All five stagehands sat on the table with their legs dangling over the edge.
“Sit your bums in the center of the table,” commanded Amy, her arms crossed, her shoe tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor of the stage. As she strode toward the table, she stopped and called out to Mangogo and Ronald.
“You boys come on up here too. The more the merrier.”
Mangogo and Ronald exchanged puzzled expressions but did as they were told, scampering up the side steps to the stage.
“Go sit in the laps of these blokes.”
They both hopped up, to the displeasure of two of the men.
“Here we go, lads. Hold tight!”
Amy ducked under the table, spread her legs, and bent her knees. With her back flat against the underside of the wood table top and hands grasping the edges, she drew in a deep breath, then, with her back, thrust the table six inches off the floor.
“One, two, three, four, and five,” she called out before setting the table back down on the floor.
“Mangogo bloody amazed,” the Pygmy yelled out with joy, waving his spear.
Ronald hopped off the table and counted the men, making a mental calculation.
“That’s fifty-seven stone—eight hundred pounds you lifted,” the boy exclaimed. “Plus me and Mangogo.”
“Are we finished here?” grumbled one of the hands.
“Off you go,” replied Amy. “I’ll ask for five volunteers from the audience tonight, and they can be fatter than these blokes. The men always want to show me up, but the bastards never do,” she said with a look of great satisfaction.
Layton appeared stage right and motioned for Ronald to come backstage. His visit was over; he had to get back to Hyde Park. Though the boy’s heart sank visibly, he did as he was told, waving a sad goodbye to Mangogo. Backstage, he bid farewell to Cissie and the other performers. Cyril gave him a bag of toffee sweets and a kiss on the cheek.
“It’s been a crackin’ day, Father,” Ronald said. His eyes were bright and joyful, like two little miniature suns, and they made Layton feel aglow inside.
On the way to the stage door, a beautiful blond stopped them.
“This must be Ronald,” she said. “I’m Helen.”
“It’s a great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Ronald said, shaking her hand and bowing.
“He’s a good-looking chappie and already a proper gentleman, Frank,” Helen said, smiling at them both.
“She’s so pretty,” the boy remarked as they walked down the alley.
“That’s Helen McCoy, the Piccadilly Lilly. She’s just started her career, and already she’s a sensation. ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ is her signature song. Cissie says she’s going to be a great star, that she’s got a once-in-a-lifetime voice.”
“You and Cissie are sweet on each other, aren’t you?”
The directness of the question shocked and amused Layton in equal measure. His son didn’t beat around the bush. He liked that.
“Right you are, lad,” he said. “Cissie’s a spiffing girl.”
“Father, why do they all call you Frank Owen when you’re Douglas Layton?”
Layton had known that, sooner or later, this question would arise. “Grandfather Charles once said that actors have pretend names so they don’t disgrace their families.”
Layton burst out laughing. “Lord Litton is right. For many people, the theatre is an evil place. Decent people don’t dare be part of it.”
“I don’t think that at all! It’s a wonderful world of make-believe and fun. You’re so lucky to be a part of it.”
They had reached Hyde Park Corner, where they always parted ways. Layton stopped and smiled down at his son.
“You’re absolutely right, Ronnie. I’m very lucky indeed.”
31
Layton loved running his hands over the bolts of cloth at the tailors on Savile Row. Flannels, woolens, linens—each had its own sensation, and each was wonderful.
Before the long years of blue woolen uniforms in Mulcaster, Layton had taken great care in his dress. Clothes were an essential part of upper-class life, and dressing well was a crucial part of his charade, of pretending to be a trueborn gentleman.
In some circles, ladies made as many as six changes per day. Before 1:00 p.m., men could not be seen in anything but morning dress—a tailcoat, waistcoat, top hat, gloves, and striped trousers. Evening meant an array of tweed suits, Norfolk jackets, summer linen suits, and white-tie dress. Sporting events like shooting, bicycling, or foxhunting had specific wardrobes. Woe to the man who defied the conventions of dress in England!
After working steadily for nine months and not spending all his funds on drink, Layton had extra money in his pocket. Nor had Archie Guest drained his coffers; it had been weeks since he’d seen the man, and Layton thought that Reggie Ash must have done quite a job convincing him to leave well enough alone. It was a relief; forty quid a month would have crushed him.
With Ronald back in his life, Layton had decided that the first thing he would buy when he had the funds was a new tailor-made shirt. He didn’t want to look tatty for his son, and no new, ready-made item from Harrods would do.
The West End was a shopping mecca for London’s well-to-do, with shops on Bond, Regent, and Oxford Streets, Piccadilly, Knightsbridge, and Westbourne Grove. Ladies reveled in all-day shopping trips; the attendant tearooms and women’s clubs allowed the fashionable set to dine in public without a male escort.
As for the gents, Savile Row, in Mayfair in central London, had been the province of men’s tailoring since the late nineteenth century. There, one of the many tailors would take a gentleman’s measurements and create new sets of clothes for him each year, adjusting slightly to favor new fashions—or the customer’s expanding girth.
In making his selection, Layton avoided his favorite tailor, Henry Poole, for fear of being discovered. He chose another reputable shop on nearby Regent Street and ordered one new shirt of Egyptian cotton so soft to the touch, it was like stroking a lamb. Layton also purchased two snow-white detachable collars with new collar studs.
After placing his order, he lingered, looking at the great variety of fabric bolts on display. A wistful smile crossed his face; the air of relaxed luxury reminded him of better days, when he lived a life of comfort and privilege, when his bespoke shirts and suits were laid out daily by his valet, Gerald.
When Layton exited the shop onto Regent Street, he realized there was another customer directly behind him. Instinct told him to beware. He kept his head down and quickened his pace, a habit he’d mastered since leaving Mulcaster.
“Douglas Layton?” whispered a voice just inches from his ear.
His first instinct was to walk rapidly away. But it was not to be.
“Douglas Layton!” the voice called, more loudly now.
Despair rose up inside Layton. Shaw had recognized him and now someone else. What bad luck! The young man who had hailed him was in his early thirties and of medium height, with a full beard and mustache. Thomas Phipps, Layton’s memory whispered, an architect and colleague from the Royal Institute of British Architects. Ex-colleague. Layton had been expelled for life from the RIBA.
“It is you,” said Phipps. He sounded bewildered, like he was seeing a ghost.
“Hello, Tom,” Layton said, striving to sound casual. “You’re looking well.”
Phipps was. He’d been a rising young talent when Layton was sent away and had just started his own firm. They’d competed for projects then; Layton blinked, surprised at the memory. It seemed a million years ago. But Phipps had impressed him. A design of a university building he’d done had been published to great acclaim in The Builder, a professional architectural magazine.
“I was in the shop here, and I thought it was you, Douglas.”
“Yes, I needed some new shirts,” said Layton in a
matter-of-fact tone.
The awkward silence between them seemed to stretch on for a century. At last, Phipps said in a hushed voice, “We all thought you’d been treated most unfairly, you know. Everyone blaming you for the accident—bloody bad business, that.”
Standing now in front of Phipps, Layton wished he could shrink down to the size of an ant and crawl into a crack in the pavement. The embarrassment was unbearable.
“No one in RIBA condemned you, Douglas.” Phipps’s voice was low and urgent. “We knew something like that could happen to any of us.”
“They said I brought disgrace on British architects,” Layton said faintly. “That’s why I was booted out of the RIBA.”
“They had to do that. The public line, you know.”
“The fact is, Phipps, I’m no longer an architect and never will be.”
Phipps bowed his head, as if in shared embarrassment. “From the looks of it,” he said haltingly, “you’ve taken a new identity and started a new life. Good for you.”
“I’m Frank Owen now,” Layton said, nodding. “I have a new career too—so long as no one knows of my past.”
Phipps rested his hand gently on Layton’s shoulder. “I won’t tell a soul, Douglas.”
“And how has your practice been going?”
“Just ripping,” Phipps said. He seemed relieved to speak of happier matters. “The central library in Leeds, a hotel on the Strand, a new estate for the Earl of Rutland, the Eagle Life insurance headquarters in Glasgow, All Saints Church, a new building for the Admiralty in Westminster…” He trailed off, as if afraid to seem a braggart.
“That’s marvelous, Tom. We all knew you had a great talent.”
“Well, thank you, Douglas…but it’s also luck in getting the commissions. But you know all that,” he said sheepishly.
“Architecture is a business as well as an art. No clients, no art.”
“That’s the bloody truth. Say, Douglas, it’s almost noon. What say I buy you lunch? I’d love to get your advice on a project I’ve got coming up.”
Layton fought down a surge of panic. He didn’t want to reconnect with anyone from the past, and the desperation of that desire almost blinded him to the present moment. But then he looked at Phipps and reconsidered. Seeing him, he felt like a lonely expatriate, longing for company, meeting a fellow countryman in a dusty bar on the outskirts of civilization. He hadn’t talked to another architect in years. On top of the grief from the disaster and losing Edwina and Ronnie was the shame of being shunned by his profession, men who had once admired and liked him. He felt like a dishonored army officer, standing before the entire garrison as the commanding officer ripped the medals and epaulets off his uniform and broke his sword in half. Though Layton now knew the truth about the disaster, the disgrace still seemed unbearable.
“Yes, that’s very decent of you,” he said in a halting voice.
“Splendid.”
Phipps took him to an out-of-the-way restaurant on Cavendish Place, north of Oxford Circus. He seemed to understand Layton’s need for anonymity. Over pints and shepherd’s pie, they talked endlessly about architecture—new stylistic developments; the new prominent players, besides Phipps; what big projects were on the horizon. Phipps praised some of Layton’s past projects, particularly his Law Courts building, and asked his advice on a new office building he’d been contracted for on Earls Court Road. For a short time, Layton was an architect again, and the boon to his self-worth was wonderful.
The afternoon passed and the drink flowed freely, as did Layton’s words.
“I loved being an architect, Tom. What a bloody good feeling it was to see the drawing turn into a real building,” he slurred.
“You were a great architect, Douglas.”
“Maybe I will be again.” Phipps seemed puzzled by this remark. Layton looked straight into his eyes and said more forcefully, “It wasn’t me that caused that accident. Someone else did. On purpose.”
The second the words had come tumbling out of his mouth, Layton regretted saying anything. But then he felt heaps better. Telling another architect that he wasn’t a murderer and an embarrassment to the profession… In that moment, it felt like everything.
Phipps looked down at his pint as if embarrassed. The architect thought he was drunk and talking nonsense, Layton realized.
“My assistant, Peter Browne, was part of it.” He spoke more urgently and clearly now. “Reville, the structural engineer, was in on it too. Someone paid them to tamper with the structure. And they’ve been murdered, to silence them forever.”
Phipps sat back, wide-eyed. “Are you absolutely sure, Douglas? What proof do you have? Have you taken your story to the police?”
“I’m not ready yet,” Layton said, “but I’m working on it.”
“Can I help you in any way?” Phipps asked in a hushed, urgent voice. “You can’t let them get away with it. They killed all those people—and they destroyed your life!”
“Yes, Tom,” he said slowly. “I could use your help.”
32
For two weeks, the Gazelles, a troupe of acrobats in gold and scarlet, had filled the Queen’s Palace stage with flying bodies. Though they were great applause getters, the stagehands hated them.
The Gazelles were the only act to use the bridges, two sections of the stage floor that could be raised and lowered to create spectacular visual effects. Because the bridges were labor intensive, they were used mainly at Christmastime, when the theatres staged big pantomime pageants. Now, to the delight of the audience, the troupe had choreographed a routine in which they leapt and somersaulted from one bridge to the other while the bridges continuously rose and fell. It was an exciting change from bouncing around on a flat stage floor.
But the bridges were operated with huge, geared wooden drums, located under the stage and turned by hand crank—something the crew was loathe to do. It was one thing to raise them once during a turn; to do it over and over for eight minutes was exhausting. The Gazelles had to “sweeten” the crew with beer money to work the drums for their twelve weekly performances. And now, for Thursday night’s show, Stewart Caves, one of the stagehands that was to operate the bridges, hadn’t shown up.
He was probably drunk somewhere in Piccadilly, Layton told Cissie, who was standing stage right and was angry.
“Caves has made a total bollocks of the act, that clot!”
Cissie ran the performances with the accuracy of a Swiss watch and absolutely hated when things were at sixes and sevens. The Gazelles were the third act on the top half of the bill, and time was running out to find a replacement.
“I will stand in for old Caves,” said Layton with a smile.
“Then pull your finger out, me boy. Your reward will be a Guinness tonight—and maybe a slap and a tickle later on if you do a good job of it.”
Since joining the variety theatre, he had grown ever more fascinated with the technical workings. The architect in him wanted to understand how everything worked, from flying the cloths to lighting the stage with the new electric spotlights and working the traps in the understage.
Five minutes before the Gazelles were due on, Layton walked down the black metal spiral stair to the understage. The other operator, Alfie Elkins, was at the stage right crank, out of view. The band room and the orchestra pit were directly beside the understage, and Layton could hear the music as if he were in the front row of the stalls.
When the snappy, fast-paced intro for the Gazelles began, he placed his hands on the wooden handle and began to crank the drum. Like a watch gear, the drum was shaped like a wheel, with heavy wooden spoke teeth around its circumference. These teeth turned another wheel, connected by a shaft to the ram that lifted the bridge. Once the bridge was raised to full height, Layton lowered it by cranking in the other direction.
Directly above him, he heard and felt the continuous thumping
of the acrobats.
But in the noise and the chaos, Layton didn’t hear someone come up from behind.
Two hands grabbed the sides of his head and squeezed with enormous force, like the clamps of a vise. The pain was so intense that Layton thought his eyes would pop out of their sockets. He let go of the crank and tried to cry out but found himself paralyzed from the neck down; he couldn’t raise his arms to defend himself. His vision blurred and swam; his head was jerked in the direction of the still-spinning spokes.
They blurred before Layton’s eyes, and he knew what was about to happen. In a fraction of a second, he had to make a decision: give up and have his head squashed like a watermelon, or save himself, no matter the cost. In the end, it was easy. He grabbed the crank and held on, winning himself a precious few seconds. On instinct, he yanked off his right boot and lunged forward, jamming it into the gears and bringing the wheel to a halt. With a muffled curse, his assailant rammed his head against the edge of the wheel and let go. Layton dropped to the floor like a stone.
He woke up facedown on the wooden floor. Leo, one of the Gazelles, swam into his vision, screaming and cursing.
“You stupid bastard, you screwed up the whole act! You threw off our timing. We crashed into each other like ten pins! Why’d you stop cranking?”
The pain in Layton’s skull radiated down to his feet and back up like an electrical current. The strain was too much, and Layton curled up in a ball, holding his head, trying to gather his wits about him. The entire Gazelle troupe had arrived now, and they were cursing him up and down. Henry Wilding, the stage manager, joined them.
“Frank, what the hell happened? Are you sick, man?” he yelled.
“Bollocks, he’s sick!” screamed Ralph, another Gazelle. “I did a triple somersault right smack into the stage floor. Almost broke me goddamn neck!”
Grabbing on to the wheel, Layton pulled himself up to face the angry mob. Leo was poking him in the chest, screaming at the top of his lungs, his face beet red. Layton could feel saliva spraying him in the face as the man raged.
The Fallen Architect Page 20
