Author's Note: This is an idea I've been toying with since watching Sweeny Todd and reading The Stranger, Crime and Punishment, and stories about Jack Sheppard. In essence, it's my attempt to write a Sweeney Todd story with a feasibly happy ending, with love and redemption and all that crap. That said, the story starts soon after "The Contest" between Todd and Pirelli, and branches off from there.
We will assume that Mr. Todd's Tonsorial Parlor has already been doing well in its first days of business, as Mr. Todd did not feel the need to slit the throats of his customers just yet. That week, as in the film, he gets a visit from Signor Pirelli and kills him, and Mrs. Lovett figures out how to dispose of his body as in "Little Priest" etc. Sweeney begins his chain of murders, providing Mrs. Lovett with a good supply of meat before her grand opening. This chapter begins before that opening (in other words, before "God, That's Good!"). Oh, and watch out for changes in verb tense; the narration doesn't always follow a linear timeline.
On a final, unnecessary note: I do not own Sweeney Todd. Just its merchandise.
I. A Cup of Tea
Aside from the judge, the beadle, and a blunt razor, there was little that Mr. Todd loathed more than a cup of tea. Incidentally, at that moment he was staring into the suspiciously murky depths of Mrs. Lovett's own secret recipe.
"S'cuse me, ma'am," the boy had piped up one night after supper, "but what kind o' leaves do you use in your tea? I ain't never tasted anythin' quite like it before." In idle moments, Mr. Todd too had wondered what special ingredient induced that peculiar zesty flavor so characteristic of its maker. The first sip had seethed on his tongue and bubbled down his throat, stimulating his deadened senses in a most unwelcome manner. He had had to take several draughts of gin before the soothing numbness could reenter his body.
"Leaves? Oh no, dear, I can't afford to waste any money on such a trifle as leaves." Mrs. Lovett had replied absently, beating a lump of dough. "No, no, I like to use tufts of hair what I snip from li'l girls an' boys when they ain't lookin'. The li'l buggers boil beautifully, they do, an' they each give off a different flavor dependin' on the color. Blonde's me favorite," she had added, smiling devilishly at the poor lad.
Toby and Mr. T had gawked at her as if they couldn't decide whether or not she was joking. Toby had run an anxious hand through his dark hair, reassuring himself that it was definitely brown and thus unpalatable—perhaps he had recalled that unpleasant period when he had been blonde, at least as far as the public could tell. Mr. Todd, on the other hand, had been revising several prepossessed notions about his landlady—perhaps stuffing corpses into pies was not the brainchild of an eminently practical mind but merely the result of…prior experience…
She had winked at him then. With that fiendish glint in her eyes, flour-streaked red hair curling crazily about her gaunt face and a rolling pin poised above her head, he could see the witch in her, an old hag living in a cottage littered with candy (corpses) and tossing inquisitive children into the oven to eat. "Sometimes I even add a dash o' piss an' ink; lends it some miraculous healin' properties, it does." Oh. She'd been joking, then. He had directed his gaze back to the tabletop, lest she imagine he'd actually taken an interest in her yarns.
His burning glare was enough to bring the lukewarm liquid back to a boil. He set the cup down on the table before him, watching the steam curl like tendrils of flaxen hair, like wheat rippling in the breeze. A cup of tea embodied that preposterous British fixation with propriety, with small talk and biscuits and strained smiles hiding the glint of a blade—"Beadle Bamford," he heard Mrs. Lovett gasp. "What an honour—what a pleasant surprise—such an esteemed man as yourself…" She trailed off, flushed with excitement and a fair amount of confusion. "Did you come in for a pie, sir? Or per'aps a shave?"
He found his voice. "Yes, how may we serve you today, my good sir?" Corpulent toad.
"I am afraid this is not a social visit. I am here on business." The beadle sniffed, and in his attempt to snort with disdain he managed to call attention to the traces of dried mucus clinging around his nostrils. For all his connections as a local government official, Beadle Bamford lacked the aristocratic mien that allowed men as despicable as he—men like Judge Turpin—to veil their perversions beneath shimmering waistcoats and French cologne. So the beadle had to settle for a touch of ambergris.
He wore hauteur as poorly as his undersized clothes. Mrs. Lovett's sharp eyes took in the way all that meat stretched and spilled out of the seams on his vest. The beadle caught her hungry stare and took it for lust of the flesh. He wasn't wrong.
"You see, my dear lady, it is my duty to bring up a grave matter indeed regarding your tenant, Mr. Sweeney Todd." It suddenly became too quiet in the room. Beadle Bamford cleared his throat. "Ahem—well, I shall get to the point. Signor Pirelli, whom I am sure you recall, was a friendly acquaintance of mine. A fine man and a decent barber. I was very sorry to hear about his disappearance, very sorry…" Silence. If Beadle Bamford had been even remotely familiar with Mrs. Lovett (thankfully for her he wasn't), perhaps something would have clicked. But there was no sound but for the nasal drone of the beadle's voice.
"Anyway, several papers have been found in his home detailing several financial transactions between him and Mr. Todd. From the available evidence, my associates and I have deduced that you are in debt, Mr. Todd. A considerable sum, too. Now, I'm no expert, but I'd say it'd take more than half the salary of the average barber to pay off the—"
"Now, look here, Beadle Bamford," Mrs. Lovett interjected, her face white with alarm. Mr. Todd's eyes fixed on her out of instinct; he relied on her sensibility to settle such unexpected crises as this one. Mr. Todd had a one-track mind, and woe to those who dare upset his plans. Already his beloved razor was growing warm in his hand… "Let's work out this mess like sensible men, shall we? Mr. Todd's a dependable sort—always does pay his rent punctual-like, doesn't drink or gamble or nothin'. His customers'll tell you he gives 'em their money's worth. If he does owe that Eye-talian some, he'll gladly pay it off, won't he?"
"No!" the barber cried, startling his landlady as well as the beadle. Mr. Todd had a fist clenched near his belt; his face was drawn into a taut mass of lines and shadows. "I owe him nothing. If he thinks he can—he has no right—" Mrs. Lovett was glaring at him now—Let me handle this, said the tightness about her mouth, Wait—but it was too late, and red flooded his vision, the anger of a man wrongly accused.
Beadle Bamford spoke calmly, too calmly. "If you refuse or are unable to repay your debts, the law requires that I apprehend you, sir. Although I understand you are new to London, I trust you have heard of our Fleet Prison?"
Mrs. Lovett sucked in her breath. "A debtor's prison," she muttered to Mr. Todd. "Bad rep, it has. I 'eard the warden there does right monstrous things to the prisoners. Makes a profit of others' sufferin'."
Prison. The word unleashed a torrent of memories—nightmares—that drowned out all else. He had been prepared to face the consequences of murdering Judge Turpin, but this—this indignity without the balm of revenge, so soon after—"Australia?" he breathed, a fearful, vulnerable sound too soft to be a whisper. But Mrs. Lovett heard him. Somehow, beneath her loud, boisterous chatter she always heard him, all his forlorn shouts into the darkness. She was the one ear attuned particularly to his keen of suffering. But it wasn't enough that she understood; she had to feel his pain, know what it was like to lose everything and more—"No, love," came the reassuring whisper. "Not like Australia."
Beadle Bamford had been observing this exchange without understanding what was said, and it annoyed him. Regaining control of the situation, he stood up and made for the door. "Ahem. Well, if Mr. Todd has made his decision, I'm afraid there is little you can do to improve matters, Mrs. Lovett. Mr. Todd, if you'll follow me. Good day, ma'am."
Mr. Todd had risen from his seat with deadly intent, but as in the marketplace Mrs. Lovett stopped him. "Wait." Now's not the time. Act rashly now, and the Judge and Johanna will be lost forever.
Mr. Todd felt a cool hand grip his trembling wrist. Standing beside him and the rickety little tea table, she gave him a light shove towards the door—but not before she tightened the grip on his wrist for just an instant, and let go.
Mr. T knew it was neither a prayer nor a touch of comfort. It was a promise.
Setting his cup down, he discovered with some surprise that it was empty. Funny, he couldn't recall ever draining it. The tea sloshed unpleasantly in his belly, but as he followed the beadle out the door the razor at his waist—his wise and clever friend—whispered that there was worse yet to come.