“Yes, Your Grace. Snuck up behind me, the bounder did, and coshed me brainbox but good. Woke up covered in me own blood.”
Griffin frowned at the man, who had no bandage, bruising or even swelling anywhere to be seen on his nearly bald skull. “You seem to have recovered remarkably well.”
MacFarlane shifted uncomfortably. “That’s just it, Your Grace. A little too remarkably. ’Tis the damndest thing, pardon my French.”
Still frowning, Griff asked, “Might I see where you were struck, sir?”
The Scotsman shrugged, obviously chalking this entire encounter up to aristocratic eccentricity, and turned so that Griffin had a good view of the side of his head. He could see the man’s scalp through the thinning, short expanse of orange hair.
The light in the room was good, and they were near a window. Griffin took a magnifying glass from his pocket and raised it so it hovered over MacFarlane’s large skull. There, just above the man’s slightly cauliflowered ear. “Were you a boxer, Mr. MacFarlane?”
“Aye, Your Grace. When I was a young man. Never made much of a career of it, and all I have to show for it is me bashed-up ear. You see what you’re lookin’ for? Just above there.”
Griffin did see it. A thin, pink line of newly healed skin just above that battered ear. It made his heart go cold. “I see it, yes.”
“Now you understand why I’ll be wearing a bandage when next I go to work.”
Yes, he did. Anyone who saw this would think MacFarlane was either abnormal, or that he hadn’t been injured at all. Griffin was surprised the man even showed him the spot.
“Were there any strange substances near the wound?” he asked, tucking the glass back into his pocket. “I realize it might have been difficult to tell with all the blood.”
MacFarlane looked at him, then at Jasper and back to Griff again, as though trying to decide how much to tell them. Griffin didn’t blame him, the man’s story was already damn near impossible to believe. “There was oil, Your Grace. Like the kind we use to keep the museum’s automatons moving smoothlike. I thought it would get into me head and make a mess of the wound, but it…it healed.”
Griff schooled his features as a slow panic rose within him. “And a good thing for you, too, sir. I think you are wise to wear the bandage, and I assure you that your secret is safe with me.” He smiled. “We’ve trespassed long enough on your hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out. Good day, Mr. MacFarlane. You may keep the card, and feel free to contact me if you remember anything else.”
Once they were safely outside, beneath darkening clouds that threatened rain, Jasper turned to Griffin. “That man’s wound healed just like the one I had that Miss Emily put her special salve on, the stuff your grandpa found.”
Griffin nodded, his mood grim as he swung his leg over the bulk of his velocycle. “The Machinist has Organites, and he’s figured out a way to use them.”
Chapter 14
Emily’s laboratory was like nothing Finley had ever seen before, or was likely to ever see again.
It was like some kind of macabre toy shop, or a mad inventor’s lair. All around her were parts of automatons, bits of gears and machinery. Tools lay scattered over the bench that ran the entire length of one wall. The air smelled of hot metal and oil mixed with various medicinal odors. On the far wall, beakers and burners waited to be used. High shelves held differently colored liquids stored in clear bottles, while bottles of rich cobalt blue and dark amber glass contained chemicals and concoctions sensitive to light. They looked very pretty set up there—like gems of different shapes and sizes.
In one corner sat a large, gun-metal-gray cat. It looked like engravings she had seen of exotic jungle felines, only made of metal. It was beautiful and slightly…wrong, all at the same time.
On a long table near the center of the room lay a slightly tarnished brass automaton with its front panel removed. It resembled one of those surgical engravings in the medical books Silas sold in his shop, but it was metal instead of human flesh—thankfully. The spindly machine Finley had wrecked at the circus sat on another table. Sam was right to think of her as dangerous, she thought as she saw the damage her own hands had wrought.
The waxwork of Queen Victoria was on the table closest to her, looking so lifelike it sent a chill down Finley’s spine. It looked like a corpse—a poor old woman divested of her clothing, as well as her life. So realistic it was that she felt almost as though she should mourn for it, cover it with a sheet and say a brief prayer over the lifeless form.
But it was little more than a doll, she reminded herself as she came closer. Wax, not flesh, not human at all. Still, her hand hesitated a second over the form before she could actually bring herself to touch it. She poked it in the ribs, the wax was hard and unyielding. She let out a little sigh of relief.
Emily smiled at her from the other side of the table. “Were you thinkin’ she might sit up and bite you?”
Finley chuckled, a little embarrassed, but not so much that she couldn’t laugh at herself. “I didn’t get much past the sitting-up part.”
“She is unsettling. Reminds me a little bit of my nanny O’Brien.”
The fond smile on Emily’s face did more to squelch Finley’s unsettled nerves than the knowledge that she could destroy the figure fairly easily should it do anything odd. She let her gaze roam over the statue, finally seeing it as a harmless thing.
She frowned. The thief had placed enough humanity on the figure to leave it partially dressed—to leave it with some dignity attached. Yet, it had been left in Whitechapel, a place dignity forgot.
“Why did he take the figure’s gown if his only intention was to leave it on Jack’s doorstep?”
“Ooh, Jack, is it?” Emily’s voice was rife with teasing. “Are the two of ye intimate acquaintances now?”
Finley grinned, she couldn’t help it. “You’re a fine one to tease when you have both Sam and that pretty cowboy dancing attendance on you.” Her gaze fell back to the wax figure, and all humor vanished. “Uh, Emily? I think I might know why he took the whole figure.”
The redhead came round the side of the table, and looked where Finley pointed.
“Oh, aye. I noticed those were gone first thing.”
Where the figure’s glass eyes should have been were nothing but empty wax sockets.
“You can see where they were pried out,” Finley said, gesturing along the lash line. God, but it was unsettling to look at. “Now, what would someone want with glass eyes?”
“Any number of things. People wear them, dolls have them. They’re used in sophisticated lifelike automatons, as well.”
Finley’s head whipped toward her. “I’ve heard nasty stories about what those machines are used for.”
Emily made a face. “Don’t believe everything you hear. I know of several machines that are very humanoid that are treated with the greatest respect by their owners.”
“Do you think The Machinist took the figure for its eyes?”
“Possibly—either for his own work or to sell. I’ll send a note ’round to my supplier, ask if he’s heard about anyone trying to sell a pair of Victoria-blue eyes. I would imagine they’d fetch a good price, considering they would have been made to match Her Majesty’s.”
Hand on her hip, Finley gazed at the smaller girl with considerable respect. “You’re a very useful person, Emily O’Brien.”
The Irish girl preened under the praise. “You’re not so shabby yourself.
“Yes, well, I reckon Jasper would have other things in mind if the two of you were in any kind of enclosed space, alone.”
Pink filled Emily’s cheeks. “He just likes to tease me. He doesn’t mean it.”
Finley rolled her eyes. “A girl as intelligent as you cannot possibly be that dense. Has he tried to kiss you?”
“No! Of course not.”
