All Creatures Great and Small (24 page)

It was said in the pubs that Jeff was one of the richest men in the town but the locals, as they supped their beer, had to admit that he earned his money. At any hour of the day or night he would rattle out into the country in his ramshackle lorry, winch on a carcass, bring it back to the yard and cut it up. A dog food dealer came twice a week from Brawton with a van and bought the fresh meat. The rest of the stuff Jeff shovelled into his boiler to make the meat meal which was in great demand for mixing in pig and poultry rations. The bones went for making fertiliser, the hides to the tanner and the nameless odds and ends were collected by a wild-eyed individual known only as the “ket feller.” Sometimes, for a bit of variety, Jeff would make long slabs of strange-smelling soap which found a brisk sale for scrubbing shop floors. Yes, people said, there was no doubt Jeff did all right. But, by gaw, he earned it.

My contacts with Mallock were fairly frequent. A knacker’s yard had a useful function for a vet. It served as a crude post-mortem room, a place where he could check on his diagnosis in fatal cases; and on the occasions where he had been completely baffled, the mysteries would be revealed under Jeff’s knife.

Often, of course, farmers would send in an animal which I had been treating and ask Jeff to tell them “what had been wrong wi’t” and this was where a certain amount of friction arose. Because Jeff was placed in a position of power and seldom resisted the temptation to wield it. Although he could neither read nor write, he was a man of great professional pride; he didn’t like to be called a knacker man but preferred “fell-monger.” He considered in his heart that, after twenty-odd years of cutting up diseased animals, he knew more than any vet alive, and it made things rather awkward that the farming community unhesitatingly agreed with him.

It never failed to spoil my day if a farmer called in at the surgery and told me that, once more, Jeff Mallock had confounded my diagnosis. “Hey, remember that cow you were treating for magnesium deficiency? She never did no good and ah sent ’er into Mallock’s. Well, you know what was really the matter wi’ ’er? Worm i’ the tail. Jeff said if you’d nobbut cut tail off, that cow would have gotten up and walked away.” It was no good arguing or saying there was no such thing as worm in the tail. Jeff knew—that was all about it.

If only Jeff had taken his priceless opportunities to acquire a commonsense knowledge it wouldn’t have been so bad. But instead, he had built up a weird pathology of his own and backed it up by black magic remedies gleaned from his contacts with the more primitive members of the farming community. His four stock diseases were Stagnation of t’lungs, Black Rot, Gastric Ulsters and Golf Stones. It was a quartet which made the vets tremble for miles around.

Another cross which the vets had to bear was his unique gift of being able to take one look at a dead animal on a farm and pronounce immediately on the cause of death. The farmers, awestruck by his powers, were always asking me why I couldn’t do it. But I was unable to dislike the man. He would have had to be more than human to resist the chance to be important and there was no malice in his actions. Still, it made things uncomfortable at times and I liked to be on the spot myself whenever possible. Especially when Isaac Cranford was involved.

Cranford was a hard man, a man who had cast his life in a mould of iron austerity. A sharp bargainer, a win-at-all-cost character and, in a region where thrift was general, he was noted for meanness. He farmed some of the best land in the lower Dale, his shorthorns won prizes regularly at the shows but he was nobody’s friend. Mr. Bateson, his neighbour to the north, summed it up: “That feller ’ud skin a flea for its hide.” Mr. Dickon, his neighbour to the south, put it differently: “If he gets haud on a pound note, by gaw it’s a prisoner.”

This morning’s meeting had had its origin the previous day. A phone call mid afternoon from Mr. Cranford. “I’ve had a cow struck by lightning. She’s laid dead in the field.”

I was surprised. “Lightning? Are you sure? We haven’t had a storm today.”

“Maybe you haven’t, but we have ’ere.”

“Mmm, all right, I’ll come and have a look at her.”

Driving to the farm, I couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for the impending interview. This lightning business could be a bit of a headache. All farmers were insured against lightning stroke—it was usually part of their fire policy—and after a severe thunderstorm it was common enough for the vets’ phones to start ringing with requests to examine dead beasts.

The insurance companies were reasonable about it. If they received a certificate from the vet that he believed lightning to be the cause of death they would usually pay up without fuss. In cases of doubt they would ask for a post mortem or a second opinion from another practitioner. The difficulty was that there are no diagnostic post-mortem features to go on; occasionally a bruising of the tissues under the skin, but very little else. The happiest situation was when the beast was found with the tell-tale scorch marks running from an ear down the leg to earth into the ground. Often the animal would be found under a tree which itself had obviously been blasted and torn by lightning. Diagnosis was easy then.

Ninety-nine per cent of the farmers were looking only for a square deal and if their vet found some other clear cause of death they would accept his verdict philosophically. But the odd one could be very difficult.

I had heard Siegfried tell of one old chap who had called him out to verify a lightning death. The long scorch marks on the carcass were absolutely classical and Siegfried, viewing them, had been almost lyrical. “Beautiful, Charlie, beautiful, I’ve never seen more typical marks. But there’s just one thing.” He put an arm round the old man’s shoulder. “What a great pity you let the candle grease fall on the skin.”

The old man looked closer and thumped a fist into his palm. “Dang it, you’re right, maister! Ah’ve mucked t’job up. And ah took pains ower it an’ all—been on for dang near an hour.” He walked away muttering. He showed no embarrassment, only disgust at his own technological shortcomings.

But this, I thought, as the stone walls flipped past the car windows, would be very different. Cranford was in the habit of getting his own way, right or wrong, and if he didn’t get it today there would be trouble.

I drove through the farm gate and along a neat tarmac road across the single field. Mr. Cranford was standing motionless in the middle of the yard and I was struck, not for the first time, by the man’s resemblance to a big, hungry bird. The hunched, narrow shoulders, the forward-thrust, sharp-beaked face, the dark overcoat hanging loosely on the bony frame. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had spread his wings and flapped his way on to the byre roof. Instead, he nodded impatiently at me and began to hasten with short, tripping steps to a field at the back of the house.

It was a large field and the dead cow lay almost in the centre. There were no trees, no hedges, not even a small bush. My hopeful picture of the body under a stricken tree melted immediately, leaving an anxious void.

We stopped beside the cow and Mr. Cranford was the first to speak. “Bound to be lightning. Can’t be owt else. Nasty storm, then this good beast dropping down dead.”

I looked at the grass around the big shorthorn. It had been churned and torn out, leaving patches of bare earth. “But it hasn’t exactly dropped down, has it? It died in convulsions—you can see where its feet have kicked out the grass.”

“All right then, it ’ad a convulsion, but it was lightning that caused it.” Mr. Cranford had fierce little eyes and they darted flitting glances at my shirt collar, macintosh belt, Wellingtons. He never could quite bring himself to look anybody in the eye.

“I doubt it, Mr. Cranford. One of the signs of lightning stroke is that the beast has fallen without a struggle. Some of them even have grass in their mouths.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” Cranford snapped, his thin face flushing. “I’ve been among livestock for half a century and this isn’t the first beast I’ve seen tha’s been struck. They’re not all t’same, you know.”

“Oh, I realise that, but, you see, this death could have been caused by so many things.”

“What sort o’ things?”

“Well, Anthrax for a start, magnesium deficiency, heart trouble—there’s quite a list. I really think we ought to do a post-mortem to make sure.”

“Now see here, are you saying I’m trying to do summat I shouldn’t?”

“Not at all. I’m only saying we should make sure before I write a certificate. We can go and see her opened at Mallock’s and, believe me, if there’s no other obvious cause of death you’ll get the benefit of the doubt. The insurance people are pretty good about it.”

Mr. Cranford’s predatory features sank lower into his coat collar. He dug his hands viciously into his pockets. “I’ve had vitneries at these jobs afore. Proper, experienced vitneries, too.” The little eyes flashed in the direction of my left ear. “They’ve never messed about like this. What’s the use of going to all that trouble? Why do you have to be so damn particular?”

Why indeed, I thought. Why make an enemy of this man? He wielded a lot of power in the district. Prominent in the local Farmers’ Union, a member of every agricultural committee for miles around. He was a wealthy, successful man and, if people didn’t like him, they respected his knowledge and listened to him. He could do a young vet a lot of harm. Why not write the certificate and go home? This is to certify that I have examined the above-mentioned animal and, in my opinion, lightning stroke was the cause of death. It would be easy and Cranford would be mollified. It would be the end of the whole thing. Why antagonise this dangerous character for nothing? Maybe it really was lightning, anyway.

I turned to face Mr. Cranford, trying in vain to look into the eyes that always veered away at the last moment. “I’m sorry, but I feel we ought to have a look inside this cow. I’ll ring Mallock and ask him to pick her up and we can see her in the morning. I’ll meet you there at ten o’clock. Will that be all right?”

“Reckon it’ll have to be,” Cranford spat out. “It’s a piece o’ nonsense, but I suppose I’ve got to humour you. But just let me remind you—this was a good cow, worth all of eighty pounds. I can’t afford to lose that amount of money. I want my rights.”

“I’m sure you’ll get them, Mr. Cranford. And before I have her moved I’d better take a blood film to eliminate Anthrax.”

The farmer had been under a mounting load of pressure. As a pillar of the methodist chapel his range of language was restricted, so he vented his pent-up feelings by kicking out savagely at the carcass. His toe made contact with the unyielding backbone and he hopped around on one leg for a few seconds. Then he limped off towards the house.

I was alone as I nicked the dead ear with my knife and drew a film of blood across a couple of glass slides. It hadn’t been a happy session and the one tomorrow didn’t hold out much more promise. I enclosed the blood films carefully in a cardboard box and set off for Skeldale House to examine them under the microscope.

So it wasn’t a particularly cheerful group which assembled at the knacker yard the following morning. Even Jeff, though he preserved his usual Buddha-like expression, was, in fact, deeply offended. The account he had given me when I first arrived at the yard was fragmentary, but I could piece the scene together. Jeff, leaping from his lorry at Cranford’s, sweeping the carcass with a piercing glance and making his brilliant spot diagnosis. “Stagnation o’ t’lungs. I can allus tell by the look in their eyes and the way their hair lies along t’back.” Waiting confidently for the wondering gasps, the congratulatory speeches which always followed his
tour de force.

Then Mr. Cranford, almost dancing with rage. “Shut your big, stupid mouth, Mallock, tha knows nowt about it. This cow was struck by lightning and you’d better remember that.”

And now, bending my head over the carcass, I couldn’t find a clue anyway. No sign of bruising when the skin was removed. The internal organs clean and normal.

I straightened up and pushed my fingers through my hair. The boiler bubbled softly, puffing out odoriferous wisps into the already highly-charged atmosphere. Two dogs licked busily at a pile of meat meal.

Then a chill of horror struck through me. The dogs had competition. A little boy with golden curls was pushing a forefinger into the heap, inserting it in his mouth and sucking with rapt enjoyment.

“Look at that!” I quavered.

The knacker man’s face lit up with paternal pride. “Aye,” he said happily. “It isn’t only the four-legged ’uns wot likes my meal. Wonderful stuff—full of nourishment!”

His good humour completely restored, he struck a match and began to puff appreciatively at a short pipe which was thickly encrusted with evidence of his grisly trade.

I dragged my attention back to the job in hand. “Cut into the heart, will you, Jeff,” I said.

Jeff deftly sliced the big organ from top to bottom and I knew immediately that my search was over. The auricles and ventricles were almost completely occluded by a cauliflower-like mass growing from the valves. Verrucose endocarditis, common in pigs but seldom seen in cattle.

“There’s what killed your cow, Mr. Cranford,” I said.

Cranford aimed his nose at the heart. “Fiddlesticks! You’re not telling me them little things could kill a great beast like that.”

“They’re not so little. Big enough to stop the flow of blood. I’m sorry, but there’s no doubt about it—your cow died of heart failure.”

“And how about lightning?”

“No sign of it, I’m afraid. You can see for yourself.”

“And what about my eighty pounds?”

“I’m truly sorry about that, but it doesn’t alter the facts.”

“Facts! What facts? I’ve come along this morning and you’ve shown me nowt to make me change my opinion.”

“Well, there’s nothing more I can say. It’s a clear-cut case.”

Mr. Cranford stiffened in his perching stance. He held his hands against the front of his coat and the fingers and thumbs rubbed together unceasingly as though fondling the beloved bank notes which were slipping away from him. His face, sunk deeper in his collar, appeared still sharper in outline.