The Birds
The Birds
By Herschel Cozine
Copyright 2011 by Herschel Cozine
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Other Titles by Herschel Cozine and Untreed Reads Publishing
Delinquency Report
The Birds
By Herschel Cozine
Hi. Nathaniel P. Osgood III here. For those of you who don’t know me, I am a private eye in Nurseryland. It’s a strange profession in an even stranger land. I have seen many kinds of weapons used in the commission of a crime during my career. Bows and arrows, gingerbread houses, poisoned apples, even lung power. (Remember the wolf and the three pigs?) So I didn’t consider it out of the ordinary in Nurseryland when I discovered that blackbirds had been used to attack the royal family. Why not? After all, this is the land of the free and the home of the odd. However, the method of attack rather than the weapon was disconcerting, admittedly clever, and definitely malicious. After all, the perpetrator had no control over the birds once they were set free inside the royal palace (or so I thought), and any mischief they did would be totally unpredictable. It was a bit reckless. But, like many crimes and criminals, irresponsible behavior is commonplace. I suppose if they had any regard for that sort of thing they wouldn’t be criminals in the first place.
I became involved in the case shortly after it happened. A man of my position has very little contact with the upper crust. We’re just working stiffs, dealing with the lower elements of society as a rule. Pig stealers, trespassers, peeping toms and the like. What does royalty know about our way of life? (And vice versa?)
However, occasionally a situation arises that requires someone of my profession be involved. The blackbird case, I soon learned, was one of them.
It was a sunny morning, not unlike most of the other mornings at this time of year. My disposition, however, was not as pleasant as the weather. It seldom is. I was working on my second cup of coffee, clearing my head from a night of overindulgence in food and drink—particularly the latter—when the door to my office opened with a creak that made me wince. Making a mental note to oil the hinges, I looked up to see a distinguished looking man standing rigidly before me. Although not familiar with the dress code of the palace, I had seen enough pictures to know that his outfit had royalty written all over it. I stood up, bowed my head slightly in a show of respect. I felt like Pavlov’s dog. Royalty tinkled a bell and we subjects responded with awe and respect, no matter whether the royalty in question deserves it. It’s been my experience that they seldom do. But that’s not an issue here.
“Mister Osgood?” The voice had a stentorian quality about it, befitting the position of the speaker.
“At your service,” I replied.
The man extended his hand. “I am Thornhill Montague, adviser and counseler to His Royal Highness.”
I wasn’t certain whether I was supposed to shake his hand or kiss it. Choosing the former—more sanitary if socially incorrect—I shook it firmly. He returned the handshake with an equal firmness and I relaxed.
He looked around the room with a hint of disdain, brushed a hand across his eyes and sat down. “I am here at the request of His Royal Highness, King Geoffrey Hart.”
The name, although expected—after all he was the only king Nurseryland had at the moment—reminded me of the Queen of Hearts from Wonderland. Notwithstanding the spelling difference, I often wondered if they were related.
Since the gentleman was now seated, I felt it was safe to do the same. I knew
that
much about royal protocol. I sat down slowly, waiting for him to continue.
“It seems we had an unfortunate incident occur at the palace the other day,” he said. He brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve and watched it drift to the floor where it settled among thousands of other pieces just like it. My maid service was not especially diligent. But they were cheap.
“Someone made an unprovoked and, I must say, cowardly attack on the royal family.”
“How shocking,” I said. “Can you be more specific?”
“Let me continue,” he said testily. That’s another thing I learned about royalty and their servants: patience was not their long suit.
“The king, the queen, and several of the staff were injured in the attack. One of the maids lost her nose.”
“Lost her nose?” I said, horrified.
Montague nodded.
“How?”
“One of the birds pecked it off. It was horrible.” He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
“Hold on a minute,” I said, forgetting for the moment that my role in this meeting was to be deferential. “What birds are you referring to?”
Montague paused and looked at me with an air of perplexity. “Sorry, old chap,” he said. “I forgot to tell you.” He wiped his nose with an oversized handkerchief.
“The royal family and staff were attacked by birds. Blackbirds to be precise.”
“Blackbirds?”
Montague shrugged. “That’s the official story But—well, let’s leave it at that for the moment. It isn’t important.”
My curiosity was piqued, but I accepted it—for the moment.
“You say this was a cowardly attack,” I said. “I presume by that you believe someone put the birds up to this. How exactly does one go about training blackbirds to attack people?”
“Oh, it was deliberate,” Montague said. “The birds were smuggled into the palace in a pie.”
The tale was becoming more bizarre by the minute. I held up my hand. “A pie? Blackbirds in a pie? What a strange thing to do.”
“It’s somewhat like the Trojan Horse,” Montague said.
“How did the pie get into the palace?” I asked. “Didn’t your security guards inspect it before they allowed it into the king’s chambers—or kitchen. Or wherever?”
“It was delivered UPS, Ultimate Pie Service. And it is not an unusual delivery. Her Majesty is quite fond of pie and has it delivered almost daily. Whoever did this dastardly deed was aware of that I’m sure.” He smiled ruefully. “Of course, this pie was considerably larger than most.”
“How much larger?”
“The pie was perhaps two feet in diameter. Most of our pies are about ten inches. There must have been a couple of dozen birds in the pie.”
“A pie that size should have raised some eyebrows,” I said. “Wouldn’t security be curious? I would think they would…”
“That’s not for me to say,”
I scratched my ear thoughtfully. I tried to envision blackbirds flying around the royal residence, attacking the king and queen, as well as pecking the nose off of a maid. But how does one get a blackbird into a pie in the first place? I posed the question to Montague. He smiled.
“Simple,” he said with a note of superiority. “One simply places the bird in a pie pan, covers it with a top crust, and bakes it.”
“Bakes it?”
“Yes. 350 degrees for one hour.”
I sat up amazed. “Wouldn’t that kill the birds?”
Montague leaned forward. “No. But I think you should know that the birds aren’t really blackbirds. They are bluejays. They just turned black during the bake cycle. And there’s nothing meaner than a bluejay who’s been baked in a pie.”
I took his word for it, hoping I would never have it proven to me personally. I changed the subject.
“OK. So we have a bunch of birds, annoyed by being shut up in a pie and baked for an hour at 350 degrees. What happened next?”
Montague shifted in his chair. “When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.”
“Sing?” I repeated. “I thought you said they were angry.”
Montague shrugged. “I’m just reporting what I was told by His Majesty.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice a decibel. “Just between you and me, the king has a tin ear. I believe they were screeching. He wouldn’t know the difference.”
That made sense (a rare occurrence in Nurseryland). I was intrigued by the idea. Royalty has a history of retaining the services of brilliant musicians such as Mozart. What a waste. King Hart couldn’t tell the difference between “The Magic Flute” and a bunch of screeching bluejays. Taxpayers should be outraged.
But I digress. Turning my attention back to Montague, I waited for him to continue.
“What happened next is too horrible to describe.”
“Try,” I said. “Anything you can tell me could be helpful. You mentioned something about one of the servants getting pecked in the nose.”
“Yes. Poor girl.” Montague rubbed his eyes and sighed.
“Where did this happen?”
“She was in the garden.” He shook his head. “It was ghastly. Without warning one of the birds swooped down on her, pecked at her nose repeatedly, and flew off. I witnessed the whole thing. I tried to shoo the bird away, but wasn’t able to save the poor girl from the attack.” He put his head in his hands. “I felt so helpless. Her screams still echo in my ears.”
The image evoked by his commentary was curious indeed. A young girl innocently going about her duties, suddenly being attacked and brutalized by a bird. I didn’t blame the bird, actually. After all, he (or she) had been treated shabbily as well.
Montague recovered his composure—a little too swiftly for my satisfaction—and looked at me appealingly.
“When did this attack take place?” I asked.
“Friday,” Montague said. “About noon. I would have come to you immediately, but you were not available.”
He was right about that. I’m a four-day-a-week man as a rule. Occasionally a three-day if the weather is right.
“Suffice it to say that we—His and Her Highness and the entire staff—want to find out who did this so that we may deal with him. And for that, we need your able services. You’re the top man in these parts.”
I was flattered. Upon further thought, I realized that I was the only private eye in town. Be that as it may, I nodded my thanks and stood up.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
Montague nodded impassively. “If we can be of any assistance, don’t hesitate to call on us.”
He stood up, shook my hand and left.
I sat back and replayed the discussion in my mind. Blackbirds (or whatever), baked in a pie. An innocent maid lost her nose. It was not a run of the mill crime. I hardly knew where to start.
I decided to pay a visit to UPS. They were most likely innocent middlemen in this insidious scheme, but perhaps they could tell me who sent the pie.
The young lady behind the counter at UPS looked up as I entered the office and smiled brightly. “May I help you?” she said.
Identifying myself, I looked around the room. Except for a few pie tins laying on a table behind the young lady, there was no sign of anything that would give a hint as to their line of business. I let my eyes wander back to her, a pleasant enough task. The young lady was quite attractive, although much too young for me. Most of them are.
“The other day,” I started, consulting my notes, “you sent a pie to the palace. A rather large pie, I understand.”
She studied me with a puzzled expression. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“How many two-foot pies do you send to the palace,” I said.
She wrinkled her forehead. “Two-foot pie? I have no idea what you are talking about. We only handle pies that fit within our standard package. A twelve-inch pie would be the maximum size.”
I frowned. Certainly Montague could not have been mistaken about the incident. “Are you certain?” I said. “I have it on good authority that a two-foot pie was delivered to the palace a few days ago. According to my source, the pie was delivered by UPS. You
are
UPS, am I right?”
She nodded. “We are the only pie service in town. But I can tell you with utmost confidence that we did not deliver a pie of that size to the palace.”
I sighed. “I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“I
am
the manager.”
My look must have conveyed a message I did not mean to convey. She returned my frown and said, “Does it surprise you that a woman is manager of this company?”
“No. No,” I said. “I just thought…”
She extended a small hand. “The name is Mary Horner.”
I started to shake it, but the name rang a bell. “Horner? Are you Jack’s mother?”
“Sister, actually. But yes, we’re related.”
“It figures,” I said. “But back to the subject at hand. I am absolutely certain that a pie was delivered to the royal palace by a UPS truck. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”