The Workings of Fate

Written for a friend's prompt.


He didn’t know why he did it, why he came back. For some reason the pull on his psyche was deep and unnerving. The scene of the crime. The scene of his near death, almost his undoing. He had learned much about life that cold night. That no matter how one may believe themselves above the law, no one is above the workings of fate. He pondered once again the foolish mistakes of his life as he paced the long abandoned bakehouse. His fingers nervously slipped below his cravat to the thick scar on his throat. It had been fortuitous that suspicions had been aroused enough that night to bring the constabulary to Mrs Lovett’s establishment before he had expired. The hideous scar was a small price to pay, to say that he had very nearly not survived. His surgeon was a miracle worker.

But what had he lived for? His Joanna had gone, had never really been his in any true sense anyway. The Beadle, his constant companion, had been dispatched by the vengeful barber before he had turned on his accomplice and burned her within her own oven. The stench of it filled the damp cellar still, or was it the open drain? A ghastly thing to have in such close contact with foodstuffs. He peered down the grate into the dingy water, discoloured with who knew what kind of effluence with distaste. His very own lifeblood had poured across these cobbles and below. A chilling thought.

He turned to leave the cellar and it’s memories, wondering as he always did why he continued to return, to reflect, when he caught sight of something unusual in the stinking London sewer. Passing through the low grate into the main sewer, he discovered what had caught his eye. A shoe. A woman’s shoe. Even more curious, the woman was still attached. Young she looked, one of the working class, and she was unconscious. His lip curled in disgust. Another gin addict he assumed, and moved to nudge her with his foot when he noticed the dark red stain on her dingy grey-white blouse. Pale she was, even her lips; a stark contrast with her ebony hair.

Without knowing why, he knelt beside her and took her wrist. The pulse was still there, though weak. The child was alive at least, but for how long? And what had happened? The Judge within felt indignant fury as he wondered what could have happened upon a young woman alone. Such scoundrels walked the streets of London these days. But his conscience reminded him that he too had once been a wolf in sheep’s clothing, preying on the weak.

She stirred and his heart leapt into his throat. Suddenly he pulled his kerchief from his pocket, searching for the site of the wound. He found a large cut to the back of her head, oozing carmine, but thankfully slowly. He pressed the fine cotton to the wound and saw her eyelids flutter as the sensation roused her.

“Madam, are you awake?” he ventured to ask.

“Eh? Wot?” her voice, though peppered with the common local inflection was soft and weak. Sooty lashes fluttered again and opened, revealing soft grey eyes; unfocussed and confused.

“You are wounded, Miss. Do you feel unwell other than the cut to your head? Can you remember what happened?” he asked, concern growing for this girl he had never seen before in an uncharacteristic show of compassion.

“I...no, I don’ ‘urt anywhere but me ‘ead!” she said, trying to stand. He stood quickly to aid her, slipping an arm beneath hers to support her. She was still wobbly on her legs.

“Who’re you?” she suddenly asked suspiciously, eyeing him carefully.

‘Who am I indeed?’ he asked himself wryly. “I am Judge Turpin, and I mean you no harm.” He said in what he hoped was a soothing tone.

“Beggin’ your pardon y’r honour!” she said meekly, her eyes wide in disbelief at how disrespectful she had been to such a prominent member of society.

“Nonsense child,” he dismissed, “now, can you remember anything about how you came to be here? Perhaps you can remember your name?” he insisted, encouraging her to walk with him toward the exit to this godforsaken stinking place.

“Betsy, M’lord, Betsy Holloway.” She replied meekly. “And las’ thing I remember wos me Uncle Billy’s ‘pprentice said he had sumthin’ ta show me. Nex’ thing is, you wakin’ me up. Seems you’re me guardian angel M’lord.” She said with a blush. He couldn’t help but smile at her innocent comment as he led her up the stairs and into the moonlit night.

The full Moon’s silvery beams glinted pleasingly off her ebony hair. It looked so soft to him, like silk. Always had he preferred the yellow haired maidens, their golden curls calling to his greed, but this common guttersnipe with her coal dark hair and silvery eyes spoke to him more softly, thought the pull was as strong.

“Do you wish me to escort you home my dear?” he offered, looking for a clue as to which direction he should lead her. The bleeding had stopped and she seemed to become more lucid by the moment.

“Home’s me Uncle’ shop, an’ I don’t rightly want ta go back there as quick.” She said with a shudder, reminding Turpin that the merchant’s apprentice was to blame for her current state. The boy would find himself on the receiving end of the full penalty of law when he found himself before the Judge.

“Then allow me to escort you to my home. I shall call for a physician to attend your injury, and you may have my daughter’s old room for the night, until we can see what can be done for you in the long term.” He offered, feeling more certain by the minute that doing the right thing by this girl was the most important thing to him.

“Oh now y’don’t need to do that Sir. Honest, I’m sure.” She stuttered, her blush evident at his kind offer.

“Think nothing of it my dear. It would be unchivalrous of me to abandon a lady in need. Please, I promise you I intend no harm, nor impropriety my dear lady.” He swore.

“Alright then m’lord.” She acceded with a shy smile, which he found endearing. “But please, call me Betsy”

“Very well, sweet Betsy. Then you must also call me Albert.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. He had never allowed anyone to call him by his Christian name before, and had no Idea why he was allowing a Cockney shop girl to do so now, but was blindsided by the beautiful smile she offered him.

“Albert.” She repeated, and the word sounded beautiful on her lips.

He had been right all along; no one is above the workings of fate.


(Prompt: Judge Turpin, a shoe, a stinking London sewer and the full moon.)