The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  That one got a big laugh, especially from Phipps in the wings, and Ally glowed with satisfaction. He took his call and skipped off the stage, Sybil right behind him.

  “Damn you,” she was hissing. “I told you that bed joke was bollocks. It was as funny as a dog turd. And you paid ten bob for that one. That’s money down the bog!”

  Ally grimaced and slunk away. The minute his makeup was off, Layton thought, he was off to the Prince of York to hide from Sybil until the second show.

  “Bloody fool,” Sybil screamed after him. To Layton, she said playfully, “Can you write jokes—in addition to your other artistic talents, Frank?” She reached up, playfully rubbing the underside of Layton’s chin as though he were a cat. When Cissie appeared behind them, Sybil quickly lowered her hand.

  “On your bike, girl,” Cissie said grimly. “And tell that husband of yours that if he doesn’t get funnier, he’ll be playing the Alhambra—the one in the middle of Australia.”

  The orchestra was playing “College Life,” a march that was all the rage in Britain. The audience was caught up, clapping along to the lively tune.

  Out from stage left came Helen McCoy, the Piccadilly Lilly. The crowd roared. She lifted her dress to expose her pretty ankles and two-stepped expertly across the stage. The crowd, especially the men, exploded with joy. The orchestra repeated the tune, as they sometimes did when the audience seemed particularly enchanted.

  Finally, the song ended. Helen waited patiently for the applause to die down before beginning her first song, “I Want What I Want When I Want It.”

  By this time, Layton had seen many acts come and go. Very few performers were able to forge a truly special bond between themselves and the audience. Helen was one who could. There was definitely an electric wire connecting her and the audience. As she piped up her energy, the house in turn piped up theirs. And her voice was lovely, dulcet and clear, never straining for notes, and always full of emotion.

  Halfway through “I’m Trying to Find a Sweetheart,” shouting erupted from the rear of the theatre’s main level. Variety performers were accustomed to disruptions from drunks and hecklers, and at first, Helen ignored the noise. But the shouting increased, and the audience began to rumble angrily. Who dared interrupt the beautiful young singer?

  Along the side aisle of the stalls came a bald man in his sixties, wearing evening dress and a top hat. Some men rose from their seats and tried to grab him, but he bulled by until he reached the orchestra pit.

  “You get the hell down from there this minute, Gladys!” he shouted.

  Helen stopped singing and stared at the man in disbelief.

  “You’re the daughter of the Earl of Suttonfield. No child of mine will disgrace our name by going onstage!”

  The entire auditorium erupted in anger. People were booing and hissing the old man. Men from the stalls and a male usher caught hold of the Earl of Suttonfield and tried to drag him away, but it took six men to make him move—barely. His face beet red, saliva spraying from his mouth with every shout, the earl kept screaming at Helen, who stood paralyzed on the stage.

  “You’re a tart,” he shouted. “Parading your ankles in front of this trash!”

  This classist remark further incensed the crowd, especially those in the gallery. A small group began making their way down to the main level, determined to beat the hell out of the earl.

  “You’re a disgrace to our family!” he ranted on. “William the Conqueror himself granted us our lands!”

  “Shove off, slaphead!”

  “You toffee-nosed twit, get the hell out of here!”

  Wilding, the stage manager, sprinted down the side stair to the stalls to join the melee. Layton, Cissie, the crew, and the artistes all came right out onto the stage to watch.

  “If you don’t come down from there,” the earl screamed, “you’ll never set foot in Suttonfield again! Do you hear me? You’re Lady Gladys Suttonfield! You have a title to uphold! Who the hell do you think will marry a music hall singer? You’ll be a social leper, my girl!”

  At last, the gang of men had the earl under control. They dragged him, kicking and screaming, to the door of the theatre and flung him out into the gutter on Shaftesbury Avenue. Thirty seconds later, the earl was back in the theatre, shouting at the top of his lungs, and had to be thrown out again.

  Helen still stood, dumbfounded, on the stage, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Unsure what else to do, she turned to leave. But the audience cried out for her to continue.

  “Give us a song, Helen.”

  “Don’t mind what that horse’s arse said, even if he is your dad!”

  “Sing, girl, sing. Sing, girl, sing. Sing, girl, sing,” chanted the crowd.

  From the wings, Cissie smiled at the singer and motioned her to go back on. Helen did an about-face. At the center of the stage, she smiled brightly and bowed to the crowd. The orchestra struck up “Is Everybody Happy,” and she belted the song out proudly, the audience joining in on all the choruses.

  When Helen finished, the crowd jumped to their feet and cheered like crazy.

  When she walked past Layton in the wings, he caught her attention.

  “Helen, meet my friend Tom Phipps. He’s the best architect in Great Britain.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Phipps.”

  “You have a magnificent voice, Miss McCoy. May I have the pleasure of your autograph?”

  39

  “Be brutal, Frank. Be brutal. Tell me what you really think.”

  Neither in his days as a famed architect nor his days as a disgraced prisoner would Douglas Layton have dreamed he’d find himself in Harrods, helping two men shop for dresses. But here he was.

  “I prefer the red-and-blue frock, Cyril,” Layton said in a grave tone.

  A look of disappointment washed over Cyril’s face.

  “Ha! Thought he’d fancy the lavender one, you cow,” crowed Neville.

  “You told me to be brutally honest, Cyril,” Layton said.

  “But when someone says that, they don’t really mean it, luv.” Cyril sounded very hurt indeed.

  “Then don’t pay me any mind. If your gut says the lavender, then you must buy it,” Layton said.

  Instantly, the smile returned to Cyril’s face. “Thank you, dearie. I’ll go with the lavender.”

  “What do you think of this number, Frank? With a boa?”

  “I never liked you in yellow, Neville.”

  “Ha! Take that, you old queen,” shouted Cyril with glee.

  Eddington & Freddington had become big West End favorites, which meant an increase in wages and an upgrade to the act’s wardrobe. Artistes had to pay for their own costumes and props, be they an acrobat’s tights or a magician’s turban. It could be an expensive investment; some acts played long past their time, simply because they had to recoup the cost of their wardrobes.

  “Try the red one with fur trim. I think the Duchess of Shelbourne has a similar outfit,” Layton said now. As they’d dragged him here, he might as well give them the benefit of his experience. Edwina had been one of the most fashionably dressed women in London; with what she’d spent on clothes, one could have built an office building.

  Layton smiled privately to himself. Edwina wouldn’t have been caught dead in Harrods—so common.

  • • •

  “You have to tell us what Ronnie would like for Christmas, Frank,” said Neville as he poured tea. The three men had paused for refreshments at the Harrods tearoom.

  “Yes, what would the nipper like? Soldiers, books, a new cricket bat?” Cyril asked, dipping a scone in honey.

  “You fellows have been much too generous already,” Layton said firmly. In truth, Ronnie couldn’t take the duo’s gifts home, or he would risk questions. Even with Edwina’s tacit permission, the risk was too great. The presents Cyril and Neville had given Ronald w
ere stored away in Layton’s digs.

  “Nonsense. We’re his aunties, don’t you know?”

  “Well, something small then,” Layton said, smiling.

  “Here’s a good one I heard,” cackled Cyril. “How do you make an Englishman laugh on Monday?”

  “Tell him a joke on Friday night!” Neville crowed. The table erupted in laughter.

  “I have a joke you can use,” said Layton.

  “Go on, luv. We adore free jokes,” Cyril said eagerly.

  “A Scotsman comes home early and finds his wife in bed with another bloke. He gets his gun and points it at the man’s head, and his wife bursts out laughing. So the Scotsman says, ‘What are you laughing at? You’re next.’”

  Cyril and Neville screeched so with laughter that every woman in the tearoom turned to look disapprovingly at them.

  “That’s wonderful, Frank,” said Neville, dabbing at his eyes. “You know, when we met you, we thought, ‘What a handsome, gentlemanly chap he is.’ We both wanted to get inside your knickers. We didn’t know you had a ripping sense of humor too.”

  “His knickers are out of bounds,” Cyril said sternly. “Except for Cissie Mapes.”

  “Here’s to a man in love,” said Neville, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling.

  Layton was laughing too, so hard that he struggled to swallow his tea.

  This had happened many times when he’d gone out with the boys to pubs and restaurants. Like time spent with Mangogo, the joy of his life at the variety theatre seemed impossibly powerful, able to shoo away even the darkest of specters.

  Layton had had such a fun afternoon at Harrods, but walking home, it couldn’t make him forget that someone was dead set on killing him. Several times, especially when he stopped to cross the street, Layton looked around to make sure Shaw wasn’t behind him. But his attacker could be any one of these hundreds of men on the street alongside him. Every stranger was an enemy.

  40

  It was Sunday morning, and Layton had the Queen’s Palace entirely to himself. All the variety theatres were closed on Sundays—not because the performers or syndicate owners were religious, but because of the stern opposition they faced from Britain’s clergy, be they Church of England, the Roman Catholic Church, or worst of all, the Presbyterians. No laughing on the Sabbath, much less looking at scantily clad girls.

  Instead, Sundays were a day of travel. All across Britain, hundreds of artistes donned their best clothes, packed up their big wardrobe trunks, and boarded trains to their next engagement. They’d begun to travel in such numbers that they’d formed a trade association, winning reduced fares and luggage fees from the railways.

  On Sunday mornings in the West End, one could hear the church bells off in the distance, beckoning their congregants. It always reminded Layton of his childhood in Dorset, when his father led his brood on foot to the C of E church in Stinsford. He wasn’t a religious man at all but insisted on the family going to Sunday services. The most vivid memory was how loud and terribly off-key their father sang the hymns, causing Layton and his two brothers to almost burst at the seams to try to contain their laughter. Being the proper wife, his mother never chastised her husband for singing like a hinge. Like her children, she loved and admired Thomas Layton as a kind and patient man, even though his voice was an utter embarrassment.

  The peace and quiet of a long Sunday by himself at the Queen’s Palace was just what Layton needed. He wanted to touch up a cloth he’d done the day before. The celestial scene he’d painted showed a dark-blue sky filled with stars and planets; he wasn’t yet satisfied with Jupiter, on the left side. After he corrected its proportions, he would meet Cissie outside the theatre for tea at Miss MacIntosh’s on Shaftesbury, a Sunday ritual he’d come to cherish.

  The cloth had already been flown up to the grid in the fly tower, which meant Layton had to climb the very tall black metal ladder to the gallery and lower it using the fly ropes. But it was worth it, he thought. He’d come to take fierce pride in his scenic painting; at heart, he was a creative person, and the passion he poured into his cloths had replaced architecture, which fate had stolen from him.

  A cloth was raised by three rope lines: a long, a center, and a short, all of which were tied off to a cleat on the railing of the fly gallery. Layton worked at a knot in the heavy hemp rope.

  He had just untied it when someone from behind grabbed his throat and began to crush the hell out of it. Though he tried to scream, only a pained gargling sound emerged. His face turned purple; he flayed his arms wildly, to no effect.

  Just as he was about to pass out, his assailant released the chokehold, grabbed his left arm, and twisted it up behind his back. Layton groaned in pain—then groaned again as he realized the center rope he had just untied was being wrapped around his neck. He felt the painful rub of the scratchy hemp against his skin as something was thrust into his pants pocket.

  Those same powerful hands grabbed him, lifted him over the railing.

  “You should have hanged for murdering my sister, Jocelyn! Now I’m the hangman,” screamed a voice directly behind him. “And they say three’s a charm.”

  Thirty feet below, the wooden stage swam before Layton’s terrified eyes.

  “Frank didn’t murder Jocelyn Shipway! I swear to it,” a familiar voice screamed up at them. “Someone else did! They murdered them all that night. My husband too! But he didn’t do it. I’m telling you the God’s own truth, luv!”

  Layton’s body jerked back like a rag doll’s. Looking down, he saw Cissie, standing on the stage. He twisted his head and saw, to his amazement, a pretty, petite girl in a maroon dress. It was Amy Silborne, the strongwoman. She lurched forward, grabbing his belt and bending him over the rail, the rope still tight around his neck.

  “I gave my ticket to Jocelyn. She died instead of me.”

  Cissie dropped to her knees, sobbing. “Please, Amy, don’t. Let me explain.”

  For what seemed an eternity, Amy stood, debating whether or not to hurl Layton over the rail to his death. Finally, she pulled her hand from his belt and unwound the rope. He collapsed on the floor of the fly gallery, his chest heaving like an asthmatic’s.

  • • •

  “I’m very sorry, Frank, for having tried to kill you…three times.”

  “Three?”

  “The shooting party at the Duke of Denton’s estate. I felt terrible the beater got hit, but thank God he recovered.”

  Upon hearing this news, Layton automatically raised his hand to where the shot grazed his hair.

  “My world was destroyed when my sister died. We grew up together in my uncle’s family, who didn’t give a damn about us. Jocelyn and I looked out for each other. I was lucky as hell to be a success onstage so I could take care of her. She was all the family I had. I was mad with anger that weekend when I discovered who you really were, after the king made that remark. Insane and bent on revenge. I wasn’t able to stop myself. You had to die.” Amy sounded sincerely contrite.

  Layton shook his head, amazed. Despite having seen her act many times, he couldn’t believe the delicate girl standing before him had such incredible strength. To almost squash his head like a melon, to crush his windpipe as if it were made of cardboard!

  After twenty minutes of explanation, Amy had been convinced of Layton’s innocence. Now she wanted to kill either Clifton, Glenn, Shaw, or Stockton. Whoever was the killer.

  “Every single day, I say to myself, ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’” Amy started crying.

  Cissie put her arms around her little shoulders. “I say the same thing about my Johnnie, luv—almost every bloody day.”

  “When we find out who the murderer is, Frank…I mean, Douglas,” Amy said, sniffling, “I’ll take care of him.” She held up both hands, slightly curling her fingers.

  Layton didn’t think it was the time to argue for handing the kil
ler over to the police. In silence, the three of them shuffled toward the exit.

  Out in the alley, Layton placed his hand on Amy’s shoulder. “We’ll find out who did it, Amy. We won’t stop until we find him.”

  As he and Cissie watched Amy trudge sadly off, Layton felt in his pocket for the piece of crumpled paper she’d stuffed there. It read:

  I couldn’t live with the guilt any longer.

  Douglas Layton

  The handwriting was a quite refined cursive, very neatly done in ink, like one was taught in grammar school.

  “Amy,” Layton called out. “This wasn’t the fourth time? After pushing me into the street?”

  “Why, no, Frank. I never did a thing like that!”

  41

  “Champagne Charlie is my name

  Champagne drinking is my game

  Good for any game at night my boys

  Good for any game at night my boys

  For Champagne Charlie is my name

  Good for any game at night my boys

  Who’ll come and join me in a spree?”

  Dressed as a down-on-his-luck aristocrat in a tatty white shirt and tails and a smashed top hat, Timmy Donovan had the Friday night house in his pocket.

  “Now help me out with this ditty,” he shouted, and the audience happily joined in on the next chorus of “Champagne Charlie.” The customers always joined in the choruses of songs; it was a variety theatre tradition.

  Songs about getting drunk were allowed but never any even hinting about sex. Cissie kept an eagle eye out for performers, especially comics, whose material was too suggestive and policed them rigorously.

  It surprised Layton that a woman so passionate in bed could be so puritanical in business. Last month, Cissie had actually ordered the stage manager at the Walham Green Empire to drop the curtain on a comic who had made an obscene gesture at his crotch. She’d cursed him up and down and had all the possessions from his dressing room thrown into the alley—with the comic sent tumbling after them.