure, and she replied that of course she was, no woman would ever be mistaken in such a matter. This assertion was made with a challenging look towards the jury, the female members of which, who were in the majority, all nodded in agreement.

The pathologist testified that in his opinion the cause of death was liver failure. Fenning, knowing that the witness was something of an expert in that field, encouraged him to expatiate on the subject. The pathologist fell into the trap, and forthwith launched enthusiastically into a lecture on hepatocellular necrosis, hereditary haemochromatosis, congestive hepatopathy, hepatic veno-occlusion, and primary biliary cholangitis. Fenning allowed the witness to exhaust both the subject and his audience before saying, "I have no more questions," and sitting down.

By that time the jury's eyes had glazed over in bafflement, and they gratefully accepted the coroner's "Thank you, doctor. You may step down" as a sign that they need give no more thought to the pathologist's evidence.

The fire officer testified that in his view the fire had been deliberately set. Fenning asked him if it was dangerous to keep a bale of straw in a garden shed. Aware of his responsibility for fire prevention, the witness said that it most certainly was. It was not difficult for Fenning to get him to add that straw bales were known to ignite spontaneously. After the fire officer stepped down, Fenning called Fred Stubbs to testify that Lister kept a bale of straw in his shed.

Despite the coroner's recommendation to return an open verdict, the jury found that Lester Lister had met with an accidental death, and added a rider recommending that the borough council should prohibit the keeping of straw bales in allotment sheds.

The unofficial reaction of the police to the inquest verdict was summed up in a single word by Inspector Chandler: "Bugger!"

Officially however they had to accept the verdict as fait accompli. Upon learning that Lister was now legally dead, Polyphema Fashions were no longer interested in pursuing the embezzlement charge. The police were then left only with the task of searching for an anonymous vagrant, although they privately hoped that it would result in finding Lister. The trail however was cold, and the search soon petered out.

* * *

Enter Walter Hatchet

Polyphema Fashions Ltd was insured with the Sub Umbra Insurance Company against defalcation by an employee. Accordingly, they submitted a claim to the company for the value of the cheques misappropriated by Lister. As a matter of routine, Sub Umbra assigned a claims assessor to the case. As it was such a straightforward matter, they chose their most junior assessor, Walter Hatchet.

Hatchet much preferred to be styled a Loss Adjuster rather than a Claims Assessor. His interpretation of insurance was that whilst the premiums paid by a policy holder should be based on the full value of the assets insured, under no circumstances should any settlement of a claim made under that policy compensate the claimant for the full amount of his loss. He therefore put his mind to the task of challenging Polyphema's claim. He first attempted to persuade the company to seek to recover their loss by suing the bank rather than making an insurance claim. Polyphema's lawyers however had no stomach for a fight against a national bank, and stoutly resisted the suggestion.

Next, Hatchet asked Mr Thurlow, the Chief Accountant of Polyphema, if he had tried asking Lister to return the money. "Mr Lister is dead, Mr Hatchet," was the response.

"Ah, but he had the money, didn't he? And now he's dead, his heirs must have it. So ask them to return it."

Thurlow resisted this suggestion, but Hatchet reminded him that the terms of the policy required the insured party to seek to minimise their loss, and he implied that he would not be able to approve the claim if Polyphema failed to co-operate. Thurlow decided that it would do no harm to humour the fool, and agreed to follow his advice.

* * *

Lister's widow Muriel did not know what to make of the communication she received through the post. It was an invoice addressed to "Mr Lester Lister (deceased), his heirs and assigns" for "monies in your possession received on behalf of Polyphema Fashions Ltd" in the sum of £634/17s/6d, and was franked, "OVERDUE. IMMEDIATE PAYMENT IS REQUESTED." She consulted her solicitor, Mr Fenning. After a brief consultation he undertook to reply on her behalf.

Fenning's reply to Polyphema stated (1) that Mrs Lister was the sole heir and assign of her late husband, (2) that Mrs Lister's inheritance from her late husband consisted of a few personal chattels of no market value, a mortgage debt, and a pile of ashes on an allotment site, and (3) that Mrs Lister was not in possession of nor had any knowledge of any monies received by her late husband on behalf of Polyphema Fashions. As a sting in the tail, Fenning added that he understood that, being the widow of a Polyphema employee who had died whilst still in their employment, Mrs Lister was entitled to a monthly pension from the company. He wrote: "The first payment of said pension would now seem to be OVERDUE. IMMEDIATE PAYMENT would be appreciated."

An amused Thurlow showed Fenning's letter to Hatchet, whose initial annoyance was swiftly followed by, "Hang on, what's this about a pension?"

"Oh, Fenning's quite right there. The widow of an employee who dies in our employment gets a pension of one half of the pension her husband would have received had he retired on the date of his death. On retirement Lister would have been entitled to a company pension of one eightieth of his earnings for each year of service. He had been with us for about 20 years, and his earnings were more than £120 a month -- he was a good salesman and earned a decent commission -- so his pension would have been £30 a month or more. I haven't calculated the exact amount yet, but it won't be far off that. So Mrs Lister will be getting something like £15 a month."

Hatchet bit his upper lip in furious thought, before suddenly exclaiming, "That's it! That's the answer!"

"What's the answer? And what is it the answer to?" a puzzled Thurlow asked.

"Don't you see?" Hatchet exulted. "I shall recommend payment of your claim in full. You on your part, instead of paying Mrs Lister the pension money, you send her each month a statement of account crediting the pension payment against the six hundred and something pounds she owes Polyphema. Then you pay the pension cash to us, as partial refund of the insurance payout, owing to subsequent reduction of the loss."

Thurlow was far from happy with this solution, but again took the line of least resistance and acquiesced.

Fenning wrote a number of letters to Polyphema protesting against this arrangement, but to no avail. In the end he advised Mrs Lister to accept the situation, and she agreed. She had found that the building society was willing to repossess the house at a valuation in excess of the outstanding mortgage debt. This gave her a little capital in hand, and after selling up most of her possessions, she went to live with her sister in East Anglia.

And thus matters stood, until two years later an unusual incident occurred in Nutcombe.

* * *

Flagrant Flags

PC Banks' hopes that Sunday might fulfil its reputation of being a day of rest were disappointed. Several pious ladies reported seeing, on their way to morning service, the outrageous flying of ladies' underwear from the flagpole of the Red Lion Inn, presenting a clear and present danger to the morals of Nutcombe village. Small boys were congregating in sniggering groups. Lewd speculation upon the previous wearers of the articles was rife among older males, some of whom claimed to have inside knowledge. One wag suggested that it was clearly a libidinous version of Nelson's famous signal: "England expects every man to do his duty."

Banks was unsure of his powers. The fact that the more strait-laced females in the congregation of Nutcombe Parish church were offended did not mean that an offence, in the legal meaning of the term, had been committed. He consulted Inspector Worth at Nutchester on the telephone, and received little sympathy. "For Heaven's sake, Banks, if the publican won't do anything, pull them down yourself, and list the items in the Found Property Book."

Banks blanched at the thought that he was being ordered to pull down ladies' unmentionables, and wailed, "But Sir, I don't even know what some of these articles are called. Can't you send a female officer to handle it?"

"Good God, Banks, what sort of sheltered existence have you been leading? All right, I'll send WPC Potts to assist. It would do you good to be transferred to the Met and put on the Soho beat. It might grow some hair on your chest."

* * *

Enter WPC Potts

The Red Lion had opened by the time that Policewoman Sheila Potts arrived, and she went with Banks to interview the landlord. He denied all knowledge of the intimate garments, asserting that the only banners he allowed to grace his flagpole were the Union Flag on state occasions and the cross of St George on that saint's day. Only the day before, he had refused to fly an advertising banner for the brewery, despite the importunings of their travelling salesman, who, he hinted, had probably hoist the ladies' lingerie in revenge.

The salesman denied this accusation, pointing out, reasonably enough, that if he had been inclined to surreptitious flag flying, it would have been his employer's standard that he raised. He proffered as an alternative suspect the only other guest of the inn the previous night.

Questioned about that individual, the landlord said that he seemed to be on a cycling tour. He had arrived the previous afternoon dressed in shorts and open-necked shirt, and had left early that morning in similar style. His luggage was in a pair of pannier bags which were slung over the rear rack of his bicycle, but could be removed and carried like a suitcase. On top of the rack he had another small piece of luggage, like an attaché case. He had signed the register 'Mr Jolly.' The landlord knew nothing more about him, and referred them back to the brewery rep, with whom Mr Jolly had been in conversation the previous evening.

"Jolly by name, and jolly by nature," the rep described him. "He had a mischievous sort of air of about him, and a funny way of talking. It was hard to tell when he was serious and when he was joking. He referred to his bicycle as his noble steed, and said he had been on a chivalrous quest for the Holy Grail, but had finally tracked it down. He sympathised with me over my disagreement with the landlord. 'A confrontacious argumentifying' he called it."

"Did he say where he'd tracked the Holy Grail to?" Potts asked.

"Well, he said it was to be found at the Potwell Inn on the Norfolk Broads, but I didn't take him seriously. I've never heard of a pub of that name on the Broads, and I think I would have if there was one."

The policewoman thanked the brewery rep warmly, and led PC Banks outside to the flagpole. He hauled the offending display down to chest level. The articles of clothing were all strung out along a length of parcel string, to which they were fastened by sundry clothes pegs and paper clips. The string was tied to the flagpole halyard with neat clove hitches top and bottom. WPC Potts easily loosened the knots, and bundled the underwear, still on the string, into a laundry bag which she had had the foresight to bring.

Back at the police station Potts unpacked the laundry bag and said, "Right, let's take inventory. I'll read out the details of each item, and you make a list." Banks acquiesced with this arrangement. He was quite willing to let her take the initiative, still being of the opinion that this was not man's work.

Potts began removing the articles from the string one by one. "One bra, pale blue, size 34, make 'Sylph de Light', new," she sang out. "One pair of French knickers, red, size OS, make 'Sylph de Light', new. One stocking, black silk, size 4 long, make 'Sylph de Light', new. One garter belt, white, size 32 waist, make 'Sylph de Light', new. One camisole, yellow, size S, make 'Sylph de Light', new. One waspie corset, purple, size 36 waist, make 'Sylph de Light', new. Six items in all. Did you get all that?"

Banks indicated that he had got all that. "Not that it gets us any further," he added.

"Oh, I don't know. I think it tells us quite a lot," Potts replied.

"Such as?"

"Well, in the first place, they are all new, so they weren't snatched off washing lines by a pervert pantie pincher. Secondly, they are all the same make. Thirdly, they are in a variety of colours. Fourthly, they are all different sizes, so they don't belong to one lady's wardrobe. So where do they belong?"

"I don't know," Banks confessed. "In a shop window?"

"Close, but I think we would have had a report of the theft in that case. No, I think that they are, or rather were, the contents of a travelling salesman's sample case."

"The traveller in question being Mr Jolly?" Banks suggested.

"Sounds likely, don't you think? Remember, he sided with the brewery rep in the argument over the flagpole. One commercial traveller sympathising with another, perhaps."

"So what have we got?" Banks asked. "Here's our Mr Jolly, who travels in ladies' knickers, as they say, but he's not dressed for working his pitch, more as if he is on holiday. Why should he suddenly hoist the tools of his trade up a flagpole?"

"I don't know. Drunk perhaps," Potts suggested, "but I don't think so. Remember he told the beer salesman that he had found the Holy Grail. That sounds like he'd reached the end of a quest. And I've got a suspicion nagging at the back of my mind that I should have recognised Jolly from the description the brewery rep gave us, but I can't quite place him."

"Well, it doesn't matter anyhow, does it? He's gone now, and that's that. Just a silly prank, not a crime. File and forget, I think," said Banks.

Potts nodded, but not in agreement.

* * *

Potts on the Trail

When she returned to Nutchester Police Headquarters, Potts reported her findings and suspicions to Inspector Worth. In response to her urgent pleas he allowed her one more day to work on the case, it not being possible to get any further on a Sunday.

The following day Potts spent much of the morning perusing Trade Directories, in quest of the possible sources of lingerie bearing the trade mark 'Sylph de Light'. From a telephone call to the sales office of that concern she obtained the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of the five different wholesalers through whom they distributed their products. With that information to hand she started to ring each of them in turn, to ask what samples their salesmen usually carried, whether they had ever employed a travelling salesman by the name of Mr Jolly, and if they were missing a sample case.

This proved to be more trying than she had expected. She found that, despite popular opinion that bureaucracy was the preserve of civil servants, the head offices of commercial enterprises could also be as impenetrable as tropical rain forests. The problem was that she inevitably started at the bottom, with a reception telephonist, who would then transfer her up one rung to the appropriate office. They, however, would declare that they did not have the authority to release such information, and would transfer her up to the next level, where, likely as not, the same process would obtain. When finally reaching a level empowered to make such momentous decisions it would only be to find that they were too senior to deal with such trivial matters, and she would be transferred downward again, albeit this time armed with the sanction from on high. One or two rungs lower she would finally be informed either that the answer was in the negative on all counts, or that 'Sorry, we don't keep those records.'

With her fourth call however, to Polyphema Fashions, Potts struck gold. Only one rung up the ladder the phone was picked up by an irreverent office junior who was under two weeks' notice of dismissal for impertinence, and was thus inclined to take a somewhat insurrectionist view of protocol. "Lose a sample case?" he said cheerfully. "We can do better than that. We lost a whole blooming salesman, case and all."

"Tell me about it," Potts said encouragingly.

"A couple of years ago, it was," the junior went on. "It caused quite a stir here at the time. There were all sorts of rumours. Seemed to be a bit of a scandal attached to it. As far as I could make out, one of our salesmen went off the rails, set fire to his garden shed, and threw himself into the flames."

At the mention of a fire, it seemed to Potts that a light suddenly went on in her head, and she remembered the connection that had been nagging at her mind. "Mr Polly!" she breathed.

"No, that wasn't his name. Lister it was. Mr Lister. I used to call him Lister the Blister. The management was upset because he'd had the temerity to pop his clogs before handing in his sales book, or something."

"Can you remember where Mr Lister met his unfortunate end?" Potts asked.

"Let me think. I used to know. It was something like Swindon, only it wasn't Swindon. Shinford! That was it, Shinford."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much," Potts said effusively. "You have been very, very helpful. Thank you," and she hung up.

Potts then rang Shinford police station and had a long informal chat with the police sergeant on duty, from whom she learned the story of the disappearance of Mr Lester Lister.

Towards the end of a busy day, a breathless WPC Potts laid her findings before Inspector Worth, concluding, "So you see, Sir, this Mr Lister, who officially died in a fire in Shinford two years ago, almost certainly went on the run, inspired by the H G Wells story, 'The History of Mr Polly'. The film had come out not long before he went missing."