Thanks for the reviews everyone. I'm very glad that people are giving me feedback.
Ichabod desperately needed a quiet place to think. Though he had figured out the fate of Mrs. Lovett (if the ashes he discovered did belong to Mrs. Lovett in the first place), there were still thousands of questions unanswered. Why was she burned alive? Why was there those four people dead? Who killed everyone?
Unfortunately, London was not a place for silence and tranquility. Raucous cries rang out in every direction, and various animals squealed and screeched in his ears. Ichabod silently slipped past the busy Londoners and into a less crowded street, disappearing through the door of the closest shop.
The shop was ashen and unwelcoming like a stranger. There was only one soul in the room, and she didn't even acknowledge Ichabod's arrival. She tediously kneaded the floury dough, her face dusted with flour. She beat the dough with a monotone rhythm, like a war drum in the midst of a battle. Ichabod tentatively seated himself at a splintery table, thankful that the shop's doors muffle the cacophony outside.
The woman's eyes flickered toward Ichabod and her gloomy features immediately brightened.
"A customer!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I haven't seen one in weeks! How do you do, how do you do?"
Ichabod, shaken from the sudden outburst, merely nodded and muttered a 'good' under his breath. The woman brushed the knobbly dough aside and hurried to him, a golden beam plastered on her face.
"Would you like a meat pie, sir?" she asked, her voice breathy with excitement.
"...meat pie?" repeated Ichabod uncertainly. The memories of Mrs. Lovett's meat pie and her ingredients rushed into his head and his stomach churned unpleasantly.
"Yes, isn't that why you came here?" asked the woman. "This is me pie shop, o' course. Mrs. Mooney's pie shop. The pies are very good, if I do say so myself, but no one ever comes around anymore." Though it was difficult to detect, Ichabod could sense a smudge of loneliness in Mrs. Mooney. "Haven't seen more than enough customers these past ten years, m'afraid. All because of that blasted woman..."
Mrs. Mooney pranced to the fireplace and hauled out a rusting tray of pale meat pies. Ichabod swallowed as the fragrance of roasted meat wafted in his nose. It smelled scrumptious, yes, but who knew what kind of meat was crammed in there? He watched warily as Mrs. Mooney carefully gave him the steaming meat pie. He prodded it, furrowing his eyebrows.
Mrs. Mooney cocked her head and studied Ichabod, frowning slightly. "Are you that constable from America?"
Ichabod looked up from the pie. "Yes, I am. I didn't know word of me spread around here already."
"Oh no, it didn't," she said idly, brushing strands of light hair from her face. "But my brother's associated with the police and gov'ment business, and told me some bloke from New York was comin' over to investigate sumthin' 'bout Sweeney Todd."
"I see..." Ichabod answered, breaking off a bit of the flaky crust and popping it into his mouth. The rough crumb melted in his mouth and left a vanilla tang on his tongue.
"How come New York sends you over now? S'been ten years since everyone died," Mrs. Mooney said as Ichabod nibbled a morsel of the pie. "S'not like you can punish anyone they're all gone."
"Well..." Ichabod swallowed the mouthful of pie and continued. "Well, we're rather curious on what really happened. There are so many rumors and theories floating around the subject."
"You won't be having too much fun trying to figure this out," Mrs. Mooney sighed. "Everyone who knew the truth is dead already. Or at least missing." She tapped her chin.
"If you ask me..." Mrs. Mooney said, seating herself across from Ichabod. "I think it was ol' Mrs. Lovett who killed all o' those people?"
Ichabod abruptly stopped eating, his mouth in mid-chew. "Why do you think that?"
"Why would that Mr. Todd fellow do Mrs. Lovett a favor and kill people for her?" Mrs. Mooney said, leaning closer. The prospect of having a customer seemed to have loosened her tongue. "All o' those poor souls were baked in her pies."
"They could've been partners in this together," Ichabod pointed out. Nevertheless, Mrs. Mooney's opinion intrigued him.
"Then how come Mr. Todd's the one rotting six feet under and Mrs. Lovett vanished? She probably did Mr. Todd in and went off t' save her own scrawny neck."
Ichabod's mind wandered over to the pallid ashes that remained rotting in the bakehouse.
"Always had a bad feeling 'bout her, I did," Mrs. Mooney declared. "Always thought she had something weird 'bout her. Me husband thought she was a pleasant woman." She irately poured herself a cup of gin, the drink sloshing onto the table and staining the wood. "Now look where he is. Baked in a pie and gobbled up like pot roast. Yes, tha's right," she growled, clenching her hand into a fist. "Merciless little wench, my husband went to her shop to visit her and Mr. Todd, and never came back. Then the police found his remains in the bakehouse!" Tears welled up in Mrs. Mooney's eyes and she sniveled. Ichabod shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure if he should comfort her or leave her wallowing in self-pity.
"Never was a loyal woman, anyways," Mrs. Mooney wiped her nose and continued on, sipping the glass of gin. "I mean, she was married to good ol' Albert but was absolutely fawning over her neighbor that lived above her."
"Who's this neighbor?" Ichabod asked interestedly.
"I can't say I remember 'em, m'afraid," Mrs. Mooney admitted. "The poor bleeders went away twenty-five years ago." She downed the rest of her gin in one gulp and hiccupped, a pinkish tinge warming her hollow cheeks. "Not t' mention that her little boy disappeared too."
"She had a son?" asked Ichabod, completely ignoring his pie.
"Well..." Mrs. Mooney paused, quite delighted to find someone hanging to every word she uttered. "I can't say it was her son, but it sure seemed like she adopted the lad. He's gone too, dunno where he went."
Ichabod scratched his chin, his mind racing. Now a little boy was thrown into the mystifying chaos of Sweeney Todd. Was he of any importance, though?
"Now that I think abou' it..." Mrs. Mooney said, pouring herself another glass of gin. "The kid looked familiar...dunno where I saw him before...ah ha!" she snapped her fingers and Ichabod jumped, alarmed by the sudden noise. "I remember now! He was Pirelli's old apprentice!"
"Who's Pirelli?" Goodness, more people? This case may have more suspects than victims.
"Very popular barber back in the days. Went out o' town though, left the child here. Tha's wot Mrs. Lovett told me, anyways, the devil baker," Mrs. Mooney added bitterly. "'Course, they found his bones and clothes down in the bakehouse too, so obviously he was killed."
Ichabod nodded absentmindedly, battering his brain for any theories. He was rather doubtful that Mrs. Lovett ran off from London, and he was quite certain that Mr. Todd was the one who killed everyone, but what was the business with the little boy? He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, hoping that some kind of explanation would reveal itself in the darkness.
"Thank you for the information, Mrs. Mooney," he suddenly said, throwing a five pound note onto the table. "I appreciate the suspicions immensely, but I have to get going."
"Good luck," Mrs. Mooney sighed sullenly. Ichabod took the pie from the table and swiftly exited the pie shop. He scampered as fast as he could to his inn, only stopping to throw the pie to some imploring pussy cats in the alleyway. He scuttled into the strident inn and burst into his room, bolting the door behind him. Ichabod tore open his bag and whipped out an inkwell and his dog-eared notebook. Drowning his quill in the thick ink, he scribbled onto the crinkled paper.
Nellie Lovett: dead? Possibly burned alive. Baked humans into pies. Loved her neighbor?
Sweeney Todd: dead. Arrived in London ten years ago not too long after customers disappear. Barber. Room covered in blood. Killed by his own knife.
Pirelli: Dead. Not a suspect.
Boy: (name?) Whereabouts unknown. Adopted son and apprentice of Lovett.
Judge Turpin: Dead. Found dead with Sweeney Todd and Beadle Bamford (why?).
Ichabod reread his notes over and over again until he memorized it in his head. Was this all he knew? He groaned, resting his head in his hands. None of this told him enough about Sweeney Todd, or why he killed everyone (if he killed everyone, that is), or any of the other questions those blasted officials back in New York pondered on. Ichabod licked his teeth, staring at the clues as if expecting the answer to jump out right in front of him.
Obviously, his wishes weren't granted.
Poor Ichabod. Ah well, that's what you get for solving a crime long uncared for. sighs
Please review :). I really do want the feedback. Though, if you are planning on giving me feedback, please be specific about the problem. If you just tell me there's something wrong and not specify what, I'm going to be in a bit of a predicament.