At first, Ichabod had believed that finding out about the apprentice would be easy. He was downright wrong. Ichabod had spent the whole day barging into various factories and demanding if any child around eleven to ten years ago was taken in by a certain Pirelli. Needless to say, all the answers he got was a solid, indifferent No.
Ichabod dragged his tired feet to another factory that spat smoke into the air. How many factories were in London, anyways? Surely one city could only have so many. He jadedly heaved the door open and gagged. The air smelled musty and sour with sweat that choked Ichabod. The air was gray and ashy, and absolutely frigid compared to the dull and balmy weather outside. Pallid skeletons staggered to the menacing machines, their skin blistered and torn and their hair slick with grime. Ichabod realized with a jolt that some were missing fingers while others had their limbs badly mangled. He gulped and felt somewhat lightheaded at the sight.
He stumbled to what he supposed was the office. It was a cramped and jumbled office, with papers askew and leather-bound books scattered carelessly. Ichabod noticed he was not alone in this disorderly room. There was a little girl, barely older than his own child, who was rocking and sobbing. She clutched her tiny bandaged hand, which was as red as her hair. Ichabod blanched when he realized that her forefinger was absent.
"Send her away," drawled an ornery man. Another person, who Ichabod expected was the Doctor, gave a curt nod and shooed the weeping girl away. The man sitting at his desk shook his head and sighed as the two left.
"Clumsy whelps," he muttered, sucking on a slobbery pipe. "Always makin' mistakes. This'll prove poorly for the factory."
Ichabod felt a surge of indignance towards the uncaring man. How can he be so indifferent to little children? The man didn't even notice Ichabod standing at the doorway. He continued licking his pipe and dipping stale cookies into his watery tea. His auburn wispy hair was combed over a bald spot, as if attempting (and failing) to hide the fact that he was aging. Ichabod cleared his throat and the man looked up.
"What are ye doing here?" growled the man, his voice thick with nicotine. "Don't come in here without permission, boy. Now get back to those machines!"
"Excuse me," Ichabod said coolly. "I'm not part of your factory. I'm a police constable."
The man immediately straightened, whipping the pipe out of his puckered mouth and hastily flattening his wrinkled suit. "M'sorry, constable," he grunted. "But I gotta keep a firm hand over the factory, right?"
"As you wish," Ichabod muttered.
"Well...sit down," ordered the man. Ichabod nodded before stiffly seating himself on a wobbly wooden chair. The man nestled in his chintz chair and rapped his stubby fingers on the desk.
"The name's Garrow. What brings you here?"
"I am investigating a case related to Fleet Street and was wondering if you could help me," Ichabod said shortly.
Garrow shrugged. "Help can cost a lot, Mr. Constable sir." He rubbed his hammy hands together greedily. Ichabod merely cocked one eyebrow.
"Mr. Garrow, I am not intending to pay you for anything, if that is what you're suggesting," he said coldly. "May I remind you that your taxes were not up to date..."
So the last part was a downright lie. Ichabod wasn't in the mood to give money to some miserly old bloke who could care less about the welfare of little children. Luckily, what Ichabod fibbed about was most likely the truth, because Garrow fidgeted uncomfortably in his faded armchair and twiddled his ruddy thumbs.
"Ah...um...well...what was it that you needed?" muttered Garrow sheepishly. Ichabod smirked inwardly with victory before continuing.
"I was hoping that you could tell me who was the boy who got taken in by the barber Pirelli eleven or so years ago."
Garrow furrowed his thin eyebrows. "Eleven years ago? Boy, I only been here for five."
Ichabod's heart dropped all the way to the bottom of his soles. "Do you have a record that lists the workers' whereabouts?"
Garrow tapped a finger on his flabby chin, squinting. "Now that ya mention it...I do think there is a record of that somewhere..." Garrow hesitated before reluctantly peeling himself off of the comfortable chair. He waddled towards the cluttered bookshelf, blearily discarding books aside. One bulky tome nearly hit Ichabod's head.
"Here it is," declared Garrow, toddling back to the refuge of his chair. In his hands was a grubby leather-bound book covered in a film of dust. He slammed it onto the desk, sending clouds of dust flying everywhere. Ichabod waved the specs of dust aside and fought down the urge to sneeze as Garrow flipped ferociously through the pages. The pages were wrinkled with chicken scratches scrawled messily on the lines. Various names were jotted down, some had other information on it. For example:
Charles Pail- taken as an apprentice to William the chocolatier
Others weren't as cheerful...
Frederick Benson- fired (broke rule 21)
Loretta Benson- fired (husband broke rule 21)
Eleanor Benson -fired (father broke rule 21)
Ichabod frowned at the reason. Just because their husband or father broke a rule, Eleanor and Loretta were sacked? That sounded utterly unfair. Garrow spotted Ichabod scowling at the names and hurriedly flipped over the page.
"Gotta keep a firm hand over the factory," he muttered. "Like they say...apples don't fall far from the tree...can't have any more troublemakers running about..."
Ichabod swallowed down a sour retort. Insulting a man who was helping him would prove rather ill. Ichabod's eyes quickly scanned the other names before the leaves were turned. Thirteen-year-old Eliza Dawson was killed when a machine snagged her dressed and churned her to mush. Thirty-three year old Adam Oldman lost his whole left arm. Ichabod grimaced at the gruesome fate and wondered if he should report these horrors to London's Parliament.
"What's a boy taken in by Pirelli got to do with a case with Fleet Street?" inquired Garrow curiously.
"That is none of your concern," Ichabod replied serenely. Garrow glowered at the younger man before vigorously swiping through the pages, nearly ripping the paper. Ichabod yawned and stifled a hacking cough after inhaling the sour and fusty air.
"What was the barber's name again? Pineri?" grumbled Garrow.
"Pirelli," corrected Ichabod. Garrow squinted his eyes and shoved a crooked pair of spectacles up his nose, peering at the page carefully.
"Here we are!" Garrow exclaimed. Ichabod nearly fell out of his seat in thrill. He swiftly yanked the book out of Garrow's clutches and gaped at the miniscule name that Garrow was pointing to. His stomach churned violently and the little color in Ichabod's face drained out.
Tobias Ragg- taken by Adolfo Pirelli as an assistant.
Ichabod felt his mouth suddenly dry. He struggled to cough out words, but none came out.
"You're...you're sure this is him?" he managed to choke out.
Garrow shrugged. "How am I supposed to know? I told ye already, I only been here for five years."
Garrow's voice was completely muted. Tobias Ragg? As in, the Tobias that he had been talking to and confiding to all this time? So many incredulous thoughts swarmed in Ichabod's mind as he shakily sat down. He should have known: why else would Ragg be so insulted when Ichabod called Mrs. Lovett a 'derogatory name', and screamed how it was unfair that Ichabod could speak to Toby's former mother?
"I heard he got picked up by some old murdering baker ten years ago," mumbled Garrow, oblivious to Ichabod's abrupt reaction. "Strange rumors goin' on. Supposedly a barber and a baker teamed up and started killing everyone, then the barber's dead and the woman and Ragg disappear. I'm guessin' they did most of the killing. Yeah, Ragg's gone and probably dead. No one ever saw that runt again."
Ichabod jerked slightly before immediately rising from his seat. "I'd like to thank you, Mr. Garrow, for the information, but I must be leaving now."
"Already?" yawned Garrow. Ichabod could only nod. Garrow shrugged and shoved the book aside, not even reacting when it crashed onto the floor with a deafening bang. Ichabod didn't bother waiting to be bid farewell. He stiffly exited the factory, maintaining a calm composure till he turned the corner.
"Tobias Ragg?" Ichabod gasped, aghast. He couldn't believe any of it. So a piece of the puzzle, an actual witness to Sweeney Todd, was the one that he kept running into the whole time? There's got to be a mistake! And what did Garrow mean when he said that Toby was probably dead and never seen again? Toby had been wandering around London from the beginning! How could London stand it when Toby slipped unnoticed from their gazes, mocking them?
Thousands of memories of Toby just slightly hinting that he was related to the case rushed by in Ichabod's mind. And Mrs. Lovett's discomfort when Ichabod mentioned him! It all made sense now! How could Ichabod be so stupid? Toby must've been fond of Mrs. Lovett, since he was livid when Ichabod called her a devil baker. And after Mr. Todd died...
Ichabod suddenly shouted with shock and almost tripped over his own feet.
Tobias disappeared when everyone died...
Tobias was fond of Mrs. Lovett...
And if he knew Mr. Todd killed Mrs. Lovett...
Ichabod darted towards Fleet Street, with only one thought repeating in his mind.
Boy am I going to have fun typing the next chapter...
Anyone catch my Willy Wonka reference?!
Did you know that every time you don't review, a poor little girl from the factory gets her fingers cut off?