One of NPR’s 2024 Books We Love In this “irresistible, immersive, and completely unputdownable” (Ellery Lloyd, New York Times bestselling author) debut novel, a former antique hunter investigates a suspicious death at an isolated English manor, embroiling her in the high-stakes world of tracking stolen artifacts. What antique would you kill for? Freya Lockwood is shocked when she learns that Arthur Crockleford, antiques dealer and her estranged mentor, has died under mysterious circumstances. She has spent the last twenty years avoiding her quaint English hometown, but when she receives a letter from Arthur asking her to investigate—sent just days before his death—Freya has no choice but to return to a life she had sworn to leave behind. Joining forces with her eccentric Aunt Carole, Freya follows clues to an old manor house for an advertised antiques enthusiast’s weekend. But not all is as it seems. It’s clear to Freya that the antiques are all just poor reproductions, and her fellow guests are secretive and menacing. What is going on at this estate and how was Arthur involved? More importantly, can Freya and Carole discover the truth before the killer strikes again? “Irresistible, immersive, and completely unputdownable. Think the Antiques Roadshow meets Miss Marple with a deliciously OTT cast of characters and twist after twist after twist.” — Ellery Lloyd, New York Times bestselling author of The Club 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. 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 mor