“Died at four o’clock.”
“Oh dear me! Dear me!” murmured Mrs Orgreave, agonised.
Most evidently George’s case was aggravated by the Vicar’s death—and not only in the eyes of Mrs Orgreave and her falsely stoic husband, but in Edwin’s eyes too! Useless for him to argue with himself about idiotic superstitiousness! The death of the Vicar had undoubtedly influenced his attitude towards George.
They halted on the landing, outside a door that was ajar. Near them burned a gas jet, and beneath the bracket was a large framed photograph of the bridal party at Alicia’s wedding. Farther along the landing were other similar records of the weddings of Marion, Tom, and Jimmie.
Mr Orgreave pushed the door half open.
“Janet,” said Mr Orgreave conspiratorially.
“Well?” from within the bedroom.
“Here’s Edwin.”
Janet appeared in the doorway, pale. She was wearing an apron with a bib.
“I—I thought I’d just look in and inquire,” Edwin said awkwardly, fiddling with his hat and a pocket of his overcoat. “What’s he like now?”