The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  “You’re having me on. I don’t believe a word of it,” Layton said incredulously.

  “You should,” Phipps shot back. “You stood in my way, Doug. The construction of the post office was postponed for over a year because Parliament wouldn’t appropriate the funds. In that time, I resolved to ruin you.”

  “And you certainly succeeded,” Layton breathed.

  “When you were sent away, the government awarded the post office project to the second-place finisher: me. They weren’t going to use a murderer’s design. And that commission was the catalyst. My career skyrocketed.”

  “You give ‘ambition’ a completely new definition, old boy,” Layton said, inching closer to the paint cart, where he had hidden a knife. All those afternoons they’d spent together, trying to unravel the mystery…and all the time, it had been a ruse. His head spun; he fought to stay calm.

  “To be ambitious, one has to be a bit unscrupulous.”

  Layton laughed. “And you’ve given the word ‘unscrupulous’ a whole new meaning.”

  “I’m England’s best architect,” said Phipps with quiet pride. “Better than Lutyens even.”

  Layton crossed his arms against his chest and smiled. “You might be, but you’re also an incredibly evil man and mad as a hatter to boot,” he said. “But as an architect, I really am impressed by your ingenuity. It wasn’t just the inferior rivets, but the way you brought the balcony down with Doyle’s song. You have a keen sense of engineering for an architect.”

  “That was a last-minute decision.” Though they were discussing murder, not architecture, Phipps still seemed to bask in Layton’s praise. “I was afraid the loaded balcony wouldn’t give, so I put Tommy Towers out of action and substituted Doyle.”

  “Brilliant,” Layton said, shaking his head.

  “But you’re absolutely right on one count: I killed Trevor to get my inheritance too. An architect makes a healthy wage, but he doesn’t become rich. You of all people should know that. If all those people were to die, why not add another to the list, put some money in my pocket?” Phipps shrugged and added casually, “Besides, I never liked him. Such a pompous ass. But then, I suppose all barristers are.”

  “As the male cousin, you were next in line for the inheritance.”

  “That’s the way of English inheritance law, thank God,” replied Phipps with a big grin.

  “Well,” Layton said, staring at his former friend, “you achieved everything you wanted. You destroyed my life and career and won yourself riches and professional success.”

  “As you know all too well, being an architect means getting bossed about by the rich. Now I have a hundred thousand quid in the bank. It’s a wonderful feeling to be on an equal footing.”

  “Now you’re getting ideas above your station.”

  Phipps laughed. “That’s interesting coming from you, a Dorset country lad a thousand miles above his station.”

  “Yes,” Layton said baldly. “I was a fraud. I admit it. But I never killed to move up the ladder.”

  “Some marry to move up,” Phipps said with a silky shrug. “Some kill.”

  “So Clifton, Glenn, Shaw, and Stockton had nothing to do with this,” Layton said.

  “Not a thing, old boy. Pure coincidence about those others, I’m afraid. But let’s be fair: some of those chaps had it coming, like Rice and that poof, Hardy. World’s a better place without them.”

  Layton smiled at Phipps. “You know, Tom, I’m a bit of a graphologist. Interested in handwriting analysis. You have one of the most distinguished architectural lettering styles I’ve ever seen in my whole career. So much so that I matched those Ss in the fake appointment book you planted in Peter’s desk with the one on the envelope of the greeting card you’d sent your aunt, Mrs. Stanton,” said Layton. “Along with the painting, that sealed your guilt.”

  “An architect’s sharp eye,” replied Phipps with genuine admiration.

  With tiny, barely noticeable steps, Layton had reached the paint cart. Idly, he picked up a jar of paint and turned it back and forth in his hands.

  “You had some nerve,” Layton said coolly. “Hiding the bodies in plain sight, so to speak.”

  “Oh, not really. Construction sites are most convenient places to hide bodies, if you have the architectural know-how. You could have done the same thing.”

  “I suppose Beverly tried to blackmail you about the rivets?” Layton cocked an eyebrow.

  “He did indeed, so that blackguard needed to be taught a lesson,” Phipps said airily. “I was a bit careless about his final resting place.”

  “You made it look like Browne’s wife hanged herself,” Layton said.

  “I regretted that, but she might have been a problem. I couldn’t take the risk. Peter, you see, wasn’t actually in on the collapse, but he suspected Reville. After the accident, he began asking lots of questions about the structural design… Most inconvenient. I pretended to be a prospective client to lure him to the West End, where they were finishing up the Queen’s. I didn’t want to kill the poor thing when I snuffed Peter, so I let her live. Then you started poking around, and I had no choice. What if his wife had known something? Put yourself in my position, old man.”

  “I can’t,” Layton said flatly. Alice’s pretty, innocent face flashed before his eyes—shadowed by the horrible, swollen face of her corpse. “I can’t imagine doing that.”

  Phipps just shrugged his shoulders. “In a way, you’re responsible for the poor woman’s death.”

  Layton set down the jar of paint.

  “You know the really unfair thing about this whole affair?” Phipps was pacing back and forth now like Sherlock Holmes, just as he’d done in Layton’s digs, only he’d turned out to be the evil Moriarty. “I most enjoyed your friendship, Doug. You’re witty, charming, and you’ve a ripping sense of humor. I still burst out laughing whenever I recall some of your jokes, especially the one about the whore and the Irishman. We had many a good architectural talk too. ’Tis the God’s own truth: I’m going to be very sorry for having to kill you.”

  “And I wager tuppence to a pound,” said Layton, keeping his hand on the cart, “that after you kill me, you’re going to kill Cissie too.”

  “Of course, of course.” Phipps waved his hand casually. “She knows too much—and she’s hardly one to keep quiet. When you both disappear, people will assume you’ve eloped. Very romantic indeed. I plan to send the theatre postcards from Blackpool, where you’ll be honeymooning, as the Americans say.”

  With the utmost care, Layton placed his hand on the knife on the cart. The jars of paint in front of it blocked Phipps’s view of it. He stared into Phipps’s face and thought how fascinating it was that such incredible evil could reside in the handsome exterior of such a truly talented man.

  “And to prove I’m not a total shit, I won’t kill your father. He’s a topping fellow, plus he probably has just a few weeks to live.”

  Layton blinked at this last remark, and in the next instant, there was a revolver in Phipps’s hand. This late at night, no one would hear the shot. Layton picked up the knife from the cart. He wasn’t scared in the least, he realized. In fact, a surge of energy had shot through his body, electrifying his limbs.

  Phipps smiled, began to raise his gun—and froze suddenly, in midmotion. His eyes bulged; his face drained of color; his mouth gaped.

  Layton’s gaze moved down the man’s face to his throat and the protruding, blackish-looking shape where Phipps’s Adam’s apple should be. Blood trickled down his neck. With the gun still clenched in his hand, Tom Phipps fell face forward onto the floor, landing with a dull thump. Extending from the back of his neck was a familiar long, brown-colored stick.

  Layton heard the clomp of footsteps and looked up to see Mangogo, in his greatcoat and hobnail winter boots. Instead of his usual toothy smile, the Pygmy was frowning. He grabb
ed hold of the spear lodged in Phipps’s neck and yanked it out, muttering, “Bloody rotter.”

  52

  “You may kiss the bride.”

  Layton leaned forward and kissed Cissie gently. As his lips touched hers, cheers and applause filled the Queen’s Palace auditorium.

  The newlyweds and the vicar stood in the aisle in front of the stalls, which were filled with close friends and relatives. Helen McCoy was the maid of honor; Mangogo, the best man; Ronald Layton, the ring bearer; and Cyril and Neville, in matching frocks, were the bridesmaids, flanking Cissie and Layton. Sir John Clifton—who, in the end, owed Layton a great deal—had given the bride away.

  Cissie had insisted on a Christmas wedding at the Queen’s Palace. “Everybody gets married in a church or registry office,” she’d told Layton fiercely. “No one gets married in a palace like this. Let’s do it up right, luv.”

  Now, with his arm around Cissie’s waist, Layton raised his hand and called out, “Please, join us at our new home for a Christmas Day celebration.”

  “On your bikes, you Champagne Charlies,” Cissie cried to resounding cheers.

  The house orchestra in the pit struck up a wedding march. Layton’s father, still healthy enough to attend; his brother; Cissie’s mother, who’d worried her daughter would never marry again, and sister, Daisy; Nanny Hawkins, Reggie Ash, Daniel Harker, Wilding the stage manager, Tommy Donovan, Luigi, and the MacMillan circuit’s many other artistes applauded the couple as they raced up the center aisle. When they reached the grand entry foyer, Simon Blaine, the stage doorman, greeted them and flung open the double doors.

  How much had changed in a year since he walked into the Grand back in Nottingham! Layton thought, almost overwhelmed with joy. He remembered how terrified he’d been—to be back in a music hall, to be recognized as the Butcher of the West End. After five years in prison, he’d thought his life was over. All that seemed to await him was a bottle.

  But from the instant he’d stepped foot into this fascinating make-believe world, his life had been transformed. Reuniting with his son, finding a wife, discovering an old friend, making the oddest of new friends, and—most importantly—clearing his name. The impossible had happened. He’d gotten his life back. He was Douglas Layton again, and he was happy.

  At the curb, a shiny, forest-green Oldsmobile awaited. Before Layton and Cissie boarded the motor, the wedding party posed for photos in front of the theatre’s ornate wood-and-glass doors. Then, per London custom, bystanders on the street cheered as the newlyweds drove off.

  • • •

  The Christmas tree in the bay window of the new house in Kensington looked splendid. Instead of real candles, the new miniature electric lights were fastened to its branches, along with wooden angels and a very jolly ornament of Father Christmas to top it off. In the fireplace, the traditional Yule log burned merrily. People stood about the large parlor, drinking glasses of champagne, brandy, eggnog, rum, and stout, talking and laughing. His brother, Roger, was having a chat with Cyril and Neville. Mangogo, in a formal cutaway jacket, was laughing with Reggie Ash. And Ronnie was darting around, showing everyone his new cricket bat.

  Because the wedding ceremony had taken place on Christmas morning, Layton’s family had opened their gifts the night before. Seeing his son tear open his gifts again—it was a wonderful feeling. And Cissie’s joy had almost equaled the boy’s when she opened Layton’s gift: a real ostrich feather boa. She’d actually shrieked with delight.

  Layton had bought her a matching hat adorned with pure-white ostrich feathers; she’d put on both and preened about the parlor for her mother and sister, saying she felt like a real society lady—all fur coat and no knickers.

  For his part, Cissie had surprised him with a real Pathé cinematograph projector, along with a dozen reels of film. When it came to Christmas gifts, Layton realized, if someone truly loved you, they listened carefully in the months before the holiday to find out what one really coveted. How different from the Christmases of his old life!

  While the guests had their drinks, Cissie, dressed in a dark-blue gown with scarlet trim, circulated, showing off her new wedding ring.

  Smiling brightly, Layton approached Nanny Hawkins. He gave her a warm hug and said, “Nanny, thank you so much for convincing Lady Edwina to allow Ronnie to come.”

  “Oh, Mr. Layton, you won’t believe it! Lady Edwina finally stood up to Lord Litton and said Ronnie could see his father anytime. I’m so proud of her, I am. And what could His Lordship say? When it turned out you weren’t responsible for that awful accident, he hadn’t a leg to stand on.” Nanny gave Layton a mischievous smile. “But you know, Lady Edwina would have let the boy see you even if your name hadn’t been cleared. She knows a boy needs a father.”

  It was worth it, Layton thought jubilantly. Clearing his name had been difficult, convincing Inspector Jenkins and Scotland Yard to believe his fantastic story about Phipps wanting to destroy a rival architect. But after exhuming Reville’s body from the Grand, finding a fingertip bone of Browne’s that Phipps had overlooked, explaining what had happened to Beverly, the rivet fabricator, and Alice Browne, and revealing the truth about Trevor Stanton’s inheritance, Jenkins and Sir Edgar Montague had slowly come around.

  In the end, it was Phipps’s attempt on Layton’s life that night at the Queen’s that sealed matters. For there was a witness: Mangogo. Between his still imperfect English and Professor Evans, who translated the harder descriptive phrases, the police got the whole story. At first, Scotland Yard tried to dismiss him entirely as an ignorant savage, but the Pygmy was a British subject—and a huge West End variety hall star. His evidence had to be admitted. At last, after enormous public pressure and Scotland Yard’s recommendation, the Crown’s prosecutor, Sir John Chichester, grudgingly announced that Layton had been exonerated and would be granted an official pardon.

  In a matter of days, the true story of the Britannia disaster was a sensation all over the empire, and Mangogo became a national hero. He had saved the life of his dear English friend and restored his good name. Crowds descended upon the Queen’s Palace in a virtual avalanche to see Professor Evans & His Pygmies. When Mangogo came onstage, the audience went wild and wouldn’t stop cheering. Cissie, forever beholden to the African for saving Layton’s life, was also delighted at the big business he brought in and moved him to the larger Metro theatre for an unprecedented twenty-minute turn. There was even talk of a tour in the United States and Canada.

  The Daily Mail, which had once branded Layton the Butcher of the West End, now praised his courage and perseverance (though they never printed an apology). Layton had shown a true Englishman’s backbone in standing up to the shame and cruelty of his unjust incarceration in Mulcaster. The public admired him, and while they had first demanded he be hanged, they now pestered the Crown to award him damages for wrongful imprisonment. The Telegraph insisted that Layton be given a royal commission as restitution. The press demanded that the Royal Institute of British Architects reinstate him, which they did, issuing a formal apology and damning Phipps as a monster despite his talent. When it was revealed that Layton was the one who had actually discovered the fire inside the wall of the Queen’s, the public admiration increased tenfold.

  Soon, Layton began receiving offers of commissions again. Society friends who had deserted him reappeared, as though nothing had ever happened. Dinner invitations, the truest sign of British social acceptance, began to pour in. Former architect colleagues, such as Derrick Phelps-Jones and Sidney Montfort, greeted Layton in the street as if he’d been on holiday in Scotland. A man appeared at the door of Layton and Cissie’s new house with a message from Layton’s men’s club, the Carlton: Layton had been reinstated, and his dues were waived for a year. But nobody mentioned his imprisonment or said how sorry they were that such a terrible thing had happened to him.

  In a way, Layton wasn’t surprised. As a rule, British soci
ety people ignored distasteful things. The reactions of the friends Layton cared about most, the men and women of the variety theatre, was what mattered to him. He had worried they would hate him for his deception. The Butcher of the West End working alongside them, pretending to be Frank Owen? Would they feel angry and betrayed?

  But he needn’t have worried. From the stage doorman up to the theatre manager, all were happy for him. They admired his pluck and smarts. And most of all, the artistes and stagehands liked the fact that a gentleman had become one of them. His hard work and talent for painting the cloths had placed him in high esteem; Layton was considered a good bloke who liked a laugh and a pint. He was already a hero to them because he had saved the theatre from burning down. More selfishly, they all secretly hoped a decent man like him could somehow expose a softer side of Cissie, making life easier for everyone. (Layton would have laughed at such a notion.)

  If his variety friends were angry about anything, it was that they had to learn to call him Douglas instead of Frank.

  “Couldn’t we just keep calling you Frank, ducks? I hate to learn new things,” complained Neville. “Just go to court and have your name legally changed to Owen.”

  The party was in full swing when Cissie made her announcement.

  “All right, you all,” she shouted. “If you’re not too sozzled, let’s eat!”

  She pulled apart the sliding doors that separated the parlor from the dining room, revealing a long table set with blue-and-white bone china and piled with platters of food. An “ooh” went up from the gathered guests, much like the awed cries of a theatre audience when an acrobat did a difficult trick. But they paused a moment before entering to let Layton and Cissie precede them into the room.

  “Are you ready for our Christmas feast, Mrs. Layton?” Layton asked, quirking an eyebrow at his wife.

  “Lead the way, Mr. Layton,” said Cissie, taking her husband’s arm.

  A lavish midday meal of roast goose with currants, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and brussels sprouts followed. Next to each plate was a Christmas cracker, a paper-covered tube whose end tabs, when pulled, produced a loud crack. Inside was a paper hat and a slip of paper printed with a riddle. Each person read his or hers out, to the glee of the crowd.