“Let’s start with the auburn-haired one.” Fi gave a subtle nod in the woman’s direction.
The barmaid greeted her patrons by name. Her weathered face and shrewd eyes suggested that she’d seen her share of comings and goings and missed little that happened around her. When a group of aristocratic gentlemen drunkenly abandoned their table, she collected her tips, scowling at the paltry coins in her palm.
Fi and Livy secured a table in her section, next to the steps that led to the upper seating area. The serving maid came over, with a tray tucked under her arm and a smile that didn’t reach her close-set eyes.
“Good evenin’, luvs. Ain’t see you in ’ere before,” she said.
“Being working women, me friend and I don’t ’ave many nights off.” Thanks to the Angels’ training, Livy’s cockney accent was quite creditable.
“Know what that’s like, don’t I,” the barmaid said. “My idea o’ a good time is putting me feet up in front o’ a fire. Name’s Ruby, by the by.”
“I’m Annie,” Livy said, “and this is me friend, Rosalind, but everyone calls ’er Roz. We’re seamstresses o’er in Spitalfields.”
“Seamstresses, eh? ’Ard way to make a living.”
“Wages ain’t much,” Livy agreed. “We ’ave to work nights to make ends meet, if you know what I mean.”
“A woman’s got to do wot a woman’s got to do,” Ruby said philosophically.
“Ain’t that a fact.” Livy heaved a sigh, obviously getting into the part.
While Fi admired her friend’s performance, she was aware that the clock was ticking. They had about an hour left; time to get the ball rolling.
“We’ve been meaning to come by,” Fi said in a friendly tone. “E’er since a friend o’ ours told us ’ow much she fancied this place.”
Ruby lifted her straight brows. “Did she now?”
Fi nodded. “She said it was the genuine article and not like other pubs that are catering more and more to the ’igh-kick crowd. Said the barmaids ’ere were salt-o’-the-earth.”
Fi knew she’d chosen the right approach when Ruby preened.
“We pride ourselves on being welcoming to folk from all walks o’ life,” the barmaid said. “Who’s your friend wot recommended us?”
“’Er name’s Lillian. Lillian O’Malley. Maybe you remember ’er?”
Ruby scrunched her forehead. “Waifish thing wif black ’air and blue eyes? Real looker with a will-o’-the-wisp manner about ’er?”
“That’s our Lillian.” Hiding her excitement, Fi said ruefully, “Always wif ’er ’ead in the clouds, that one. Actually, we were ’oping to run into ’er tonight. You ’aven’t seen ’er, ’ave you?”
“Sorry to say I ain’t seen ’er for, oh, five months at least. Before that, she was a regular. Seemed like a nice young woman.” Ruby pursed her lips. “Any particular reason you’re looking for ’er?”
“We’re worried,” Fi said honestly. “She seems to ’ave vanished into thin air. The last time we saw ’er she was trying to make a go o’ it as an actress.”
“Lillian did speak o’ that,” Ruby said. “Said she ’ad to settle for working at third-rate theatres and music halls since she couldn’t land any good parts.”
“Do you know the names o’ any of those places?” Livy asked.
Ruby shook her head. “Sorry. Wish I could ’elp.”
“Was Lillian ever ’ere wif anyone?” Fi asked. “A fellow, maybe?”
Ruby hesitated, then leaned closer. “One o’ the last times I saw Lillian, she was wif some cove. Reason I noticed is because she usually swatted men away like flies. She knew wot she wanted, and it weren’t an old pot and pan and brace of brats ’anging onto ’er apron strings.”
An old pot and pan, Fi knew, was rhyming slang for “husband.”
“But she seemed different with this cull,” Ruby went on. “Clinging to ’is every word, acting as if ’e walked on water.”
“Can you describe ’im?” Livy asked.
