The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  Jocelyn Shipway, 31

  Trevor Stanton, 42

  Sibyl Treadwell, 36

  “Why would Clifton or Glenn want to kill one of these people?” Cissie asked.

  “No one would go to all this trouble for just one person,” Layton said, more to himself than her.

  “You’re saying that they wanted to kill a few people—all at once?” Cissie blinked, shocked at what Layton had just suggested.

  “If you wanted a group of people dead, what better way to murder than to kill all of them in what seems like an accident?” Layton replied, his face drawn and tense. “It’s quite ingenious, really. Instead of killing four or five people individually and then having to dispose of their bodies, you murder them all in one shot in broad daylight.”

  “The bastards!” Cissie took the paper from Layton and gazed at the list. “Poor Johnnie,” she sighed. “He never did anything to Clifton or Glenn.”

  “Did he ever meet with the partners?”

  “Only at the annual weekend parties. Clifton and Glenn kept their distance from the artistes. It was all right to make money off them but not to socialize. Clifton had been knighted, so he’s only around the hoity-toity.”

  “Johnnie never talked about them?” Layton pressed.

  “Just that they were cheap shits,” Cissie said with a laugh.

  “Can you fetch me some writing paper and a pen?”

  On the tea table, Layton made a copy of the list in neat, careful cursive.

  “These people are in some way connected to Clifton and Glenn, and we have to find out how. It’s the only way we might discern a motive. If we find some connection, we’ll write it next to their name.”

  Layton saw the confusion in Cissie’s eyes and leaned forward, spoke more passionately. “Cissie, we’re beginning a thousand-piece jigsaw. It’s just a jumble now, and it doesn’t make any sense, but when the pieces start to fall into place, only then will we see the full picture.”

  Cissie nodded, and he saw the determination dawning in her eyes.

  “I have an idea of where to start,” Layton added. “With an old friend.”

  19

  “Yes, Shirley Finney was a parlormaid in Sir John’s London house in Mayfair.” Daniel Harker’s eyes were distant as he searched his memory. “Nice lass she was, ever so cheerful. Hard worker too. The downstairs staff are always sniping about each other, but none ever had a bad word for Shirley.”

  Layton and Daniel were huddled together at a table in the rear of the General Gordon, a popular London pub. They’d met again after Layton finished his work at the Queen’s Palace, Cissie having secured him a permanent job in the scene shop just as she said she would.

  Although Layton had an ulterior motive, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Daniel transported him back to his Puddletown boyhood, the happiest time of his life. Smiling and laughing, the two men relived the wonder of exploring downs and forests, wading in streams, and sprawling in fields of new-cut hay, gazing up into the blue sky. They shared their first cigarette and first jug of ale. Even when Layton embarked on his ill-fated quest to become a university man, he’d found time to spend with Daniel, who’d been taken out of school early to work the fields before he went into service.

  As Daniel had worked for Clifton at the time of the accident, Layton had thought he might recognize some of the names on the list. He disguised his motives, telling Daniel that he wished to send each victim’s relatives a heartfelt apology and plea for forgiveness. The weight of the guilt was too much, he whispered, eyes lowered. He couldn’t go on unless he found some way to atone. He showed Daniel the list, and to his luck, his friend’s eyes lit upon Shirley.

  “The staff was bowled over when we found out about the accident,” Daniel continued. “Couldn’t believe it. She was just this pretty little thing—goes out for a special night and gets crushed to…” He stopped and looked down at the table in embarrassment.

  Shame hit Layton like a wave; milking his dear old friend in this manner made him vaguely sick. And yet he couldn’t tell Daniel of his suspicions. He would never believe Clifton capable of such a heinous act, would think the very suggestion mad.

  “Sir John and his wife, Lady Eileen, were terribly upset about her death,” Daniel said, sighing heavily. “They gave Shirley’s family her full year’s wages.”

  “To whom do you think I should send my letter?” asked Layton in a quiet voice.

  “Well, her people are from Leeds, but I recall she came to London with her sister, Agnes, to work in service. Last I heard, she was with a family in Belgravia.” Daniel knit his brow and squinted, combing his memory. “Mrs. Wilberforce, our housekeeper, was fond of Shirley. She’s kept in touch with Agnes since…well, since the tragedy.” It came to him in a rush, and he blurted, “Clarence, that’s it! Clarence is the family.”

  Layton leaned forward confidentially and said, “I want to thank you, Danny, for your help. At the duke’s, the mere sight of you lifted my spirits.”

  “We were best mates, Doug. That’s something that doesn’t ever go away.”

  “Can we meet again for a drink?”

  “Why, sure. How about same time next week?”

  “It’s a date—every week, mate.” Layton sat back and slapped his palms gently on the table. “I’ve just moved to London from Nottingham last week. It’ll be a regular thing.”

  “That’s wonderful! It’ll be nice having you around again, just like the old Dorset days. And, Doug.” Daniel leaned forward urgently. “I’ll never reveal your secret. You can count on me. You had to get on with your life as best you could. I understand.”

  Tears sprang to Layton’s eyes. He wiped them away, cupped his hands around the empty pint glass.

  • • •

  Agnes Finney wasn’t what Layton had imagined. In fact, she was a bit of a tart—but that only made his task easier.

  Servants were allowed one afternoon and one night off per week. By bribing the footman at Agnes’s employers’ residence, Layton learned that Thursday was her night off. Two days after meeting Daniel, he waited across from No. 7 Chapel Street and followed her.

  Agnes took a bus across the Thames to Lambeth, a decidedly lower-class neighborhood, and walked to a pub on Frasier Street. Most pubs in London would not allow unescorted women, but in Lambeth, such rules were thrown to the winds. Depending on the household, Layton knew that maids had a rough time of it; they were often up at five to set fires, heat water for baths, and start dusting. With these rigors as her daily lot, Agnes seemed to want as much of a good time as she could have in a single evening.

  She was clearly a regular at the pub and heartily welcomed by all. Layton took in the scene from the entrance and then walked slowly up to the bar, moving as if he owned the place, smiling and greeting complete strangers. Because he was a gentleman, the customers paid him the proper respect. Agnes took notice and began chatting him up.

  “Buy me a drink, ’andsome?” she said, batting her lashes at him.

  “Whatever this radiant beauty desires, barman. And may I share some refreshment with you at that table over there while I’m waiting for my sister to come?”

  Agnes agreed enthusiastically, and they settled in a far corner. Layton peppered the conversation with compliments, paying ode to her auburn hair and alabaster skin. It was evident that she enjoyed the attention of a proper gentleman instead of the usual drunken louts; by the third gin and bitters, her tongue was loosened, her guard down.

  Layton looked over at the door of the pub and shrugged. “I suppose my sister had to work late tonight so she couldn’t meet up for a pint,” he said in a voice of disappointment. “Shirley’s a good lot. You would’ve liked her.”

  “I used to have a sister named Shirley,” slurred Agnes.

  “Oh, she’s passed on?” asked Layton with great concern.

  “She died in t
he Britannia disaster.”

  Layton’s eyes widened, and he put down his drink. “Oh my God, that’s terrible.” He patted her hand in sympathy.

  “I still can’t believe she’s gone. She was a lovely girl.” Her eyes filled, and she sniffled, swiping roughly at her nose. “Smashed to pieces, she was. That architect shoulda been hanged, the shit.”

  “Was she in service too?”

  Agnes was too upset to hear. She covered her face with her hands and cried, her whole body shaking with silent tears. After a few minutes, she composed herself and looked at Layton.

  “She was me only sister. You know, I was to become an auntie?”

  Layton jerked his head in surprise.

  Agnes nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Shirley was in the family way when she died.”

  “She was married?” Layton asked gently.

  “Nah, servant girls can’t be married.”

  “Oh,” replied Layton, acting embarrassed. “Then…another servant…?”

  “Someone upstairs, not downstairs,” snapped Agnes.

  He braced himself for the answer to his next question. “Was it…the master?”

  Agnes sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “His son. You know how it is; the boys play with the maids like we’re their very own toys. Bonk ’em over and over. Then when they’s knocked up, they won’t have nothin’ to do with ’em.”

  “Did the master know?”

  “Yes, he did.” Agnes narrowed her eyes and shook her head sadly. “Shirley told the head butler, Mr. Millgate, who, bless his heart, told Sir John about it. But the bastard refused to believe his precious son would do such a thing, especially with a servant girl. One day when she was cleaning out the fire grate in the study, she up and asked Sir John face-to-face for help because she would be showing soon. He said it wasn’t his concern. I pleaded with her, but Shirley wouldn’t get rid of it. Me, I went to see a woman in Spitalfields when I was in the pudding club. But she wanted the brat, bless her heart. She would’ve made a wonderful mum. Didn’t know how she was going to manage it, though.”

  “Did you know she was going to the theatre that night?”

  “No, but she loved the music hall and went lots of times, ’cause she worked so close to the West End.”

  “Perhaps someone gave her the ticket,” said Layton, gripping his empty glass so tightly, he felt it might shatter.

  “’ow about one more drink for the road, ducky?”

  Another round in, Layton steered Agnes’s wobbly body out to Westminster Bridge Road and hailed a taxi. As he helped her in, he slipped a one-pound note into her pocket.

  • • •

  To great applause, Bimba Bamba completed his grand finale.

  With a roar, he shouted out something that sounded like Hindustani, and his turbaned assistant, Fiona Pratt, vanished from the middle of the stage in a huge cloud of green smoke. Cymbals crashed triumphantly. The audience screamed and cried in amazement. Layton stood in the wings with Mangogo.

  Set in the stage floor were trapdoors shaped like pie wedges. At Bimba Bamba’s call, a stagehand below pulled a lever, and the wedges came apart, creating a hole through which the assistant fell, landing on a big cushion below.

  Mangogo didn’t know about the trapdoors. Rather, he thought Bimba Bamba had magical powers, of the sort possessed by shamans back in Africa.

  “Smashing,” he cried and stamped his spear on the floor as the house applauded.

  In her move to London, Cissie had taken the Africans with her. She felt the Pygmies might make the chain more money at one of the West End theatres, and this gamble had paid off. The troupe was now playing the Queen’s Palace indefinitely, and they had become a hit as Cissie said they would. Layton was very glad for Mangogo’s continued company. Excepting Danny Harker, he had become his closest friend.

  Cissie came up behind Mangogo and patted his woolly head.

  “Remember, you devil, no ad-libbing. Stick to the script.”

  Even for the Pygmies, improvisation remained a breach of contract. And Cissie’s warning had merit; Mangogo had once broken into an unscripted dance for a full five minutes and thrown off the timing of the whole show.

  “No ad-lib,” he said now and flashed Cissie a white-toothed smile as he headed backstage to prepare for his act.

  As Cissie and Layton watched from the wings, he murmured, “So Sir John’s son, George, was having a go at Shirley Finney. And there’s more. Around the time of the accident, he was engaged to be married to Diana Finch, the Earl of Wickford’s daughter.”

  “Fathering a bastard would’ve thrown off his plans,” Cissie said, nodding. “And I imagine Lady Diana had quite a fortune?”

  “You would imagine correctly. A great deal of which could be invested in the MacMillan circuit if needed.”

  “Maybe Shirley couldn’t be bought off and was going to make a stink. She needed to go,” said Cissie with her eyes still fixed on Bimba Bamba on the stage.

  Layton could tell she had found something about the performance to criticize. Cissie was incredibly tough on performers, never praising them but dwelling on some slight error.

  “What are your plans?” Layton asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Cissie said, “I’m taking a short trip to Stevenston which is just outside London. To enquire about a certain deceased vicar.”

  20

  Not a single person was looking at the paintings in the National Gallery. Everyone was staring at Mangogo.

  At Layton’s side, the tiny African was admiring Thomas Gainsborough’s Mr. and Mrs. Andrews. The gentleman in the portrait wore an elegant gray topcoat and held a gun in the crook of his arm. Beside him, his young wife was resplendent in a sky-blue satin dress and dainty silver slippers. The couple was posed by a tree in the countryside, a building—likely their estate—in the background.

  “Who are man and woman?” asked Mangogo.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews of Suffolk.”

  “Mangogo tribe Mbuti. What tribe they?”

  Layton laughed. “They belong to the English gentry. Big bosses in England. They, along with a tribe called the aristocracy, tell everyone what they should do.”

  “Mbuti no have boss man. Everybody same, even woman.”

  Layton found this interesting. Those persons the British would regard as savages had a more equal society than that belonging to Britons at home.

  “Woman not look like can do much work, like hunt with net or get water. Can woman cook?” Mangogo asked, stepping forward to look at the painting more closely.

  “No, women from that particular set are essentially useless,” Layton said, laughing. “They have servants to do all that.”

  Mangogo sniffed. “Mbuti forest has many more…trees. So many you not see the sky.”

  The professor had told Layton that Mangogo’s tribe was nomadic; they built temporary huts as they wandered the rain forest, hunting and foraging for food. They had an incredible knowledge of the land and how to live off it. Both men and women cared for the children, which was certainly different from England: no nannies for the Pygmies.

  “Mbuti, children of forest. The forest is our god,” said Mangogo with great seriousness.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews belong to the Church of England,” Layton said. “Which means they don’t believe in anything, really.”

  As they moved on to the next painting, a child approached Mangogo and asked, shyly, to shake his hand, to which the Pygmy heartily acquiesced. He even let the little boy hold his spear.

  The Pygmy act had become a sensation in London, and Mangogo was its star. On the street, people would shout greetings or call out his name; one man asked to take a snap of him with his Kodak Brownie, another to rub his head for good luck, all to the great pleasure of Mangogo.

  They paused in front of The Fighting Temeraire by J. M. W. Turner. Th
e seascape showed a tugboat towing a famous ship, wrecked in the Battle of Trafalgar, to be broken up. At the right side blazed a magnificent sunset, all hot oranges and reds.

  “Turner is one of England’s greatest painters,” Layton said. “Pictures of the sea were his favorite.”

  “Our forest not have that much water. Much fish in there, yes?” asked Mangogo, pointing the tip of his spear at the grayish-blue waves.

  “Indeed. That’s where your fish and chips come from.”

  “Mmm. With HP Sauce…smashing,” said Mangogo, rubbing his little potbelly.

  It was November, and the weather was beginning to cool. Mangogo wore a white shirt, minus the collar, under his burnt-orange blanket. Though he still refused pants, he now sported low-cut hobnail boots with thick leather soles, which clomped loudly on the wood floors of the exhibition rooms.

  As Mangogo examined the Turner more closely, Layton drew out his watch. He had tried to teach his African friend to tell time, but the Pygmies knew only the rhythms of sunrises and sunsets. “Elevenses,” he said, tucking his watch away. “Time for tea.”

  They found a teashop on the Strand near Charing Cross Station. The proprietor, a prim-looking lady with spectacles, was at first alarmed, but when two customers called out Mangogo’s name—fondly, as though he were an old classmate from Oxford—she relaxed and showed them to a table.

  “Thank you, madam,” said Mangogo in a loud, clear voice, startling the woman.

  A timid waitress brought their tea, backing away as soon as she’d set down the plates. Mangogo nodded to her and smiled, then dug into a scone, upon which he heaped a large serving of butter. Whenever they took tea together, he insisted on pouring as Layton had taught him, the way the upper classes did: tea first, then milk and sugar—never put the milk in first!

  Layton watched as Mangogo carefully stirred his tea. I’m turning him into an upper-class Englishman, he thought with a jolt of amusement. Like he had done with himself.

  A man and his wife came up to Mangogo to shake his hand. He stood up and bowed to the woman, to her delight.