The Wordsmith

* * *

Mrs Wagstaff suspected that the rumour of a brothel at Mrs Banbury's had been started by Mrs Eustacia Crabbe, and so she began her investigations by inviting that lady to coffee. Mrs Crabbe was flattered to receive the invitation. She was a scandalmonger of the street corner variety, always ready to spread scurrilous stories. She envied Mrs Wagstaff and her circle of ladies who shared genteel and good-humoured gossip over porcelain coffee cups. She thought she belonged in that circle, although Mrs Wagstaff and her ladies clearly thought otherwise. Mrs Crabbe hoped that the invitation to take coffee indicated that she was about to be awarded the accolade of joining them, and was disappointed to find that she was Audrey Wagstaff's only guest.

After the exchange of a few pleasantries, Mrs Wagstaff got down to business. "Tell me, Mrs Crabbe, have you heard about what goes on at Mrs Banbury's?"

"Have I heard about it? Let me tell you, Mrs Wagstaff, I was the one who found out about it!"

"Really? I do declare! And what exactly was it you found out, Mrs Crabbe?"

"Why, that she was running a you-know-what, Mrs Wagstaff!"

"Honestly? A you-know-what? Really?"

"Really, Mrs Wagstaff, with painted hussies and all sorts of goings on."

"Well I never! Do have another shortbread. How did you find out about it, Mrs Crabbe?"

Mrs Crabbe brushed the crumbs from her lips with a paper napkin, and leaned forward confidentially. "I'll let you into a little secret, Mrs Wagstaff. My Ossie was one of her customers! Now, he's a good man really, but you know what men are, Audrey, one glimpse of a bit of petticoat, and their brains slide down into their trousers. Anyway, she nearly had him hooked, but I found a letter in his pocket, a letter he had written to her, giving the game away."

"My goodness! What did you do with it?"

"Oh, I've still got it, Audrey. If I ever have to use it, I will. I always keep it with me, to be on the safe side." She opened her capacious handbag, unclasped an inner compartment, unbuttoned a flap within that, and withdrew an envelope, which she handed to Audrey. "See, it's addressed to Mrs Banbury. Now read it." Audrey took the letter from the envelope and read it, quickly realising that it must be the letter which Rupert had intended for his esteemed authoress.

When Audrey had finished reading, Mrs Crabbe addressed her with smug satisfaction. "There, what did I tell you? Have you ever read anything so shameless? Where my Ossie picked up such language I don't know. Why, some of it's so dirty, it's in French! I had to ask Mlle Lascelles what an oover was. She told me it was French for 'opening.' It's disgusting!"

To conceal her smiles, Audrey held her hand over her mouth as if aghast. "It certainly is, Eustacia, and you were quite right to show it to me."

Mrs Crabbe's indignation was still on the boil. "All that talk of bare men penetrating pro's! Pardon my language, Audrey, but I'm only quoting what's in the letter."

"Of course, Eustacia. I quite understand." Audrey could not help thinking that Mrs Crabbe's disgust had not prevented her from memorising the parts she found most distasteful.

"My Ossie at least recognised her for what she is. She's a trollop all right, though I wouldn't call her well endowed — overblown more like. Anyway, he's not going to get any opportunity for embraces or intercourse. Pardon the expression, Audrey, but that's what the letter says. Not that he would have satisfied her; I can vouch for that."

"What did your Ossie have to say for himself, Eustacia, when you faced him with it?"

"Oh, I haven't let him know I found out. He'd only deny it. But I don't give him a chance to stray. I make sure I know where he is every minute. And I have written her a letter telling her exactly what I think of her, and warning her to leave my husband alone."

"Quite right, Eustacia, you certainly handled that well."

Mrs Crabbe had more revelations to impart. "I'll tell you something else, Audrey. That Mr Thursby what lives next door to her is mixed up in it. That envelope hasn't got a stamp on, has it? I wondered about that and then I found out why. I saw Mr Thursby come up to my Ossie in the pub, and Ossie went to give him the letter, but of course he couldn't find it in his pocket 'cause I had taken it, only Ossie didn't know that, did he? Mr Thursby is the go-between, Audrey! He's Mrs Banbury's procurator!"

Audrey feigned horror. "Goodness gracious me! Now that I know what is going on, I shall put a stop to it. I am going straight round to Mrs Banbury's, and after I leave there, I promise you she will not have women of that sort on her premises ever again. Then I shall speak to Mr Thursby, and see to it that he sends her no more customers."

* * *

True to her word, Audrey called on Mrs Banbury. After chatting about this and that, Audrey turned the subject onto Rupert Thursby. "How do you get on with Mr Thursby next door, Mrs Banbury? He seems a nice enough chap."

"'Seems' is the word, Mrs Wagstaff. There's dark secrets in that house, let me tell you. Did you know he has a wife?"

"No, I didn't. I always though he was a bachelor."

"So did everyone, Mrs Wagstaff, but I know better."

"Where is his wife then? Why have we never seen her?"

Mrs Banbury leaned towards Audrey and lowered her voice for effect. "Because he keeps her locked up in the attic, that's why!"

"In the attic? Good Lord! Do these cottages have attics, Mrs Banbury?"

Her informant was in no mood for architectural niceties. "Attic, secret room, what's the difference? The fact is he has a poor mad wife locked away in there!"

"A mad wife?" Audrey could not envisage Rupert Thursby as Edward Rochester. He had always seemed to her more pre-Raphaelite than Byronic. "Have you seen her, then, Mrs Banbury?"

"No, but I know she's there, all right. I know because she sent me a letter."

"A letter?"

"Such a coarse, ill-written letter, you couldn't imagine, Mrs Wagstaff. She must be a very low class of person. Here, read it for yourself." Mrs Banbury rummaged in a drawer of the sideboard and produced a sheet of lined paper, apparently torn from an exercise book. She handed it to Audrey Wagstaff, who read the scrawled script with some difficulty.

_______________________________

to the scarlet woman of nutcombe.

dont send any more of your filthy french proposals to my husband you dirty hoor keep your claws off of him or youll be sorry if he so much as gos near any of your prossies and trollops ill scratch your jezebel eyes out myself if you lay him bare ill lay you out dont you worry and if i do you wont get up again you can be sure of that so dont say you havent bin warned becos you have bin and this is it

from a decent wife who will see you in hell before she lets you get your sluts hands on her stupid husband

________________________________

"Of course, you realise, Mrs Wagstaff, that the woman is utterly deranged. Why she should think I have any interest in her husband I'm sure I don't know."

"But what makes you think that this came from next door, Mrs Banbury?"

"The opening words, Mrs Wagstaff, about me making proposals to her husband. The only thing I can think of that comes remotely close is that I did write to Rupert — Mr Thursby — suggesting that we adopt a joint design for our gardens. I still have not had a reply from him, so I assume that she must have intercepted my letter and completely misinterpreted it."

"Oh dear, how unfortunate. I must try and persuade Mr Thursby to make proper provision for his poor wife. Mrs Banbury, if you were willing to let me have the letter, I could show it to him and that, I am sure, would bring home to him the necessity of making alternative arrangements."

"Oh, would you do that, Mrs Wagstaff? I would be most grateful. Insulting though her letter is, I can't help feeling sorry for the poor thing."

* * *

The next day, Mrs Wagstaff conveyed the results of her investigations to Rupert Thursby, adding "So there you have it, Rupert. The letter you intended for your Miss Ffoulkes-Featherstonehaugh was found by Mrs Crabbe in her husband's pocket, and interpreted by her as a reply from him to a brothel-keeping Mrs Banbury. Her outraged response to it was interpreted by Mrs Banbury as the deranged ravings of a mad wife kept locked up by you. I don't think you have anything more to worry about. Mrs Banbury and her friends will continue to keep their distance from you, cruel and heartless husband as they suppose you to be, but I imagine that the loss of their intimacy will cause you no sorrow."

"You are right there, Mrs Wagstaff. Anything that keeps the Banbury woman away from my door is good news, well worth losing my reputation for. I am sorry that Miss Ffoulkes-Featherstonehaugh got the wrong letter though."

"Don't be, Rupert. Did it not occur to you that a name like Phyllis Ffoulkes-Featherstonehaugh is almost certainly a pen name? The sort of nom de plume, in fact, that a male author might adopt to attract a female audience? Doesn't that make you feel glad that he did not get the right letter?"

Recollecting the terms of that letter, Rupert could only agree.

"Don't take this amiss, Rupert dear, but could it be that the source of some of the misunderstanding might be that your style of writing sometimes obscures your meaning?"

* * *

Back in his own study, Rupert considered Mrs Wagstaff's final remark. He had to admit that it bore some justification, as indeed did old Grudbear's earlier accusation of ambiguity. He sat at his desk, rolled the platen of his typewriter up a few lines, and re-read the opening of the new novel he had just started:-

______________________________________________

Gerard Hornby looked ruefully back over the seven years since he had made his wedding vows at the altar of St Nicholas' Church. It had been, he opined, a period during which the mists of youthful optimism had been dispelled by the harsh breezes of reality. Of the various qualities which might make a woman desirable — looks, wealth, intelligence, social connections, skill in the arts of the kitchen or the bedroom — his wife possessed none. He could no longer, no matter how hard he tried, remember what had led him to propose. Indeed, he could not even remember proposing, and wondered if he might fairly be numbered among those men considered to have been tricked into being tied by the nuptial bond. It made no difference whether it was the actuality of his life which had degenerated, or whether he was now merely taking a more objective view of circumstances which had always been less than ideal. Either way, the necessity to alter his lot grew stronger by the day, and had now reached a crucial point. To continue to endure was intolerable, and his only recourse was to act, decisively, ruthlessly, even if that action was one frowned upon by society — the ultimate taboo — the act of depriving another of the breath of life.

______________________________________________

He took hold of the paper, tore it roughly from the machine, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room towards a waste paper basket. He assembled a fresh set of two sheets of foolscap plus carbon, and fed them into the roller. Quickly he began to type:-

______________________________________________

Gerry Hornby was sick of his ugly wife, and decided to bump her off.

______________________________________________

He paused and considered the new version. That too he tore from the machine. He folded his arms on the desk and laid his head upon them. Perhaps he should return to teaching.

* * *