• • •
Thoroughly defeated, Layton, his father, and Phipps left the New Scotland Yard building in silence and walked to the Thames to watch the river traffic flowing by. Barges, tugs, and high-masted cargo vessels churned past in a steady stream. It was cold, and a fog was settling in.
Layton heaved a great sigh and leaned against the wall, looking back at the police headquarters building—its great corner turrets, the red brickwork with white stone stripes that swept around the building. Odd, he thought. Even in his worst moments, an architect’s first instinct is to examine any building that catches his interest.
He turned to his father. “Well, Dad, I made a dog’s breakfast out of that. The police thought me mad as a hatter. They’ll likely start watching me now.”
“No, Doug. It’s just that it’s such a bloody incredible crime. No one can believe it,” Thomas Layton said. He sounded exhausted and deeply worn.
“We can’t give up.”
Phipps put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “We’re not going to give up.”
Layton smiled appreciatively at his colleague.
“I must go to Bristol for a few days, to see about the new city hall. But when I get back, I can help, Doug,” Phipps said.
“Of course. But please, Tom,” Layton cautioned. “Don’t let the hash I’m in interfere with your practice. You’ve been jolly good about everything.”
Phipps smiled and nodded, then took his leave, walking briskly east along the Embankment.
Thomas Layton stared out at the Thames, watching the gray waters lap and roll. He shook his head and said, “Suppose we never get the evidence, Doug? Those shits will get off scot-free. I can’t bear that. They deserve to die for what they’ve done to ya.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Layton said. He sighed. “After all I’ve been through, I have to believe that justice will win out in the end. Though at the moment, I can’t think how.”
• • •
Inspector Jenkins stood at his window, watching the three men leave. “Poor bugger,” he said and turned to face his two men, Willoughby and Perkins. “It’s amazing what people will say to escape their guilt.”
The two detectives nodded their heads and smiled at their boss.
“So, lads, let’s deal with our latest muddle.”
Even in the hall outside the interrogation room, they could hear the loud carrying-on inside. The minute Jenkins turned the brass doorknob, the shouting halted.
Two gentlemen in morning dress sat on one side of the long oak table.
“Good morning, my lord. Good morning, Sir Edmond,” said Jenkins.
The Earl of Suttonfield rose from his seat, his fists clenched.
“This is an outrage, sir! I am the Earl of Suttonfield.”
“Please, my lord, sit down and let me deal with this,” Sir Edmond Stevens, his barrister, whispered.
Reluctantly, the earl sat. Jenkins took a seat across from him and folded his hands carefully on the table.
“You didn’t happen to be at the Metropolitan Royal Theatre the night before last, my lord?”
“I’d never set foot in such a place,” the earl blustered.
“But you did go to the Queen’s Palace of Varieties, where you shouted at your daughter to come down off the stage.”
The earl sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “That was a family matter,” he said huffily. “None of your affair.”
“And it was Lionel Glenn who persuaded your daughter to go on the stage?”
There was a brief silence, and then Stevens leapt into action. “Inspector, are you insinuating that my client had something to do with this murder? That’s absurd.”
“You bore Glenn a grudge for luring your daughter into the variety hall. He gave her the opportunity, made her a great star.”
The earl maintained his stony silence, but at his side, Stevens rose from his chair. “The earl was nowhere near the Metropolitan that night. We’re finished here, Inspector,” he announced.
“Is the earl’s household in the city or the country missing an ice pick?”
Another deafening silence.
“Very well. Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Jenkins said. The two men made for the door; just as they had reached it, he said quietly, “My lord? Are you missing a cuff stud?”
He held up a square stud—a tiny diamond edged by a silver Greek key motif.
“My men found this in the hallway, outside Glenn’s box.”
“No, Inspector, I am not,” huffed the earl.
With that, they left, and Jenkins sat on the edge of the table with a sigh.
“What’s our next move, Inspector?” asked Perkins, the fat police officer.
“There is no next move. The Earl of Suttonfield murdered Lionel Glenn because he convinced Lady Gladys to go on the stage. I’m absolutely sure of it. But this is the end of the road, lads.”
At his men’s baffled glances, Jenkins explained, “First, there’s no real evidence other than this cuff stud. And if the Crown did charge the earl with murder, an earl can be tried only by a jury of his peers—those in the House of Lords. And they’d acquit him even if he were guilty; I’ve no doubt of that. The toffs would agree that Glenn deserved to be murdered for putting his daughter in the music hall and bringing disgrace on the family.”
50
Layton sat in the high-backed, upholstered chair before the coal fire in his little sitting room. Battered by his experience at Scotland Yard, he decided to start fresh, reconstructing the crime, making sure there was nothing he’d overlooked.
In his days as an architect, he’d examined a set of drawings a dozen times to ensure they contained no errors. And he would always discover a mistake that had been staring him straight in the face all along.
He pulled out his list of the dead and, with his fountain pen, drew lines that linked all the victims to their possible murderers, whom he listed on the right-hand side of the paper.
Denys Blair, 78 ----------- Glenn
Ronald Cass, 52
James Croyden, 37 ----------- Stockton
Robert Davidson, 12
Shirley Finney, 19 ----------- Clifton
Daphne Foster, 46
Ted Hardy, 44 ----------- Clifton
John Mapes, 41
Isabel Massey, 14
Hugh Rice, 53 ----------- Clifton and Glenn
Sir John Richardson, 54
Jocelyn Shipway, 31 ----------- Stockton
Trevor Stanton, 42
Sibyl Treadwell, 36
A line connected Shirley Finney and Ted Hardy to Clifton; Denys Blair to Glenn; Hugh Rice to both Clifton and Glenn. Sunny Samuels and Amy’s sister were joined to Nigel Stockton with a line. Then there were the people like John Mapes, the two children, and five unconnected adults who were seemingly in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one on the list was linked to Alec Shaw. Only Layton was connected to him. He knew he had to look elsewhere to find some proof of Shaw’s guilt. The builder, he now believed, was the murderer.
Layton stared into the glowing fire. But before going in that direction, was he absolutely sure there were no connections to the other adults? Had he missed anything? He went back to the other names—Ronnie Cass, Daphne Foster, Sir John Richardson, Sybil Treadwell, and Trevor Stanton—deciding to check one last time for some kind of link.
Layton’s hand stopped in midair as he reached his hand into Cissie’s crate of newspaper clippings next to the chair. He didn’t want to see the lurid headlines, hysterical articles, and gruesome photos of the disaster again. They would bring back the memories that ate painfully through him.
The article with background information on the victims was on top; wincing, he snatched it up. He picked a name at random. Under “Trevor Stanton” was just one sentence: “Mr. Stanton was a barrister
associated with the Inns of Court and the son of the late Gerald Stanton of Devonshire Shipping Ltd. and Mary Weems Stanton, Bolton Street, Mayfair.”
Finding Mrs. Stanton’s address in the London phone directory took an instant. While looking at his father peacefully asleep in his bed, Layton tiptoed to the closet and changed into a suit and bowler. He threaded his way through the streets to Mayfair. It was late morning; the winter fog wasn’t as thick as usual, and the sun was struggling to break through.
At the handsome stone house, he stood at the foot of the stoop for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and banged the brass door knocker. A housemaid barely out of her teens answered the door with a bright smile. Even though he had no appointment, he knew his dress and manner would compel her to grant him entry.
“Mr. Donald Hampton, Esquire, to see Mrs. Stanton, please.”
Without hesitation, the maid ushered him into the morning room and went to announce his arrival. Less than five minutes later, Mrs. Stanton, a well-groomed matron in her seventies, entered and offered a long, thin-fingered hand in greeting.
“How can I can I help you, Mr. Hampton?” she said in a kind, quiet voice.
“I’m just back from South Africa,” Layton said, bowing his head. “And one of my very first tasks in London was to come offer condolences for your son.”
“How kind of you, Mr. Hampton. You knew my son from the legal world, I presume?”
“Yes,” Layton said. By this time, the lies came almost without thought. “From the time I practiced at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. We weren’t close friends, more professional colleagues. He was a brilliant legal mind, Mrs. Stanton.”
“Trevor loved the law.” Mrs. Stanton shook her head, and he saw a shadow of sorrow pass across her features. “His father wanted him to enter into the family shipping business, of course. But Trevor always knew his own mind.” She gestured Layton to sit and perched on a chair across from him. “Losing him like that… It was quite a shock, as you can imagine. I’m glad his father wasn’t alive to experience it.”
“It’s terrible to lose a child,” Layton said quietly.
“Time has lessened the pain, but you know, Mr. Hampton, sometimes I still cry myself to sleep when I think of the loss.” She gave Layton a wan smile. “I remember when I first saw him stand in court in his wig and robes. We were all so proud.”
They chatted for a time, but the sinking feeling in Layton’s gut told him their conversation would lead nowhere. Harsh regret filled him; he should not have come and made the old woman feel so sad. It was like what he’d done to Ted Hardy’s mother.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Stanton. You’ve been most gracious.”
When Layton stood to take his leave, Mrs. Stanton rang for the maid to let him out. He stood in silence by a mahogany writing desk whose top was strewn with greeting cards and open envelopes. She must have just celebrated her birthday. About a minute later, the maid appeared.
“Vivian, please show Mr. Hampton out.”
Mrs. Stanton walked into the entry hall alongside him. Layton paused before a huge painting opposite the grand staircase.
“How beautiful,” he said reverently.
“It’s by John Singer Sargent. A group portrait of the men in our family. Trevor, my late husband, his brother, and the nephews. Done almost twenty years ago now.”
Several well-dressed males of all different ages had been painted sitting on a sofa or standing behind it; they were posed in the same room where Layton had just been received.
“Magnificent,” he repeated. “Look at the shadows on the sides of their faces—he’s perfectly captured the natural light from the windows. And the fluid brushwork.”
Sargent was one of Layton’s favorite painters. Edwina had favored him too, had even hoped to commission a portrait of their family, but nothing had come of it. Probably because Sargent was an American, Layton thought, and Lord Litton would have no one but a bred-to-the-bone Englishman.
As he walked back to his digs, the wonderful painting refused to leave his mind. Perhaps it was all the cloths he’d done, Layton thought absently, that made him admire Sargent’s artistry even more. Then a confused look came over his face.
51
Readying for his evening’s work was an agony. It was five in the afternoon; Layton had to be leaving. Normally, this was his favorite time of day; he looked forward going to the theatre, but now…
At the moment, Thomas Layton was sleeping soundly. Still agitated by their reception at Scotland Yard, his father had had a bad night, coughing up blood and wheezing like a bellows. Only Bayer Heroin, the cough suppressant Layton had fetched from the chemist, had stopped his spasms and enabled him to rest. Layton nodded at the little bottle of German-made medicine on the dresser; he’d have to get more for his father to take back to Dorset. Layton stood by the bed, looking down at his father. An overwhelming sense of sadness and dread threatened to overwhelm him, like a freezing-cold ocean wave knocking one down into the surf.
But he had to go. He’d told Cissie he was working late, that he had to finish two cloths for next week and would see her at breakfast at their digs. She had started house hunting for them and had a place in Kensington she wanted to show him.
With a heavy heart, he adjusted the blanket over his father’s shoulders and left.
• • •
It was going on three in the morning, and Layton was working on a cloth for Cliff & Kean, Comedy Artistes. He’d painted two huge caricatures of their heads, floating in a blue sky; the sun behind them had a smiling face, as though it were laughing at their jokes. It seemed silly to Layton, but that’s what the artistes wanted, and he never argued with specific wishes for a cloth.
He laid in the black outlines of the sun’s face and began infilling them with bright yellow. He began dabbing some orange over small areas of the yellow to avoid a flat impression.
“I heard you paid a visit to my aunt,” a jolly voice called out behind him. “A very grand lady, isn’t she?”
The voice didn’t startle him. He’d been expecting it tonight. Layton put the paintbrush down on the cart and turned. “I know you did it,” he answered. Though he was scared to death, his voice carried clear and strong, with nary a waver.
“I knew you did the minute I heard my aunt had a visitor who said he knew my late cousin,” Tom Phipps said. He was leaning casually against the door of the scene shop, hands thrust in his pockets.
“That was a wonderful portrait Sargent did of your family,” Layton said. “I envy you, old boy. You haven’t changed much in all these years.”
“Yes,” Phipps drawled. “I’ve been blessed with a youthful countenance. But your brain…” He gave a low whistle. “Puts mine to shame. You’re a clever dick, indeed. Once you found those bodies, it wasn’t long before you had the whole tangle figured out.” He paused, then added, “Except exactly who did it, of course.”
“You didn’t just happen to be at that tailor shop, did you?”
Phipps smirked. “No, old man. I use Henry Poole.”
Layton gave a knowing nod; Poole was the finest tailor in London.
“I had been in Nottingham on business and decided to check on my handiwork in the wall of the Grand gallery. You’re a damn fine plasterer, I must say. When I met your father and discovered your working-class roots, I realized who taught you the craft so well. My skills in that field weren’t as nearly good as yours, though I admit I was in a bit of a hurry. But your plasterwork was just the teeniest bit darker and hadn’t completely hardened. Only an architect would pick that up, of course, just like you picked up on the bulge in the wall. I didn’t bother to check on Browne’s body at the Queen’s. I knew the jig was up, so right then and there, I began following you.”
“Why didn’t you kill me and stick me in a wall?” he asked.
“Had to find out who you’d told your theory to fir
st. Had you gone straight to Scotland Yard? I couldn’t take the risk.”
“You saw how they received my theory. They thought I was balmy.”
“Yes, our police force is none too intelligent and hardly fond of creative thinking.” Phipps was still smiling. He’d been smiling all the time they’d been talking, and that fixed grin sent a shudder down Layton’s spine. “But it could have been worse for you, old boy. If you’d persuaded them to go to the cupola of the Queen’s, well… I took the precaution of removing poor Browne’s bones.”
Layton chuckled. “I really would have looked like a horse’s arse, and a mad one at that.”
Phipps took a cigarette out of a gold case, sparked up, and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “But do you know why I did it, Doug?”
“To kill your cousin Trevor,” Layton said simply. “To get his inheritance, the shipping company fortune. I bet you provided him the ticket.”
“Oh, that’s only part of it,” Phipps said. He’d begun to walk steadily toward Layton, but the other man held his ground. “But more than that, I wanted to destroy you, old chap.”
Layton’s brow furrowed—and then he began to laugh. “That’s bloody absurd!”
“You’re a damn good architect, Doug, but I’m a far better one. Remember when you won the competition for the Royal Post Office? Back in ’99?”
“Yes,” said Layton. The puzzled look on his face was genuine now. Phipps’s whole murderous scheme had been aimed at him?
“My design was far superior to yours. I saw both, and I know. But because of your wife’s family influence, you got the commission. Lord Litton’s close friend, Sir Herbert Pryor, ran the Royal Mail, and he steered the work your way. I’d lost two buildings to you before: the Corn Exchange and the Colonial Affairs Office. Both prestigious, both projects you got that I should have won. I just couldn’t stand by and let it keep happening.” Phipps’s lip twisted in disgust. “I needed that building—I wanted that building.”
The Fallen Architect Page 28