CHAPTER XVI

A Cast-Iron Alibi

“_Oh, Sammy, Sammy, why vorn’t there an alleybi?_”

_Pickwick Papers_

Miss Whittaker and the youngest Miss Findlater had returned from their

expedition. Miss Climpson, most faithful of sleuths, and carrying Lord

Peter’s letter of instructions in the pocket of her skirt like a

talisman, had asked the youngest Miss Findlater to tea.

As a matter of fact, Miss Climpson had become genuinely interested in

the girl. Silly affectation and gush, and a parrot-repetition of the

shibboleths of the modern school were symptoms that the experienced

spinster well understood. They indicated, she thought, a real

unhappiness, a real dissatisfaction with the narrowness of life in a

country town. And besides this, Miss Climpson felt sure that Vera

Findlater was being “preyed upon,” as she expressed it to herself, by

the handsome Mary Whittaker. “It would be a mercy for the girl,” thought

Miss Climpson, “if she could form a genuine attachment to a young man.

It is natural for a schoolgirl to be _schwärmerisch_—in a young woman of

twenty-two it is thoroughly undesirable. That Whittaker woman encourages

it—she would, of course. She likes to have someone to admire her and run

her errands. And she prefers it to be a stupid person, who will not

compete with her. If Mary Whittaker were to marry, she would marry a

rabbit.” (Miss Climpson’s active mind quickly conjured up a picture of

the rabbit—fair-haired and a little paunchy, with a habit of saying,

“I’ll ask the wife.” Miss Climpson wondered why Providence saw fit to

create such men. For Miss Climpson, men were intended to be masterful,

even though wicked or foolish. She was a spinster made and not born—a

perfectly womanly woman.)

“But,” thought Miss Climpson, “Mary Whittaker is not of the marrying

sort. She is a professional woman by nature. She has a profession, by

the way, but she does not intend to go back to it. Probably nursing

demands too much sympathy—and one is under the authority of the doctors.

Mary Whittaker prefers to control the lives of chicken. ‘Better to reign

in hell than serve in heaven.’ Dear me! I wonder if it is uncharitable

to compare a fellow-being to Satan. Only in poetry, of course—I daresay

that makes it not so bad. At any rate, I am certain that Mary Whittaker

is doing Vera Findlater no good.”

Miss Climpson’s guest was very ready to tell about their month in the

country. They had toured round at first for a few days, and then they

had heard of a delightful poultry farm which was for sale, near

Orpington in Kent. So they had gone down to have a look at it, and found

that it was to be sold in about a fortnight’s time. It wouldn’t have

been wise, of course, to take it over without some inquiries, and by the

greatest good fortune they found a dear little cottage to let,

furnished, quite close by. So they had taken it for a few weeks, while

Miss Whittaker “looked round” and found out about the state of the

poultry business in that district, and so on. They _had_ enjoyed it so,

and it was delightful keeping house together, right away from all the

silly people at home.

“Of course, I don’t mean you, Miss Climpson. You come from London and

are so much more broadminded. But I simply can’t stick the Leahampton

lot, nor can Mary.”

“It is very delightful,” said Miss Climpson, “to be _free_ from the

conventions, I’m sure—especially if one is in company with a _kindred

spirit_.”

“Yes—of course Mary and I are tremendous friends, though she is so much

cleverer than I am. It’s absolutely settled that we’re to take the farm

and run it together. Won’t it be wonderful?”

“Won’t you find it rather dull and lonely—just you two girls together?

You mustn’t forget that you’ve been accustomed to see quite a lot of

young people in Leahampton. Shan’t you miss the tennis-parties, and the

young men, and so on?”

“Oh, no! If you only knew what a stupid lot they are! Anyway, I’ve no

use for men!” Miss Findlater tossed her head. “They haven’t got any

ideas. And they always look on women as sort of pets or playthings. As

if a woman like Mary wasn’t worth fifty of them! You should have heard

that Markham man the other day—talking politics to Mr. Tredgold, so that

nobody could get a word in edgeways, and then saying, ‘I’m afraid this

is a very dull subject of conversation for you, Miss Whittaker,’ in his

condescending way. Mary said in that quiet way of hers, ‘Oh, I think the

_subject_ is anything but dull, Mr. Markham.’ But he was so stupid, he

couldn’t even grasp that and said, ‘One doesn’t expect ladies to be

interested in politics, you know. But perhaps you are one of the modern

young ladies who want the flapper’s vote.’ Ladies, indeed! Why are men

so insufferable when they talk about ladies?”

“I think men are apt to be _jealous_ of women,” replied Miss Climpson,

thoughtfully, “and jealousy _does_ make people rather _peevish_ and

_ill-mannered_. I suppose that when one would _like_ to despise a set of

people and yet has a horrid suspicion that one _can’t_ genuinely despise

them, it makes one _exaggerate_ one’s contempt for them in conversation.

That is why, my dear, I am always _very_ careful not to speak sneeringly

about men—even though they _often deserve_ it, you know. But if I did,

everybody would think I was an _envious old maid_, wouldn’t they?”

“Well, I mean to be an old maid, anyhow,” retorted Miss Findlater. “Mary

and I have quite decided that. We’re interested in things, not in men.”

“You’ve made a good start at finding out how it’s going to work,” said

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.