The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  With the razor at his jugular, Layton lay completely still. He could not speak.

  “When you came into Black’s office that morning, I knew something was off. A gentleman, wanting to be a scene painter? I did a little checking, but I came up empty. And you turned out to be such a nice, good-looking bloke, even if you were a specky four-eyes. I took a fancy to you right off. But…I had my doubts. For someone who’d hardly been in the theatre, you knew a lot of technical things. I told myself you were just a clever boots. And your gold cigarette case wasn’t something a Dorset country lad would have.”

  “Please,” Layton rasped out. “Listen to me, Cissie.”

  But she continued, undaunted. “Just a few days ago, I was cleaning out my mum’s attic. I’d kept a box of newspapers from the time of the trial. There on the front of an old copy of the Daily Mail was a picture of you. My heart was broken, Frank—or should I say Douglas?”

  Cissie wiped her eyes with her free hand and sniffled. She bent closer to Layton’s face, until he could feel her warm breath. Her next words were a muffled shriek.

  “Five years ago, I told myself I’d kill you if I ever met you. I was going to cut your throat while you slept. The police would think it a robbery. But now I don’t know if I can do it.” She began weeping uncontrollably.

  “If you put down the razor,” Layton said in a frantic whisper, “we can sit and talk. I have something important to tell you.”

  “You made me so happy, Frank. But Johnnie was my husband—and all those poor people you killed! Some of them were just children,” she whimpered.

  “Someone else caused the balcony to collapse,” Layton said. His voice was louder now and preternaturally calm.

  “You’re a bloody liar,” Cissie snapped. “You didn’t say that at your trial.”

  “It wasn’t until yesterday that I knew I’d been framed for the disaster.” Layton sat up just slightly, feeling the blade pressing against his throat. “Look, the condemned is always allowed a last request. Please, let me show you something.”

  • • •

  Cissie reached the bottom of the stepladder in the cupola and looked directly into Layton’s face. Her eyes were on fire, burning with anger.

  “We’re going to kill the person who did this to us.”

  Without a trace of emotion on his face, Layton nodded.

  17

  “The Britannia, the Grand, and the Queen’s are all under the same ownership. The MacMillan Empire circuit is controlled by Sir John Clifton and his partner, Lionel Glenn.” Cissie’s voice as she recited these facts was choked with anger.

  Layton stared down into his pint of Guinness. He’d had only a sip; Cissie hadn’t touched her gin and bitters.

  They sat quietly at a corner table, amid the din of the Eagle and Hawk on Frist Street.

  “Oh, Frank, they destroyed your entire life.” Tears were welling up in Cissie’s clear gray-blue eyes. “They made you the most hated man in the British Empire.”

  “Indeed. Probably even the Africans in darkest and deepest Nigeria knew of me,” he said with a wan smile. “The Butcher of the West End.”

  “And you never heard from your wife and child? Not in all this time?” She stroked his hand gently, as if to soften the pain of the question.

  “Just the divorce papers.” Layton sighed. “It’s strange. They’re likely living in her father’s house in Mayfair, just five minutes from here.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Cissie spoke. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

  “I don’t know, Cissie,” Layton said.

  “Yes, one of the owners could have arranged it. That’s a logical place to start looking.”

  “They would certainly have the money to bribe Peter and Reville. But why? I don’t know where to begin.” The weariness in his voice surprised Layton; he realized he’d spoken the truth. Though his entire being was filled with rage, trying to find the real killer seemed an impossible task.

  “Frank. You don’t mind me calling you Frank instead of Douglas?”

  Layton shook his head.

  Cissie’s voice grew more urgent. “Listen. You must stay the week in London. I can fix it so that you work at the scene shop at the theatre.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to a house party in the country this weekend, luv.” Cissie’s smile was bright and false. “The Duke of Denton is one of the largest investors in the syndicate. Every September, he invites Clifton and Glenn to his estate in Wiltshire. He loves the variety theatre, so he also invites a few artistes to entertain his guests. I’m management, so I always get an invitation—and I can bring a guest. They don’t care if it’s a man; they think all variety hall people are immoral.”

  Layton nodded slowly, mulling it over in his mind. Variety hall entertainment had been big business since the 1890s. The theatre chains owned more than a thousand theatres in every city, town, and suburb of Great Britain. From his experience designing the Britannia, Layton knew that the syndicate businessmen had even lured the peerage into investing in variety halls. With more and more upper- and middle-class people attending shows, the variety theatre had become socially respectable. And it was far more exciting than investing in a railway bond.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, a determined look on his face. “That would be the place to begin. The murderer could be in the very house with us.”

  “You’ll need to rent some evening clothes,” Cissie cautioned. “It’s a swank event.”

  “I’ll need clothes anyway for a weekend in the country. A three-piece tweed suit, a cap, and some…” Layton got the cold shivers; his body trembled in his chair.

  “What’s wrong, luv?” Cissie asked, eyes widening.

  “If the MacMillan Empire management are guests this weekend, won’t Basil Dearden be there? He was the theatre manager for the Britannia. I worked closely with him on the design. He’s the only one from the circuit I had contact with, but he’s sure to recognize me.”

  “Oh, no, luv, you don’t have to worry about that. Basil died two years back. They—”

  Cissie and Layton looked at each other with startled expressions.

  “They found him lying dead on the floor of his house in Bayswater,” Cissie said in a low voice, her eyes wide with fear. “Natural causes, they said it was. Came as a shock to everyone. He was only thirty-four.”

  • • •

  As an architect, Layton had been to many weekends in the country hosted by clients and friends of Edwina and her father. Thankfully, he’d never been to Eversham, the ancestral home of the Duke of Denton. But he knew where the long, tree-lined drive of the estate led, and he knew exactly what was about to happen. All country weekends of the peerage and gentry were the same.

  The official London season, the social scene of fancy dress balls, opera, and sporting events, began in May and ended in August, after the regatta at Cowes. Then came the country house season, with its house parties, hunting, fishing, banquets, and balls, which lasted until winter. The English social elite loved the country; the invention of the motorcar and the improvement of Britain’s roads made the country houses more accessible and thus even more popular.

  Eversham appeared in the distance, artfully framed by a canopy of oaks. It was a well-designed entry to the estate, thought Layton, and he should know; he’d designed a few himself. The house was an enormous Palladian composition, on the same scale as Blenheim Palace, with a temple-fronted center section symmetrically flanked by curving wings. The late-afternoon sunlight made its sandstone exterior glow like gold.

  Their motorcar crunched along the pea gravel of the circular entry court. Up ahead, Layton could see the arriving guests, all dressed in the required tweeds. George Formby, also known as Bimba Bamba, was walking up the wide stone steps to the door. That meant there would be magic tricks tonight. Dainty Amy, who followed beh
ind him, was in her country lady’s outfit of an olive tweed skirt and a brown tweed jacket. At a rakish angle on her head was a burgundy-colored cap with a long feather attached. Cissie told him that Laughing Luigi, the Italian Juggler, the comic Timmy Donovan, and a few singing acts had also been invited.

  The butler, the highest-ranking servant, greeted each guest as they got out of their motorcar. Standing next to the rotund, gray-haired man was an exceptionally tall, sandy-haired young man, whom Layton knew must be the first footman. Every estate wanted a tall first footman; it was an upper-class sign of prestige. The taller he was, the higher his salary. A man over six feet could get ten pounds more a year than one under.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Mapes,” said the butler in a strong, stentorian voice.

  “Good to see you again, Wilcox,” Cissie chirped. “You get handsomer every year.”

  “I always look forward to your weekend visit, ma’am. Phillip will show you to your rooms. Drinks in the Chinese drawing room at seven, and His Grace said to inform you that we’ll be dressing for dinner this evening.”

  They were taken through the great entry hall to the east wing and down a long, red-carpeted corridor lined with paintings and sculpture. Layton and Cissie had adjoining rooms, which was typical; country house arrangements were very understanding of nocturnal trysts. No one cared if you cheated on your spouse, as long you were discreet.

  When they entered the Chinese drawing room—so-called because of its red-and-black-lacquer decor—many guests had already arrived and begun imbibing “cocktails.” This new American trend combined alcohol with sugar, mixers, and bitters to produce drinks with odd names. Before Layton’s time in prison, the drinks at these social events had been limited to sherry and brandy.

  As requested, all the men were in the exact same evening attire with white tie, shirt, and waistcoat. The women, including Cissie, were dressed to the nines in gowns of a great variety of colors and materials.

  At the grand piano, Angus McLean, the handsome Scottish tenor, was softly singing a ballad to a group of admiring young women. Across the room, comedian Timmy Donovan was regaling a group of toffs by the massive, ebony-faced fireplace.

  “A widow’s lookin’ to hire a handyman. So she says to the applicant, ‘I want a man to do odd jobs about the house and run errands, one that never answers back and is always ready to do my bidding.’ The applicant says, ‘What you’re looking for, ma’am, is a husband.’”

  The upper-class guests roared with laughter. Donovan swilled down his drink, one of many, Layton knew from experience with him in a pub, that he would be having tonight.

  “It must be so exciting, Mr. Donovan. Being up onstage, holding the audience in the palm of your hand.” The society lady who spoke wore a bright-yellow gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. The light from the chandelier reflected off her diamond necklace in bursts like little twinkling stars.

  “Call me Timmy. And you’re right, m’lady. Being onstage was the only thing I could do. I wasn’t any damn good in school, especially spelling. But so what if I can’t spell Armageddon? Hell, it’s not the end of the world.”

  Another wave of laughter convulsed the Chinese drawing room.

  This was an unusual country weekend, Layton thought. Because the guests were all variety-hall performers, they were interesting. Most of the time, these events were excruciatingly boring; as he had discovered, the rich were incredibly dull. More times than he could count, he’d wished for a country dance back in Dorset, with all its fun and gaiety. The higher one went up the class ladder, Layton had learned, the less fun one had.

  Wilcox was behind the drink cart, and he concocted them something called a pirate. Layton thought it quite good. More guests entered. The paunchy, cigar-smoking, middle-aged men were probably theatre managers for the other variety houses in the circuit; Oswald Black of the Grand was among them, laughing and chatting.

  Luigi, the handsome juggler, was talking to a beautiful young woman. Though he was married with three children in Manchester, he used his native Italian charm and accent to great advantage with the ladies in every city he played.

  “These cold-climate Englishmen are afraid to show sentiment,” he was saying earnestly to the girl. “Only men from a southern climate know what pleases a woman.” From the look in the girl’s eyes, Layton knew he would be visiting her room tonight.

  The Duke and Duchess of Denton finally entered and began enthusiastically greeting their guests. The duke was an imposing man in his fifties with swept-back gray hair, the very model of an aristocrat. His wife, though older, was still a great beauty; she wore a magnificent scarlet-and-green gown.

  From his marriage to Edwina and his commissions for the aristocracy, Layton had learned the peerage titles by heart. Dukes, like their host, were the highest, followed by marquess, earl, viscount—like his former father-in-law—and baron, the lowest on the chain. In all families of the peerage and even among the landed gentry, only the oldest surviving male could inherit the family fortune. The duke’s oldest son would get all of Eversham and become the Duke of Denton; his brothers and sisters would be left to fend for themselves.

  As Cissie and Layton sipped their drinks and talked to Lady Emerson, who was gushing on about a show at the Lyric Theatre, two men approached. Cissie lit up like an Edison bulb.

  “Lady Emerson, have you met my employers, Sir John Clifton and Lionel Glenn?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Mapes, we’ve had the pleasure,” said Clifton with a polite bow. “So nice to see you again, Lady Emerson.”

  Layton recognized Clifton, a tall man in his forties with a pale, cadaverous face, from a photograph in an Empire program. He looked more like a schoolmaster than someone associated with the entertainment business, much less a managing director of the circuit. It was hard to picture him standing next to magicians and scantily clad female acrobats. Clifton was formal in his manner and speech, like a stiff-backed character out of Dickens, and seemed to lack a sense of humor, making him even more incongruous within the world of variety theatre. He looked quite at home here in his evening dress and pince-nez glasses, walking around the room with a glass of sherry. He didn’t seem the type to prefer a highball; it was far too modern.

  “So exciting to have so many entertainers around, Sir John,” said Lady Emerson. “It must be a frightfully interesting life you lead.”

  “Not really, m’lady. I run the business end of the theatre circuit, and these are my employees, much like workers in a textile factory whom I have to pay much too much for their services,” replied Clifton in an icy tone. “In business, Lady Emerson, one must deal with unruly workers, and we have unfortunately quite a few.” Clifton looked over at Timmy Donovan knocking down one drink after another, which brought a look of disgust to his sallow face. “But they make the circuit profitable,” he added in a voice of resignation.

  Glenn, on the other hand, had a jolly personality that seemed a natural fit for his short, rotund body and plump, kind face. He looked as though he might have been a comedian in his former life. He appeared totally out of character in evening dress. Layton saw him more at home in a green-and-white-checkered suit.

  “Ah, m’lady, these artistes are a handful. Like children they are,” bellowed Glenn.

  “Sometimes, we wish we could give them all a good caning,” added Cissie, which brought a slight smile to Clifton’s razor-thin lips.

  “Sometimes, I think they deserve a worse punishment,” said Clifton, still smiling.

  “We’ve an exciting new act that our Cissie discovered—Gregor, a Russian giant who’s nine feet, four inches tall,” said Glenn enthusiastically, waving his big fat cigar around.

  As he chattered on, a strikingly handsome boy in his midtwenties escorted by a very pretty blond in a light-blue gown walked up to Clifton, who smiled at them.

  “Hello, Georgie,” said Cissie.

  “My son, Lady Emerson,” said
Clifton proudly. “And his wife, Lady Diana.”

  “What a splendid-looking lad,” the woman blurted out. “With your looks, you should be onstage.”

  George looked down at his shoes bashfully. His wife beamed.

  “That’s what all the girls say about our Georgie,” Cissie said with a laugh. “Before he was married,” she added with a wink at Lady Diana.

  Clifton shifted, clearly uncomfortable; Layton could see that no son of his would ever wind up onstage.

  “My son took a second in history at Oxford, Lady Emerson,” said Clifton with an air of pride. “George did not join me in the variety business in any capacity.”

  While they talked, Layton inched away and melted into the crowd. He didn’t want to risk Clifton and Glenn recognizing him. He stood alone by the fireplace, sipping his drink, observing Clifton and Glenn.

  After about ten minutes, Cissie rejoined him.

  “They’re an odd lot,” Layton whispered, looking over at the two owners still chatting with Lady Emerson.

  “If one of those buggers did do it, you wouldn’t know by the look of them.” Cissie’s whisper was fierce and strong.

  “One of the many things I learned in prison,” Layton said slowly, “is that you can’t know what evil a chap is capable of by looking at his face. I’ve seen men with the faces of angels who’ve beaten a fellow to a pulp because it gave them a lark.”

  “Why, here’s the lady that makes us wealthier year after year!” The duke, booming and boisterous, approached Cissie, grabbing both her hands.

  “You’re too kind, Your Grace,” Cissie said weakly. “Thank you for inviting me. This is my good friend, Frank Owen.”