The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #1)

Whoever said
dead men don't tell lies had never met Barnaby Wiggam's ghost. The fat,
bulbous-nosed spirit fading in and out beside me like a faulty gas lamp clearly
thought he was dealing with a fool. I may only be seventeen but I'm not naïve. I
know when someone is lying—being dead didn't alter the tell-tale signs. Mr. Wiggam
didn't quite meet my eyes, or those of his widow and her guests—none of whom
could see him anyway—and he fidgeted with his crisp white silk necktie as if it
strangled him. It hadn't—he'd died of an apoplexy.

"Go on,
young lady." He thrust his triple chins at me, making them wobble. "Tell
her. I have no hidden fortune."

I swallowed and
glanced at the little circle of women holding hands around the card table in
Mrs. Wiggam's drawing room, their wide gazes locked on the Ouija board in the
center as if Barnaby Wiggam stood there and not beside me. I too stood, behind
my sister and opposite the Widow Wiggam who looked just as well-fed as her dead
husband in her black crepe dress and mourning cap. However, where his face was covered
with a network of angry red veins, hers was so white it glowed like a moon in
the dimly lit room.

"Are you
sure?" I asked him. If he knew I suspected him of lying, he didn't show
it. Or perhaps he simply didn't care.

"Sure?"
Mrs. Wiggam suddenly let go of her neighbor's hands. My sister, Celia, clicked
her tongue and Mrs. Wiggam quickly took up the lady's hand again. It's not as
if anyone needed to hold hands at all during our séances but my sister insisted
upon it, along with having candles rather than lamps, a tambourine and an Ouija
board even though she rarely used either. She liked things to be done in a way
that added to the atmosphere and the enjoyment of the customers, as she put it.
I'm not convinced anyone actually
enjoyed
our séances, but they were
effective nevertheless and she was right—people expect certain theatrics from spirit
mediums, so if we must put on a performance then so be it.

Celia had taken
it one step further this time by wearing a large brass star-shaped amulet on a strap
around her neck. The recent purchase was as unnecessary as the hand-holding but
she thought it gave us authenticity amidst a city filled with fake mediums. I
had to admit it looked wonderfully gothic.

"Sure about
what?" Mrs. Wiggam asked again, leaning forward. Her large bosom rested on
the damask tablecloth and rose and fell with her labored breathing. "What
does he want you to say, Miss Chambers?"

I glanced at Mr.
Wiggam's ghost. He crossed his arms and raised his fluffy white eyebrows as if
daring me to repeat his lie. "He, er, he said..." Oh lord, if I
repeated the lie then I would be contributing to his fate. He could not cross
over to the Otherworld until he was at peace, and he would not be at peace until
he let go of his anger towards his wife. Lying to her wasn't helping.

On the other
hand, it was his choice.

"Emily,"
Celia said with the false sing-song voice she employed for our séances. "Emily,
do tell us what Mr. Wiggam is communicating to you. Give his poor dear widow,"
she paused and smiled beatifically at Mrs. Wiggam, "some solace in her
time of mourning."

"Mourning!"
Barnaby Wiggam barked out a laugh that caused the edges of his fuzzy self to briefly
sharpen into focus. For a moment he appeared almost human again. To me at
least. "Tell that...that WOMAN who sits there pretending to be my demure
wife that there is no fortune."

"He says
there's no fortune," I repeated.

A series of
gasps echoed around the small drawing room and more than one of the elegant
ladies clicked her tongue. Mrs. Wiggam let go of both her neighbors' hands
again. "Nonsense!" Her gaze flitted around the room. "Tell that lying,
cheating,
scoundrel
of a husband that I know he amassed a fortune before
his death." She placed her fists on the table and rose slowly to her
considerable height, well above my own. She even dwarfed her ghostly husband. "Where
is he? I want to tell him to his face." She reminded me of a great brown
bear at the circus Mama had taken me to see as a little girl. The creature had
expressed its displeasure at being chained to a bollard by taking a swipe at
its handler with an enormous paw. I'd felt sorry for it. I wasn't yet sure if I
felt the same emotion towards Mrs. Wiggam.

I must have
glanced sideways at her husband because she turned on the spirit beside me even
though she couldn't see it. He took a step back and fiddled with his necktie
again.

"I
know
there's money somewhere." Her bosom heaved and her lips drew back,
revealing crooked teeth. "I
deserve
that money for putting up with you,
you wretched little man. Rest assured Barnaby
dearest
, I'll find every
last penny of it."

A small,
strangled sound escaped Mr. Wiggam's throat and his apparition shimmered. Fool.
He was dead—she couldn't do anything to him now. Her four friends shrank from
her too.

My sister did
not. "Mrs. Wiggam, if you'll please return to your seat," Celia said
in her conciliatory church-mouse voice. She ruined the effect by shooting a sharp
glance at me. Mrs. Wiggam sat. She did not, however, resume handholding. Celia
turned a gracious smile on her. "Now, Mrs. Wiggam, it's time to conclude
today's session." My sister must have an internal clock ticking inside her.
She always seemed to know when our half hour was over. "Everyone please
close your eyes and repeat after me." They all duly closed their eyes,
except Mrs. Wiggam who'd taken to glaring at me. As if it were my fault her
husband was a liar!

"Return oh
spirit from whence you came," Celia chanted.

"Return oh
spirit from whence you came," the four guests repeated.

"Go in
peace—."

"No!" Mrs.
Wiggam slapped her palms down on the table. Everyone jumped, including me, and
the tambourine rattled. "I do
not
want him to go in peace. I do
not
want him to go anywhere!" She crossed her arms beneath her bosom and gave
me a satisfied sneer.

I'm not your
husband!
I wanted to shout at her. Why did everyone
think I was the embodiment of their loved one? Or in this case, their despised
one. I once had a gentleman kiss me when I summoned his deceased fiancée. It
had been my first kiss, and hadn't been entirely unpleasant.

"Let him
go," Celia said, voice pitching unusually high. She shook her head
vigorously, dislodging a brown curl from beneath her hat. "He can't remain
here. It's his time to go, to cross over."

"I don't
want to cross over," Mr. Wiggam said.

"What?"
I blurted out.

"Did he say
something?" Celia asked me. I repeated what he'd said. "Good lord,"
she muttered so quietly I was probably the only one who heard her. Especially
since Mrs. Wiggam had started laughing hysterically.

"He wants
to stay?" The widow's grin turned smug. "Very well. It'll be just
like old times—living with a corpse."

One of the guests
snorted a laugh but I couldn't determine which of the ladies had done it. They
all covered their mouths with their gloved hands, attempting to hide their
snickers. They failed.

"Tell the
old crone I'm glad I died," Barnaby Wiggam said, straightening. "Being
dead without her is a far better state than being alive with her."

"No, no
this won't do," Celia said, thankfully saving me from repeating the
spirit's words. She stood up and placed a hand on Mrs. Wiggam's arm. "Your
husband
must
return. We summoned him at your behest to answer your
question and now he needs to cross over into the Otherworld."

Actually, he probably
wouldn't be crossing over. Not while there was so much lingering anger between
himself and his wife. He needed to release the anger before he could go
anywhere. Until then he was tied to this world and the Waiting Area. That's why
some places remain haunted—their ghosts aren't willing to give up the negative
emotion keeping them here. Although Celia knew that as well as I, she couldn't
be aware of the extent of Barnaby Wiggam's sour mood. She certainly couldn't
have known he deliberately lied to his wife about his fortune.

I sighed. As
always, I would have to explain it to her later.
After
we returned the
ghost to the Waiting Area. "You have to go back," I urged him. "You
shouldn't be here. Tell your widow you're sorry, or that you forgive her or
whatever and you can cross over and be at peace." At least that's what I
assumed happened. Since I wasn't able to summon anyone from the Otherworld—only
the Waiting Area—I couldn't know for sure what occurred in their final
destination. For all I knew the Otherworld was like a political meeting. Endless
and dull.

From what the
spirits had told me, all ghosts ended up in the Waiting Area until they'd been
assigned to a section in the Otherworld. Which section depended on how they'd
behaved in life. However, none knew the fate awaiting them in their respective
sections. It caused many of the ghosts I'd summoned an anxious wait.

"I'm not
sorry." Barnaby Wiggam sat in an old leather armchair by the hearth and
rubbed his knee as if it gave him pain although it couldn't possibly hurt now. He
seemed so at home there, nestled between the enormous rounded arms and deeply
cushioned high back, that I wondered if it had been his favorite chair. "I
think I'll stay a little longer. I rather fancy haunting the old witch. It'll
be a jolly time."

"Jolly!"
I spluttered. I appealed to Celia but she simply shrugged. "But you can't
do this!" I said to him. "It's...it's illegal!" Nothing like
this had happened to us in a year and a half of conducting séances. All our
spirits had duly answered the questions their loved ones posed then returned to
the Waiting Area, content and ready to cross over. Then again, we'd never
summoned anyone who clearly wasn't a loved one.

What had we
done?

Mr. Wiggam
picked up a journal from a nearby table and flipped open the pages.

A woman
screamed, others gasped, and one fainted into the arms of her friend. Only Celia,
Mrs. Wiggam and I remained calm. Celia was used to seeing objects move without
being touched, and I of course could see the ghostly form holding the journal. I
suspect Mrs. Wiggam was simply made of sterner stuff than her companions.

"The
Ladies
Pictorial
! Utter trash." Mr. Wiggam threw the journal back onto the
table where it collected a porcelain cat figurine and sent it clattering to the
floor. The two ears and the tip of the tail broke off. He laughed. "I
never liked that thing."

Mrs. Wiggam
simply stepped around the pieces and flung open the heavy velvet drapes. Hazy light
bathed the drawing room in sepia tones. London's days were not bright but I
suspected the Wiggams' drawing room would always be dreary even if the sun
dared show its face. The dark burgundy walls and squat, heavy furniture made
the space feel small and crowded, particularly with all of us crammed into it. I
took a deep breath but the air was smoky, close, and stuck in my throat.

"Let's have
some refreshments, shall we?" Mrs. Wiggam said as if she didn't have a
care in the world. She tugged the bell-pull then bent over the woman who'd
fainted, now reclining in one of the chairs at the card table. She slapped her
friend's cheeks then saw to it she was made comfortable with an extra cushion at
her back.

I turned to Celia.
She frowned at me. "Close your mouth, Emily, you are not a fish."

I duly shut my
mouth. Then opened it again to speak. "What are we to do?" I
whispered.

Celia huffed out
a breath and looked thoughtful as she fingered the large amulet dangling from a
strip of leather around her neck. She'd purchased it last Thursday from the peddler
woman who sells bits and pieces door-to-door. Considering Celia was a stickler
for maintaining the same format for our drawing room séances, I was surprised
when she'd produced a new artifact. It was rather a magnificent piece though,
made of heavy brass in the shape of a star with delicate filigree between the
six points. Etched into the brass were swirls and strange, twisting patterns. It
looked like an ancient tribal token I'd once seen in a museum. I could see why
she'd accepted it although the fact it cost her nothing was probably a factor. Celia
was not so careless with our meager income that she would squander it on
trinkets.

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