The Haunting of Highdown Hall (24 page)

Sensing Ruby’s predicament, Theo piped up. “But you know what? Before we delve further into the enigma that is Cynthia Hart, why don’t we go and have a bit of fun? Call it the office Christmas party if you will. Bowling and pizza anyone?”

***

Squeezing into Ruby’s Ford, Theo in the front with Ruby, the other three extremely cosy in the back, the team headed to Brighton’s Marina, home of the Bowlplex.

“I haven’t bowled in ages,” said Ness, looking actually quite excited at the prospect. She had a lovely smile, thought Ruby, catching sight of her in the rear view mirror. It made her look younger, it was a shame she didn’t smile like that more often.

Parking in the multi-storey, they made their way to the Bowlplex, opposite the cinema, Corinna complaining the whole time about the dreadful shoes they would have to wear to play.

“They’re just so damned unflattering,” she moaned. “And God knows who’s had their feet in them before. Ugh.”

It turned out there were new rules. As long as you were wearing flats, you didn’t have to wear the offending shoes on offer; all five breathed a sigh of relief. The Bowlplex was packed; several other Christmas parties clearly in attendance, but after only a short wait they were able to secure a lane. Theo insisted on paying for it. Knowing it was no use remonstrating with the older woman, Theo could be very determined when she wanted to be, Ruby gracefully gave in, wandering over to their designated alley as money was handed over and punching in the team’s details on the computer screen. She could hear Corinna following behind her, giggling with Cash but, unlike last time, she didn’t mind a bit. Instead, she felt warm inside, happier than she had done in a long time, which was strange considering she’d nearly had the life choked out of her the day before. Or maybe it was because of it? Although she didn’t fear death, she was certainly glad to be alive.

The team played three games in total, Theo, despite her age and size, proving herself to be a fearsome opponent, winning one game and scoring highly in the following two. Corinna had beaten Theo on the second game, whilst Cash had brought home the third. Ness had scored fair to middling on all three games, whilst Ruby had ranked consistently low.

“Never mind,” said Cash, putting his arm round her in a show of mock sympathy.

Swiping playfully at him, she couldn’t help but laugh too.

“I detect hunger pangs,” Theo suddenly declared, her arms wrapped round her ample stomach. “Pizza Express beckons.”

Leaving the Bowlplex, they passed various small children’s amusement rides, rendered silent for the evening, as well as Santa’s Grotto – a somewhat plastic-looking igloo guarded by several life-sized reindeers, one whose red nose blatantly marked him out as Rudolph and another who looked like he had a serious case of mange. The grotto was also closed; Santa having departed for home, to Patcham, perhaps, or Whitehawk rather than the North Pole, for a well-earned rest. McDonald’s, on the other hand, was doing a roaring trade, stuffed with the ‘before’ and ‘after’ cinema crowd as well as families no longer constrained by the time limits of school nights. As they passed it, Corinna declared a passionate distaste for the fast food chain.

Leaning into Ruby, Cash whispered, “I can’t help it, I love Big Macs!”
She did too, but she wasn’t about to admit that right now.

At Pizza Express, they were greeted by a smiling young man dressed smartly in a blue shirt and black, pleated trousers. He selected a table for them towards the front of the restaurant, overlooking the crowded waters glistening in the moonlight and bobbing with yachts belonging to playboy millionaires Ruby imagined, their masts swaying and rattling gently in the breeze. Iced bottles of Peroni were swiftly ordered by Theo and just as swiftly delivered to their table.

“Hey, look,” said Corinna, gleefully eyeing the menu. “There’s a turkey and cranberry pizza on special, I’m having that!”

Cash and Ruby both opted for the American Hot and requested extra jalapeños simultaneously. So close to Christmas, the atmosphere in the restaurant was buzzing and it was infectious. Although she couldn’t help but do a quick sweep of the dining room, Ruby knew there’d be no lost soul haunting a place such as this tonight, no child sitting pitifully alone at a table, yearning for birthday jubilations, no chef still in pristine whites, hovering over the juniors, making sure they arranged circles of pepperoni or strips of Cajun chicken ‘just so’. Pizza Express was just too damned lively for the spirit world.

Back at the table, Theo was holding court, cracking joke after joke, a comedienne as well as a psychic marvel. All were content to let her take the lead, knowing that in the wit stakes at least, they couldn’t compete. Whilst she entertained them all, Ruby looked over to where Cash was sitting. He immediately returned her gaze, as though he’d been waiting to do so all evening. As his mouth widened into a smile, Ruby knew, suddenly and without doubt, that any resistance she might have had towards him was fading fast.

***

Crouching low into her corner, Cynthia wished she could make herself smaller, disappear entirely, become nothing at all. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything except cower in terror. The man, the one who waited for her in the shadows was raging, screaming as though he were in agony, his dark mass beginning to solidify, to take on shape. Again she thought she recognised him. Again she refused to look – her only defence. She wouldn’t listen to him either, despite him calling her name, over and over, beseechingly at first but with increasing fury.

Then suddenly, with one almighty scream of frustration, the man, the
creature,
grabbed at her precious items on the dressing table – her crystal bottles, her silver comb, her hairbrush. One by one he threw them across the room, even the perfume bottle she herself had thrown at the red-headed girl, the girl with curls so like her own. This time, however, it smashed across the floor –
Phoenix
seeping deep into the rugs, the smell enticing once upon a time but acrid now. Her bed too, the spirit targeted, removing the rose quartz crystal the last girl had placed upon it and lifting it up, smashing it against the far wall, renting the cover in two, scattering the cushions.

Where
are
you, Cynthia? You can’t hide forever!

Trembling, she wondered where Ruby was, the girl who had promised she wouldn’t give up on her, the girl who had been so viciously attacked by this monster. Would she give up on her now? Had he succeeded in frightening her off for good? She hoped not.

Help me, Ruby,
Cynthia whispered into the abyss,
please help me.

Chapter Nineteen

Looking at her watch, Ruby decided she would drive into Brighton to see Rawlings during the afternoon, perhaps take him a little hamper of food for Christmas that she would put together courtesy of a trip to Waitrose beforehand. She had promised the old man she would visit now and again, hating to think of anyone alone, even him, and especially at this time of year. But first she had more research to do.

Although she’d had a great time with Cash and the team yesterday, she hadn’t slept well for the second night running. Cynthia had dominated her thoughts and dreams last night, both as the glittering figure she had once been and the terrified wreck she had become. Ruby sensed that, forthcoming anniversary or not, events were coming to a head at Highdown Hall – and neither spirit could be allowed to linger for longer than they already had, the situation was becoming too intense. First though, she intended to trawl through the internet one more time to see if there was anything she might have missed, no matter how insignificant. She needed to unveil who it was that held a grudge against Cynthia, a grudge so extreme it grounded them both.

Thankfully, Theo, Ness and Corinna were working on the other cases, including yet another call to Brookbridge. A resident, this time from Oakleaf Drive, had called to say they were having terrible trouble with their TV. At seven o’clock every evening – no matter what channel they were watching, it would flip to ITV for the start of Emmerdale. Sky engineers had been called out several times but none of them could find a fault. Fed up to the back teeth, the homeowner had called Psychic Surveys instead.

“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.