"For God's sake, Holmes, I'm famished. Can't we take a rest from this wild goose chase and have some supper?" Watson complained wearily as he and his colleague strolled down the busy streets on the east side of London, around Fleet Street. The pair had been contacted by a young woman named Delilah Cunningham who claimed that her uncle, Richard Cunningham, had mysteriously disappeared. There were no leads or clues as to where this man was, why he had left his residence, or if he was still alive. Richard lived alone, retired, and rarely saw his niece, but when Delilah called on him about two weeks ago his home was empty.

Holmes had concluded, with little assistance from the police, that the home had been abandoned for at least a month due to the rotted food in the pantry and the gathering dust throughout the residence. Delilah was Richard's only living relative and friend, for he was grumpy most of the time and lived a rather secluded existence.

Despite the extreme lack of evidence on this case, Sherlock Holmes was bent on cracking it. The detective saw each case like a tree that needed to be cut down; some were older or more immense than others, and some were brittle and weak. Sherlock compared the evidence which he gathered to an axe that may either be sharp and sturdy, or blunt and ineffective. No matter how vast the tree was, or how useless the axe was, Sherlock Holmes was always determined to cut right through the center of the mystery.

With this particular case, Holmes and Watson had spent hours searching Richard Cunningham's small London home inside and out, emerging from the investigation with nothing substantial except exhaustion and frustration. Sherlock and his assistant were now examining the bustling streets around the missing man's abode, seeking strange behavior that might help to shed some light on the dim puzzle. The two detectives hadn't eaten all day, but that didn't bother Holmes. Watson, on the other hand, was growing rather impatient. After raising the subject of dinner for the third time, his partner finally said,

"Oh, why not. I suppose we could still examine the civilians as you stuff your face," Holmes said with a sarcastic smile.

Just as the pair rounded the corner, they found themselves next to a restaurant swarming with guests. Sherlock read the name aloud, "Mrs. Lovett's. A meat pie shop, how convenient..."

They seated themselves at a table outside, Holmes made sure to have a good view of both the street and the fellow customers. Soon, a woman arrived at the table to serve them, who Holmes knew was Mrs. Lovett—due to her posture and the lavish way she dressed—and he immediately began to analyze her in his mind. Mrs. Lovett's dark, sunken eyes and pale, drawn face indicated that she had experienced much grief, most likely lost her husband. Yet, her overdone appearance and constant adjusting of her dark, frizzy curls meant that she was still trying to impress someone. That someone was whoever was working upstairs as a barber, for the woman occasionally glanced at the closed door of the shop. Lastly, her forced smiles and painted-on innocence were definite indicators that she was trying to hide something from all of her guests and patrons...something dark and serious.

"Evenin', gentlemen. Can I fix yous up with a nice cup o' ale?" Mrs. Lovett said in a carefree manner.

"Yes. And a meat pie for myself," Watson replied, slightly surprised at her illiteracy.

"Sure thing, love." The baker replied. "Toby!" She called, pointing to the table at which Watson and Holmes sat.

"Right, mum!" A boy of only about 10 years old rushed over to the indicated table and poured ale into the empty cups already set there. Sherlock looked the boy over. He was definitely not the son of Mrs. Lovett. Toby's hands were bandaged, revealing that he had spent his early days in a workhouse. He was also very obedient and respectful towards his "mum", who had probably saved him from a much worse master.

"Excuse me, lad, but who works in the shop upstairs?" Holmes' eyes drifted up to the door of the barber's shop as he asked this.

The boy's smile slowly faded, "Oh. That's where Mista Todd works."

Toby turned his attention to another table and Holmes pondered his response. The lad clearly wasn't fond of this Todd fellow at all, which was more evidence that Mrs. Lovett had fallen for the barber, and Toby was displeased by this. But why was this boy being so protective? What was there to fear of this barber?

By now, Watson's meat pie had arrived, and Sherlock was intently observing his assistant devour it.

"Holmes, if you are so hungry, order a pie for yourself. Just please don't watch me like a starving lunatic." Watson said, probably annoyed at not only his partner's staring, but being kept from food all day because of the case.

The case. Holmes replayed Toby's facial expression at the mention of Mr. Todd again in his mind. The young boy seemed suspicious of the man, and his eyes were filled with dread. Things were starting to make sense after all. Now Sherlock Holmes found himself looking up at the entrance to the barber's shop, hoping to get a glimpse of Mr. Todd.

Mrs. Lovett strolled by again, checking up on all of her visitors to see that they were satisfied. Holmes took this opportunity to ask her something.

"Pardon me, madam, but I was curious as to what meat you use in your pies."

The baker smiled a bit uncomfortably at this, "Sorry, dearie, but it's a secret recipe, all to do with herbs. Been in my family fer years, it has."

Holmes once again had the feeling that she was concealing more than a simple family secret.

"In that case," he responded cleverly, "I'll have to have one of these 'world-famous' pies for myself."

The pie, when it arrived, tasted like nothing Holmes had sampled before in his life. It was delicious, but rather greasy. Every bite he took seemed to have a different flavor than the last. The color resembled that of beef or ham, but had an odd texture.

Sherlock soon took his attention away from evaluating his dinner when he took notice of a man climbing the steps to the door to Mr. Todd's. Sure enough, the barber stepped out onto the balcony to greet his guest. The detective suddenly knew why Toby stayed clear from this man. Mr. Todd had messy, back hair with a peculiar white streak running through the left side of it. His face was paler than Mrs. Lovett's, his features showing signs of great impatience and stress. The barber stepped slickly, and had a sly grin that reminded Sherlock of a cat about to pounce on a harmless rodent. Even from such a distance, Holmes saw Todd's eyes flicker with hidden pain, mischief, rage and even loneliness. What a curious, mysterious man...

"You're on to something. You have been asking strange questions and looking about all evening. What are you racking your brain about this time?" Watson inquired.

"I'm thinking," Holmes began, "That Mr. Cunningham was greatly in need of a shave when he disappeared..."