Page 66 of Razors & Ruin

The Beadle rewards my toadying with a toothy grin and walks past me, ascending to his doom.

My rattling tension abates the second the Beadle is in the chair. Everything is suddenly and sublimely clear.

I have to kill the Beadlenow.

Nellie cannot hide or destroy the evidence in time, so she’s done me a favor in her vindictive stupidity. I have no reason to hold back; the consequences will be what they are. The Fates are at work again.

“So,” I begin, lathering his chin. “Dreadful about Wetherby. Well, about themboth, I suppose.”

“Beatrix Wetherby was known to be a slut,” he replies. “Maybe she turned down the wrong person, maybe it was something else, but her dying that way at the party was inexcusable. I’m glad for your sake that you were long gone by then, or the police may have fancied you for the crime, what with your lower background.”

You contemptible fuckwit.

“They did speak to me, in point of fact.”

“Regrettable.”

The Beadle pauses as I pass the brush over his lips. “Lord Wetherby was a terrible person, so I don’t particularly care that he’s dead by his own hand, but such a mess these things leave behind. Estates, children—it’s a shambles.”

“Do you remember our chat before?” I ask, swiping the razor up against the grain of his throat. “I’m still making inquiries about the child I knew. I received a letter saying I should not ask questions and that the girl was dead. I wondered ifyousent it.”

He throws me a glance. “I did not. Who is this child to you anyway, and why do you persist in vexing me on the subject?”

The ire in his voice is obvious, but I no longer care to placate him, and I wonder if he’s lying to me. He seems keen for me to drop the subject.

“I’m curious about Wetherby and his proclivities. I heard something else, too, about a priest, and I wondered whether he might?—”

“Todd, this is none of your business, but no one will believe you, so allow me to elucidate,” the Beadle snaps.

“The priest Sommers used to take the workhouse children in for a spell under the guise of religious instruction, but that isn’t what the filthy old bastard was into. Where they went from there, only he and maybe Wetherby knew, but there was always money in return. I did my part and got paid, but that’s all I know about it.”

I keep shaving him, aware of a twisting feeling in my gut.

Sommers. Jesus, that was his church today, and there was a child attending him. A boy with haunted, shadowed eyes.

“So if Sommers isn’t taking the children now, who is?”

The Beadle shrugs, and I almost cut him as a result. “I’m not deeply involved with logistics. But the priest lost his nerve and was never the same after Johanna.”

The air rushes from me as the room swims, my vision graying.

Johanna.This fucking piece of excrement said my child’s name.

I grab the Beadle’s collar and headbutt him, smashing his nose in an explosion of blood. He screams, and I press the razor between the rolls of his neck, allowing it to cut him.

“Johanna?” I yell. “Who is Johanna?”

He stares at me with terrified eyes. “I don’t have anything to do with this. Please?—”

I press my face up close to his. “Tell me!”

“She went to the priest as a baby,” the Beadle bleats. “There was quite the demand for girl children at the time. I remember the infant; she was the offspring of some murdered barber and his wife.”

He stares at my face and begins to shake, his voice rising to a shrill wail. “Murdered both by the man’s apprentice.”

I dig the razor deeper, feeling the skin give as blood begins to flow in earnest. “And tell me, dear Beadle,” I ask, leaning my weight onto him, “what was the name of that fellow about whom you lied, condemning him to years in exile?”

“It can’t be,” he gurgles. “Not you. Currer Brook.”

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