Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 6

6

The next morning…

Nellie

S pitalfields Market isn’t the most welcoming merchant’s row—there are as many fences as they are honest traders—but if you need something, you’ll find it.

It doesn’t take Sweeney and me long to find exactly what we want.

The barber’s chair is more than a little bit shabby. The seller, Paulie, pumps his foot on the rear pedal, sending the chair upward with a tortured squeak of the ratchet.

“I’ve had this thing for ages,” he says. “I can give it a clean and grease and deliver it to your place, Mrs. Lovett, if that’ll do the trick.”

I glance at Sweeney as he runs his hand over the upholstery. It’s his decision, not mine.

“What is needs most is new leather, my friend.” Sweeney taps the frayed stitching. “But I suppose that’s too much to ask.”

“No can do for the price, sir. But I’ll throw in some extras. Basins, towels, a mirror. All in for the charge, and I can bring them by carriage.”

“Done,” Sweeney says, handing over some cash. “We’re going to get some food. I want to see a bundle made up when I return.”

Paulie doffs his cap. “My pleasure, mister. See you anon.”

I’m so proud to be seen with him. I can’t tell if people recognize him, but they certainly look. Sweeney has the demeanor of a man with a purpose and a scalding energy that slows people down as they pass; their eyes are drawn as though by magnets.

Such a presence is intoxicating, and as much as I enjoy the feel of my arm through his, I know he could be lured away. There are prettier faces than mine on these streets.

As if summoned by my thoughts, a voice trills from behind us, and we turn to see a woman in a lemon day dress, her white petticoat billowing gaily from beneath the taffeta. Her straw bonnet is bright and adorned with forget-me-nots.

“Mr. Brook!” She scurries toward us, her gaze fixed on Sweeney’s. “My days, sir! I did not expect to see you again!”

Sweeney’s expression is unreadable. “I don’t rightly recall, madam. Forgive my ignorance.”

The woman giggles. “Go on with you. It’s Marianne. You remember me—Ms. Veronica’s maid?”

Ms. Veronica. The wife of the barber. The woman with whom Sweeney had an affair, fathered a child, then killed her husband for taking her life when the cuckolded man discovered the deception.

I slide my hand into Sweeney’s and squeeze it. He squeezes it back hard enough to hurt, but it’s Marianne who has his attention.

Frilly, flighty Marianne, a little older than me, but not by much. Marianne, with her smooth skin and eyes as cool and blue as the sky.

Not Nellie.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“Hello!” Marianne says, finally acknowledging me. “Are you his sister or something?”

I grow still, seething, and hold her stare. “No, I am not. That’s not?—-”

“Marianne, do you know what happened to my little Johanna?” Sweeney asks suddenly. He releases my hand and clutches Marianne’s arm. “Because I need to know. I understand I cannot go to her, but I must have peace.”

Seeing my man’s hand on another woman’s body makes me want to do something terrible. How dare he. Only hours ago, I patched up his sliced stomach and sponged his blood from my body.

He can’t do this to me. He just can’t .

“The bastard baby of a murdered mother and a criminal father?” Marianne whispers. She’s caught in his orbit now, her breathing ramping up as he pulls her closer. “They took her to the workhouse, of course.”

“And then?”

Sweeney leans in, his voice beside her ear, and she quickens. I see the fear caught up in her excitement because I feel it, too, but I don’t want to share him. Not now, not ever.

I lash out, nails flying, and scratch a gouge into Marianne’s cheek. She recoils with a squeal and flees, running through a side alley. Sweeney takes a step as though to follow, but people are staring by now, and he turns back to me, coal-black eyes ablaze.

“You fool,” he hisses, grabbing my wrist. “I need to find my child. Do you understand?”

He has an agenda of his own. Of course . There I was thinking he was happy to set up his parlor and play house with me, just because it’s been all I’ve thought about for over a decade.

“You’re telling me this now?” I reply, trying to pull away. “She could be anywhere. Dead, more than likely. What good is it to know?”

“Her mother died for nothing.” He wrenches me aside, twisting my arm, and I yelp. “I have to find out what became of Johanna and settle a few scores as I go. Are you on my team or not, Nellie?”

I should say no, of course. Nothing about that sounds like reasonable behavior, but then again, I’ve slid a long way so far.

Over his shoulder, I catch a shimmer of yellow. Marianne still loiters, her scratched face peering around a grimy corner.

I drag my eyes back to Sweeney’s. “Of course, love,” I coo. “I’ll be good.”

He chucks me playfully under my chin. “Not too good, treacle. Why don’t you take a shiny new penny,” he presses the coin into my palm, “and fetch us some bread. Oysters, too, if they have them.”

I take the money and head for the fishmonger’s carts. Marianne ducks off to the right, and after checking Sweeney isn’t watching, I go after her.

I won’t be too good, Mr. T. Don’t you worry about that.

I catch up with the frightened girl before she can reach the square. She’s skittish, understandably, but I must play this gently.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Truly.”

Marianne sniffs impetuously. “I was only saying hello. There was no need for you to get your bitch claws out!”

Oh . Not such a frothy slip of a lady when she’s riled. I kinda like that about her.

“I need your help,” I say. “You said you were Ms. Veronica’s maid. Did you know Sweeney well at that time?”

“Sweeney? That’s his name now?”

“Yes. He changed it, of course.” I smile, trying not to grit my teeth. “What was it between him and Veronica? Did he love her?”

“That’s all you want to know?” she asks. “He killed that husband of hers, you know. Cut him down like an animal. If his daughter is alive, she should see out her wretched life without ever knowing the evil from whence she spawned.”

Her flowery language is getting on my nerves. Now that I’m getting a better look, I see she’s not quite as well-kept as she first appears; her hemline is ratty, and her bonnet is unraveling on the underside.

“Come and have a visit with us,” I say. “Sweeney—Mr. Brook—asked me to run after you. I have a meat pie shop on Fleet Street. Allow me to offer you a hot meal to apologize, and we can talk more about the old days. Sweeney will be glad to give you some money for your generous assistance.”

Marianne knows it’s a stupid thing to do, but she’s a young woman for whom bad things are coming.

Whatever her means, they are rapidly running out, and a handsome creature like her has only one viable option; the docks. Maybe she’s there already at night, taking it upright in doorways and wondering how she fell so far.

I take her arm. “Maybe even a job? Business needs some investment, after all, and my Sweeney is getting set up in his tonsorial endeavors once again. I’m sure we can find a place for you.”

She doesn’t hesitate for as long as she should. Even as her blood congeals on her cheek, she turns on her heel and allows me to lead.

One hour later…

Marianne is deep into her third gin tumbler. I insist on warming a pie for her, but its stench keeps driving her back to the liquor, and the greasy crust remains uncracked.

“He’s something, isn’t he?” she sighs. “Sweeney, you say. Such a strong name for a strong man.”

I stand at the counter, rolling pastry. I must keep my hands busy, as my twitching tendons have ideas of their own.

“Will he be here soon?” Marianne drains her glass. “I thought about him a lot while he was away. He really did love Veronica, you know. He told me they were going to run away with baby Johanna and take me with them.”

I narrow my eyes at her, but she doesn’t notice. “And you would have gone along?”

She nods. “Of course. They needed me. And she adored him. Anyone could see it; she had that honey glow in her face whenever he was near. And who could blame her? He was always so… intense .”

I grip the rolling pin and close my eyes, only to be jolted back by the door opening. It’s Paulie and his young assistant, wrangling the chair.

“Where do you want this, pet?” he asks.

I point up. “The stairwell is outside. The door’s open. Everything up there.”

Marianne helps herself to more gin as the two men traipse up and down, thumping and thudding over the bare floorboards below. The cold, bare room where Sweeney deflowered me, rough and hard. Did Marianne ever know his touch?

I doubt it, but that’s not to say she wasn’t open to the idea. She still is. I saw how her head whipped to look as the door opened.

She’s in Sweeney’s thrall as much as I am, which will simply not do, but if she can keep her mouth shut, I can make him happy. He will return, find the girl here, and be pleased with me. Pleased that I can solve his problems.

But she really doesn’t know when to button her fucking lip.

“So, how did you meet him?” Marianne says, her words beginning to slur. “This shop is yours, and you’re married. Does he only go for women in wedlock, or do I have a chance?”

I grind some spices in the pestle. “I am a widow. And I knew him many years ago, too.”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that so? You don’t seem his type. Ms. Veronica was a respectable gentlewoman, not some harridan.” She drifts over to the counter and perches unsteadily on the stool, her elbow in a pat of lard. “You’re not a lady. You won’t hold his attention for long.”

Damn this cunt.

“Say, Marianne. What makes you such a wonderful judge of character? He’s a murderer, and, believe it or not, so am I. What do you bring to the table?”

“Alright, I won’t be rude.” Her smile is saccharine, and I recoil. “Let’s see what Sweeney says when he gets here, shall we? Because I don’t think you ever killed anyone or anything, but I can see all too well that you buried your self-respect in a shallow grave.”

“You’d do anything for his attention, and it’s pathetic.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You’d give him the skin off your back!”

That does it.

I raise the rolling pin and smash Marianne smartly over her head, and she sways, the pupil of her left eye dilating as blood streams from her ear.

Another crack, and she slumps, coloring the flour with crimson. A strangled moan escapes her, and I drop the pin.

Fuck me , did that feel good.

I grab a handful of her yellow hair and lift her head, holding her face to mine. “The skin off my back, is it, you little bitch? I’ll fix you.”

I wipe my hands on my apron and leave her gurgling on the worktop as I head out. Upstairs, I cast an eye over the bedraggled barber’s chair.

Sorely in need of love, just like me, but luckily, my late husband taught me a few tricks.

Sweeney was right. It needs new leather, for sure.