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  “All right,” I said with false breeziness as I left. “Maybe this one won’t be so bad. Give me a ring in the morning.”

  I did the rest of my round in a state of gloom and at lunch I was still so preoccupied that I wondered what had happened when Tristan served the meal. I had entirely forgotten about Mrs. Hall’s absence.

  However, the sausage and mash wasn’t at all bad and Tristan was lavish with his helpings. The three of us cleaned our plates pretty thoroughly, because morning is the busiest working time in practice and I was always famished by midday.

  My mind was still on Mr. Billings’s problem during the afternoon calls and when we sat down to supper I was only mildly surprised to find another offering of sausage and mash.

  “Same again, eh?” Siegfried grunted, but he got through his plateful and left without further comment.

  The next day started badly. I came into the dining room to find the table bare and Siegfried stamping around.

  “Where the hell is our breakfast?” he burst out. “And where the hell is Tristan?”

  He pounded along the passage and I heard his shouts in the kitchen, “Tristan! Tristan!”

  I knew he was wasting his time. His brother often slept in and it was just more noticeable this morning.

  My boss returned along the passage at a furious gallop and I steeled myself for some unpleasantness as the young man was rousted from his bed. But Tristan, as usual, was master of the situation. Siegfried had just begun to take the stairs three at a time when his brother descended from the landing, knotting his tie with perfect composure. It was uncanny. He always got more than his share of sleeping time but was rarely caught between the sheets.

  “Sorry, chaps,” he murmured. “Afraid I overslept.”

  “Yes, that’s all right!” shouted Siegfried. “But how about our bloody breakfast? I gave you a job to do!”

  Tristan was contrite. “I really do apologise, but I was up late last night, peeling potatoes.”

  His brother’s face flushed. “I know all about that!” he barked. “You didn’t start till after closing time at the Drovers’!”

  “Well, that’s right” Tristan swallowed and his face assumed the familiar expression of pained dignity. “I did feel a bit dry last night. Think it must have been all the cleaning and dusting I did.”

  Siegfried did not reply. He shot a single exasperated look at the young man then turned to me. “We’ll have to make do with bread and marmalade this morning, James. Come through to the kitchen and we’ll …”

  The jangling telephone cut off his words. I lifted the receiver and listened and it must have been the expression on my face which stopped him in the doorway.

  “What’s the matter, James?” he asked as I came away from the ’phone. “You look as though you’ve had a kick in the belly.”

  I nodded. “That’s how I feel. That calf is nearly dead at Billings’s and there’s another one ill. I wish you’d come out there with me, Siegfried.”

  My boss stood very still as he looked over the side of the pen at the little animal. It didn’t seem to know where to put itself, rising and lying down, kicking at some inward pain, writhing its hindquarters from side to side. As he watched it fell on its side and began to thrash around with all four limbs.

  “James,” he said quietly. “That calf has been poisoned.”

  “That’s what I thought but how?”

  Mr. Billings broke in. “It’s no good talkin’ like that Mr. Farnon. We’ve been over this place time and time again and there’s nowt for them to get.”

  “Well, we’ll go over it again.” Siegfried stalked around the calf house as I had done and when he returned his face was expressionless.

  “Where do you get the nuts from?” he grunted, crumbling one of the cubes between his fingers.

  Mr. Billings threw his arms wide. “From t’local mill. Ryders’ best. You can’t fault them, surely.”

  Siegfried said nothing. Ryders were noted for their meticulous preparation of cattle food. He went over the sick calf with stethoscope and thermometer, digging his fingers into the hairy abdominal wall, staring impassively at the calf’s face to note its reaction. He did the same with my patient of yesterday whose glazing eyes and cold extremities told their grim tale. Then he gave the calves almost the same treatment as I had and we left.

  He was silent for the first half mile, then he beat the wheel suddenly with one hand. “There’s an irritant poison there, James! As sure as God made little apples there is. But I’m damned if I know where it’s coming from.”

  Our visit had taken a long time and we returned to Skeldale House for lunch. Like myself, his mind was still wrestling with Mr. Billings’s problem and he hardly winced as Tristan placed a steaming plateful of sausage and mash before him. Then, as he prodded the mash with a fork, he appeared to come to the surface.

  “God almighty!” he exclaimed. “Have we got this again?”

  Tristan smiled ingratiatingly. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Johnson told me they were a particularly fine batch of sausages today. Definitely superior, he said.”

  “Is that so?” His brother gave him a sour glance. “Well, they look the bloody same to me. Like supper yesterday—and like lunch.” His voice began to rise, then he subsided.

  “Oh, what the hell,” he muttered, and began to toy listlessly with the food. Clearly those calves had drained him and I knew how he felt.

  I got through my share without much difficulty—I’ve always liked sausage and mash.

  But my boss is a resilient character and when we met in the late afternoon he was bursting with his old spirit

  “That call to Billings’s shook me, James, I can tell you,” he said. “But I’ve revisited a few of my other cases since then and they’re all improving nicely. Raises the morale tremendously. Here, let me get you a drink.”

  He reached into the cupboard above the mantelpiece for the gin bottle and after pouring a couple of measures he looked benignly at his brother who was tidying the sitting room.

  Tristan was making a big show, running a carpet sweeper up and down, straightening cushions, flicking a duster at everything in sight. He sighed and panted with effort as he bustled around, the very picture of a harassed domestic. He needed only a mob cap and frilly apron to complete the image.

  We finished our drinks and Siegfried immersed himself in the Veterinary Record as savoury smells began to issue from the kitchen. It was about seven o’clock when Tristan put his head round the door.

  “Supper is on the table,” he said.

  My boss put down the Record, rose and stretched expansively. “Good, I’m ready for it, too.”

  I followed him into the dining room and almost cannoned into his back as he halted abruptly. He was staring in disbelief at the tureen in the middle of the table.

  “Not bloody sausage and mash again!” he bellowed.

  Tristan shuffled his feet. “Well, er, yes—it’s very nice, really.”

  “Very nice! I’m beginning to dream about the blasted stuff. Can’t you cook anything else?”

  “Well I told you.” Tristan looked wounded. “I told you I could cook sausage and mash.”

  “Yes, you did!” shouted his brother. “But you didn’t say you couldn’t cook anything BUT sausage and bloody mash!”

  Tristan made a non-committal gesture and his brother sank wearily down at the table.

  “Go on, then,” he sighed. “Dish it out and heaven help us.”

  He took a small mouthful from his plate then gripped at his stomach and emitted a low moan. “This stuff is killing me. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same after this week.”

  The following day opened in dramatic fashion. I had just got out of bed and was reaching for my dressing gown when an explosion shook the house. It was a great “WHUFF” which rushed like a mighty wind through passages and rooms, rattling the windows and leaving an ominous silence in its wake.

  I dashed out to the landing and ran into Siegfried, who stared wide-ey