The Haunting of Highdown Hall

by Shani Struthers

  “How?” said Corinna, fascinated.

  “By selling their souls to the Devil.”

  Ruby balked. “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely,” replied Theo, enjoying the stir she was creating. “Hallucinogens helped him to convince his victims he was best friends with a certain you know who. He would feed them cocktails which, unbeknown to them, had been previously laced with something, mescaline probably. Whilst under the influence of the drug, he would suggest that the person who stood before them was the great Lucifer himself, no less. He would then try to initiate sex, an essential ingredient of the ritual he would tell them; it would help to cement the pact. Sometimes he was successful in getting his wicked way, sometimes he was given a well-deserved clip around the ear.”

  “How do you know? About how successful he was I mean?”

  “Because Cynthia wasn’t the first starlet to succumb, there were others. It all came to light when his last victim, Darlene Grayson, furious at what had happened to her, how she’d been duped, exposed Rawlings, or Lytton as Cynthia knew him, by tipping off the police about one of the parties he liked to throw. Several underage girls happened to be in attendance. Rawlings was caught in the act and arrested. The case went to court and he was sentenced to two years for gross indecency. He spent it banged up in Lewes Prison, funnily enough, right on our doorstep.”

  “When was this?” Ruby continued to probe.

  “In 1960, after Cynthia had passed. Too bad she wasn’t around to realise what a charlatan she’d got herself involved with.”

  Ness took up the reins. “Cynthia was involved with him before she shot to fame. She must have been in her late teens/early twenties at the time. Impressionable.”

  “And desperate,” added Theo.

  “Certainly that,” conceded Ness. “Although officially Cynthia’s name was never mentioned in connection with either Rawlings or Lytton, putting two and two together I think it’s safe to assume her fear of passing over has something to do with him and the Devil he conjured up for her, courtesy of drugs and alcohol.”

  “Erm, excuse me,” Corinna piped up. “Mescaline, I’ve never heard of it, what is it?”

  “Ah, so young,” sighed Theo, looking fondly at her. “Mescaline, my dear, was the forerunner to LSD. A psychedelic drug, it was brought to the public’s attention thanks to authors such as Aldous Huxley. He wrote an essay about it in 1954 called The Doors of Perception and another one two years later entitled Heaven & Hell, topically enough. Both documenting experiences he had whilst high on drugs. Perhaps Rawlings was a fan.”

  Ruby shook her head in wonder.

  “How did you find all this out?” she said, “I couldn’t find a thing.”

  “Simple really,” said Theo, draining her mug of tea. “Not everything’s online. Ness and I found a picture of them together in an old newspaper at the archives – ‘Cynthia Hart and Clive Lytton’, the caption ran, the pair of them were attending a play in the West End in which Cynthia had bagged herself a small role. She looked every inch the movie star, even back then when she was still a struggling actress. He, on the other hand, looked very much in lust.”

  Placing her mug on the table, Theo continued, “I recognised him straightaway, Lytton I mean. In the mid-sixties he was busted again for his behaviour. He formed a black magic cult, a popular thing to do at the time. However, he didn’t bargain for the fact that some of his disciples really were into black magic – heavily so, drawing rather a lot of attention to themselves with their practices. You can get away with that sort of stuff in the Nevada desert, but not in South London. The police were called in yet again, and back he went to court. It was all over the papers at the time, I remember it well, most amusing. Far from being a scary Aleister Crowley type character, he was a gibbering wreck, asking to be imprisoned, to be kept safe from the ‘nutters’ as he called his devoted followers. He wasn’t given a sentence this time, just cautioned. Kept himself to himself after that.”

  “So Lytton, Rawlings, or whatever he was called, he wasn’t in league with the Devil at all?” Corinna double-checked.

  “No more than you or I,” scoffed Theo. “One of life’s fakers I’m afraid, a sorry specimen of a man. I expect he’s getting quite worried about everything now he’s nearing the end.”

  “Nearing the end?” gasped Ruby. “Do you mean he’s still alive?”

  Theo tossed aside a few rogue strands of pink hair. “He may well be.”

  “How do I find out?”

  “According to 192.com, there are 40 Geoffrey Rawlings living in the United Kingdom, three of whom live in Brighton. Of those three, one is in his fifties, which, of course, rules him out but the other two are in their eighties. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny one of those is him.”

  “But why would he be living in Brighton?” Ruby was puzzled.

  “Oh, he’s a local man. He was born in Brighton, hence his spell at Lewes Prison. I know he spent time in London in between but chickens come home to roost usually.”

  “I’m on to it,” Ruby nodded, eager to find him. Looking admiringly at the old lady in front of her, she added, “Thanks so much, Theo. I don’t know how you find out these things.”

  “It’s called research, darling,” Theo replied, somewhat pointedly Ruby thought. “You know, that little thing you’ve been busy doing as well?”

  Ruby looked away. Just like Ness, Theo could often see straight through her.

  ***

  Ruby rang Cash after they’d all gone. He was busy with a client, so rang her back just over an hour later. Quickly, she told him that Lytton’s real name was Geoffrey Rawlings, that he was a charlatan and a rapist to boot, or as good as, that it looked like he had tricked Cynthia Hart into believing she had sold her soul to the Devil – the probable reason behind her reluctance to move on – and, the best bit, that there was a possibility he was still alive and living locally.

  “What do you mean a possibility?” Cash asked.

  Ruby explained Theo’s theory.

  “So, what are you planning to do? Visit them both?”

  “Absolutely. If one of them is our Rawlings, he can damn well explain to Cynthia himself what he did. She might not believe us but she will believe it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “You’re not going alone,” warned Cash, “it could be dangerous.”

  Ruby couldn’t help laughing. “I hardly think I’ve got anything to fear from someone in their eighties!”

  “No, no way Ruby. I’m coming with you. When do you intend going?”

  “Tomorrow. Can you make it?”

  “If it’s the afternoon I can.”

  Agreeing, Ruby hung up, amused at the insistence of her ‘protector’.

  Chapter Twelve

  As they drove into Brighton, parking was not the only issue on Cash’s mind.

  “Are you sure this Rawlings bloke isn’t into black magic anymore? I’ve seen The Devil Rides Out you know; those Satan worshippers, they can be pretty scary people.”

  “Now, Cash,” Ruby looked at him in mock-earnestness, “you shouldn’t watch films like that if they’re going to upset you. You’re better off sticking to Disney.”

  “Humph!” was Cash’s less than impressed reply.

  As Cash had suspected, they had trouble parking. Both Rawlings lived close to the centre of Brighton, one in Kemp Town, the other not far from Western Road, the main shopping thoroughfare. A busy seaside city, second only to London in popularity, it was rammed at the best of times, but in the run up to Christmas it was bordering on the manic. After cruising the streets around Kemp Town for more than twenty minutes, Ruby eventually found a space, about a ten-minute walk to the first Mr Rawlings flat in Mount Pleasant. Expertly squeezing her car between an Audi and a Land Rover, she and Cash walked the rest of the way. As they drew close, Cash couldn’t help pointing out that Mount Pleasant was anything but.

  “The views are nice though,” shrugged Ruby. “You can almost see the sea.”

 
“With binoculars perhaps,” was his surly reply.

  Ruby smiled.

  “Are you still cross with me?”

  “Cross with you, why?”

  “For the Disney remark.”

  “Oh, that. No, I’m getting used to your wisecracks,” he answered wryly.

  Stopping in front of a red brick semi-detached house, Ruby said, “This is it.”

  “How are we going to explain who we are?”

  “We’ll say we’re film students, from the university or something, studying the life and times of Cynthia Hart. We’re canvassing information on her from people likely to have been fans.”

  “And you’ll think he’ll buy that?”

  “Probably not, no.”

  Ruby rang the doorbell.

  When the door opened, an old man with blue eyes the exact shade of his denim shirt stood before them.

  “Hello,” he said pleasantly.

  “Hello,” said Ruby, adopting what she hoped was a gracious smile. “I’m Ruby Davis, this is Cash Wilkins. We’re students from the university. We’re carrying out some research on Cynthia Hart, the movie star. We found your name in the local archives. It seemed you might have known her at one time? We were wondering if you could perhaps spare a few minutes of your time to talk to us about her.”

  “Cynthia Hart?” the old man looked confused. After a few moments his furrowed eyebrows relaxed. “Cynthia Hart. Oh yes, of course. Yes, I knew her.”

  Ruby looked at Cash, her eyes alight. Bingo! She could hardly believe their luck.

  “Oh, great, erm, well, we don’t have to come in or anything, but we would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr Rawlings was having none of it, “come in, come in, it’s far too cold to be standing on the doorstep.”

  A part of Ruby despaired at how trusting this gentleman was, inviting a pair of complete strangers into his house. She also marvelled at his friendliness. If this was the Mr Rawlings they were looking for, he didn’t seem at all roguish; he seemed very nice.

  Following him into his living room, surprisingly warm and cosy, Mr Rawlings waved for them both to sit down. Then he lowered himself into an armchair, a slight stiffness to his actions belying his youthful character.

  “Cynthia Hart,” Mr Rawlings sighed. “A wonderful actress, a wonderful woman.”

  Ruby nodded her head enthusiastically. “Oh, absolutely, I couldn’t agree more. We’ve seen all her films, haven’t we, Cash?”

  “Yeah,” Cash lied, “every one of them.”

  Leaning forward in an almost conspiratorial manner, Mr Rawlings said, “Tell me, which one was your favourite?”

  “The Phoenix,” Ruby said at precisely the same time as Cash said, “The Elitists.”

  Mr Rawlings laughed.

  “Both wonderful films, but my favourite was Intruders, I love anything by Hitchcock, I do.”

  “Mr Rawlings,” Ruby pressed ahead. “You said you knew Cynthia.”

  “What’s that dear?” Mr Rawlings tugged at his ear to indicate slight deafness.

  Ruby raised her voice a couple of notches.

  “You said you knew Cynthia?”

  “Of course I did, lovely girl, one of the best.”

  “You got on with her?”

  “Didn’t everyone?”

  Ruby decided to get serious.

  “Mr Rawlings, despite what you’re telling us, we know your association with Cynthia Hart wasn’t entirely of a savoury nature.” Blunter still, she added, “We know what you did.”

  “What I did, dear? I don’t understand.”

  She wondered briefly if Mr Rawlings suffered from some form of dementia – he seemed to have no idea what she was talking about. Deciding it wasn’t worth beating about the bush, she came straight to the point.

  “We know you tricked young girls, Mr Rawlings, up and coming starlets mostly, those that were desperate for fame. You threw parties, fed them drugs, promised them the fame they craved if they would sell their souls, via you, to the Devil. We know sex was your motive.”

  “Are you alright, dear?”

  “Erm... yes... I’m fine thank you. Sorry, did you not hear what I just said?”

  “I heard.” Mr Rawlings replied, looking bemused rather than offended.

  Cash tried next.

  “Mr Rawlings, you said you knew Cynthia.”

  “I did,” Mr Rawlings smiled.

  “In the flesh?”

  “In the flesh?” Mr Rawlings laughed heartily at such an idea. “Oh, I wish.”

  “You wish? So you didn’t?”

  “Not in the flesh, no, of course not,” the old man laughed even louder. “Oh, but she was breathtaking, wasn’t she? She set the screen on fire did Cynthia. She and that Sophia Loren, oh and Gina Lollobrigida too, I mustn’t forget her. Gorgeous women, all three of them, cracking figures too, they don’t make them like that anymore, do they?” His eyes resting on Ruby, he added: “Sorry, dear, no offence.”

  Shaking her head to indicate none was taken, Ruby said, “So you knew of her rather than knew her.”

  “That’s what I said,” the old man beamed happily.

  Ruby’s shoulders slumped in defeat. No, that wasn’t what he had said.

  Settling back into his chair, making himself quite comfortable, Mr Rawlings continued. “Now, The Phoenix, I’ve got a tidbit for you, something you might find interesting. Did you know that Louisa Taylor was originally cast in the lead role, not Cynthia? Sadly for her, Louisa that is, she met with an accident just before filming started, fell off her horse, broke her leg and collarbone, nasty stuff. Tell me, do you think that film would have been just as successful with her in it or do you think Cynthia was the reason it broke all box office records? Her performance really was outstanding after all.”

  It was an hour later before they managed to extricate themselves from the first Mr Rawlings. After accusing him of such heinous acts, Ruby hadn’t felt she and Cash could just up and leave. And so they had listened, not only to his musings on Cynthia Hart’s merit as a film star, but also his views on the world in general. In a nutshell, to Mr Geoffrey Rawlings of Mount Pleasant, Brighton, the world was not as gracious a place as it had once been.

  Out on the street, Cash looked at his watch.

  “It’s nearly half past three,” he sighed, “we’d better visit Rawlings number two.”

  The natural light was dimming as they approached their second destination. Finding a parking space close by was not such a problem this time, the Christmas shoppers having thankfully started to thin out.

  “What if this Mr Rawlings isn’t the Mr Rawlings either?” asked Cash, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he walked.

  “He has to be!” Ruby knew she sounded more confident than she felt.

  Turning into Oriental Place, Cash looked around him.

  “This is a dump too. Brighton’s looking a bit run-down lately, isn’t it?”

  Ruby had to agree. Once, Oriental Place had been considered one of Brighton’s most fashionable streets, set as it was in a prime location a few steps from the seafront. In recent years, however, it had fallen on hard times. The many houses in this once-grand Regency terrace no longer belonged to wealthy, upper class families; rather they hid a world of bedsits, as many people stuffed into each house as possible if the bewildering number of bells beside each worn front door was anything to go by.

  The house the second Mr Rawlings lived in was covered in scaffolding, as were several others either side of it – an attempt to restore the fading grandeur of yesteryear perhaps, or at the very least to mask its decay with a coat of paint.

  “Are we going to say we’re students again?”

  “To begin with,” replied Ruby, “but if it’s him, we’ll quickly get to the truth.”

  “I hope he doesn’t set his dog on us,” worried Cash.

  “His dog? How do you know he’s got a dog?”

  “I don’t, it’s just a feeling.”

  Ruby raise
d an eyebrow.

  “Be interesting to see if you’re right.”

  His flat, 1a, was located in the basement. As they descended the narrow stairs, harsh barking could be heard from within. He did indeed have a canine companion.

  “I wish Jed were here,” muttered Cash and, before he could even finish his sentence, Jed appeared.

  “Wow!” said Ruby astonished. “Wish for him and he comes. Another protector."

  “Another what?” queried Cash.

  “Oh, nothing,” Ruby replied airily, ringing the doorbell.

  It took an age for the door to open, the dog still barking and a gruff voice inside telling it to “Shut the fuck up.”

  All three waited patiently outside.

  Finally, the second Mr Rawlings stood before them. Slightly stooped and wearing distinctly shabby clothes, every one of life’s excesses showed in his face, in the grooves surrounding his eyes, his nose and mouth, in his expression even. Ruby knew without a doubt they had found their man.

  “What do you want?” his voice was cracked and sore sounding.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Rawlings, my name is Ruby Davis and this is Cash Wilkins. You used to know an old friend of ours, I believe; I’d appreciate it if we could talk to you about her.”

  “An old friend?” Mr Rawlings was clearly suspicious. “Not bleedin’ likely. Buzz off.”

  Ruby tried again. “Mr Rawlings, it really is imperative we speak. Our friend’s wellbeing depends on it.”

  “I couldn’t give a toss about your friend’s wellbeing,” said the old man, preparing to slam the door in their faces.

  “Mr Rawlings, or Mr Lytton if you prefer, we would really appreciate a few words.”

  As Ruby had suspected, her use of his old alias brought him up short.

  “Are you the police? I don’t want no bother with the police.”

  Ruby was quick to assure him. “No, we are not the police. We simply want to help our friend and we believe that you can help us do so.”

  Geoffrey Rawlings stared at them for a while longer, a mixture of emotions flickering across his rheumy eyes, blue just like the first Mr Rawlings but nowhere near as bright.