Chapter 16
16
Sweeney
T he Beadle runs his chubby fingertips over the back of my chair and raises them to his nose, rubbing them together. “Is this chair freshly oiled, sir? It smells handsomely of cloves.”
That’s because it took a bracing aroma to suppress the stench of brine and waste that had steeped into the young woman’s leather, Beadle Higgins. So don’t breathe too fucking deep.
“Your observation skills are fascinating, Beadle.” I drape a towel over my arm. “Take a seat, and let’s see if I can’t gild the lily here.”
The Beadle settles in the seat, and I smile as the ratchet glides beneath my foot, bringing the man to just the right height.
He has a good maid; the stays in his collar are starched just so, but too tall, and they dig into his gingery whiskered cheeks.
He is a man of wealth but not style, and I’m struck by how unclean he is up close; as he removes his hat, I notice black specks in the parting of his hair as though someone topped him with a grind of pepper.
“A shave first,” I say. “I think a smooth cheek is a good foil for a haircut. Gives a better sense of the profile.”
“You’re good.” He closes his eyes as I soak a cloth, pressing it to his face. “I appreciate this kind of patter. Tells me you’re a cut above, as it were.”
“You’re too kind.”
I swipe my new boar brush through the soap and apply it to the Beadle’s chin, catching the lather with my towel so as not to leave splodges on his waistcoat. “I aspire to offer the finest tonsorial services to the finest people, and it’s truly my honor to have you in my chair.”
We fall silent, and I open my blade, swiping it firmly over the leather strap that hangs from my mirror. Each pass sharpens it a fraction more until it’s keen enough to shear through every hair, from wiry beard to the lightest fuzz.
The Beadle simply waits, almost supine below me, his trust appallingly easy to earn.
One swing. One swing of my arm, just like before, and this pious hypocrite would drain like a pig, painting my drab room in vibrant shades of vengeance.
What then ? I still don’t know why I didn’t hang last time, except the colonies were in fashion.
I’d be dragged before the court again, and this time, I’d swing more than my arm. My guts would drop out of my arse, and I’d finally meet God’s ire, far too late and long deserved.
My poor Johanna. And Nellie, too, wretch though she is.
I must see it through.
The razor carves a neat path through the white foam on the Beadle’s chin, like a plow in the snow. The bristle disappears under my hand, and I rinse the blade with each pass until the jowly jawline is brought up to a soft, pinkish sheen.
“That feels marvelous, Mr. Todd.” The Beadle takes my offered warm towel and wipes his face. “Not so much as a burn, let alone a cut.”
“I’m glad, sir. Tell me, do you think you will see fit to recommend me?”
He nods. “Emphatically. In fact, I have something of a fancy in mind. Do you care to attend a function with me this evening? I am a member of a society, and we meet monthly. It falls to me for tonight’s sojourn to bring some curio or entertainment for the amusement of my fellows, and I think your uncommonly good barbering skills might be just the ticket.”
How hard up are these cunts for entertainment? I can shave a man’s face quickly and expertly, that’s all.
I’m tempted to drop a barbed retort before realizing it’s perfect. Fucking perfect .
Toffs and climbers, drinking and gossiping. I’ll be able to find someone who can tell me about Johanna, or if not her, at least illuminate a way to dig out the workhouse’s secrets. I need only one loose tongue to point the way.
“That sounds enchanting, Beadle.” I pick up the basin of water. “I will avail you of a wash and trim while we make a plan. I did have a question, as it happens.”
He opens one eye. “Indeed?”
“A matter of interest and nothing more. Do you have much to do with the workhouses these days? I know of rumors; people who vanished into them but never emerged dead or alive.”
“Many die on the treadmill, Mr. Todd.” The Beadle sighs as I rinse his hair over the bowl. “It’s the natural order. Although I can tell you, people are a commodity like any other, to some, that is. Stock. Assets. Things to be bought and sold, and the possessor has power of God over the owned.”
“So if someone went into the workhouse—a child, perchance—where might they end up?”
“A pauper’s grave, factory, midden, the river, or even a wealthy man’s bedchamber. Terrible things happen, you know.”
I comb his hair, flipping it between my fingers as I cut. The Beadle Higgins knows more; I feel it hanging between us.
He may trust me with his personal grooming, but it’s his grooming of innocence that he’s keeping under wraps. I may have ended lives, but I did it in hot blood, with some conviction, and I paid dearly. I don’t know if that makes me better, but it’s different, and that’s enough.
I will unpeel him. God, I want to. I want to flay off his layers until his nasty ways leak from every inch of him, no longer hidden under his patrician demeanor.
He’s for the fucking chop, one way or another, but not now. Not today.
I allow the tension to ebb, and as I finish the haircut, I massage the hated scalp, imagining cracking his skull between the heels of my hands.
“What time would you have me attend you this evening?” I ask.
The Beadle sits up and reaches into his vest pocket, extracting a small change purse.
“Take this for your good work, plus extra for a carriage. I will be at The Regent for eight p.m. Present yourself and ask to be shown to the Green Room.”
“As you say.” I pocket the cash. “Until then, Beadle, and many thanks. Oh, a moment.”
I retreat to the shelf and grab a vial, twisting off the cap. I splash the liquid into my palms and apply it to the man’s cheeks, making him hiss through his teeth.
“Sharp on my face, that.” He wrinkles his nose. “What is it?”
“A potent blend of my own invention.” I raise an eyebrow. “Meant only for a potent man. You understand, I’m sure.”
He pulls a deep breath through his nose. “Quite so. How intriguing. I’m sure the lady-folk will be piqued by it.”
“That’s the aim, sir,” I say, giving him a conspirational smirk. “Keep ‘em guessing.”
He claps me on the shoulder as he stands. “I shall see you later, my friend. Clean up well, bring your razors, and don’t make me wait.”
“Never.”
His feet are heavy on the stairs. I return to the shelf and pick up the tiny bottle again. It contains spit, piss, and, for a touch of class, the flower of violets. I replace the cap with a smile and take a minute to tidy up before I go down.
Nellie will want to come tonight, but she is not invited. I didn’t think to ask.
It’s only now I remember she even exists, pottering amongst her dishes and pastry, a pantomime of industry. She won’t be happy—after I ruined her last night, she is more skittish than ever, knowing I’m torn inside as though there are steel hooks in my ribs pulling me asunder.
Her interference is neither wanted not to be tolerated, but still my arm aches where I carved her letters into my living skin. Inside me, Johanna’s name burns in my heart, where Nellie cannot reach.
Marianne has got me thinking; maybe a woman is the key. Some society wife with a taste for a bit of rough, plus too much knowledge of what influential men do for fun.
If it weren’t for Nellie’s murderous impulsivity, I may have been able to get some information already and not be forced to perform like a monkey for people I despise. She will not be afforded an opportunity to impede me again.
This is not her party or the Beadle’s.
It’s mine .