Latimer looked up slowly. “In the churchyard of Belstone, Sussex,” he said.
Alan sat up very straight and his manner expressed his unbounded astonishment. “That’s my father’s parish,” he gasped.
“Yes. And the churchyard is attached to the building your father preaches in, my son,” said Latimer dryly, “odd coincidence, isn’t it?”
“But—but—what has this murdered man to do with Belstone?” asked Fuller in a bewildered manner.
“That’s what I want to find out, Alan. Can’t you remember the name?”
“Never heard of it. And yet the name Baldwin Grison is not a common one. I should certainly have remembered it had it been mentioned to me. It is odd certainly, as Belstone isn’t exactly the hub of the universe. Grison! Baldwin Grison.” Fuller shook his head. “No, I can’t recall it. To be sure he may have been in the village twenty years ago, since you say that he has lived since that time in Rotherhithe. I was only seven years of age then, so I can remember nothing. But my father may know. I’ll ask him when I go down this week-end.”
“There’s another thing I wish you to ask him.”
“What is that?”
“The romantic thing which lifts this case out of the commonplace. Only Inspector Moon knows what I am about to tell you and he informed me with a recommendation not to make it public.”
“Then why do you tell me?” said Fuller quickly. “Is it wise?”