“Yes, Shirley Finney was a parlormaid in Sir John’s London house in Mayfair.” Daniel Harker’s eyes were distant as he searched his memory. “Nice lass she was, ever so cheerful. Hard worker too. The downstairs staff are always sniping about each other, but none ever had a bad word for Shirley.”
Layton and Daniel were huddled together at a table in the rear of the General Gordon, a popular London pub. They’d met again after Layton finished his work at the Queen’s Palace, Cissie having secured him a permanent job in the scene shop just as she said she would.
Although Layton had an ulterior motive, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Daniel transported him back to his Puddletown boyhood, the happiest time of his life. Smiling and laughing, the two men relived the wonder of exploring downs and forests, wading in streams, and sprawling in fields of new-cut hay, gazing up into the blue sky. They shared their first cigarette and first jug of ale. Even when Layton embarked on his ill-fated quest to become a university man, he’d found time to spend with Daniel, who’d been taken out of school early to work the fields before he went into service.
As Daniel had worked for Clifton at the time of the accident, Layton had thought he might recognize some of the names on the list. He disguised his motives, telling Daniel that he wished to send each victim’s relatives a heartfelt apology and plea for forgiveness. The weight of the guilt was too much, he whispered, eyes lowered. He couldn’t go on unless he found some way to atone. He showed Daniel the list, and to his luck, his friend’s eyes lit upon Shirley.
“The staff was bowled over when we found out about the accident,” Daniel continued. “Couldn’t believe it. She was just this pretty little thing—goes out for a special night and gets crushed to…” He stopped and looked down at the table in embarrassment.
Shame hit Layton like a wave; milking his dear old friend in this manner made him vaguely sick. And yet he couldn’t tell Daniel of his suspicions. He would never believe Clifton capable of such a heinous act, would think the very suggestion mad.
“Sir John and his wife, Lady Eileen, were terribly upset about her death,” Daniel said, sighing heavily. “They gave Shirley’s family her full year’s wages.”
“To whom do you think I should send my letter?” asked Layton in a quiet voice.
“Well, her people are from Leeds, but I recall she came to London with her sister, Agnes, to work in service. Last I heard, she was with a family in Belgravia.” Daniel knit his brow and squinted, combing his memory. “Mrs. Wilberforce, our housekeeper, was fond of Shirley. She’s kept in touch with Agnes since…well, since the tragedy.” It came to him in a rush, and he blurted, “Clarence, that’s it! Clarence is the family.”
Layton leaned forward confidentially and said, “I want to thank you, Danny, for your help. At the duke’s, the mere sight of you lifted my spirits.”
“We were best mates, Doug. That’s something that doesn’t ever go away.”
“Can we meet again for a drink?”
“Why, sure. How about same time next week?”
“It’s a date—every week, mate.” Layton sat back and slapped his palms gently on the table. “I’ve just moved to London from Nottingham last week. It’ll be a regular thing.”
“That’s wonderful! It’ll be nice having you around again, just like the old Dorset days. And, Doug.” Daniel leaned forward urgently. “I’ll never reveal your secret. You can count on me. You had to get on with your life as best you could. I understand.”
Tears sprang to Layton’s eyes. He wiped them away, cupped his hands around the empty pint glass.
• • •
Agnes Finney wasn’t what Layton had imagined. In fact, she was a bit of a tart—but that only made his task easier.
Servants were allowed one afternoon and one night off per week. By bribing the footman at Agnes’s employers’ residence, Layton learned that Thursday was her night off. Two days after meeting Daniel, he waited across from No. 7 Chapel Street and followed her.
Agnes took a bus across the Thames to Lambeth, a decidedly lower-class neighborhood, and walked to a pub on Frasier Street. Most pubs in London would not allow unescorted women, but in Lambeth, such rules were thrown to the winds. Depending on the household, Layton knew that maids had a rough time of it; they were often up at five to set fires, heat water for baths, and start dusting. With these rigors as her daily lot, Agnes seemed to want as much of a good time as she could have in a single evening.
She was clearly a regular at the pub and heartily welcomed by all. Layton took in the scene from the entrance and then walked slowly up to the bar, moving as if he owned the place, smiling and greeting complete strangers. Because he was a gentleman, the customers paid him the proper respect. Agnes took notice and began chatting him up.
“Buy me a drink, ’andsome?” she said, batting her lashes at him.
“Whatever this radiant beauty desires, barman. And may I share some refreshment with you at that table over there while I’m waiting for my sister to come?”
Agnes agreed enthusiastically, and they settled in a far corner. Layton peppered the conversation with compliments, paying ode to her auburn hair and alabaster skin. It was evident that she enjoyed the attention of a proper gentleman instead of the usual drunken louts; by the third gin and bitters, her tongue was loosened, her guard down.
Layton looked over at the door of the pub and shrugged. “I suppose my sister had to work late tonight so she couldn’t meet up for a pint,” he said in a voice of disappointment. “Shirley’s a good lot. You would’ve liked her.”
“I used to have a sister named Shirley,” slurred Agnes.
“Oh, she’s passed on?” asked Layton with great concern.
“She died in the Britannia disaster.”
Layton’s eyes widened, and he put down his drink. “Oh my God, that’s terrible.” He patted her hand in sympathy.
“I still can’t believe she’s gone. She was a lovely girl.” Her eyes filled, and she sniffled, swiping roughly at her nose. “Smashed to pieces, she was. That architect shoulda been hanged, the shit.”
“Was she in service too?”
Agnes was too upset to hear. She covered her face with her hands and cried, her whole body shaking with silent tears. After a few minutes, she composed herself and looked at Layton.
“She was me only sister. You know, I was to become an auntie?”
Layton jerked his head in surprise.
Agnes nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Shirley was in the family way when she died.”
“She was married?” Layton asked gently.
“Nah, servant girls can’t be married.”
“Oh,” replied Layton, acting embarrassed. “Then…another servant…?”
“Someone upstairs, not downstairs,” snapped Agnes.
He braced himself for the answer to his next question. “Was it…the master?”
Agnes sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “His son. You know how it is; the boys play with the maids like we’re their very own toys. Bonk ’em over and over. Then when they’s knocked up, they won’t have nothin’ to do with ’em.”
“Did the master know?”
“Yes, he did.” Agnes narrowed her eyes and shook her head sadly. “Shirley told the head butler, Mr. Millgate, who, bless his heart, told Sir John about it. But the bastard refused to believe his precious son would do such a thing, especially with a servant girl. One day when she was cleaning out the fire grate in the study, she up and asked Sir John face-to-face for help because she would be showing soon. He said it wasn’t his concern. I pleaded with her, but Shirley wouldn’t get rid of it. Me, I went to see a woman in Spitalfields when I was in the pudding club. But she wanted the brat, bless her heart. She would’ve made a wonderful mum. Didn’t know how she was going to manage it, though.”
“Did you know she was going to the theatre that night?”
“No, but she loved the music hall and went lots of times, ’cause she worked so close to the West End.”
“Perhaps someone gave her the ticket,” said Layton, gripping his empty glass so tightly, he felt it might shatter.
“’ow about one more drink for the road, ducky?”
Another round in, Layton steered Agnes’s wobbly body out to Westminster Bridge Road and hailed a taxi. As he helped her in, he slipped a one-pound note into her pocket.
• • •
To great applause, Bimba Bamba completed his grand finale.
With a roar, he shouted out something that sounded like Hindustani, and his turbaned assistant, Fiona Pratt, vanished from the middle of the stage in a huge cloud of green smoke. Cymbals crashed triumphantly. The audience screamed and cried in amazement. Layton stood in the wings with Mangogo.
Set in the stage floor were trapdoors shaped like pie wedges. At Bimba Bamba’s call, a stagehand below pulled a lever, and the wedges came apart, creating a hole through which the assistant fell, landing on a big cushion below.
Mangogo didn’t know about the trapdoors. Rather, he thought Bimba Bamba had magical powers, of the sort possessed by shamans back in Africa.
“Smashing,” he cried and stamped his spear on the floor as the house applauded.
In her move to London, Cissie had taken the Africans with her. She felt the Pygmies might make the chain more money at one of the West End theatres, and this gamble had paid off. The troupe was now playing the Queen’s Palace indefinitely, and they had become a hit as Cissie said they would. Layton was very glad for Mangogo’s continued company. Excepting Danny Harker, he had become his closest friend.
Cissie came up behind Mangogo and patted his woolly head.
“Remember, you devil, no ad-libbing. Stick to the script.”
Even for the Pygmies, improvisation remained a breach of contract. And Cissie’s warning had merit; Mangogo had once broken into an unscripted dance for a full five minutes and thrown off the timing of the whole show.
“No ad-lib,” he said now and flashed Cissie a white-toothed smile as he headed backstage to prepare for his act.
As Cissie and Layton watched from the wings, he murmured, “So Sir John’s son, George, was having a go at Shirley Finney. And there’s more. Around the time of the accident, he was engaged to be married to Diana Finch, the Earl of Wickford’s daughter.”
“Fathering a bastard would’ve thrown off his plans,” Cissie said, nodding. “And I imagine Lady Diana had quite a fortune?”
“You would imagine correctly. A great deal of which could be invested in the MacMillan circuit if needed.”
“Maybe Shirley couldn’t be bought off and was going to make a stink. She needed to go,” said Cissie with her eyes still fixed on Bimba Bamba on the stage.
Layton could tell she had found something about the performance to criticize. Cissie was incredibly tough on performers, never praising them but dwelling on some slight error.
“What are your plans?” Layton asked.
“Tomorrow,” Cissie said, “I’m taking a short trip to Stevenston which is just outside London. To enquire about a certain deceased vicar.”