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the wild and refused to associate with the displays. George had visited Puddleworth as a Voluntary Inspector for the Department of the Environment and knew the director, Murdoch Fenn, well enough to be sure he would be recognized. He stood at the back of the crowd and watched the display.
    The falcons and hawks were in a weathering ground roped off from the public. The hawks were on bow perches fixed into the ground and the falcons perched on wooden blocks. Each bird was tied to the perch with a leather leash which was fastened to the jesses on its legs. One by one the birds were taken from the weathering ground by Fenn to show off their skills. Fenn was a small, compact man with grey hair and a bank manager’s moustache, but with a bird on his arm he gave the impression of strength and power. He took a peregrine first, unfastened the leash and allowed it to fly. Fenn was assisted by another man, as short as his employer but dark and slight. He held a long rope with a piece of padded leather at the end. The man swung the rope round and round his head, like a cowboy swinging a lasso. The peregrine circled above the man, following the leather lure as ifit were a pigeon or some other small bird. The crowd watched the bird in silence, in awe of its power and control. The sun shone through the bird’s outstretched feathers, the jesses trailed from its legs and the small bell fixed in its tail jangled. Men had been flying falcons in that way for centuries. Quite suddenly, it stooped on the leather lure as a wild bird would stoop on its prey. To the applause of the crowd Fenn retrieved the bird and fed it a small piece of raw meat. The peregrine was returned to the weathering ground.
    The next bird to display was a red-tailed hawk, imported from America. It was larger and slower than the peregrine and flew lower, following the rope dragged across the ground. It too dropped on the imitation prey and it too was rewarded. It was a massive bird, built like a British buzzard but heavier with a wingspan of more than four feet. It had frightening talons, orange legs and a large curved beak. George supposed there must be some satisfaction in taming such a bird but he found the exhibition demeaning and the leather jesses on the bird’s legs offended him, as would graffiti scribbled on the wall of a beautiful building.
    George waited until the display was over and the birds had all been returned to their perches, then approached Fenn. He was unsure of the reception he would receive. During his inspections of the centre at Puddleworth, Fenn had been formal and polite but most falconers resented the intrusion of the Wildlife Act inspectors into their premises and George felt that Fenn was no exception.
    ‘Mr Palmer-Jones,’ Fenn said, shaking hands. ‘I didn’t realize the Department of the Environment were doing spot checks at displays.’ He was formally polite but obviously hostile.
    ‘It’s not,’ George said. ‘I’m not working. I’m on holiday. My wife and I are staying at Gorse Hill for a few days. I was just admiring your displays.’
    Fenn was obviously relieved but found it hard to make relaxed, easy conversation.
    ‘Gorse Hill’s a beautiful spot,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been back since Stuart died. It’s an hour’s drive from Puddleworth but when Eleanor wrote and invited me to come I didn’t feel I could refuse.’
    ‘Eleanor asked you to show your birds today?’ Carefully George kept his surprize from his voice.
    ‘Yes,’ Fenn said. ‘I knew Stuart very well. He came to the centre quite often to photograph birds to illustrate his books – much easier naturally than trying to take pictures of birds in the wild. I became friends of the whole family. I was glad to come when Eleanor asked me. Publicity for our work is always useful.’
    ‘Yes,’ George said slowly. ‘It must be.’
    He walked to the weathering ground. The birds all seemed healthy and well cared for. All had the statutory Department of the