Layton sat in the high-backed, upholstered chair before the coal fire in his little sitting room. Battered by his experience at Scotland Yard, he decided to start fresh, reconstructing the crime, making sure there was nothing he’d overlooked.
In his days as an architect, he’d examined a set of drawings a dozen times to ensure they contained no errors. And he would always discover a mistake that had been staring him straight in the face all along.
He pulled out his list of the dead and, with his fountain pen, drew lines that linked all the victims to their possible murderers, whom he listed on the right-hand side of the paper.
Denys Blair, 78 ----------- Glenn
Ronald Cass, 52
James Croyden, 37 ----------- Stockton
Robert Davidson, 12
Shirley Finney, 19 ----------- Clifton
Daphne Foster, 46
Ted Hardy, 44 ----------- Clifton
John Mapes, 41
Isabel Massey, 14
Hugh Rice, 53 ----------- Clifton and Glenn
Sir John Richardson, 54
Jocelyn Shipway, 31 ----------- Stockton
Trevor Stanton, 42
Sibyl Treadwell, 36
A line connected Shirley Finney and Ted Hardy to Clifton; Denys Blair to Glenn; Hugh Rice to both Clifton and Glenn. Sunny Samuels and Amy’s sister were joined to Nigel Stockton with a line. Then there were the people like John Mapes, the two children, and five unconnected adults who were seemingly in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one on the list was linked to Alec Shaw. Only Layton was connected to him. He knew he had to look elsewhere to find some proof of Shaw’s guilt. The builder, he now believed, was the murderer.
Layton stared into the glowing fire. But before going in that direction, was he absolutely sure there were no connections to the other adults? Had he missed anything? He went back to the other names—Ronnie Cass, Daphne Foster, Sir John Richardson, Sybil Treadwell, and Trevor Stanton—deciding to check one last time for some kind of link.
Layton’s hand stopped in midair as he reached his hand into Cissie’s crate of newspaper clippings next to the chair. He didn’t want to see the lurid headlines, hysterical articles, and gruesome photos of the disaster again. They would bring back the memories that ate painfully through him.
The article with background information on the victims was on top; wincing, he snatched it up. He picked a name at random. Under “Trevor Stanton” was just one sentence: “Mr. Stanton was a barrister associated with the Inns of Court and the son of the late Gerald Stanton of Devonshire Shipping Ltd. and Mary Weems Stanton, Bolton Street, Mayfair.”
Finding Mrs. Stanton’s address in the London phone directory took an instant. While looking at his father peacefully asleep in his bed, Layton tiptoed to the closet and changed into a suit and bowler. He threaded his way through the streets to Mayfair. It was late morning; the winter fog wasn’t as thick as usual, and the sun was struggling to break through.
At the handsome stone house, he stood at the foot of the stoop for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and banged the brass door knocker. A housemaid barely out of her teens answered the door with a bright smile. Even though he had no appointment, he knew his dress and manner would compel her to grant him entry.
“Mr. Donald Hampton, Esquire, to see Mrs. Stanton, please.”
Without hesitation, the maid ushered him into the morning room and went to announce his arrival. Less than five minutes later, Mrs. Stanton, a well-groomed matron in her seventies, entered and offered a long, thin-fingered hand in greeting.
“How can I can I help you, Mr. Hampton?” she said in a kind, quiet voice.
“I’m just back from South Africa,” Layton said, bowing his head. “And one of my very first tasks in London was to come offer condolences for your son.”
“How kind of you, Mr. Hampton. You knew my son from the legal world, I presume?”
“Yes,” Layton said. By this time, the lies came almost without thought. “From the time I practiced at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. We weren’t close friends, more professional colleagues. He was a brilliant legal mind, Mrs. Stanton.”
“Trevor loved the law.” Mrs. Stanton shook her head, and he saw a shadow of sorrow pass across her features. “His father wanted him to enter into the family shipping business, of course. But Trevor always knew his own mind.” She gestured Layton to sit and perched on a chair across from him. “Losing him like that… It was quite a shock, as you can imagine. I’m glad his father wasn’t alive to experience it.”
“It’s terrible to lose a child,” Layton said quietly.
“Time has lessened the pain, but you know, Mr. Hampton, sometimes I still cry myself to sleep when I think of the loss.” She gave Layton a wan smile. “I remember when I first saw him stand in court in his wig and robes. We were all so proud.”
They chatted for a time, but the sinking feeling in Layton’s gut told him their conversation would lead nowhere. Harsh regret filled him; he should not have come and made the old woman feel so sad. It was like what he’d done to Ted Hardy’s mother.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Stanton. You’ve been most gracious.”
When Layton stood to take his leave, Mrs. Stanton rang for the maid to let him out. He stood in silence by a mahogany writing desk whose top was strewn with greeting cards and open envelopes. She must have just celebrated her birthday. About a minute later, the maid appeared.
“Vivian, please show Mr. Hampton out.”
Mrs. Stanton walked into the entry hall alongside him. Layton paused before a huge painting opposite the grand staircase.
“How beautiful,” he said reverently.
“It’s by John Singer Sargent. A group portrait of the men in our family. Trevor, my late husband, his brother, and the nephews. Done almost twenty years ago now.”
Several well-dressed males of all different ages had been painted sitting on a sofa or standing behind it; they were posed in the same room where Layton had just been received.
“Magnificent,” he repeated. “Look at the shadows on the sides of their faces—he’s perfectly captured the natural light from the windows. And the fluid brushwork.”
Sargent was one of Layton’s favorite painters. Edwina had favored him too, had even hoped to commission a portrait of their family, but nothing had come of it. Probably because Sargent was an American, Layton thought, and Lord Litton would have no one but a bred-to-the-bone Englishman.
As he walked back to his digs, the wonderful painting refused to leave his mind. Perhaps it was all the cloths he’d done, Layton thought absently, that made him admire Sargent’s artistry even more. Then a confused look came over his face.