~The Greater Good~
For the benefit of the greater good, a Judge must necessarily be a hardened man.
He must overlook trifles such as broken limbs, snapped necks, bulging eyes and bones poking through flesh. He was so used to the sight of blood on the bodies of thieves, braggarts and criminals, that it ushered in him no ill feelings at all.
Mrs Lovett's taunts had driven him from the house and onto the streets of London. What else was there to do, but observe the latest hanging?
He imagined the bloody spots that dripped from the man's nose were nothing more than wine, or muddied water. When the eyes rolled back in the head and the neck pooled red with blood, Turpin gave a small nod and smile to the crowd, and moved on.
Fate could have dished him out the life of a poor, malign beggar, but it had not. Fortune smiled on him again. He was no longer troubled by weeping, unresponsive blondes, and now had the elusive Eleanor Lovett to contend with instead. He did not want to admit it to the Beadle, but the woman had stirred the nerves in him. She was fast regaining her health, as well as her spirits. Sweeney Todd's former lover had far more of the witch in her than angel.
He could, of course, satisfy his urge the easy way: unlock her door in the middle of the night, lay down beside her in the bed, and silence her screams with his hand. Lucy would not have let him have her any other way, and Johanna would had to have been sedated or knocked unconscious before he could attempt it – but the baker, he sensed, was different. If he could only persuade her he was sincere, then perhaps…
"He deserved it, didn't 'e Lord Turpin!" yelled a toothless washer-woman from the crowd.
"What man has not," said the Judge with a smile.
He was no longer interested in the lifeless body hanging below the scaffold. The hanging had improved his mood. It bothered him so little he was able to stop by the florist's on the way home and purchase a bouquet of violets. Somehoew he knew violet was her favourite colour.
The little he knew of Eleanor Lovett was enough to convince him she would fall. Her dress, her manner of speech, the way her devious eyes invited him in; all of that had to be considered. Mrs Mooney had been more than helpful. According to her, Eleanor had been widowed these past five years, and her business (as well as her looks) had gone downhill ever since. She was an incurable flirt, and in the last eight months before the demon barber's arrival, Mrs Lovett had been seen cavorting on several occasions with strange men in the late hours of the night. It was rumoured that while her pie emporium was almost run into the ground, the baker's night business was thriving. And then that vicious pale-faced devil of a man turned up at her shop, and since then the pair could not be parted. Everyone knew that Nellie Lovett had more than a healthy fancy for barbers, and until Mr Todd went mad and tried to burn her in the oven the whole of Fleet Street assumed she was going to give birth to the bastard son of a barber…
Yes, Turpin knew enough of her circumstances to know how to handle her.
His good mood lasted until he crossed the threshold and found the woman of his dreams with her head near-slumped in a bowl of cherries and the back of her dress soaked in blood.
"Come with me, Beadle" he said as even-toned as his voice would allow.
The Beadle lowered the switch. The greasy man had his back slightly to the Judge, one hand gripping the baker's shoulder.
There were days when the man of the law no longer felt like the man of the law, but rather more like a dusty old man with only a library of perverted books and a perverted henchman for company. And he would not be far wrong.
"Mary! Eliza! Help her!" It sounded odd to hear such concern issue from his own lips.
The maids bolted downstairs, and gasped on seeing the insensible woman.
He heard her moan something, but Turpin could not look at her then. The sight of her crumpled form reminded him too much of what he had done to Lucy on that night of consumptive lust.
After he had finished with the barber's wife, he had no longer heard her plaintive cries. In fact, the last he'd seen of Lucy Barker alive was on that very masquerade floor, her white dress swept before her like a broken fan. It was not a proud moment of his – but he could not undo it, no, he would not have undone it.
* * *
"My lord," began the beadle with a grin the colour of sandpaper, "I strived only to follow your orders."
They were in Judge Turpin's waiting room – a dull affair filled with stiff-backed seats, brown cushions and black floorboards.
"By beating my mistress to a pulp?" The Judge trained one steely eye on the stocky man. The other half glanced back into the living room where the blood stains all too clearly delineated a pattern on the floor. "Speak rashly, and I may be forced to adjust your tongue."
"Pardon – if you please, my lord," the Beadle paused to snort a generous helping of white powder up his nose, "she's only – your mistress, once you've slept –"
"Enough."
Normally, a one-word command was enough to silence a man as cowardly as the Beadle. This time, however, Bamford knew he was being short-changed.
"The tart deserved it, lord! She flattened my head with her damn rolling pin."
"No doubt the woman had good reason. She served the barber all those months. Her loyalty earns her credit."
"Bearing in mind, my lord, with all due respect, that her goal was to end your life. Forgive me my boldness, my lord, but what makes you certain the minx won't try something – ahem – like that again?"
"Eleanor Lovett is wheel-chair bound. What possible grief could she cause?"
"She's already brought you great grief, my lord. You've abandoned your nights. You are never out anymore. People are beginning to question your reputation."
"You forget, Beadle," said the Judge coldly, "that we are not companions. I pay you to use your judgement – now acquire some."
"Very good sir. All is forgiven then?" the Beadle rubbed his nostrils hopefully.
"You have deeply disappointed me Beadle. The wound you have inflicted me…you are to remain in that corner. Whilst I consider your future."
* * *
Not all of Judge Turpin's house was turmoil and torment.
Somewhere in the west wing of the topmost floor was a pleasant sun-room with pale pink and yellow wallpaper.
On spring afternoons it caught the afternoon sun and lit up the drab carpets and shelves so splendidly that it seemed as if darkness would never come again.
"As if you could bottle the sun in a jar," sighed Nellie, when at last the Judge arrived and delivered her a curt nod.
Turpin would not have gone into that sunroom, had it not been for the baker. He had designed it especially for Johanna, but the child had not taken to sitting for long hours by the window while he read to her, and eventually it was shut up for good.
"It is a charming room, is it not?"
Nellie bestowed him a brief smile, and it was enough to transform not only his mood, but the room itself. Charming was not a word she had expected the Judge to use.
The maid had set a tray of tea and biscuits by a round little table, and was pouring the steaming liquid steadily into two cups as they spoke.
"Leave us," the Turpin said.
The maid bobbed a curtsey, and disappeared.
The Judge and baker eyed each other carefully.
"I have spoken to him. He will be dealt with."
She was out of harm's way, at least. Pale, drained, despondent. But nod dead. A book lay open in her lap, the servant's had bathed and dressed her in a navy gown, and her new-grown locks of hair were brushed softly around her face. For a moment, her pensive gaze, the way her neck and profile turned in brief contemplation of the setting sun – Eleanor Lovett reminded him of Lucy by the window, or Johanna in her sitting chair. But then the eyes were on him once more, and there was nothing placid about Sweeney's former accomplice.
"Will you talk?" It unnerved him, that not a tear, nor even a frown crossed her face.
"I've nothin' to say."
He joined her by the window, hands clasped behind his bask.
"I find that difficult to believe. Mrs Mooney tells me you are not one to be lost for words."
Her expression grew considerably cooler. "Wot other tidbits did you 'appen ter pick up?"
Turpin did not allow himself to look at her. He might stare too long. His hands might betray him. Caress the stray hair beneath her ear.
"No man is above the law," he remarked casually, tapping at the fly that clung to the outside of the glass. Below, the streets were suffused with the slight fire-tinge of sun and stained puddles, shop fronts and the gleaming locks of women's hair, rich or widowed, poor or wed. "How would you have me deal with him?"
She laid the book aside, and motioned for him to take the seat opposite her. She was not long in answering. "Mr Fogg 'as a charmin' little asylum – you know it well enough, I shouldn't wonder. He's a great specialiser in wigs, 'e is."
The Judge sat stone-faced in the velvet chair, now forced to look at her. "I do not take your meaning."
"The Beadle bein' a proud possessor of such fine blond tresses an' all," Mrs Lovett said in between sips of her tea.
Her eyes held his, still and owl-like. Yet he was not entirely fooled – her hands shook holding the saucer.
He took it from her just as it began to slop into her lap. "Save removing his manhood, madam, such a punishment would deprive him of all that he holds dear – with the exception of his life."
She frowned. "Then you really mean it? You'll 'ave 'im punished?"
"I do not say anything that I do not mean," he said with an upraised brow.
"Why did you stop 'im? Hittin' me, that is."
For a good while, there lay nothing but sun and silence between him.
It was clear she was not jesting. He looked at her sharply. "Even I have my standards, my dear," he replied
This seemed to satisfy her. She spread her hands imperiously on the arm-rests of the chair. "Well then, thank you Lord S."
He continued to watch her, his tea untouched. At last her eyes grew heavy and drooped into restless sleep. Her fingers dug into the chair.
It was not hard to guess who she was dreaming of. Was it always to be this way? Was he always to run second best to a barber?
* * *
"Sweetie! Sweetie!"
She clung to his arm and whined in his ear.
"Not now."
The barber left the beggar woman leashed to the lamp-post, while he ducked under cover of darkness into the dreary shop.
Could he go through with it? The first step would be the hardest, and after that... There was no going back, he decided. He was doing it for the greater good.
"How much for the ring?"
"Not much." The hawker eyed him suspiciously. He immediately disliked any man who came into his shop sporting an oversized hat and upturned collar. Experience had taught him it was deadly dangerous if you couldn't see their eyes.
"It is worth a great deal sir. I beg you reconsider."
"This is a pawn-shop, not a charity. Sell it us, or nick off!"
The man's hand hovered between the counter top and his pocket. For a brief moment it looked as if he had some gleaming weapon concealed there…
"Take it." The man snatched the bills and coins up, and fled the shop.
The hawker held the ring up to the light. Benjamin and Lucy Barker, forever tied, ran the inscription.
A chill grew upon him. He couldn't count the number of wedding rings he'd sold and melted down.
When at last he set the ring on the counter and turned to the window, the beggar woman was gone.
* * *
Bet you thought I forgot all about Sweeney...=D