Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  ‘Come on. I don’t bite.’

  With a tut, as if this was all a bit much, Jess lay down chastely beside Rupert.

  The sky was flat above them. The moon had taken over from the sun. Stars just waking up. He pointed.

  ‘See that? That’s Draco. The Dragon. Do you know how far away that is? Three hundred light years. Which means we’re seeing it as it was three hundred years ago. We’re looking back in time. That big white star in the dragon’s tail is Thuban. That used to be the polar star in Jesus’s time, until the Earth’s orbit changed. Amazing to think, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Jess. ‘Except you’re at least half wrong.’ What, she wondered, was the word for correcting a man? Womansplaining? ‘The stars vary from a hundred and fifty to three hundred and sixty light years away. Thuban was the pole star when the Egyptians started building pyramids, a good two and a half thousand years before Jesus was supposed to have been born. And Thuban moved in the sky because of the tilt in the Earth’s axis, not the orbit.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rupert’s voice was flat. He rallied. ‘You look so white in the moonlight, Jess.’

  ‘The ancient Greeks based their calendar on the moon, not the sun. According to them, we’re in the third quarter of the moon, what we call a half moon. This isn’t May, it’s Thargelion.’

  ‘You really hate compliments, don’t you?’

  ‘The month builds up to Deiphon. That’s an important date, when your ancient Greek pays his bills, cleans his house, offers a ritual meal to Hecate so she doesn’t fuck him up with all her undead acolytes. When will Deiphon fall next? Um . . .’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Second of June!’

  ‘I have a question.’ Rupert was on his side.

  Jess was still flat on her back. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Why the sarcasm?’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d answer it.’

  ‘It’s clearly a defence mechanism.’

  ‘Spare me the pop psychology. My defence mechanism is travelling into the past. The fighting’s finished; the dying’s done. That’s what drew me to history. And to this.’ She gestured at the stone circle around them. ‘It’s a story, but only half told. And what hasn’t been told, I get to tell.’

  Rupert was still, his eyes fixed on Jess.

  ‘All a bit deep, eh Rumpole?’

  ‘That’s why you like being part of the investigation. You get to tell the untold story.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you should keep up the pop psychology after all.’

  Rupert flopped onto his back again. ‘I’ve enjoyed tonight, Jess.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She felt him start, as if surprised. He said, ‘And you needn’t worry. No more compliments. I’ll never mention how pretty your eyes are.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘My suit’s ruined.’

  ‘Good.’

  Chapter 16

  ESCAPE-GOAT

  Thursday 26 May

  Seaweed around her ankles like green streamers.

  Jess’s cheeks bulge with the effort of holding her breath.

  Beneath her feet are tiles of iridescent blue.

  Blood in the water.

  It makes a shape.

  A mouth, opening wide.

  Jess swims to the surface.

  She shouts, I’m sorry I’m sorry.

  Jess still wasn’t sure what to ask of a housekeeper. She was glad to go downstairs and find that Bogna was otherwise engaged, doing something on the terrace that involved plant pots and a wheelbarrow.

  At the table, the Judge turned the pages of a newspaper. ‘Heard you shouting,’ he said, while seemingly still engrossed in the newsprint. ‘What are you sorry for?’ He murmured to himself, ‘Could be any one of a number of things.’

  When Jess didn’t answer, he said, ‘The dream?’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about it, Dad.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Outside, Bogna sang. She sang like she did everything else, with confidence.

  ‘A Polish folk song, do we think?’ suggested the Judge.

  ‘It’s Take That, Dad.’

  ‘Take what?’

  A creature barged through the back door. Clattering hooves, curved horns. It bleated and complained.

  ‘Jesus!’ Jess jumped out of its way.

  ‘Out, Urich,’ said the Judge.

  The goat was a gleaming white. Handsome but peculiar, with those satanic vertical pupils. ‘Naaaaaah!’ he said to Jess. His tongue, meaty and pink, lolled over his teeth.

  Jess flattened herself against the dresser. ‘Off! Away!’ She hit out ineffectually.

  ‘U-rich!’ Bogna’s shout made the goat crash out backwards. She popped her head through the window. ‘Don’t mind him, kochana. He only wants to make friends.’

  ‘Does he live here?’ Jess watched the goat pick his way across the terrace, as if breaking in new shoes.

  ‘Out by greenhouse. He nibbles his way out of pen.’

  ‘He smells.’ Jess turned to her father, who was carefully disattending. ‘Doesn’t he, Dad?’

  ‘Does he?’ The Judge turned another page.

  ‘He stinks,’ said Bogna. ‘This is why I name him after husband. God rest his soul.’ She looked behind her. ‘No, Urich!’ she shouted, and disappeared.

  ‘Did Bogna okay the goat with you?’

  ‘Not really.’ The Judge was mild.

  Jess remembered the fuss her father made when her mother brought home a stray cat. She swallowed the comparison. The fragile peace between the Castles must be mollycoddled, like a hothouse lily. ‘How about lunch at the Seven Stars? My treat.’

  ‘That sounds—’ began the Judge.

  ‘Lovely!’ Bogna leant in at the window again. ‘It’ll save me doing bloody sandwiches. Fanks, Jess!’

  ‘Did you book?’ asked Eddie. Brawny arms. Tea towel over one shoulder. He had to shout above the buzz. ‘We get news people in every day. We’re already out of lasagne.’

  He found them a corner table. Three of them in a space for two. Jess fussed; was her father okay, did he want to sit outside, did he want to swap seats.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, taking up the menu.

  There was something about the Judge’s demeanour that made people – even his daughter – dance attendance on him. As if warding off inevitable criticism. Jess took a deep breath.

  ‘Who are they all looking at?’ Bogna, her reading glasses on, peered over Jess’s head.

  The journalists in the bar – all instantly recognisable by their lack of coloured corduroy and their London haircuts – were, meerkat-like, staring in one direction. While trying not to look like they were staring.

  ‘Somebody famous, I bet.’ Bogna licked her lips. ‘Maybe big star like Benjamin Cucumberpatch.’

  ‘In the Royal Seven Stars?’ Jess was torn between the fajitas and the club sandwich.

  ‘Or Katie Moss.’ Bogna put her hand on the Judge’s shoulder to hoist herself up. ‘She loves a drink, that girlie.’

  ‘Not in here, she doesn’t,’ said Jess.

  Eddie took their order, advising against the fajitas. ‘They look a bit . . . odd.’ He lingered to say to the Judge, ‘Hard to believe Eden dragged Squeezers in for the murders, eh? And how come that Pan bloke’s still at large? He’s holding court in the other bar. The journos are lapping him up.’

  ‘Being on the bench for a decade or two taught me one thing,’ said the Judge, leaning back, enjoying Eddie. ‘You never know what people are capable of. It could be anybody in Castle Kidbury. It could be you, Eddie.’

  ‘I don’t have the bloody time,’ laughed Eddie. He tucked away his notepad. ‘It might even be you, your honour.’

  ‘It’s me.’ Bogna said it so seriously that she stopped the conversation. Evidently none of them believed this to be out of the question. She cackled.

  ‘Be right back with your bevvies.’ Eddie hurried away.

  Conversatio
n seized up. Around them, the pub was a mosh pit. People chatted, laughed extravagantly, as if the scent of food cooking had sent them all a little mad.

  Jess people-watched for a while. She became aware that Bogna was studying something. Something close to hand.

  The Judge.

  His breathing was ugly. Jess saw the immense effort her father made to look normal. ‘Dad?’ She put a hand tentatively on his shirtsleeve.

  ‘I’m fine.’ The words creaked out.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Ladies, please.’ A further agonising couple of minutes – both of them long – passed with the women staring and the Judge climbing to a plateau where he could speak again without his face losing all colour.

  ‘Shit, Dad.’

  ‘Language.’

  ‘Can we talk about this?’ Jess included Bogna, more naturally than she would have thought possible twelve days ago. ‘What does Dr Rasmussen say? What’s the treatment plan?’

  ‘I’m weighing up my options. In the meantime, the doc’s keeping me healthy. Please don’t worry, Jess.’

  ‘When people say that,’ said Jess, ‘they don’t care whether you worry or not. They just want you to stop talking about it.’

  Their drinks arrived. The Judge exploited the distraction to the full. Bogna laughed at a weak joke he made.

  ‘Loo.’ Jess stood abruptly. She left behind the table and its cargo of things unsaid. ‘S’cuse me. S’cuse me.’ Jess negotiated her way towards the ladies’.

  A familiar voice stood out from the crowd. Jess heard Rupert’s playful intonation. Then a giggle. He giggles like a girl, she thought, reaching up on her tiptoes to locate him.

  A text from him that morning would have been nice. After their sort-of date. She recalled how she’d batted away his attempt to play nice. Perhaps the ball was in her court.

  ‘Rupert!’ She recognised the back of his head, his right shoulder. He turned, smiled. So did his companion. Their table was littered with the debris of lunch.

  ‘Jess.’ Rupert half stood, looked around for a chair.

  ‘No, no, I’m not stopping. Just, you know, off for a waz.’ She’d never used that expression before. It was jolted out of her by the extreme beauty of the woman smiling at her and holding out her hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m Pandora,’ said the woman.

  ‘I’m Jess.’ She wondered, fleetingly, if Rupert might have mentioned her to Pandora.

  ‘Stephen’s little sis,’ explained Rupert.

  Evidently not. ‘Everybody in the pub is pretending not to look at you,’ said Jess.

  ‘Bugger, are they?’ Pandora pulled her hair over her face. ‘This place used to be so quiet.’

  ‘That was before we had our very own neighbourhood psycho.’ The need to visit the ladies’ was now urgent, but Jess couldn’t leave. She needed to take the temperature of whatever was happening between Rupert and this world-fucking-famous-fucking-supermodel. ‘Did you have the fajitas?’ she asked, hopefully.

  ‘I’m vegetarian,’ said Pandora. Looking at her face was like looking at the sun. ‘They did me the most wonderful salad.’

  ‘No such thing as a wonderful salad,’ snorted Jess. She punched Rupert on the shoulder. Rather hard. ‘Bet you didn’t have lettuce, Rumpole.’

  Jess saw Pandora’s bankable eyebrows crinkle at the nickname.

  ‘I had a strange stew thing.’ Rupert sat back, observing Jess. He was interested, a touch wary, as if she was a lab rat that might bite. ‘Who are you here with?’ He craned his neck in the direction she’d come from.

  ‘Not a top model, that’s for sure!’ Jess saw him bite his lip. ‘Just Dad and Bogna.’

  ‘Bogna?’ Pandora giggled. ‘Is that, like, a name?’

  ‘It’s not like a name; it is a name.’ Jess bridled on Bogna’s behalf. ‘Are you in Castle Kidbury for long?’

  That could have sounded rude. It did sound rude. Pandora looked at Rupert. ‘Um, well, depends . . .’

  Rupert had a violently casual look on his face. ‘Depends . . .’ he said to Jess, the dot dot dot hanging in the air.

  Jess wanted to smoke with every cell in her body. She paced the cobbles outside the Royal Seven Stars. After her angry wee, she couldn’t face the walk back past Rupert and Pandora.

  An open-top car pulled up. It was old, and gorgeous. As was its driver.

  ‘Iris,’ said Jess. ‘You’re not supposed to drive.’

  ‘Hop in, you tedious girl.’

  The Judge. Bogna. Her club sandwich.

  Versus Great-aunty Iris and a lipstick-red Jaguar E-Type.

  No competition.

  It was noisy. They had to raise their voices to chat over the growl of the engine. ‘You just dumped James? You’re brave, darling.’

  ‘I’m annoyed with him. He’s withholding, as usual.’

  ‘All men of his vintage withhold. They teach it at public schools.’

  ‘Running out on him at lunch is only what he expects me to do.’

  A sideways look from behind winged sunglasses. ‘If I could be bothered, I’d take you to task on that silly comment. But I managed to elude my grandson and free my beautiful car, so let’s just have fun.’

  ‘Josh hates you driving.’

  ‘He hates me eating a boiled egg. He’s walking some contractors around our new multimedia experience. About the history of the Castle family. Who cares about that, for heaven’s sake?’ Bangles danced on Iris’s bony wrist as she changed gears with great authority.

  Jess coveted the driving gloves. Nude-coloured kid. Soft. Expensive.

  ‘So, Jess, what’s the latest on our chum the Rustic Ripper?’

  ‘It looks as though it’s a serial killer. That’s what DS Eden thinks, anyway.’

  ‘You think differently?’

  ‘Maybe. The two murders had significant differences.’

  ‘And do you have your beady eye on anyone?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about it,’ answered Jess, warily.

  ‘Tosh. It’s only me. Who would I tell?’

  ‘There’s a suspect called Pan. The bloke with the caravans in Pitt’s Field.’

  ‘Yes, we had a run-in with him. Dancing around the grounds with a gang of naked girls. Nasty sort. Josh chased him off with a shotgun.’

  ‘Yes, he is nasty. But there’s no hard evidence to tie him to the murders. He’s even got an alibi. Other than that, there’s Squeezers. But he couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘You sound very sure.’

  ‘Squeezers only commits petty crime. Really petty crime. He’s never mentioned anything about pagan practices.’

  ‘The poor chap’s a little too cuckoo to pull off a murder.’ Iris pronounced it orf. ‘Although . . .’ Iris seemed to reconsider. ‘These murders are somewhat cuckoo.’

  Jess thought of her conversation with Luis Unthank. Of the prickly feeling he gave her. Her antennae had spun wildly. ‘Eden’s pulling in everybody who had anything to do with the victims, but so far, nothing.’

  ‘I trust you to solve it, darling.’

  ‘Me? I’m on the periphery of the case, Iris.’

  ‘Piffle. You’ve found your calling.’

  Jess had missed her great-aunt’s certainty. Her belief. It wouldn’t do, she knew, to thank her for it. ‘I hope it’s all over soon. Castle Kidbury’s bent out of shape. The Seven Stars was full of journalists.’ Jess closed her eyes as Iris overtook a tractor on a hairpin bend. ‘Mind you, they were more interested in Rupert’s bloody girlfriend than anything.’ She opened her eyes. They were both still alive.

  ‘Rupert? Your Rupert? Girlfriend?’

  ‘He’s not my— Yes, Pandora Smith. She’s from round here, apparently.’

  ‘Ah, the supermodel! The only girl I know with a sillier name than your middle one. I play bridge with her godmother. Did you know her father was convicted of fraud?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He swiped ten million from a company he chaired. Spent at least a few thousand of
it on call girls and SS uniforms. Actually, Rupert defended him. I promised myself I wouldn’t ask you about Rupert.’

  ‘Ask me what about him?’

  ‘This and that.’ Iris stared out through the windscreen, and it reflected her naughty twinkle. An abrupt three-point turn. A near miss with a cow. ‘Hometime, darling. Keep digging, Jess. You always were the brains of the family.’

  The usual journey, but backwards, on foot.

  The long turn from the main thoroughfare.

  The vet’s.

  The medical centre.

  The long-stay car park.

  The bridge.

  Harebell House.

  A car was parked by the scenic shed Harriet had commissioned for the bins. A mystery car, Jess thought, instantly blaming recent bloodstained events for her hammy language. Just because I don’t know who the car belongs to doesn’t mean it’s a mystery.

  The door jerked open as she slid the key into the lock. The Judge stood on the welcome mat. His large feet obscured the welcome.

  ‘You have a visitor, Jessica. From Cambridge.’

  Chapter 17

  POOL PARTY

  Still Thursday 26 May

  ‘This is where you want to talk?’

  Jess saw the neglected pool through her visitor’s eyes. ‘It’ll be fun,’ she said, sombrely. She’d been sombre since she laid eyes on Max standing in front of the drawing room fireplace. Twenty years her senior. Smallish. Neat. Beginnings of a tum. Salt-and-pepper hair. So familiar, and so very unwelcome.

  That was unfair; Max was a nice man. It was the mirror he held up to Jess’s behaviour that she didn’t like.

  ‘Fun,’ repeated Max, negotiating the metal ladder down into the cracked blue pool with his glass of wine.

  At fifty-odd, Max couldn’t sit cross-legged like Jess. He lounged against the tiled wall. He gazed around as he might at an archaeological site. ‘You ought to use this pool.’

  Okay, small talk first, thought Jess. She was happy to acquiesce. ‘I learnt to swim here. Stephen used to dunk me.’ She hid her face in her wine. The small talk had turned out to be not so small after all. The dream claimed her for a moment, and departed.

  ‘That’s what big brothers are for.’ Max savoured his wine. ‘Nice of James to have me stay for dinner. There aren’t many houses as comfortable as yours, Jess.’