Page 38 of Razors & Ruin

Nellie’s face drops, her full lips pouting. “Notwe?”

“I said no already, Nellie. I’m afraid you’re not going to get around me so easily. Besides, don’t you need to work out the logistics of this enterprise of yours?”

Covered in blood and rage, Nellie looks bizarrely mundane, like a nagging wife. I decide to throw her a bone.

“Treacle,” I soothe, reaching for her. “You needn’t worry. I will go along, play my part, and discover what I need to know. Your possessive harpy routine does it for me, but there’s neither need nor place for your theatrics tonight.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “Understand?”

“Fine.” She turns away. “You’ll need a mask if you’re to sneak back into the party and a change of clothes, too. I have some decent stuff left over from when Harry was thinner. At least one reasonable tail-coat.”

“I’ll go out to the pawn shop,” I say. “The thesps are always hocking their costume crap. I swear there was something in the window when I walked past the other day.”

“So I guess I’ll clean.” Nellie looks around. “I have a good saw downstairs, but as for the rest, I don’t know. Where will you get the stuff to make this magical dead-idiot-fairground-ride contraption on which you’ve set your heart?”

I shrug. “I’ll figure it out. There’s the ironmongers, scrapyard, you name it. And I’ve got all day.”

“Indeed you have.” She pulls a towel over her head like a shawl. “I’m going to dash for it, Mr. T, and fill the tin bath in front of the oven. I suggest you wash up before you head out, too; even the least observant plod out there will have a few questions for you otherwise.”

It does indeed take all day. I get the supplies I need but pay too much for them, leaving me with scant surplus to hire a carriage, but the work must take precedence.

I spent the day sawing and fixing, screwing things in, testing the tension, calibrating the wheel that lowers the trap at seventy degrees, the perfect angle to drop into the void of the bakehouse below. To my astonishment, it works perfectly and with nary a creak.

Despite my assertions to Nellie, I had not been confident in this job, so I’m puffed up with pride when I’m done.

I lie on my stomach and look straight into the open maw of the bakehouse. Nellie crosses the gap every few seconds, flickering through the postage-stamp-shaped field of my vision like a moving image in a zoetrope.

Time to give her a demo.

My poor treacle did what she could with the clean-up, and between us, we rolled Uriah in some old linens. He’s been lying in the corner all day like some Egyptian mummy.

I pick him up by his heels and drag him, releasing a hiss of air and a sick, over-sweet aroma. He slides quickly enough, despite his weight, and it’s no great effort to heave him into the chair.

The trap lever is a simple mechanism that looks like part of the chair. All I have to do is pull it, and the door opens at the correct angle.

A stomp on the overly loose ratchet sends the chair backward and dispatches my unfortunate customer through the gap into the bakehouse to dash his useless brains out on the stone floor.

Easy.

Nellie is humming again, and I smile to myself. I’d love to catch her off guard, but if he lands on her from this height, he might kill her.

“Watch the skies, Mrs. L!” I cry as I release the chair. Uriah’s swagged body embarks on its maiden flight, sliding smooth as butter down the chute, perfectly on course.

“What the—argh!” A horrendous crunch, followed by a groan, then Nellie’s disembodied voice from below. “You ghoul. Some warning!”

“I think he’s probably alright for consumption,” I call. “A bit over-ripe, but whack some coriander in there, and he’ll be grand.”

She appears in the bowels of the shop, her face cast in orange from the fire as she gazes up at me. “You promised me ingredients, so I won’t complain, but you must be careful what you drop on me.”

I come down to Nellie’s chamber to find her laying out a coat.

“It’s not bad, this,” she says, smoothing out the fabric. “Brocade silver in the vest. Black trousers here, and if we give your shoes a quick buff, you’ll be set.”

She’s too brisk and chipper for my liking. She’s been at work all day, cleaning upstairs, then dumping out all the contaminated utensils and scraping crusts from the mincing machine.

Pail upon pail of water, her hair in a mob cap, sweat beading on her brow. Admirable to see her with such purpose, but there’s a feverish hysteria to it like she must keep moving or die.

“So I see you got a mask.” She picks it up from the dresser. “It’s veryyou.”

I have to agree. I expect it’s meant to be some mythical creature, like Pan; the curly horns give it away.

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