by Ann Cleeves
Over the muffled public-address system came the announcement that the Puddleworth Falconry Display was about to begin.
‘That’s impossible,’ George said softly. ‘Eleanor must hate the idea of falconry. She can’t have invited the Puddleworth Falconry Centre.’
He meant that he hated the idea of falconry and wanted to think that Eleanor shared all his ideals.
‘Why not?’ Molly asked. ‘Wouldn’t all the Puddleworth birds of prey have been bred in captivity?’
‘But she’s obsessed about her peregrines, neurotic about them. She wouldn’t risk a falconer coming within miles of them.’
‘She didn’t seem very neurotic last night.’
He hurried away from her to watch the display. The aimless depression had disappeared. He felt there must be some significance in this latest diversion. Despite what Molly had said he found it hard to believe that the Puddleworth falcons had been invited to display there. Falconry was a legitimate sport and Puddleworth was a reputable centre with a history of captive breeding, but many conservation charities believed that showing birds of prey to the public encouraged the theft of raptors from 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 Environment rings on their legs. Perhaps there was not such a contradition after all in Eleanor’s attitude to Fenn. She could be determined that the peregrines on her hill should be allowed to live in the wild while admiring Fenn’s skill with raptors which had been bred and reared in captivity. All the same he was disappointed in her.
While George was watching the falconry Molly walked on, past the other stalls, to the quiet corner of the garden where the folk singers were performing. There she saw Helen and her young man, lying together on the grass. They did not notice her. She was a shabby, elderly lady with cropped hair and schoolboy glasses, hidden in the crowd. Besides they would hardly notice anyone because they were so absorbed in each other. Molly watched the young people with pleasure and amusement. How intense they were, how happy and vulnerable! She watched Laurie run off up the slope and saw Helen wander sadly away in the opposite direction.
Molly did not follow Laurie. She was interested in people but did not have the sort of curiosity which needs to pry. She had been looking for George and saw the boy again much later, quite by chance. He was behind the row of poplars which marked the boundary of the birds’ weathering ground and which hid the stallholders’ cars and vans from the event. He was talking to a small middle-aged man. They were half hidden by a parked Range-Rover. They were talking in angry whispers and it seemed to Molly that the man just wanted the boy to go away. He was looking around him, so concerned that he might be overheard that he did not give the boy his full attention.
‘Steve said you’d be here,’ Laurie said.
‘He had no right to say anything.’
‘He thinks you’re going to give him a job.’
‘Carry on like this and you’re going to lose me my job.’
‘Leave us alone,’ Laurie said desperately. ‘We’re all right. We don’t need you now. Don’t upset the kids again.’
‘I’m not here to cause bother,’ the man said. ‘ I won’t come near the house. I won’t try to see your mother. I’m here with my work.’
He had begun to whine and Molly could sense the boy’s disappointment in the man who must be his father.
‘Look,’ the man said, ‘I thought Steve might like to help me. I thought I could do him a favour. Just clear off now will you or you’ll get me into trouble.’
‘Dad …’ Perhaps the boy was preparing some gesture of reconciliation or understanding but the man turned away.
‘I’ve got work to do,’ he said. ‘Clear off.’ He set off with a rolling, swaggering walk down the drive, away from the house.
Molly watched him go through the gate and into the lane. The boy watched him too, then slowly followed.
Molly found George on the other side of the weathering ground. The birds had finished their last display and the area was quite empty of people. The birds were in a field invisible from the other stalls and it was very peaceful there. Fenn stood looking at his watch and frowning.
‘My assistant’s disappeared,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to leave soon. Have you seen Eleanor? I thought she might come to see me. I haven’t seen her since this morning.’ But he seemed not to e
xpect them to respond and walked away to sit in his Range-Rover beyond the line of poplars. He tapped impatiently on the wheel, and looked at his watch again.
Molly and George went to the conservatory where Veronica was serving tea. It was late afternoon and the crowd in the garden was beginning to disperse. A snake of cars was winding down the hill towards the town. The conservatory was nearly empty and Veronica brought the tea herself. She seemed tired and strained but she kept up her bright chatter to the ladies of the WI who had been recruited to help her serve the pots of tea and plates of scones. They seemed able to maintain the thread of conversation despite the numerous interruptions as customers gave their orders, and George marvelled at the tenacity with which they pursued the gossip. Veronica set down the tray then hovered by the table, waiting until the WI ladies were out of earshot before asking:
‘Have you seen Mother? I haven’t seen her for ages. I was afraid she might have gone to the hill again to check on those blasted birds.’
Her tone was that of the school hockey team captain concerned about a wayward but respected member of the squad, but it seemed to Molly that she was very worried.
‘I saw her earlier,’ Molly said. ‘She was watching the folk singers. That was more than an hour ago.’
‘I expect she’ll be back soon,’ Veronica said. ‘This afternoon’s been a great success, hasn’t it? She’ll want to be here so the committee can thank her.’
Then she left them, and began to pile plates in an inefficient heap on the tray before Molly could decide whether any criticism of Eleanor was implied in the last comment.
Fanny had enjoyed the event much more than she had expected. In the morning she and her father hid in the office, like naughty schoolchildren, so Eleanor could not find them and bully them into helping her. Although her father was working, answering phone calls and writing letters, they giggled together whenever they heard Eleanor’s voice, loud and clear travelling through the house:
‘Has anyone seen Fanny? I need her to run into town for me. Where is that child?’
The office was at the back of the house and looked on to the hill. It was invisible from the gardens and they remained concealed.
This is how it should always be, Richard Mead thought. I should make more time for Frances. Eleanor ruined Veronica’s life. Why should she spoil Helen’s and Fanny’s? His younger daughter had always been special to him. She had been a placid and smiling baby. He had taken photographs of her lying on a rug on the grass in the small garden behind his shop. He wished she never had to grow up. I’m only doing my best for them, he thought. All this work is only for them. One day the business will be theirs and they will have money to be independent.
Fanny lay on the office floor on her stomach reading a teenage pop magazine. She was not usually allowed into the office. It was Eleanor’s special place. Although it was his work place not even her father was made to feel welcome. But today Fanny felt at home there and was happy.
After lunch her father had to take floats of change to the stalls administered solely by the Wildlife Trust. He winked at Fanny to show that although he was working for Eleanor now, he and Fanny were still allies. They shared the secret of their morning in the office. He asked if Fanny would like to go with him but she refused. It would be more fun to go to the kitchen to irritate Mrs Oliver. The game of annoying Nan Oliver had something of a child’s dare in it because Fanny was frightened of Mrs Oliver, more frightened of her cold scorn than her anger. Sometimes the girl tried to win the woman’s approval by offering to help to wash up, by baking a cake as she had been taught at school and showing it off. But the scorn remained.
‘You’re no help,’ Mrs Oliver would say. ‘You leave more mess than you clear up. If you were my daughter things would be different.’
So Fanny had given up trying to please and only went to the kitchen to make mischief. Today there was hardly any sport in the game. Nan Oliver, stony with resentment at the invasion of her kitchen, stood making sandwiches, surrounded by wire trays of scones and cakes. A big urn, borrowed from the cricket club, was hissing and steaming because no one knew how to turn it down. When she saw Fanny, Nan Oliver gave her two jam tarts and an éclair to get rid of her. It had never been so easy. Eating the cakes, Fanny wandered outside.
It was all more fun than she had imagined. She soon forgot that she was a bored and cynical teenager and that she had resented missing her Sunday afternoon outing with her parents. Because she lived at Gorse Hill she was in a special position and she took advantage of it. She had free ice cream and candy floss. She played with the young children, laughing and rolling in the grass like a fat, overweight puppy. The whole event might have been laid on for her own amusement. Girls from school recognized her and envied her for belonging there.
Halfway through the afternoon, Fanny climbed the cedar tree in the middle of the lawn. She had not climbed it for years – she was too old for that sort of thing now – but she was happy and wanted to see the view from the top again. The tree was shaped like a green umbrella and from the inside near the trunk where she was climbing, she was hidden from the crowds. She and Helen had first climbed the tree on their Sunday visits to their grandparents. Even Helen had been unable to reach the top at first. It had taken weeks of practice, of finding a different way up. Each stage of the tree had been like a milestone in Fanny’s growing up. She had been eight when she had made it to the top and pushed through the green foliage to be on a level with the top storey of the house and to see the gardens spread beneath her. She remembered their annoyance when two boy cousins had come to play. They had made it to the top on their first attempt without even following the approved route and made a nonsense of the seriousness with which the girls had viewed the feat. Of course Eleanor had disapproved of climbing trees.
Fanny climbed slowly. The wood was orange, flaky-barked and sweet-smelling. When she reached the top she was breathless. She had put on a lot of weight since she had last been up the tree. She sat in a fork in the branch and leaned back against the springy branches. No one noticed her. She could look down on them all. With surprize she saw the small figure of her grandmother moving against the crowd towards the entrance gate. Fanny wondered where she was going.
Probably to look at her silly old peregrines, she thought. She cares more about those peregrines than she does about us.
She watched her grandmother disappear up the lane and out of sight, then climbed down the tree and went to wheedle more money from her mother. But she could not find Veronica and by half past four she was bored and wished the thing would finish. She began to prowl around the garden, watching the final rituals of the afternoon – the prizegiving for the children’s best fancy dress, the announcement of the raffle winner. Fanny was surprized that these were performed by the chairman of the Wildlife Trust and not by Eleanor.
That’ll put the old cow’s nose out of joint, she thought with satisfaction. She won’t like that.
Then at last it seemed that the event was coming to its end. Fanny wandered to the field at the back of the house where the falconry display had been held. It was in deep shadow, crushed between the house and the hill. Beyond the line of trees on one side of the field, cars were parked and some were already driving away. As she walked round the house an old blue transit van passed her. It was going so fast that it scattered the gravel so that it rattled against the brick wall of the house. She turned her face away, afraid that a stone would go in her eye, so she did not see the driver. She thought nothing of it and walked on. It was followed by a lorry full of sheep which had been used in the shearing competition. In the caravan the morris men were changing into their ordinary clothes.
Beyond the morris men, in a Range-Rover parked close by, a man was asleep in the driver’s seat, his head on his chest, so it almost touched the steering wheel. In the far corner of the field the birds of prey were still in their weathering ground on perches. Fanny went up to the rope which marked the weathering ground. The bird nearest to the ro
pe was off its perch, though still attached to it by the leather leash. Fanny was so attracted to the bird, so held by its still, brown eye that she did not look at her grandmother immediately. Then she saw the silk pastel print of Eleanor’s dress against the green grass, and the fine limbs jointed like a puppet’s. She saw that the bird was perched on the woman’s shoulder and had torn the fabric of the dress with its talons. The sharp cruel beak was pointed towards her grandmother’s face.
She ran screaming to the man in the Range-Rover, hammering on the door and yelling to him that the birds had killed her grandmother and were pecking out her eyes. Then to her later, secret satisfaction, she fainted.
Chapter Three
George heard the screaming. When he reached the weathering ground a crowd had gathered round the roped-off area and were staring, fascinated, at the huge bird perched on the frail and slender body of the woman. The bird, sensing the attention, stretched its wings and turned its head. The woman’s body was almost covered by the feathers. No one dared to approach the birds and a policeman, who had been at Gorse Hill to control the traffic, was clearly out of his depth.
‘Let me bring the bird out,’ Fenn was saying to him, his voice shaken and distressed. ‘The woman’s obviously dead. The red-tailed hawk couldn’t have killed her look at her head – but it’s a carrion feeder. It’ll treat her as it would any other dead body.’
Fenn was a short man. He hardly reached the policeman’s shoulder. He was white, almost incoherent with shock, and the policeman seemed unwilling to take him seriously. He was remembering rules about approaching the scene of the crime and the unwitting loss of evidence.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Murdoch Fenn screamed, an indication at last of his hysteria. ‘If we don’t move the hawk soon there’ll be no body left for your pathologist to examine.’
He looked around wildly for a way to convince the policeman and saw George. It seemed to George that he was on the verge of breakdown.
