“The coroner says an ice pick severed the spinal cord between the base of the skull and the first vertebrae,” Layton read.
Cissie, Phipps, and his father—Thomas Layton had extended his trip upon hearing the full story of the Britannia disaster from his son—had gathered in Layton’s digs.
“Glenn wasn’t in on the balcony collapse and found out,” Phipps announced incredulously. “And Clifton did him in.”
“So Clifton’s our murderer,” exclaimed Cissie with glee.
Layton shook his head. He didn’t know what to think. Up until now, he’d come to believe that Shaw orchestrated the accident. Did he murder Glenn because he was an owner?
“This has gone far enough. You must go to Scotland Yard, Doug,” his father pleaded. “Now!” Amid the force of his emotion, he began coughing violently.
“There’s handkerchiefs in the top dresser drawer, Dad,” Layton said gently.
His father’s face flushed with embarrassment; he shuffled to the dresser, rummaged through it, and pulled out a cloth to wipe the thin trace of blood from his lips. Cissie smiled at him sympathetically and poured him another cup of tea.
“He’s right, Doug,” Phipps said gently. “It’s time to go to the police. You must tell them about the two skeletons—and everything else we’ve discovered.”
• • •
The first man to start laughing was the fat, bald one in the corner.
“He’s a right Charlie, eh?” he chortled.
“Aye, this bloke’s not batting on a full wicket,” said another, who was standing by the window.
Inspector Jenkins had his head bent and was smiling down at the blotter paper on his desk. Layton could tell he agreed with his officers. In what was definitely a gesture of impatience, he tapped the end of his fountain pen on his desk and said briskly, “Mr. Layton, your story is preposterous. Of course, given the horrible outcome of the Britannia disaster, it is natural you would seek to place the blame elsewhere.”
“But he’s telling you the truth, man,” Thomas Layton entreated.
“And I can understand,” Inspector Jenkins said, looking sympathetically at the old man, “why, as his father, you would want to believe him. But your son was convicted of manslaughter by a jury. They heard the evidence.”
“Not this evidence,” Phipps cried, rising from his chair in front of the inspector’s desk.
Jenkins frowned; Phipps saw his expression of disapproval and resumed his seat.
Layton, sitting between his father and Phipps, just looked down at the dark-stained wood floor. Jenkins clearly felt this was all a colossal waste of time. His tone reminded Layton of a teacher trying to reason with a dimwitted pupil.
“You have no solid proof that the owners of the circuit, Sir Clifton and the late Mr. Glenn, conspired to murder Hugh Rice so as to eliminate their debt to him. Nor do you have proof that they murdered all these other persons at the same time.” The inspector shook his head, scoffing. “A vicar, a servant girl… It’s absurd.”
“Don’t forget Alec Shaw, the builder of the Britannia,” added Thomas Layton, who realized by saying that he’d made a bigger fool of himself.
The fat man smirked at the officer by the window, and both started chuckling.
“And you’ve not one shred of evidence that Alec Shaw is responsible,” shot back Jenkins.
“So many killers to choose from, mate. Which one is it?” asked the fat policeman, grinning from ear to ear.
“You’re responsible for the deaths and injuries of all those people, Mr. Layton,” Jenkins said with careful emphasis. “I know you didn’t mean to do it, but you must bear the responsibility, no matter how heavy the burden.”
“Aye, I’d’ve killed myself by now,” said the officer by the window.
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” snapped Jenkins, darting his eyes at Layton’s father.
“You have to look into this,” Phipps said, forcing his voice to be calm and level.
“Please,” said Thomas Layton in an almost pleading tone.
Seeing the agony in the old man’s eyes, Jenkins held his temper. “I’m sorry, sir. But I’ve still no ironclad proof to take to the Crown.”
“Sir Edgar Montague, the head of Scotland Yard, would think us bloomin’ loonies for even suggesting such a thing,” said the fat policeman.
“I know it all seems total fantasy to you,” Layton said wearily. He trailed off, seeing the blank, hard faces before him.
“Or perhaps you murdered Glenn, Layton, to get back at him for this frame-up,” said the fat man thoughtfully.
“What about the skeletons?” Phipps said.
“I’ll not be wasting my time busting through any walls or ceilings,” snapped the inspector. When Phipps tried to protest, he held up a hand, signaling that the meeting was at an end.
• • •
Thoroughly defeated, Layton, his father, and Phipps left the New Scotland Yard building in silence and walked to the Thames to watch the river traffic flowing by. Barges, tugs, and high-masted cargo vessels churned past in a steady stream. It was cold, and a fog was settling in.
Layton heaved a great sigh and leaned against the wall, looking back at the police headquarters building—its great corner turrets, the red brickwork with white stone stripes that swept around the building. Odd, he thought. Even in his worst moments, an architect’s first instinct is to examine any building that catches his interest.
He turned to his father. “Well, Dad, I made a dog’s breakfast out of that. The police thought me mad as a hatter. They’ll likely start watching me now.”
“No, Doug. It’s just that it’s such a bloody incredible crime. No one can believe it,” Thomas Layton said. He sounded exhausted and deeply worn.
“We can’t give up.”
Phipps put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “We’re not going to give up.”
Layton smiled appreciatively at his colleague.
“I must go to Bristol for a few days, to see about the new city hall. But when I get back, I can help, Doug,” Phipps said.
“Of course. But please, Tom,” Layton cautioned. “Don’t let the hash I’m in interfere with your practice. You’ve been jolly good about everything.”
Phipps smiled and nodded, then took his leave, walking briskly east along the Embankment.
Thomas Layton stared out at the Thames, watching the gray waters lap and roll. He shook his head and said, “Suppose we never get the evidence, Doug? Those shits will get off scot-free. I can’t bear that. They deserve to die for what they’ve done to ya.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Layton said. He sighed. “After all I’ve been through, I have to believe that justice will win out in the end. Though at the moment, I can’t think how.”
• • •
Inspector Jenkins stood at his window, watching the three men leave. “Poor bugger,” he said and turned to face his two men, Willoughby and Perkins. “It’s amazing what people will say to escape their guilt.”
The two detectives nodded their heads and smiled at their boss.
“So, lads, let’s deal with our latest muddle.”
Even in the hall outside the interrogation room, they could hear the loud carrying-on inside. The minute Jenkins turned the brass doorknob, the shouting halted.
Two gentlemen in morning dress sat on one side of the long oak table.
“Good morning, my lord. Good morning, Sir Edmond,” said Jenkins.
The Earl of Suttonfield rose from his seat, his fists clenched.
“This is an outrage, sir! I am the Earl of Suttonfield.”
“Please, my lord, sit down and let me deal with this,” Sir Edmond Stevens, his barrister, whispered.
Reluctantly, the earl sat. Jenkins took a seat across from him and folded his hands carefully on the table.
“You didn’t happen to be at the Metropolitan Royal Theatre the night before last, my lord?”
“I’d never set foot in such a place,” the earl blustered.
“But you did go to the Queen’s Palace of Varieties, where you shouted at your daughter to come down off the stage.”
The earl sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “That was a family matter,” he said huffily. “None of your affair.”
“And it was Lionel Glenn who persuaded your daughter to go on the stage?”
There was a brief silence, and then Stevens leapt into action. “Inspector, are you insinuating that my client had something to do with this murder? That’s absurd.”
“You bore Glenn a grudge for luring your daughter into the variety hall. He gave her the opportunity, made her a great star.”
The earl maintained his stony silence, but at his side, Stevens rose from his chair. “The earl was nowhere near the Metropolitan that night. We’re finished here, Inspector,” he announced.
“Is the earl’s household in the city or the country missing an ice pick?”
Another deafening silence.
“Very well. Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Jenkins said. The two men made for the door; just as they had reached it, he said quietly, “My lord? Are you missing a cuff stud?”
He held up a square stud—a tiny diamond edged by a silver Greek key motif.
“My men found this in the hallway, outside Glenn’s box.”
“No, Inspector, I am not,” huffed the earl.
With that, they left, and Jenkins sat on the edge of the table with a sigh.
“What’s our next move, Inspector?” asked Perkins, the fat police officer.
“There is no next move. The Earl of Suttonfield murdered Lionel Glenn because he convinced Lady Gladys to go on the stage. I’m absolutely sure of it. But this is the end of the road, lads.”
At his men’s baffled glances, Jenkins explained, “First, there’s no real evidence other than this cuff stud. And if the Crown did charge the earl with murder, an earl can be tried only by a jury of his peers—those in the House of Lords. And they’d acquit him even if he were guilty; I’ve no doubt of that. The toffs would agree that Glenn deserved to be murdered for putting his daughter in the music hall and bringing disgrace on the family.”