Spike wasn’t reacting, just watching the goats. I deduced that it was only goats he could smell, not another dog.
“You don’t just let them forage the landscape for their food?” my grandfather asked.
“Most of it,” Mr. Darby said. “But I give ’em a little feed once a day with a specially mixed vitamin and mineral supplement. Makes up for any soil deficiencies. It’s what Dr. Rutledge recommends.”
Dr. Blake nodded, and I could tell by his expression that he wasn’t finding anything to disapprove of in Mr. Darby’s care of the goats. If Clarence Rutledge was their vet, they were lucky goats indeed. They certainly looked healthy as they jostled and butted each other to get a good share of the feed. Another one keeled over suddenly, for no apparent reason, but kept on chewing for the whole ten or fifteen seconds it took him to come to and reclaim his place at the trough.
Maybe Mr. Darby’s lugubrious expression wasn’t due to any problems here at Raven Hill. Maybe he was just a natural Eeyore.
“I just wish she wouldn’t keep selling off so many of the kids,” Mr. Darby said suddenly, as if he’d been trying to hold the words back and finally couldn’t. “She inspects every single one born, and if they don’t meet her standards, off they go.”
“Her standard being that they have to be pure black and white?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Off they go where?” my grandfather asked, snapping to attention again.
“We’ve got a back pasture that’s not technically part of the farm,” Mr. Darby said. “If a kid has even a touch of any color but black and white, we take the doe and kid both up to the back pasture, and once the kid’s old enough to leave the mother, we sell it. Good market for registered fainting goats these days. Same with the Belties who aren’t perfect. If the calves don’t have a well-shaped white belt, or if they’ve got white spots anywhere else or black spots in the belt, off they go to the back pasture till they’re old enough to sell.”
“At least she waits till they’re weaned,” Caroline said.
“She wouldn’t if Dr. Rutledge hadn’t convinced her it’s bad for the health of the cows and does to have the natural cycle of motherhood interrupted,” Mr. Darby said. “Pretty clever of him.”
“So who does she sell them to?” Dr. Blake asked.
“Always a market for fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said.
“Have you checked on any of them after they left the farm?”
“She hasn’t told me where any of them have gone.”
Dr. Blake frowned and looked at me as if to say, “See? Evasive!”
We pondered the fate of less-than-perfect kid goats as we watched the remaining goats scarf up the last of their feed. Mr. Darby wasn’t looking at the goats but up at Mrs. Winkleson’s house. At the far side of the pasture, I could see a fence and a line of trees separating the goats from the next field, and then, over the trees, the top of the house. It was slightly surreal to see the goats feeding calmly, apparently oblivious to the huge architectural monstrosity looming over them.
“And she’s starting to take way too much interest in which ones faint the easiest and which ones don’t,” Mr. Darby went on, pointing toward the far side of the pasture. “Sneaks out through her garden to the back pasture over there and flaps that damned parasol of hers at them. If they don’t all keel over, she starts asking what’s wrong with the upright ones.”
“That sounds mean,” I said.
“It is,” my grandfather said. He stuck his notebook in one of the many pockets in his fisherman’s vest and leaned against the fence beside Mr. Darby.
“Yes, very mean,” Mr. Darby said. “Although at least it doesn’t really hurt the goats. If it did— well, not much I could do to stop the old bat, but I wouldn’t stay around to see the animals mistreated. I could always resign in protest. Hard as that would be.”
He reached over to scratch one of the goats behind the ears and his usually sad face suddenly looked almost cheerful for a few seconds, before it lapsed into its normal lugubrious expression. I found myself wondering how likely it was that he really would resign and leave his beloved goats at the mercy of Mrs. Winkleson.
Maybe he was being evasive about who bought the missing goats because he didn’t really want to think about their fate.
“Does Mimi like to chase the goats, too?” I asked.
“Mimi?” Mr. Darby’s face was blank. Either he didn’t recognize the name or he was a remarkable actor.
“Mrs. Winkleson’s dog,” I said. “The one who’s been dognapped.”