In the evenings, at work in the scene shop, Layton could hear the sounds of the performances coming from the auditorium behind him. Though the singing was muffled, the melody was distinct, and it brought a smile to his face as he worked.
He was just starting a cloth for Ian O’Toole, Quick-Change Artiste, who portrayed all the characters in Oliver Twist from Oliver to Bill Sikes by performing lightning-fast costume changes. He would play Fagin, then dart behind a screen onstage and in five seconds emerge from the other side in a totally different costume and makeup of another character. An amazing act, he even did Nancy.
Cissie had come to keep him company as he worked—and to discuss the murders. They spoke cautiously, in low tones, looking about every once in a while to see if anyone was there who might overhear.
“Maybe, but Phipps is right in saying that Clifton and Glenn’s biggest enemy was Rice,” Layton said, adding painted detail to the arched mirror of a dressing table.
“But to murder Sunny Samuels too? And they’d have killed Amy, if she and her sister hadn’t swapped tickets.”
Layton shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe the partners thought they wouldn’t show up. The rest of the performers didn’t. It could have been plain bad luck, like your Johnnie. Or maybe…” He paused, considering. “That was the cost of eliminating Rice. Like you said, stars come and go. In time, even a novelty act like Amy could be replaced. I’ve only been here a short time, and already I’ve seen it happen to Bert Quist. You know, the whip-cracker? He doesn’t get the applause he used to.”
“Well, his drinking has a lot to do with that,” said Cissie in a scolding tone. “He snapped off the tip of his assistant’s nose.”
Layton smiled. Almost all artistes drank. Some could hold their liquor; some could not.
“But I can’t get Shaw out of my mind. He’s…” Layton’s brush stopped midstroke; he stepped back from the canvas cloth and looked around, confused, as if searching for a buzzing fly. “Do you hear that music?”
Cissie blinked, puzzled. “Why, yes, I…”
But before she could finish her sentence, Layton dropped his brush and sprinted from the room. Baffled, Cissie hurried after him and joined Layton in the wings. Onstage, prancing about and clapping his hands, was Jimmy Doyle, the top of the bill.
“I was outside a lunatic asylum one day, busy picking up stones
When along came a lunatic and said to me, ‘Good morning, Mr. Jones;
Oh, how much a week do you get for doing that?’
‘Thirty bob,’ I cried.”
The audience was singing and stomping their feet in unison. The stamping was thunderous; it practically drowned out the lyrics. Layton could feel the vibration of the stage under his feet.
He watched until the song was over. Doyle took his bow and skipped off stage, brushing Layton’s sleeve as he passed.
“That…song,” Layton said quietly. “I remember where I first heard it—the Britannia’s opening night. I was having a drink in the stalls lounge. Jimmy Doyle was onstage when the balcony fell. Top of the bill, next to last act.”
“What does that mean?” Cissie asked, drawing closer and plucking at his sleeve.
“The balcony didn’t collapse when the audience filled the seats. But whoever planned this knew that there was a chance their weight alone might not be enough to sunder the rivets. So they used resonance.”
“Resonance?” Cissie said, blinking.
“A force, rhythmically applied to a structure, in the same period as the structure. That force is said to be in resonance.”
“And what the bloody hell does that mean?”
“A period,” Layton said patiently, “is the time a structure takes to complete a full back and forth oscillation. If the applied force is steady, lasts long enough, and matches the timing of that oscillation, it can collapse the structure—that’s resonance. In this case, by stamping their feet during Doyle’s song, the audience fell into exact rhythm with the oscillations of the balcony cantilever. That’s what brought the balcony down.”
“Crikey!” Cissie said, shaking her head. “Aren’t you a clever boots!”
“There’s an old story about an infantry company of Prussian soldiers goose-stepping across a wooden bridge. Their marching cadence accidentally fell into rhythm with the oscillations of the bridge, which collapsed. The whole company wound up in the river.”
Had Browne and Reville thought this up? Layton wondered. Both had the engineering knowledge about resonance.
But there was more to it. For the plan to work, Jimmy Doyle had to be on the bill. He’d been booked intentionally. And when the word book came to mind, Layton could think of only one person.
He stopped and stared down into Cissie’s eyes.
“You booked Doyle for that night, didn’t you?” he said in a quiet, calm voice.
“I don’t exactly remember,” Cissie said. “It was over five years ago, mind. But who else would have?”
Her eyes were clear and open; her voice did not tremble. Was she part of the conspiracy or not? Being in prison taught a man to expect the worst in life, and Layton couldn’t control his freewheeling suspicions. Had someone told Cissie to book Doyle? Or maybe she’d wanted her husband dead all along.
Ashamed, Layton squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thought from his mind. He was in love with Cissie, he reminded himself. Aside from his reunion with Ronald, she was the best thing to happen to him since he’d left Mulcaster. His first real Christmas in five years was less than a month away; the thought of having someone to share it with made him happy, despite all else that had gone wrong, and he was a bastard to think ill of her for even a second.
Cissie looked worried now. He smiled at her and said, “I have to find out how Doyle got on the bill that night. Was it just a coincidence, or did Clifton and Glenn tell you specifically to book him?”
Cissie nodded; she understood. Gently, she caressed his cheek and said, “Come on, luv. Let’s go to my office and check the files. You’re a lucky man—I never throw anything out.”