The String of Pearls (1850), p. 154

of my prison-house," can there be than the enclosing a note in one of Mrs. Lovett's pies?"
After reviewing all the pros and cons of this scheme, there only appeared a few little difficulties in the way, but, although they were rather serious, they were not insurmountable. In the first place, it was possible enough that the unfortunate pie in which the note might be enclosed might be eaten in the shop, in which event the note might go down the throat of some hungry lawyer's clerk, and it might be handed to Mrs. Lovett, with a "God bless me, ma'am, what's this in the pie ?" and then Mrs. Lovett might, by a not very remote possibility, say to herself—"This cook is a scheming, long-headed sort of a cook, and notwithstanding he does his duty by the pies, he shall be sent upon an errand to another and a better world," and in that case the delectable scheme of the note could only end in the total destruction of the unfortunate who conceived it. Objection the second was, that, although nothing is so easy as to say—"Oh, write a note all about it," nothing is so difficult as to write a note about anything without paper, ink, and a pen. The cook rubbed his forehead, and cried—
"D——n it!"
This seemed to have the desired effect, for he at once recollected that he was supplied with a thin piece of paper for the purpose of laying over the pies if the oven should by chance be over heated, and so subject them to an over-browning process.
"Surely," he thought, " I shall be able to make a substitute for a pen, and as for ink, a little coal and water, or—ah, I have it, black from my lights, of
course. Ha—ha—! How difficulties vanish when a man has thoroughly made up his mind to overcome them. Ha—ha! I write a note—I post it in a pie—some
lawyer sends his clerk for a pie, and he gets that pie. He opens it and sees the note—he reads it—he flies to a police-office, and gets a private interview with a magistrate—a couple of Bow-street runners walk down to Bell Yard,
and seize Mrs. Lovett—I hear a row in the shop, and cry—Here I am*#8212;I am here—make haste —here I am—here I am! Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!"
"Are you mad?"
The cook started to his feet—
"Who spoke—who spoke?"
"I," said Mrs. Lovett, looking through the ingenious little wicket at the top of the door. "What do you mean by that laughing? If you have gone mad, as one cook once did, death will be a relief to you. Only convince me of that fact, and in two hours you sleep the long sleep."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, I am not at all mad."
"Then why did you laugh in such a way that it reached even my ears above?"
"Why, ma'am, are you not a widow?"
"Well?"
"Well then, you could not have possibly looked at me as you ought to have done, or you would have seen that I am anything but a bad looking fellow, and as I am decidedly single, what do you say to taking me for better or for worse? The pie business is a thriving one, and, of course, if I had an interest in it, I should say nothing of affairs down below here."
"Fool!"
"Thank you, madam, for the compliment, but I assure you, the idea of such an arrangement made me laugh, and at all events, provided I do my duty, you don't mind my laughing a little at it?"
Mrs. Lovett disdained any further conversation with the cook, and closed the little wicket. When she was gone he took himself seriously to task for being so foolish as to utter his thoughts aloud, but yet he did not think he had gone so far as to speak loud enough about the plan of putting the letter in a pie for her
to hear that.
''Oh, no—no, I am safe enough. It was the laughing that made her come. I am safe as yet !"