The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  A horrified look came over her mother’s face. “Your father would kill me dead with his pheasant shotgun if I ever set foot in a place like this.”

  “It’s a theatre, Mother, not a knocking shop.”

  “The theatre is the Haymarket for Shakespeare with Beerbohm Tree, not people in bowlers and red-check suits singing lewd songs.”

  Helen smiled but held firm. “I’ve made up my mind, Mother. We should have tea sometime. For now, I must go.”

  And with that, the Piccadilly Lily walked down the alley to her carriage, leaving her mother, a forlorn little figure in the circle of dim light thrown off by the light pole.

  44

  “Mr. Owen?”

  Layton cringed. He didn’t need to turn to know it was the reporter from the Daily Mail. He’d half expected to hear from him after Joe Clayton’s photo appeared in the paper, not his, but nothing had come of it.

  But he was wrong. A stocky, broad-shouldered figure stood about six feet away, in the dim light of the alley behind the Queen’s Palace. Stunned, Layton didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then he stuttered out, “Hello, Dad.”

  His father stepped forward. Layton looked behind him to see if his brother was there too but saw no one else.

  “Hello, Doug. I ’ad to come to London on business, an’ I thought I’d go to the variety, see them scenes you paint. The one of the Albert Hall behind Mendel, the Blind Pianist, was damn good. Too bad Mendel couldn’t see it. He is blind, isn’t he?”

  “Blind as a bat,” Layton said, smiling. “But he’s the Paderewski of the music halls.”

  It was late; the second show had ended, and the artistes and crew were exiting the stage door. Layton extended his hand to his father, and they shook heartily.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said. “It’s a beautiful night. Not much fog.”

  They walked down Whitcomb Street toward Trafalgar Square. For a few minutes, there was silence. Then Layton’s father cleared his throat and said, “I’m glad you got on with yer life, Doug. Yer a good lad. You deserve to be happy.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’m trying to work everything out. It’s not easy to forget that night. It’ll haunt me all my life.”

  “It was an accident, Doug, an accident. They shouldn’t have sent ya to prison for it, shouldn’t’ve ruined your life. You should know, yer brother says hello,” Thomas Layton added awkwardly.

  Layton chuckled. He knew his brother; he would never send his good wishes. “If it wasn’t for Roger,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here. He set me on my new path in life.”

  “You shouldn’t mind your brother,” his father said. “He was always jealous of your success. When you went to prison, he felt you got yer comeuppance for rising above your station.”

  “Yes, I could tell that night,” Layton said. “When I returned home.”

  “You must be making good wages in the theatre. Hope you’re not pissing away that lolly on drink and tarts. A lot of temptations here in London,” Thomas Layton said, looking suspiciously about.

  “I know I was sozzled most of the time when I came back to Puddletown,” Layton said awkwardly. “The drink made me forget all the bad things. But I have control of it now.”

  “That’s the ticket, lad.”

  They strolled through Trafalgar Square, which was entirely deserted, and on to the Victoria Embankment. As they walked, Layton realized that other than hunting, this was the first time in his life that he’d taken a walk with his father. It was quite pleasurable. Rather than parent and child, they felt almost like friends in a way.

  “That scene behind that Irish singer looked a lot like Cannon Field in Dorset.”

  Layton smiled and looked at his father.

  “You’re absolutely right. It is Cannon Field. Did you recognize the two big trees?” At his father’s nod, he added, “Whenever I do a country scene, I paint something from my memory of those Dorset days: Thorncombe Wood, Snail Creep, Bulbarrow Hill. I remember them all.”

  “You and yer brothers knew every square inch of that countryside,” said Thomas Layton, a tinge of pride in his gravelly voice.

  “It was a wonderful boyhood. When I was in my cell in Mulcaster, I’d try to transport myself back, imagine that I was free to wander through the downs like I used to. I became good at putting my mind in another time and place. I’d do the same with the house I built in Surrey. It was like I was there, walking through the rooms.”

  They reached the Embankment, stood, and watched the Thames flow silently by. To the right and left, a few people milled about in the distance. At this time of night, it was a place for lonely people and illicit lovers, for embracing in the shadows beyond the thrown glow of the streetlights.

  “Roger was right,” Layton said abruptly. “I was a bloody shit pretending to be someone I wasn’t. To turn my back on family and my roots like that… What happened was almost like a punishment for what I did.”

  Thomas Layton turned to his son and looked him square in the face.

  “No, lad,” he said quietly. “Ya did nothin’ wrong. You wanted to better yourself. And in this country, that’s bloody impossible to do. There’s always some bastard putting ya in yer place. You beat all that, became one of the empire’s best architects. You’d’ve gotten a knighthood.”

  “I was a fake.”

  “Bollocks.” Now his father’s voice was fierce. “If you had told them who you really were, the son of a stonemason from a Dorset cottage, they’d’ve thrown yer arse down the ladder in a heartbeat. I don’t blame or hate ya for what ya did. It’s what ya have to do in this bloody country. And ya made it. With yer talent, ya made it.”

  Layton had never seen his father so emotional before. But now a fire burned in his eyes, and his body trembled with the force of his words.

  “When I articled you to Hicks, I wanted ya to become a success. I’d’ve been embarrassed of where I come from too, in your shoes.” Still facing his son, Thomas Layton placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember when you invited me to that library opening in Bournemouth? I didn’t come because I didn’t want to embarrass you. But a few weeks later, I went to that library, and I walked around inside, and I said to meself, ‘Blimey, my boy did this!’ For a hundred years, people will be using that library. I was proud of you, lad. As proud as I was of Raymond, winning them medals.”

  Layton bent his head. The love in his father’s voice threatened to overwhelm him.

  In silence, the two men went back to gazing at the river. After a few minutes, as if by mutual agreement, they turned and walked toward Piccadilly Circus.

  At Haymarket, Thomas Layton said, “I’ll be off in the mornin’, but I’m glad I found ya. Take care of yourself, Doug.”

  Layton watched the old man walk slowly away. And in spite of himself, he called out, “Dad, can you stay until tomorrow afternoon? I want you to meet my son—your grandson.”

  45

  In the evenings, at work in the scene shop, Layton could hear the sounds of the performances coming from the auditorium behind him. Though the singing was muffled, the melody was distinct, and it brought a smile to his face as he worked.

  He was just starting a cloth for Ian O’Toole, Quick-Change Artiste, who portrayed all the characters in Oliver Twist from Oliver to Bill Sikes by performing lightning-fast costume changes. He would play Fagin, then dart behind a screen onstage and in five seconds emerge from the other side in a totally different costume and makeup of another character. An amazing act, he even did Nancy.

  Cissie had come to keep him company as he worked—and to discuss the murders. They spoke cautiously, in low tones, looking about every once in a while to see if anyone was there who might overhear.

  “Maybe, but Phipps is right in saying that Clifton and Glenn’s biggest enemy was Rice,” Layton said, adding painted detail to the arched mirror of a dressing table.

  “But
to murder Sunny Samuels too? And they’d have killed Amy, if she and her sister hadn’t swapped tickets.”

  Layton shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe the partners thought they wouldn’t show up. The rest of the performers didn’t. It could have been plain bad luck, like your Johnnie. Or maybe…” He paused, considering. “That was the cost of eliminating Rice. Like you said, stars come and go. In time, even a novelty act like Amy could be replaced. I’ve only been here a short time, and already I’ve seen it happen to Bert Quist. You know, the whip-cracker? He doesn’t get the applause he used to.”

  “Well, his drinking has a lot to do with that,” said Cissie in a scolding tone. “He snapped off the tip of his assistant’s nose.”

  Layton smiled. Almost all artistes drank. Some could hold their liquor; some could not.

  “But I can’t get Shaw out of my mind. He’s…” Layton’s brush stopped midstroke; he stepped back from the canvas cloth and looked around, confused, as if searching for a buzzing fly. “Do you hear that music?”

  Cissie blinked, puzzled. “Why, yes, I…”

  But before she could finish her sentence, Layton dropped his brush and sprinted from the room. Baffled, Cissie hurried after him and joined Layton in the wings. Onstage, prancing about and clapping his hands, was Jimmy Doyle, the top of the bill.

  “I was outside a lunatic asylum one day, busy picking up stones

  When along came a lunatic and said to me, ‘Good morning, Mr. Jones;

  Oh, how much a week do you get for doing that?’

  ‘Thirty bob,’ I cried.”

  The audience was singing and stomping their feet in unison. The stamping was thunderous; it practically drowned out the lyrics. Layton could feel the vibration of the stage under his feet.

  He watched until the song was over. Doyle took his bow and skipped off stage, brushing Layton’s sleeve as he passed.

  “That…song,” Layton said quietly. “I remember where I first heard it—the Britannia’s opening night. I was having a drink in the stalls lounge. Jimmy Doyle was onstage when the balcony fell. Top of the bill, next to last act.”

  “What does that mean?” Cissie asked, drawing closer and plucking at his sleeve.

  “The balcony didn’t collapse when the audience filled the seats. But whoever planned this knew that there was a chance their weight alone might not be enough to sunder the rivets. So they used resonance.”

  “Resonance?” Cissie said, blinking.

  “A force, rhythmically applied to a structure, in the same period as the structure. That force is said to be in resonance.”

  “And what the bloody hell does that mean?”

  “A period,” Layton said patiently, “is the time a structure takes to complete a full back and forth oscillation. If the applied force is steady, lasts long enough, and matches the timing of that oscillation, it can collapse the structure—that’s resonance. In this case, by stamping their feet during Doyle’s song, the audience fell into exact rhythm with the oscillations of the balcony cantilever. That’s what brought the balcony down.”

  “Crikey!” Cissie said, shaking her head. “Aren’t you a clever boots!”

  “There’s an old story about an infantry company of Prussian soldiers goose-stepping across a wooden bridge. Their marching cadence accidentally fell into rhythm with the oscillations of the bridge, which collapsed. The whole company wound up in the river.”

  Had Browne and Reville thought this up? Layton wondered. Both had the engineering knowledge about resonance.

  But there was more to it. For the plan to work, Jimmy Doyle had to be on the bill. He’d been booked intentionally. And when the word book came to mind, Layton could think of only one person.

  He stopped and stared down into Cissie’s eyes.

  “You booked Doyle for that night, didn’t you?” he said in a quiet, calm voice.

  “I don’t exactly remember,” Cissie said. “It was over five years ago, mind. But who else would have?”

  Her eyes were clear and open; her voice did not tremble. Was she part of the conspiracy or not? Being in prison taught a man to expect the worst in life, and Layton couldn’t control his freewheeling suspicions. Had someone told Cissie to book Doyle? Or maybe she’d wanted her husband dead all along.

  Ashamed, Layton squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thought from his mind. He was in love with Cissie, he reminded himself. Aside from his reunion with Ronald, she was the best thing to happen to him since he’d left Mulcaster. His first real Christmas in five years was less than a month away; the thought of having someone to share it with made him happy, despite all else that had gone wrong, and he was a bastard to think ill of her for even a second.

  Cissie looked worried now. He smiled at her and said, “I have to find out how Doyle got on the bill that night. Was it just a coincidence, or did Clifton and Glenn tell you specifically to book him?”

  Cissie nodded; she understood. Gently, she caressed his cheek and said, “Come on, luv. Let’s go to my office and check the files. You’re a lucky man—I never throw anything out.”

  46

  “The year is 1900, D for Doyle,” Cissie said briskly.

  And again, Layton thanked his lucky stars that she was such an efficient businesswoman.

  With twenty-four theatres putting on twice-nightly shows six days a week, the chain’s contract department was huge. Gray metal filing cabinets lined the storage room on all sides. Another row of cabinets, stacked on top of this lower level, was accessible by rolling ladder. Each drawer held artistes’ contracts, arranged alphabetically and by year. Cissie scurried up the ladder like a mountain goat and pulled out a folder. The bigger the star, the fatter the folder, and Doyle’s was thick.

  She flipped quickly through the folder, and her face fell. “No, not here, but…” A thought hit her, and she brightened. “Hello, now I remember! Hold on a bit, luv.”

  Handing Layton Doyle’s file, Cissie moved the ladder across the room and climbed back up to retrieve another. She fanned herself with it as she descended.

  “Whew, I’ll need a nice cup of tea after all this. This is Tommy Towers’s contract. He was supposed to top the bill that night.”

  “The Most Beautiful Man in the World,” Layton said, nodding. The name was ironic; performers like Towers sold themselves with catchphrases or physical gimmicks. In Towers’s case, he wasn’t beautiful but uglier than a dog’s arse. His looks—or lack of them—were a constant joke. Such reverse acts did brisk business; May Mason, who called herself the World’s Greatest Soprano, was a current sensation. Her gimmick, of course, was that she sang like a screeching baboon.

  “He got hurt, and we had to replace him. Look.” Cissie handed Layton a yellowing telegram from Towers’s file.

  FELL ON ME HEAD STOP HARDEST PART OF ME BODY BUT BROKE ME LEG STOP CAN’T GO ON STOP TOMMY

  “He even got us that doctor’s certificate we ask for. But look at this now.” Cissie pulled another telegram from Doyle’s file:

  HEARD TOWERS OUT STOP DOYLE AVAILABLE STOP

  It was signed by Jack Langham, Doyle’s agent.

  Layton examined the telegrams, which had been sent from two different London post offices. The posted time of Towers’s message was 9:05 a.m. Langham’s was 9:45.

  “The agent’s message was sent only forty minutes after the one Towers sent off,” Layton said, tapping the yellowed slips of paper.

  Cissie laughed. “Bad news travels fast in the theatre world, Frank. One bloke’s misfortune is another’s opportunity.”

  • • •

  “Y’know, I don’t recall I was that plastered, but I still went down hard. Like a bloody football, bouncing off every one of them bleedin’ tube station steps. Hard cement, y’know. Was laid up on my arse for a fortnight.”

  Layton and Cissie sat on either side of Tommy Towers as he put on his makeup. He was p
laying the Brixton Hippodrome; though he had a dressing room to himself, it was low and dingy. Plaster peeled off the yellowing walls, and the old upholstered chairs were filled with tatty-looking hangers-on.

  Such men and women surrounded the variety theatre’s biggest stars, stroking egos and kissing arse for the privilege of being near the famous and wealthy. In exchange for their adulation, the star bought them drinks, meals, and gifts of clothes and jewelry. Attractive girls, Layton had noticed, were especially effective at extracting money. The more beautiful the woman and the uglier the man, the more largess flowed. If he’d been a “civilian,” the two girls hanging all over Tommy wouldn’t have come within a mile of him. But if he knew that, he certainly didn’t seem to care.

  “I hobbled around on crutches for two months,” Tommy was saying. “Looked like Long John Silver.”

  Drinks were flowing freely, and his followers laughed like hell at this line. A drunken, balding man in a rumpled suit bellowed, “You should have got a green parrot for your shoulder!” and held up a tumbler of gin, as if toasting Tommy’s comment.

  “But, you know, it helped the act,” Tommy said, not minding the interruption. “Gave me a lot of new material. I was a cripple on top of being so ‘beautiful.’” He winked.

  A beautiful blond in a black, low-cut gown bent down, kissed his cheek, and gave his pickle nose a playful yank. “You’re a ’andsome bloke to me, Tommy darling,” she crooned.

  A sharp rap sounded on the dressing room door, and a freckled callboy stuck his head through. “Five minutes, Tommy,” he said with a big smile.

  “Thank you, Phil,” Tommy shouted back, mussing his salt-and-pepper hair.

  “So you just fell down the steps? No one bumped you?” Cissie said, edging the blond girl out of the way with her hip.

  “Come to think of it, there may have been someone behind me. But I’m afeard I can’t remember, Cissie me girl.” Tommy rose and shrugged on his signature green-striped jacket, which had been hanging on his chair.

  “Did you tell Jimmy Doyle’s agent you were hurt?” Layton asked. “Jack Langham, his name was.”