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Right down to the patterned stem - see here. I thought the stem was textured, not patterned, until I was able to look it up.

I have been trying to find out if it is indeed poisonous, and assessments varied from a cool "root is irritant" to a hysterical "All parts, including berries, are highly toxic by ingestion; skin and eye irritant too." So frankly I'm no wiser.

I did, however, find this rather amusing account of growing it that dwells on the one thing most people will tell you about this plant:

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...One plant has become the subject of a 'healthy debate' in this household, and it is the reason that the dining terrace is currently a no-go zone. Dracunculus vulgaris - the dragon or stink lily, if you choose to dwell upon its less-than-lovely attributes - has to be experienced to be believed. I have never seen it growing in the wild in Turkey, but friends have described their experience of meeting it when wandering among wild flowers on the hillsides. To be suddenly confronted with the stench of what can only be described as a dead animal decomposing somewhere in a ditch is never pleasant, but it is very confusing when the source is a dramatically beautiful flower.

I have had five or six plants growing against a fence of perfumed Trachelospermum in the hope that the 2ft burgundy spathes will be less problematic when in flower. Like a nosegay, the Trachelospermum almost cancels out the stench, but you cannot help but be disturbed by the unplaceable, deathly undercurrent. We managed last year when there were just two flowers, but this year there are seven and they are flowering in relay. Only one flower opened every third day, so that at the worst moment there were four doing their best. I feared a neighbour might be alerted to make the call to social services in the certainty that we had a dead body on the property. It is a high price to pay for such a magnificent plant. Emerging early in the spring, it has dramatically speckled spears and from these the foliage claws its way out and up until the arum-shaped flower is visible. Green-backed and with a crumpled fold of deepest maroon to give away the contents, it grows to more than 2ft high, and you know it is about to flower when the liquorice-black spadix emerges. One morning the flower throws itself open - the most opulent velvety thing you can imagine. Shortly after, the smell of carrion starts, pulsing in waves like the disgusting belch of a bloated corpse. This is to attract the flies that pollinate it, and it is the solitary reason that I have given in to the requests to move it to the other end of the garden. It will be found a hot spot where it can bake and come before the cannas. I have a feeling, though, that I will be making my pilgrimage to see it on my own.

(Dan Pearson, writing in the Guardian)