The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  Having given Layton the once-over, the barman relaxed and smiled.

  “Might I get you a drink, sir?”

  “A gin and tonic would fit the bill.”

  As he mixed the drink, the barman politely asked, “And who was the gentleman you were asking about, sir?”

  “Ted Hardy.”

  “Ted Hardy!” cried the man at the end of the bar.

  The barman stopped mixing the gin and tonic, and he and the Abdullah’s sole patron exchanged incredulous looks.

  “Yes, Ted Hardy,” said Layton. His puzzled expression wasn’t an act; he hadn’t expected such a reaction.

  “And you said he was a friend of yours?” the barman said dubiously.

  “With friends like that, lad, you don’t need enemies,” the man at the bar said, gulping down his shot.

  “Well, he was more of an acquaintance, really,” Layton said.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that Ted Hardy is dead.” The barman shook his head. “Killed in that Britannia Theatre disaster some years back.”

  “Good riddance,” the man at the bar said bitterly. “God did us a favor.”

  “Even a blighter like him didn’t deserve such a horrible death,” the barman said, shaking his head.

  “The Britannia.” Layton shook his head. “I heard of that while I was in India. What terrible news.”

  “What’s your angle? Did Teddy Bear put the bite on you too?” asked the man, rising from his seat.

  He was completely drunk, Layton realized, and unsteady on his feet.

  “Oh, I didn’t know him very long,” he said hastily. He didn’t want these men to think him unsavory too; rather, he hoped they’d assume his connection to Hardy a mere one-night encounter—rather the norm for poofs.

  But now he understood the “R.I.H.” on the wall. It was no spelling mistake; it likely stood for Rest—or Roast—in Hell.

  The barman handed him his drink.

  “No matter what you think of that man, it’s a horrible way to die,” Layton said. “His family must have been devastated.”

  “I bet they said good riddance to bad rubbish,” the man down the bar mumbled.

  “If he had any family,” Layton added, pressing his luck.

  “Didn’t he have a mother who had a flower stall at Covent Garden?” the barman said idly.

  “If she’s alive, then I spit on her for giving birth to such a shit,” slurred the drunken patron.

  • • •

  Layton did the arithmetic; Hardy would have been fifty-one if he’d lived, meaning he probably had a mother of seventy or so years.

  Standing by one of the skinny cast-iron columns that held up the great glass-and-iron roof of Covent Garden Market, he surveyed the rows of flower stalls. It was an amazing sight, a continuous vista of flowers of every description, in every color one could imagine. The wonderful smells that floated above them were yet more captivating.

  Down the center aisle, well-dressed society ladies stopped at each stall to examine the vases and buckets of flowers. Women from Mayfair, Belgravia, and Kensington came here weekly; while ladies of the upper class and aristocracy had servants for the housework, selecting and arranging flowers was the domestic chore they reserved for themselves. Edwina had adored flower arrangement.

  When a lady stopped at a stall, the head of a man or woman would pop out from the bunches of flowers, ready to make a sale. Layton watched for almost five minutes; at last, he saw a gray-haired old woman rise up from behind a bouquet of red carnations.

  “What kind of flowers ya lookin’ for, guv?” She was a tiny, spry thing in a dark, tatty men’s cardigan. “Something for your sweetie?”

  Layton didn’t respond but carefully touched several bunches of flowers, bending low to sniff them. Seeing his serious manner, the woman reined in her good cheer and fell silent.

  “Nina loved cornflowers,” said Layton, more to himself than to the vendor. He stroked the tops of a nearby bouquet. “Yes, I’ll take a bunch, please.”

  The woman smiled, wrapping the flowers up in newspaper so as to sop up the water from their stems. “Sixpence, sir.”

  As Layton handed her the money, he murmured, “I always put fresh flowers on my daughter’s grave. I think she’ll like these.”

  “That’s a fine thing to do, guv.”

  “It’s going on six years now since she died. In that Britannia Theatre collapse.”

  The old woman raised her hands to her mouth, as if stifling a shriek.

  “Blimey, sir,” she muttered. “Me son, Teddy, died in that same accident.”

  Layton’s eyes widened in surprise, and he dropped the flowers. “You’re the first person I’ve met that lost someone that night too,” he exclaimed, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  “The same.” She put her hand on top of his and looked into his eyes. “I can’t believe my Teddy is gone. I always expect to see ’im strolling up this aisle, waving.”

  “When I come home at night, I half expect Nina to come bounding down the stairs to greet me.”

  “The worst thing a mother can do is bury her child.” Tears filled the old woman’s eyes. “Teddy was no saint, mind you, but he was me only child. Now I’m alone.”

  Layton smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “My name is John Clive.”

  “And mine’s Connie Hardy. Mighty pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve been longing to meet another parent who lost a child that horrible night. Makes me mad as hell that they only gave that architect fellow five years.”

  “Yes,” Layton said fiercely. “A travesty of justice. He should have hanged.”

  “I’d’ve given all my savings to watch the bastard strangle at the end of the rope. Every single day, I think of me Teddy.” Other customers had approached, but Connie Hardy ignored them and kept her eyes fixed on Layton.

  “I too have always wanted to talk to another parent,” said Layton in a forlorn voice.

  “Say, I don’t live far from here. I’ll get Eddie to keep an eye on me stall and fix you up a nice cup of tea with some biscuits. What d’you say to that?”

  Layton agreed, and off they went up Drury Lane. As they walked, Layton fought back feelings of guilt—it felt dirty, fooling an old woman.

  The two turned right on Parker Street and reached a small three-story building. It wasn’t the hovel out of Dickens that Layton had expected but a tidy, respectable place that might have passed for middle-class lodgings. Mrs. Hardy’s flat was small but clean and nicely decorated. It seemed she did well with her flower stall.

  The old woman brought out a plate of biscuits and sat on the green-and-red sofa. Layton helped himself to one. “Kettle’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  “So, what line of work was Ted engaged in, Mrs. Hardy?” asked Layton in the most matter-of-fact manner. “Delicious biscuits, ma’am.”

  “My Teddy tried his hand at all sorts of things. Just couldn’t make a go of it, poor dear. It was almost that he was too handsome for his own good. He got himself in trouble. Mucked up most everything he did.”

  Layton looked at Mrs. Hardy and saw the shame on her face.

  “He could be a naughty boy, but he was me son, and I had to love ’im, no matter what. I can’t count all the money I used to give to get him out of trouble, Mr. Clive.”

  Layton could imagine what that trouble had been. In that instant, his heart went out to the old woman. She had deeply loved her son and accepted him as he was.

  “I kept his room exactly as it was. I’ll show you,” she said, pointing down the hall. “Once in a while, I go in and just sit on ’is bed, hold a piece of his clothing to me cheek, and have a good cry.”

  Like the sitting room, the bedroom was small and intimate. A single bed with a checkered quilt sat beside the window, with a desk and chair pushed up against the opposite wall. Drawings of hunting scene
s decorated the walls. Layton was surprised by how conservative and refined the space was; in contrast, Neville and Cyril decorated their dressing room area with all sorts of beads and spangles.

  The whistle on the kettle went off.

  “There we go. Let me fix you a nice cup of tea,” Mrs. Hardy chirped and rushed out of the room.

  Having made sure she was gone, Layton went to the desk and opened the drawer. Among the bric-a-brac was a packet of papers bound by a string, mostly letters. Layton glanced at the salutations, but nothing caught his eye. But as he slid the drawer shut, Layton saw, in the far left corner, some crumpled admission receipts for the Abdullah Turkish Baths. He stuck one in his pocket.

  “Your tea is ready, Mr. Clive.”

  • • •

  The air was hot enough to strangle. But Layton had slowly grown used to it.

  This was his third straight night in the warm room of the Abdullah Turkish Baths. In the first of a three-step process, hot, dry air roasted the bather until he sweated like a pig. With a towel wrapped around his waist and another in hand to continuously wipe the perspiration from his face, Layton watched men come and go.

  Though it was 3:00 a.m., the bathhouse was full. Some men sat by themselves; others chatted. He had come here for information on Ted Hardy, but the bathers weren’t interested in talking. Layton learned quickly that this was a place of intimate contact. A man next to him would stretch his legs out on the bench, brushing Layton with his toes. Without looking at the man, Layton would slide farther down the bench, out of reach. Several times, his pursuer did the same.

  Other men huddled next to each other, slipping hands surreptitiously under towels. Certain couples would retire to the so-called bachelors’ quarters, little rooms one could rent for what was presumably more aggressive action. As he had on all three nights, Layton prayed Neville and Cyril would not enter and get the wrong impression.

  Tonight, rather than proceeding to the cooling room, Layton stayed put.

  Hours passed. Layton was about to go on to douse himself in the blessedly cold water and call it a night when two men came in, laughing and talking. The taller, older man had his arm around his good-looking friend’s shoulder, and neither man had a towel around their waist. They sat down about ten feet to Layton’s right.

  Frustrated about another unproductive night, Layton glanced again at the older man—and a flicker of recognition ignited in his brain like a tiny spark struck off a flint. He realized it was Sir John Clifton, who was now enthusiastically rubbing the inside of the younger man’s thigh and laughing. He was no longer the stern, unsmiling schoolmaster with pince-nez specs from a Dickens novel. He was stark naked and clearly enjoying himself.

  Panic surged through Layton at the sight of the MacMillan theatre circuit owner for fear of being recognized, and he draped the towel over his head like the hood of a Cistercian monk. After a few minutes, he made slowly for the door.

  Now he understood what the drunk at the bar had meant when he’d asked if Hardy had put the bite on him. Many prominent men in business and public life were queers, but if they were exposed, certain ruin awaited. The 1895 trial of Oscar Wilde had put terror in the hearts of many a man. One of Britain’s greatest writers, destroyed both financially and physically; in 1900, he died alone and penniless in Paris.

  Ever since, some men who were exposed had put a bullet in their head to avoid the humiliation and shame they’d brought on their families. It was likely that Hardy, a rotter through and through, had been blackmailing Clifton. From his dealings with Archie Guest, Layton knew firsthand that blackmailers never went away. They always wanted more to keep quiet.

  Sir John Clifton, he thought grimly, had needed Hardy to go away.

  25

  “It’s the first of the month, Dougie. Happy November.”

  Guest had arranged a meeting at the corner of Fleet Street and Whitefriars, which was fine with Layton. He didn’t want to be seen with him around the Queen’s Palace, or anywhere else in Theatreland, as the West End theatre district was called.

  Sighing, he handed Guest a plain white envelope, which the blackmailer stuffed in his pocket. He took out a cigarette and lit up, not bothering to offer Layton one. His next words were casual but pointed.

  “You know, Dougie, London is a bloody expensive place to live. Even a pint costs a helluva lot more.”

  “Yes, I know. I just moved here from Nottingham.”

  “Then you know how tough it can be for a bloke to get by.”

  “Especially a bloke that doesn’t wish to get a job.”

  Guest’s thin lips quirked. “Honest work doesn’t suit me, Dougie. Maybe it’s in me blood. Me dad and his dad and me mum’s dad was all in the criminal line.”

  “You inherited that inclination, Guest. I suppose you can’t fight nature. Just like you can’t fight your craving for small boys.”

  Guest glared at Layton but kept his temper in check.

  “Exactly. I knew me ol’ mate would understand.”

  “But there’s plenty of big pickings here in London. A talented thief like you would do well. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “Oh, I’m reviewing my prospects, as they say. But I need some more working capital to set up.” Guest patted his pocket and took another long drag on the cigarette.

  “I see. And you need some additional funding each month, eh?”

  “That’s the ticket.”

  “But a deal’s a deal. We agreed on twenty quid.”

  “Forty.”

  “Impossible.”

  “You know why I asked you here?” Guest gestured expansively around. “Because Fleet Street is where all them London papers have their offices. See. The Daily Mail. The Daily Telegraph. All them would love to know that you’re in town, working right under their noses, at a bloody music hall, of all places.”

  It was true; the Butcher of the West End’s whereabouts would sell a lot of papers. At least until people lost interest, Layton thought, as they always did.

  “They’ll pay a pretty penny for that information, lad,” Guest said, pressing his case. “Or you could pay forty quid a month from now on.”

  Layton smiled and pulled out a cigarette.

  “Again, that’s quite unreasonable, Archie.”

  “Sorry, Dougie. Forty, or your face will be on the front page of the Sunday Daily Mail. Think about it, mate. I’ll send a message as to where we’ll meet next.”

  Layton threw down his cigarette, stamped it out, and watched as Guest walk down Fleet Street. There was a bounce to his step, like a man who was on top of the world.

  The time had come. Layton knew what had to be done.

  • • •

  “Good to see ya, Doug. I was hopin’ we’d meet up again.”

  Reggie Ash was a career criminal released from Mulcaster a year before Layton. A giant bear of a man with a shiny, bald head and light-blue eyes that almost seemed to twinkle, he didn’t look like he’d hurt a fly. But in thirty years as a robber, gang enforcer, and extortionist, Ash had left a trail of damaged bodies—and, rumor claimed, a few corpses—along the way. He’d served five years in Mulcaster for robbing a mail train outside of Bristol, a bold crime that won the admiration of the British criminal world. The nontraceable cash was thought to be hidden in the Scottish Highlands and destined to someday serve as the gang’s pension fund.

  The rub was that Ash would have gotten off scot-free if a drunken accomplice hadn’t bragged about the caper in a pub. This accomplice, who was sent off to prison with Ash and the rest of the gang, had met with an untimely accident, “falling” into a scalding vat of water while working in the laundry. Big mouths paid a hefty price in Mulcaster.

  “I’m in real trouble, Reggie,” Layton said.

  “Well, didn’t I say to look me up when you finished His Majesty’s pleasure? I swore if you ever needed
help, I’d be there for me ol’ mate.”

  When he’d entered prison, Layton had learned quickly that it was an animal world, akin to life in Africa or the Amazon. The brutality of the place was horrifying. Layton had been totally unprepared for this barbaric existence. The strong terrorized the weak, like a python gobbling up a mouse. Layton had thought the guards, in their smart, black uniforms, would keep order. But they were often more brutal than the inmates and could be bribed to turn their backs on the constant violence.

  For Layton’s own lot, no one had cared that he was a murderer. They did care that he was a gentleman and therefore presumably weak. As in the outside world, prisons had class prejudices too, but instead of snubbing those they didn’t approve of, they thrashed the hell out of them on a regular basis. Or much, much worse: buggered them. Sodomy was what Layton feared most; he’d rather be killed outright.

  At first, he was met with evil looks. Then came roughing up when the guards weren’t about—punches to the stomach, hard slaps to the face. This was a shock to Layton. Violence was something one read about in the newspapers; it happened in the East End or the city’s other pits of degradation, not among the middle and upper classes. His own father never laid a hand on him. Though he knew he had to stand up to his assailants, acting tough wasn’t in his nature. It was just a matter of time, he’d thought in terror, before he’d be getting it up the bum like clockwork.

  Shortly after his arrival at Mulcaster, he was given a job in the prison library, to be completed in the evenings, after the day’s hard labor. Layton was chosen because he looked educated; most of the inmates hadn’t attended so much as grammar school. This position gave him a way to be around the prison’s highest-ranking inmate—based on the brutality and severity of his crimes—one Basher Grimes.

  Grimes was serving a life sentence for killing and dismembering two people, one of whom was his brother, who had cheated him out of his share in a robbery. Layton had heard through the prison grapevine that Grimes was a true hater of the British upper classes, and he believed that they should have their own prisons. Out of pure principle, Grimes had given the denizens of Mulcaster his approval to go after Layton.