Edward Trencom's Nose: A Novel of History, Dark Intrigue and Cheese

by Giles Milton

  Hafise arrived at the English factory as agreed and followed Humphrey up to his chamber. She removed her saffron-coloured jubbah, pulled off her underclothes and – quite naked – spread herself on Humphrey’s divan. Humphrey also stripped, with characteristic speed, and laid his much-diminished bulk next to hers.

  One of his greatest pleasures was to lie beside her and allow his nose to explore the secretive nooks of her body. She had her own peculiar scent, altogether different from that of Agnes. The rouge on her cheeks smelled of safflower; the powder in her hair smelled of civet. And there were other more seductive scents – scents that pricked Humphrey’s loins. Her armpits – oh, for her delectable armpits. Washed but never perfumed, they held the tangible tinge of exertion – the first stirrings of odour caused by her brisk, pre-dawn walk. Humphrey would always inhale deeply – two or three times – before moving to more fertile meadows.

  He would allow his nose to travel southwards, down, down, until he reached his empory of delight. ‘My souk of pleasure,’ he would dribble. ‘My Orient of the flesh.’

  He would rest awhile as he allowed his nostrils to explore the miniature hills and gullies of her flesh. Bewitched and enchanted, his nose would always twitch uncontrollably.

  But on this particular morning, for the very first time, something went strangely awry. Humphrey tweaked his nose as was his custom and pressed himself close to Hafise’s arms. He took a deep inward breath, drawing the air up through the nostrils and down into the lungs. And then he paused, waited and scratched himself nervously. ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘and strange.’ The explosion of odours that he was expecting, well, it never came. Humphrey Trencom smelled absolutely nothing.

  He moved himself down the gully of her cleavage, pausing for a moment at her delectable belly button. This was a veritable whirlpool of odours on any normal day. But once again – nothing. Humphrey was by now truly disconcerted. He continued on his journey downwards into the souk of pleasure. He emptied all the air from his lungs in one noisy evacuation and then took a long, deep breath. But where, oh where, was the familiar odour of love?

  ‘Why, my beauty, have you lost your scent?’ But in his heart of hearts, Humphrey knew that Hafise had not lost her scent. It was his nose that was at fault. Something had gone terribly wrong. For no obvious cause, and with absolutely no warning, his olfactory receptacles had betrayed him.

  With a heavy sigh, and a loud groan, Humphrey heaved himself atop his lovely Hafise and girded himself for action. The sun rose. The cock crowed. And in Humphrey’s little chamber, a silk-covered divan received the battering of its life.

  Humphrey managed to track down many oddities for the Duke of Athelhampton and had soon acquired a fine collection of gospels and manuscripts. His choicest item was an imperial crystobull bearing the seal of John Palaiologos, which he intended to keep for himself. He bought it from the monks of Heybeli Island for a mere £2 3s 12d – a tidy sum – but a mere cornflower in the meadow for the Duke of Athelhampton. ‘A verytable bargayne,’ wrote Humphrey in his journal. And so it was.

  The focus of Humphrey’s attentions, aside from the privy parts of Hafise, was the Porta Aurea. Almost every day since his arrival in the city, he had made his way to this city gate and spent hours here sketching its facade and measuring its structure. He knew more than most people about the Porta Aurea, for he had studied it for much of his adult life. ‘It was the scene of the greatest triumphs of the Byzantine Empire,’ he would tell the English merchants with whom he shared his lodgings. ‘It was where Basil I celebrated his victory over the Bulgars. It was where Michael III feted his rout of the Arabs.’ He would pause at this point in order to reflect on past glories. ‘And it was through this gate that the Emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos rode on a white charger in the summer of 1261 after recovering his city from the crusaders. And then’ – he would let out a low sigh – ‘it was the end.’ It was at this very gateway that the once mighty Byzantine Empire finally expired. And this was a subject about which Mr Humphrey Trencom knew a great deal.

  A large crowd has gathered in the shade of the gateway. There are pedlars and beggars, soothsayers and fakirs. An apothecary is selling musked sherberts; an imam is reciting his prayers. Watch out for the shoemaker, with his oval platter of slippers. Look sharp! Watch your backs! ‘Allah, yanssur es-sultan,’ cries a water-seller. ‘God render the sultan victorious.’ And the crowd replies, ‘Allah, Allah’.

  In the far corner of the makeshift souk, next to the great gateway, Humphrey Trencom is nosing around. He seems to have found something that has caught his attention.

  Some time after midnight, when the only visitors to the Porta Aurea are scrawny cats and pot-bellied rats, Humphrey Trencom can be seen slipping through the shadows. He is dressed in a black turban, a dark worsted cloak and soft slippers. It is clear that he’s trying to reach the Golden Gate unobserved.

  There is only a thin shard of moon in the sky and the streets are locked in shadow. The great land walls reveal themselves as a black block against a veiled backdrop. The other buildings are nothing more than caliginous silhouettes.

  Just before Humphrey reaches the gate, he scurries down a side alley. About twenty yards further – just past the Osman Camii – there’s a small passage leading to a tiny courtyard. Humphrey darts down this passageway and feels his way into the yard. There is no light whatsoever so he has to rely on other senses – his nose and his hands. He feels for a door. It’s locked. He feels for another. It’s also locked. But the third doorway is slightly ajar. And his nose, which is now fully recovered, has detected an unusual scent that is filtering through the gap.

  He pushes the door and it creaks. A cat miaows. A shutter bangs. ‘Tum-tum,’ whispers Humphrey to himself. ‘Keep silent, Humph, keep silent.’

  There is a flight of steps behind the door – shallow steps that are worn with age. ‘Careful, old boy,’ he says to himself. ‘Wouldn’t want to take a tumble in this place.’

  The smell grows stronger with every step – the odour of spice and balm. ‘Thuriferous, thuriferous, thuriferous,’ whispers Humphrey as he sniffs the air. ‘From the highlands of Arabia.’

  He reaches the bottom of the stairs and feels for the walls. The floor is sandy and the rock is damp. The passageway is narrow, just two feet wide, and Humphrey can only just squeeze through. If he had come here six months earlier – before his long sea voyage – he would not have got through. ‘Thank God for putrid food,’ he thinks.

  He can smell lichen beneath the layer of incense. ‘Nearly there, Humpers,’ he says under his breath. ‘Another twelve steps.’

  Humphrey is now directly underneath the Porta Aurea, in a low, round room that is cut from the rock. He can see nothing – not even the slippers on his feet. But he knows something about this room that is so secret, so dangerous, that if it was ever discovered, it would lead to his instant despatch. He takes two steps forward, reaches out his hands, and feels for the bundle.

  ‘The patriarch was right,’ he whispers under his breath. ‘The patriarch was right.’

  There it is, just as he is expecting. A thick layer of sack-cloth enclosing a most precious object. Humphrey takes it in his arms, holds it to his nose briefly, and then stuffs it under his cloak.

  3 APRIL 1969

  Streatham Police Station. Streatham Police Station. Streatham Police Station. Elizabeth was running her finger down a long list of Streathams in the telephone directory in search of the non-emergency number. Streatham Animal Welfare Group. Streatham Chiropodists. Streatham Genealogical Society. She emitted a little groan when she saw that particular entry. ‘The very last thing we need,’ she thought. ‘Ah – here we go. Streatham Police Station, General Enquiries.’

  She made a note of the number and took it over to the phone. But when she came to pick up the receiver, she hesitated and then sat down again. ‘What on earth am I going to say?’ she thought. ‘It’s going to sound ridiculous.’ She also recalled how she’d sworn blind to Edward that she
wouldn’t contact the police. ‘I don’t want to start deceiving him now, not at the very time when he’s told me about everything that’s happened.’

  Yet despite deciding to hold fire for the time being, she remained beside herself with worry and couldn’t help turning things over and over in her mind. The man at the cheese festival, the man following Edward, the flood. None of it made any sense whatsoever.

  She had yet to sight anyone trailing her husband – although she was constantly on the look-out – and this only increased her sense of frustration. ‘It’s the fact that one never knows what’s around the corner,’ she admitted to Edward one evening. ‘If only I could see what he looks like – somehow that would make everything seem more real.’

  Edward had not told Elizabeth every detail of what had happened to him because he hadn’t wished to alarm her more than was necessary. But he did describe how he’d followed the Greek man back to Queen Street and he also told her about the various strange scenes that he and Richard had witnessed from the first-floor window of Barcley’s office.

  One morning, not long after Edward had left to go shopping, Elizabeth suddenly put down her mug of coffee, folded her arms and announced to herself that enough was enough. ‘I can’t stand this waiting around any longer,’ she said with characteristic resolve. ‘It’s time to take control of the situation.’ And she decided, there and then, to visit Mr Makarezos in Queen Street.

  If Edward had been at home at the time, he would have done his utmost to dissuade his wife. He would have told Elizabeth that such a move would only increase the danger he was in. He would have implored her not to make such a foolhardy move. But with no one to temper her indignation and anger, she was able to follow her own course of action.

  It was shortly after 11 a.m. when she turned the corner into Queen Street. She was not in the slightest bit nervous; indeed, she gave every indication of looking forward to her forthcoming confrontation with Mr Makarezos. ‘I’ll listen to what he has to say,’ she thought. ‘But I’ll also give him a piece of my mind. I really will. What right has he to do this to Edward? And for what?’

  She slowed her pace slightly as she approached Number 14 and looked up at the brass plaque. ‘Well – here goes.’ After taking a sharp intake of breath and exhaling slowly through her nose, she gave the knocker a loud rap on the door.

  There was a long pause before footsteps could be heard approaching from inside the building. A chain was drawn back and a key was turned in the lock. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened to reveal a small, slight and rather elderly Greek lady.

  ‘Yes?’ she said in a questioning tone of voice.

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr Makarezos,’ said Elizabeth Trencom boldly. ‘I need to speak with him.’

  ‘Could you repeat that, dear?’ said the lady as she leaned towards Mrs Trencom. ‘I’m a little hard of hearing.’

  ‘Mr Makarezos,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’ve come to see him.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said the lady. ‘Well, I’m afraid he’s in a meeting. Could you come back in’ – she looked at her watch – ‘an hour or so?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Trencom firmly. ‘No, I wish to see him now, thank you very much. Could you please get him?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up, dear, speak a little louder.’

  ‘Could you get him? Please. I need to see him urgently.’

  ‘Well, if you insist. I shall see if he’s available. Your name?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Trencom.’

  ‘Mrs Trondheim?’ repeated the lady.

  ‘No – Trencom.’

  ‘Good, dear,’ said the lady. And she disappeared along the corridor and up the stairs.

  Elizabeth waited on the doorstep for two or three minutes, trying to work out in her head exactly what she would say to Mr Makarezos. The door had been left ajar and she peered inside the hallway. There was a poorly lit corridor which led to a flight of stairs. Beyond the stairs, a door provided access to the ground-floor rooms. But apart from that, the hall was completely empty. There was nothing on the walls, which looked to Mrs Trencom’s eyes as if they hadn’t seen a lick of paint for many a year.

  It was while she was standing on the doorstep that she suddenly heard her name being called.

  ‘Elizabeth – Elizabeth.’

  She looked up and down the street to see where the voice was coming from.

  ‘Elizabeth – up here.’

  She turned round, glimpsed up and saw Richard Barcley leaning out of the first-floor window of the building opposite.

  ‘Elizabeth! No! No! Quick! Come over here.’

  Elizabeth was torn between staying where she was, in order to give Mr Makarezos a piece of her mind, or doing as instructed by her husband’s oldest friend.

  ‘I beg you,’ shouted Barcley. ‘You mustn’t.’

  With great reluctance, Elizabeth stepped back from the doorstep and made her way across the street. She had scarcely reached Number 11 when the door was flung open and an anxious Richard Barcley pulled her in by the arm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said, speaking in a tone of voice that he had never before used when talking to Elizabeth. ‘Are you mad? Don’t you realize? Your husband, Edward, is in great danger. His life is under threat. Really, to go knocking on the door and confronting Mr Makarezos is’ – he searched for the appropriate word – ‘insane.’

  Barcley’s words deflated Elizabeth, yet she still retained a flash of defiance. ‘Well, if that man’ – she pointed at Number 14 – ‘is going to ruin our marriage, then he’s jolly well going to get a piece of my mind.’

  And with that, the stress of everything that had just happened got the better of her and she broke down in tears.

  ‘Mrs Clarke,’ said Richard, calling to his secretary. ‘Could you make Mrs Trencom a nice cup of tea. And I don’t mind if I have one too.

  ‘Actually,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘make mine a coffee.’

  On the other side of the street, the elderly Greek lady was knocking on the door of the boardroom.

  ‘Enter,’ said a voice from within.

  As she opened the door, four men looked up.

  ‘There’s someone for you, Mr Makarezos,’ she said. ‘Someone who seems very anxious to see you. A lady.’

  ‘Who is she?’ snapped Makarezos. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Mrs Trondheim. Says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ he said. ‘Tell her to come back another time.’

  APRIL 1969

  More than four weeks had passed since the night of the flood yet still Edward showed no signs of returning to Trencoms. He had left Mr George in charge of preparing for the eventual reopening of the shop, phoning him occasionally to enquire as to how he was getting along. He, meanwhile, spent most of his time working on the first chapters of Dynasty. He found himself inspired by Harry Barnsley’s Ten Chimes to Midnight and was considering writing Dynasty in the same style. ‘In some ways it’s a detective story,’ he thought, ‘and in others it’s a tale of history and dark intrigue.’

  Elizabeth was pleased to have Edward at home and did everything she could to encourage him. She was delighted when he told her that he’d resumed work on his History of Cheese and looked forward to the day when he showed a similar enthusiasm for Trencoms. Yet she remained extremely anxious about the way in which her husband’s personality was mutating before her very eyes. He seemed more detached than ever – so listless and changeable. One minute he was full of fire – and the next? Why, he didn’t even seem to know who he was. He ate his meals at increasingly strange hours and slept erratically at night. In the past, he’d eaten large quantities of cheese in the evenings and never been troubled by disturbing dreams. Yet now that he had almost given up snacking on cheese, he claimed to be having more vivid dreams than ever. And as for his lovemaking. Elizabeth gulped. That was becoming more extravagant and uninhibited with every day that passed.

  She smiled as she remembered how, twelve
years earlier, she had lain nervously in bed awaiting her husband’s approach. ‘To think that not long ago we only made love once a week, on Sundays. And now – gracious …’ She paused to count on her fingers. ‘We’ve made love five times in the last two days.’ It was as if Edward was being invigorated by some internal spirit – a spirit that was at the same time acting like a leech, sapping away at his lifeblood.

  Just an hour or so after Elizabeth had had these thoughts, she was dusting the writing bureau that stood beside the window. This was where Edward usually worked when he was at home and the top of the desk was almost lost under a patchwork of notebooks, cuttings and scraps of paper. The topmost folder was marked ‘Humphrey Trencom’ and Elizabeth could see that it was bulging with Edward’s jottings about the original founder of the shop. Intrigued, she opened the file and idly flicked through the papers.

  ‘Goodness, Edward has done a lot of research,’ was her first thought. ‘There’s enough here to write a book about Humphrey Trencom alone.’ The folder contained hand-copied extracts from Pepys’s diary (all referring to the Fire of London) and a map of the city in 1666. There were two pamphlets about Piddletrenthide, the Dorset village from which Humphrey and his antecedents had come, and a short monograph on Sultan Mehmet IV. ‘He looks rather grim,’ thought Elizabeth as she picked up a copy of his portrait. ‘Wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.’

  As she replaced the picture in the folder, her eye was drawn to a largish sheet of paper folded into four quarters. It was old – even Elizabeth could tell that – and felt satisfyingly weighty to the touch. Taking care not to tear it, she opened out the folds and spread the sheet on the writing desk. It was completely covered in handwriting – a slanting italic hand that was as clipped as a toparian box-tree. Elizabeth noticed the date at the top – ‘Lord’s Day, Septb’r 10th, 1666’ and then saw that it had been written by Humphrey Trencom. ‘I’m surprised Edward hasn’t shown me this,’ she thought. ‘I didn’t know he had any of Humphrey’s papers.’