ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I began my research in the hushed and perfectly formed surroundings of the Royal Academy’s beautiful library and archive. As well as holding historical accounts of the scandal, the library contains the actual manuscript presented by the Provises to the Academicians. I would like to thank Nick Savage, the Royal Academy’s former director of collections, for giving me permission to come and study the manuscript, and Mark Pomeroy, the Royal Academy Archivist, for suggesting other sources.

I am neither an art historian, nor an artist – it was the human aspect of the scandal that drew me in. In terms of helping me understand the extremely technical aspects of the manuscript I will be eternally grateful to Nicholas Walt, director of London’s oldest art suppliers, L Cornelissen & Son, who sat me down one morning before Christmas to explain the different terms. Among other matters we debated whether or not Indian Yellow was really made from cows’ urine. A jar full of strong-smelling pigment seemed to settle the question – though further research shows the answer, like several aspects of colour, is more complex.

David Cranswick – artist, Royal Academician, and expert in traditional methods for making paints – was also generous enough to let me into his studio on a cold April day and demonstrate to me some of the paint-making techniques with which both Titian and Benjamin West would have been familiar. On top of this he was happy to discuss matters ranging from Newton’s Opticks to rabbit glue.

In terms of historic detail, David Baldwin – Serjeant of the Vestry at the Chapel Royal at St James’s Palace – helped hugely by giving a tour of the palace and the chapel. My character Josiah Darton is entirely fictional – it was an act of imagination to make him sing in the choir and be a spy – so it was with some amazement that I heard from David that church musicians were often spies at that time in history, both because of their connections and as a result of the travel involved in their work.

I owe a huge amount to my agent Toby Mundy, who understood my motivations for writing the book straight away, and whose belief in it and advice has made all the difference. I must also thank him for linking me up with Peter Mayer, President and Publisher of Duckworth Overlook, a publishing legend who turned out to know better than I how much further I could push the book. I am extremely grateful for my long and enjoyable conversations with Peter, and for his ability to balance valuable guidance with giving me free rein.

I feel very lucky to have a number of friends who bit the bullet and agreed to read the book in the early stages. It’s a big test of friendship, and Ben Rogerson, Patrick Marmion, Gurion Taussig, and Robert Pfeiffer, you all made invaluable suggestions. Rebecca Glover, you probably helped more than you realised when we agreed I would send you a chapter a day for Advent. And Imogen Robertson, former brunch companion and successful novelist, you have been there ever since I started writing seriously, and are a constant source of wonderful advice about negotiating the publishing industry.

My husband, Bill McIntosh, deserves a huge amount of credit, not least for telling me to stop doing other work and to sit down and concentrate on finishing the novel. Authors’ spouses put up with a lot, and he has dealt with the ups and downs of this process with endless patience. My son, Fergus – far from providing a ‘pram in the hall’ distraction from creativity, in fact gave me the motivation to organise myself properly and ensure I had something to show for my work. For that, and the constant adventure of watching him grow up, I am forever grateful.

Finally, I suspect most aspiring authors show their mothers their work first, and according to most mothers they are geniuses. And that’s where the journey ends. However, when you know someone well, you can also tell if they’re lying. It was when my very strong-minded mother, Jenny Halliburton, genuinely seemed to enjoy what I was writing that I realised that this story might have a life outside my head.