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.