The three men walked briskly off, following the growing throng, Shapes taking care not to spill any of his precious beer. Their target was the start line for the race, which, with the show ring now extended, was close to a stall selling a fine collection of tea towels, mugs, calendars for the following year and sundry other goods. Already gathering together directly in front of it could be seen a small group of scarecrows and, so far, a single Aunt Sally.

“There’s a gap there,” said Dykeman, pointing towards an opening in the growing mass of bodies by the start line.

The three men gently nudged their way into the shrinking space, right up against the rope.

“Now then, what have we got on offer?” asked Gently, rubbing his hands together.

Just then the PA system crackled into life and an authoritative female voice informed everyone that the hundred yard race for scarecrows and Aunt Sallies would be starting in the central arena in five minutes. She also added that this year’s field looked particularly competitive. A murmur of excitement went up from the crowd and more people began to swell the ranks of those already there.

There were ten runners taking part in the event and the three Banbury men cast an eager eye over each in turn, keen to spot potential weaknesses or strengths. There were two Aunt Sallies amongst the field. One was a big, burly character with hairy forearms, thick eyebrows and a stubbly chin, along with an outsized pair of Wellingtons. He had a square of paper with the number six on it pinned to his chest.

“That one’s a bloke,” pointed out Shapes, in surprise.

“Very observant of you,” replied Dykeman. “Big pair of wellies, though. Don’t think that improves his chances of winning.”

“The other one looks a better bet,” added Gently, pointing towards the second Aunt Sally, a short, eager-looking figure that was holding up a long skirt to reveal a pair of rather attractive and very feminine legs. She was number five.

“Got the appearance of a whippet,” observed Dykeman, with a nod of appreciation.

Five of the other competitors were decked out as your ordinary, run-of-the-mill scarecrows, with tatty clothes, battered hats and clumps of straw poking out of sleeves and trouser legs. One of these appeared to be wearing a pair of wooden clogs. The three onlookers agreed immediately that he had no chance of winning. Three of the others were sporting the ever-popular Wellington boots, but the fifth, who wore the number one, had bare feet.

“That should give him a decent advantage,” suggested Tom Gently, stroking his chin as he spoke.

“You’d think so,” replied Shapes. “Trouble is, he must be eighty if he’s a day. He might not make it to the finish line.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” retorted the newspaper editor. “I’ve known some very spritely old folk in my time. People who’ve hardly slowed down since they were in short trousers.”

That left three more scarecrows to be assessed. Two of these were, in fact, the bishop and his mate the clown that Shapes had seen chatting in the beer tent. The sergeant scratched his head, wondering at their chances.

“Not the best of outfits for a race,” he finally decided.

“I’m with you on that one, Shapes,” replied Gently.

The final contender appeared to be the youngest of them all, though with the make-up most of them were wearing it was tricky to be certain. He had come dressed as a milkman scarecrow, complete with peaked cap and long, dark-blue coat. But it wasn’t just his apparent age that caught the eye.

“He’s got boots on,” said Shapes. “Got to be better than a pair of wellies.”

“Possibly,” replied Gently. “But they’re a pretty beaten up pair. Look at that, you can see the sole is falling off one of them.”

“Come on you two, time’s almost up,” cut in Dykeman.

Shapes smacked his lips before replying, “I’m decided. It’s the lad with the boots for me. Number six.”

“And I’m going with the old chap with the bare feet,” said Gently. “I’ll bet he’s got more life left in him than Shapes gives him credit for.”

As if knowing they were ready to place their bets, a tall, thin figure wearing a long raincoat and a trilby hat with a pheasant feather tucked into the band appeared alongside them. He held what appeared to be a notepad in one hand, a pencil in the other and, an observant person would have noticed, there was a money pouch clipped to his belt.

“Looking to have a flutter, are we, gentlemen?’ he asked in a low yet clear voice.

“Larry Boyd,” replied the temporarily startled Dykeman. “Funny how you know when to come looking for us, so we don’t have to go searching for you.”

“It’s all part of the service, inspector,” replied the bookmaker. “Wouldn’t want to have some of my best customers going away disappointed, would I now?” Boyd grinned as he spoke, revealing a solid gold tooth that twinkled in the sunlight.

Dykeman glanced around furtively, aware Boyd was there without an invitation and, should the organisers spot him, would very likely be escorted from the site.

“What’s the odds for number five?” he asked.

“Ah, the favourite,” replied Boyd, flipping open his notepad.

In a surprisingly short space of time, Boyd had relieved the three men of their stakes and, in turn, handed them each a receipt. Ideally they would now have made their way down to the finish line, so they could better see who would be celebrating victory and buying the next round in the beer tent with their winnings; but there was no time for that now. The entrants were all in place on the start line, most of them looking eager for the off, like the racing thoroughbreds they were not.

A thin, bald-headed man, sporting a vicar’s dog collar round his neck and holding a sun hat in one hand, stepped forward into a small space alongside the start line. He addressed the runners, who all now set themselves ready for the off, one or two glancing at their rivals, the others focused intently on the finish line.

The vicar raised a small red flag above his head and counted down from three, at which point he swept the flag towards the ground. The racers leapt forward and a great roar went up from the packed crowd. A blur of arms and legs raced off down the straight.

It was not, it quickly became clear, a race which subscribed to any recognised rules of good behaviour and sportsmanship. The competitors were bumping and barging each other from the first moment and the bishop had barely gone ten yards when his impressive headpiece was knocked to the ground and rolled away to one side. Another ten yards and two of the competitors, the bulky Aunt Sally and one of the plain vanilla scarecrows, tumbled to the ground, a tangle of arms and legs.

The rest raced on, encouraged and abused in equal parts by shouts from the more inebriated members of the crowd, who pressed in ever closer. The two policemen and their newspaper friend were already leaning right out over the rope to get a better view and Shapes could feel something sharp digging in his back as those behind pressed against them.

The bumping and barging continued, but as the competitors reached the halfway stage it became clear there were only two serious contenders, the whippet-like Aunt Sally and the youngest of the scarecrows, the one Shapes had decided to back. They were now moving swiftly away from the rest of the field, side-by-side, both of them seeming to skip over the grass like a pair of hares fleeing a pack of hounds.

They surged down the course, neither seeming to be able to break free, and the noise from the crowd grew ever greater as people urged on their favourite. Unfortunately for Dykeman, Shapes and Gently the view from where they were standing was now so limited, as others leaned further over the ropes on either side of the course, that it was impossible for them to make things out clearly. The two policemen in particular began to fret, desperate to know which one of them looked likely to come out on top.

As the cacophony of noise from the crowd reached an even greater height, the two leading competitors surged over the finish line, still side-by-side, before coming to a barely controlled halt. They leaned against each other, breathing heavily, both shaking their heads in disbelief at the closeness of the race.

“Who’s won?” asked Dykeman, sounding tense.

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea,” replied Tom Gently, rubbing his back as he straightened up. “Couldn’t see much at the end there.”

Shapes remained silent, quietly confident, for no particular reason, that he had backed the winning runner.

As the remainder of the competitors staggered and stumbled over the finish line, two figures standing nearby huddled together, apparently in secretive conversation, like thieves in the night. After what seemed like an eternity, one of them jogged back up the race track and handed a small piece of paper to the vicar. He, in turn, glanced at it before handing it on to a short, rotund man who disappeared with it into a small tent outside of which were sat a double pair of enormous speakers.

The noise of the crowd abated and people began to speculate as to who had won the race and even the possibility of a dead heat. However, they were not kept in suspense for long. A crackle on the PA system brought near total silence, then the same female voice as before spoke.

“And here are the results of the 100 yard dash for scarecrows and Aunt Sallies.” A brief pause, then she continued, “In third place is number eight, Tom Cumpling. In second place is number six, David Littleman. And in first place,” another pause, “is number five, Daisy Croft. Well done to all the contestants…”

There was more, but few people could hear what was being said due to the cheering that erupted from the crowd, much added to by the delighted Dykeman. Favourites weren’t always worth the trouble, because they offered the prospect of such small winnings, but sometimes, he mused, they weren’t to be ignored. He grinned at Shapes and Gently, who nodded their heads in acknowledgement and tore up their own betting slips.

As the crowd began to disperse back to the many stalls and other amusements, Larry Boyd re-appeared alongside Dykeman, once again seeming to have materialised from out of the ether.

“Well done, inspector,” he said, handing Dykeman his winnings. “And better luck next time, eh, gents,” he said to the two losers. “I’m back for the Aunt Sally throwing contest, if you fancy having another flutter. I hear it’s likely to be a close run thing this year.”

None of the three men got the chance to reply. Boyd disappeared as suddenly and mysteriously as he had appeared, the reason becoming clear almost at once. Constable Sidney Fry was in attendance at the fete in a working capacity, assigned on the instructions of the Chief Constable at Banbury police station to be their representative in the community and to deal with any miscreants who should happen to cause trouble. He had been looking all over for Dykeman and, by the time he found him, was breathing heavily.

“You weren’t in that race, were you, Fry?” asked the inspector, wondering what might be up with the red-faced constable.

Fry shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Is there something wrong?” asked Gently, already suspecting there was indeed something very wrong.

Fry took a deep breath to help compose himself, then leaned in a little closer to Dykeman and said, in a low voice, “There’s been a murder, sir. Over on the other side of the village. One of them scarecrows.”

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