Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“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 & 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, scene-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.”

“Who is he?”

Mooney had to think about that. He’d put the name out of his mind. “White, as I recall. Jeremy White, from London. He bought the tied cottages from the developer who knocked them into one. He’s doing them up, making a palace out of it, open plan, with marble floors and a spiral staircase.”

“Doing them up himself?”

“He’s a townie. What would he know about building work? No, he’s given the job to Armstrong, the Devizes firm. Comes here each weekend to check on the work.”

“Any family?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” He looked away, across the field, to the new slate roof on the tied cottages. “I’ve seen a lady with him.”

“A lady? What’s she like?”

Mooney sighed, forced to think. “Dark-haired.”

“Age?”

“Younger than him.”

“The sale was in his name alone?”

“That’s right.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Mooney, I’d like you to take another look at the corpse and see if you recognise anyone.”

From the glimpse he’d had already, Mooney didn’t much relish another look. “If I don’t mind? Have I got a choice?”

Some of the crop had been left around the body like a screen. The police had used one access path so as not to destroy evidence. Mooney pressed his fingers to his nose and stepped up. He peered at the bloated features. Ten days in hot weather makes a difference. “Difficult,” he said. “The hair looks about right.”

“For Jeremy White?”

“That reddish colour. Dyed, isn’t it? I always thought the townie dyed his hair. He weren’t so young as he wanted people to think he were.”

“The clothes?”

Mooney looked at the pinstripe suit dusted faintly yellow from the crop. There were bullet holes in the jacket. “That’s the kind of thing he wore, certainly.”

The inspector nodded. “From the contents of his wallet, we’re pretty sure this is Jeremy White. Do you recall hearing any shots last time he was here?”

“There are shots all the time, ’specially at weekends. Rabbits. Pigeons. We wouldn’t take note of that.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Two weekends ago. Passed him in the lane on the Sunday afternoon.”

“Anyone with him?”

“That dark-haired young lady I spoke of.”