The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Owen. I hope you shoot. We have plenty of good sport here at Eversham.”

  “I do,” Layton said. “And I’m very much looking forward to it.”

  “Good show. Start at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. We’ll fit you out with a gun if you didn’t bring one.”

  Shooting, Layton knew, was the main event of any country house weekend. He didn’t like the sport but was quite skilled with a gun. One definitely had to shoot to blend in with the upper classes. He’d already been taught to handle a gun by his father. It was an essential skill passed on by generations in Dorset. He remembered fondly tramping through the countryside with his father, hunting rabbits and birds, and the excitement of bagging his first quail. It was one of the very few times he had had his dad all to himself. Though they hunted in complete silence, he had felt very happy just walking alongside him. Layton bowed slightly and shook hands with the duchess, whose eyes barely rested on him.

  “Cissie, we must talk later. I want to know what artistes you have lined up for the spring.” The duke spoke in a conspiratorial tone, as if he were requesting top-secret information from the Foreign Office.

  What a change had occurred in society, thought Layton. To see a peer welcome variety theatre performers into his home! The duke’s unsnobbish acceptance produced an immediate feeling of affection. Of course, the man might be an anomaly, but before Layton had gone to prison, 99 percent of society had looked down their noses at theatre folk, thinking them common as mud. Did mainstream architects still regard music hall architects as commercial hacks? Layton wondered. The question stirred something in his heart, which he pushed away.

  As if sensing his distraction, Cissie took Layton by the arm, kissed his cheek, and led him to a love seat in the far corner. For his part, the duke made his way to the piano, where McLean belted out “The Nipper’s Lullaby” to the delight of the duchess, who was clapping her white-gloved hands. Soon, Luigi the Juggler barged in, singing “Santa Lucia.” As he did, he picked up three large Chinese jade figurines from the fireplace mantel and began juggling them. A look of fear came over the duchess’s face, but Luigi handled them effortlessly, even catching them behind his back. Dainty Amy took an iron poker from the great fireplace and bent it into a U as though it were taffy, then unbent it to return it to its original shape.

  The skill of the artistes, how easy they made their tricks look, never ceased to amaze Layton. To him, watching from the wings, these men and women of the theatre seemed superhuman in agility, strength, and concentration. He sometimes wished he had skills akin to theirs and lived in this world of fun. Architecture had been such a damn serious business where fun wasn’t allowed. His former office with its rows of draughtsmen was always dead silent, except for the scratch of inking pens and pencils on paper. Hicks’s office had been the exact same way.

  The tall first footman entered the room and whispered something into Wilcox’s ear, which made him light up, smiling. He transmitted the message to the duke, whose face flushed red. Then the duke grinned and nodded to Wilcox, who stood erect as a soldier and announced in a loud, clear voice, “Your Grace, lords, ladies, and gentlemen—His Majesty, the king.”

  In strode King Edward VII, sovereign of Great Britain and the British Empire and Emperor of India. He wore evening dress and puffed on a long cigar. Stunned into silence, the guests bowed and curtsied in complete unison.

  The king smiled, waved his cigar at them nonchalantly, and gave the duke’s hand a hearty shake. “Sorry I’m late, Harold,” he drawled. “The damn motorcar stalled out. Give me a good horse any day.”

  The guests laughed at this jest. Then the king kissed the duchess on the cheek, murmuring that she hadn’t changed since he’d laid eyes on her at Ascot in 1875.

  Standing directly behind the king was Alice Keppel, his mistress, and Sir Francis Knollys, his private secretary. Mrs. Keppel, London’s most famous society hostess, was an incredible beauty, all wide blue eyes, chestnut hair, and a magnificent bust that contrasted sharply with her tiny waist. She had been Edward’s lover and confidant since 1898, when he forsook his previous paramour, the Countess of Warwick. Rumor held that he was a much pleasanter “child” since changing mistresses, and Mrs. Keppel’s influence was such that statesmen and politicians tried to talk to her of government matters first.

  Before succeeding his mother, Queen Victoria, to the throne in 1901, the king—then the Prince of Wales—had been a well-known attendee of the variety theatre. It was for this, and other reasons, that he was so greatly popular with Britain’s people; he wasn’t a stuffed shirt, and he enjoyed many of the same pursuits as the commoners did: racing, cricket, the music hall. He liked a good song and a hearty laugh.

  Now, the king made his way about the room, chatting with the upper-class guests, granting especial favor to the artistes. Luigi renewed his song and juggling, to his ruler’s delight. When McLean’s turn came, he sang a rousing Scottish song—the king, as all in attendance knew, favored his castle, Balmoral, in the Scottish Highlands, and loved anything Scottish. He knew McLean’s song and joined in, horribly off-key.

  As the revelry proceeded, a short, bald man with a wide mustache and a Vandyke slipped into the room. Cissie nudged Layton and whispered, “There’s the Israelite.”

  “Ernest, what do you know about investing in the variety theatre?” bellowed the king.

  “Not your usual investment, Your Majesty,” sniffed the man. “Steel and shipping are more my line.”

  Clifton and the Empire investors exchanged quick, disappointed glances.

  “Harold said he had a twenty-five-percent return the past year. What do you say?”

  Sir Ernest Cassel gave a slight, polite smile. Aside from Mrs. Keppel, he was the king’s closest advisor; under his influence, the king had grown yet richer. As a Prussian-born Jew, his presence in the inner court circle would have been unthinkable even a few decades before. But the king differed from his mother and from Britain’s previous rulers; he wasn’t an anti-Semite and had Jewish friends, as well as many commoners—men whom the aristocracy called lowborn. The king was said to admire those who rose from nothing, like Cassel, who had come to England penniless and was now thought to be the richest man in the empire.

  “Talk to Sir John here. He can give you the figures. A lot more fun than putting my money in a coal mine, eh?” The king gave Cassel a wink, nodding toward Sally Everett, the beautiful singer standing to his right. Obligingly, she launched into the American ballad “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.”

  When she finished, Wilcox announced, “Dinner is served, my lady.”

  The guests separated into two groups, creating a wide path for the king, who took the duchess’s arm to escort her to the dining room. They moved forward, whispering, when the king stopped abruptly, and said, “Why, hello! Where did you and I meet?”

  All eyes fell upon Layton, whose face flushed red.

  “Was it a cornerstone laying or a building opening of some kind?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever met, Your Majesty,” Layton murmured deferentially.

  “You sure about that? You look damn familiar,” the king said and moved on.

  Layton tried not to look as crestfallen as he felt. Truly, his attempt to change his identity had been a complete failure; both an ex-convict and the king of England had seen through him in an instant. The king was right; they had met, briefly, when the then-Prince of Wales laid the cornerstone of St. Margaret’s Children’s Hospital, which Layton had designed. The king’s memory amazed Layton; the monarch had barely laid eyes on the architect at the dedication.

  On every side, people were staring, envious that the king had paid him personal attention. Even Cissie looked baffled. Sighing, Layton led her into dinner.

  The king sat at the head of a fifty-foot-long table set with flowers and an extravagant epergne, or ornamental centerpiece. Se
rvants brought forth a ten-course meal à la russe: hors d’oeuvres, soups, salads, poultry, pork, seafood, puddings, breads, fruits, and sweets. The pièce de résistance was pâté de fois gras stuffed inside a truffle, which was itself stuffed inside a quail. The duke had acres of forestland, which meant an abundance of game—pheasant, partridge, hare. Different wines accompanied each course: Chablis with oysters, sherry with the hors d’oeuvres and soups, burgundy with meat, and claret with game.

  Layton was glad to find himself at the far end of the table, away from the king. But he could still see evidence of the man’s legendary appetite. In a ten-course meal, most guests did not partake of every dish. King Edward did, wolfing down prodigious amounts of food and quaffing an extraordinary amount of wine. Clients had whispered to Layton that even after lavish dinners such as this, at bedtime, hostesses would send up a late-night snack to the king: a plate of sandwiches, perhaps, or a whole chicken.

  Instead of the men and women breaking up into separate groups, as was usual after a dinner party, all returned to the drawing room to be entertained by the artistes. Luigi juggled; Timmy Donovan told more jokes.

  “Your Majesty, you know what the dwarf said to me when I asked him to lend me two bob? ‘So sorry, I’m a trifle short.’”

  The king convulsed with laughter, turning beet red and alarming Mrs. Keppel, who feared he’d have a heart attack there on the spot. There were more songs, until at last, at one in the morning, Sally Everett sang “Goodnight, Ladies,” and the guests retired.

  Swept up in the infectious laughter and gaiety, Layton realized he’d forgotten that he was there to find a murderer. He bid good night to Cissie, though he planned to slip into her room later to talk about Glenn and Clifton and what they would do next.

  He was almost to his room when a low voice called out from down the hall.

  “Doug?”

  Layton froze, paralyzed. Then he turned, slowly, to see a manservant in a black suit. Layton stared at him for a few seconds. Then a wave of relief swept over him.

  “Hello, Daniel,” he whispered. “It’s so good to see you.”

  Growing up in Dorset, Daniel Harker had been Layton’s best friend. They’d spent many a lazy, sprawling afternoon exploring the downs around Puddletown. At about the same time Layton had gone for his architectural training, Daniel had been sent off into domestic service. The work was highly valued by the working class, especially the girls, and Layton had almost burst with pride for his friend’s new opportunity.

  From the 1880s until the turn of the new century, England had labored under the crippling weight of an agricultural depression, and many children of Dorset farmers had left home to find work as servants. Edwina (or rather Mrs. Hopkins, the housekeeper) had managed a large home, so Layton knew firsthand about the world of housemaids, butlers, cooks, and footmen. In a year, a servant might make as much as seventy pounds, with free room and meals—a far better life than that of a farm laborer. Standing in the dim hallway, looking at Daniel, Layton thought that if things had worked out differently, he might have been standing there too, wearing the nondescript black suit, white shirt, and black tie of the serving class.

  “I’m Sir John Clifton’s valet,” Daniel said simply. “That’s why I’m here. Been working for Sir John for almost nine years.”

  “You recognized me,” Layton said.

  “We grew up together, Doug. At first, I thought I was mistaken, but no.” Daniel shook his head, looked down at the red carpet. “I was awfully sorry about what happened to you, Doug. But just think, before that terrible night, of all the important buildings you did. Look how far you came—from that little cottage in Puddletown. We were all so bloody proud of you, especially your dad.”

  “My dad?”

  “Why sure.” Daniel seemed taken aback at the surprise in Layton’s voice. “He’d tell the neighbors all about the latest buildings you were doing, every time.”

  Layton was puzzled at this remark, but Daniel’s concern, the warmth in his voice, touched something deep inside him. It’d been twenty years since he’d last seen him, but in all that time, he’d probably never had as good a friend. He swallowed hard, surprised by the lump in his throat.

  “Doug, your secret’s safe with me,” Daniel was whispering. “I can understand why you took a new life. I’d’ve done the same thing.”

  “You scrub up well in that outfit, mate,” said Layton with a smile. In Puddletown, Daniel always wore a flannel shirt and canvas pants.

  “Haven’t done too bad for meself,” Daniel said, smiling back.

  “After you’ve put your master to bed, come to my room, and we’ll have a gab,” said Layton enthusiastically. He saw the answering gleam in his old friend’s eyes.

  • • •

  At nine sharp the next morning, a line of men holding double-barreled shotguns formed at the edge of a clearing. They were dressed almost identically in tweeds; next to each stood a gun loader, holding another shotgun. The king was at the beginning of the line; Layton made sure he was at the very end. To Layton’s amazement, there were some women on the shooting line. He had never seen such a sight, but dressed in tweeds with their own shotguns and loaders stood six females, including Lady Emerson, Joan Basswell, and Dainty Amy Silborne. The king acted as though this was completely normal and chatted with the ladies, telling them about a new shotgun shell he was using. Layton shook his head slowly from side to side. Women smoking, drinking in bars, supporting themselves, trying to get the vote, not wearing corsets, and now the unthinkable—they were shooting their own guns. Some probably drove their own autos.

  A low whistle sounded, and fifty yards away, the beaters—village men recruited by the estate gamekeeper—started walking forward, stirring up the underbrush with long sticks and uncovering pheasant, woodcock, and quail, which flew off in terror…straight into the sights of the shooting party. The king, given the honor of the first shot, blasted a bird out of the sky with great skill. Then, a continuous, ear-shattering blasting commenced, and down the birds rained. As they fell to earth, the beaters snatched them up, thrusting them into the canvas sacks they carried.

  When a man had shot off both barrels, he exchanged his weapon for a newly loaded one. Each loader also kept count of his gentleman’s kill. Some owners felt this unsporting, but the duke didn’t mind.

  Layton looked over at the women shooters; they all handled their weapons with great skill, bringing down their share of birds. The elegant and refined Lady Emerson was blasting away with gusto. If she was shooting, then all British society ladies would know it was acceptable for them to shoot.

  Once the beaters had covered a hundred yards, the shooting stopped, and the group shifted to the right, where the massacre began again. After a time, they paused for lunch, which was served by footmen under a great tent in the field on silver platters. The repast was lavish: cold meats, puddings, strawberries with crème, and crystal glasses full of wine or champagne. The women, and those few men who didn’t shoot, came down from the great house for the meal; when it was finished, the slaughter continued. Scores of dead birds hung from racks atop a wagon pulled by a stocky old horse.

  Just before shooting ended for the day, Layton was taking aim at a bird when he felt a bullet graze his hair. Startled, he stumbled back, looking about in fright to find the source of the shot. But there was no one behind him.

  A loud cry of agony rang out fifty yards ahead. A beater lay in a thicket with a bullet lodged in his thigh.

  18

  “We have to be in London to get to the bottom of this, Frank.”

  “I know,” said Layton, staring into his teacup. They were in the parlor of Cissie’s home in Nottingham. “But how can that be?”

  “Simple,” said Cissie. “They’ve been after me for years to come back to the head office. Once I’m there, I can get you a new position at the Queen’s Palace or any other circuit theatre you want
.”

  “But your mum and sister? I thought you had to stay in Nottingham for them.”

  “They’ll get used to a nice house in South Kensington or Pimlico just fine. But for now, you and me will be in theatre digs in London. I know a Mrs. Cooper who used to be part of a unicycle act, runs a first-class place in Bayswater for only top of the bill artistes. No riffraff. I’ll ring up this afternoon and book us two nice rooms.” Cissie came around to the back of Layton’s armchair, put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. “Don’t look so down, luv,” she said gently.

  “Cissie, you said you’d kept a box of newspaper clippings about the trial. Is there a chance I might see them?”

  • • •

  Layton stared at the list of the dead in the Daily Mail. Fourteen names, in alphabetical order, with their ages in damning black ink beside.

  All the newspapers had focused on those terrible deaths. And they’d run story after story on the maimed and injured too, spreading the horror throughout the empire. Men and women who would never walk again or hold a job because they’d lost a hand or leg. Each detail made Layton more hated and reviled.

  In those days, he’d seen the list but couldn’t bear to read about the victims of the disaster. What was the use? He couldn’t bring them back to life.

  Now, he ran his finger down the list on the brittle, yellowed pages. He thought of the daughter of the woman waiting outside the prison. They would be the younger victims, all the nascent promise of their lives extinguished in an instant.

  He stopped for a fraction of a second at John Mapes, 41, then continued on, not daring to look up at Cissie.

  Denys Blair, 78

  Ronald Cass, 52

  James Croyden, 37

  Robert Davidson, 12

  Shirley Finney, 19

  Daphne Foster, 46

  Ted Hardy, 44

  John Mapes, 41

  Isabel Massey, 14

  Hugh Rice, 53

  Sir John Richardson, 54