Unnatural death
Miss Climpson. “Living with a person for a month is an _excellent_ test.
I suppose you had somebody to do the housework for you.”
“Not a soul. We did every bit of it, and it was great fun. I’m ever so
good at scrubbing floors and laying fires and things, and Mary’s a
simply marvellous cook. It was such a change from having the servants
always bothering round like they do at home. Of course, it was quite a
modern, labour-saving cottage—it belongs to some theatrical people, I
think.”
“And what did you do when you weren’t inquiring into the poultry
business?”
“Oh, we ran round in the car and saw places and attended markets.
Markets are frightfully amusing, with all the funny old farmers and
people. Of course, I’d often been to markets before, but Mary made it
all so interesting—and then, too, we were picking up hints all the time
for our own marketing later on.”
“Did you run up to Town at all?”
“No.”
“I should have thought you’d have taken the opportunity for a little
jaunt.”
“Mary hates Town.”
“I thought _you_ rather enjoyed a run up now and then.”
“I’m not keen. Not now. I used to think I was, but I expect that was
only the sort of spiritual restlessness one gets when one hasn’t an
object in life. There’s nothing in it.”
Miss Findlater spoke with the air of a disillusioned rake, who has
sucked life’s orange and found it dead sea fruit. Miss Climpson did not
smile. She was accustomed to the rôle of confidante.
“So you were together—just you two—all the time?”
“Every minute of it. And we weren’t bored with one another a bit.”
“I hope your experiment will prove very successful,” said Miss Climpson.
“But when you really start on your life together, don’t you think it
would be wise to arrange for a few _breaks_ in it? A little _change of
companionship_ is good for _everybody_. I’ve known so many _happy
friendships_ spoilt by people seeing _too much_ of one another.”
“They couldn’t have been _real_ friendships, then,” asserted the girl,
dogmatically. “Mary and I are _absolutely_ happy together.”
“Still,” said Miss Climpson, “if you don’t mind an _old woman_ giving
you a word of warning, I should be inclined not to keep the bow _always_
bent. Suppose Miss Whittaker, for instance, wanted to go off and have a
day in Town on her own, say—or go to stay with friends—you would have to
learn not to mind that.”
“Of course I shouldn’t mind. Why—” she checked herself. “I mean, I’m
quite sure that Mary would be every bit as loyal to me as I am to her.”
“That’s right,” said Miss Climpson. “The longer I live, my dear, the
more _certain_ I become that _jealousy_ is the most _fatal_ of feelings.
The Bible calls it ‘cruel as the grave,’ and I’m sure that is so.
_Absolute_ loyalty, without jealousy, is the essential thing.”
“Yes. Though naturally one would hate to think that the person one was
really friends with was putting another person in one’s place . . . Miss
Climpson, you do believe, don’t you, that a friendship ought to be
‘fifty-fifty’?”
“That is the ideal friendship, I suppose,” said Miss Climpson,
thoughtfully, “but I think it is a _very rare thing_. Among women, that
is. I doubt very much if I’ve ever seen an example of it. _Men_, I
believe, find it easier to give and take in that way—probably because
they have so many outside interests.”
“Men’s friendships—oh yes! I know one hears a lot about them. But half
the time, I don’t believe they’re _real_ friendships at all. Men can go
off for years and forget all about their friends. And they don’t really
confide in one another. Mary and I tell each other all our thoughts and
feelings. Men seem just content to think each other good sorts without
ever bothering about their inmost selves.”
“Probably that’s why their friendships last so well,” replied Miss
Climpson. “They don’t make such demands on one another.”
“But a great friendship does make demands,” cried Miss Findlater
eagerly. “It’s got to be just everything to one. It’s wonderful the way
it seems to colour all one’s thoughts. Instead of being centred in
oneself, one’s centred in the other person. That’s what Christian love
means—one’s ready to die for the other person.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Climpson. “I once heard a sermon about
that from a most _splendid_ priest—and he said that that kind of love
might become _idolatry_ if one wasn’t very careful. He said that
Milton’s remark about Eve—you know, ‘he for God only, she for God in
him’—was not congruous with Catholic doctrine. One must get the
_proportions_ right, and it was _out of proportion_ to see everything
through the eyes of another fellow-creature.”
“One must put God first, of course,” said Miss Findlater, a little
formally. “But if the friendship is mutual—that was the point—quite
unselfish on both sides, it _must_ be a good thing.”
“Love is always good, when it’s the _right kind_,” agreed Miss Climpson,
“but I don’t think it ought to be too _possessive_. One has to _train_
oneself—” she hesitated, and went on courageously—“and in any case, my
dear, I cannot help feeling that it is more natural—more proper, in a
sense—for a man and woman to be all in all to one another than for two
persons of the same sex. Er—after all, it is a—a _fruitful_ affection,”
said Miss Climpson, boggling a trifle at this idea, “and—and all that,
you know, and I am sure that when the _right_ MAN comes along for you—”
“Bother the right man!” cried Miss Findlater, crossly. “I do hate that
kind of talk. It makes one feel dreadful—like a prize cow or something.
Surely, we have got beyond that point of view in these days.”
Miss Climpson perceived that she had let her honest zeal outrun her
detective discretion. She had lost the goodwill of her informant, and it
was better to change the conversation. However, she could assure Lord
Peter now of one thing. Whoever the woman was that Mrs. Cropper had seen
at Liverpool, it was not Miss Whittaker. The attached Miss Findlater,
who had never left her friend’s side, was sufficient guarantee of that.
CHAPTER XVII
The Country Lawyer’s Story
“_And he that gives us in these days new lords may give us new
laws._”
Wither, _Contented Man’s Morrice_
_Letter from Mr. Probyn, retired Solicitor, of Villa Bianca, Fiesole, to
Mr. Marbles, Solicitor, of Staple Inn._
_Private and confidential._
Dear Sir,
I was much interested in your letter relative to the death of Miss
Agatha Dawson, late of Leahampton, and will do my best to answer your
inquiries as briefly as possible, always, of course, on the
understanding that all information as to the affairs of my late client
will be treated as strictly confidential. I make an exception, of
course, in favor of the police officer you mention in connection with
the matter.
You wish to know (1) whether Miss Agatha Dawson was aware that it
might possibly prove necessary, under the provisions of the new Act,
for her to make a testamentary disposition, in order to ensure that
her great-niece, Miss Mary Whittaker, should inherit her personal
property. (2) Whether I ever urged her to make this testamentary
disposition and what her reply was. (3) Whether I had made Miss Mary
Whittaker aware of the situation in which she might be placed,
supposing her great-aunt to die intestate later than December 31,
1925.
In the course of the Spring of 1925, my attention was called by a
learned friend to the ambiguity of the wording of certain clauses in
the Act, especially in respect of the failure to define the precise
interpretation to be placed on the word “Issue.” I immediately passed
in review the affairs of my various clients, with a view to satisfying
myself that the proper dispositions had been made in each case to
avoid misunderstanding and litigation in case of intestacy. I at once
realised that Miss Whittaker’s inheritance of Miss Dawson’s property
entirely depended on the interpretation given to the clauses in
question. I was aware that Miss Dawson was extremely averse from
making a will, owing to that superstitious dread of decease which we
meet with so frequently in our profession. However, I thought it my
duty to make her understand the question and to do my utmost to get a
will signed. Accordingly, I went down to Leahampton and laid the
matter before her. This was on March the 14th, or thereabouts—I am not
certain to the precise day.
Unhappily, I encountered Miss Dawson at a moment when her opposition
to the obnoxious idea of making a will was at its strongest. Her
doctor had informed her that a further operation would become
necessary in the course of the next few weeks, and I could have
selected no more unfortunate occasion for intruding the subject of
death upon her mind. She resented any such suggestion—there was a
conspiracy, she declared, to frighten her into dying under the
operation. It appears that that very tactless practitioner of hers had
frightened her with a similar suggestion before her previous
operation. But she had come through that and she meant to come through
this, if only people would not anger and alarm her.
Of course, if she _had_ died under the operation, the whole question
would have settled itself and there would have been no need of any
will. I pointed out that the very reason why I was anxious for the
will to be made was that I fully expected her to live on into the
following years, and I explained the provisions of the Act once more,
as clearly as I could. She retorted that in that case I had no
business to come and trouble her about the question at all. It would
be time enough when the Act was passed.
Naturally, the fool of a doctor had insisted that she was not to be
told what her disease was—they always do—and she was convinced that
the next operation would make all right and that she would live for
years. When I ventured to insist—giving as my reason that we men of
laws always preferred to be on the safe and cautious side, she became
exceedingly angry with me, and practically ordered me out of the
house. A few days afterwards I received a letter from her, complaining
of my impertinence, and saying that she could no longer feel any
confidence in a person who treated her with such inconsiderate
rudeness. At her request, I forwarded all her private papers in my
possession to Mr. Hodgson, of Leahampton, and I have not held any
communication with any member of the family since that date.
This answers your first and second questions. With regard to the
third: I certainly did not think it proper to inform Miss Whittaker
that her inheritance might depend upon her great-aunt’s either making
a will or else dying before December 31, 1925. While I know nothing to
the young lady’s disadvantage, I have always held it inadvisable that
persons should know too exactly how much they stand to gain by the
unexpected decease of other persons. In case of any unforeseen
accident, the heirs may find themselves in an equivocal position,
where the fact of their possessing such knowledge might—if made
public—be highly prejudicial to their interests. The most that I
thought it proper to say was that if at any time Miss Dawson should
express a wish to see me, I should like to be sent for without delay.
Of course, the withdrawal of Miss Dawson’s affairs from my hands put
it out of my power to interfere any further.
In October 1925, feeling that my health was not what it had been, I
retired from business and came to Italy. In this country the English
papers do not always arrive regularly, and I missed the announcement