The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  At the workbench, Layton prepared a large blob of plaster and cement mortar on a hod. Then he took a trowel and walked back up to the gallery. As the son of a mason, he’d learned how to lay a brick wall and plaster it by the time he was ten years old. Repairing the gallery wall was not difficult; he re-created the bulge so no one would know the spot had been touched. But the plaster patch was white, while the rest of the wall was a yellowish-cream color. Touching up paint was another routine maintenance task; Layton went back downstairs and found the right can of color on a shelf. Normally, one would let plaster dry before painting, but of course, he didn’t have the time to wait for that.

  Finally, he replaced the molding as he had found it and stood back to critique his work. The patch was darker than the surrounding wall, but over time, it would lighten. Besides, the gallery was always filled with clouds of thick cigarette smoke. Nobody would notice. The last thing to do was clean up the plaster he had broken off.

  But… His heart sank. What about the person who’d buried the poor bugger behind the wall to start with? Who would do such a thing?

  As Layton put the tools away, his thoughts returned to the skeleton. If he reported what he’d found to the police, they’d naturally start asking questions about himself—what was he doing up there that time of night? Why did he think something was amiss about the wall and start poking at it? What was his job at the Grand? And who exactly was Frank Owen—where did he come from, and what was his background? The local press who hovered around police stations for big news would be on top of the discovery of the body in a second and hunt down Layton to ask him questions. Their scrutiny would be withering. If they took photographs of him, the jig would definitely be up. Someone in England would see his picture and figure out that Frank Owen was Douglas Layton, the Butcher of the West End. He’d be out of a job, and the press and public would hound him for months as they had before the trial. Layton’s life now was on an even keel, and he was happy for the first time in years. No, the mystery was his to unravel.

  Why was the man hidden behind the wall? The murderer could have dumped the body in a river or buried it in a forest. But bodies float up or are dug up by animals. The killer must have wanted to be absolutely sure no one would find his victim. Layton slumped on the bench, doing the math in his head. The body must have been hidden while the building was under construction, over four years ago, in 1901.

  But who was this man? What had he done to deserve such a fate?

  12

  Mangogo, the Pygmy, was standing next to Layton stage right, watching the act, but Layton had a hard time concentrating. He kept looking up at the gallery wall. He couldn’t stop thinking about the skeleton. When he was onstage during the day, he had to prevent himself from constantly looking up at the burial chamber. Suppose the murderer—or murderers!—noticed. He’d find himself behind a wall too. What a dolt he was to open up the bulge! After leaving the gallery that night, Layton had an urge to light out and catch the next train back to Dorset, but the thought of his brother’s taunts and his father’s disappointment changed his mind.

  “Is there anyone in the audience tonight who thinks they can match my feat of strength?”

  “Me,” shouted a voice from way back in the pit.

  “Then come up here, sir.”

  A broad man in his early twenties wearing a bowler hat and a shirt without a collar bulled through the patrons on the pit benches. The audience applauded enthusiastically as he made his way to the stage.

  “You can do it, mate,” shouted a man from the stalls.

  Three more strapping young men also made their way down from the gallery. The young man from the pit bounded up the side stairs, waving to the audience, a big smile on his handsome face. On the little table in front of him lay a five-eighths-inch-thick cylindrical iron bar, twelve inches in length, which had been bent into a U shape.

  “Please, sir, if you could straighten out this bar that I have bent.”

  The man grabbed both ends of the bar with his meaty hands and pulled with all his might but couldn’t budge them. He tried again and again, his face reddening with exertion. Finally, he gave up. The three men from the gallery had queued, eager for their turns.

  “Could you hand me the bar, sir?”

  With a sullen look on his face, the man did what he was told. Holding the U-shaped bar aloft, the young, slender, beautiful girl bent the bar straight as though it were made of taffy. The audience went wild. She then bent the bar around her little neck and handed it to one of the waiting men. Each of the three tried and failed to unbend it.

  Dainty Amy Silborne was at the moment the world’s best strongwoman and, according to Cissie Mapes, the best specialty act in the business. No hairy, hulking giant of a woman, she was as feminine and petite as any society lady in Mayfair. In a burgundy gown adorned with yellow feathers, Dainty Amy looked stunning onstage. Her ladylike appearance made her feats of strength even more spectacular.

  From a shelf below the tabletop, she produced a coil of thick hemp rope and challenged the four men to a tug-of-war, which she won handily. As they stewed in embarrassment onstage, Amy picked up a Sears Roebuck catalog and tore it in half.

  It was a brilliant act, thought Layton, made better by asking not plants but actual volunteers from the audience to come up. The men provided context for Amy’s strength. She took her bows, and the audience cheered wildly. Mangogo let out a shrill call that must have been a Pygmy cheer of admiration. Then he went back to his fish and chips. He always drowned them in HP Sauce, a new condiment Layton thought would never catch on, but the performer loved it. Layton often accompanied Mangogo to the fish and chips shop and tried to get him to use vinegar, but he refused, saying it smelled like leopard piss.

  The two had developed a strange bond. Mangogo was no ignorant savage, as most had expected, but an intelligent fellow with a great talent for learning English. The stagehands liked him and got a big laugh teaching him obscene words. Layton taught him more useful phrases, like, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” In the afternoons before the show, performers and crew often took Mangogo to the Prince Regent, their favorite pub. They introduced him to Guinness, which he downed in great quantities to no ill effect. In fact, he could drink any stagehand under the table. Mangogo said that jinwana, a drink from fermented jungle leaves, was much stronger than any British drink.

  “Smashing,” Mangogo exclaimed now as Amy came off the stage.

  Layton smiled and picked a chip out of Mangogo’s packet. Fish and chips came wrapped in old newspaper, which he liked; the printer’s ink added to the flavor.

  “Make good…” Mangogo pointed at Amy in the wings, the word escaping him.

  “Wife,” Layton volunteered.

  “Strong, do much…zocancho.”

  “Work.”

  “Jolly good—much work.”

  “Do you have a wife?”

  Mangogo raised his hand, showing four fingers.

  “Four?”

  “Four jolly good for Mangogo. Do much work.”

  Layton burst out laughing and slapped the little man on the back, and Mangogo happily stamped his spear on the stage boards. Mangogo was actually the first black man Layton had ever known. There had been no blacks in Dorset and none in British high society, although the thought of the latter amused him greatly. Tomorrow afternoon, he planned to take Mangogo to lunch at Pearson’s, Nottingham’s poshest restaurant. How astounded those upper-crust patrons would be to see him dining alongside them! But nobody would ask him to leave; his spear, which he took everywhere, made sure of that.

  The other Pygmies were still scared and unsure of their new environment. They kept to themselves in their little flat in the center of Nottingham and never ventured out. In contrast, Mangogo was preternaturally sociable and outgoing. And he was far more interesting than any of Layton’s aristocratic clients had been. He told Layton many exciting s
tories of the jungle, dealing with leopards, giant poisonous insects, pythons, and bull elephants. He was so short and slight of build, but his courage seemed inverse to his physical stature. Mangogo was born a brave fellow, thought Layton.

  Mangogo offered him a chip not slathered in HP Sauce and waved goodbye. He was on after the next act.

  “Remember, tomorrow afternoon, lunch at Pearson’s,” Layton called after him.

  “Steak and…kidney pie,” Mangogo said, rubbing his little brown belly under the burnt-orange-colored blanket he always wore.

  “I’ll make a proper Englishman out of you yet, you’ll see.”

  The act onstage was Eddington & Freddington, the two posh nitwit female impersonators.

  The English country manor drawing room backcloth Layton had designed fit the act perfectly, and in no time, he was choking with laughter, even though he’d seen the act many times. Cyril and Neville were hilarious, and audiences loved them.

  The rest of the night stretched pleasantly ahead of him. After the second show, he and Cissie would go to the Prince Regent with Cyril and Neville and stay until last call, listening to the duo’s stories and jokes. The two flaming poofs had become close friends of his, as had other performers and stage crew. He enjoyed being invited into this warm circle of friends from this magical world. It gave Layton great comfort after all he’d been through.

  The torment of the disaster and losing his family still hounded him, but being with friends in the pub controlled Layton’s drinking a bit. Although he still drank by himself in his digs, he found he didn’t need the alcohol as much after joining the music hall. After closing, he would often go to Cissie’s home and have just one drink with her sister, Daisy, and her mother, Rose, whom he liked immensely. Cissie’s presence had become the most important thing in his life; it felt like a life preserver thrown to a man drowning in a raging sea. Her jolly nature and keen sense of humor had kept him from being consumed by his sorrows. The bad memories still tormented Layton, but they weren’t as frequent, and the pain wasn’t nearly as acute.

  Down below, Eddington & Freddington were trying to change a light bulb in a table lamp. They were too stupid to manage it; complete chaos ensued, and the audience in the gallery howled with laughter. Osborne, their elderly butler, tottered out onto the stage.

  Eddington: Osborne, how many Englishmen does it take to change a light bulb?

  Osborne: Two, m’lady. One to mix the gin and tonics while the other calls an electrician.

  In his short time in the theatre world, Layton had discovered that a tangible transfer of energy existed between performers and audience. It was much like an electrical circuit. Songs and jokes flowed out to the audience, generating pleasure, and laughter and applause flowed back to the stage. The applause gave the performers confidence, invigorating them with energy. Layton could see it happening right now.

  The orchestra broke into a pounding drumbeat, the brass section screeching out what sounded to British ears like exotic jungle music. The audience broke into applause, a clear sign that the act was popular: the theatregoers knew the intro music. The tabs pulled away, revealing Mangogo’s act, Professor Evans & His Pygmies, in front of a jungle scene Layton was quite proud of. The music stopped, and Professor Evans, in a tan pith helmet and khaki outfit, started explaining the ways of Central African Pygmies.

  When Layton had first seen the act almost four weeks ago, he’d thought the audience, especially the pit and gallery crowd, would find it a big joke and heckle. But as the professor lectured and Mangogo and his fellow tribesmen stood, smiling silently, the people in the gallery froze, transfixed, uttering not a sound. Layton could see fascination and awe in their faces. When the Pygmies started dancing and singing, they were even more astonished. Aku, the youngest of the group, beat out a rhythm on his tom-tom, and the orchestra joined in. At the end of the nine-minute turn, Aku produced a small Union Jack from under his blanket and waved it, to the delight of the crowd. Amazing, thought Layton. But after all, the Pygmies were part of Britain’s great colonial empire. Maybe all these white Englishmen felt connected to them.

  Before Layton returned to the scene shop, he stole a glance at the gallery wall, then looked quickly around to see if anyone noticed him looking.

  13

  “Excuse me, mate.”

  The cloth before Layton depicted Trafalgar Square. His hand was moving fast, giving a vivid sheen to the water that filled the fountain. Still shaken by his discovery of the other night, he was painting in a trance and hadn’t heard anyone enter the scene shop. Now, he turned to see a skinny, middle-aged man.

  “How can I help you?” Layton asked.

  “Can you tell me where the pot is? I was on me way to use the one at the main entrance, but that clot of a theatre manager told me the help has to use the one backstage. Can you believe the cheek of that wanker?”

  Layton smiled and wiped his hands with a rag. “Yes, yes I can. Let me show you where the convenience is located.”

  “You’re a good bloke, you are.” The man shook his head ruefully. “Think I got the tandoori trots from me spicy curry. I’m about to explode, if ya get my meaning.”

  “I had a case of it myself a few weeks back. We British have a delicate constitution.”

  The man laughed. “That we do, mate.”

  “So, are you a new act?” Layton asked as he led him down the narrow brick corridor.

  “Nah, I’m a Pathé projectionist. I show the flickers in the first half of the bill.”

  Layton stopped, wonder on his face. “You don’t say! What an incredible invention. I love all the acts, but the flickers are my favorite. They’re bloody amazing.”

  “Harry Aubrey’s the name. I was showing ’em at the Hippodrome. Just got assigned to the Grand yesterday.”

  “Here we are,” said Layton, pointing to the loo.

  “I’ll be out after I make a deposit. Don’t go away. We can chat a bit,” Aubrey said, bolting through the door. A few minutes later, he emerged, looking very relieved.

  “So you was sayin’ how incredible the flickers are. Let me tell ya something. One day, they’ll have whole big theatres just to show moving pictures—no music hall.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Layton said.

  “Well, you best believe it, mate. Tonight, I’m showing The Temptation of St. Anthony and one about the assassination of the Grand Duke Sergius in Russia—not the real assassination, but what they call a ‘reenactment.’”

  “All on that little strip of celluloid.” Wonder sounded in Layton’s voice.

  Aubrey gave him a cheeky grin. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be wandering around with a load in my drawers. Come on up fifteen minutes before my turn, and I’ll show you how the whole caboodle works.”

  • • •

  “That’s right, just thread the film through there, then down under here. Give a bit of slack. There, you got the hang of it. All the pictures are on one reel.”

  Layton was so excited to learn to run the projector that he barely thought about the skeleton that was fifty feet away in the gallery wall.

  Down on the stage, the baritone, George Robey, was finishing up his rendition of “Keep the Fires Alight.” The flickers were next on the bill. Aubrey switched off the overhead light and placed his finger on the projector’s toggle switch. The orchestra struck up an introduction.

  “And ’ere we go,” Aubrey said softly.

  A beam of white light shot out of the varnished wood box, and Aubrey started turning the crank. On the screen below, Satan tempted St. Anthony with the beautiful Sirens. “You take over, Frank,” Aubrey whispered, and Layton began cranking in complete synch. It was like he was a magician, producing moving images with light.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Layton kept up the steady cranking through a Swiss tobogganing scene, a warehouse fire, a clown trick, and finally the duke’s assas
sination.

  While he was cranking away, the audience below oohed and aahed at the various scenes; the tobogganing scene in particular was exciting, because the camera had been mounted in the sled, giving them the illusion of being in the driver’s seat. Layton wondered if Ronald had been to the flickers; he imagined his son absolutely loving them. Layton had noticed that British society had become less staid and attended the music hall performances now, which wasn’t so before the disaster. Edwina and he never went; music halls were considered common by Lord Litton. But maybe Ronald had been to one.

  Before he went to prison, Layton had always read his son stories at bedtime. With Ronald sitting in his lap in the bed, together, they turned the pages of the book, admiring the wonderful illustrations. Ronald would point his little finger at a picture of a knight and expand on the story, explaining that the great warrior had already slain four dragons and one witch and was the bravest man in all of England. Every night, a story would be read, and sometimes it was hard to keep up the supply of books.

  One night, on a whim, Layton found a book of paintings in his library and asked Ronald to explain what was going on in a picture. For a painting by Sir Alfred Munnings of a little girl and boy pushing a punt along some reeds in a river, Ronald concocted a marvelous story of why they were there—the children wanted to gorge themselves on sweets out of sight of their nanny. For Layton, this form of storytelling was far more enjoyable, and it became a ritual for the two of them. It delighted Layton that his son was so imaginative for being only four years old. Yes, the flickers would definitely excite Ronald’s vivid imagination. Layton wished he could sit next to him in the darkened theatre and just enjoy his reactions at the magical glimmering images up on the cloth.

  “Well done, Frank, me boy,” Aubrey crowed when the reel reached its end. “Did you enjoy that?”

  “Yes, I did,” exclaimed Layton.

  “Come up anytime and be my assistant. You’re always welcome. One night, I’ll show you how to run the flickers backward. It’s funny as hell to see.”