Chapter Three – A Flit & A Discovery

Bill's first 'official' evening at Fagin's had been surprisingly uneventful. The two of them sat by the fire awhile, a mug of gin each; Fagin busily calculating something in a battered old book. They'd then played several rounds of cards, Fagin always won, though narrowly. Bill was pretty good, and would soon be a match for him. That is, he would be. If he stayed. Which he wouldn't.

It was now eleven o clock; Bill had heard the steeple clock chime the hour. Fagin had gone to bed long ago; Bill discovered that his quarters lay beyond the ragged curtain. He'd seemed in a pleasant mood all evening, all apparent traces of suspicion gone. This had happened at the wrong time; Bill had filched the key to the flat from Fagin's coat pocket (said coat being tossed lazily on the table as Fagin busied himself with his account book) and had formulated a plan of escape.

Quietly as he could, Bill extricated himself from his blanket and pulled the key from his pocket. Grinning wickedly to himself, he tiptoed towards the door. Many of the floorboards squeaked in protest as he stepped on them; he cursed inwardly for not having done a more thorough floorboard check earlier. He managed to duck in time to avoid the low beam emblazoned with the flag of Great Britain, though only just, and soon found himself at the door. Triumphantly, he shoved the key in the lock and turned it.

The door remained locked.

Bill tried again, but with the same result.

If things at Fagin's weren't already perplexing enough…Bill felt as though he'd walked into some strange dream-like world where nothing was as it seemed. If this wasn't the key to the front door, then what was it a key to? The gin cupboard? A desk drawer?

"Leaving so soon, my dear?"

Bill jumped a foot in the air, nearly dropping the key with fright. This was definitely some alternate reality; Fagin was fast asleep, wasn't he? The boy turned slowly around, attempting to meet Fagin's eyes with defiance. All confidence vanished at the expression on Fagin's face; the man was livid.

"Would you be so kind as to hand that back, my dear?" asked Fagin, palm outstretched for the key. He was advancing on Bill now, his eyes narrowed. Bill instinctively backed away, clutching the key tightly in his fist. But this, he soon came to realize, was a stupid idea. He was backed against the door, with no escape.

Gingerly, he handed the key to Fagin. The man snatched it up and looked it over, his expression changing from furious to petrified and back again.

"Where…where did you get t-this?" he stammered, eyes flickering from the small key to Bill's face. It was only now that the key was in Fagin's hand that Bill realized; the key was far too small to fit the door. Too small for the gin cupboard, or even one of the desk drawers. What was it a key for?

"Your coat pocket," he managed to reply, trying to make himself sound menacing in the face of Fagin's fear. "That'll teach you to leave your coat lying around won't it? 'Specially with your keys in it!"

Fagin hurriedly stuffed the key into the pocket of his waistcoat, now glowering at Bill. He studied the boy a moment, as if debating his next move, clenching and unclenching his fists. Bill stared defiantly back at him as if daring him to try anything, his arms folded across his chest. The curiosity he felt about the key was excruciating; why was Fagin so worried about him having it? And if it was so important, why had he left it in his coat pocket, where any self-respecting thief could get at it?

Smack!

Bill reeled backwards, his cheek burning. Before he even had time to gather his thoughts, Fagin grabbed him roughly by the arm and dragged him towards the alcove at the back of the den, the one with the gin cupboard, writing desk and old fireplace. There must have been a door there that Bill hadn't cared to notice in his earlier explorations; Fagin shoved him roughly into the alcove and slammed it, plunging Bill into darkness.

Seconds later, Bill heard the scrape of a key in the lock and Fagin's muttered curses as he scurried away. Bill himself cursed, and loudly too. What was Fagin playing at, locking him up in here? Was he really that angry that he'd tried to escape, that he'd accidentally taken a special key instead of the one for the front door?

Bill squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. He felt about, groping with his hands, trying to find the chair that had been here earlier…cupboard, fireplace, desk, wall…

A strange scraping noise accosted Bill's ear as he scrabbled at the wall, trying to get his balance. The brick was loose! No wonder in this place…But this only served to pique the boy's curiosity further. A loose brick could mean a hiding place, couldn't it? There had been lots of loose-bricked and loose-floorboard hiding places for William Sykes' stolen goods, certainly. Who was to say Fagin didn't use the same method?

No longer caring for the gloom, Bill pulled the brick from the wall and felt about in the gap. Nothing. No…wait…the next brick was loose too! And the one above it!

Biting his lip to keep back a devilish little chuckle, Bill quickly lifted the loose bricks. The gap was much larger now; and there was something nestled there, in the dust and grime! Scarcely able to believe his luck, Bill tugged the object from its hiding place. It was a small wooden box of a plain design, with a handle on the lid…

And a minute keyhole in the centre.

Bill gasped. Was this box what the key was for? What was in it? Eagerly, Bill felt in his pocket for the key before remembering that he'd given it to Fagin. Why had he handed it over? If he hadn't he would have been able to open the box…if he hadn't he would never have discovered the box in the first place.

He reached up a hand to touch his cheek and winced. It still hurt, even now. Had Fagin's niceties all been a sham? Was he just another drunk bully? He'd stank of gin the first time Bill met him, and he'd just hit him too…

To try and distract himself from these dismal thoughts, Bill held the small box to his ear and shook it. It was quite light but the sound it made was deafening in the silence of the flat; a chorus of rattling, jangling and clinking.

More curious than ever, Bill tried to prize the lid off the box but, as he expected, to no avail. But it didn't matter. He reckoned he'd have plenty of time to open the box if he was going to be trapped here for awhile.

--

Meanwhile, in his quarters, Fagin was mulling over the situation at hand. Bill had managed to nick the key to his box; he'd definitely have to keep it in a safer place in future. But he'd managed to nick the key all the same…

"Interesting…" Fagin muttered, drumming his fingers on his desk. "Very interesting…"

In fact, Mister Fagin Esquire had just had an idea.

One of his more brilliant ones.

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A/N: I had to tweak the set to suit my dramatic purposes. XD

Apologies to any diehard fans of the 1968 Fagin's Den movie set.

Please R hope it's living up to your expectations. =)