“What annoyed you, sir?” asked Fuller, not because he cared, but merely from a desire to chat about Miss Inderwick.
“A funeral which took place in the village.”
“Oh, Baldwin Grison’s funeral?”
Sorley brought his shifty green eyes to the young man’s face. “What do you know about Baldwin Grison?” he asked sharply, and, as it seemed to Alan’s suspicious nature, rather uneasily.
“All that the newspapers could tell me, Mr. Sorley. He was murdered at Rotherhithe by some unknown person, and his sister brought the body down here for burial in the village churchyard.”
“That last wasn’t in the newspapers,” retorted the other quickly and looking everywhere but at Alan’s face.
“No, it wasn’t. But my friend Latimer—you may remember meeting him at the vicarage, Mr. Sorley—was at the inquest and afterwards spoke to Miss Grison, who told him of her intention.”
“Did she tell him also that her brother was my secretary twenty years ago, Alan?” demanded Sorley, his face growing red and his eyes glittering. “Did she say how he was turned out of the house as a drunken swine?”
“Miss Grison hinted something of those things at the inquest, but did not go into details, and, as they were unnecessary, she was not pressed. But she told Latimer that her brother had been discharged by you for some reason.”
“He was a hard drinker, and also smoked opium,” said Sorley angrily. “I did what I could for him, but had to discharge him in the long run. That woman had no right to bring the body here and bury it under my nose, as it might be. Decency should have prevented her bringing back the man to a place whence he was kicked out twenty years ago.”