mid-air with a complicated flick of its wings.
And then it was heading back down the aisle towards him like a feathered bullet.
Sherlock reached out with his left hand to steady himself on the empty case beside him. The glass door shifted slightly under his fingers. It was unlocked. Whoever was responsible for fitting the exhibits had left it open while they went off to fetch whatever stuffed bird and background landscape materials they required.
The falcon had covered half the distance now. It was dipping towards the floor, but another massive beat of its wings accelerated its speed and kept its height up.
It was aiming for his throat.
Sherlock grasped the middle of the door frame. No time to calculate the right moment; he had to do this on instinct.
When the bird was six feet away he yanked on the door frame.
The glass door pulled open, right into the path of the falcon. The bird smashed into the glass, through the glass, and fell to the floor, stunned, amid a rain of glass fragments. Sherlock watched as it shook its head and tried to get up. He couldn’t see any blood, and its wings appeared to be undamaged, but it wasn’t in any condition to continue the fight. The rabbit had suddenly turned round and bitten it.
Sherlock glanced up, along the aisle. At the far end stood the massive man with the walking stick. He was still just a black shadow, with the light behind him, but Sherlock could feel the man’s gaze drilling into his forehead, the way he had earlier felt the falcon’s gaze drilling into the back of his head.
He raised a hand in a wave that was significantly more relaxed than he felt, then turned and headed for the door he’d previously come through. He didn’t care that it was locked. He’d fought off a killer falcon; a locked door should be child’s play.
The door was indeed still locked, but when he got to it someone was hammering on it and calling out. Moments later there was the sound of a key turning, and the door sprang open. A man in the uniform of a security guard almost fell in.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Who locked this door?’
‘You tell me,’ Sherlock said. ‘You’re the one with the key.’
The guard’s gaze moved over Sherlock’s torn, bloodied clothes. ‘What was going on in here?’ he asked. ‘I heard breaking glass.’
Sherlock was on the verge of telling the man everything, but he bit back the words. It would sound like he’d made the story up to disguise an act of vandalism. Who would believe that a live falcon would attack him? He’d be caught up in explanations and recriminations for hours, and he had to get to Amyus Crowe to tell him what had happened.
‘One of the cabinet doors opened as I was walking past,’ Sherlock said wearily. ‘The glass smashed. I got cut. Who do I report this to?’
‘Report it to?’ the guard parroted.
‘Yes. I was injured. Who do I see for compensation?’
The guard stood back, nonplussed. ‘I suppose you see the manager,’ he said, considerably more calm than moments before.
‘Where can I find him?’
‘In his office. Just between the baboons and the hooved ungulates.’
‘Thank you.’ And with all the dignity he could muster, Sherlock left.
He strode back through the various galleries, heading for the main entrance. He had to find Amyus Crowe and tell him what had happened. Assuming, of course, that Crowe hadn’t fallen foul of some other form of attack.
He found Crowe in a small tea shop that was located on the other side of the main staircase. He was perched on a white-painted wrought iron chair, sipping from a china cup that looked like something from a doll’s house in his massive hands. Fake tree branches had been built out of the wall in plaster and covered with fabric leaves, and stuffed parrots and birds of paradise had been artfully placed amongst them. Their brilliant green, red, blue and yellow plumage shone like jewels. The tea shop was almost empty, apart from a man sitting by himself in a corner, reading a newspaper, and two elderly women nattering by a window. A young man wearing black trousers and a striped waistcoat moved among the tables, wiping barely perceptible crumbs from the tablecloths.
‘You look as if you could sink a slice of Battenberg cake,’ Crowe observed mildly, taking in Sherlock’s appearance with a swift up-and-down glance. And maybe ah could stretch to a lemonade as well.’
‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’ Sherlock groaned, slumping into a chair on the other side of the table.
‘Ah can tell most of the story just by lookin’ at you,’ Crowe rejoined. ‘You were attacked, an’ by some kind of animal, far as ah can tell. You got the better of it, but you took some damage. What was it?’ He paused. ‘No, don’t tell me.’ He frowned. ‘A bird? An eagle? No, too small. A falcon, ah guess, by the size of the tears in your clothes.’
‘I was in the birds of prey section, and I was attacked by a bird of prey.’
‘Not a stuffed one, ah presume.’
‘A real one,’ Sherlock snapped tetchily.
‘Of course,’ Crowe rumbled amiably. ‘Ah was just joshin’ with you.’
Sherlock took a closer look at his mentor. Crowe’s usually immaculate white suit looked creased around the lapels, as if someone had caught hold of them and tugged, and a button was missing from the left cuff. His hair was disarrayed, as if he had been caught in a sudden wind. ‘You don’t look too hot yourself,’ Sherlock said. ‘What happened?’
Crowe grimaced. Ah was wonderin’ if you’d spot anythin’. Ah found a door that led to some offices, an’ ah was checkin’ behind the scenes. Ah had a story ready prepared – ah was goin’ to say that ah was lookin’ for a restroom – but rather than ask me some pointed questions about my presence someone tried to cosh me from behind. Fortunately ah saw their shadow as they were swingin’ at me, an’ ah managed to duck just in time. There was somethin’ of a scuffle, durin’ which ah got swung into a door frame, but my attacker must have decided that once the element of surprise had gone ah wasn’t goin’ to be a pushover, so he retreated while ah was tryin’ to gather my wits.’ He snorted. ‘Apart from the fact that my attacker was male, large and rather well versed in usin’ a cosh, ah couldn’t tell you much about him.’
‘So we were both attacked,’ Sherlock said. ‘That implies we’re on the right track.’
‘Ah wasn’t sure if the attack on me was connected to our investigation, or whether it was just a simple muggin’ gone wrong, but in conjunction with the attack on you, we have to assume that we’ve been rumbled.’
Sherlock looked around. ‘Do you think we’re being watched now?’
Crowe nodded. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’ He glanced around the room, at the man who was reading a newspaper, the two gossiping women and the waiter in the striped waistcoat. ‘Prob’ly not by any of the patrons of this fine establishment, though. Not sure about the chap in the fancy clothes who takes the orders.’
‘The thing is, I didn’t find anything out,’ Sherlock said. ‘Nothing of interest, anyway.’
‘You may be surprised,’ Crowe said. ‘Knowin’ you as ah do, ah like to think that you picked up some small details along the way that might help us.’
‘Did you find anything out? Before you were attacked?’
Crowe shrugged. ‘Ah had a good look around, includin’ some areas that maybe the public aren’t supposed to be allowed in, but ah have to admit that ah’ve come up blank. If there’s anythin’ goin’ on here then ah missed the signs.’
‘Do we know enough to report this to the police?’ Sherlock asked. ‘We can’t investigate this place ourselves. Not now the Paradol Chamber know we’re here.’
Crowe nodded. ‘Both of us have been attacked. That’s good enough reason to get the police involved, an’ if we’re lucky they’ll find somethin’ incriminatin’ while they’re searchin’ the place for our attackers.’ He slammed his hand decisively on the table, making his teacup rattle against the saucer. ‘We might just have them!’
He sprang to his feet. ‘You’re goin’ to have to miss out on that Battenberg cake,’ he announced. ‘Let’s go back to Bow Street Police Station an’ make a formal complaint.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
