If a person doesn’t have a shilling in his pocket and has holes in his cuffs, others will think as if he has a hole in his heart too.
—William Thackeray
Old Fagin hunched his back like a mouse hesitating whether to creep out of its hole.
But under Arthur’s cold and piercing gaze, this old crow finally succumbed.
He moved to take the cloth bag resting on the corner of the counter. The bag, small and seemingly worthless, was held in his trembling hands as if it were an explosive ready to detonate.
Fagin’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and he swallowed dry spit.
"I didn’t intend to take it..." Fagin mumbled, as if talking to himself or confessing to Arthur, "But she... she said it was a matter of credit... just a box."
"Then take out the ’just a box’," Arthur replied lightly, his tone devoid of accusation but it hit Old Fagin’s ears harder than a whip, making his entire back burn.
As if resigning to fate, he closed his eyes firmly and loosened the strap of the bag. The fabric slowly slipped off, revealing a milky white writing box.
No gaudy glimr of gold, no tacky piles of jewels—only the subtle elegance expected of an ivory piece, with silver wires inlaid around the box, flowing into a bloom of a rose.
With a gentle push of his fingertip, Arthur opened the lid with a "click," as the faint scent wafted through the air.
Sunlight slanted onto the inside lid, the delicate beams landing on an inscription beneath a silver plate:
To V— Be your will sovereign. G.R.
In an instant, Arthur’s breath halted.
"G.R."—this signature, Arthur hadn’t seen in several years.
He thought that the next ti he’d encounter this signature would most likely be on so historical docunt, but never expected it to be lying in a Mariti Store in Greenwich, waiting to be weighed and sold off like scrap copper.
"G.R."—George Rex, the private signature abbreviation of forr King George IV.
Fagin dared not look at Arthur’s face, instead, he stared at his own hands.
Arthur cursed silently in his heart, though his expression didn’t betray a flicker of emotion.
He pulled out a cigar box, bit off one, and handed another to Fagin. Then he personally lit it for him. As two flas rose, Arthur said with his arm draped over Fagin’s shoulder, "Cheer up, Fagin, Australia isn’t as bad as people say."
"Au...Australia?" Old Fagin stamred in fright, "N...no, Mr. Hasting, you can’t jest like that. Though I’ve done so improper things in my life, I’ve never done anything truly terrible. I’m not like Fred or Solomon, I’m an old-school businessman, I just make money, but I’ve never taken a life!"
"I never said you took a life. If you had, it wouldn’t be exile; it’d be your neck hanging on the gallows in front of Newgate Prison."
Arthur blew out a puff of smoke nonchalantly, "You’re not just any fence, you’re a Royal fence. Even if they accused you of espionage, theft, conspiracy to overturn constitutional governance, I could understand. Make sure to hire a good lawyer for your defense. Oh, and if you need it, I can ask Lord Brougham if he’ll take your case for you."
Fagin’s face went white like he’d just crawled out of the grave.
"I...I truly didn’t know this box was of such significance!"
In a panic, his voice rose eight octaves, enough to star in "Turandot": "I thought it was just sothing a servant had swiped, sothing I could wash and modify to turn into a trinket... Mr. Hastings, you’re an old hand at this, you must believe , at my age, do I need to take such a big risk? To earn a living, that’s all I desire."
Arthur didn’t say anything, he just leisurely extinguished his cigar in the porcelain bowl beside the counter.
Seeing this, Fagin dared not hide a single detail, fearing he’d miss this chance and by their next eting, they’d be one on land and one at sea.
"The girl who sold the item called herself Lizzy, but I can’t be sure if that’s her real na. When she ca, she wore a gray dress, appeared neat, but with a pale complexion. As soon as she entered, she asked if I could handle the item... I really didn’t want to take it at first, but she said..."
Old Fagin suddenly paused, hesitating whether to continue.
Arthur frowned, "Said what?"
"She said it was her brother’s life!"
Fagin’s eyes glazed over, and his pace quickened, "She said her brother worked at the shipyard, and his hand got caught in the machine. The yard gave only a few shillings before throwing him out. Her brother was in debt to the pharmacy, unable to cover food bills, reported to the Fleet Prison by his debtor. She said if she couldn’t gather the penalty by the end of the month, her brother would be sent for hard labor, and being so worn out, there’s no way he’d survive until spring... You know, I’m a kind-hearted person, so..."
Arthur leaned on the counter, "Whether you’re kind-hearted, I can’t say. But if you believe everything others say, you’re not fit for the crow’s nest."
Old Fagin knew Arthur spoke the truth. Though his heart wasn’t the worst kind, anyone who could run a fence in the slums had to beco a crafty creature through decades of learning.
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