The Beasts of Clawstone Castle

‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with the cattle,’ he said, turning restlessly in his bed.

Everyone talked and worried about the men in white coats – everyone except Rollo. Rollo said nothing, and whenever anyone else mentioned them, he left the room. He hardly touched his food, and Madlyn spent her nights running to and from his bedroom because he cried out in his sleep.

And so two days passed, and then three days, and four – and on the fifth, the men returned.

‘It’s no good beating about the bush, sir,’ said Dr Dale as soon as he got out of the van. ‘The news is bad. We thought you’d like to see the results of the tests yourself. Here are the sputum figures. As you see, there’s nine milligrams of pollutant per cc in all the animals tested. That’s very indicative.’ He pulled out another file. ‘And these are the urine tests.’ He paused while Sir George stared at the columns of figures. ‘I’m afraid they don’t leave any room for doubt. And the blood samples – well, you can see. With figures in the high forties we’re in an area of serious infection.’

‘And we noticed other symptoms. Lip smacking,’ said the tall, gangling vet with the Adam’s apple, ‘and foot blistering.’

‘No.’ The cry came from Rollo. ‘It isn’t true.’

The vets turned their back on him and addressed Sir George.

‘But what … what does it mean? What is the disease they have?’

The vets looked at him with sympathy. ‘I’m afraid the figures can mean one thing and one thing only. Klappert’s Disease.’

‘Klappert’s Disease?’ Sir George was bewildered. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘That’s not surprising. The disease was first described by Klaus Klappert about ten years ago. We’ve been investigating it in secret ever since – there’s a research station not far from here and I’m afraid –’ he lowered his voice – ‘a strain of the virus may have escaped. I can’t tell you how dangerous it would be if the disease were to spread. The herds of Britain could be totally wiped out.’

‘I don’t believe it. Why my cattle?’

Dr Dale shrugged. ‘These things happen. Perhaps it’s the purity of the herd which has prevented resistance. I can see that it’s a shock, but with swift and determined action we can restrict the damage in the area.’

‘What kind of swift and determined action?’

But he knew even before Dr Dale had spoken.

‘The whole herd will have to be culled, sir. It’s the law with this particular disease.’

‘Culled’ is a word which scientists use when they mean killed. Seal pups are culled when they are clubbed to death in their breeding grounds. Badgers are culled when they are gassed inside their setts.

Sir George was remembering the outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease some years ago. The government had ordered all the infected cattle to be killed and their bodies burned or buried. The animals were stunned with bolt guns and driven in lorries to the killing fields, or else shot where they stood. When the stench of burning flesh became too much for people to bear, the carcasses were buried in pits and covered in lime. The farms of England became a ghastly battlefield filled with smoke and the cries of people whose animals were doomed.

‘It was like being in hell,’ said Sir George.

Meanwhile, the vets said, there had to be the strictest quarantine. They took notices out of the van saying ‘No Admittance’ in red letters, and ‘Quarantine’ in yellow letters, and they gave instructions for ditches to be dug in front of every gate and troughs of disinfectant to be put there for people to dip their feet.

‘Once the herd is culled and the fields have been fumigated you can allow people back again, but not till then. The whole area must be out of bounds.’

‘You mean we can’t have our Open Days?’ asked Aunt Emily.

‘Definitely not. That would be a sure way of spreading infection.’

But at the end, as they got back into the van, they were reassuring. ‘Your beasts won’t feel a moment of pain. From the moment they’re stunned and fall to their knees it’ll all be over for them. There’s many a human being who would wish for such a painless death,’ they said.

And then they drove away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sir George did not like picnics, and he particularly did not like picnics by the sea. He did not like sitting bolt upright in the sand, or paddling in icy water or trudging across sand dunes carrying hampers and rugs.

But three days after the men in white coats had been, Sir George sat staring out to sea with his legs sticking out in front of him and his tweed hat jammed down on his head – and beside him sat his sister Emily. She too was not fond of picnics: her back hurt when she sat without a support and both the Percivals thought that folding chairs and beach umbrellas and those sorts of things were vulgar. Sir George wore his tweed suit and Emily wore her fifteen-year-old knitted skirt, and both of them wanted only one thing: that the picnic, and the day, should be over.