The Case of the Missing Valet
by Jem's Bird

Epilogue

This part contains reference to the death of a major character

There remains little else to tell.

I sit upon the porch and fan myself, watching contentedly as the tiny dot on the horizon looms closer. That dot is a small white skiff we’ve christened the S.S. Lestrade, and I am waiting for Jeeves to come home from his morning’s fishing.

I have prepared a small, simple meal, complete with Darjeeling that Jeeves will drink dutifully, although I’m sure I haven’t quite got it right just yet. I’ve also tidied the sitting-room and polished the silver, and, last of all, I brought the post in, savouring every step of the two-mile walk from the nearest road.

I already know the contents of the telegram that lies unopened atop the pile on the kitchen table. The copy of the London Times is similarly unmolested, but even across the room, I can see the headline. Not since Armistice Day has the Times used such a large font, I think with amusement. End of an era, a world joins in mourning, and all that blather. You might be slightly shocked at Bertram for putting it so bluntly, but then you would be missing the point.

Life is not that simple, you see.

The article below the headline speaks of a tragic dual loss, a regrettable accident. After all, the car had been a recent gift, and one would hardly expect someone born and bred in the days of horse-drawn hansoms to know the dangers of sitting in an idling car while parked in the garage.

I smile and sip at my tea while thinking of a pair of sapphire-blue eyes, lit up with interest, and a kind voice echoes in my mind:

“It’s a Gwynne-Albert, isn’t it? Same aluminium body, but I see they’ve added front-wheel brakes …”

The doctor was right; this is just the prelude to a brighter dawn. Freed of this mortal coil, Sherlock Holmes has embarked upon his greatest adventure yet, his faithful companion at his side.

No, the newspaper holds nothing disturbing. Today is too good a day to be disturbed by such trifles as mere mortality; there are much worse things than death.

One of them is currently lurking under our bed: a certain book, or rather, the two small pieces of parchment pasted into its lining. It’s a small document, but big enough to destroy a city. Already a dozen people have died to keep it secret. And all because Jeeves’ grandfather started messing about with a certain metal.

Good lord, I think. The stuff’s used for ceramic glaze. Jeeves tells me that we’ve got some plates made with it in the cabin here, something called Fiestaware. Just a critical mass of ceramic glaze, and a detonator …

The end of an era, indeed. I turn my thoughts away from such things, sipping at my tea a while, watching the S.S. Lestrade growing closer. Soon a figure aboard her waves, and I wave back, rising from my seat to greet my lover, walking slowly down to the beach, where I await his kiss. Hand in hand, we will return to the cabin, where we will eat lunch, and then, perhaps, we shall play a game of backgammon. A year ago, I should have turned up the Wooster nose at such a programme, but today I can’t think of anything better.

I’m sure that Jeeves can come up with something.