In prison, Layton had been surprised to discover that no one asked about the crimes an inmate had committed. It was a man’s own business. If he wanted to talk about it, that was fine, but a person was never asked. This came as a great relief to him, as he’d been convicted of killing fourteen people and injuring scores more.
He was scared to death in his first days, sure he’d be beaten or killed. But nothing happened. Murderers, rapists, thieves, extortionists, pedophiles—in Mulcaster, no one seemed to care. It wasn’t as if his fellow inmates didn’t know who he was. His name and photograph had run in newspapers around the globe for months, beneath lurid headlines about the Britannia Empire Theatre disaster. It was all people talked about. But to the other prisoners, it wasn’t a “regular” murder. Not like knifing a fellow in a pub fight or shooting your wife and her lover in bed. This had just been an accident. Most of the men with whom he’d served his time didn’t understand why he’d been convicted.
But Layton did. Day after day in courtroom five of the Old Bailey, the prosecution had accused him of being an incompetent architect, of incorrectly designing the steel trusses that had supported the Britannia’s balconies. Through his carelessness, those fourteen people, including two children, had been crushed to death. Among the many injured, twelve had lost arms or legs. One man’s skull was so fractured that he never recovered; the accident left him with the mind of a five-year-old. The severity of their injuries meant many could no longer earn a living.
Sir John Chichester, the chief prosecutor, described every injury in gruesome detail, showing photos of bodies so mangled that some jury members were sickened; one actually fled the courtroom to throw up. Witness after witness described that terrible night, the joy of experiencing opening night at the theatre turned in a millisecond to tragedy. Some wore stoic expressions. Some cried when they described the feeling of falling, of smashing into the floor and screaming desperately for help.
A man named Sheffield broke down when he described his son, Clive, a talented footballer who’d lost his leg. Jimmy Doyle, the music hall star, took the box and, with tears in his eyes, described the carnage he’d seen from the stage.
Layton’s barrister withered under the assault. By the second day, he’d all but given up. On the witness stand, Layton tried to tell the court that the cantilevered balcony trusses had been designed correctly, with a safety factor two and a half times stronger than what was needed. As an architect, he explained passionately, safety was an essential feature of his designs. The Victoria Hall disaster in 1883, where 183 panicked children were trampled to death while trying to get down to the stage for free toys given out after the performance, had shocked the British public. In its wake, the London County Council enacted strict new building codes. Layton made the Britannia’s hallways and stairs wider than required, allowing the audience at every level to exit in a speedy, orderly manner at the first sign of danger. He used a newly invented “panic door,” which couldn’t be locked from the inside. Mindful of the horrible fire at the Exeter Theatre Royal—186 people dead in 1887—he used newly available asbestos fabric to fireproof the great theatre curtain.
No one believed him. He couldn’t prove that Shaw Construction Ltd., the general contractor, had erected the steelwork incorrectly; upon examination, the surviving trusses passed muster, and the steel fabricator swore that everything had been manufactured to exact specifications. Layton was vilified in the press, called the greatest murderer in British history. The Butcher of the West End. The newspapers made it seem as if the entire horseshoe-shaped first balcony had collapsed when, in reality, only a front section fifteen feet in width had failed.
The architect passed the ten-day trial in a dazed, dreamlike state. By the end, he believed himself guilty. Somehow, he was responsible for the death and destruction that night. He, and no one else. One of England’s best architects had become a mass murderer.
Like the woman on the road, many Britons were outraged when Layton received only five years’ hard labor. A man stealing sixpence from a tobacconist shop got put away for five years too. The papers howled for weeks. It was because Layton was a gentleman with friends in high places, they claimed. He should have been hanged.
But they didn’t understand. The punishment wasn’t just five years. It was daily torment for the rest of Layton’s life. A day didn’t pass when thoughts of the Britannia didn’t crush him to earth, like a huge boulder dropping out of the sky. Visions of the two dead children were an especial torment; again and again, he saw their smashed bodies being carried out of the theatre. He agreed with the woman on the road. If only they had hanged him!
The day before his transfer from London to Mulcaster, Layton had tried to kill himself. In his cell, he cut strips of cloth from the underside of his musty mattress and formed them into a noose. Only the thought of his wife, Edwina, and his son, Ronald, stayed his hand. When they vanished from his life after only six months, the thoughts of suicide returned. But each time Layton was on the verge of carrying it out, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. As far-fetched as it seemed, he believed it was still possible to hold his son in his arms again. Losing his wife, whom he loved with all his heart, was a terrible blow, but the loss of Ronald was almost as crushing as the guilt over the disaster. He thought of him constantly, but the one unforgettable memory of his son was seeing him run through a field of red poppies one summer at their home in Surrey. Barely taller than the flowers, Ronald crashed through them with joy. Layton ran that one image through his mind thousands of times in prison. It never failed to bring a smile to his face, maybe the only time he did manage a smile in Mulcaster. He knew he was probably fooling himself about seeing his son again, but that was what they called hope, and it had prevented him from killing himself at least half a dozen times. Hope was what kept a man alive in life, and especially in prison. When his prison term drew to a close, Layton thought of committing suicide upon release. He had no family, friends, or profession. A dark, terrifying void awaited him. Why go on? But again, the thought of seeing Ronald kept him going, irrational as it seemed.
Layton walked slowly along the gravel road, looking at the farm fields that ran along both sides toward the horizon. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the corn muffin he had smuggled out from his last prison breakfast this morning. Climbing over a low rubble wall, Layton found a place to sit under an elm tree. It was a sheer delight to sit on the grass and savor the muffin, chewing slowly, holding the flavorful crumbs on the tongue. After being in prison, the simplest of pleasures were wonderful. More than that, it was the feeling of being in an open field all by himself. There was no such thing as privacy in prison. One was constantly surrounded and watched by others, stuck in a six-by-eight-foot cell with another human.
Finishing the muffin, Layton lay flat on his back and gazed up into the bright-blue morning sky. A few wispy clouds drifted by. He closed his eyes, took long, deep breaths, and exhaled slowly. When some twenty minutes had passed, Layton rose, made his way back to the road, and started walking west. Except for a passing farmworker with a rake on his shoulder, he had the road to himself. At an intersection of the road was a weathered sign that read WRAGBY—5 MILES. This town may have a railway station, he thought.
Only when he heard a faint sound in the distance did his head lift up. The murmuring roar was like the growling of an animal. It increased in volume; curiosity won out, and he turned.
On the horizon line in the middle of the road, a small, squat object was coming toward him. Layton stood, mesmerized. At about two hundred yards, he recognized the source of the noise and smiled. It was a horseless carriage. In 1900, when he’d been sent to prison, they had still been extremely rare, more likely to be seen in France or Germany than in England. Although he’d seen pictures, he had never encountered one in person or known anybody who owned one. Not even his rich clients had such a thing. Besides terrifying horses, they were said to be very unreliable. Often, in an ironic twist, horses had to tow a broken-down horseless carriage to a mechanic.
But now, standing at the side of the road, he could see the oncoming vehicle roaring along without trouble, its engine humming steadily. Layton loved anything mechanical, and the machine hurtling down the road fascinated him. It was bright red; its thick rubber wheels had matching red spokes and no top. The driver wore goggles and a long, tan coat and was holding on to the thick wooden wheel with gloved hands. At the front of the carriage were two shiny brass headlights; a sculpted metal ornament was situated atop the engine.
As the machine drove past, the driver twisted his head at Layton and slowed to a stop.
Layton trotted over.
“Hello there. Need a lift, old chap?” the man shouted over the roar of the engine.
Layton nodded.
The driver opened the side door.
“Jolly good of you to stop,” shouted Layton.
“Glad to help,” said the driver, his eyes fixed on the road.
“This is quite a machine,” Layton shouted as they took off.
“It’s a Darracq Flying Fifteen from France. Runs like a top.”
The feeling of the rushing wind exhilarated Layton. They must have been traveling at least thirty miles an hour! The countryside flew by in a blur; he felt an unfamiliar smile crease his face.
“Motoring’s my passion, but you have to watch out these days. Constables are setting speed traps, fining you a quid for going too fast.” The driver snorted. “Can you believe that nonsense?”
“It’s bloody amazing. These things will put the horses out to pasture,” Layton yelled over the roar of the engine.
“I hope so. Be far less shit and piss on the roads!”
“Any English cars?”
“I hear a fellow named Rolls is coming out with one.”
“We live in remarkable times,” said Layton, touching the metalwork of the vehicle.
“Yes. Soon, we’ll be flying these things in the air.” The driver saw Layton’s look of disbelief and laughed. “’S true! Two American brothers have created a glider with an engine! It can stay up in the air for a good long time. Before you know it, we’ll all be flying about like birds.”
In prison, Layton had been entirely cut off from the world. Such isolation was part of his punishment; it was as if he’d lived on one of Jupiter’s moons. Martians, like those in H. G. Wells’s War of the Worlds, could have conquered Earth, and he’d have been the last to know. To think, flying machines had been invented! What else had he missed?
“So you’ve never heard of the Wright brothers?” the man asked.
“No,” Layton said and hesitated. “I’ve been away for a bit.”
The driver glanced over at him. Even with his clothes hidden beneath his motoring outfit, Layton could tell he was an English gentleman, born and bred. He would be far too polite to ask another gentleman why he was out walking on the road.
“How far are you going?” he asked instead.
“Wragby.”
“I turn off about a mile before.”
“That’s fine. So good of you to give me a lift.”
“Please,” the driver said. “Think nothing of it.”