The Haunting of Highdown Hall

by Shani Struthers

  “A former resident of the asylum with a fetish for soap operas...” Theo had mused. “It takes all sorts, I suppose.”

  The new website was working a treat, prompting enquiries from as far afield as Orkney about the services they provided. In fact, when she checked, there were several from Orkney – just what was going on up there in the mystic Highlands? If even half the enquiries came to fruition they’d be working non-stop well into the new year. She’d have to think about the previously unheard of question of travel expenses now, it seemed – there was no way the team could fund trips as far afield as Scotland themselves.

  Before getting onto Google, Ruby made a mug of tea and then returned to her desk, stepping over Jed who had taken up his favourite spot in front of the fire. She knew, technically, she didn’t have to step over him, she could walk right through him, but she didn’t want to offend his sensibilities. She also replied to a text from Cash saying she’d meet him at three o’clock outside Rawlings’ flat. He was working in Brighton until then and would go straight there when he was finished.

  Flexing her fingers, she began typing Cynthia Hart’s name alongside various phrases into the search engine, wondering how many times she had done so during the month of December, dozens at least she estimated. Top of the list as usual was Wikipedia, chronicling every detail of the movie star’s life. There were also a couple of Cynthia Hart fan sites with similar biographies, gossip and newspaper articles, and various YouTube clips of her accepting her Oscar, resplendent in a turquoise Dior ball gown according to the blurb accompanying it, and in the hallowed presence of other award-winning actors and actresses such as Tony Curtis, Paul Newman, Susan Hayward and Shirley MacLaine. Ruby could just imagine the after-show party for that one, how glamorous it must have been, and Cynthia, a Brighton girl, right at the heart of it. Several pages of search results in, rather ghoulishly, she discovered a site entitled The Death of Cynthia Hart which devoted itself entirely to detailing the events of the last party ever held at Highdown Hall: how she was found dead from a heart attack in her bedroom, several photographs of grieving friends and party guests, and a description of the funeral held two weeks later at a church in London, St Mary’s in the West End, mourners spilling into the streets apparently. Theatre lights around the country had been turned off for an hour on the evening of her funeral; a mark of deep respect from the film and theatre world, mourning her untimely demise. Images galore of the actress peppered the net, film stills as well as more personal pictures, some formal, others capturing her in more natural, less stylised poses. Always she was smiling; always she was accompanied by leading lights of the day, not just John Sterling, but Gregory Peck, Alec Guinness, and a particularly sweet one with Cary Grant, the pair of them giggling, as though sharing some private joke. It was in the pictures with John Sterling, however, that she shone the brightest, her eyes glittering – but with what exactly? Lust? Love? If the latter, why had she kept him so determinedly at arm’s length? Why not give into him? It was well documented that Sterling had asked her to be his wife on several occasions, but she had never accepted. Why not? She seemed to yearn for him in death and, certainly, her end had been the beginning of the end for him, so it was obvious the bond between them was real.

  Scouring through acres of virtual pages for the umpteenth time did not yield any new information. Cynthia’s public life genuinely appeared to be without stain, everyone seemed to adore her and her private life had remained just that, private – a remarkable feat for one so famous. She had moved to London in 1941 to seek fame and fortune aged just fourteen, young by today’s standards but more the norm in those days it would seem, leaving her mother and younger brother, Jack, behind in Brighton. Apart from that, not much else was known about her early years. Ruby wondered if Jack might still be alive, after all Geoffrey Rawlings had been. So, as Theo had done with Rawlings, she spent some time checking through the records of all the Jack Harts that resided in England; there were dozens and dozens of them. Locally, in East Sussex, there were three, but being in their thirties, fifties and sixties, age ruled them out as the Jack Hart. More than likely, Ruby surmised, Jack had followed the usual route, a job as a mechanic perhaps, or an insurance man, marriage and kids. Or perhaps he had emigrated to Australia, a lot of people did in the 1960s and 70s – taking advantage of the ‘ten pound passage’ to find a better life. If he was still alive, he could be anywhere in the world and, again, their resources didn’t stretch to the phone bills or man hours that checking up on every Jack Hart would incur. Cynthia’s mother had been called Mary, but on Cynthia’s birth certificate, which Theo had checked earlier at the record office, her father had been listed as ‘unknown’. Mary had never married nor, it seemed, been on good terms with the father of her children, if indeed the same man had fathered both.

  Tapping the fingers of her right hand on her desk, Ruby wondered if Cynthia had become estranged from her immediate family. Certainly she had not come across any photographs of them together. Had her mother outlived her? There had been no mention of her as being at her funeral, or her brother for that matter, the papers had focused only on the famous in attendance. Perhaps she hadn’t outlived her; perhaps Mary had died before Cynthia? It was feasible and easily checked, she supposed, at the record office, if only she could find the time to visit. Whatever had happened, neither mother nor brother figured heavily in her life; figured at all.

  Cynthia’s spectacular career and determined rise from humble beginnings had been amazing, and was something Ruby found fascinating in its own right. Her first role of note had actually been in the West End, playing the maid, Rosalie, in Oscar Wilde’s Lady Windermere’s Fan. She had trodden the boards quite a bit when she was younger and reading about it Ruby could almost smell the greasepaint, almost feel the excitement that must have charged the air before going ‘live’ each night. Gradually, Cynthia’s stage roles had became more prominent and she moved into film at the age of twenty-three, supporting parts still, but in a variety of comedies, dramas and thrillers, proving herself versatile at least. It wasn’t until the early 1950s that she had landed the starring role in The Phoenix and her first major award for Best Actress. America invited her to Hollywood after that. A second award was won for Intruders, and then the biggie – the Oscar – for The Elitists, in which she starred alongside John Sterling. That was in 1958 – the year she died. In 1959, she would have been moving to the USA, although she had stated quite clearly in the press that she’d be doing so only for as long as it took to complete her next starring role in Atlantic, which was being touted as the most ambitious film in cinematic history, based as it was around one of the deadliest peacetime disasters in modern history, the sinking of the Titanic. At the time of her death, the media-hype for Atlantic was at boiling point; the world wanting not only to see such a cinematic feat, but the great Cynthia Hart in the leading role of Lady Agatha Darnell in particular. Worldwide disappointment that she never boarded that ship was often cited as one of the reasons the film had bombed.

  Poor Cynthia, thought Ruby. To be felled at the height of her career and by a heart attack of all things, it was unfair. Little wonder she was having a hard time coming to terms with it. Sudden passing was something Ruby dealt with often. Just last month she had been asked to make contact with a man who had been sitting up in bed, responding to emails. When he had finished, he had closed his laptop, placed it on his bedside table, turned to his wife to say goodnight and promptly died. A year or so after his death, his wife had called Ruby, seeking help. According to her, her husband was still sitting beside her in bed, occupying the exact same spot in which he had died.

  “I can’t see him, you understand,” she had endeavoured to explain. “But I can feel him. Do you know what I mean?”

  At first she had found it comforting, but as time wore on and her heart had begun to heal, it became less so.

  “It’s off-putting. If I want to bring someone home, you know, another man, I can’t exactly take them to the bedroom,
can I? Not with him there.”

  Ruby could see her point.

  When she had arrived at the woman’s home to carry out the survey, she had sensed him immediately. James, aged fifty-one, was indeed still very much present.

  Asking his wife if they might have some time alone together, Ruby had settled herself on the edge of the bed and gently explained to James that he had passed, that, according to his doctors, an aneurysm had been the cause of death, lying dormant for years before erupting as spectacularly as Mount Vesuvius. Gently, she had explained to him that this stage of his spiritual journey was over and it was time to move on. James had not welcomed the news.

  But I love life. I don’t want it to be over. Our first grandchild has just been born.

  Ruby had bowed her head at his words. She understood. She enjoyed life too. Even more so now that Cash was in it. And like most people, she’d prefer some notice before it came to an end. But recent grandchild or not, James had been earthbound for long enough, it was time to go home, to his real home that is. Ruby believed people were born with a ‘sell-by’ date – when you had learnt the lessons you were supposed to learn, when you had played your part in the bigger picture, it was time to move to a higher plane, or perhaps to return to the physical world again in some other guise, ready to learn new lessons. Some lives were unbearably short, some were extraordinarily long. Perhaps it depended on the lessons you had to learn.

  Although James was resistant at first, gradually she had made him understand he couldn’t stay. Whilst he absorbed this they sat in silence, Ruby listening to the sound of the clock ticking on his wife’s side of the bed – counting the seconds, the minutes along with it. Eventually, he had made a show of pushing the blankets back before stepping out of bed. Then he made his way slowly to the far wall where the light was shining. Ruby watched him go, a strange mix of emotions vying for attention in her, happy emotions mostly, but slight melancholy too. If she could wave a wand, she’d give him the extra years he wanted to spend with his wife, his grandchild; she’d do it for all of them. But just before he faded from view, James had done something which had surprised her. He had turned to Ruby and mouthed the words: Thank you. There had been no sadness in his eyes at all, just acceptance she was glad to note, acceptance and something else – something that looked very much like excitement. She hoped so. Rarely was a spirit so polite. If his wife was looking for another man, she would have a long way to go before she found her husband’s equal.

  Comparing this case of sudden death to Cynthia’s, Ruby was sure that although Cynthia’s abrupt passing had also left her bereft, she would have been able to move on by now if it hadn’t been for the malevolent entity in the shadows. That was the key to success at Highdown Hall, finding out just who her tormenter was. Sadly, it was that very information that was continuing to elude her.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Find out anything new today?” said Cash, after turning up ten minutes late outside Rawlings’ flat, cursing the horrendous Christmas traffic.

  “Not a bloody thing,” Ruby replied, more dismayed than irritated. “Everybody loved Cynthia, or so it seems.”

  “What a bummer. We’ve got so little time left.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Ruby sighed.

  “When are we going to Highdown again?” asked Cash as they descended the stairs to the basement.

  “On Monday. Christmas Eve.”

  “The anniversary of her death? Spooky.”

  “I’m not sure about spooky, but meaningful certainly. Theo thinks the energies in the house will be more prevalent then and possibly more pliable to work with.”

  “To shift you mean?”

  “You’ve got it,” Ruby nodded.

  While they waited for Rawlings to open the door, Cash peered at the bags she was carrying.

  “What have you got there?”

  “Mostly ready meals, a few tins of soup,” she answered, “stuff that’s easy for him to cook. I don’t think he’s capable of spending much time in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll go halves with you,” Cash offered immediately.

  “You don’t have to,” Ruby protested.

  “I want to,” he insisted.

  The minutes passed as they stood patiently at the front door, smiling into each other’s eyes. Too many minutes, Ruby realised with a start.

  “Where is he?” she queried, ringing the doorbell yet again.

  Still there was no reply, only the sound of the dog from deep within, barking frantically.

  “He does know we’re coming today, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. I rang him first thing this morning to say we’d come by, he said it was fine, he wasn’t going anywhere. Apparently, he never goes anywhere.”

  “Well, he hasn’t taken the dog for a walk, that’s for sure. The poor thing’s not happy.”

  “Something’s wrong,” said Ruby at last. “I can feel it.”

  “Me too,” agreed Cash. “Do you think he’s fallen or something?”

  “Or something.” Ruby’s face was grim. “Can you push against the door, Cash, try and open it?”

  “Shouldn’t we just call the police?” Cash looked worried too now.

  “If we call the police, we might not be allowed in. And I... I want to make sure that if he’s passed, he’s passed successfully. I don’t want him left there alone anymore.”

  “Passed? You think he’s dead?”

  “I think he is,” Ruby replied solemnly.

  “Okay,” Cash said after a few moments. “Stand back, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Flexing his right arm first, he threw his full weight against the door. It remained steadfast. Taking a deep breath, he did so again, this time it gave a little. A third crash sent the door flying open. The carrier bags forgotten, Ruby rushed in, down the hallway, opening the door to the living room where she found Rawlings sitting in his armchair, his dog barking at his feet.

  “Easy boy,” said Cash, edging slowly towards the dog, one hand held out in supplication. “It’s okay, we’re here now.”

  While Cash took care of the dog, Ruby rushed over to him.

  “Mr Rawlings, Geoffrey!” she yelled. “It’s me, Ruby, are you okay?”

  Stupid question. He was clearly not okay, she knew that.

  Kneeling beside him, his whiskered face was completely devoid of colour, not even a hint of grey in it now; his rheumy eyes were open and stared back at her blankly. His expression surprised rather than shocked; a good sign she decided. She closed his eyes gently before briefly taking hold of his gnarled hand, the one still clutching at his chest.

  A heart attack, Ruby presumed, and a sudden one at that. The television was still blaring, his beloved BBC1 airing what looked like some family quiz show. She switched it off quickly, wanting to silence the inappropriate canned laughter. Walking over to the curtains, she allowed what scant winter light there was outside to come in. Next, she grabbed hold of one of the chairs that lived under the table; the same chair she had occupied during her first visit to Rawlings’ flat, and dragged it over to sit beside him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, once again taking his hand in hers.

  “Why are you sorry?” Cash stood a few feet from her, holding the dog to his chest.

  “Because I probably hastened his death, taking him to Highdown Hall. Because when he passed, he passed alone. Because I didn’t get here sooner.”

  “It’s not your fault. He was old; it was his time to go.”

  “But he hasn’t gone,” Ruby said. “He’s still very much here.”

  Ruby sensed the dog knew his master was in residence too, but couldn’t understand why now there were suddenly two of him.

  Glancing at the poor creature, Ruby said, “Can you keep hold of the dog; I need to speak to Geoffrey.”

  Without another word, Cash retreated to a far corner of the room and sank down against the wall.

  “Geoffrey, I can see you.” Ruby spoke out loud. “And I’m really sorry I didn’t get
here earlier, that I arrived too late.”

  Standing just behind his favourite armchair, Rawlings nodded at her. He looked sad, unbearably so.

  “I... I brought you some things for Christmas,” she continued, tears pricking at her eyes. “Things I thought you might like.”

  Thank you.

  “Why are you still here? Why haven’t you gone to the light?”

  I waited for you.

  “For me?” Ruby tilted her head.

  Yes.

  “Because?”

  Because I’m scared.

  “Of what?”

  You know what. I’m not a good man.

  “You’re not a bad man either, Geoffrey, really you’re not. What you did in the past was bad, but that’s not the same thing.”

  There was a pause before he spoke again.

  What’s going to happen to me?

  “You’ll be welcomed, you’ll be going home.”

  Cynthia? Will she be there?

  “No, not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  She’ll be angry with me.

  “No, she won’t. She cannot take anger into the light, nor can she take vengeance.”

  It’s my fault she’s stuck here.

  “It’s not your fault,” Ruby’s voice was firm. “I thought it was but I was wrong.”

  Another pause as Rawlings considered her words.

  She wasn’t a bad lass, you know, just ambitious. I took advantage.

  “I know, but you won’t be judged, re-educated perhaps but not judged.”

  I took advantage of so many. I’m sorry.

  “And it’s good that you’re sorry. It means you’ve learnt.”

  Her family abandoned her.