Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Danny from a beanbag he shared with Tallulah.

  ‘I’m glad you asked, young man.’ Carl lifted both arms. His shirt was stained with sweat. ‘I’m from the land of yes. I’m from where completely happens.’

  ‘I thought he was from Morrisons,’ said Moyra.

  ‘Why don’t you say “yes”,’ asked Eddie, enjoying himself, ‘when I ask you to open more checkouts on a Saturday morning?’

  ‘And why is all the hummus gone by twelve?’ demanded Doug. This was an old gripe.

  That’s a date then. x

  Specifically, thought Jess, reading the text, it was the second of June. Deiphon. Hecate’s big night.

  ‘People of Castle Kidbury,’ bellowed Carl. ‘I am buzzed to declare ThinkSpace well and truly open!’

  Moderate applause.

  Patricia yanked on a tasselled cord.

  Carl punched the air again.

  The curtain flew back.

  The residents of Castle Kidbury stared.

  Beneath the plaque was a fat, glistening turd.

  Doug vomited. Tallulah gasped. The photographer clicked away.

  Patricia’s cries could be heard as far as Richleigh bypass.

  ‘Bring me Squeezers!’

  Chapter 28

  DANCING ON HER OWN

  Thursday 2 June

  The water is blood.

  Then the water is yellow.

  She can taste it in her mouth.

  It tastes metallic as Jess relaxes and lets herself spiral down to the bottom of the pool.

  It tastes like shame.

  Brushing her teeth with extra gusto, Jess tried to shake her head clear of the dream. How to exorcise herself of it? How to escape its insistence that she was as guilty as the killer?

  Eden wasn’t picking up. Karen wouldn’t help. Jess had no idea what had transpired with Unthank – Luis Unthank – in the interview room.

  She had hours to kill before dinner with Rupert. Not for Jess a grooming regime of waxing and contouring and trying on every item of clothing she owned. Rupert would take her as he found her. And he would find her all in black with untidy hair.

  She roamed the house. She missed Mary. She missed Bogna, too; that was a first. Bogna was visiting Mary at the hospital. Buns had been made.

  Stopping at the threshold of the master bedroom, Jess saw the Judge checking himself out in a cheval mirror. He tweaked the lapels of his pale linen suit. He met Jess’s eye in her reflection.

  ‘Never in nor out, are you?’ he said.

  ‘Liminal, that’s me.’ Me and Hecate; Jess was reminded of the date. Deiphon. If she were an Ancient Greek she’d be sweeping the floors and looking for a stray mongrel to sacrifice. ‘Where are you off to all dolled up?’

  For an answer, he held out a gold cufflink. ‘Would you?’

  He used to ask her mother that same question in that same voice. For a year, thought Jess, he’s had nobody to help him with his cufflinks.

  ‘Best cufflinks, eh? Do you have a date?’

  Again he didn’t answer and Jess’s heart raced. Ye Gods, to use one of his expressions, it couldn’t be true, could it? Both of them off on dates?

  If going to Rupert’s constituted a date.

  ‘Kuzbari seems a good man, Jessica. A gentleman, in fact.’

  It wasn’t a word that sprang to Jess’s twenty-first-century lips. But it described Kuzbari perfectly.

  When she’d settled both his cuffs, the Judge took her hand.

  She couldn’t remember when he’d last done that. Her fingers folded around his.

  ‘Don’t worry too much about your Syrian friend, Jess. Sometimes the answer turns up just when it’s needed.’

  Answers were what she needed most. But all she could think was, He called me Jess.

  Opening hours were posted on the gilded gates of Kidbury Manor. Instructions for coach parties to use the rear car park. A cheerful reminder that the Gifte Shoppe was having a sale of jams.

  Jess ignored them all and trudged round to a discreet door in the ancient, venerable wall. Ignoring the laminated exhortations to keep off the grass, she crossed the lawn. Also ancient, also venerable. Her ancestors hadn’t done things by halves. The house was wide, a warm stone outline in the dying light. Gables and mullions and a gargoyle or two.

  Jess found it hard to be proud of the old place. She saw past the design and felt the sweat. Each brick handmade and placed just so by somebody who lived and died an unrecorded life. As a child, she could recite the name of each and every Lord Kidbury, right back to the family’s ennoblement in 1691.

  Like a breeze on her face, the memory owned her for a moment. Jess used to think of her heritage as romantic. Dashing. Then she had woken up.

  Radicalised as a teen, proclaiming her Everywoman credentials with punky eyeliner and her first Doc Martens, she saw only privilege hanging from her family tree. Unearned wealth. An inbred cousin with one toe too many.

  Past arrows pointing towards toilets and the rose garden and the Kidbury Kafé, Jess slipped into a courtyard. The cobbles were new; her cousin had recreated something that had never existed in the first place. One of many things Jess held against Josh was his blithe ability to spell cafe with a K.

  A small door glowed yellow in the ivy. ‘Private’, warned a plaque.

  ‘Darling, what a surprise!’ Great-aunty Iris’s voice oozed from the intercom. And then Jess was indoors, glass in hand, lump in throat – from the nicotine fog, not sentiment – bum on velvet chair, watching Iris jive on a priceless rug.

  The record was scratched. Jess watched Iris defy her years in a floaty dress that seemed to have no seams and was the colour of twilight.

  ‘Dancing,’ said Iris, tapping her ash in the direction of a small sleeping dog who was little more than a collection of tumours, ‘is better than yoga for one’s core.’

  ‘Who is this?’ The music was sophisticated. Knowing. Ablaze with rhythm. ‘His voice is amazing.’

  ‘Louis Jordan.’ Iris folded herself into an armchair. ‘Marvellous singer. Real twinkle in his eye. There are those who say he was the father of rock and roll.’

  ‘Surely that’s Elvis.’ Jess was ready to scrap.

  ‘Elvis, child, is the king.’ Iris crossed long legs that had once nabbed her a lord. ‘How’s our wild Mary?’

  ‘Refusing to admit she needs to take time to recover.’ Jess had apologised again. Mary had told her to shut up. Again. ‘When I think of what could have happened . . .’

  ‘Crucially, it didn’t happen, so let’s move on.’ There was empathy, not chill, in Iris’s advice. She knew about her niece’s soft core.

  The living room of Iris’s flat above the stables told a story. African artefacts. Fringed lampshades. Dusty books on Kenya and Nairobi in particular overpopulated the shelves. There was even a ventriloquist’s dummy parked on one of the window seats, threatening to mutter something evil. Iris’s was not a life half lived.

  ‘Oh God,’ she muttered, as heavy feet sounded on the stairs. ‘Here comes my only grandchild to tell me about the day’s takings. When will he accept I don’t bloody care?’

  ‘Jessica Castle, as I live and breathe!’ Red jumbo cords to match his cheeks, Josh had nothing of his grandmother in his design. Bumbling, gosh-darn cheery, his curling hair peppered with leaves, he’d been ‘helping’ the manor’s maintenance team cut down a diseased oak.

  The current Lord Kidbury loved helping; he believed that nobody noticed his title, that he was simply one of the guys. He was oblivious to the fact that the ‘guys’ tended to schedule big practical tasks when his lordship was elsewhere.

  ‘Joshy,’ said Jess, surprised by the childhood nickname springing so eagerly to her lips.

  ‘What’s all this I hear about you getting mixed up in our spooky murders? I suppose all those qualifications on witchcraft and druids had to find an outlet somewhere.’

  ‘Jessica has a PhD, which is more than you have, Josh, darling.’ Raining o
n Castle women’s parades was a Castle men’s habit: Iris would have none of it.

  ‘I confess, I can’t see how you make money in your line of work.’ Josh asked the kind of guileless questions children do. Why are you fat? Is that a wig? He didn’t mean to offend his cousin when he pressed her, saying, ‘Is there? Any money in it, old girl?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ answered Jess, happily.

  ‘Shame. Those university fees cost James a pretty penny.’ Josh picked up his grandmother’s mail and began to look through it.

  ‘You know full well Dad didn’t—’

  ‘You have a one-track mind, Josh,’ interjected Iris, briskly. ‘You’re interested only in the bottom line.’

  ‘Quite right. Take the manor for example, Grandma. Far too big for you on your own. Now, the public gets a bit of heritage. We get some dosh. Thank God for Yanks, I say, and their deep pockets. They go potty for a title.’

  ‘I had an American lover once.’ Iris’s cheekbones were dangerous in the lamplight. ‘Before your grandfather, of course. He, I seem to remember, went potty for me.’

  Josh moved briskly on. ‘Takings are down again,’ he said, as Jess wondered why men of her caste, so keen on being ‘male’ and ‘blokey’, wore scarlet corduroys.

  ‘I don’t care, darling,’ said Iris. ‘You know I don’t care. It’s time we gave away this pile of rubble.’

  ‘Grandma, you’re so cute,’ said Josh.

  Iris gave him a look that was anything but cute.

  ‘Did you get my email about the fun day?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Probably,’ murmured Iris.

  ‘Do you think the clown’s a good idea?’

  Jess said, ‘Clowns are never a good idea.’

  Josh, whose geniality was Teflon-coated, refused to believe her. ‘Kiddies love a red nose and a silly suit.’

  ‘In that case, why not send the little darlings to the House of Commons?’ Jess was rewarded by a snort from Iris and bemusement from Josh.

  ‘No, no, Jess. It’s a fun day. Hay rides. A donkey, possibly. You can help out, if you like. Staff costs are killing me.’

  Jess squirrelled that away to tell Rupert later; Me! Helping out at a bloody fun day!

  Running a hand through his regulation public-school quiff, Josh said, ‘I can cope with bad weather and a one star on TripAdvisor, but a psycho on the loose is bloody bad for business.’

  ‘People no longer think of chocolate-box views when they hear the name Castle Kidbury,’ lamented Iris. ‘They think of crucifixions.’

  ‘Hey ho.’ Josh really did speak like that. ‘I must run, Grandma. Bills to pay!’

  ‘Well,’ said Jess, ‘it is Deiphon.’

  ‘It’s what?’ Josh’s big baby face was puzzled.

  ‘The dark moon. End of the lunar month.’

  ‘Oh, thought it was something real,’ said Josh amiably.

  As the evening drew closer, Jess found she couldn’t shake off Hecate.

  ‘He visits me each and every evening, to tell me about the damn takings.’ Iris poured herself a whisky when Josh left. ‘Josh is a good boy. A kind boy. But when will he notice that I don’t care even a little bit about the business?’

  ‘Does it ever make you sad that strangers are tramping all over the lovely house you and Uncle Seb lived in?’

  ‘It is indeed a lovely house.’ Iris looked out at the cobbles. There was no view of the manor from her windows. ‘But we were more than happy in Kenya. I wouldn’t have married Seb if I’d known a dreary old title came with.’

  Only Iris could make being an aristocrat sound like a chore. ‘Yes you would.’ Jess’s great-uncle was a dim childhood memory. She recalled the smell of tweed. A gruff laugh. A voice shot through with kindness. Weak, though, according to Jess’s father. But then, thought Jess, we’re all weaklings compared to his honour Judge Castle, the man who’s facing down aortic stenosis all on his own. ‘You loved Uncle Seb.’

  ‘So I did. But, Jess, he was just a man. We’re all just people, when it comes down to it. Please don’t expect so much from anyone, this Rupert for example, that he has no option but to disappoint.’

  There was a story there. Jess could smell it. ‘What did Uncle Seb—’

  ‘Like I say, child, he was just a man.’ Iris drew the curtains and closed the subject.

  For now. Jess would return to it, always susceptible to the lure of a mystery.

  ‘Families, darling.’ Iris patted her lap and the small dog – a hate figure around the manor – leapt up. ‘If only one could choose them.’

  ‘You can.’ Jess refused to say ‘One can’. ‘They’re called friends.’

  ‘True.’ Iris pressed the dog flat. It began to snore. ‘I could live on a desert island with my girlfriends, but if I wasn’t related to Josh, I wouldn’t talk to him at a cocktail party.’

  There was a silence, filled on Jess’s side with thoughts of Josh’s father, Iris’s only child. If David Castle hadn’t been killed in a hunting accident – possibly, thought Jess, the poshest way to go – things might be very different at Kidbury Manor.

  ‘What about me? Would you talk to me at this cocktail party of yours?’ Jess was smug. Sure of the response.

  ‘You, young lady, are my favourite, as you well know. Cornetto?’

  ‘God yes.’ It occurred to Jess that, as she was en route to dinner with Rupert, she should save her appetite. Ha! She accepted the ice cream with happy avarice.

  ‘If I ever get married,’ said Jess, ‘and I won’t, but if I ever did, I’d have Cornettoes at my reception.’

  ‘We had foie gras,’ said Iris. ‘Poor geese. Stuffed with food day after day.’

  ‘There are worse ways to go.’

  Iris watched Jess chomp stolidly on. ‘You and your father, sharing a house, without Harriet. Can’t be easy.’

  ‘We’re good.’ Jess relented under that blue laser stare. ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘Families don’t have to get on. Once you realise that it’s most liberating.’ Iris was the sarcastic version of Kuzbari. ‘Did I ever tell you I cut off my stepsister’s hair in her sleep? No? Another time, darling. However one feels about one’s rellies, we’re imprinted on one another. They’re the portraits in the hallways of one’s mind.’

  ‘He’s so frosty about me helping out with the murder investigation.’

  ‘Couldn’t possibly be because he’s worried about his only daughter, could it, now?’ Iris pushed her bangles up her arm. ‘Perfect though you are, Jess, some of the friction with James is down to you. You’re angry with him for getting old.’

  ‘We all get old.’ Jess gave Iris a speaking look. ‘Well, most of us.’

  ‘Compliment accepted. And denied.’ Iris moved her chin, moved out of the light she’d carefully stage-managed, and aged a decade. ‘You taste the end when you reach my age. We catch the ones we love checking us over when they don’t know we’re looking.’

  Jess hung her head. ‘Guilty.’

  Iris had a little trick she often used. She would say nothing. Stare at her companion. The silence would swell. It would take on meaning. She pulled that trick now, saying eventually, ‘You’re angry with your father because you smell death in the air. Not today. Not tomorrow. But not on some distant unimaginable date either. It makes you feel insecure, because daddies are meant to be always there. He can’t help growing older.’

  ‘He can control seeking help for his health,’ said Jess. Very fast. Very cross.

  ‘Insisting on doing it his own way, and refusing good advice. Whoever does that remind me of? Jess, he’s scared. Death is no longer abstract when you’re James’s age. Remember the hours he spent in hospitals when your mother was ill.’

  Jess remembered only too well. She’d passed the ward where Harriet had died on her way to visit Mary. She’d had to catch her breath.

  ‘You know,’ said Iris, ‘that I hate morbid talk, but try and keep things tidy with James.’ She reached out and laid a forefinger on a large photograph of
Seb, framed in silver. Beside it stood a colour snap of her son in a cot, his features still baby-soft. ‘Losing a loved one without a gentle goodbye haunts one forever. Deny yourself a proper leave-taking and you’ll be bent out of shape. You’ll do the strangest things.’

  Jess felt like a child again. Perplexed by the grownups and the way they hinted at deeper, darker truths.

  Iris rallied. They talked of this, they talked of that. Jess left her suddenly.

  She was late for Rupert.

  Chapter 29

  MUCH DEPENDS ON DINNER

  Still Thursday 2 June

  There was a lift at the Old Mill apartments. Jess hummed to the muzak as she ascended to the fourth floor.

  The refurbishment was sleek and metallic, in contrast to the bold utility of the original mill building. Jess knew which she preferred; she was sniffy about developments that despoiled honest working architecture to create allegedly luxurious apartments. She foresaw some good clean fun teasing Rupert about his by-numbers bachelor pad.

  Shit, thought Jess when Rupert answered the door. He was dressed up. Just a white shirt and grey cords, but they were an upgrade. Jess heard her Doc Martens slap on the porcelain floor and hoped the rip in her camo jacket wasn’t too obvious.

  ‘Brought you this.’ Jess pushed a bottle of own-brand plonk at her host.

  ‘Right. Good. Great.’

  The white shirt was carefully undone to tastefully allude to luxuriant chest hair, which distracted Jess.

  ‘You okay?’ frowned Rupert. He held out his hand for her jacket. When she handed it to him, their fingers grazed.

  Skin on skin.

  A warm shiver.

  Jess accepted a glass of tap water along with his You’re a cheap date comment and tried to sit on the sofa that bisected the open-plan flat.

  White, leather, over-designed, it was more of a bench. Jess perched. ‘Nice windows,’ she said. And they were. Floor to ceiling, they made a mural of Castle Kidbury.

  ‘Almost a blank panel tonight,’ said Rupert. ‘The moon’s a no-show.’

  Deiphon. The dark moon. ‘I—’ she began, just as Rupert spoke. ‘No, you go first,’ she laughed.

  ‘How was your day?’ Rupert was hovering.