The beer tent was an enormous affair, acres of off-white canvas that flapped gently in the breeze, held up by a small forest of sturdy metal poles and mile upon mile of pegged out ropes. In the not inconsiderable experience of Sergeant Stanley Shapes it was one of the biggest he’d ever encountered, surely capable of accommodating a hundred or so people.

He was standing at one end of the long, wooden bar, savouring the hop-laced taste of a pint of Hook Norton bitter, his first of the day. The tent murmured with conversations coming from a couple of dozen other people who, like him, had made their way into the beer tent the moment it opened at eleven o’clock. Already the smell of beer mingled with that of cigarette smoke and the newly-cut grass on which they all stood.

However, the most noticeable sight in the tent, as far as Shapes was concerned, was a pair of scarecrows standing half-way along the bar, deep in conversation. He’d been watching them for the last five minutes, in awe of people’s inventiveness. One of them was decked out like the Archbishop of Canterbury, complete with tall pointy hat, long robes, a big cross on a chain around his neck and a long staff that he had temporarily placed on the bar top.

The other one was a clown, with enormous ears, red and white checked trousers and jacket, and an outsized bright red bowler hat. There was also a pair of huge gloves that had been removed and placed on the bar.

But although you could easily see what their characters were, there was no doubt they were also meant to be scarecrows. Clumps of straw stuck out of their clothes, which were tatty and dirty, and both of them sported a pair of big Wellington boots, those on the clown having had their toes cut out. It must have taken the two men wearing the outfits hours of graft to put them together and Shapes wondered if there was anywhere else on Earth you’d find a sight quite like it.

A cheer went up from somewhere outside, followed by a round of enthusiastic applause. Shapes picked up his glass and sipped again at his drink.

Outside the tent, everything was bathed in the warmth of a late summer sun in a sky flecked with fluffy, white clouds that drifted in from the south-west so slowly you could hardly see they were moving.

He’d arrived with his boss, Inspector Leslie Dykeman, twenty minutes earlier. Somewhere out there was the third member of their little party, Tom Gently, the editor of the Banbury Globe newspaper. He had made his own way there and, having spoken to them briefly, had shot off to do a little work before they regrouped.

The place was packed. Hordes of people of all ages had piled in, determined to enjoy themselves. The excited and noisy younger children were busy having a go at hook-a-duck and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, while their older siblings were trying their hand at more grown-up activities, like air rifle shooting at the far end of the field and throwing the horseshoe. Women, decked out in their best summer dresses and quite a few of them wearing hats, were busy browsing the plant sales and chancing their hand at the tombola stall. Many of them had also quickly found the stall selling gin and tonic. As for the men, most of them had either found their way to the beer tent or joined the gathering around a display of old tractors, where discussions revolved around matters such as horsepower and reliability.

And then there were the cake stalls, at least half a dozen of them. From what Shapes had observed so far, it seemed everyone who turned up had already found their way to at least one of those, which was hardly surprising given how good so many of the cakes looked.

Most troubling of all, however, as far as the sergeant was concerned, was the hog roast that had started up before they arrived. Its mouth-watering smells were drifting across the field as the ultimate temptation, but enquiries had confirmed that it wouldn’t be ready for another half hour at least.

It was his fourth visit to Staunton’s annual fete. He’d first been when the fete took place on just the Saturday, not the whole weekend as it did now. He’d taken his parents on what turned out to be a wet but enjoyable day, helped, in no small part, by his winning the egg and spoon race. He’d looked odds on to come second, behind an eager and sure-footed, middle-aged woman with a well-practised technique who’d taken the lead from the off. But she’d slipped ten yards before the finishing line, allowing him to nip past her and celebrate the sweet taste of victory. First prize had been four shillings and a bar of chocolate, which he’d eaten before the day was out.

But it was the introduction of the scarecrows that had brought him back since then. Nowhere else could you find such a display and, for some odd reason, he found himself very happy and at ease in their company. Probably had something to do with his childhood, his boss had insisted. Maybe there had been an ancient and dishevelled relative he had a particular sweet spot for when he was a nipper, suggested Dykeman.

Come to think of it, where was Dykeman? He’d been gone ages. The man would do anything to avoid getting in the first round. His excuse this time had been the need to first pay a visit to the loo and then to find Tom Gently. The editor of the Banbury Globe was here partly for fun and partly to add to the newspaper’s coverage of what was a well-known fete right across the area. But, like the two policemen friends of his, he also liked a little flutter on the horses and, whilst there weren’t any horse races planned for the fete, there was the scarecrow hundred yard dash to look forward to. One of the highlights of the day, it drew a field of serious competitors and, if they were to get a chance to run an eye over the contestants before the start of the race and agree their bets, they had better get a move on. The race was due to start at eleven-fifteen, in just nine minutes’ time.

As if taking his cue, the somewhat podgy figure of Inspector Leslie Dykeman appeared in the entrance to the beer tent. He stopped and peered intently into the relative gloom, his eyes needing to adjust to the lower level of light. Shapes raised a hand and started to walk across to his boss.

“Ah, there you are, Shapes,” remarked Dykeman. “Got a pint in, I see.” He looked at his watch and let out a sigh. “Suppose I’ll have to wait until after the race before I can get myself a drink.”

Shapes sipped at his beer. “Shame. It’s a lovely pint, too.”

Dykeman gave his sergeant a look, but decided not to rise to the bait, instead asking, “You seen Gently in here?”

Shapes shook his head. “Not seen him since he went off to find his photographer.”

“Well, we can’t hang around here waiting for him to show up,” declared the inspector. “We need to get over to the show ring, so we can take a look at the entrants for the hundred yard dash. Some of them were there already when I came past that way just now.”

As he spoke, an Aunt Sally wearing a surprisingly short skirt and an enormous wig of pink curls, that were piled up on top of one another, walked by. Shapes gawped. Dykeman scratched his head.

“Wonder if she’s in the race?” asked the inspector, watching the peculiar figure head towards the show ring.

“Ah, there you both are. Thought I’d find you in the beer tent.” Tom Gently was breathing a little heavily as he rocked up alongside the two policemen. “Got stuck talking to Edith Furrow, head of the local branch of the Women’s Institute. Tried to bludgeon me into running a full-page article about their plans for helping out the less well off this Christmas. Told her it was a bit early for that, but she’d only let me go once I’d given a solemn promise to talk to her about it next month.”

“That’s your problem, Tom,” replied Dykeman. “You’re too accommodating. You want to assert your manly authority with these women, just like Shapes does. He’d never let Ivy boss him around, would you, Shapes?” Dykeman grinned at his sergeant, who wrinkled his nose and remained resolutely silent on the topic.

A steady stream of people passed them, all apparently heading towards the centre of the field, where a large area was roped off to make the main show ring. For the purposes of the upcoming race, the ropes had been extended at one end. in order to incorporate the required hundred yards.

“I think we ought to get a move on,” suggested Dykeman. “Before it gets too crowded for us to get a decent view of things.”

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