The Antique Hunter's Guide to Murder: A Novel (Antique Hunter's Series, Band 1) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

C. L. Miller is the internationally bestselling author of the Antique Hunter Series. She started working life as an editorial assistant for her mother, Judith Miller, on The Miller’s Antique Price Guide and other antiquing guides. She lives in a medieval cottage in Dedham Vale, Suffolk, with her family. Visit her at CLMillerAuthor.com.

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Chapter 1 1
“All hunts begin with something that has been lost… or taken.”

—Arthur Crockleford

Freya

Outside the Victoria and Albert Museum in London I brushed my fingertips over a shrapnel dent in the building’s wall. It had seen a lot, that wall, and had survived whatever had been thrown at it since being built in 1909. No war or hurricane had taken it down. I wished I were as strong.

Early that morning I’d left my house before the real estate agent arrived and fought the commuter’s hustle, bus after bus, to get to South Kensington. I’d waited in a café nearby until the museum opened. The V&A was the place I always escaped to, my very own safe haven.

A smiling man opened the museum’s main entrance. I was one of the first inside—the tourists were probably still having their buffet breakfast.

The familiar smell of polish hit me, then the echo of my boots tapping on the tiles in the cavernous hall. I smiled. It was almost enough to make me forget the “For Sale” sign being nailed to my gate.

Ever since my ex-husband, James, moved out almost nine years ago he had insisted the house be sold. Apparently, a large Victorian house in an expensive suburb was wasted on me. James had finally agreed I could live in the house until our daughter, Jade, was eighteen, and now that she had left for university in America there was little I could do to stop the sale. I couldn’t afford the mortgage alone when the child support stopped—Jade wasn’t a child any longer.

I was almost on autopilot when I reached the beginning of the British Galleries on the first floor. I passed the Great Bed of Ware, an enormous bed so large it could sleep two families and so famous it was mentioned in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Farther along on my right was a freestanding bookcase like the one Samuel Pepys once owned. Eventually I reached the stone stairway to the third floor and the Chippendale furniture. I hadn’t been part of the antiques world for over twenty years, but I still adored a finely crafted chair or a beautifully gilded mirror.

I knew each item in the Chippendale furniture section by heart, and something about the Chippendale Garrick Bed (named after the once-famed actor David Garrick) looked wrong. I leaned as close as I dared and studied every inch of the ornate fabric. A couple of moments later I saw it. A very slight indent on the cover. A visitor had decided to check the comfort level of the mattress and left their mark.

Annoyance bubbled inside me and I looked around for a gallery assistant.

My phone rang with Aunt Carole’s ringtone. Jade had put that jingly ringtone on before she left for LA and I’d never gotten around to changing it. I pulled out my phone and silenced it. I desperately wanted to hear my aunt’s voice, but now wasn’t the time. I scanned the empty gallery and walked back toward the stairs in the hope of finding a member of staff when my phone rang again, vibrating insistently in my pocket. I should’ve known Carole was not to be ignored. She would only keep calling until I answered.

“Carole,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Freya, darling,” Carole interrupted dramatically. “Is it today?”

“Yes, they’re putting a sign up this morning,” I replied.

“What a rotter James is.” She was trying to sound annoyed, but there was something strange in Carole’s tone; it was the voice she used when she was acting. “Might be time to let go? Find a new path, a new adventure somewhere—”

“I won’t move.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

“Of course.” Carole sniffed. “But, darling… I may need you to come home for a bit.”

“Why?” It wasn’t like Carole to ask such a thing; I hadn’t set foot in Little Meddington for decades. “What’s wrong?”

“Well…”

“Carole?” My gut twisted and my pulse picked up. It was unusual for Carole to be unsure of her words. “Are you all right?”

She took a deep breath. “Something terrible happened… to Arthur… it’s so…”

“Arthur?” The calm I had momentarily found was shattered. What on earth was Carole doing bringing up that man when she knew what he’d put me through all those years ago in Cairo? She knew I hated to hear his very name, let alone discuss whatever trouble he was in. I headed for the stairs—this conversation was probably not one for a museum.

“It’s just… they’re saying he fell down those old stairs in the dark and had a heart attack, but there has to be more to it. I’d gone to check on him because he phoned me on Saturday afternoon and sounded strange. When I got there…” Carole’s voice cracked.

“Carole?” I froze on the museum staircase. “Is he…?” I couldn’t say the word “dead” out loud, but I knew in my heart that was what Carole meant.

Is he gone?

My first reaction was an unexpected wave of relief. But it was immediately chased by a sharp pang of guilt about my initial response. Arthur was the person I liked least in the world, but he was Carole’s closest friend—Arthur was family to her. And once, long ago, he’d been like a grandfather to me.

“I wasn’t going to call you with everything going on today, but when I was standing outside the shop that new solicitor slicked his way over and told me he needs to see me and you right away.”

I could hear the tremor in Carole’s voice, but I couldn’t take in her words.

“I’m so sorry, Carole,” I managed to say. She blew her nose, and I could imagine the tears tracking down her cheeks. I wondered if Carole was fixated on this solicitor because the thought of losing Arthur was just too much to process. It was a quick, easy decision. “Of course I’ll come up and help you out with the solicitor.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” Carole brightened instantly, and I knew she’d been angling for that all along. “I know you and Arthur didn’t see eye to eye ever since…” She hesitated. “Well, we won’t go into that, will we? Not the time. But I know he wanted you here.”

I knew he wouldn’t have, but Carole needed me and that was what mattered. “I’ll pack a bag and get to Colchester station this afternoon—I’ll stay for as long as you need me. We’ll take on the solicitor together.”

“Excellent. I’ll pick you up if you text me when you’re on your way.”

“No. It’s quite all right. I’ll catch a taxi,” I said quickly. Carole was the worst driver in East Anglia and her ancient convertible Mercedes was highly impractical for small country lanes. Carole believed she could handle any speed. We’d never agreed on the topic.

“Absolutely not! It’s spring sunshine and roof down weather!”

How could I say no after what had just happened? “Well, if you’re absolutely sure you’re up to driving?” I would need to pack appropriately: weatherproof jacket, scarves...