My next novel features Annabel Rowe, an aspiring painter at the Slade Art School in 1875 London. Her older brother Edwin is a ne’er-do-well gambler but a brilliant painter and art restorer, and on the day he is murdered, a priceless French portrait by Boucher is stolen from his studio. Being Edwin’s closest living relative and knowledgeable about both art and auctions, Annabel convinces Inspector Matthew Hallam (readers may recall him from A Dangerous Duet) that she’s essential to his investigation.
Regarding the making of art, I have no abilities in this direction at all. Rendered helpless at the sight of a white plate, I resorted to polka dots at those paint-your-own-pottery places where I used to take my daughter. But I do know something about the auction world, and this became one of the seeds for this novel.
In the 1990s, I worked at Christie’s auction house in New York, back when it was still at 502 Park Avenue. On days when the weather was fair, I’d walk from my apartment on the Upper West Side across Central Park, past the store A La Vieille Russie, which always featured exquisite antiques and objets de vertu in the windows, to the employee entrance. I worked behind the scenes in the marketing department, buying advertising space for Christie’s in a broad array of magazines, newspapers, and specialty publications. And what did I have to do in order to buy effectively? I had to read about art and auctions, extraordinary collections and shocking scandals, outrageous wealth and daring thefts.
(Insert back-of-hand-to-forehead gesture and a melodramatic sigh.)
Christie’s Auction Rooms, engraving from “The Microcosm of London” published by Rudolph Ackermann, 1808. 
As a new employee at Christie’s I received a quick and lively tutorial in our history. As my protagonist Annabel tells Inspector Hallam, Christie’s was begun by James Christie, who in December 1766 held the first catalogued auction in the Great Rooms at Pall Mall in central London. Among the items sold were two chamber pots and two pillowcases. (So glamorous!) But it was almost inevitable that Christie would begin to engage with the art market. The rooms in Pall Mall served as the location for the exhibitions of the Royal Academy of Arts until 1779. James Christie was part of a social circle that included the actor and playwright David Garrick and the painters Sir Joshua Reynolds and Thomas Gainsborough. Christie later moved to a residence next door to Gainsborough, who lived in Schomberg House, 80-82 Pall Mall. This building had a second tie to the art world, as the artist John Astley resided at no. 81 Pall Mall, where he installed a studio on the roof. (Later, however, his rooms were purchased by a Scottish quack doctor who turned the space into a Temple of Health and Hymen; it was a high-class brothel, featuring a “celestial bed” with electrical devices—?!!—and was eventually raided by the police. More on this in a moment.)
“Lady Hamilton as a Bacchante” by ÉLISABETH VIGÉE LE BRUN, 1790-1792 
For the next two decades, Christie built his business. In 1778, he achieved a phenomenal and defining success with the sale of the art collection of Sir Robert Walpole to Catherine the Great of Russia for £40,000. It is now part of the Hermitage Museum collection. In 1780, George Stubbs’ painting Gimcrack on Newmarket Heath, now considered a masterpiece of sporting art, sold for the first of four times at Christie’s. In 1785, Christie’s sold Samuel Johnson’s library, and in 1795 Sir Joshua Reynolds’s entire studio. Paintings purchased at Christie’s were a significant part of the original 1824 collection of the National Gallery, where Annabel takes Matthew to show him a forged painting.
My fascination with art is partly because nearly every piece of art, and particularly it seems every painting, has a story—because often it brings together so many people and events. Take the painting of Emma, Lady Hamilton, by Elisabeth Vigeé-LeBrun, which Christie’s sold in 1801. You have Elisabeth herself—French daughter of a portraitist and a hairdresser, who entered a convent for six years, survived a wretched step-father, and had her studio seized because she was painting without a license. She painted hundreds of portraits including dozens of Marie Antoinette and her family. Then you have Emma—a beautiful model and actress and the muse for the portrait painter George Romney. Born Amy Lyon, the daughter of a blacksmith, she worked as a maid to actresses at the Drury Lane theater and also worked an attendant at the aforementioned Temple of Health and Hymen. She had several affairs with wealthy men, but she was best known, however for being the mistress of Admiral Horatio Nelson (yes, that Nelson). The hero of Trafalgar abandoned his wife for Emma, and when he learned about the portrait of her, he arranged to purchase it privately before it even reached the sales floor, for 300 pounds, saying, “If it had cost me 300 drops of blood I would have given it with pleasure.”
To me, the painting’s very frame is like a window; the captured image suggests worlds and people, their passions and stories beyond and behind what we first see.
I realize I like the mystery of it.
Check back for more blogs about the art and auction world in 1875 London.
So far as I can tell, I write historical mysteries for three reasons, and the first is that I get to run down the research rabbit hole. It’s nice down there, cozy and quiet, and you’re allowed to bring your coffee. And frankly, there is something that fires in my brain when I discover esoteric little tidbits of history that I can weave into my books. Like the fact that in the early 1900s, there was a doctor named Wharton Sinkler who would come to court armed with a hot poker to test railway victims’ avowed “numbness.” Or that a performer at Wilton’s Music Hall was so incensed at being heckled that he leapt off the stage and struck the man, who died(!)—and the performer was accused of murder. Or that the 1874 Pantechnicon fire in Mayfair burned for three days, destroying millions of antiques and priceless artworks. Naturally, I take some poetic license in my books—they are works of fiction, not history—but the real bits are like the mica flakes in the granite to me.