“Do you miss the food of the forest?” the man asked.
Mangogo swallowed his mouthful of scone before answering. He no longer chewed with his mouth open.
“Yes, no antelope or chakka leaves in England,” he said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “But like Marmite. Remind me of beetcha. Mashed beetle pulp.”
Marmite, a thick, brown paste made of yeast that Englishmen smeared on toast, was another delicacy invented during Layton’s time in prison. All the Pygmies in the troupe loved it and ate it right out of the jar, using their fingers as spoons.
The more he got to know Mangogo and the more he enjoyed the little man’s company, the more Layton ached to help him adjust to his new life. Backstage one night, the professor had told him a sad story; now Layton struggled to get it out of his mind.
Years ago, in 1903, an American explorer had brought a Pygmy from the Central African rain forest back to the United States to be displayed in the monkey cage at New York’s Bronx Zoo. Forty thousand people a day had come to see him. But one morning, the zookeeper had found the Pygmy dead. He’d hanged himself with strips torn from his blanket. At the thought of this being Mangogo’s fate, a shudder rippled through Layton.
Of course, while it was true that Cissie and the circuit were making a packet off the Pygmy act, they weren’t treating them like zoo animals. A share of the profits had even been put aside for them, though they had no concept of money; to Mangogo, a monkey hide for barter was far more valuable than any coin or pound note. Marmite was even more valuable. While Cissie had found them a flat in Southbank, most of the time, the troupe stayed in the cellar below stage. It reminded them, Mangogo said, of their dark, windowless huts at home.
“Owen heartsick,” announced Mangogo out of the blue.
“Why the deuce would you say that?” Layton said with an astonished smile.
“Mangogo know.” His voice was grave, and he wasn’t smiling.
His concern touched Layton.
“Do the children of the forest read minds?” he asked gently, impressed by his friend’s perspicacity. Despite his troubles, he tried to always be jolly when with Mangogo. And all the time he spent with him, he enjoyed himself so much that he forgot his woes for a while.
“Read minds?” Mangogo repeated.
Smiling, Layton took his finger and drew an invisible line from the Pygmy’s forehead to his own.
Mangogo nodded. “Yes. We know what animal think—like viper and leopard.”
“And I’m unhappy?”
“Owen in Queer Street,” he said. “Why?”
He was right; Layton was in trouble. An incredible urge to tell Mangogo everything surged up inside Layton. But he held his tongue. He didn’t want to endanger his friend. Besides, it was a complicated story, and Mangogo might not understand. Or if he did, he might do something rash. Unlike the British, who were masters of repressed emotion, the Pygmies acted on impulse if loyalty demanded it.
“No, I’m in no trouble. I am right as rain, I assure you.”
Mangogo shook his head. “Bollocks,” he said, repeating a word he’d heard many times from Cissie. It suited him.
Layton exploded with laughter.
“Mangogo keen as mustard to help.” He rummaged inside the leather pouch he wore always around his neck. Removing what looked like a piece of blackish-gray tree bark, about seven inches long and five inches wide, he held it out to Layton. “Loktiki tree—big magic,” he said excitedly and broke off a piece.
Layton plucked it from the palm of the African’s bony little hand and clutched it tight. “Well, thank you,” he said. Touched by this kind gesture, he made to put it in his side coat pocket.
“Eat,” Mangogo insisted, making a chewing motion with his teeth.
Layton hesitated, then smiled and put the bark in his mouth. His first sensation was that this was the closest he’d ever come to eating feces. He swallowed, trying to disguise his grimace of disgust.
“Owen keep pecker up—bad will go away. More tea, white British chap?” asked Mangogo, as politely as any upper-class matron. He lifted the white-bone china pot, ready to pour.
21
“What was the name of your organization again, my dear?”
“The Central African Christian Movement. We bring the word of Christ to the heathens of the Dark Continent. Here’s a picture of our most recent converts.” Cissie leaned forward and displayed for the old woman a publicity photo of Professor Evans & His Pygmies.
“The white fellow is Reverend Hoskins. He’s had a tremendous success rate.”
Impressed, Mrs. Blair asked Cissie in. Her home was a quaint, charming cottage in the village of Stevenston, Hertfordshire, twenty miles from London. Constructed of native stone with a red tile roof, it was just the right retirement home for a vicar’s widow.
In the parlor, Mrs. Blair picked up a brass bell and shook it violently, screaming, “Mabel!” In strode a slatternly girl of about sixteen in an ill-fitting black-and-white maid’s uniform. “Mabel, bring us some tea and those blueberry scones.”
Without even a “yes, ma’am,” Mabel turned and stomped out of the room.
The women settled into armchairs across from each other.
The newspapers had written that seventy-eight-year-old Denys Blair, the former vicar at All Christ’s Church, was survived by a wife, Mary, and a daughter, Alma. Tracking down the widow, who was in her eighties and becoming disoriented, had been simple for Cissie.
“I’m just back from Africa,” Cissie said, “and my very first task is distributing gifts to our loyal supporters. When will Reverend Blair be returning?”
“I’m afraid Reverend Blair died more than five years ago.” Mary touched the corners of her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “In that horrible Britannia Theatre disaster. A balcony collapsed—it fell on top of him. Denys frequently took the train in to London to attend the variety theatre, although I never accompanied him. I found music halls to be vulgar,” the old woman sniffed.
“Oh, heavens,” gasped Cissie, gloved hand to mouth. “But if there’s one man who is in the kingdom of heaven, it must be Reverend Blair.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Blair. She looked rather uncomfortable now. “They do say God is merciful toward sinners—even the worst.”
“What a shame. I had a gift for him: a King James Bible, bound in Moroccan leather. Now it’s for you to treasure, as a memory of your late husband.” Cissie handed the Bible to the widow reverently, holding it in both palms, as if it were a gold plate.
Mabel stomped in with the tea and set it roughly on the table.
“That’s all,” snapped Mrs. Blair. But as she leaned forward to pour, a grimace came over her face. “Stupid girl. She forgot the scones. If you want something done right, you must do it yourself. Excuse me, Mrs. Ludgate.”
In her hostess’s absence, Cissie got up and walked about the parlor. The fireplace mantel held a charming collection of trinkets collected from holidays on the coast of England—a little windmill from Blackpool, a ceramic Japanese doll from Bournemouth. Mementos of the widow’s life with the vicar were scattered about too: his framed divinity degree from Oxford; an image of the church’s rededication, likely after some restoration project; and photos of the vicar sitting with the choir, the dates written in white ink at the top.
In each, a dozen boys surrounded Blair, then a tall, vigorous man with a flowing mane of hair. All the boys had carefully combed hair, wore choir robes, and stared vacantly into the camera. Their names were listed by row at the bottom of each photo.
As Cissie glanced over them, something caught her attention. In the 1872 photo, the boy at the end of the first row was labeled as Lionel Glenn. Her eye darted to his face: yes, a pretty blond boy with plump cheeks and a serious expression. Cissie put her eyes right up to the tiny image and stared. The Lionel Glenn she worked f
or was fat and bald, but the resemblance still shone through in certain features—those wide eyes, the nub of chin.
Something was beating urgently inside Cissie’s mind, but she couldn’t put her finger on it yet. She scrutinized the other boys’ faces more closely. All about the same age. The widow must have been giving Mabel hell indeed; Cissie darted to her purse, pulled out the list and a pencil, and scribbled the names of the other boys on the back of the paper. Just as she finished, Mrs. Blair returned, carrying a plate heaped with scones.
“There,” she said. “Now we can have a proper tea.”
As they ate and drank, Cissie tried to make conversation about the choir, but the widow only talked incessantly about the vicar’s matchbox-collecting hobby. When Cissie at last made to depart, Mrs. Blair insisted on contributing five pounds to her cause, which Cissie had no choice but to accept.
Outside, it was midafternoon, a cool fall day with plenty of light left. Cissie found her way to All Christ’s Church, which stood at the far end of the village. It was the usual medieval English parish church, with heavy stone walls and a steep slate roof. The light inside shone through stained-glass windows; the ceiling was a series of handsome oak hammer beam trusses.
As Cissie stood, taking in the feel of the space, a door opened behind the pulpit, and out came an elderly caretaker, stooped and mumbling. When he saw Cissie, he waved and, in a croaking voice, called, “Welcome.”
“Thank you, sir. What a beautiful church.”
“Yes, we’re quite proud of it. Originally from the 1300s; restored in 1881.”
“In fact, my uncle lived in Stevenston. He attended this very church.” Cissie spoke in her jolliest voice. “He heard I was coming through and asked me to look up some old mates of his. You know, for old time’s sake.”
“I’ve been round here all my seventy-five years.” The old man snorted proudly, as if he were boasting about his ability to recite every king and queen England had ever had. “I know everyone.”
“Thomas Swain, Nigel Blunt, Joseph Durham, Derrick Carr, Alexander…” Cissie began, reading off her list. But one of the names had caught the old man’s attention.
“Why, Derrick still lives on Standish Street, by the tobacconist’s!”
• • •
“Why the hell would I want to give money for a bunch of bloody darkies in Africa? I got me own problems. They can swing from tree to tree and eat coconuts for all I care,” Derrick Carr snarled. He was in his early fifties and as wide as he was tall.
It hadn’t been easy for Cissie to get inside his house; she’d practically had to shove her way past him at the door. Like most people, Carr hated door-to-door salespersons, especially do-gooders asking for religious donations.
“But we are striving to bring them to Christ,” she entreated, using her most innocent tone and opening her eyes wide.
“You’re wasting your bloody time—and mine, woman.”
“Mrs. Blair, the wife of the late vicar, said you might make a small contribution.”
This caught Carr’s attention. He didn’t speak but gave Cissie a withering look.
“She said you were in the choir when you were a lad.”
Carr walked right up to Cissie and put his face to hers. “That I was, and I’ll never forget it. I turned my back on God after that.” His voice rose; color flushed to his cheeks. He was getting angrier by the second. “The wife of that bloody bugger has some nerve sending you here. She knew full well what was going on, and still she chose to look the other way.”
“Bugger?” Cissie echoed. A religious zealot shouldn’t know the word—not like an experienced theatre woman.
“He never did me; guess I was lucky I wasn’t pretty enough. But he gave it up the bum plenty of times to them others in the choir. Especially Philip and Lionel, poor devils. Wouldn’t keep his hands off ’em. Every couple of years came a new set of boys. He was vicar here some thirty years, the filthy bugger. Do you know how many boys that added up to?” Carr was fully red in the face now.
Cissie knew she had to leave or be pitched out on her head in the street. Prudence reigned; she turned and fled.
“Man of God,” Carr shouted after her. “What a bloody pile of manure.”
22
“Hello, Dougie. Bet you thought you’d never see me again.”
On the contrary, Layton thought wryly. He wasn’t at all surprised to see his old prison mate, Archie Guest. After five years in Mulcaster, he knew the criminal mind inside and out; when there was easy money to be had, a criminal never gave up the chase. Abruptly moving to London from Nottingham wasn’t going to shake this rotter. He’d known damn well that Guest would follow him here.
It was early Tuesday morning. Layton had been approaching the stage door when Guest appeared at his right, a big grin on his leathery face. Other stagehands were coming down the alley, along with a few performers hoping to rehearse before the evening show.
“Am I imagining things, or was me old pal trying to give me the slip?” Guest was salivating for fear and panic from his victim.
Layton just smiled and put his arm around the man, as companionable as if he were an old Eton classmate. “Archie, have you ever been backstage at a music hall? It’s a fascinating world.” He didn’t wait for Guest’s reply but guided him gently through the stage door. “The gentleman in that little cubicle is the stage doorman, who stands guard to keep out intruders. Since you’re here with me, there’ll be no problem,” Layton said and nodded to Simon Blaine, the doorman.
The two men walked leisurely through the bleak brick-and-plaster hallways. People came and went on all sides.
“You’ve always been an observer out in the audience,” Layton continued in an eager-to-please tone. “Now you’ve crossed an invisible threshold, and you can see where the magic is made.”
Though Guest remained silent and listened, his eyes darted about frenetically, as if he were desperate to figure out Layton’s plan.
“This is the stage from the performer’s point of view,” Layton said. “Looking out into the auditorium. Quite a sight, am I right?”
He guided Guest to the side of the stage. The Bouncing Bobos, a tumbling act, was rehearsing at center stage. Four men held the corners of a large blanket, tossing a pretty young girl in red tights up into the air. She turned multiple somersaults before landing each time. Layton gestured up, drawing Guest’s eye.
“That’s the fly tower above our heads. The cloths I paint are flown up by ropes from that gallery on the side.” Layton led Guest into the wings and gestured left and right. “Back here we have dressing rooms, the scene shop, and a carpenter’s shop. Don’t these poky corridors have a charm and fascination all their own?”
“Sure, sure. It’s all very bloody interesting.” Guest shook his head, refocusing on his task. “But, Dougie, you and I have some business to attend to. Remember?”
“Of course. Why don’t we go somewhere more private? Follow me.”
With Guest following behind, Layton descended a spiral stair to the understage and led Guest behind a large wooden wheel that operated one of the traps in the stage.
“Now we have some privacy.”
“All them people up there would be surprised as hell to know they’re working alongside the Butcher of the West End. They’d be bloody mad, in fact.” Guest waggled his eyebrows, shook his head. “You got some cheek, mate, getting yourself a job with the very circuit you built the Britannia for.”
“How much?”
Guest blinked, folded his arms against his chest. It was a dramatic gesture to show he meant business. “Since we’re old friends, I’d say twenty quid a month is fair.”
“Agreed,” Layton said cheerfully.
“Well…Dougie,” Guest stammered, “I’m right glad we could come to an agreement without a lot of fuss, two Mulcaster gents like us.”
“I
couldn’t agree more, Arch. And I bet you want your first month’s payment?”
“Why…yes. That’s what I was thinkin’.”
“How about this? Since it’s nearing the end of the month, I’ll give you ten quid, and we’ll start afresh next month. That’s fair, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, Layton stuffed a ten-pound note into Guest’s pocket.
A smile came over the ex-convict’s face. “That’ll do nicely, m’lad. Very nicely…for now.”
“I’ll see you to the door.”
As they walked down the corridor, they saw Cissie, talking to the stage doorman.
“Mrs. Mapes, let me introduce you to a very old school chum of mine, Archibald Guest.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Guest.”
“Mr. Guest is a lover of variety theatre entertainment. Could we leave a weekly pass for him?”
“Anything for a friend of yours, Mr. Owen.”
As they waved him out the door, Cissie smiled and whispered, “So that’s the piece of shite, eh?”
“Indeed it is, Mrs. Mapes.”
“What’s his price?”
“Twenty quid a month.”
“Once he knows he has you under his thumb, you know it’ll go up to at least fifty. What will you do then?”
Layton shook his head, and for the first time, the easy smile dropped from his face. “I don’t know, Cissie. I don’t know.”
23
“I thought the seals were funniest,” nine-year-old Ronald Layton piped up. “Didn’t you, Nanny?”
“Eddington & Freddington were funniest for me, Master Ronald. Those two toffee-nosed girls were a real hoot.”
“What does ‘toffee-nosed’ mean, Nanny?” Ronald asked, confused.
“Stuck-up, hoity-toity. The kind that looks down on others.”
Mrs. Hawkins had been Ronald’s nanny since his birth. He was a good, thoughtful lad who never gave her any trouble. His divorced mother, Edwina, was recently engaged to remarry. Soon, Mrs. Hawkins thought, another child would be on the way and destined for her care.
The Fallen Architect Page 14
