The End Of Solomon Grundy by Julian Symons Page B

Clavering, a big bluff man who kept his nose to the ground, had little to give. The Dell, Manners gathered, was an estate similar to several that were being built on the outskirts of London and other big cities.
    “They knock down perfectly good old places, put up these damned glasshouses, people go and live in ’em because it’s fashionable, pay the earth for three poky rooms, all mod cons of course, landscaped gardens, all that. The Dell’s one of those. Don’t know how some of the people afford to live there, I know I couldn’t. Wouldn’t want to for that matter, I like a garden of my own.”
    Manners was not interested in where Clavering lived or wanted to live. He asked about Paget and Grundy. “Edgar H Paget, F.A.L.P.A., yes, I know him.” Clavering’s jolly laugh boomed down the telephone. “Estate agent, does very nicely I should think. Biggest busybody in the district, always writing to the local paper about civic rights, ringing up the Council about refuse collection, that sort of man. What’s our Edgar been doing?”
    “Nothing he shouldn’t, as far as I know. He rang us with a bit of information about that job in Cridge Mews. Just wondered what his standing was.”
    “Solid citizen, very much so. What was the other chap’s name, Grundy? Don’t know him at all. You coming down here?”
    “I think so, yes.”
    “Come in and have a noggin.”
    Manners promised to do so, rang off, looked at his watch, and sighed. He ate a hurried meal, collected the sergeant who had been gathering the material in the memo, a man with the improbable name of Fastness, made sure that Paget was in, and set out on the half-hour car journey to see him and perhaps to pay a call also on Grundy.
     
    “Mind you, Superintendent, I’m saying nothing, I’m making no accusation. Just giving you the evidence of my own eyes.” Edgar Paget flung himself back in his chair, a man exhausted by the performance of his duty.
    “And what you saw with your own eyes was Miss Gresham coming down the stairs—”
    “He’d torn her dress.”
    “Her dress was torn,” Manners said patiently. “You didn’t see him tearing it. And Mr Grundy was at the top of the stairs, dabbing at his cheek.”
    Paget bristled a little, evidently feeling that these refinements were unnecessary. Manners turned to Jennifer Paget, large, spotty, awkward, and considered her for a moment. Then he spoke gently. “Now, Miss Paget, I’ll just recapitulate what you’ve said. You were in the lavatory upstairs, and you heard a scream. You opened the door and you saw Miss Gresham standing in the doorway. Mr Grundy was behind her. His hand was on her shoulder, and he was trying to detain her.” Manners noticed a glance, a mere flicker of a glance from upraised and then downcast eyes, directed by the rock-faced Mrs Paget at her daughter.
    “You’re sure of that?”
    Jennifer had increased in assurance with the length of his stay. She spoke boldly.
    “Quite sure.”
    “Was her dress already torn?”
    “Yes. She was holding it up with her other hand, her right hand.”
    “Then she broke away from him and came down the stairs? Mr Grundy followed her?”
    “Yes.”
    “And what did you do?” Manners asked suddenly.
    Two spots of colour showed in her pudgy cheeks. “I was frightened. I went back into the toilet.”
    “Would Mr Grundy have seen you?”
    “I – I don’t know. I just stepped back. He might not have done.”
    “And now just tell me again what you saw on the following night, Saturday night.”
    She told them with composure, in a slightly sing-song voice. “It was about – between half past ten and eleven, and I was taking Puggy, that’s our dog, out for a walk. We went up Brambly Way and to The Dell and at the entrance to The Dell Puggy tugged me that way and I let him pull me along. Just a few yards inside the entrance I saw Mr Grundy and the lady I’d seen at the party. They were standing off the path and he was holding her and saying