The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  Layton immediately thought Ronald would find that sidesplitting.

  There was the sound of feet on the stair outside, and the projection room door swung open, revealing Cissie. “They told me I’d find you up here,” she said.

  “Just teaching ’im all about the flickers, Mrs. Mapes,” Aubrey said jovially, taking the reel off the projector and stowing it safely in its container.

  Cissie smiled at Layton. “This chappie does love the flickers.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got me a little crumpet waiting for a slap and tickle. See ya tomorrow, Frank.” Aubrey put the reel in a cupboard, locked the padlock, and hurriedly pulled on his jacket. “Do me a favor—turn off the light and lock up.”

  Cissie rolled her eyes as Aubrey hurried out, then stepped into the tiny booth to stand beside Layton. “She’s probably a cow, but they’re all the same in the dark, eh?”

  Music sounded for the next turn; the applause in the gallery erupted around them. Cissie peeked out the window and gave Layton a wry smile. “Laura Bennett, the Yankee Country Girl. Pretty little trick, but not the best of voices.”

  “So why’d you hire her?”

  “I saw potential, Frank. Someone who could turn out to be a star. I’m very good at seeing potential—at finding good things in people.”

  “That’s an admirable talent.” Layton looked straight into Cissie’s eyes, which were just inches from his. She was a magnet, drawing him in, and it felt wonderful. He desperately wanted to feel love for someone, to let go of the emotions his present masquerade forced him to keep in check. Over the last five years, he’d lived in a wasteland of stifled emotions. And now, this odd woman—so different from the world he was used to—had won his heart with her kindness, brashness, and raucous humor.

  “Do you see any potential in me, Mrs. Mapes?” Layton asked in a low, tentative voice.

  “A great deal, Mr. Owen,” purred Cissie. “Potential for great happiness—in my life.”

  Music piped up from the orchestra for the duet act onstage, but neither Layton nor Cissie paid attention. Everything had left their minds except their feelings for each other. Layton leaned over and gave her a long, slow kiss. Then he locked the door of the small, cramped room from the inside and switched off the light.

  14

  “What’s wrong, luv?”

  “Nothing.” Layton’s annoyance at being pestered was clear from his voice. “Nothing at all.”

  “Oh yes there is, Frank. You can’t fool your Auntie Cyril, dear. Why do you keep looking up in the gallery? Is there someone up there you know? An old sweetheart, I bet.”

  Eddington & Freddington, the next turn, stood in the wings, costumed in sequined evening gowns, feathered boas, and strings of pearls.

  “Leave him be, you old tart. He’s Cissie’s property now,” cackled Neville. “They’re having a proper twinkle.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Cyril said, touching Layton’s behind.

  Layton jerked away, and Cyril let out a cackle of laughter.

  “Shove off, Cyril. Remember, I told you I’m not a sodomite.”

  “But you should consider it, luv. You don’t know what you’re missing,” Cyril cooed into Layton’s ear. Then, with a wink, he gave Layton’s earlobe a playful tug.

  Layton swore and stepped away, annoyed with himself for showing his cards. He was troubled by something up in the gallery.

  “Tell Auntie Cyril what’s the matter. A good talk and a nice cup of tea will do you good.”

  Layton ignored him. Sakuru, the Japanese Juggler, was about to do his brick trick, which meant he was almost finished. His backdrop was an abstracted Japanese garden scene with Mount Fuji in the background; Layton had drawn on the Japanese block prints he’d found at the main library in Nottingham for inspiration.

  Sakuru, a husky Asian in a crimson kimono, eyed the tower of twenty-two bricks on the table in front of him. Atop the bricks was a glass of water. With a look of intense concentration on his face, Sakuru slowly worked his hand under the bottom brick and lifted the entire stack of bricks off the table. The tower leaned like it was about to topple over, but he ran across the stage, regaining its balance point, to the delight of the audience. He held it with his right hand, his left arm flung out in a flourish, then tossed the bricks up into the air. As they came crashing down, he caught the glass of water and drank it down to a rousing finish from the orchestra. He took his final call, bowing first to the gallery, then to the balcony circles and the stalls, and exited into the wings.

  “How do you like that applause?” he said to Cyril in perfect English. “Won’t be anything left for you, you bloody poof.”

  “You yellow Jap, how do you like this?” hissed Cyril, grabbing Sakuru’s crotch.

  Then Eddington & Freddington’s cloth tumbled down from the fly tower, and they were on.

  “I just heard that two Englishmen have been rescued after two years on a desert island in the Pacific,” Eddington began.

  “They must have been sick of each other after all that time together,” Freddington said.

  “Not at all. They never once talked to each other.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “They simply couldn’t. They were never formally introduced!”

  As laughter engulfed the theatre, Layton walked to the stage manager’s desk. From here, Elwyn oversaw the performances, like a field general barking out orders to the troops. The fly floor was directly above.

  “Get ready with Bimba Bamba’s cloth, lads,” Elwyn called up to the stagehands. To Layton, he said, “Nice work on the magician’s cloth, Frank. Mr. Black likes your designs. Not the usual tripe. Very modern and progressive, but you keep ’em artistic.”

  “Thank you, Elwyn,” Layton said, smiling. Painting the cloths had given him new confidence and taken his mind away from his demons. When you were engrossed in doing something you really enjoyed, he discovered, you didn’t dwell as much on bad things. With Cissie and his job, he had been on the way to a new, happy life. Then Layton shot a glance at the wall in the gallery—the other night’s ghastly discovery threw a roadblock in that path. Why couldn’t things ever work out? Layton thought wearily. He just wanted to lead a normal, anonymous life. He shouldn’t have poked his nose where it didn’t belong. But if no one discovered that he’d found the body, he might be out of harm’s way.

  Bimba Bamba, whose real name was George Formby, approached. In his gold robe and turban, puffed, blue silk pants, and black satin slippers with the toes curled up, he resembled a Turkish sultan. George was a successful conjurer who’d toured the country for years; it was said he made £200 a week. In his most famous trick, his assistant climbed into a bejeweled box suspended ten feet above the stage. George shot three times with a pistol, the four flaps of the box collapsed open—and the girl was gone. Layton still couldn’t figure out how it worked. It was a well-kept secret by Formby.

  “Hello, Frank,” said George as Fiona Pratt, his assistant, tripped up behind him. She was costumed as an exotic Middle Eastern wench in a turban and very low-cut red satin blouse, an amazing transformation for a girl from the slums of Brixton. Both had darkened their skin with makeup, and George wore a fake black mustache that curled at the ends. “Let’s try that new cloth, the Persian rug with my face in the center. But make my head bigger, more evil-looking.”

  “Your head’s big enough already,” said Fiona, giving Layton a wink.

  “And your bottom’s too big,” George growled back. “You had trouble getting it into the box last night. Keep it up, me girl, and you’ll be out on the street. Now, go help Richard with the props.”

  Fiona scowled at George, then turned to Layton and gave him a wink. “Frank, you should come to me digs for a cup of tea. Maybe I’ll tell ya how the disappearing girl trick’s done.”

  George sighed, watching her skip off.

 
“She’s actually the best assistant I’ve ever had,” he said. “And a decent shag to boot. She was thin as a bean when I first hired her. ’Twas right after the Britannia Empire disaster.”

  Layton blinked, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Were you there that night?”

  “I was on the second half of the bill. Was backstage when the balcony came down, but I saw the results—all those poor buggers, screaming in pain. We artistes ran out into the auditorium.” George shook his head. “Helped pull people out. Saw a fellow with his head squashed like a melon. Should have beheaded that bastard architect.”

  “I’ll take care of the cloth, George,” Layton said quietly and walked away.

  But Charlie, the stage doorman, intercepted him in route.

  “Mr. Black wants ya in his office, Frank.”

  • • •

  “We’re in a bit of a pickle, Frank.” Black sat behind his huge desk, smoking a pipe. “Flanigan & Cobb are topping the bill at the Queen’s Palace in the West End in a week, and they’re making a big row about their cloth. They want you to design it.”

  Flanigan & Cobb were a hugely popular comedy act on the variety circuit. Cobb played a pompous toff, refined and debonair; Flanigan was the sloppily dressed working-class funny man, always undermining his social better. They had done a popular two-week engagement at the Grand last month, and Layton had painted twenty-foot-tall caricatures of their heads on either side of the cloth, with the Strand between.

  “You can leave in the morning for London. I’ll arrange your train fare and digs. It’s only seven thirty now. Go home and pack.”

  Layton nodded. He could tell from Black’s tone that the decision was final.

  • • •

  “You should be flattered, Frank!” Cissie said, sipping her pint of ale. “A West End theatre—that’s the big time. So what’s the problem? You don’t like London?”

  Layton gazed down at his glass. They were sitting at the little round table in the dress circle bar. This intimate, elegantly decorated area, with its cozy fireplace and mirror-hung walls, had quickly become their favorite spot for a drink during the performances.

  “I’ve spent some time there,” he said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. “Just some bad memories, that’s all.”

  “Sounds like a woman’s involved,” Cissie said with a big smile. “An old sweetie pie, m’lad?”

  Layton gave her a wan grin and took a sip of his Guinness.

  “I’ll be down to London in a couple of days,” she said casually. “I need to meet with the solicitors about the new barring clause in the contracts.”

  “What’s that?” Layton asked, eager to steer the conversation away from his past.

  “It’s a clause that will prohibit an act from appearing in any rival theatre within a radius of a mile, either sixteen weeks before an engagement or two weeks after.”

  “That’s rather harsh,” Layton said, sitting back slightly from the table.

  “If you want to be more successful than the Hall Syndicate, you have to be harsh,” Cissie snapped.

  MacMillan and Hall were Great Britain’s two largest chains—and great rivals. Together, they dominated the variety circuit, and they regularly tried to pilfer artistes from one another. In the past few years, MacMillan had topped Hall in attendance and popularity.

  “You get too tough, and they’ll form one of those unions,” Layton said, his voice carefully neutral. “I hear the government is going to force people to give servants health insurance. They say Labour will win the next election, and they favor the poor.”

  “Let those champagne socialists bloody well try,” Cissie said. Her smile looked almost evil. “There are a million acts and just a few spots on the bill. If they don’t like the rules, we’ll get replacements in a heartbeat.”

  While Cissie was a very attractive, good-hearted woman, she had a hard-as-nails side when it came to business. Most women in Layton’s former life were like Edwina—they knew nothing about business; it was a man’s preserve, and they were content to stay away. Of course, there were women in England who ran small shops in villages and cities, but Cissie was different. The business she ran was an entertainment empire; the men who owned the circuit so valued her skill and knowledge that they had granted her the power to make huge decisions entirely on her own. Her savvy and toughness had made MacMillan number one.

  When he and she were alone together, they did just two things: make love and talk about the theatre, which was the center of her life. Layton was always amazed how much she knew about this business of fun and fantasy. Cissie was totally dedicated to making people happy for two hours every day but Sunday, always trying to find unique (and money-making) acts to present to them. Layton thought he had an excellent memory, being an architect, but she had an incredible memory and could remember the exact sequence of a bear act from eleven years ago.

  “What about a quick cuddle before I’m on my way?” asked Layton in a low voice.

  Making love to Cissie was a revelation, a shattering of the staid sexual universe Layton had lived in his whole life. Who would have believed that sex could be so intoxicating, so uninhibited and exciting? While they lay in bed caressing each other after making love, Layton would invariably compare his former sex life with the present. He had truly loved Edwina, but like many society girls, she was taught by her mother that sex was a duty and not something to be enjoyed. “Just close your eyes, grit your teeth, and think of England” was the common advice of society mothers to their daughters, and that’s exactly what Edwina did during their lovemaking. For Cissie, it was pure, unadulterated enjoyment. While Edwina had a beautiful figure, Layton only saw glimpses of it under her nightgown. Cissie would stretch out unashamedly naked on top of the bedcovers.

  Layton realized that the sorrow of losing Edwina was lessening bit by bit every day, just like the torment of the disaster, something he hadn’t thought would happen. Sometimes, he felt quite guilty about it. When Edwina had abandoned him after only six months in prison, he was angry and hurt, because he had truly loved his wife. But slowly, Layton understood that she had done what any British society wife would have done: avoid scandal, no matter the hurt inflicted. Her life had become what the toffs describe as “untidy.” Besides, Edwina always did what her father commanded. In this case, divorce him and start life anew with their young son. She had to follow their caste’s strict rules or “be talked about,” which was the worst thing that could happen to a society woman. The loss of his son, though, had not diminished at all.

  Cissie shook her head at his suggestion. “Off you go to pack, luv,” said Cissie. “Can’t miss your train.”

  They bid each other an amiable goodbye, and Layton walked out of the bar. At the door, a short, pudgy man with greasy, black hair parted in the middle approached him.

  “Dougie? Dougie Layton? It is you. I was sitting in the bar and saying to meself, ‘I know that bloke over there.’ I wasn’t sure of it, but bless me, it’s me old mate from Mulcaster, Cell Block D.”

  Archie Guest had been the very lowest creature in the prison kingdom—a common thief and a pedophile, serving eight years. His face was weather-beaten with tiny, yellow eyes that reminded Layton of piss holes in the snow. He was a loathsome man whom Layton had scrupulously avoided. The inmates hated so-called kiddie fiddlers; such men were often beaten and sometimes murdered.

  “I’m surprised to find you in the dress circle bar, Archie. I thought the gallery was your natural milieu.” Layton felt a scowl crease his face. “Let me guess: you nicked a wallet and got the five-bob admission.”

  “Always was the gentleman with the fine words, eh?”

  Layton walked away, but Guest followed, right behind him, and kept whispering in Layton’s ear.

  “While I was watchin’ ya gabbing with that fine-looking wench, I thought, well, well, ol’ Dougie’s gone to the trouble
of changing his appearance and all. With that new hair color and them specs. Wonder why, I said. Then I remembered all that fuss about ya killing them people in that music hall. Folks were a bit upset, eh? Ya wouldn’t want people knowin’ who ya was.”

  “It’s been great fun seeing you, Arch, but I’ll be on my way.” Again, Layton made to leave.

  Again, Guest barred his path. “Ah, you’re not going to stand your old mate to a pint?”

  “Maybe another time.”

  “You can bet it on it, lad. I’ve got an interesting business proposition for you.”

  Layton already knew what it was.

  15

  Like images from a Pathé cinematograph projector running ceaselessly inside his head, the terrible scene he’d witnessed from this exact spot on Shaftesbury Avenue almost six years ago played over and over. But this film had sound; the screaming and wailing of the survivors blared through his skull. Layton put his hands to his temples and squeezed, trying to stop the projector, but it just cranked on and on.

  I was a bloody fool, he thought bitterly. I should have never come back to London and never ever returned to the Britannia.

  Unable to bear it any longer, he retreated down the street toward his original destination. The Queen’s Palace of Varieties was also on Shaftesbury, a few blocks east of the Britannia. When he came to the corner of Frist Street, Layton stopped. It was a typical foggy, pea-soup day in London; a damp mist had mixed with the noxious, sulfur-laden smoke from the factories to tint the air a sickly, sooty yellow.

  But ahead through the fog, he could make out the theatre. As he started walking down the street, he paused in front of the Elephant & Castle, one of the many pubs that lined both sides of Shaftesbury. As a man came out, Layton slipped in the door. After his second Glenfiddich, his nerves, which had come unraveled in front of the Britannia, were steadied a bit. Taking a deep breath, Layton rose from the corner table and made his way to the street. On his way to the theatre, he stopped at a tobacconist’s for a pack of Altoids for his breath.