“Come in, you dear, dear boy.”
Eddington & Freddington had just finished their turn and were taking off their makeup in the dressing room. It was a shared space; only top-of-the-bill performers like Dan Leno or Marie Lloyd were given a personal dressing room. Not that privacy made much difference. The dressing rooms were a collection of cramped, windowless boxes off the maze of backstage corridors. They’d remained unchanged—and poorly lit—for centuries; only recently had their table mirrors been outlined in small electric light bulbs.
Neville gestured for Layton to come nearer as he removed his stuffed brassiere.
“Frank, darling,” he crooned. “We’re trying out new material for tomorrow night’s show. Tell us what you think.”
Eddington: I just attended the races at Ascot.
Freddington: And how did it go, my dear?
Eddington: I was looking around the paddock when a stable boy threw a saddle on my back.
Freddington: Oh dear! What did you do?
Eddington: What could I do? I came in third.
Cyril and Neville cackled with uproarious laughter. Noel Talbot, the Welsh Tenor, who was changing into his street clothes at the end of the room, was less impressed.
“That one’s as old as the shit on your teeth, you bloody fairy,” he snarled.
“No one asked your opinion, Taffy,” Cyril cut back.
“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came into my house and stole a side of beef,” sang Neville.
“Stole a song, more like it. Frank, did you know these singers don’t write their songs? They buy them. We write all our own material,” Cyril said proudly.
“Ignore him. Yes, Cyril, I would definitely use it,” Layton said, smiling. He’d come to really like the duo—especially as Cyril was keeping his promise not to touch his bum. Their act was just starting a monthlong engagement at the Queen’s Palace; a West End theatre was a big opportunity for them, and they hoped to land at the top of the bill.
“But really, we didn’t ask you here to test out jokes, Frank. We want to take you for a drink, show our appreciation for those new cloths you did. They’re works of art.”
“Indeed. They give us class, m’boy,” added Cyril, nodding proudly at Neville.
“Class my ass,” said Talbot, stomping out the door.
“Filthy Welshman,” Neville shouted after him. “You sing like a hinge!”
When Cissie had secured Layton the job at the Queen’s, he’d decided that he would become the head artist—this despite the troubles surging around him. He had to rebuild his life. With that in mind, he’d continued to put great thought and care into his backdrops. Cyril and Neville’s had been major efforts: one, a garden in front of Lord Burlington’s Chiswick House; the other, the interior of the Banqueting House in Whitehall by Inigo Jones, complete with a representation of the ceiling by Rubens.
“I’d enjoy that very much,” Layton said, smiling at Neville and Cyril. “I’ll be waiting by the stage door.”
But by the time they were ready to leave, it was after eleven, when most pubs had closed for the night.
“Everything’s shut up. Where we will go?” Layton asked. He sighed; he’d been looking forward to a pint of Guinness.
“Oh, have no fear, my friend. A special, secluded spot we know of is open all hours,” said Neville in a conspiratorial tone. “Follow us.”
They walked down Shaftesbury Avenue to Piccadilly, both deserted now, and turned left on St. James’s. There, they entered a building half a block from Pall Mall, whose entry led to a long, dank hallway still lit by gaslight. At its end stood a metal door, upon which Cyril gave three knocks, a single knock, then three more knocks. They heard the sound of a bolt slamming back, and then the door opened into a surprisingly ornate lobby with paneled walls and a marble floor covered with oriental rugs.
“Welcome to the Abdullah, Frank. It’s got a dangerous Oriental aura we just adore.” Neville spoke as proudly as he would have in showing off his own home.
“To the left is the bar, and down that spiral stair are the Turkish baths, which are quite stimulating,” Cyril said.
“I’ll attest to that. And in more ways than one.” Both Cyril and Neville chortled at this little aside.
Then the trio walked into the bar, a deceptively large room full of round tables. Each had an electric lamp with a red shade, which gave the space an eerie, mysterious feel. Thick cigarette smoke filled the air, along with the scent of incense. Along one wall was a bar; at the opposite end of the room, a four-piece band played a fox-trot to which couples—all men—were dancing.
When Cyril and Neville entered, applause broke out roundly. They acknowledged it enthusiastically, and then all three sat at a booth along the wall. Layton had known from the moment he entered that this was a poof bar; out of respect for the artistes, he pretended not to notice, but he found himself ill at ease. From time to time, the police raided establishments like this one, and he’d met a few fairies at Mulcaster serving time for gross indecency. He didn’t want to end up like Oscar Wilde, who had been sent to Reading Gaol and forced to walk a treadmill drum, which operated a flour grindstone, for sixteen hours a day. Humiliation, then death, had met the great author. Layton would do anything to avoid a similar fate.
A man in ill-fitting evening dress and a red fez cap took their orders. While they talked, a young, rakish-looking man in a scarlet velvet coat and a gold cravat approached the booth.
“Cyril, would your friend care to rumba?” asked the youth, nodding at Layton.
“No, he would not. Go away, Desmond,” Cyril snapped.
“A very naughty boy, Frank,” Neville whispered. “Keep away from that sort.”
“You’re a fine-looking chap, Frank,” Cyril said, patting his hand. “You have to expect that kind of attention here at the Abdullah.”
Layton smiled, amused but not at all shocked. Between prison and the theatre, he’d seen every type of sodomite there was.
As he, Cyril, and Neville drank into the wee hours, many men came and went, some alone, some with companions. The only women present were men dressed as women—often convincingly. One looked amazingly like Mrs. Keppel, the king’s mistress.
Layton was enjoying himself immensely, and the alcohol gave him a warm, fuzzy feel. It was great to be among friends, laughing, trading jokes, and gossiping.
After three hours, his bladder needed emptying. In the restroom, standing at the long urinal trough, he stared at the plaster wall in front of him. Names and obscene comments covered every inch.
Layton’s urine stopped midstream when he saw, among the crude scrawls, Ted Hardy R.I.H.
• • •
“Say, old chap, maybe you can help me.” Layton leaned forward over the bar and spoke in a hushed voice. “I’ve been away in India on an engineering job. Just came back a week ago, but I used to come here quite a bit. And now I’m trying to look someone up.”
The barman, a skinny man with a protruding Adam’s apple, wiped down a champagne glass and eyed Layton with suspicion. It was midafternoon at the Abdullah, and the place was quiet. Only one other man sat at the end of the bar, nursing his drink.
“Didn’t I see you here last night?” the barman asked.
“Why, yes. You’re most observant. I was sitting over there with my friends.” Layton gestured to the booth he’d shared with Cyril and Neville. “Two rather well-known music hall performers. Brought me as their guest.”
Without speaking, the barman set the glass down and began wiping another. Layton understood his reticence. In London, the police would often send undercover officers to entrap fairies. However, this establishment, according to Neville, paid off the police quite well and had a very influential clientele, both of which ensured that such stings never happened. Tory cabinet ministers, an archbishop, and an officer of the Bank of England were all regulars at the Abdullah.
Having given Layton the once-over, the barman relaxed and smiled.
“Might I get you a drink, sir?”
“A gin and tonic would fit the bill.”
As he mixed the drink, the barman politely asked, “And who was the gentleman you were asking about, sir?”
“Ted Hardy.”
“Ted Hardy!” cried the man at the end of the bar.
The barman stopped mixing the gin and tonic, and he and the Abdullah’s sole patron exchanged incredulous looks.
“Yes, Ted Hardy,” said Layton. His puzzled expression wasn’t an act; he hadn’t expected such a reaction.
“And you said he was a friend of yours?” the barman said dubiously.
“With friends like that, lad, you don’t need enemies,” the man at the bar said, gulping down his shot.
“Well, he was more of an acquaintance, really,” Layton said.
“I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that Ted Hardy is dead.” The barman shook his head. “Killed in that Britannia Theatre disaster some years back.”
“Good riddance,” the man at the bar said bitterly. “God did us a favor.”
“Even a blighter like him didn’t deserve such a horrible death,” the barman said, shaking his head.
“The Britannia.” Layton shook his head. “I heard of that while I was in India. What terrible news.”
“What’s your angle? Did Teddy Bear put the bite on you too?” asked the man, rising from his seat.
He was completely drunk, Layton realized, and unsteady on his feet.
“Oh, I didn’t know him very long,” he said hastily. He didn’t want these men to think him unsavory too; rather, he hoped they’d assume his connection to Hardy a mere one-night encounter—rather the norm for poofs.
But now he understood the “R.I.H.” on the wall. It was no spelling mistake; it likely stood for Rest—or Roast—in Hell.
The barman handed him his drink.
“No matter what you think of that man, it’s a horrible way to die,” Layton said. “His family must have been devastated.”
“I bet they said good riddance to bad rubbish,” the man down the bar mumbled.
“If he had any family,” Layton added, pressing his luck.
“Didn’t he have a mother who had a flower stall at Covent Garden?” the barman said idly.
“If she’s alive, then I spit on her for giving birth to such a shit,” slurred the drunken patron.
• • •
Layton did the arithmetic; Hardy would have been fifty-one if he’d lived, meaning he probably had a mother of seventy or so years.
Standing by one of the skinny cast-iron columns that held up the great glass-and-iron roof of Covent Garden Market, he surveyed the rows of flower stalls. It was an amazing sight, a continuous vista of flowers of every description, in every color one could imagine. The wonderful smells that floated above them were yet more captivating.
Down the center aisle, well-dressed society ladies stopped at each stall to examine the vases and buckets of flowers. Women from Mayfair, Belgravia, and Kensington came here weekly; while ladies of the upper class and aristocracy had servants for the housework, selecting and arranging flowers was the domestic chore they reserved for themselves. Edwina had adored flower arrangement.
When a lady stopped at a stall, the head of a man or woman would pop out from the bunches of flowers, ready to make a sale. Layton watched for almost five minutes; at last, he saw a gray-haired old woman rise up from behind a bouquet of red carnations.
“What kind of flowers ya lookin’ for, guv?” She was a tiny, spry thing in a dark, tatty men’s cardigan. “Something for your sweetie?”
Layton didn’t respond but carefully touched several bunches of flowers, bending low to sniff them. Seeing his serious manner, the woman reined in her good cheer and fell silent.
“Nina loved cornflowers,” said Layton, more to himself than to the vendor. He stroked the tops of a nearby bouquet. “Yes, I’ll take a bunch, please.”
The woman smiled, wrapping the flowers up in newspaper so as to sop up the water from their stems. “Sixpence, sir.”
As Layton handed her the money, he murmured, “I always put fresh flowers on my daughter’s grave. I think she’ll like these.”
“That’s a fine thing to do, guv.”
“It’s going on six years now since she died. In that Britannia Theatre collapse.”
The old woman raised her hands to her mouth, as if stifling a shriek.
“Blimey, sir,” she muttered. “Me son, Teddy, died in that same accident.”
Layton’s eyes widened in surprise, and he dropped the flowers. “You’re the first person I’ve met that lost someone that night too,” he exclaimed, putting his hand on her shoulder.
“The same.” She put her hand on top of his and looked into his eyes. “I can’t believe my Teddy is gone. I always expect to see ’im strolling up this aisle, waving.”
“When I come home at night, I half expect Nina to come bounding down the stairs to greet me.”
“The worst thing a mother can do is bury her child.” Tears filled the old woman’s eyes. “Teddy was no saint, mind you, but he was me only child. Now I’m alone.”
Layton smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “My name is John Clive.”
“And mine’s Connie Hardy. Mighty pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve been longing to meet another parent who lost a child that horrible night. Makes me mad as hell that they only gave that architect fellow five years.”
“Yes,” Layton said fiercely. “A travesty of justice. He should have hanged.”
“I’d’ve given all my savings to watch the bastard strangle at the end of the rope. Every single day, I think of me Teddy.” Other customers had approached, but Connie Hardy ignored them and kept her eyes fixed on Layton.
“I too have always wanted to talk to another parent,” said Layton in a forlorn voice.
“Say, I don’t live far from here. I’ll get Eddie to keep an eye on me stall and fix you up a nice cup of tea with some biscuits. What d’you say to that?”
Layton agreed, and off they went up Drury Lane. As they walked, Layton fought back feelings of guilt—it felt dirty, fooling an old woman.
The two turned right on Parker Street and reached a small three-story building. It wasn’t the hovel out of Dickens that Layton had expected but a tidy, respectable place that might have passed for middle-class lodgings. Mrs. Hardy’s flat was small but clean and nicely decorated. It seemed she did well with her flower stall.
The old woman brought out a plate of biscuits and sat on the green-and-red sofa. Layton helped himself to one. “Kettle’ll be ready in a jiffy.”
“So, what line of work was Ted engaged in, Mrs. Hardy?” asked Layton in the most matter-of-fact manner. “Delicious biscuits, ma’am.”
“My Teddy tried his hand at all sorts of things. Just couldn’t make a go of it, poor dear. It was almost that he was too handsome for his own good. He got himself in trouble. Mucked up most everything he did.”
Layton looked at Mrs. Hardy and saw the shame on her face.
“He could be a naughty boy, but he was me son, and I had to love ’im, no matter what. I can’t count all the money I used to give to get him out of trouble, Mr. Clive.”
Layton could imagine what that trouble had been. In that instant, his heart went out to the old woman. She had deeply loved her son and accepted him as he was.
“I kept his room exactly as it was. I’ll show you,” she said, pointing down the hall. “Once in a while, I go in and just sit on ’is bed, hold a piece of his clothing to me cheek, and have a good cry.”
Like the sitting room, the bedroom was small and intimate. A single bed with a checkered quilt sat beside the window, with a desk and chair pushed up against the opposite wall. Drawings of hunting scenes decorated the walls. Layton was surprised by how conservative and refined the space was; in contrast, Neville and Cyril decorated their dressing room area with all sorts of beads and spangles.
The whistle on the kettle went off.
“There we go. Let me fix you a nice cup of tea,” Mrs. Hardy chirped and rushed out of the room.
Having made sure she was gone, Layton went to the desk and opened the drawer. Among the bric-a-brac was a packet of papers bound by a string, mostly letters. Layton glanced at the salutations, but nothing caught his eye. But as he slid the drawer shut, Layton saw, in the far left corner, some crumpled admission receipts for the Abdullah Turkish Baths. He stuck one in his pocket.
“Your tea is ready, Mr. Clive.”
• • •
The air was hot enough to strangle. But Layton had slowly grown used to it.
This was his third straight night in the warm room of the Abdullah Turkish Baths. In the first of a three-step process, hot, dry air roasted the bather until he sweated like a pig. With a towel wrapped around his waist and another in hand to continuously wipe the perspiration from his face, Layton watched men come and go.
Though it was 3:00 a.m., the bathhouse was full. Some men sat by themselves; others chatted. He had come here for information on Ted Hardy, but the bathers weren’t interested in talking. Layton learned quickly that this was a place of intimate contact. A man next to him would stretch his legs out on the bench, brushing Layton with his toes. Without looking at the man, Layton would slide farther down the bench, out of reach. Several times, his pursuer did the same.
Other men huddled next to each other, slipping hands surreptitiously under towels. Certain couples would retire to the so-called bachelors’ quarters, little rooms one could rent for what was presumably more aggressive action. As he had on all three nights, Layton prayed Neville and Cyril would not enter and get the wrong impression.
Tonight, rather than proceeding to the cooling room, Layton stayed put.
Hours passed. Layton was about to go on to douse himself in the blessedly cold water and call it a night when two men came in, laughing and talking. The taller, older man had his arm around his good-looking friend’s shoulder, and neither man had a towel around their waist. They sat down about ten feet to Layton’s right.
Frustrated about another unproductive night, Layton glanced again at the older man—and a flicker of recognition ignited in his brain like a tiny spark struck off a flint. He realized it was Sir John Clifton, who was now enthusiastically rubbing the inside of the younger man’s thigh and laughing. He was no longer the stern, unsmiling schoolmaster with pince-nez specs from a Dickens novel. He was stark naked and clearly enjoying himself.
Panic surged through Layton at the sight of the MacMillan theatre circuit owner for fear of being recognized, and he draped the towel over his head like the hood of a Cistercian monk. After a few minutes, he made slowly for the door.
Now he understood what the drunk at the bar had meant when he’d asked if Hardy had put the bite on him. Many prominent men in business and public life were queers, but if they were exposed, certain ruin awaited. The 1895 trial of Oscar Wilde had put terror in the hearts of many a man. One of Britain’s greatest writers, destroyed both financially and physically; in 1900, he died alone and penniless in Paris.
Ever since, some men who were exposed had put a bullet in their head to avoid the humiliation and shame they’d brought on their families. It was likely that Hardy, a rotter through and through, had been blackmailing Clifton. From his dealings with Archie Guest, Layton knew firsthand that blackmailers never went away. They always wanted more to keep quiet.
Sir John Clifton, he thought grimly, had needed Hardy to go away.