“Mr. Owen, I’m sure you can see the difference between Felicity and Molly.”
Layton couldn’t. Both of the seals looked exactly the same.
“Yes, they’re quite different,” he lied, doing a quick sketch of Molly, who lay placidly before a blank cloth in the scene shop of the Queen’s Palace. He petted her back, and she barked appreciatively. Seals had such soft fur; he could see why people wanted sealskin coats. But he’d never say that to their master, Olly Olsen. It’d be insulting.
“Molly will be on the left,” Olsen instructed. “And Felicity on the right. Each must be bouncing a ball off her nose, and the ball has to be red, orange, and purple, to match the real one. For the background, the wild, rocky Cornish coast. Each girl on her own rock. And they have to be smiling.”
“Righty-o,” Layton said easily.
“We feel heaps better that you’re doing our cloth, Mr. Owen,” said Olsen, putting his arm around Felicity, who gave out a low grunt. “You’re a real artist.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Olsen. I’ll get right to it.”
The words came easily, but Layton’s mind was a billion miles away. He’d spent the previous night thrashing about in bed, trying to determine who could have done this to him. The five years in prison, the loss of his family and his livelihood—none of that was the worst of it. No, it was the constant torment and shame, the daily agony of guilt at having killed and maimed all those people.
The irony hit Layton as he sketched out the two seals in charcoal; he felt the corner of his lip twist in a wry smile. He’d been so distraught over the discovery that he hadn’t had a single drink today. The revelation had taken that monkey off his back—for now. Again and again, the question pounded through his mind: What kind of monster could do this?
Peter and Reville had definitely supplied the technical expertise; of that, Layton was sure. They’d had the knowledge to carry off the collapse.
He sketched a typical balcony truss on the canvas cloth, stared at it for a long moment. Only the front, cantilevered section of the Britannia balcony had failed. There, the trusses sat on a curving, four-foot-deep girder that spanned between the auditorium walls. He drew it in. The tampering must have occurred between the girder and the end of the balcony truss.
Structural failures were the architect’s and engineer’s worst nightmare, and over the years, there had been plenty in Britain. But by pure luck, many had happened at night, when the buildings were empty, like the Ripton train shed failure, which had occurred at two o’clock in the morning.
Ralph Sims, one of the theatre’s scenic artists, was approaching. With the sleeve of his smock, Layton wiped out the truss sketch. He had another cloth to do for the tumbling act, and he threw himself into the work, hoping it would take his mind off the problem. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
A few hours later, as he was putting the finishing touches on the seals’ rocks, he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder.
“Blimey, I called your name three times, and you took no notice. You must love painting seals.” Cissie stood behind him, hands on her hips, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m sorry,” Layton said weakly. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I sure as hell know that. Looks like you’re all finished. It’s nine o’clock. Let’s knock off for the night.”
Instead of going to a restaurant, they went back to Layton’s hotel, near Oxford Circus. Layton went up to his room alone; Cissie slipped in ten minutes later. Even though she was naughty, she said with a wink, she was still a lady. Layton ordered room service, and they had their evening meal of bangers and mash in front of a roaring fire. A good Englishman eats breakfast three times a day, Cissie told him. Layton tried to be of good cheer, but he knew he seemed preoccupied. Cissie also seemed distracted; maybe, Layton thought, the new contract hadn’t worked out as she had hoped.
By eleven, they were in bed, but Cissie said she couldn’t make love because her monthly visitor had arrived early. He didn’t mind, for he just loved the warmth of her body next to his, and he took in her scent as he drifted off into sleep.
• • •
At first, Layton thought the sobbing and sniffling was part of a dream. Then he felt a drop of moisture on his face. As he struggled back to wakefulness, he felt something heavy pressing on his chest—and something sharp against the side of his neck.
He was more bewildered than frightened. He opened his eyes, took in the bluish-black darkness of the hotel room. A dark shape sat atop his chest. Again, there was the sound of sobbing. His eyes widened in horror: it was Cissie, sitting astride him, fully clothed—and holding a straightedge razor to the soft skin of his neck.
“Damn you,” she whimpered. “I don’t want to do this. But I have to.”
“Cissie!”
“My husband was in the Britannia that night, Douglas Layton.” The words seemed to flow out of Cissie like a river, long dammed, that had burst its banks. “Johnnie was a comedian, and a bit of a bastard, really, and he always had a bit on the side. Still, I loved him. We had many a laugh and a cuddle. After he died, there was nothing but sadness and loneliness inside me. Until you came into my life. I was so happy. You made me want to live again—and then you turned out to be the man who murdered my husband.”
With the razor at his jugular, Layton lay completely still. He could not speak.
“When you came into Black’s office that morning, I knew something was off. A gentleman, wanting to be a scene painter? I did a little checking, but I came up empty. And you turned out to be such a nice, good-looking bloke, even if you were a specky four-eyes. I took a fancy to you right off. But…I had my doubts. For someone who’d hardly been in the theatre, you knew a lot of technical things. I told myself you were just a clever boots. And your gold cigarette case wasn’t something a Dorset country lad would have.”
“Please,” Layton rasped out. “Listen to me, Cissie.”
But she continued, undaunted. “Just a few days ago, I was cleaning out my mum’s attic. I’d kept a box of newspapers from the time of the trial. There on the front of an old copy of the Daily Mail was a picture of you. My heart was broken, Frank—or should I say Douglas?”
Cissie wiped her eyes with her free hand and sniffled. She bent closer to Layton’s face, until he could feel her warm breath. Her next words were a muffled shriek.
“Five years ago, I told myself I’d kill you if I ever met you. I was going to cut your throat while you slept. The police would think it a robbery. But now I don’t know if I can do it.” She began weeping uncontrollably.
“If you put down the razor,” Layton said in a frantic whisper, “we can sit and talk. I have something important to tell you.”
“You made me so happy, Frank. But Johnnie was my husband—and all those poor people you killed! Some of them were just children,” she whimpered.
“Someone else caused the balcony to collapse,” Layton said. His voice was louder now and preternaturally calm.
“You’re a bloody liar,” Cissie snapped. “You didn’t say that at your trial.”
“It wasn’t until yesterday that I knew I’d been framed for the disaster.” Layton sat up just slightly, feeling the blade pressing against his throat. “Look, the condemned is always allowed a last request. Please, let me show you something.”
• • •
Cissie reached the bottom of the stepladder in the cupola and looked directly into Layton’s face. Her eyes were on fire, burning with anger.
“We’re going to kill the person who did this to us.”
Without a trace of emotion on his face, Layton nodded.