Chapter Seventeen
Emma found Leila in the foyer, absorbed in something on her phone. ‘Right, shall we go and take a look in the library?’ she suggested.
Leila slipped her phone into her coat pocket. ‘What have you done with Ulysses and Pixie?’
‘Left them in the VIP room,’ Emma answered.
‘How long did they say it would take?’
‘Anything, really. Could take half an hour or four.’ She shrugged. ‘Each case is different, I suppose.’
‘Do you believe her?’ Leila pulled a face that suggested that, for her at least, the jury was still out. ‘I mean, it’s hard to prove, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Speaking to ghosts.’
Emma didn’t want to admit that she was apprehensive.
‘I do believe her, because I want to believe her,’ she confessed.
‘But I am worried that I’ve invited a pair of frauds into our midst. Pixie said she saw the ghost of Nessa Blunt acting on stage last night, alongside Rebecca.
The only thing that makes me feel positive, besides my gut instinct, is that every time Nessa seems to appear, the temperature drops.
And it was very cold in the theatre last night, wasn’t it, in spite of the heating and the people? ’
Leila was dubious. ‘Someone could have left the door open.’
Emma didn’t want to look for holes. She was fearful she might find one. ‘Look, why don’t we go to the library and see what we can find out about Nessa Blunt,’ she suggested, making for the door. ‘Then, when Pixie is done, we can compare her story with ours. The fire was front-page news, right?’
‘Better than the library,’ said Leila cheerfully. ‘My friend Jenny Pilkington edits the Seacombe Gazette. Has done for years. I imagine they’ll have records going back to 1923. That paper has been around since the turn of the last century. I’ll give her a call and see if we can pop in.’
Half an hour later the two women were standing outside a big white townhouse on Church Street.
Leila rang the bell beside the name Seacombe Gazette which was listed among a few other businesses on the shiny brass panel.
When requested, she gave her name through the intercom and the door clicked open.
Inside, the young woman behind the reception desk sent them up to the first floor via a lift.
The office of the Seacombe Gazette was small and not very busy.
There were a few people sitting at their desks, tapping away on keyboards, and one or two talking on the telephone, or chatting together over mugs of coffee.
Jenny Pilkington, petite with intelligent blue eyes and ice-blonde hair gathered into a scruffy bun, was there to greet them.
At seventy-seven she was still formidable and full of vigour.
She wore a brightly coloured cardigan and scarf over a long purple skirt, and her wrists jangled with African bracelets.
She smiled, smoothing out the lines that smoking had etched into the skin around her lips.
‘Nice to see you again, Emma,’ she said.
The two women shook hands. ‘I remember the day your husband decided to buy a house in Seacombe.’
Leila grinned at Emma. ‘And I hired him to run the theatre.’
‘I thank you both,’ said Emma with genuine gratitude.
‘I had my heart set on moving here, and Joseph was reluctant. I remember I left him for ten minutes while I went to buy something at the pharmacy, and when I joined him in the pub, he was sharing a bottle of wine with the two of you and celebrating his decision to live and work here. Really, you are officially my two favourite people in Seacombe!’
Jenny chuckled. ‘Come,’ she said, leading them through the office to an airy boardroom that looked out over the grey tiled roofs of Seacombe.
‘I’ll set you up with tea and coffee and then you can trawl through the archives at your leisure.
They’ve all gone digital. I’m sure you’ll go down a few rabbit holes.
I’ve lost myself many times in old editions.
Fascinating to read the minutiae of daily life in the past.’
Emma and Leila sat side by side at the long table with cups of strong coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits, scrolling through the archives on the laptop Jenny’s assistant had set up for them.
It was connected to a big screen so they could read the articles together.
It didn’t take them long to find the edition that featured the fire.
On the front page was a black-and-white photograph of the Aphrodite in flames, and the headline Fire Kills Heiress at the Aphrodite.
‘God, it’s horrific to read about our dear old theatre,’ said Emma, scanning the words quickly to find out whether Nessa Blunt was mentioned.
Leila pushed her spectacles up her nose. ‘There it is: Vanessa Blunt, 28, youngest daughter of wealthy industrialist Humphrey Blunt, was tragically killed in the fire that ravaged the historic Aphrodite theatre in Seacombe on Wednesday 9th May. Poor lamb. She was only twenty-eight. Imagine!’
Emma was relieved to read that Nessa had been a real person, and that her death in the fire was true. ‘Her body was found in Gilda Garrett’s dressing room.’
‘That name rings a bell,’ said Leila ponderously.
‘Well, she was an actress, obviously.’
‘I’ve heard her name somewhere. Lord, I can’t for the life of me remember where.’
‘It’ll come if you don’t try too hard,’ said Emma, clicking onto the next edition.
‘Probably in the middle of the night,’ Leila chortled and put her coffee cup to her lips, leaving a crimson stain around the rim.
‘Let’s see if it says anything about how the fire started,’ Emma murmured, narrowing her eyes to read the print, which was quite small. ‘The blaze interrupted the opening night of Macbeth, directed by Taran Bentley, with the luscious Gilda Garrett in the leading role of Lady Macbeth.’
‘Good Lord!’ Leila exclaimed. ‘That can’t be a coincidence.’
Emma’s excitement was ignited. ‘How extraordinary. Nessa dies on the opening night of Macbeth in 1923 and returns to create havoc on the opening night of Macbeth in 2014. That’s almost ninety-one years later. That has to be significant, right?’
‘What else does it say?’
Emma read on. ‘In spite of the scheming nature of Shakespeare’s most famous play, there appears to be nothing underhand here.
Firemen who swiftly arrived on the scene to put out the flames found no immediate evidence of foul play.
However, an investigation into the start of the fire has been launched …
’ Emma scanned to the next paragraph. ‘Besides a few who were taken to hospital, no one else was seriously hurt.’
‘No skullduggery,’ said Leila. ‘How disappointing!’
‘Seems not,’ said Emma.
She scrolled through the following editions. The two women sat in silence as they read the relevant articles.
‘This is interesting,’ said Emma, at last. ‘They think it started in Gilda Garrett’s dressing room. An oil lamp. The building was so old, it went up like a matchbox.’
‘See if you can find anything about Gilda online,’ Leila suggested, sitting back in her chair and draining her coffee cup. ‘It’s really annoying me.’ She sighed. ‘I’m getting old.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Emma laughed.
‘Old and forgetful.’ Leila took off her spectacles to clean them with her scarf. ‘Old age is not for sissies, you know.’
Emma typed Gilda Garrett into Google. ‘This is disappointing too. There’s no Gilda Garrett. There’s Gilda Gray, but no Garrett.’
‘Gilda Gray was a famous film star in the 1920s,’ said Leila.
Emma clicked on the name Gilda Gray and read the first few lines of her entry on Wikipedia. ‘Not our Gilda,’ she said. ‘How annoying.’
‘It’s irrelevant, really,’ said Leila. ‘The most interesting thing is that Nessa Blunt did die in the fire that night. Madge is right about that. It’ll be interesting to see whether Pixie Tate mentions Gilda Garrett, and that they were performing Macbeth.’
‘Yes, it’ll be a test.’ Emma gave Leila a sheepish look. ‘I do hope she passes.’
When the two women made their way back to the theatre, it was just after midday. Fog was rolling inland off the sea, bringing light drizzle and a damp wind. ‘Winter is coming,’ said Emma in a portentous tone, quoting from the TV series Game of Thrones.
Leila pulled her coat tighter about her. ‘It certainly is,’ she replied. ‘At my age, I don’t grumble about the weather. I’m grateful for anything I’m given.’
‘That’s dark.’
‘This business about ghosts has focused my mind somewhat,’ said Leila.
‘Death is a subject we don’t want to think about much, even less discuss, but we’ll all meet it in the end, one way or another.
It’s inevitable. It’s a comfort to think that there’s somewhere we all go to. That we simply don’t become dust.’
‘I most certainly believe in Heaven,’ said Emma firmly.
Leila glanced at her, a thoughtful expression on her face.
‘I don’t think it really matters whether it’s true or not,’ she said wisely.
‘If you believe it’s true, life will be more pleasant.
The fact is, none of us knows what happens after we die.
That’s the one thing we have in common, atheists and believers alike. None of us knows.’
‘Pixie sounds like she knows more than most,’ said Emma, more confident now that Pixie was the real deal.
‘She told me that some spirits get stuck in a limbo between earth and heaven. They’re called earthbound spirits.
They can’t move on and need help. That’s what Nessa Blunt is.
An earthbound spirit who can’t find her way home – or doesn’t want to. ’
‘I don’t disbelieve her,’ said Leila magnanimously. ‘I just don’t know anything about it. I find the paranormal world fascinating, but mysterious, and a little scary, to be honest. I certainly wouldn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and see a ghost. I’d rather never see a ghost.’
Emma laughed. ‘I’d like to see one. A nice one. Not a mean one. My grandmother, for example. Just to have an experience. To know that we live on. To have proof.’