by Giles Milton
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.
One cause of his hostility is the fact that he fought against the duke’s forces in the Civil War. But it is equally a result of his upbringing. Ralph Pryor is what the better sort like to call ‘a man mayd goode’. Born into poverty in Limehouse, and taken on as an apprentice to the Levant Company, he has slavered his way up through the ranks. Now forty-two years of age and factory chief in the company’s most profitable trading post, he has managed to form an instinctive dislike towards anyone and everyone for whom life is ‘a dish of oysters’.
Pryor’s position pays him a substantial income and he never goes short of victuals, yet he retains the hereditary leanness that is characteristic of all the stick-thin Pryors. His cheeks are pinched and his belly is hollow. It is as if the bloody flux has taken up permanent abode in Ralph Pryor’s guts, sucking and disgorging every last globule of fat and marrow.
It has taken many centuries of gristle and gruel for Ralph to reach the state where every rickety component, every sinew, ligament and ossicle is distorted from the state which Nature might have originally intended. Immensely tall and gangly to boot, he has the sloping gait and posture that afflict so many very tall people. It is as if he has grown tired of breathing the rarified air of the upper stratosphere and wishes to rejoin the breezier altitudes of his fellow mortals. In short, he stoops – stoops badly – and this has caused his joints, bones and shoulder blades to slowly collapse in on themselves over the four decades since he first struggled onto his pins. He suffers from tennis elbow and housemaid’s knee, a touch of sciatica and occasional lumbago. In winter, he has spasms. In summer, he has slipped discs. And the patrilineal gout, which afflicts his left toe, has been known to keep him horizontal for days.
To counter this extreme skinniness, Pryor has bought himself one of those concave mirrors that have recently become all the rage in Constantinople. They put flesh on bones in a way that only decades of indulgence could hope to replicate. Yet even the artifice of anamorphosis is unable to puff out Ralph’s cheeks and lard his jowl.
When Ralph Pryor had first met Humphrey, he had greeted him with perfunctory courtesy. From that point on – and with very little effort – he has managed to dislike him intensely. When he learns that the factory staff have been whispering about Humphrey’s unorthodox behaviour, his suspicions are immediately awakened. ‘A conspiracy is surely afoot,’ he says to himself, ‘and Humphrey must certainly be guilty.’
A knock at the door causes Pryor to look up from his rosewood desk. ‘No time – no time,’ he snaps, but the door opens anyway and in walks James Nealson, the factory’s clerk.
‘Ah, Mr Nealson – for you, I have always got time.’
‘You summoned me, sirrah,’ says Nealson. ‘Nothing amiss, I pray?’
‘Something is very much amiss,’ replies Pryor. ‘There’s something rotten in the state of—’
‘Denmark?’ ventures Nealson, eager to show off his learning.
‘No, you fool. Are we in Denmark, you joskin? Is this the land of the Danes?’
Nealson coughs nervously as Pryor spells out what he believes to be blindingly obvious. ‘There’s something rotten, sirrah, in the state of our factory.’
‘And what, exactly, might you mean by that?’ queries Nealson.
‘Humphrey Trencom,’ replies Pryor. ‘I don’t like him – I don’t like his face, I don’t like the way he speaks. In short, I find him obnoxious, cantankerous and dangerous. He is a snake, and a venomous one at that. If we don’t watch him, he will poison us all.’
‘Agreed,’ says Nealson, who is not entirely sure as to what he is agreeing with.
There’s a moment’s silence. A hush descends. Pryor picks up his gold-framed oval hand-mirror and admires the curvature of his chin.
‘We live in dangerous times,’ he says, picking at a scabrous red pimple. ‘Dangerous times.’
‘In what way do you mean, sirrah? I’m not sure I quite follow you.’ Nealson is perplexed by his superior. Mr Pryor always speaks in riddles.
‘I want you to follow Humphrey Trencom,’ he says. ‘I want you to track him – hunt him down – note his movements. He’s up to something – up to no good. And I want to know what.’
Pryor puts down his mirror and looks Nealson sharply in the eye. ‘Deliver me Humphrey,’ he says, ‘and I will deliver you the world.’
‘Why, thank you, sirrah,’ says Nealson, who is still no nearer to discovering what Mr Pryor means. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘And remember – I want a full report by the end of the week.’
Nealson turns to leave and Ralph gets up from his desk. ‘I’m coming out,’ he says. ‘I need to piss.’
Ralph Pryor is not alone in having suspicions about Humphrey Trencom. In the innermost quarters of the Topkapi Sarayi, the chief vizier, Ishak Bey, is briefing the divan, the muftis and his most trustworthy agents.
‘Our wise, noble, beloved ruler, the ineffable, the effulgent Sultan Mehmet (may Allah preserve him!) is in danger.’ He clears his throat, as if to emphasize this danger. ‘Outside forces are at work – and they must be stopped.
‘We have yet to discover from whence this danger comes. It may be spies from Vienna. It may even be forces from within. As the poet Al-Mutanabbi once wrote, “even the flower can have poison in her heart”. Whatever it is, we must act – act now – before it is too late.’
The imperial divan gives a collective nod. They let out a collective murmur. And then the officials, judges and men of religion debate the danger. After just a few minutes, they agree that their suspicions fall upon one man. The newly arrived Humphrey Trencom of Piddletrenthide in Dorset is behaving most strangely. He presents a grave threat to the throne of Sultan Mehmet IV (may Allah preserve him).
It is unanimously decided that he must be followed, tracked, hunted down. The man chosen for this task is Hamed Efendi, the vizier’s most dependable agent. But the vizier also selects a second person to monitor Humphrey Trencom – someone he has found to be most reliable on previous occasions. Her real name is Huma, but to the vizier, as to her clients, she is known as Hafise.
Humphrey Trencom is unaware of the disquiet he is causing. He wakes, yawns and listens for the cock-crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Still half asleep, he pulls up Hafise’s nightshift and enters her from behind. ‘Oh yes –,’ he grunts. ‘And a good morning to you, madam.’
In the room below, James Nealson is standing on a chest with his ear to a goblet and the goblet to the ceiling. He is trying to eavesdrop on the recently arrived Humphrey. He need not have bothered, for the floor is soon vibrating vigorously and Nealson’s eyes are filled with plaster and dust.
‘Mr H.T. performs coitus,’ he notes in his journal. ‘Duration, four minutes. Activity level, high.’ He lays aside his quill and reads over the first entry in his book. Then, picking up his pen while the ink is still fresh, he adds, ‘Woman, Turkish whore.’
Nealson soon deduces that coitus is over and Humphrey is getting dressed. ‘Track him, follow him, monitor him,’ he mutters to himself as Humphrey pulls on his breeches. ‘He’s up to no good.’
Outside in the street, but concealed in a passageway, is Hamed Efendi, agent extraordinaire. He has been waiting there since dusk, studying the left-hand window on the upper floor. Shortly after cockcrow, he notices activity. Hafise comes to the window and flashes a pre-arranged signal. Humphrey is in the process of stepping outside.
Hamed Efendi is a shrewd operator who made his name with the capture of al-Sahif the Betrayer. But on this occasion he makes on
e foolish slip. He does not consider, not for one moment, that someone else might be stalking his quarry. As Humphrey leaves the factory – and Hamed turns to follow him – he bumps headlong into James Nealson.
‘Ouch,’ cries Nealson, who gives Hamed a shove in his ribs. Humphrey hears the kerfuffle and looks around. He is most anxious not to be seen.
‘What in devil’s name is he doing out and about at such an early hour,’ he thinks, spying Nealson from the corner of his eye. ‘Hmm – no good will come of this.’ And he quickens his pace, turning left and right, and then right and left, in his effort to shake off Nealson.
Hamed knows every alley and back-lane of Constantinople and is fairly certain as to where Humphrey Trencom is going. ‘The waterfront,’ he says to himself. ‘He’ll cross the Golden Horn.’ He overtakes the huffing-puffing Humphrey, makes a dash to the shoreline, and is already seated in the soon-to-depart ferryboat when Trencom arrives at the wharf. He steps into the same skiff and hands his coin to the ferryman.
By the time the third of the trio, James Nealson, reaches the water, the ferryboat is already halfway across the Golden Horn, heading towards the Fener district of the city on the far side of the water.
Nealson clambers into the next ferryboat to depart. There’s one other person already seated in the stern – a Turkish lady veiled from head to foot in black.
‘I’ll never understand these blasted women,’ ponders Nealson, whose mind is still focused on the antics he had heard taking place earlier. ‘I wonder if Trencom’s whore dresses like this when she goes out in public …’
Almost two hours are to pass before James Nealson returns to the English factory in Galata. He has a blister on his left foot, a welt on his cheek (resulting from his collision with Hamed) and a notebook filled with scribbles. He is feeling decidely pleased with himself. ‘Why,’ he thinks, ‘I’d make a first-class detectionist.’
He taps on the door to Ralph Pryor’s study, anxious to report back on the untoward events he has witnessed.
‘No time – no time,’ comes a voice from within.
‘But it’s me, sirrah, Nealson. I need to talk.’
‘Enter,’ is the immediate response, and Nealson opens the door.
He is greeted by a most extraordinary sight. Ralph Pryor is standing on his desk, on one leg, and is in the process of fixing a small convex mirror to the ceiling. In one hand he holds a mallet and some nails; in the other, some sort of measuring device.
‘Excuse me, sirrah,’ ventures a sheepish Nealson, ‘but could I be so bold as to ask what exactly you are doing?’
‘Dangerous times,’ says Pryor. ‘Need to keep an eye on one another.’
‘Sirrah?’ says Nealson in a tone that clearly suggests he is angling for an explanation.
‘This mirror here,’ says Pryor, ‘is aligned with the mirror in that tree.’ He points to the flowering maple in the courtyard garden. ‘And that one reflects with a third that is up there, on the eaves.’
‘And?’ asks Nealson.
‘And,’ responds Pryor, ‘it means that I can see directly into Trencom’s chamber. Yes, I’ll catch that rat if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘Perhaps I can help?’ suggests Nealson. ‘You see, I’ve been on his tracks since dawn.’
‘Ah-ha – so, prithee, tell me.’
Nealson recounts how Humphrey Trencom had headed for the Fener district of the city, on the far side of the Golden Horn. Once there, he had hot-footed his way to the Greek patriarchate, the focal point for the city’s large Christian community.
‘I was unable to enter the patriarch’s quarters,’ explains Nealson. ‘It’s under guard. But I did see something that may prove of interest.’
Nealson informs Pryor of how he had climbed the disused Byzantine watchtower that stands directly opposite the patriarchate. From here, with the aid of a chair and his spyglass, he was able to see directly into the patriarch’s quarters.
‘And who should be there, talking to the patriarch?’
‘That rat,’ snaps Pryor, ‘that scoundrel, that codpiece of the duke’s.’
‘Correct’, says Nealson. ‘Mr Humphrey Trencom.’
‘So what, zounds, was he doing there?’ asks Pryor, whose impatience was writ large in the frown lines of his forehead. ‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘I don’t know,’ admits Nealson. ‘I’ve already told you, I wasn’t in the room.’
‘Well, what did you see?’ says an exasperated Pryor. He bangs his fists on the table, causing his quill to leapfrog out of its inkstand. A drop of dark sepia ink attaches itself to his chemise, then licks its way rapidly along the thin hatchwork of serge.
‘Quite a lot,’ says Nealson. ‘The patriarch – Bartholomeus – handed Trencom something, a scroll of parchment. At least, I think it was a scroll. And then, well, he gave him a blessing and showed him to the door.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all – except – well, there’s one other thing. On two occasions this morning I bumped into the same man – a Turk. You know what, sirrah? I can’t help thinking that he, too, is watching Trencom.’
Hamed Efendi has been rather more successful in his quest to discover more about Humphrey Trencom. No sooner had his quarry left the patriarchate than Hamet sent in three Ottoman janissaries, who arrested the patriarch’s dragoman on a trumped-up charge of treason. This unfortunate individual was then marched to the Topkapi Sarayi, where he was handed over to Abdul Ali, the court’s chief executioner.
Within the hour, the dragoman has confessed all he knows. Yes, Patriarch Bartholomeus gave the Englishman a parchment. No, he doesn’t know what it said.
The thumb wrench is given another twist.
‘Aaaagh – I really don’t know.’
Another two turns.
‘I – don’t – know – aagh – I promise – I swear – I – don’t – know.’
A spiked clamp is bolted onto his head.
‘In the name of God – I – don’t – know.’
‘Then I will roast you alive,’ roars the executioner as he pauses to survey the trussed and bleeding dragoman. The only other information he gleans is this: Humphrey Trencom has come to the city to collect some sort of package.
‘And what was in the package?’ asks Abdul Ali the executioner, as he heats an iron bolt over a flame.
‘I don’t know – in God’s name, I don’t know.’
Hafise, the perfumed, fragrant, delectable Hafise – Hafise who can stir the hardest men’s hearts – is proving rather more successful in discovering Humphrey’s movements and motives. She bides her time; waits until her paramour is at his most vulnerable.
Cock-a-doodle-doo. The morning cock crows.
‘Come, my Turkey,’ purrs Humphrey, ‘come to Humphrey.’
He prepares to roll himself onto his Turkey bird but, just as he does so, she shifts herself to the other side of the divan.
‘Oh, no,’ he says in a tone of disappointment. ‘Oh, you can’t do that – you can’t let down your Humphrey.’
Hafise smiles inwardly. Men are so easy, and this particular Nazarene is proving to be a walkover.
‘Come, my sweet thing – it’s dawn. My prick’s at noon. Let me spill my seed.’
Hafise, who has begun to move closer and closer, now rolls away for a second time.
Humphrey is twitching with frustration and no longer in the mood for frivolity. He is angry with Hafise. More than that, he is getting desperate.
‘Now you come over here, girl, come back to Humphrey, I need you – I need you right now.’
Still Hafise doesn’t move.
This proves more than Humphrey can bear. His blood is up, his pulse is on fire, his heart is thumping and his loins are aflame.
‘What?’ he roars. ‘You – a slut, a common whore – are spurning the seed of Humphrey Trencom. The seed of noble lineage; the seed that once ruled an empire.’ He clutches at his privy parts and displays them to Hafise. ‘The seed inside these
sacks,’ he fumes, ‘helped build this queen of cities.’
Scarcely has he spoken these words than Hafise smiles to herself, sidles over towards Humphrey and clambers astride his white fleshy thighs.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ she says softly. ‘That’s everything I wanted to know.’
‘Eh?’ says Humphrey as he primes himself for action. And before the cock crows for a second time, the divan in Humphrey’s chamber is getting the first instalment of its twice-daily exercise.
‘Good God,’ says Ralph Pryor, who has just at that moment glanced into his contraption of mirrors. ‘Zounds and great heavens!’ He has rigged up his device in order to spy on Humphrey’s chamber, but he never for the life of him expected this.
‘What, in heaven’s name, is she doing to him?’
He peers more closely into the mirror.
‘But that’s not possible. No, that’s – that’s …’ He searches for the appropriate word. ‘Revolting – abhorrent.’
Pryor, it should be explained, has studiously avoided the city’s stews and whores. A puritan in thought and deed, he has neither the time nor inclination for such abominations of the flesh. ‘No time for pleasure,’ he says. ‘Got to keep up the books.’
And now he finds himself watching an explicit display being performed before his very eyes. He recoils in horror as he catches sight of Humphrey’s bare fundament in the mirror. ‘I’m a peeping Tom,’ he mutters in considerable distress. ‘I’ve become a voyeur.’
As he prepares to tear down the spy contraption, Humphrey Trencom – who is fast approaching the moment he likes to call ‘voidance’ – turns to the mirror that he has seen attached to the eaves of the building and gives it a saucy wink. The wink winks at the mirror in the maple tree, which winks at the mirror attached to Pryor’s ceiling. This, in turn, transmits the wink to Ralph Pryor himself.
He shudders. ‘I’ll destroy him,’ he hisses, ‘if it’s the last thing I do.’