I’m on an old-fashioned quest. Having got permission to enter The Walks, I open the gate with the large metal key. It creaks with age. These gardens have existed since 1597, when Francis Bacon planted the first trees.
Stooping carefully, I see what I have. Two wings, legs, breast meat partially removed. I lift the remains and look around. No sign of the head. Only the perfect woodcock form spread into my hand.