Deadly Zeal

by Jean Chapman

Liz was quiet when he told her of Higham’s summons, but when he said he proposed to go to see Mavis Moyle at the antique shop, she wanted to know why.

  ‘Mavis is a good friend of Maurice Spier’s wife, who would surely know if her mother-in-law was in custody,’ he explained.

  ‘You can’t just walk into the shop and ask her that!’ Liz said.

  ‘No but I can go in and ask after a walking stick I saw there and get chatting.’

  ‘A walking stick?’ Liz protested. ‘You’ve got a couple of walking poles you never use.’

  ‘No, this wouldn’t be to use.’ He described the stick in some detail.

  ‘Oh, I see, it’d be like a family memento for you,’ she said, appreciating his enthusiasm. ‘Well, it’s your birthday at the end of the month – let me buy it for you.’

  ‘I would really like to have it but it could be expensive.’

  ‘For you no expense shall be spared.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Thanks, Liz,’ he said huskily. ‘What would I do without you?’

  The question was rhetorical but Liz replied that he would probably still be in the Met. ‘You retired to nurse me back to health.’

  ‘A question of priorities,’ he stated.

  ‘I shouldn’t really …’ she trailed off.

  ‘What, object if I go in for a bit of amateur sleuthing,’ he guessed.

  ‘Something like that,’ she admitted.

  He folded her protectively in his arms. ‘I’d do the same again,’ he said, and added, ‘it’s high time we had a holiday, somewhere scenic where you can paint. Once this business is tied up …’

  ‘No, no, John Cannon, I know you. I’ll believe in a holiday when it happens,’ she said, then in businesslike tones added, ‘and if you’re going to pull in the shop and The Grange, we’d better have a quick snack now.’

  The shop was locked up but there was a notice suggesting the caller try Ivydene, the next-door cottage. Mavis Moyes answered his knock with the shop keys in her hand. ‘I was just going round, if you wanted something from the shop,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’re becoming quite a regular.’

  He laughed. ‘I didn’t expect to be this way again so soon but I wanted to ask you something, and I was keen to buy a walking stick I saw the other day. Will Michael be here later?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I found a note and the keys through my letterbox first thing this morning. He mentioned an extended buying trip. The thing was I had a dentist’s appointment, just a check-up, so I stuck a note on the shop door before I left, only just got back.’

  ‘Does he often do this sort of thing?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘He’s certainly done it before, a time or two, I suppose. I think he hears of promising sales and off he goes.’

  ‘He’s lucky you’re free to step in.’

  ‘Mr Cannon, he trusts me to put down the exact time I spend in the shop and he pays me ten pounds an hour no questions asked, trust on both sides. I’m not going to let him down, am I?’

  He followed her to the shop, where she undid the door and deactivated the burglar alarm, saying as she did so, ‘He usually leaves me detailed instructions on the counter here.’

  She made her way to the main counter and picked up a sheet of paper from under a millefiori paperweight. ‘Do you want to have a look round for your stick while I read what he has to say?’

  The message looked fairly long and Cannon drifted off in the direction of the box the professor had been looking through.

  The lid was closed, and when Cannon lifted the lid the first stick he saw was the one with the Jack Russell terrier head. ‘Toby,’ the prof had explained. Once more Cannon ruminated on the name, on the way it had been said, but was diverted by the fact that what he could not see was the stick he was so keen to own, or the one with the sea-eagle handle.

  He looked around. On a back wall beneath a selection of sporting prints, there were several large old umbrella stands, and tall pottery jardinières, in which there were many walking sticks all with labels giving details of materials, age and price of each stick.

  They included some very nice sticks indeed. He could see how a man might become a collector. He soon realized that the older items with the more competent renderings of brass, or amber, metal or bone handles were in two particular stands and the prices ranged from £٣٠ to £١٠٠. These were handsome things, and one or two had regimental badges and mottoes on them, such as a retired military man would esteem. He lifted them out one by one, weighing them in his hand. There was much weight in the carved hard wooden handles of some; Irish shillelaghs came to his mind. Those with brass heads of ducks and horses were heavy, while those with bone or horn handles tended to be lighter. He was particularly attracted to one he found right at the back, a long dark wooden stick, the wood scrolled and carved up to a broad silver ring with an escutcheon and initials. A handsome and very heavy stick considering it had no metal but the circle of silver. He wondered what kind of wood it was, but this one had no label.

  He was attracted to those that had age, and the highest price tags. He could almost hear Liz commenting, ‘Well, of course,’ but he could not see ‘his stick’.

  ‘Found what you were looking for?’ Mavis called. ‘Hope so because it sounds as if Mr Bliss could be gone some time. He says I’m to take my wages out of the till each week so …’

  ‘Must be an important sale,’ Cannon said, still happily rummaging, ‘does he say where it is?’

  ‘Could be anywhere, perhaps more than one. He goes further and further afield but he sells all over too. America, Canada, and he says China are fast reclaiming their antiquities.’

  ‘Doesn’t look as if I’ll get my walking stick until he comes back,’ Cannon said.

  ‘Wait a minute, he’s got an office, he could have put it through there. We can have a look.’

  ‘Please, if it’s only to put a note on it reminding him I’d like to buy it,’ Cannon said.

  The office was lined with shelves and these were full of books and papers. ‘I think most of this is to do with his university days,’ Mavis said. ‘He told me he would not have retired so soon but for an awful car accident he had,’ she added as she looked into the corners by the side of books cases and cupboards.

  ‘He’s certainly made a complete recovery – mentally and physically,’ Cannon said. ‘That’s true. He can manhandle some quite hefty antique chairs and things.’ She paused, then exclaimed as her hand found a stick on the top of a cupboard and lifted it down. ‘There,’ she said, ‘and it has your name on and …’ She peered closer at the stringed tag. ‘The price of fifty pounds.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Cannon said.

  ‘Great,’ Mavis said, ‘good first sale. I like to do well when he leaves me in charge. By the way, what did you want to ask me?’

  The question seemed awkward, rather blunt, but Mavis answered readily enough. Mrs Spier, she told him, had been given a warning about her behaviour but was released the same evening she had driven into his flower tub.

  ‘And her son, Maurice?’

  She shook her head. ‘No one’s heard or seen anything of him. Poor Lily, his wife, is living on tenterhooks. He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.’

  Cannon climbed back into his jeep wondering how Mrs Spier had explained her purchases at the second butcher, and began to wonder if the gossip that the man must be dead might not be right.

  He put his foot down as he reached a decent stretch of straight road. He had no wish to be late, and he was anxious to get back to Liz and show her the walking stick.

  An approaching car flashed its lights at him – then again, and again – then left them full on. Cannon slowed and stopped as he recognized Betterson’s car. He waited as the DI pulled off the road into a gateway, then walked over to the jeep.

  ‘Trouble?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘My trouble is we can’t find Maurice Spier. Your trouble may be somewhat different when you’ve seen Alexander Higham. I’ve just come from there.’r />
  Cannon shrugged. ‘How did Mrs Spier explain the trip to that second butcher?’

  ‘Oh, she still had the steak and stuff in her deep freeze. Her son had been with her. When she realized he had disappeared she showed us where he’d been hiding. Over the years he had made himself a sweet little hidey-hole under the garden shed. He’d dug out and lined a space with carved zincs just like an underground wartime Anderson shelter, re-laid the wooden floor with a trap-door under an old mat. His mother knew he was desperate not to go to prison, was terrified of having to serve his suspended sentence, but she never expected him to clear off. How long he’d been gone before she returned with the shopping she’s no idea. She thought he was just asleep in his bolt hole. It was only as time went on that she investigated and found he had really gone, taking most of the clothes and his shaving kit.’

  ‘So that was when she came raving over to The Trap. She knew Hoskins and I had been to her house, she put two and two together and made five or six,’ Cannon said.

  Betterson nodded, then cleared his throat. Cannon looked at him expectantly.

  ‘What I am going to say is unofficial,’ Betterson said, scowling at what he obviously thought was going to be an impropriety. ‘I know you are going to see Alexander Higham, and I know what he is going to ask of you … I just want to say I hope you’ll take it on.’

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what it is?’ Cannon asked.

  Betterson shook his head. ‘No, best you hear it straight from Higham but –’ He pulled a pen from his breast pocket ‘– you got something I can write on?’

  Cannon produced a receipt for diesel. Betterson took it and, leaning on the jeep bonnet, wrote down a series of numbers then handed it back. ‘That’s my mobile number, you can reach me any time. Take it with you.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘Yes, keep it handy.’

  ‘So where am I supposed to be going?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Betterson said. ‘I must get on.’

  Chapter 12

  It was Cannon’s turn to scowl as the front door of The Grange was opened by a man who was the epitome of every security guard ever featured in a gangster movie.

  ‘Mornin’,’ the suited giant said and on hearing Cannon’s name showed him into Alexander Higham’s study. Cannon went to look out of the French windows on to a sweep of back lawns until he heard the door close, then he grinned and wondered if you hired such men by the kilo.

  He was not alone many minutes. The door opened and Toby Higham came in with a handsome, dark girl of about sixteen on his arm.

  ‘Mr Cannon, we meet again,’ Toby Higham said enthusiastically. ‘This is my sister, Catherine.’

  The girl smiled, her shoulder and arm jerking in an uncontrollable spasm as she said, ‘I am very pleased to meet you. Toby’s friend Paul says your partner is a painter.’

  Cannon smiled. ‘You’re very well informed,’ he said, thinking that in her speech there was just a hint of the way Timmy Riley split his sentences.

  She laughed. ‘Toby keeps me up to date. We’re all going to Oslo with my brother.’ There was another convulsive twist of her shoulder. ‘I am so looking forward to it all.’

  They all looked back to the door again as it was thrown open recklessly wide, hitting a bookcase standing behind it as Alexander Higham strode in.

  He seemed slightly disconcerted to find the three of them obviously already acquainted, but came forward, hand outstretched to Cannon. ‘So pleased you’ve come,’ he said, though no look of pleasure replaced the anxiety on his face. ‘So you have met my younger son and my daughter, good, good.’ Then turning to them, he said, ‘Your mother needs Catherine – I think it’s a matter of clothes to pack, et cetera.’

  ‘I hope to see you again soon, Mr Cannon,’ Catherine said as her brother led her away, Toby nodding enthusiastically in endorsement of the sentiment.

  ‘Sit down, John.’

  The use of his first name and the fact that Higham did not take the desk seat but one alongside his visitor made Cannon wonder even more what was going to be asked of him.

  Higham cleared his throat. ‘I have just been given DI Betterson’s official blessing to leave with my son, Toby, and take my wife and daughter to Oslo.’

  Cannon waited.

  ‘His murder enquiries seem to have reached a standstill,’ Higham added.

  Cannon still made no comment.

  ‘I have a proposal to put to you,’ Higham went on.

  Cannon raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You are aware how troubles, attacks, near fatalities and now murder have followed my family about,’ he said.

  ‘I can understand how you must feel,’ Cannon agreed.

  ‘I will be honest with you, John, I’ve made it my business to learn quite a lot more about you, your career, your partner and why you are here keeping a public house.’ Before Cannon could react, he went on. ‘This is why I want you to come to Oslo and keep an eye on my family. However much surveillance the Norwegian police may or may not provide, I’d like someone there who knows me, who’s met my family, who has a kind of personal interest in my case.’ He paused and leaned towards Cannon. ‘And I think you do.’

  Cannon’s interest had more to do with a widow and disabled son, with the image of O’Reilly battered to death as he walked his dog, and a gamekeeper stabbed to death in his cottage – but he sensed this man pleading for help was more than just a single link in a chain. He was more catalyst in a chain reaction. Cannon needed to unravel that chain, follow it link by link back to its beginning and on to its bitter end. ‘You could say I’ve a personal interest in justice for everyone,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Just come and be a member of our party, keep a watchful eye on things. I am more than willing to pay the expenses for you and your partner to join us. I’m sure there’d be time for your partner to paint. Norway is a pretty scenic country at any time of year. My family do not keep late hours, the duties would not be onerous; in some ways it could be like a holiday.’

  Cannon gave a brief ironic laugh: murder was never a holiday.

  ‘No expense spared to keep my family safe,’ Higham hastily added. ‘If you need to hire more help at your public house …’

  Cannon found himself breathing slightly faster, hooked by the old excitement of a deadly puzzle he might help solve. He wanted desperately to respond to Higham’s appeal immediately but he shook his head. ‘You must give me time to … well, for a start talk to my partner.’

  ‘Of course, but we leave the day after tomorrow. I’d like to think you would come very soon after that.’ Then he added as if it might be an extra incentive, ‘Toby’s home is within walking distance of a very good hotel. I always have security men on duty at night. It would be daytime activities I would mostly need your help with.’

  Cannon found himself gifted with another personal mobile phone number and the offer of an immediate cash advance, which he refused.

  ‘Later, then,’ Higham said.

  He was back at The Trap by five and let himself in by the back door. All was quiet; he called but there was no answer. He went to the stairs to their private quarters. ‘Liz!’ he called up. ‘I’m back.’

  Silence.

  There was no one upstairs. Then he heard a noise in the kitchen and hurried back there. Liz was just closing the outer door.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded.

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Just to see Alamat, he’s got problems with the showerhead in his bathroom. It just needs –’

  He stopped listening. ‘I couldn’t find you,’ he interrupted, wondering if some of Higham’s acute state of anxiety had rubbed off on him.

  ‘So!’ she asked. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This marvellous walking stick,’ she replied, watching him carefully,

  ‘Oh! I’ve left it in the jeep.’

  ‘So you’re so taken with it you’ve forgotten about it already,’ s
he said.

  ‘No, it’s what’s happened since,’ he said, and sat down. This all needed a lot of tact and diplomacy.

  As opening time approached, Liz had gone through ‘but we can’t’, ‘surely not’, ‘you say Betterson wants you to go’ and ‘you say this daughter is …’

  ‘A really nice, obviously very intelligent, girl. I can understand Higham’s protectiveness.’

  ‘Yes, of course, it’s his child, but …’ She rose from where she had sat next to him and went to stand with her back to the sink, regarding him, he felt, with enough distance for cold judgements to be made.

  ‘She knows you paint, that you are an artist,’ he added.

  His attempt at blarney brought a look that almost made him cringe.

  ‘You want to go,’ she stated.

  ‘If anything does happen, after I’ve been asked, I’ll always feel I might have prevented it had I been there but I shan’t go unless you do, I’ve made up my mind about that.’ He paused then launched into appeal proper. ‘Two heads, two lots of eyes, professionally trained, so much better than one. And his son and daughter are into the arts, it could be an opportunity to paint, a real opportunity … it could be a kind of holiday.’

  Her ironic laugh echoed his own when Higham had said the word. ‘A holiday!’ she was repeating as the back door was politely tapped and Alamat came in.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are going to have that holiday you are always talking about – good! I have a friend who works in a restaurant in town, afternoons, but she needs extra hours to earn more money to send home to nurse her sick brother.’

  This was all news to Cannon and Liz.

  ‘A girlfriend?’ Liz questioned and their invaluable Croatian blushed and tried to shrug his shoulders nonchalantly, but it did not quite work.

  ‘Well, as you say, everything possible. You like to meet her?’

  ‘Very much,’ Cannon said.

  The immediate concerns of opening and running the pub took over and neither Cannon nor Liz realized that Alamat had telephoned his girlfriend, until a woman in her late fifties walked into the bar. Alamat lit up like an old 150 watt bulb, replaced the empty glasses on the table he was clearing, and rushed to greet her.