Notes: I finally managed to cobble together this chapter through snippets written on scraps of paper at work, half covered with doodled drawings and the ocassional hastily scribbled phone order. Sorry it took so long. You know the drill, let me know about any big mistakes, or any weird words I might have accidentally stuck in there somewhere...
Yes, they had revolvers in the late 1800s.
The jingle of the bell above Mr. Todd's door was oddly quiet, just a soft tinkle of sound, strangely reserved considering the young man in the doorway. Anthony paused, he hadn't realised that his friend would be with a client and in such a delicate pose with his razor. It was a good thing Anthony had entered the barber's with less than his normal enthusiasm, he wouldn't have wanted Mr. Todd to slip.
The barber gave him an icy look, for a breif moment his razor had stilled, placed most disturbingly against his client's throat, so close that Anthony could see the beat of the man's pulse against the edge of the blade. The moment passed, the razor gently scraping a last bit of bristle from the elderly client's jaw.
"I'm terribly sorry for interrupting," Anthony directed his words to the barber's client, knowing that Mr. Todd at least would forgive the intrusion, "I hadn't realised there was anyone already here."
"Quite alright," the old man said, running a hand over his freshly shaven chin. "Quite alright," the man repeated, slowly getting to his feet, "I expect Mr. Todd is becoming quite the popular businessman."
"Young Anthony is a friend, sir," Mr. Todd explained, wiping his razor clean with a piece of cloth. He stowed the razor in its holster and automaticly wiped his hands, giving Anthony time to notice that the barber was wearing flexible cotton gloves. Mr. Todd turned back to his client, trying to force a smile onto his face. He managed it but the expression shocked Anthony, and not just because it looked like a grimance; This was the first time the young sailor had seen Mr. Todd attempt a smile. "I expect it's near time for a short break anyhow."
The old man smiled in return, counting out three tarnished coins into the barber's gloved hand. "Good day Mr. Todd, Mr... er, Anthony."
"Good day Mr. Stenwick," Mr. Todd replied as the old man left, "do come again."
Mr. Todd looked at Anthony. His eyebrows twitched upwards slightly, forcing Anthony to get over his surprise.
"Mr. Todd, I believe I may have found Johanna," the young sailor began, a queer note of sadness in his voice, "only it's worse than I had imagined. She's in Fogg's Asylum, a sanitarium. It's surrounded by the river and slippery rocks on three sides and there's a large iron fence on the other side with only one way in or out. How will I ever get her from there?"
Before Mr. Todd could even begin to formulate an answer the bell above the door jingled again. Irritation arose in him like a fire as Mrs. Lovett trooped into the shop, mouth already running a mile a minute. "Is everything alright today, Mr. T? I just saw that last customer leave and," Mrs. Lovett caught sight of Anthony and immediately changed what she was about to say, carrying on valiantly with only a miniscule hesitation, "he was muttering to himself all the way down the stairs. Right funny old man, that one."
Mr. Todd managed to croak a single word in reply, looking very peculiar. "Johanna." Anthony stared, surprised and perturbed by the short silence that followed the name. Mr. Todd had gone dead white, making the dark circles around his eyes even more pronounced; He stared at nothing, looking in Mrs. Lovett's direction without really seeing her.
Mrs. Lovett's mouth dropped open just a tiny bit. "Your Johanna," she breathed, her eyes snapping to Anthony's face only after she'd spoken. "Mr. Todd has told me all about her. Your Johanna, Judge Turpin's ward, a tragic beauty she is."
"Oh, yes, she's very beautiful," Anthony agreed, breathy and gentle, "but... but very sad. I should like to see her smile."
The thought of Johanna's sad but beautiful face was enough to knock thoughts of any strange behaviour from his head. Already Anthony had subconsciously begun to form a theory concerning Mr. Todd's odd reactions to Johanna. Those suspicions were still burried, lurking in the dark, overshadowed by his deep desire to see Johanna free to accept his love.
"Hair." Mr. Todd sais suddenly, still staring in Mrs. Lovett's direction with his eyes a little unfocussed. Slowly his gaze travelled upwards, sliding past throat and face until intensely focussed upon Mrs. Lovett's wild, reddish curls.
"I'm sorry?" Anthony asked, frowning, "I'm not sure I understand."
"Where do you suppose wig makers get their hair?"
"Well, from people who sell it to them," Anthony replied, his bemusement clear in both his face and voice.
"But not everyone whose hair is sold profits from the transaction," Mr. Todd mused, slowly following the twists and curves of a lone lock of hair that had fallen from its pins to hang at the side of Mrs. Lovett's face. In shadow the curls looked dark, almost black, in light they were a dark cherry red that made him wonder if she used some kind of dye. But no... if he thought very hard he could vaguely recall a flash of that same colour adorning her head when she was younger. When he was younger. "A wig maker may find himself at hospitals, asylums, paying the warden for hair of a specific colour."
"Johanna has yellow hair," Anthony stated, an inkling of what the barber was saying beginning to creep through his mind. "So... If I pretend to be a wig maker after her hair I can get into the asylum and find her. But how can I get back out?"
Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett exchanged looks. Anthony had no idea what they might be thinking, but Mrs. Lovett seemed to know exactly what the barber meant because she said quietly; "There's one in Albert's old set of drawers. It's small, maybe rusted."
"He wont need to use it," Mr. Todd told her, eyes flashing dangerously.
Without another word Mrs. Lovett turned on her heel and fled from the shop, taking the stairs two at a time. Anthony could hear the clack of her heels with every thump on the stairs, playing an uneven and hurried rhythm. He looked at Mr. Todd, uncertain. Unconcerned, the barber sat down in his own chair and without thinking, raised a hand to stroke the handle of his favourite razor. "Now then," he said, "if you are going to be convincing then there's a bit you'll need to know about hair..."
The basement kitchen was large and dimly lit. There was no electricity or gas light down here, only a few well placed lamps and the oven fire to illuminate the room. Built into the far wall was the oven, a larger than life monstrosity with huge iron doors and six racks for pies. There was a hatch in the bottom of the door for feeding the fire and a little round window in the middle of the door to allow the baker to see the pies as they cooked. The centre of the big room was taken up by a massive, heavy table sporting large chopping boards and enormous meat cleavers. A grille in the floor just in front of the table seemed to cover a square hold that led right down into the sewers.
To the right was empty space but for a lonely peg hung with a stained apron. To the left was the big meat grinder and large metal tubs for carting around the chopped or ground meat. Nearby there was a chute in the ceiling almost like a large chimney. Toby refused to stand directly beneath it as he looked up. He hoped he was never in here when one of the bodies dropped through, though Mrs. Lovett had assured him there would be none today.
She was here with him, standing by the meat grinder beside a tub of what looked like oddly shaped steaks. She waited until Toby's attention was back on her before beginning her instruction.
"The meat goes through the grinder three times," she said, putting some of the meat frm the tub into the horrible machine to show him. "To grind the meat you turn the crank," she showed him how to turn the handle, muscles in her arms tensing beneath the fabric of her stained, flower-dusted work dress, "and it comes out here. Always put one of these tubs down first or the meat will end up on the floor... Toby, luv? Are you alright, dear?"
Toby, who had begun to look a little green around the edges, quickly bobbed his head. "I'm fine, ma'am." It's just that he could guess why the meat had to go through three times.
Mrs. Lovett gave him a skeptical look, almost deciding to stop her narration before another look at the stubborn cast of the boy's chin changed her mind. "I'll still be doing all the chopping myself," she told him, "so you don't need to worry about that. Anyway, I only take the good stuff, the big muscles and that. The rest of it goes into the ovens until it's all ashes or I put it down the sewer if it's small enough to get washed away."
"What do you do with the clothes?" toby asked, despite his queasiness. Secretly he was impressed that he'd even asked anything at all.
"They go into the oven too," Mrs. Lovett told him, nodding, "shoes, hats and all. I'll keep something if I think it's worth the bother but most of the time it's a lost cause, isn't it?"
"Yes ma'am," Toby replied automaticly. He looked around the bakehouse again and shook his head. "I'll never be able to eat another piece of meat in me life."
Mrs. Lovett smiled slightly. "Mr. T feels the same way," she said fondly, "can't say I blame you. I can't serve anything but fish and chicken these days"
And now she could afford both. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, Toby following suit only a moment later as the muffled sounds of pacing began filtering down through the chute. "We owe a lot to Mr. To, Toby," Mrs. Lovett said, thinking of the fish she could afford to buy since her pie shop had begun to flourish.
"I know," Toby replied, "and he owes a lot to you too."
Raven, dark and glossy black. Coal, matte black, darker than dark. Mahogany, a rich brown with undertones of red. Chestnut, medium brown. Apricot, the shade between ginger and blonde. Johanna was corn flax – the palest shade of yellow before white. Corn flax with a tight natural curl and a hint of gold in the sunlight. Mrs. Lovett, Anthony thought out automatically (because the window's hair was what Mr. Todd had used as an example), was a dark cherry red with flyaway curls. Until that afternoon Anthony had never known just how complicated hair could be.
The weight in his waistcoat made him nervous. He had walked away with a dangerous looking old revolver pistol, just a little rusted towards the handle. The mechanisms all worked, Mr. Todd had tested them while the gun was unloaded. Therein had lain another small surprise, Mr. Todd had handled the revolver as if he had done so in the past and though he looked less comfortable with the gun than with his razors it had seemed almost… natural. The barber gave the impression of a man who had not only held, but also used firearms before.
Anthony had never handled anything more suspicious than a hunting rifle, then only in the pursuit of an animal. To hold something in his coat pocket and know that its most basic intention was to harm another human being was unsettling.
He could not go to the asylum tonight. It was too soon after his last visit, he may still be recognized. In the meantime Anthony would bide his time. He would seek work for a week or two's time, work that would not object to his bringing a woman on board if necessary… Perhaps a passenger boat. Somewhere that guns and deception would not be needed.
Suddenly, and quite inexplicably, Anthony found himself wondering about the last owner of the pistol. How exactly had Albert Lovett died? When too, for he couldn't actually recall anyone mentioning it. Had it been recent then, that Mrs. Lovett still had his things, even expensive items that she could have sold? Or had she been so devoted to him that she had kept his belongings out of love, or perhaps greif?