| Imagine you are walking in 18th century London, stepping carefully over the slick gray cobblestones. You wander down Fleet Street, the fog from the nearby Thames River drifting in on a bone-brittle breeze. You pull your cloak tighter around you and stop at a brick-fronted building, numbered 186. A sign on the front calls for customers: "Easy Shaving For A Penny, As Good A Shave As You Will Find Any." You could use a shave, and a bit of a haircut. So you approach the door. But a shiver runs through your body. Your throat tightens. There is something sinister about this place.
After marinating in time, fact often blends with legend, until one is indistinguishable from the other. So it is with the story of Sweeney Todd, the owner of the establishment at 186. It is said that greedy Judge Turpin, who wanted Sweeney's lovely wife for
himself, convicted Barber Todd on trumped up charges. Turpin had Todd transported to Botany Bay, an area in New South Wales, Australia, to serve 15 years in a penal colony. When Todd finally returned to London, he found that his beloved wife was dead. She had been raped and, driven by shame, later committed suicide. The grieving Sweeney reopened his barbershop and vowed to avenge his wife. He concentrated his efforts on the wealthy citizens of London.
Legend has it that Sweeney Todd lured his victims inside for a shave and quickly slit their throats. He then unceremoniously dumped their bodies from the barber chair through a trapdoor into a cellar below. Eventually, the obnoxious odor of dead bodies began to drift into the streets, and neighbors started to complain. Worried about his diabolical secret being revealed, Todd asked his mistress, Mrs. Lovett, for help. Mrs. Lovett, with calm directness, quickly solved Todd's problem. She began to sell unique and delicious meat pies that became a huge success with the local townspeople.
Some say that Sweeney Todd still walks the dank streets of London, luring the innocent into Fleet Street. Some say that if you stand in front of number 186 at midnight, you can hear his maniacal laugh while he slits another wealthy throat. And it is often said that the delicious aroma of meat pie still wafts from the windows of the building...
Rosemarie Colombraro hasn't touched a meat pie since she returned from her visit to Fleet Street. During the day, she has written for regional and national magazines, and is working on her second novel. She can be reached at Dovekeeper@aol.com. |
