The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

“Two days.”

  “You’ll never get work around ’ere, people knowing who you are.” His father was never one to sugarcoat reality.

  A harsh voice broke across their quiet conversation.

  “Blimey. The black sheep of the family has returned to the fold.”

  Leaning forward on the thick oak railing of the staircase landing was his older brother, Roger, a tall and gangly man with a shock of sandy-blond hair. He skipped down the rest of the stairs like a seven-year-old.

  “Hello, Roger,” Layton said tersely.

  “I won’t bother to ask how things are with you, Little Brother. I can tell by lookin’ at yer face.” Roger sat down across from Layton, a cruel smile fixed on his face. “You look so different. Thinner, almost like a bloody skeleton. I’m surprised. I ’eard they give you a pound of raw meat every day in prison, like animals in the zoo.”

  Layton closed his eyes, let the abuse wash over him. Roger had always resented his ability to rise above his station. Now, he wondered if his brother had taken pleasure in his misfortunes too. It wasn’t as if he had anything to complain about. Roger was a master carpenter and greatly admired for his skill. People across England hired him to build cabinetry, stairs, and millwork for mansions and other important buildings. And yet. While Roger had a true gift, Layton had never referred any work to him for fear of revealing his family connections. In doing so, perhaps he had hurt Roger more than he knew.

  “Douglas here is lookin’ for work,” Thomas said, turning to Roger, who let out a harsh bark of a laugh.

  “Oh, for sure, people’ll be bangin’ the door down to give Britain’s most famous murderer a job.”

  “Don’t take that tone, boy, or I’ll thump ya,” growled Thomas.

  “What? None of your high-and-mighty friends were waitin’ outside Mulcaster to give ya a job? Lord and Lady Bentham didn’t have their carriage at your disposal? I’m shocked.” Their father was glowering, but Roger continued, undaunted. “You know, we can’t blame ’em, Dad, for never coming back to visit. It must have been bloody awkward for our Dougie to associate with his social inferiors.”

  He leaned over the table and looked straight into Layton’s eyes. “But now you’re an ex-convict. You’re everyone’s social inferior, mate.”

  Layton looked straight ahead and continued petting Midnight. Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence in the room.

  “You look peaky, Doug. Maybe you should go upstairs and have a lie down in Raymond’s room,” said Thomas. His tone of voice wasn’t compassionate but practical, as if he were telling a drenched man to come in out of the rain.

  Layton set the cat on the floor and slowly stood. Like a weary old man, he trudged up the stairs. His torso still ached.

  “At least you don’t have to share a room anymore—or get buggered,” Roger called after him.

  “Shut yer mouth, boy,” Layton heard his father growl.

  The lamp on the nightstand threw out a warm glow, illuminating the many objects attached to the walls, the trinkets and trophies of war that Raymond had brought home for Layton, who worshiped his soldier brother as a hero. A Dervish spear, a Zulu shield almost six feet tall, a jeweled saber from his posting on India’s northwest frontier. These strange, exotic objects had fascinated Layton. He had looked forward to Raymond’s leaves, to being beguiled by stories of adventures in far-off lands.

  Many photographs of Raymond’s regiment hung on the walls. Layton could find his brother instantly in every one. Raymond had called the Second Boer War a quick colonial skirmish; the British were expected to march into South Africa and easily whip the Boer farmers in a week. The Dutch-speaking settlers had accepted British rule but refused to let their republics, the Orange Free State and the Transvaal, be annexed when diamonds and gold were discovered within their bounds. To the shock of the world, they had soundly licked the British.

  The public had been furious. That mere farmers could beat the best army on the planet! The Boers had used hit-and-run tactics that were deemed cowardly. “Why don’t they come out in the open and fight fair?” people had written in letters to the Daily Mail.

  Reading the Times one morning at breakfast, Layton had learned to his horror that Raymond had been cut down in an ambush while leading a night patrol. One Boer bullet to the head ended his bright life. In the photograph of the regiment Raymond had sent his father from South Africa, Layton found his brother, seated in the second row, third from the left, looking confident and proud.

  It was the last photo of his brother ever taken.

  7

  “Never knew you liked the drink so much,” said Thomas, handing his son a bottle of Glenfiddich.

  “I can drink, or I can weep, Dad. I prefer to drink.”

  Layton nodded his thanks to his father and broke the seal on the bottle. He took a long, hard swallow of the malt whiskey. With each glass, he forgot the world and passed into a blissful state. It reminded him of the time when, as a child, he’d paid a shilling for a hot-air balloon ride at the fair in Dorchester. The great wicker gondola had lifted him higher and higher over the lush green countryside. Everything on the ground had shrunk away to nothing. He was hundreds of feet above the world and all its unhappiness. It was exhilarating, and he hadn’t wanted to come down. The feeling had lingered even after his father had raged at him for wasting a bob on such a foolish extravagance. Like that balloon, the alcohol lifted him up. With each glass, he went higher and higher into the sky, forgetting everything. Layton loved the sensation.

  “And drinking is the only way I know to remain unconscious sitting up during the day.”

  “At this pace, you’ll be lying on the floor unconscious—or dead,” replied Thomas. “The Irish curse,” he muttered with distaste. “Me great-uncle had it, he was a twelve-pint-a-day man, he was.”

  “I can beat that in a heartbeat.”

  He had been at home for almost three weeks. Not once had he ventured outside the house. A city dweller might look at the countryside, see the homes and farms so far from each other, and imagine total privacy. But there were prying eyes everywhere. The gossips in the Dorset countryside were faster than a telegraph; they’d alert everyone along the south coast of England that the Butcher of the West End had come home. Reporters would hover around the house like flies on manure.

  Not wanting to shame his father, Layton stayed inside.

  It was a strange time. Layton was adrift; he had no idea what to do with his life, nor did he care. Becoming a bitter, drunken recluse seemed as good an option as any. Unspoken between Layton and his father was the knowledge that he could stay in the homestead as long as he wanted and be provided with liquor and food. Though he was bored to death, he accepted this as the price for staying safe and out of sight. The little cottage of his childhood had become a fortress, protecting him from the outside world. Since his release from prison, Layton had this constant fear that his freedom was just an illusion that could be snatched away from him in an instant, and he’d be back in a prison cell.

  The thick oak door swung open, interrupting Layton’s thoughts. In strode Roger, carrying his leather bag of woodworking tools. He had been away in Cornwall, on the far western end of England, working on a job for an estate.

  “I see nothing has changed in a fortnight,” said Roger, dropping his bag by the fireplace. “Didn’t think it bloody would.”

  Layton lifted his tumbler of scotch in a salute. His brother sat down across from him. Their father took no notice but continued to stir the pot of stew on the stove.

  “I’m tired of seeing you get sozzled every night, Little Brother,” said Roger. Again, that icy flash of a smile. “So I did me some thinkin’.”

  “That’s a dangerous pastime,” Layton murmured. Roger did not seem to hear.

  “I recalled our Dougie here being one of them sensitive, artistic types—he could draw real well as a lad.” Roger
spoke this last over his shoulder to their father.

  “So?” Thomas growled.

  “Well, I ’appened to run into an old mate in Cornwall. Name of Charlie MacHeath. He’d just finished repairing some doors in a music hall in Nottingham. Charlie told me his nephew got a job in their scene shop—you know, the ones that paint the backdrops—or whatever the ’ell ya call ’em; the things that ya see behind the acts. A London street, a garden in Devon, that kind of thing. Said they was hiring.”

  The words music hall made Layton flinch. But when he met his father’s eyes, he could see that Thomas Layton had taken Roger’s suggestion to heart.

  It was time to go.

  8

  Layton stood across the street, examining the front facades of the Nottingham Grand Imperial Theatre. It wrapped the corner of Merton and Ward Streets, anchored by a huge, domed tower clad in copper and topped by a tall, gilt spire. The ornate glass and cast-iron marquee also wrapped the corner; above it, letters outlined in lights glowed out GRAND IMPERIAL. The use of white marble gave the front of the theatre great presence.

  A very strong design.

  Everything had happened so quickly, thought Layton. A good thing, that; it had given him little time to back out. Roger had placed a trunk call from the village to his friend in London and learned the Grand was indeed looking for scenic artists. To keep Layton’s identity secret, Roger claimed he had a friend looking for work. From Nottingham, the nephew of his mate had wired that he’d put in a good word. Within a day, Oswald Black, the theatre manager, had granted Layton an interview. As he had no previous experience, he was asked to bring a portfolio of drawings to the meeting. While he didn’t have to “be any kind of Rembrandt,” Black had cautioned, he had to have some talent. Working late into the night in Raymond’s room, Layton made quick sketches of the countryside and streetscapes, then a portrait of Midnight.

  Layton chose a new name at random, picking the first and last names from the Dorchester Times. He was now Frank Owen. He repeated his new name over and over again. It was interesting, he thought, that one had no say in what they were called. One’s last name was inherited from one’s father; the first and middle names were bestowed when one was less than a day old and couldn’t protest. Not until three or four, when the other children made fun of it, would a child know he’d been given a ridiculous name. Take Beechcrop Manningtree, the name of one of Layton’s childhood friends. Didn’t his parents know how stupid it was? Why not just plain John?

  Layton also assumed a new physical identity. The full mustache and beard he had sported since he was eighteen had been shaved off the first day at Mulcaster because it was against prison rules, so he was already clean-shaven. The thirty pounds he’d lost in prison now became an advantage. To those who knew him before, Layton had always been on the slightly chubby side. To complete the masquerade, Roger had purchased some hair dye, so now Layton had chestnut-colored hair that was swept back with Livesy’s Hair Tonic. The final touch was a pair of spectacles that barely distorted his vision. He also gave Roger twelve quid to go into Dorchester to buy him a greatcoat, two suits, and a bare-bones wardrobe.

  “Blimey, ’e looks a new man—if ya don’t look too closely,” his brother had said of his new creation.

  Layton was amused by Roger’s enthusiasm in helping him out. He knew it wasn’t out of brotherly love but to get him the hell out the house.

  In spite of himself, Layton liked the fact that he had been reborn. A brand-new name and identity—in a way, it was a clean slate. And now, within a week of Roger’s call, he found himself here, about to cross the street for his 11:00 a.m. interview. The job being in Nottingham, a city he’d never visited, pleased him. But for the Robin Hood stories, he knew nothing about the place. The bustling Midlands city looked like a perfect place to get lost in, with its crowds of people on the lively streets radiating out from its original medieval castle. All Layton craved was anonymity and a chance to get on with his life. Still, he had to be on his guard at all times not to reveal his true identity.

  But as Layton stepped off the curb, an image of the Britannia exterior superimposed itself over the Grand in his mind, as if someone had wallpapered a giant photograph on top of the building. They shared many similar features, like a big dome. In a flash, he was back standing on Shaftesbury Avenue that terrible night. He closed his eyes as he stepped back up on the sidewalk. Breathing heavily as he’d done in Wragby when he saw the two little girls, he couldn’t bring himself to look up at the music hall, so he glued his eyes to the slate pavement. With his head down, Layton slowly backpedaled until he was right up against the wall of shops. To his immediate right was an entryway to a pub, into which he bolted and ordered a drink immediately. His hand trembling, he lifted a tumbler of whiskey to his lips and downed it in a gulp. Gathering every ounce of his inner strength, he resisted raising his hand to signal the barman to give him another one. The clock in the pub said two minutes to eleven, so Layton picked up the pasteboard portfolio of his drawings and the suitcase he’d borrowed from his father and slowly walked across the street.

  The Grand’s front entrance was a series of handsome wood and cut-glass double doors stretched under the marquee. Under the morning sun, an elderly charwoman was shining the brass door handles to a brilliant finish. But Layton would not pass through them. Experience designing a music hall had taught him that employees always used the rear door, so he walked along the marble facade and turned the corner into an alley.

  The deserted alley was lined with garbage cans and crates of construction material. In contrast to the magnificence of the front, the back of the theatre was done in plain brick with simple sash windows. In the center of the wall was a wide, green steel door marked STAGE ENTRANCE. Layton pulled it open and stepped inside. To his immediate right was a tiny cubicle perhaps six feet wide and six feet deep. An old man in a tweed coat and red bow tie sat there in an upholstered chair, reading the Nottingham Post.

  Behind him, the wall was lined with wooden pigeonhole boxes like those in a post office. On the flanking walls were shelves piled with papers and glass cabinets holding rows of keys. The old man glared at Layton, seemingly annoyed at being disturbed.

  The stage doorman, Layton thought, looking back at him. The master of the guard. It was he who made sure no interlopers invaded the theatre. No starstruck youth looking for jobs, no Piccadilly Johnnies stalking beautiful performers, and no bailiffs handing out arrest warrants to actors. The stage doorman’s job was to hand out messages and mail to performers and staff, distribute dressing room keys, and be cordial to everyone—except strangers like Layton.

  “Appointment with Mr. Black.”

  “Down the corridor and up them circular stairs on the right. Not the ones on the left, mind you,” the stage doorman growled.

  Layton walked down the dimly lit passage. A music hall was made up of two parts. The front of the house was the public area, with the entrance foyer, bars, and auditorium; the back of the house consisted of the stage itself and the backstage area. Backstage was as plain as the front of the house was fancy, and entirely practical and unglamorous. Here, all the functions that created magic on the stage were carried out: the storage for props, costumes, and equipment; the dressing rooms; the workshops for carpenters and electricians. It was a hodgepodge of voids, of dark, tight corridors off of which trailed formless, rabbit-warren spaces. When Layton had been about to begin his design for the Britannia, he’d been shocked to learn that the stage manager and head carpenter would be laying out the backstage, not him. It was a specialized space, and they knew exactly what they wanted. This, he discovered, was how all music halls were designed.

  The Grand’s walls were made of brick painted dark green up to five feet in height and a sickly yellow ocher from there to the ceiling. Bare Edison bulbs, hung every eight feet, cast a wavering light. Men and women passed Layton in the hallway but looked through him as if he were invisible. A
t the top of the black spiral stair was a wall with a glass door and tall interior windows that overlooked the backstage.

  Layton did not have to knock; a middle-aged man with a shiny, bald head saw him at the door and waved him in. He wore a well-tailored, navy-blue suit, and his attention was focused on a pile of papers on his desk, to which he was furiously signing his name. Standing next to him was a very attractive middle-aged woman in a dark-blue skirt with a white shirtwaist, her sandy-blond hair pinned up. Layton’s immediate impression was that she was an actress, but because she was feeding the man business invoices, one after another, he realized she wasn’t. Might she be what they called a “New Woman” in England and a “Gibson Girl” in America? These unmarried women who actually earned their livings in offices and lived in their own flats? Layton shook his head in amazement at the thought.

  “I tell you, Cissie, someone’s robbing us blind.” The man shook his head over the latest sheaf of papers. “These bloody prices are higher than Nelson’s Column.”

  The woman smiled. “You’re balmy, Ozzie. You’re the cheapest bastard in town. No one pays the acts less than you. And the syndicate loves you for it.”

  Without looking at Layton, Oswald Black extended his free hand, took the portfolio, and placed it on the desk. All the while, he continued to sign.

  “Blimey. We have a real Mike Angelo here, Cissie,” he said, flipping through the drawings.

  The woman leaned in to look over his shoulder and gave a thunderous laugh. “This man has talent, Ozzie,” she said. “He can paint better cloths than the ones at the Hackney Empire. But you’ll have to pay him more than you do the dancing bear.”

  Finally, Black looked up at Layton. “No scene painter is going to get paid more than the dancing bear,” he said fiercely. “Especially if it’s his first job.”

  “Ever been in a music hall—I mean, the back of the house?” asked the woman, meeting Layton’s eyes and giving him a warm smile.