Castle Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  Mavis sighed, and raised her head to gaze at Sam. “It certainly sounds like our girl, doesn’t it?”

  Sam nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. They had nothing to treat it with, so it could only run its course, which was often deadly. It’s no wonder they were so fearful of it, they would force a sufferer into seclusion any way they could.”

  Lacey sat forward. “Does he say how many in the castle died? Who they were?”

  Mavis bent to the book again. “No. He says many succumbed, but no names or exact numbers.”

  “What about your library? Your other records? Would they list deaths within the family? I’m assuming, since she was shut up here in the castle and not left outside to the elements, that she was part of the family.”

  Mavis and Peter glanced at each other. “Church records?” she asked. “Burial records?”

  “Or family bibles?” Lacey asked. “Some families listed important dates in their bibles: births, marriages. I’m not sure about deaths.”

  “We can look,” Peter said. “Let me get some paper…”

  “I’ve got it,” Lacey said, already pulling her notebook from her pack. “Church records, deaths, burials, family bibles. The really good news is that we can zero in on the year, late 1694 or early 1695.” She looked over at Sam. “Did you have a feel for the weather? Did it seem very cold?”

  Sam thought back. “Definitely cool,” he said, “but she wasn’t bundled up. Of course she was feverish, but I doubt she’d have lasted long in the dead of winter with just her woolen gown. I’d say it was before deep winter.”

  Lacey made a note. “So probably 1694. We can check 1695 if we need to.” She looked back to the Ellsworths. “What else?”

  Mavis leaned toward Sam. “Did you get any sense of a name? That would certainly help.”

  He let his gaze drift down toward the floor, turning inward. “No,” he said. “I’m not getting anything.”

  “Well,” Peter interjected, “as Lacey said, we must assume she’s a Fitzpatrick. I wouldn’t think she’d be too hard to find, except for the age of the records.”

  Lacey nodded. Glancing down at her notes, she felt they had plenty of good information; now it was “just” a matter of finding mention of the girl in three-hundred-year-old records.

  ~~~

  NINE

  “Okay,” Sam said. “This is good. Now, what about the man in the residence?”

  Mavis set the heavy book aside. “We have heard several stories of him seen by people staying there. He usually appears standing over them in their bed. He never speaks, never moves toward them or threatens in any way, just stands there, staring at them. We heard it enough times that we finally quit using the rooms and took the furniture out completely. People were quite upset, as you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I can,” Sam said, “although I didn’t feel any threat from him, either.” He looked to the others. “Any other experiences?”

  Aileen nodded. “I have not seen him, but one time I was in there and I heard the most dreadful, sorrowful sigh. It startled me so, I thought someone had followed me in, but there was no one. I checked the windows, thinking it was the wind, but the windows were all closed and locked.”

  “Sorrowful,” Sam repeated. “Yes, he is that.”

  Harley abruptly cleared his throat. “I, uh, I have seen him.” Everyone’s eyes turned to him. “I went in once, looking for a vase.” He motioned to Mavis. “Do you remember when you couldn’t find that porcelain rose vase? We looked everywhere, and just to be thorough, I looked in some of the closed rooms.” Mavis nodded, eyes wide. “I walked into that bedroom and he was there, standing at the window, looking out. I was immediately ready to challenge him; the residence had been locked, and no one should have been in there, but before I could speak, he just… faded away.”

  “You never told me,” Mavis aid softly.

  “Well.” He shrugged and smiled uneasily.

  “How was he dressed?” Sam asked.

  Harley thought back. “All in black; black trousers, black jacket. I couldn’t see the front of him. Very spit-spot, as I recall.” He frowned down at his hands on his knees. “I do believe his hands were clasped behind him, however, and I think he had gloves on. White gloves.”

  “What does that suggest about him?” Sam asked.

  Mavis and Peter looked at each other.

  “A butler?” Peter offered. “A valet?”

  “That’s what it felt like to me,” Sam said. “He was a servant. A very faithful, dependable servant.”

  Peter had a thought. “Lacey, can you play back what Sam said in there? His first impressions?”

  “Sure.” Lacey got her phone and keyed up the video. She held the phone up so the sound projected outward to the group.

  “Loyal,” Sam’s small voice said. “Dependable. Stoic. This is his realm. His… protectorate. His life is here, within these walls, meting out the lord’s wishes.”

  “Ah!” Peter exclaimed. Lacey paused the video. “’Meting out the lord’s wishes.’ That tells me two things. He was the chamberlain, the head of staff, and serving a lord. Not all Fitzpatricks achieved lord status. Actually very few.”

  “How does one become a lord?” Lacey asked.

  “Basically two ways: by inheritance or by being awarded the title for exceptional service to the crown.”

  “Like knighthood?” She thought of Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Elton John.

  “Yes, like that. Titles given that way are not inherited, so there’s no carryover to the next generation. And as I said, very few Fitzpatricks ever became lords.”

  “So it should be easy to narrow this down,” Sam said.

  “I should say so,” Peter agreed, beaming. He turned back to Lacey. “Can you play more of the video?”

  She did.

  Sam making his way through the residence, describing again the man’s absolute dependability. Then, moving into the small suite, and the abrupt change in the feeling.

  “Despair. Failure. Loss of control. Dishonor and… overwhelming grief. The loss of everything. Nothing left but… poison. He died here. On the bed. By his own hand. All is lost.”

  Lacey stopped the video. “So he committed suicide,” she said softly.

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  “That’s quite a self-punishment,” Peter said. “For someone with very high standards, it must have been a gross negligence.”

  “Can you think of anything that would fit?” Lacey asked. “What mistake could he make that would be so terribly dishonorable?”

  Peter thought, his brow creased with the effort. “Theft? That hardly seems horrible enough, unless he left the family destitute. So much of a family’s wealth was in the land, it would be difficult to steal it away.”

  “Murder?” Lacey suggested. “Or accidental death? What if he was put in care of a child, and the child drowned or was injured and died?”

  “Hmm,” Peter mused. “Possible, although a man of his position would not likely be set to care for a child. That would fall to nannies or nurses.” He shook his head. “I’m at a loss.”

  “Maybe the records will tell us,” Sam said, waving toward the big book. “If we narrow down the owners to lords only, we can start there, see if a story comes to light.”

  “Yes,” Peter said decidedly. “I think that is an excellent place to start.” He clapped his hands to his knees. “Perhaps we should agree to meet in the library tomorrow morning?” He tipped his head at Sam and Lacey. “I daresay you two might like a bit of free time this afternoon. Explore the grounds, or simply relax?”

  Lacey glanced over at Sam and smiled. “Much as I would love to dive into the research, I wouldn’t mind taking a look around.”

  Sam chuckled. “Good idea, because I know once we get into the library, you’re going to dig in and we’ll have a hell of a time getting you out.”

  Lacey might have protested, but she knew he was right. She blushed slightly and shrugged.

  “Well, then,” Mavis said. �
�Shall we say nine o’clock in the library? Harley can collect you and bring you down.”

  Sam nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

  ~~~

  Having the afternoon off was a blessing. Lacey bundled up; although it was a sunny day, the wind was fierce and cold. It blew Sam’s normally sleek black ponytail into a tangle. They left the protection of the castle, strolled past the stables and various outbuildings, and walked the shore of the estuary. The sheltered inlet was almost flat, ruffled only slightly by the wind, while the ocean beyond the breakwater was dotted with whitecaps.

  “Not quite like the beach at home, is it?” Sam noted.

  “Nope. No surfer dudes or beach bunnies out there working on their tans. I wonder why?” She pulled her scarf up closer against her chin.

  They found a few sea shells, probably very common ones, but Lacey saved them anyway. “Irish shells,” she said.

  As the day waned, the wind got colder and they retreated back inside. On the lower floor of the castle, not far from the dining room, was a gift shop and a small museum. They wandered the museum, noting the outdated farm implements, the heavy woolen clothing and the ornate dishware. In the gift shop, Lacey bought postcards to send to her parents and Sam’s kids. She found a beautiful Fair Isle sweater of emerald green and white, dotted with sprigs of red and gold. Sam insisted on buying it for her.

  “When are you going to have another chance to get something like this?” he asked.

  She gave in with only a murmur of protest.

  Dinner in the dining room was an adventure of discovery. She had savory beef stew, garlic-roasted cabbage and potatoes au gratin. She learned the names of things like coddle and boxty and vowed to look up recipes when they got home. A cupcake-sized personal Bundt cake was a perfect topper to the experience.

  Back in their suite, they found that a fire had been laid in the fireplace, bathing the room in a warm, flickering light. Lacey showered first, trying on her new sweater afterward.

  Sam admired it, then eased it off of her and pulled her into the deep down of the four-poster bed.

  ~~~

  TEN

  In the morning, Lacey was reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed until she remembered they would start their research today. That was a lure she couldn’t resist.

  Harley met them in the dining room, having just a cup of coffee as they finished their breakfast. From there, they went to the library. The heavy wooden doors were open, and inside the cavernous complex of rooms, Mavis and Peter were already pulling books.

  “Oh, my God,” Lacey said, staring around at the floor to ceiling bookshelves and the clustered sitting areas. “How fabulous is this?”

  Mavis chuckled. “This is probably the greatest treasure of the castle,” she said. “We have so much history here that exists nowhere else. As you can imagine, we protect it fiercely.”

  “Oh, yes,” Lacey agreed. “Have you digitized any of it? Or do you plan to?”

  “We would love to,” she sighed, “but it’s not yet risen to the top of the priority list. Hopefully we will, in time. For now, though, I must ask you to put on these cotton gloves. Our archivist is very strict about handling the items here.”

  Lacey, Sam and Harley all pulled on the thin white gloves. Lacey noticed the Ellsworths had brought down the Chronicles, and she pulled the book to her.

  “The Chronicles of the Esteemed and Resilient Family Fitzpatrick,” she read from the cover, “and the history of Castle Fitzpatrick of Dublin County, Ireland.” She noted the author’s name, Gregory Hayes Fitzpatrick. It was so strange, seeing her name everywhere.

  “You’re welcome to look through that,” Mavis said.

  “Thank you. I’ll be very careful with it.”

  Sam looked at the spines of the books Mavis and Peter had laid there. “So where do we start?”

  “I’m trying to think of anything that would have information about the 1600s,” Peter said. “There’s a couple of old family bibles there, plus some other histories of Dublin County.” He frowned at the books. “But now I’m wondering if we might need to contact some of the local churches, see if they have records back that far.”

  Lacey pulled her notebook from her pack and flipped through the pages.

  “Okay, if the girl died in 1694, and she was fourteen or fifteen, she would have been born in 1679 or 1680. Do these bibles go back that far?”

  “I believe so,” Peter said. “Check the front pages, but also look through the rest of it. Often notes were left in various places within the bibles, sometimes in reference to a verse, sometimes not.”

  Lacey reluctantly pushed the Chronicles aside and pulled a bible to her. It was almost as big as the Chronicles, with an ornate leather binding. Inside, she noticed the pages were very thin vellum with exquisite illumination.

  “Oh,” she breathed at sight of the gold and red letters starting each verse.

  “Yes, that one is very valuable,” Mavis said.

  Lacey hesitated. “Would you want to check this one? I’m afraid…”

  “No, no, go ahead. I’m sure you’ll handle it with care.” Mavis pulled another one to her and opened it carefully.

  Lacey was almost afraid to touch hers. She picked up each page delicately, laying the leaves over one by one. On the second page, she found a handwritten list, the ink in the oldest entries faded to a light tan, the later entries in a deep sable. The writing was so ornate with curlicues and sweeping ascenders and tails that she had trouble making out the dates at first. Finally she figured out the first date: 1574.

  She ran her gloved finger down the list, only peripherally noting the operative verbs: born, wed, died. Seeing the record of deaths gave her hope, but when she read down the list of dates in the 1600s, there was nothing for 1679 or 1680, nor any entry for 1694.

  “Why are there multiple bibles for the family?” she asked, trying to understand the gaps.

  “Only the direct line lived in the castle. Other branches of the family lived without, and so had their own bibles.” Mavis explained without looking up from her own search.

  “Oh, right,” Lacey said. Realizing this search was not going to be as straightforward as she’d first hoped, she carefully paged through more of the bible for notes added in. Surprising herself, she found a couple. One was a bill of sale for two oxen and four goats, dated 1712. The other was a poem, and seemed to recount a mother’s loss of her newborn child.

  She closed the big book carefully and pushed it aside.

  “Okay, here’s a stupid question,” she said. “If the girl lived here in the castle, can we assume she was part of the direct lineage? And if that’s true, is there a list of the castle owners down through time?”

  Mavis looked up and blinked at her. Immediately, both she and Peter reached for the Chronicles at the same time.

  “I’m not sure,” Mavis said. She and Peter bent over the table of contents together. “Here,” she said suddenly. “Look at this: Notable Fitzpatricks.”

  Peter heaved a good portion of pages over, digging deep into the book. Checking page numbers, he turned more of them, finally finding the one he wanted.

  “William, 1564,” he read. “Founder of the original Castle Fitzpatrick, and the first to record and manage the boundaries of the feudal lands surrounding Dublin.”

  He went to the next entry. “Farnsworth, 1645. Had the towers built onto the castle. Nothing around the time of the smallpox outbreak. Then it jumps to Sir Andrew, 1730. Had the title of baron conferred upon him by King George II, in gratitude for meritorious military service. James, 1761—”

  “Wait,” Lacey said. “Sir Andrew was a baron? Is that considered a lord?”

  “Oh, aye,” Peter said, going back to that entry. “Lords are, in descending order, duke, marquess, earl, viscount, and baron.”

  “Could that be the guy served by our man in the suite?”

  “That’s a definite possibility,” Peter said. He scanned down the rest of the entries. “Next title I see is giv
en to Franklin in 1946 by Queen Elizabeth II. As I said, there weren’t many.”

  Lacey got an idea. She pulled her laptop from her pack and fired it up. “Sure glad you guys have good WIFI,” she said as she navigated through her browser. She found the robust genealogy site she often used in her research, and plugged in William Fitzpatrick. Of course she got a zillion results.

  “Silly,” she chided herself. “Is there a middle name for William, or a birth date?”

  Mavis scanned the page of the Chronicles. “No. The date, apparently, is when he became head of the castle.”

  “Let me try Andrew. He took over the castle when? Seventeen…”

  “Seventeen thirty,” Mavis said.

  “So let’s say,” Lacey mused, “that he was born about 1690 or 1700.” She plugged in the first number, realizing as she did so that he could have been an infant during the awful smallpox outbreak, but obviously, luckily, had survived.

  “Bingo,” she said. “How about born in 1696 in Dublin? Andrew Bartholomew Fitzpatrick, son of Hugh and Lucinda.” She clicked on Hugh and selected a link to all his children.

  “Holy cow,” she said. “Fourteen children. Didn’t these people know what caused that?”

  Mavis, Peter, Sam and Harley all gathered around behind her.

  “Long cold winter nights,” Peter joked.

  Lacey scanned the list of children. “Andrew was the tenth child born. But look here. Jemma born in 1680. The other children closest to her age are boys. And she’d be fourteen in 1694.”

  Lacey turned in her chair to face the others. “And she died in 1694.”

  “That’s her,” Sam whispered. “Lacey, you found her. She’s the one who had smallpox.”