Leaning against the pole, Miss Engle struck a pose that thrust her ample bosom forward and hiked up the hem of her short sea-green robe. She was in her thirties, with sharp features more arresting than beautiful. Her masterful use of face paint and intricate coiffure of curls and looping braids gave her a glamorous air.
“’Ave a seat, sirs,” she purred. “Maybe you’d care for a private show before we chat?”
“Thank you, Miss Engle, we’ll stand,” Pippa said gruffly. “We at Jones and Courier do not believe in mixing business with pleasure.”
“Pity.” With a good-natured shrug, Miss Engle sauntered off the platform and sat on the sofa. She crossed her long, bare legs. “Let’s get on to business then.”
“We are trying to locate Miss Mallery on behalf of our client and understand you knew her well,” Fiona said.
“I knew Sarah as well as anyone ’ere did, which ain’t saying much. I’m not sure I can ’elp you. I ’aven’t seen ’er in o’er six months. The last time was soon after she quit this place. I went to check up on ’er at Mrs. Bridges’s on Golden Lane.”
“Miss Mallery has since vacated that boarding house. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” Fi asked.
“Like I said, Sarah and I ’aven’t kept in touch.”
Pippa cocked her head. “Do you know why she left?”
Miss Engle leveled a hard stare at them. “I’ll answer that if you tell me what this is really about.”
Fi coughed in her fist. “As we told Mr. Hutchings, our client has left a bequest—”
“Oh, I know the cock and bull tale you told Hutchings. Unlike ’im, I ain’t stupid.” The actress cast her gaze heavenward. “What I want to know is why two ladies would dress up as solicitors looking for a girl who I consider a friend.”
Fi looked at Pippa, who gave a shrug. Since the jig was up, there was no point in keeping up the pretense. Vera Engle struck Fi as a shrewd individual who suffered no fools. Miss Engle also seemed loyal and protective of Lillian. The truth might get them answers that subterfuge had not.
“How did you know?” Fi asked casually.
“Don’t get me wrong, your disguises are first-rate. Could’ve fooled most folks, I reckon. But costumes are me bread and butter.” Miss Engle jerked her chin at Pippa. “Your eyebrows are too light for your wig, and you’re too light-footed for a cove. Try putting weights in your shoes. And you,” she said to Fiona. “You need more than a mustache to cover that peaches-and-cream complexion. Darker-toned face paint, or better yet a beard, would do the trick.”
Impressed, Fi said, “Thank you for the tips.”
The actress preened, taking her due. “Now what do you want with Sarah?”
“We’re investigators,” Fi said. “Sarah’s real name is Lillian O’Malley. Her mama hired us to look for her.”
“Female investigators, eh?” Miss Engle’s soot-thickened lashes fanned upward. “Thought I’d ’eard o’ everything, but this is a first.”
“Our agency works on behalf of female clients who cannot find remedy elsewhere,” Pippa explained. “Mrs. O’Malley hasn’t heard from Lillian for months and is concerned that her daughter might have gotten mixed up in bad business.”
“I’ve a daughter myself.” Miss Engle’s expression turned fierce. “If my Gretchen disappeared, I would move ’eaven and earth to find ’er.”
“Then you’ll help us?” Fi said.
“I’ll do wot I can. Like I said, I don’t know where Sarah…Lillian, I mean, is.”
Fi took the chair closest to the actress. “Do you know why she left?”
“Lillian weren’t ’appy ’ere.” Miss Engle’s painted mouth twisted. “Who is? It weren’t my dream either to dance ’alf-naked in front o’ randy bastards, give said bastards private ‘performances,’ then ’ave to hand o’er a cut to a bleeding pimp. But I’ve accepted my lot for now because I’ll do whate’er it takes to give my Gretchen a better life. Now Lillian, being ’eadstrong and young—reminded me o’ myself at ’er age—she ’adn’t reached that point yet. She couldn’t give up ’er dreams o’ being the next Sarah Siddons. Which meant she was frustrated, angry, and despairing. For ’er, working ’ere was torture. Every dance she did made ’er feel like more o’ a failure.”
“That is why she left?” Pippa asked. “Because working here reminded her of her broken dreams?”
Miss Engle shook her head. “Lillian was a dreamer, but she ’ad bills to pay like everyone else. She left because she found another way to survive. But I ’ope to God she didn’t jump out o’ the frying pan and into the fire.”
Unease prickled Fi’s nape. “What do you mean?”
“She met a cove ’ere. ’Is name was Martin, apparently—that was the only thing she’d tell me about ’im, other than the fact that ’e was a ‘noble prince.’” Miss Engle snorted. “’E filled ’er ’ead with nonsense that sounded like the old Chartist chatter about equality for all men, and we all know wot that got us. A whole lot o’ nothing. I thought the infatuation would fade. Instead, it got worse. Weren’t long before all Lillian could talk about was ’er rights as a free citizen…ne’er mind that the Chartists were as quiet as the grave when it came to rights for women. Mostly, though, it chilled me because this Martin controlled ’er voice and thoughts like ’e were a bloody puppeteer and she a wooden dummy on strings.”
This explains the changes in Lillian’s letters to her mother. As far as Fi knew, the Chartist movement had dissolved after a petition for equal rights was delivered to the government and failed to bring about any changes. Was Lillian’s disappearance linked to an offshoot of the political movement? Was this Martin some sort of radical?
