“Could have been there for weeks.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Some joker?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to take a closer look.”
He waded into his shimmering yellow sea.
Normally he wouldn’t set foot in that field until after the combine had been through. But he was curious. Whose coat was it? And why would anyone think of putting it on a scarecrow?
Out in the middle he stopped and scratched his head
It was a smart coat, with epaulettes, sleeve straps and a belt.
His wife had followed him. She lifted the hem. “It’s a Burberry. You can tell by the lining.”
“I’ve never owned one like this.”
“You, in a Burberry? You’re joking. Been left out a few days by the look of it, but it’s not in bad condition.”
“Who would have chucked out a fancy coat like this?”
“More important,” his wife said, “who would have draped it around our old scarecrow?”
He had made the scarecrow last September on a framework of wood and chicken wire. A stake driven into the earth, with a crosspiece that swivelled when the wind blew, giving the effect of animation. The wire bent into the shape of a torso that hung free. The clothes stuffed with straw. The biggest turnip he could find for a head. He wouldn’t have troubled with the features, but his children had insisted he cut slits for eyes and the mouth and a triangle for the nose.
No question: the coat had been carefully fitted on, the arms pulled through, the buttons fixed and the belt buckled in front.
As if the field itself could explain the mystery, Mooney turned and stared across the canopy of bloom. To the north was his own house and the farm buildings standing out against the skyline. At the lower end to the south-east were the tied cottages, three terraced dwellings built from the local stone. They were still called tied cottages by the locals, even though they had been sold off to a developer and knocked into one, now a sizeable house being tarted up by some townie who came at weekends to check on the work. Mooney had made a good profit from the sale. He didn’t care if the locals complained that true village people couldn’t afford to live here at prices like that.
Could the coat belong to the townie? he wondered. Was it someone’s idea of a joke dressing the old scarecrow in the townie’s smart Burberry? Strange joke. After all, who would know it was there unless they took out some field-glasses?
“You know what I reckon?” May said. “Kids.”
“Whose kids?”
“Our own. I’ll ask them when they get back from school.”
The birdsong grew as the afternoon wore on. At the edge of the field closest to the tied cottages more disturbance of the oilseed crop took place. Smaller feet than Mooney’s led another expedition. They were his children, the two girls, Sarah and Ally, eleven years old and seven. Behind them came their mother.
“It’s not far,” Sarah said, looking back.
“Not far, Mum,” Ally said.
They were right. No more than ten adult strides in from the path was a place where some of the plants had been flattened.
“See?” Ally said.
This was where the children had found the raincoat. Snapped stalks and blackened fronds confirmed what the girls had told her. It was as if some horse had strayed into the crop and rolled on its back. “So the coat was spread out here?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Like somebody had a picnic,” Ally added.
May had a different, less wholesome thought she didn’t voice. “And you didn’t see anyone?”
They shook their heads.
“You’re quite sure?”
“We were playing ball and I threw it and it landed in the field. We were on our own. When we were looking for our ball we found the coat. Nobody wanted it because we came back next day and it was still here and we thought let’s put it on our scarecrow and see if Daddy notices. Was it Daddy who noticed?”
“Never mind that. You should have told me about the coat when you found it. Did you find anything else?”
“No, Mummy. If they’d wanted to keep the coat, they would have come back, wouldn’t they?”
“Did you look in the pockets?”
“Yes, and they were empty. Mr Scarecrow looks nicer with a coat.”
“Much nicer,” Ally said in support. “Doesn’t he look nicer, Mummy?”
May was not to be sidetracked. “You shouldn’t have done what you did. It belongs to someone else.”
“But they didn’t want it, or they would have come back,” Sarah said.
“You don’t know. They could still come back.”
“They could be dead.”
“It would still be wrong to take it. I’m going to take it off the scarecrow and we’ll hand it in to the police. It’s lost property.”
A full three days later, Mooney escorted a tall detective inspector through the crop. “You’ll have to be damn quick with your investigating. This’ll be ready for combining soon. Some of the pods are forming already.”
“If it’s a crime scene, Mr Mooney, you’re not doing anything to it.”
“We called you about the coat last Monday, and no one came.”
“A raincoat isn’t much to get excited about. The gun is another matter.”
Another matter that had finally brought the police here in a hurry. Mooney had found a Smith and Wesson in his field. A handgun.
“When did you pick it up?”
“This morning.”
“What — taking a stroll, were you?”
Mooney didn’t like the way the question was put, as if he’d been acting suspiciously. He’d done the proper thing, reported finding the weapon as soon as he picked it up. “I’ve got a right to walk in my own field.”
“Through this stuff?”
“I promised my kids I’d find their ball — the ball that was missing the day they found the coat. I found the gun instead — about here.” He stopped and parted some of the limp, blue-green leaves at the base of a plant.
To the inspector, this plant looked no different from the rest except that the trail ended here. He took a white disk from his pocket and marked the spot. “Careful with your feet. We’ll want to check all this ground. And where was the Burberry raincoat?”
“On the scarecrow.”
“I mean, where did your daughters find it?”
Mooney flapped his hand in a southerly direction. “About thirty yards off.”
“Show me.”
The afternoon was the hottest of the year so far. Thousands of bees were foraging in the rape flowers. Mooney didn’t mind disturbing them, but the inspector was twitchy. He wasn’t used to walking chest-high through fields. He kept close to the farmer using his elbows to fend off the tall plants springing upright again.
Only a short distance ahead, the bluebottles were busy as well.
Mooney stopped.
“Well, how about this?” He was stooping over something.
The inspector almost tumbled over Mooney’s back. “What is it? What have you found?”
Mooney held it up. “My kids’ ball. They’ll be pleased you came.”
“Let’s get on.”
“Do you smell anything, inspector?”
In a few hours the police transformed this part of Middle Field. A large part of the crop was ruined, crushed under the feet of detectives, scenes of crime officers, a police surgeon, a pathologist and police photographers. Mooney was depressed by all the damage.
“You think the coat might have belonged to the owner of the cottages across the lane, is that right?” the inspector asked.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s what you told me earlier.”
“That was my wife’s idea. She says it’s a posh coat. No one from round here wears a posh coat. Except him.”