Elizabeth read the letter with a growing feeling of disquiet. ‘And you must also knowe,’ it said, ‘that my nose, the tool and instrumente of all my joye, has become a curse and an hindrance. Sometimes I can smelle and at other tymes I am lost.’
It was as she read these words that Elizabeth found herself taking a sharp intake of breath. ‘Huh! How extraordinary.’
She read them again, to double check that she had not invented them. But no. There they were, written in plain, clear English. ‘Sometimes I can smelle and at other tymes I am lost.’ She refolded the paper and looked over her shoulder, as if to ensure that no one had been spying on her. She felt as if she had just done something illicit – something she shouldn’t have done. ‘Well, well,’ she said at length. ‘I think this calls for a cup of tea.’ And with that she disappeared into the kitchen.
As the kettle approached a rolling boil, Elizabeth turned the words in the letter round and round in her head. She was puzzled. No, she was more than puzzled. She was completely taken aback by her discovery. ‘Is Edward in some way mimicking Humphrey Trencom?’ she asked herself. ‘Or is he suffering from the same strange condition as his ancestors? Is it all in his head? Or is he incapable of helping himself?’
As Elizabeth splashed milk into a cup, she had an even more disquieting thought. Was it conceivable that all of the Trencom men – generations of them – had suffered from the same terrible affliction? She now regretted not paying more attention to Edward when he’d spoken about his ancestors. But she was certainly familiar with the story of his father and grandfather and remembered that they, like Humphrey, had abandoned Trencoms in order to go overseas in pursuit of some strange obsession.
She pulled the tea-strainer from the teapot and banged it on the side of the bin.
‘At least Edward shows no signs of leaving London,’ she said to herself. ‘I suppose we can be grateful for small mercies.’
Edward had spent the morning seated at desk twelve in Southwark’s municipal public library. It was his custom to flick through The Times before beginning his research and that is precisely what he did on this particular morning. There was news of a forthcoming documentary about the royal family and an interesting article about an upcoming auction of Napoleon’s memoirs. But it was an item at the bottom of page seventeen – the court circular page – that particularly caught Edward’s attention. It was only short, just five or six lines, but it caused Edward’s heart momentarily to freeze. ‘D’Autun’s Cheese Shop to be Honoured by Queen,’ read the heading, and the lines underneath reported that d’Autun’s of St James’s had become the second cheese merchant in the capital to be honoured with a ‘by royal appointment’. The article touched briefly on the rivalry between d’Autun’s and Trencoms and claimed that this news ‘will be unwelcome to Mr. Edward Trencom, owner and proprietor of London’s oldest cheese shop, Trencoms, which recently suffered extensive damage from floodwater. Trencoms remains closed until further notice.’
Edward read the article through for a second time. ‘Unwelcome news –’ he said. ‘Hmm.’ He put down the newspaper and sat back in his chair. ‘Is it unwelcome?’ he thought. ‘Am I that bothered?’ And he realized, somewhat to his surprise, that he was not.
‘Good luck to him,’ he thought. ‘He deserves it – besides, some of us have got rather bigger fish to fry.’
Edward got up from his chair and walked across the library to replace the newspaper on its rack. Then, as he returned to his desk, he opened an oft-thumbed antiquarian book and started to read.
The book in question was by Humphrey Trencom and was entitled Ad Portum Constantinopolum, which Edward would have translated as To the Gates of Constantinople, had he not felt the ghostly presence of his old Latin teacher leering over his shoulder.
‘Of course not,’ he thought. ‘It’s singular.’ And he wrote To the Gate (singular) of Constantinople at the top of his notepad.
The title page of Humphrey’s book gave the impression that readers should expect a conventional travelogue in the manner of Sir Japhet Browne’s Tales and Travailes (published in the same year) or Asheby’s Manners and Customs of Æthiope. But Edward quickly discovered that Humphrey’s work was not quite as it first seemed. From the opening sentence of page one to the last line of page 243, it was filled with histrionics and cryptic clues, digressions and verbal perambulations. It was as if the author was playing an elaborate hoax on the reader, flipping betwixt subjects with scarcely a care in the world. The book was made even more confusing by his tendency to withhold any information that might have helped to clarify the narrative.
Edward was surprised to discover that Humphrey, unlike his voyaging contemporaries, had recorded his long sea voyage with scant reference to ports, maritime hazards and wind directions. He dwelt instead on the fantastical monsters he had seen – hippogriffs and jelloid octopuses, mermaids and clams the size of cartwheels. It was apparent to Edward that most of these were figments of the author’s imagination – or plagiarized from Herodotus – and yet Humphrey assured his readers that he had seen all with his own eyes.
His description of Constantinople was even more cryptic, though to Edward rather more pleasing. Humphrey led his readers on a nasal tour of the city, depicting each quarter in terms of its smell. Interspersed with this were panegyrics written in Byzantine Greek – descriptions of Constantinople as it had been before the siege of 1453.
‘Hmm,’ said Edward to himself as he scratched his head for the eighteenth time that morning. ‘It’s quite the most peculiar book I’ve ever read.’ And he wondered how he was to fathom such a tale.
The book was preceded by an engraved frontispiece – a portrait of the author that had been commissioned by Mr H.T. himself. It depicted a lean and undisputedly handsome man with a romanesque jaw and chiselled cheeks.
‘A man who took care of himself,’ thought Edward. ‘A man who kept one eye on the mirror.’
The most eye-catching element of the portrait was the author’s peculiar nose. Long, thin and aquiline, it was marked by a prominent yet perfectly formed bump over the bridge. Edward instinctively moved his hand to his nose as he studied the engraving once again. ‘It is indisputably my nose.’ He noted this with satisfaction. ‘We’re both Trencoms, that much is certain.’
Mr H.T. had written a great deal about himself in the preface to his book and came across as a studious and rather serious individual. While the English merchants in Constantinople spent their time drinking and whoring, Humphrey seemed to have preferred studying Byzantine manuscripts. He had also included a number of sentimental references to Agnes, whom Edward already knew to be his wife. ‘He must have missed her,’ he thought, ‘but then I miss Elizabeth when I’m away.’
The main section of the book was a great deal more challenging than the preface. The principal difficulty for Edward was the author’s tendency to defer to Latin or Greek whenever he had something important to say. It was so infuriating. Every time Humphrey looked set to shed some insight into the mystery goal he was pursuing in Constantinople, he would switch into Byzantine Greek. The more Edward studied the book, the more he realized that his ancestor had an obsession with the Porta Aurea. He described it in meticulous detail and provided diagrams of its western and eastern facades. Edward began to think it entirely possible that Humphrey’s sole purpose in going to Constantinople was to explore this historic gateway.
‘Ah – good,’ he thought as he looked up from his desk. ‘Here’s Herbert – the very person I need.’
Herbert Potinger had been kept in the dark about Mr Makarezos and the strange things that had happened to Edward over the last two months. Edward had not told him that he was being followed, since he wished as few people as possible to know. But Herbert was familiar with every last detail about Edward’s family papers and promised his friend that he would help solve the mystery of what had happened to Edward’s forefathers. Now, catching sight of Humphrey Trencom’s book, he smiled and whispered, ‘Now that reminds me. I??
?ve got some information for you – and I think it might prove of some interest.’
He pushed his fingers into the dense bush of ginger on top of his head (a nervous twitch) and vigorously scratched his scalp. As he did so, a snow-shower of dandruff fell lightly through the air, dusting his shoulders and sleeves. Edward watched it fall, remembering that he had once read that household dust was 75 per cent human skin. ‘In dear old Herbert’s house,’ he mused, ‘it must be nearer ninety per cent.’
Edward was pleased to see that Herbert was clutching a file marked ‘Trencom’. A few days earlier, he had copied many of the Greek passages in Humphrey Trencom’s book and dropped them round to Herbert’s house. Now, he was about to discover what they all meant.
‘Where shall we begin?’ whispered Herbert. ‘Ah, yes – now – if you look in chapter twenty-two of the fourteenth volume of Agallianos’s Chronicle, you’ll find an important cross-reference to the third section of Eugenikos’s four-volume Address.’
Edward did exactly as requested and discovered that he needed to check volume fourteen of The Patristic and Byzantine Review. This had a footnote that hinted at an interesting passage in the second volume of John Kantakouzenos’s Historiae. Edward returned to the card index, excited to be at long last on Humphrey’s trail, only to discover that he should have been looking in Papadopallos’s Versuch einer Genealogie der Palaiologen (Munich, 1938). But this important reference work had somehow escaped Herbert’s acquisition and was only to be found in the London Library. Moreover, it was in German, which neither Edward nor Herbert could understand.
Some people enjoy research and others do not. Edward and Herbert belonged in the former category and they spent the next three days attempting to unravel the mystery of Humphrey’s book. It was clear to both men that he was engaged on some sort of clandestine assignment, searching for something of the greatest importance. But what this thing was, and what he intended to do with it, was not at all clear.
Edward called at Herbert’s house each evening after work and both men redoubled their efforts to discover why Humphrey was so obsessed with the Porta Aurea. On each occasion, Edward stayed until long after midnight. He spent an entire Saturday researching in Herbert’s front room. And on the seventh day, at about the time when everyone else in Heythrop Avenue, Streatham, was awaiting their Sunday beef, Edward and Herbert had a minor breakthrough.
‘Eureka!’ said Herbert. ‘Got it – got it – got it.’
He had just finished translating a Byzantine riddle that Humphrey had inserted at an important point in his book. He read back through his translation to ensure it was correct, then allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. He had cracked a part of the mystery.
‘So?’ asked an excited and impatient Edward. ‘Tell me, for heaven’s sake, tell me.’
But he was to suffer a few minutes of agony before his friend could inform him of his discovery. For whenever Herbert Potinger found himself in moments of stress or high excitement, he developed a most excruciating and crippling stutter.
‘Spe- spe- spe- spe-’
Edward tried to encourage his friend, raising his eyebrows up and down in an effort to coax out the word.
‘Spe- spe- spe- spe-’
He didn’t like to stare at Herbert so he looked down at the floor, hoping that this would alleviate the stress and dampen the stutter. But it was all to no avail.
‘Spe- spe- spe- spe-’
Next he tried another tack, attempting to guess at the word. ‘Spectacle? Speciality? Specimen?’
Herbert did not respond – he merely pressed on with his valiant effort to cough, spit or splutter out the all-important word. It was most fortunate that at the very moment when he found himself in the greatest difficulty, the back door of the house slammed shut with a violent bang. The noise seemed to penetrate deep into Herbert’s body, forcing the offending stammer out of his system. Unexpectedly, and quite without warning, Herbert’s handicap was suddenly overcome. A single Latin word popped from his mouth.
‘Spelaeum,’ he said, before slumping back exhausted into his chair.
‘Spelaeum,’ repeated Edward. ‘And what does it mean?’
‘C- C- C- C- C- C-’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Edward. ‘I don’t think I can stand this.’
But this time the stammer didn’t last.
‘C-C-C-Cave,’ said Herbert. ‘It’s a cave. Don’t you see? There was once a cave underneath the Porta Aurea.’
And both he and Edward smiled. They realized that they were at long last on to something. They had sniffed out Humphrey’s trail.
18 APRIL 1969
Two fishing skiffs had been drawn up onto the pebble beach, just beyond reach of the waves. They were still dripping water onto the bleached stones, creating a ring of light grey around each boat. But with every minute that passed, the dripping slowed and the ring grew lighter. The sun was screaming in the sky – a light so piercing that it caused a sharp ache behind the eyes. The sea was an infinitely more restful sight; a near-motionless slab of blue, flecked with tinsel.
In one of the boats, the owner lay snoozing in a tiny patch of shade. He had moved his hat from the top of his head to the side, in order to provide a sunscreen for his eyes. To anyone looking on from afar, the effect was decidedly peculiar. It was as if his neck had been trussed into an impossible, spine-breaking angle.
In the other boat, a man was slicing sea urchins with a broken knife and sucking the salty sea-juice into his mouth. He swilled it around once or twice to savour the taste then poked a dirty finger between his teeth in order to remove a rogue spine. His movements were slow and deliberate. It was as if he was working at half speed – a metronome on its slowest beat. He looked at his watch and yawned for the third time in as many minutes. It was far too hot for April.
Not for the first time, these two ‘captains’ had spent their morning ferrying eight men to a disused fisherman’s shack somewhere on the western coast of Mount Athos. It was an unlikely place for a meeting. The only window had lost all but a jagged isosceles of glass and the exposed woodwork was the colour of old whalebone. The roof, too, had seen better days. The orange-ochre tiles were as ruptured as a furrowed field and slowly slipping earthwards under the inexorable draw of gravity.
But these features were the very reasons why the building had been chosen. No one would have ever suspected that it had, for the last four months, provided the meeting place for underground agents plotting against the Greek government. Nor would anyone have suspected – not in a million years – that the subject of their conversation was (more often than not) one Edward Trencom of Trencoms cheese shop in London.
On this particular day, the assembled men included three priests, four agents and Andreas Papadrianos. The latter was doing much of the talking, urging the rest of the men to awaken to the fact that the moment must not be missed. ‘If we don’t act now,’ he said, ‘we may well find that we have lost our chance for another generation – perhaps for ever. I urge you all to say yes.’
One of the priests nodded in agreement. ‘I concur with Andreas. Just look at the gravity of the situation we’re in. Riots, protests, resistance growing with every day. All we lack is a figurehead and he alone’ – he laid a special emphasis on the word ‘he’ – ‘can bring us that. He will unify the nation behind us. He will be our rallying cry.’
‘But, friends, I must object.’ The speaker was Father Iannis, the eldest of the assembled company. ‘As far as we know, he doesn’t speak a single word of Greek. Surely – can’t you see? – this presents a problem.’
‘That’s been taken care of,’ interjected Andreas. ‘We will use him as an image – we will use his nose – and we will have someone to speak on his behalf if and when the need arises.’
‘And let us not forget,’ added one of the agents, ‘that he merits and deserves it. His family have been persecuted for generations. Nine, if my memory’s correct. And look how much they have given to Greece. We – this great nation – ha
ve come so close to our dream, thanks to the Trencoms. Now, in our more desperate hour, we need them more than ever.’
There was a long pause while everyone helped themselves to salted almonds from the bowl in the centre of the table. Andreas took a sip of water in the hope of dislodging a piece of nut that was caught in his throat and then spoke once again. ‘Then I ask you all – shall I now send this letter? Is the time right?’
He held up the envelope, on which was neatly handwritten the words, Edward Trencom, 22 Sunnyhill Road, London.
‘Yes,’ said one of the priests, followed by a chorus of ‘Yes – Yes – Yes – Yes – Yes.’
‘Then the time really has come,’ said a now-smiling Andreas, bringing the meeting to a conclusion. ‘Friends, our lives are now in the hands of Edward Trencom.’
JANUARY 1667
Humphrey Trencom is blithely unaware that, ever since his arrival in Constantinople, his movements have been noted and studied in great detail. No fewer than three people have been on his trail – following him, tracking his footsteps and compiling three separate dossiers of information about his untoward behaviour.
One of the three is Ralph Pryor, chief merchant of the English factory and a man who is of a naturally suspicious bent. He has mistrusted Humphrey from the minute he clapped eyes on him. ‘I don’t like the cut of his nose,’ he recorded in his diary.
Ralph Pryor had been informed of Humphrey’s arrival in a letter from the Duke of Athelhampton. The duke had begged ‘my lovinge servant, Mister Pryor’ to do everything in his power to facilitate Humphrey’s acquisition of ‘antiquytees’. He had also asked him to introduce Humphrey to any Ottoman official whom he considered might prove useful. Ralph had read the duke’s letter with a chill disdain. ‘I would sooner give my cat a dish of roast’d viands than aid Your Lordship,’ he had thought.