The Haunting of Highdown Hall (8 page)

“And your mother, is she...?”

“Dead,” replied Mr Kierney.

That explained why Sally had left Highdown Hall to her nephew then, thought Ruby. If Cynthia’s death turned her into a recluse, that was probably why she’d never married or had children. And if the other sister was ‘eccentric’ perhaps she had no one other than Mr Kierney to leave it to.

“My colleague said you tend to sleep downstairs now. Do you feel safe down here at least?”

“I’m not sure ‘safe’ is the word.” He looked almost annoyed that Ruby could even suggest such a thing. “But she can’t seem to get me down here. Stays in that bedroom of hers, or of mine I should say, makes a bloody rumpus sometimes.”

“And you definitely think it’s Cynthia Hart?”

“Of course I do. Who else could it be?”

It could be anyone actually,
thought Ruby. A spirit passing through, perhaps, somebody who lived here a century or more ago; it was an old house after all – Victorian definitely, some parts of it perhaps older, she’d have to check. But, like Theo, like Mr Kierney, she had a sense it was indeed Cynthia Hart that they were dealing with.

“Mr Kierney,’ said Ruby at last. “I will need to survey the whole house, not just the bedroom, to make sure her presence is confined. Is that okay?”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” replied Mr Kierney, “but I’m not going with you, up there I mean.”

“No, you don’t have to. In fact, it’s best we do this on our own.” Then, appalled that she hadn’t done so before, she introduced the young man standing eagerly beside her. “I’m sorry. This is Cash, Cash Wilkins. He’s my, my... assistant.”

Mr Kierney looked as if he couldn’t give a damn who Cash was, backing away from them as if they too were fearsome entities. Cash, however, looked very much amused.

“Your assistant?” he said as soon as Mr Kierney had disappeared. “I like it.”

“Well I could hardly say that you’re some sort of voyeur could I, just in it for the cheap thrills?”

Cash pretended offense.

“Hey, I am not some sort of voyeur, I’m genuinely interested.”

“Really?” Ruby still wasn’t sure.

“
Really
,” Cash affirmed, his tone more serious now. Trying to explain further, he added, “I don’t know, it just seems really noble what you do, helping grounded spirits to move on, unusual but noble. Talking of which,” he clapped his hands together, “what’s your theory on why Cynthia’s still here?”

“Hopefully we’ll find out soon enough but as far as theory goes her passing was sudden, unexpected. It could be she doesn’t realise she’s passed.”

Cash was unconvinced.

“Even after all this time?”

“In the spirit world, I don’t think time’s an issue.”

Ruby returned her attentions to the house; the interior was even more impressive than the exterior. Surveying her surroundings, she moved over to the far wall.

“A portrait of Cynthia used to hang here,” she stated, as much to herself as Cash. “I’m sure she’s not best pleased it’s been taken down.”

To the left of the Grand Hall was another room, partially panelled this time and not just impressive but magnificent in its sheer size and grandeur, even though not a stick of furniture inhabited it now, apart from a couple of hard-backed chairs and a side table, somewhat randomly placed. Cynthia may have left the house to Sally Threadgold, but either the star’s family or friends had descended like vultures on its contents or Sally had sold them all off one-by-one to pay the no doubt vast running costs. It was also impressively clean. Had Sally kept it that way or had Mr Kierney brought in a team of professionals upon arrival to do the honours?

“What’s this room?” breathed Cash, looking about him.

“The ballroom I think,” Ruby answered, also awe-struck.

Crossing the floorboards, several protesting as she did so, Ruby stopped by the first of two sets of French windows. Even now, in the depths of winter, the light poured in through them, animating the room. Ruby could easily imagine the parties that had taken place here; memories of which must be ingrained in the very walls themselves. Lavish, exciting parties, everyone focussed on having a good time, the time of their lives for some. But there were troubled spots too, definitely. A sense of something dark, anger and frustration in particular. Residual feelings – faint now, but very real to someone once.

Moving out of the ballroom and back into the Grand Hall, they explored further; the study, bereft of a writing desk and cosy fire, the library, where just a few books stood guard on recessed shelves, and the dining room, heavy red drapes with a golden pattern, the only adornment. The living room did have a few home comforts, including a large-screened TV, a coffee table and a modern-looking sofa bed pulled-out to full capacity, the dark blue duvet on top a rumpled mess. Ruby could feel nothing out of the ordinary in any of them. The kitchen too, not cosy but functional, very much a workplace, was completely free of spiritual presence. Briefly, Ruby wondered if Cynthia had even known where the kitchen was.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said to Cash, returning again to the Grand Hall and heading for the staircase. As she did so, she couldn’t help but notice him blanch a little at her words.
Ah, you’re not as confident as you like to make out,
she thought.

The staircase too was awe-inspiring. Built of oak that had darkened considerably with age, Ruby could just imagine the effort various maids must have put in through the ages to keep it in tip top condition. She half expected to see the shade of some young nineteenth or twentieth century servant sitting on a step rubbing feverishly at a barley twist spindle as she climbed the stairs. Instead, only dust motes danced in the air. Each newel post was adorned with a heavily carved, almost ecclesiastical urn-shaped carving. As Ruby passed the half landing, she couldn’t resist running her hand over the carving, knowing that Cynthia must have done the same thing too, many times over.

At the top of the stairs was a corridor with several doors leading presumably into bedrooms. Putting that theory to the test, she counted seven in total. Only three had beds in them, surprisingly modern looking beds, and wardrobes too, again modern in style rather than antique, brought from Mr Kierney’s flat perhaps or purchased since he’d been in residence. Perhaps he planned to turn the place into a B&B – an opportunity to stay in a dead movie star’s home – that would bring the punters flooding in for sure. The turret, Cynthia Hart’s bedroom, was located at the end of the corridor. As she approached it, Ruby could feel powerful waves of anguish rushing towards her.

“Stop!” she shouted. Cash did so immediately.

“Cynthia, it appears, is one very unhappy lady. And when a spirit is unhappy, that’s when they can be dangerous. You can’t come in with me. You’ll have to wait downstairs.”

“Dangerous?” said Cash. “Are you serious? In that case, I’m definitely coming in with you. You can’t go in alone.”

His sense of chivalry made her smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ve taken steps to protect myself. I need to establish a psychic connection with Cynthia and it will be easier to do so if I don’t have you to worry about.”

When she saw him about to protest further, she insisted “Cash, please, I know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing it for long enough. Seriously, you can’t come in with me.”

“Okay,” said Cash at last, “but I’m not going downstairs. I’ll wait here for you, on the landing. Within shouting distance.”

Conceding, Ruby smiled at him again before entering Cynthia’s domain.

Chapter Five

Who is she? What does she want? How dare she enter unbidden?

From the safety of the shadows in which she dwelt, Cynthia Hart stared at the intruder. It was not the man this time, that pathetic, little man who insisted he lived here now, that he was Sally’s nephew, even though she knew damn well Sally didn’t have a nephew, but a girl – young and presentable but not glamorous at all, with brown hair piled on top of her head in a most unkempt manner. Jeans she had on, jeans, boots and a jumper – a dreadful way to dress. No celebration of her femininity at all.

Out!
Cynthia screamed.
Get out!

“No,” the girl replied calmly, startling her.

She could hear her! The man couldn’t. Sally hadn’t, despite her repeated attempts to gain her maid’s attention. But this girl could. Instead of being relieved, however, Cynthia became angrier still. She had refused her. How dare she? Who did she think she was?

Aggression causing her lip to curl, she prepared to rush at the intruder, just as she had rushed at the man, to beat her back, to rid the room of her, to reclaim her sanctuary, but she was stopped in her tracks. The girl was speaking again.

“I’m Ruby Davis. I believe you’ve already met my friend, Theo. We want to help you.”

Theo?
Did she mean that ludicrous old woman who had violated her privacy too, when was it, a day ago, two days? She didn’t know. Time was so hard to grasp suddenly.

“Cynthia. It is Cynthia isn’t it?”

Of course it’s Cynthia! This is my house. You are not welcome in it.

“Cynthia, I repeat, I mean no harm. I just want to help. Please, allow us to help you.”

Help? How can you help? A chit of a girl! Nobody can help. Nobody.

Get out!
She screamed again and then, more in despair than anger,
Get out.

***

When feeling threatened, Cynthia did as she always did; she retreated into the comfort of memories, her last memory in particular – the party of course. It had been glorious, every detail planned meticulously; the champagne, vintage Laurent-Perrier, served in crystal glasses, the big band playing not the rock ‘n’ roll tunes so favoured of late, but beautiful songs from the 1920s, 30s and 40s – ‘Blue Moon’, ‘Embraceable You’, ‘Sunrise Serenade’ – reinforcing the sophistication of the occasion.

Despite so many beauties, all eyes in the room had been on her, as Lytton had promised so long ago. Not a man in the room could tear his gaze away, or a woman, their naked adoration breathing life into her limbs. How she had danced that night! Her feet had barely touched the ground. Would-be suitors fighting amongst themselves to partner her, whisking her round the dance floor as though she weighed no more than a child, whispering words of love and dedication into her ear, begging her for more than just one dance. And from the sidelines, John Sterling, the world’s most respected actor, had devoured her with his impossibly dark eyes. Driving her wild inside with desire, a desire she refused to reveal, knowing her reticence to do so infuriated him. Would she take him to her bed that night? Show how grateful she was for the lavish gift he had had sent to her earlier in the day. She hadn’t decided. Possibly not. Drive him wilder still.

She remembered laughing, her head thrown back in consummate joy as she was held in a succession of arms and still John stared at her, not moving from where he stood, ignoring the multitude of sycophants who gathered around him, not just up and coming actresses but actresses at the top of their game, all desperate for his attention as so many were for hers. He ignored them, his eyes only for her. It was a wonderful night, a night full of magic and then... it was over. No big band tunes, no laughter or admiring comments, no more John pleading silently with her, nothing. Where had everyone gone? She couldn’t understand it. Why was she alone? Except for Sally, who occasionally wept on the ground before her, clutching her fuchsia dress. But how so, when she was still wearing it?

She had drunk several glasses of champagne that night, but not enough to cause such confusion, surely? Usually it was her preference to remain sober at public events, refusing to allow one slur or stagger to mar her ‘darling of the movie world’ reputation. Perhaps she should have refrained on this occasion too? But it was her birthday, a private affair,
and
it was Christmas Eve. Everybody was allowed to drink on Christmas Eve!

Perhaps the haze she was in was the result of some hideous concoction. Some lesser starlet, insane with jealousy, had surreptitiously laced her glass with something. Yes! That had to be it, it made sense. But if so, why had no one realised she was missing and come rushing to her aid? She employed enough people to take care of her. Where were they?

Reaching a hand up to her temple, her head felt as the land had looked earlier from her bedroom window, wreathed in mist. How long had she been in darkness? Seconds, minutes, hours, longer than that? Years? Some days it felt like it. Not that she’d aged, judging from her reflection in the mirror when she had at last dared to look into it. A reflection that looked more distant than usual, but nonetheless, she had recognised herself – her smooth complexion, her Titian curls, that part of the bargain upheld at least. The bargain? No, she mustn’t think of that. To do so was dangerous. She had dues to pay; she knew she did, but so soon? Surely not! To be plucked from the spotlight when it was at its brightest, that was cruel, evil. But then wasn’t evil what she had bargained with?

Cynthia felt cold again. As if icy arms had found her at last and wrapped themselves around her, holding her tight, entombing her.
No,
she whimpered, filled with terror, an emotion all too familiar now.
Hide, I need to hide. I’ll be alright if I can hide.