Chapter IV
October 25th, 1848
(Same day and night after which Abberline starts to investigate)
The moment Abberline stepped into the hectic interior of the Metropolitan Police Station he was approached by an impatient Godley who had been waiting a very long time for his return. A nearby church tolled the hour and informed those within reach the hour was forty-five minutes past six. Abberline had spent a longer time questioning the people of Fleet Street then he had anticipated. Though everything round him was noisy and made his temple throb, it was good to be back in familiar surroundings and with Godley after a long day.
To insure the crucial want of privacy and to keep inquisitive ears from overhearing their conversation, they retired to Abberline's office and once the door was, Godley said forthrightly, "Judging from your look, you learnt something from your questioning down on Fleet Street concerning our man Kindleston. Have you learnt anything? I've 'ad Sir Warren breathing down my neck and asking me where you've been all day. 'E said something about wanting to talk to you about this case."
As Godley talked, Abberline fished through his coat pockets for his silver cigarette case. When he didn't find it in his coat, he searched his person and internally groaned when he still couldn't locate it. In their haste that morning, Godley hadn't given Abberline enough time to collect all his things before yanking him to his feet and pulling him out of the opium den. He had left his cigarette case on the low table next to the spot where he had been lying down and inhaling that wonderful drug that allowed him to escape with the dragon.
Hopefully when he returned the following night the opium-master would have his silver cigarette case waiting for him. But the chances of having it returned were slim. Sighing, Abberline sank into his chair and enquired blandly, "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette on you Godley?"
Godley flushed red in anger, but instead of saying anything, he dug into his great coat pocket and tossed an entire box of cigarettes on Abberline's desk. Thanking him, Abberline placed a cigarette between his lips and inhaled deeply before talking.
"I'll see him before I leave and see what he wants." Abberline took another breath of smoke and exhaled.
"You've made some sort of discovery haven't you? What with your visions and all, I thought you'd already have some sort of lead on the murderer or kidnapper or how ever the hell you want to call the bloody bastard." Godley grumbled impatiently.
Abberline removed the cigarette from his lips, and stared at it with false interest. He twirled it around between his fingers before answering.
"From what little I gathered from the shop keepers, yes they did see a man of Kindleston's description walk pass their shop yesterday. But —" Abberline hissed, the cigarette burning his finger. He silently cursed and tossed it into the wastebasket, extinguished, and placed his searing finger in his mouth to ease the string.
Godley bit the interior of his fleshy cheek to keep from laughing at Abberline's small pain. Abberline glared, making Godley grow serious and ask professionally, "But what?"
"You enjoy seeing me in pain don't you Godley?" Abberline muttered irony laced delicately around each of his words. Godley smirked and replied, "You were saying Abberline?"
"—but the last two persons who saw Kindleston alive were Mrs. Lovett, the owner of Mrs. Lovett's Meat-pie Emporium, and a barber named Sweeney Todd who lives on the upper rooms above the pie shop. Apparently Kindleston first ate one of Mrs. Lovett's meat pies before deciding on a shave and went up to Mr. Todd's for his services. After that Mr. Todd says he left and that was the last they saw of him." Abberline said informatively with a soft sigh. He ran his hand through his hair and stared up at the ceiling for a moment before looking at the sergeant his friend.
Godley nodded his head, absorbing the information narrated to him, but questioning the coincidence like Abberline found himself questioning now. It seemed all too much to be Chance, but there was more to things and Abberline knew there was. He just had to find it.
"You don't buy what they told you, do you? For all we know 'e could be lying." Godley pointed out. Abberline smirked and looked at him, straightening up in his chair and rejoinder calmly, "I have no doubt whatsoever that they have lied to me. Now the only thing I have to do is find out what it is that is requiring them to use some much discretion."
He stood up from behind his messy deck, snatched his hat and coat from the rack and headed for the door. Godley frowned slightly as watched him and asked were he was going.
Abberline opened the door and replied, "First I'm going to report to Sir Warren and see what he wants. Then," Abberline paused, pensively, as if not sure where he was going after that. He had wanted to go down to the Ten Bells to have a small chat with Mary and see if she knew anything about the current affairs of the streets, but the urge to go poking about in the dark through dust covered documents suddenly popped into his head. The one thing he did know was that it was going to be a tedious night and he had no expectations of sleep. He was much too energetic to go to bed.
"Then what?" Godley asked, cutting into his thoughts like a butter knife.
"Then I'm heading down to Lambeth Palace Library to see some documents." Abberline closed the door and made his way down the hall and stood outside Sir Charles Warren's office. He knocked and entered when he was bid entrance.
"Sir," Abberline said nonchalantly as he took the seat his superintendent bade him to take. "You wished to see me?"
Sir Warren looked up momentarily from the important documents littering his desk and implied, "I did. Where have you been these last few hours Inspector?"
"I've been doing my job, sir." Abberline answered him unperturbedly.
At his answer, Sir Warren put down his writing utensil and directed his sharp eyes on Abberline, observing his tiredness and lack of sleep. It was a miracle the man was still alive and able to solve cases with the lifestyle he damned himself to. But he understood Abberline's pain. He laced his fingers together and repeated, "Your job?"
"Yes sir, my job." Abberline replied, his hands resting in his lap.
"Well then let me hear what discoveries you have made in the last six hours since you where last here." His superintendent inquired sternly. Abberline nodded his head, but could not understand why he was vexed with him.
"I have learned that Mr. Clyde Kindleston was indeed seen by the people of Fleet Street yesterday on Tuesday and was last seen by a barber named Sweeney Todd for a shave no doubt, which Mr. Todd can testify to." Abberline said calmly. He had opted to leave Mrs. Lovett out of his statement for the time being, since he believed it was Sweeney Todd who deserved to have the spot light first.
Sir Warren frowned, the barber's queer name sounding so alien to his old ear. Since the age of twenty-five, Charles Warren had in his course of working with the Metropolitan Police heard the most commonplace names to the most preposterous names that could ever be bestowed upon a person, but never had he heard the name Sweeney Todd before.
Abberline read his confusion and clarified coolly, "This is the first time we have ever heard mentioned of Mr. Todd, sir." Sir Warren inclined his head in understanding.
"A very queer name; and do you have any leads on Mr. Kindleston's whereabouts?" Sir Warren returned to the task of signing papers and allowing Abberline to speak. Any other person would have found the superintendent's lack of attention frustrating, but Abberline had long since grown accustom to addressing Sir Warren's bald head when he was hunched over and had his nose close to the document in front of him.
"With all do respect sir," Abberline began, slowly preparing for his superior's irked reaction, "I have reason to believe Mr. Kindleston is far from our reach. I believe he's dead, sir." As he had suspected, Sir Warren pushed his chair away and slammed the palm of his hands on his desk and pinned Abberline with a piercing look and all the while Abberline remained calm and reserved.
"Dead? And tell me Inspector Abberline, did you see Clyde Kindleston's death in one of those visions of yours you are so renowned for?" Sir Warren asked sarcastically.
Abberline looked up at him with a composed countenance and answered matter-of-factly, "I wouldn't know, sir since I was disturbed from my reveries before I could find out."
Slowly his superior lowered himself again into his chair and whilst staring at Abberline with a stern expression, said, "Tomorrow you will be paying a visit to the deceased man's Aunt in Portland Place; I expect you to be there at exactly eleven o' clock. You are to make sure you can find out anything and everything about Kindleston and the diamond." Sir Warren regarded Abberline with one more stern scrutiny before waving his hand and saying, "You are dismissed Inspector."
Abberline rose, inclined his head and left the superintendent to his paperwork and thoughts. Abberline closed the door and headed for the front door. He hadn't made up his decision how to wallow his night away, but the best and productive course for him to take was heading over to Lambeth Palace Library and browse through the archives and see what he could find. It was worth a shot and he really didn't have much to lose.
Abberline hugged his coat closure to him and set off towards the direction of the Library.
26th October, 1848
(Next morning after Abberline's visit to Fleet Street)
Awaking to the horrible discovery that roughly two hundred pies for just the firstpart of the day had perished over the exaggeration of one night would make any calm and optimistic person go insane and start to panic and think the worst. And Mrs. Lovett was the exact example of such a catastrophic episode.
She was expected to open up the shop at precisely eight o' clock for the first rush of customers, and she had an hour before opening to the public. From the moment Mr. Todd had been ushered into the shop by Toby and enquired what the matter was, right then and there she knew she would never be able to sell the pies in the putrid state they were in. Too much would be at stake if she committed such a folly.
For the next remainder of time before she opened her doors, she and Sweeney discussed (or rather argued) what they would do with the pies. Sweeney, being in a cross temper because he had been pulled away from his morning brooding, firmly declared that the best course of action for them to take was to sell the pies and if anything happened to the persons who ate the pies, they could always say it was something the devourers ate the day before. And it really was a good excuse considering the things the people of Fleet Street ate since everything was too expensive to buy.
Mrs. Lovett came close to yielding to his decision when she remembered that excuse wouldn't work as cleverly as they wished it to. They had to keep in mind that all type of people came to taste her delectable meat pies. From rich to poor, from lawyers, bankers and judges (with the exception of one dastard in mind) to the poorest trade's man who worked off the labors his hands conducted came to have a nibbled of the meat pies.
A man of wealth and social standing would sue them for everything they had, which wasn't much, but Mrs. Lovett wasn't too keen on the idea of losing her shop and Sweeney…the only thing of value he had was his razors. And it's clear he wouldn't part with them easily. A few throats would be slit before anyone was about to pry them from his dexterous hands; and even then he would fight for what was his.
God knew he had lost so much during the fifteen years that had been stolen from him and nothing and no one would make him live through that again. His razors may have been inanimate objects of finely crafted silver, but they held a vehement connexion to his past and the memory of happier times when he was with Lucy and Johanna.
When that fist suggestion was rebuked, they considered other methods that might work. Simple yet affective were Mrs. Lovett's exact words. Sweeney paced as Mrs. Lovett sat in the booth, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her index finger. After a few minutes of deep thinking, Mrs. Lovett clapped her hands and advocated the idea of making some highly efficient amendments to the meat pies so they could be sold. Sweeney regarded her with a dubious look before asking what she had in mind. She said something about adding herbs and adding pinches of pepper to hide the taste and smell.
As an answer, the barber looked away and shook his head, declaring her idea inane and much too time consuming and preposterous.
"It's best just to throw the pies away and make a new batch to save yourself all the hassle of adding things merely to hide a hideous stench that cannot go undetected by even the most dull smelling nose in London. You should know Mrs. Lovett, considering your husband was a butcher that the stench of decaying flesh is near impossible to hide." Sweeney reminded her apathetically, though his statement sounded like a reproach.
With another proposal discarded and labeled futile, more minutes passed between them before either spoke. As if a bolt of lightening had struck her and enlightened her, Mrs. Lovett stood up and exclaimed triumphantly with a large smile, "Well, wot if we keep the bad pies downstairs and at the end of the day we'll throw 'em into the oven and that'll be the end to all our worries, love."
It seemed like the best course they could take. Even if it was a little…obvious.
Outside the St. Dustan clock chimed the hour to be thirty-five before eight. Sweeney pensively reflected over her scheme. It was a very good idea, practical and affective as it should be. He a small nod of his head and muttered, "Fine. That is what we'll do. Just keep the boy out of the bake house."
Mrs. Lovett's smile grew broader and Sweeney wondered if the corner of her lips would rent. She'd managed to please him which was hard to do and her heart was filled to the brim of joviality and accomplishment.
Toby had been bid to wait outside as the two talked and settled matters. Before she called him in, Mrs. Lovett grabbed one of the trays on the counter and tried to open the heavy steel door which led downstairs into the bake house. Sweeney watched her for a second before giving a forlorn sigh and firmly pushing her aside. He opened the latch and stepped out of her way so she could go down.
Her cheeks were painted with the faintest tint of red as his hand accidentally brushed against hers. He pulled back quickly when he saw the colour on her face and allowed her passage to do her duty. As she went about her own work, Sweeney knew he should return to do his own.
Right when he was going to leave her shop, he thought about taking the other tray down to the bake house to make things more manageable for her. He hesitated momentarily before he picked it up and trotted down the stairs and placed them on the table next to its twin. Sweeney didn't say a word to her as he quickly left Mrs. Lovett by the furnace where she stood with the door ajar, the light of the fire making her pale skin glow sublimely.
Mrs. Lovett was going to call after him and ask if something else. But he was already gone. She sighed and followed suit up the stairs back to her kitchen and prepare the dough for pies. She would need Toby's help to make things go faster.
When the side door to the pie shop opened, Toby gave a start and looked up from his seat on the first step of the stairs leading up to the shop above to find Sweeney standing in front of him with a cold demeanor.
Sweeney hadn't seen Toby until he was about to mount the stairs back to his shop and wait for customers. Sweeney stared at him and stopped on the first step where Toby sat and warned grimly, "Don't go into the pie shop until Mrs. Lovett calls you in. Understand boy?" He narrowed his eyes, as if silently daring Toby to defy him.
Knowing better then to go against his word, especially when Toby saw how dangerously close Sweeney had his hand by his razor, he vigorously nodded his head and answered stiffly, "Yes sir. I'll wait until she calls for me."
"Good." The barber returned and took the steps two at a time before he stepped into his shop and closed the door behind him. Toby watched him as he went until he disappeared inside. Toby couldn't deny the fact that he was afraid of Sweeney. What with his hollow eyes and aloofness and always seeking the comfort of being alone and not disturbed by anyone. There was just something about Sweeney that Toby didn't trust. It was silly to think about it, yet he couldn't help but think it.
Toby placed his chin on his hand and waited to be called in by his mum to help her. He didn't have to wait long. Mrs. Lovett opened the side door and smiled at him and told him he could come inside and help her get the pies ready. Toby did as he was told most willingly. Whatever his mum asked him to do he would do it for her because he loved Mrs. Lovett and considered her like a mother.
As he waited for someone to show up—namely the Beadle since he had promised to come for a shave, Sweeney stropped each of his razors until they were as sharp and as perfect as the day he had bought them. He gave them each in turn a tender polish, almost an affectionate caress, and set them back into their case, leaving only two in his possession. He closed the lid and heard the whistling of the tea pot. He had forgotten all about his tea from the morning in his rush.
Sweeney walked to the small stove and removed the pot. He set it aside when the handle broke and dropped to the floor, the searing water splashing over his boots and spreading outwards. Fortunately his boots had saved his feet from being burnt and he was thankful for that. The least he wanted to be was a crippled barber.
With a silent growl, he snatched a cloth that was hanging idly from the armrest of his chair and began cleaning up the slip, conscious that the water was still hot. Once the mess was cleaned up, he tossed the cloth with the rest of his laundry that had yet to be cleaned. The dented tea pot still lay on its side, like some useless part of machinery. Sweeney picked it up and placed it back on the stove and retired to his chair.
The barber ran a hand through his tangled locks and rubbed his temple, feeling the nuisance of a headache coming to hector him. This whole business with the meat pies spoiling wouldn't exit his mind as smoothly as he wanted it. He still couldn't comprehend who so much had spoiled in so little time. The bake house was normally cold and damp and a few degrees colder during the nights which insured that the meat would stay well-preserved and fresh. How then could he or anyone explain an extraordinary event like this?
Sweeney closed his eyes with his head against his chair and meditated for what felt like hours. No one came in and he was vaguely aware of that. He felt tired but he knew he had to stay awake and hurry up and slit someone's throat so Mrs. Lovett could have someone to use for supplies. Everything started to lose its clarity as the room spun and against his will, Sweeney fell asleep.
While his eyes closed and his body immobile in his chair with a forlorn countenance, he was at the mercy of his own mind and conscience. It wasn't guilt that triggered the nightmares, it was something else entirely. Whatever had unleashed them, it happened and he was rendered helpless.
He was reliving his days as Benjamin Barker when he had Lucy and Johanna. But that soon gave way to the day when Turpin laid eyes on her and he had been arrested. His fifteen years of exile came sweeping through his mind until it all froze and he found himself recalling the day when more misfortunate sauntered into his shop. He had slit Kindleston's throat cleanly and swiftly and had sent him down the chute without a second thought.
As its' owner slid downwards into the abyss below, the diamond had saved itself and clattered to the floor, catching Sweeney's attention and dooming him from the moment he laid eyes on its red glossy surface. In his dream, Sweeney could see himself cleaning the diamond and revealing a stunning yellow facade that captivated him. But truth be told, he found it more beautiful when it was coated in blood.
And that's what he saw again. After cleaning it, crimson soon afterwards covered the precious diamond as if he had never touch it. Sweeney frowned and again rubbed it with the cloth, but the red would not disperse. Shortly the red started to overflow and drip to the floor and pooled at his feet. He took a step back and wanted to drop the diamond, but discovered he was the source of the undying flow of blood that satisfied the diamond's thirst for blood. He was now linked to the brilliant and he couldn't dislodge from it. He was stuck. And he couldn't severe his imprisonment to it.
He had at his command at least his left hand. The first thing his mind told him to reach for was his razor. With little effort he hand his hand around the hilt of it and yanked it out from his belt. All that proceeded from the razor being freed passed in a blur.
At the sound of hearing something drop, Sweeney snapped open his dark eyes and looked wildly around him, liberated from the dream he had drifted into. His hands gripped the armrest of his chair and he hissed bitterly when he felt a ferocious pang of pain coming from his hand.
He unclenched his hands and brought them before him. His left hand was bleeding profusely from the palm while his right hand was only covered in blood. Sweeney held his hand and stood up and went to his vanity to pour some water from the pitcher into the bowl to clean the wound. As he stood, his foot kicked something and whatever it was, it clanked against the wall.
Frowning, Sweeney knelt down and found it was his razor he had kicked; the blade and handle both saturated with his blood. Just like his dream, only the thing that had been painted with his blood was the diamond not his razor.
A/N: I changed things but I don't think I've managed to make things more entertaining. Sweeney's dream is stupid and unclear, I know. Everyone's out-of-character. And my grammer's bad. But things will...get better. Thanks to anyone who actually is reading this.