On Tower Hill, by the east wall of Beauchamp Tower where Robert Dudley was imprisoned for a year, a raven called Merlin hides behind a yucca plant. I know she’s there because the Ravenmaster told me. He knows she’s there because Merlin (a female) and he are bonded and they keep tabs on each other throughout the day. As he walks across Tower Green, he whistles to her, and in reply, from the shadows, comes a low, metallic, caw.
Ravens pair up for life, for the most part, and Merlin, who dislikes the other ravens, has chosen Chris, the Tower of London’s Yeoman Warder Ravenmaster, as her mate. As he draws near, a beak protrudes slowly from behind the yucca. Patiently, and with respect, Chris strokes the beak and is rewarded with a happy clicking noise, like an old-fashioned telephone dial returning to zero.
The crowds swill around the Beefeaters, eager for stories of torture and beheadings. They learn the legend of the resident ravens: that if they leave the Tower, the kingdom will fall. But it’s a rare tourist who knows what ravens are capable of, or understands what a unique investigation into their psyche the Ravenmaster is presiding over here on Tower Hill.
Until recently, neuroscientists had little time for birds. It was assumed that brain size (relative to body size) was the most significant factor in animal intelligence. What good could any bird brain be? Plus birds have no neo-cortex, which in mammals is vital for intelligence. A seven-year study at Duke University, North Carolina, tested 36 species for their ability to inhibit impulses (a significant part of being clever) and the results were presented, in 2014, as a league table of animal IQ: great apes top, dogs honourably middling, birds at the bottom.
Keith Ashley
But those scientists at Duke had not considered crow-kind.
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