“Somebody’s killed Charlie Todd.” Nick was gasping for breath as he pointed at the convulsed body. “It’s one of the mist-net guys. He’s been killed by a mist-net guy.”

Then he looked ill, and half climbed, half slipped down the ladder to the rocks. He caught on to Mark’s shoulder to steady himself, held on to it longer than he needed for comfort, was stifling sobs. Nick’s hysteria surprised John. It occurred to him that the boy was over-reacting, and he felt suddenly calm, mature and sensible. He shut the flap and bolted it, climbed out of the hide, fitted the padlock and carefully locked it, then descended the ladder to the rock. Nick was already becoming more controlled and began to apologize. John knew exactly what must be done now. There had never, really, been any question.

“I’m going to telephone the police,” he said. “ You two stay here. I expect that Charlie’s key is in his pocket, but you two stay here, just in case. While you’re here,” he added, partly serious, partly trying to relieve their tension, “you might try to count some seabirds.”

As John walked down the island towards the observatory he saw that someone was on the shore, following the tide out towards Gillibry. Although the figure was a long way off, he recognized the tall, thin silhouette and the shape of the old army rucksack which the man carried high on his back.

It’s George, he thought, and he felt the relief, the release of shared responsibility.

George Palmer-Jones was not quite sure why he retained his membership of Gillibry, nor why he had allowed himself to be elected to the committee. He had first become involved through his friendship with Jerry Packham. They had met on the Scilly Isles one October. Everyone who was at all interested in rare birds tried to spend some time on the Scillies in the autumn, but George found many of the obsessive birdwatchers tedious and blinkered. Jerry had been quiet, a little over-awed by the fanatics and the number of birds, and the two men, quite different in background and temperament, had become friends. At that time Gillibry had been owned still by an elderly, reclusive lady who had allowed the ringing group to operate from there and to store their equipment in her barn. Soon after, she had died. Charlie, erratically, had been a member of the ringing group, though he had never applied for a full licence. He had been at the height of his success. His accountant had been in favour of him buying the island, but he had been uncertain, uncommitted. Paul Derbyshire, chairman of the ringing group, had asked Jerry Packham to call in George Palmer-Jones to help to fire Charlie’s imagination. George had long been an advocate of a west-coast bird observatory to replace Lundy. George Palmer-Jones was a respected figure in British ornithology. He was a member of the Council of the RSPB, he had once been on the British Birds Rarity Committee, he appeared, occasionally, on BBC natural history programmes. Charlie had listened to George, the island was bought, and Gillibry Bird Observatory Trust had been formed. George had felt that it would be churlish to withdraw immediately. He had paid his subscription, intending to visit the island a few times during the first year, to remain a nominal member for another couple of years, and then to resign: Gillibry was a long way from his home, after his retirement he had become increasingly interested in rare birds and there was little chance of a rarity turning up in North Devon. But he had come to appreciate the autumn weekends on Gillibry, and though he seldom visited the island more than once a year, he had not resigned. He admired John Lansdown’s abilities as warden and as a birdwatcher, and there was something sedate and old-fashioned about the committee weekends which contrasted with the frenzy and chaos of hunting rare birds. It was like a return to the days when natural history was the pastime of eccentric gentlemen, of elderly parsons and retired dons. He could imagine Jasmine Carson as one of the Victorian ladies who had founded the RSPB to prevent the import of exotic birds to provide feathers for fashionable hats, and Doctor Derbyshire, with his love of order and meticulous detail and lists, as one of the originators of the theory of taxonomy. Even the young men seemed different from the rest of their generation. They did not bring girlfriends to sunbathe in bikinis in the observatory garden, they did not get drunk on the doctor’s whisky, take drugs, sniff glue or decide to become vegetarian. He was not sure that such an anachronistic organization was healthy, or that it would survive, but for one weekend a year he could enjoy it.