1940′s London, the doctor shares a story about a musician who has had his genius stolen from him. Who would have thought it would end like this?

The Man Who Lost His Genius

The Doctor turned away from the window, letting the thick curtain fall back into place.

“A foul night,” he reported, “still snowing hard.  I hope those devils leave me in peace, or at least until the morning.”

The Colonel grunted.  “Don’t know why you fellows even start a job like yours.  Life’s not your own.  Why didn’t you take up music like your father?”

Doctor William Claymore laughed. “No use to me, Colonel,” he replied.  “I’m next door to being deaf mute where music is concerned.  Still, so was the old man in his youth.  I suppose you can train your ears to distinguish one note from another.”  His voice sounded very doubtful.

Download to read more

The year is 1909 – the place, a picturesque village in England. The narrator of the story, a local attorney, tells the tale of a man who purchased a haunted house, with the express purpose of frightening his wife to death so that he could live as he pleased with his young mistress.

The Solicitor’s Story

Extract from some notes written by Victor Slater, solicitor, one evening in the summer of 1909.

I have just come back from another of those awful visits.  Every time I go, I wonder what makes me do it; each time I make a firm resolve never to go again – always these resolutions are broken.  Each time I come back nauseated, and the horror of the place has me in its grip.  The following day – and tomorrow – I fear will be the same.  I go over my recollection and ask myself what it is that holds such repugnance for me, and never is there a satisfactory answer.

Download to read more

Can a simple sponge bring love and romance to an ordinary store clerk’s life?

The Sponge

Of course all this happened a long time ago – back in the early 1900’s I suppose, so there won’t be too many who remember Kennedy’s shop in the Haymarket.  When the Great War came, it disappeared and a block of offices took its place.  Those were the days of hansom cabs, dignity and – yes – gold sovereigns.  Some call them the good old days, and perhaps they are right.  I think so anyway.

On the Saturday I am writing about, Alfred Smith arrived at Kennedy’s punctually at eight o’clock, just as he had done for thirty years, ever since he started by sweeping their floors at the age of twelve.

Download to read more