The Haunting of Highdown Hall
The Haunting of Highdown Hall
Psychic Surveys Book One
Shani Struthers
Copyright © 2014 by Shani Struthers
Design: Jane Dixon-Smith, Crooked Cat
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Publishing except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Publishing Ltd. 2014
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About the Author
Born and bred in the sunny seaside town of Brighton, one of the first literary conundrums Shani had to deal with was her own name - Shani can be pronounced in a variety of ways but in this instance it's Shay-nee not Shar-ney or Shan-ni - although she does indeed know a Shanni - just to confuse matters further!
Hobbies include reading, writing, eating and drinking - all four of which keep her busy enough. After graduating from Sussex University with a degree in English and American Literature, Shani became a freelance copywriter. Twenty years later, the day job includes crafting novels too.
Psychic Surveys Book One: The Haunting of Highdown Hall is her second novel and the first in the series. All events depicted are fictitious – almost.
Acknowledgments
There are a huge many to thank during the writing of this book but first thanks goes to my husband, Rob Struthers, the whole concept of Psychic Surveys was your idea – I just took it and ran – here’s to many more nights in The Rights of Man pub in Lewes (Ruby’s favourite) discussing ideas.
And then there are the people I cringingly gave the first draft to to tear apart – in no particular order – Patrice Brown (Mum), Louisa Taylor, Lesley Hughes, Vanessa Patterson, Julie Tugwell, Gail Keen, Sarah Savery, Alicen Haire and Rachel Bell – you all saw something special in it and no tearing apart ensued. Jane Tyrrell, thank you for working so patiently with me on edits to get the book fit for submission – your input was invaluable and led to some crucial changes. Jill Blair – thanks for the proofread too.
Jane Dixon-Smith – thanks for creating a cover that makes everyone go ‘Wow! You nailed it in record time’.
Thanks also to Laurence and Steph Patterson of Crooked Cat Publishing. It is an honour to be part of the team, alongside some of my favourite authors. And thanks to the Cats too for such a warm welcome.
Finally, to my children, Izzie, Jack and Misty – thanks for putting up with all the burnt dinners because I just couldn’t tear myself away from writing the next sentence! Love you guys.
Shani Struthers
April 2014
The Haunting of Highdown Hall
Psychic Surveys Book One
Prologue
Christmas Eve, 1958
“Pour me a glass of water, would you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The polished floorboards creaked as Sally walked across the bedroom to a small sideboard, on which stood an elegant silver and cut glass decanter. Emptying its cool, clear contents into an equally elegant tumbler, she returned to the dressing table and handed it to Cynthia Hart.
“Look at the headlines...” Cynthia breathed, taking the water almost absent-mindedly. “‘The Most Beautiful Woman in the World’
,
that’s what they’re calling me.”
“Because you are,” agreed Sally, continuing to fuss over her.
Placing the tumbler on her dressing table untouched, Cynthia leaned forward to check her reflection for the umpteenth time in the teak framed mirror in front of her. Sally was right,
they
were right – she was exquisite. Her sapphire eyes so much brighter than the violet of Taylor’s, her mouth a perfect cupid’s bow and her abundant Titian curls the envy of all.
As ever, she would be the belle of the ball tonight, a ball thrown to celebrate not only Christmas Eve, but also her birthday. Thirty-one today and not a line marred her face.
“Sally, my diamonds.”
“Of course, Ma’am.”
As Sally hurried from the bedroom, Cynthia stood up to appraise her hour-glass figure in the full mirror to the side of her dressing table. She swished her floor-length fuchsia dress from side to side; made exclusively for her by Dior it set off her colouring perfectly. As she continued to admire the glamorous vision in front of her, something caught her eye, something glinting in the dying light. Leaning forward, she had to squint slightly.
No, it can’t be, surely not!
Cynthia felt rage boil up from nowhere and engulf her.
In amongst the red lay a single strand of steel, mocking her,
marring
her.
“No!” she screamed. “Not yet!”
Perfectly manicured fingertips flew upwards, desperate to locate it. Managing at last, she tore it from her scalp and threw it from her as though it were contagion itself.
How can I be the most beautiful woman in the world with grey in my hair?
Her breathing, previously calm and even, became erratic – as she gasped for breath her heart pounded violently against the walls of her fragile chest like some maddened wild animal seeking escape. Lytton had promised her, had said this wouldn’t happen. But deep down she’d always known there were limits to that promise; that she would only be given so much, and for so long.
Damn that man!
How she wished she had never met him. How she hated the still vivid memory of his face, how it haunted her dreams. But without him, what would she be,
where
would she be? Still on the scrapheap of life, being offered only the most meagre of parts? Just one chance, that’s all she’d needed, one chance to show the world what she could do. And for that chance she would have done anything,
anything
, as he’d known only too well.
After Lytton had come the turning point, after Lytton had come
The Phoenix,
a Rank Organisation production all actresses had vied for, famous and struggling alike. Although she was offered a much coveted part – she had lines to say at least – Cynthia had refused it, insisting from the start that the main role was hers, that she
was
Gayle Andrews, a woman of determination born into a life of grit, destined to make her mark in a harsh world. That the lead actress had suffered an accident just before taking up the role, that someone had then noticed her still waiting in the wings, were far from coincidence.
An award for ‘Best British Actress in a Leading Role’ had followed – her performance hailed by the critics as ‘groundbreaking’. All manner of roles had poured in after that; intense, dramatic, whimsical roles, everything she had ever wanted, had ever desired. Two years later she’d picked up another award for Hitchcock’s
Intruders,
and this March she’d finally secured her place as a screen legend with the ultimate: an Oscar for
The Elitists
. In the new year she’d be moving to Hollywood – not permanently, of course (no fancy Bel Air residence could compare to Highdown Hall, her first real home, her first real love), just long enough to star in
Atlantic
, which was set to surpass
Ben-Hur
as the most lavish film in cinematic history.
Sally’s continued absence eventually drew Cynthia back to the present.
Where is she? What’s taking her so long?
Walking over to the windows, two sets of them, floor to ceiling, Cynthia struggled to relax. These moods of hers, they were getting worse. One minute she was bursting with happiness, the next she had gone to pieces – and often with no warning. She knew all around her were growing increasingly nervous of her moods. But she also knew they would suffer them. Her entourage lived a dream life because of her, exalted from mere existence to a charmed existence. They would not rock the boat. They too had sold their souls – not to darkness, but to her, the irony of which she refused to dwell on.
How she loved the view from her window. In the west, the sun was beginning to set, casting an almost ethereal glow over the landscape. Her eyes rested on the lake in front of her, dark and secretive in the dusk and shrouded by weeping willows. Ripples blew across the surface, but gently so – for December it was a clement night. Pride swelled up in her. This was
her
land,
her
house and hers alone. And to think she had come from nothing; a bleak, fatherless childhood spent sharing two rooms with her lowly drudge of a mother and a constantly whining brother. Neither of them had bothered to contact her since she’d left at fourteen. And neither of them had approached her in stardom, either. Although this suited her fine, she couldn’t help but feel abandoned, despite having abandoned them.
Highdown Hall was regarded as one of the most beautiful houses in the south of England. She loved its almost regal approach down the private gravel drive, twisting and turning in a teasing manner before revealing a Gothic sandstone creation with imposing gables, stone mullioned windows and even a turret, the location of her bedroom. Ivy clung stubbornly to its ancient walls, creeping further and further upwards, but furtively so. Entering through weathered oak doors, suitably baronial in size, visitors were greeted by the Grand Hall, fully oak-panelled and adorned with a life-sized portrait of Cynthia, leaving no one in doubt as to whom this estate belonged to. As well as a drawing room, a sitting room, a dining room and a library on the ground floor, there was a ballroom too, blatantly opulent with its vintage chandeliers, its French windows leading onto a paved terrace and its sprung hard-wood floor. It was the scene of many an extravagant party – and tonight would be no exception.
She listened for sounds below. They were faint, but they were there, bringing the house to life. John Sterling, her American co-star in
The Elitists
, was one of the many famous names who’d crossed land and sea to attend. She had long been dazzled by his performances on the silver screen. On meeting, she had dazzled him. Their affair had begun quickly – she had never known such wildness in the bedroom, such imagination. But there was a surprising degree of tenderness too, something she was unused to. And, despite his serious public persona, his sense of humour was acute, delighting her with his behind-the-scenes wickedness. But she wouldn’t fall too hard. It could lead nowhere. Frivolities such as marriage and babies were for others, mere mortals, not for her. Deliberately, she kept him at arm’s length, allowing him only the occasional private audience; something she knew riled him terribly. In between, she ensured a constant flow of lovers, something else that incensed him. But she hated to sleep alone, hated the dark, even more so recently.
The view from her window had done the trick; Cynthia was breathing more easily again. Despite her earlier irritation with her maid, she was thankful now that Sally was taking her time, that she hadn’t witnessed her momentary breakdown. It occurred to her sometimes that Sally cared for her as a mother should, despite being only two years older. She couldn’t bear to see her mistress upset.