Layton loved running his hands over the bolts of cloth at the tailors on Savile Row. Flannels, woolens, linens—each had its own sensation, and each was wonderful.
Before the long years of blue woolen uniforms in Mulcaster, Layton had taken great care in his dress. Clothes were an essential part of upper-class life, and dressing well was a crucial part of his charade, of pretending to be a trueborn gentleman.
In some circles, ladies made as many as six changes per day. Before 1:00 p.m., men could not be seen in anything but morning dress—a tailcoat, waistcoat, top hat, gloves, and striped trousers. Evening meant an array of tweed suits, Norfolk jackets, summer linen suits, and white-tie dress. Sporting events like shooting, bicycling, or foxhunting had specific wardrobes. Woe to the man who defied the conventions of dress in England!
After working steadily for nine months and not spending all his funds on drink, Layton had extra money in his pocket. Nor had Archie Guest drained his coffers; it had been weeks since he’d seen the man, and Layton thought that Reggie Ash must have done quite a job convincing him to leave well enough alone. It was a relief; forty quid a month would have crushed him.
With Ronald back in his life, Layton had decided that the first thing he would buy when he had the funds was a new tailor-made shirt. He didn’t want to look tatty for his son, and no new, ready-made item from Harrods would do.
The West End was a shopping mecca for London’s well-to-do, with shops on Bond, Regent, and Oxford Streets, Piccadilly, Knightsbridge, and Westbourne Grove. Ladies reveled in all-day shopping trips; the attendant tearooms and women’s clubs allowed the fashionable set to dine in public without a male escort.
As for the gents, Savile Row, in Mayfair in central London, had been the province of men’s tailoring since the late nineteenth century. There, one of the many tailors would take a gentleman’s measurements and create new sets of clothes for him each year, adjusting slightly to favor new fashions—or the customer’s expanding girth.
In making his selection, Layton avoided his favorite tailor, Henry Poole, for fear of being discovered. He chose another reputable shop on nearby Regent Street and ordered one new shirt of Egyptian cotton so soft to the touch, it was like stroking a lamb. Layton also purchased two snow-white detachable collars with new collar studs.
After placing his order, he lingered, looking at the great variety of fabric bolts on display. A wistful smile crossed his face; the air of relaxed luxury reminded him of better days, when he lived a life of comfort and privilege, when his bespoke shirts and suits were laid out daily by his valet, Gerald.
When Layton exited the shop onto Regent Street, he realized there was another customer directly behind him. Instinct told him to beware. He kept his head down and quickened his pace, a habit he’d mastered since leaving Mulcaster.
“Douglas Layton?” whispered a voice just inches from his ear.
His first instinct was to walk rapidly away. But it was not to be.
“Douglas Layton!” the voice called, more loudly now.
Despair rose up inside Layton. Shaw had recognized him and now someone else. What bad luck! The young man who had hailed him was in his early thirties and of medium height, with a full beard and mustache. Thomas Phipps, Layton’s memory whispered, an architect and colleague from the Royal Institute of British Architects. Ex-colleague. Layton had been expelled for life from the RIBA.
“It is you,” said Phipps. He sounded bewildered, like he was seeing a ghost.
“Hello, Tom,” Layton said, striving to sound casual. “You’re looking well.”
Phipps was. He’d been a rising young talent when Layton was sent away and had just started his own firm. They’d competed for projects then; Layton blinked, surprised at the memory. It seemed a million years ago. But Phipps had impressed him. A design of a university building he’d done had been published to great acclaim in The Builder, a professional architectural magazine.
“I was in the shop here, and I thought it was you, Douglas.”
“Yes, I needed some new shirts,” said Layton in a matter-of-fact tone.
The awkward silence between them seemed to stretch on for a century. At last, Phipps said in a hushed voice, “We all thought you’d been treated most unfairly, you know. Everyone blaming you for the accident—bloody bad business, that.”
Standing now in front of Phipps, Layton wished he could shrink down to the size of an ant and crawl into a crack in the pavement. The embarrassment was unbearable.
“No one in RIBA condemned you, Douglas.” Phipps’s voice was low and urgent. “We knew something like that could happen to any of us.”
“They said I brought disgrace on British architects,” Layton said faintly. “That’s why I was booted out of the RIBA.”
“They had to do that. The public line, you know.”
“The fact is, Phipps, I’m no longer an architect and never will be.”
Phipps bowed his head, as if in shared embarrassment. “From the looks of it,” he said haltingly, “you’ve taken a new identity and started a new life. Good for you.”
“I’m Frank Owen now,” Layton said, nodding. “I have a new career too—so long as no one knows of my past.”
Phipps rested his hand gently on Layton’s shoulder. “I won’t tell a soul, Douglas.”
“And how has your practice been going?”
“Just ripping,” Phipps said. He seemed relieved to speak of happier matters. “The central library in Leeds, a hotel on the Strand, a new estate for the Earl of Rutland, the Eagle Life insurance headquarters in Glasgow, All Saints Church, a new building for the Admiralty in Westminster…” He trailed off, as if afraid to seem a braggart.
“That’s marvelous, Tom. We all knew you had a great talent.”
“Well, thank you, Douglas…but it’s also luck in getting the commissions. But you know all that,” he said sheepishly.
“Architecture is a business as well as an art. No clients, no art.”
“That’s the bloody truth. Say, Douglas, it’s almost noon. What say I buy you lunch? I’d love to get your advice on a project I’ve got coming up.”
Layton fought down a surge of panic. He didn’t want to reconnect with anyone from the past, and the desperation of that desire almost blinded him to the present moment. But then he looked at Phipps and reconsidered. Seeing him, he felt like a lonely expatriate, longing for company, meeting a fellow countryman in a dusty bar on the outskirts of civilization. He hadn’t talked to another architect in years. On top of the grief from the disaster and losing Edwina and Ronnie was the shame of being shunned by his profession, men who had once admired and liked him. He felt like a dishonored army officer, standing before the entire garrison as the commanding officer ripped the medals and epaulets off his uniform and broke his sword in half. Though Layton now knew the truth about the disaster, the disgrace still seemed unbearable.
“Yes, that’s very decent of you,” he said in a halting voice.
“Splendid.”
Phipps took him to an out-of-the-way restaurant on Cavendish Place, north of Oxford Circus. He seemed to understand Layton’s need for anonymity. Over pints and shepherd’s pie, they talked endlessly about architecture—new stylistic developments; the new prominent players, besides Phipps; what big projects were on the horizon. Phipps praised some of Layton’s past projects, particularly his Law Courts building, and asked his advice on a new office building he’d been contracted for on Earls Court Road. For a short time, Layton was an architect again, and the boon to his self-worth was wonderful.
The afternoon passed and the drink flowed freely, as did Layton’s words.
“I loved being an architect, Tom. What a bloody good feeling it was to see the drawing turn into a real building,” he slurred.
“You were a great architect, Douglas.”
“Maybe I will be again.” Phipps seemed puzzled by this remark. Layton looked straight into his eyes and said more forcefully, “It wasn’t me that caused that accident. Someone else did. On purpose.”
The second the words had come tumbling out of his mouth, Layton regretted saying anything. But then he felt heaps better. Telling another architect that he wasn’t a murderer and an embarrassment to the profession… In that moment, it felt like everything.
Phipps looked down at his pint as if embarrassed. The architect thought he was drunk and talking nonsense, Layton realized.
“My assistant, Peter Browne, was part of it.” He spoke more urgently and clearly now. “Reville, the structural engineer, was in on it too. Someone paid them to tamper with the structure. And they’ve been murdered, to silence them forever.”
Phipps sat back, wide-eyed. “Are you absolutely sure, Douglas? What proof do you have? Have you taken your story to the police?”
“I’m not ready yet,” Layton said, “but I’m working on it.”
“Can I help you in any way?” Phipps asked in a hushed, urgent voice. “You can’t let them get away with it. They killed all those people—and they destroyed your life!”
“Yes, Tom,” he said slowly. “I could use your help.”