The End Of Solomon Grundy by Julian Symons

boy of her age at the Home, and when she was fourteen she had been found at night in his bedroom – or so Manners gathered, for Mrs Gresham spoke of’ the incident so circuitously, and with such a number of tangential observations on Sylvia’s incapacity to understand the Way, that he could not be sure. After that there had been an incident with a married man, a man who had left the Home abruptly. And after that Percy himself had been tempted, and – here Melicent Gresham used language of such mystical obscurity that Jones looked totally bewildered. But it had been decided that Sylvia should go.
    “Go where?”
    “Away.” She made one of her limp hand movements.
    “She belonged in the world of cinemas and theatres and – sex. The Way of Peace was not for her.”
    Jones felt that he should say something. “You sent her to a relative?”
    “We have no relatives.” She amplified this. “We do not acknowledge them.”
    “But then—”
    “She belonged in the world. We had taken her from it, but she wished to return. We did not prevent her. Percy found her a job.”
    “What sort of job?”
    “Something, I don’t know, it was in some kind of shop, a department store I believe. He also arranged for her to stay with a very suitable family, one that attended our meetings sometimes although they were not residents. But she did not stay more than a week or two with them, she did not stay in the job Percy had found.” She made another of those indecisive gestures. “She belonged to the world, she returned to it, it destroyed her.”
    Manners could hardly trust himself to speak. Indignation rose in his chest, strong as heartburn. “She was your daughter.”
    She bent her direct yet absent gaze upon him. “Here we regard earthly relationships differently.”
    “You owed her something.” She merely looked at him. “You did nothing – nothing at all to see whether she was happy, looked after?”
    “She had rejected us. She had rejected the Way of Peace. She had rejected this Home.”
    Home, Manners wanted to say, do you call this mausoleum for decaying cranks a home? But there was no point in saying it. “Did she ever come back?”
    “At first she came here sometimes to see us, three or four times a year perhaps. She said she was a model, then an actress, that she had good parts. Whether it was true or not—” She got up, wandered to the window, touching bits of furniture, “—I don’t know. It all seemed to us very trivial.”
    “Your husband shared your opinions?”
    “Of course.”
    “Had you seen her or heard from her in the last few months?”
    “Oh, certainly we had letters. And a card at Christmas. But I have not kept them. They would tell you nothing, they were – trivial.”
    Jones coughed, leaned forward on the bed. “Can you suggest anybody who might have had a reason for killing her?”
    She bent her gaze upon him, stared at him rather as though he were an insect. “It was one of her lovers,” she said placidly. “How was she when you found her, had she been – attacked?”
    “She was strangled,” Manners said shortly. “There was no sign of sexual interference.” They got up to go.
    The elderly man’s idle mopping had carried him to the head of the staircase where he stood, hand on mop head, staring at one of John Martin’s monumental religious scenes. “She told you what you wanted?”
    “I wouldn’t say that. Did you know Sylvia Gresham?”
    He cackled. “I’m her father.”
    From the dismissive way in which Melicent Gresham had spoken, Manners had thought her husband was dead. Now he said, “You agreed when Sylvia left this place?”
    “Not much use doing anything else. When Melly makes up her mind to something, that’s what happens.”
    “But you were her father. You were responsible.”
    “I came here for peace. That’s what I’ve got.” He lifted the mop, touched the end of it, grinned.
    “Did you hear from her?”
    “Heard from her all right. Letters are