Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 15

15

The next morning…

Nellie

S trips of muslin bind our shredded skin, safely hidden beneath long sleeves. The cuts will heal and congeal, but I wonder whether we will survive long enough to watch them fade to silver.

Sweeney and I drifted back to the shop last night, hand in hand, and washed each other’s wounds. I could not fathom him; he was so still, so placid, in a way that seemed terrifyingly at odds with the man who had so far been nothing but a storm in my life.

Now, he paces his parlor floor like the proverbial spider, watchful, focused.

I busy myself with the needle, tacking patches of Marianne’s hide to the sides and back of the battered chair.

“It’s not a pretty job,” I say, tugging the needle through, “but it will keep the stuffing in. Which is much as we can ask of it, given that’s all it could do for Marianne herself.”

Sweeney stops and drops his forehead against the window, scanning the street below. “He’d better fucking show,” he murmurs. “I want to ask him a few things. Do you suppose he knows where Johanna went?”

I sit back on my heels. “It’s possible. He was always privy to things he shouldn’t be; it’s how he kept his position for so many years. Are you sure he didn’t recognize you? For all you know, he’s bringing the law with him.”

“For what?” Sweeney doesn’t look my way. “I haven’t done anything wrong. The workhouse doesn’t lament the loss of another lost man at their door. I have you, this place, my tools, and a vocation. I served my time; he’d leave me be.”

“Don’t bait him, Mr. T,” I say. “He’s a nasty bastard. You will get many more bees buzzing your way with honey than vinegar. If he can help you get some business and find your daughter, you can do worse than to wind your neck in.”

“It’s not my neck anyone should be fucking worrying about.”

I sigh. In the cold light of day, he seems so careless, so mired in the wrongs and injustices that weigh him down. There are things he could keep now, things he should have sense enough to preserve.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I ask, getting to my feet and tying off the last piece of thread. “You have no goddamn daughter. She was never yours, and wherever she is now, she won’t be redeemed to you, nor you to her.”

He maintains a straight back, his gaze on the heads of the city folk as they pass, and I feel a jolt of visceral panic. Is he ignoring me? How dare he?

“Sweeney, you are not listening!” My voice rises despite my efforts to keep it level. “It’s not her, do you understand? It’s?—”

“There he is!” Sweeney jabs the glass with his fingertip. “Right there, looking for me.” His head whips to face me. “Get out.”

I know he didn’t hear a word, and now the chance has passed. I swallow the bile in my throat and head down the stairs to accost the man himself.

Beadle Higgins stands at the stoop, admiring the barber’s pole. He gives me a toothy grin as I descend, and I allow him to take my hand. He presses fishlike lips to it, and I give a curtsey, battling to keep the disgust off my face.

“Good morning, Beadle,” I say. “Mr. Todd is waiting for you.”

The horrible man nods and follows my gesture, waddling slightly as he climbs the stairs toward the parlor. I’m put in mind of a particularly fat, juicy insect, and wonder whether Sweeney will heed my warnings to play with his prey.

It seems all too possible for him to spike the Beadle here and now, leaving me with a corpse that really would crush my hopes and dreams. A dead nobody in a yellow dress is not the same as a deceased local man of renown.

I set about rolling pastry in the shop, trying to get it thin like the crumbly crust we sampled last night. At least no plague-ridden pests are clogging up my wares, disgusting though they still are.

It’s food for thought, to use an apt expression. The pub last night was packed with happy diners, and there’s no way that the female proprietor could get so fat without having plenty of profits to feed herself.

No one cares how they get their fill as long as they get it. Tale as old as time. So, the ends must justify the means?

My pie shop is infamous for fucking vile pies. The one thing I sell is the one thing people go out of their way to avoid. No one comes in, even for the novelty value.

Only the naive people, new to London and helpfully nose-blind, set foot beyond my door mantle. And they certainly don’t hazard a second visit.

This pastry won’t roll. It’s too greasy, yet somehow also powdery, held together by a fibrous mass of indeterminate origin. All I have to go inside is the delights of this dish of mystery meat. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure I paid cattle prices for roadkill quality.

The door jangles and I give a start. To my astonishment, it’s the rotund lady publican from last night, her hands on her hips.

“Mrs. Lovett!” she barks. “I am Jill Bellefonte, and I saw you at my establishment last night. Had I known it was you with that thing , I would have said something there and then. Are you alright, dearie?”

“I don’t rightly know what you mean,” I say. “We had our supper, paid up, and left. No trouble.”

“That scoundrel you were with.” She sashays inside and closes the door behind her. “That’s Currer Brook. He murdered his mentor and his wife. They took his little daughter, you know—sold her to some man. A priest, if you can credit it. Disgusting what the high and mighty can stoop to in this life, isn’t it?”

I eye her cooly, like a shark. Where is this going? And what is this about a priest taking Johanna in?

I hear voices and footsteps upstairs. I don’t think Mr. T can hear this conversation, but I want it over before he reappears. He doesn’t need to listen to this any more than I do.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, madam,” I say. “My gentleman is Mr. Sweeney Todd, an old acquaintance. Someone is telling you scary bedtime stories, but I assure you, they’re having you on.”

This lady is neither intelligent nor willful enough to unseat me. My gaze is steady, my feet firmly planted, and she balks, her eyes betraying the inevitable doubt.

“One of my customers told me otherwise, but you seem certain. I’m sorry to pry.”

She twists her skirt in her hands as though she has something more to say. “I saw your companion holding something he found on his plate. It’s just business, you know. Fair’s fair. I take nothing from you.”

She points at the ceiling. “Will your Mr. Todd tell the Beadle to pay me a visit?”

“I will take my knowledge of your filthy pie fillings to my grave,” I say, indulging myself a grin at her discomfort. “As will your patrons, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“They survive,” she shrugs. “For my regulars, I lace their ale with tartar. They throw up their meal, but blame the drink.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You sly wench. You’ll see no Beadle; nothing in it for me to have you shut down when I can relax and enjoy holding the knowledge over you. Any other tips for me?”

She scowls as she turns to leave. “Don’t worry what goes in ‘em, sweetpea. Mask it with herbs and spices, wash it down well, and serve it all hot. But it don’t matter what fills the crust as long as someone’ll pay to swallow it.”

The doorbell seems to jangle for a long time after she closes it. I ponder her words; did I throw her off the trail?

Hard to say, but if my Mr. T was indeed recognized by one of those braying fools last night, it stands to reason that trouble may find him before he has a chance to unleash his chaos.

Whatever he’s unspooling upstairs with the Beadle, it needs to stop. If he finds Johanna, there will be no more Nellie. He will put out the stars in my eyes and forget my name.

I must protect him. Without Sweeney, there is no me; without me, there is no him.

If I have to lay waste to all I am, I will stitch his soul to mine, just as I bound Marianne’s puckered hide to the barber’s chair.