“He’s a fine, smart boy, Doug.”
Ronald was scampering joyfully across Hyde Park, in hot pursuit of a cricket ball. Layton and his father sat on a nearby cast-iron park bench, watching him romp. When he was sure the boy was out of earshot, Thomas Layton turned to his son and smiled.
“Your mother always wished for a grandchild. I’m glad I could meet the lad.”
His father’s light-gray eyes, Layton realized, were welling with tears. He blinked, shocked anew by these open displays of emotion. But then, how much grief had his father suffered in the past five years? One dead son, another son in prison. To sit now in the crisp London air, watching his grandson play… Layton could only imagine the feeling.
For his part, Ronald had been overjoyed at the prospect of meeting his other grandfather. But being the proper little gentleman he was, he hadn’t jabbered on about himself; he’d asked Thomas Layton polite questions—what was Dorset like; what had Layton been like as a boy; and other such matters. With each story he told, Thomas Layton’s face grew more animated, flushed with color and joy. At the end of the conversation, Ronald had exclaimed, “You’re nothing at all like Grandfather Charles!” to Layton’s great amusement.
Now that it was turning twilight, the electric lamps in the park flickered on.
“That Cissie is a corker,” Thomas Layton said abruptly. “A blind man could see how much she loves ya. She’ll make you a damn good wife.”
Layton smiled, knowing the joy in his eyes matched his father’s. Thomas Layton was the first to know of Cissie and Layton’s marriage plans. And just like Ronald, Cissie seemed to breathe new life into the old man.
With the coming of darkness, it was time to bid goodbye to Ronald. They waved and watched the boy spring off confidently into the gloaming. Layton felt a twinging at his heart; he wasn’t ready for his father to leave.
“Why don’t we have supper before you catch your train?” he suggested.
“Don’t have much of an appetite these days, I’m afraid, but what about a nice cup of tea in Paddington? I have time.”
The restaurant was busy, full of commuters having a quick meal before they boarded their trains. Layton and his father found a table by the great window wall, which enclosed the shop and allowed customers to look out on the station concourse. People rushed by—mothers dragging children; businessmen in homburgs going home to the suburbs. Father and son drank their tea in silence amid the cacophony of the restaurant.
“I’m dyin’,” Thomas said at last, muttering the words as if he were talking to the tile floor.
“Did you say you’d prefer dining?” Layton said, turning his full attention back to his father.
Thomas lifted his head and looked straight at his son. “I said I’m dying.”
Layton’s biscuit slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, breaking in two.
“What? How do you know you’re… You can’t be! You’re not dying.”
“I’m done for, Doug.” He shook his head. If he had seemed impossibly joyful in the park, now he looked unbearably weary. “I’m not in the city for business. I’d seen a doctor in Dorchester. We’re friendly-like. Well, he wanted to send me to a specialist in London. Told him I couldn’t afford it, but the doc said he’d see me as a courtesy.” He hunched forward, stirring his tea, staring down into the depths of the cup. “Both of ’em said the same thing: I’m done for. Cancer eatin’ out my innards.”
“How long did they give you?” asked Layton, his voice quavering.
“Maybe a few months—or I could keel over dead right here.”
“Does Roger know?”
“No, I was waiting to hear from the London doctor. At least Roger can build me a spiffing casket.” He forced a laugh and took a long sip of tea.
Across the table, Layton buried his face in his hands. Tears threatened to overcome him; he fought them back.
His father’s face fell, and he stretched his arms out toward his son. “Look at me hands, Doug. Look!” Thomas insisted. “I’ve laid many a brick and piece of stone with these here hands. All first-rate work, and I’m bloody proud of it. I got nothin’ to complain of.” He could tell his son wasn’t convinced, so he pressed onward.
“My boy, I have a son who was the best architect in England, a son who was one of the bravest soldiers in the empire, and a son who’s the best woodworker, bar none. And now I know I’ve the finest grandson a man could wish for. Bloody hell, boy, don’t feel sorry for me!”
Layton smiled wanly. Memories of his mother’s death swamped him—how robust and healthy she’d been; how completely she’d fallen apart. In just a month, she was gone. His father looked healthy and solid; finishing his tea, he set the cup down with steady hands. How could he face his loss? Layton felt like running out of the teashop, out of Paddington, out of London, and out of England. Of running until he dropped, until he felt no more of the pain that had just ripped through his body like a shotgun blast.
“I have to see a man about a horse,” his father said bluntly. “That’s how I knew somethin’ was wrong, son. I was pissin’ blood all the time. When I get back, let’s have another cup of tea, what d’you say?”
Layton stared down into his teacup. It was now or never. God had forced his hand.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said in a clear, steady voice.
“Well, be quick about it. I’ve got to go.”
“I didn’t kill all those people,” Layton said. The words felt strange in his mouth.
“Of course you didn’t. It was a bloody accident, Doug, and ya shouldn’t have gone to prison for it.”
“But it wasn’t an accident.”
Thomas Layton’s expression was one of sheer bewilderment. “But that’s daft. No one would do such an evil thing. No one,” he said in a hushed voice, making sure no one would overhear.
After perhaps twenty seconds of deafening silence, Thomas nodded and settled back into his chair. “You never lied to me as a boy,” he said simply. “So I know you’re not lying to me now. Tell me everything, from the beginning.”