“The Britannia, the Grand, and the Queen’s are all under the same ownership. The MacMillan Empire circuit is controlled by Sir John Clifton and his partner, Lionel Glenn.” Cissie’s voice as she recited these facts was choked with anger.
Layton stared down into his pint of Guinness. He’d had only a sip; Cissie hadn’t touched her gin and bitters.
They sat quietly at a corner table, amid the din of the Eagle and Hawk on Frist Street.
“Oh, Frank, they destroyed your entire life.” Tears were welling up in Cissie’s clear gray-blue eyes. “They made you the most hated man in the British Empire.”
“Indeed. Probably even the Africans in darkest and deepest Nigeria knew of me,” he said with a wan smile. “The Butcher of the West End.”
“And you never heard from your wife and child? Not in all this time?” She stroked his hand gently, as if to soften the pain of the question.
“Just the divorce papers.” Layton sighed. “It’s strange. They’re likely living in her father’s house in Mayfair, just five minutes from here.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Cissie spoke. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”
“I don’t know, Cissie,” Layton said.
“Yes, one of the owners could have arranged it. That’s a logical place to start looking.”
“They would certainly have the money to bribe Peter and Reville. But why? I don’t know where to begin.” The weariness in his voice surprised Layton; he realized he’d spoken the truth. Though his entire being was filled with rage, trying to find the real killer seemed an impossible task.
“Frank. You don’t mind me calling you Frank instead of Douglas?”
Layton shook his head.
Cissie’s voice grew more urgent. “Listen. You must stay the week in London. I can fix it so that you work at the scene shop at the theatre.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to a house party in the country this weekend, luv.” Cissie’s smile was bright and false. “The Duke of Denton is one of the largest investors in the syndicate. Every September, he invites Clifton and Glenn to his estate in Wiltshire. He loves the variety theatre, so he also invites a few artistes to entertain his guests. I’m management, so I always get an invitation—and I can bring a guest. They don’t care if it’s a man; they think all variety hall people are immoral.”
Layton nodded slowly, mulling it over in his mind. Variety hall entertainment had been big business since the 1890s. The theatre chains owned more than a thousand theatres in every city, town, and suburb of Great Britain. From his experience designing the Britannia, Layton knew that the syndicate businessmen had even lured the peerage into investing in variety halls. With more and more upper- and middle-class people attending shows, the variety theatre had become socially respectable. And it was far more exciting than investing in a railway bond.
“Yes,” he said slowly, a determined look on his face. “That would be the place to begin. The murderer could be in the very house with us.”
“You’ll need to rent some evening clothes,” Cissie cautioned. “It’s a swank event.”
“I’ll need clothes anyway for a weekend in the country. A three-piece tweed suit, a cap, and some…” Layton got the cold shivers; his body trembled in his chair.
“What’s wrong, luv?” Cissie asked, eyes widening.
“If the MacMillan Empire management are guests this weekend, won’t Basil Dearden be there? He was the theatre manager for the Britannia. I worked closely with him on the design. He’s the only one from the circuit I had contact with, but he’s sure to recognize me.”
“Oh, no, luv, you don’t have to worry about that. Basil died two years back. They—”
Cissie and Layton looked at each other with startled expressions.
“They found him lying dead on the floor of his house in Bayswater,” Cissie said in a low voice, her eyes wide with fear. “Natural causes, they said it was. Came as a shock to everyone. He was only thirty-four.”
• • •
As an architect, Layton had been to many weekends in the country hosted by clients and friends of Edwina and her father. Thankfully, he’d never been to Eversham, the ancestral home of the Duke of Denton. But he knew where the long, tree-lined drive of the estate led, and he knew exactly what was about to happen. All country weekends of the peerage and gentry were the same.
The official London season, the social scene of fancy dress balls, opera, and sporting events, began in May and ended in August, after the regatta at Cowes. Then came the country house season, with its house parties, hunting, fishing, banquets, and balls, which lasted until winter. The English social elite loved the country; the invention of the motorcar and the improvement of Britain’s roads made the country houses more accessible and thus even more popular.
Eversham appeared in the distance, artfully framed by a canopy of oaks. It was a well-designed entry to the estate, thought Layton, and he should know; he’d designed a few himself. The house was an enormous Palladian composition, on the same scale as Blenheim Palace, with a temple-fronted center section symmetrically flanked by curving wings. The late-afternoon sunlight made its sandstone exterior glow like gold.
Their motorcar crunched along the pea gravel of the circular entry court. Up ahead, Layton could see the arriving guests, all dressed in the required tweeds. George Formby, also known as Bimba Bamba, was walking up the wide stone steps to the door. That meant there would be magic tricks tonight. Dainty Amy, who followed behind him, was in her country lady’s outfit of an olive tweed skirt and a brown tweed jacket. At a rakish angle on her head was a burgundy-colored cap with a long feather attached. Cissie told him that Laughing Luigi, the Italian Juggler, the comic Timmy Donovan, and a few singing acts had also been invited.
The butler, the highest-ranking servant, greeted each guest as they got out of their motorcar. Standing next to the rotund, gray-haired man was an exceptionally tall, sandy-haired young man, whom Layton knew must be the first footman. Every estate wanted a tall first footman; it was an upper-class sign of prestige. The taller he was, the higher his salary. A man over six feet could get ten pounds more a year than one under.
“Welcome, Mrs. Mapes,” said the butler in a strong, stentorian voice.
“Good to see you again, Wilcox,” Cissie chirped. “You get handsomer every year.”
“I always look forward to your weekend visit, ma’am. Phillip will show you to your rooms. Drinks in the Chinese drawing room at seven, and His Grace said to inform you that we’ll be dressing for dinner this evening.”
They were taken through the great entry hall to the east wing and down a long, red-carpeted corridor lined with paintings and sculpture. Layton and Cissie had adjoining rooms, which was typical; country house arrangements were very understanding of nocturnal trysts. No one cared if you cheated on your spouse, as long you were discreet.
When they entered the Chinese drawing room—so-called because of its red-and-black-lacquer decor—many guests had already arrived and begun imbibing “cocktails.” This new American trend combined alcohol with sugar, mixers, and bitters to produce drinks with odd names. Before Layton’s time in prison, the drinks at these social events had been limited to sherry and brandy.
As requested, all the men were in the exact same evening attire with white tie, shirt, and waistcoat. The women, including Cissie, were dressed to the nines in gowns of a great variety of colors and materials.
At the grand piano, Angus McLean, the handsome Scottish tenor, was softly singing a ballad to a group of admiring young women. Across the room, comedian Timmy Donovan was regaling a group of toffs by the massive, ebony-faced fireplace.
“A widow’s lookin’ to hire a handyman. So she says to the applicant, ‘I want a man to do odd jobs about the house and run errands, one that never answers back and is always ready to do my bidding.’ The applicant says, ‘What you’re looking for, ma’am, is a husband.’”
The upper-class guests roared with laughter. Donovan swilled down his drink, one of many, Layton knew from experience with him in a pub, that he would be having tonight.
“It must be so exciting, Mr. Donovan. Being up onstage, holding the audience in the palm of your hand.” The society lady who spoke wore a bright-yellow gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. The light from the chandelier reflected off her diamond necklace in bursts like little twinkling stars.
“Call me Timmy. And you’re right, m’lady. Being onstage was the only thing I could do. I wasn’t any damn good in school, especially spelling. But so what if I can’t spell Armageddon? Hell, it’s not the end of the world.”
Another wave of laughter convulsed the Chinese drawing room.
This was an unusual country weekend, Layton thought. Because the guests were all variety-hall performers, they were interesting. Most of the time, these events were excruciatingly boring; as he had discovered, the rich were incredibly dull. More times than he could count, he’d wished for a country dance back in Dorset, with all its fun and gaiety. The higher one went up the class ladder, Layton had learned, the less fun one had.
Wilcox was behind the drink cart, and he concocted them something called a pirate. Layton thought it quite good. More guests entered. The paunchy, cigar-smoking, middle-aged men were probably theatre managers for the other variety houses in the circuit; Oswald Black of the Grand was among them, laughing and chatting.
Luigi, the handsome juggler, was talking to a beautiful young woman. Though he was married with three children in Manchester, he used his native Italian charm and accent to great advantage with the ladies in every city he played.
“These cold-climate Englishmen are afraid to show sentiment,” he was saying earnestly to the girl. “Only men from a southern climate know what pleases a woman.” From the look in the girl’s eyes, Layton knew he would be visiting her room tonight.
The Duke and Duchess of Denton finally entered and began enthusiastically greeting their guests. The duke was an imposing man in his fifties with swept-back gray hair, the very model of an aristocrat. His wife, though older, was still a great beauty; she wore a magnificent scarlet-and-green gown.
From his marriage to Edwina and his commissions for the aristocracy, Layton had learned the peerage titles by heart. Dukes, like their host, were the highest, followed by marquess, earl, viscount—like his former father-in-law—and baron, the lowest on the chain. In all families of the peerage and even among the landed gentry, only the oldest surviving male could inherit the family fortune. The duke’s oldest son would get all of Eversham and become the Duke of Denton; his brothers and sisters would be left to fend for themselves.
As Cissie and Layton sipped their drinks and talked to Lady Emerson, who was gushing on about a show at the Lyric Theatre, two men approached. Cissie lit up like an Edison bulb.
“Lady Emerson, have you met my employers, Sir John Clifton and Lionel Glenn?”
“Yes, Mrs. Mapes, we’ve had the pleasure,” said Clifton with a polite bow. “So nice to see you again, Lady Emerson.”
Layton recognized Clifton, a tall man in his forties with a pale, cadaverous face, from a photograph in an Empire program. He looked more like a schoolmaster than someone associated with the entertainment business, much less a managing director of the circuit. It was hard to picture him standing next to magicians and scantily clad female acrobats. Clifton was formal in his manner and speech, like a stiff-backed character out of Dickens, and seemed to lack a sense of humor, making him even more incongruous within the world of variety theatre. He looked quite at home here in his evening dress and pince-nez glasses, walking around the room with a glass of sherry. He didn’t seem the type to prefer a highball; it was far too modern.
“So exciting to have so many entertainers around, Sir John,” said Lady Emerson. “It must be a frightfully interesting life you lead.”
“Not really, m’lady. I run the business end of the theatre circuit, and these are my employees, much like workers in a textile factory whom I have to pay much too much for their services,” replied Clifton in an icy tone. “In business, Lady Emerson, one must deal with unruly workers, and we have unfortunately quite a few.” Clifton looked over at Timmy Donovan knocking down one drink after another, which brought a look of disgust to his sallow face. “But they make the circuit profitable,” he added in a voice of resignation.
Glenn, on the other hand, had a jolly personality that seemed a natural fit for his short, rotund body and plump, kind face. He looked as though he might have been a comedian in his former life. He appeared totally out of character in evening dress. Layton saw him more at home in a green-and-white-checkered suit.
“Ah, m’lady, these artistes are a handful. Like children they are,” bellowed Glenn.
“Sometimes, we wish we could give them all a good caning,” added Cissie, which brought a slight smile to Clifton’s razor-thin lips.
“Sometimes, I think they deserve a worse punishment,” said Clifton, still smiling.
“We’ve an exciting new act that our Cissie discovered—Gregor, a Russian giant who’s nine feet, four inches tall,” said Glenn enthusiastically, waving his big fat cigar around.
As he chattered on, a strikingly handsome boy in his midtwenties escorted by a very pretty blond in a light-blue gown walked up to Clifton, who smiled at them.
“Hello, Georgie,” said Cissie.
“My son, Lady Emerson,” said Clifton proudly. “And his wife, Lady Diana.”
“What a splendid-looking lad,” the woman blurted out. “With your looks, you should be onstage.”
George looked down at his shoes bashfully. His wife beamed.
“That’s what all the girls say about our Georgie,” Cissie said with a laugh. “Before he was married,” she added with a wink at Lady Diana.
Clifton shifted, clearly uncomfortable; Layton could see that no son of his would ever wind up onstage.
“My son took a second in history at Oxford, Lady Emerson,” said Clifton with an air of pride. “George did not join me in the variety business in any capacity.”
While they talked, Layton inched away and melted into the crowd. He didn’t want to risk Clifton and Glenn recognizing him. He stood alone by the fireplace, sipping his drink, observing Clifton and Glenn.
After about ten minutes, Cissie rejoined him.
“They’re an odd lot,” Layton whispered, looking over at the two owners still chatting with Lady Emerson.
“If one of those buggers did do it, you wouldn’t know by the look of them.” Cissie’s whisper was fierce and strong.
“One of the many things I learned in prison,” Layton said slowly, “is that you can’t know what evil a chap is capable of by looking at his face. I’ve seen men with the faces of angels who’ve beaten a fellow to a pulp because it gave them a lark.”
“Why, here’s the lady that makes us wealthier year after year!” The duke, booming and boisterous, approached Cissie, grabbing both her hands.
“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” Cissie said weakly. “Thank you for inviting me. This is my good friend, Frank Owen.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Owen. I hope you shoot. We have plenty of good sport here at Eversham.”
“I do,” Layton said. “And I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“Good show. Start at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. We’ll fit you out with a gun if you didn’t bring one.”
Shooting, Layton knew, was the main event of any country house weekend. He didn’t like the sport but was quite skilled with a gun. One definitely had to shoot to blend in with the upper classes. He’d already been taught to handle a gun by his father. It was an essential skill passed on by generations in Dorset. He remembered fondly tramping through the countryside with his father, hunting rabbits and birds, and the excitement of bagging his first quail. It was one of the very few times he had had his dad all to himself. Though they hunted in complete silence, he had felt very happy just walking alongside him. Layton bowed slightly and shook hands with the duchess, whose eyes barely rested on him.
“Cissie, we must talk later. I want to know what artistes you have lined up for the spring.” The duke spoke in a conspiratorial tone, as if he were requesting top-secret information from the Foreign Office.
What a change had occurred in society, thought Layton. To see a peer welcome variety theatre performers into his home! The duke’s unsnobbish acceptance produced an immediate feeling of affection. Of course, the man might be an anomaly, but before Layton had gone to prison, 99 percent of society had looked down their noses at theatre folk, thinking them common as mud. Did mainstream architects still regard music hall architects as commercial hacks? Layton wondered. The question stirred something in his heart, which he pushed away.
As if sensing his distraction, Cissie took Layton by the arm, kissed his cheek, and led him to a love seat in the far corner. For his part, the duke made his way to the piano, where McLean belted out “The Nipper’s Lullaby” to the delight of the duchess, who was clapping her white-gloved hands. Soon, Luigi the Juggler barged in, singing “Santa Lucia.” As he did, he picked up three large Chinese jade figurines from the fireplace mantel and began juggling them. A look of fear came over the duchess’s face, but Luigi handled them effortlessly, even catching them behind his back. Dainty Amy took an iron poker from the great fireplace and bent it into a U as though it were taffy, then unbent it to return it to its original shape.
The skill of the artistes, how easy they made their tricks look, never ceased to amaze Layton. To him, watching from the wings, these men and women of the theatre seemed superhuman in agility, strength, and concentration. He sometimes wished he had skills akin to theirs and lived in this world of fun. Architecture had been such a damn serious business where fun wasn’t allowed. His former office with its rows of draughtsmen was always dead silent, except for the scratch of inking pens and pencils on paper. Hicks’s office had been the exact same way.
The tall first footman entered the room and whispered something into Wilcox’s ear, which made him light up, smiling. He transmitted the message to the duke, whose face flushed red. Then the duke grinned and nodded to Wilcox, who stood erect as a soldier and announced in a loud, clear voice, “Your Grace, lords, ladies, and gentlemen—His Majesty, the king.”
In strode King Edward VII, sovereign of Great Britain and the British Empire and Emperor of India. He wore evening dress and puffed on a long cigar. Stunned into silence, the guests bowed and curtsied in complete unison.
The king smiled, waved his cigar at them nonchalantly, and gave the duke’s hand a hearty shake. “Sorry I’m late, Harold,” he drawled. “The damn motorcar stalled out. Give me a good horse any day.”
The guests laughed at this jest. Then the king kissed the duchess on the cheek, murmuring that she hadn’t changed since he’d laid eyes on her at Ascot in 1875.
Standing directly behind the king was Alice Keppel, his mistress, and Sir Francis Knollys, his private secretary. Mrs. Keppel, London’s most famous society hostess, was an incredible beauty, all wide blue eyes, chestnut hair, and a magnificent bust that contrasted sharply with her tiny waist. She had been Edward’s lover and confidant since 1898, when he forsook his previous paramour, the Countess of Warwick. Rumor held that he was a much pleasanter “child” since changing mistresses, and Mrs. Keppel’s influence was such that statesmen and politicians tried to talk to her of government matters first.
Before succeeding his mother, Queen Victoria, to the throne in 1901, the king—then the Prince of Wales—had been a well-known attendee of the variety theatre. It was for this, and other reasons, that he was so greatly popular with Britain’s people; he wasn’t a stuffed shirt, and he enjoyed many of the same pursuits as the commoners did: racing, cricket, the music hall. He liked a good song and a hearty laugh.
Now, the king made his way about the room, chatting with the upper-class guests, granting especial favor to the artistes. Luigi renewed his song and juggling, to his ruler’s delight. When McLean’s turn came, he sang a rousing Scottish song—the king, as all in attendance knew, favored his castle, Balmoral, in the Scottish Highlands, and loved anything Scottish. He knew McLean’s song and joined in, horribly off-key.
As the revelry proceeded, a short, bald man with a wide mustache and a Vandyke slipped into the room. Cissie nudged Layton and whispered, “There’s the Israelite.”
“Ernest, what do you know about investing in the variety theatre?” bellowed the king.
“Not your usual investment, Your Majesty,” sniffed the man. “Steel and shipping are more my line.”
Clifton and the Empire investors exchanged quick, disappointed glances.
“Harold said he had a twenty-five-percent return the past year. What do you say?”
Sir Ernest Cassel gave a slight, polite smile. Aside from Mrs. Keppel, he was the king’s closest advisor; under his influence, the king had grown yet richer. As a Prussian-born Jew, his presence in the inner court circle would have been unthinkable even a few decades before. But the king differed from his mother and from Britain’s previous rulers; he wasn’t an anti-Semite and had Jewish friends, as well as many commoners—men whom the aristocracy called lowborn. The king was said to admire those who rose from nothing, like Cassel, who had come to England penniless and was now thought to be the richest man in the empire.
“Talk to Sir John here. He can give you the figures. A lot more fun than putting my money in a coal mine, eh?” The king gave Cassel a wink, nodding toward Sally Everett, the beautiful singer standing to his right. Obligingly, she launched into the American ballad “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.”
When she finished, Wilcox announced, “Dinner is served, my lady.”
The guests separated into two groups, creating a wide path for the king, who took the duchess’s arm to escort her to the dining room. They moved forward, whispering, when the king stopped abruptly, and said, “Why, hello! Where did you and I meet?”
All eyes fell upon Layton, whose face flushed red.
“Was it a cornerstone laying or a building opening of some kind?”
“I don’t believe we’ve ever met, Your Majesty,” Layton murmured deferentially.
“You sure about that? You look damn familiar,” the king said and moved on.
Layton tried not to look as crestfallen as he felt. Truly, his attempt to change his identity had been a complete failure; both an ex-convict and the king of England had seen through him in an instant. The king was right; they had met, briefly, when the then-Prince of Wales laid the cornerstone of St. Margaret’s Children’s Hospital, which Layton had designed. The king’s memory amazed Layton; the monarch had barely laid eyes on the architect at the dedication.
On every side, people were staring, envious that the king had paid him personal attention. Even Cissie looked baffled. Sighing, Layton led her into dinner.
The king sat at the head of a fifty-foot-long table set with flowers and an extravagant epergne, or ornamental centerpiece. Servants brought forth a ten-course meal à la russe: hors d’oeuvres, soups, salads, poultry, pork, seafood, puddings, breads, fruits, and sweets. The pièce de résistance was pâté de fois gras stuffed inside a truffle, which was itself stuffed inside a quail. The duke had acres of forestland, which meant an abundance of game—pheasant, partridge, hare. Different wines accompanied each course: Chablis with oysters, sherry with the hors d’oeuvres and soups, burgundy with meat, and claret with game.
Layton was glad to find himself at the far end of the table, away from the king. But he could still see evidence of the man’s legendary appetite. In a ten-course meal, most guests did not partake of every dish. King Edward did, wolfing down prodigious amounts of food and quaffing an extraordinary amount of wine. Clients had whispered to Layton that even after lavish dinners such as this, at bedtime, hostesses would send up a late-night snack to the king: a plate of sandwiches, perhaps, or a whole chicken.
Instead of the men and women breaking up into separate groups, as was usual after a dinner party, all returned to the drawing room to be entertained by the artistes. Luigi juggled; Timmy Donovan told more jokes.
“Your Majesty, you know what the dwarf said to me when I asked him to lend me two bob? ‘So sorry, I’m a trifle short.’”
The king convulsed with laughter, turning beet red and alarming Mrs. Keppel, who feared he’d have a heart attack there on the spot. There were more songs, until at last, at one in the morning, Sally Everett sang “Goodnight, Ladies,” and the guests retired.
Swept up in the infectious laughter and gaiety, Layton realized he’d forgotten that he was there to find a murderer. He bid good night to Cissie, though he planned to slip into her room later to talk about Glenn and Clifton and what they would do next.
He was almost to his room when a low voice called out from down the hall.
“Doug?”
Layton froze, paralyzed. Then he turned, slowly, to see a manservant in a black suit. Layton stared at him for a few seconds. Then a wave of relief swept over him.
“Hello, Daniel,” he whispered. “It’s so good to see you.”
Growing up in Dorset, Daniel Harker had been Layton’s best friend. They’d spent many a lazy, sprawling afternoon exploring the downs around Puddletown. At about the same time Layton had gone for his architectural training, Daniel had been sent off into domestic service. The work was highly valued by the working class, especially the girls, and Layton had almost burst with pride for his friend’s new opportunity.
From the 1880s until the turn of the new century, England had labored under the crippling weight of an agricultural depression, and many children of Dorset farmers had left home to find work as servants. Edwina (or rather Mrs. Hopkins, the housekeeper) had managed a large home, so Layton knew firsthand about the world of housemaids, butlers, cooks, and footmen. In a year, a servant might make as much as seventy pounds, with free room and meals—a far better life than that of a farm laborer. Standing in the dim hallway, looking at Daniel, Layton thought that if things had worked out differently, he might have been standing there too, wearing the nondescript black suit, white shirt, and black tie of the serving class.
“I’m Sir John Clifton’s valet,” Daniel said simply. “That’s why I’m here. Been working for Sir John for almost nine years.”
“You recognized me,” Layton said.
“We grew up together, Doug. At first, I thought I was mistaken, but no.” Daniel shook his head, looked down at the red carpet. “I was awfully sorry about what happened to you, Doug. But just think, before that terrible night, of all the important buildings you did. Look how far you came—from that little cottage in Puddletown. We were all so bloody proud of you, especially your dad.”
“My dad?”
“Why sure.” Daniel seemed taken aback at the surprise in Layton’s voice. “He’d tell the neighbors all about the latest buildings you were doing, every time.”
Layton was puzzled at this remark, but Daniel’s concern, the warmth in his voice, touched something deep inside him. It’d been twenty years since he’d last seen him, but in all that time, he’d probably never had as good a friend. He swallowed hard, surprised by the lump in his throat.
“Doug, your secret’s safe with me,” Daniel was whispering. “I can understand why you took a new life. I’d’ve done the same thing.”
“You scrub up well in that outfit, mate,” said Layton with a smile. In Puddletown, Daniel always wore a flannel shirt and canvas pants.
“Haven’t done too bad for meself,” Daniel said, smiling back.
“After you’ve put your master to bed, come to my room, and we’ll have a gab,” said Layton enthusiastically. He saw the answering gleam in his old friend’s eyes.
• • •
At nine sharp the next morning, a line of men holding double-barreled shotguns formed at the edge of a clearing. They were dressed almost identically in tweeds; next to each stood a gun loader, holding another shotgun. The king was at the beginning of the line; Layton made sure he was at the very end. To Layton’s amazement, there were some women on the shooting line. He had never seen such a sight, but dressed in tweeds with their own shotguns and loaders stood six females, including Lady Emerson, Joan Basswell, and Dainty Amy Silborne. The king acted as though this was completely normal and chatted with the ladies, telling them about a new shotgun shell he was using. Layton shook his head slowly from side to side. Women smoking, drinking in bars, supporting themselves, trying to get the vote, not wearing corsets, and now the unthinkable—they were shooting their own guns. Some probably drove their own autos.
A low whistle sounded, and fifty yards away, the beaters—village men recruited by the estate gamekeeper—started walking forward, stirring up the underbrush with long sticks and uncovering pheasant, woodcock, and quail, which flew off in terror…straight into the sights of the shooting party. The king, given the honor of the first shot, blasted a bird out of the sky with great skill. Then, a continuous, ear-shattering blasting commenced, and down the birds rained. As they fell to earth, the beaters snatched them up, thrusting them into the canvas sacks they carried.
When a man had shot off both barrels, he exchanged his weapon for a newly loaded one. Each loader also kept count of his gentleman’s kill. Some owners felt this unsporting, but the duke didn’t mind.
Layton looked over at the women shooters; they all handled their weapons with great skill, bringing down their share of birds. The elegant and refined Lady Emerson was blasting away with gusto. If she was shooting, then all British society ladies would know it was acceptable for them to shoot.
Once the beaters had covered a hundred yards, the shooting stopped, and the group shifted to the right, where the massacre began again. After a time, they paused for lunch, which was served by footmen under a great tent in the field on silver platters. The repast was lavish: cold meats, puddings, strawberries with crème, and crystal glasses full of wine or champagne. The women, and those few men who didn’t shoot, came down from the great house for the meal; when it was finished, the slaughter continued. Scores of dead birds hung from racks atop a wagon pulled by a stocky old horse.
Just before shooting ended for the day, Layton was taking aim at a bird when he felt a bullet graze his hair. Startled, he stumbled back, looking about in fright to find the source of the shot. But there was no one behind him.
A loud cry of agony rang out fifty yards ahead. A beater lay in a thicket with a bullet lodged in his thigh.