The Author of "Trixie"/Chapter 17
The Archdeacon reached the Sloane Street Safe Deposit at about a quarter before midday. At ten minutes to the hour Mr. Turton made his appearance in the waiting-room. While he was introducing himself to the Archdeacon (whom he knew by his gaiters) Sir John Dubbs manifested himself with his press agent, Mr. Filting. While Mr. Turton was introducing the Archdeacon and Sir John to one another, Miss Badger and her press agent, Mrs. Tanner, came in. Mr. Turton had hardly introduced the Archdeacon to Miss Badger when Sir Ecclesford Smee and his press agent, Miss Richborough, entered. Mr. Turton proceeded to introduce the Archdeacon and Sir Ecclesford to one another, and while he was doing this, Miss Symkyn showed up with her press agent, Mr. Brimblecombe. Sir William Keyne arrived with his press agent, Mr. Solomons, while Mr. Turton was introducing the Archdeacon to Miss Symkyn. Mr. Turton at once introduced the Archdeacon and Sir William to one another. The conclusion of this ceremony synchronised with the arrival of Mrs. Cutbush-Threape and her two press agents, Mr. Hatherley and Miss Adger. Mr. Turton hastened to introduce the Archdeacon to Mrs. Cutbush-Threape.
The representatives of the Gazette Machin and the Courier Chose (who had been present since half-past eleven) expended several hundred feet of film upon these noteworthy arrivals and introductions.
On the stroke of twelve Chloë, Dunkle, and their plain-clothes man (whose name was James Porlock) became visible in the outer vestibule. "Ah!" exclaimed the Archdeacon, "my daughter and my son-in-law, Bisham Dunkle."
He rubbed his hands together and advanced, beaming, upon the couple. "My dear Chloë!" he cried, "how good of you and dear Bisham to come! I offer you," he added in a whisper as he came up to them, "one last chance of yielding gracefully to the inevitable. Give me your promise, Bisham, to join in my communication to the press, and"
"Do you see the beery-looking merchant who's reading the 'Instructions in Case of Fire'?" Chloë hissed in his ear, while she pretended to embrace him. "He's a plain-clothes man. I have only to say one word and he will clap the darbies on you and lead you away to durance vile. And that's what I'll do, s'welp me, if you don't turn this business up. If I believed that you really have that manuscript locked up here, I'd have had you arrested already. But it's my idea that you're trying to bluff us. Don't push the bluff too far, that's all."
Sir William Keyne came bustling forward, a thing he could always be trusted to do. "Now, my dear Archdeacon," he said, "we're all present and ready to hear what you have to say. So this is your son-in-law, Mr. Dunkle, is it? Permit me to introduce myself, Mr. Dunkle. I am Sir William Keyne, the novelist. It gives me very great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dunkle, though I don't happen to have read either of your books. You see, as a member of the Worst Sellers' Dining Club, I am precluded by my oath from reading any work of fiction which sells more than three hundred and fifty copies in Great Britain. Nevertheless"
"Oh; shut up," I said! Chloë. At the same moment she drove the point of her parasol vigorously into the ribs of Sir William. "Now then, Venerable," she went on, while Sir William fell back gasping and clutching at his side, "which is it to be—Peace or War?"
"It is for you to choose, my love," said the Archdeacon.
"That be hanged!" said Chloë. "The decision rests with you. If you've got that manuscript and care to produce it, do so and see me whistle up my sleuth-dog. If you haven't, say so like a man."
"I won't conceal from you, Chloë," said the Archdeacon, "that I would much rather arrange this matter in a friendly way. I don't want to have a lawsuit with Bisham, but if you force me to it, I am ready to fight. But if I fight and win—as I shall and must—I give you warning, my dear child, that of any future money that my books, whether published or to be published, may earn, not one penny shall come your way. Your income from the sale of my novels will automatically cease on the day when I am confirmed in my claim to be their author. On the other hand, if you and Bisham will be reasonable and admit publicly that it was I who wrote 'Trixie' and 'Edgar and Lilian,' I am willing to assign to you all royalties that may come to me henceforward from my fiction."
"Chloë, old germ," said Dunkle, "don't you think we might"
"No," she snapped, "I don't! I tell you he's bluffing. I knew he was before, but this proves it up to the chin. He hasn't got any manuscript in any lock-up box anywhere. It's obvious. If he could prove his story, do you suppose he'd be offering to buy our corroboration? Why should he? It isn't as if he likes us. It isn't as if he was yearning to hand over his royalties to us. No, what I say is, let's stick to our authorship and our royalties too. How do we know he'll write any more novels? He's an old man. He may die any time. If we've admitted that he wrote 'Trixie,' where should we be then? No, I'd rather keep the trade name. As I've told you, Bisham, if you can't write a successor to 'Edgar and Lilian,' I jolly well can. So come on, Venerable. Into the lift with you and down into the bowwows of the earth. These ladies and gentlemen are busy people, I expect, and our plain-clothes man has something rather better to do than hang about in this stuffy little waiting-room all day."
The Archdeacon sighed. "So be it, Chloë," he said. "But you'll be sorry for this. You will, I assure you." Then, turning to the assembled authors, press agents, cinematographers and secretary—"Come, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Let us go down to the strong-rooms."
In three journeys of the lift the whole party was conveyed below ground and assembled in the lobby, whence access was obtained to the Safe Deposit proper.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the Archdeacon, "if you will be so good as to wait here, I will go and fetch what I have to show you. The regulations of this place forbid my taking any of you with me behind that steel gate. But I shall be gone no more than a moment."
He passed behind the barrier and, accompanied by an official of the Safe Deposit, vanished into a strong-room.
At the end of three minutes he reappeared, carrying a small dispatch-case. This, after he had come back through the barrier, he laid on the table which occupied the centre of the lobby. The Committee and the rest of the party gathered curiously round.
"In this dispatch-case," the Archdeacon began, "is the manuscript of a published novel which was written by one whom for the purposes of this explanation I will call A. Hitherto the author of this work has been supposed, by the public, to be one whom I will call B. Into the reasons which led A to conceal his identity behind that of B I will go presently. At the moment they are not important. I ask you, instead, to give the best of your attention to the following highly significant facts. The novel in question was published on the 15th July last. This manuscript (which is a copy of the original) was deposited by me in my locker here on the 31st of March last. It was, before being put away, sealed and dated by the secretary of this Safe Deposit, and the circumstance of its being so sealed and deposited was recorded by him in his books. If, then, I can now produce to you this manuscript, with its seals unbroken, I believe that I am right in saying that it will prove to be a rather convincing piece of evidence in favour of the claim by A, in whose handwriting it is, as against those of B to be the true author of the work in question."
He paused and looked inquiringly round.
"Yes, Archdeacon," said Sir John Dubbs. "I fancy that we may grant you so much. Eh, Mr. Turton?"
"I don't say 'no,' Sir John," said Mr. Turton. "No, I don't say 'no' to that On the other hand, I don't say 'yes.' I conceive, ladies and gentlemen," he went on to the others, "that in an inquiry such as this, which promises to be of so much importance to English Letters, it behoves us to walk very warily." To this all his associates murmured a vague assent.
"May we not know," asked Mrs. Cutbush-Threape, "the name of this novel?"
"Yes," said Sir Ecclesford Smee, Sir William Keyne, Miss Badger and Miss Symkyn all together, "may we not know the name of the novel?"
"As to that," the Archdeacon replied, "I must ask you to bear with me one further moment while, with your permission, I have a word with my daughter and son-in-law. Chloë, my dear. Bisham. A word with you over here." He carried his dispatch-case into a corner of the lobby, where his young relatives joined him.
"Now then," he whispered, "here we are at the critical moment. Which is it to be? Am I to exhibit my manuscript to these people and so force Bisham to admit my claim, or is Bisham to admit it without compulsion? Remember, please, that if you make me produce the manuscript, your income from the sale of my books ceases automatically; whereas if you give in, it continues undiminished. Now choose, and quickly."
"Not us," whispered Chloë. "It's for you to decide. Are you going to persist in this imbecility and be given in charge for swindling the railway, or are you going to send all these blitherers away and resume diplomatic relations with us according to the status quo ante?"
"You see, dear Chloë," he whispered, "I don't believe that you will give me in charge."
"Well," she whispered back, "I don't believe that you've got any manuscript in that dispatch-case."
"It's a deadlock," whispered Dunkle. "That's what it is. A deadlock. Oh, for a formula, however unsatisfactory to both parties!"
At this moment the lift descended. Its gate was drawn back with a crash, and from it the Prime Minister emerged. In his hand was a brown-paper parcel.
As he stepped briskly across the lobby towards the steel gate his eye lit upon Archdeacon Roach. He halted and uttered a glad exclamation Then, changing his direction, he moved straight upon the corner where the Archdeacon, Chloë and Dunkle were posted.
"My dear Archdeacon!" he cried, extending both hands. "But this is providential! You're the very man I wanted to see. The fact is," he went on, "that our good old friend the Bishop of Pontefract has passed in his checks. This morning it happened, and I've just had the news. I was going to telephone to you as soon as I've put away this small parcel of Waitabit Creek Oil Cumulative Preference Gold Debenture Bonds which reached me by the second post."
The Archdeacon's heart began to pound. "Telephone to me, Prime Minister!" he cried. "Why to me?"
"Because I'm offering you the billet, of course," said the Prime Minister. "Are you for it, Archdeacon? Yes or no? We may as well settle the matter here and now. Come! Do you take Pontefract or don't you?"
"Yes," said the Archdeacon. "Thank you," he added, recollecting himself.
"Good!" cried the Prime Minister. "Then that's that. Consider yourself a bishop, my very dear sir. Good-bye, good-bye." He passed through the steel gate.
Chloë clapped her hands together.
"Oh," she cried, "how pleased dear mamma will be!"
"Yes," said Dunkle, "won't she?"
"I imagine," whispered Chloë to her father, "that you will now be sensible. You will hardly throw away this bishopric, I suppose. For I need hardly say that bishoprics are never conferred upon people who have been convicted of"
"Enough, Chloë," said her father. "I give in. The Prime Minister spoke more truly than he knew when he said that this meeting was providential. It is, indeed, out of the question that I should disregard so very direct an indication. Yes, my dear children, I see now that I have been mad—quite, quite mad. But I am sane again. Quite. Absolutely. Yes. Bisham is the author of 'Trixie.' Bisham is the author of 'Edgar and Lilian.' And if, in time to come, I yield yet again to the temptation to exercise, under the rose, my gift for fiction, it shall be Bisham who shall be the author of such tales as I may produce."
"Splendid, Pontifex!" said Chloë "And if you don't, I will. But now, what about buzzing round to the Vicarage and telling dear old mother the good news? About your bishopric, I mean."
"Surely," said the Archdeacon. "That is my very first duty. After you into the lift, my love."
The three of them entered the lift and were instantly carried upwards.
"Tell me, Venerable, won't you," said Chloë as they ascended, "what you've got in that dispatch-case of yours. Is it just some old newspapers, or what?"
"That," said the Archdeacon, "is a question which I shall not answer, but perhaps," he added roguishly, "perhaps your plain-clothes man, Chloë, might tell you."
The lift stopped; they walked out and emerged into Sloane Street. Dunkle called a cab. They got in and drove to the Vicarage.
Shall we leave them there?
We shall.
THE END