The Missing Angel, Erle Cox [suggested reading TXT] 📗

door, however, he called him back. “Put

a couple of men on to watch Jones for a week or two,” he ordered. Then,

seeing the expression on the senior’s face, he added, “And tell them to

be dashed careful they’re not noticed.”

 

But Tydvil’s shadows drew a blank. Mainly because when Nicholas warned

him of his followers, Tydvil was, to use his own expression, dashed

careful there was nothing to notice.

 

But while Basil Williams was living a sinfully gay and happy life, Tydvil

Jones had a matter in hand that was rather more complicated than

troublesome. Billy Brewer had asked for an audience with his chief, and

had somewhat nervously informed him that Cranston had cited him as

corespondent in a case that he, Brewer, intended to defend.

 

Tydvil’s well acted dismayed surprise on a subject on which he was fully

informed, added to apprehension. The Chief was inexpressibly shocked at

the tidings. He pointed out to Brewer that he was facing the inevitable

results of his reckless past. “It is a personal matter, Brewer, on which

perhaps, I have no right to dwell! But I cannot help thinking that such a

distressing affair must be extremely distasteful to Miss Brand.”

 

Billy admitted that Geraldine felt the publicity would be extremely

distasteful, but that she was in agreement with him that he should defend

the case.

 

“You will perhaps recognise, Brewer,” Tydvil said stiffly, “that while I

think you may be taking the right course, I find myself in a somewhat

difficult position. You will remember that in the police court

proceedings I defended you effectually, but very unwisely, by giving

evidence that was not based—er—on fact.”

 

“I was very grateful, sir!” Billy conceded. “But I don’t think I will

need your evidence. I have another witness in Geraldine, who saw

Cranston’s wife that night.”

 

“Well,” said Tydvil at length. “Of course, you have a right and a duty to

clear yourself from Cranston’s assertions. But should the Court find

against you, I am afraid I shall have to reconsider our association. You

will, I think, see for yourself, that such a scandal associated with C.

B. & D. would be almost impossible for me to overlook.”

 

Billy bowed to the decision. He had expected that much, at least, and

thought himself lucky that Tyddie did not rule him out on the sole ground

of being named co-re.

 

Meanwhile, Tydvil sent for Cranston and diplomatically suggested that he

should withdraw his petition on the grounds of reasonable doubt. But he

found his man maliciously determined on vengeance on his wife arid Billy

Brewer. Tydvil, the head of C. B. & D., was obliged to recognise

Cranston’s right as a husband. Tydvil, the sinner, knowing his own share

in the affair, felt an unrighteous longing to punch the sneering

vindictive face across his desk. He knew, or felt he knew, that Hilda

Cranston was as much sinned against as sinning, and that Cranston was

actuated by cold-blooded malevolence rather than by righteous wrath.

 

Finally, having learned that Hilda Cranston had left her husband and

obtained employment, he told the more or less injured man that he

intended to dismiss Brewer should Cranston obtain his decree. “On the

contrary,” he added, “should the Court decide against you, you must look

for another position. I have not been aware, until now, of the cause of

the friction in the warehouse between yourself and Brewer. I cannot have

the place disorganised through your private quarrels.”

 

But a day or two later Tydvil had more cause for concern than he dreamed.

Always generously concerned with the welfare of his employees, Tydvil

noticed one morning that Geraldine was suffering from a slight cold. When

they had finished with the mail, he said, “And now, the moment you have

finished typing those letters, put on your hat and go home.”

 

“But…!” Geraldine began to protest.

 

“No ‘Buts’,” laughed Tydvil. “Brewer might get that cold and that would

be a nuisance. You might get worse and be laid up, and that would be a

still worse nuisance. I might get it from you, and that would be a

catastrophe. Tell Miss Marsden to take your work—and give her a

dictionary. Her spelling is fearsome.”

 

Later that morning as Geraldine was tugging her hat on to the correct

angle, Tydvil looked up. “Keep in the sunshine, Miss Brand,” he advised,

“and don’t let me see you again until you’ve ceased being a walking

menace.”

 

Geraldine bade farewell to Billy in a sheltered corner of the warehouse,

where Billy recklessly defied the risks of infection, despite her

laughing protests, and departed. Next day she felt better. It was a day

that would make anyone feel better—pure unclouded sunshine with the

first hint of Spring.

 

She rang Billy at the office and commanded that he should spend the

evening with her. She also heard of his intentions for a busy day and

other small, but to both, matters of prime personal importance, such as

that she had not sneezed once, he had no trace of a cold, she hated

missing their morning greeting in Tyddie’s office, he was feeling

miserable to see that Marsden kid in her throne, and that the flowers he

had sent her were glorious and that she was wearing one at the moment of

speaking.

 

The morning passed slowly. After lunch Geraldine reflected that it would

be nearly eight hours before she could see Billy again and that each hour

had sixty slug-like minutes. How to kill those slugs? Geraldine stood in

her garden and surveyed the blue sky. Then her feet danced her into her

bedroom, where she chose a soft green hat that-enhanced the gold of her

own bright helmet, because Billy liked that hat. Then she sought and

found a magazine and sallied forth. At her gate she paused and reflected

again. Then her face lit up and, humming softly to herself, she made her

way to the nearest tram line.

 

Fifteen minutes later a tram deposited one tall, lovely, grey-eyed,

demure and redheaded damsel, wearing a very becoming green hat, at a

corner near an entrance gate to the Botanic Gardens.

 

Unhurriedly, Geraldine strolled slowly towards the Gardens. One long

golden afternoon was hers to waste. Luxuriously she sniffed the soft air.

Appreciatively her eyes gathered in the signs of coming spring, followed

the wonderful wide sweep of lawns, and sparkled more brightly than the

sun on the still lake waters.

 

At the lake’s edge, she held converse with a sooty black swan, unaware

that of the two she was the more graceful. For a while she sat dreaming,

her magazine unopened in her lap. Then a thought of tea intruded itself

into her mind. Still slowly she idled her way along winding paths until

she reached the kiosk under its wide shelters of green.

 

There were not a dozen people at the scattered tables overlooking the

lake. Geraldine drank her tea and ate scones with a healthy appetite,

lingering after she had finished, gazing at the haze of the city above

the tree tops in the distance. Somewhere under that haze was Billy, going

on his lawful occasions. He seemed nearer for the knowledge.

 

Her gaze lowered to the drive that led from the river gates. Anyone

watching her would have seen the dreaming look in her eyes change swiftly

to wide stare of bewilderment, that changed as swiftly to excitement.

Strolling along the wide path towards the kiosk, and deeply immersed in

themselves, came William Brewer and Mrs. Tydvil Jones.

 

There was no indecision in Geraldine’s movements. Swiftly she stood up

and, watching the advancing couple, she stepped behind the shelter of a

shrub. Then, screened by it, she walked slowly backward, dodging

carefully, keeping her prey under observation as she reached a clump of

bushes far enough away to cover her retreat if necessary, but close

enough to observe all she desired to observe.

 

Unaware of the wide, grey eyes that watched their every movement from

beneath their long, curved lashes, Billy Brewer and Amy appropriated a

table for themselves and settled down—Billy most obviously solicitous in

his gentle attentions to his surprising partner.

 

Every movement they made she followed with intense interest. She was

close enough, almost, to read the expressions on the two faces. A score

of emotions flashed into Geraldine’s eyes, but among them there was no

trace of anger. Bewildered curiosity predominated. It says much for

Geraldine’s perfect and unquestioning loyalty to Billy, that not for one

second did she believe the evidence of her startled senses. There, before

her eyes, was Billy Brewer flirting outrageously with Mrs. Tydvil

Jones—flagrant devotion in his eyes. Yes, beyond doubt, it was Billy,

but—that sense that women possess that is beyond the ken of man, assured

her heart and soul it was not her Billy. Just so, was she sure that his

partner was Amy Jones.

 

Only Geraldine herself knew the happy response of her heart to Billy’s

presence. But from the moment of her first glimpse of him her heart

scorned the impostor. Had it been her Billy, she knew that the steady,

unhurried pulse would have been raging with anger and jealousy, and

prompting her to shred the raiment of Amy Jones far and wide across the

green lawns.

 

Slowly, as the riot in her mind subsided, there emerged the fact that her

crazy guess at there being two Billy Brewers was true. Back to her mind

flashed the scene in the warehouse on the morning when her Billy had been

so gaily greeted by Amy—the reason for which he had since so strenuously

denied all knowledge. So, thought Geraldine, Amy had been barking up the

wrong Billy that morning…

 

Womanlike, all her scorn turned on the peccant Amy, who was so obviously

lapping up the devotion of the man opposite her. “To think,” Geraldine

reflected, “that poor Tyddie believes in that hypocritical she-devil.”

Another problem came into her mind. “Did Amy believe that her partner was

Billy Brewer—or…?” Geraldine could follow that line of thought no

further. Despite the mystery that had lately surrounded his life and

morals, she had a very deep liking for Tyddie, to whom she had been

indebted for much thoughtful kindness—her present afternoon’s holiday,

for example. She liked him so much that the thought of Amy’s gross

disloyalty to a man, who was far too good for her, excited contempt for,

and righteous wrath against, his betrayer.

 

It would have given her intense satisfaction to walk across to their

table and tell Amy exactly what she thought of her behaviour. But her

commonsense forbade. Tyddie’s secretary had no right whatever to crash

into his domestic affairs, however scandalous they might be. Besides, she

had a more urgent duty of love towards her own Billy. As she watched she

determined to find out if possible the real identity of his scandalous

double. Her heart hardened as she considered his disgraceful manoeuvres

with Amy. “That,” she thought, “was undoubtedly the man she had seen with

Hilda Cranston near His Majesty’s Theatre that night. That, too, was the

man who had involved Billy in all his unmerited tribulations.” There grew

up in her a fierce determination to make the duplicate of Billy Brewer

wish he had never been born.

 

The hour and a half before the two showed signs of separating, passed

without notice by the excited girl. After they had had tea they had

wandered, and Geraldine blessed the luxuriant growth of the gardens that

provided such ample cover for her spying, for which she felt no

compunction.

 

It was nearly five o’clock before they separated near the bridge over the

lake. Geraldine watched the leavetaking, that they supposed to be

unobserved, with an exclamation of virtuous anger. Then Amy turned