‘The point is,’ the precise voice confided, ‘that an absolutely positive culture may take weeks, as this is a bacterium that’s uncommonly difficult to grow in a Petri dish.’
I said, horrified, ‘I can’t afford weeks away from work.’
‘No, no, of course not. We have already started you on antibiotics, and as far as can be seen up to now, you are not developing Crohn’s disease — good news — or Johne’s disease, which is more or less endemic in cattle — more good news. The best of all news is that on present showing, you should make a full recovery.’ He paused, considering, then said, ‘This infection you have, this unusual variant of Mycobacterium paratuberculosis... it’s from a strain that was developed originally for measuring how much or how little heat was needed to achieve viable infection after pasteurisation. I would say that you might have drunk raw milk from a cow with yet another new variant...’ He broke off, then continued, ‘I see you understand what I’m saying.’
An experimental herd, I thought. A mixed herd, with specimens of several breeds: Charollais, Hereford, Angus, Brahman... Friesian...
A herd isolated on an island, breeding only among itself... The presence and the purpose of the cattle on Trox abruptly made sense.
‘Very little is known about the human incidence of paratuberculosis,’ the Indian said cheerfully. ‘I’ll bring you some information booklets, if you like. In return, you might tell me where I can find this cow.’
‘Thank you... yes, OK. When can I leave?’
He looked at his watch, but dashed my hopes.
‘Sunday,’ he said. ‘Perhaps. The tests I’m running will not be conclusive until Sunday morning, and even then I’m accelerating them.’ He smiled primly. ‘I will eventually publish my results. Until then I will keep my findings thoroughly locked away, and I’m afraid even you won’t know every detail before I publish...’
‘Do you mean,’ I asked slowly, ‘that you will meanwhile lock your findings in a safe?’
‘Certainly. There is fierce competition among researchers. I do not want any competitor to scoop me, now do I?’
The word ‘scoop’ sat amusingly on his tongue, but did explain the purpose of the safe on Trox Island. The results from the experimental herd were worth a lifetime’s fortune in prestige. I’d been grateful to those cows. Too late to wish I’d starved.
‘Am I still likely to infect anyone else?’ I asked.
He took longer to answer, then he said, ‘Just bear in mind that no one knows. Among cattle the basic disease — Johne’s — is only spread through ingesting either faeces or infected milk.’ He grinned broadly. ‘You should be all right here. Visitors may come without a mask.’
Jett came often, usually with my grandmother’s gifts of a book not too heavy for holding when sitting in a wheelchair or bed, or anywhere with gin and tonic or busted ribs. Even though upright and walking round and round a civilised room, I learned from Wednesday to Sunday an approximation of my grandmother’s restricted life.
I talked to her on Thursday on the telephone, and I sent her a bowl of Christmas roses and a spray bottle of cologne.
On Friday morning early, colleagues at work phoned to urge my a.s.a.p. return, as it seemed I had won the annual Bracknell Met Office sweepstake by guessing which day in the year would register the hottest shade temperature on the roof (September 1st), and they wanted to help me with unpopping the cork of the prize bottle of fizz.
They had barely left me smiling when I had Bell exploding in trouble in my ear, almost unintelligibly full of a five-star disaster.
‘Slow down, dearest Bell,’ I begged, hoping that what she’d just told me pretty hysterically was at least only half true. ‘What did you say about Glenda?’
‘I told you,’ she shouted. ‘Why don’t you bloody listen? Kris is frantic. She stole his trains—’
‘Bell! Slow down.’
‘She jumped in front of a train.’ The words still tumbled out.
‘Glenda?’
‘Of course, Glenda. Stop being so stupid. An underground train. Late last night. The police came here this morning. She’s... terribly... dead. They’ve not long gone.’
Bell swallowed between words to get them out, but she was audibly crying. ‘I’ve talked to Dad...’
‘Bell...’ I had at last, and with growing dismay, taken it in. ‘Where are you? Is somebody with you? Kris? Jett could be with you. I could come myself.’
‘No, you can’t, you’re in hospital. Glenda yattered all the way to London on Wednesday and honestly I got fed up with her — oh hell...’ She gulped, but the tears wouldn’t stop. ‘I wish I had been nicer to her, but I’d never truly liked her...I’ve done my best while I’ve been working for George, but I was going to change jobs — but that’s only half of it and the rest is worse.’
It couldn’t be much worse, I thought, and of course I was wrong.
Bell said, ‘Glenda went on and on about George being a traitor. She said she couldn’t bear to be married to a traitor. She said she’d told you all about it, and you knew it was true — and she couldn’t bear the shame of having a trial. She couldn’t live with the disgrace... and I thought... I thought she was exaggerating. You know how she always rattles on and swings her arms about... oh dear. Oh dear...’
I’d tried Kris’s flat several times without reply, so into the pause for sobs I asked again, ‘Bell, where are you right now?’
‘In your attic.’ Bell said it matter-of-factly as if I should have expected it. ‘We moved in here yesterday evening. Kris had a key,’ she added. ‘He said you wouldn’t mind. We’d got so utterly bored with Glenda going on and on all day yesterday, so when she finally went out at last we just came here to get away from her and of course we never dreamt...’
The unstoppable sobs, I thought, might almost have a compound of guilt.
‘When Glenda was with you,’ I asked, ‘couldn’t you in any way have calmed her about George?’
‘Perry,’ Bell’s voice on the phone was a wail, ‘you don’t understand. The Newmarket police went to George’s house to tell him Glenda was dead. They didn’t go to arrest him. They just went because of Glenda...’ Bell fell into a silence that seemed past even sobs.
‘Go on,’ I said, ‘what did George say?’
‘He was dead,’ Bill said.
‘Dead?’
Bell said jerkily, ‘He was upstairs in his bedroom. He had been hit on the back of his head. His skull was crushed. The police went round to see Dad because of me working for George, and they told him George was dead... and Glenda had left a letter in the bedroom saying she couldn’t bear the disgrace...’ She wept. ‘Dad told the police to look for us here because I wasn’t at Kris’s place...’
‘Are you saying,’ I asked her plainly, ‘that while Glenda sat in Newmarket, in her kitchen, telling Jett and me how she’d given radiation sickness to the filly, George was lying dead upstairs?’
‘Yes.’ Bell’s distress carried its own measure of horror. ‘He must have been. When you and Jett drove off to the Equine Research place and I went home to pack a case... we left them in that state of really murderous fury... she must have killed him during that time when we weren’t there. And then she packed a few things and went down to wait for us.’ Bell still couldn’t quite control her voice. ‘Kris thinks she told George she was going upstairs to pack as she was leaving him, and was going to tell the world about his trade in uranium, and he went upstairs after her to stop her...’