Today, an extract from a period tale, concerning an unusual Virginian gentlemen and his garden. My own Edwardian Arcane, as it were, to keep in with our current theme. The October Frights Blog Hop continues, and you still have a chance to win an ebook of my short novel A Study in Grey, concerning a threat to the Empire before the Great War, some psychic disturbances and even a dash of Sherlock Holmes (details later). And on the Holmes side, it does look as if my story The Adventure of the Dragoman’s Son, set in Arabia in the 1890s, might be out by the end of the year as well.

Plus a new book of horror poetry from A F Stewart, and Django is shredding newspapers. There’s not a lot to say about that last bit, except that he obviously got bored with me writing. Clever dog. If you’ve called in here about the longdogs, they’re all over the site – check that messy tag cloud under lurchers or longdogs. Here are our two current guilty parties – Chilli the Terrifying Alpha, and Django, the Dog that is Born of Kangaroo.

---

The Jessamine Garden

I’ve always grown a plethora of poisonous plants – rue, monkshood and so on – in our Yorkshire wasteland. Whilst thinking about this matter one day (poisoning really is a dying art, you know), I drifted into a tale which took the matter somewhat further. The Jessamine Garden was published this Summer in the anthology Triangulation: Beneath the Surface.

An Extract

I do not think we met by chance on that slow Virginia morning. I will not name the exact area, for I will be jealous until the end, and I know that my sister will never speak of the place. That I should drive the buggy up the wrong road, distracted by my thoughts, that I should draw up so close to that decayed colonial home… it was meant to be. As I had long been forgotten by the God of my childhood, perhaps the mercurial Fate of the Greeks and Romans had willed it. The capricious Fortuna, her blind eyes smiling on a faithless man.

The house itself was not unusual, a smaller version of the great plantation houses further south. A man of about thirty years stood by the portico, the columns wreathed in vines unknown to me, thick tendrils grasping at old plaster. He was slim, much my own height but not especially well-favoured in feature. His eyes were too large, his jaw too narrow, for him to be called handsome. I reined in my horse, and called out if he knew a better road that I could take to continue my journey.

“Come down, sir.” He smiled and beckoned. “Take a julep with me, and I shall set you right.”

I was thirsty enough, and the mare was flagging. He pointed to a stone trough by a barn.

“Let her rest awhile, too.”

I returned his smile, and eased myself down from the buggy. Polio had weakened my left leg, and a bullet in Mexico had shattered the hip above it. I was a poor pedestrian, as he could see. I took up my stick, and was gratified that he removed his cream linen jacket and assisted me in watering the horse. We introduced ourselves as we did so, and he lead the way around the side of the house.

A walled garden lay at the rear, ancient brick of a reddish hue, and we entered something which might have graced an English country house, a most un-Virginian landscape.

“My garden.” said Julian St Claire, and then he pointed to a stone bench not far away. “We might sit out here, perhaps, Mr Crane?”

Windows in the full-length French style opened into the gloomy interior of his home, but the garden itself was bathed in sunlight. I was grateful to rest as he fetched refreshments. After a few moments he brought out a tray holding two glasses and a large Venetian jug.

I took my glass eagerly, thanking him, and sipped the coolness of what I had assumed would be a mint julep. The bourbon was there, but mint had never graced this liquid. There was a bitterness, not unpleasant but unexpected. He sat down beside me, wished me good health as he drank.

“Local herbs.” he said, his gaze darting to the garden. “An acquired taste, perhaps.”

I assured him that it was most refreshing, and looked around. Yellow-flowered jessamine scrambled along and over every wall of the garden, its perfume on the warm air, its long stems insinuating it into neighbouring bushes and trees at every opportunity. Beneath it lay thickly planted beds which covered the space of half an acre, interspersed with neat gravel paths. No soil could be seen between the plants, which merged and tangled with each other wherever I looked. But I could see that it was managed, not left to grow wild. There were tender plants there which would have been overwhelmed by hardier ruffians without a hand to guide them.

“The walls,” I said, “I presume they keep the winter cold out?”

“Somewhat.” He nodded. “I have my ways, as well. Bell jars and cold-frames, cloches and manure beds, even an ice-house to keep some tubers and bulbs dormant until the right time.”

He leaned closer to me, and I caught the same bitter scent from him as from the drink, though I could not place it. My head was light from the bourbon, and I laughed, not knowing why.

“It is a marvel, Mr St Claire. Do you have many visitors, seeking the secrets of your art?”

“I do not advertise, sir.” He shook his head. “I fear that many would come to harm here if I did.”

I could not grasp his meaning.

“How so?”

“Come.” He waited as I employed my stick, and took me down the main path which bisected the garden. As he named his plants, he stroked them, caressing stems and leaves as a man might do to his hound.

“Rue, whose touch causes great welts to appear upon the skin, especially in bright light…”

I looked at the intricate grey-green foliage, the noon-day sun strong upon the leaves, but said nothing.

“The greater celandine, which brings rashes and eruptions, as does this arum low down, see, with its strange saponins and other chemicals. Monkshood…” He tore off a feathery leaf and chewed on it. “A brutal poison when consumed – the tingling and burning presage eventual failure of the heart and nervous system-”

“Sir, Mr St Claire.” I said, but he raised his hand to quell my obvious alarm.

“I am as one with this place. I grew up here, absorbed the riches of my garden and came to understand them. I catch the nuance in each leaf, catalogue and admire it.” He brushed the stand of monkshood with affection. “Step closer, sir.”

I limped to his side.

“Now hold out your hand.”

It is difficult to say why I did what he asked. The bourbon, the heady scent of the garden? As I lifted my free hand, one of his fingertips touched mine, and I gasped as a burning sensation ran up that digit. Lifting it to see what had occurred, I saw a reddened patch the size of a penny coin on my skin.

“It will pass in minutes.” he reassured me.

I did not, at the time, understand the significance of this moment. Awkward, I agreed to one last sip of his drink and made my excuses. He helped me harness the mare again, and asked if I cared to return, perhaps in a few days. Confused, I said that if business permitted I might drive this way. I could not be certain, I added.

And that was my introduction to Julian St Claire.

The Triangulation: Beneath the Surface anthology, containing the whole story, The Jessamine Garden is available here and via the image on the right-hand sidebar.

beneath the surface on amazon uk

---

Competition Reminder

Want a free copy of A Study in Grey? Right then. John Linwood Grant’s series Tales of the Last Edwardian features a man called Mr Dry, the Deptford Assassin. He is ruthless, exceptionally effective, and reputed to have killed Jack the Ripper. A whisper that Mr Dry is in town is enough for most folk – but what is his first name?

To win one of five copies, all you have to do is to e-mail us with Mr Dry’s FIRST NAME and your choice of format – epub or mobi – in the subject line. At the end of the Blog Hop, we’ll select five people at random and send them the book. It’s that simple.

Email: a study in grey competition

How do you find out? Search the site, or glance through either of the two free Tales of the Last Edwardian stories you can find here on Smashwords. No cost, no real effort. It’s like Inspector Morse, but less hassle.

two free tales of the last edwardian

---

Horror Haiku

A F Stewart was featured in our first Scary Women feature at the start of the year, along with Clarissa Johal (see scary women). She’s always had an interest in dark poetry as well as dark fiction, and now she’s come out with a whole volume of verse.

“Venture past safe reality, into the world of terror told in verse. Horror Haiku and Other Poems brings forth surreal dread and spins it in artistic countenance. From small chilling bites of poetry, to murky morsels of fright, come find where the words haunt you, where they live and die. “

You can find out lots more if you click on her site in the Blog Hop list below – Are You Afraid of the Dark – and there’s a link here and on the right-hand sidebar to where you can get the book itself.

horror haiku amazon uk

---

Occult Detective Frenzy

And don’t forget, the new Occult Detective Quarterly magazine will be launching later this year. You can find out more by clicking on the ODQ logo top right, and by supporting the Kickstarter here:

occult detective quarterly kickstarter

---

Now we shall rest (as if!) and you should go check out any of the blog hoppers you haven’t visited. Back soon..