As Layton walked the short distance to Wragby, he fumbled about inside his trouser pockets. Among the coins, he felt a house key. A deep sense of gloom descended upon him as he stared at it.
The key to his house. His beloved house, designed so lovingly for his family. Every square inch calibrated to his personal satisfaction.
The wonderful thing about an architect designing his own home was that he didn’t have to answer to anyone. Usually, he had to get the client’s approval for every aspect of his design. Was this window style all right? Was the shape of the roof to their liking? They were paying for it, after all; they had the right. But when he built his own house, the architect had only to please himself. Every idea could be tried. The smallest detail could be included. No one could order him about. And his house in West Surrey had been the house of his dreams.
Layton remembered the wonderful day it was finished, standing before it with Edwina and Ronald. The rooms were spacious; the ceilings, high. The windows looked out onto a gorgeous garden designed by Daphne Scott-Thomas, the greatest gardener in England. Layton had enjoyed his home for only two years, but they had been wonderful, especially the Christmas celebrations with his boy. And Edwina’s garden parties were some of the most popular society events of the summer season. In 1899, Country Life Illustrated even wrote a long article about one of them, including many photos of the house, which led to some new commissions. Layton never tired of compliments on his design, especially from fellow architects; that praise meant the most to him. He had even won an award from the Royal Institute of British Architects. The framed and engraved certificate was no doubt moldering away now in some Surrey trash heap.
In his tiny shared cell in Mulcaster, Layton used to close his eyes and transport himself to the house. In his mind, he walked through its great rooms and garden. He experienced every square foot—the stonework, the paneling, the oak plank floors, the high ceilings. It helped keep his sanity intact during those long five years.
Now the house belonged to someone else. Convicted felons in England gave up their right to property. When the house became part of the divorce settlement with Edwina, there was nothing he could do. Layton’s only satisfaction was that the money from the sale would eventually go to Ronald. His son had loved the house, especially when running through its wide, long halls, dragging a length of string that his orange-striped cat, Leo, chased after. He hoped that when Edwina left with the boy, she took Leo with them. It always gave Layton a warm feeling at night to see the cat snuggled in the covers, asleep with Ronald.
To his right, a stream paralleled the road before meandering off into the fields. Layton walked down the bank to its edge. He looked at the brass key once more, then threw it into the slow-flowing stream with a flick of his wrist. It made a faint kerplunk sound when it hit the surface. For a moment, Layton stared at the spot where it had sunk. Then he continued on his way.
About fifteen minutes later, the spires of a square, neo-Gothic church tower appeared over the tops of the trees in the distance. He was almost to Wragby. All market towns in the English countryside had at least one church, which towered over the small cluster of buildings below.
Taking shelter behind a huge tree some ten yards off the road, Layton began an accounting of his capital. Damned lucky, he thought, that he’d forgotten to empty his pockets before he entered prison. The fifty-eight pounds and five shillings made up every last cent he had in the world. This, for a man who’d earned at least five thousand per annum for the past six years. It was what an underbutler on a country estate would make in a year. He knew it would not last long.
Pocketing the cash, Layton walked back to the road. There were more people out now. He saw a couple driving a horse cart, a man on a bicycle. Once in town, he leisurely strolled past the shops, then stood in the doorway of a butcher and watched with great curiosity as the villagers passed by. He hadn’t seen ordinary people in five years. A man in brown tweeds and a derby, a woman in a green dress with a scarlet shawl, an old man doddering along on a cane—each had a story, a life full of complications, happiness, and disappointment. What had their lives been like during the time he was in prison? Layton wondered. His jaw tightened. No matter how terrible their sadness and suffering, they had had their freedom. They could come and go as they pleased.
From the right, two young girls came skipping across the road. Of perhaps ten or twelve years in age, they were laughing and chattering away. One had shoulder-length chestnut hair; the other was blond, her locks tied with red ribbons. The second Layton laid eyes on them, his mind snapped like a light switch to the night of the disaster. He saw anew the limp body of a young girl being carried out of the theatre, her long hair hanging over the edge of the canvas stretcher. Perhaps the daughter of the woman outside the prison. A sick feeling swept over Layton; he clasped the corner of the storefront till his knuckles went white. Behind the stone walls of Mulcaster Prison, he had been cut off from the real world. Though the disaster haunted him, there were no sudden jolting reminders of the death he had caused. He turned his head as the girls passed, hoping it would lessen the pain. It didn’t.
Layton sat on a bench outside the shop, breathing heavily, his head bent to the stone sidewalk. Directly across the road was a pub called the Yellow Dog, and he made his way to it. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the village pub was crowded with people laughing, joking, and enjoying themselves. When he’d entered the pub, he’d feared everyone would recognize him, that a hush would descend upon the rowdy room. But not a single person noticed. He took his pint to the farthest corner anyway, claiming a small table well out of view. At any moment, he felt, someone’s eyes might lock on him, a flicker of recognition might spark. He could hear the whispers now: “Blimey, isn’t that Layton, the Butcher of the West End?” People would stare in disbelief, then attack him with fists and bottles.
But somehow, after four hours in the pub, nothing happened. The stout tasted wonderful. Layton ordered pint after pint, prompting the barmaid, who had seen her share of drinking, to comment that he was making the Guinness family even richer today. In prison, he’d forgotten a chief attribute of alcohol: it dulled the mind, made you forget your troubles and feel happy. There were times in Mulcaster when he’d wished he could tear off the top of his skull, reach in with his hands, and rip out the horrible memories. Now, thankfully, he had alcohol to rid him of the torment.
Layton kept drinking and drinking. Each swallow made it easier to forget. At closing time, the publican shoved his near-unconscious body into the street. Totally plastered, he staggered through the streets until he found the railway station, then passed out in a doorway of a grocer directly across the road. He didn’t know that a man who had followed him from the pub was standing over him. The burly man backed away, then took a running start and swung his black, hobnailed boot into Layton’s stomach.