It is a given, or it is axiomatic, or some such word, that greydogtales doesn’t follow rules well. So asking us for a review or to participate in a promotion is always a risk. Besides, weren’t the Axiomatics villains in Dr Who? We were listening to Jon Pertwee in The Navy Lark radio series only the other day, and… no, enough of that.

Today’s piece is about Alan M Clark and the relaunch of his novel A Parliament of Crows. We shall now behave ourselves, because we said we’d take part in the blog tour for it. Django, put that sandwich down and stand to attention for the nice man…

A Parliament of Crows

First things almost first. We have read this book, and yes, we thoroughly enjoyed it. Although we know Mr Clark quite well, we wouldn’t have bothered to write the rest of this if we were just being polite to a friend. We would have stopped there, shoved in a purchase link, and then told tasteless jokes about H P Lovecraft or Dan Brown to fill in the rest of the space. Instead, we had stuff to say.

Oddly enough, when we finally put A Parliament of Crows down,  the first thing that came to mind was an element of many Inspector Maigret stories (by Georges Simenon). You learn very quickly what the key issue is – the death (and likely murder) of a young woman in three inches of water, under the influence of laudanum. You may well know who did it, and the obvious motive. But like Maigret, although Alan Clark understands the formal aspects of the crime, he wants to know more. What possible set of experiences and mental states might have led to one or more of three ‘respectable’ sisters being involved in this tragedy – and a number of other dubious deaths? And also like Maigret, he burrows deep to satisfy himself – and us.

The book commences in the Edwardian era, with said three sisters, Southern survivors of the American Civil War but now resident in the North, alive and held in custody as a trial progresses. One sister is dutiful and determined; a second is somewhat of a loose cannon, angry and frustrated, whilst the third is letting herself starve to death in her cell. The relationship between these women is the core of the whole book. Although this is a novel, it is directly inspired by a genuine historical case – the three real-life Wardlaw sisters, and the fate of Ocey Snead, a direct relative.

Over a year after Ocey’s death, the El Paso Herald printed a long article on the details of the case. The story included a paragraph captioned “Truth Indeed Strange” which summed up how many must have felt about it: “The history of the famous ‘bath tub’ mystery bears out the old adage that ‘truth is stranger than fiction.’ No more mysterious story was ever revealed within the covers of a novel than what was brought to light by the press and authorities after the finding of Ocey Snead’s body in the bathtub of her home in East Orange, N. J., on November 29, 1909.”

Library of Virginia project

What follows in Clark’s novel is what you might expect if you are familiar with his series on the women killed by the Whitechapel Murderer in 1888. With great ability he delves deep into the lives and psyches of his partly-fictional three sisters, going back to their childhood experiences on the family estate, and then following them forward through the decades. He explores the bonds and frictions between the sisters with a deft hand, leaving you no doubt that you are observing three ‘genuine’ people, not tokens gathered to justify a story. If they are villains, they are conflicted ones, and if they are wicked, that wickedness stems from minds which are dedicated to survival – a dysfunctional family which seeks to function, despite the cost.

As the novel unfolds, each courtroom scene is matched by strands of personal history, skilfully woven together to provide some explanation of how they came to this sorry state. The whole matter is handled sympathetically but without maudlin sentiment, and demonstrates the author’s real talent for getting under the skin of his characters.

Should you think this sounds at all dry, be not deceived. Along the way you will encounter dreadful deeds of murder, fraud, betrayal, lust and… we won’t give it away. You’ll see. Even the passing mention of a single pistol ball, used in a duel long ago, leads to something quite bizarre – and unpleasantly dark. Just as bizarre is the way in which, at times, it is possible to feel a whisper of sympathy for one or more of these three women, and how they were forged into what they became.

In conclusion, we ended up totally invested within only a few paragraphs, and didn’t put it down again until we’d finished the whole thing. An excellent read, well-written – not only a picture of the past, but a fascinating murder-mystery. Recommended.

Details of the actual Wardlaw case can be read on line – this site is quite informative:

http://www.virginiamemory.com/blogs/fit-to-print/2016/06/03/more-dreadful-than-the-most-gruesome-of-tales-newspaper-coverage-of-the-east-orange-bathtub-mystery/

Here’s a brief interview with Alan Clark, who says a little bit more about the work:

What inspired you to write this book?

A Parliament of Crows is based on the crimes of the Wardlaw sisters of 19th century America. For the story, I changed their name to Mortlow. I was fascinated with the idea of three sisters, prominent female educators in the field of social graces becoming criminals and murderers. I knew that for such prim and proper women of the 19th Century, powerful emotional issues had to be involved in their decisions to commit the crimes. The emotional motivations of characters being at the heart of any good tale, I knew that if I could find an answer to the question,”How did they find their deeds reasonable,” then I’d have a good tale to tell.

Can you tell us a little bit about the characters in A PARLIAMENT OF CROWS?

The story is about the three Mortlow sister, Vertiline, Mary, and Carolee. Vertiline is two years older than the twins, Mary and Carolee. The twins are emotionally volatile. The sisters’ father, Supreme Court Justice of Georgia, Horace Mortlow, just before his death during the American Civil War, gave Vertiline the duty of protecting the unstable twins in his absence. Trying to protect them, often from themselves, Vertiline, also commits crimes. The three form a dangerous triangle.

How did you come up with the names in the story?

I changed the names so that what I did with the characters would not offend any of the Wardlaw descendants. I make it clear that A Parliament of Crows is a work of fiction. That said, it follows much of the Wardlaw sisters’ history. I used the name Mortlow instead of Wardlaw, because the “Mort” as a word or syllable is often associated with death, and the “Low” suggests that to which the sisters sink in order to survive.

What did you enjoy most about writing this book?

Writing different chapters from the three main characters’ POVs; developing the triangle formed by the sisters and their competing interests. The story covers most of their lives. While they are bound together as family and increasingly dependent on one another in committing their crimes and keeping their secrets, they are at odds over many things. Distrust between the siblings threatens to drive them apart and expose them.

Tell us about your main characters—what makes them tick?

Vertiline feels bound by duty to see her “difficult” sisters through life. The twins, Mary and Carolee enjoy as well as suffer an emotional connection. They cannot read each other’s thoughts, but each can know what is happening emotionally with her twin. Mary is very religious. Assuming a sense that she is one of God’s chosen, she feels exempt from the rules of society, though she puts up a good front. Carolee, basically an atheist, views herself as simply an animal who should take from the world what she wants, as long as she doesn’t have to suffer any consequences. She, too, puts up a good front most of the time. Vertiline tries to keep her sisters in line, and ends up compromising her own sense of right and wrong in the process of protecting them.

How did you come up with the title A Parliament of Crows?

Apparently crows do a weird thing in which they gather in large numbers, say in an open field, and an argument ensues between one or more of the birds. The others seem to watch. When the argument is done, the crows turn on one of the participants, presumably the loser, sometimes maiming, killing, or even cannibalizing the creature. Some who have viewed this phenomenon have likened it to a trial in which the defendant is convicted and punished. The term for that type of gathering is a parliament of crows. With the way the sisters go after each other, with the fact that they nearly always wore black mourning clothes, I thought the title appropriate.

Who designed your book cover?

I did the cover art and layout. I have been a freelance illustrator for 35 years, doing mostly book covers and interior illustrations for books.

If your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?

Joan Allen would be a great Vertiline and then Catherine Keener, doubling for the twins, would do well for Mary and Carolee.

The Author

You can find out about Alan Clark easily via the links below, so let’s not be boring. It was on the basis of his painstaking approach to interpreting history, and his handling of female characters, that old greydog ended up working with him on a number of projects, most notably 13 Miller’s Court, their interleaved tale of the Whitechapel Murders of 1888. Oh, and he’s from Oregon, you know, where they first grew oregono for putting on pizzas…

Author Links

Website: https://ifdpublishing.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AlarmClank

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/The-Rivers-Edge-515944125541875

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/alanm.clark

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Alan-M-Clark/e/B001JP86WY

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/207866.Alan_M_Clark

Giveaway

$25 Amazon; Paperback of The Door That Faced West; ebook of the Jack the Ripper Victims Series novel- Of Thimble and Threat; ebook of A Parliament of Crows – 1 winner each

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!

https://www.silverdaggertours.com/sdsxx-tours/a-parliament-of-crows-book-tour-and-giveaway

A Parliament of Crows was first released in 2013, and is now available again as part of IFD Publishing’s new ‘Horror That Happened’ range.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36443287-a-parliament-of-crows

Purchase in the US

Amazon: amazon us

Purchase in the UK:

Direct from the Publisher:

IFD Publishing: https://ifdpublishing.com/shop?olsPage=products%2Fa-parliament-of-crows-trade-paperback-book

After an August beset by too many other things to do, greydogtales will be back in a few days with all sorts of unrelated oddities. Stay on this frequency, dear listener…

Do you lie awake at night and panic about St Botolph-in-the-Wolds? Do you find yourself one of the many tens of thousands of people today who fear being abducted by feral girl guides high on metal polish and lemonade? Or do you just see a huge night-black, slightly psychotic pony lurking on every street corner, watching you? Worrying, huh?

To make it clear that these are real fears, here is our updated brief guide to St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, in darkest Yorkshire – the village which made Stephen King wet the bed, and caused Guillermo del Torro’s refusal to film in Northern England ever again.

For those new to the subject, St Botolph-in-the-Wolds might be described as a sleepy English Parish set in the rolling countryside of East Yorkshire, far from the hustle and bustle of city life; a village where everyone knows their neighbours, and life is much the same as it was centuries ago.

This would be a stupid description. It may be geographically correct, but life in St Botolph’s is complex, argumentative and filled with new terrors every day. More than one resident dreams of escaping rural existence to find peace in a violent urban crack ghetto, surrounded by burning tyres and daily police raids. People may indeed know their neighbours, but they may not always be sure what those neighbours are.

St Botolph’s is a diverse community, with – as we have suggested – serious doubts even as to the humanity of some inhabitants, though it is particularly hostile to Methodists and very welcoming to Belgians. Skin colour is rather irrelevant; the locals already practice such an inventive range of deeply-entrenched prejudices that they don’t have time for racism.

Members of the Women’s Institute are heavily armed, and the local Girl Guides are seriously dangerous, with a long-term Brasso addiction. St Botolph’s Mixed Infants has its own howitzer, and Mrs Gayamurthi’s All-Nite Wholefood Shop (closes 9pm) provides the most flammable naan in the Western hemisphere, along with her famous Mango’n’Pilchard ice-cream.

Scholars are divided as to what makes St Botolph’s so unusual. There is no doubt that the looming presence of Whateley Wood, north of the village proper, plays its part. Home to the oak, the Western Hemlock and an especially offensive type of briar, the woods contain many remains of early fertility and sacrificial cults. These include obscenely carved altars – where the Womens’ Institute leaves offerings of home-made raspberry jam at key times of the year – and a gleaming black stone from antiquity, whose surface is chill and moist even on the hottest day. This stands alone in a clearing which smells of charred bone, and is marked ‘Pickering 14 miles’. The sheer malevolence of the woods can be seen from the fact that Pickering is not actually 14 miles away. And it’s in the other direction.

Paths through the woods often appear and disappear at random. The unwary traveller may find themselves lost in a ravening gloom, surrounded by nightjacks and tendrilled things – or worse, may end up at Malton bus station. The main section is also inhabited by a large colony of bronchitic whip-poor-wills. Normally typical of the witch-haunted hills of New England, these small, coughing birds are always on the lookout for souls to conduct into the Afterlife.

Or perhaps its origins are to blame. It has been variously claimed that the village started life as:

• A Bronze Age ritual site for the disposal of unwanted otters
• A shrine to Botothqua, Mother of Persistent Slime, worshipped by at least three people in the early Iron Age but somewhat neglected since 557 BCE*
• An open toilet for the Auxiliary Roman Cavalry unit based at Malton
• A failed attempt at creating a refuge for agoraphobic Vikings

*See ‘Mucus and Myth: The Peculiar Deposits on some Northern La Tene Artifacts’, Ichabod James Marsh (BChD), Journal of Unreliable Archaeology, XVI, pp23-48)

There is no single agreed origin for the settlement. Stories of the past, many of them highly dubious, are common currency in St Botolph’s. There is no doubt, though, that in Victorian times the village was genuinely home to Ebediah Crake, the least successful Wolds murderer in history. J Linseed Grant says of him:

“In 1839 he failed to kill an entire family of seven living just outside York, being distracted by ‘a littul kitten what had a poorly paw.’ And in September 1842, Crake helped a frail old lady into a carriage and then secured her luggage to the rear, telling the driver to go gently. His actual instructions, from one Septimus Grange, an itinerant ferret-grinder, had been to garotte her and leave the body in a ditch so that they could share the contents of her purse. Grange was later hanged for interfering with two unrelated goats.”

There are many other fascinating examples of myth and folklore in the area. The tale of mist-shrouded Cooper’s Field, northwest of the village, is always popular during Ramadan:

“Legend had it that a skilled cooper once set up his trade there, relying on the woods to supply timber for his intricately fashioned barrels. Not long after, he died.”

It isn’t much of a legend, to be honest, though there are more worrying ones, such as that of the St Botolph Grinder…

“Last Thursday’s talk at the Church Hall resulted in very few people being hospitalised. It included a rousing presentation on the nature of the St Botolph Grinder, a brutal spirit with adamantine teeth which extracts the bones from local children, but leaves a shilling on their pillow afterwards. Or a tangerine. Local historian Edith Cremble amused the mostly intoxicated audience with her comparison of the Grinder to the Appalachian slaughter-wife, a similar myth common in Western Canada (despite being surprisingly violent, the slaughter-wife has no sense of direction). The talk ended with an open discussion on the role of metal polish in English folklore, and whether or not anyone could remember where the nearest bus stop was.”

LEGENDS OF OLD ST BOTOLPH’S No.64: The Blessing Stones

“Certain curiously shaped stones can be found in the Wolds, and these are said to offer protection against the creatures of evil. When examined closely, a number of the larger stones also have arcane markings and script, such as ‘My other stone’s sedimentary’ and ‘Call 577432 to advertise on this stone’. And it is true that if you throw enough of these warped rocks at the monstrosities of the night, you might at least give them a broken tooth or two before they drag you down.”

St Botolph-in-the-Wolds is also on the edge of the Wold Newton Triangle, an area long know for its strange meteorites, disappearing rivers, early mounds and so forth. So that probably helps. With Grimdyke Moors, Buttersmite Fell, Whateley Wood and a range of stark, haunted crags surrounding the village, Yorkshire temperament must play a part in keeping humanity present in a location for which it is hardly suited. That, and a poor sense of direction.

Despite the fact that the Ordnance Survey have refused to mark St Botolph’s on the official maps, citing public safety concerns, certain authorities such as the military are aware of it. RAF pilots, for example, have strict instructions not to fly over the area, ever since one of the Tornadoes from Staxton Wold came back with more wings than it had when it set out.

Given the above, it is perhaps no surprise that religion plays a large part in local life:

But we must be away, and we should be remiss if we did not mention that famous protective spirit which guards the sanctity of the Parish, occasionally crippling parish members by accident (or when in a bad temper). Born in a barn on what is often referred to as ‘the farm’, the coal-black, slightly psychotic pony known as Mr Bubbles is known to fight the forces of evil far and wide across the Wolds. Unless he is bored, or hungry, at the time. Teamed with his cheerful (and only) friend Sandra, plus occasionally her cousin Mary and his lurcher Bottles, he is the colossus which bestrides the area – but with more legs.

MR BUBBLES AND THE BLACK HEART OF CHAOS

A thrilling weird fiction story by J Linseed Grant

The hunched acolyte flung back its cowl to reveal a face that spoke of the long dead, the sleepless dead who claw their way through worm-mark and rotting coffin-wood to drag air into lifeless lungs. The eyes were blank, glassy, no longer fit to measure the world above; the splayed nostrils ran with foul and discoloured ichor.

“He is the Void, and the Heart of the Void,” it cried, “The Primal Chaos to which we must return. He is the Insanity which even madmen cannot bear!”

Mr Bubbles munched on a mouthful of particularly juicy couch-grass. His backside itched.

“He is…” The acolyte squinted, and one eyeball slithered onto its cheek. “He is the God feared by Gods, the bubbling, insensate core of All!”

“You should get out more,” said the pony, and trod on the acolyte rather firmly.

Later, he found a parsnip, which was nice.

The Journal of J Linseed Grant is explored every few days in jlg’s Facebook entries, usually with dire results, and the occasional Mr Bubbles tale turns up there as well. All posts are public, so you don’t even have to pretend to be a Friend, though if you Follow you might get warned! St Botolph-in-the-Wolds features in many stories on greydogtales (and the odd one elsewhere). If you want a sample, you could try this heartwarming story of a simple village play…

http://greydogtales.com/blog/the-wreck-of-the-natividad/

So farewell for now, and remember – your nightmares are Nature’s way of telling you that you;’re doomed…

To make a change, today a little unpublished fiction from greydog – three short, instructive vignettes concerning Mr Dry, the Deptford Assassin. If you do not know of him, then these three will explain quite a lot…

“Oh, and by the by, have you met Edwin Dry? No? Then you’ve not yet encountered one of the most ghastly characters in modern strange fiction.”

—Matthew M Bartlett, author of Creeping Waves and Gateway to Abomination

1. HAMMERSMITH, IN THE DRY SEASON

The office of James Henry Grange, Superintendent of Police for T Division, is cramped by nature, and the more so for the unwelcome presence of Scotland Yard. Sharp sunlight catches far too many polished buttons, and hurts Grange’s eyes. His visitor is brusque and self-assured.

“There were three murders in your division’s territory this August, superintendent, yet I have seen not a single file which might enlighten me as to your investigations.”

“No, sir. You have not.”

“And why, pray, is that?” The commissioner paces, waiting for incompetence to expose itself.

Grange tugs at his moustache, flexes fingers which ache from hours of writing mundane reports.

“Three murders indeed, sir,” he says. “No connection between the victims, no sighting of any possible perpetrator, no common touch in how they were killed. No logic of family, trade or geography, excepting that they were, as you say, within my division; no shred of evidence or betraying mark at the scenes. A precise death for each, within seconds. Wire, knife and bullet.”

The visitor scowls at this litany of absences. “But you have informants, man!”

“I have. Not a one of them will even pause for coin. They are mute, sir, more like to throw themselves from Marlborough Wharf than speak a certain name…”

The commissioner halts, his last step an awkward shuffle of boot on polished floor.

“You are implying–”

“I am informing you, sir, as to why there are no files to peruse – and why I will not send my men into the darkness only to fail or perish.”

The commissioner swears, a most ungodly oath which would appal his wife. “Then it is…” He will not say the name.

“It appears so,” agrees Grange.

A bead of sweat forms on the senior officer’s newly-shaven upper lip, and he makes for the door, strangely eager to be down his club and discussing his modest portfolio of shares, the weather, anything but Hammersmith.

The two men never speak of this again.

In the August of 1895, Mr Dry passed through Hammersmith. He found the experience lucrative, but unchallenging…

“In his stark and sinister Victorian England, a resourceful heroine must pit her psychic gifts against the dangerous skills of a chilling assassin. Grant has achieved something altogether rare: a genuinely unique take on the Jack the Ripper murders, in which the famous killer is actually upstaged by the author’s original creations.”

—Amanda DeWees, author of A Haunting Reprise and The Last Serenade

2. PASSING TRADE

Martin Gray was seventeen and a half years old, a tall youngster who was blessed with a kind heart and clear skin, the Good Lord’s compensatory gestures- somebelieved- for making Martin the only child of a shiftless father and a drunken mother. As a result of diligence at school, and after repudiation of his family, he had been taken on as a junior assistant by Geo. Smails, Gentleman’s Outfitter (Mr Smails being awash with daughters). The boy had modest ambitions, and a good eye for the breadth of a man’s shoulders, the way in which a particular stride might require adjustment to trouser hems.

The customer before him this morning did not seek adjustments. He required a hat, a bowler hat, which was exactly the same as the one he was currently wearing.

Martin did his best, but his hands shook as he sorted through the neatly labelled hat boxes; his voice quavered as he requested that the man repeat his size (how could he have forgotten that?). And in the end, a suitable bowler in his hands, he said it. He could not help himself.

“I… I did see you. In the alley, that night by the presbytery in Hoxton – and then they said… they wrote in The Courier that Father Groves was dead, slaughtered…”

Mr Edwin Dry, who was neither tall nor young, regarded the assistant. Eyes which might have been faded blue or deepest black seemed to be considering the future of Martin Gray.

“His throat was half sliced through like soft cheese, said the papers,” the boy continued, “And after, all that gossip, and him accused of such things as a man of God could surely not have…”

Martin’s own throat tightened, as if it felt the garotting wire start to bite; his lungs were unable to force out the rest of what he wanted to say, wanted to ask.

“And will these no doubt interesting facts,” asked the most feared assassin in London, perhaps in Europe, “Make it difficult for you to supply me also with five imperial collars, lightly starched?”

“N-no, sir.”

Mr Dry examined the new bowler, and gave a satisfied nod.

“Then all is relatively well in this sorry world,” he said, and brought out his pocket-book, that he might pay for his acquisitions…

Martin Gray married the generously built Georgina Smails, and lived to be seventy eight, with four healthy grandchildren. There is no official record of the birth, life or death of Edwin Dry.

“Mr Edwin Dry, the Deptford Assassin, is one of the most evocative presences in modern dark fiction – precise, relentless, inexorable.”

—Paul St John Mackintosh, author of Blowback

3. MR DRY MAKES A JOKE

He has killed with a seamstress’s needle, and with a Catholic bible; with a rigid finger and with a studded boot. To be owned by, to be fixated on a particular weapon or method, is a sentimentality to which soldiers, murderers and children cling. But he does favour the blade, for its silence and its ready interest in the work…

The moon above Lincoln’s Inn is white and lifeless, a disc cut from an artist’s canvas; it is indifferent to two shadows in a doorway.

“You signed papers, Mr Kempton,” says Mr Dry, stepping lightly forward. “You forged; you bore false witness. Debtor’s gaol and the workhouse awaited those families you served so badly.”

The lawyer presses himself against the locked door, his fingers slick on a handle which will not turn.

“And you… you believe yourself to be justice?” Kempton manages to whine. His jowls are fat lamb and aged port, all atremble above a stiff collar.

Mr Dry reflects on this. “No, I would not say justice. Dear me, no. I am merely what you might term a learned colleague – a prosecutor who prefers to engage out of court.” He smooths a crease in the left sleeve of his jacket, and slips a gleam of steel from the sheath at the small of his back. “Shall you hear my argument now?”

Afterwards, a nightingale can be heard, the distant trill of a creature lost in its own concerns. The dead man does not raise an objection as Mr Dry cleans his blade, his exquisite blade, on robes of office which are no longer required. The Deptford Assassin lets the expensive material slide between his fingers, and finds it adequate.

“It seems that tonight I have taken silk,” he murmurs as he strides away.

Mr Dry was not entirely without humour.

“John Linwood Grant has managed to create one of the most interesting and exciting characters to come along in some time: the enigmatic assassin, Mr. Dry. Possessed of great criminal and murderous ability, Mr. Dry is a power unto himself, moving like an unstoppable force of nature against evil and, sometimes, justice.”

—Sam Gafford, author of Whitechapel and The Dreamer in Fire

Mr Dry, the Deptford Assassin, can be found in The Assassin’s Coin, by John Linwood Grant; the composite novel 13 Miller’s Court by the talented Alan M Clark and the tolerable John Linwood Grant, and in the short story collection A Persistence of Geraniums by John Linwood Grant.

greydog’s Amazon author pages

on amazon uk

on amazon us

Who is anyone these days? If people are shocked that the iconic cartoon character Betty Boop was originally named Nan McGrew or Nancy Lee, then how will they feel when we reveal the truth behind weird fiction author Betty Rocksteady? Do they realise that Rocksteady is in fact a sheet-welder from Wisconsin, known in the local bars as Acetylene Lil? Or that her love of cats is due to a chance encounter with a handsome but troubled anaesthetist on the set of ‘General Hospital’ in the September of 1998? We think not, but read the interview further down and judge for yourself…

Slightly unlike Betty Rocksteady, Betty Boop (created by animator Max Fleischer) began her career in 1930, and her ‘real’ identity was once another conundrum. In 1932, singer Helen Kane filed a lawsuit, claiming that the cartoon Betty was based on Kane’s style and signature vocals.

It was, however, decided that Kane had drawn her own act from that of Esther Jones (‘Baby Esther’), a black singer and entertainer of the late 1920s, known for her “baby” singing style, who performed regularly at the Cotton Club in Harlem. Kane appeared to start booping only after seeing Esther perform in 1928. As the defence could also add in the Betty Boop look of actress Clara Bow to confuse matters, Kane lost her case.

So Betty and her “boop boop a doop” originated with the African American Baby Esther. Which is neat. And bearing self-interest in mind, we can add that the disreputable John Linwood Grant writes about one of the Cotton Club’s smaller rivals, a black and tan on the edge of Harlem in the late 1920s. The joint was known to Mamma Lucy, the conjure-woman, and Baby Esther would have sung there:

The smooth tones of the saxophone; the taste of cigarette smoke under her tongue. Late Monday night at the Ivory Club, and she was almost ready to fall towards her bed. A last dancer sat on the edge of the stage, listening to the sax and trying to pick gum off the sole of one of her shoes. There were only ten or eleven patrons left.
“Anything here you can’t handle, Marcel? she asked the thin man at her side.
He shook his head. “Lieutenant Chase is crying into his martini again, that’s about the worst of it.”
“Have one of the girl find him a cab.”
“Sure, Miss Garvey.”
She glanced around, checking those shadowy corners of the club where deals were made and hearts broken. Under the peeling stucco of a fake arch, a large man sat protectively over a brandy bottle and a half-empty glass. She peered through the lingering smoke.
“Who’s that guy?”
Her manager hesitated. “Some limey. Been here a few nights, on and off.”
“Trouble?”
“Maybe if someone pokes him. Hettie tried it on with him, says he growled and gave her the hard eye.”
“Hmm.”
Hettie was a pure-gold package, a dancer with the face, body and voice for Broadway. No-one turned her away. Intrigued, she wandered over to the arch and perched on a chair at the man’s table.
“Florence Garvey,” she said softly. “The owner of the Ivory Club.”

‘Hoodoo Man’, Speakeasies & Spiritualists (18thWall Productions)

All this gives us an excuse to quickly insert one of our favourite Betty Boop clips, because the voice of Koko the clown is none other than Cab Calloway, another more famous African American performer closely associated with the Cotton Club:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDATXtewPrg

Incidentally, Helen Kane was also an actress – she starred in the comedy film Dangerous Nan McGrew, from which Boop’s earlier name was borrowed.

The film title was, of course, borrowed in turn from Robert Service’s poem, almost as iconic as Betty Boop, ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew’ (Songs of a Sourdough, 1907).

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

Some rather interesting stuff on Dangerous Dan McGrew can be found here – well worth a look:

http://hougengroup.com/yukon-history/yukon-nuggets/who-was-dan-mcgrew/

Right, then. We’d better get back to the plot. Lacking our own Dan McGrew, today we have Duane Pesice with us, as he interviews Betty Rocksteady…

BETTY ROCKSTEADY BOOPS

by Duane Pesice

Duane: Where should a reader that is new to your work start?

Betty: My collection In Dreams We Rot coming in October 2019 is gonna be a great Rocksteady starting place, featuring a mishmash of my brand of surreal and sometimes extreme nightmarish horror. Until then, I would point you towards The Writhing Skies, my cosmic sex horror novella that won This Is Horror’s Novella of the Year and has been nominated for the Splatterpunk Awards.

Duane: Is there a piece that you are particularly proud of?

Betty: One of the first things I wrote that I was really proud of was Dusk Urchin, originally published in Looming Low. It hits on the black-eyed children trope but with my unique flavor. I really started thinking about how backstory can be hinted at, giving you a full impression of a character’s history without actually stating a lot outright. I also worked on tightening dread even before the supernatural elements come into play, with the goal of making the reader tense as hell without even knowing why.

I’m also super proud of The Writhing Skies and the illustrations I did for it. It deals with some traumatic topics blended with surrealism.

Duane: Whose work do you read, yourself?

Betty: I just finished rereading V C Andrews Flowers In The Attic, which is one of my all time favorites. I love the gothic melodrama and insane twists and turns. Next up is The Trap by Tabitha King, another limited-setting book that I first read in high school.

Paul Tremblay and John Langan are favorites. I also dig Mo Hayder and Gemma Files.

Danger Slater just released Impossible James and I’m stoked to read it. I’m super into Dark Moon Digest and read every issue cover to cover.

Duane: What kind of beer goes with your pizza? And what’s on the pizza?

Betty: Not a huge drinker, just drink the ol’ soda pop with my pizza. Fave pizza has mushrooms and honestly whatever else on it. I’m not too picky.

Duane: Do you consider your work weird, or horror? Or do you leave that to the marketing department?

Betty: Weird and horror are pretty close sisters, and I think my work hovers around the borders of each. The speculative element is important to my writing, and something horrific usually happens but stylistically I bounce around between literary, extreme/splatterpunk, bizarro. Sometimes I’ll have a style in mind when I start writing (especially if it’s for a call or particular market) and sometimes I just write and whatever happens, happens.

Duane: You’ve been convicted of crimes against the empire. What would be your last meal? Include something big to hide the explosives in.

Betty: This is such a weird question! I feel like I should have some funny cool answer but uh, I dunno. I can eat a lot! Some sort of giant all you can eat buffet and I’ll just stuff myself stupid. Pasta, sushi, sweets, everybody.

Duane: Are you involved in any arts besides writing? Any odd hobbies we should know about?

Betty: Yep, I draw too. Used to do a lot of pen and ink stuff, meticulous little crosshatching occult sort of designs, lately more into a 1920s cartoon style on my iPad. I illustrated The Writhing Skies with 20 black and white illustrations, done in a mix of Edward Gorey/20s cartoon style and I think it added a really interesting contrast to the disgusting things going on in the book.

As far as odd hobbies, nothing too crazy. I spend my free time looking for cool dumb junk at thrift stores, playing Just Dance and laying around watching old cartoons on VHS.

Duane: Cats or dogs?

Betty: Anyone who follows me on social media can probably guess that I’m a total cat lady. I have three (Ripley, Ozma and Henrietta) and oh, just remembered another odd hobby – I love to go for walks or hang out in my neighborhood and take pictures of any cats I see.

Duane: Tell us about a work-in-progress.

Betty: So right now I’m working on a novel that’s a modern take on The Collector by John Fowles, where Plain Jane is sick of her social medial persona and is totally thrilled to be kidnapped and set up in a cool room where she can do whatever she wants and not have to worry about bills and rent and work and people-pleasing. But then she realizes she may have underestimated her kidnapper, and faceless queens haunt her dreams, and the walls start closing in.

Duane: Thanks for joinng us. Is there anything else you would like readers to know?

Betty: Yeah, I’ve just started a new podcast with my buddy Popeye Otaku called Popcast, so keep an eye out for that! We’re reading the original Popeye comic strips and they’re really weird and fun, and Troy has some great Popeye impressions.

Otherwise, follow me on twitter @bettyrocksteady or look me up on facebook or check out www.bettyrocksteady.com to find out more.

We reviewed Betty Rocksteady’s The Writhing Skies on here last month:

http://greydogtales.com/blog/quiet-and-writhing-horrors-for-all-tastes/