Disclaimer: Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

Title: Peccata Mundi

Summary: The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

Assignment 1: The Nightingale

Summary: With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

Author's Note: Here's a little look inside the mysterious Monsieur Richeleau. I hope it doesn't give too much away, though. Enjoy!

Chapter 6

- Admittance to the Backroom

Something wasn't right. He could tell even from the distance he was at that something wasn't right. His pace began to steadily slow as he approached closer and closer. He didn't know what to expect, but he wasn't about to be surprised at anything. He knew it wasn't going to be dramatic. It was just going to be…off…

And he was right. Standing in front of the large front window, Erik stared dumbly into the darkness of the old instrument shop. Nothing stirred inside. It was completely still. It was completely silent. A small viewable sign gave away the reason behind all of this. It read 'Closed' in thick red lettering. It wasn't necessarily out of the norm. Stores closed all the time after dark. The only thing bothering him, though, was that it wasn't after dark. No, it was still very much light out—about midday. And midday was always the busiest time of day. So that brought one question to his mind: why would Monsieur Richeleau close his shop during the most profitable period?

Erik tore his gaze away and looked up and down the street he was on. This was definitely the one Monsieur Daaé had been referring to. The corner wasn't even that far away. If anyone positioned herself there, she could be heard from this spot. There was no doubt in his mind now that Monsieur Richeleau had been able to hear Christine Daaé singing from the street corner. He wouldn't even be surprised if the man had tipped her off for her songs.

The rising suspicions and various theories as to why the shop was closed triggered something else in Erik's mind. Ideas began to formulate in his head—dangerous ideas. Before he could have any doubts as to what he was about to do, he slipped down the alley next to the shop and toward the back of the building. At first it seemed like it was all happening so fast. His feet were acting on their own will. But the adrenaline inside of him was pumping and his heart was beating so fast. There was nothing he could do but become excited about the entire thing.

No one dared enter the back alley. It was completely dedicated to garbage and unwanted things. The pressure decreased due to this knowledge. There was a very worn, shabby wooden backdoor and a couple windows looking into the instrument shop. Other than that, there was no admittance. Even with these few gaps in the brick wall barrier, there was no assurance that even those could be penetrated. This possible obstacle, however, did not deter Erik. He had his ways of overcoming anything in his path.

First he tried the handle of the door, but to no avail. Of course it would be locked at all times from the outside. He didn't get disappointed. Immediately he switched to the first window, and found success there. It was unlocked, but rusty. A few good shoves inward were necessary before it finally gave. There wasn't much space, but it would be suitable. As he carefully climbed up and into the now open window, he was inwardly elated at the fact that his plan had been accomplished: gain access into the closed workshop.

Erik was cautious not to disturb anything as he slipped inside. A large worktable lay directly beneath him with all bits of odds and ends strewn about its surface, but he cleared it successfully. There was a strong odor of paints and polishes and woods. The ground was covered in splashes of browns and shavings, except for a good sized carpet that took up the middle of the floor. There were also a few sets of drawers and cabinets, and a desk resided in the opposite corner.

The sun filtering through the windows provided sufficient light into the room for him to properly see everything. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or suspicious in anyway as he turned about. It was a normal work station, equipped with the necessary tools and gadgets. He strolled to a cabinet set to determine whether or not the incriminating evidence could be hidden. However, drawer after drawer turned up more proper instruments that would be found in such a shop. Each cabinet and set of drawers contained similar finds. It seemed like nothing would turn up on this guy.

Erik couldn't help thinking that he had hit a dead end. The area was clean and ordinary. Were all of his suspicions about Monsieur Richeleau wrong? Was the weird behavior he sensed all in his mind? Perhaps he was becoming too involved in this case. That had to be what was clouding his judgment. Erik fell softly into the chair behind the small wooden desk. Disappointment weighed heavily on his shoulders, but also on his consciousness. His lids felt suddenly heavy, and his energy level suddenly felt very low.

As he drooped closer and closer to the desktop, boredom overcame his being. Without much expectation, his gaze landed on the drawers running up one side of the desk. He began to open each one by one, and swiftly glance over the contents held in each. The first consisted of writing utensils and other small accessories of the sort. The second contained papers and sketches. He rifled through these slightly, but found nothing worthwhile. Although, he had to comment on the skill of each drawing. The third drawer, upon first glimpse, seemed to be the most uninteresting. It was completely empty, save for a small piece of string.

Erik's eyes widened slightly against their will. He continued to stare down at that little piece of string, becoming more and more curious. Why would there be such a large, spacious drawer dedicated to this mere twine? The mind-boggling question seemed to wake him from his ebbing energy. Finally, he couldn't resist anymore, and he reached down and grabbed the thread. Expecting it to come up swiftly, his heart skipped a beat when he discovered it to be stuck to the bottom. Why was it attached so? He pulled forcefully a few times before small popping noise erupted and the bottom of the drawer came out. It was a fake.

Finding a counterfeit base allowed Erik's original adrenaline to rise again. He set the wooden plank carefully onto the desktop then peered into the drawer. All that lay beneath the sham was a single silver key. Erik leaned down picked it up. He held it close to his face to examine it better. It was just a normal key. There was nothing exceptional about it. He looked around the room from his spot behind the desk. He furrowed his brows in concern.

"Where do you belong to, my little friend?" he whispered.

Erik stood and walked to the center of the room. Slowly, he pivoted to take every inch in. The cabinets had not contained anything that needed a key. There wasn't even an outer lock on the metal sets. No, he went over to the large workbench beneath the set of windows. He surveyed the surface first, but there was nothing that could be locked atop it—just particles of past projects and loose tools. Then he knelt down so he was face to face with the drawers below. He ran a finger steadily down the line of them, as if playing a choice game. He stopped when his finger fell onto the very last, bottom drawer.

He pulled open the drawer and looked down into it. There was a small metal box resting innocently there. Erik sighed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Just as predictable as I thought," he murmured to himself.

A sudden rattling from the front of the store jolted Erik to his feet. Panic crossed over his face. Even though he was at the very opposite end, he could see the handle of the entrance jiggling. He could see Monsieur Richeleau playing with the lock. Any moment he would walk into the store and discover Erik. He had to move, fast.

-----

Monsieur Richeleau let the door fall closed behind him. He had no free hands to shut it on his own, and was grateful that it had been made heavy. He didn't stop until he reached the workbench in the back. The tub he held was cumbersome, and he was overwhelmed with relief to finally set it down. He had to take a couple big breaths before he could properly relax. But afterward, he froze, and looked around his surroundings, as if they were completely new to him.

But he knew exactly where he was. In fact, he knew it all too well. That was why he had to stop and check about him. He felt as if something was off, as if something were out of place. It set his nerves on edge. No one was allowed back there. Not one single person. Everything he had accomplished up to that point would have been in vain. All of his work would be ruined.

Despite this disturbing feeling, there was nothing Monsieur Richeleau could find that had been unsettled. Even as he went to reopen shop, he still couldn't shake this strange sensation. It rested in the back of his mind the entire day. Who had entered into his back room?

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Erik moved away from the small building, gaze plastered on the ground in front of each footstep. He had been successful in putting everything back where he had found it—making it look as if he hadn't even inhabited it for those several minutes. Then he had just escaped to the outside in the knick of time. Luckily for him, Monsieur Richeleau had been obstructed by a large white barrel in his arms. Even though he was thoroughly thankful for this hindrance, it aroused his suspicion.

Erik halted across the street. He leaned against a lamppost and stared straight ahead into the instrument shop. His eyes would have burned a hole through the large front window if they could. He just couldn't figure it out. Monsieur Richeleau had closed shop just to get that barrel? Why? Where was this going? And why did he need a tub of bronzer?