William Sutton's Blog, page 27
September 2, 2016
Day of the Dead iv: Shhhhh
6pm Sun 30 Oct 2016, Broad Street, PO1 2JE
Stories to still shaky souls.
Fancy dress. Refreshments.
Costumes. Poisons.
This is the launch of story collection, Day of the Dead, and part of Portsmouth DarkFest 2016.
Tickets on the door or in advance. Entertaining line-up of writers & musicians.
Refreshments at the Square Tower.
Books from Blackwell’s.
Poison bottles by James Waterfield from Lawn of the Dead.
Costumier advice from Tony and Zoe of Head Case Curios.
See you there. Shhhh.
Day of the Dead is never an ordinary story night.
In the echoing chamber of Portsmouth’s Square Tower, storytellers and songsmiths enchant an audience of souls willing to be chilled and thrilled.
This year’s tales range from summoning the devil to cursing your in-laws, with side orders of best-friend-murder and pet torture.
Highlights of previous show include novelist Diana Bretherick unleashing laughs, cakes and murders in generous quantities; twisted songsmith Philip Jeays threatening friends and antelopes in impeccable rhyme; fantasy/horror writer Justin MacCormack giving us all insomnia.
Read about full house shows in 2013, 2014, 2015.
September 1, 2016
The Path of Filth: Extract from #FlowersofSin
Star and Crescent published this excerpt from Lawless and the Flowers of Sin , William Sutton’s second Victorian mystery, published by Titan Books and launching on 12th July 2016. Sergeant Lawless explores the nightlife of Soho in his role as inspector of vice.
The Path of Filth
Now we had removed to the gilded upper chamber of the Argyll. Artistically clad women held poses plastiques in velvet alcoves, temples of voluptuousness based on classical art, though stirring the psyche rather more directly.
The lights dimmed. The ensemble struck up an exotic rhythm. Onstage chugged a miniature train, driven by the famous Chouchoute. She sweated as she stoked the furnace, the orange glow glistening on her brow. She bent over, flesh gleaming through choice gaps in her attire, as the train-rhythm grew hotter.
What was Darlington hoping to show me? Did he think my Edinburgh upbringing so provincial I should never have seen the like? True, Edinburgh is small: that makes the louche night spots closer and affordable to frugal apprentices such as I; my schoolfriends were well acquainted with the Cowgate, beneath the castle, notorious for explosive displays.
Chouchoute threw off another garment. Hat, jacket, shawl, chemise. She stood before us, gleaming golden in her bodice, gloves and new-fangled bloomers. She looked up at us and wiped her brow.
“Get ’em off.”
She squared up to us, much as a navvy might look at a pile of dirt. A flutter flew through the audience; the separation between viewer and viewed seemed flimsy. Chouchoute threw down an immaculate white gauntlet. The music faltered, the house lights rose; she peered out from the stage, offended, and raised a finger.
“Who?” she said abruptly, gazing down lasciviously. “Who has spoke?”
“Him there!” Jocular voices called, and the guilty gent was shoved toward her outstretched finger.
Chouchoute drew a cane from her high boot. She leant down, catching the hapless fellow’s chin with the tip of the cane. His gaze was directed onto the twin orbs above him, brightly lit, swelling beneath the bodice. There was no escape. The music resumed. She kneeled on the edge of the stage, drawing him forward in rhythm, until his face was against her muscular thighs. The fellow’s eyes were bulging.
“Such close inspection.” She spoke in a faux French accent. “One really should have shaved.” Her eyes flashed. She whirled around and knelt, the stays of her corset within his reach. The fellow gaped upward, practically panting. Chouchoute gave a quizzical frown. “Is he trying to see what I ate last night?”
This show, I admit, was more shameless than Edinburgh’s equivalents.
“Get ’em off,” cried Darlington.
Chouchoute glanced over her shoulder, right at us.
I froze. My worst fear was to be dragged onstage. Of this danger Darlington seemed heedless. He was heedless of so many dangers, I would realise soon enough.
Holding our gaze, she untied the bow on her corset lace with a flourish. The fellow’s hands were trembling as he reached for the lace. She grabbed his hands and had him pull the stays asunder. Inch by inch, the ivory skin of her back was revealed, arching up from her waist. The crowd bayed for satisfaction. The corset loosened; her milk-white breast was sure to be revealed; she winked at me.
The lights went out.
A flash of light. We caught our breath. The show unfolded in a series of photographic flashes. Flash: she turned. Flash: his face against her bosom. Flash: her legs wrapped round him. We gasped.
Flash: the bloomers—gone.
Pandemonium.
August 27, 2016
Flowers of Sin Reviews
marvellous read
engaging and compelling
fresh, unpredictable and exciting
thrilling investigation
deliciously sinful and raw
enthralling
enjoyable, easy to read romp and much more
Morning Star: “An extraordinary novel, deserving of the widest readership not only for its impressive literary merits but also for the breadth and subtlety of its political, moral and philosophical exploration of “the great social evil.”
Sutton doesn’t tell you what to think about these matters. But he does show you what you ought to be thinking about.
The parallels with 21st-century debates about the selling of sex are drawn without undue emphasis but are nonetheless unmissable and discomfiting.
It’s a marvellous read but be warned — the subject matter is harrowing and the author shows his readers little mercy.”
The Crime Review: “So many of the crimes…are things that still unfortunately happen today. In fact, the network that Lawless uncovers, while unthinkable, still exists in some form today. It is even more chilling to see these things described with the restraint of Victorian English, and this is one of the most engaging and compelling things about this novel. …fresh, unpredictable and exciting.”
Rising Shadow: “Deliciously sinful and raw… One of the best mysteries of the year. Prepare yourself to be totally hooked. …Lawless and the Flowers of Sin is one of these exceptionally good novels, highly enjoyable and engaging with an enthralling atmosphere. …One of the most interesting mystery novels I’ve ever read.”
Shots Mag: “a thrilling investigation in a teeming metropolis where the highest levels of society are implicated in corruption, crime and vice. …An intricate plot that ticks along like the workings of a precision instrument and well worth the read.”
The Bookbag: “Lawless and the Flowers of Sin titillates with tales of bawdy backroom brothels whilst inspiring injustice and outrage at the hypocrisy of the so called war against the Great Social Evil. …Sutton’s use of language creates characters that leap off the page. …Whilst it is an enjoyable, easy to read romp which lovers of historical fiction will surely enjoy, it is also much more than that.”
Sugarquills: “I love the cover design for Lawless and the Flowers of Sin. Whoever’s designing Sutton’s books deserves a lollipop or something because they’re so gorgeous! Lawless and the Flowers of Sin is the second in the Campbell Lawless series but it can definitely be read as a standalone. There’s something enthralling about a shady nineteenth century London alley. Sutton did a great job of portraying Victorian London.”
August 26, 2016
Commissioner Payne of Scotland Yard
Another extract from Lawless and the #FlowersofSin by Civilian Reader.
Lawless receives his task from the Scotland Yard Commissioner: a census of sin.
COMMISSIONER PAYNE
“I was just speaking about you, Watchman.” Sir Richard cut me off. He examined his watch, with a sidelong glance at me, and shook it in irritation. “And your manifold talents.”
I was known as Watchman around Scotland Yard, as I’d spent my youth apprenticed to my watchmaker father; they were glad to abuse me for free repairs. I took his watch with a sigh. “Why does that fill me with foreboding, sir?”
“Nonsense.” Payne laughed. I was waiting for him to condemn Molly’s troupe: the disquieting humour, costumes, and handicaps. “Your soirée has raised a thousand pounds and a deal of publicity for Felix’s charitable endeavour. Well done, young man… The Phoenix Foundation, indeed.” He tugged at his moustaches. “The thing is, Watchman, we all need good news.”
“We, sir?”
“The police force. The government. Damn it, the whole country needs a boost. And you’re the man to give it to us.”
I gazed at him impassively.
“Don’t be like that, you impenetrable Scot.” He waved me toward the sandstone shelf that ran along the cloister’s inner wall. “Sit down, for God’s sake.”
I perched on the cold stone. Determined to hide my anticipation, I picked open the casing of his watch with my old pocket-knife. I examined it in the dim light. Cogs and springs I could handle; the reverie soothed my craftsman’s soul. Sir Richard’s hyperbole gave me the shivers. It was the way I’d been treated, perhaps. You give your all and are punished for it. Unjust? Certainly. Typical? Perhaps: we’re all cogs in a machine that none of us understand. Yet Sir Richard knew the dangers I had undergone, the indignities I’d suffered. I was relying on him. I needed to be reinstated at the heart of the mechanism.
“Look, Watchman, you’re a good sort. The charity’s bigwigs are grateful as all hell to you. You mustn’t get in a tizzy when they lap up the plaudits: Mauve, and Brodie, and Felix himself, though he’s a genial soul.” Gabriel Mauve was our political contact, a cabinet minister, J.W. Brodie a newspaper tycoon, and Felix the Quarterhouse Brother who’d dreamt up the whole shebang. I’d met none of them during my efforts; I knew my place. Sir Richard began pacing up and down. He was ill at ease. “Our battlegrounds are no longer in China or Russia, nor the mills of Lanark and Preston. The war this great nation is fighting today is in our souls, indeed our bodies—well, you know what I mean, Watchman. Everybody knows. You’ve only to stroll the Haymarket of an evening, or any train terminus. Charitable efforts, like this, are all very well. But I’ve called for a Commons Enquiry. And you, Lawless, are our man.”
I stared at him.
“To persuade a Commons Select Committee to act, I’ll need a brand-new survey.” Sir Richard was inspired. A rousing speech, almost as if he intended to stand for parliament. “We’ll count every house of ill repute. Itemise every last working woman. On the streets. In bordellos. Everywhere. A census of sin.”
Was this the commission I had dreamed of? I shivered involuntarily.
“None of your cynicism, Watchman.”
He gave me a smile that made my heart sink, for I saw a trace of pity behind it. “Much has been done since ’57 and the last appraisal. You may take great satisfaction in quantifying exactly how immorality has declined.”
“Declined? Sir, are you joking?”
“So many good works. Cholera. Poverty. Pleasure gardens closed, slum alleys patrolled. Law and order bolstered and extended into the darkest corners.”
Yet he always complained how government constrained his police finances.
“All improving the poor’s plight, you see. Removing temptations from women’s paths. Warning gentlemen of the ills caused by lapses moral and sexual.”
Pah.
“This commission is crucial to the government’s plans. I wouldn’t trust it to anybody else.”
A backhanded sort of a compliment. Perhaps he really was going into politics. “Jimmy Darlington’s our man for vice and immorality, sir. I wouldn’t dare tread on his capable toes.”
“Darlington’s been transferred. He’s to shut down the filthy bookshops, but he’ll show you around the night houses.”
“Shut the bookshops?” I had sent a couple of these publishers down the previous year—pornographers, they were calling them now—but they popped up in new premises the moment they were released. I looked at Sir Richard more closely. There was something he was not telling me. “Some job Darlington will have. Is this shake-up coming from on high, sir?”
“I’ll tell you, Lawless, but you mustn’t let on to anyone.” He lowered his tone. “A certain politician has a particular friend. They had a tiff. She’s vanished. He’s asked me to find her.”
“You want me to find some politician’s missing friend?”
“Lawless, Lawless, I say,” he beseeched me. It was not like Sir Richard to beseech anyone. “Don’t get on your bloody high horse.” Payne put his hand to his brow. “Not any old politician. The Prime Minister.”
***
William Sutton’s Lawless and the Flowers of Sin and Lawless and the Devil of Euston Square are both out now.
For more on the authors novels and writing, be sure to check out his website, and follow him on Twitter and Goodreads.
August 24, 2016
Return to Kate Hamilton’s
Extract from Lawless and the Flowers of Sin, William Sutton’s second Victorian mystery, published @TitanBooks July 2016
Return to Kate Hamilton’s
Lawless delves deeper behind the velvet curtains
I follow the route, already so familiar, through the back alleys, skirting Leicester Square, until I spot the entranceway. The curtains hang crimson and lush between Appenbrodt’s Sausage Shop and Bennett’s Pies, where meat is dressed to your liking, lamb or mutton to taste, and nothing stales, with old beasts turned out for rots, bots and glanders.
“Watchman, my lover, business or pleasure?” Kate boomed. “Or might we commingle the two? Commingling being what we does best.” Laughter rippled through her; I looked away from her formidable bodice, putting from my mind the image of the hippopotamus at the Regent’s Park Zoological Gardens. “Scotch for the Scotchman of Scotland Yard. Cora, you minx, this official needs his officialdom-relieving, can’t you see? Working after midnight of a Friday eve, I ask you. His commissioner ought to be ashamed, as Almighty God is sitting on his throne – though he don’t shame easily, that one.”
Kate was a wonderful monster. What better solace could I wish from the frustration of my punishing round of duties? Now that Darlington was reassigned – a cushy number, censoring the erotic booktrade – and Jeffcoat had his own secretive enquiries, I was on my own.
“Cora, Cora, any news for me, Cora?”
Cora and I recommenced our companionable chess match. It was hard to persuade girls to talk to me. Ask a question in such a place, and they went silent. Draped in diaphanous silks, Cora lay quite still, pieces laid out on that remarkable stomach, indifferent to her languid desirability and occasionally called away mid-game to a private room.
Doubtless the same antics occurred across the city, across the world; but here in Kate Hamilton’s, there was a decorum, a sense of humour, that made it acceptable. I had a lot of time for Kate. They said she was once an art student, discovering she had a talent for tableaux vivants in the classical tradition; they said, not so many years ago, she was knocking around town, the winsomest girl in Mayfair; they said many things about her behaviours as a lass. Today, undisputed mistress of madams, she dominated this most orderly of houses, sipping bubbly from midnight to daylight, alive to each tug at the furthest corners of her intricate web. It was her pride that all felt safe here: gents were never recognised; in turn, her girls need fear no misuse.
A boy had been found dead in a queer house a stone’s throw away; nobody had paid any mind when he vanished over Christmas, until the body’s decomposition defeated the winter’s cold. How could such indignities come to pass? Because most night houses, unlike Kate’s, were itinerant brothels. Nobody to count in or out, no thought to stave off disease, no one to save you from harm, nobody to care or call the doctor at the last. It was shameful. And what was my task but political gerrymandering to placate certain elements of society, most of whom cared nothing for such people? Scandalous that it should be allowed to continue! Better if they died! This netherworld little affected their families, oh so fine and lovely. But they might be shocked to know how such contagion might spread. A disease inadvertently caught, a pox visited upon a wife by a young gentleman caller; and how little it takes to persuade a good girl to step out, and perhaps the hour is late, she accepts hospitality, a drink, more, until shamed and ruined, she can never return to her respectable home, despatched to the penumbrous half-world of bordellos, madhouses and work houses. Still, when did the state become responsible for nannying aristocratic boys out of their naughty habits?
“Hands off that bishop,” Cora protested. “You’re in check.”
August 19, 2016
Fantastical Librarian
That Fantastical Librarian, Mieneke van der Salm, asked a few questions, which I here reproduce.
Let’s start with the basics. Who is William Sutton?
He’s a tall, messy writer with friendly demeanour, indiscriminate accent, and a tendency to sing in public.
Regrettable video evidence of singing at launches
How would you introduce people to Campbell Lawless?
Campbell Lawless is an Edinburgh native making his way in the Big Smoke of the 1860s. He’s escaped his watchmaker’s apprenticeship, seeking darker cogs and machinations to puzzle over.
He’s dogged. He’s loyal – which causes problems when he’s assisted by the Worms (gang of urchins) in the first book. Perhaps he’s too trusting, which makes him appealing and wins him friends, high and low; but he’s vulnerable to manipulation, from above and below.
In Lawless and The Devil of Euston Square, Lawless had some of the shine and polish knocked off of him as he finds his way as a young Yard’s man. Has he more or less settled into life as a detective in The Flowers of Sin?
Lawless is suffering from the aftermath of first book: his efforts may have averted disaster, but it was all hushed up. Nobody rewards him; he has been sidelined into Scotland Yard’s backwaters.
When his Commissioner sets him the task of the police survey of the capital’s brothels and ladies of the night, he is wary, but it’s a chance for him to get into the maelstrom of life again. He soon discovers that even his jaundiced view is still wildly innocent.
While I really liked Lawless and I adored the Euston Square Worms (I hope they’ll be back!), my absolutely favourite character was Ruth Villiers. I loved her unconventional life choices and her agency. Who inspired her and will she be back?
Glad you like Miss Villiers: self-sufficient lifestyle, studying, working and outshining the detective in research acumen and code-cracking. (Some thought her anachronistic, but there were wilder women, I promise you, challenging the status quo.)
Characters are often amalgams of people you know. Ruth Villiers’ initials RV are a nod to Wilkie Collins’ wonderful heroine in The Moonstone’s Rachel Verinder. Her name amalgamates a friend and an acquaintance.
I suspect much of Ruth comes from one friend, whose briskly insightful conversation, dark hair and memorable smile are a winning combination.
Historical writing always involves lots of research. With Flowers of Sin set among the ladies of the night, houses of ill-repute and everything that comes along with being a vice detective, I can imagine the research for the book was sometimes colourful. What was the most surprising resource you came across?
“Doing your research again?” says my wife, glancing over my shoulder at the stream of Victorian filth. Amongst the bibliography of erotica that I unearthed (via Peter Fryer’s Private Case, Public Scandal) was the epic erotic memoir Walter’s My Secret Life.
Published clandestinely at the end of the Victorian era, the mysterious Walter recounts in astonishing detail his life and loves. It’s by turns titillating and tawdry, racy and reprehensible, enlightening and enervating.
(Available to read or download free online. An archly knowing audio version in the offing.)
I don’t recommend it as a good read, as good morals, or as good pornography. But it’s an astonishing insight into what the Victorians were really like: clothes, costs, furniture, filth, exploitation, coercion, inhibitions and inequality. This is where Dorian Grey goes after dark; what Mr Hyde indulges in; where Steerforth leads Little Emily; the stuff of Dickens’ and Collins’ “beastly sybaritic jaunts”.
I know that The Flowers of Sin has been written for a while, as it was first slated for publication in 2014. Have you been working on more Lawless books in the interim or have you written something completely different?
What a nice question. I’m tussling with book 3 Lawless and the House of Electricity. I’ve written short stories: Lawless shorts for a French magazine; grimy fantastical tales for collections by Portsmouth writers, Portsmouth Fairy Tales, and forthcoming Dark Cities and Day of the Dead.
I’ve been hosting story performances. Musically I’ve had fun accompanying songwriters Philip Jeays and Jamie West. And I’m working on a one-man show, Songs I Cannot Sing.
What’s next for you? Any appearances or conventions planned?
Double launch of Lawless and the Flowers of Sin: 12 July Blackwell’s in Portsmouth and 14 July, a suitably revolutionary date, at Forbidden Planet, London. I’ll pop in to Harrogate Crime Festival and Bloody Scotland. Then it’s Day of the Dead in October and Valentine’s Massacre in February in Portsmouth Bookfest.
Pictures here.
Is there something else you’re passionate about other than writing and books?
Music. I play bass, guitar and various other things, accompanying friends at open mics, occasional more serious gigs (just played at Glastonwick Festival, Petworth Fringe, and Open Ealing).
I love languages: I lived in Brazil and Italy. The show Songs I Cannot Sing will include songs in Portuguese, Italian, Spanish and more. I teach Latin and Greek, and I write songs with my classes about classical mythology.
Words.
My typewriter.
Cricket. I play with The Authors CC, who once had PG Wodehouse, JM Barrie and Arthur Conan Doyle in their line-up.
As a book reviewer, I’m all about the book enabling; I can’t help but want to make people read all the good books out there. But I can always use help. What are your top recommendations of books we should look out for in the coming months?
I’ve just bought Metamorphosis by Polly Morland; she writes absorbing non-fiction, built around interviews with fascinating people.
I’ll be taking Willow Walk by SJI Holliday on holiday with me to the wilds of Scotland.
I’m intrigued by Deep Down Dead by Steph Broadribb (aka Crime Thriller Girl), due out end of this year.
And I confess I’m excited to hear Johnny Marr of The Smiths is penning an autobiography, Set the Boy Free.
Finally, I have to stay true to my roots and ask a librarian question to finish off with: Do you shelve your books alphabetically, by genre or do you have an ingenious system?
Ha. I always used to go straight to the bookshelves when I visited someone’s house, to understand who they were. Now there are houses without bookshelves. Strange.
I’ve been persuaded to colour code the spines to produce a rainbow effect in the corner of our living room. Shelving thus, in descending order:
books I’ve been unwillingly lent & not yet returned
books for me to read
books for my wife to read
classics
literature
plays, short stories, myths, autobiography
Second bookcase:
good books
Scottish
poetry
history, psychology
languages
music (Bob Dylan, The Smiths), cookery
By my desk:
Victorian research (current)
Victorian novels & stories
Victorian research (done)
Victorian reference
Victorian Research
August 17, 2016
Southsea Lifestyle Radio
We talked about:
– events like next week’s Portsmouth Writers’ Hub Travel & Photography meeting, October’s Day of the Dead, February’s Valentine’s Massacre, Portsmouth Bookfest, Portsmouth Festivities, and upcoming DarkFest
– hyperlocal news site Star and Crescent
– collaborations Portsmouth Plugged In, Portsmouth Fairy Tales, Dark Cities
– writers Tessa Ditner, Maggie Sawkins, Matt Wingett, and Charlotte Comley
– our books Caught in the Web and Lawless & the Flowers of Sin (earning two sales before we were off air)
Great fun.
Thanks to Kevin Dean of Southsea Lifestyle, John Pryde, Colin on the buttons and South Coast Emporium. Great to hear about and giving blood locally too.
We hope the pop-up radio catches on.
Which is mightier, the pen-drive or the 78?
August 10, 2016
Victorian Ads
From Lawless and the #FlowersofSin (and all but one of these titles are real, I kid you not).
Nods to Peter Fryer’s Private Case, Public Scandal.
FLOWER GARDEN CATALOGUE, ANCIENT & MODERN, HOLYWELL STREET 1864
(appended to erotic publishers William Dugdale & John Hotten’s complaint, for the perusal of Commissioner Payne)
The Lifted Curtain
The Ins and Outs of London
Sodom, or The Quintessence of Debauchery
The London Jilt: or, the Politick Whore
Lucretia, or the Delights of Cunnyland
The Ladies’ Telltale & The Lustful Turk
The Romance of the Rod
The Whore’s Rhetoric
The Sixteen Pleasures, or About All the Schemes of Venus
The Natural History of the Frutex Vulvaria
Harris’s List of Covent-Garden Ladies, or Man of Pleasure’s Kalendar
The Crafty Whore
The Cockchafer: Flash, Frisky and Funny Songs, Never before Printed and Adapted for Gentlemen Only
The Cabinet of Venus Unlocked
Mutton Walk Cyprians
August 9, 2016
Victorian Ads
Chouchoute threw off another garment. Hat, jacket, shawl, chemise. She stood before us, gleaming golden in her bodice, gloves and new-fangled bloomers. She looked up at us and wiped her brow.
“Get ’em off.”
She squared up to us, much as a navvy might look at a pile of dirt. A flutter flew through the audience; the separation between viewer and viewed seemed flimsy. Chouchoute threw down an immaculate white gauntlet. The music faltered, the house lights rose; she peered out from the stage, offended, and raised a finger.
“Who?” she said abruptly, gazing down lasciviously. “Who has spoke?”
“Him there!” Jocular voices called, and the guilty gent was shoved toward her outstretched finger.
Chouchoute drew a cane from her high boot. She leant down, catching the hapless fellow’s chin with the tip of the cane. His gaze was directed onto the twin orbs above him, brightly lit, swelling beneath the bodice. There was no escape. The music resumed. She kneeled on the edge of the stage, drawing him forward in rhythm, until his face was against her muscular thighs. The fellow’s eyes were bulging.
“Such close inspection.” She spoke in a faux French accent. “One really should have shaved.”
August 7, 2016
Victorian Ads: Kate Hamilton’s
The bell was rung, velveteen drapes pulled aside, champagne thrust into his hand. At the heart of this pageant of bodies, nestled in the palace of ottomans and pale rouge divans, beneath a softdome illustrated with lurid Olympian daubings, sat a vast ungovernable whale of a woman, a queen of the Orient, enthroned above her minions. Kate Hamilton herself.
Darlington winked.
“Long tempo, nanty vader, Jimmy Darlington,” she crooned. “Roll up, roll up, my lover boy. Choose between Lila, layer of lords, Cora, comfort of commodores, and Sabine, saviour of seamen.”
“Nah, Kitty,” a pale woman with ample bosoms piped up, lolling on a gent’s knee. “I never saves none of it.”
Kate Hamilton erupted, a blancmange Vesuvius.
Lawless and the #FlowersofSin
