Inside the Blood Pheasant

Harriet couldn’t wait to open the little black book that documented her great grandfather’s bird discoveries from around the world. His daughter, Grandma Violet, had promised it to her for years. Harriet had followed in the footsteps of the elder man of birds. Now that she was in London to investigate the late colonel’s potential fraud, Grandma Violet had invited her to Lambsfield Manor to collect some of the possessions he had left to her. The coveted little black book was said to be full of sketches and watercolor illustrations of the birds he had observed, shot, and studied over the many decades of his long career in both ornithology and in the military. Harriet hoped it might contain clues to the mystery that she so hoped to solve after she heard of the allegations that he might have stolen and doctored hundreds of bird specimens from museums and claimed them as his own.

“If the book includes the pygmy spotted owl,” she said hopefully to her blind colleague Bruno who had accompanied her on the trip, “then maybe we’ll find out that he came by that bird honestly.”

“I hope so, Harriet,” said Bruno with a long sigh as they walked through the well-tended topiary garden of the Primrose Hill mansion. They marble steps at the entrance were flanked with sculptures of Greek gods, wisteria vines climbing up their torsos. “But I think it’s unlikely. After all, the DNA on the cotton from the owl at the British Museum matches that of the colonel’s rival collector from twenty years prior.”

“I’m afraid you may be right, Bruno. I just hate to think of him creeping around museums and altering specimens simply for his own fame. But we must find out the truth.”

The two American ornithologists stood before the giant gothic doors at the top of the steps. Harriet lifted the iron knocker and let it fall. This was her first time to Lambsfield: the opulent estate passed down over the centuries by her mother’s ancestors. It now belonged to her cousin Cecil, the grandson of the colonel’s second wife; no blood relation of hers or Granda Violet’s. He was said to be in the process of selling it to a retirement home conglomeration. Though Harriet had never liked Cecil, an entitled businessman who traded in fur, she was glad that at least he let her grandma live in her childhood home for now, and hopefully until the deal went through. The tap of the butler’s steps approached followed by the musical laughter of grandma from behind the door.

“Harriet!” chirped Grandma Violet as the door opened with a low meow. “I’m so glad you’ve come, my dear.” They embraced below the scowling winged griffins before she stepped over the malachite threshold into the towering entry hall, guiding Bruno along with her hand. “Let’s have our tea in the library,” her grandmother sang after looking over her tall, fashionable granddaughter with joyful pride. “That way you and your friend can take your time looking through Daddy’s bird book. I also have several of his prize specimens to give you. He didn’t want anyone to have them except family, so I’ve always declined to lend them to museums. After all, it’s about all Daddy left me, so I’ve kept them here all this time for you, Harriet.”

The rotund, frowning butler led them down a long hall that smelled of ancient oiled wood and bergamot. Antique Renaissance tapestries covered the walls with images of pale damsels and slender white unicorns from floor to ceiling. Harriet marveled at the grand staircase that arched up onto a vast balcony that towered overhead. As the trio entered the library, Harriet breathed in the delicious smell of old leather-bound books. She imagined the colonel poring over his bird books in one of the tufted chesterfields. A giant globe squatted in the corner beside a glass case of vibrant blue and green hummingbirds. Harriet approached it, peering at the outdated names of the countries and long-obsolete borders of another century.

“Go ahead, spin it, darling,” said Grandma Violet. Harriet looked up and smiled at her Hobbit-like grandmother who stood beneath the bronze and glass baccarat chandelier with her chrome walker anchored to the silken Persian rug. As Harriet spun the globe, she dislodged a cricket from its hiding place where it promptly jumped onto the Tropic of Cancer for a ride.

“Here’s the book you’ve been wanting for so long, my dear.” Grandma Violet handed her the little black book, scratched and bursting at the seams. “I didn’t want to ship it for fear of it getting lost. I’ve kept it in a safe deposit box until today.”

“I’ll treasure it, Gramma,” said Harriet, child-like out of habit, yet eager to study it professionally. Ever since the fraud allegations, she and Bruno had wanted to cross-reference the dubious specimens of her great grandfather’s collection with his illustrations to get a fuller picture; specimens like the pygmy spotted owl. Bruno used his cane to find a nearby settee and the two friends sank into the soft velvet. “Do you mind if I look through it now?” Harriet ventured.

“Not at all.” Grandma Violet steadied herself against a mahogany side table in the oblique light of the Palladian windows at the end of the room. “While you look through it,” she continued, “ I’ll have James fetch the Siberian blood pheasant specimen for you. This was your Daddy’s prize specimen. I believe it was given to him by his friend Count Felix Yusupov; his old Oxford chum who was a member of the Imperial Russian Court before the revolution. I want you to have it now.”

“That’s marvelous, Grandma,” cooed Harriet, her eyes swelling with excitement. “Thank you.”

“It’s also fresh from the Bank of London’s safe deposit box,” she chimed. “I do believe that he sketched the bird during his spy mission in Russia just before the tzar’s abdication. Maybe you can find it in the book.”

Harriet slowly opened the black pigskin cover of the precious book lying on her lap. The first page featured charcoal scribbles of wing shapes and faded watercolor brush strokes of feathers in shades of red and yellow; a tanager feather labled here, a magpie there, and labels below each illustration stating where and when he had shot and killed these birds. Times were different now, mused Harriet. An ornithologist would only kill a bird if there was good cause. Not so in the early twentieth century.

She skimmed through the pages until she landed on a heading: Siberian Birds—1916. The colonel had gone to Petrograd at that time for his espionage mission for MI6. Grandma Violet had told her that he traveled in the guise of a businessman in the market of bird plumes for hats. His vast knowledge of birds had been a perfect cover for this fake identity. The story went that he had convinced Lenin and Trotsky that he wished to be a part of the initial Soviet government after the revolution broke.

As she came upon the illustration of the Siberian blood pheasant, Harriet’s heart leapt in her chest. Its red feathers, painted with faded watercolor, changed to pale chartreuse at its breast. As she looked closer, she noticed something quite different than all of his other bird illustrations so far. It appeared that he had sketched something inside the bird’s neck; an organ, perhaps. Yes, it was the pheasant’s gizzard. Being quite a detailed sketch, it even included the small stones inside that served as a gastric mill for a bird’s digestive process.

“How curious,” Harriet said with astonishment. “Why do you think he would have drawn just the gizzard, but no other organs? And look here, Grandma. Do you see the arrow pointing it? Maybe he was studying how the gizzard worked.”

“Is it labeled?” Bruno asked with interest.

“Why, yes,” Harriet exclaimed, peering closer at the page. “It looks like the word ‘gift’ here. But what is that word after it?”

Grandma Violet shuffled up behind the two rapt scientists and peered down at the page, lifting her reading glasses up from their gold chain. “Yusupov!” she cried. “It says ‘gift from Yusupov.’ He was the imperial prince from the Russian court that I told you about. It was said he came from the wealthiest family in Russia before the revolution. I wonder if they were able to escape with any of their riches.”

“I see,” Harriet said nodding, trying to make sense of the cryptic details.

“Here comes James now with the bird. Let’s see if it matches the painting. How very marvelous. I never put two and two together.”

The butler re-entered the library carrying a large glass case with a spectacular bird specimen inside. It was stuffed elegantly; its red, white, and greenish-yellow feathers shining as vibrant as if it had just been shot out of the sky. It was indeed the Siberian blood pheasant, just like the painting. The taxidermy was so masterful that Harriet imagined the bird might spread its wings and take flight at any moment. Its dark glass eyes seemed to challenge Harriet with a riddle. Setting the case on the Queen Anne coffee table before them, James lifted off the glass cover with his white gloved hands.

“May we touch it?” whispered Harriet. “I would love for Bruno to get a sense of it since he can’t see it.”

“Yes, please do,” said Grandma Violet as she coaxed Bruno’s arm towards the pheasant.

“I wonder…,” mused Harriet. “Was it this Russian prince or Great Grandpa who found this beauty?” Harriet’s eyes moved back and forth between the painting and the bird. “Oh, Gramma, could we take just a bit of the cotton inside to be examined by our forensic lab?”

“By all means, Harriet,” said her grandma. “You both are used to handling antique birds, so I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

Harriet reached toward the bird and felt its fine, soft feathers with her fingers. Midway down its neck, she pushed her thumb and forefinger deeper into the feathers and could feel a slight opening in the hardened dried skin.

“This must be where the taxidermist removed the organs,” she said. “There is an opening. But, this…” Harriet froze. “Feel this, Bruno.” She took Bruno’s hand and guided it into the breast of the bird. Bruno’s spine straightened up at once as if someone had tickled him.

“Good heavens,” he gasped. “It feels very much like a…a gizzard.” His hand sprang back onto the velvet cushions.

“This may sound strange, Gramma,” ventured Harriet, “but, I’d like to take the organ out if that’s okay with you. Honestly, I’ve never encountered anything like this in a preserved bird specimen. Usually, all the organs are removed. Besides, Great Grandpa’s illustration seemed to place an added importance on the gizzard.”

“Certainly, Harriet,” her grandmother giggled in surprise. “Though, I don’t know what you’d want with a dried-up old chicken gizzard. It’s not like you can boil it into a gravy.” The tiny woman’s laughter flew up into the coffered ceiling like a whippoorwill. “It’s your bird now, so I expect you can do with it what you like.”

Slowly, Harriet pulled out the strange dried gizzard through the opening in the feathers and carefully handed it to Bruno. Yet, in passing it from hand to hand, the dried pouch of skin and stones fell to the marble floor. As it hit, the brittle little gizzard burst open, sending, not stones, but diamonds scattering everywhere. Tiny rainbows danced in splinters of light. They must have been smuggled out of Russia, thought Harriet, by the Yusupov family before the Bolsheviks took power. Harriet’s eyes moved in wonder from the shimmering diamonds on the floor to her grandmother’s shocked face. She could see the corners of her old wrinkled lips begin to curl into a delighted, mischievous smile.