# The Author of "Trixie"/Chapter 10

Next morning they were early at the office of Mr. Pankhurst, which they found occupying the two lower floors of a fine old Georgian house in a square not far removed northwards from New Oxford Street; the two upper floors of this house formed the residence of the investigator. As they had made their appointment by telephone, they had not long to kick their heels among the dozen or more heavily-veiled women who affected to read the illustrated magazines in the clients' waiting-room. They had barely sat down and looked about them when their names were spoken by the factotum, ​and a moment later they were ushered into the presence of his employer.
Mr. Pankhurst's age appeared to be something over sixty. He was bald, possibly from mental concentration, and obese probably from over-eating and lack of exercise. His voice was fruity, his manner obsequious, his smile that of a fat devil. He wore a light grey morning coat, a white piqué waistcoat, black and white check trousers, white spats, patent-leather shoes, purple socks, a purple tie with a big pink pearl in it, a neat little up-and-down collar, white with a thin black stripe, and a soft-fronted shirt to match, an undervest of pale blue silk and wool, pants ditto ditto, purple sock suspenders, a Jaeger ceinture, a bloodstone signet ring, and a porous plaster.
Chloë did the talking. "Mr. Pankhurst," she said, "I am the daughter of ​Archdeacon Roach, and my husband here and I are in need of some kind of weapon against him. Do you think you can help us?"
"The Archdeacon of Cricklewood, isn't it?" inquired Mr. Pankhurst. "The other Archdeacon Roach, of Runcorn, has no daughter, I believe, madam, who is as young as you by several years."
Chloë shot a glance at Dunkle which said: "Didn't I tell you this fellow was some investigator? Do you mark, for example, how he knows not only that there are two Archdeacons Roach, but how old their respective daughters are? Did you know that there was an Archdeacon Roach of Runcorn? I'll be shot if I did."
"Yes," she replied, "my father is the Archdeacon of Cricklewood. How long do you think it'll take you, Mr. Pankhurst, ​to find out something about him that's really disreputable? If possible, we'd like it to be something he can go to quod for. Of course we don't want to send him there, you understand? It's only a persuasion that we're looking for."
"I understand perfectly," said Mr. Pankhurst. "Yes, I perfectly understand. Now let me think. Hum! Hah! No, for the moment I can't recall what it is that we have against your excellent father, though I know we've a good deal. Suppose we turn him up." He blew into a tube and then spoke into it, saying: "Mr. Leprovitch, will you kindly bring me the dossier of Archdeacon Roach, of Cricklewood."
Then, turning to the Dunkles, he continued: "There is not a public man of any ordinary importance into whose history we have not made our inquiries. Since I ​started this little business of mine, thirty years ago, I have accumulated data, of one sort or another, relative to not less than sixty-five thousand ladies and gentlemen of position and means. Not only does this save time when, as now, information is sought concerning one of them, but it gives my young men—my beagles, I call them, ha! ha!—something to do when they are not actually engaged upon any definite investigation. Moreover, while we are looking into the past history of A, it frequently happens that we light upon something to the discredit of B. This we instantly file for future reference. And so—but here comes Mr. Leprovitch with your father's record, madam. I make no doubt that in a moment I shall be in a position to give you some very material assistance."
The ghoulish little old clerk who had ​made his appearance laid on Mr. Pankhurst's table a slim, green cardboard cover, upon which were neatly written the words, "Roach, Samson, Archdeacon of Cricklewood." This done, he bowed, sniffed and withdrew.
Mr. Pankhurst picked up the dossier and loosed its tapes. "Now then," he said, and allowed it to fall open in his palm.
Chloë rose quickly and peered over his shoulder. To her annoyance the papers she saw were all covered with, to her, wholly unintelligible scratches. So she sat down again. Mr. Pankhurst paid no attention to her movements. He was busy scanning the cipher record. There was a short silence, which Chloë employed in powdering her nose, Dunkle in scratching his.
At last Mr. Pankhurst cleared his throat once or twice, and: "I expect," he said, ​"we'd best begin at the beginning. Perhaps Mrs. Dunkle will stop me when I come to anything that seems likely to be of service to her. Yes? Thank you. The first entry, then, runs as follows:
"Aged twenty-one, went to spend part of the Oxford Christmas Vacation at the home of a college friend, Bertram Saunderson, second son of Sir Assheton Saunderson, of 42, Onslow Gardens, South Kensington. While dancing was in progress, kissed Sir Assheton's third daughter, Lucy, who, after boxing his ears, immediately reported the matter to her brothers. Kicked by elder and thrown into the street, with his trunk and belongings, by the younger."
Chloë broke out into a shriek of laughter so piercing that even Dunkle, who was well used to the painful sounds she made, winced and put his hands up to his ears. As for Mr. Pankhurst, his teeth were set so horribly on edge that both plates sprang from their moorings and were only saved from dashing themselves to pieces on the ​table by the spasmodic and fortunate catch which their wearer brought off.
"Oh," she cried, "but what a picture it makes! The Archdeak at twenty-one—his whiskers just sprouting—clad in his first swallow-tails and quite the conquering young Lothario—propelled (with trunk) through the front door of No. 42, Onslow Gardens, and pelted with his possessions, as he sits on the pavement, from an upper story window, by the brothers Saunderson, the outraged Lucy encouraging them from the drawing-room balcony, and all the dance-guests cheering madly at the descent of each article. Ah, vieux satyr, je te connais enfin. I always knew the Archdeak had been a bad lad in his day. But I'm afraid, Mr. Pankhurst," she went on, wiping her eyes, "that this won't quite do. We want something a bit tougher. Something that we can really frighten him with."
​"Well," said Mr. Pankhurst, "suppose I just read on.
"Aged twenty-three, discovered attempting to smuggle six boxes of Dutch cigars into England at Harwich. Cigars confiscated and fine of two pounds ten shillings imposed.
"Aged twenty-seven, surprised with a penny on a wire, doing his best to empty of its chocolate an automatic machine on the deserted platform of Dentry Magna station. As his efforts had proved fruitless, was warned and let go; but it cost him a sovereign to the Stationmaster and ten shillings to the porter.
"Aged thirty-two, tried to bilk a hansom cabman at the St. James's restaurant. Cabman, having his suspicions, drove rapidly round Piccadilly through Air Street, and was just in time to be the witness of his fare's appearance on the pavement of Regent Street. Five pounds accepted in composition of this misdemeanour.
"Aged thirty-nine, while staying at the Hotel Beau Rivage et Belle Vue, Clarens, Switzerland, was required by the management to open his trunk, wherein 503 sheets and 479 envelopes of the hotel letter-paper were discovered. No action taken by the Management, but Mr. Roach required to shift his quarters without delay.
"Aged forty-one, found travelling first-class with a third-class ticket on the Great Western Railway ​between Pangbourne and Paddington. Gave false name and address, and so escaped the consequences of his offence."
"'Nuff said," cried Chloë. "'Nuff said, Mr. Pankhurst. We needn't go any further. That puts him on toast for us, all right. What we required was something for which he's wanted, and here we have it. I suppose you can produce proof of this shocking business if necessary?"
"Of course," said Mr. Pankhurst. "Nothing goes on our registers unless it can be proved up to the hilt. I see that the employee of my agency who happened to be travelling in the Archdeacon's carriage and tracked him home is dead, but we have his statutory declaration relative to the affair, made in the ordinary course of his duties after handing in his report to us. So you think this will suit you?"
"Absolutely. We have him right bang ​on his blessed old archidiaconal hip. Why if you'd told me that he was a bigamist, I couldn't be better pleased. This is just the kind of mean little pettifogging offence that kills a man stone dead, socially, if it comes out. He'll never let it come out. Never in this world, he won't. He'd rather have to own to embezzlement of the diocesan funds than to this."
"Yes," said Dunkle, "or to melting down his church candlesticks."
They paid their fee and departed, with hearts a good deal lighter than those they had brought with them.