An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

After everyone had gone, Em picked up the phone and called the young man who had so enjoyed the batshit madness of the vicar. The phone was picked up at once, but she found herself speaking to a young woman with an attitude problem.
“I don’t know where you got this number, madam, but Tristram is far too busy to be bothered with random callers.”
“I got the number because he gave me his card. Now just be a good girl and put him on the line.”
“I can’t do that. Tristram only takes calls between eleven and midday.”
Em sighed. “He told me to call at any time. I do a rather nice line in batshit crazy vicars.”
“Oh are you Mrs Van der Velt?”
“No. I’m Emmeline Vanderbilt.”
This took a bit of processing but eventually got Em passed to the man himself.
“Sorry for the delay.” He apologised perfunctorily. “What can I do for you?”
“You can answer a question to start with.”
“Fire away.”
“Is Ronald Dump newsworthy?”
“Depends what he is doing. Opening another of his dreadful leisure facilities is nasty but not news.”
“I’m rather hoping for not opening and consequently losing his shit in public.”
“For even a chance of that happening I’ll have a camera crew wherever whenever.”
“Right. So can you have the dim bird, who I assume must be pulchritudinous in the extreme to keep her job, put me straight through when I call because there may not be too much notice.”
His laughter sounded genuinely amused. “Pulchritudinous isn’t a word one normally hears used in conversation around here. Although it perfectly describes Amanda.”
He stopped speaking and Em could hear scrabbling in the background.
“Sorry,” this time he even sounded it. “There’s no good trying to get anything as revolutionary as putting someone straight through into Amanda’s head. You can text this number and I’ll get right back to you.” He reeled off a string of figures and Em wrote them down.
“Okay. I’ll call you if I can make this happen.”
“I look forward to that call. And. Mrs Vanderbilt. Good hunting.”
Em put the phone down, thinking how the idea of discomfiting Dump seemed to be able to bring together the most diverse of people – the unprincipled and deeply selfish Tristram, and Ginny, the newest and most PC of vampires, being a case in point. Whatever. There was no time for wool gathering – she had a tenants association to sort and an unprincipled lawyer to contact.
By the time she was done, Agnes’ army of granddaughters and great-nieces had mined the seam of council paperwork to some effect. The email was long, rambling and informative. There was indeed a planning application on the books. It postulated an eighteen-hole golf course, a boutique hotel, a restaurant, a range of holiday homes, and a range of shops. Access was, of course, to involve the demolition of the housing association properties.
None of that surprised Em. What was surprising, though, was that the applicant (and the owner of the land) was quoted as being DumpCorp.
“Got you you bastard.”
Em’s smile, could she but have seen it, was a feral thing. She called Agnes.
“You still got a girl in the Land Registry?”
“My great-great niece, Morwenna.”
“Right. I need to know two things. Has Harmful Gums actually sold his land to DumpCorp? Also has the housing association done, or tried to do, anything with the land the estate sits on?”
Em could almost hear Agnes thinking. “Okay. Can do. But I may not be able to get hold of her until tomorrow. What has just come in. From Jamelia. Is a full copy of the agreement the tenants have with the housing association.”
“Good. That was what Ishmael wanted.”
“Em! You have never called in Ishmael.”
“Why not? He’s a very good lawyer and just as slippery as anybody they might have.”
“But Ishmael is a demon.”
“So are most of the legal profession.”
Agnes sighed and Em could picture her throwing up her hands in despair. “Okay. Have it your own way. But who is paying him? As if I didn’t already know.”
Em put the phone down and made herself a cup of blood tea. When she got back, Agnes was still talking. Erasmus stood beside the phone with his face arranged as close to a smile as a bat can get.
He spoke in Em’s head. “Nothing new. Except that she wonders how DumpCorp expected to get away with downright illegality.”
“Me too.”
“In a moment I will tell you. For now, finish your conversation with Agnes.”
Placating Agnes took a good ten minutes and left Em feeling worn and scratchy. She had also committed to an emergency Nest meet the following day to discuss the problem and to introduce their new sister.
“Why do I listen to her, Erasmus? I mean she wears plastic clogs and loud floral printed smocks. Her idea of tasteful is chintz and shag pile. And she eats takeaway burgers…”
Erasmus actually chuckled. “You listen to her, Emmeline, because she is your oldest friend and she has always had your back no matter what. But now. Do you want to hear what the vespertilian community knows about DumpCorp?”
“I’m all ears.”
He sighed. “That is a singularly inept piece of human phraseology. But I digress. DumpCorp expects to get away with overt law breaking for a number of reasons. One. It always has. Two. It effectively owns two High Court judges and a Law Lord. Three. It will have its fall guys lined up. Probably Harmsley-Gunn, the chair of the county council, and your local MP.”
Em sat down with a bump. “That’s masterly Erasmus. Do they have us beat then?”
“No. Not with the supernatural community against them. This time I reckon the corporation has bitten off more than it can chew.”

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

He thought she would always be there, no matter what he said. Or did. He thought himself the centre of her world and he took her care for his comfort as no more than his due.

He left the house one rainy November morning unmoved by the tears in her eyes and the tremor in her hands.

He came home late, tired and hungry.

To an empty house.

There was a single word scrawled across the mirror in the hallway.

‘Asshole’ written in the bright red lipstick that his mistress used.

He never saw his wife again in this life…

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

asi in (noun) – karate dildo

autghor (noun) – writer of vomit inducing horror fiction

balaclave (noun) – hat made from sheet music

bow job (noun) – revenge macrame made from the pubic hair of an unfaithful lover

chorkle – (noun) the sound that emanates from the throat of a cat who is about to vomit 

dsire – (verb) to almost want something

happilt (adverb) – of running to clap ones heels together joyously

interrofate (verb) – to question closely whilst tickling the feet with a jelly mould

mucbn (noun) – Scottish bread found wrapped around burger

noof (adjective) – with the demeanour of a slightly silly female newsreader

oss (noun) – bony and indigestible piece of useless info

predicatbel (noun) – a device hung around the neck of a cat to warn its owners when it is going to stop purring and latch sixteen claws in their unprotected flesh

smae (noun) – a small fish subsisting on the loose skin shed by elephants when bathing

thnaks (noun) – cod liver oil flavoured crisps

wodnering (verb) – creeping under people’s eyelids to look at their fantasies (and maybe get a laugh)

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

“Good Morning, can I help you?”
“I’m here for a date.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t have any dried fruit at this time. Can I help you with something else?”
“Not a date you eat, the other kind.”
“I am sorry, I misunderstood your meaning. It is the seventh of November. Have a nice day.”
“No. A date. A meeting with romantic overtones to ascertain if the participants have enough interest to repeat the procedure.”
“I’m sorry. There is no one here who can resolve your problem at the moment. Please try later or call our helpline. Have a nice day.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

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

Aries

The ram needs excitement and isn’t sheepish about demanding it. The more extreme the better.

Ideal Vacation
Spearfishing in shark-infested waters.

Taurus

Taureans are stubborn, hard-working beasts. It is hard to persuade them to take any vacation at all. You are more likely to find them insisting on staying at home.

Ideal Vacation
That holiday village down the road that you keep hearing badly sung karaoke from when you go passed.

Gemini

The astrological twins need variety, the spice of life, to enjoy a vacation.

Ideal Vacation
A dual centre holiday in India or Mexico – city and mountains. Which, depends if they prefer to spice their life with curry or chilli.

Cancer

Trying to pry the crab out of its shell long enough to get a suntan is a challenge in an off itself. So make the destination hot and sunny enough for it not to matter if you can persuade them to disrobe or not.

Ideal Vacation
A beach holiday in the Bahamas or a sunbed in the attic with a stack of romance novels.

Leo

The lion needs to shake its mane and roar to let off steam and relax. So any vacation needs to be somewhere others won’t be disturbed.

Ideal Vacation
An African safari – or failing that a week at Disneyland where there is so much noise no one would hear them anyway.

Virgo

The over-organised Virgo is fixated on detail. They will have bags packed and passports ready months in advance and woe betide an errant spouse who forgets to pack the toddler.

Ideal Vacation
Any package holiday anywhere. That way Virgo will know precisely where they will be at any given moment of the vacation and be able to plan accordingly.

Libra

Libra enjoys balance in all things so when it comes to the work/vacation balance they will want to play as hard as they have worked.

Ideal Vacation
For most Libras, this need to balance effort at work exactly in the scales, will mean an afternoon on Blackpool Beach or sunning themselves in the garden if the weather is clement will be more than adequate annual leave.

Scorpio

The super-sexed sign of the zodiac will want a racey destination where they can take the sting out of the daily grind… by having a daily grind…

Ideal Vacation
Any city with a superior red light district

Sagittarius

The archer needs to hit the target at work and equally when on vacation. Kicking up heels on holiday is best done in interesting places.

Ideal Vacation
A well planned itinerary tour into the hinterlands of Mongolia.

Capricorn

Like every good goat, Capricorn loves to eat and any vacation must include plenty of interesting foodstuffs so Capricorn is not tempted to nibble on forbidden fruit.

Ideal Vacation
A whirlwind gastronomic tour of European capitals if our goat is a gourmet, but if it is quantity not quality that appeals, a similar tour of the fast-food outlets of the United States would be preferable.

Aquarius

The water bearer needs to be bourne on water to truly relax and unwind from the gruelling nine to five.

Ideal Vacation
Venice.

Pisces

For the fish the lure of the waves is irresistible. It is as vital to them as the air they breathe and they will be drawn to the sea on vacation like moths to a flame.

Ideal Vacation
Any cruise. But be sure the safety barriers are high – the lure of the ocean can be too strong for Pisces to resist…

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

I do remember the fifth of November
When fireworks recall a plot
To blow up the whole bloomin’ lot

I do remember the fifth of November
When kids called ‘Penny for the Guy’
At the people as they walked by.

They’d make them before the fifth of November
From old clothes with newspaper crammed
Then sat in an old go-cart or pram.

But now we remember the fifth of November
As a day for fireworks planned
Displays both modest and grand.

But kids don’t make guys for the fifth of November
They no longer put up that cry
Instead ‘trick or treater’s come by…

Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

E.M. Swift-Hook

In a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

It felt strange to Dai to be walking the paths he had run along as a child. His last visit had been for the Saturnalia holiday of the previous year and the weather then had been more about staying in than trekking the muddy fields and vineyards. So he let Hywel talk excitedly about proximal sensors and infrared thermography, the latest developments in soil monitoring devices and his experiments in using a portable field fluorometer to check both the chlorophyll density in the leaves of his vines and the polyphenols in their grapes.
They crested the low hill from where the old farm buildings could be seen, modern extensions reaching out like embracing arms towards them. Dai wondered why it was he didn’t feel any sense of belonging anymore. Maybe because he really did not belong and had not since the day Hywel had disinherited him for choosing life as a Vigiles rather than staying home and working in the family business. Hywel had mellowed and they had made up last year, but only once there were three lives between Dai and any chance of inheritance. He somehow thought the naming of their fourth son was Hywel and Enya’s way of apologising for it all.
“So, once we have the new plant set up we should be able to convert several thousand litres a year of the waste must from the column stills and then -” Hywel broke off. “You’re not listening are you?”
Dai shook his head, still gazing out over the neat rows of vines.
“Not really, but the biofuel idea is a good one. People round here could use it, though I doubt you’d find much market for it elsewhere in the Empire. Solar is the way most are going.”
Hywel laughed and clapped Dai on the shoulder. “So you were listening.”
“I always did,” Dai said, simply. “Except when my heart disagreed.”
Hywel’s hand remained, suddenly heavier.
“Your mother…”
“My mother?”
Hywel’s hand lifted.
“I’m sorry. She’s been mother to me and my sisters as much as you. Has been from the day she arrived and you know I couldn’t love her more. But, what I was trying to say, she and I had hoped you’d like the Fionn girl, Megan. She would have brought you a nice little farm of your own as well.”
Dai snorted. “You mean that teenager you had me take out for a meal when I was here at Saturnalia? She was pretty much half my age and we didn’t have anything in common. She just sat there and made moon eyes at me then demanded we took selfies to share with her friends.”
“I just wanted…”
“You just wanted to be a family again. I know. Your heart was in the right place.”
“And what about yours? Your heart is with Rome now? You are a citizen, you’ve married a Roman, you’ve…”
“I’ve married the woman I love who happens to be a Roman, and I got to be a citizen saving her life. None of that was planned and this,” he held up his index finger with it’s silver band of privilege then pulled the ring off and threw it as far as he could, glinting with a flash of silver in sky then dropping to earth to be lost amongst the vines, “is what I think of Rome.”
Hywel tried to catch Dai’s hand as he threw, but he was nowhere near fast enough.
“You could get into trouble for that kind of thing,” he snapped and shook his head. “Always the hothead. You ever wonder why I didn’t like that you joined the Vigiles?”
“Because I missed your wedding?” Hywel laughed. “That didn’t help at the time. But it was because of the way you are. You joined up fired for justice and I knew that one way or another you’d hit your head on the ceiling Rome shoves over our British heads. I didn’t like to think how that would twist you.”
Dai felt an odd sensation inside his chest.
“You were not wrong, but I was lucky,” he said. “The first prefect I worked under was a man who saw justice wore a blindfold when it came to Briton or Roman and I found myself with a decanus who could strip paint with his cynicism.” He grinned at the thought. “Between them they taught me a lot. But I still see red sometimes and Bryn’s had to pull me out of it more than once.”
“I’m glad. I was scared you’d go spinning off into one of those extremist groups like this Dynion o Brydain that Enya’s Da is getting tangled up in. He wanted me for it too. But little as I like Rome, I’m not going to start killing people for their nationality – would make me no better than the very worst of them.”

From Dying for a Poppy by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Back home after the unbelievable events that had just transformed her life completely, Ginny made herself a soothing cup of rosehip and chamomile tea and wondered why she didn’t feel the usual mix of dread and panic that anything so stressful had always induced in her in recent years.
If anything, she decided after a little self-reflection, she felt calm, confident and even invigorated. Part of that she was sure came from whatever physiological changes being undead provided (undead—she quickly pushed the uncomfortable word away), being a vampire provided, but there was also the simple sense of belonging. Ginny had never ‘belonged’ before, and now she suddenly did. She had a Nest, sisters and a village. That thought left a warm glow deep within.
But part of belonging meant commitment, a giving as well as a taking and right now that meant she had to do her bit to protect both her new communities from the grasping hands of Ronald Dump and his enabler-stroke amanuensis Dom Schilling. She glanced at, then put to one side, the pile of booklets Anges had given her:
Vampires and Other Supernaturals—a spotter’s guide.
Sucking for Amateurs—a new vampire’s guide to blood
Community Manners or How Not To Get Your Face Eaten Off—social regulation in the supernatural community
These things Can Kill You—what to avoid for a long and happy unlife
It was not that she wasn’t interested or didn’t need to know, but right now other things had to take priority. If what she had been told was correct she would have decades or even centuries to get around to reading them.
Ginny also ignored a missed call from Lucinda Lorinski, one of her superficial and supercilious London set—no doubt calling up to either gloat and patronise, or to whine and vent as she seemed incapable of any other variety of social interaction—and instead started rummaging in some of the unpacked boxes looking for her ‘important papers’ locked file. She was pretty sure it still contained some of the research she had done on Schilling when their paths had crossed before.
When she finally unearthed it she had then to spend another half hour looking for the key before she could sit down with a fresh cup of tea and walk through a little of her own history.
There were copies of certificates and awards, letters from celebrities—actual letters not printed out emails—insurance for places and things that no longer existed, or at least not in her life, an entire book of long-forgotten passwords and another of addresses and phone numbers belonging to people who also might no longer exist and had not touched her life for many years.
Ginny was close to giving up as she reached the last thin section of documents. Perhaps she had thrown them away in one of her less lucid moments, when expunging the past had seemed the only way to make the present bearable. Or perhaps she had put them somewhere else, deeming them no longer so important as to take up space in her secure file. Or perhaps…
The folder was manila brown and sat between two large card backed envelopes which contained—respectively—her degree awards and her marriage and divorce certificates. It had one word written on the front in block capitals—BASTARDS!
Sitting back she held it unopened for a while, collecting the reserves she needed to face the painful past. Then she slipped it open and started scanning the documents. She was not entirely sure what she thought she would find there, maybe nothing of real use to the present, maybe just a reminder of how much winning this mattered to her personally as much as to the village.
An hour later, feeling more determined, she put the papers away and locked the file, knuckled away tears that were surely of anger over what had been done than grief at her personal loss, surely, and then gathered the corners of her courage and determination and picked up the phone.
“Major Harmsley-Gunn? This is Virginia Cropper, I just wanted to apologise for being a bit distracted when you called on me before and to say that I would be delighted to take up the vacant seat on the Parish Council. You’re so right, I certainly want to bring along some much needed common sense about progress in the village.”

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

Sai obtained a year’s residency at the university, complete with a house on campus. The job was a dream, but he and Aysha were not welcome in the street of tidy houses.

When Aysha disappeared, the curtain twitching reached tsunami level and seeing their neighbour lifting patio stones and burying something brought almost visceral joy. 

The police caught up with him at the home of a friend, where he and Aysha had taken refuge. 

The constable was embarrassed, even more so when he got a message to say the skeleton was plastic and had been obtained from Walmart for 9.99.

Jane Jago 

Blood on White Mountain by Eleanor Swift-Hook, a story of prophecy, battle and betrayal, is just one of 11 stories inspired by great works of art in Masterworks from the Historical Writers Forum.

Why did you choose to write ‘Blood on White Mountain’?

I wrote Blood on White Mountain as the origin story of one of the characters who features strongly in my Lord’s Legacy series of books. But the picture that inspired me is one that has haunted me since I first came upon it. Young Soldier by Frans Hals Junior. The poignancy of the image of a young man, still in his teens head bowed as he holds a carbine and looks at the soldier’s equipment he must soon don. It was the fate of millions of young men in Europe in the 17th century as the continent was ripped apart by the religious division that had come from the Reformation, complicated by political and dynastic ruptures. Half a million of them would die in the battles of the Thirty Years War. To me, it was important to try and humanise that impossible-to-imagine number.

The heroine of the story is Kate, she is not a historical figure, so who is she?

Kate is Lady Catherine de Bouqulement. Only child of an Anglo-Irish earl and an English mother, she was orphaned young and made a ward for the English lands she had inherited from her mother, her father’s lands and title going to a very distant cousin. King James granted her wardship to Lord and Lady Harington who were the guardians of his daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Raising the princess was a very costly business and as James had little money, Kate’s wardship and the income from her lands were meant to help offset that great expense. Unlike many wards whose lands and persons were much abused, the Haringtons stewarded her lands well, benefitting from their income, whilst providing Kate herself with a good home.
Kate became a favourite of Princess Elizabeth. So when the Haringtons travelled to Heidelberg after Elizabeth’s marriage to Frederick, Elector Palatine in 1613, she insisted Kate went with them. Kate stayed in the household of the Electress Palatine and went with her as one of her ladies when Frederick accepted the Crown of Bohemia (Czechia) in 1619.
We meet her in Prague in the autumn of 1620 when she is fifteen years old…

Blood on White Mountain

In 17th-Century Bohemia (modern Czechia), it was a given that the elected King of Bohemia would always be the Habsburg ruler of the Holy Roman Empire. But the emperor being a Catholic and most Bohemians being Protestants, the Bohemian parliament rejected the emperor’s rule. Instead, in 1619, they invited the leading Protestant prince of the empire, Elector Frederick V of the Palatinate and his wife Electress Elizabeth, who was the daughter of King James of Great Britain, to become the King and Queen of Bohemia.
A year later an army was marching towards Prague, seeking to reclaim Bohemia for the emperor…

Had she been foolish to come here?
Paní Zdislava Jelenková was tall, almost as tall as Kate, who was often teased about her height. Her hair concealed beneath a wimple, Paní Jelenková wore a deep blue velvet gown with pendulous sleeves over a dove grey silk kirtle, a fashion from centuries past. To Kate’s eyes she had stepped out of a stained-glass window in St. Vitus cathedral.
The scent of a strange incense with dark undertones grew stronger as they climbed one narrow flight of stairs, then another. At the top of that was a doorway, over which hung a heavy curtain. Paní Jelenková seized it in one hand, turning so the black fabric was drawn across her body, and glared at Kate.
“When we enter this room, you will be silent,” she said, her German heavily accented. “You will not speak unless I ask you to. This is for your own protection. The forces at work here are easily disturbed. Do you understand?”
The intensity of her tone held Kate silent. She gave a small nod.
Her dark gaze raking over Kate once more, Zdislava Jelenková turned away and through the door. One step and she released the curtain.
Kate blinked as the incense rolled out, stinging her eyes. The room she had glimpsed beyond the heavy fabric was in complete darkness even though it was not far from the middle of the day. A prickle of apprehension shivered down her spine. Annoyed at herself, Kate pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the dark.
Once within, it was not completely lightless. A candle burned on a round table in the centre of the room. Instead of four walls this room had six, all hung with the same dark velvet as curtained the door, embroidered with strange symbols. Some Kate knew, those of the planets and the twelve houses of the Zodiac, but many she didn’t recognise.
Draped in her antiquated gown, Zdislava Jelenková seemed to have grown in stature where she stood on the far side of the room, her skirts fading into shadow, her face glowing in the candlelight.
The hair on Kate’s forearms pricked and tiny paws of cold crept across the flesh between her shoulder blades.
It had been more than foolish to come here.

Masterworks is available now.

You can find out more about Eleanor and her Lord’s Legacy series of books on her website.