Clark / Demchuk The Butcher's Daughter

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-83541-085-1
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 432 Seiten

An eerie and evocative Victorian-set horror thriller about how a well-meaning butcher's daughter from London's Whitechapel grew up to become the baker who stuffed her pies with the flesh of Sweeney Todd's victims. Perfect for fans of Clare Whitfield, Jess Kidd and Ambrose Parry. Includes original Victorian pie recipes. 'You want to know the true tale of the wicked woman, the murdering monster, what baked the pies that she filled with the bits of her victims? The talk of London Town. I will tell you what you want to know, if it be the last that I do tell. And it may well be.' Enclosed herewith: the hitherto untold story of Mrs. Lovett, Sweeney Todd's infamous partner in crime-a bloodcurdling correspondence of profound horror and intrigue. London, England, 1887: At the abandoned apartment of a missing young woman, a dossier of evidence is collected and sent to the Chief Inspector of the London Police for review. It contains a curious correspondence between an inquisitive journalist, Miss Emily Gibson, and the woman Gibson thinks may be the infamous Mrs. Lovett-Sweeney Todd's accomplice, who baked men into pies and sold them in her pie shop on Fleet Street. Rumours have swirled about Mrs. Lovett since the disappearance of hundreds of unwitting men decades ago-but is it actually Lovett, even if the suspected woman swears against it? As the woman relays the harrowing account of her life-from her upbringing on Butcher's Row in the unruly and perilous streets of Victorian London to her daring escape from a mad doctor-the correspondence unlocks an intricate mystery that brings Miss Gibson closer to the truth, even as that truth may cost her dearly.

Corinne Leigh Clark is a writer of gothic stories that reflect the human condition in a historical context. She is a graduate of the creative writing program at the School of Continuing Studies, University of Toronto (Twitter/X: @corinne_writer; Instagram: @corinneclarkwriter)

Autoren/Hrsg.

Clark, Corinne Leigh

Demchuk, David

Leseproben

APRIL THE 29TH, 1887

Dear Miss Gibson,

A fortnight has passed since your last letter. I fear that my tone has offended you, and for this I must offer my apologies. This was certainly not my intention. I have sat and stood by the window, morning and evening, day upon day. The strong young woman has not returned to the gate, at least not that I have spied. She may well have watched us and she may have seen enough, her fancies of a cloistered life dispelled by glimpses of the dull reality: a gaggle of geese clucking and squawking as they trundle from psalms and prayers to barley soup and potato bread. I know I shouldn’t talk this way, the Sisters have been very kind to me. But merely being alive is not much of a life. All that aside, it grieves me to think that I, or that we, might have frightened you off. We are barely kind to each other, no wonder they shut us up away from the likes of strangers.

Sister Catherine is here with me, as she is most days, wrinkling her nose at my rudeness and rightly so. She is delicate and fine and fair, where I am coarse and stiff like an old bristle brush. She comes to me in the afternoon between None and Vespers to help make my words pretty for you. She thinks I was born to tell a story, and that my tales would give your readers at the Post a window through which they could observe our devotion and works of mercy. I wish I had her grace. I went for a few years to the charity school at St. George-in-the-East, near Ratcliff, where I was born and raised. My father was a butcher on the Row, and he needed me to be good with numbers and to read and write a little; to help my mother, who stood out front hawking while he worked in back salting and hanging and smoking and carving the meat. I only ever learned a little but I make use of what I did. My tender Sister has been so kind to me, and in such times of trouble. The Reverend Mother is still in care, her days are surely numbered, and we are all beside ourselves in despair. Young Estelle has left us; her nasty prank on Eleanor turned back upon her like a wave, all the youngers refused to sit with her or speak to her. Sister Eleanor remains, and has passed her silver bauble on to Sister Augustine for safekeeping. She uses a plain brass thimble like the rest of us now, every one the same as every other. Some of her vanity has been passed off as well. No longer a giggling girl, she sits alone most days, and at odd moments displays a quiet dignity. An improvement.

Have you found another avenue to pursue in your quest to unearth your murderess? I expect if we are to have newspapers then we must have them sold. Unlike the odious Lovett, I am alive and present, and would gladly unburden my soul to you if I thought it would uplift another, if only someone might listen.

I doubt you’ve ever been to the Row. A different world for you. I can see you in a clean corner shop, picking out a neatly trimmed joint, getting it all wrapped up in paper and tied nicely with a length of string, tucking it under your arm as you step out into the sunshine. No stink, no filth, no vermin, no screams and squeals. You can forget that something’s throat was slit to make its flesh your supper.

Growing up as I did, I learned quickly about man’s place in the world, and the place of all our lessers. Meat was meat, you were lucky to have it, and you didn’t enquire too deeply whence it came. Life was not so precious then. Creatures lower in the natural order were beasts of burden, food on the table, and little else. They weren’t to be pitied, even though they led miserable lives and met gruesome ends. They were better off dead, all things considered. At least that’s what we tell ourselves.

Little went to waste in our shop. There was barely a scrap left at the end of the day, apart from what fell to the floor. Every part was good for something, from the ends of the ears to the tips of the tails, blood, gristle and bone.

Each day I would awaken well before dawn to the bleating of terrified sheep being strung up and slaughtered, to the smell of blood and muck flowing out into the gutters. My father was always hacking and sawing big hunks of mutton and beef, striding about with a whole side of cow slung over his shoulder. I would watch him pierce the slabs with massive iron hooks and hang them by the window where they swung all red and dripping into the fresh sawdust strewn across the floor. Then he would sharpen his knives, saws, cleavers and skewers, and ready the buckets and bowls to collect the offal. My mother and I would don our aprons and wash down the butcher’s blocks, stained pink and slashed with deep knife cuts, and sweep the gore-soaked dust out of sight of the customers. Some mornings my mum would call for me to help her make short crust for rolls and pasties, stuffed with scraps that we had chopped and seasoned and baked into brawn. Then when we opened she would stand out front shouting the wares of the day: pork loin, side of beef, tender leg of lamb, a chant not unlike those you hear in the oratory. I’d hang back and watch her without her knowing, to see how she dealt with haggling housemaids, belligerent hawkers, drunks and beggars and thieves.

In the last few years that we had the shop, we received carcasses that had been slaughtered elsewhere, but it was not always so. When I was a child, we had a steady stream of calves, lambs and piglets through our yard and shed that my father would kill and hang and drain and skin himself, or in exchange with Mr. O’Brien, who often needed help with his chickens and geese. I would help by collecting offal, picking it up with my hands off the killing shed floor, and dropping it into tin buckets to either be cleaned and washed and ground into sausages or, if it was poor or diseased, to be fed to the other animals. It was beastly, messy, smelly work, but I accustomed to it soon enough. I do recall one time, though, when I was just seven or eight years old, my father was in the shed with a stout young finishing pig, a thrasher and a biter. He was in the pen kicking and squealing and sending the other animals into a frenzy. My father shouted and I came running. He held the pig tight by the neck while I slid under and around and pulled the rope harness tight over his front legs, then up around the back of his head. He grabbed the rope and hoisted the creature about a foot in the air while I held its back legs still. He then tucked a blood bucket between its legs, grabbed his long, thin knife, and slashed the animal across its throat. The pig screeched once more as the blood spewed onto my hands and into the bucket. I still remember how it steamed in the freezing shed, the stench and the thickness of it. Once the animal was finally still, I wrung the blood off my hands into the bucket and then went into the back of the shop to wash myself while my father tied the hind legs together and raised the carcass onto a hook for skinning and gutting. I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the side of a kettle. I looked like a mad murderous fiend: I raised my hands and clutched my fingers like claws, bared my teeth and growled, leaning in towards my distorted face, then giggled, having scared myself. My father hired Ned soon after, the O’Brien boy, as he was six years older than me and better suited for such things. I was very proud of myself though, that I had been so helpful when my father needed me. I would spy on Ned from time to time and watch my father teach him how to tie and stun and hang and bleed and split and dress an animal, things I already knew. It was only much later, once I was with the Sisters, that I thought back about the death we delivered to so many innocent creatures.

Life can end at any moment, for any of us. Cut short in one of a thousand ways. It can be cruel or merciful, painful or peaceful. Sometimes we choose our ending, oftentimes we can’t. If you had to choose your own end, Miss Gibson, what would it be? Do you believe in a divine saviour, like the Sisters around me? What sort of end does each of us deserve? Are we judged ultimately by all we’ve done in this life? I have considered these questions myself, and don’t yet have a good answer. This is that strangeness that Sister Catherine sees in me. I want to know my heart, yet there are times when it feels like it is wrapped in thistles and thorns, impossible to touch.

Another day comes to mind, not so different from the ones before. I would have been just sixteen. I was out in front with Mum, selling chops and sausages, shooing away boys carrying sacks of onions and potatoes. Already carriages crowded the street, their muddy horses riding shoulder to shoulder with mere inches between their clattering wheels. The rhythmic clopping of their hooves blended with the cries of the costermongers and their rumbling carts. Cross sweepers and newsboys wound their way through the crowds of pedestrians streaming in every direction. Skinny, mangy dogs nosed through heaps of guts and refuse. The sky hung low and grey over the crooked rooftops, spitting and grumbling. A trio of gulls wheeled and soared above us, seeking out scraps to fight over, their cries scraping at our ears.

I saw it out the corner of my eye—a child, a boy, rushed out of one of the shops next over and chased a ball into the street. Quick as a flash, knocked to the ground, trampled by a carriage horse, pulled under the wheel, the screams, the screams were terrible. My mother and I, we were right there, we were the first to reach him. He was nearly a baby, just three or four years old. Not dead, thank God, but his leg was crushed and the bone-flecked blood poured out like water. We pushed our way through the gathering crowd, lifted and carried the boy into the shop, back to where my father was. A...