"Mr. Norwood, you have been ever so kind to me. You know, sometimes you remind me of my old Albert. He used to take care of me, and he was always so attentive. Your wife is a lucky woman."
Hans Norwood missed the slyness in Mrs. Lovett's eyes. Hans Norwood had a special talent for overlooking things, one thing that made him such an effective solicitor. He believed (or at least had developed a very special habit of ignorance) in the infallible innocence of his clients. To a jury, this irrefutable belief was infectious.
In truth, Norwood's powers of perception were not at all refined. Mrs. Lovett had instinctually identified this particular weakness, and had immediately set to exploiting it.
"Actually," Norwood said, blushing. "I never really found time to marry-"
"Oh, you poor dear!" Lovett exclaimed, placing a sly hand on his knee. "Well, I know if I were Mrs. Norwood, I should be very pleased to have a husband such as you."
Norwood's blush deepened. The retiring room seemed to grow smaller. He felt a small surge of attraction.
"The tea will be bringing the constable, er...I mean...the moment will be bringing any tea..." he stuttered, and then exhaled, trying to regain his composure. "Mrs. Lovett, you really are too kind."
Mrs. Lovett smiled serenely at the light filled window.
"Oh, it's just my warm heart, dear..."
The knock at the lounge door interrupted them, and Norwood immediately jumped up off the sofa. Keys clanking on his belt, the constable made his way into the room carrying a tea tray. Norwood shakily polished his glasses on his pinstripe coat while Lovett casually smoothed her lavender skirts, idling until the officer had departed.
"Now, Mr. Norwood," she purred. "Why don't you come sit down next to me and we'll have tea, and talk of what's to be done, hmm?"
Norwood fidgeted with his spectacles for a few lengthy seconds before stuffing them decidedly into his pocket and making his way back over to the sofa.
"Did you have something in mind, Mrs. Lovett?"
"Eleanor, please."
"Eleanor," Norwood repeated the name, a blush coming to his cheeks.
"Well, now, Mr. Norwood. My husband was something of a collector. He liked to..." she traced her finger around his knee. "Acquire things."
"Did he," Norwood said distractedly.
"Magpie like. He'd buy things from pawn shops and ferret them away in a hiding place. I want you to do me a small..." she paused, and leaned against him, toying with the hair at his temple. "Favour."
"Anything," he breathed, now totally entranced.
"Perfect. Now, all I want you to do is..."
"Well?" Todd's voice was expectant. He looked especially gaunt, sitting on the balls of his feet in the moonlit corner.
"Two hundred and twenty seven pounds...sterling."
Slowly, Todd rose from the floor."You're joking."
"Not," Mrs. Lovett clucked, giggling he seized her waist as if to embrace her. Their eyes met, and in instant they broke apart, one full of angry guilt and the other quashing half dead hopes. Todd returned to his corner, sliding back to the floor.
"How did you convince him?"
"Well, you know me," Mrs. Lovett sighed airily as she flopped onto the ground, skirts spread all around her. "It wasn't hard, really. Some people just need to be oiled the right way, if you follow me."
"Mm," Todd agreed, wishing he could gain her confidence as easily as she had gained the lawyer's.
Her trust was so vitally important to his plan. He would catch himself (if only for a short time) wanting to live in the fantasy he was slowly weaving for her.
"Mr. Todd..." Lovett began, scratching the floor with a fingernail.
"Mm?"
"What is it...you've got planned exactly?"
Todd considered for a moment, weighing his options. The scheme that had been brewing in his mind was incomplete, and the pieces had yet to fall into place. No doubt Mrs. Lovett was still of two minds herself. She was now a great deal wealthier with all of that money under her name, which was something to consider. But before he could conclude his deliberations, there came a fierce knock on the door, and raised voices could be heard beyond it. Todd scrambled up to the door to listen, motioning to Mrs. Lovett to remain silent. She looked quizzically at him.
"Damnit, I'm his counsel and I demand an audience, NOW!"
"Mr. Oberlin, you really must speak with the warden before-"
"Now, listen here, MacKenna, you're denying my access to my client-"
Todd decided to intervene.
"Lieutenant..." he drawled. The hulking Scot glanced through the bars. Oberlin wasn't anywhere in sight: he was too short to peer through the bars.
"Mr. Todd, I believe your lawyer would like to speak with you."
Todd buffed his nails on his stale shirt. "That occurrence would require my consent, isn't that true, Lieutenant?" he yawned laconically.
"Aye, Mr. Todd."
"Supposing I want to hear what he has to say?"
"I can authorize that," MacKenna said matter-of-factly. Oberlin threw him a dirty look.
"Hrm. Very well."
Mrs. Lovett watched pensively as they shackled Todd's wrists. She was still completely dashed as far as his so-called escape plan went. If she went through with her testimony, she would be free to do as she pleased without threat upon her life. Never again would she feel his hands around her neck.
But if she let him hang, she would have to watch him die, and the weak affection that had sprung up between them would die with him. Hadn't he said America? Hadn't he promised?
And despite his standoffish attitude, she could sense the broiling emotions in him, the restrained lust. Just as she had sensed it the first time while carving meat off Pirelli's bones. It was a flash in his eyes, and she had known. She made just the right gestures at just the right times, whispering her own little spell, unleashing the demon that was once named Benjamin Barker. She had taken advantage of him, was taking advantage of him, even as he had torn away her clothes.
She had seen that flash again in his eyes. With it came the memories, the physical sensations. She had laced her kisses with her own special brand of poison, causing him to hiss lies so convincing even he believed them.
Love you, adore you, worship you, perfect beauty, my pet, my love, my fire, oh God...
A shiver ran through her. But better sense still cautioned against a full reconciliation. If she was wise, she would test him first. And then she would decide whether or not to betray Sweeney Todd.
--
"You spoke to the PRESS?"
Todd yawned. "Perhaps."
"What do you mean, perhaps!" Michael Oberlin screeched, his eyes alight with manic fire. "How dare you speak to the press!"
Todd fixed an amazed glare on his lawyer's brick red face. "Do you presume to give me orders, Mr. Oberlin?"
His voice was silken, and deadly quiet. Oberlin was shaking with rage. His voice quavered as his tone dropped down, but he couldn't match the direness of the unspoken threat. "Mr. Todd, I am going to make damned sure that your trial begins this week, and then I am going to grind you into the ground like the lower class peon that you are. MACKENNA!"
The guard came when he was called. He nodded to Todd, and began to administer the shackles to his wrists.
"You know, Mr. Oberlin," Todd said as MacKenna helped him out of the chair. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you weren't fond of me."
"GO TO HELL!"
"Not before you do." Vicious laughter followed this sentiment. But the bravado died halfway down the hall, and Todd felt a grave apprehension rising from the pit of his soul. If Oberlin could deliver his threat, it meant serious trouble for his escape plan.
--
Conversations at Newgate
A Brief Exposé by Morgan Quinn
Formerly Mr. Benjamin Barker, now operating under the pseudonym Sweeney Todd (an etymological play on 'well-going fox') , at once captured my interest. Even behind bars and lacking a few square meals in him, he was an intimidating presence, full of what one might even call charisma. As expected, he treated me with scorn and callous dismissal, but soon revealed that a deeper plot lay beneath his imprisonment. He assured me that underneath his story lay, in his own words, "a scandal to shake the very roots of Parliament."
More to come.
- Quinn, Assisting Reporter to the Gazette
It was lucky for Anthony, and perhaps luckier for Sweeney Todd that the former almost never bothered to read the newspapers. And while the latter worked to weave together the threads of his escape plan, Anthony was stretched thin back in the dingy old flat in Temple Bar, assembling the means for lawbreaking.
Johanna was not nearly as sympathetic, but she no longer raised protests. Instead, she busied herself with the running of their new home. A lovely, large Plymouth estate on the bluff bought and paid for in part by the inheritance she had received as Judge Turpin's ward. As she strode along the white rose hedges that lined the dusty, bumpy drive, she smiled serenely to herself, indulging in the brief wicked delight of the advantages the death of that vile old man had brought her. If Sweeney Todd had indeed murdered the Judge, he had unwittingly freed her from a cruel fate. With Anthony away at London, her mind would wander to morbid fancies. The cold green lawn and the towering apple tree beneath which she reposed wrapped in furs would dissolve before her waking eyes, and she could see only the bars, chains and straight-waistcoats of Fogg's Asylum. A living hell if ever there was one, her back still bore the marks of the abuse she had suffered there. She remembered the awful feeling of wondering if her sanity really was slipping away; if the world inside that mouldering, rotting cage was really the only one she had ever known.
In its own way, killing Jonas Fogg was its own delight. Savage, but satisfying. Try as she might to feel some kind of repentance or guilt, Johanna couldn't bring herself to regret her choice of action. Anthony was right about one thing: Todd had provided the means. Means which should have been reposing at the bottom of the Thames, slowly turning to rust. But she still had the pistol.
Anthony might be too soft, too good natured to do what must be done, but Johanna would ensure their safety if it came to it.
---
Every day at noon, a man dressed in a vest and long coat walked past the northeast corner of Newgate Prison. He would make one brief glance at the highest cell window and continue walking, hands stuffed in his pocket and collar turned up against the chilling wind. The guards paid little heed.
---
"Where do you think you're going, Master Tobias? Where are you going, whelp?"
Tobias ignored the jeers: it was habit by now. But he knew Thomas Morton; he knew that the burly curly haired red head wouldn't be satisfied with Toby's silence for very much longer. As he tried to beat a hasty retreat from the wintery grounds, Morton's foot shot out and sent him sprawling across grass.
Heaving a sigh, Toby pushed himself up off the icy lawn, acting as if he had not noticed. Morton snatched his collar and threw him bodily to the ground.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Rag!"
He aimed a kick at Toby's midriff. But Toby had not survived a world of murdering sneakthieves, sinful mountebanks and vengeful cutthroats for nothing. He caught Morton's foot with both hands and gave a great tug. Morton tumbled down onto the grass. Toby stood up with some difficulty, and brushed off his grass stained shorts. The larger boy was about to get up, when Toby pressed a foot down on Morton's chest. Toby stared at him, feeling an uncharacteristic gush of contempt.
"I've seen blood, Morton. I've seen murder and devilry and sin," he intoned softly, his face very pale. "You don't frighten me."
Morton couldn't think of a retort. He only stared. The ring of boys that had been closing in had now withdrawn, now intrigued and curious instead of malicious and vengeful. After a moment's contemplation, Toby lifted his foot off Morton's chest and stepped back, allowing him to rise.
"You ain't really seen murder," he scoffed, but there was an uncertain quaver in his voice. Toby noted how his bravado had turned to apprehensive caution.
"Maybe I have, maybe I haven't," Toby said as nonchalantly as he could manage. "Either way, I'm still not afraid of you. What are you going to do, bloody my nose?"
When Morton couldn't dredge up a smart reply, Toby pushed past him and the group of boys parted to allow him through, muttering amongst themselves with apprehension and curiosity.
---
Lovett was fidgeting with a rent on her skirt when Todd was returned to the cell. She immediately looked up, eyes wide with fearful anticipation. Anxiety and desperation hung over him like a cloud.
"I heard yelling," Lovett said, standing up.
" It doesn't concern you," Todd muttered, walking over to the barred window that looked out over the cold road.
"Mr. Todd," Lovett began, following him to the window. "If I'm to trust you-"
"You can trust me," Todd interrupted, turning to face her, brows knit.
Lovett crossed her arms over her chest. "Prove it."
Todd grabbed her by the shoulders and backed her against the wall, his eyes burning. "What do you WANT from me, woman? What assurance can I possibly give that will make you stop questioning me all the damned time?"
A small whimper of surprise welled up from her throat. She stared into his feral blue eyes, knowing that she was about to walk across some very hot coals. Her eyes flickered to the gold wedding band on his right hand. He followed her gaze, and his lips became a tight thin line.
"If you tell me you'll sell that," she said softly. "I'll trust you."
Disgusted, Todd released her shoulders and she slumped against the wall.
"No."
"You've got more feeling in you for a dead woman than you have for anything living, not even your own self-"
"SHUT UP!"
Lovett let out a small scream of pain as the flat of Todd's hand caught her cheek and sent her reeling.
Seething, she picked herself up off the floor, the red hand print on her cheek paling against her livid eyes.
"Go to the gallows, then! All your promises, your lies- lay another hand on me, and I'll scream to shake the heavens!"she shrieked, shrinking against the wall as he advanced, nearly spitting with rage.
"I'll kill you now!" he snarled, eyes bright with hellfire.
"Go ahead," she hissed vehemently, pushing herself off the wall to face him. "Kill me, then, if it'll make you feel powerful. It's the last power you'll ever have, it's the only thing you've got!"
A frisson ran through him. Somewhere in his rage-fogged mind, he understood the consequences that would follow if he killed her now. He knew there would be no chance for another life somewhere. He knew he would never see Johanna again. His conscious thought was slipping away, and in its place, there was only physical feeling. Lovett was so close, her lips wet and parted as she drew in angry breaths. Her breast heaving. The maddening scent of rose water that was her natural fragrance filled his nostrils and sent shudders through him.
Hate her.
And then, like a flash of light, the answer came to him.
"You're wrong," he said roughly, grasping the front of her bodice and violently renting it apart, shift and all. A small gasping scream came from her, and she fought him as he gripped her chin, crushing his mouth against hers with a vicious wantonness. He drank down the small screams of rage and surprise that emitted from her, until finally she sagged into his arms, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. He pulled away and gazed at her for an instant, any hint of humanity gone from his eyes, replaced only with a desire that was as destructive as it was demanding.
Lovett wrapped her arms around his neck, holding fast to him as he went at her throat, covering it with kisses that left bruises; teeth biting and nipping at her skin. Pressing her back to the wall, his hands busied themselves with tearing into her skirts, hiking them up as he lifted her bodily against him. Using one hand, he tugged his trousers down, and let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a groan as she wrapped her legs around him, enveloping him. He kissed her tears as he began to thrust into her, his senses on fire, shivers rocketing along his spine with each little muffled gasp and moan she uttered.
"Do you trust me, Eleanor?" he growled, voice thick with lust.
"Never," the reply was a whimper.
"Will you betray me?"
"Never," the word became a soft cry. "Benjamin."
As she tore away his shirt, Todd felt himself losing control, aided by the delicious pain she was inflicting on his chest with her fingernails. Every thought of his wife, his life, and all things in it had been driven out of his head. There was nothing more pristine than this, nothing more pure, more perfect. He could taste his own death on her lips for a brief moment, and there was no sweeter ambrosia.
Lovett had managed to cling ferociously to this point, but her muscles relaxed with the mounting, snapping and releasing tension. She felt herself go weak, her strength and energy consumed in the fire that was him. Her soul was swimming in her own intoxication, fuelled by him, his hurtful kisses, and his ungentle hands. Her body bowed, his knees weakened, and they both slid to the floor. Lovett was sprawled across his bloodied chest. Todd stared at the ceiling, his nerves tingling with each breath, reminded by the weight of her body against him. Craving physical sensation, he stroked her red hair, running his hands through it, tightening his fingers in it before releasing it, letting it flow across his palms. She let out a purring hum of pleasure.
My soul is truly dead, he thought, blankly resigned. Or she is the Devil, and it belongs to her.
He had never felt more alive.