The Undertaker raised his head at the sound of the bell of his shop's front door swinging from its hook, grinning as he watched the familiar figure enter and then seal off the outside world's light, as well as the noise from the bustle of London's denizens returning home from work, behind her. His fiendish anticipation of her arrival hadn't been fatuous: As expected, she had come straight to him—if a little later in the day than he might've preferred.
Upon closer inspection of the basket dangling upon her forearm he found it reasonable to believe she might've been delaying her visit just to spite him, as she had apparently taken the time to do a bit of shopping beforehand. Potatoes, peas, onions, bread, and a few other odds and ends to get her through the week were contained within, but the bulk of her load seemed to be bushels of watercress. The green was a cheap and easy-to-purchase food for many—sometimes the sellers roaming the streets found themselves losing a profit due to its excess and market value—but it was a little late for its season and by winter most would turn their noses at the mere thought of buying it.
"Are you intending to freeze your belly when the frost arrives?" he giggled, finishing the note he had been writing on the sheet in front of him and then placing his dip pen adjacent to it. He propped his elbows against the flat surface of the coffin that served as his desk, his chin coming to rest upon interlaced fingers.
"Almost every store was closing, I'd yet to finish my errands, and one of those flower girls still had quite a lot of watercress to sell," Nicole bit back, adjusting the handle of the basket so that it rested upon the crook of her arm. "I'd like to think we both made profit from the exchange." Stepping nearer until she stood just at the opposite side of the substituted desk, she added, "I had to rush through the market thanks to your insisting I come here as it is. I haven't even been home yet, and the only things I've had to eat and drink today were a plum duff and a cup of saloop from two of the street vendors."
As he examined the basket's contents further, he wondered if she hadn't purchased nearly all that remained of the waif's produce. He couldn't see her manipulating a child into selling the bushels for less than their worth—in fact, from what he had learned of her nature, it appeared that she had a sort of weakness when it came to children. He imagined more so that her heart had stepped before reason, but he also assumed it had only been a small price to pay with little to no consequence on her behalf considering what couldn't be eaten soon could be preserved and that she was still likely doing well for herself after her most recent job.
"Do you ever wonder if the children you care so much to protect now," he began to provoke, flashing a mischievous grin, "might grow to be the men and women whose lives you'll end? Do you think about which ones you're going to kill someday?" His fingers drummed idly upon the wood of his desk. "Or perhaps you wonder ever more if the orphans put to the streets are ones of your making. Is that what jostles you into such acts of compassion?"
Having prodded a sensitive nerve, he could almost feel the heat of her ire scorching from her silent glare. A laugh bubbled in his throat at her response, but he supposed that riling the young woman's temper so early in the game would only result in disappointment.
"Sorry, love," he attempted to coo over his own tittering. He rose from his seat and made a small, yielding gesture. "I really did mean for us two to have a pleasant talk. Why don't you have a seat while I prepare some tea? These nights have been getting a little too crisp lately: A cup might do you good."
"No," she answered in a curt, flat tone.
"You complained that you were half-starved just a moment ago," he retorted, already stepping out from behind his desk to enter the adjacent room, "Do you have much of a reason to decline my show of hospitality? I promise that I've washed my beakers if that's your concern: There shouldn't be a trace of embalming fluid left in them." The mortician knew she was only acting for stubborness' sake alone: His assurance of the fact was just another means of teasing her.
"I'll cook something once I get home."
"That's fine, but some tea and maybe a few biscuits could tide you over until then. You're free to have one or two, though I'd have to give you fair warning—they might be a bit stale. You hid my urn better than I thought you would: It took some time for me to find it."
The faint—though resisted—upward tug of her lips and a glimmer of mischievous satisfaction was all he needed to know she'd stay long enough for him to return. He had thrown her a new game piece, after all—even if she didn't know it was intentional—and, like a child, she would use it again and again as long as she assumed it aided her in victory. She made it all too obvious how badly she wanted to frustrate him as much as he frustrated her: Now she thought she had something that did. In truth, however, it was nothing more than another tactic of his to keep her on the game board. He wondered how long it would take before she realized how useless the piece actually was, or else grow bored with it herself.
When he reentered the parlor, he found her sitting atop a coffin constructed of English Walnut with her gaze turned to the front door to watch the silhouettes of passerby through its glass window. Her hair was pulled to one side and she combed her fingers through it idly, thinking whatever peculiar thoughts appeared in the head of a woman like her. She looked almost peaceful. The Undertaker stood quietly in the doorframe, watching on in silence with no desire to interrupt her for a brief moment. It tickled him to fancy the things he might decipher from a peak inside her mind. If he felt any sense of loss when the day came for her to die, at least he might dissect some further amusement from her Cinematic Record.
"You're being awfully patient," he finally chimed, a soft chuckle leaving him as he watched her flinch at the sudden break in her thoughts, or rather at the sudden realization that she was no longer alone in the room. He gave her one of the beakers of tea before sitting on the coffin opposite of her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "It seems so contradictory, given your temper."
"Only where you're involved, Undertaker," she glowered, raising the beaker to her mouth with both hands and taking a tentative sip.
Casting a glance to the side without turning his head, he found the substitute biscuit jar already missing. He hid his mouth from view with the sleeve of his robes to prevent her from seeing the Cheshire smile he couldn't contain. Yes, strange as it was for someone so resolved and fiercely independent, she was still much like a child. It was a bit of an enigma, and it was one of things that tickled his interest most: It brought to question how she lasted so long in such a dangerous profession and how she found herself in it in the first place.
"I assume you won't be heading off on anymore business trips for a while," he mused, steeping his tea bag in thought. "However, if you are planning on leaving London again sometime soon, do let me know in case I have to have your body sent back."
Grimacing over the rim of the glass, she replied, "No; unless some matter that I can't ignore beckons me away, I intend to remain in London. Though I fail to see why it's any concern of yours…"
"Would you rather whatever remains of you be tossed unsympathetically in an unmarked grave in some unknown place? And that's if no one decides to find some other use of your corpse first." Though from what he had gathered, it didn't seem as though she had any family within London who would mourn for her—only a few neighbors and church-fellows who would likely shrug at her absence. He wasn't certain that she even had a family to speak of. Her seclusion would make her a decent subject for his experiments as none would look for her either. Perhaps…
"Whoever is set with the task can toss my body into the Thames for all I care," was her succinct answer as her head tilted downwards, averting his own gaze as she looked upon the tile at her feet with an intense stare. "I only feel sorry for the fellow who may find it next if it washes ashore. Once I'm gone, I can't imagine caring otherwise."
He giggled with wicked delight, "Such dark visions for a woman still quite young. You may find yourself regretting them with the end does come." The warm liquid soothed his throat as he drained his own beaker of some of its contents. "Too often the dead leave the messy affair of handling the shells they leave behind to the living without so much as a word of what to do with them, but then I suppose if they didn't I would find my work less entertaining than it is."
"A positive view for such a forlorn subject," Nicole countered.
He heard the insect before seeing a black speck dart right in front of him as it soared to his acquaintance, rounded her form—much to her displeasure—and eventually found itself trapped in the binding threads of a spider's web. Though it had flown too far from his sight to see the event he could hear what had become the unmistakable, twitching resonance of its wings as it fought to escape. He imagined that the predator would soon—if having not already acted—spring upon its hapless prey.
The Undertaker turned his head in the direction of the sound, a taunt bubbling from his lips, "I must admit that sometimes I see you no better than the common fly, clinging to the walls of East End's filth-ridden alleys if not flittering about where you shouldn't." He felt the heat of her vexation before her eyes rose to follow his line of vision. "You should know that flies never live for long: Sooner or later you may even find yourself caught within a greater beast's snare, just like that little one." Slowly, the faint noise of the insect fell mute, as though sealing his words of warning with an ideogram.
A brief second of hesitation followed before she voiced her rebuttal, "Do you think I would've chosen my course if I had the means for such concerns? If preserving my life meant abandoning those I've fought for and protected all this time, then death would be the least of my grievances." She spoke like the heroine of some fantasy novel, at which he couldn't disguise his mirth, yet beneath it lay honest belief. Idealistic delusions of a dreamer touched with the quiet awareness that she did not want to die—even when speaking words of nonchalance. Her awareness of such a simple fact meant much: That her end would not be met with numb and foolish apathy any more than it would be with tears. Still, she had yet to face a situation in which the end was guaranteed. Only that day would test her harshest. He wondered if she would be able to maintain such a role only devoted to romanticized works of fiction. What pretty lies she told herself half-believing.
"And let's not forget that flies also swarm over the carcasses of the fallen," she continued in direct insult—not that he anticipated less. "That would make you no better."
"Maybe not," he shrugged instead of rising to her challenge, "Though that does bring up another matter. My guess is you've now enough to support yourself for some while—else your first concern wouldn't have been grocery shopping." He knew of her paid jobs as much as he did her usual work, which had added to the woman's vexation upon its discovery some time ago. "It might be sensible if you were to put away your blade for a week or so."
"I won't," she answered with readied scorn. She watched him expectantly; mouth curling into snarl, knowing what was wanted of her. As part of their acquaintanceship, or what went more so as compensation for his silence, he had requested that she alert inform him of any killings on her part as well as the whereabouts of the bodies. As far as he let her know, it was only for the sakes of entertainment and of retrieving them before they could be claimed by decomposition, festering before he could put them back together. Often the police or some other misfortunate chap did the work of transporting them here, but there were occasions corpses were found only after they had been the feast of maggots and were beyond recognition. Even if she revealed her murders to him though, it bore some mutual benefit: Any small piece of evidence given by the body could be destroyed if he were to have it before the Yard.
"You'll prowl the streets without rest? A bit reckless of you isn't it?" he chortled, "But then London's proven less interesting in your absence. My usual guests aren't nearly as amusing company as the ones you send me."
"Maybe it will be a quiet night," she murmured. It was nothing more than an empty jest: Both knew such didn't exist in a place where malevolence and corruption flourished daily. Yet the paragon would continue to push against it until either her mind or body shattered from her efforts. Which of them, he wondered, would break first?
After a full day of pondering whatever her commission had been in Maidstone, the Undertaker was eager to hear the details he had been denied when last seeing her. Therefore, he tasked himself with pressuring her for the information until their evening had come to an end. And when she left, whether or not she lived or died, only one thing was certain: He needed to prepare a coffin.