BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY A. A. GLYNN

      Case of the Dixie Ghosts: An Historical Mystery

      Mystery in Moon Lane: Supernatural Mystery Stories

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004, 2008, 2013 by A. A. Glynn

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      To the Memory of My Sister, Frances Glynn Ferguson

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      These stories were previously published as follows, and are reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Cosmos Literary Agency.

      “Mystery in Moon Lane” was first published in Fantasy Adventures #13, Wildside Press, 2008. Copyright © 2008 by A. A. Glynn.

      “The Model” was first published in Fantasy Adventures #4, Wildside Press, 2003. Copyright © 2003 by A. A. Glynn.

      “The Bad Spot” was first published in Fantasy Adventures #11, Wildside Press, 2004. Copyright © 2004 by A. A. Glynn.

      “Fir Gorta” was first published in Fantasy Adventures #13, Wildside Press, 2008. Copyright © 2008 by A.A. Glynn.

      “Song of the Sea” was first published in Fantasy Adventures #1, Wildside Press, 2002. Copyright © 2002 by A. A. Glynn.

      “Embrace of Evil” was first published in Fantasy Adventures #8, Wildside Press, 2004. Copyright © 2004 by A. A. Glynn.

      “Legend” was first published in Fantasy Adventures #6, Wildside Press, 2003. Copyright © 2003 by A. A. Glynn.

      MYSTERY IN MOON LANE

      Manuscript found in the papers of Septimus Dacers, sometime detective in a private capacity. Mr Dacers was born in London in 1825 and died in that city in 1908, aged 83.

      That evening and my unusual visitor have remained vivid in my memory down all the years and, through all the decades since, I have puzzled over the strange affair that followed his arrival at my apartments.

      I was idle and worried in spite of the pleasant warmth of a late spring evening. The London authorities were worried, too, for the first cases of cholera had emerged among the ragged inhabitants of the wretched rookeries of the St. Giles region. It had not reached the dangerous proportions as it had among our unfortunate troops in the Crimea, but it was likely to increase with the summer. My own trouble was money—or rather the lack of it. I needed a client, a commission to bring me out of idleness, because I needed three weeks’ back rent to take the angry glare from the eyes of my landlady, Mrs. Slingsby. That glare threatened eviction.

      Sitting by the open window, gazing gloomily into the street, I was disturbed by a sharp tap at my door, Mrs. Slingsby’s unmistakable calling card.

      With a sinking heart, I opened the door and my landlady was indeed there. But she was not alone for, behind her stood a tall, gaunt man. Despite the warm evening, he was peculiarly muffled in a heavy black surcoat and with a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, so that only a pair of glittering eyes showed between it and the brim of his tall hat.

      “A gentleman to see you, Mr. Dacers,” said Mrs. Slingsby in an acid voice, which plainly had an undertone of: “And you still owe three weeks’ rent!”

      I thanked her, ushered in the visitor, and hastily closed the door on the lady and her glare.

      “You are a detective, Mr. Dacers?” the man spoke through his scarf. His accent was heavy and foreign.

      I assured him that I was, and waved him towards the better of my two shabby chairs.

      “But you are not associated with the police?” he asked, seating himself.

      “No, I act in a private capacity, but I have helped the police on occasion. I must warn you, though, that I never undertake anything contrary to criminal law,” I told him.

      “I do not propose any illegal ventures,” said my visitor, revealing that despite his heavy accent, his command of English was good. “But I do not want it known that I am here in London. I have come from France where I am known among the scientific community, and there are those both here and in my home country who keenly seek intelligence of certain projects on which I am engaged.”

      He began to unwind his concealing muffler, revealing a dark, sharply intelligent face with moustachios and beard of the fashion called an ‘imperial’.

      “My name is Duclois—Auguste Duclois. You might have heard of me,” he declared somewhat in the manner of a grand actor.

      “Duclois, of the electrical impulses!” I answered. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of you. Your name was in the papers not six months ago.”

      He gave a snort. “The papers ridiculed me, M’sieu Dacers. They sneered at my experiments aimed at changing human behavior by electrical impulses. And all of them, in England, on the Continent, and in America, had everything wrong, as usual. They didn’t understand the half of my reasoning. Damned, ignorant scribblers, all of them!”

      “I’ve little knowledge of scientific matters,” I said, noting that, with his erratic gestures of the arms and his rapid speech, my visitor was mounting what was obviously a hobbyhorse. Impatiently I waited for him to get to the point of his visit.

      “Ah, in that you are like most men, my dear sir,” replied Duclois. “You can’t see an obvious fact when it is staring you in the face. It is given to genuine seers, such as myself, to grasp the potential of anything new on the scientific horizon. I haven’t yet fully explored the possibilities of electricity, but I know the wonders it can unfold, the untold benefits it can eventually bring to mankind. You might think we have reached the ultimate in progress now that we’re in the great age of steam; that we have all but conquered the world with the huge engines seen so recently, grinding and clanking at your Great Exhibition of 1851—but no! No, Mr. Dacers! There are more achievements to be aimed at. Consider the part the electric telegraph played in capturing that murderous couple, the Mannings, here in England only three or four years ago. But developments infinitely greater than the mere telegraph are waiting once we fully harness the mysteries of electricity. I am one of the select few who are engaged in that pursuit, sir, persevering despite the ridicule.”

      “Would you care for a glass of sherry?” I ventured, hoping he would refuse, for my solitary bottle was all but down to the dregs.

      “Thank you, no. I would prefer to get down to business. I am willing to hand over a ten-guinea retainer here and now, and a further ten on completion of a certain task.”

      My heart lifted. The initial ten guineas alone would settle my rent bill and considerably replenish my supply of sherry, and twenty guineas all told for a single assignment was quite unprecedented.

      I strove to put on the demeanor of a dignified man of business and said, soberly: “As I am not at present engaged, sir, I can act on your behalf.”

      “Très bon!” he responded with a rare lapse into his native tongue. “It is largely a matter of, as you might say here, keeping an eye on a certain person. I saw a newspaper report of your doing something singular in the recent railway fraud case in which the Metropolitan Police enlisted your help. That is why I sought you out.”

      I shuddered, recalling the railway fraud case and the miserable winter hours I had spent watching certain premises and noting the comings and goings of various high-placed individuals and observing the companions they consorted with. Then the prospect of a twenty-guinea fee brightened my mood again.

      “I am on the brink of quite startling discoveries, notwithstanding the barbs of the scoffers,” continued Duclois. “Not least among those scoffers is a great rival of mine, one who shuns the limelight so that few among his countrymen here in England even know his name. He is a man of ability for all his scoffing at fellow researchers and for all his deliberate choice