20 Poison

Friday morning.

The narrow, filthy hideout was tucked behind a tavern, the air itself heavy with the sour stench of rotting food and the greasy smoke of tallow candles. Fagin sat in a wobbling chair, his rough fingers caressing the small vial in his hand as if it were a lover.

Across from him, Oliver stood rigid, his thin body trembling. Perhaps from the cold, perhaps from fear, or perhaps from both.

"Now, my dear," Fagin whispered, his voice tinged with a feigned warmth, "I have a special task just for you."

Oliver swallowed hard. He knew that tone; it was the same one Fagin used when the Artful Dodger and Charley Bates failed to bring back a satisfactory haul, a tone that always heralded misfortune.

"You’ve been doing well at that factory, haven’t you?" Fagin chuckled, patting the boy's cheek. "The gentleman trusts you—lets you help in the kitchen, does he not?"

"Yes, sir," Oliver replied, eyes cast downward.

"Good lad," Fagin’s smile widened, revealing his yellowed teeth. "Then you shall do us all a favor tomorrow."

He set the vial on the table. Oliver’s breathing hitched for a moment before he asked, feigning nonchalance, "Mr. Fagin, what is this?"

"Naturally, you would ask questions," Fagin shook his head. "I didn't entrust this to Nancy precisely because women are prone to endless questions and inconvenient... weaknesses." He suddenly straightened up. "But you, you are different, my boy!"

As he spoke, Fagin’s fingers tapped the vial—fingers that remained terrifyingly nimble despite his advanced age. "It is merely a sedative, you see? To steady our gentleman’s nerves, to ensure he sleeps more soundly." He smiled. "Yes, after a drink. That way, we might find it convenient to rearrange a few matters."

A lump formed in Oliver’s throat. It was clearly a lie, but Fagin’s piercing gaze prevented him from voicing his doubts.

"But... but Nancy said she would be bringing a sedative on her end," Oliver said, his voice dry as he clutched the vial of poison. "Would that not be redundant?"

"No, certainly not. This is... an extra precaution," Fagin chuckled. "Be careful not to spill it—it cost a great deal, truly." He added meaningfully, "Do this, and we shall ensure you never want for anything again."

Oliver’s fingers tightened. "I—I understand," he whispered.

Fagin clapped his hands. "What a clever boy!" He pressed firmly on Oliver’s shoulder. "Go on, get back before the gentleman notices you’re gone. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, would we?"

Oliver nodded, hid the vial in his sleeve, and hurried out. Fagin watched his retreating back and spat into the corner.

"A bit of money doesn't mean they aren't vicious," he muttered, recalling the well-dressed fop he had met with Sikes the night before—a man with the same blue eyes as Oliver. "What a fool, actually paying us to corrupt his own flesh and blood."

But business was business.

***

Almost as soon as he reached the factory, Oliver slipped into the office with practiced ease and sat in the chair reserved for visitors. The reason he had a key was not because Mr. Isaacs valued him so highly, but because he had taken it upon himself to manage the office cleaning.

Oliver counted the time in his head. Sure enough, at nine o'clock, Mr. Isaacs’ carriage appeared outside. He waited a moment longer before the figure hurried up the stairs.

"Good morning, sir," Oliver said. "I have something to tell you."

Arna, still biting into a piece of bread, looked a bit dazed. "What is it?" She rummaged through her backpack and pulled out a meat pie. "Have some, and tell me while you eat."

Just as she placed the pie on the table, she saw Oliver pull the vial from his coat.

"Fagin called me in this morning," he whispered. "This is... poison. They seem to have noticed something wrong with Nancy and want me to poison you. Tomorrow night."

"What? Poison?" Arna was immediately intrigued. "Let me see." She hadn't encountered poison in this version of the game yet!

Oliver placed the vial in her hand. "Be careful," he warned, recalling Fagin’s words. "It’s very expensive; perhaps a single drop is enough to do harm..."

He watched, dumbfounded, as Arna pulled the cork and gulped down half the bottle.

"Mr. Isaacs?" Oliver gasped, terrified.

Not having tasted the poison would have been a great regret in her gameplay, and now that regret was rectified. As it turned out, some things were wiser left untasted. Arna spat twice, finding it truly foul. "Doesn't taste good."

"—That is not the point!" Seeing Arna’s complexion turning a sickly green, Oliver panicked. "It’s poison! I’m going to get a doctor!"

Poison could be discarded, poured out, or used against Fagin... but this was absolutely not the outcome he wanted!

Arna waved a hand calmly. "No need, I’m fine. It’ll pass in a moment." As she spoke, she began pulling food from her backpack and started eating desperately. As her health bar slowly replenished, her complexion returned to normal.

Oliver was speechless, staring at her face in a mix of panic and bewilderment. Arna reached up and touched her nose, finding blood dripping onto the floor.

"…Minor issue," she said calmly, grabbing a handkerchief to wipe it away. "Don't take it to heart. Go back downstairs."

Oliver looked at Arna warily, then at the vial in her hand. "You promise you won't drink any more." He feared that if he left, the factory owner might just finish the whole bottle.

"It doesn't even taste good, why would I drink more?" Arna found the question strange. "I'm not an idiot." She had just wanted a taste and accidentally drank too much.

Oliver was silent for a while. He thought to himself that while Mr. Isaacs might not consider himself an idiot, no normal person would down half a bottle of poison in one go.

***

Back home, Arna even brought out the poison to show her roommates. She had, of course, swapped the contents—the vial she gave Oliver now contained honey.

"It really doesn't taste good," Arna said, holding the vial high as the viscous liquid sloshed inside. "I don't recommend trying it."

"What did you say?" Holmes, who had been hunched over his magnifying glass, looked up sharply.

Even Watson stood straight, his long-standing medical habits causing him to ask instantly, his voice urgent and rapid, "Good heavens, you ingested it? What are the symptoms? Dry mouth? Nausea? Rapid pulse?"

"…Symptoms? Does 'tasting so bad I wanted to spit it out' count?" Arna waved him off. "It tastes like an assault on the taste buds. Curiosity is sometimes better kept in check."

Holmes seemed incensed by this. He strode over in two steps, his slender fingers gripping her wrist to check her pulse, while his other hand tilted her chin to inspect her pupils. At such close range, Arna could clearly feel his breathing was faster than usual.

"What's the matter?" she asked, bewildered. "I'm fine."

"Of all the reckless, idiotic fools—" Holmes gritted his teeth. "Damn it, it is a miracle you aren't lying on the floor in convulsions. And you’re complaining about the taste!" He let go and signaled Watson, who was ransacking the cupboards for an emetic, to stop. "It’s alright, Isaacs is fine. Robust enough to eat a horse," he added, with a rare touch of sarcasm.

"The poison isn't the point, and neither is the horse," Arna quickly changed the subject under the doctor’s disapproving gaze. "The point is Oliver. Why is he always involved? Last time he was assigned a task by Fagin alone, and this time..."

No wonder his character model was so refined; could he be an Easter egg NPC for a major quest?

"Oliver, clearly," the name slipped from Holmes’ lips like a missing puzzle piece. "They keep sending him to you. But he is clearly not an ordinary thief; he is too soft, too unskilled." Relaxing slightly, he smoothed his coat and sat down to ponder. "How much do you know about this boy?"

"…An orphan from the countryside?" Arna was unsure. "I don't have much of an impression. He must have been tricked into the thieves' den."

Watson, who often worked cases with Holmes and could occasionally catch his train of thought, frowned. "You think he was framed, and that’s why he's doing this?" He mused, "What kind of person could an orphan possibly offend?"

"Not just framed, but carefully manipulated," Holmes turned, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Think, Watson. The first time he appeared, he was with two thugs to rob Isaacs." He held up a finger, then a second. "That failed. Now it is the second time, and he is expected to poison his benefactor, the generous factory owner. Clearly, someone wants to entrap this boy, to bring shame upon him, and is using Isaacs as a piece in the game."

Arna sat up straight. "But why?"

Holmes’ lips curled. "Inheritance, most likely. A bastard child—or a disputed will. However, there is not yet enough evidence to prove the connection, nor do we know the name of the puppeteer hiding behind the scenes." He sighed, "All of this is speculation."

Watson hesitated. "Should we warn the boy?"

Arna thought for a moment. "…Not yet?"

Recalling the plan: tomorrow night, she would feign drunkenness. Once Sikes appeared, Watson and Holmes would emerge from nearby crates, guns in hand, to apprehend the ringleader directly. As for Fagin’s side, they would be watched by several of the factory workers' parents; Mrs. Hudson would signal the coachman to notify Scotland Yard as soon as the time came, and Nancy would look after the children who might be frightened or coerced into participating.

Arna had seen how fast the police arrived in the game; there would be plenty of time before Scotland Yard arrived for them to get to the bottom of everything.

Under the gaze of her companions, she scratched her head. "Once we catch them tomorrow, we can interrogate them however we—" Seeing Watson’s stern look, she finished without a pause, "—however we choose to inquire about the details."