The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 20

Poison

What is this? Let me have a taste!

Friday morning.

            

The narrow, filthy hideout was located behind a pub. The very air was thick with the sour stench of rotting food and the greasy smoke of tallow candles.

Fagin sat in a rickety chair. His rough fingers stroked the small vial in his hand as if he were caressing a lover.

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

            

“Now, my dear,” Fagin murmured, his voice laced with a dark enthusiasm. “I have a very special task just for you.”

Oliver swallowed hard. He knew that tone; it was the exact voice Fagin used whenever Dodger and Charley failed to bring back satisfactory loot. That tone always heralded misfortune.

“You’ve been doing quite well at that factory, haven’t you?” Fagin hummed, patting the boy’s cheek. “The gentleman trusts you. He lets you help out in the kitchen, does he not?”

            

Oliver lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Fagin’s smile stretched wide, revealing yellowed teeth. “Then tomorrow, you’ll do us all a favor.”

He placed the vial on the table.

            

Oliver’s breath hitched for a second. He feigned nonchalance and asked, “Mr. Fagin, what is this?”

“Naturally, you’d ask many questions.” Fagin shook his head. “I didn’t give this to Nancy because women have endless questions and inappropriate… weakness.”

He suddenly sat up straight. “But you, my boy, you are different!”

            

Fagin tapped the vial lightly. The despicable old Jewish man was getting on in years, but his fingers remained terrifyingly nimble. “This is just a placebo, do you see? It’s for our gentleman’s nerves, to ensure he sleeps more soundly.”

He chuckled. “Yes, after he’s had his wine. That will make it much easier for us to do our work properly.”

Oliver’s throat tightened. It was an obvious lie, but Fagin’s unblinking stare kept him from spitting out the words he wanted to say.

            

“But… but Nancy said she would bring an anesthetic,” Oliver said, his voice dry as he grasped the bottle of poison. “Won’t the two overlap?”

“No, of course not. This is… more foolproof,” Fagin smirked. “Careful not to spill it. I paid a handsome price for this, truly.”

He added meaningfully, “Once this is done, we’ll make sure you never want for anything else again, Oliver.”

            

Oliver’s fingers tightened around the glass. He whispered, “I… I understand.”

Fagin clapped his hands. “What a clever boy!”

He gave Oliver’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “Go on now. Get back before the gentleman notices you’re gone. We mustn’t keep him waiting, eh?”

            

Oliver nodded, hid the vial of poison up his sleeve, and hurried out.

Fagin watched his retreating back and spat into the corner.

“Having a bit of money doesn’t mean they aren’t vicious,” he muttered. He thought of the Well-dressed Dandy he had met with Sikes last night—a man who shared Oliver’s blue eyes. “What an idiot, paying such a massive sum just to have us corrupt his own blood.”

            

But business was business.

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Almost as soon as he arrived at the factory, Oliver slipped familiarly into the office and sat down in the guest chair beside the desk. The reason he had the key wasn’t because Mr. Aisas valued him highly, but because the boy had actively taken on the chore of tidying up the room.

Oliver counted the minutes in his head. Sure enough, exactly at nine o’clock, Mr. Aisas’s carriage appeared punctually downstairs.

            

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 chewing on a piece of bread, looked a bit lost. “What is it?”

            

She rummaged through her backpack and pulled out a pie. “Have something to eat. Tell me while you chew.”

The moment she set the pie on the desk, Oliver pulled the vial from his coat.

“Fagin called me over this morning,” he whispered. “This bottle has… poisonous stuff in it. They seem to have noticed something off about Nancy, so they asked me to administer the poison. I’m supposed to put it in your food on Saturday night.”

            

“What? Poison?” Arna perked up immediately. “Let me see.”

She hadn’t seen poison in this DLC yet!

Oliver placed the vial in her hand.

            

“Be careful,” he warned, recalling Fagin’s words from that morning. “It’s very expensive. Even a single drop might hurt you…”

He watched in absolute dumbfounded horror as Arna pulled the wooden stopper and casually glugged down half the bottle.

“Mr. Aisas?!” Oliver cried out, sounding almost terrified.

            

Never having tasted poison was one of her great gaming regrets. Now, that regret was finally remedied.

As it turned out, some things were better left untried.

Arna spat a few times. “Tastes terrible.”

            

“That’s not the point!” Seeing Arna’s face steadily turning a sickly shade of green, Oliver panicked. “That’s poison! I’m going to get a doctor right now!”

Poison could be thrown away, dumped out, or even used against Fagin… but this? This was absolutely not the outcome he had wanted!

Arna waved him off calmly. “No need, I’m fine. It’ll pass in a moment.”

            

With that, she began pulling more food from her backpack and stuffed it into her mouth with great effort.

As her 【Health Bar】 gradually ticked back up, her complexion returned to normal.

Oliver was speechless. He simply pointed blankly at her face, looking equally panicked and bewildered.

            

Arna reached up and touched her face. Blood was streaming from her nose, dripping steadily onto the floorboards with soft pat sounds.

“…Minor issue,” she said evenly, grabbing a handkerchief to wipe her face. “Don’t mind it. Go back downstairs.”

Oliver eyed Arna warily, then glanced at the vial in her hand. “You promise you won’t drink any more of it.”

            

What if she chugged the rest of the poison the second he walked away?

“The stuff tastes awful. Why would I drink more?” Arna found the concern baffling. “It’s not like I’m an idiot.”

She had only wanted to sample the flavor and accidentally swallowed too much.

            

Oliver fell silent for a moment.

Although Mr. Aisas doesn’t think he’s an idiot, the boy thought to himself, a normal person wouldn’t take a bottle of poison and down half of it in one breath.

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When she returned home, Arna made a special point to present the poison to her roommates.

            

Naturally, she had swapped the bottles. The vial she had given back to Oliver was now filled with honey.

“It really tastes awful,” Arna said, holding the vial high so the thick liquid sloshed inside. “I don’t recommend trying it.”

“You did what?” Holmes, who had been peering down through his magnifying glass, snapped his head up.

            

Even Watson bolted upright. Years of medical habit kicked in, and he immediately began firing off questions, his tone sharp and urgent. “Good God, you ingested that?! Do you have any symptoms? Dry mouth? Nausea? Rapid pulse?”

“…Symptoms… Does tasting so foul I wanted to throw up count?” Arna waved a hand. “It tasted like a direct assault on my taste buds. Sometimes it really is better to rein in one’s curiosity.”

Holmes looked as though her words had personally offended him. He crossed the room in three long strides, his long fingers clamping around Arna’s wrist to check her pulse. His other hand gripped her chin, tilting her head back to inspect her pupils.

            

At such close proximity, Arna could distinctly feel that his breathing was faster than usual.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, bewildered. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Of all the reckless, stupid idiots—” Holmes gritted his teeth. “Damn it, it’s a miracle you aren’t twitching on the floor. And now you’re complaining about the flavor of the poison!”

            

He released her and called out to Watson, who was currently tearing through the cabinets in search of an emetic¹. “Enough, Aisas is fine.”

Holmes added with rare, biting sarcasm, “Fit enough to eat a whole cow.”

“The poison isn’t the point, and neither is the cow,” Arna said quickly, eager to change the subject under the doctor’s condemning glare. “The point is Oliver.”

            

She pondered. “Why is it always him? Last time Fagin singled him out for a special task, and now this…”

No wonder his character model’s face was so detailed. Could he be some sort of Easter egg NPC tied to a major questline?

“Oliver, obviously.” The name slipped from Holmes’s lips like a final puzzle piece falling into place. “They keep sending him to you. He is no ordinary thief; his heart is too soft, and he lacks the necessary sleight of hand for pickpocketing.”

            

Relaxing slightly, Holmes flipped his coattails back and sat down, deep in thought. “What do you know about this boy?”

“…An orphan from the countryside?” Arna guessed, unsure. “I don’t remember much. He was probably tricked into joining the thieves’ den.”

Watson, who frequently worked cases with Holmes and could occasionally follow his train of thought, frowned. “Do you think he’s being framed, and that’s why he was forced into this?” He pondered it. “What kind of enemies could a mere orphan have?”

            

“Not just framed. Carefully orchestrated.” Holmes turned around, a spark of excitement dancing in his eyes. “Think about it, Watson. The very first time he appeared, he was trailing two older ruffians who were robbing Aisas.”

Holmes held up one finger, then a second. “That failed. Now comes the second attempt. Fagin wants this wretched child to poison his own benefactor, a generous factory owner. Someone is desperately trying to catch this boy in the act of a heinous crime, ensuring he is ruined as a criminal—and they are using Aisas as the instrument.”

Arna sat up straight. “But why?”

            

The corners of Holmes’s lips curled upward.

“It most likely concerns an inheritance,” he said, tapping his fingers against his knee. “He is an illegitimate child, or perhaps there is a disputed will that mentions his name. However, we do not yet have the evidence to prove the connection, nor do we know the name of the puppet master pulling the strings from the shadows.”

At this, he sighed. “These are all just baseless deductions for now.”

            

Watson hesitated. “Should we warn the boy?”

Arna thought for a moment. “…No need just yet?”

She mentally reviewed their plan. Tomorrow night, she would use the opportunity to feign drunkenness. Once Sikes appeared, Watson and Holmes would emerge from the nearby crates with their guns and immediately hold Sikes—the ringleader—at gunpoint.

            

Meanwhile, Fagin would be kept under the watchful eyes of the workers’ parents. Once the time was right, Mrs. Hudson would send a carriage driver to alert Scotland Yard, and Nancy would look after any children who were frightened or had been forced to participate.

Arna had seen firsthand how fast the police responded in this game. The distance from Scotland Yard would give them plenty of time—more than enough time to interrogate everyone involved.

Under her companions’ gaze, she scratched her head. “Once we catch them tomorrow, we can torture them however we want—”

            

Meeting Watson’s alarmed stare, she smoothly corrected herself without missing a beat: “—interrogate them for details however we want.”

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