The Dai and Julia Mysteries are set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules…

They were having a fine day out on the hills. Felix had mastered the rudiments of riding quickly and today he was managing to control his stubborn little mount so well that Caudinus had abandoned the leading rein. Having eaten the lunch Cookie packed for them, Felix was running around playing at being a legionary soldier whilst his father and Dai shared a half-bottle of local wine and the ponies chomped contentedly at the grass nearby.
The land here was bleak but beautiful, with ridges of rock, mantled in greenery, jutting into the sky and limiting the horizon from roughly rolling hills. A brisk breeze ruffled hair, lifting the heat of an unclouded sun and somewhere above them a bird keened as it traced an invisible circle overhead. Scant sign of human habitation disturbed Dai’s view, aside from the odd isolated dwelling, little more than drystone shacks with crude slating culled from local stone where crofter families lived. Their sheep, made small by distance were puffs of grey, like dandelion seed heads, against the scrub. This was the hinterland of Britannia, never one of the richer or more developed provinces, at its most primal.
“I’m sorry to spoil the day.” Caudinus voice broke into Dai’s thoughts. “But this wasn’t only about taking Felix for a riding lesson.”
Dai was not too surprised. He had caught the note of significance in the older man’s voice when he had called yesterday suggesting he brought his family over to Villa Papaverus and that the three of them should go for a ride.
“So what’s up?”
Caudinus shifted his position on the rough wool blanket they had thrown over the grass and thistles.
“I’m not sure it is anything, but it might be and I didn’t want to worry Cariad or Julia so this seemed the best way we could talk without either of them realising we had been.”
“I can see that,” Dai agreed. The last thing he would want for Julia, so close to her due date now, was anything to worry about. “What’s the problem?”
“I have had a couple of anonymous threats delivered to my admin staff in the last few days. Unpleasant things – one found their cat mutilated and a message attached to it saying they should tell me to back the right people. Then night before last another was jumped by two masked men and told to tell me that I shouldn’t get in the way of progress.” He broke off. “I might even have some idea who might be involved. A man called Aled Blaenau. He came to see me at the end of last month on behalf of some clients of his, he said. He was hinting heavily that he would be willing to bribe me to nod through a substantial transaction on some potentially contaminated land for his backers. He never actually came out and said so, of course, or I’d have nailed him for it and he denied that was what he meant when I threw it back in his face. I sent him away in no doubt that his efforts were more likely to be counter-productive than anything. At the time I thought he was just a lobbyist who had been over enthusiastic, but now…”
“You didn’t report any of this to Bryn?”
Caudinus shook his head. “I wanted to bring it to you rather than do anything official. As I said, I don’t want our families to become alarmed.”
The sunny day seemed to grow darker and Dai felt a cloud pass over his soul.
“Alright I’ll get on it soon as I’m back in work tomorrow. Nothing official until we have something solid to go on.”
Caudinus nodded and got to his feet.
“Thank you, I appreciate that. But now we’d best get these ponies back home.”
A few minutes later they began heading back to the farm. Their easiest way led through a small wood of stunted oaks and ash trees and that was when it happened. Dai vaguely recalled something stinging his neck and as he lifted a hand to swat it away, the world had turned upside down and slid out of sight into a dark tunnel.

An extract from Dying to be Fathers a Dai and Julia Mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Before Ginny could ask her next question there were footsteps on the spiral staircase and Agnes appeared carrying a tray, preceded by the nutty perfume of freshly ground and filtered coffee.
“Sorry for the slight delay,” she said brightly as she handed round the cups, I had to fend off Petunia.” She sat down and lifted her mug in a sort of toast to Ginny. “They all can’t wait to meet you.”
“They?”
“Our Sisters. The Steering Committee of Little Botheringham Ladies Association.” Agnes explained. “That’s me, Agnes, great-great granny and gossip. Lilian who you sat next to at the LA meeting.”
Agnes paused for breath, and Ginny dredged up the memory of a skinny woman with a seamed face and fascinating dreadlocks.
Agnes ploughed on. “Petunia who is a veterinary nurse and who held you down while Em Fed you. Ellen, who is bit of a leftie and a very strident lesbian – especially when she has been drinking. Jamelia, who is quiet, incredibly clever and beautiful. And of course Em who is Queen of our nest.”
Em made a depreciating gesture.
“It really isn’t what you might think. Just the traditional title given to whoever in a vampire community is daft enough to step up to the plate and try and organise things. It’s a very hands-on kind of leadership role. Like most such things, you wind up having to do much of what needs doing yourself.”
“And Em is very good at doing things,” Agnes said. “And at organising the rest of us, which in the case of most of our little community is very like herding goldfish.”
“Don’t you mean cats?”
Agnes grinned. “You tell me – after you’ve met the others.”
Ginny looked between the two women.
“So the Ladies Association is run by vampires?”
“Oh yes. We work very hard to look after the village.”
Ginny thought of the bench outside the village shop and the fundraising for a new minibus for the local primary – and the campaign she’d heard about which had kept the school open. All organised by the Ladies Association.
“You do seem to be very involved in village life.”
Em’s mouth sculpted the hint of a grin.
“You could say that.”
“And a lot of thankless work it is too,” Agnes put in. “I sometimes wonder why we bother with some of the ingratiates.”
“It can be hard work,” Em agreed and took a drink of her coffee.
“So why do you do it?”
Both the women looked at her as if she was asking something that had the most obvious answer in the world.
“This is our home,” Em said gently. “If we didn’t look after it before long it’d be nothing more than a hollowed out dormitory for the wealthy with a sprinkling of second homes and holiday rentals.”
“Like most of the other villages around here,” Agnes added. “Much Botheringham is more like an English village theme park than a real community, and Nether Botheringham has become little more than a suburb of Bedchester and half of that was taken over by an industrial estate.”
Ginny tried to fit the idea of helpful conservationism into her concept of a vampire and what vampires did. And failed. She pushed it aside as something else occurred.
“So about vampires. Are there a lot around?”
“Not that many nowadays.”
“There used to be more?”
“Going back a couple of centuries and some, yes,” Agnes told her. “Too many, in fact. And in the increasing glare of science and mass communication it was becoming harder and harder to keep hidden from humanity. So we had to make some changes within our community. Establish certain norms.”
Agnes sipped her coffee and looked over at Em, who gave a small shrug.
“We just had to make sure we eliminated the troublemakers. It was very obvious that those who caused the most problems were those who had been transformed when young. They still had all the folly and exuberance of youth and never really grew out of it. Imagine a four-hundred year-old with ongoing teenage angst.”
Ginny did, and her eyes widened as Em went on talking.
“And the men were the worst. Vampirism boosts testosterone levels to the point where two could barely be in a room together without having to fight it out to decide who was the ‘alpha’.”
“So that explains all the ravishing young women vampires in the stories and the ravishing of young women by vampires, the overdramatic dress sense and so forth.”
Both Agnes and Em were nodding.
“So we made a new rule. One that would exclude all the most unstable elements from the vampire community. We wanted people who were rational, controlled, wise and careful.”
Ginny wondered which of those descriptors she could actually lay claim to.
“That must be a bit difficult. How do you find such paragons?”
“That was easy,” Agnes said. “The only people who can be made into vampires nowadays are post-menopausal women.”

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

They scrambled down the face of the dunes from the most inaccessible part of the beach. The boy was helping his female companion with such tender care that neither noticed me.

When they did realise they weren’t alone they averted their faces as though fearing recognition. I didn’t know them, although the trailing clouds of guilt offered a clue to what they had been about on the early morning beach.

I couldn’t help noticing the gleam of gold on the woman’s left hand. Nor was I too blind to see them climb into two cars and go their separate ways.

©️JaneJago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

Decison (noun) the tenth son

Eggieoie (noun) a person from Cornwall

Eso (noun) a pungent herb of the family pusillanimous that tastes and smells like very old mothballs

Flaiail (verb) to simultaneously pick one’s nose and play the mandolin 

Mustal (adjective) of alpacas and llamas – those few hours before a female comes into season when all the males trail round behind her dribbling

Ploker (noun) one who constantly grasps his genitalia whilst in conversation with the opposite sex

Puch (verb) ride a very old moped slowly and with a wobbly trajectory

Soudned (adverb) of sleeping. Being so fast asleep that one can only be awoken with the aid of the Dagenham Girl Pipers

Thethe (noun) small purple-furred marsupial that subsists entirely on cups of tea and ginger biscuits

Udnerstade (verb) to sit under a lactating cow with one’s mouth open

Vumbole (noun) the sticky mess left after hawking up a swallowed fly

Weord (noun) of novelists seeking a synonym that doesn’t exist

Wirry (verb) to chew on something with one’s back teeth in the manner of a masticating sheep

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

Alternate Endings from the Historical Writers Forum

When it comes to intriguing concepts ‘what if’ is right up there with the most compelling. Alternate Endings is a collection of eight alternative history tales answering that question in in eight very different ways.
Three standouts for me were:
Michael Ross’ Remember the Ladies – postulating that the American Declaration of Independence put women on a par with men. This is beautifully written and we feel as if we are right inside the families as wife power triumphs over ingrained chauvinism.
Samantha Wilcoxon’s Tudors with a Twist – taking a sideways glance at Mary Tudor and Elizabeth. This is nicely imagined, with a harshly twisted ending that tweaks the nerves.
Salina Baker’s Act Worthy of Yourselves – looks at a lesser-known hero of the American War of Independence. What if Joseph Warren, who died at Bunker Hill, survived to become one of the founding fathers?
More generally, I would comment that the scholarship in all the stories is of high order. However, in some cases, I do feel that historical accuracy rather overpowers both the dramatis personae and the telling of the story so that what could have been rip-roaring reads are instead a little colourless.
That having been said, there is something here to interest everyone I think. Read it and argue with me!

Jane Jago

Historical Fiction Authors go Alternate

Interestingly enough most alternate history is written by writers of speculative fiction and not by those who have immersed themselves in a period for years, writing historical fiction or non-fiction about it. The extra depth of knowledge that can bring is very clear in this anthology. I think it enhances an understanding of how a change to the historical timeline by one key detail being altered, would truly impact.
From the Rome of Julius Caesar in Virginia Crow’s thought-provoking Vercingetorix’s Virgin, to 19th-Century France and the fate of Marie Antionette and her king in Marie-Thérèse Remembers by Elizabeth K. Corbett, this is a fascinating tour through history as it might have been.
The eight choices of ‘What if…?’ stories here seem a bit more unusual than many alternate history anthologies. Some are better known like the intriguing Princess of Spain by Karen Heenan, which explores what might have been if Henry VIII’s older brother Arthur had not succumbed to illness at an early age. But some are about less well-known times such as Cathie Dunn’s compellingly convincing Race Against Time set in the turmoil that followed the death of Henry I, and Sharon Bennett Connolly’s Long Live the King, which posits a dramatic possibility in which King John lives a little longer.
It is hard to have favourites. All the authors have chosen areas they clearly know intimately. The sense of era in each story is excellently realised. Even those periods I am not familiar with—like the American Revolutionary setting for Act Worthy of Yourselves by Salina Baker exploring what might have been if the highly regarded Dr Warren had not perished when he did—have beautifully grounded settings, so I found my feet in them very quickly.
But I would like to mention two stories which particularly drew me in. One was the wonderfully written Remember the Ladies in which Michael Ross imagines a United States being founded with women equally at its heart and enfranchised alongside their men and how that might have come about. It is stirring and moving and makes one wish perhaps it could have been. The other is Samantha Wilcoxon’s Tudors with a Twist which offers radically different views of the reigns of Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth I. As the title suggests, there is a very well-wrought and superbly ironic twist in this tumultuous Tudor tale.
If you enjoy alternate history or are curious to see what happens when historical fiction authors get to give full rein to indulge their wishlist of how history might have been, this is a volume of short stories that you might want to check out.

E.M. Swift-Hook

A thriller with a paradox at its heart. Behind the quiet eyes of a code-cracking geek who builds cryptic crosswords lives a modern celibate with the nerveless calm of a contract killer…

A lifetime of careful anonymity had served me well until the morning I awoke to find two men in my bedroom. One of them had a hand over my mouth, which was what woke me up, and the other was standing looking down at me.
“If my colleague takes his hand away from your mouth will you scream?”
I managed to shake my head and the hand was removed. I said nothing.
“Nothing to say?”
The man whose hand had been clamped across my mouth sounded sardonically amused. I shook my head again.
The other man, the one who looked like the romantic ideal of a Viking, and who I instinctively knew was the senior thug, raised an eyebrow. His associate subsided. The Viking prince looked at me.
“They say you are very good at puzzles.”
I nodded and dredged up a pleasingly firm voice. “I am.”
“Do I take that to mean you are going to be sensible?”
“Can you define sensible for me?”
He smiled as if my question pleased him. “Sensible means looking at a tablet. Closely. We believe it holds some secrets but nobody can find them.”
I looked at his hard, handsome face and knew I should just shut up and do as I was told. But I’ve never been sensible, and, somewhat surprisingly, I wasn’t truly afraid.
“What happens to the owner of the tablet when I find whatever is hidden?”
“Nothing.”
I must have looked as sceptical as I felt because his ice blue eyes went flatly unfriendly.
“I don’t lie.”
“Maybe you don’t. But you do appear in people’s bedrooms at three o’clock in the morning. Uninvited.” I lifted a shoulder.
His face warmed by a couple of degrees. “You have a point. So. Okay. Full disclosure. The tablet belonged to a person who got themself killed. Messily. And nobody has any idea why, or by whom. The electronics are our only hope. The police have both phone and laptop, but they missed the tablet when they searched. We’re thinking it must be important because it was carefully hidden. But nobody can figure out how.”
It didn’t seem an unreasonable request so I pulled the duvet across my chest and sat up.
“Okay. I’ll look. But I need to get dressed first.”
“Fair enough.”
But neither man moved.
“I’m not proposing to dress with an audience. At least turn your backs.”

The Celibate Choice is the latest book from multi-genre author Jane Jago and it is out today!

The cracks are there for a reason
They keep the heart intact
They show the passing seasons
And record each selfish act
On a day when the sun shines brightly
When it warms the ice-cold soul
Then a flower, gleaming whitely
Fills the crack to make us whole

JJ 2023

For as long as Rebekah could remember September had been a month of terror, with her mother growing shorter and shorter of temper as each day passed. Then Michaelmas would come and they would stand in line at The Hiring, hoping against hope that they would catch the eye of someone kindly and decent.  They almost always did, except for one memorably bad year when both mother and eight-year-old daughter toiled in the kitchens of a back-street whorehouse for little more than a hard bed and even harder words. It was only one year in the seventeen Rebekah had been alive, but the memory was strong enough to strike fear into a stronger heart than hers.

This Michaelmas was different, though. Mother had been hired for three years running by the same man, a grim-visaged merchant with an out-thrusting paunch and a hard eye for a bargain. Rebekah didn’t much like him, but kept her thoughts to herself. At least the beds were dry and there was sufficient food.

At the start of the September after her seventeenth birthday, their employer called Mother into his narrow counting room, where the pair of them had remained closeted for a very long time.

Mother came out looking even grimmer than usual. Rebekah hunched a shoulder and awaited a tongue-lashing. To her surprise none was forthcoming. Instead, Mother beckoned her out into the tiny strip of garden they tended throughout the year. She sat down heavily on the wooden bench and patted the seat by her side.
“Daughter. I would have speech with you.”
Rebekah tried to look suitably interested and yet modest.
“Mister Brown had a proposition for me. It is one I am minded to accept, but it depends on you.”
“How is that Mother?”
“He proposes marriage to me, but he will not adopt you as his daughter.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if I accept the offer, you cannot stay here.”
“Oh. But where would I go.”
“You could go to the hiring. Or you could marry.”
“Marry?”
“You are young, and strong, and accustomed to hard work. There are always young farmers looking for girls like you.”
“You mean like a mail order bride?”
Mother nodded.
Rebekah bent her fair head, thinking hard. She turned a serene face to her mother.
“If I chose to be a mail order bride, would I have any say in which offer I accepted.”
Her mother frowned.
“You would if you wanted, but why would you want such a choice?”
“Mother. I am seventeen years old, it would not be fitting were I to find myself married to a man with children older than me. And nor would I wish to wed outside of our faith. If those are not unreasonable expectations I would choose to marry.”
Her mother regarded Rebekah with rare approval. “Not unreasonable. Sensible. Very well, child, Mister Brown and I will set things in motion. You do understand that naught will occur until after the Michaelmas Hiring.”
“I do so understand, Mother.”
Mother stood up and then bent to place a rare kiss on her daughter’s smooth cheek.
“I will make sure that your husband is kind.”
Then she was gone, leaving Rebekah to return to her duties with a calm face, but a very flustered mind.

The weeks leading up to The Hiring ran smoothly, with Mother settled and Rebekah resigned.

On the day of the Michaelmas Fair, Mother and Mister Brown went out straight after breakfast, leaving Rebekah on her honour not to leave the house. They need not have worried, as she had precious little taste for the noise and laxity of the street fair and no coin to spend had it been her wish to venture out. Instead, she brought her spinning wheel beside the kitchen fire and sat singing quietly as she worked. The only other living creature in the house was the kitchen cat who came and sat on the floor at her feet. It was about two hours before the street door opened and Mother’s voice called out.
“It is us, Rebekah, put the kettle to boil like a good child.” She sounded happy, and Rebekah hastened to move the kettle onto the hot plate atop the closed stove.

She returned her spinning wheel to the corner and quickly swept up the little bits of wool that flew from the wheel. She was just wondering what to do next when Mother and Mister Brown came into the kitchen. He regarded her sternly, and looked around the room for signs of disorder. Finding none, he so far relaxed as to smile, although no warmth reached his hard little eyes. Mother lifted her left hand, and Rebekah saw the gleam of gold. She cast down her eyes, lest anyone see her dismay.
“My felicitations Mister and Mistress Brown. May your union be long and blessed.”
She looked up to find both beaming at her. She must have said the right thing. Mister Brown even unbent enough to address her directly.
“Fairly spoken, girl,” then he coughed. “You must understand that my refusal to adopt you is no reflection on your character. For all I have seen you are a modest and hardworking female.”
Rebekah bent her head, and Mother actually chuckled.
“The child is unused to compliments.” Then she turned her attention to her daughter. “There are three offers for your hand that we deem suitable. It appears fair to both my husband and I that you should select from them for yourself. Sit at the table and read. I will make hot tea.”
Rebekah sat, feeling as if she dreamed, and her mother’s husband placed three packets at her elbow.
“We have,” he said in a surprisingly careful voice, “ascertained that these three men have a reputation for kindliness as well as being suitable in all other ways”.

Rebekah read the three letters carefully.

Jane Jago.

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Dumbfounded.
Such a good word, Ginny decided. It was almost onomatopoeic as a descriptor for the way she was feeling.
“But, vampires aren’t real,” she protested at last when she saw from the expressions of the two women sitting at the table with her that they really weren’t joking. They genuinely believed what they were telling her. 
And there was the minor fact she was alive and uninjured after that terrible incident in the church with the vicar.
Memory of which suddenly pushed even the ludicrous idea that she was now a vampire out of her mind for a moment.
“The vicar,” she said, “was a giant rabbit.” 
Em just nodded as if it was the most natural thing in the world to have a giant rabbit as your local clergyman.
“Oh yes,” Agnes said. “A wererabbit as it turns out though I had a side bet with Lilian that he’d be a wererat. Would have suited him much better, in my opinion.”
Ginny gave a brittle laugh which she could hear had a distinct edge of hysteria to it. “Oh it all makes so much sense now. We women are vampires and the vicar was a wererabbit. Silly me.” She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sudden sob.
Em reached over the table and squeezed her hand.
“It is a bit much to take on board all at once. Normally we’d have a careful selection and interview process for a new Sister, but it was something of an emergency in your case.” She wore a bright encouraging smile, as if willing Ginny to perk up. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of questions. Agnes and I can answer some now, but you don’t need to tackle this all at once. You have plenty of time.”
Plenty of time.
Of course.
Vampires were immortal.
Weren’t they?
Ginny suddenly found a slew of questions overwhelming the mixed up emotions, all pushing forward to be answered first. It must have shown in her face, because Agnes stood up quickly.
“I’ll make coffee, you’d better take Ginny up to the Office.”
“Good idea.” Em got to her feet and Ginny followed her back upstairs, along the landing from the bedroom she had been in and into a bijou study with walls lined with bookshelves and just enough room for a desk facing the window, which commanded a view over the churchyard. Ginny was wondering where she should sit and taking in the range of Em’s literary tastes – Jane Austin sitting next to JK Rowling, and James Joyce jostled in beside EL James – when Em pulled a large, leather bound tome (could it really be a Bible?) slightly forwards, and one of the shelf units swung back to show a modern looking teak and steel spiral staircase going up.
“I always wanted one of those,” Ginny admitted as she stepped into the attic area which turned out to be a spacious and comfortable room.
“What? A spiral staircase? A pain to clean I can tell you.”
“No. A secret door in a bookcase.”
Em laughed.
“So did I. It’s why I had that one put in.”
Ginny took a seat and found herself staring at a large map of the village pinned to the wall. Each house had a small label stuck onto it with just two or three words. Things like ‘arrogant wanker’, ‘spiteful gossip’ and ‘mostly harmless’. She found herself looking for her own little cottage and just before Em blocked her view by sitting in front of it, she was almost sure she read ‘wet hen’.
“Ask away then,” Em said, leaning back in her chair.
Ginny decided to start with the obvious.
“This whole blood-drinking thing, do I…?”
“You can survive very well on regular food most of the time, but we need blood to support the extras of being a vampire – heightened perceptions, healing, that kind of thing. And go too long without and you will become quite ill.”
“So I have to…to…bite people?” Ginny struggled to even think it let alone say it.
Em waved a dismissive hand and smiled.
“Oh goodness me, no. We don’t live in the Middle Ages any more. We get deliveries from the local blood bank. So even your vegetarian ethics shouldn’t be too offended as those were donations made freely by people who wanted to help others.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t quite what they had in mind when they went to give blood.”
“Probably not. But they all wanted to save lives and they are helping to do that. Besides which, we purchase what we get so we’re not stealing from the system.”
It was a rather loose ethical take on the situation, but Ginny decided it was a lot better than the alternative.
“So with the blood drinking, am I – er – are we immortal?”
Em considered for a moment before she replied.
“That depends what you mean by ‘immortal’. We can be killed by most things that would kill a regular human, like accidental beheading, being run over by a combine harvester or whatever, but we are immune to human illness, we heal much faster and we don’t age. Oh and we are fine in sunlight as long as it’s not for too long or too intense.”
“As long as we have enough blood?”
Em smiled warmly
“You’re getting it.”

Part 19 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

“Why does a handsome young man like you need a love potion?”

He blushed until his face was the colour of brick.

“She don’t want me. Says I don’t have enough money nor prospects.”

The witch held out a grubby hand into which he dropped a copper penny.

“Three days.”

He collected the bottle and went on his way. Whistling. 

As he made his way home it was as if the scales fell from his eyes. He turned away from the cold one, back into the waiting arms of his childhood sweetheart. 

There’s more than one sort of love potion…

Jane Jago