Tennant said, “What was Charles Allingham doing with the engravings of your work? Think carefully before you answer, sir.”
Griffiths replied without hesitation. “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say. I just collected my five quid for each job from Allen’s secretary.”
Tennant said, “So Mister Allen, not Mister Allingham, paid you for your services?”
Griffiths nodded.
“Have you anything else to tell us?”
Griffiths chewed at his lip, considering. “One odd thing happened. I’d finished my version ofA Slave for the Haremwhen one of the girls walked around the easel. She said it reminded her of the Topkapi. When Margot looked daggers at her, the girl shut up.”
O’Malley asked, “Why would she do that, now?”
The artist shrugged. “But she was right. The sultan’s harem was at the Topkapi Palace. But they were shopgirls earning a few extra quid. How could a girl like that have visited Turkey and seen the palace? It didn’t make sense.”
Outside, Tennant said, “The model didn’t mean the Ottoman palace in Asia Minor. She meant Allingham’s club on East Pall Mall.”
CHAPTER13
Julia was late for the clinic.
Snarled Monday traffic at Whitechapel and Commercial Street had forced her out of the cab, so she crossed the last quarter mile on foot. It was well past noon when Julia finally pushed through the doors; her head nurse and three patients awaited her.
Annie O’Neill whispered to a wan, slumping girl at her side, “’Tis Doctor Lewis, Kath.”
Nurse Clemmie took Julia’s cape. “Annie’s friend is waiting to see you. Kathleen Morris. But may I have a word with you first, Doctor?”
Julia smiled at the girls. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She followed her head nurse into the office and closed the door. “What is it, Clemmie?”
“Yesterday afternoon, Annie found Kathleen huddled on her doorstep in a pitiable state—exhausted and feverish and complaining of body aches. The girl was no better this morning, so Annie brought her here.”
Her head nurse dealt efficiently with all routine cases, soJulia knew something more was coming. “So . . . she needs more than just a few days’ bedrest?”
“It’s the girl’s hands. She has a blistering rash on her palms. When I asked her about the soles of her feet, the poor child said they were also red and spotted.”
Julia closed her eyes. “Syphilis, most likely.”
“And not yet twenty, by the look of her. What would you like me to do?”
“Is our fever room still unoccupied?”
Clemmie nodded.
“Settle her there while I talk to Annie.”
The young milliner knew only part of Kathleen’s story, but she understood enough. “She made hats for Wheatlands’ shop, like me, before disappearing.”
Julia asked, “Where had she gone?”
“Ireland, I thought. That’s what I’d been told.”
Then, on Sunday, Kathleen found her way to Annie’s flat and waited for her friend to return from Mass.
“But I made a day of it, walking from Saint Anne’s to the Sunday market on Chester Street. When I got home, Kathleen was huddling at my basement door.”
Julia smiled. “So, like a good friend, you took her in.”
“Ten months she was away. She was knackered, the poor lass. I wasn’t wanting to plague her with questions, so I put her to bed. This morning . . . Doctor, she told me it wasn’t to Ireland she’d gone.”
