The Antique Hunter's Death on the Red Sea: A Novel (Volume 2) (Antique Hunter's Series) - Hardcover

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

Freya

Crockleford Antiques was deathly quiet. I sat at Arthur’s old partners desk, gazing out the window as four schoolchildren hurried past, huddled under a striped golf umbrella, all gripping the handle to keep their shelter braced against the wind. One of the boys shrieked as a particularly strong gust swept down the high street and threatened to bowl them over; for a moment their laughter drowned out the drumming of the rain.

I turned away and sighed—the shop seemed darker than normal. There was a small desk lamp within reach, so I switched it on and picked up the first of three glass snuff bottles I had retrieved from the cabinet by the window. It fitted neatly into my cloth-covered palm. When I brought it closer to my eye, I saw a small flea bite or nick in the bottom of the glass. A customer might not notice, but that wasn’t how I did business. I pulled off the original £550 price sticker. It was still a very pretty piece—Chinese, from the late nineteenth century, reverse-painted crystal—and I hoped that someone would see its charm in spite of its damage and purchase it. Just as with people, damage didn’t equal worthlessness. Dust clung to its graceful shoulders and furred the top of its red stopper. I gently brushed one corner of the cloth over the bottle, and the Chinese characters painted beneath the surface came to life once more.

After my parents’ death in a fire, when I was twelve, I had spent my teenage years working for Arthur in this shop and later had joined him in his antique-hunting escapades. He was no longer at his rightful place behind his desk, but his presence was etched into the worn arms of his chair and the sweet, musky scent of polish that still filled the air. Having been estranged from Arthur for decades, I was now back where I belonged.

I picked up the next snuff bottle: Chinese Qianlong pewter with an engraved chilong dragon design and a green stopper. My fingertips brushed over the cool metal, and I removed the stopper to see the tiny spoon attached to the inside, used to measure a pinch of snuff.

A fresh shower of rain pelted against the shop’s windows and wind whistled through the cracks in the warped door, making the poster stuck to the inside of it flutter. I checked the Georgian longcase clock to my left as the hand reached three and the gentle chimes rang.

Sky’s late. Strange.

Sky Stevens was a twenty-five-year-old who had started working as a shop assistant a few weeks back. She was smart, reliable, and responsible. She’d quickly become indispensable because no matter how much I loved my aunt, punctuality was not one of her many talents. Sky had also begun an online presence for the shop by making us a website and putting items up for sale there and on specific antiques sites—she was quite the computer genius—and it had increased our profits substantially.

I breathed deeply and scanned the empty shop. Not for the first time I found myself wondering if antiques were more reliable than humans. People could fade gradually out of your life, drawn to new places and new friends—or, worse, leave without warning. If inanimate objects were lost or stolen, there was always the possibility they could be found and returned. In my twenties, with Arthur, I had done just that: tracked down stolen antiques across the globe and returned them to their rightful owners. There was nothing quite like the thrill of the hunt, carefully piecing together information until the location of an item was laid bare. But if I wanted to reignite that life, first I needed a client to commission a new search. That was where I was currently out of luck.

I looked back to the clock. Was Sky to be one more person that faded away?

The rose snuff bottle could wait. I replaced all three safely in their cabinet and wiped a gray streak of dust from my elbow. I sat down and pulled out my phone to call her. Hoping my fears were wrong.

The shop door flew open and crashed against the wall. I leapt to my feet to see my sprightly aunt Carole standing in the doorway. Cold, damp October air rushed in behind her, along with a wave of her signature scent, Chanel N°5. The late-October day might have been overcast before her arrival, but Carole always brought a special kind of sunshine with her.

“No Sky?” she asked, struggling to maneuver her wide-brimmed hat and an armful of shopping bags through the doorway. She almost toppled over then, and I ran to help her.

Carole resorted to shimmying sideways, her enormous, slightly wilted sun hat brushing against the door frame. Sun hat? “I was in Bury and the end-of-summer sales were on,” she explained. “You know I never miss a sale.” I took some of the bags from her. “Thank you, darling. I got a few bits and bobs for you too. I’m absolutely gasping for tea after all that excitement.”

I hung up her raincoat with my free hand. “I’ll pop the kettle on.” As I placed her shopping bags on the floor by the desk, I noticed a beach towel peeking out. “You do remember that the antiques cruise canceled my appearance, don’t you? Or have you decided to go on holiday anyway? I really am fine on my own here if you want to travel like you used to…” My voice trailed off. I wanted Carole to live life to the full and had spent the last few weeks insisting she should travel again. I promised that I definitely wouldn’t be lonely if she went. I had been on my own for a long time. “I’ll get some biscuits too,” I said, ducking under the dark, thick medieval beams in the corridor and heading for the kitchen.

A month ago, I’d received an invitation to be an onboard expert on an antiques-themed cruise to Jordan. With it came the possibility of new customers and the ability to network with antiques specialists. I had assumed this was a job that Arthur had usually been asked to do and that I was being invited in his place. I was over the moon at the idea of following in his footsteps, and Carole and I celebrated with prosecco in the Crown that evening. But a week later a man from the cruise line emailed stating that I was no longer needed.

After that disappointment, I had eagerly reached out to all the contacts I remembered from when I’d worked with Arthur over twenty years ago. Most were no longer in the art-, antique-, and antiquity-hunting business, and the ones who were sounded wary of me. One especially tactless man commented that it was strange to be starting up a private art investigation business “later in life” and could not get me off the phone fast enough.

I had also searched through every bit of paper Arthur had left in the shop—there was a detailed log of the antiques on sale and their provenance, but I couldn’t find any mention of people he had worked with. It was as if Arthur had destroyed all that information before his murder or else someone had removed it after his death. I had literally no contacts in the industry apart perhaps from Bella—the art thief I had encountered some months ago on the Copthorn Manor case. But I couldn’t start an antique-hunting agency with someone who was very much on the wrong side of the law. Plus, if I did want her help, I didn’t have her contact details.

When I re-entered the shop carrying mugs of tea, Carole was settling her sodden new hat on a Victorian wig stand. Seeing me, she rummaged inside one of the shopping bags she had flung down next to the desk....