Want some exciting thriller/horror reads? Today sees the paperback of greydog’s new novel The Assassin’s Coin released, so we bring you exclusive extracts from this and its sister book, The Prostitute’s Price by Alan M Clark. Conceived of as part of a joint project, both books feature female protagonists. And both books unfurl these women’s lives against the backdrop of events in Victorian Whitechapel, events which lead up to what has been called the Autumn of Terror.

These are not women without hope or ambition, nor are they mere adjuncts to men. The issues of Catherine Weatherhead and Mary Jane Kelly are issues of survival, respect, affection, solace and all those things which we seek for ourselves, male or female.

They are people, and their anger, frustration and fear are human things, not gender politics. They do live, however, in a period during which men have more options, rights and power, and so they must make constant, difficult decisions.

Our interwoven project covers the period autumn 1886 to autumn 1888, and each novel follows its own distinct story-line. Events which are clouded or mentioned in passing in one book may hold a different significance in the other, but each is complete in itself and can be read on its own.

NOTE: Some readers browse genres which represent their favourite types of fiction. The Assassin’s Coin and The Prostitute’s Price might be called historical thrillers or period horror. Can we say anything else helpful? Alan’s masterfully detailed tale of Mary Jane Kelly’s life is, of course, the story of the woman reported as the last victim of Jack the Ripper, with all the threat and horror that entails.

Greydog’s tale of Catherine Weatherhead also explores the world of Victorian spiritualists and the unforeseen consequences of being open to other ‘levels’ of existence.

Come have a quick look at our protagonists.

THE ASSASSIN’S COIN

by John Linwood Grant

Catherine Weatherhead, a woman in her early twenties with an unreliable psychic gift and little status beyond that which she can forge for herself…

Some women survive.

They survive despite everything set against them – disease, the injustices of society, and the casual ease with which a body can trip and fall under an omnibus or a drayman’s horse. They avoid the blows of a man’s grimy fist, the scratch of another woman’s claws, and the lawyers of the rapacious rich; they remain strangers to the poorhouse or the prison.

Mrs Bessovitch was one of those women.

Swathed in perpetual mourning, she used black lace and brocade to dissuade gentlemen callers, and sharp glances to see off the few who nevertheless persisted. She flaunted tragic memories of her husband, and shed onion tears for his loss, years long gone, in some distant naval conflict. Only her closest confidants knew that Mr Aaron Bessovitch had leaned too far over the rail of the Dover to Calais packet ship whilst inebriated. Tragic, possibly, but not of great value to the Empire.

Catherine Weatherhead looked on her landlady as a safe harbour, and thanked God (with whom she was not overly familiar) for guiding her to Mrs Bessovitch’s lodgings in Southwark.

“Madame Rostov, she was a success?”

Mrs Bessovitch clattered at the sink, her accent thicker than usual. Catherine knew that she was concerned.

“I… no, it all went well. At first.”

“These ladies, they had their doubts about you?”

“It isn’t that. I’d done the usual work – picked up details on them from the local shops as myself, gossiped a little. You know.”

That part had gone smoothly. It had been easy to check the local cemetery and see that Margaret Carlton’s grave was untended. For backup, she had a rumour about the family’s time before they came to Islington, and a tale from a garrulous greengrocer. Catherine knew how to read people, without needing her unreliable gift. The Aether did not need to stir itself to satisfy most séance goers.

“So… what is matter?” The landlady peered at a smudged glass, wiping it with her cloth.

“Something… something reminded me of the past, that is all. It’s nothing.”

“Da. Nothing, that is always frightening.”

They shared a smile.

“I’ll tell you some time, Mrs B. For the moment, I should rest.”

“No dinner?”

“Later, if I may.”

Catherine trudged up the stairs, her feet sore. Her imposture as Madame Rostov, the psychic from somewhere vague in Eastern Europe, involved far too much walking. Hansoms were expensive, on the little she had made so far, and she had always to make sure she wasn’t observed in her transition between roles. She had learned far more than she wanted about the streets of London in her first six months. More comfortable boots would have to be her next major purchase.

Her bedroom on the first floor was too tidy. Mrs Bessovitch’s work, but she could hardly complain. The rent was a pittance, nor were there any other lodgers.

“It is my home,” the landlady said when Catherine finally dared to query her. “If I wish company, I let my rooms. You are company. So…”

In the ancient, creaking wardrobe hung Mrs Bessovitch’s cast-offs, ideal for Madame Rostov. Furs – not grand, even slightly moth-eaten, but with the right look for the part. Old-fashioned clothes, easily tacked (by the landlady) to approximate Catherine’s leaner figure.

It had been her landlady’s idea, in a sense. Their first meeting was on a stormy January morning, and Catherine, after a winter struggling in the capital, needed shelter. Her savings were low, and previous lodgings had been unsafe, plagued by drunken fights. Then she had seen a notice in the paper. Quiet room available. Only single lady.

She walked to the address in Southwark, and presented herself. With her black hair wild and her face scrubbed red by the wind, Mrs Bessovitch approved.

“You look like good Russian woman,” she said as she made them a pot of tea. “I will like you.”

“The room is still available?”

“Da. A young woman, she comes but she is pretty. She smiles too much. I do not think she knows life.”

“And me?”

“You are not so pretty.”

The blunt comment took Catherine by surprise, and she laughed, spilling her tea.

“You see?” said Mrs Bessovitch. “You understand.”

THE PROSTITUTE’S PRICE

by Alan M Clark

Mary Jane Kelly, much the same age as Catherine, but engaged in prostitution for some time and no longer sure of her way out of risk and the streets…

(The Jennifer Weatherhead mentioned below is an impoverished cousin of Catherine, living a very different life)

Mary Jane guided Jennifer across Stepney High Street and into Durham Row, which ran along the northern edge of St. Dunstan’s Church. Trees in the churchyard had taken on yellow fall color, the leaves beautiful beneath an unusually crisp and clear blue sky.

Entering the Ashfield Place footpath to head northward to the coffee shop, Mary Jane noted that Jennifer’s limp had lessened.

“While soliciting, I use the name Ginger. If you would, please use my true name only when we’re alone. You should find a name to use other than your own, one that feels comfortable.”

“I’ll think about what that might be,” Jennifer said. “My friends call me Jennie.”

Mary Jane considered the last statement an invitation.

She saw a man with red side whiskers and mustache moving toward them among the other pedestrians ahead. With the warm color of his whiskers and the hair that poked out from beneath his brown bowler, he stood out, even at a distance.

Brevard!

Her heart beat quickened, and a tingling at the back of her neck told her to hide. She didn’t want to frighten Jennie.

“Look at this hat,” Mary Jane said, taking Miss Weatherhead by the arm and tugging her into the recessed doorway of a Milliner’s shop. “Now where is it?”

Though clearly surprised by the sudden deviation, Jennie seemed willing to concentrate on the hats displayed in the window. “Which one?” she asked. “They’re all quite beautiful.”

Mary Jane hadn’t got a good look at the man, and she didn’t think he’d seen her.

Jennie stands out too far! He might recognize her.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Mary Jane said. “I have a rock in my boot. Would you steady me?” She offered her left hand.

Jennie took it and turned toward her.

Good. Now she faced completely away from the approaching man and had her face down.

Mary Jane crouched and pretended to attend to her foot with her right hand beneath the cover of her skirts. Then she realized that if the man had noticed her, crouched down as she was might prove her undoing, since she would not be able to sprint away quickly. She gathered in her hand the hems of her skirts in case she did have to make a dash for it.

The fellow walked by, taking no notice of the women in the Milliner’s shop doorway.

He was not Stuart Brevard, yet she had felt the return of the fear from a month earlier, and regretted taking a more casual view of the threat he posed.

Mary Jane realized she’d been holding her breath. With relief, she took a gulp of air.

Remaining in her crouch for a few moments to compose herself, she leaned out of the recess to watch the man walk toward the pretty trees of the churchyard and turn eastward into Durham Row.

“Did you remove the stone?” Jennie asked somewhat impatiently.

“Oh…yes,” Mary Jane said, standing.

The two women continued up Ashfield Place.

Mary Jane dreaded a possible future in which Stuart Brevard tracked her to her new lodgings in Globe Road, an eventuality that seemed a matter of time. She’d gone to live with Joseph Fleming initially to confuse her trail and gain some male protection. Persuading him to help her recover the necklace was taking more time than she’d anticipated. If Stuart Brevard found her in Globe Road before Fleming agreed to help, and she had to move again, she might lose her chance to get the necklace altogether.

AFTER-NOTE: As for the men within these books, some intend to be kind and some choose to be cruel. Many are no more sure of what they are, and what they will become, than Catherine and Mary Jane.

The only figure in both novels who might be said to have no doubts about himself is, as you might guess, Mr Edwin Dry, the Deptford Assassin. To Catherine Weatherhead he is the killer in the bowler hat who haunts her visions; to Mary Jane Kelly he is the ‘black-eyed man’ who is a terrible threat and an opportunity at the same time…

The novels are now available in Kindle and paperback:

THE ASSASSIN’S COIN

UK Amazon: http://amzn.eu/d/fsKVxU8

US Amazon: http://a.co/d/5Y3Kh4e

THE PROSTITUTE’S PRICE

UK Amazon: http://amzn.eu/d/2mdthUF

US Amazon: http://a.co/d/9rI67rU

OCTOBER FRIGHTS BLOG HOP

Once again we’re part of this fun tour – sixteen horror-y writers this year, sharing posts, offering neat stuff and so on. Do have a look round the sites involved – link below. We’ll have some more October Frights books news and guest posts on here over the next week…