Edward Trencom's Nose

by Giles Milton

  He had toyed with the idea of structuring his book in strictly chronological order, beginning with Humphrey and ending with himself. But the more he looked into his family papers, the more he became convinced that this was not the way to approach the subject.

  ‘Of course it’s not. Why didn’t I see it before? It must be written backwards, as if it were a family tree. It must start with me and end with Humphrey Trencom. In that way, I can lead the reader back through time.’

  This thought put him in mind of a different title. ‘What about Time’s Arrow?’ he mused. ‘Time’s Arrow.’ Time’s Arrow. But no – it sounded too like one of those dreadful Kingsley Amis novels. Dynasty was better.

  ‘After all,’ he said to himself, ‘I’ve already got three mysterious deaths in the first three generations. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I stumbled across more skeletons in the cupboard on the way.’

  What had surprised Edward most during his researches was the fact that of the four generations he had so far investigated, three of them had abandoned the shop at some point during their career. This was something that Edward had never been told. ‘How strange that Uncle Harry never mentioned it. How strange that he never told me anything.’

  He was only now beginning to realize that his uncle had concealed a great deal of other information as well – information that had a direct bearing on his own life.

  ‘Uncle Harry must have known all the answers – he must have. Could it even have been he who hid the papers in the cellars?’

  The more Edward thought about the records he had examined, the more frustrated he grew at the gaps in his knowledge. They no longer brought him any pleasure – rather, they left him with the disturbing feeling that someone was deliberately trying to conceal something. His father, grandfather and great-great-grandfather had all gone abroad in pursuit of some unknown goal, leaving Trencoms in the hands of a younger brother, nephew or cousin. ‘And what this goal was …’ He tapped his fingers on his desk. ‘Well, it seems to have taken over their lives – each and every one of them – and required them to go to either Greece or Turkey.’

  The only exception to the rule was his great grandfather, Emmanuel Trencom, who had not travelled abroad – at least not when he was alive. Edward had taken some comfort in the fact that at least one of his ancestors had been able to override the family obsession. Yet it now transpired that he had been killed – murdered – in the cellars of the shop. This was something that no one had ever mentioned to Edward. ‘And why on earth was his body taken to Greece?’ he asked out loud. ‘Why was he not buried in London?’

  There was another peculiar fact that Edward had discovered in the course of his research. Shortly before each member of his family had left England, the fabric of the shop had suffered some sort of mishap. On a couple of occasions it had been so serious that it could quite conceivably have delivered a fatal blow to Trencoms, had it not been for the hasty intervention of builders and engineers. In Edward’s father’s case, the roof of one of the side chapels (the one that contained all the Swiss bellelay and Austrian schlosskase) had cracked open like a nut. At the time, Peregrine blamed it on the firebomb that landed on King Street in the summer of 1940. But Edward was not convinced. The Trencom chapels were each supported by six squat stone columns that were well-nigh indestructible.

  ‘I just don’t believe it,’ thought Edward. ‘Something else – something other – caused that chapel to break open.’

  Then there was the strange episode of the shop’s facade. In 1921, just weeks before George Trencom set sail for Smyrna, the front of the shop had slumped more than two inches. Such was the fear that the building would collapse that all the neighbouring properties had to be hastily evacuated. George left for Turkey in spite of the problem and it was only through the diligence and quick thinking of his brother, Archibald, that the building was saved.

  The cause was never properly determined. George himself had blamed the unseasonably dry weather which, he said, had caused the underlying London clay to dry and shrink. But even at the time his views were treated with suspicion. Mr Sampson of Sampson’s Meats pointed out that no other building in the neighbourhood had been affected by the drought.

  The shop had suffered similar vicissitudes under the stewardship of both Emmanuel and Henry Trencom. On one occasion, a part of the floor had subsided. On another, the ladder leading to the cellars had broken apart and very nearly caused the death of Henry.

  Edward pondered over these ‘accidents’ and wondered if there was something that linked them all together. He had his suspicions that there was. He didn’t dare mention this to anyone else, for he knew it would sound quite ridiculous. Yet he had actually begun to convince himself that the shop was in some way alive. Yes – it was in some inexplicable way reacting to the decisions of its proprietors. His father had headed to Greece and the shop had almost split itself in two. His grandfather had gone to Turkey and the place had almost collapsed. ‘Can such things really happen?’ asked Edward.

  His conviction that they could – and did – was not quite as strange as might first appear. After all, he had long held that the cheeses inside his shop had a life of their own. To his own way of reasoning, this was unquestionably true. Cheeses had their own idiosyncrasies. He knew this for sure, because they played merry mischief whenever he was not there.

  And since he accepted that the cheeses had a life of their own, then it was clearly possible that the building was also in some sort of way alive. Edward thought back to the moment when he had unlocked the door earlier that morning. The door had squeaked, the floor had creaked and the cellar had emitted a low, lazy sigh.

  This building is alive, thought Edward. It’s as sensitive as a taleggio. It’s as highly strung as a moularen. When it’s worried, it reacts. When it’s concerned, it shrugs its shoulders. And if it thinks – yes – if it thinks that there’s something wrong with the proprietor, something seriously wrong, then sure as I am Edward Trencom it lets it be known.

  He popped a slice of cantal into his mouth and chewed vigorously. It tasted strangely bitter, as if the milk had soured before the cheese had even been made. He cut himself another slice, from a different cheese, and as he did so he was suddenly gripped by fear – a real and terrible realization that it could only be a matter of time before he, like each and every one of his ancestors, would also receive the sign.

  PART THREE

  20 FEBRUARY 1969

  At a little after 7 p.m. on a warm, breezy evening, Edward and Elizabeth Trencom stepped outside their Streatham home at Number 22 Sunnyhill Road and climbed into a waiting London taxicab.

  ‘You’re looking very – delicious – my dear,’ said Edward to his wife. As he spoke these words, he gave her hand a little squeeze. Elizabeth, still unaccustomed to her husband displaying any overt signs of affection, was quite taken aback. ‘And you, Mr Cheese, look most – handsome,’ she said, inclining her head to take a better look at him. ‘Oh, yes – give me a hug. I want to gobble you up.’

  Edward and Elizabeth didn’t normally take taxicabs since they considered them to be an unnecessary extravagance. But tonight was an exception to the rule. They were heading to the annual dinner of the Most Worshipful Company of Cheese Connoisseurs and the taxi was supplied free of charge to each of the seventy ‘connoisseurs’.

  ‘One of the perks of the job,’ said Edward to the driver with jaunty good humour. ‘Never refuse a kind offer.’

  The annual dinner was the highlight of the cheese year. All of the country’s most prestigious producers and vendors of cheese were due to be in attendance as well as a handful from the continent. It was Edward’s role, as Life President and Master of Ceremonies, to formally open the banquet. He had also agreed to give the closing address at the end of the cheese course.

  There were two reasons why he always looked forward to this event. First, it enabled him to have confirmed (before the assembled company) that he had the finest nose in Great Britain. It was also an
opportunity for him to receive the praises of many of the country’s best producers of cheeses – praises that he accepted with grace and gratitude. ‘And my gratitude will be sincere,’ he said to Elizabeth as they headed up Borough High Street. ‘It really will.’

  And indeed it was. Edward took his role as Britain’s leading cheese connoisseur extremely seriously and was delighted when his expertise was recognized by the various Masters of Cheese.

  There was another reason why Edward took pride in their praises. He was not a vindictive man and nor did he take vicarious pleasure in watching others suffer. But he always felt a thrill of pleasure when the assembled company re-elected him as Cheese Merchant of the Year. For the last eleven years there had been a pretender to the throne – one Henri-Roland d’Autun – who was at that time the proprietor of d’Autun’s cheese shop in St James’s Street, Piccadilly. He was perennially jealous at being beaten into second place by Trencoms (though he tried hard to conceal it) and that gave Edward an annual little puff of satisfaction.

  ‘Evening, Mr Trencom,’ said the doorkeeper of the historic Cheese Hall, that imposing Jacobean refectory which stands close to the Guildhall in the City of London. ‘And you must be Mrs Trencom? A very good evening to you too, madam.’

  ‘Good evening, good evening,’ said Edward, addressing both the doorkeeper and a group of familiar faces standing in the panelled atrium. He made a friendly gesture at Mr Gresham of Colsham Farm, producer of a quite exceptional colsham blue. He shook hands with John and Mary Walstone, makers of ribblesdale original. And then he turned and saw … ‘Ah – Henri-Roland. Evening – and how’s business?’

  The sight of Maître d’Autun caused an inexplicable flicker of guilt in Edward Trencom. It was almost as if he was embarrassed to be sharing a room with him – embarrassed, not for his own sake, but because Edward (a sensitive soul) knew that his presence would certainly spoil the Frenchman’s evening. He nonetheless offered his rival a conciliatory smile and greeted him with as much good humour as he could muster.

  His self-conscious chirpiness was not matched by Henri-Roland d’Autun, for whom Edward Trencom represented an unsightly mould on the surface of an otherwise flawless chèvre. ‘Bonne soirée, monsieur,’ he said curtly, speaking with a Provençal accent so pungent you could almost smell the fields of purple lavender. ‘I ear that you ’av ’ad – ow shall we say? – your share of trrroubles récemment.’

  ‘Troubles?’ replied a somewhat perplexed Mr Trencom. ‘And what troubles might these be?’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Henri-Roland, whose turn it was to feel embarrassed. He suddenly realized that he was on the point of being unnecessarily rude. ‘Well – non. Please forgive me – I ’ad ’eard you were ’aving problems with hors d’oevreing stock.’ He paused again before adding, ‘You know, if we can ever – assister – please don’t ’esitate to call upon our services. As you say in England, a trouble shared is a trouble doubled.’

  ‘Halved,’ corrected Edward. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Henri. ‘Well – ’alved. But, Mr Trencom, don’t cut off your ears to spite your face.’

  ‘What a horrible man,’ sighed Elizabeth as she and Edward moved away. ‘He never changes, does he? Now, let’s go into the hall. Look, I can see Sir George calling us over.’ Mrs Trencom pushed open the glazed door and entered the Cheese Hall, closely followed by her husband.

  The first thing one noticed was the magnificent hammer-beam roof which dated from the time of the hall’s foundation. It spanned more than sixty feet and its heavy oak bosses were carved with representations of the country’s most famous cheeses. Although the roof dated from Jacobean times, most of the bosses were more recent (Victorian) additions. At the furthest end of the hall, on a raised dais, was the top table which (on this particular night) was laden with cheeses for the tasting. The other tables were arranged in three rows along the length of the hall. The centrepiece of each table was a large platter of cheeses from around the world, many of which had been supplied for tonight’s dinner by Trencoms.

  ‘Can you smell the touloumotyri?’ whispered Edward with a suppressed chuckle. ‘It’s completely invaded the room.’ He sniffed at the air and then wriggled his nose in a most idiosyncratic fashion. ‘You know what, Elizabeth? I said to myself before we left home that the touloumotyri would be the first cheese I’d smell on arriving. It smells so strongly of goats – it’s so pungent – that I can’t believe I only discovered it last month.’

  Edward was not the only one to comment on the touloumotyri. ‘Good grief, Trencom,’ said Sir George as he gave him a vigorous shake of the hand. ‘Where in devil’s name did you find this stuff? It, well, to be honest, Trencom, it pongs.’

  ‘I’m not sure it should go by the name of cheese,’ chortled Christopher Grey, who was known to all and sundry as the producer of a very fine Lincolnshire goat’s cheese. ‘It’s more goat than cheese. Yes, a cheesy goat.’

  Edward smiled and held up his hands as if submitting to surrender. ‘I must admit,’ he said, ‘that it both smells and tastes of goats. Elizabeth has forbidden me from bringing it home. But some of our customers love it – especially the Greeks. Have you ever been to Artemis Restaurant? Close to Paddington Station? Well, they take three skins of the stuff each week. They tell me it’s become one of their most popular cheeses.’

  The hall was steadily growing louder as more and more vendors and cheese-makers arrived. Elizabeth was surprised to see Mr George enter the hall.

  ‘He’s never been before,’ she whispered to her husband. ‘How did he get invited?’

  ‘That was my doing,’ Edward smiled. ‘I thought it was high time. After all, he’s my right hand these days.’

  Edward didn’t notice his wife’s frown, for he was too busy greeting all his friends and acquaintances. ‘Evening, Mrs Bassett. Your ardrahan is selling like hot cakes. Hello, Brian. We really must order some more of your toolhea. Ah, look, there’s Heinrich Trautwein. Good evening, Herr Trautwein – very good to see you again. Yes, yes – it’s selling well, indeed it is.’

  It was while Edward was chatting away in this manner that his eye was drawn to a face that he vaguely recognized on the far side of the room. It belonged to a slight, dark-haired individual who looked – to Edward’s eyes – as if he came from somewhere in southern Europe. Spain? Yugoslavia? Greece? He was holding a large piece of touloumotyri between his thumb and index finger and examining carefully the texture of the cheese.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Edward to Elizabeth. ‘That man over there? I’m sure I recognize him.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied. ‘Shall we go and find out?’

  ‘You stay here for a minute,’ said Edward. ‘Go and chat with Mrs Bassett. I’ll be right back.’

  And it was as he said these words that Edward got the surprise of his life. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed to himself. ‘It’s him – it’s him – it’s the man from the tour group.’

  Edward hurried over to the other side of the hall, neglecting to greet many familiar faces in his haste to talk to the man.

  ‘We’ve met,’ he said breathlessly as he approached the stranger. ‘Edward Trencom of Trencoms.’

  ‘Yes, yes – I know exactly who you are,’ said the mystery man. ‘Indeed you are the only reason I am here. I must apologize for not coming back into your shop as I promised I would. But urgent business carried me back to Greece.’

  ‘And who, may I ask, are you?’ said an anxious-looking Edward. ‘I’ve been desperate to find out – ever since you came into Trencoms.’

  ‘Papadrianos – Andreas Papadrianos – from Salonika. I’ve been admiring your touloumotyri. It’s uncommonly good.’

  Edward was so delighted to meet someone who appreciated his touloumotyri that he momentarily forgot that he was at long last standing face to face with one of the two men who had occupied his every waking hour for the last two weeks.

  ‘You’re the first person tonight to tell me that,�
� he said. ‘Although it’s proving very popular with the Greeks in London. Perhaps you know Artemis Restaurant? They take several skins a week.’

  He checked himself in mid-sentence when he remembered to whom he was speaking. ‘But who are you?’ he said. ‘And what on earth did you mean by your cryptic comments? And why am I in danger? I am being watched – yes, indeed, and by the very man you warned me about. And now my shop has been broken into. Someone managed to get inside in the middle of the night. But why?’

  ‘But they didn’t find what they wanted,’ interrupted Mr Papadrianos with a telling smile. ‘Because it’s no longer in your hands – no. It was handed over to us more than quarter of a century ago.’

  ‘What was? And why? And who is “us”?’

  Mr Papadrianos raised his hand to stop Edward from asking anything more.

  ‘Listen’, he said. ‘There are many things you need to be told. And, believe me, I can understand why you have so many questions that you want answered. But you must be patient for just a little longer. I promise you that very soon you will learn everything you need to know. Within a few months, maybe less, we hope that all our plans will be in place. But I cannot answer your questions right now. If I did, your life would be in even greater danger.’

  ‘But I’m in danger enough already,’ blurted Edward, who was desperate to wring at least some information from the man. ‘I’ve told you – I’m being followed wherever I go, and I’m being watched.’

  ‘You are indeed,’ replied Mr Papadrianos. ‘You are indeed. But nothing will happen to you just yet. Of that, I am quite certain. They are simply keeping an eye on you. Trying to find out what you know. And this is precisely why it is better that you know nothing – at least for the moment.’

  Edward let out an exasperated sigh. ‘At least tell me this,’ he said. ‘Who is this man who is constantly in my shadow? Outside my shop – outside my home. Does the name Makarezos mean anything to you?’