Page 28 of Razors & Ruin

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 thatthing, 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.

16

Sweeney

The Beadle runs his chubby fingertips over the back of my chair and raises them to his nose, rubbing them together. “Is this chair freshly oiled, sir? It smells handsomely of cloves.”

That’s because it took a bracing aroma to suppress the stench of brine and waste that had steeped into the young woman’s leather, Beadle Higgins. So don’t breathe too fucking deep.

“Your observation skills are fascinating, Beadle.” I drape a towel over my arm. “Take a seat, and let’s see if I can’t gild the lily here.”

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