Electric trams were another new invention that had occurred during Layton’s holiday in Mulcaster. Loaded with riders and their sides plastered with advertisements hawking Lipton Tea and Gordon’s Gin, they now crisscrossed all of London, especially in the West End. It was an ingenious invention, thought Layton, in how it replaced teams of horses, making the city streets a much cleaner place. The hems of ladies’ dresses wouldn’t be dragged in so much shit. Just two iron rails set in the street and an overhead electrical wire. Everything today was electric. What progress in the world! They’d even invented a wireless telegraphy; an Italian named Marconi could send words through thin air. Still, in Layton’s opinion, the aeroplane was the most amazing invention.
Layton and Daniel Harker watched the trams squeal by as they walked home from watching the first show at the London Alhambra. Once in a while, Layton went to one of the circuit’s other theatres to see what their cloths looked like. The ones he saw tonight were damn good, he thought. When Layton was an architect, he always believed in giving praise where deserved, unlike a lot of architects who always degraded a competitor’s work. He’d invited Daniel to come along.
“Do you have time for a pint, Danny?”
“That would be a bit of all right. I don’t have to be back until eleven,” replied Daniel. On their one night off per week, servants had a strict curfew.
“There’s a place off Piccadilly that’s never crowded.” Layton pointed in the direction with his arm.
Most people who meet up after a long absence say they will stay in touch from then on but never do. But Layton had met Daniel for a drink every two weeks since he found out about Shirley Finney. He eagerly looked forward to their meetings because of their Dorset friendship, but they still had dual purpose—Layton wanted more information about Clifton, but he had to probe for it with surgical skill without arousing suspicion.
After chatting about tonight’s performances for a while, Layton tried to ease in a question.
“Bloody small world isn’t it, you and me working for the same bloke.”
“’Tis, Sir John being our boss,” said Daniel with that wide smile of his.
Although the separations between social classes in England were as solid as steel boiler plate, there was one fissure. The lady maids and valets who personally attended their mistresses and masters were of the servant class but often formed close bonds with their superiors that almost bordered on friendship. “Don’t get too familiar with servants” was what Edwina always crowed. But Layton knew his ex-wife had grown very close to her personal maid, Valerie. They exchanged the closest confidences like old school chums. Layton had often come into Edwina’s dressing room while they were chattering away like magpies, and they went silent at his presence. Maybe Daniel had a similar relationship with Clifton and knew some secrets.
“Talk about a small world, mate, I think I had some clients who knew Sir John… Ted Hardy, I believe was one of them.”
Daniel furrowed his brow. “No, don’t recall that name.”
Layton had to tread carefully, in case Daniel remembered the names on the list that he’d shown him at their first meeting.
“There was another fellow… Mmm… Rice, yes, a Hugh Rice.”
Daniel crinkled his brow and started to shake his head, then broke into a smile.
“Hold on… Yes, I do…remember that name,” said Daniel with a chuckle. “Every time that fellow rang up, Sir John told the staff to say he was not at home. He even came to the house in Devon and was turned away.”
“Really? I…remember Rice saying he had a good enough voice to go onstage,” exclaimed Layton. “Maybe he wanted Sir John to hear him sing.”
“Oh, yes, you’d be bloody amazed, Doug, to know how many people pester Sir John about getting into the music hall. Once, a Turkish chap came up to him in a restaurant and began juggling cricket balls.”
“But you recall Rice?”
“Yes, because he came to Devon right before Sir John broke his leg in the carriage accident. I’m sure of it.”
Along the curb at Shaftesbury, a group of people waited for the next tram to pull up, four deep, like they were watching a parade. Layton and Daniel had to squeeze through them to get across the street. Worming their way to the front, he and Daniel got separated. At the curbstone, Layton saw the tram rumbling toward its stop, its steel wheels giving off an ear-piercing squeal and the power rods connected to the overhead wires throwing off showers of sparks into the damp night air. Layton looked up at the tiny, yellowish specks of light and smiled. It reminded of the shooting stars he’d seen in the night sky over the countryside of Dorset near his home in Puddletown. It had been a mesmerizing sight to him as a boy. He turned to tell Daniel, but he wasn’t there. Directly behind him, he thought he heard someone say “Fuckin’ gobshite,” and suddenly, he was falling forward into the street.
As he fell, he looked up and saw a terrified look in the eyes of the tram’s motorman, just a few feet away. When he slammed down onto the wet cobblestones of the street, there was a deafening screech of metal, then complete silence.
When Layton opened his eyes, he was looking at the undercarriage of the tram. It looked like a maze of steel beams. The acrid smell of burning metal shot up his nostrils, making his eyes water. There was shouting and great commotion all around him, and hands grabbed at his overcoat and began to drag him out from under the tram. Layton was flat on his back. Above him was a great circle of faces of every description that stared and shouted at him.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is he still alive?” shouted a voice.
“Poor bugger.”
“Did the wheels cut off his legs?”
“He looks in one piece, thank God,” screeched an elderly lady.
“I bet he’s sozzled.”
Daniel’s face now appeared above his.
“Christ, Doug, it’s a bloody miracle you’re still alive,” Daniel cried out. “I lost track of you in the crowd.”
The motorman in his uniform was now directly above him, shaking him by the shoulders. He was joined by the conductor.
“Tell me you’re still alive, mate. I’ll lose me job if you ain’t,” pleaded the motorman. When he saw Layton was all right, he breathed a sigh of relief, then turned cross. “You’re a right Charlie, falling flat on your face and stopping me tram. Damn you, I’ve got a schedule to keep.” The conductor also looked mad.
“Leave the man alone,” shouted Daniel. “Can’t you see it was an accident?”
The onlookers now pulled Layton to his feet. A woman in a boa handed him his spectacles. They steadied him as he got his bearings.
“Feel better, mate?”
“That was a damn close call.”
A bobby in a cape bulled his way through the crowd.
“What’s all this now?” he shouted.
“Man fell in front of the Number 11 to St. Pancras.”
The officer eyed Layton up and down. “Aren’t sozzled, are ya?”
“No, sir, I must have lost my balance. I’m sorry for all the hubbub,” said Layton in a contrite tone of voice.
“Well, if you’re not injured, off you go then,” commanded the bobby. “Get back on the curb, all of you!”
The motorman and conductor climbed back onto the tram, and the passengers crammed on behind. Daniel guided a trembling Layton across Piccadilly, then leaned him against the doorway of a fish and chips shop. Layton calmed down and examined himself to see if he had torn his greatcoat or his trousers. He winced, an excruciating pain radiating from the middle of his back.
• • •
“Crikey, Frank, you didn’t lose your balance,” exclaimed Cissie as she lifted the back of his shirt up. “There’s a welt the size of a bloody potato. Like someone rammed a rod in your back to push you in front of the tram!”