Author's Note: Many thanks to my collaborator DorisTheYounger for polishing and refining this story. Check out her own writing! And, as usual, Sweeney Todd belongs to Sondheim and Johnny Depp, yada, yada.
Is He In Heaven, Is He in Hell?
It was the barber-shop of a man who no longer existed—him. Pale London sunlight trickled through smeared window panes onto the shop's sparse furnishings, faded floor, and meager tools of the barber's trade. The smell of soap and cheap hair tonics warred with the sharp tang of sawdust and a secret whiff of blood.
His 'special' barber chair was almost ready. It waited like a predator in the middle of the nearly-empty room. He'd cut a man-sized disposal chute in the floor and concealed it behind the chair. Once he made a few more adjustments, a mere tip would open the chute and dump the body of his victim into the bakehouse cellar.
Sweeney Todd was quite proud of his mechanical masterpiece—a machine that would dispose of human carcasses after he'd 'delivered' them from the cruelties of the world. Only a day or two more and Mrs. Lovett would be getting plenty of meat for her pies.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he paused to examine his reflection. There was no longer any kindness or warmth left in that face. He was cold as stone, cold as a corpse, with a heart armored against anything that life could throw at him. Not that there was anything left to attack—his past was gone, his family had been destroyed, and his wife Lucy was dead by her own hand. All that remained was his hatred of the evil Judge Turpin, who held Sweeney's daughter in his lecherous hands and would compel her to become his wife.
Sweeney's own hands tightened in fury on his faithful silver razor. If only Anthony Hope had waited one more minute to barge in on his just execution of the Judge! Anthony was a rare sort of man, an innocent. He had saved Sweeney's life not so many months ago when he'd been drifting lost and alone on the open sea, dying of thirst and exposure. Wondering whether he should wait for death or fling himself into the water's embrace. Despairing of reaching London, despairing of ever finding Lucy and Johanna.
He'd felt such a sense of salvation when he first saw Anthony Hope's ship, when he watched the sailor climbing down to grab him from the doomed raft and heard his kind words, "Let me help you."
Anthony Hope was naive and foolish, but he was a man to whom Sweeney owed much. So he would let Anthony live—at least until Sweeney's daughter Johanna was safe. After that, well, he would see what happened. Perhaps after all it would be best if Anthony stole Johanna away and fled the dangers of London... and Sweeney Todd.
He cast his eyes down at the scrap of paper spread open on the bureau and once again, was distracted from his thoughts of revenge. Anthony had found it wrapped around the key that Johanna tossed to him such a short time ago. Some sort of message was written on the paper—a message that had been worrying and wracking Sweeney's brain and delaying the construction of his wondrous chair.
The message was written in code—a code that he hadn't been able to break. For hours he'd worked to analyze the code. He'd tried the simple ciphers that had been used by his fellow-convicts, but with no success. Finally he'd given up in frustration. The five-petalled flower at the foot of the letter niggled at him. He'd seen that flower symbol before, but where? Not in the past fifteen years since he'd been transported—it was something from his earlier days in London. Perhaps something from the days of his long-past apprenticeship?
While he was trying to remember, the bell at the door rang. Sweeney folded the note and placed it into his pocket, then spun around with an unfamiliar smile on his frozen face. "Come in."
His latest customer seemed to be a fading but prosperous tradesman. His neat blond-red hair was beginning to gray and he was slightly shorter than Sweeney. There was a slight smile on his worn but impish face and his sleepy blue-green eyes sparkled with humor. "I see that your establishment is up and running in only a week—you must be very determined to succeed, Mr. Todd." His rich baritone voice had a bit of an Irish lilt.
How did the man know his name? Oh yes, he must have seen him at the contest with that fraud Pirelli. Sweeney Todd's fame was spreading—good, good.
"What can I do for you, sir? A shave, of course. Trim the hair, perhaps? Some cologne?" Sweeney gestured to his chair, a bit sorry that he could not yet give it the ultimate test. Maybe the next man...
"A shave will be sufficient, thank you. My name is Tony Dew, sir." Dew gazed around the shop and checked his reflection in the mirror, then sat down in the barber's chair, cane in his hand. Sweeney whipped out the cloth and smoothly spread it over Dew's chest and neck, then began to strop his razor.
"Tell me, Mr. Todd, has anyone ever mentioned to you an earlier tenant of this shop... a man named Benjamin Barker?"
When he heard the man speak his original name, Sweeney Todd's blood turned to ice. Never mind the tests, he'd force open the chute and push down Dew's body with his own hands.
Sweeney carefully finished stropping his razor and waved it, his only friend, at the man in the chair. "I've heard no talk about the man. Why do you ask?"
Dew's eyes grew thoughtful and he seemed to come to a decision. "Because his daughter and mine are friends. Please, stop waving that razor around. I've been threatened by much larger blades than that, I can assure you." A naked blade suddenly poked out from underneath the barber's cloth and swept Sweeney's arm to one side.
Sweeney's muscles tensed as he realized that Dew had a swordcane. But the thought that was really filling his mind was, 'Johanna has a friend?'
"Let us not mince words, sir," said the sword-wielding tradesman. "I've been asking around about you and I'm satisfied that I know your identity. Mr. Barker, our daughters are in deadly danger at Judge Turpin's house. Have you received any word from Johanna?"
His mind awhirl, Sweeney lowered his razor but did not close it. How did this man know who he was? What did he intend to do about it? Then the full meaning of Dew's words struck home. Johanna was in danger? "She's being held captive by Judge Turpin. He intends to force her to marry him. What worse peril could she be in?"
"Does he now? That's good to know. It means that he will not be harming her soon or overtly. That gives us some time." As Dew threw the barber's cloth onto the floor, his face revealed a worry that Sweeney—to his shock—could understand. "But that says nothing about my daughter Marguerite, and I've received no word from her in weeks."
"What is your daughter doing in Turpin's house?" Sweeney was sure that he could kill him—but to kill the father of a girl who knew his daughter... No. Not yet. Not until he found out what was going on.
"The person that I really want to investigate is Turpin. Marguerite decided to help me out and contrived to be hired as a serving maid in Turpin's household," Dew replied with a touch of exasperation. The Irish lilt had disappeared from his voice. "That girl needs to learn to think before she jumps into danger like that—ahh, who am I fooling? I know exactly who she gets it from." He lowered his blade a little and jerked his head at Sweeney's razor. "Would you do me the favor of putting that away while we discuss these matters? If you are inclined to dispose of me, I'm afraid I would be missed. You would not want the consequences of that, I'm sure. Your identity will not leave these rooms, I can promise you."
I could still take him, Sweeney told himself. Dew must have been formidable in his youth, but he was getting old. For Johanna, though, he could hold his hand. Sweeney closed the razor and slipped it into his belt holster, then waved to display his empty palm. Dew resheathed the sword into his cane, but did not remove it from his lap.
"You should know that Judge Turpin is playing a very dangerous game. He does not play it very well. However, if he should disappear right now, our daughters would be caught in even more danger."
Dew gave Sweeney a hard stare, his eyes no longer sleepy but fierce and intense. "After what happened to you and your family, Mr. Barker, I can well understand your desire for vengeance. However, your vengeance must wait."
"What?" Nobody was going to tell him that—not ever again.
"Simply put, killing Turpin now would in all likelihood get the girls killed as well. We must get our daughters out of Turpin's house first. Then there will be time for other matters."
Sweeney's fingers itched for his razors. He wouldn't miss another change to avenge himself—the next opportunity he had, he'd take it. No matter what.
Swordcane in his hands, Tony Dew rose to his feet. "Mr. Barker... no, Mr. Todd, if you kill Turpin, you will kill your daughter. Do you want that? If you kill me, you remove the one person who can help her. Or you."
He had to play along. Pirelli had thought that he'd gotten the better of him, and look where Pirelli ended up. Sweeney Todd's lips quirked in a bitter smile. If Dew tried to deceive him, he would end up in the bakehouse the same as Pirelli. "It's too late to help me, but if you can help Johanna... What do you wish to know?"
Dew cocked an eyebrow. "Have you received any messages from Johanna? And what part does the sailor play?"
Sweeney shook his head a fraction. "Anthony? For a week now he has been trying to get word of her, catch any sight of her, with no success." Keep calm and controlled. Don't think past that moment that Anthony slipped... no, don't think of that. If you do, all will be lost. "Johanna tossed him a key to Turpin's house more than a week ago, but he never had a chance to use it."
"I take it the boy has more will than guile?" There was a wry smile on Dew's face. "Well, he can learn. Was there no message, then?"
Sweeney considered for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the note. "None that I could decipher."
Dew snatched at the note so quickly that Sweeney reflexively grabbed for his razor. "This is a message for me, and it's from Meg. She's still alive, or she was when this note was written. Ah, that's an old code... of course, she doesn't know the new ones. I wonder why she sent it along with the key—the boy isn't part of the League, after all."
That elusive scrap of memory tweaked at Sweeney again... League of... why couldn't he remember?
"Ah, that's interesting—Turpin has been keeping records. That will make things much easier, if we can get our hands on them. He's involved with the worst criminals in London, right up to his greasy neck. One way or the other that neck will be stretched before this is ended, that I vow." Dew looked up from the note. "The servant girls aren't permitted to leave the house unless they're accompanied by that odious Beadle or his men. That will make this a bit more difficult."
Sweeney shook his head. "Anthony told me that Turpin intends to move Johanna to some place where Anthony will never find her."
"Is that so? Turpin must be making the arrangements now, so whatever he's planning, it will be soon. Oh, he tries to be cunning... but jackals are snapping at his heels and the hounds have found his scent. He will not escape the pit that he's opened up for himself."
Dew's mouth hardened into a thin line as he folded up the note. "Mr. Todd, I understand how difficult this is for you. But we will get our daughters out of that place, and Turpin will cause no more trouble for anybody. This I promise."
"Who is 'we', sir?" Sweeney could not hold in the question any more. "Our...alliance... is not balanced. There is much that you are not telling me."
Dew gazed levelly at him. "You want an exchange of secrets to seal our bargain? Very well, then. My name is Anthony Dewhurst, and I am a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel." The Irish lilt was replaced by an Oxford accent. "I must be on my way now. I have some arrangements to make, but I will be back, Mr. Todd. In the meantime, continue your business and act normal. Beadle Bamford and Judge Turpin must not suspect you."
Dew gave him another hard look and continued, "Turpin is a weak link that we can use. But remember, you're now involved in a larger scheme. If you break or falter, I cannot ensure your daughter's protection. Keep that in mind."
He touched his finger to his forehead as if tipping a hat and departed, closing the door behind him.
The Scarlet Pimpernel? Sweeney had heard stories about him when he was just a young lather boy. The broadsheets in those days were full of the exploits of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who'd rescued hundreds, if not thousands, of aristocrats during the French Revolution. All the grand ladies wore his five-petalled flower on their lapels. The rhyme that was on everybody's lips came back to him:
They seek him here, they seek him there, the Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven, is he in hell, that damned, elusive Pimpernel.
As Sweeney was remembering this, a thought came to him. The Pimpernel had saved so many aristocrats, but nobody came to save the barber Benjamin Barker. Where was the justice in that?
To be continued...