It was Sunday morning, and Layton had the Queen’s Palace entirely to himself. All the variety theatres were closed on Sundays—not because the performers or syndicate owners were religious, but because of the stern opposition they faced from Britain’s clergy, be they Church of England, the Roman Catholic Church, or worst of all, the Presbyterians. No laughing on the Sabbath, much less looking at scantily clad girls.
Instead, Sundays were a day of travel. All across Britain, hundreds of artistes donned their best clothes, packed up their big wardrobe trunks, and boarded trains to their next engagement. They’d begun to travel in such numbers that they’d formed a trade association, winning reduced fares and luggage fees from the railways.
On Sunday mornings in the West End, one could hear the church bells off in the distance, beckoning their congregants. It always reminded Layton of his childhood in Dorset, when his father led his brood on foot to the C of E church in Stinsford. He wasn’t a religious man at all but insisted on the family going to Sunday services. The most vivid memory was how loud and terribly off-key their father sang the hymns, causing Layton and his two brothers to almost burst at the seams to try to contain their laughter. Being the proper wife, his mother never chastised her husband for singing like a hinge. Like her children, she loved and admired Thomas Layton as a kind and patient man, even though his voice was an utter embarrassment.
The peace and quiet of a long Sunday by himself at the Queen’s Palace was just what Layton needed. He wanted to touch up a cloth he’d done the day before. The celestial scene he’d painted showed a dark-blue sky filled with stars and planets; he wasn’t yet satisfied with Jupiter, on the left side. After he corrected its proportions, he would meet Cissie outside the theatre for tea at Miss MacIntosh’s on Shaftesbury, a Sunday ritual he’d come to cherish.
The cloth had already been flown up to the grid in the fly tower, which meant Layton had to climb the very tall black metal ladder to the gallery and lower it using the fly ropes. But it was worth it, he thought. He’d come to take fierce pride in his scenic painting; at heart, he was a creative person, and the passion he poured into his cloths had replaced architecture, which fate had stolen from him.
A cloth was raised by three rope lines: a long, a center, and a short, all of which were tied off to a cleat on the railing of the fly gallery. Layton worked at a knot in the heavy hemp rope.
He had just untied it when someone from behind grabbed his throat and began to crush the hell out of it. Though he tried to scream, only a pained gargling sound emerged. His face turned purple; he flayed his arms wildly, to no effect.
Just as he was about to pass out, his assailant released the chokehold, grabbed his left arm, and twisted it up behind his back. Layton groaned in pain—then groaned again as he realized the center rope he had just untied was being wrapped around his neck. He felt the painful rub of the scratchy hemp against his skin as something was thrust into his pants pocket.
Those same powerful hands grabbed him, lifted him over the railing.
“You should have hanged for murdering my sister, Jocelyn! Now I’m the hangman,” screamed a voice directly behind him. “And they say three’s a charm.”
Thirty feet below, the wooden stage swam before Layton’s terrified eyes.
“Frank didn’t murder Jocelyn Shipway! I swear to it,” a familiar voice screamed up at them. “Someone else did! They murdered them all that night. My husband too! But he didn’t do it. I’m telling you the God’s own truth, luv!”
Layton’s body jerked back like a rag doll’s. Looking down, he saw Cissie, standing on the stage. He twisted his head and saw, to his amazement, a pretty, petite girl in a maroon dress. It was Amy Silborne, the strongwoman. She lurched forward, grabbing his belt and bending him over the rail, the rope still tight around his neck.
“I gave my ticket to Jocelyn. She died instead of me.”
Cissie dropped to her knees, sobbing. “Please, Amy, don’t. Let me explain.”
For what seemed an eternity, Amy stood, debating whether or not to hurl Layton over the rail to his death. Finally, she pulled her hand from his belt and unwound the rope. He collapsed on the floor of the fly gallery, his chest heaving like an asthmatic’s.
• • •
“I’m very sorry, Frank, for having tried to kill you…three times.”
“Three?”
“The shooting party at the Duke of Denton’s estate. I felt terrible the beater got hit, but thank God he recovered.”
Upon hearing this news, Layton automatically raised his hand to where the shot grazed his hair.
“My world was destroyed when my sister died. We grew up together in my uncle’s family, who didn’t give a damn about us. Jocelyn and I looked out for each other. I was lucky as hell to be a success onstage so I could take care of her. She was all the family I had. I was mad with anger that weekend when I discovered who you really were, after the king made that remark. Insane and bent on revenge. I wasn’t able to stop myself. You had to die.” Amy sounded sincerely contrite.
Layton shook his head, amazed. Despite having seen her act many times, he couldn’t believe the delicate girl standing before him had such incredible strength. To almost squash his head like a melon, to crush his windpipe as if it were made of cardboard!
After twenty minutes of explanation, Amy had been convinced of Layton’s innocence. Now she wanted to kill either Clifton, Glenn, Shaw, or Stockton. Whoever was the killer.
“Every single day, I say to myself, ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’” Amy started crying.
Cissie put her arms around her little shoulders. “I say the same thing about my Johnnie, luv—almost every bloody day.”
“When we find out who the murderer is, Frank…I mean, Douglas,” Amy said, sniffling, “I’ll take care of him.” She held up both hands, slightly curling her fingers.
Layton didn’t think it was the time to argue for handing the killer over to the police. In silence, the three of them shuffled toward the exit.
Out in the alley, Layton placed his hand on Amy’s shoulder. “We’ll find out who did it, Amy. We won’t stop until we find him.”
As he and Cissie watched Amy trudge sadly off, Layton felt in his pocket for the piece of crumpled paper she’d stuffed there. It read:
I couldn’t live with the guilt any longer.
Douglas Layton
The handwriting was a quite refined cursive, very neatly done in ink, like one was taught in grammar school.
“Amy,” Layton called out. “This wasn’t the fourth time? After pushing me into the street?”
“Why, no, Frank. I never did a thing like that!”