An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Ginny woke to the sound of bird song and wondered why the ceiling was a pristine white instead of the warm magnolia-cream she had chosen for her bedroom in the cottage. Then she realised the answer and sat up swiftly. She remembered shouting at the vicar and then having the oddest impression that he was a giant rabbit, before she fell. Then she must have hit her head on the stone floor. 
The poor bats. If she was unconscious he might have-
But then maybe not. Presumably some kind person had helped her and perhaps they had been in time to save the bats from the crazy vicar too. Feeling the back of her head there was no trace of the kind of bump she might have expected. Perhaps that was why she was in someone’s guest room and not in hospital. Though it was very odd they hadn’t taken her straight to Bedchester General A&E.
Ginny sat up, and realised someone had removed her outer clothes and put her into a voluminous one-size-fits-elephants nightie in a rather ghastly fabric that looked like it had been inspired by an Edwardian tea set. She looked around, but couldn’t see her clothes anywhere obvious.
The room was spare and sparsely furnished, with a wooden floor, white walls, and shutters in lieu of curtains. There were no pictures or ornaments to give away anything about whose house she might be in. But the bed was superbly comfortable and the bed linens seemed to be of the most expensive quality, even if they were as white and plain as everything else about the room.
Through the window she could see the church and the little stand of trees from which she had made her mad attempt to protect the bats from the vicar’s malice.
She had barely had a chance to do more than take in her surroundings when after a brief knock, which seemed to be more by way of a warning than a request, the door opened and a woman came in carrying a pile of clothes.
Ginny was pretty sure this was a stranger, as she knew she would have remembered – with rueful jealousy – anyone this effortlessly chic. Never mind that the woman was neither young nor particularly slender, she had style to burn. It wasn’t that she was wearing designer jeans and a cashmere jumper Ginny mentally priced at several hundred pounds, it was the way she carried herself and the sharpness of the cheekbones that all but sliced through the skin in an obviously aristocratic face. Whoever this was, Ginny suddenly had the thought that she might like to become this person when she grew up.
“Oh good! You’re awake. I apologise for the dreadful night wear, Agnes has very strange ideas of such things, but at least it avoids any possible embarrassment when your hostess walks in on you unexpectedly.”
Ginny rather thought that if any apology was due it was not for the nightdress, more for walking in without asking, but she decided not to say so.
The woman put the clothes down on the end of the bed.
“I’m Emmeline Vanderbilt. We spoke on the phone last week as I recall. Call me Em.”
“Ginny. Ginny Cropper. But you probably knew that.”
“Yes. I did.” She held up a hand as Ginny opened her mouth to ask the most pressing of the many questions that rushed to her lips. “Breakfast – well more brunch – is served downstairs. We can talk when you’ve had something to eat and a nice cup of tea. En suite through that door and I brought a selection of things you might wear. Hopefully I’m a better judge of what might fit you and your style than Agnes. See you in a few minutes.”
Strangely, Em seemed to have gone, and closed the door behind her, before Ginny could say a word. Feeling a little put out, but very happy at the thought of something to eat – she’d had this odd gnawing hunger since she woke up – Ginny inspected the clothes on offer. 
Somehow she was not surprised to find that almost all of the items had designer labels – the discreet kind rather than the ones that were blazoned like a badge. She had a quick shower then chose an earth colour blend blouson top  and found a pair of slightly flared jeans that fitted well enough to go with it. 
Scrutinising herself in the mirror, Ginny decided the effect was not at all bad. She had feared she might find she looked ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, but far from it. She might not match Em Vanderbilt for chic, but she still looked pretty good. Her skin seemed to be glowing more than it had in months, her hair, though still thin on top, had a gleam about it and she was aware of feeling more confident than she recalled being since her heyday.
She gave herself a small nod of satisfaction in the mirror and then headed downstairs, feeling ready to take on the world.

Part 17 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

They thought of themselves as wolves in human skins as they roistered and pillaged and stole. Their granite tower at the edge of the world rang with coarse laughter and its storerooms bulged with gold and precious gems.

When their dark horses boiled out of the hills those who could run ran, and those who could hide hid.

Until the day they came no more. 

One brave man walked for days, to find the black basalt walls of the tower had grown silent and cold.

Inside there was only the smell of blood.

In the woods a single wolf howled…

Jane Jago

Admirable advice from Madame Pendulica’s mystic moggy!

Whilst reclining on the motheaten velvet of a window seat in the sun, one idly tuned into the conversation between the wispy female human one owns and a thin male dressed as if it were some sort of a bloodsucker or nightcrawler.
“Of course, the ancient Egyptians worshipped cats,” he said, as his narrow hands fiddled with the fringes on the table cover.
One pricked up one’s ears, and her muddledness nodded.
“They did indeed, and felines are so in tune with the moon and the stars.”
Which is, of course, arrant nonsense.
“Is he psychic?”
Wispy laughed, a sound she sees as tinkling bells, but one that grates on feline ears. “She is, indeed.”
He seemed to lose interest then, suddenly leaning forward and staring into the myopic pallor of her eyes.
“Why does nobody understand my poetry?” His previously carefully modulated voice degenerated into a childish whine and he flapped his hands like the wings of a demented butterfly.
The wisps of handprinted cheesecloth that serve one’s particular human as garments waved and undulated as his breath disturbed the air around her skinny frame. One wondered, briefly, if the young fool might attack her, but for all her fey ways she is adept at handling bruised egos and she there-there’d and patted him back to some semblance of adult behaviour.
While she stroked his over-inflated ego I regarded him in some hauteur. It seemed to me as if they were both missing the point of this interview— the fitting of a sadly deluded human for a better and more useful life. As I turned widdershins thrice and settled back to sleep it came to me that the phrase he would find most useful in his lifelong career would be ‘do you want fries with that?’

Ailuros the Mystic’s Mog predicts she will be offering more advice sometime in the future!

Esme had lived alone in the cabin high in the mountains as long as she could remember, getting by on what she could find and on ‘make do and mend’. She liked it that way. People were a nuisance like the wolves and the bears – only more dangerous.

So when she found the unconscious man she was half-inclined to leave him be. But of course, she took him in and saw him right.

Two years later Esme regretted her decision as the mining company began to rip up her mountain on the report of the freelance geologist she had saved.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Take this exclusive opportunity to consult the wisdom of the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Libra.

For children of the scales, balance is all. They hold no view that is not counterbalanced by another and opposite opinion. They have no allegiance that is not equalled by love of another faction. The truth to a Libran is no more valid than the lie on the other side of the coin.  Beware the measure of Libra.

Good in the kitchen or bathroom.

Bad if you want support. Also bad in the bathroom if you are carrying a few extra pounds, the bastards won’t sugar coat it.

Scorpio.

The sarcastic, unfeeling nature of the offspring of this poisonous crepuscular creature cannot be overstated. A Scorpio may be a fond friend for as long as it suits, but should you disappoint one such the poisoned barb in its tail will cause you pain and suffering beyond measure, while it laughs in unfeigned merriment. Beware the poison of Scorpio.

Good as comedians and purveyors of snark.

Bad. Well just generally bad. And mostly proud of it.

Sagittarius.

Often depicted as a centaur, the archer has his bow constantly trained on the hearts of those around him. He watches his children greedily, and without mercy, as they learn to aim their own arrows of dislike, distrust, disgust, disdain and disproportionate expectation at all who dare get close. Beware the barbs of Sagittarius.

Good at any sport requiring the ability to shoot straight.

Bad at being anything but judgemental assholes.

Capricorn.

The goat-headed satyr laughs as his children drag the unprepared into their tools of gluttony, sensuality, and amorality. The children of Capricorn are probably the most physically irresistible of all the houses, and they are born to use that attraction for mischief. Beware the lust of Capricorn.

Good in bed.

Bad anywhere else.

Aquarius.

The water carrier. The only house with responsibilities. And how they are resented. How the Aquarian hates his/her burden. How he or she strives to set it down. The house is characterised by bitterness and envy of those it sees as having an easier life. They may seem to be steadfast in friendship, but in reality they just want you to carry the bucket for them. Beware the hubris of Aquarius.

Good at carrying stuff.

Bad at carrying stuff without complaining.

Pisces.

If there was ever a fish that swam with the flow that fish is a child of Pisces. This family has no principles, very few opinions, and absolutely no intention of ever making waves. A Piscean will be excellent, undemanding company and will be agreeable at all times. Equally he or she will bay and roar as loudly as the rest of the mob at a lynching or other sporting event. Beware the compliance of Pisces. 

Good at taking the temperature of any situation.

Bad at looking out for anybody but themselves.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Cold morning by the riverside
He turned and walked away
Never saw the tears I cried
Never heard me pray
Never cared about my pain
Nor saw my senses fray
They said he was a hero
And they buried him today
But I went to the riverside
And in the mist I lay

Jane Jago

Ante Diem Nonum Kalendas Aprilis MDCCLXXIX Anno Diocletiani

I

The working office of the Magistratus had changed considerably since Sextus Catus Bestia had taken over the role in Demetae and Cornovii six months previously. Dai Llewellyn, Submagistratus for the same area, still fondly recalled the simple and yet tasteful decor the previous incumbent had preferred. Bestia, by contrast, favoured opulence over simplicity and substituted extravagance for good taste. But then, unlike his predecessor who had risen through the administrative ranks, Bestia had transferred into the state sector after enjoying a successful career as a commercial lawyer. Dai assumed that impressing business clients required such an ostentatious display of wealth, but the same sat ill with the kind of civic dignity expected of Bestia’s present role.
Not that the man couldn’t easily afford the expensive artwork lining the walls, the rarewood furniture, the bejewelled and gilded bust of the Divine Diocletian and the elaborate full-length golden-framed painting of himself and his wife of a few weeks. That marriage had surely made him one of the wealthiest men in all of Viriconium.
Which was why this present meeting was beginning to make Dai move from frustration into anger. Bestia was sitting in his throne-like desk chair, hands resting on the carved lions that adorned the arms. The late afternoon sun had painted the window behind him with glowing light, adding to the regal impression. He also looked regally bored, as if he found the whole business of overseeing the administration tedious in the extreme.
“I see no reason to bend the rules just because your Senior Investigator has a gut-instinct about something. Cartivel must be close to retirement age and is probably just dyspeptic.” He smiled as if inviting Dai to share the joke.
“I’m not asking you to bend any rules. I’m asking you to sign-off further resources to investigate properly. I would if I could, but have already authorised this case to the limit of my authority.”
Bestia glanced down at the file on his desk. “Indeed. I see you granted SI Cartivel and his team an entire day in man hours. Time they have used to ascertain little more than that this woman was known to be a lupa and known to be willing to take money from clients who wanted more extreme practices than the usual. But there are no grounds that I can see here for me to extend the investigation any further. It would be a waste of public money.”
“If Malina Tesni was a Roman Citizen…”
For the first time, Bestia sounded annoyed.
“If the woman was a Roman Citizen, she would not have been a common British puta who was paid well by an over-vigorous client.”
“Over-vigorous?” For a moment Dai saw the start of a red haze clouding on the edges of his vision and with a supreme effort of will he fought it down, drawing a deep breath and counting silently.
“Distasteful as it is, there was nothing to suggest she had been abused against her will. She was also found with what I am assured would be a substantial payment for a street woman. No doubt an incentive to allow her client more leeway in his behaviour.”
“She was beaten half to death. The autopsy said she died of those injuries having caused severe internal bruising and swelling.”
“It was not murder. There was clearly no intent to kill or why pay the woman and let her go home? At very best it was an accidental death. No one has denied that she was a prostitute and that is a profession that we all know carries certain occupational hazards.” His expression softened suddenly and his voice shifted to something more like friendly cajoling. “You are a good man, a good Citizen and a good administrator, Llewellyn. I do understand why you feel so strongly about this, but you must let it go. It’s for the best.”
Dai had been sitting but now he shot to his feet.
“Let it go? Dominus, the man who did this is somewhere in Viriconium and he could do the same to another woman.”
Bestia lifted one hand from its lion’s head resting place.
“Stop right there. Firstly, I already said that I completely understand where you are coming from with this. Who could not be appalled at by it? But where is the crime? There is no law against prostitution.” He leaned back and shook his head, looking saddened. “If anything the dead woman is the criminal here. The only prosecutable offense I can see is failure on her part to have purchased a license to practice her trade. And, of course, the subsequent charges of tax evasion that would lead to, especially seeing how well she was being paid.”
Dai struggled to find some way to frame things in terms that could penetrate Bestia’s lawyer logic.
“If she was a Citizen there would be unlimited resources made available to uncover the man who did this whether it was deemed consensual or not. What if the man is local and his next victim is a Citizen?”
Bestia was frowning now.
“You should know better than that, Submagistratus. We can’t run the Vigiles on ‘what ifs’. There is no reason to think the man was local, indeed it is more likely someone passing through, staying the night and wanting some entertainment. And even if he was local, you have already spent public money on investigating something that is not a crime. Instead of asking me for more perhaps you should apologise and be grateful that I’m not going to mention that you did so on any official report.”
The red haze rose and this time Dai could do nothing to stop it. His last conscious act was to turn and start walking towards the door. Better to be rude to his superior than get arrested for attacking him.

From Dying on the Streets by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Agnes and Petunia looked Ginny over carefully as she slept. Finally, Agnes grinned.
“Looks as if we got away with that one. Aside from the fact the hair on her head seems a bit less wispy and her front teeth are a bit prominent, she’s just the way she was.”
Em was bitterly tired but she managed a smile, and when Arnold offered her a cup of something steaming she took it gratefully. It was soup, and it helped. However, what she really needed was blood tea, and a lot of sleep. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when a puffed-out Agnes handed her a tall mug from her own kitchen. She drank deeply and felt a measure of strength seeping back through her bones.
“Now what?” 
Agnes indicated the trussed-up were with a lift of one of her chins.
“Good question.”
The voice was unfeasibly deep and came from the doorway. Em smiled a weary smile.
“Come in Leodigrace. Come and tell us how the heck that one got away from you.”
The shadows readjusted and a tall man came quietly into the church.
“He didn’t get away, Emmeline. He slipped under the radar. I can find no trace of anybody knowing anything about him. Although someone did. And we will find out who.”
Agnes gave the big lycanthrope a dirty look. “Not wishing to be thought unwelcoming, or anything like that, just how did you happen to be in the area?”
“I didn’t happen to be here. I was having a meeting with the bishop – about yon bunny rabbit – when I suddenly knew something was happening here. I hurried…”
“Now you are here,” Em managed to sound severe even in the face of gnawing fatigue, “can we leave the disposal of that poor mad creature to you?”
“You can.”
Leodigrace bent over and lifted Doug Turner as easily as if he was a tiny child. Then he was gone.
Arnold looked at the three women. “I don’t suppose anybody is going to tell me who or what.”
Em shrugged. “You’ve seen too much already, so why not. Leodigrace is the big cheese when it comes to weres. And he’s the biggest effing wolf you have never seen in your life. He might eat bunnies for all I know. And now I have had about enough. Will you carry Mzzz Cropper over to my house please?”
Arnold swallowed, then pulled himself together. “I will. Then I will come back and scrub the floor.”

By the time her unwanted guest had been installed in the guest bedroom, Em was feeling the full effects of a very trying day. For once the age she felt reflected the age she looked and it was not entirely down to the drain of creating a new Sister. Agnes had sensed it, of course, and insisted on organising everything, making Em sit in the lounge with her feet up whilst she sorted the settling in of the Cropper woman.
“Do you think I’ve made a mistake?” Em asked when Agnes placed a brandy in her hand and sat down with one herself.
“Not like you to second-guess yourself, Em.”
The brandy helped. It tasted of fire and nostalgia.
“No. It isn’t. I think I am still trying to work out how I missed all the signs about Doug Turner. How could there be a were – or any kind of supe – wandering around the village and I just didn’t notice?”
“None of us noticed, not just you. So stop blaming yourself. You’re tired and a good rest will see you right as rain.” She finished her brandy and stood up. “Now I’ll leave you to it. Do you want me round tomorrow to help out with explaining things to our new Sister? It’ll be a bit of a shock for her as we didn’t have a chance to do the pre-chat and all that.”
Em groaned.
“And I can just imagine how she’ll take it. This is one I’m really not looking forward to.”
“She can’t be worse than Petunia was can she?”
“Maybe. After all, according to Angela Pendle-Burton she’s a committed vegetarian.”
Agnes’ mouth formed an exaggerated O shape. Then she laughed.
“Well that will be one for the books.”
“Exactly,” Em said. “What the hell do we do with a vegan vampire?”

Part 16 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Rupert booked them a holiday. 
It sounded romantic, until Laura found out that the Camel Trail has nothing to do with camels and everything to do with cycling. Seventeen bloody miles of cycling.

There was worse to come. She learned that the next day they were to pedal thirty miles from Padstow to Fowey. 

Breakfast time, bright and early, and Laura was nowhere to be seen. Rupert went to wake her, with an indulgent smile on his big red face.

The note read ‘Camel Trail gave me Camel Toe. Gone home…’

As far as I know they never spoke again.

©️Jane Jago

Admirable advice from Madame Pendulica’s mystic moggy!

So today she (that’s Madame Pendulica to you or Dotty Doris to me) was doing this thing where she grabs a handful of polished stones (she calls them crystals) and throws them on a black cloth divided up into the houses of the zodiac and then proceeds to give her client a ‘reading’ based on which of the stones land where (“You have jasper in your first house and that is bringing optimism in your immediate future.”)Please note that he’s not the one to be optimistic, Dotty Doris is – she’s making a wad from this consultation.
Anyway, I digress, she was doing this reading for a client who was trying to decide whether or not to accept a proposal of marriage. We’d been through the background already:
“She’s perfect in every way and we are madly in love. But should I marry her?”
Madame purred in her throat (I swear she takes lessons from me).
“You are wise to seek my guidance and I shall consult the stars through their union with the earth by the power of the crystals.”
Translation; “I can see we have a gullible one here who’ll pay for at least three sessions and keep me in prosecco and the cat in tuna for a week.”
He nodded and looked grave.
“You see I know the economic and legal commitment of marriage is a serious undertaking and if I am besotted I am not going to be able to think things through clearly. So please, tell me, should I marry her?”
Oh ye gods and little fishes, what a complete asshole!
I’d had enough so put my paw in and told him that if I was his girlfriend I’d be telling him to take a hike. If he’s the sort who can’t even know his own heart and mind over whether he should marry then he’s better left on the shelf with that open packet of dried kibble that’s sat there the last six months since I refused to eat it anymore.
Unfortunately, the mad bat went on to convince him that his answer was obscured by the moon being occluded by onyx and his having obsidian falling in Scorpio so he should come back the next week to get clarification.
I really do have to admire her.
And I thought of him almost fondly when I ate my tuna that evening.

Ailuros the Mystic’s Mog predicts she will be offering more advice sometime in the future!