“You may kiss the bride.”
Layton leaned forward and kissed Cissie gently. As his lips touched hers, cheers and applause filled the Queen’s Palace auditorium.
The newlyweds and the vicar stood in the aisle in front of the stalls, which were filled with close friends and relatives. Helen McCoy was the maid of honor; Mangogo, the best man; Ronald Layton, the ring bearer; and Cyril and Neville, in matching frocks, were the bridesmaids, flanking Cissie and Layton. Sir John Clifton—who, in the end, owed Layton a great deal—had given the bride away.
Cissie had insisted on a Christmas wedding at the Queen’s Palace. “Everybody gets married in a church or registry office,” she’d told Layton fiercely. “No one gets married in a palace like this. Let’s do it up right, luv.”
Now, with his arm around Cissie’s waist, Layton raised his hand and called out, “Please, join us at our new home for a Christmas Day celebration.”
“On your bikes, you Champagne Charlies,” Cissie cried to resounding cheers.
The house orchestra in the pit struck up a wedding march. Layton’s father, still healthy enough to attend; his brother; Cissie’s mother, who’d worried her daughter would never marry again, and sister, Daisy; Nanny Hawkins, Reggie Ash, Daniel Harker, Wilding the stage manager, Tommy Donovan, Luigi, and the MacMillan circuit’s many other artistes applauded the couple as they raced up the center aisle. When they reached the grand entry foyer, Simon Blaine, the stage doorman, greeted them and flung open the double doors.
How much had changed in a year since he walked into the Grand back in Nottingham! Layton thought, almost overwhelmed with joy. He remembered how terrified he’d been—to be back in a music hall, to be recognized as the Butcher of the West End. After five years in prison, he’d thought his life was over. All that seemed to await him was a bottle.
But from the instant he’d stepped foot into this fascinating make-believe world, his life had been transformed. Reuniting with his son, finding a wife, discovering an old friend, making the oddest of new friends, and—most importantly—clearing his name. The impossible had happened. He’d gotten his life back. He was Douglas Layton again, and he was happy.
At the curb, a shiny, forest-green Oldsmobile awaited. Before Layton and Cissie boarded the motor, the wedding party posed for photos in front of the theatre’s ornate wood-and-glass doors. Then, per London custom, bystanders on the street cheered as the newlyweds drove off.
• • •
The Christmas tree in the bay window of the new house in Kensington looked splendid. Instead of real candles, the new miniature electric lights were fastened to its branches, along with wooden angels and a very jolly ornament of Father Christmas to top it off. In the fireplace, the traditional Yule log burned merrily. People stood about the large parlor, drinking glasses of champagne, brandy, eggnog, rum, and stout, talking and laughing. His brother, Roger, was having a chat with Cyril and Neville. Mangogo, in a formal cutaway jacket, was laughing with Reggie Ash. And Ronnie was darting around, showing everyone his new cricket bat.
Because the wedding ceremony had taken place on Christmas morning, Layton’s family had opened their gifts the night before. Seeing his son tear open his gifts again—it was a wonderful feeling. And Cissie’s joy had almost equaled the boy’s when she opened Layton’s gift: a real ostrich feather boa. She’d actually shrieked with delight.
Layton had bought her a matching hat adorned with pure-white ostrich feathers; she’d put on both and preened about the parlor for her mother and sister, saying she felt like a real society lady—all fur coat and no knickers.
For his part, Cissie had surprised him with a real Pathé cinematograph projector, along with a dozen reels of film. When it came to Christmas gifts, Layton realized, if someone truly loved you, they listened carefully in the months before the holiday to find out what one really coveted. How different from the Christmases of his old life!
While the guests had their drinks, Cissie, dressed in a dark-blue gown with scarlet trim, circulated, showing off her new wedding ring.
Smiling brightly, Layton approached Nanny Hawkins. He gave her a warm hug and said, “Nanny, thank you so much for convincing Lady Edwina to allow Ronnie to come.”
“Oh, Mr. Layton, you won’t believe it! Lady Edwina finally stood up to Lord Litton and said Ronnie could see his father anytime. I’m so proud of her, I am. And what could His Lordship say? When it turned out you weren’t responsible for that awful accident, he hadn’t a leg to stand on.” Nanny gave Layton a mischievous smile. “But you know, Lady Edwina would have let the boy see you even if your name hadn’t been cleared. She knows a boy needs a father.”
It was worth it, Layton thought jubilantly. Clearing his name had been difficult, convincing Inspector Jenkins and Scotland Yard to believe his fantastic story about Phipps wanting to destroy a rival architect. But after exhuming Reville’s body from the Grand, finding a fingertip bone of Browne’s that Phipps had overlooked, explaining what had happened to Beverly, the rivet fabricator, and Alice Browne, and revealing the truth about Trevor Stanton’s inheritance, Jenkins and Sir Edgar Montague had slowly come around.
In the end, it was Phipps’s attempt on Layton’s life that night at the Queen’s that sealed matters. For there was a witness: Mangogo. Between his still imperfect English and Professor Evans, who translated the harder descriptive phrases, the police got the whole story. At first, Scotland Yard tried to dismiss him entirely as an ignorant savage, but the Pygmy was a British subject—and a huge West End variety hall star. His evidence had to be admitted. At last, after enormous public pressure and Scotland Yard’s recommendation, the Crown’s prosecutor, Sir John Chichester, grudgingly announced that Layton had been exonerated and would be granted an official pardon.
In a matter of days, the true story of the Britannia disaster was a sensation all over the empire, and Mangogo became a national hero. He had saved the life of his dear English friend and restored his good name. Crowds descended upon the Queen’s Palace in a virtual avalanche to see Professor Evans & His Pygmies. When Mangogo came onstage, the audience went wild and wouldn’t stop cheering. Cissie, forever beholden to the African for saving Layton’s life, was also delighted at the big business he brought in and moved him to the larger Metro theatre for an unprecedented twenty-minute turn. There was even talk of a tour in the United States and Canada.
The Daily Mail, which had once branded Layton the Butcher of the West End, now praised his courage and perseverance (though they never printed an apology). Layton had shown a true Englishman’s backbone in standing up to the shame and cruelty of his unjust incarceration in Mulcaster. The public admired him, and while they had first demanded he be hanged, they now pestered the Crown to award him damages for wrongful imprisonment. The Telegraph insisted that Layton be given a royal commission as restitution. The press demanded that the Royal Institute of British Architects reinstate him, which they did, issuing a formal apology and damning Phipps as a monster despite his talent. When it was revealed that Layton was the one who had actually discovered the fire inside the wall of the Queen’s, the public admiration increased tenfold.
Soon, Layton began receiving offers of commissions again. Society friends who had deserted him reappeared, as though nothing had ever happened. Dinner invitations, the truest sign of British social acceptance, began to pour in. Former architect colleagues, such as Derrick Phelps-Jones and Sidney Montfort, greeted Layton in the street as if he’d been on holiday in Scotland. A man appeared at the door of Layton and Cissie’s new house with a message from Layton’s men’s club, the Carlton: Layton had been reinstated, and his dues were waived for a year. But nobody mentioned his imprisonment or said how sorry they were that such a terrible thing had happened to him.
In a way, Layton wasn’t surprised. As a rule, British society people ignored distasteful things. The reactions of the friends Layton cared about most, the men and women of the variety theatre, was what mattered to him. He had worried they would hate him for his deception. The Butcher of the West End working alongside them, pretending to be Frank Owen? Would they feel angry and betrayed?
But he needn’t have worried. From the stage doorman up to the theatre manager, all were happy for him. They admired his pluck and smarts. And most of all, the artistes and stagehands liked the fact that a gentleman had become one of them. His hard work and talent for painting the cloths had placed him in high esteem; Layton was considered a good bloke who liked a laugh and a pint. He was already a hero to them because he had saved the theatre from burning down. More selfishly, they all secretly hoped a decent man like him could somehow expose a softer side of Cissie, making life easier for everyone. (Layton would have laughed at such a notion.)
If his variety friends were angry about anything, it was that they had to learn to call him Douglas instead of Frank.
“Couldn’t we just keep calling you Frank, ducks? I hate to learn new things,” complained Neville. “Just go to court and have your name legally changed to Owen.”
The party was in full swing when Cissie made her announcement.
“All right, you all,” she shouted. “If you’re not too sozzled, let’s eat!”
She pulled apart the sliding doors that separated the parlor from the dining room, revealing a long table set with blue-and-white bone china and piled with platters of food. An “ooh” went up from the gathered guests, much like the awed cries of a theatre audience when an acrobat did a difficult trick. But they paused a moment before entering to let Layton and Cissie precede them into the room.
“Are you ready for our Christmas feast, Mrs. Layton?” Layton asked, quirking an eyebrow at his wife.
“Lead the way, Mr. Layton,” said Cissie, taking her husband’s arm.
A lavish midday meal of roast goose with currants, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and brussels sprouts followed. Next to each plate was a Christmas cracker, a paper-covered tube whose end tabs, when pulled, produced a loud crack. Inside was a paper hat and a slip of paper printed with a riddle. Each person read his or hers out, to the glee of the crowd.
“What happens to a yellow hat when it’s thrown into the Red Sea?” Layton cried.
“Turn red,” shouted Mangogo.
“Gets wet,” shouted Ronnie—the correct answer.
Wilding, the manager, who was seated next to Layton, leaned over and said, “I suppose I must put an advert in the papers for a new scenic artist after the New Year? Shame to lose you, old chap.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Layton said. “In fact, I wanted to talk to you about a new design for the Christmas pantomime.”
Pantomimes were the silly musicals, always based on fairy tales, that Brits liked to watch during the holiday season. This one was modeled after “Jack and the Beanstalk,” and Layton had a splendid idea for a cloth done at a dramatic perspective: looking up from the bottom of the beanstalk as it extended into the sky.
Wilding’s eyes glittered with delight. He took his fork and tapped his champagne glass, sending out a ringing tone into the room. When all eyes were on him, he rose from his seat to make a toast.
“To Douglas Layton, the new head of the scene shop at the Queen’s.”
It took the guests a fraction of a second to understand the significance of his words. Then everyone, including Cissie, stood to toast Layton. At last, he was truly one of them.
After the truth about the Britannia disaster emerged, Layton had discovered he had no desire to return to architecture—no matter how many new commissions came in. The variety theatre’s fascinating, wonderful world of artifice and illusion had won him over entirely. He wanted to stay, to be with his new wife in the midst of a dazzling array of entertainments. The singers, comics, acrobats, jugglers, and animal acts gave him so much pleasure. Of course, the artistes were often vain, stupid, vulgar drunks, but they were still more interesting than the boring toffs with whom he’d once spent his days. Though most—with the notable exception of Helen McCoy—had come from the gutter, they were in general better human beings than people who’d been born with all life’s advantages.
Besides, in the variety theatre, he no longer had to pretend to be someone he wasn’t, to hide behind an invented facade of upper-class gentility. The pressure of being found out was gone; the shame of being a fraud had vanished. He could be a lad from a cottage on Cherry Lane in Dorset once more. He had no regrets. He had found a new life.
Joanie, their cook, came into the dining room, carrying the plum pudding, which she had topped with brandy and set aflame. Everyone cheered.
But as they dug in, a knock sounded at the door.
“Who the hell could that be?” Cissie asked, shouting to be heard above the din.
“I’ll see,” Layton said, rising from the table.
There on the stoop stood Mrs. Massey, the woman who’d been waiting for him the day of his release from Mulcaster.
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Layton,” she said in a halting voice. “I brought you a blood pudding for Christmas, and…I…” She bent her head contritely. “I wanted to apologize for how I behaved.”
Layton smiled. “Nonsense. Only one of the rocks you threw that day hit me. And it didn’t hurt.”
The woman furrowed her brow. “No, I meant for pushing ya in front of the tram…and sending ya…that death letter.”
Layton’s face clouded over with puzzlement, then he smiled and extended his hand to her.
“Come in, Mrs. Massey,” he said. “Come and join us.”