you like Jack Dandy.”
Griffin didn’t respond to that. There was nothing to say that would make Jasper believe he didn’t care about Finley and Dandy. “Sam’s my best mate,” he said. “And I don’t know him anymore.”
“He’ll come ’round,” Jasper replied as they approached the door.
“You really believe that?”
The American shrugged. “It might take a good boot to the arse first.” He grinned. “I volunteer to do the kickin’.”
Griffin laughed, and when Jasper opened the museum door, he walked in first, still smiling.
The wax museum was no longer owned by the Tussaud family, so Griffin asked to speak to the person in charge, and when the gentleman appeared, introduced himself and Jasper. The gentleman, whose name was Mr. White, was quite beside himself at having a duke in his establishment. When Griffin told him they would like to see where the Victoria figure had been taken from, Mr. White didn’t hesitate. It was one of the advantages to being the highest rank below a prince—one was rarely, if ever, questioned or denied anything.
The curator led them through the museum to where the “royal” exhibit was. Griffin had been there before and wasn’t captivated by the amazing likenesses of modern and historical figures. Jasper on the other hand had a difficult time keeping his head still; his gaze jumped from statue to statue.
Griffin shot him an amused glance. “We can stop by the Chamber of Horrors before we leave if you want.”
The cowboy merely nodded, his attention already distracted by another lifelike display.
“Obviously we’ve had this exhibit closed since the theft,” Mr. White informed them. “I don’t have to tell you it’s been very inconvenient given that it’s Her Majesty’s diamond jubilee.”
“Yes,” Griffin agreed. “I assume it would be very inconvenient given all the tourists visiting the city.”
“Indeed. Fortunately, there are always those who will pay the admission fee simply to see the site where the figure was when it was stolen. Humanity, I’m sure I do not have to tell Your Grace, is a strange animal.”
On that point Griffin couldn’t agree more, and he said as much as Mr. White led them directly to the royal display. Prince Albert’s likeness stood alone, forever frozen as he looked at the time of his death. It would be odd to see this man, who had been in his prime, standing next to the queen as she looked now.
“Did anyone witness the theft?” Griffin asked Mr. White.
“No. We have a night watchman, but the poor man was knocked unconscious by the thieving wretch. Took a nasty blow that split his head open.”
The curator had a strange expression on his face—as though he were working over a puzzle. For a second, Griffin wondered if the watchman had been privy to the theft, but he quickly discarded that theory. Stealing a waxwork figure was hardly worth the loss of a position, and if he’d been paid to let the thief in, it was unlikely he would have sustained such a serious injury, if one at all.
“Was anything else taken?”
“No. That is what led Scotland Yard to believe it was nothing more than a harmless prank.”
“I doubt your watchman would agree with that assumption,” Griffin remarked. “Could you give us his direction? I’d like to speak to him when we’re done.”
Another benefit of dukedom was rarely being questioned or told no. Mr. White was obviously curious as to why Griff would want to speak to the man—what Griff’s interest was in this whole debacle—but he kept his questions to himself.
“Of course, Your Grace. I will get that for you directly.”
The curator didn’t hang about once he’d shown them where they wanted to go. He had to man the front, of course, and copy the watchman’s address, but he asked Griffin to summon him should he require anything— anything at all. Then he bowed and took his leave.
Jasper waited until the man was gone before asking, “You ever get tired of folks puckerin’ up to your backside?”
Griffin faced him with mock gravity. “Yes. It is deuced tiring, people doing whatever I wish. Makes my life so very disagreeable.”
With an arched brow and wry smile, Jasper shook his head. “I sure do feel sorry for you.”
“Indeed, and for your information, I don’t enjoy having people trip all over themselves to please me.” Griffin frowned. “They usually want something in return. It makes it very difficult to know who my real friends are.”
“You live with them,” Jasper reminded him.
That was true, but there was no need of him to say that since Jasper knew it, as well. Griffin ducked under the velvet rope that surrounded the display and crouched beside the spot where the queen’s likeness had once stood.
Who would do this? And for what purpose? He scanned the area, seeing nothing, not a hair nor scrap of clothing nor…
There was something. He took glass slides and a small blade from his inside coat pocket.
“Jas, come look at this.”
His friend drew closer. “What is it?”
“Oil.” He scraped the blade through the globule, taking care not to scratch the floor. He smelled it. “The same texture and scent as that found at the automaton crime sites.”
Jasper bent over his shoulder for a better look. “The Machinist?”
Griffin smiled slightly. He had no reason to feel pleased at being correct in his assumptions, but he did. It felt as though they were closing in on the criminal even though they still had no idea where or who he was. “Indeed. Our devious friend has been busy as of late.”
“Why the heck would he want to steal a wax dummy when he obviously prefers metal?”
“I don’t know.” Griffin sandwiched the oil between two glass slides. He’d take it to Emily for further analysis.
Jasper scowled at him. “If you don’t know, why do you look so pleased with yourself?”
Griffin flashed a lopsided grin. “Because we’re going to find out.”
Mr. White returned at that moment with the watchman’s direction. Griffin thanked the curator and then he and Jasper swiftly took their leave, returning to their cycles and setting off to the watchman’s neighborhood.
A short time later, after weaving in and out of traffic at the highest speed they could obtain and still avoid pedestrians and horses, they knocked on the door of a small, but clean and cozy little house in Shoreditch.
“Long way to travel for work,” Jasper commented as they waited on the step.
Griffin shrugged. “The underground makes it much easier for Londoners to commute these days.”
Jasper made a face at his mention of the subterranean railway. The cowboy didn’t like tight spaces any more than Griffin did.
“No,” Griff remarked with a small smile. “I don’t like it, either.”
The door was opened by a stocky man, shorter than Griff but easily twice as broad. Griffin consulted the card Mr. White had given him. “Mr. Angus MacFarlane?”
“Aye,” the man replied, appraising Griffin’s fine clothes and the pistol partially concealed by Jasper’s duster. Ginger brows lowered over sharp, blue eyes. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
Griffin offered his hand. “Griffin King, Duke of Greythorne. This is my associate, Jasper Renn. We would like to talk to you about the Tussaud’s robbery.”
MacFarlane didn’t look impressed. In fact, he looked downright wary. “Mind if I ask to see some identification,
Jasper tried unsuccessfully to hide a chuckle. Griffin shot him a wry look as he produced one of his calling cards for the man.
The big Scot looked at the card, finely printed on the best stock and obviously decided it—and Griff—was the real deal. He stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” Griff crossed the threshold first, followed by Jasper.
“I’d offer you a drink, but I haven’t anything the likes of what you’d be used to.” MacFarlane made it sound as though Griff was the one at fault. This was nothing new. With the knowledge that being a duke would open many doors for him, also came the knowledge that not everyone would like him for it.
“We have no desire to abuse your hospitality, Mr. MacFarlane,” he said, all charm and smiles. “In fact, we will take as little of your time as possible. Mr. White said you did not see your attacker. Is that correct?”
