Bluebell Castle

As he did every time he passed through the space, Arthur paused to admire his sister’s handiwork. Born with a green thumb, according to their great-aunt, Morgana, Iggy was never happier than when she could escape into the gardens and woodland stretching out around the castle.

Their progress halted by the front door for Arthur to stuff his feet into the dark-green wellingtons his sister had previously put out for him. Ever practical, she’d also left a large torch beside his boots, something he’d completely forgotten to think about when they’d been planning this evening. Arthur watched Iggy’s face as she pulled opened the left-hand side of the imposing oak front door. The moment the chilly December air touched her skin, her whole body seemed to lift and lighten, as though she were some kind of sprite, only able to truly thrive out of doors.

Standing to one side, she ushered Arthur and Tristan out then shooed several disappointed dogs back into the warmth of the hall. ‘No walkies for you tonight, darling, you won’t like the noise,’ she said, rubbing the silken ears of Nimrod, one of a pair of greyhounds they’d adopted from the local shelter.

Knowing they had the space to accommodate them, the shelter would often call if they were struggling to rehome any dogs. Large dogs; older ones; those at the less aesthetically pleasing end of the spectrum—Arthur and his siblings would take them in. The numbers in the pack had ebbed and flowed over the years, and those that passed on were buried together in a beautiful grove in the woods, so they could ‘rest forever in the sunshine’ as Iggy had declared when they’d first chosen it as children.

Nimrod snuffled her palm, then allowed Iggy to gently ease him back far enough to tug the heavy door closed once more. A few protesting barks followed them as they descended the steps, but Arthur knew they’d soon all be sprawled in front of the hearth in a tangle of heads and tails.

Iggy dug her own torch from her pocket and aimed it at the gravel ahead of her, giving them a point of reference to follow. They followed the path as it wound around the western wall of the castle and beyond to the faded and overgrown formal gardens where it finally gave way to the gallops still used daily to exercise the horses from the successful Bluebell Castle stud their uncle ran from the stables.

The whimsical name was drawn from the incredible floral display the woods surrounding the castle put on every spring. The little flower had become so synonymous with the Ludworth family it had even found its way onto their family crest. Thoughts of what might become of his uncle’s business haunted Arthur along with a million other worries. Lancelot’s reputation was good enough the business could survive relocating elsewhere if the worst of their nightmares came true and Arthur was forced to sell up, but it’d be a devasting loss to the members of the local community who relied upon it for employment.

The circle of torchlight stopped as Iggy paused. ‘Here?’

‘Just a bit further, and then I reckon we’ll be fine,’ Tristan replied. ‘What do you think, Arthur?’

It was hard to gauge distances in the dark, but he knew the land beneath his feet as well as the back of his own hand. They were almost to the edge of where the formal lands surrounding their home gave way to the wild escarpments of the Derbyshire hills. Their father had loved tromping over those hills and it was also a symbolic threshold. Free of all worldly responsibilities, Uther’s spirit—or whatever—could escape back to the untamed wildness of nature. ‘Here is probably as good a spot as any. We’re well away from any trees.’

‘I think it’s perfect,’ Iggy’s voice held a slight tremor, but the beam of light cast by her torch onto the ground in front of them was steady as a rock.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing with these things?’ Arthur asked Tristan as they bent to place the box gently on the ground.

‘I’m sure. I’ve read the instructions at least half a dozen times, and I had a briefing from the manufacturers when I went and picked them up. Stop fussing.’ The last was said with exasperated affection.

Taking up a position opposite his sister, Arthur pointed his own torch to increase the illuminated area and give Tristan enough room to work with. Trying to quell the nerves in his stomach, Arthur watched his brother unfasten the metal container and draw out the first of several massive rockets attached to long sticks. ‘Trust Dad to come up with something as daft as this,’ he muttered.

Tristan’s broad grin flashed up briefly in the torch light. ‘I think it’s a fab idea, who wouldn’t want to be turned into fireworks when they die?’

Just about everybody he could think of, but Arthur kept that to himself. Tristan had become enamoured with the idea from the moment they’d first read the request included in their father’s will. Arthur had never heard of it before, but once they’d looked it up on the internet, it had proven to be more popular than he’d expected. After reading some of the touching testimonials on the manufacturer’s site, he’d agreed to go along with it.

With their dad having passed away in early October, they could’ve done this on Bonfire night, but it had been Iggy’s suggestion that they wait until New Year Eve’s and mark the passing of the old year into the new with this final farewell and tribute. The symbolism of it had led Arthur to suggest this as the location, echoing as it did that transition from one thing to another: old to new; settled lands to wilderness; life to death.

Tristan paced out the placement of each of the eight rockets provided with the kit and set them firmly into the ground. He then removed the central piece of the display—a multi-firework barrage which could be lit by a single fuse. Straightening up, he checked his watch. ‘Five minutes.’

They waited in silence until the first distant chime from the village church, then Tristan stepped forward to fire the first rocket using the special ignitor kit provided by the manufacturer. A shiver travelled down Arthur’s spine at the distinctive whoosh of the firework streaking high into the air, and then all his worries vanished as a huge boom echoed off the nearby rocky hills and a sparkle of silver and blue bloomed across the dark sky above their heads. Seconds later, the second rocket splashed golden rain, swiftly followed by the third, a bright silver starburst that ended in a series of crackles. Tristan lit two more, bright blue then bright green, five in total to mark each decade of their father’s too-brief life.

Having lit the barrage, Tristan stepped back to join Arthur and Iggy who’d come to stand beside him and they watched in awed silence as the sky lit up with flash after flash of multi-coloured sparks sending their father on his way. Though the company had promised the barrage would last for two minutes it felt like much longer, and by the end of it Arthur found his face was aching from smiling so much at the sheer joy and exuberance. ‘Well done, Dad.’

‘That was fabulous, just perfect,’ Iggy said as she squeezed his hand.

‘Just the last three left.’ Tristan offered the ignitor to Arthur. ‘Age before beauty.’ Arthur took it with a shake of his head. Apart from a pale scar bisecting Arthur’s left eyebrow thanks to a fall from one of the mighty oak trees spread throughout their woods, they were alike enough to be mistaken for each other by anyone who didn’t know the family well.

As he stepped up to one of the remaining rockets, all traces of humour fled and he found it hard to breathe around a sudden ache in his chest. The official memorial service they’d held back in the autumn had been the time for wordy tributes and eulogies. Now, he had only one thing left to say. ‘Blaze bright, Dad, always.’ With shaking fingers, he touched the ignitor to the fuse.

Bright silver sparks showered high above as Iggy placed a soft hand on his back before accepting the ignitor from him. ‘Love you, Daddy, to the stars and back.’ Her fiery tribute streaked into the sky, a perfect crackling match to Arthur’s rocket.

‘We’ll always have Paris,’ Tristan said as he lit the third and final fuse, and the three of them laughed. Stolen from Casablanca, it had been their dad’s response to any awkward or emotional situation, and had become his traditional farewell phrase whenever he’d dropped them off at school.

As the final firework blazed above, they turned away towards the castle. Mixed amongst the smoke, the ashes of Uther Pendragon Ludworth, fourteenth Baronet Ludworth of Camland Castle drifted to settle over the lands he’d loved so much, and Arthur swore he’d do everything in his power to keep hold of them.

CHAPTER TWO (#u24df5bc5-f022-59f3-9a4e-85227bc1aa59)

‘You’ve got this. You’ve done all the research, double-checked and triple-checked everything. Come on now.’ Pep talk over, Lucie Kennington released her grip on the porcelain sink in the ladies’ bathroom and turned on the cold tap. Running her wrists under the cool water, she practised a deep breathing technique she’d picked up at yoga class and squished down the last of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

A quick check in the mirror above the sink told her the carefully applied ‘there, but not there’ make-up she’d got up an hour earlier than normal to apply still looked flawless. One of the first things she’d learnt when starting at Witherby’s Fine Art five years previously was the importance of presentation. Whether it was finding the perfect frame for a painting, a table from the right period to display an exquisite porcelain vase, or just ensuring you were immaculately turned out, presentation was an essential part of maintaining Witherby’s reputation as one of the foremost auction houses in the country.

Having used a damp finger to tame a stray tendril threatening to escape from the sleek bun tied at her nape, Lucie dried her hands on one of the white hand towels stacked in neat rolled rows next to the sink then slid her arms into her navy jacket. Single button fastened at her waist, a quick half-turn and a smoothing hand over the matching pencil skirt and she was ready to face the music.

The low heels on her navy court shoes sank into the deep pile of the forest green carpet as she strode along the hallway then down the sweeping staircase which led from the upper floor staff offices to the ground floor housing the exhibition spaces. Witherby’s occupied what had once been a grand Georgian mansion in the heart of London, and its high sculptured ceilings and painted half-panel walls added to the gravitas and atmosphere. Coming to work every day in the exquisitely beautiful building felt like a real privilege to Lucie—even if the ancient heating system and original sash windows left something to be desired in the cold depths of winter.

As she stepped down onto the creamy marble floor of the imposing entrance hall, a blast of cold from the open front door sent a shiver through her, and she was glad for the thermal vest hidden beneath her silk blouse. A strip of Wedgwood blue sky showed over the rooftops of the buildings across the street. It might be chilly, but at least the weather was fine which boded well for their first major sale day of spring. A quick, nervous smile to James, the doorman clad in a traditional set of tails, complete with top hat, earned her a wink in return. ‘It’s going to be a good one,’ he said. ‘They were queuing to get in.’

His declaration did nothing to quell her nerves, nor did the hubbub of conversation already spilling out of the open double-doors of the main auction room. The start of the auction was still three hours away. ‘Better go and make sure everything’s ready then!’ Lucie kept her tone bright and breezy, like it was just another day and not the most important one to date in her career. With a quick wave, she headed down a short corridor to the left of the main entrance and into the private viewing area where select patrons were given time to peruse the best lots in relative peace.

One more deep breath as she paused on the threshold and then she swept into the room, head high, smile bright, eyes dancing over the people already gathered with a glass of Buck’s Fizz. ‘Something to drink, Ms Kennington?’ Marnie, one of this year’s new interns, offered her a silver tray topped with glasses.

‘Thank you.’ Lucie accepted a highball filled with sparkling water. The ice clinked, and she wrapped her left hand over the right to calm the slight shaking. She cast a glance around the room, trying to focus on individuals and not just the blur of chattering faces. Spying a famous newspaper art critic holding court in one corner, she took a too-large mouthful of water and almost choked as the bubbles fizzed up the back of her nose. Smooth, Lucie. Snorting out one’s drink was most definitely not the ‘Witherby’s way’ of doing things.

Hoping nobody had noticed her discomfort, she began to stroll around the edge of the room, catching snippets of conversations as she went. It came as no surprise how few of the discussions were about the painting they’d all gathered to see. Art was rarely appreciated solely for its ability to induce an emotional reaction, whether breath-taking joy, or shock and discomfort. It had become a commodity. A thing to own for the sake of owning it, or even as a way of reducing taxation liabilities. It was the ugly side of the art world, a necessary evil without which she wouldn’t be able to do the job she loved. But it broke her heart to think of all the treasures secreted away in bank vaults and kept under lock and key. A shiver ran through her. Try as she might to escape it, the tendrils of materialism continued to thread themselves through her life.

‘Ah, Lucinda, there you are.’ The warm greeting from Carl Nelson, the head of her department, chased away the dark clouds gathering in her mind. He’d been nothing but supportive since she’d first joined the company as a shy girl fresh from university. Setting her shoulders, she lifted her face to meet the paternal smile he aimed her way and moved towards the small group gathered around him. ‘I was just telling everyone about your remarkable discovery.’

A woman clad in a sleek black skirt and jacket that whispered of vintage Chanel from every stitch and thread gave Lucie an appraising glance before smiling. ‘You really just found the piece hanging forgotten in the hallway?’

Lucie nodded. ‘I was there to appraise another artwork entirely. I turned to take off my coat and caught sight of the Meileau from the corner of my eye.’ She paused, lost for a moment in the memory of her first sight. Butterflies danced inside her, the same as they had in the dusty hallway of a suburban bungalow. The luminous blues and greens of the beautiful watercolour had glowed even in the half-light of a gloomy afternoon, stealing the breath from Lucie’s lungs.

‘And Impressionism isn’t even her speciality.’ The slightly hesitant voice behind her shoulder was another welcome balm to Lucie. Turning, she made room for a slightly rumpled-looking Piers Johnson to join them. ‘So you can imagine,’ he continued with a quick wink at Lucie, ‘how green with envy we were when our Pre-Raphaelite-loving colleague stumbled across one of the discoveries of the decade.’

Fighting not to blush, Lucie found his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before dropping it again in case he got the wrong idea. With his kind blue eyes twinkling from behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses, to the ruffled brown hair that always looked in need of a good comb, Piers had the kind of bookish charm that ticked every one of Lucie’s boxes. Or should have.

They’d dated a handful of times the previous summer before Lucie had admitted reluctantly to herself that the only stimulation between them was on an intellectual level. When he’d finally kissed her in a quiet corner of the V&A where they’d been to visit an exhibition together, it had been…pleasant.

Though he’d been disappointed when she’d suggested they had too much to lose in terms of both friendship and their working relationship, he’d been nothing but gracious. Over the past twelve months he’d never intimated he wanted to resume their fledgling romance, but she caught the odd look from him now and then that made her wonder, so she was at pains not to act in a way he might take as encouragement. He was a decent man, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt or embarrass him. Turning up to support her today was just the sort of thing he would do, and she wished, not for the first time, that she was attracted to him. He was perfect for her in every other way.

Swallowing a sigh of regret, she turned his compliment aside with one of her own. ‘Oh, Piers, don’t tease so. Everyone knows how much you’ve done to build Witherby’s reputation to what it is today. I’m just a beginner in comparison.’

Casting her a grateful smile, he shoved his glasses back in place with his forefinger. ‘You’re too kind.’ He turned back to the client. ‘Since Lucie’s find we’ve all been trawling the valuation enquiries inbox in the hopes of matching her success.’

Members of the public were welcome to submit requests directly to Witherby’s via their website, and it usually fell to Lucy and the other junior valuation staff to comb through the emails and winnow out anything of interest. Her find had, temporarily at least, elevated the task from mundane chore to something of an in-house competition to find the next big thing.

‘It was pure luck,’ she stressed. ‘Any one of my colleagues could’ve been assigned the visit. I was just in the right place at the right time.’

‘Well, we’re all on tenterhooks. When do we get to see this masterpiece?’ The sleek woman asked.

Glancing past the woman’s shoulder, Lucie spotted Carl making his way towards the cloth-swathed stand in the centre of the room. Immediately, the butterflies in her tummy were dancing once more. ‘Any minute now.’

‘Allow me.’ With a smile, Piers offered the woman his arm, excusing himself from Lucie with a smile. No doubt he’d sensed her nerves and was giving her space to compose herself. Such a good man. As he strolled away, his words drifted back to Lucie. ‘There were some questions over the provenance, but Lucie beavered away until she scraped together enough data to satisfy the committee.’