by Giles Milton
Mr Cooper nodded. ‘Shh! I wouldn’t wanna to be in ’is shoes. We can bring in pumps but, well, it’s goin’ t’be ruined down there. We need to get the owner to come.’
More than an hour passed before Edward and Elizabeth Trencom arrived in Lawrence Lane. Mr Cooper had already prepared them for the scale of the disaster but it was only when they saw the fire engine – and the stream of water flowing down the street – that the enormity of what had happened actually dawned on them.
‘Oh, Edward,’ said Mrs Trencom as she clutched onto his arm. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she was dabbing her eyes with a small handkerchief. ‘We’re ruined, darling – everything is lost.’
He turned to her with the saddest expression, placed his arm round her waist and said, ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. A lifetime’s work – gone. Ten generations of experience. It’s as if …’ In the dreamy silence that followed, he stared at the water that was still flowing from the shop. ‘It’s as if, well, it’s just as Uncle Harry said. There really is a curse – yes. And it’s latched itself onto me.’
‘If you don’t mind, Mr Trencom,’ said the chief fireman, interrupting Edward, ‘it ain’t no curse, I can tell you that much for nothing. It’s a bust water main, that’s what it is. And you can screw that bloody Water Board – excuse my French, Mrs Trencom – but you can screw them for every last farthing they have.’
And with that said and done, he and his team began to install pumps into the cellars of Trencoms.
12 APRIL 1769
It is long past dawn when the sun finally pierces the inner courtyard of the Topkapi Sarayi. The slim tower of the divan scores the flagstones with a diagonal shadow and the walls of the imperial treasury leave one side of the courtyard in pale grey shade. In an hour or so, the sun will hang directly above the palace and this enclosed pleasure ground, which has been laid out with beds of flowering tulips, will be awash with sun.
In one corner of the courtyard, close to the Gate of Felicity, a small team of workmen are preparing three large crucifixes, bolting the arm-beams to the uprights and digging holes in the dry earth. Sultan Mustafa III has ordered an execution by crucifixion and is looking forward to watching the spectacle from the comfort of the divan. ‘My order,’ he tells his vizier, ‘is that the prisoners must suffer. Crucify them. That is what these dogs deserve.’
It is almost noon when the three convicts are led into the courtyard by the chief executioner. A select group of courtiers has been invited to watch the proceedings and are seating themselves under the decorative canopy of the divan. The sultan is beside himself with excitement and would not have missed such an execution for anything in the world. He sips at his sherbet and peers through the gilded grille. ‘Ah – here they come, here they come.’ He claps his hands with childish enthusiasm and emits a peculiar, high-pitched laugh. ‘Let’s see how they will go to their deaths.’
Two of the men are common thieves, Christians from the Fener district of the city, who have been convicted of stealing a rowing boat. The third is a foreigner, although he, too, is clearly Christian. With his distinctive nose and rotund belly, he looks almost familiar. Why, isn’t it Samuel Trencom of Trencoms in London? Isn’t it the self-same Samuel who discovered the crypts and cellars that lie below the floor of the shop? How on earth did he come to be a prisoner of Sultan Mustafa III? After all, just a few months ago, he was in the process of enlarging and rebuilding the busiest cheese shop in London.
‘It’s a good question,’ he says, ‘and one to which—’
He looks at the crucifixes laid out on the ground and almost faints. ‘I – I should never have left home. But I was drawn here – drawn by some …’ His voice trails into silence as the executioners manhandle him towards the cross.
‘Lie down,’ growls the chief executioner, ‘or you’ll feel the force of these.’ He shows the three men his bolt-cutters and then points to an array of other instruments hanging around his midriff. All three lie on their crosses and await their doom.
The sight of a crucifixion is not for the weak of stomach yet the sultan and his courtiers watch and listen intently as the grisly proceedings unfold. There’s the hammering of nails. The screeching of the men. The erection of the crucifixes, which slide down into their prepared holes with a sickening thud. All three men are groaning in agony and they are condemned to a slow and painful end. It will be five hours before Samuel Trencom is finally pronounced dead.
5 MARCH 1969
“Allo, Mr Trencom,’ said a grim-faced Mr Cooper, the publican from across the road. “Ow’s you this morning? I don’t envy you – they ’ad the pumps goin’ for two whole days now, motors going around the clock. There was enough water, well, to fill a reservoir.’
Edward looked at him with a hangdog expression. He was on the point of tears. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m very grateful to you, Mr Cooper, for everything you’ve done. I’m just sorry if those motors kept you awake.’
‘Oh, dun thank me,’ said the publican. ‘I dun what anyone would ’ave dun – I’m only sorry I couldn’t ’ave called the brigade out a few ’ours earlier.’
As the two men stood in the street chatting, Mrs Tolworth walked past.
‘Good morning, Mr Trencom,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry to hear what’s happened. How’s Mrs Trencom taking the news?’
‘Oh, she’s bearing up, Mrs Tolworth,’ replied Edward. ‘We’re all trying to bear up.’
‘Well, if there’s anything I can do for you,’ said Mrs Tolworth. ‘You can always rely upon me for a nice cup of tea. And if you need a shoulder to cry on—’ She stopped in mid-sentence and blushed. She suddenly realized that she was being rather too familiar with someone that she scarcely knew from Adam.
‘Thank you, Mrs Tolworth,’ said Edward. ‘I might just take you up on that cup of tea – I might need it after this.’ He pointed towards the shop and then made as if to leave.
‘Oh, well. Can’t postpone it for any longer.’ And with that, he disappeared into the shop. This time, there was to be no – sniff, sniff – pleasant odour of cheese when Edward descended into the cellars. The Great Flood had wreaked a terrible destruction – the greatest and most devastating catastrophe in Trencom’s three-hundred-and-seven-year history.
‘So?’ asked Elizabeth later that evening.
‘So,’ replied Edward. ‘I don’t know where to begin. It’s terrible – terrible.’
The destruction wrought by the flood was indeed inestimable. The entire stock of Trencoms – more than 3,000 types of cheeses – had been destroyed by the filthy water that erupted from the pipe. Many of the cheeses came from remote and inaccessible villages and would take weeks or months to replace.
‘And some of them,’ said Edward, ‘may be irreplaceable.’ He was thinking of the fragrant goat’s cheeses of Al Bint, the soggy remnants of which he had held in his hand just a few hours earlier. These were only made in the hill village of Bi’r Ibn Sarrar in southern Arabia. They were transported by camel to Bani Thawr and thence by car to the Red Sea port of Jeddah. From here, they were flown to London’s Heathrow Airport and finally, after a voyage of sixteen days – and often many more – they were delivered (Inshallah) to Trencoms cheese shop.
It was a similar story with all the other cheeses – from Transylvania, from the Douro region in Portugal and the mountain farms of central Sardinia. ‘And what upsets me the most,’ said Edward, ‘is I’ve lost all of the touloumotyri. It took me three months to get hold of that supply.’
He found it impossible to calculate precisely how many individual cheeses had been lost, but guessed that it must have been in the region of twenty thousand. ‘I’ve been trying to add it up,’ he said to Elizabeth. ‘We were supplying more than fifty restaurants in London and a further one hundred and twenty elsewhere in the country. We’ve got at least eight hundred private clients who account for more than half our sales. You know, darling, it might even be as many as forty thousand cheeses.’
‘So what happens
now?’ asked Elizabeth. There was a long pause before Edward replied.
‘The shop,’ he said, ‘or rather the wreckage. I shall put it into the hands of Mr George – just for the time being. He’s more able than me to deal with this disaster at the current time. I’ve never seen him work with such energy. He was at the shop before me this morning and already working in the cellars.’
‘But Edward …’
‘I’ve decided – I’ve no option but to devote all my time to them.’ He pointed towards his family papers. ‘Find out what’s really going on.’
‘Oh, no,’ said a distraught Elizabeth. ‘No, Edward, not at a time like this. Have you lost your mind? What’s wrong with you?’
‘You can’t understand, darling. I have to know more about them – discover what lies at the bottom of all this. Can’t you see? It’s so obvious. All these things – all these strange things that have happened – they’re interlinked. Yes, in some way they’re all part of a bigger story. Each and every one of my ancestors is caught up in this – yes – and very soon it’s going to catch up with me. I can’t stop it – it’s got a life of its own, and it’s completely beyond my control. But I’ve got to get to the bottom of it, Elizabeth. I must – even if it’s the last thing I do.’
More than two weeks had passed since Edward’s fleeting conversation with Mr Papadrianos at the cheese dinner yet still he had mentioned scarcely a thing to Elizabeth. He’d debated long and hard over whether or not to tell her about all the subsequent events but could not convince himself that it was the right thing to do. ‘It’ll cause her no end of worry,’ he thought, ‘and it won’t help to solve anything.’
But after another week of anxiety, the strain began to tell on Edward. He was still being followed through the streets – at least, he thought he was – and he was also certain that his home was under surveillance. What particularly alarmed him was that it was no longer just Mr Makarezos who was following him. On several occasions, he’d noticed that a second man was also monitoring his movements – someone who was easily recognizable by the fact that he wore eau de cologne from Laughtons of Jermyn Street. ‘The finest eau de cologne in London,’ thought Edward to himself, ‘but a most foolish choice if you’re trying to remain anonymous.’
One evening, after a particularly energetic bout of love-making, Edward decided to confess everything. ‘Darling,’ he began, ‘there’s something I should have told you long ago.’
Elizabeth felt a surge of panic spread through her veins. It was most unlike Edward to speak like this. But, well, he’d been so strange of late. She wondered if she could be surprised by anything that he might tell her. ‘Just let him speak,’ she said to herself. ‘And for heaven’s sake, don’t interrupt.’
Edward began by revealing how he’d been followed through the streets by Mr Makarezos. He told her about Mr Papadrianos and then admitted that Richard Barcley already knew everything that had happened to him. He even recounted the story of how Richard and Makarezos had met in a pub just a couple of weeks earlier – and how Makarezos had spoken of the danger they were in. The only detail he omitted was the fact that he was still being followed.
Elizabeth’s initial reaction was strange. She seemed less concerned that her husband was under surveillance than by the fact that she – of all people – was the last one to be told. Even Barcley knew before her.
‘Why didn’t you say anything to me before?’ she asked Edward. ‘Why didn’t you feel you could confide in me? It doesn’t do any good to keep things bottled up.’
She stopped herself in mid-flow, annoyed that she had interrupted Edward. That was exactly what she hadn’t wanted to do.
‘It’s not because I didn’t feel able to confide in you,’ responded Edward. ‘I promise you that. I was concerned for you. I didn’t want you to worry – I didn’t want to alarm you. You see, I could be in very great danger – and the last thing I want to do is drag you into it.’
‘But you were able to tell him,’ said Elizabeth, pointedly refusing to give Barcley a name. ‘Why him and not me?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said Edward, placing a comforting arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘I really am. I don’t know what else I can say.’
‘You’re very English,’ said Elizabeth after a pause. She looked at Edward and forced a faint but well-meaning smile. ‘Only an Englishman would confide in a male friend before confiding in his wife.’
Edward nodded – it was easier than speaking – and waited for Elizabeth to say something else.
‘So where do we go from here?’ she asked at length. ‘Personally, I think we should call the police. In fact, that’s the very first thing we must do.’
‘No!’ exclaimed a horrified Edward. ‘That’s absolutely the last thing we must do. Can’t you see, Elizabeth? That’s the one way to guarantee trouble. Makarezos has told me to do nothing – keep a low profile – and that’s what I intend to do. Meanwhile, I must continue researching my family. It’s now abundantly clear that my genealogy holds the key to everything.’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Elizabeth. ‘Surely not? It’ll do you no good at all. Take a look at yourself, Edward. Look what’s happening to you. You’re changing before my very eyes. You’re worn out. Close to breaking point. This has all got to come to a stop. And come to a stop very soon. Otherwise, Edward, you’re in danger of going off the rails.’
TUESDAY, 12 JULY 1728
The London Chronicle
At approximately 8.20 p.m. last evening, Mr. Alexander Trencom, the owner and proprietor of Trencoms Cheese Store on Lawrence Lane, was killed by a single blow to the head.
There were no witnesses to the incident, which occurred outside the Fox and Grapes on the junction of Trump Street and King Street.
Mr. Trencom was found by Mr. Josiah Glasse, an Officer of the Watch in St Paul’s Ward. It is not yet clear as to the reason for the attack: the killer escaped unnoticed.
Mr. Trencom’s death is likely to be a subject of debate in the House of Parliament, especially as Secretary of State, Mr. Isaac Cummins, is seeking to augment the number of parish constables in the capital.
Mr. Trencom is succeeded by his son, Samuel, who will take over as proprietor of Trencoms Cheese Store. The store will remain closed until Monday, July 18th.
APRIL 1969
In the three hundred and seven years since Trencoms had first opened its doors, the shop had never been closed for more than a week. The longest period it had remained shut was back in 1728, following the suspicious death of old Alexander Trencom. But even then it had reopened after just six days. Now, after the disaster of the Great Flood, it had closed definitively. Edward Trencom showed no interest in restoring the damage. He spent most of his time at Southwark library and only rarely made his way to Lawrence Lane to survey the still-dripping ruins of his once profitable livelihood.
Mr George had taken control of the situation almost from the moment he learned of the disaster. No sooner had the flood-waters been pumped out than he ventured back into the cellars and began single-handedly clearing away the thousands of sodden crates and boxes. It took him more than a week to remove the stinking cheeses from the cavernous cellars. The ones which were not too filthy he took back to his house, where they were enthusiastically gobbled by Dubonnet – the only living being that actually profited from the flood. Mr George spent a further ten days cleaning up the deposits of clay and silt left behind by the flood-water. Many an employee would have baulked at such work, but Mr George actually derived some sort of pleasure out of creating order from chaos. It was like working one’s way through a mountain of washing up, only on a truly grand scale.
‘Slowly getting back to normal,’ he said to himself when the first of the side chapels was cleared of debris. ‘We’ll be there in another week or so.’
He was used to being on his own, yet he did at times feel lonely in the damp and dripping cellars. On one or two occasions he brought Dubonnet into Trencoms – a treat for the both of them �
� and there were also days when he had the company of the engineers who were repairing the ruptured walls of the chapel.
‘You Mr Trencom?’ asked one of them.
‘No, no, thank goodness,’ said Mr George. ‘Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’
‘Not your shop then?’ asked another.
Mr George laughed and tut-tutted at the same time. ‘Couldn’t take the responsibility of it,’ he said. ‘Not for me. Like to be able to walk away from it in the evening.’
The engineers made a careful examination of all the walls and ceilings and informed him that there was no lasting structural damage. ‘But it’ll take at least three months for the damp to dry out sufficiently,’ they said. ‘Especially if you’re going to have cheese back down here.’
Mr George conveyed all this information to Edward and suggested that they should start reordering cheeses – especially the ones that took many months to get delivered.
‘Could you make a start?’ asked Edward. ‘It would be a huge weight off my mind.’
‘Consider it done,’ said Mr George, ‘Incidentally, I’ve managed to save some of the order books. Got them all drying on the radiators. But I have a sneaking feeling that four or five are beyond repair. The Spanish and Portuguese ones are almost impossible to read.’
‘Well, call me if you need help,’ said Edward. ‘You know where to find me.’
‘That I do,’ muttered Mr George under his breath. ‘Probably in Southwark public library.’
It was a comment that could just as easily have come from the mouth of Elizabeth Trencom.
‘Your problem is no longer your nose,’ she told Edward one evening. ‘It’s the fact that you’ve lost all sense of reality. This business with your family – I’m sorry, but it terrifies me. You need to step back from it for a moment and look at what’s happening to you. People are following you. People are threatening you. You’ve been told that under no circumstances should you continue to delve into your past. And what do you do? The exact opposite.’