“Indeed?”
“I’d given her my card at the police station. She lives nearby on Aldgate High Street.”
“Yes, I know.”
“She’d dislocated her shoulder, cut her left cheek, and had a deeper gash on her forearm that needed stitches. Annie said she slipped on the steps, but I suspect someone may be to blame.”
“What made you think she lied?”
Julia raised her forearm. “The slashing wound might have been a defensive injury.”
“Consistent with someone threatening her with a knife?”
“Possibly. And Annie had welt marks here.” Julia gripped her left arm just above her wrist. “As if someone grabbed her and twisted. Someone right-handed, most likely.”
“You’re convinced she suffered a physical assault?”
“After Franny Riley . . . two girls who worked for shops. I’m worried about Annie.”
“Did you mention Franny to her?”
“Yes. Annie didn’t know her. She became agitated when I asked if someone had attacked her, but she insisted it wasn’t so.” Julia sighed. “I doubt she’ll tell you a different story.”
“Probably not.”
“Let me try again before you question her. I told Annie I would visit her in a few days to check on her bandages.”
Tennant considered. “Very well. See if you can win her confidence.”
“Annie seemed afraid of someone or something.”
“We know who broke into Miss Allingham’s studio, by the way. We found her missing sketches.”
“Who is he?”
“Micah Miller, the stepbrother of Margot Miller. I have an artist’s drawing of him to show to witnesses. It’s an excellent likeness. Artists make good witnesses.”
“It’s their habit of observation, I expect.”
“Something they share with doctors.”
Julia rolled the pencil between her fingers. “It’s fraught for females, this matter of looking,” she said at last. “A bold, direct gaze is thought to be ‘unladylike.’ I expect that’s half the problem for female artists.” She looked up. “What?”
Tennant shook his head. “Nothing. I’m sure you’re right.”
“Hmm. Something I said amused you, but never mind. I see you’re choosing to be your usual sphinxlike self.”
“Sphinxlike? I’m an open book.”
Julia laughed. “Oh, yes. One written in hieroglyphics perhaps.”
Tennant had smiled because he remembered his early impressions of Julia. She’d met his gaze directly and spoken candidly about the sexual mutilation of the corpse she’d examined. At first, he’d found it unsettling.
“It’s only a hunch, but I asked the women artists if Franny Riley had modeled for them. They said no.”
Julia looked at him curiously. “What makes you think it?”
“Someone quite expert sketched her picture.”
