Table Of ContentSLIPPERY ANN
HC BAILEY, 1942
PART I
CHAPTER I
INSPECTOR’S PROSPECT
BREAKING HIS PRINCIPLES and his habits, Inspector Hall was awake on
Sunday afternoon. He paced, huge but silent as a cat, the crazy pavement of his
garden. The villa to which he had brought Mrs. Hall when he became chief of
the Detective Department of the Sturton Police, weighing only fourteen stone at
the time, stood high, two miles out of the town. Whichever way he turned, a
wide prospect lay before his solemn ruminant gaze.
The garden grew on a shoulder of Sturton Down, a green hog - back ridge,
rolling up to the dark towers of the Worram Hills at one end, at the other
breaking down in cliff to the sea. Sturton’s old streets made a grey tangle by the
glistening mud of the old tidal harbour under the ridge’s northern slope, spread
along that and expanded seaward into white lumps of concrete round the quays
and funnels of the new docks. The old town lay silent and still, but from the
docks rose plumes of smoke, the jangle and screech of cranes and goods engines
and lorries. Inspector Hall’s domain included this strenuous Sabbath breaking
work as well as the old Sabbatical calm and extended over the southern slope of
the ridge to Sturton Bay. Neither huddle of old streets nor new engineering
marred the pastures of the shore there. Nothing broke the curve of the foam line
in which the sea met white sand and grey sand. But above the bay the ridge was
adorned with orchard lawns and bowery hollows in which lurked houses of
opulent gentility.
Inspector Hall’s heavy eyes sought the highest with speculation whether the
owner, Arthur Tresham, Manager of the Sturton Harbour Board, was spending
Sunday at home or at the busy docks - or somewhere else. A woman sat on the
veranda alone. That must be Tresham’s young wife. Which would mean
anything as well as nothing.
anything as well as nothing.
Revolving in his slow orbit, the Inspector turned towards the town. A road
winding to make gentle gradients went down to it, a footpath struck straight for
it across the ridge close by the scar of the quarry which had given stone for the
building of the old streets and pier, a jagged cliff, spangled with bushes. He
stopped, he gazed at the cliff edge, and from that to the mounds of grass - grown
rubble below.
Alone the lane which led to the quarry was a scab of bungalows, each in its own
fenced patch of desolation, blatant gambles of jerry-building which had failed to
catch mugs. No sign of life in them but one man on the move round their backs.
Inspector Hall frowned and silently told the fellow he ought to be pinched for
loitering with intent, doing the job like that, and paced on.
The house and garden of Tresham came into his sight again, and now a car stood
at the door, now Mrs. Tresham had a man on the veranda with her. Not Tresham,
not by a jugful. Slighter, shorter, grey - haired, more of a gentleman, which
wasn’t saying much, but he really looked somebody. Must be Mr. Luttrell of Bay
House. Who’d have thought it? Tresham wasn’t his class. Nothing but the best
was good enough for him. Army and Navy families and county people only, if
you please, as you’d expect of a Civil Service high - up, like he was before he
came into money and retired. And Tresham just a smart, pushful job - getter, and
stinking at that.
Still, there was Mr. Luttrell with Tresham’s wife, mighty civil, handing her out
of her chair, leading her up the garden, vanishing. These things did happen.
Murmur of voices from the road disturbed the Inspector’s meditation on this
thing. A wheeled chair passed the garden gate, the woman in it talking eagerly,
though her face was lined by pain and wan. Miss Parker, poor soul, talking about
though her face was lined by pain and wan. Miss Parker, poor soul, talking about
Tresham, about his office, as if she was there still. Sure she’d soon be back at
her job. Full of it. And the doctors said she’d never walk again. Done out of life
at fifty and living on by hope of what couldn’t be. But always bright. God help
her.
Old Mrs. Winch behind the chair. That’s your real lady. Money to buy up all the
swankers, and yet she lived quite simple, and she’d do any darned thing to help
anyone in a mess. Turned sixty - if she was a day, and look at her shoving Miss
Parker up the hill herself. Regular, too, whenever Miss Parker’s maid had an
afternoon off. Yes, one of the best, old Mrs. Winch, the very best, a mothering
woman and an absolute lady.
Inspector Hall watched them go up beyond the houses. There they stopped. The
day gave them a noble view. Heavy September rain had brightened the verdure
of the Down and the long slopes that rose beyond to the dark bastions crowning
the Worram Hills. Combes near and far gleamed and were white with the rush of
streams in spate. From the grey shore the sea rippled leagues of golden laughter
to the distant horizon, where it joined the lucent sky. Not a blur on all the form
and colour, but plumes of smoke in mid - air over the great hidden harbours
many a mile away, Westpool and Marham.
Mrs. Winch pushed the chair on. A car was swinging round out of the private
road of the Belfort Hotel. Inspector Hall sniffed disapproval, but relaxed as the
car passed and he caught sight of the driver’s ugly, droll visage. Colonel Liddon
Sway was hard - boiled and a bit of a card, but he ran straight enough when you
got to know him; moustaches like ram’s horns, old - time sergeant - major style.
Not a Sturton man.
The wheeled chair came down the hill. Miss Parker still talking, but more
quietly, tired, still on Tresham though. Mrs. Winch gentling her.
Lord, was that him on the hill? No mistake, the big beggar. Miss Parker must
have seen him, coming the hell of a lick from Worram way. And what was he up
to, walking out in the wilds by himself? And what put him in such a perishing
hurry to get home?
These questions abruptly ended Inspector Hall’s peregrination of the garden.
Careful that he should not disturb the gentle snore of Mrs. Hall in the drawing -
room, he went up to his den and sank himself in fresh study of a file of dog’s -
eared papers.
CHAPTER II
THE PARKER CASE
LANIEL STEWER, 6A The Shambles, the first sheet was entitled, and it
reported him in the first person, speaking police dialect.
I am a plumber. On the morning of Monday, March 11, at or about 7 am approx.,
I left my house to clean the boiler of Alderman Ellis, Madeira, Upper Down
Road, carrying out instructions previously received. I proceeded by the path
commonly known as the Sheepwalk, which ascends from behind the Lairs and
crosses the Down above the excavation of Broadstone Quarry. That path has
severe gradients and a rough surface, but I do not consider it dangerous, and it is
in common use by many desiring to save time over journeys between the town
and residences on the Down and in the neighbourhood of the bay. I am of
opinion that a person might be exposed to some danger traversing the path in bad
visibility. The quarry excavations have not been protected by any fence.
Visibility was good when I approached, the day being bright though cold after a
thick night. When I say thick, I mean foggy. From my own observation I know
the hills were covered with mist the preceding day and it closed down heavy
before sunset, and got dark much earlier than usual. By 6 pm approx there must
have been very low visibility up along above the quarry. But the wind backed in
the night and it was all clear by dawn. On arriving at the top of the Sheep - walk,
7.30 am approx., I could see right across the bay and accordingly whatever was
in the vicinity stood out very noticeable. Down on the spoil heaps of the quarry I
observed a woman’s body lying motionless. I was unable to distinguish her face
because it was turned to the ground, her back being uppermost. She had the
appearance of having fallen so. I saw no sign on the path indicating where or
how she fell. There was no other person visible and I had encountered nobody
since I diverged from the high road. I shouted to her, but she did not make any
reply. Accordingly, I left my tool bag and descended, which was very difficult,
but as expeditiously as I could to ascertain her condition, being quite uncertain
who she might be and how badly she was injured. I found her cold to the touch
who she might be and how badly she was injured. I found her cold to the touch
and unconscious but breathing, and on turning her over I recognised her to be
Miss Parker, secretary of Mr. Tresham at the docks, having met the lady
frequently when on work there. I proceeded along Quarry Lane to the nearest
telephone and reported to the police and was instructed I should return to the
body and wait their arrival, which I performed, seeing no person throughout,
except the servant at Como, Down Road, the residence where I telephoned.
Mrs. Tresham
Sarah, Mrs. Arthur Tresham, Camelot, Sturton Bay.
She had been taken down word for word, and a lot of her.
I was terribly sorry to hear of Miss Parker’s accident. I didn’t know about it till
my husband rang up about twelve this morning. He told me she had had a bad
fall on the Down and been taken to the hospital. I went down at once to see her,
but they wouldn’t let me, she wasn’t well enough. That’s why I was out when
the Inspector called. My husband said nothing about how she fell except she was
found in the quarry early this morning. It’s dreadful: she must have been there
all night. No, of course, I’m not absolutely sure she was, I can’t be, I haven’t any
idea what happened, I mean how it happened, but she had tea with us yesterday -
didn’t my husband tell you? - and her shortest way home would be by the
Sheepwalk, across the top of the quarry. I don’t actually know she went that way
last night, but she always did.
There wasn’t any special reason for her coming to tea with us. I mean she wasn’t
invited for yesterday in particular. She often comes on Sunday: lots of our
friends do. Miss Parker is a great friend of mine, she has been ever since I
married and came to live at Sturton. That’s two years now, it was just before the
war. She’s the kindest woman, she helped me a lot in getting to know about
war. She’s the kindest woman, she helped me a lot in getting to know about
people and the way things an run here. I’d never lived in a place like Sturton, I
hadn’t an idea what was expected. Miss Parker used to take any amount of
trouble putting me right. I really believe she liked it, she’s so kind. My husband
often says she is the perfect secretary, she knows everything about everything
and can do anything with anybody and makes sure the boss gets the credit. Of
course she was secretary for years and years to Mr. Winch, who owned the
docks before the town took them over and my husband came to manage them.
She has all the business at her fingers’ ends. He is terribly upset at her accident.
He told me this morning he didn’t know what to do without her. I haven’t the
least idea who will take her place. How could I? It’s never been thought of. I
hope she’ll soon be well and back at work again. Why shouldn’t she? She isn’t
fifty yet and young for her age and full of energy.
She seemed perfectly all right yesterday. Only a few people came to tea, it was a
cold, foggy afternoon. I’m not quite sure who - let me think - Colonel Liddon
Sway, Mr and Mrs. Cave Jones, Mrs. Oldshaw - oh, and Mr. Luttrell. Miss
Parker came by herself: naturally she did: she lives in the town and all the others
out above the bay. Naturally, she went home by herself too - well, of course, she
didn’t, as it happened she never got home, but I mean none of them went with
her. Actually they all left before she did, she stayed on talking. Not about
anything in particular, just talking. She likes to. I don’t remember the time when
she left, but it was almost dark. Of course it got dark early last night with so
much mist on the hills. I asked her if she had a torch when we opened the door, I
felt sure she hadn’t, she never has anything of that sort. I wanted her to take one,
but, of course, she wouldn’t, she’s fearfully independent, she said she loved the
dark, I was too kind, I hadn’t noticed, but everybody would tell me she was quite
a cat and she went off laughing. I don’t think she’s cattish at all, I suppose she
meant she can see in the dark or perhaps that she walks by herself. She does
rather.
I’m sorry. It never occurred to me there was any real danger of her having an
accident. From our door you could see where you were going. Of course I knew
she would go over the Sheepwalk, it’s so much shorter and she always does. I
might have thought the mist would be thicker up there, but I didn’t. Anyway, we
couldn’t have done anything: she’d never have let us walk with her or drive her
home. She’s like that.
home. She’s like that.
I can’t say for certain the mist was thick on the Sheepwalk. You can’t see it from
our door and I didn’t go out, but my husband went for a stroll after Miss Parker
had gone and he told me it had got worse.
Tresham
Arthur Tresham, Chief Officer Dock and Harbour Trust.
Not much of him and what there was snappy.
This is a damned nuisance. Miss Parker going sick. I wish to God women would
look after themselves. There are only two kinds of them, either they will take on
everything themselves or they’re useless. She doesn’t know bow to let others do
their own jobs. No wonder she cracked up at last.
I had not seen any sign of her being out of sorts. Nothing more than usual. She
was always high strung and nervy. She hasn’t taken a holiday since the war
began. I tried to push her off every chance there was, but nbg. Now we’re all
round the clock seven days a week she crocks up. I do think her fall was caused
by sickness - overwork, overstrain. She’d never have taken a toss if she hadn’t
been below par. It wasn’t any fog to fall over the quarry edge and she knows
every inch of it. She’s been at my place often enough, day and night. She doesn’t
have to be asked.
That means what I say. She’s a friend of my wife’s and a friend of mine, outside
the office, inside too, for that matter, not just a secretary, she comes to our house
