The Falcon Always Wings Twice

by Donna Andrews

  “The oak?” Greg asked.

  “White oak,” Grandfather clarified.

  “My tree identification is sadly lacking,” I said. “The tree with the biggest trunk—the one that has the weird bulge on the right side that sort of looks as if something was trying to burst out of the trunk, like the creature in Alien.”

  Grandfather and Greg both looked at me for a moment with an odd expression.

  “Okay,” Greg said. “The white oak.”

  “Was he hanging about here yesterday?” I asked.

  “Didn’t see him,” Greg said. “It was last weekend that he tried his Free Willy nonsense on the birds. And like I said, I thought he’d been banned.”

  “Did he have anything in his scabbard last weekend?”

  “His scabbard?”

  “It’s hard to see when he’s standing, because of the baggy, shapeless costume, but he’s got an empty scabbard hanging from that rope belt—a short scabbard. About the right size for a small dagger. Was it empty last weekend?”

  “No idea,” Greg said. “I didn’t even notice it this weekend. Is it important?”

  I was about to explain that from what I could see, the Monk’s scabbard was the very sort of cheap, machine-made scabbard that the Bonny Blade sold. Since I’d never bought anything there—had never even spent more than a few polite moments browsing their wares—I had no idea if the Bonny Blade sold their daggers and scabbards as a set or merely made sure to stock a selection of scabbards that fit their various blades. But they definitely sold them—had great rows of them hanging from racks outside their booth, waving gently in the breeze, no doubt provoking Seamus, the leatherworker, to the same feelings of annoyance that I felt when I saw their ill-made swords and daggers.

  But last I heard the chief hadn’t released any information about how Terence had been killed.

  “It just makes me … nervous,” I said aloud. “An empty scabbard’s weird, and I really don’t like the idea that a loon like that might have a weapon stashed somewhere.”

  “Point taken.” Greg nodded.

  “We’ll keep an eye on him,” Grandfather assured me. He fixed his eyes on the white oak tree with the unblinking intensity of one of his beloved owls.

  “And I’m going to ask Cordelia if we shouldn’t kick him out.” I was already texting her to that effect.

  I returned to the forge. Faulk was sitting on his stool, watching as the boys entertained the crowd. They weren’t doing any actual blacksmithing at the moment, but allowing interested tourists to heft the various tools to see how heavy they were.

  I felt the buzz that signaled a text coming in. Cordelia, confirming that she’d banned the Mad Monk last weekend.

  I ducked into the back room and called the chief.

  “This may be nothing,” I said.

  “But you’re going to tell me about it anyway because I get to decide what’s nothing and what’s a vital clue.”

  “Right. There’s a guy we call the Mad Monk. Wears a filthy robe with a rope belt.”

  “I think I’ve seen him,” she said. “Smelled him, too—not overly fond of bathing, I’d say. But that isn’t even a misdemeanor, more’s the pity. Do you have some reason to suspect him?”

  I explained about the vandalism at the weaver’s and leatherworker’s stalls the previous weekends, his attempt to free the falcons, and the curious fact that he was wearing an empty scabbard of the kind the Bonny Blade sold.

  “Again, the Bonny Blade.” Her tone was light, but I could tell she thought I had a bee in my bonnet over my so-called competitors.

  “It’s not so much that it’s one of their scabbards,” I said. “It may not even have come from there—although it’s the kind of scabbard you’d buy for your dagger if the Bonny Blade was where you did your weapon shopping. But it was empty. Why is he running around with an empty scabbard? Most people would either rig up a fake hilt or just leave the scabbard at home with the dagger.”

  “You think he left it in Mr. Cox.”

  “Could be.”

  “And his motive?”

  “The same as Greg Dorance’s: Terence was trying to harm the falcons. Of course, the Mad Monk thinks Greg is a moral leper for keeping falcons in the first place, so Greg was probably his original target. But if he happened to witness Terence endangering the birds, maybe he’d put dealing with Greg on hold till he’d dealt with Terence.”

  “It’s a possibility,” she said. “Where can I find this Mad Monk?”

  “In Falconer’s Grove, hiding behind a big white oak. And if you’re like me and wouldn’t recognize a white oak if it fell on you, just look for the tree at which Grandfather is staring fixedly.”

  “Roger. I’ll send one of my officers over to escort him up here.”

  “And after you’ve finished with him, can you have them escort him out?” I said. “Cordelia put him on the no-fly list last weekend. Not sure how he got past the ticket crew, but even if he’s not a murder suspect, he’s a trespasser.

  “Can do.”

  I tucked my phone away and opened the door so I could keep an eye on the shop. And then I pulled out my notebook and scribbled in a new task. We needed a way to ensure that tourists in costume followed the same rules as everyone else. Everyone, including the palace guards, tended to assume that anyone in a reasonably good costume was part of the Game, and let them get away with some pretty crazy stuff. I’d talk over the problem with Cordelia and Michael after closing. And—

  “Excuse me—did you buy that here?”

  I glanced up to see a young woman in a fairy costume peering through the door into the back room. She was staring at my notebook with covetous eyes.

  “The book.” She pointed to my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. “Did you buy it here?”

  “Yes, from Seamus, the leatherworker.” I held my notebook out so she could take a closer look. “His booth’s right by the Dragon’s Claw. But it’s a special order, and not cheap.”

  “Ooh … if it’s a special order, maybe he could make one even more like what I want. Not that yours isn’t just about perfect.”

  “It’s perfect for me.” I held the book out so she could see the detail. “But if your budget’s healthy, nothing Seamus would like better than coming up with one that’s just as perfect for you.”

  “Thank you!” She stroked one of the embossed dragons lightly, then dashed off in the direction of Seamus’s booth.

  I studied the intricate leather for a few more moments. Maybe I wouldn’t go back to the more utilitarian binder I’d been using for the notebook. See if Seamus was right that his work would last a lifetime.

  Then I tucked it away and left the back room. Jamie was hammering on an iron rod under Faulk’s close supervision while Josh explained to the crowd what his brother was doing.

  As I watched, Faulk made a correction to Jamie’s technique with a few quiet words and a swift gesture. Yes, that awkward way Jamie had been holding his wrist made my own ache, as if it imagined how tired and sore he’d be if he kept that up. Much better now. I found myself nodding in satisfaction at the improvement, and smiled when I realized that Faulk and I were nodding in unison.

  “Don’t force the hammer down.” Was Faulk telling Jamie the same thing he’d told me so many times in those early days? “You’ll tire yourself out before the rod’s half cold. Let gravity and the weight of the hammer work for you, not against you.”

  He was a better teacher than I was. More patient. Better at explaining things. Better at demonstrating things. I’d lost track of the number of times when I’d been trying to teach the boys something and found myself thinking, “How did Faulk manage to teach me this part?”

  And some of the best times in the forge these days were when one or both of the boys were working with me, as I’d worked with Faulk. The clang of two or even three hammers, falling into the same rhythm even if we were working on separate projects. Having another pair of hands to work the bellows for me—or taking a break from my
work and working the bellows for someone else. Sharing that moment when you shove the piece you’re working on into the water to cool it down so you can touch with an assessing finger what your hammer’s been making.

  Maybe I should persuade Faulk and Tad to come to Caerphilly when the summer was over. We had plenty of room in the house for a few more people. I’d expanded the forge when the boys had started taking an interest. It was big enough for three—it would probably serve for four. I could introduce Faulk to Ragnar, my best customer— a retired heavy-metal drummer who’d bought a local mansion and was redecorating it with vast supplies of black velvet and wrought iron. Ragnar always had more projects than I could possibly handle, and so far he’d rejected all the other blacksmiths I’d tried to introduce him to. But if I introduced him to Faulk, my own teacher? It gave me a sudden flash of pleasure, imagining what a din four hammers could make in our old barn.

  Jamie finished what he’d been doing—turning a small, straight, metal rod into an S-hook—and held it up to show the audience. Faulk beamed with pride and reminded him, quite tactfully, to cool it off before taking it within reach of the tourists.

  The forge was in good hands.

  I glanced across the way to the first aid tent. It occurred to me that Dad might be able to shed some light on Dianne’s alleged phobia. He’d taken an interest in phobias at one time. The subject had been pushed into the background by any number of other, more recent obsessions—including, at the moment, Scottish tartans, the Tolpuddle martyrs, growing his own tea, and whether the gelada monkeys of Ethiopia were really domesticating wolves or only coexisting peacefully with them. But Dad’s intellectual obsessions never completely died out—they could smolder for years, only to be revived by a few chance words.

  Unfortunately, I saw that Dad was fussing over a newly arrived patient—a young woman who’d just hopped over to the tent, partially supported by a solicitous friend. Even from across the way I could see that the woman’s ankle was swollen to the size of a grapefruit. I’d drop by a little later.

  I lurked near the entrance to Falconer’s Grove until I saw Lenny stroll in. He was dressed in street clothes, rather than a uniform, and gave the impression that he wasn’t in a particular hurry. I liked that. Seeing a uniformed officer dashing anywhere on the grounds would probably pique the tourists’ curiosity and draw a crowd. But no one paid any attention to a fairgoer dressed in t-shirt and jeans ambling from one part of the Faire to another.

  With the Mad Monk taken care of, I decided to satisfy my curiosity about something else and headed for Camp Anachronism. I’d been there often enough, but since Michael and I had bagged a room in the main building—part of my reward for being Cordelia’s second-in-command—I didn’t know the layout as well as I would have if I’d been camping there. I wanted to get a better mental map of the camp—and its relationship to the logging road and the murder scene.

  And now was a great time to do it—the trumpets were just sounding to announce the start of today’s first joust—a big draw for the tourists, and pretty much an all-hands event for most of the ambulatory staff—the minstrels, jugglers, strolling salespeople, and of course anyone playing the Game.

  Which meant that Camp Anachronism would be about as empty as it would ever be.

  I made my way there in a leisurely fashion—so many of the tourists were heading in the other direction, toward the joust, that I had to step out of the path a couple of times to let the throng pass. Around me I could see shopkeepers and food servers taking deep breaths and beginning to enjoy an interval of relative peace and quiet.

  When I got to the gate that separated Camp Anachronism from the main fairgrounds I stopped and looked around. Tourists respected the STAFF ONLY signs for the most part, but for some reason seeing someone else go through a forbidden gate often inspired them to imitation. When he had time, Cordelia’s handyman was going to figure out a way to install a lock with a keypad—camouflaged from the tourists’ eyes of course.

  Satisfied that no one was watching me, I slipped through the gate. The fenced-in path made a sharp dogleg to the right, to keep passersby from getting a view of the completely unhistorical camp when the gate opened. I paused, as I usually did, to make sure no one came barging in behind me.

  While I was doing that, I heard movement to my left. Out in the camp. I sighed with exasperation. Since I wasn’t occupying one of the tents here, I’d probably have to explain my presence. And “I just wanted to see how easy it would be for someone like you, who’s staying here, to sneak out into the woods and stab Terence” wasn’t really an explanation I wanted to make.

  Inspecting to make sure the police hadn’t messed anything up when they confiscated Terence’s tent and its contents. Yeah, that would probably pass muster.

  But when I stepped out into the main part of the camp and spotted the person who’d been making the noise I quickly ducked back into the dogleg and peered around the edge of the fence.

  What was O’Malley doing here?

  He was walking quickly along a path between two rows of tents. As I watched, he stumbled over an object someone had left out in front of their tent, swore under his breath, and continued on his way.

  Maybe I wouldn’t be quite so suspicious of O’Malley if he’d been walking normally, but his body language was furtive. He’d glance over his shoulder from time to time—although never, luckily, in my direction. He seemed more worried about glancing into all the tents he passed in case someone was hiding there. And he was stepping carefully now, as if to avoid making any noise that might betray his presence. Of course, the distant cheers from the jousting field plus the louder strains of several minstrels bellowing out a mildly bawdy song just outside the gate to the camp would have drowned out any noise he might make, but you had to hand it to him: his stealthy creeping was very amusing to watch.

  Actors. It wasn’t just their faces that could give them away. If they were stage actors—and I gathered that was where O’Malley had made his bones—they could also convey immense amounts of emotion and information with their bodies. If I were a director and wanted O’Malley to convey that he was trying to sneak around someplace he wasn’t supposed to be—using only body language—I’d be on the verge of yelling “Cut! Bravo! Nailed it!”

  But at the moment, all his very eloquent body language did was put me on high alert that he was up to something.

  I followed him using my own brand of stealth—which I hoped didn’t look the least bit like sneaking around. A couple of times, when he whirled around, I took advantage of available cover—it was easy to predict when he was about to turn, because he froze and tensed his body first—it was almost as if he wanted to telegraph what he was about to do. Most of the time I just walked slowly and smoothly through the camp, glancing at the ground often enough to keep from tripping over anything that would make a lot of noise.

  He emerged from the rows of tents that formed the main body of the camp and paused briefly, glancing across to the far side of the clearing—where we’d exiled Terence on his last night, with Horace and Lenny to keep watch over him. I ducked behind a tent. Sure enough, O’Malley turned and swept his eyes back and forth, scanning all the tents he’d passed by, before turning to walk briskly across the clearing. His new body language was that of the soldier who had ventured out of the trenches and was hoping not to draw sniper fire.

  He kept on past Horace’s and Lenny’s tents and came to a sudden stop right where Terence’s would have been if the chief hadn’t confiscated it and hauled it off. He darted glances right and left, as if looking to see which way the tent might have gone. He looked . . agitated.

  Sooner or later he’d turn around and notice me, so I decided to use the element of surprise while I still had it.

  “Looking for something?” I asked.

  Chapter 34

  At the sound of my voice O’Malley jumped and uttered a small yelp.

  “Do you always sneak up on people like that?” he demanded.

 
“I didn’t realize I was sneaking. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Terence’s tent. It’s gone.”

  “The police have taken custody of it,” I said. “Evidence.”

  “Ah.” He nodded and stared rather gloomily at what I assumed was the spot where Terence’s tent had been.

  “Was there a reason you were looking for his tent?” I asked. “Maybe I can help.”

  O’Malley didn’t answer. I was pretty sure he heard me just fine but for the moment had chosen to project an aura of dark, brooding melancholy.

  “If you think he had something of yours, you can ask the chief,” I went on. “And if you’re just into the whole true-crime sightseeing thing, you’d probably find the actual scene of the crime more interesting. I can show it to you if you like, but probably not till sometime tomorrow, though—last time I looked it was festooned with yards of crime scene tape and guarded by a very watchful Riverton police officer.”

  He continued to brood.

  It occurred to me that O’Malley thrived on having an audience. And also that I was profoundly not in the mood to be that audience, even if his performance were as fascinating as he imagined it to be. I should head back to the main part of the Faire. Although it was peaceful here, and out of view of the tourists. I shrugged, pulled out my notebook and did a little quick updating—crossing out a couple of things I’d done, adding a few new items. I might not be in O’Malley’s league as an actor, but I was pretty sure my body language communicated that I’d lost interest in what was happening here and was on the verge of moving on.

  About the time I pulled out my phone and began tapping out a query to Kevin on how he was doing with his research, O’Malley seemed to grow tired of being ignored.

  “I seek atmosphere,” he intoned, in what probably wasn’t intended to be a Vincent Price imitation. “The emotional resonance! A man—a man who was my friend—lived out the last few weeks of his mortal life here. I need to pick up the vibes!”

  “I understand,” I said, which was a lie. I had no idea what he meant. Maybe I could enlist Rose Noire to translate. She knew a lot more about vibes than I did.