Page 29 of Razors & Ruin

The Beadle settles in the seat, and I smile as the ratchet glides beneath my foot, bringing the man to just the right height.

He has a good maid; the stays in his collar are starched just so, but too tall, and they dig into his gingery whiskered cheeks.

He is a man of wealth but not style, and I’m struck by how unclean he is up close; as he removes his hat, I notice blackspecks in the parting of his hair as though someone topped him with a grind of pepper.

“A shave first,” I say. “I think a smooth cheek is a good foil for a haircut. Gives a better sense of the profile.”

“You’re good.” He closes his eyes as I soak a cloth, pressing it to his face. “I appreciate this kind of patter. Tells me you’re a cut above, as it were.”

“You’re too kind.”

I swipe my new boar brush through the soap and apply it to the Beadle’s chin, catching the lather with my towel so as not to leave splodges on his waistcoat. “I aspire to offer the finest tonsorial services to the finest people, and it’s truly my honor to have you in my chair.”

We fall silent, and I open my blade, swiping it firmly over the leather strap that hangs from my mirror. Each pass sharpens it a fraction more until it’s keen enough to shear through every hair, from wiry beard to the lightest fuzz.

The Beadle simply waits, almost supine below me, his trust appallingly easy to earn.

One swing. One swing of my arm, just like before, and this pious hypocrite would drain like a pig, painting my drab room in vibrant shades of vengeance.

What then? I still don’t know why I didn’t hang last time, except the colonies were in fashion.

I’d be dragged before the court again, and this time, I’d swing more than my arm. My guts would drop out of my arse, and I’d finally meet God’s ire, far too late and long deserved.

My poor Johanna. And Nellie, too, wretch though she is.

Imustsee it through.

The razor carves a neat path through the white foam on the Beadle’s chin, like a plow in the snow. The bristle disappears under my hand, and I rinse the blade with each pass until the jowly jawline is brought up to a soft, pinkish sheen.

“That feels marvelous, Mr. Todd.” The Beadle takes my offered warm towel and wipes his face. “Not so much as a burn, let alone a cut.”

“I’m glad, sir. Tell me, do you think you will see fit to recommend me?”

He nods. “Emphatically. In fact, I have something of a fancy in mind. Do you care to attend a function with me this evening? I am a member of a society, and we meet monthly. It falls to me for tonight’s sojourn to bring some curio or entertainment for the amusement of my fellows, and I think your uncommonly good barbering skills might be just the ticket.”

How hard up are these cunts for entertainment? I can shave a man’s face quickly and expertly, that’s all.

I’m tempted to drop a barbed retort before realizing it’s perfect. Fuckingperfect.

Toffs and climbers, drinking and gossiping. I’ll be able to find someone who can tell me about Johanna, or if not her, at least illuminate a way to dig out the workhouse’s secrets. I need only one loose tongue to point the way.

“That sounds enchanting, Beadle.” I pick up the basin of water. “I will avail you of a wash and trim while we make a plan. I did have a question, as it happens.”

He opens one eye. “Indeed?”

“A matter of interest and nothing more. Do you have much to do with the workhouses these days? I know of rumors; people who vanished into them but never emerged dead or alive.”

“Many die on the treadmill, Mr. Todd.” The Beadle sighs as I rinse his hair over the bowl. “It’s the natural order. Although I can tell you, people are a commodity like any other, to some, that is. Stock. Assets. Things to be bought and sold, and the possessor has power of God over the owned.”

“So if someone went into the workhouse—a child, perchance—where might they end up?”

“A pauper’s grave, factory, midden, the river, or even a wealthy man’s bedchamber. Terrible things happen, you know.”

I comb his hair, flipping it between my fingers as I cut. The Beadle Higgins knows more; I feel it hanging between us.

He may trust me with his personal grooming, but it’s his grooming of innocence that he’s keeping under wraps. I may have ended lives, but I did it in hot blood, with some conviction, and I paid dearly. I don’t know if that makes me better, but it’s different, and that’s enough.

I will unpeel him. God, I want to. I want to flay off his layers until his nasty ways leak from every inch of him, no longer hidden under his patrician demeanor.

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