Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett

As usual, Morgana sat at the head of the small rosewood dining table, closest to the large stone fireplace. A cheery fire filled the room with the scent of pinecones, mingling with the ever-present fragrance of Penhaligon’s Bluebell Eau de Toilette which was their aunt’s signature perfume. Finding Iggy already seated to Morgana’s left, Arthur bent to brush a kiss to the powdered cheek of his aunt before taking the empty chair to her right. Tristan repeated the greeting and slid into the seat beside Iggy.

      Clad in her usual unrelieved black, Morgana cast an eye from Arthur to Tristan before nodding once. At the gesture, a maid stepped forward and began to pour tea into the bone china cups placed before each of them. As he waited for the maid to serve everyone, Arthur studied the silver stands laden with finger sandwiches, slices of Victoria sponge and fresh-baked sultana scones. Though it hadn’t been that long since he’d wolfed down a bowl of soup for his lunch, Arthur felt the stirrings of appetite in his stomach at the fine spread before them.

      Only once the maid had set the silver teapot down and left the room, did their aunt speak. Fixing Arthur with an expression that said she would brook no nonsense, she asked, ‘What did the inspector have to say?’

      That she knew who Arthur had been on the phone to surprised him not at all. Very little happened behind the stone walls of Camland Castle that didn’t reach Morgana’s ears sooner or later—usually sooner. ‘We have to assume the money’s gone for good.’

      Iggy’s sharp intake of breath told Arthur he wasn’t the only one who’d been pinning his hopes on a different result. Morgana, however, showed no reaction. ‘It’s done then. The silly fool’s scuppered your ship good and proper.’

      ‘Morgana.’ Iggy sounded pained, and Arthur saw Tristan reach beneath the table to give their sister’s leg a comforting pat.

      ‘Don’t Morgana me, girl, when I’m only speaking the truth. Your father was as foolish with money as he was generous with his heart. Remember that race horse he bought for a fortune only for it to go lame the next week? Or that holiday resort in Dominica that got demolished by a hurricane and then it turned out the developers weren’t insured? And what about—’

      ‘Enough!’ Arthur wasn’t sure who was more shocked, Morgana at being cut off mid-flow or himself at having the balls to raise his voice to her. His great-aunt recovered first, raising her teacup to her lips and taking a sip as though nothing had happened.

      Leaping in to fill the silence, Iggy reached for the stand of sandwiches and placed it next to her aunt’s plate. ‘Egg and cress, Morgana, your favourite.’

      ‘I’m not a child to be mollified, Igraine,’ Morgana said stiffly, but reached for a sandwich none the less.

      Arthur and Tristan made themselves busy filling their own plates. Silence reigned over the table for a few minutes as they all tucked in. Only once Morgana had finished her first cup of tea and nodded to Iggy to refill her cup did she speak again. ‘Regardless of how we got here, the dire situation can’t be ignored any longer.’

      ‘It’s not your problem to worry about, Morgana, I can handle it.’ Arthur said in his best ‘head of the family’ voice.

      Morgana snorted. ‘Don’t try that tone with me, boy. You’re not too old for a box on the ears.’

      ‘You’d have to kneel by her chair so she can reach,’ Tristan muttered causing Arthur to cough loudly to try and cover his sudden burst of laughter.

      ‘Tristan Ludworth, I’ll thank you to try and remember some of the manners I taught you,’ Morgana snapped before turning away from the hot blush scalding Tristan’s cheeks. Gaze fixed firmly on Arthur, she continued. ‘The way I see it, you have very few choices, none of them particularly palatable.’ She held up one slender hand, fingers gnarled with age. ‘One, you can see if the National Trust will take this place off your hands. If we’re lucky, they’ll allow us to occupy a small part of it and open the rest up to the public.’

      Arthur frowned at her rather unkind portrayal of the charity. ‘They do a fantastic job, but I’m not quite ready to hand over the reins to someone else. I’m already seriously considering opening some parts of the castle to the public, but I want it to be on our terms and absolutely under my control.’

      Morgana pursed her lips. ‘Option two, you find some filthy rich foreigner to take the place lock, stock and—’

      ‘No!’ The triplets shouted her suggestion down in unison.

      ‘There must be another way…’ Iggy said.

      ‘Can’t we sell a few bits off?’ Tristan asked.

      Arthur raised a brow. ‘Like what?’

      His brother shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but the place is stuffed full of paintings, furniture and the like. Some of it must be worth something.’

      Arthur shook his head. ‘There’s an old archive record somewhere, but I wouldn’t know where to start with it.’

      ‘If the three of you would let me finish,’ Morgana said, her voice sharp, ‘My third suggestion is to get an expert in to take a full survey of the contents of the castle. As well as being obsessed with all that Arthurian nonsense, the ninth baronet was friends with a very artistic set of friends. I believe several of them gifted him with works of art to thank him for his hospitality.’

      Thomas Ludworth, Arthur’s several times great-grandfather had become obsessed with a theory that rather than the traditional Cornish and Somerset connections, the legendary King Arthur had in fact been a Northern warlord and Camland Castle the seat of the court of Camelot. The majority of his peers had openly laughed at the idea, but there was a stack of research and papers Thomas had collated in the library which he’d sworn proved his theory. He’d even gone so far as to name his children after characters connected to the legend, a tradition the family had adopted to that day. As part of his obsession, he’d collected every bit of tat he could lay his hands on with even the most dubious connection to Arthur and Camelot. The walls were littered with rusting swords, battle axes and the like, and the family chapel held no fewer than three cups on the altar alleged to be the holy grail. He’d even gone so far as to commission the huge round table which dominated the centre of the great hall.

      It kept the locals amused and gave the area a bit of a tourist boost, so Arthur didn’t see any real harm in it, but he’d never given the theory any serious credence. ‘I suppose it would be useful to get a survey done, for insurance purposes if nothing else.’

      ‘And if you did decide to do some public open days, you could get this expert to curate the best of the Arthurian stuff into a proper exhibition. That’d be something to draw the crowds in,’ Tristan said, sounding more excited than Arthur would’ve expected.

      ‘It might work,’ he mused. ‘If we could get someone in quickly, we may even be able to put it together in time for the summer.’ He would have to do some serious research, find out what some of the famous estates like Blenheim Palace and Highclere Castle charged for admission, and what sort of thing they offered the tourists who flocked there. The Arthurian connection gave Camland an eye-catching hook—regardless of how spurious it was.

      ‘I could try and do something with the gardens,’ Iggy said, eyes alight. ‘A few themed walks to connect to the legend. There’s that gorgeous glade in the woods we could suggest it was the meeting place for Lancelot and Guinevere; a more testing one out to the lake we could call the Excalibur trail.’

      ‘With a great big rock somewhere along the way you’ll claim is where King Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, no doubt,’ Arthur said, half-joking.

      ‘Yes! Exactly.’ When she saw the doubt on his face, Iggy leaned forward. ‘Come on, Arthur, in for a penny in for a pound. If we’re going to go down, it might as well be in a blaze of tasteless glory!’

      *

      ‘Are you sure we’re not deluding ourselves with this?’ Arthur asked Tristan as they surveyed a dusty collection of paintings in the long gallery. It was hard to imagine anyone