The Missing Angel - Erle Cox (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

and grinned. “You bet I wouldn’t let you

catch me!”

 

“Dog!” she said, snuggling closer to him, and for a time the dialogue

became incoherent.

 

Presently Geraldine sat up. “You know, Billy, I’m terribly worried about

Tyddie.”

 

“But, Gerry,” he said doubtfully, “do you really think the story about

the promissory note is true? Dash it all, this is the twentieth century,

not the middle ages.”

 

“Think I’m cracked if you like, but I am positive it is true,” she

asserted.

 

“Well, if it’s true, as you think, I don’t like Tyddie’s chance of

meeting it when it falls due.” There was concern in Billy’s voice.

 

“That’s the maddening part of it.” Geraldine’s voice reflected her

anxiety. “If we told about it, everyone would think we are crazy, and

there does not seem a hope of getting out of it.”

 

“If that Nicholas bird can change Tyddie into any shape he likes, I guess

there is nothing he can’t do.”

 

“Nothing, absolutely nothing! And the worst of it is,” she added, “Tyddie

does not seem to care, or to be trying to save himself.”

 

“Hold on a moment,” Billy exclaimed. “What about the old legends? There

was generally a way out of those contracts!”

 

“That’s just it. They’re legends and nothing else,” said Geraldine.

 

“But if Nicholas is what you say he is, you might try swatting him with a

Bible, or getting him into Church or some gag like that,” Billy ventured

hopefully.

 

“Oh, those stories are all just church propaganda! Don’t you ever read

the papers, Billy?” she asked disdainfully.

 

“What the dickens have the papers to do with it?”

 

“Just this,” she said scornfully, “if you had read them you would know

that Mr. Nicholas Senior has given a Pleasant Sunday afternoon address on

the modern apathy towards religion. That he had addressed the Anglican

Synod, and he has been advocating in or for half the Churches in

Melbourne.”

 

Billy laughed. “Jove! He’s a sportsman, at any rate.”

 

“You can be sure there’s something in his being able to cite Scripture

for his own purpose. Shakespeare did not guess that. No, Billy,”

Geraldine went on, “we’ll have to think of something practical.”

 

A bright idea struck Billy. “Listen, darlint, give Tyddie the tip to ask

him to shift St. Paul’s Cathedral on to the sit of St. Patrick’s, and St.

Patrick’s on to the site of St. Paul’s.”

 

“Don’t be absurd, Billy,” laughed Geraldine.

 

“That’s not absurd,” Billy contended eagerly. “If Nicholas couldn’t do

it, Tyddie would be saved, and if he could do it, think what a lark it

would be?”

 

“Idiot! I’m trying to save Tyddie, not to start a war of religion.”

 

“Ump!” admitted Billy. “I suppose something like that would happen when

each side began blaming the other.”

 

“But there must be something,” Geraldine urged. “Think, Billy.”

 

“I’m done, Gerry,” acknowledged Billy, “much as I like to help Tyddie, it

looks like a blue duck to me.”

 

“But he must be vulnerable somewhere,” Geraldine stared at the carpet

with knit brows.

 

Billy leaned his ruffled head on her shoulders. “Righto, angel! You think

up his vulnerable spot and tell your Billy all about it, and I promise to

swat him right on it.”

 

But the days slipped by, and Geraldine was no nearer a solution of her

problem. She had other things to think about, too, for Cranston v.

Cranston, Brewer corespondent, was pending.

 

When that case came before the Court, the newspapers temporarily forgot

the international situation, for Cranston, Cranston and Brewer became

news. After the first of the three days during which the hearing lasted,

Mr. Justice Mainwaring, who heard it (but doubted his ears, as well as

all the witnesses), felt impelled to emit some blistering judicial

comment on the behaviour of the horde of sensation-hungry people who

stormed the Law Court’s draughty corridors in the hope of obtaining

admission to his Court.

 

Tydvil was more worried over the outcome of the case than he was about

his own immediate problems. Billy’s solicitors had instructed Mr. Max

Mendax, K.C., for the corespondent. Privately, however, Tydvil had

instructed Mr. Nicholas Senior, to intervene—not in court, but by using

his influence in any manner he thought advisable, ethically or otherwise,

to insure a verdict against the petitioner.

 

Mr. Senior had accepted the brief from Tydvil with some ironic comment on

the situation. “You know, Tydvil,” he remarked, “that redheaded demon of

yours would never believe it, but I am glad to fight on her side. But…”

 

“Now what mischief are you up to, Nicholas?” Tydvil was suspicious of the

chuckle that accompanied Nicholas’ remark.

 

“Nothing!” said Nicholas evasively. “I take it that you want that

Cranston person to get it in the neck.”

 

“Just that,” Tydvil agreed. “But you know, Nicholas, I have a feeling,

from my brief acquaintanceship with the lad in the case, that Cranston’s

allegations are not without foundation.”

 

He looked up and caught Nicholas’s amused eyes on him. “Dash it all,

Nicholas, don’t look at me like that. You know as well as I do that…”

 

“Cranston arrived with his merry men too soon,” Nicholas cut in.

 

“Confound you,” Tydvil laughed in spite of himself, “haven’t you any

faith in human nature.”

 

“Yes!” replied Nicholas judicially. “Even I have some left, and that, my

friend, is a very high tribute coming from me.”

 

“Well, don’t sit there grinning at me in that superior manner,” Tydvil

growled.

 

“Tydvil,” Nicholas took a cigarette from his case, “I do assure you that

I have faith in human nature, but very little faith in—let me see—what

was it—ah yes—two large scotches, a cocktail, sherry, three glasses of

champagne and a benedictine. There is a certain virtue in that blend, but

not the kind you required on that particular evening.”

 

Tydvil smiled reminiscently. “I was a victim of circumstances; a fragment

of life caught and tossed about in a whirlpool of chance.”

 

“It sounds quite poetical when you put it that way,” said Nicholas

tossing a match into the grate. “But there are certain less poetically

minded people—people like Billy Brewer, for instance—who would say that

you went on a binge and made a night of it.”

 

“Vulgar people, perhaps, would look at it that way,” Tydvil agreed. “But

why split hairs. To get back to the respondent. It is possible that some

link with Brewer’s earlier association with Hilda Cranston may be forged

in court that would lead to justice being done that I doubt if Mr.

Cranston deserves.”

 

“It seems as though we are forced into a highly immoral position,”

observed Nicholas. “In order to prevent Cranston from obtaining the

justice you very rightly, say he does not deserve, I, who by rights

should side against the angels, must clog the wheels of the law to aid

them.”

 

“I’m sure the angels will be relieved,” said Tydvil, “to see you doing

good by stealth, especially if you blush to find it fame.”

 

“Should anything go wrong, you would be the one to do the blushing,”

grinned Nicholas. “However, I accept the outrage to my professional

ethics.”

 

“What about the gentleman of the bar?” asked Tydvil.

 

“I have compared the respective records of Mr. Max Mendax with those of

the counsel for the petitioner and respondent. In professional

attainments and lack of scruple there is not much to choose between

them.”

 

“Then you will have no trouble—it will be two to one,” Tydvil suggested.

 

“That will be a factor in our favour,” agreed Nicholas. “But only Mr.

Justice Mainwaring and I are aware of the extent to which he is indebted

to me—in fact I am depending largely on such suggestions as I will make

to him during the hearing. Of course, I can prompt counsel where

necessary also.”

 

“Well, I leave it to you with perfect confidence,” said Tydvil relieved.

 

Nicholas nodded. “I have already, influenced Mr. Mendax against his first

decision to call you as a witness.” Tydvil whistled. “Thanks for the

escape.”

 

“Yes,” Nicholas went on, “after he had gone through his brief I suggested

to him that your evidence would sound so fishy under cross-examination,

that it would not be safe to put you in the box.”

 

“What a friend you are, Nicholas.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his

voice.

 

Nicholas grinned in response. “More than you think, my boy. There’s a

dashed inquisitive police inspector at Russell Street who is becoming

more and more convinced that Tydvil Jones knows more than he should know

about Basil Williams. And,” he added, “if you had any trouble in the

witness box, he might find out more than you would care for him to know.”

 

“Rats to him!” Tydvil was unconcerned. “Let him find out what he likes.

Nice ass he would look if he tried to place the facts before a bench of

magistrates.”

 

“There’s something in that,” agreed Nicholas. “But, in any case, you

may make your mind easy about Brewer.”

 

There was one other person who was profoundly distressed by the impending

case. Amy, who was not usually a reader of the Law List, happened to

notice the name “Brewer” as she skimmed over her paper. In its

association with that of Cranston, and remembering the police court case,

her perturbation was natural. Never during her association with William,

had the subject been mentioned between them. Now, jealousy entered her

soul.

 

For her own reasons, Amy was a little shy at questioning Tydvil on the

subject. Latterly the extraordinary change in her husband had been

causing her no little concern. By some means that were beyond her

comprehension, he had succeeded in escaping her authority. He was

truculent under cross-examination, and his language to her had

occasionally, been almost vulgar. He absolutely refused to explain his

almost constant absences from his dinner in the evening and his

chronically late hours. Moreover, he was completely neglecting his social

services in a most distressing manner.

 

Only that morning, when she had reminded him that she had arranged for

him to address a meeting of the committee of the Little Mothers’ Guild at

the Vicarage, he had replied that if she thought he was going to waste

his time lapping milk with a bunch of she cats, she was dashed well

mistaken.

 

Her indignant, but, in the circumstances, restrained rebuke, had called

forth a most disgraceful analogy regarding she cats and little mothers

that had shocked Amy inexpressibly.

 

However, her curiosity regarding the case prompted her to bring up the

subject at breakfast on the following morning. Breakfast was now about

the only time at which she could be sure of meeting her husband.

 

Seizing what she thought was a favourable opportunity to break in on his

attention to his newspaper, she said, “Oh, Tydvil dear! I saw in

yesterday’s paper that there was a divorce case coming on in which

Cranston and Brewer are mentioned. I trust that is not the Mr. Brewer you

employ.”

 

“Yes it is, and the Mr. Cranston, too,” replied Tydvil shortly. “What of

it?”

 

“But, my dear Tydvil, I can scarcely believe it,” she protested.

 

“Why not?” came from the opposite end of the table. The voice was quite

indifferent.

 

“Well, I thought that your Mr. Brewer was such a superior man,” Amy

ventured. “What is it all about?”

 

Tydvil, scarcely looking up from his paper, gave her a brief resume of

Cranston’s allegations in English so plain that Amy blushed.

 

“Tydvil!” she exclaimed in shocked amazement. “Well, you asked me!”

 

“But, surely, to your wife, you might have chosen your words more

carefully,”