She smiled sympathetically and hugged me tighter.
***
I expected the Wiggam household to be in turmoil but it was quiet. Messy but calm. Shreds of newspaper littered the hallway and drawing room floor, muddy footprints spoiled the rugs, and what appeared to be flour was strewn over every piece of furniture. Most of the figurines, candelabras and other objects that had decorated the mantelpiece, walls and tables were either broken or missing although a few had been spared. An oil painting of a lighthouse by the sea, a small black statue of a rearing horse. They had probably been favorites of Barnaby Wiggam. It was truly a terrible scene and I could only imagine what it had been like for his widow living there while her dead husband made his presence known by destroying her house.
Mrs. Wiggam calmly laid out a cloth on the flour-covered sofa for Celia and I to sit on. She offered no apology for the state of her house, or her person. It had only been a few days since the séance but she looked like she'd not eaten or slept in that time. Her waist seemed to have shrunk, sacks of skin hung loosely under her eyes, and her hair looked more tangled than mine had that morning after my night out. I felt sorry for her but didn't dare show it. Nothing about Mrs. Wiggam's countenance invited pity.
"I'd have tea brought up but the maids have all left," she said with not a hint of shame.
Barnaby Wiggam appeared in the vacant chair by the window. He seemed more translucent than the last time. Or perhaps I was used to seeing Jacob, solid and strong, not dim with fuzzy edges like Mr. Wiggam and the other ghosts. It made we wonder, again, why Jacob appeared so real to me. I would probably never find out now.
Mr. Wiggam crossed his arms and glared at his wife as she exchanged inane pleasantries with Celia. The entire scene struck me as absurd and a bubble of laughter escaped, despite my best intentions to smother it.
Mrs. Wiggam glanced at me the way her husband looked at her-as if everything was my fault.
"He's here isn't he?" she said, glaring at the chair in which her husband's ghost sat.
"Yes," I said.
She humphed and shrugged, accepting the ghost's presence.
"Good," Celia said, urging me to speak with a raise of both her eyebrows. "We're here to speak to him."
"Don't trouble yourselves," Mr. Wiggam said, heaving himself up from his chair. His face was still very red, the purple veins prominent on his cheeks and nose, as they would always be thanks to the manner of his death. "I'm leaving."