by Giles Milton
Edward always used to kiss Elizabeth on the cheek when he returned from work. Now, for several days in a row, he had neglected to do so. He used to tell her all the details of what had happened at Trencoms. Now, he showed little enthusiasm in talking about either the customers or the cheeses. Only when she asked him about his family research would he spark into life. He could happily chat for an hour or more about George and Peregrine Trencom.
‘I have to do something,’ thought Elizabeth, clutching at a wine glass with such force that the stem snapped clean in two. ‘Otherwise, things will surely spiral out of control.’ She noticed that she’d cut her hand on the broken glass and wiped away the blood on the dishcloth. But it continued to well to the surface, so she ran it under the cold tap.
It was not confrontation she was seeking. No, she preferred to think of it as intervention. Only the other day she’d listened to a newscaster talking about the United Nations ‘intervening’ in some trouble spot in the world. ‘Intervening’ – that’s exactly what she intended to do. Restore peace and harmony before the troubles took a turn for the worse.
She removed her hand from the water for a second, but no sooner had she done so than the blood began to flow once more. It bonded instantly with the water on her hand, like ink on blotting paper, making the cut look a hundred times worse than it actually was. She had heard of many a marriage going wrong precisely because of a breakdown of communication – she was thinking specifically of Michael and Susan Whitelock – and was determined that this would not happen to her relationship.
On the evening of 10 February, she and Edward were seated side by side in the comfort of their Streatham lounge. Elizabeth had just made herself a cup of fennel tea and was about to put the finishing touches to her needlepoint. Edward was re-reading a library copy of the Annual Register for 1922. But each of them was finding it hard to concentrate on the work in hand.
‘I can see that it’s interesting for him,’ thought Elizabeth, ‘but can it really be that interesting?’
‘She simply doesn’t understand,’ thought Edward, ‘and worst of all, she doesn’t want to understand. She’s unable to see what’s at stake.’
‘Perhaps this is the evening when I should say something? Perhaps now’s the time to discuss it?’
‘If she raises it again, if she tells me once more to stop my research …’
‘Edward,’ said Elizabeth, breaking the stillness of the room.
‘Mmm?’ replied Edward, without looking up from his book.
‘Edward, please. Just stop for one second. We need to talk.’
‘Here we go,’ he thought. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for this.’
This once-happy couple had sat in this room almost every evening of their married life, with the exception of the times when Edward was away on his cheese-gathering trips. They were accustomed to spending the hours before bed chatting, reading books and discussing Edward’s research about cheese. In all that time, Edward had never once wondered – how shall we put this? – not ever considered, how Elizabeth, his rather lovely wife, would look if she was sitting in her armchair, right there, completely naked.
But that was exactly what happened on this particular evening. In fact, it happened right now. His thoughts, his strange, erotic thoughts, suddenly ran away with him. Ran right away. Over the hills and far away.
Whether or not this was due to his current lopsidedness, it is impossible to say. Was it a result of his unbalanced humours? His wonky equilibrium? Even Edward himself could not pinpoint what exactly was going on inside the confused orbit of his head.
The scenario began like this. Elizabeth had just started to warn her husband that his interest in his origins was fast developing into an obsession. She’d already made the opening gambit when the following thing happened. Suddenly, and quite without warning, Edward whipped off his wife’s shirt. Whoosh! It had gone.
‘You’re becoming so obsessed, darling. Yes, obsessed.’
Zoom! Off came the shoes and tights. Elizabeth was now sitting there in bra and skirt and Edward was pondering over what to remove next.
‘Tum—’ he thought. ‘Take it slowly, Edward, take it slowly. Remember, she’s not used to this.’
‘You remember what Marjory said? She said that—’
Vroom! Off came the skirt. Edward sat back in his armchair in order to survey his handiwork. He watched in delight as two pinkish-red spots appeared on Elizabeth’s cheeks, a sure sign that she was agitated.
‘Why,’ he thought, ‘she’s even flushed.’
‘And another thing, Edward—’
Elizabeth was about to tell her husband another thing when – quick as a flash – he stripped her of her bra and panties. She was now completely naked and still doing her needlepoint. Strangely, it was that last detail that he found the most erotic of all.
‘Edward? Are you listening?’
He was most definitely NOT. He was in his own world – a world that was filled with infinite possibilities.
‘Edward!’ She was really quite cross.
He blinked three times and looked at his wife. Damn and blast and bother. She was fully clothed.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
‘But Edward, dear,’ she replied in an anxious tone, ‘it’s not even half past eight.’
25 MARCH 1878
Emmanuel Trencom sniffs at the air and lets out a most voluminous sneeze. Then, feeling thoroughly relieved, he rubs his belly with unusual vigour. ‘The fact is,’ he says to himself, ‘I am hungry – oh, yes, indeed. Mr Emmanuel Trencom is ravenously hungry.’
He massages his belly for a second time, as if to confirm that it really is empty. Then, pausing only to make a mental note of the fact that there are no customers in the shop – and none in the street outside – he reaches for his knife and cuts himself a thick wedge of Swedish vasterbotten. But before popping it into his mouth, he allows himself a moment or two of speculation. ‘Gad so!’ he says. ‘What does one drink with a vasterbotten? A glass of porter? Or a large mug of negus?’
In the few seconds it takes him to find an answer to this most vexing of questions, we have just time to make a mental note of the physiognomy and disposition of Mr Emmanuel Trencom.
He is, without doubt, a man of contentment and good humour. He is happy with his work, delighted with his wife (the lovely Constance) and besotted with each and every one of his fifteen children. ‘Got to keep the little ones coming,’ he says to himself with a cheeky wink. ‘Ah, yes – we’ve got no choice in the matter.’
Emmanuel’s happiness is reflected in the rounded curve of his belly which, when wrapped in a muslin apron, gives the impression that his frame is encompassed in a gigantic smile. His face, too, is as round as a puncheon and adorned on each side with thickly sprouting mutton chops. The adipose belly and luxuriant whiskers are without doubt among Emmanuel Trencom’s more distinguishing features, but it is his extraordinary nose that singles him out as a thoroughbred Trencom.
‘My nose,’ he says, tapping it lightly with a fountain pen. ‘My nose.’ Long and aquiline, it is marked by a prominent yet perfectly formed circular bump over the bridge.
Emmanuel performs a heavy hop and skip as he moves along the counter in order to reach for a bottle of porter. ‘Oh, there’s a drink for every cheese, tum-tum,’ he sings, ‘and a cheese for every drink.’ And, as he pours a splash of the thick brownish-red liquid into a pewter cup, he breaks out into the playful little ditty that he thought up himself.
‘Oh, a porter for a pavé and a sherry for a sleight. A claret for a cantal and a toddy for a tomme. A julep for a jorbkase and a negus for a niolo. A gin for a gomost and a grog for a gruth. Champagne for a chacat and a cider for chaource. Oh, there’s a drink for every cheese, tum-tum, and a cheese for every drink.’
As he finishes his song, Emmanuel lifts the chunk of vasterbotten to his nose and inhales deeply. His quivering nostrils are anticipating the resinous aroma of Swedish pine and t
he muggy odour of damp hay. But his little nasal hairs are already recoiling in disgust. Something is not quite right with the cheese and Emmanuel instinctively pulls it away from his nose and examines it through his monocle. Then, satisfied that it looks just as it should, he places it back to his nostrils.
‘Goodness gracious,’ he says out loud, ‘either this cheese is off – or it’s my nose.’ He has quite forgotten his hunger and his empty belly has silenced its growl. Emmanuel has far more important matters to attend to; he is anxious to get to the bottom of this mystery.
He cuts a slice of mycella and holds it up to his nose. ‘Yes, yes,’ he says, ‘that’s all right.’ But the German romadurkase smells distinctly bitter and the piora has a scent that is redolent of old roosters. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ says Emmanuel, as he takes a deep glug of porter. ‘Come on, old chap,’ he says to his nose, ‘pull yourself together—’
It is at exactly this moment in the nasal life of Emmanuel Trencom that the door to Trencoms opens with a clang-clang-ding-a-ling of the bell. He looks up and sees two unfamiliar faces.
‘Afternoon, afternoon,’ he says with his customary good cheer. ‘And what can I do for you two gentlemen?’
As he asks this question, his brain is working over-fast. Somehow, and for some unknown reason, it is sensing danger. These two men are dark of hair, unshaven and dressed in the most eccentric clothes. One is wrapped in a double-breasted cape that is far too big for his frame. The other is wearing the sort of waistcoat that Emmanuel Trencom has not seen on the streets of London for many a year.
‘They’re foreigners,’ he thinks. ‘Yes, they most definitely look foreign.’
This is confirmed when one of the men speaks. ‘We have a delivery of Turkish milhalic,’ he says.
Emmanuel pauses before replying. His brain is busily processing this information. The fact is, he cannot for the life of him remember ordering any milhalic. Normally, all his deliveries of Ottoman cheeses come through Mr Papadrianos of Albert Wharf, a Greek épicier from Constantinople. And – no – he could swear an oath on the Holy Bible that he hadn’t ordered anything from Mr Papadrianos in recent weeks.
‘Well, well,’ says a puzzled Emmanuel Trencom. ‘I must confess that this is strange indeed – there must be some sort of confusion – but, hey ho, you may as well bring it down into the cellars. Come along, gentlemen, follow me.’
The two men don’t say another word. They are staring at Emmanuel intently as he is speaking, as if they are trying to judge whether or not he is merely playing the fool. But no, they both decide simultaneously that he really is a fool. Yes, a fool and a buffoon.
As Emmanuel leads them towards the cellar trapdoor and pulls up the iron ring handle, one of the men whispers to the other in Turkish. ‘Look – his nose. It’s him all right.’
‘Allah,’ murmurs the other. ‘Allahu akbah.’
‘Eh?’ says Emmanuel, who overhears something of their chatter. ‘Did you ask me something?’
‘No, no,’ replies one of the men. ‘We were just speaking about Mr Papadrianos. You know him well?’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Papadrianos – a good man,’ says Emmanuel. ‘His family and mine have been friends for many a year.’
Emmanuel has by now reached the bottom of the ladder and the two strangers are following him down. One of them reaches out his arms to take the crates of milhalic; the other lowers them gently down before starting to descend the ladder.
‘Now, let me see – where do I want it?’ Emmanuel asks himself. ‘Hmm, now, where’s the best place to put it?’
He potters off among the stacks for a moment in order to search for a good place to deposit the cheese. ‘Ah, yes – here’s a fine place,’ he says to himself as he glances back towards the two men. And it is at exactly this moment in the life of Emmanuel Trencom that his customary smile disappears for ever. For the sight that greets his eyes is so shocking – so absolutely terrifying – that he freezes to the spot. ‘Oh, no,’ he says. ‘Oh, not this – oh, no, oh, God.’
‘On the orders of the Sultan Abdul Hamid II, the Benificent,’ says one of the men, ‘and with the blessing of God the Merciful.’ Then, without another word, the two intruders advance towards their victim.
Emmanuel blunders backwards a step – and then a second – but his path is blocked by a large stack of Corsican rustinu. He wants to turn – to run – to escape. But it is too late. There is nowhere to hide.
‘Oh, my father!’ he exclaims, not entirely sure if he’s referring to the unfortunate Henry Trencom or the good Lord Himself.
His last sight is of two long daggers being lifted high above his head and then plunged deep into his neck. He feels a sharp pain and then tastes blood in his mouth. His tongue is encompassed with warm blood and he can no longer swallow. He remains on his feet for a few more seconds before, cloudy-eyed, his voluminous frame crashes to the ground. As he falls, so do three huge stacks of maroilles.
‘Quick’, says one of the assassins. ‘Let’s go – we’ve done our day’s work.’
Two days later, somewhere between the hours of dusk and dawn, the corpulent corpse of Emmanuel Trencom is transported in secret to Albert Wharf. It is met by Yannokis Papadrianos, whose tears are genuine and freely flowing. ‘A gifted man,’ he thinks to himself, ‘who might yet have saved us.’ With the aid of his brother, the two Papadrianos men lift the bulky corpse by its legs and ease it into a full butt of brandy. Emmanuel sinks slowly into the liquid, head first, until his back bends slightly and his legs crumple over. Seconds later, he disappears below the surface. ‘And so farewell, dear friend,’ says Yannokis. ‘May you have a good final voyage.’
With this said and done, the two brothers seal the cask and gently roll it along the quayside and on to the good ship Vasilios. Within a few hours, both vessel and barrel are sailing down the Thames Estuary, bound for the little Greek fishing port of Dhafni.
12 FEBRUARY 1969
Four days after his conversation with Herbert Potinger, Edward Trencom did something so out of character that it was as if he had already gained some insight into the dark machinations of his forebears and was being drawn inch by inch towards the treacherous plates and faultlines of the Trencoms’ genealogical tectonics.
The evening in question began prosaically enough: Edward returned home from work at a little after 7.15 p.m. and, seemingly more cheerful than of late, greeted Elizabeth with an affectionate kiss on her left cheek and a second one – more tentative – on her lips.
‘Evening, Mr Cheese,’ she replied with a smile. ‘And how was your day at the shop?’
Edward thought for a moment as he scratched his scalp. ‘Nothing to report,’ he replied in as nonchalant a manner as possible. ‘All quiet on the work front.’
‘Something must have happened,’ she said, willing him to recount at least some detail of his day. ‘Did you have a tour group in the shop? Was Mr George swept off his feet by Mrs Williamson? Did a herd of rhinos charge through the cellars?’
Her breezy tone belied the fact that she was more concerned about Edward than she had ever been. Only that morning, she had discovered that for more than a fortnight he had not so much as glanced at the manuscript of his History of Cheese. When she tried to broach the subject, he merely commented that he had given it to Mr George to make some corrections.
Elizabeth was rather more alarmed when she learned that Edward had completely lost his sense of smell on at least two occasions in the previous week. This was something that had never before happened. Even when he’d been suffering from the flu, which he’d caught from Mrs Tolworth the previous winter, he had retained some sense of smell. Elizabeth smiled as she recalled how Edward had managed to distinguish between a bleu de bassillac and bleu de laqueuille, even though his sinuses were so blocked that they left him with a sharp headache behind each eye. And then there was the small matter of the cauliflower cheese. That was no less troubling. On the previous evening, she had cooked him his favourite cauliflower cheese with a
sauce made from Austrian bergkase and Swiss toggenburger. But Edward had picked at his plate like a young adolescent before declaring that he was not particularly hungry.
Elizabeth did her best to draw the poison out of her husband. Heavens, she tried sympathy: ‘I know it can’t be easy for you’; persuasion: ‘I’m sure you’d feel better if you spoke about it’; affection: ‘You know I’m here for you if you need to talk.’ But Edward said nothing, causing Elizabeth no end of frustration. ‘It’s a little hard,’ she thought, ‘to help somebody who doesn’t want to help themselves.’
But Edward was about to reveal that he very much knew how to help himself, although in a way that Elizabeth was not at all expecting. For years their lives between the sheets had been tender, conventional and bordering on the perfunctory. It was not that they did not enjoy making love – Elizabeth, in particular, took much pleasure from their moments of shared intimacy. If Edward had been in agreement, she would willingly have extended their Sunday sexual encounter to other evenings of the week and (had push come to shove) might even have purchased one of those intriguing manuals – invariably by a Dr Comfort or Professor Easy – which seemed to appear on the bookshop shelves with increasing frequency. She’d always longed to peek inside the covers and had come close, on occasions, to pulling one down from the shelf. But a hidden hand had always prevented her and she was mortified at the thought that the shop assistant might see her. Besides, what was the point? Edward would have been appalled at the idea that ‘such things’ could be learned from a book.
‘I suppose I’ve got nothing to complain about,’ thought Elizabeth. ‘Virginia once let slip that she hadn’t – done it – for more than six months.’
It may be asked why Edward and Elizabeth had no children. It was not because they didn’t want children. Mrs Trencom had often remarked to Edward that ‘if it’s meant to happen then it will happen’. But so far it hadn’t and – if the truth be known – Elizabeth, now thirty-five years of age, was desperate to have little Trencoms running around their Streatham home.