December had once been Layton’s least favorite month. Every one of the five Christmases he’d spent in prison had depressed him severely. Fond memories of holidays at Edwina’s family estate in Kent with the tall tree in the three-story entry hall, of watching Ronald rip the wrapping off his gifts and shout with excitement, became a punishment.
In Mulcaster, he’d been surprised by the many inmates who made Christmas a special time. They’d get their mates little things—a pack of fags, a deck of cards, a bar of soap. Gifts that were taken for granted on the outside had a special significance in prison.
Now, at last, Christmas would be special again. Ronald was back in his life, and this would be his first Christmas with Cissie. He couldn’t wait to give them their gifts. Layton had kept an open ear the last few weeks, hoping to find both of them the perfect gifts they really wanted for Christmas. Most of the presents he’d exchanged in the past with his family were tokens, a scarf or a tie, nothing that meant anything. Edwina had come close once, bless her heart, buying him a volume on Bernini’s architecture. But it was the Palladio book he’d wanted. So he had wound up buying it for himself.
Despite Layton’s resolve to be cheerful, the winter fog made Decembers in London hard. The usual fog was bad enough: raw, dark, damp, and dismal. But the winter variety came with a numbing cold that deadened the limbs, like soaking one’s bones in an ice-cold bath.
Hands thrust deep in his pockets, chin tucked into his scarf, Layton pushed on, back to his digs in Bayswater. The night fog robbed London of its shape and form. The street was enveloped in a murky gloom; the buildings he passed oozed dampness, and the street seemed slippery with slime. One could barely see two feet ahead. Pedestrians would emerge from the gloom in front of him, then disappear just as suddenly, vanishing in the mist like phantoms.
In the last week, conditions had gotten so bad that an army of “linkboys” had taken to the streets in force; these chaps held torches or lanterns and for sixpence would light the way through the fog. Layton had already passed two of them, leading groups, pointing their lights down to avoid the puddles in the gutters. Many had thought that with the invention of gas and later electric street lighting, there would be no need for linkboys. But the fogs at night were so intense that even streetlamps were no help.
Layton was walking west now, alongside Hyde Park, which was enshrouded in fog, not a tree to be seen. He pulled the collar of his greatcoat more tightly around his neck, but still he was chilled to the bone. He couldn’t wait to be home before the fire, a cup of cocoa warming his hands.
As he walked, he tried to sort matters out, but things had become muddled.
With the discovery of what Hugh Rice was doing to them, Clifton and Glenn seemed likely to be the murderers. Even though the balcony failure had scared away customers for a short while, getting Rice off their backs was worth the pain in the long run. From his prison years and his more recent run-ins with Archie Guest, Layton knew that once the underworld got its hooks into you, it never let go. Rice was the person that had to go. Maybe unbeknownst to each other, the owners also arranged for some other troublesome people in their lives to be eliminated that night.
But the builder, Alec Shaw, could also have easily orchestrated the collapse. He was the one who actually built the balcony. His hatred of Layton, for whom he blamed his financial ruin, was almost insanely intense, maybe putting him over the edge to do such a heinous act. His desire for revenge must have been all-consuming.
Now Stockton, the rival theatre circuit owner, came into the picture. Cissie insisted his hatred of Clifton and Glenn could have driven him to conspire with Peter and Reville to bring down the balcony. After losing so much talent that he’d discovered to MacMillan, he wanted revenge. His plan would have been twofold, to embarrass the circuit on an opening night and to try to kill the turncoat performers.
Layton turned right on Leinster Terrace, now just ten minutes from home, the question still beating at his mind. Who was the murderer—Clifton and Glenn, Shaw, or Stockton?
Carriages and motors loomed out of the mist, appearing in an instant and vanishing just as swiftly. As Layton stepped off the curb, he was so lost in thought that a motor appeared out of nowhere and came close to running him over.
When he got back to his digs, he rushed up the stairs, because he couldn’t wait to get in front of the fire. He felt as though he were entombed in a block of ice. While he was unlocking the door, he began taking off his wet greatcoat, since he was in such a hurry to warm up. As he swung the door open, his foot stepped on something. He looked down to see an envelope. Mail that came for the lodgers was routinely shoved under their door. But Layton had never received any mail until this moment. He stood there staring down at the envelope like it was a one-hundred-pound note he had come across in the street. Layton pondered—who would send him a letter? A performer and friend who had moved on to another theatre? Or maybe his father or brother? That was highly unlikely. Then it came to him—Edwina. She had seen him in the alley with Ronald that day. She was writing to tell him that she was glad he was out of prison and could see Ronald anytime he wished. Yes, that was it! With a big smile on his face, he closed the door, snatched up the envelope, and eagerly tore it open.
YOU WILL DIE FOR WHAT YOU DID, said the unsigned letter.