"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.
Celia sighed as if the task of recollection was a burden. "She looked like any other old crone. As wrinkled as unpressed linen, I do recall that. Gray hair, which she wore long and uncovered." She sniffed to indicate what she thought of that. "Oh and she had an East End accent. I'd never seen her before, she wasn't the usual Thursday peddler. I don't know her name, and I don't know anything else about her except that she was dressed all in black. Now stop fretting, Emily. We'll let Mr. and Mrs. Wiggam sort out their differences then return him to the Waiting Area tomorrow. There's nothing more we can do."