The Wrong Girl(80)

No longer shapeless, it became a hand reaching out. Two or three of the guests screamed and scuttled to the far side of the drawing room. Beside me, my sister tensed and circled her arm around my shoulders, pulling me back. She said something under her breath but the loud thud of my heart deafened me to her words, but not to her fear. I could feel it all around me as I stared at the shadow, which was quickly changing shape again.

It became a foot then the head of a rat then a dog with snapping jaws and hungry eyes. A hound from hell, snarling and slavering and vicious. It stretched its neck toward me and before I could react, Celia jerked me back.

Too late.

The shadow creature's sharp teeth closed around my shoulder. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself. Nothing happened. Oh there was screaming coming from everyone else, including Celia, but I heard no tearing of flesh or clothing. I felt no pain, just a cool dampness against my cheek. I opened my eyes. The creature had turned back into a shapeless cloud. For a brief moment it hovered near the door and then with a whoosh it was gone.

A breathless moment passed. Two. Three.

"What was that?" I whispered in the ensuing hush.

Celia looked around at the white faces staring wide-eyed back at us, hoping we could give them answers. We couldn't.

She indicated the armchair. "Is he still here?" Her voice shook and she still gripped my shoulders.

"Still here," both Mr. Wiggam and I said together.

"Did you see that?" he said, staring at the door. He didn't look nearly as frightened as the others, but then what did a dead man have to fear? He went to the door and peered out into the hall. "I wonder what it was."

"It's gone now," I said. My words seemed to reassure the ladies who stood huddled in the corner of the room.

"The air in this city," Mrs. Wiggam said with a click of her tongue and a dismissive wave of her hand. "It gets worse and worse every year." She ushered the ladies to seats, plumped cushions and pooh-poohed any suggestions of a menacing spirit ruining her social event. "It was a trick of the light, that's all," she said. "The tense atmosphere in here has got to you all, stirred your imaginations."

"Stupid woman," Mr. Wiggam muttered. "She can't possibly believe that cloud was natural."

I didn't care what Mrs. Wiggam thought, as long as her guests accepted her explanation. Clearly some of them did, or perhaps they simply wanted to believe it and so willingly forgot what they'd seen only moments before. One or two seemed unconvinced and I hoped they would not gossip about it later. If word got out that we'd released something sinister during one of our séances, our business could flounder. Celia and I could ill afford such a disaster becoming public knowledge.

"Well," Celia said, peering down at the amulet hanging from its leather strip. "I thought it a harmless piece."

"Then why use it?" I hissed.

She gathered up the tambourine and Ouija board, packed them into her carpet bag and snapped the clasp shut. "The peddler who gave it to me said I was to say those words three times if I needed to solve something."

A maid entered carrying a large tray with teapot and cups. Two other maids followed her with more trays laden with cakes and sandwiches. Celia's face relaxed at the sight of the refreshments.

"What were the words?" I pressed her.

She waved a hand as she accepted a teacup with the other. Her hands shook so much the cup clattered in the saucer. "Oh, some gibberish. She didn't tell me what they meant, just that I should repeat them if I needed to fix something. Well I did need to fix something." She leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. "The spirit of Mr. Wiggam wouldn't leave."

I wasn't entirely convinced that the ongoing presence of Mr. Wiggam was what the woman had meant. Nor was I convinced that the words were gibberish. I looked at the door then at Mr. Wiggam. He stood with his back to the fireplace as if warming himself against the low flames—although he couldn't feel the cold—and stared at the door, a puzzled expression causing his wild brows to collide.

"The peddler was a mad old thing," Celia muttered around the rim of her teacup. "Completely mad." She sipped.

"At least it's gone, whatever it was, and no one seems affected by it."

No. No one at all.

***

"Tell me about the peddler woman," I asked Celia when we were almost home. We'd decided to walk from Mrs. Wiggam's Kensington house instead of taking the omnibus. It wasn't far and we would save on the fare as well as gain some exercise. Celia is all for exercising in the fresh air, although London's air couldn't be considered fresh by anyone's standards as Mrs. Wiggam had reassuringly pointed out to her guests. It stank of smoke and horse dung, made eyes sting and left skin feeling gritty. It was cool, however, and certainly invigorating as the chilly spring breeze nipped at our noses and ruffled the ribbons on our hats.