by Bev Robitai
There was a quiet footfall on the creaky stairs outside her office. She froze, listening intently.
‘Jessica? Are you there?’
Phil popped his head through her doorway and hesitated. ‘Sorry to interrupt your work, but I’m going to need a new paintbrush. The only ones left in the paint room are solid as rocks. Shall I go and buy one, and is there any petty cash to cover it?’
‘Oh! Sure, that’s no problem,’ said Jessica, trying to not show that she’d been momentarily startled. She rummaged in a drawer for the cash tin. ‘Here’s a tenner, will that be enough?’
He advanced into the narrow office to take it from her.
‘Are you OK, Jessica? You look a bit worried – oh.’
Understanding hit him like a sack of rocks and his whole body slumped. ‘Please, don’t say that you’re scared of me. Jesus, Jessica, how long have we known each other? You can’t possibly think that I could murder someone, could you?’
‘No, of course not! You idiot! No, I was engrossed in what I was doing and you startled me, that’s all. Honestly, I’d have looked just as much like a stunned mullet if Gert had walked in here exactly the way you did.’
He looked relieved. ‘Thank God for that. I thought you were one of the sanest people round this place, and if you started suspecting me then I must be guilty.’ He managed a laugh. ‘I’ll go and get that paintbrush then, OK?’
‘Righto then, off you trot. I’ll get the paint ready for you while you’re gone.’
She listened to the stairs creaking under his departing footsteps and smacked herself on the forehead, muttering. ‘Well that made him feel better, didn’t it? Sure Pippa, I’ll look after him. He’ll forget all his worries, helping me out with theatre jobs. Way to go, Jessica, make him think he’s the scariest thing in town since Simone hit menopause.’ She strode off to sort out some paint.
Back at her desk, an email pinged onto her screen from Nick.
Hi Jessica, here’s a copy of the piece I’ve sent to the paper, the 1878 stuff. Hopefully they’ll print it in the next day or so. Also attached, the condolence letter to the Fitzpatricks for you to check and approve, since it’s coming from the committee.
‘I’ve been talking to the tourism department at the city council and they’re keen to include the theatre on a “Whetford historic places tour” brochure. It would mean staffing the place during office hours and at weekends so that people could be shown around. What do you think?
‘I’d love to come and discuss this stuff with you - if you’re free, how about lunch today? We really should have a good talk and clear the air between us.
Yours,
Nick
Jessica read the message and frowned. How was she going to get out of that? Then she grinned and jumped up from her desk. She yelled down the stairs to Phil.
‘Hey, Phil! You back? Do you want to have lunch with Nick and me later? We’ll go someplace quiet, I promise, so you won’t be gawked at. Does that sound like a plan?’
‘I guess so,’ he called back. ‘A man’s got to eat.’
Jessica typed a return message accepting Nick’s invitation and suggesting they meet in a small out-of-the-way café down by the river. Nick might be a bit miffed when Phil showed up as well and he saw that it wasn’t a secluded tête-à-tête with her, but too bad. She figured there was safety in numbers.
In the event, Nick swallowed his disappointment quietly, with only the faintest reproachful look at Jessica when she entered the café with Phil in tow.
‘Hi Jessica, Phil. How – ah, convenient that you’re free to join us, Phil. We should be able to work out some good ideas for promotion between the three of us.’
Jessica rewarded him with a smile and a compliment.
‘I liked your sympathy letter, Nick, it was beautifully phrased. It should have just the effect we want – conveying our condolences to the Fitzpatricks while keeping the public on our side as well. It should keep those blasted developers from shooting their mouths off for a while too, otherwise they’ll look very callous and uncaring.’ She nodded towards the counter. ‘Shall we grab a bite to eat? I’m starving.’
They organised their food and went to a table in the far corner. Phil sat with his back to the room. Jessica waited until Nick sat down then chose a seat between them where she could enjoy the view of the tree-shaded river.
‘I’m not too sure about offering regular tours of the theatre though, Nick,’ said Jessica, getting back to the business in hand. ‘Putting that into a brochure would be a long-term commitment, and we’d need to talk it through at committee level. But there’s always the option of doing a few special tours, just for a couple of weekends for instance.’
Nick and Phil both nodded, chewing thoughtfully.
‘I know MaryAnn was a bit scathing about ghoulish tours taking advantage of the murder, but we could promote theatre tours without any mention of that, couldn’t we?’ Jessica was getting warmed up now. ‘People might well be curious about the theatre just because there’s been a murder there, but we would advertise the tours simply as opening up a historic building to the public. Why they come is up to them.’
‘I see your point,’ said Nick, swallowing his mouthful. ‘We use their unseemly interest in a crime site but without being seen to exploit it. Great idea, Jessica.’
‘Do you think we should wait until after the show has finished?’ asked Phil. ‘It’s a bit risky having the public tramping through backstage when we’ve got props and wardrobe things lying about – bits might get nicked as souvenirs.’
‘Oh, I think we can manage that scenario,’ said Jessica. ‘We can grab a theatre member and dress them up as a policeman to stand guard out back. It can all be part of the show. Anything really vital can be put away while the tours are on, of course. We need to strike while the iron’s hot on this, while people are still interested in the place. Plus it’ll be great promotion for the show. Thank goodness we’re doing a murder mystery – imagine how badly it would fit with a ballet or a pantomime!’
‘OK Jessica, could you ring round the committee to get the go-ahead and then email me? I can get an advert in ready for this Saturday if I know by tomorrow.’
‘Good timing,’ said Phil. ‘School holidays start this weekend and I know only too well that ravening hordes of the local student body will be mad keen to see where a murder happened. Just don’t ask me to be on tour duty, please!’
‘Sure about that?’ teased Jessica. ‘You could give them all that extra background about being interrogated by the police, and history is your special-interest subject, too. I really think you should be there, Phil.’
‘My duty to the theatre doesn’t extend that far, I’m afraid. Find yourself a well-educated lion-tamer, he’ll have all the skills needed for the job.’
‘Right,’ said Nick, ‘I’d better get back to work. Thanks for coming, you two. It was lovely to see you Jessica,’ he added in a low voice as Phil was walking away.
‘Nice to see you too, Nick,’ she said brightly. ‘Glad your injuries are healing so well. I’ll email you later, OK? Bye!’ She made a quick exit leaving him gathering up his papers looking faintly forlorn.
The advert for the weekend tours ran in Wednesday’s paper. In Thursday’s paper, Bayldon Oliver let rip in a scathing letter to the editor.
What sort of society do we live in that allows commercial exploitation of a young girl’s tragic death? The Regent Theatre, long a hotbed of crime, is now inviting the public to gloat over a murder scene. One might expect a period of mourning. One might expect quiet contemplation and grief. But the Regent Theatre Committee has seen fit to invite all comers to visit the site where poor little Tamara Fitzpatrick was brutally slain less than two weeks ago.
They should be ashamed. Our entire town should be ashamed. That old and dangerous building should be removed at the earliest opportunity to prevent any more such vicious crimes against helpless young women.
Bayldon Oliver plans to dedicate a memorial fo
untain to Tamara Fitzpatrick as a centrepiece in the new mall waiting to be built on the site where the aged Regent Theatre currently stands.
On Thursday evening, Bruce Fitzpatrick came to the theatre and sought out Jessica, feverishly insistent that she speak with him.
‘I have to ask that you reconsider holding these tours of the theatre. It’s inappropriate and disrespectful.’
She could see from his pale skin and rapid breathing that he was only just keeping it together. He held a hand to his mouth for a moment then continued in a low, trembling voice. ‘My wife Ruth is very emotional, very highly-strung. This has been hard enough on her as it is. The extra publicity – she’s – I’m afraid for her, I really am.’ He put a hand on Jessica’s arm. ‘You have to stop the tours. You MUST.’ His grip tightened. ‘Let our daughter rest in peace, please. We just want this to fade away quietly. You have to listen to me.’
He was shaking her now, quite violently. ‘You must! You have to stop people talking about her! Please, I beg you, make them stop!’
‘Hey!’ Jessica’s bellow stopped him in his tracks. He let go of her arm and she rubbed it angrily. Then sympathy for his obvious distress overtook the pain of her bruises. ‘Bruce, I understand how upset you are, and I’m terribly sorry that this has caused your family more distress on top of what you’re already suffering. Of course we’ll respect your wishes.’
Tears of relief welled in his eyes. ‘Oh thank the good Lord. My wife will be able to put this all behind her at last. I’ve been so afraid.’
Jessica had a sudden dire thought. ‘Just one small thing, Bruce. When we call off the tours we’ll have to run some adverts to let people know they are cancelled. It’ll mean more public announcements, and might generate more speculation.’ He paled, trembling. Jessica sat him down on the foyer sofa before he passed out. ‘Bruce, are you all right? Shall I get you some water?’ He shook his head, staring up at her miserably. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just let things continue quietly?’ she said. ‘I can promise that there’ll be absolutely no mention of Tamara or anything at all about her circumstances while people are in here, and the public will be very strictly limited as to where they can go inside the building. We’re not trying to take advantage of a tragedy. All we want to do is to show people this wonderful historic building so that they appreciate it and don’t allow it to be torn down.’
She looked into his reddened, watery eyes. His entire body was shaking as he wrung his hands. Jessica reached out to touch his bony shoulder.
‘What would you like us to do, Bruce? It’s entirely up to you. Shall we run more advertisements to cancel the tours, or allow them to proceed with respect?’
‘No more advertisements! Please! Ruth would… That mustn’t happen.’ He swallowed. ‘Nothing more in the newspaper. Do the tours if you must, but no more publicity about the girl. No more.’
He turned and fled, leaving Jessica still rubbing her bruised arm and feeling equally bruised inside. What had they done to these poor grieving parents? She shook her head sadly. Was it all worth it? How could they ever make it up to them? Nothing could bring Tamara back, but it would be another tragedy if the theatre had to die as well.
On Saturday morning Jessica reluctantly hauled herself out of bed early enough to get things organised at the theatre ready for opening to the public at 10am. She locked the few vital props away in the downstairs props room and made sure the dressing rooms were tidy. At 9.45am Stewart showed up to do guard duty backstage, and she outfitted him with a police uniform from wardrobe. He didn’t look terribly convincing, but he assured her that he would keep a close eye on things. At 10am she went to open the front door.
A queue of people waited, lined up right along the front of the theatre, many of them trying to peer into the foyer. It seemed that public interest was high, and Jessica mentally rubbed her hands together at the prospect of winning over more supporters to their cause. She unlocked the door and they surged forwards.
‘Welcome, everybody,’ she said. ‘Please come in. Gather in the foyer and I’ll give you a few brief facts about this great old building.’
When they were all inside, Jessica climbed a few steps up the sweeping foyer staircase to address them. Twenty-odd faces turned towards her expectantly. She consulted her notes.
“Friends, hail and welcome, triumph and delight
at your fair presence fill our hearts tonight.
Within this pretty building, nobly graced
With beauty, form, intelligence and taste.”
‘Those were the first words spoken on stage at the opening of the Regent Theatre, on July 18th 1878, to a packed house of over a thousand people. Considering that the town had a population of 6000, it wasn’t a bad turnout.’ She paused and smiled. ‘The auditorium is still the same size as it was then, but now we give people a little more comfort and only seat 380.’
‘Excuse me,’ said a young woman with bottle-blonde hair. ‘Can we see where the murder happened?’
There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the crowd.
Jessica’s heart sank. These weren’t potential converts to the cause. These were the ghoulish thrill-seekers that Bruce had been so afraid of. Still, perhaps she could turn their curiosity into genuine interest if she played them right.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘But first I must ask that if any of you suffers from a heart condition, would you please stay seated in the foyer while we go into the auditorium.’
There were excited whispers among the spectators.
‘And if any of you are particularly sensitive to psychic influences, I would ask you to remain outside as well. The theatre has several resident ghosts and they don’t always welcome our intrusion into their world.’
By now everyone in the group was eager to get inside to see for themselves. Jessica asked for silence. She moved towards the doors to the auditorium, the crowd instantly making way for her. She paused on the steps and spoke with authority.
‘Please stay together and walk slowly towards the stage. Stop at the foot of those steps and only then turn and look back.’
Eyes wide, they followed her instructions without argument, filing down the aisle between the rows of seats until they reached the front of the room. Assembled in the open space between the seats and the stage, they turned as one and looked back at the auditorium. Jessica spoke in a quiet voice so that they strained to hear her.
‘If you count three seats along from the aisle in row L, that’s three from the back on the right hand side, you may see the shape of the grey lady. She was a devoted regular theatre-goer who passed away one evening in the middle of a show, sometime in the 1920s.’
Heads nodded as they counted off the seats and stared hard at L13.
‘I see her!’ The bottle-blonde cried out excitedly, and was shushed by the rest of the group. They peered all the harder, hoping to see a wispy grey shape for themselves.
‘Another of our spirit friends hovers above row J, that’s five from the back wall, also on the right. Tragically, he plunged to his death from the balcony above. Nobody is quite sure why he jumped.’
There was an awed silence while they studied the rows of plain brown seat backs.
‘He’s telling me it was because of a lost love,’ confided a grey-haired lady in a hushed whisper. ‘She was drowned at sea and he never got over it.’
The crowd murmured in sympathy.
‘Can you imagine how these poor lost souls would feel if their quiet refuge here was turned into a shopping mall?’ Jessica asked them. ‘We can’t let that happen, can we?’
They all shook their heads. She led them up the steps onto the stage and allowed them one last look before taking them backstage for the rest of the tour. Stewart stood to attention as they came through and Jessica winked at him. Once she had led them through the rest of building and along the side corridor to the foyer, she gave them a few final words.
‘I hope you’ve seen how special the Regent Theatre is, a
nd how important it is to keep it safe for the future. We’re relying on people like you to speak up on our behalf – not just for the living theatre-goers, but for those who have gone before. Now, are there any questions?’
‘Yeah. We didn’t see any bloodstains. Where was the murder done?’ A pot-bellied man in a black t-shirt and grubby jeans sounded aggrieved.
‘Ah,’ said Jessica. ‘Out of deference to the victim’s grieving family we’ve given a promise not to talk about the recent homicide. But I can tell you that the entire auditorium carpet has been steam-cleaned in the last week.’
There were nodded heads and sighs of satisfaction. Jessica moved towards the exit.
‘Thank you all so much for coming. If you’d like to make a donation there’s a collection box by the door on your way out.’
She saw them off, picked up the day’s mail, and went backstage to find Stewart.
‘Look at this,’ she crowed, shaking the collection box. ‘Heaps of dosh! It looks like this crazy idea might just work after all!’
‘That’s great! And if that lot tell their friends, we might get even more people tomorrow.’
He stopped, seeing her face change as she flicked through the mail.
‘What’s up?’
She looked at him, frowning, and held out a folded sheet of purple paper. He took it and started to read out loud.
“The LORD is a jealous God, filled with vengeance and wrath. He takes revenge on all who oppose him and furiously destroys his enemies! The LORD is slow to get angry, but his power is great, and he never lets the guilty go unpunished.
