The Mystery of Black Fell Castle

By E.R. Dillon

Amid civil unrest in the year 1297, human remains are discovered between the tower walls of an English castle in the Scottish lowlands. Kyle Shaw, deputy to the sheriff of Ayrshire, seeks to identify the victim and find out who sealed him up behind the brickwork twenty years earlier. Surely someone connected with the resident family killed him or knows who did.

When things take a deadly turn for certain craftsmen who ply their trade in the shire, Kyle has reason to believe the dead man in the tower might not be a victim after all. There may be a link between his sordid past and the fate of those craftsmen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509226771

E.R. Dillon

E.R. Dillon was born in New Orleans and still lives in Louisiana. Her acquaintance with certain aspects of the law comes from working for civil and criminal attorneys for many years. As a medieval history buff and a fan of mysteries, she incorporates both elements into her stories. For author’s website, visit: http://www.erdillon.com

Book preview

Inc.

Kyle straightened his back, taking care not to bump his head on the exposed rafters under the sloped roof. He’s been in there for quite some time. He passed the lantern to John Logan, the apothecary. Here, take a look.

John, a Scotsman in his fifties with gray hair and green eyes, stepped forward to gaze into the opening between the walls. Aye, he has. I wonder who he is.

I’d like to know who put him in there, Kyle said. He cast a questioning glance at Sir Walter Ainslie, the master of Black Fell Castle, who looked on in silence.

Sir Walter was an Englishman in his late twenties, with light brown eyes and dark gold hair. His garments were fashionable and his bearing dignified, in keeping with his station as a knight of the realm in the service of Edward of England. I have no idea who he is or how he got there. He met the Scots deputy’s pale blue eyes without blinking. That is why I sent for you. He seemed genuinely baffled at finding a dead body in the wall of his castle tower.

The Mystery of Black Fell Castle

by

E. R. Dillon

Deputy Kyle Shaw Mysteries

Book 3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Mystery of Black Fell Castle

COPYRIGHT © 2019 by E. R. Dillon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Abigail Owen

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Tea Rose Edition, 2019

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2676-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2677-1

Deputy Kyle Shaw Mysteries, Book 3

Published in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

My thanks and appreciation to Paul J. Tuger, Frances Faber, and Rebecca Lovingood, all of whom contributed their time and effort to the historical and grammatical accuracy of this story.

Chapter 1

Ayrshire, Scotland

November 1297

Kyle Shaw, deputy to the sheriff of Ayrshire, stood in the garret of Black Fell Castle’s square stone tower. Broken bricks and crumbled mortar from the partial demolition of an interior wall littered the floorboards around him. In the outer wall, a narrow window overlooking the desolate heath beyond let in light along with an icy wind on that morning in late November.

He lifted the lantern in his hand to peer into the hollow cavity between a double wall that hired laborers had stumbled upon during their renovation of the uppermost floor of the tower.

Mellow radiance flooded the dark recesses of the cramped space, illuminating the human remains within. The shriveled corpse, of which only the upper half was visible, reposed on its back, arranged in the classic mode of burial, with the hands folded across the chest. Fine clothing faded with age covered the shoulders and chest. There was also a glimmer of gold around the withered neck. The cause of death, though, was not readily apparent in the muted light.

Kyle straightened his back, taking care not to bump his head on the exposed rafters under the sloped roof. He’s been in there for quite some time. He passed the lantern to John Logan, the apothecary. Here, take a look.

John, a Scotsman in his fifties with gray hair and green eyes, stepped forward to gaze into the opening between the walls. Aye, he has. I wonder who he is.

I’d like to know who put him in there, Kyle said. He cast a questioning glance at Sir Walter Ainslie, the master of Black Fell Castle, who looked on in silence.

Sir Walter was an Englishman in his late twenties, with light brown eyes and dark gold hair. His garments were fashionable and his bearing dignified, in keeping with his station as a knight of the realm in the service of Edward of England. I have no idea who he is or how he got there. He met the Scots deputy’s pale blue eyes without blinking. That is why I sent for you. He seemed genuinely baffled at finding a dead body in the wall of his castle tower.

Also present was Richard Norhill, a friend of the Ainslie family who at that moment regarded Sir Walter with avid curiosity.

Kyle eyed the inner partition—now partly dismantled—that divided the top floor of the castle tower into four rooms. What prompted you to tear down that wall? he said to Sir Walter.

For some time now, I have been of a mind to convert the garret into a single chamber, Sir Walter said. You can imagine my astonishment when the workers came across a body behind the brickwork.

By your leave, m’lord, John said, joining the conversation. I should examine the remains as soon as possible. After being sealed up for so many years, exposure to dampness in the air might hasten decomposition.

As you wish, Sir Walter said. I will summon the workers to take down the rest of the wall and remove the body. He swung around and headed for the stairway.

A short while later, the mummified corpse lay on a long board propped across two stone blocks to make a low table. The rubble on the garret floor had been cleared away to allow access to the remains.

John began his examination, holding the lantern in such a way as to scrutinize every visible part of the body without disturbing it.

Light glinted on the heavy gold chain around the dead man’s neck. Patches of blond hair adhered to the skull. A moldy leather belt loosely encircled the waist. A small leather purse hung from the belt, as did an empty scabbard of a size to hold a dagger.

John tugged on the purse. The thin leather ties, which were rotted with age, parted with ease. He set the lantern on the makeshift table and opened the purse with both hands. Coins clinked as he poked at the contents with his finger. He then withdrew a folded scrap of parchment, brittle and yellowed with age, which he set on the board beside the body. He picked up the lantern and continued his assessment.

When he finished, he stepped back half a pace and cleared his throat. The width of the clothing at the shoulders indicates that this was a powerfully built man. The length of his leg bones and the size of his feet signify that he was tall. The gold chain around his neck and the quality of his leather boots suggest he was wealthy.

He pointed to the pale tresses stuck to the skull. From the abundance of hair on his head, it appears that he was in his prime. Since his hair is fair, his eyes were probably blue. His bones and his features are regular, with no sign of deformity. He drew forth his dagger, and with the flat of the blade, he lifted the head slightly to look under it. His skull is free of marks, which rules out death from a blow to the head. Neither did he die from poison or strangulation. I say that with certainty because of compelling evidence that clearly shows the cause of death.

He swept a hand over the large dark patch that stained the front of the dead man’s clothing, partially obscured by the crossed hands. I counted seven slits in the fabric here on his chest. In addition, three links of his gold chain are deeply scored. The random location of each gouge and the irregularity of depth suggest they came from glancing blows with the tip of a steel blade. He lifted his gaze to Sir Walter. This man was stabbed to death. With the tip of his dagger, he tapped the empty scabbard attached to the leather belt around the dead man’s waist. Note that his dagger is missing. Considering the width of the sheath compared to the size of the slits in the garment, there is a good possibility he was slain with his own weapon.

Sir Walter hunched his shoulders under his black velvet cloak lined with ermine, as though against a sudden chill. He remained silent for a full minute, evidently struggling to take it all in. How in God’s name did a murdered man end up in my garret? he said at last.

That is a good question, Kyle said. He turned to John. Can you tell how long he has been in here?

Based on the outmoded style of his clothing, John said, I would say upwards of twenty years.

So, he was done to death with great violence, Kyle said, staring down at the shriveled corpse. His body was then hidden where no one would ever think to look for it. Yet he was laid out with dignity and care. It wasn’t done for gain, for no self-respecting thief would overlook that gold chain or the coins in his purse. Only his dagger is missing.

I wonder why the killer took the dagger, John said.

As a keepsake, perhaps, Kyle said.

If that is so, the dagger may still be out there somewhere, John said.

I hope it is, Kyle said. It will make my job of finding the culprit a whole lot easier. He turned to Sir Walter. How long has your family occupied this castle?

We have been in residence for three generations, Sir Walter said. Why?

It is rather difficult to haul a dead body up the stairs to the top floor of the tower and to build a wall of brick and mortar without help.

I have lived here all my life. In all that time, I never heard even a whisper that such a thing took place here.

It happened twenty years ago. You would have been a child of seven or eight years of age at the time.

Even so, servants tend to gossip. More to the point, had a member of my family gone missing, it would hardly be the subject of idle chitchat. Rather, it would have been cried aloud in the town square. As I told you, I have no memory of such an incident.

What of the lady I saw on my way in? Was she a resident here twenty years ago?

That is Lady Ornice. She is my elder sister, and aye, she lived here back then, too.

I would like to speak with her, if I may.

I fear she is not well enough to bear up under questioning. The sight of the body in the garret wall gave her quite a turn this morning. Speaking of which, do you plan to take the remains back to town with you?

Given his delicate state, I recommend that you place him in your crypt for now. Once his identity becomes known, his kinfolk can then remove him to give him a decent burial.

I feel badly that there is no priest to pray over the deceased before he is interred, albeit temporarily. When you go back to town, will you visit Prior Drumlay to make such a request on my behalf?

Certainly, Kyle said. "As for the dead man’s identity, he was a man of means. Thus, his disappearance would not have gone unnoticed either. There might be a record of such an incident in the town archives. I will look into it and let you know what I find."

I would appreciate that, Sir Walter said.

There is no more for me to do here, so I will be on my way now, John said.

I’ll go with you, Kyle said. He picked up the folded scrap of parchment that came from the dead man’s coin purse. I’m taking this with me, he said to Sir Walter. The contents may reveal something about the murdered man.

It looks too fragile to open, Sir Walter said.

In its present state, it is, Kyle said. The parchment must be softened and that done with extreme care so as not to ruin the writing on it. He tucked the fragment carefully into the pouch at his side, after which he took his leave and started for the tower stairs.

Cold wind whistled through the slotted windows set high in the wall of the stairwell. The narrow windows also let in sufficient light to see the way without the aid of a lantern. As he and John descended the stone steps, his thoughts turned to the dead man. At one time, the fellow had been a living, breathing person, until someone struck him down. Whether from hatred or jealousy or spite, deserving or undeserving, the outcome was the same. The man was dead, and someone connected with Black Fell Castle did it or knew who did. Improbable though it was, he hoped to find an old retainer or a long-time servant who might be able to fill in the missing details.

He followed John out into the bailey, where the sun at its zenith shed light without warmth. The air was crisp and cold, and there was a sharp edge to the icy breeze that stirred his tawny hair.

The two of them started across the cobbled courtyard, headed for the stable against the curtain wall that surrounded the castle. On the way, they passed a slatted pen with a sow and ten piglets in it. A dozen chickens in and around the pigpen scratched for insects in the fallen hay. Hunting dogs sprawled on the ground in the sunny places of the open yard.

A body inside the garret wall, John said, shaking his head. That’s a first for me. It would have been the perfect crime, except for Sir Walter’s renovations.

In my experience, Kyle said, there is no such thing as a perfect crime. There is always something that gives the killer away, some mistake he makes that later trips him up. In this case, I suspect it is the missing dagger.

Together, they entered the gloom of the stable and walked down the wide aisle between the box stalls on either side. About midway down the row, a tall dappled gray stallion stuck its head over the half door of its stall.

What a beauty, Kyle said, pausing to admire the magnificent creature. He lifted a hand to pet its nose.

The horse reacted violently to the harmless gesture. It jerked back its head and reared up with front hoofs flailing the air. It landed stiff-legged on the dirt floor, only to lash out at the slatted wooden wall with its hind legs. It began to pace around the inside of the large stall, eyes wide and nostrils flared.

He’s a handful, all right, said a voice behind him.

Kyle turned to see Richard Norhill standing there.

Norhill was a Welshman with the bold cheekbones and ruddy coloring of his kind. His eyes were as black as coal, as was his shoulder-length hair. A thin mustache and clipped goatee framed his mouth and chin, giving his face a devilish appearance. He cut a dashing figure in a maroon velvet cotte and leggings that fitted him well, and he carried a sword at his hip with the confidence of a man who knew how to use it.

Compared to Norhill’s finery, Kyle’s clothing was plain—a belted brown tunic that reached his knees, wool leggings of the same color, and a dark red wool cloak fastened at the throat with a simple bronze ring and pin. Unruly locks of tawny hair hung loose on his neck. His face was lean and shaved clean, his features chiseled, marred only by the white seam of a scar that extended from temple to jaw, a reminder of former days as a mercenary in the employ of King Philip IV of France. Now, at thirty-three years of age, he used his sword to uphold the law in his home town of Ayr, a busy seaport on the western coast of the Scottish lowlands.

He seems a bit skittish, Kyle said. Have you ridden him yet?

Not yet, Norhill said. I just bought him this morning. It will take some work before he’s fit to ride.

Kyle’s appreciative gaze swept the muscular body from noble head to prancing hoof. He’s missing a shoe.

His hooves need trimming, too, Norhill said. I heard Macalister is good with difficult horses.

He is that, Kyle said.

Norhill removed a small apple from the pouch at his side and presented it ever so slowly on the flat of his hand to the dappled gray. He spoke nonsensical words in a soothing tone, which seemed to calm the animal. It ceased its pacing and came over to nibble at the offering. Horses are just like people, he said, reaching up to scratch behind its ears. Some are steady and calm. Others are high-strung and excitable, like this fellow.

So I’ve noticed.

The thing is, Lady Ornice has always been steady and calm. Until today, that is. This was the first time I saw her go to pieces. I tried to comfort her, but she would have none of it. Sir Walter told me not to concern myself, yet I cannot help but feel anxious for her well-being.

How long have you known her?

Going on two years, Norhill said. That was time enough to get to know her. I have found her to be more levelheaded and reasonable than her brother. When it comes to riding horses, she is fearless. She is the reason I brought this beauty here this morning, to show him off to her. He slid his hand down the stallion’s nose to rub the velvety place between its nostrils. Still, Ornice is a delicate female, so I must allow that her nerves would likely become frayed at the discovery of a dead body in the attic.

Given time, she will rally, Kyle said.

I have confidence that she will, Norhill said. She has a mind of her own, as she has proved in the past. His black eyebrows drew together. What puzzles me is why she lets her brother hold sway over her.

He does not strike me as a person who would mistreat his own sister.

He would never do that, of course. I only meant that she should be allowed to keep the company of whomever she chooses, without her brother’s interference.

I take it you care for the lady.

Is it that obvious? Norhill said with a winsome smile.

I’m afraid so.

Don’t get me wrong. I have affection for Walter, too. He is like a brother to me. He has made it clear, though, that my fondness for him cannot extend to his sister.

Has he told you why?

Not in so many words, Norhill said. I suspect it is because I am a merchant. He does not look down on me for it, but he apparently cannot approve of his sister entering holy wedlock with a man who works for a living.

Just then, Vinewood, clad in a black leather jerkin and gray wool leggings, walked up with their mounts in tow. He was of middle height and well put together, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His youthful face was clean shaven, and his seductive brown eyes glinted with mischief. Women liked him for his comely features and engaging smile.

Kyle took his leave of Norhill and climbed into the saddle, as did Vinewood and John Logan. The three of them rode from the stable and headed across the open courtyard toward the castle gates under the stone archway.

Did I hear Norhill say he worked for a living? Vinewood said.

Aye, Kyle said, glancing at his sergeant. Is that not so?

According to what the groom just told me, Vinewood said, Norhill owns half the ships in the harbor. He’s one of the richest men in the shire and grows richer each time one of his laden vessels sails out of port.

I wonder what Sir Walter has against the man, Kyle said, musing aloud.

They set out at a lope along a rutted track across the heath—a wasteland of stunted shrubbery and bare hills, windswept and desolate, unfit for human habitation. Only the most resilient creatures could survive in such a barren wilderness. Clumps of wild gorse, whose yellow flowers bloomed year round no matter the season, studded the open land as far as the eye could see in all directions. Hardy tufts of summer grass were now brown from exposure to nightly frosts that portended the advent of a harsh winter. There was not a tree in sight to block the east wind that swept across the empty terrain.

They rode past the inland town of Maybole and on to the coastal road beside the Firth of Clyde, where the incoming tide rushed up onto a white sandy beach that stretched out for miles in either direction. When they reached the outskirts of Ayr, they slowed their pace. The houses there were closer together, and the garden plots smaller. They passed the millhouse that extended out over the river’s edge, its giant paddle wheel turning in sync with the swift current.

They turned onto Harbour Street, where stone houses belonging to rich burghers lined one side of the thoroughfare that ran parallel to the river. Along the way, they passed townsfolk and laborers, some on foot and others in pony-drawn carts, going about their business on that wintry day.

Kyle reined in at St. John’s Priory. Beyond the gates, the square sandstone tower of the church rose high in the air. The marketplace farther up the street separated the priory grounds from Ayr Garrison, which guarded the harbor at the mouth of the River Ayr. The masts of merchant ships docked at the wharf jutted skyward on the seaward side of the garrison wall.

Sergeant, Kyle said to Vinewood who halted beside him. I have a message to deliver to Prior Drumlay. You can go on to the garrison.

Will do, Vinewood said. He nudged his horse in the belly with his heels and continued on down the street.

Thanks for your help this morning, Kyle said to John. He leaned forward to tug on the bell rope beside the gate to summon the porter.

Glad I could oblige, John said. "I’ll go in with ye, if ye don’t mind. I’d like to check on Brother Thomas. He’s newly come from Whithorn Priory in Galloway. It’s his health, ye see. His breath is short after hardly any effort. His abbot sent him here in