Black Ice

CHAPTER SEVEN

A gleam of light caught Sherlock’s gaze. Something had been attached to the falcon’s legs: metal blades that stuck out like extra claws. As the falcon shifted on the cabinet Sherlock could see the varnished wood splintering as the metal bit into it.

Abruptly, the bird dropped towards Sherlock, propelled by a single flap of its outstretched wings. Its legs were held out stiffly beneath it, the metal claws spread wide. Sherlock jumped back, but his feet got tangled and he fell. It was as if he was toppling backwards in slow motion. He saw the falcon zooming over him, claws reaching for his eyes. It seemed as though he could see each individual feather covering its underside. Air blew across his face as the bird flapped its wings and soared past. Time stretched out, leaving him wondering if he had paused in mid-fall, suspended in mid-air, but the sudden impact as his shoulders hit the floor knocked the breath from his body in an explosive whoosh! and sent stars spinning through his head.

He rolled over, squeezing into the corner where the wooden base of a glass case met the floor, and scrabbled forward, expecting at any second to feel the bird’s claws bite into the flesh of his neck. The muscles in his back spasmed in pain. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a blur of brown feathers, and he jerked sideways, but when nothing moved he looked more closely and saw that it was a stuffed kestrel behind the glass. He was so close that he could see the stitches around its neck and the dust on its black glass eyes.

Cautiously, he raised his head and looked up.

There was no sign of the falcon.

Sherlock stood and glanced around, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every darkened recess. Nothing. The falcon had gone.

Somewhere in the distance he heard a flapping of wings, but the sound echoed from the bare walls of the room and he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

Sherlock pressed his back against the glass of the cabinet. He could feel its coolness through his jacket and shirt.

What was his best course of action? He could go forward, but he would be heading into unfamiliar territory. Perhaps he should retreat, back to the entrance hall. He could wait there for Amyus Crowe, or follow him into the section for amphibians and reptiles.

That thought led to another one: Amyus Crowe fighting for his life with a crocodile, or some kind of large lizard like the ones that he, Matty and Virginia had encountered in America, just as Sherlock was fighting with a bird in the stuffed birds section. The thought was patently stupid – there was no reason to think that the stuffed animals were coming to life and leaving their cases – but that started his mind racing. What was a live falcon doing in a museum? What was a falcon even doing in London? And why were its claws covered with razor-sharp metal sheathes?

All the questions had the same answer – the bird obviously belonged to someone, the person with the whistle, and that person was using it to injure or kill Sherlock. Maybe they had followed him and Amyus Crowe to the museum or, more likely, they were using the museum as a base of operations and had spotted the two of them entering.

As if in confirmation of his hypothesis, a short whistle cut through the heavy silence again – three blasts, a signal to the falcon. Immediately Sherlock heard wings flapping. A shadow flickered against the ceiling, cast by the sun shining through a skylight and reflecting off the glass of a display case, and interrupted by the bird flying past.

And then silence again.

Sherlock moved as quietly as he could towards the door he had entered through. His gaze flickered in all directions, trying to work out which one an attack was going to come from.

Dust tickled his nostrils. He felt a sneeze coming on. He pinched the top of his nose hard, squeezing until the urge subsided. The last thing he wanted to do was attract the falcon’s attention.

Glancing around, he realized that he wasn’t sure where he was. He didn’t recognize the birds in the cases. He thought they were eagles, but their feathers were mainly white and they had ruffs round their necks.

Sherlock hadn’t come past these exhibits on his way in. There must have been another path that he had missed.

Go on or go back?

He decided to go on. If he was lucky then he would find another exit.

If he was unlucky, the falcon would find him. Or its owner would.

He scanned the cases around him as he moved. The one immediately to his left contained a brown bird of prey with a sharp beak. He passed by, gaze moving on, but something in the back of his mind was trying to raise a warning flag. He thought it was just the similarity between the bird in the case and the falcon that had almost clawed his eyes out, but then the bird in the case turned its head to look at him, and he realized that it wasn’t in the case at all, that the case was empty – he was looking through the case and the bird was perched on a ledge behind it.

The falcon sprang up, propelling itself with mighty sweeps of its wings. For a moment it hung in the air, poised above the empty case, and then it plunged towards Sherlock.

He raised his arms defensively, forearms crossed in front of his face. The bird hit him in a flurry of claws and wings. Its metal-shod claws scrabbled for a grip on his arms, but only succeeded in ripping the sleeves of his jacket. Its wings battered him around his ears: strong blows, like those of a boxer. One of the claws succeeded in cutting through the cloth of his jacket and shirt: he felt a red-hot line being drawn along the flesh of his left arm, and a flood of wetness after it, soaking into the material. He had automatically closed his eyes when the bird struck, but now, opening them, he found that its head was only inches away from his own. The falcon was drawing back, stabilising itself with its claws, preparing to strike with its sharp-edged beak at Sherlock’s right eye. Enraged and panicked at the same time, he lashed out with his right hand. His knuckles connected with the bird’s chest, knocking it away. It flapped its wings and took off, but instead of retreating it headed straight back at Sherlock.

Shielding his face with one arm, he struck out with the other. If he had hit it he would probably have broken the bird’s wing, but it was too fast for him. The falcon swerved in mid-air, avoiding his clenched fist. He watched as it flew away, down an aisle between display cases, dipping towards the floor as it glided on outstretched wings and then rising in a rapid arc as it flapped them to clear a case ahead of it.

Sherlock bent over for a few seconds, hands on knees and breath rasping in his throat. He could feel the blood pulsing through the arteries of his neck and thudding in his temples.

Still bent over, he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He straightened up abruptly and stared around. He could see many eyes watching him, but they were all glass. He probed the shadowy spaces around the high ceiling for some sign of the bird. He couldn’t see it anywhere. But it could see him. He sensed it.

Whoever owned the bird would probably expect Sherlock to retreat again, towards the exit he had been heading for before. So he moved forward, in the direction the falcon had gone. That, at least, had the benefit of being unexpected.

He got to the large display case behind which the bird had disappeared. It contained a flock of smaller birds, posed on wires with wings outstretched, as if in flight. The aisle split at that point, going left and right. He chose right at random, and headed past a section of seagulls. At the far end the aisle turned right. He stopped there, and peered around the corner.

Ahead was an open area which terminated in a large wooden door, which presumably led to the next room. Floor-to-ceiling windows to either side let bright sunlight spill in. Standing in the centre of the room, silhouetted by the light from the far window, was a man. He was facing away from the door. Sherlock couldn’t make out any features, just a general impression of a massive figure with wide shoulders. He was holding a walking stick in one hand, supporting his weight, while the other arm was stretched out straight to support the weight of the falcon. It was obviously disturbed: its head was jerking from side to side and it seemed to be moving its weight from foot to foot. The man was talking to it in a calm voice, and gradually the bird relaxed until it was standing motionless and alert.

The man’s head turned, looking left and right. The bird copied him. Sherlock pulled his own head back so that he couldn’t be seen.

What to do?

He couldn’t get to the door ahead of him. The man was in the way. He had to go back, to the door he’d come through.

A thought struck him. He slipped his shoes off and stuck them in his pockets. In his socks he would make less noise on the hard wooden floor. He moved backwards, then turned and ran off down the aisle. He’d lost track of the exact route, but this was a museum, not a maze. As long as he headed in the proper direction, he should be all right.

He turned left, then right. Birds everywhere, staring at him with cold eyes. Maybe he’d seen them before, maybe he hadn’t. They were all blurring together.

An empty glass case! This was where he had seen the falcon before, through the glass, as it had perched on a ledge on the wall. He thought he knew the way from here. Just two more turns…

Something struck him between his shoulder blades, knocking him over. Claws bit into the muscles of his back, tearing through the cloth of his jacket and shirt as if they were tissue paper. At any second he expected to feel the falcon’s beak strike at the nape of his neck, and his skin crawled at the thought. He rolled over, trying to trap the bird beneath him, but it was too quick for him. Releasing its grip it hopped a few feet down the corridor and then took off. The harsh beat of its wings left a couple of feathers floating in the air.

Sherlock climbed shakily to his feet. He couldn’t take much more of this.

He heard the big man, the bird’s owner, whistle again.

At the far end of the aisle the falcon suddenly headed straight up, then paused and seemed to turn over in 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.’