The old man nodded at the church across the way.
“I've been sexton and parish clerk two-and-thirty years, sir,” he said. “And I took it on from my father—and he had the job from his father.”
“Do you remember this marriage?” asked Bryce, perching himself on the bench at which the shoemaker was working. “Twenty-two years since, I see.”
“Aye, as if it was yesterday!” answered the old man with a smile. “Miss Bewery's marriage?—why, of course!”
“Who was she?” demanded Bryce.
“Governess at the vicarage,” replied Claybourne. “Nice, sweet young lady.”
“And the man she married?—Mr. Brake,” continued Bryce. “Who was he?”
“A young gentleman that used to come here for the fishing, now and then,” answered Claybourne, pointing at the river. “Famous for our trout we are here, you know, sir. And Brake had come here for three years before they were married—him and his friend Mr. Ransford.”
“You remember him, too?” asked Bryce.
“Remember both of 'em very well indeed,” said Claybourne, “though I never set eyes on either after Miss Mary was wed to Mr. Brake. But I saw plenty of 'em both before that. They used to put up at the inn there—that I saw you come out of just now. They came two or three times a year—and they were a bit thick with our parson of that time—not this one: his predecessor—and they used to go up to the vicarage and smoke their pipes and cigars with him—and of course, Mr. Brake and the governess fixed it up. Though, you know, at one time it was considered it was going to be her and the other young gentleman, Mr. Ransford—yes! But, in the end, it was Brake—and Ransford stood best man for him.”