Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 28

28

Nellie

T he man looks like a lawyer. He’s undoubtedly well-off and well-turned. No shit on his heels. He cuts the crust neatly and spears a forkful of meat.

I’m not sure what I expect to happen. I’ll admit the pie looks and smells fantastic, all golden and ambrosial in its little nest of mash.

Turns out flesh is just flesh. Seasoned and cooked, it ceases to be a person. Now it’s nourishment, and my customer looks happy enough.

The food disappears between his lips, and I tense from head to toe. Will the sheer wrongness of it reach past the herbs and spices, singe his tongue with something Satanic, and send him running down the street?

No . He smiles and cuts a bigger piece, scooping up some of the spuds as he goes. I set a jug of gravy beside him and top off his ale.

“There we are, dearie,” I say. “Warming you through, isn’t it?”

He nods emphatically. “Superb, Mrs. Lovett, just marvelous. Best pie I’ve had in a while, and I go through a few.”

“You’re kind, sir. Eat up now.”

By one o’clock, I’m forced to close the doors. Word got around fast, as did the smell, and I sold out of Uriah’s batch in half an hour. I’m cleaned out for drink too. Even the brawn is all gone.

Mr. T has had a few callers. The packed shop provided a fair bit of sound cover, so I don’t know if he despatched any down the chute, and it’s not until I lock up that I realize I haven’t seen him at all.

He never came downstairs once while I was running myself ragged, but I suppose this is what partnership means. He must do his bit, and I must do mine.

I’ve committed myself to quite the gauntlet at dinnertime. Everyone who came in raved about the food, and well they might; there’s no cleaner, leaner meat in this city than mine. Endless supplies, as long as my man can deliver.

De-liver. Liver. There’s a thought. Kidneys, too. Steam some puddings, maybe? I can easily get some suet—no, I’ll have it already, won’t I? Human suet, scraped off those same loins.

It’s incredible how much a body can give. The savages of the New World use every scrap of the animal they kill and thank their gods for it, but I dare not get on my knees and address my God; He may strike me down for my nerve.

Sweeney and I will make it. As long as we don’t bleed too much, we can bleed forever because he and I keep replacing that vital elixir, topping up to stay alive.

Blood, but not too much or too little. Love, but just the right amount of that, too. Not enough to smother, but plenty to bind.

With the last lunch pie but one gone, I lock up and take a quick walk down the street to the nearest inn. There’s always a likely lad or two hanging around outside, ready to run a message, and I hand a note to a skinny snipe who looks like he’s never eaten a hot meal in his life.

“Here,” I say. “Go find the secretary to the officer for health, he’ll be at his offices on Harley Street. Put that in his hand, right?”

He takes the letter and pockets it. “What do I get?”

“A pie. But not until you come back. And if you con me, I’ll find out, and I’ll be back over here with my whip.”

I watch him go, a feeling of grim satisfaction warming me. About time someone reported Jill Bellefonte’s disgusting rat-pie-flogging establishment; I’m performing a valuable public health service.

The fact that her shop is the closest to mine doesn’t hurt, either. Getting her inspected and shut down will increase the foot traffic through my doors.

Back at the shop, I wipe my hands on my apron and head for the storeroom, glancing through the trap.

The view is atrocious; splatters of crimson and a crumpled heap of limbs flared at unnatural angles where the unfortunate victims landed on the unforgiving stone, smashing their bones to smithereens.

It’s like looking at a splattered fly, and I wonder how my spider is feeling now that he’s snuffed out a few punters.

“Mr. T,” I shout. “How many?”

The trap above clanks down slowly, and I see him appear in the space above, lit from behind by a rare midday sunbreak.

He looks utterly demonic, a corona of brightness framing his hair, but his eyes are more alive than I’ve ever seen them, shining as though they have the facets of diamonds.

“Three,” he says. “No wedding rings on any of them. I tried not to make too much of a mess, but you’ll have a job on bringing my shirts up white.”

I smile. “That’s my problem now. Thank you, love.”

“How did the lunch rush go?”

“Grand.” I puff out my chest. “Sold everything. Not a whiff of suspicion, no questions, nothing. Just full bellies and, more importantly, a full cash box.”

He sits on the edge of the trap and dangles his legs. “Busy afternoon for you then, treacle. What time’s the dinner sitting?”

“Six. So I’ve got me work cut out for me if I’m going to be ready.”

Sweeney cocks his head at me. “I’ve met real cannibals, you know. Tribal people.”

“I thought those stories were exaggerated.”

He shakes his head. “Not much. Those cock-shaking heathens like their long pig, as they call it. Particularly if it’s Christian and patronizing. Turns out missionaries are often quite fat and can’t run well, which helps.”

I snigger. “Satisfying to know the God-fearing pie lovers of London will be indulging in the same practices as their overseas cousins.”

We stare at each other for a beat. He’s still brooding, striving, yet I can feel the heat coming from him, even at this distance. He’s burning like a crucible, drunk on the heady fumes of bloodlust, and all he needs is more of the same.

The more he kills, the further he gets from Johanna. He believes she is dead—he must believe it—and this gives him the glorious freedom to be mine. Wholly, truly mine, in a way that cowardly human hearts can neither abide nor understand.

I am more than a woman to him; he is more than a man to me.

The Fates walk at my side, guiding me along the path. The right thing is not always easy; writing the letter was the only fair course of action.

If Sweeney finds out his child is still alive, no matter how improbable it is, he will reduce everything we have to dust to get his pound of flesh. And flesh is my business, not his.

It’s okay. Really, it is. I am saving him with my deceit, and although I’m sure he wouldn’t see it that way—and may send me up my own chimney if he finds out—it doesn’t make me wrong.

If Johanna is alive, and the Fates want her found, nothing I do will prevent it. So, for now, I choose to believe Sweeney only falls so I can pick him up. A leap of faith is always a risk, and for him, for us , I will hurl myself into oblivion every time.

Sweeney’s eyes are cooling now like dying stars. The inky darkness is back, but it feels like home.

“It’s your big night, treacle,” he says softly. “I’m right here with you. Don’t we make a great team?”

My heart swells. “We do, love. We really do.”

It’s five minutes before opening, and the gloom wraps around Fleet Street like a cloak, mocking the memory of the brief sunshine. Autumn leaves tumble down the street, caught in the wick breeze that rolls in from the river.

I’ve done what I can.

There are new benches outside, lots of plates, mashed potatoes, and gravy in vast pots, ready to decant. I took delivery of several ale barrels, and the pies are stacked high, packed to the gills with the minced remains of three innocent people, plus my secret seasoning blend.

My message runner returned as promised and took his own pie away, pathetically grateful to be eating anything warm.

Sweeney appears from the lounge, changed and respectable in a clean waistcoat and shirt.

“I’ve decided to start a sideline selling bottles of ground-up bones,” I say. “If I lob in a bit of salt and pepper, I can call it Mrs. Lovett’s Pie Magic and make a killing on the side.”

He surveys the scene. “I’m impressed, treacle, but mind your language. That’s a turn of phrase that puts people in mind of exactly the sort of nefarious doings we’re into.”

“No one is going to suss us out,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. “It’s too elegantly sickening for the common mind to conceive of. Besides?—”

“Extra!” The newsboy outside starts up his customary cry, and I groan in exasperation, heading for the door.

“Oi!” I shout as I open it. “Don’t stand outside my establishment fucking yelling! Go to the corner.”

He flips me off. “Fuck off, Mrs. L.”

Sweeney appears beside me and snatches the papers from the boy’s hand before he has a chance to retreat.

“I will shove every one of these up your arse if you so much as speak to Mrs. Lovett again, you cheeky little cunt. What could be so interesting that you must shout about it?”

“J-just the evening edition, sir,” the boy stammers. “You’re right, it ain’t interesting, not at all.”

Sweeney extracts the top paper and drops the bundle into a puddle. The newsboy cusses and gathers up the soaking pile, scurrying down the street just as the first batch of diners bears down on us.

“Mrs. Lovett!” A gentleman in a fine wool overcoat doffs his topper in my direction. “I’ve brought my whole family along. If your pies are as good as I’ve heard, we shall make a habit of it. I enjoy supporting local enterprise.”

Mr. T holds the door open, and the group files inside, chattering. I follow, snatching the newspaper from his hand as I pass and tossing it beneath the counter.

“I need your hands, love,” I say. “Will you stay and help me?”

“ Help you?” He picks up a tin ale jug and fills it. “I’ll work my fingers to the bone, my pet. It’s your turn to shine.”