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

The Field by Peter Lovesey

With a style that PW once described as “smooth and polished as steel” and a genius for plotting, Peter Lovesey is one of mystery’s most celebrated writers. He is a winner of the British CWA’s highest award, the Diamond Dagger, and he’s had a good share of recognition on this side of the Atlantic, too — not least his win in the MWA’s 50th Anniversary contest in 1995. We believe a page of that winning story, from EQMM, may be visible briefly in Secret Window.

A field of oilseed rape was in flower, brilliant in the afternoon sun, as if a yellow highlighter had been drawn across the landscape. Unseen by anyone, a corpse was stretched out under the swaying crop, attended only by flies and maggots. It had been there ten days. The odour was not detectable from the footpath along the hedge-row.

Fields have names. This one was Middle Field, and it was well named. It was not just the middle field on Jack Mooney’s farm. It was the middle of his universe. He had no life outside the farm. His duties kept him employed from first light until after dark.

Middle Field dominated the scene. So Jack Mooney’s scarecrow stood out, as much as you could see of it. People said it was a wasted effort. Crows aren’t the problem with a rape crop. Pigeons are the big nuisance, and that’s soon after sowing. It’s an open question whether a scarecrow is any deterrent at all to pigeons. By May or June when the crop is five feet tall it serves no purpose.

“Should have got rid of it months back,” Mooney said.

His wife May, at his side, said, “You’d have to answer to the children.”

From the highest point at the top of the field you could see more than just the flat cap and turnip head. The shoulders and part of the chest were visible as well. After a long pause Mooney said, “Something’s happened to it.”

“Now what are you on about?”

“Take a look through the glasses.”

She put them to her eyes and adjusted the focus. Middle Field was all of nine acres.

“Funny. Who did that, I wonder?”

Someone had dressed the thing in a raincoat. All it was supposed to be wearing were Mooney’s castoff shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers filled with straw, and his old cap.

“How long has it been like that?”

“How would I know?” Mooney said. “I thought you would have noticed.”

“I may go on at you for ignoring me, but I’m not so desperate as to spend my days looking at a straw man with a turnip for a head.”

“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 southeast, 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 sizable 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 & 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.”

The inspector produced the wallet found on the body and took out a photo of a dark-haired woman in a blue blouse holding up a drink. “Is this her?”

Mooney examined it for some time. He eyed the inspector with suspicion, as if he was being tricked. “That wasn’t the lady I saw.”

There was an interval when the buzzing of insects seemed to increase and the heat grew.

“Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

“Take another look.”

“Her with the townie was definitely younger.”

The inspector’s eyebrows lifted. “How much younger?”

“A good ten years, I’d say.”

“Did they come by car?”

“There was always a sports car parked in front of the cottages when he came, one of them BMW jobs with the open top.”

“Just the one vehicle? The lady didn’t drive down in her own?”

“If she did, I’ve never seen it. When can I have my field back?”

“When I tell you. There’s more searching to be done.”

“More damage, you mean.”

Mooney met Bernie Priddle with his dog the same evening, coming along the footpath beside the hedgerow. Bernie had lived in one of the tied cottages until Mooney decided to sell it. He was in his fifties, small, thin-faced, always ready with a barbed remark.

“You’ll lose the whole of your crop by the look of it,” he said, and he sounded happier than he had for months.

“I thought you’d turn up,” Mooney said. “Makes you feel better to see someone else’s misfortune, does it?”

“I walk the path around the field every evening. It’s part of the dog’s routine. You should know that by now. I was saying you’ll lose your crop.”

“Don’t I know it! Even if they don’t trample every stalk of it, they’ll stop me from harvesting.”

“People are saying it’s the townie who was shot.”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Good riddance, too.”

“You want to guard what you say, Bernie Priddle. They’re looking for someone to nail for this.”

“Me? I wouldn’t put myself in trouble for some pipsqueak yuppie. It’s you I wouldn’t mind doing a stretch for, Mooney. I could throttle you anytime for putting me out of my home.”

“What are you moaning about? You got a council house out of it, didn’t you? Hot water and an inside toilet. Where’s your dog?”

Priddle looked down. His Jack Russell had moved on, and he didn’t know where. He whistled.

Over by the body, all the heads turned.

“It’s all right,” Mooney shouted to the policemen. “He was calling his dog, that’s all.”

The inspector came over and spoke to Priddle. “And who are you exactly?”

Bernie explained about his regular evening walk around the field.

“Have you ever seen Mr. White, the owner of the tied cottages?”

“On occasion,” Bernie said. “What do you want to know?”

“Ever seen anyone with him?”

“Last time — the Sunday before last — there was the young lady, her with the long black hair and short skirt. She’s a good looker, that one. He was showing her the building work. Had his arm around her. I raised my cap to them, didn’t speak. Later, when I was round the far side, I saw them heading into the field.”

“Into the field? Where?”

“Over yonder. He had a coat on his arm. Next time I looked, they weren’t in view.” He grinned. “I drew my own conclusion, like, and walked on. I came right around the field before I saw the other car parked in the lane.”

The inspector’s interest increased. “You saw another car?”

“Nice little Jeep Cherokee, it was, red. Do you want the number?”

“Do you remember it?”

“It was a woman’s name, SUE, followed by a number. I couldn’t tell you which, except it was just the one.”

“A single digit?” The inspector sounded pleased. “SUE, followed by a single digit. That’s really useful, sir. We can check that. And did you see the driver?”

“No, I can’t help you there.”

“Hear any shooting?”

“We often hear shooting in these parts. Look, I’d better find my dog.”

“We’ll need to speak to you some more, Mr...?”

“Priddle. Bernard Priddle. You’re welcome. These days I live in one of them poky little council bungalows in the village. Second on the left.”

The inspector watched him stride away, whistling for the dog, and said to one of the team, “A useful witness. I want you to take a statement from him.”

Mooney was tempted to pass on the information that Bernie was a publicity-seeking pain in the arse, but he decided to let the police do their own work.

The body was removed from Middle Field the same evening. Some men in black suits put it into a bag with a zip and stretchered it over the well-trodden ground to a small van and drove off.

“Now can I have my field back?” Mooney asked the inspector.

“What’s the hurry?”

“You’ve destroyed a big section of my crop. What’s left will go over if I don’t harvest it at the proper time. The pods shatter and it’s too late.”

“What do you use? A combine harvester?”

“First it has to be swathed into rows. It all takes time.”

“I’ll let you know in the morning. Cutting it could make our work easier. We want to do a bigger search.”

“What for?”

“Evidence. We now know that the woman Bernard Priddle saw — the driver of the Jeep — was the woman in the photograph I showed you, Mrs. Susan White, the dead man’s wife. We’re assuming the younger woman was White’s mistress. We think Mrs. White was suspicious and followed them here. She didn’t know about him buying the tied cottages. That was going to be his love nest, just for weekends with the mistress. But he couldn’t wait for it to be built. The wife caught them at it in the field.”

“On the raincoat?”

“That’s the assumption. Our forensic people may confirm it.”

“Nasty shock.”

“On both sides, no doubt.”

Mooney smiled. “You could be right about that. So that’s why he was shot. What happened to the mistress?”

“She must have escaped. Someone drove his car away and we reckon it was her.”

“So have you arrested the wife?”

“Not yet. She wasn’t at home when we called.”

Mooney grinned again. “She guessed you were coming.”

“We’ll catch up with her.”

In a tree in the hedgerow a song thrush sounded its clear notes and was answered from across the field. A breeze was cooling the air.

On the insistence of the police, Mooney harvested his crop a week before it was ready. He’d cried wolf about all the bother they’d caused, and now he suffered a loss through cutting too early. To make matters worse, not one extra piece of evidence was found, for all their fingertip searches through the stubble.

“Is that the end of it?” he asked the inspector when the final sweep across the field was made. The land looked black and bereft. Only the scarecrow remained standing. They’d asked him to leave it to use as a marker.

“It’s the end of my work, but you’ll be visited again. The lawyers will want to look at the site before the case comes to court.”

“When will that be?”

“I can’t say. Could be months. A year, even.”

“There won’t be anything to see.”

“They’ll look at the positions where the gun was found, and the body, and the coat. They map it all out.”

“So are you advising me not to drill next spring?”

“That’s an instruction, not advice. Not this field, anyway.”

“It’s my livelihood. Will I get compensation?”

“I’ve no idea. Not my field, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

“So you found the wife in the end?”

“Susan White — yes. She’s helping us with our enquiries, as we like to put it.”

“How about the mistress? Did you catch up with her?”

“Not yet. We don’t even know who she is.”

“Maybe the wife shot her as well.”

“That’s why we had you cutting your crop, in case of a second body. But we’re pretty certain she drove off in the BMW. It hasn’t been traced yet.”

Winter brought a few flurries of snow and some gales. The scarecrow remained standing. The building work on the tied cottages was halted and no one knew what was happening about them.

“I should have drilled by now,” Mooney said, staring across the field.

“Are they ever going to come back, do you think?” his wife said.

“He said it would take a long time.”

“I suppose the wife has been in prison all these months waiting for the trial to start. I can’t help feeling sorry for her.”

“If you shoot your husband, you must get what’s coming to you,” Mooney said.

“She had provocation. Men who cheat on their wives don’t get any sympathy from me.”

“Taking a gun to them is a bit extreme.”

“Quick and merciful.”

Mooney gave her a look. There had been a time before the children came along when their own marriage had gone through a crisis, but he’d never been unfaithful.

The lawyers came in April. Two lots in the same week. They took photos and made measurements, regardless that the field looked totally different to the way it had last year. After the second group — the prosecution team — had finished, Mooney asked if he could sow the new crop now. Spring rape doesn’t give the yield of a winter crop, but it’s better than nothing.

“I wouldn’t,” the lawyer told him. “It’s quite possible we’ll bring out the jury to see the scene of the crime.”

“It’s a lot of fuss, when we all know she did it.”

“It’s justice, Mr. Mooney. She must have a fair trial.”

And you must run up your expenses, he thought. They’d driven up in their Porsches and Mercedeses and lunched on fillet steak at the pub. The law was a good racket.

But as things turned out, the jury weren’t brought to see the field. The trial took place a year after the killing, and Mooney was allowed to sow another crop. The first thing he did was take down that scarecrow and destroy it. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but he associated the wretched thing with his run of bad luck. He’d been told it had been photographed for the papers. Stupid. They’d photograph any damned thing to fill a page. Someone told him they’d called his land “The Killing Field.” Things like that were written by fools for fools to read. When a man has to be up at sunrise, he doesn’t have time for papers. By the evening they’re all out of date.

An evil thing had happened in Middle Field, but Mooney was determined to treat it as just a strip of land like any other. Personally, he had no worries about working the soil. He put the whole morbid incident to the back of his mind.

Until one evening in September.

He’d drilled the new sowing of oilseed, and was using the roller, working late to try and get the job finished before the light went altogether. A huge harvest moon appeared while he was still at work. He was thinking of supper, driving the tractor in near darkness along the last length beside the footpath, when a movement close to the hedge caught his eye.

If the figure had kept still, he would have driven straight past. The face turned and was picked out by his headlights. A woman. Features he’d seen before.

He braked and got down.

She was already walking on. He ran after her and shouted, “Hey!”

She turned, and he knew he wasn’t mistaken. She was the woman in the photograph the police had shown him, Sue White, the killer, the wife of the dead man.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.

“Walking the footpath. It’s allowed, isn’t it?” She was calm for an escaped convict.

Mooney’s heart pumped faster. He peered through the fading light to be certain he wasn’t mistaken. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sue White. Are you all right?”

Mooney wasn’t all right. He’d just had a severe shock. His ears were ringing and his vision was going misty. He reached out towards the hedge to support himself. His hand clutched at nothing and he fell.

The paramedics attended to him by flashlight in the field where he’d fallen. “You’ll need to be checked,” one of them said, “but I don’t think this is a heart attack. More of a shock reaction. The blood pressure falls and you faint. Have you had anything like it before?”

Mooney shook his head. “But it were a shock, all right, seeing that woman. How did she escape?”

“Escape? Just take it easy, Mr. Mooney.”

“She’s on the run from prison. She could be dangerous.”

“Listen, Mr. Mooney. It’s only thanks to Mrs. White that we got here at all. She used her mobile.”

“Maybe, but she’s still a killer.”

“Come off it. You’re talking about the man who was shot in your own field, and you don’t know who did it? It was all over the papers. Don’t you read them?”

“I don’t have time for the papers.”

“It was his mistress that killed him. She’s serving life now.”

“His mistress? But the wife caught them at it.”

“Yes, and that’s how the mistress found out for certain that he had a wife. She’d got her suspicions already and was carrying the gun in her bag to get the truth out of him, or so she claimed at the trial. She saw red and shot him after Mrs. White showed up.”

His voice shook. “So Mrs. White is innocent?”

“Totally. We’ve been talking to her. She came down today to look at those cottages. She’s the owner now. She’ll sell them if she’s got any sense. I mean, who’d want a home looking out over the Killing Field?”

They helped Mooney to the gate and into the ambulance. Below the surface of Middle Field, the moist soil pressed against the seeds.