Midsomer's local newspaper was never a boring read. Barnaby tended to steer clear of the usually critical articles, realising quickly upon his arrival to the village that the native journalists did not think of the police kindly. He had also discovered the hyperbolic headlines that littered the front page in large sans serif font, calling for an end to that month's serial killer or else inventing one to satisfy the readers' bloodlust. It took him several minutes to locate the small cornered off section that advertised the winter show, a usually friendly competition mostly entered by the elderly residents. Whilst the summer competition featured the usual straightest carrot and largest marrow categories, the winter fair called on aspiring bakers and artists. The category that piqued Barnaby's interest, with an amused snort, was the Victoria sponge, requiring a strict and specific recipe to be followed, surely taking all of the joy out of baking.
"What are we looking for?" Jones asked, reading over his shoulder in the cramped office. The inspector's ears perked up at his sergeant's first attempts to start a conversation all day and he passed the paper over with a shrug.
"Anything stand out, Jones?" he replied flippantly, "I suppose we're looking for a category that would attract serial killers." Ben stifled a small, guilty chuckle and read the options to himself with a frown.
"Maybe this isn't the right line of inquiry after all," he eventually conceded, folding the paper and dropping it on to the desk with a sigh. The moment of humour was lost, leaving only the frustrated officer and his concerned superior. Barnaby retrieved the paper and tried again, attempting to fit the eclectic victims into one competition together.
"What would a gardener and a retired librarian have in common?" he asked aloud, smiling to himself slightly, "There's no 'writing about plants' sections unfortunately." Ben sat back in his chair with his eyes closed tightly. He seemed to be thinking so Barnaby fell unusually silent, waiting for him to build upon his own theory.
"Cant be anything too specific," he finally deduced with a hesitant look at Barnaby who nodded, "It must be one of those categories anyone can enter. Build your own scarecrow, maybe." Barnaby scanned the list again, rolling his eyes when he came to the monotonously boring event, only requiring people to stuff straw into misshapen clothing. These countryside traditions would forever leave him stumped.
"It's rather fun," Jones had picked up on his snobbery, "I used to enter that one, when I was a kid. I made a straw Postman Pat when I was seven; came second to some family that seemed to win every category they entered." Barnaby raised an eyebrow again at his reminiscing and shook his head to himself more subtly.
"Never got over that one, eh Jones?" he asked with a poorly hidden smirk and a twinkle in his eyes, "But if children enter it, why would the targets be the elderly." Jones fell silent again, his eyes fogging over slightly until he blinked away the mist.
"It was always traditional for the grandparents to do it with the grandchildren, sir," he explained with a wistful smile, "Or it was when I was younger. A lot of things have changed by now, I expect - I doubt many children are interested." Barnaby hummed in muted agreement but quickly spun in his chair and rifled through the contact details of Marjorie Friar's relatives and dialled the number written neatly at the side of Abigail Marsh in Jones' characteristically lopsided font.
"Hello, this is DCI Barnaby," he said, hearing the sound of children running in the background, "Ah, Mrs Marsh, I was hoping you might be able to help me with a particular line of enquiry concerning the show this weekend." He noticed Jones watching him hopefully, and prayed for the sake of his sergeant's narrowing sliver of happiness that she would bring good news.
"Thank you," he finished the call with a satisfied smile, "Yes, I'll let you know." He hung up and looked at Jones with a nod of approval. "We've found our first entrants. She says the children are no longer entering after Ms. Friar's untimely death." Jones still looked sceptical but shrugged nonchalantly as he scratched the base of his chin.
"It doesn't seem logical, sir," he voiced his concerns, "Why would anyone care enough about a stupid scarecrow competition to resort to murder. Surely you would just burn the other entries or something." Barnaby smiled to himself at the mental image he suddenly conjured of a young Jones taking his revenge on the family that had beaten him all those years ago, armed only with a small box of matches.
"Pushy parent syndrome," he suggested and cut off Jones' automatic reply, "And you don't need a psychology degree for that one, Jones. We're looking for anyone who may have been entering the competition or otherwise is related to someone with a scarecrow. That is, assuming the other victims had a connection."
And, it turned out, they did. Both Phylis Conan and Miles Fraser had, now abandoned, partially built scarecrows in sheds or at grandchildren's homes. Fred Barnes had been a long time judge of the competition, breaking the pattern in some ways although the inspector was not too sure.
"He was friends with Mr Fraser," he patiently told a frustrated Ben, "If there was ever a chance of favouritism, it was between those two." The sergeant snorted derisively, seemingly unsettled by such a weak motive.
"There seems to be a flaw in the killer's logic, sir," he had replied with a hollow tone, "Not that these murders can be justified at all, over a couple of figures made of straw." Barnaby found himself returning to the dilemma in front of him, rather than the crime he was trying to solve, for the first time in a few hours. He watched Ben scribble down the details of their hunch with a tight grip on his pen, his handwriting more sporadic than usual. The sergeant was more angry and upset than the inspector was used to, clearly feeling the effects of watching one untimely death after another. Not that Barnaby was any closer to uncovering the details of Ben's recent loss; he had swept the knowledge rather guiltily under a mental carpet, trying to push it to the back of his mind for the time being. Barnaby hated the feeling of uncertainty that came with his building list of assumptions.
They compiled a list of prospective entrants, finding that the pool of competitors had been more than halved by the recent massacre. That did not seem to narrow down their search, however. The person everyone had reported seeing was too young to be one of the three remaining grandparents who had their names down to enter, leaving the far from small circle of close relatives around the age of the children's parents.
"Mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts," Barnaby reeled off in rapid succession, "I'm sure we can rule out the children on accounts of their height, and I would hope, their less developed competitive streak." Jones nodded with another sound between a laugh and a suppressed sigh.
"There are two twins, sir," he spoke up a few minutes later, measuring the height of two young children out with his hands.
"I very much doubt our well built, murderous criminal is in fact one twin standing on the shoulders of the other, Jones," Barnaby replied with some humour, again developing a mental image of the scene, "Although we shouldn't rule anything out, I suppose."
"Shouldn't we think about getting some protection for the last few entrants," Jones' mind returned swiftly to the case, "We might be able to prevent another death." Barnaby frowned for a moment, his heart and mind pulling him in two directions. He wasn't sure he was capable of saying no to that idea in the current circumstances but his brain couldn't help but tell him not to.
"Perhaps that isn't wise," he suggested hesitantly, holding up a hand in expectation of an outburst that never came. Jones stared blankly at him for a moment, his eyes cycling through feelings and settling on one that looked suspiciously like betrayal for some time.
"With all due respect," he began tightly, "We have a duty to protect people, sir." Barnaby nodded, whilst knowing all too well what the priority had to be.
"We also have a duty to bring this person to justice," he said calmly, "And the second we place uniformed protection on the three houses, whoever did it will know that they don't have room for any more mistakes. I fear we may never see them resurface if that happens." The DS shook his head almost pleadingly, gesticulating with his hands for a moment before turning away to face his desk.
"And if someone else dies?" he questioned suddenly before answering his own question with the usual hint of dark humour, "Our pool of suspects narrows again? Maybe we should just let them kill the last two so we only have one family left to interview." His voice had raised slightly and he seemed to notice, lowering it with an unreadable expression. Barnaby was about to let the silence rest for a minute when it was broken again.
"I'm sorry, sir."
The simple statement took him by surprise. DS Jones had never apologised for one of his passionate outbursts in all the time he worked under Barnaby. He was polite and good natured but possessed a certain level of self-certainty that seemed to grant him immunity from the narrow eyed stare Barnaby usually used on the other officers.
"It's a delicate matter, Jones," he found himself saying automatically, "No need to apologise for getting a little riled up." This did not seem to help the look of doubt that clouded Jones' hazel irises and he shook his head in way of apologising silently once more.
"You're right though," he said in defeat, "We can't let the killer know what we've worked out. At the moment there is no tangible link to the scarecrow competition. If they know, they'll abandon the project - scarecrows aren't worth life in prison."
"So what are they worth?" Barnaby mused thoughtfully, "Redemption for a shamed child or a chance to embarrass the overachievers?" Ben shrugged again and Barnaby wondered if his shoulders might stay that way if the young man continued to repeat the same action so frequently.
"Maybe it's about the grandparents," Jones suggested tiredly, rubbing his eyes with a yawn, "They would likely be the murderer's parents after all."
"Let's leave it there for today," Barnaby admitted defeat, too many theories buzzing around his already burdened mind, "We can follow up these new developments tomorrow." Ben paled slightly and pointed to the thin pile of paperwork.
"I might just stay for a bit, sir," he lied smoothly, although Barnaby saw through the mirage easily, "Get this work done whilst I have the time." Barnaby held the sergeant's coat out to him with an argumentative look on his face.
"I know you don't want another body on our hands," he said softly, "But you'll be no use to me tomorrow if you don't sleep tonight." Ben muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'I won't sleep anyway' but snatched the coat away nonetheless.
"The fair is on Saturday," he reminded with a frown, "That's two days from now, sir. If the killer is going to get the last two, they will surely act tonight."
"And if so, we will be up bright and early again," Barnaby replied, hating the situation as much as the sergeant, "But sitting here all night will not prevent a murder; it will leave you more sleep deprived than you already look and you'll only be around to respond to the call when it comes too late. I'll put a word in with any patrol cars that go out tonight; they can keep a look out." Ben glared unhappily towards the inspector but his expression was worn down swiftly with yet another shrug.
"I suppose there's nothing we can do but wait."
Ben Jones continued to feel the weight of helplessness rest tirelessly on his shoulders, spending his night thinking about the strangers in their foreign houses, some streets away and others a little further. He wasn't the only restless sleeper that night for Barnaby also lay awake, his brain determined not to switch off, hating the very idea that there was indeed nothing they could do.