A/N: I'd better say this now in case I offend someone: this writer doesn't believe/endorse anything Judge Turpin might say/do. He's a pervert, so if you have a problem with that, blame him, not me. =D And MASSIVE thanks for the favs/reviews/alerts!
~The Judge~
Judge Turpin was restless."What news?"
He sat close by the window in his brown velvet chair.
The small breakfast table was lined richly with velvet, fresh flowers and bright china plates. He was preparing the house for her. For when she woke.
The Judge pursed his lips, holding back a smile. It pleased him to think of the day when they would breakfast together.
She would smile, and thank him. She would be grateful, he was sure. So grateful. It would take time, Turpin reasoned. Perhaps a little time to adjust. But she would warm up to him very quickly.
As it stood now, he couldn't bear to touch her. But she would heal. He had the very best doctors working on her. And when she was beautiful again – which she would be – she would share his bed.
"Sir?" Mary stood at the far end of the room, carrying a large silver tray.
Turpin nodded.
She swooped forward, delivered the tray and stepped back.
Turpin lifted the lid on the cream, jam and milk. He sniffed them carefully. "The milk appears to be sour, Mary," he droned, looking up at her with raised brows.
Thank God she wasn't attractive, Turpin thought, for the need was in him this morning, stronger than ever.
"What news?" he repeated, glancing down at the street below. A woman in a large red dress was out walking with her husband.
"Well, sir," began Mary. How was she to break it to him? "She's in a bad way –"
"I know," he said, impatient. "I was present at the scene, if I recall correctly."
And he didn't want to recall. But he could.
It had been Turpin who'd found her first. Smoking and charred, like a piece of burnt pie. The police hadn't stopped him. He owned the police. It was the first thing he'd done, after the beadle had freed him. After they were sure that demon-barber had fled the scene.
"Best leave it to the police, sir," the Beadle had said, bandaging the Judge's bloody legs. The Beadle was also wounded. A large purple bruise covered his entire forhead.
"You forget, Beadle. I am the police." And the Judge had pushed past him, down into that stinking bakehouse. He didn't know what he'd expect to find. But what he did find....
"Sure ain't pretty, is it sir?" the Beadle had put in, descending the stairs after him.
"Quiet, fool." Turpin wasn't a caring man, but the minute he saw the burnt body on the floor – he knew who it was.
It was Sweeney Todd's partner in crime….Mrs…Lovett? Mrs Lovett. The one who'd bowed low to him. Smiled seductively. The Baker.
Turpin could only guess it was her.
Half of her was a black, charred piece of meat. The other part – one side of her body, and half of her face, was left unharmed. Her head was black and bald.
The part of her face that was clean - her left half: nose, lips, left eye - were beautiful. She could have been a child, sleeping. Snow White in her glass coffin. Sleeping Beauty in her castle.
But for the burnt blanket of black skin that covered her body.
It was a horrid sight, to see half a human being.
Turpin rushed over, forgetting his bandaged legs. He didn't know why he shouldn't just step over her body. Leave her there. But he didn't.
She was lying in a pool of blood. It didn't take long to figure out it wasn't her blood.
What was worse, Turpin discovered. He pressed his ear close to her lips. Heard her ragged little breaths.
She was still alive.
"Best leave her, sir," the Beadle put in coarsely. "She tried to kill me," he added, still rubbing the spot where Mrs Lovett had clobbered him with her rolling pin. "It's a good thing I managed to wake up an' rescue you in time, or you would be under Mr Todd's razor by now, and sleepin' with the rest of them –"
"Be quiet!" Turpin had wasted no more time. He couldn't explain to himself what he was doing.
This woman was finished. Or soon to be finished. Half of her was burnt. Even if he could save her, who would want such a thing to live?
But he picked her up nonetheless.
She didn't cry out. She was still unconscious. The Judge was as tender as a heartless man could be. Her flesh was still warm. It scorched in his arms.
Turpin could smell the burnt flesh, but he didn't drop her.
"Where are you takin' her, then?"
"Home, beadle. Prepare the coach!"
The beadle scrambled off as fast as his fat legs would take him.
The Judge took one sweeping look back into the hellish pits of the bakehouse.
Another woman, her neck slashed, lay spread-eagled on the floor. But he didn't bother with her.
Turpin propped Mrs Lovett's head against his chest, and carried her up toward the light.
* * *
"Sir?"
The Judge remained motionless, staring out the window.
Mary tried again. "Sir!"
He turned and looked at her. "Well? How is she?"
"She – she can't for the life of her remember who she is!"
"I see." Turpin kept his liquid gaze on the maid. "Does she – know me?"
Silence. Slowly, Mary shook her head. "No, sir."
Turpin sighed. He wasn't going to make any progress today, not unless –
"Very well," he snapped. "Fetch the Beadle."
Mary bowed and very nearly fled the room.
"Mary."
"Yes, sir?"
Turpin couldn't understand why she was so frightened. She was in no danger of him doing anything untoward with her.
"Ensure that you keep yourself tidy. I can still see that unruly hair."
Mary blushed, and quickly stuffed her loose blonde locks under her cap. "Very good sir."
And then she was gone.
* * *
It wasn't the hair that bothered Turpin. It was the colour.
Ever since Joanna had run off with that awful sailor, Turpin couldn't stand blonde-haired women. Just the sight of a woman in the street with golden-spun locks was enough to make him violently ill. Joanna. The childish wench. He took a long sip from his tea. He hoped she and her mother would rot in hell. Both had disappointed him. Intensely.
"Sir." It was the Beadle, grinning hopefully on the threshold.
"Does no one knock before entering?" The Judge frowned. The man had food stains down his best again. And the stench. He stunk like a veritable sewer. Everything about this man repulsed him – which was exactly why he tolerated him.
"Me humblest apologies, sir. I thought you was –"
"Never mind. We have business today, Beadle. I plan to pay my patient a visit."
The beadle's eyes bulged, but he was wise enough to stay quiet.
"Therefore I must know – what is her name?"
"Thought you knew, sir. Mrs Lovett's her name, and she made them pies out of people with that foul, unscrupulous Mr Todd."
"Very astute, Beadle," the Judge glowered. "I was referring to her Christian name."
"Oh. That," he smirked. "The nurses say she calls 'erself Nellie. If you as me, sir, it sounds like a cow's name – "
"I did not ask you." The Judge gripped the chair. He did not raise his voice, but the Beadle could tell he'd crossed the line.
"Fetch me Celeste." Turpin no longer had an appetite for breakfast.
The Beadle hesitated.
"Fetch me her!"
And his servant tipped his hat, and was gone.
Turpin wasn't the sort of man to turn over chairs and tables when he was angry. Instead, he began to pace the room. He went to the window. So many sinners, walking the streets below. When he found that Barber – Sweeney Todd – he would have him hung before the whole of London. And once the executioner was done with him, Turpin would have the demon's head on display on his mantelpiece.
"Nellie," he spoke absently. The Beadle deserved a flogging. Nellie wasn't a cow's name. It was a child's name. An innocent's. And though the woman had surely been no innocent – no woman deserved what Sweeney had done to her. Especially one so pretty as her.
Turpin took the miniature portrait out of his vest. It was the only picture he had of her. The Beadle had salvaged it from the pie shop. For a brief moment, Turpin wondered if she could ever be restored to the beauty she was there. His fingers lingered briefly over the mischievous eyes and wild curls. Poor, poor Nellie.
"Sir." It was Celeste. She bowed low, displaying her décolletage. She was impeccably dressed, as always. She was exactly what Victorian men loved in a woman – tiny-waisted, pale and doll-faced. But as the Judge passed his critical eye over her, he found something lacking.
"How can I help you today, sir?" Celeste minced over to the breakfast table and sat by his chair. Slowly, she began to kiss his knees. He let her gloved hands work her way up his thighs – but there was nothing.
"Forgive me, my dear, but I've changed my mind." Turpin left Celeste sitting on the floor, went to his wash basin, and began to shave.
"It's a woman, isn't it," Celeste accused sourly. "It's always a woman."
"Am I decent?" he asked Celeste at last, when he'd finished shaving. Ever since his close shave with Sweeney, Judge Turpin wouldn't let another man near his throat.
"As decent as you'll ever be," Celeste pouted, wondering what on earth had gotten into him. It was only the second time he'd refused her – the first had been when a woman called Lucy had done a number and tried to top herself with a bottle of arsenic. Usually, they'd go for an hour straight, an' he'd always pay her a compliment after – but not today.
"Yeah, you look presentable," she conceded. She didn't have the courage to tell him his entire wardrobe was about two decades out of date and could use a good dusting. "Who you so eager to see? The Queen?"
The Judge brushed her off. He opened the door.
The Beadle got up hastily. He'd been eavesdropping. Again.
Turpin curled his lip in disgust. "Take me to her," he commanded. "Take me to Nellie."
* * *
To me, the Judge isn't evil. A pervert yes, but he's still human. Same goes for Sweeney. Kinda messes with your head. o_O