by Giles Milton
‘Look carefully,’ says Humphrey. ‘It is most interesting. Can you see? The basileus and I – we share something in common.’
Father Panteleimon has never been a man to smile without just cause, but on this occasion his lips take a brief upwards turn.
‘Yes,’ he says slowly as he studies the nose more closely. ‘It could almost be said that you carry the seal of the Palaiologi wherever you go.’
Four years have passed and the seasons have turned. It is a shiveringly chill February day and the sky is so pale it has drained the landscape of any residual colour. Snow is blowing off Eggedon Hill, banking into drifts along the hedgerows and sheep-folds of the river meadows. The brilliant greens of nascent spring have leached back into the earth; now, there is only a monotone of white and grey.
In Piddletrenthide churchyard, a small group of villagers can be seen standing in the driving snow – the parson, Mr Jolyan the tavern-owner and a handful of others. As the wind increases in velocity and the snow’s trajectory changes from the vertical to the horizontal, they find themselves blending into the surrounding landscape. Jupes, kirtles and worsted coifs – all are turned to white by the relentless onslaught.
The furrowed hillsides are as smooth as an ice-shelf; the branches of the churchyard yew tree hang pendulous, as if their outermost tips are attached to the ground by invisible threads. In such a uniform winter-scape, only the River Piddle stands out – a thick black ribbon that has left a score of ice along the rim of the frozen banks.
Among the mourners is Agnes Trencom, widow of the dead Humphrey. Her freely flowing tears are genuine enough. Despite her husband’s failings; despite his insatiable sexual appetite; despite his trysts and infidelities, she has always treasured her Humphrey. And now his huge, towering presence has been snuffed out. No longer will he regale his friends with tall tales. No longer will his guffawing laughter be heard from across the fields. Humphrey lies dead – a rigid, frozen corpse that is as white and waxy as alabaster.
Shortly before his coffin was sealed, one of the mourners remarked that his nose remained as immutable as ever. His cheeks had hollowed, his jowls had collapsed, but his nose stood defiant in death. So, too (though this escaped the notice of the mourners), did his magnificent penis. This fine organ, which had brought him such pleasure throughout the course of his life, had stiffened for the last time. Even in death, Humphrey Trencom would be ready for action when the cock crowed. But there was no longer any comely maiden to straddle his frozen loins.
‘Man that is born of a woman,’ intones Pastor John as the coffin is borne to the graveside, ‘hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’
A violent gust of wind whips snow off the gable of the church, drowning the funeral prayers. ‘In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased …’
Humprey’s coffin is lowered into a hole that is rapidly filling with snow. ‘Farewell,’ whispers Agnes as she takes one final glance at the bier. ‘Farewell, my emperor.’
It is long past midnight and the villagers of Piddletrenthide are at rest. The parson is snoring in his bed; in the Coach and Horses, the last of the candles have guttered and died. There is neither moon nor stars in the sky yet the landscape is washed with a curious luminosity. The snow seems to have retained the pale half-light of the previous day, lending a dull glow to the night.
In the churchyard of All Saints, there are grave-robbers at work. Three men dressed in black are digging up the newly filled grave of Humphrey Trencom. They speak in whispers – so low that it is impossible to hear a word. But they seem to have reached their goal. A mattock strikes wood; a hollow boom emerges from the grave.
Two of the men jump into the hole and heave at the wooden coffin. It is covered in wet earth and its smooth oak surface is slippery in their hands. But they succeed in raising it to the perpendicular and the third man leans down from above and starts to pull. In a matter of seconds, the coffin emerges onto the snow.
What are they doing? Why are they stealing it? All that can be said with certainty is that they are last seen riding eastwards, bearing off the corpse of Humphrey Trencom on a low wooden sled.
Humphrey’s lifetime voyages may have come to an end, but in death he is to experience one final adventure.
6 MAY 1969
Edward vowed to follow the summons to Greece within a few seconds of receiving Papadrianos’s letter. Yet he waited more than ten days before broaching the subject with Elizabeth and, when he did eventually tell her, he found that he was uncommonly nervous. He knew that she would be unhappy with his decision, yet he had made up his mind that, come what may, he would go to Salonika.
‘I have to – I have no alternative,’ he thought. ‘It’s my only hope of finding answers.’
He finally summoned the courage to speak to Elizabeth, one evening after they had finished eating. They were sitting in the living room and Elizabeth had just picked up her book.
‘Darling,’ he said.
‘Mmm?’
‘Darling, there’s something I need to tell you – something important.’ Edward looked out of the window and saw Mrs Hanson from Number 47 washing her car with a large yellow sponge. ‘What a strange time to be washing her car,’ thought Edward. ‘And why does she keep staring at me? She really is a most peculiar woman.’
‘What did you say?’ said Elizabeth, who had just come to the end of the paragraph she was reading.
‘Well,’ replied Edward. ‘I have to go away, darling. Just for a short while. I need to go abroad.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Abroad? But why, Edward? Whatever for?’
‘Well,’ he said slowly, thinking carefully about his answer. ‘I’ve decided – you see – I’ve decided, darling, that it’s time I started preparing for the reopening of Trencoms. You know, until recently, I just haven’t had the energy. I don’t know why but it’s all seemed too daunting. But the other day I suddenly thought to myself: “Come on, Edward. Pull your socks up. You’ve got three centuries of history to live up to.”
‘And also, well, I also realize I’ve not been fair on Mr George. He’s been working around the clock for weeks, clearing up, ordering cheeses, getting everything ready. I think it’s high time he had some help. So, well, the long and the short of it is that I’ve decided it’s time to start afresh.’
Elizabeth looked intently at Edward. She was so amazed by what she was hearing that she was momentarily transfixed. Then, when she realized that he’d finished speaking, she got up from her chair and made her way over to the window, where he was standing. She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him an affectionate kiss on the nape of his neck.
‘Oh, darling,’ she said, squeezing him tightly. ‘I can’t tell you how happy you’ve just made me. I’ve been praying for this moment for a long time. Maybe we need a few more little breaks in Dorset. It was the tonic we needed.’
She kissed Edward again, this time on the lips, and as she did so Mrs Hanson happened to cast her gaze over to the Trencom house. ‘Good Lord,’ she muttered to herself. ‘They’re at it again – whatever are they going to do this time?’
Elizabeth asked Edward where he was intending to go. ‘Can’t you order the cheeses from England? That’s what Mr George has been doing. And that’s what you’ve done in the past.’
‘Some, yes,’ he replied. ‘But I want to start everything afresh. Start from scratch. I want to meet the producers and farmers again. Let them see that we’re back in business.’
‘So you’ll go to France?’ said Elizabeth.
Edward nodded. ‘A whistle-stop tour. A flying visit. Quick as a flash.’
Elizabeth smoothed her hands over his back and kneaded his shoulders. ‘Do you think …’ she asked tentatively. ‘Would there be any possibility of us going together?’
> Edward’s face displayed a momentary flicker of alarm. Hell. He hadn’t expected that.
‘Well, I’d love to, darling – I really would. But, you see, I’m going to be chasing around from one place to the next. And, besides, you really need to be here – we can’t leave Mr George entirely on his own.’
Elizabeth was not convinced by this last line of argument. Mr George had more than proved himself over the past weeks and could certainly be trusted to take the right decisions. But she decided not to push the issue. Edward had always gone alone on his cheese expeditions and perhaps that’s how he preferred it.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘But I will miss you. I’ll miss you more than ever. How long will you go for?’
‘Ah, not long. I was thinking of a fortnight. That’ll give me time to visit—’ He stopped for a moment and ran with his thoughts. He was shocked at how easy it was to lie. And how natural. He realized with a start that he had almost convinced himself that he was going to France.
‘Where was I?’ he said. ‘Ah, yes – that’ll given me time to visit the whole of eastern France. I’m sure that word will soon spread to producers elsewhere.’
10 MAY 1969
In the cool and ill-lit interior of the parliament building in Athens, three men were seated around a small conference table. Two were dressed in khaki fatigues and adorned with such a preponderance of medals and colours that one suspects they had been awarded less for heroism on the battlefield than for services to corruption and nepotism. The third was wearing civilian dress and was more rotund in the belly than his compatriots. He wore the same grave expression of the other two men and seemed to have locked his eyebrows into a permanent frown. The names of these men, once familiar to every householder in Greece, were George Papadopoulos, Nikolaos Makarezos and Stylianos Pattakos.
These three men – the junta – had awoken to discover that they had a crisis on their hands. ‘A crisis, a crisis,’ muttered Papadopoulos. He tapped his silver-topped pencil on the leather writing mat then scratched his ear. ‘And, gentlemen, I’m not at all sure how we should solve this particular crisis.’
The crisis to which he was referring was to tax the leading brains of virtually every government in the democratic world. But since these events occurred many decades ago – and all the leading players have long since shuffled off their mortal coils (along with their khaki uniforms and shiny medals) – it is worth remembering that Greece, in the spring of 1969, was in something of a stew; a mixed-up, mushed-up plate of luke-warm greasy moussaka. Parliamentary democracy had collapsed. The king had abdicated and fled. And the government had been seized by a junta of army colonels. None of this had been popular with the people of Greece and their anger was rapidly approaching the sort of temperature that even Syntagma Square only experiences once in a blue August. The students were rioting, the priests were incensed, the shopkeepers were up in arms. Mothers feared for their sons. Their sons clashed with the police. And everyone else – except for Messrs Papadopoulos, Makarezos and Pattakos – was decidedly unhappy with the spiralling downturn of events. Which is precisely why, on this very day in May, 1969, the three aforementioned men had gathered in a conference room of the parliament building in order to discuss how best to react to a crisis that was spreading out of control.
All three shook their heads and stared vacantly into the room. Pattakos picked out a large chunk of loukoum from the dish in the centre of the table. It was dusted with sugar and he could already imagine it melting on his tongue. Mmm – delicious. He savoured the flavour of pistachios and thought of his ripe-breasted Eleni. How he would like to be in the little vixen’s arms right now.
‘Strikes and rioting,’ growled Papadopoulos, disrupting Pattakos’s reverie and transporting him rapidly back to the here and now. ‘The students are demonstrating, the bishops are protesting.’
‘Hang ’em,’ interjected Makarezos. ‘Hang the lot of ’em.’
‘And the royalists are growing stronger by the day.’
‘Hang ’em as well,’ added Makarezos. ‘And hang the king.’ He spat on the floor.
The king in question – and who aroused such passion in Nikolaos Makarezos – was none other than Constantine II, king of the Hellenes. A tall, angular individual, of Danish stock, he had fled into exile in Italy after the failure of his counter-coup. In the cool splendour of his Roman palace, he twiddled his thumbs, chatted with advisers and wondered if his regal posterior would ever again grace the throne of Greece.
In the event, His Majesty’s fundament would never again renew contact with the plush purple cushions of the throne. Nor were Papadopoulos, Makarezos and Pattakos unduly bothered by the man they referred to as ‘the Danish bacon’. They were more concerned about another individual – a rather more English bacon – whom they believed to represent a far graver threat to their power.
‘I urge caution,’ said Pattakos, speaking very slowly. ‘I urge the utmost caution. Forces in the Church are still actively plotting a return to monarchy. Yes, indeed. They have many agents working on their behalf. And my informers tell me that these agents, who include bishops and priests, represent a very real danger for us.’
In the pause that followed, Papadopoulos slid his cup of coffee towards him and plopped three cubes of sugar into the unguent black liquid. He had a sweet tooth – a very sweet tooth – and could never have too much sugar. He stirred his coffee, lifting, as he did so, the thick grainy sludge that kept sinking to the bottom. Then, sliding his spoon back into the liquid, he watched as the coffee grains slipped back into the murky depths.
‘And is there any news of Andreas Papadrianos?’ he asked. ‘I presume you bring us news of him?’
Pattakos opened his file and took out a few sheets of paper. ‘Indeed I do. And it is not good. We are watching him – for he is a danger to us all. In the last week, gentlemen, he has made three visits to Mount Athos. He has had meetings with the abbots of at least five monasteries and has been seen consulting with Bishop Anastasius of Salonika and Archbishop Gregorius of the Morea. Yes, he has been consulting with all the troublemakers.’
In the ensuing silence, a large bluebottle left its perch on the window and began buzzing around the room. After performing a few circuits of the three men’s heads, it came to rest on the sickly-sweet rim of Pattakos’s coffee cup. All three men watched intently as it sat there cleaning its front legs.
When, after more than twenty seconds, it showed no signs of moving, Makarezos thumped the table with his clenched fist. The coffee cup jingled in its saucer, the fly propelled itself upwards into the thick air and the three men resumed their conversation.
‘And another thing,’ he said. ‘Our mission in London appears to have failed. Your cousin, Nikolaos, has proved most unsatisfactory. He has not done what was asked of him. Indeed, worse than that – we have reason to believe that he has changed sides.’
‘No,’ roared Makarezos. ‘Impossible. Nothing but lies.’
‘I only wish that were true,’ said Pattakos. ‘But he failed to act when he should have acted. And now it is too late.’ He paused for a moment and stared at Makarezos. ‘We have reason to believe – no – we know for certain, that Andreas Papadrianos has been able to make contact with him.’
He did not specify who him was, for he had no need. All three men clearly knew the name and identity of him, for no sooner had Pattakos uttered the word than both Makarezos and Papadopoulos spat on the floor.
‘He should be strung up and hanged,’ snarled Makarezos.
‘He should be,’ said Pattakos. ‘Indeed, he should have been strung up and hanged. But unfortunately he wasn’t. And now it is too late. For we do not know exactly where he is.’
At the precise moment that these words were being spoken, Mr Edward Trencom of Trencoms Cheese Shop in London was passing through customs and security at Salonika Airport.
That he had got this far without being arrested was surprising; that he managed to be waved through Customs with l
ittle more than a scant glance from the border guards was little short of miraculous. For an order had been issued to all officials working at Greece’s airports that anyone bearing the name Edward Trencom – and in possession of an extraordinary nose – should be arrested immediately. Greece is Greece, however, and this order had not been circulated to every airport and had most certainly not been passed down through all the ranks. Although everyone working at Athens Airport was familiar with the directive, along with the duty guards at Piraeus and Heraklion, those at Salonika remained in blissful ignorance of the dangers posed by a middle-aged Englishman with a strange-shaped nose. And thus it was that Mr Edward Trencom, holder of passport number NZ0206830, managed to slip into the country unnoticed and unheeded.
He was met in the arrivals hall by Andreas Papadrianos, whom he had not seen since the annual dinner of the Most Worshipful Company of Cheese Connoisseurs.
‘I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you here,’ said Papadrianos. ‘And nor can I tell you how Greece herself will rejoice when she is told of your presence.’
Edward looked alarmed; he motioned Papadrianos to stop. Then, catching his breath, he whispered, ‘Please, please, please, you must tell me what you have discovered. Your letter said nothing – I’m still not sure why I’m here. What am I to do? What do you expect of me?’
‘All will be revealed in good time,’ replied Papadrianos. ‘The abbot will explain everything.’
‘The abbot?’ asked Edward. ‘Who? Where? Where are you taking me?’
‘Tomorrow, before dawn, we shall head to Mount Athos, the Holy Mountain. There Father Seraphim will reveal everything.’
11 MAY 1969
Edward had been gone for just over twenty-four hours when Mrs Trencom learned that he had not headed to France. Her discovery came quite by accident. The airline telephoned on the morning after he left to explain that there was a problem with his return flight and the ticket would need to be changed.
