Encrypted spirits

"My sofa's caught something off your piano," texts Vicky. "Come urgently, preferably in furniture removal van with hoist."

I turn up a few minutes later, minus van and hoist, but bursting with curiosity.

"Look at this," says Vicky, pointing at the sofa. "What do you make of it?"

"I'm no forensic scientist," I say, "But at a guess I'd say it's been moved."

"Exactly," says Vicky. "But by what?"

"Perhaps the Aga frightened it," I say. "It's certainly worrying me. Or have you accidentally given Bad Lindy a fireman and a spare key as a surprise un-birthday present?"

"Never mind that," says Vicky. "Sit down on it and you'll see what I mean."

Gingerly, I sit on the sofa and instantly have the sensation of being on a Dodgem car with an inexperienced operator at the helm, as it shoots several inches to the left and then comes to a grinding halt.

"You know what - I think it's trying to spell something out," I say. "Has it been out drinking with any ouija boards? I'd say it's got a message for one of us. You haven't got any of those flash cards - you know, the ones all the pushy parents use to test their children on the alphabet."

Vicky looks slightly shifty. "I might have. Though they were a present, of course," she adds, hastily. "I'd never have bought them myself."

"Well of course not," I agree, vehemently and with complete insincerity. "Why don't you go and get them?"

She does and we spread them out in front of the sofa, then take turns sitting down and trying to work out which letter it's pointing to, while Vicky keeps a record.

"So," I ask, after five minutes or so, "Is there a presence from the other side?"

Vicky looks down at the sheet of paper. "Oh. My. God." she says.

"What is it?"

"dbhtosnguopwrtkifogh," says Vicky.

"Trust us to get the only spirit that's had its messages double encrypted,"

"Probably very sensible," says Vicky. "I expect there's a lot of phantasmagoric fraud up there."

"Alternatively," I say, "I think I could have solved your furniture problem." I hold up some little plastic contraptions.

"My furniture cups," says Vicky. "Ah. Now I come to think of it, Chris did mutter something about taking them off to look for a missing contact lens. And this is a vinyl floor."

"Vinyl?" I say. "With an Aga? No wonder that sofa's complaining. It's asking for parquet. And a labrador."