“But not in the same ones. Let’s start again, Paddy. Reread the interviews and go through our case notes.”
“Something may leap out if we crack on with it.”
* * *
While Tennant and O’Malley reviewed the case, Julia dodged the heavy foot traffic on Aldgate High Street in search of Annie O’Neill’s address.
The cold wind sent people hurrying with their shoulders hunched and heads down, grunting the odd “sorry mate” as they collided. Finally, Julia spotted Annie’s number. She followed the railing at the edge of the pavement. At the gate, she looked down. Three steps led to a basement entrance.
The door opened, and a woman carrying a hatbox exited the flat. She turned around, her full, emerald skirt swinging, filling the narrow space.
“Don’t be a dolt, Annie. That priest of yours won’t pay the rent.”
The woman closed the door, raised her cape’s black fur collar, and climbed the steps. Slanting sunlight caught and flamed her auburn hair. She gave Julia a curious stare and turned right on Aldgate High Street. She recognized the woman at once from Mary’s painting: Margot Miller.
Julia descended and knocked. Within seconds, Annie yanked open the door. “I’ll not be changing my—oh.” A hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I thought . . .” She pulled the door wider. “Will you come in out of the cold?”
Annie stood back and invited Julia into a combination sitting room and workroom. Tables held the tools and materials of the milliner’s trade: thimbles and scissors, fabric swatches, feathers, bows, and yards of ribbon.
“Your basement rooms are much brighter than I expected.”
“Light from the front comes in all the morning long.” Annie pointed to the side windows. “With the street crossing to the west and nothing to block it, light streams in of an afternoon as well.”
“The perfect space for your work.”
“’Tis that. My Aunt Maggie, God rest her soul, found it. She brought me over from Dublin and taught me all she knew. A wonder she was, that one.” Annie smiled. “Learned her trade in Paris, France, if you can believe it.”
“She went far afield.”
“Daddy said his little sister had the soul of a Traveller. Black Maggie, he called her. She had the raven hair on her, just like a gypsy.”
Julia eyed the girl’s dark curls and said, “You favor her, Annie.”
“Daddy was always saying so. She was a champion, my aunt. A woman on her own and making me think I could do the same.”
“You had what many women lack. Someone to model.”
“A woman needs a skill. Aunt Mags was always telling me that. Something to sell besides a pretty face and the rest of her.”
“Indeed, she does.”
“That’s what the likes of some I know are peddling,” Annie said. “One I could mention has a brain to go with it.... It’ll get her in trouble one of these days.”
“Shall we have that plaster off your cheek?”
Annie sat down and raised her face. She paired dark hair and brows with bright blue eyes and pale skin. A scattering of light freckles dusted her cheeks. It was a combination common among the Irish. In Annie, the mixture was magical.No wonder artists seek her out,Julia thought.
As the doctor peeled the bandage away, she asked, “Do you work for one hat shop in particular?”
“Wheatlands’ in Cheapside is where most of my hats go. But that one . . .” She cocked her thumb at a lady’s bowler, its band trimmed with flowers and dragonflies. “That one is for the dressmaker upstairs. ’Tis the fifth I’ve made for him this month.”
“It’s an unusual style for women.” Julia trimmed the new bandage and applied the plaster. “There, that should do it. Butyou’ll have to return to my office to have those stitches out of your arm. Let me look.”
“Daft, I’m thinking,” Annie said, pushing up her sleeve. “Strange to be wearing a fella’s hat, but it’s all the rage. My friend Margot was after me to make her one.”
“Do you mean Margot Miller? I thought I passed her leaving your flat.”
“You’ll be knowing her?”
