Epilogue - The Cat Gets His Cream

With Wiggins paid and cheerfully departed into the chill night air, George locked and bolted the kitchen door. This task complete, I dismissed him for the evening and retired to my study. Rather than head straight to bed, which had been my first plan, I decided to peruse Doyle’s Spirit-Medium’s Secret Friend a little more with yet another glass of brandy. It was, after all, New Year’s Eve and I probably would not rise much before noon the following day.

I was disturbed some 10 minutes later by a gentle tapping upon the front door. With George dismissed for the evening, I was forced to answer the door myself. Who should be standing there upon my doorstep but the delightful Miss Carriger, sans mama!

“Miss Carriger?” I enquired, attempting to disguise the brandy induced slur in my voice. “How delightful, won’t you come in? All is well, I trust?”

“Oh, my good sir, everything is wonderful!” beamed Miss Carriger. “I simply could not sleep after witnessing the marvellous demonstrations of your artefacts. I had to return, to thank you in person. I left mother asleep, snoring if the truth be known, in front of our log fire, and slipped out of the back door like a common thief,” she giggled excitedly at the thought. “The servants were all in their quarters, so nobody knows that I am here!”

I took Miss Carriger’s coat and invited her into my study. Her hair was tousled, no longer piled high upon her head, and there was a look of wild liberation in her eyes.

“A brandy?” I asked her. “Or perhaps a small glass of wine?”

Suddenly Miss Carriger was by my side and her arm was around my shoulder in a very forward manner, most unbecoming of a lady of her standing.

“How about a large glass of wine,” she whispered in a demeanour that her mother would surely disapprove of, “and a kiss?”

With those accursed fairy rings no longer in my possession, it seemed as though my luck had changed at last. First I discover that old man Doyle is at the very least aware of his beloved Spiritualism’s fraudulence, and then the divine Miss Carriger makes an unaccompanied night visit! 1923 was, it seemed, going to be a very good year.

“You see,” continued Miss Carriger, whispering into my ear, “I do so enjoy your company, Mr Moriarty. I find you most... intoxicating!”

“Oh, please,” I replied with a sly grin, “call me James.”

FIN