A Finger in Every Pie

 Lydia frowned as the bells of St Dunstan chimed two o’ clock. She had not seen Edmund for almost three hours.
   ‘Don’t worry, Miss’, said Nettie, perceiving her mistress’s discomfort. ‘He’ll turn up soon enough, you’ll see.’
   It was a fine day in early August and they had decided to spend it in town. Lydia had insisted Edmund get his hair trimmed before their wedding, while she and Nettie searched the milliners’ shops for a new bonnet. They would meet at St Dunstan’s no later than half-past twelve, purchase a modest fare, then take a coach to Hyde Park and picnic by the Serpentine.
   ‘Look, Miss!’ said Nettie, pointing across the road to a barber shop. ‘Why don’t you see if he’s in there, while I go and get us something to eat?’
   Together, the two young women picked their way across the busy street, lifting their skirts above their boots to avoid the mud and manure.
   Lydia peered through the window and saw that the shop was empty, apart a spruce little man of indeterminate age with dark, heavily oiled hair and an elaborately manicured moustache. She noticed a few red spots on his apron, but that was unremarkable for a barber-surgeon. Edmund had once explained to her that the red-and-white stripes of the barber’s pole signified the blood and napkins associated with the medical practice of blood letting. Nevertheless, she felt a frisson of discomfort, a nameless foreboding that compelled her to turn away.
   In normal circumstances, it would be unthinkable for a lady to approach a stranger in the street, but Lydia was growing fearful for Edmund’s welfare now.
   She waited until she saw an eligible couple approach. In their middle years, they walked arm in arm and had all the appearances of respectability.
   ‘Pardon me’, said Lydia. ‘I am most awfully sorry to bother you, but I am trying to discover the whereabouts of my fiancé. He went in search of a barber shop some hours ago and hasn’t returned. I wonder, sir, if you know of any similar establishments nearby besides this one?’
   The gentleman removed his hat and made a slight bow, then glanced up at the sign above the shop window.
   ‘I am a Londoner born and bred, Miss’, he said, ‘and to the best of my knowledge, Mr Sweeny Todd here is the only barber in Fleet Street.’
   A moment after they’d left, Nettie came rushing out of Mrs Lovett’s pastry shop next door, juggling a brown paper parcel and blowing on her fingers.
   ‘We were lucky, Miss!’ she said. ‘The lady in the shop said she’d sold out of pies this morning. But she took delivery of some fresh meat just an hour ago and baked some new ones. Smell ’em, Miss! They’re lovely.’

Ends