No matter how cold the day, Tobias always went without a muffler. Mufflers, all shapes and sizes, reminded him of things he did not wish to remember. While he had excelled far beyond his humble beginnings, old fears still haunted him in the darkness of night. During the day, he could discipline his mind into silence, suppressing the painful memories with significant effort. But the cold always reminded him of her.
Toby hated thinking of Mrs. Lovett.
Whenever he did, a physical ache of regret would wrench in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't sure from whence it stemmed: perhaps it was the regret that he had trusted Mrs. Lovett. Regret that he had cared, loved, and feared for her. Or maybe it was guilt. The guilt of wishing he was with her still. No one had ever taken care of him before.
He took a turn around the deserted courtyard, his shoulders squared against the icy wind. He felt himself growing older in those few moments. He could insulate himself against guilt and regret, but not the cold logic of the situation. As desperately as he had wanted to believe in her innocence, he could not forget the fact that she had sanctioned his death. Mrs. Lovett's involvement in the murders were confirmed when Toby discovered the contents of the pies. Those creaking floorboards above his head as those heavy boots trod across them told all. She was going to give him to Mr. Todd.
He hated her all the more because even now she affected him. Even now, a deep, dark place in him still wanted to impress her, to help her, to cry on her shoulder. He hated her because a tiny part of him still loved her.
--
Miles away, confined in Newgate Prison, Sweeney Todd was suffering from a similar (if much more carnal) dilemma.
It hurt to move. It felt good.
What he had received in scratches he had given back in bruises. Lovett lay across his lacerated chest, wincing with each breath. Holding fast to her hair, he tongued one of the lavender marks on her throat, delighting in her shudder.
For an instant he had forgotten his hatred. It still resided in his mind, but for now it was dormant, not dictating his actions.
"How are you going to explain the dress?" he asked sleepily, tugging on the partially shredded black taffeta.
"I haven't the foggiest notion. And what about you?" she prodded him in the chest, causing him to let out a hiss of pain.
"I don't know either. I do know that I need to get rid of my sodding solicitor," Todd groused. "And I can't exactly kill him."
"Oh, is he a bully?"
Todd stroked her hair, and started to braid it absent mindedly.
"A bully yes, but more importantly, he belongs to Blunt. And he's determined to see me hang."
"Good lord, why?"
"That daft American reporter I spoke to. Oberlin all but ordered me not to speak to the press and it puts rather a dent in my...plan..." he trailed off, realization creeping across his features.
"What is it?" Lovett asked, perking up. Todd immediately shifted her off his body, ignoring her squeak of protest, and leapt up to the cell door.
"Lieutenant MacKenna?" he called.
"Aye?" came the groggy reply. Clearly the lieutenant had been napping. Something to remember.
"Lieutenant, do you remember that reporter, the American? Quinn whatever?"
"I do. Why?"
"Can you send for him?"
"I would need a reason, Mr. Todd," MacKenna pointed out. But Todd had made a point to be good natured to MacKenna, having the foresight that he might need the man's cooperation at some point.
"Do you like Michael Oberlin, Lieutenant?"
"What has that to do with anything?"
Todd smiled through the bars.
"Live by the press, die by the press."
"Ahhh."
--
Morgan Quinn was not, strictly speaking, an employee of the Gazette. Rather, he was something of a retainer, contributing articles for little or no pay. In the world of journalism, he was considered a horror chaser, less reputable than even a society writer. Less than a hack; ignored entirely in professional circles. The only reason the paper ran his material was because it attracted a certain kind of reader. Morbid curiosity sold papers. But it was widely thought that the scandal he claimed he was about to uncover was fantasy.
Quinn, however, believed in his work: he was passionate to the point of annoyance. So when the demand for an audience from Sweeney Todd came, Morgan Quinn immediately caught the next train to Newgate.
The interrogation rooms were like stone boxes, each with a battered wooden table, and usually some decrepit stools or chairs. Unlike the chapel, bars did not separate the interrogator and the prisoner.
Quinn's earlier enthusiasm was quickly dissolved by the menacing presence of the barber of Fleet Street. Even seated, Todd had the air of a serpent about to strike. Quinn therefore opted to remain standing. He cleared his throat delicately.
"I understand, Mr. Todd, you have some information for me?"
"Sit down." Todd ordered. Quinn quickly obeyed in the manner of a puppy, dropping down onto a stool. Todd fixed a look of distaste upon the young journalist, and then worked to suppress his contempt.
"My lawyer Michael Oberlin, is a paid agent of the police. Corrupt, through and through."
"Michael Oberlin? The Michael Oberlin of Oberlin and Sons?" Quinn asked, shaking excitably.
"How should I know?" Todd snapped. Quinn skidded back a few feet in his chair, and leaped up.
"I apologize, Mr. Todd. I shall investigate this immediately!"
"Do. And mind you hurry. The jury has been seated, and I suspect Oberlin has paid them off."
"I shall! Oh, this will be a triumph of among editorials-"
"Mr. Quinn."
Immediately Quinn fell silent and stared with rapt attention at Todd, who cocked his head to the side.
"Shut up."
"Yes, sir."
--
Oberlin and Sons was a firm of dubious repute. To start with, there were no sons involved: the name had been fabricated to make the firm appear familial and felicitous. It did a high profit with corrupt politicos, skirt chasing royals and police institutions. Lacking any kind of inheritance or title, Oberlin had made his way on dishonesty, cleverly crafted falsehoods, suspect favours and dirty money. Everything from his degree to his bar exam grade had been manufactured. He had begun as an informer for Blunt, acting as false witness in those hard-to-prove cases, and had ascended from there.
His wife was a wasted shrew of a woman who lavished her affections on a lord in Streatham, often demanding money for cheap furs, tacky jewellery and other gaudy trinkets. She would leave home for weeks at a time, and Oberlin had begun telling people she had died of dysentery.
Michael Oberlin's entire life was a bought-and-paid-for lie.
In the space of two days, these were among the many things Morgan Quinn discovered. After two days, he was promoted to a full fellow of the Gazette and given an partnership in the criminal scandals department.
The dismayed scream of rage and ruin that emitted from Oberlin as he opened his morning paper could be heard from as far as across the street.
--
It was the twenty fifth time Anthony had walked past Newgate Prison in his black coat. He was sick with cold, but through watery eyes, he spied at the topmost window the signal he had been waiting for. A strip of dirty white cloth had been tied around one of the bars. Immediately he stopped in his tracks, turned on his heel and strode back in the direction from which he had come.
--
"Would you consider being my...friend? Friend? No, no, that's no good. Not friend. Wife? No, that's ridiculous."
Norwood was making little progress with the reflection in the window. A bundle of roses sat at his feet, petals partially shredded from compulsive fidgeting. The door opened, and Norwood immediately retrieved the mangled bouquet, ignorant of his backwards lapel and the pocket watch hanging from his trousers.
Mrs. Lovett floated in, dressed today in a second hand dark green lace.
"Oh, Mrs. Lovett!" Norwood's face fell as he spotted the bite marks on her throat. He dropped the roses immediately and rushed towards her. "Your neck"
"Oh, what's that dear?" Lovett chirruped as she clapped a hand over her neck.
"You're hurt!" Norwood seized her hands.
"Oh, it's nothing dear, I just fell! You know me, I'm such a goose," Lovett babbled, twisting her neck this way and that to try and prevent him from examining them more closely.
"He did it, didn't he? Oh, if he touched you- let me see!"
He would not be dissuaded, so Lovett did the only thing she could. She kissed him. His eyes bulged with shock.
It wasn't an open mouthed kiss, or even a long one, but when it finished, Norwood immediately fell on his knees.
"Oh, Eleanor, I thought you...I thought you didn't share my feelings!"
"Oh, well, er..." Mrs. Lovett felt a blush rising to her cheeks. She tripped slightly over her skirts (he had knelt on them) and had trouble righting herself, as he was gripping her hands rather tightly.
"But I can see you clearly do, so I don't feel at all silly about asking this of you," he continued earnestly, blinking away tears of joy through his owlish spectacles.
"Er, asking me what, dearie?"
By now, Norwood's already pasty face was shock white, his eyes wide with hysteria.
"You will? Oh, Eleanor, I'm happier than I can say."
Lovett's expression of total bewilderment escaped him rather easily as (with one nasally inhalation) he keeled over and fainted dead away on the floor.