by Giles Milton
‘Now then, Mrs Clarke,’ he said, as he walked past the reception desk. ‘I’m popping out – I’ll be back later.’
‘Have you any idea when?’ asked Mrs Clarke, who appeared to be in the process of counting paper clips. ‘Just in case anyone calls for you.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ replied Richard nonchalantly, ‘I’ve no idea. I’m meeting someone in the City and I’m not at all sure how long it’s going to take.’
‘Well, I’ll be right at my desk,’ said Mrs Clarke. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Unless, of course, Nature calls—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Clarke,’ interrupted Barcley.
There was a moment’s pause as Mrs Clarke mentally replayed the last few sentences that Richard Barcley had spoken. ‘You’re being unusually mysterious,’ she said with a knowing smile. She was horrified to realize that as she said this, her left eye let slip an involuntary wink. In order to disguise her embarrassment, she teased him with motherly good humour.
‘A secret assignation, then. That’s what I’ll say to anyone who calls.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Clarke,’ responded Barcley for a second time in as many minutes. He felt that her tone and manner had overstepped the boundary between professionalism and friendship. ‘I shall be back when I’m back,’ he said. ‘You just keep counting the paper clips.’
And with that he walked out of the door.
He shivered as he set off down Queen Street and pulled up the collar of his coat. As he did so, he glanced across the road towards Number 14 and noticed that the curtains were still drawn. He had spent much of the morning watching the building in order to see if there was any sign of activity. As far as he was aware, no one had entered or left since he had arrived for work at 9 a.m.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly noon. Concerned that he would be late for his appointment, he increased his pace as he turned into Cheapside, walking briskly past the Royal Exchange and on into Threadneedle Street. When he came to Old Broad Street, he paused for a moment. ‘I’ll be there any moment,’ he thought. ‘I wonder if he’s already waiting.’
It was almost lunchtime and secretaries and bankers were emerging from their offices. But although the street was crowded with people, Barcley could see quite clearly, some thirty yards in the distance, a tall figure clutching a sheaf of papers.
‘That’s him,’ he said to himself. ‘That is definitely him.’ He was dressed in a suit and tie and wore an elegant trilby at a jaunty angle.
The man spun around as he approached. ‘Ah, Mr Barcley,’ he said in a refined English accent. ‘I’m delighted to meet you at long last. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it earlier. I’m Mr Makarezos – we work in the same street.’
Barcley couldn’t help but smile when he heard this. ‘We do indeed,’ he said. ‘You could almost say we’re neighbours.’
Mr Makarezos smiled in turn then made a careful scan of the crowded street. ‘I’ve booked a table at the Hand in Glove,’ he said. ‘There’s a private room upstairs. Does that suit you?’
‘Fine,’ replied Barcley, before adding in a good-humoured tone, ‘so long as you’re not intending to kidnap me.’
Makarezos frowned. ‘No one is going be kidnapped,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘But someone is in danger of being killed – and that is precisely why we need to talk. In secret.’
Over a lunch of jellied eels and steak and kidney pudding, Mr Makarezos revealed a great deal about who he was and why he had been following Edward.
‘What I am about to tell you must be treated in the strictest confidence,’ he began. ‘I hope that you, as a lawyer, can appreciate the importance of keeping this secret. If our meeting should be discovered – well, all our lives will be in danger.’
‘Mum’s the word,’ said Barcley, before realizing that his luncheon partner did not understand this particular turn of phrase. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t say a thing.’
Mr Makarezos began by telling Barcley that he was indeed the person who had been following Edward. ‘I needed to find out how much he knew,’ he said, ‘and how much danger I was in.’
‘How much danger you were in?’ repeated an incredulous Barcley.
‘Yes, indeed – Mr Trencom has become a pawn in a very dangerous game,’ said Makarezos. ‘And he could well destroy us all. There are many people who view him as their saviour – and there are many people who would dearly love to see him, and me, and perhaps you, dead.’
‘You talk in riddles,’ said a frustrated Barcley. ‘And I’m afraid you’ve completely lost me. Can we begin again – from the beginning? Tell me – in which particular camp do you belong?’
Makarezos let out a little laugh. ‘As a matter of fact – neither,’ he said. ‘Or, more correctly, I am choosing to abstain. You see, I find myself in a most delicate situation.’
He leaned over the table and explained to Barcley that he had been hired by forces in Greece who wished to dispose of Edward Trencom. ‘I cannot tell you why – at least, not at the moment,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to accept, in good faith, that many people wish to see him dead.’
Makarezos explained how he was under instructions to trail Edward, discover how much he knew about himself and his family history, and then – ultimately – get rid of him.
‘Get rid of him?’ said Barcley.
‘Kill him,’ whispered Makarezos. ‘Do away with him.’
Barcely gasped when he heard this. ‘And?’
‘And I find myself unable to carry out my orders,’ continued Makarezos. ‘In the first place, I’ve discovered that Mr Trencom knows very little about his family history. I don’t think he is remotely aware of the fact that his family were courted by half the dynasties in Europe before they finally ended up in Piddletrenthide. And I also know that, without outside help, he is unlikely to progress much further.
‘In the second place, well …’ Makarezos let out a long, low sigh. ‘I’m not sure how to explain this,’ he said, ‘for you, perhaps, will not believe me.’
‘Try me’, said Barcley. ‘I’m a solicitor. I can be made to believe anything.’
‘Do you ever listen to music and find that it has penetrated into the very depths of your soul? Do you ever read a book that stirs you from within? Makes you shiver? Is it not true that you then wish to meet the creator? You feel instinctively that there must be something extraordinary about them – something that places them apart from the world. Something that, well, touches the soul.’
Barcley nodded in agreement, although he had to confess he had never in his life felt such sentiments. Indeed the murder-mystery he was currently reading had left him desperately annoyed, since he had known from page thirty-two that Dr McLachlan had committed the crime.
‘Well – this may sound ridiculous,’ continued Mr Makarezos, ‘but it is like that with Edward Trencom. It was about two weeks ago when someone – his identity is neither here nor there – brought me one of Mr Trencom’s touloumotyris. And you know what? It was the finest, most delicate, most exquisite touloumotyri that I have ever tasted. It took me right back to my childhood – to my village in Greece – where my uncle used to make that self-same cheese. And no sooner had I tasted it, and discovered that Mr Trencom himself had selected that cheese, than I realized that I could no longer carry out my orders. You see, Mr Barcley, there are many hundreds of locally produced touloumotyri cheeses. Yet he had chosen the very finest one in Greece. A cheese that was nothing short of perfection. And I knew there and then that I could not kill somebody with such a divinely inspired nose. It would be – against nature. And God.’
Barcley wiped the gravy that was dribbling down his chin and tried to imprint in his brain the exact words that Makarezos had used. ‘Edward is going to want to know everything,’ he thought. ‘Every little detail.’
‘I see,’ said Barcley, when it was apparent that Makarezos had finished speaking. ‘And that is why, perhaps, you were threatened the other day, in the upstairs room of your offices? It was a
t about five-thirty on the fifth, if I remember correctly. I was witness to it all.’
‘They have begun to suspect,’ said Makarezos. ‘They suspect that I have changed sides. Which is why I had to break into the shop. I had to search for the thing they most wanted.’
‘Which is?’
‘Which is something I cannot tell you,’ said Mr Makarezos, strumming his fingers on the table. ‘You see, I cannot tell you because it will place Mr Trencom’s life in even greater danger. Besides, it is no longer an issue. It was most fortunate for him that the document is no longer in the hands of the Trencom family. It is almost certainly in Greece.’
Richard Barcley took a deep draught of his beer and sat back in his chair.
‘Who are you?’ he said at length. ‘Forgive me for asking, but are you by any chance related to Nikolaos Makarezos?’
There was a long silence as Barcley’s lunch partner weighed up the pros and cons of telling the truth.
‘Yes’, he said with great deliberation. ‘I am. He is my cousin. But that is something that you must keep firmly under your belt. I repeat – firmly under your belt.’
‘Humph’, said an increasingly impatient Barcley. ‘So what happens now? Where do we go from here?’
‘We need to buy time,’ said Makarezos. ‘Events are changing rapidly in Greece. They will soon reach crisis point and whoever is the winner will decide upon Mr Trencom’s fate. Until then, we must proceed with extreme caution. Your friend must continue his life as normal. I will still be following him, for I am under orders to follow him, but he must never try to make contact with me. And he must never come to our offices in Queen Street. So long as he does nothing untoward, he will be safe – for the time being.
‘And one other thing, Mr Barcley. Could you please remind him that it is of the utmost importance that he stops all further research into his genealogy. For that is the surest and fastest way to get himself killed.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said a troubled Edward later that evening. ‘I don’t know what to think. I really don’t. On the one hand, I have people who apparently want to kill me. And on the other, I have people who see me as their saviour. And as for me, well, you know what, Richard? I just want to sort out my family tree and, well, return to my old quiet way of life.’
Barcley took a sip of wine and offered his friend a sympathetic shake of his head. He had dropped in on Edward after work in order to tell him all the details of his lunch with Mr Makarezos. But no sooner had he repeated everything he’d been told than he realized that he had discovered very few answers.
‘The only thing that does seem clear,’ he said, ‘is that you must stop your family research. As from today. Now. This evening. They’re watching everything you do, Edward. Absolutely everything. You won’t be able to hide it from them. And while we know that, for the moment, Mr Makarezos is on our side – or should I say, on your side – who’s to say he won’t change his mind again? After all, he’s personally connected to the very men who are ruling Greece. They are one and the same family.’
Edward looked at Barcley as if he was mad. ‘Out of the question,’ he said bluntly. ‘That is absolutely out of the question. If anything has persuaded me that I need to discover more about my family then it’s what you’ve just told me. You’re quite wrong, Richard. I have to get to the bottom of this mystery – urgently – and it’s quite clear that I’m not going to get help from anyone else. Consider – I’ve now had contact with both of the men who are involved in this … this plot. And yet I’ve managed to learn almost nothing.’
Richard scratched his head, took another glug of wine and noticed out of the corner of his left eye that an unseasonal daddy long-legs had settled on his shoulder. Slowly and with as little movement as possible, he lifted his right hand higher – higher – higher, preparing to smash the unfortunate creature. But something caused him momentarily to pause. The daddy long-legs cocked two of its longest legs, rubbed them together with apparent glee – and then launched itself into the cheesy air. Just as it did so – at that very split second – Richard propelled his hand downwards, and it forcefully connected with his now-vacated shoulder. ‘Ouch!’ he cried, watching the creature fly away. ‘Damn things.’ He shook his head, as if distracted by a new train of thought. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘what did you discover about old Charles Trencom? You never did tell me.’
‘It’s not so much what I’ve discovered,’ said Edward, ‘as what I haven’t discovered. And what intrigues me more than anything is why this Greek Committee chose Charles Trencom, of all people, to go to Greece – it’s strange. And even more puzzling is the fact that he said yes.’
Richard reached for a file of documents and reflected on why Charles Trencom might have gone to Greece. ‘There’s always a logical way to approach such matters,’ he advised. ‘Never underestimate logic, Edward – it’s kept me in business for more than a decade. Now – let’s have another look at all the evidence.’
Barcley sifted through the small pile of papers that Edward had laid out on the altar. ‘Let me see. Two, no, three letters. Several references to this Greek Committee and – heavens, old chap – this letter’s signed by Byron himself. I’d say that must be worth a bob or two. Mind you, I never cared for Byron’s poems:
‘The mountains look on Marathon –
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream’d that Greece might still be free.’
‘Don Juan, wasn’t it? Remember studying it at school. Dreadful stuff. More of a Betjeman man myself.’
Edward cleared his throat. ‘This, Richard,’ he said, clutching the little packet of Byron letters, ‘is one of the most exciting things I’ve found so far. Imagine, an ancestor of mine – a direct relation – was friends with Lord Byron. Isn’t that exciting?’
‘Reasonably,’ replied Barcley with his predictable lack of passion.
‘Reasonably!’ interjected Edward. ‘That very letter, the one you’re holding, was written by Byron himself. He sat down one day with that sheet of paper in front of him. He took out his quill. He wrote those words. That is actually his handwriting. I can tell you one thing, Richard. This is better than coin collecting.’
‘Hmm – not sure we quite see eye to eye,’ said Richard. ‘In fact, I’m not even sure I’d want my family to be linked to Byron. Black sheep and all that.’
‘Well, I’m more than happy to be linked to Byron,’ said Edward. ‘And I’m even happier that one of the letters refers to Charles by name. Listen to this, Richard, listen to what Byron writes to Sir Francis Burdett. Hang on a minute – where is it? Ah, here we go. “I do not consider Mr Charles Trencom to be quite the Greek hero that I need at this current time and nor, indeed, do I find him quite the hero that you profess him to be. My Greece, sir, is the Greece of the Ancients! The Noble Greece of Sophocles! The Sagacious Greece of Plato! O Socrates, where art thou now? O Aristophanes, where is thy wit? An independent Greece, Sir, must seek the highest born, not the debased.”’
Barcley let out a low whistle. ‘That’s unnecessarily unpleasant,’ he said with a stifled laugh. ‘Not kind at all. Well, one thing is sure, Edward. Your lot certainly knew how to upset Lord Byron.’
‘We did,’ admitted Edward. ‘But what does it mean? And what about this?’ He reached for another folded letter. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is no less puzzling. It’s Charles’s letter to his wife, Caroline. Take a look – read it carefully. You’ll see that there’s something not quite right – something sinister.’
Richard unfolded the letter and read it from beginning to end. It was written in a spidery copperplate hand that was set neatly on the page. ‘Sinister?’ he said in a tone of surprise. ‘I’m not so sure it’s sinister. You’ve already told me that Charles was ill – some sort of fever, wasn’t it? And you also said that Missol …’
‘… onghi …’
‘Yes, onghi, was infamous for its fevers.’
‘Yes, Richard, it
was. But you’ve read what Charles says – he claims that he’s being poisoned. Poisoned by the very physician who’s meant to be healing him.’
‘The delusions of a crazy mind,’ said Barcley. ‘I’ve seen it happen to one of my own clients. Can’t say which – professional code and all that. But the dying often think themselves into a state of complete delusion. It’s a well-known fact. There’s even a name for it.’
‘I simply don’t accept that Charles was deluded.’ Edward had become increasingly animated and he grabbed at the letter in order to read aloud the pertinent sentence. ‘Come on, Richard. Logic, logic. You said so yourself. Do you not consider it strange that both men – Byron and Charles – died on the same day at the same time and of the same symptoms?’
Edward fell silent for a moment while he glanced through another file. ‘And let’s not forget that my father was killed in strange circumstances, hmm? As was my grandfather. And, Richard, it now transpires that my great-grandfather was murdered. And as for my great-great-grandfather, Henry – he was shot dead by the Turkish sultan’s bodyguards. It could almost be an Ealing comedy, were it not for the fact that it’s so sinister. So, in my opinion, it would not seem to stretch logic too far to suggest that, perhaps, Charles Trencom was also done away with. Despatched.’
‘You have a point,’ conceded Barcley as he reflected on what Mr Makarezos had told him over lunch. He helped himself to another glass of wine and swirled it around in the glass. ‘Mmm – that’s good. And if you don’t mind, I might just have another slice of this tou …’
‘… loumotyri.’
‘Yes, Makarezos was right about one thing. It really is delicious. D’you know what, Edward? You can almost taste the goat.’