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Who hasn’t heard of the infamous Barber of London? His shop, nestled near Lincoln’s Inn, is known to every member of the legal profession. High or low, from the judges down to the most junior barristers, all frequent Mr. Tuffnell Trigge’s establishment for a haircut or a wig dressing. Mr. Trigge, a man as pleasant and gossipy as Figaro himself, has become a fixture in the legal community. If you need a shave, a stylish flow imparted to your stubborn locks, or a bespoke wig, Mr. Trigge is the man to see. Not only will he attend to your grooming needs, but he’ll also regale you with the latest court gossip, the most recent quip from Mr. Serjeant Larkins, and the number of briefs received by the eminent Mr. Skinner Fyne. By the time you rise from his chair, you’ll feel you’ve spent a most delightful five minutes.
Mr. Trigge’s shop is a haven for notable characters. You might see a newly minted barrister ordering his first wig, with Mr. Trigge predicting his future success with an air of certainty. “Ah, sir,” he’ll say, eyeing the young man’s stoic features, “you have quite the face of a Chief Justice. Quite the face. I wasn’t around when he ordered his first wig, but I hope to see you reach the same heights. Quite within your reach, sir, if you apply yourself. Absolutely sure of it.” Or you might witness him attending to a grave master in Chancery, listening intently to his musings, or laughing heartily at the jokes of a witty special pleader. Discussions about theaters, actors, and actresses are common when young attorneys or conveyancing pupils visit, for they are Mr. Trigge’s favorite customers. With them, he is in his element, earning the moniker of the Barber of London. His clientele also includes managing clerks, barristers’ clerks, engrossing clerks, and others, who often become his private friends.
Mr. Trigge’s shop isn’t one of those pristine West End establishments with grand mirrors on every wall and shelves stocked with fancy grooming products. No, his is a genuine barber’s shop of the old school, where you can get a cut and curl for a shilling and a shave for half that price. The floor is not carpeted but bears the marks of countless customers, scattered with their hair. In the window, a collection of wax busts showcases Mr. Trigge’s artistry, alongside several examples of legal wigs. On the counter behind the window, amidst large pots of pomade and bears’-grease, and the irons and brushes in constant use, stand other lifelike busts, ever-smiling into the room. A judge’s wig, freshly dressed by Mr. Trigge, sits on a block, and a counsel’s wig on a higher one. Portraits of Lord Eldon and Lord Lyndhurst adorn the walls, along with those of pretty actresses. A playbill is displayed near the counter, and a piece of crockery advertises the availability of bears’-grease on the premises. Amongst Mr. Trigge’s live stock is a chattering magpie in a wicker cage, which, according to its master, “knows everything as well as a Christian.”
As for Mr. Tuffnell Trigge himself, he is a tall, thin man who stands so straight he loses not an inch of his stature. His large head and long face are marked by a self-satisfied expression, a testament to the talent that earned him the title of the Barber of London. A fringe of black whisker adorns his cheek and chin, and his bristly black hair is brushed back to reveal a prodigious forehead. His eyebrows are perpetually raised, as if in constant scorn.
Mr. Trigge typically dons a black velvet waistcoat and tight black trousers, protected by a white apron with pockets for his scissors and combs. Over this, he wears a short nankeen jacket, with his hands frequently thrust into its pockets when not otherwise occupied. A black satin stock with a large bow encircles his throat, and black enamel studs fasten his shirt. Such is Mr. Tuffnell Trigge, the renowned Barber of London.
At the time of this tale, Mr. Trigge had just advertised for an assistant, as his current young man, Rutherford Watts, was about to set up his own shop in Canterbury. It was around two o’clock when Mr. Trigge, having just taken some refreshment in an inner room, returned to find Watts cutting the hair of a sour-looking middle-aged gentleman seated by the fire. Mr. Trigge bowed to the gentleman, ready to engage in conversation, but receiving no response, turned to chat with his magpie.
As he chattered, the bird screeched, “Pretty dear!—pretty dear!”
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“What’s that? Who is it?” Trigge called out, startled.
“Pretty dear!—pretty dear!” the magpie reiterated, its beady eyes gleaming with mischief.
Mr. Tuffnell Trigge’s day had been progressing with the mundane rhythm of snipping scissors and murmured gossip when a peculiar figure darkened the doorway. This newcomer, a curious little man with the appearance of a groom—clad in a long grey coat, drab knees, and small top-boots—stepped into the shop. His large, protruding mouth and shock of black hair gave him a distinctly simian visage.
“Pretty dear!—pretty dear!” screeched the magpie from its cage.
“I see nothing pretty about him,” mused Mr. Trigge, his eyes narrowing. “What a strange little fellow! Even the Lord Chancellor would be hard-pressed to guess his age.”
The little man doffed his hat, bowing deeply to the barber before unfurling the Times newspaper he carried. He held it up towards Mr. Trigge, pointing to an advertisement.
“What do you want, my little friend, eh?” inquired Trigge, curiosity piqued.
“High wages!—high wages!” echoed the magpie, its beady eyes glinting with mischief.
“Is this yours, sir?” the little man asked, indicating the ad.
“Yes, yes, that’s my advertisement,” replied Mr. Trigge. “But what of it?”
Before the little man could respond, a commotion erupted. Watts, distracted by the newcomer, had neglected the hot curling-irons, resulting in a burn on the sour-looking gentleman’s forehead and singed hair.
“Take care, sir!” the gentleman bellowed, fury etched on his face. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Yes, take care, sir, as Judge Learmouth says to a saucy witness,” chimed in Trigge. “‘Take care, or I’ll commit you!’”
“Damn Judge Learmouth!” the gentleman snapped. “If I were a judge, I’d hang such a careless fellow.”
“Sarve him right!” screeched the magpie. “Sarve him right!”
“Beg pardon, sir,” stammered Watts. “I’ll rectify it in a minute.”
Turning back to the little man, Trigge inquired, “Well, my little friend, what brings you here? As the great conveyancer Mr. Plodwell says to his clients—what is your purpose?”
“You need an assistant, don’t you, sir?” the little man replied humbly.
“Are you applying for yourself or on behalf of someone else?” Trigge asked, a note of skepticism in his voice.
“For myself,” the little man answered.
“And what are your qualifications?” Trigge demanded. “What can you do?”
“I believe I understand the business,” the little man said quietly. “I was a perruquier myself when wigs were more fashionable.”
“Ha! Indeed?” Trigge laughed. “That must have been in the last century—in Queen Anne’s time, perhaps?”
“You’ve hit it exactly, sir,” the little man replied. “It was in Queen Anne’s time.”
“Perhaps you recall when wigs were first worn, my little Nestor?” Trigge jeered.
“I do,” the little man said, unperturbed. “French periwigs were first worn during Charles the Second’s reign.”
“You saw them, of course?” the barber sneered.
“I did,” the little man answered simply.
“Oh, he must be out of his mind,” Trigge muttered. “We’ll have to issue a commission de lunatico here, as the Master of the Rolls might say.”
“I hope I may suit you, sir,” the little man said earnestly.
“I don’t think so, my friend,” Trigge replied, shaking his head. “You don’t have the hand for hairdressing. Do you realize the talent required for this art? Do you understand what it cost me to earn the title of the Barber of London? I’m as proud of that title as if I were—”
“Lord Chancellor!—Lord Chancellor!” the magpie interrupted.
“Precisely, Mag,” said Mr. Trigge. “As if I were Lord Chancellor.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” the little man said, looking dejected.
“Pretty dear!” the magpie screeched again. “Pretty dear!”
“What a remarkable bird you have,” the sour-looking gentleman remarked, rising and paying Mr. Trigge. “Its responses are quite fitting.”
“Ah, Mag is a clever creature, sir—very clever,” the barber replied. “She cost me a good deal.”
“Little or nothing!—little or nothing!” screeched Mag.
“What is your name, friend?” the gentleman asked, addressing the little man who lingered in the shop.
“Why, sir, I’ve had many names,” he replied. “At one time I was called Flapdragon, at another, Old Parr. But my true name is Gregory Morse.”
“An Old Bailey answer,” Trigge muttered, shaking his head. “Flapdragon, alias Old Parr, alias Gregory Morse, alias—”
“Pretty dear!” screeched Mag.
“And you’re looking for a job?” the gentleman asked, scrutinizing Morse.
“Desperately,” Morse replied.
“Well then, follow me,” the gentleman said, a strange smile curling his lips. “I’ll see what can be done for you.”
And with that, they left the shop together, the door swinging shut with an ominous creak.