“To begin, we need to check out Morton,” Charlie said. “That would mean a team going to Hertfordshire.”
“I’ll go,” Pippa said.
Being a widow, she had more freedom and fewer commitments than her fellow Angels.
“I’ll escort you,” Cull offered. “I have some pressing business but can leave the day after next, if that suits?”
Aware of the interested gazes in the room, Pippa gave a polite—and what she hoped was professional—nod. On the inside, she was bursting with excitement. She couldn’t wait to spend time with Cull, even if they were investigating a murder. In truth, having a shared purpose made her feel even closer to him.
“In the meantime, the Angels will continue looking for Vincent Ellis. And I think a visit to the New Cytherea is in order,” Charlie said. “We need to find out what Hastings was doing there on the night he was killed.”
25
Pippa, Livy, and Fiona proceeded to the New Cytherea the next afternoon. They’d disguised themselves as trollops in search of employment. A guard ushered them in through the back, and when his hand “accidentally” landed on her bottom, Pippa shoved it away.
“No touchin’ the merchandise,” she warned.
“Saucy, eh?” He leered at her. “Come find me after, and I’ll treat you to a tavern supper.”
Fiona, presently a blowsy brunette, hooked her arm through Pippa’s. “Me friend’s on a slimming plan, so you’ll ’ave to sup alone.”
The Angels entered the backstage area. The dilapidated room had a few rickety dressing tables set alongside the far wall, and actresses dressed in clingy robes were nudging one another, fighting for space in front of the looking glasses as they primped.
“Watch yer bony elbow,” a voluptuous blonde squealed. “You’re bruising me tits.”
“And those are wot get ’er the nightly encores,” a brunette riposted, leading to peals of laughter.
The blonde jiggled said assets, cooing, “Lord Evanston is quite taken with metalents.”
“Those talents will droop and sag one day, and then where’ll you all be?” A newcomer strode through the stage curtains. Thin, dark-haired, and angular, the woman sported male attire and clutched a sheaf of papers in her ink-stained fingers. “Why are you hens preening instead o’ practicing your lines?”
“Marg?” Pippa said in surprise.
The woman turned, her eyes widening as she took in the Angels. “Why, as I live and breathe. Wot are you lot doing ’ere?”
“I guess we didn’t need the disguises after all,” Livy said.
The Angels knew Marg. Marg’s companion, the beautiful CeCe, had been Edwin’s favorite model and, indeed, the muse forPortrait of a Lady Dreaming.Pippa had become friendly with the two women, enjoying their chats at Edwin’s studio. The pair had also helped the Angels during the investigation into Edwin’s death.
Smiling, Pippa held out a hand to Marg, who took it in a roughly affectionate squeeze.
“Been a while, luv.” Marg studied her. “You’re looking well. Doing better?”
“Yes,” Pippa said. “May we speak to you in private?”
“We’ll talk in my office.” Turning to the actresses, Marg barked, “As for you lot, I want you to practice the last scene fromThe Wings of Cupid. We’ll do a run-through when I return.”
“Why bother?” A brassy-haired woman stuck a hand on her hip. “Our audience don’t care ’bout Cupid’s wings. It’sCupid’s alleythey’re ’ere to visit.”
The women fell into one another, cackling with laughter. With a frustrated growl, Marg threw the pages she was carrying into the air and stalked out, the Angels at her heels. They followed her down a corridor and into a storage room crammed with costumes and objects used in plays. They all crowded in, and Pippa was squished next to a plaster rendition of Michelangelo’sDavid. Feeling something poke into her back, she looked down…and stifled a giggle at the implausible size of the statue’s equipment.
Marg glowered at the protruding appendage, which had to be close to two feet long.
“I curse the day I took this job,” she grumbled. “The owner said ’e needed a proper playwright, after the last one developed bats in the belfry. Now I know why: the poor cove wasdrivenmad by the talentless hacks that work ’ere. Not one o’ the hens out there is willing to lift a finger andact; they’d rather lift their blasted skirts.”
“How frustrating,” Pippa said sympathetically.
“CeCe’s afraid I’m going to have a fit o’ apoplexy. Speaking of Cece…she misses you.” Marg paused. “You haven’t visited o’ late.”
