

Full-Bodied Wine

### A Vintage Murder

### By

### Biddy Jenkinson

### Published by Biddy Jenkinson

### Copyright 2014 Biddy Jenkinson

### Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Chapter 1

This is a revised, abbreviated version of a diary kept for my fiancée, Millicent Mooney. The entries have been run together to form a continuous narrative. While in Ankara, it was my custom to send Millicent an instalment every week in the diplomatic bag, keeping a carbon copy for my own records.

I excise expressions of affection, pertinent only to Millicent and myself, and omit the beginning of the diary since it deals with the first six months of my posting and would contribute little to the proper understanding of subsequent events. The murder story begins in March 1969. I see this with hindsight. At the time I was quite blind to the circumstances. An experienced reader will have the advantage of me. I am obliged, by editorial pressure, to restrict descriptive passages, political comment and observations made while away from Ankara on consular duties. I have, however, resisted pressure to 'begin with a bang'. There was no 'bang' at the time.

In the late sixties, the Irish Government decided to open an Embassy in Turkey. On 30 September 1968 Walter Brown presented his credentials in Ankara. Though the prospect of opening the Mission and becoming the first Irish ambassador to Turkey might be considered attractive, it was not to Walter Brown's liking. He had hoped for London. His wife, Colette Coerduroi- Brown, a French countess, widow of an American millionaire and owner of Château Fontenoy, would have preferred Paris. The posting was not to my liking either. I had just returned from a three-year stint in Argentina. Millicent and I had become engaged and planned to marry in Dublin in the spring. I was in the Political Division in Dublin and felt that, at last, I had a foot on the departmental ladder. A posting to Ankara, as third secretary, was not congenial. One does not, however, like to acquire a reputation for intransigence.

I had no Turkish and anticipated that I would find it difficult to learn. I would have to find local staff, deal with housing agents, customs officials, gas, electricity, water and telephone companies, landlords, janitors. Worst of all, I would have to negotiate with our own Office of Public Works. Walter Brown is not the best Ambassador for an ambitious young third secretary. He lacks verve and the kind of political teeth that win through to top postings. A mathematician by training, he is addicted to mathematical conundrums. He finds it too easy to relax. His wife, though her background is useful, cannot be considered an asset.

I invoked my matrimonial plans and was told that, by March of the following year, I should have things in Ankara running smoothly and be in a position to take annual leave after St.Patrick's Day.

### Chapter 2

Dear Millicent, I'm just back from our first St. Patrick's Day celebration in Ankara.You know how carefully I planned everything. You won't believe how close we came to disaster. I arranged to breakfast with the Ambassador in the hotel this morning for a final run-through. He didn't turn up. I rang the suite.

'Denis, _mon petit_ , he went down to breakfast twenty minutes ago,' the Countess told me.

I checked the foyer, the newsagent, the coffee shop, the lifts and rang again. No sign of him. Perhaps he had been abducted. Abducted and assassinated.

We found him at the bottom of the emergency stairs. He has got into the habit of running down six flights every morning, for exercise, instead of taking the lift. This morning the light flashed off for an instant and he tumbled down, spraining an ankle and fracturing a bone in his big toe. I got him patched up in time for the reception. Their assorted Excellencies escaped the indignity of being received by a mere third secretary. There must have been a brief power failure. When there is a cut, it takes the hotel's generator a few seconds to click into action. The flicker was enough to unbalance a man of fourteen stone and substantial paunch, in full career.

I told inquisitive guests that he had been hurt in a fall, offering no further details. Unfortunately the Countess and her cousin, Monsieur d'Aubine, had no inhibitions about ragging Walter. Many now know that the Irish Ambassador's weight-reducing programme is to run downstairs to breakfast. This does nothing for the dignity of the Embassy.

I worried, as you know, about attendance. We got about 300, which was not at all bad, considering that we have not been here six months, yet. There was a good atmosphere, no political incidents or bomb scares. U.S.A, France, Spain, Italy and Denmark showed. The British Ambassador didn't. I understand that he is indisposed. Enough Turkish politicians and officials of importance turned up to justify expenditure. The hotel gave us a reduction since we have our office on the top floor and Walter is still resident. Nevertheless, the bill came to a quarter of his annual allowance and they charged tax. I may have to initiate a 'reciprocity' struggle and get Turkish diplomats in Ireland taxed. If we let them get away with it, our replacements will say we were slack. Walter is too lackadaisical, too careless of our reputations in this respect ... needs pushing.

From a consular point of view, ex pats. can be a trial, but we missed them at the reception. Apart from a beautiful red-haired poet from Kerry, who writes in Irish, we had only a few teachers and lecturers. If the troubles continue, they won't stay. It is impossible, they say, to teach students who are so polarised that they read texts only in order to check their political orientation. The most 'Irish' person present was the wife of the American Ambassador; she wore a green sequined dress. His Excellency had a green tie with shamrocks. It is one of their first public appearances since the disturbances last month. It is a real coup for us that they came. It cannot be agreeable to be a target for Neo-Kemalists, Islamists and Communists, all at the same time, or to find yourself dying by an assassin's bullet and not know whether the left, the right or the holy got you.

I gave the hotel your recipe for Irish Coffee. As you recommended, Millicent, we had 'blanks' for those who don't take alcohol. We did not serve the Countess's own Château Fontenoy wine, of which we have only a limited supply owing to difficulties with Turkish Customs and Excise. Walter, to give him his due, carries off these occasions with style. He greeted everyone by name, quite a feat considering that he must be well into his fifties. Next year you will be beside me in the receiving line. We will see if we can agree on the nastiest handshake of the evening. I had worried that the line would be too short; only Walter, the Countess and myself. However, the Countess – dressed to startle in a clinging orange affair with a green stole on one shoulder – exuded enough personality for two. She is impossibly ugly but she radiates energy. I suppose she is in her mid-thirties, dark, tall, angular but not thin. Her cousin Monsieur d'Aubine was conscripted for the occasion. He is enormously big and stout wears a little Vandyke beard and kisses all the ladies' hands. Monsieur d'Aubine is well known in Ankara since he is the agent for Château Fontenoy wine, which has been imported into Turkey and sold, heavily taxed, to the wealthy, for the last ten years. He is mixing business and pleasure this time, staying here in the Büyük Ankara Hotel for a few days, to enjoy his cousin's society. They have been close since childhood, apparently.

I'll send this instalment in the bag. I hope it goes out on schedule tomorrow. I'll nobble Walter now, before he goes to the Australian _vin d'honneur_ , and make him sign the accounts. I encouraged him to write a report on our marvellously successful first national day. He said 'Sorry, Denis. I don't think it would be appropriate.' Too lazy, I feel.

### Chapter 3

The estate agents are well aware of the minimum requirements for an official residence and yet they bring me to view impossible apartments. I suppose they must offer up a certain number of prospective clients to predatory landlords. The apartment I was shown today – the hundred and fiftieth I have viewed – was tiny and in a building on the very edge of a great chasm. Though the risk of earthquakes is negligible, I don't think that Walter would relish living on the brink. Of course, his lady might enjoy the excitement. At lunchtime, I bought you a mirror, a copy of an Ottoman design. To avoid showing the image of a living creature, mirrors were hung face to the wall with the decorative silver backs on show. Your mirror will hang that way until you come and turn it around.

I looked at another unsuitable apartment – less unsuitable than the others, so I brought the Countess along. She waited until we were almost out of the agent's hearing before trumpeting, like an elephant, 'Affreux!' I'm afraid that she is beginning to blame me.

Today some furniture arrived from the Office of Public Works for our Chancery. Once the phones are connected, we'll move in. We have the third floor in a very acceptable building. The first and second are occupied by an American bank. There is a large foyer and I hope that it will be possible to install our policeman there. At present he has a chair in the hotel corridor. He is on duty from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. on weekdays. If an assassin comes out of hours, I'll hide behind Walter.

The manager of the hotel has just called to the office to say that there had been no power failure on the morning of the reception. Walter enquired. I suppose he would feel less silly if his fall could be attributed to external factors.

The Countess and her cousin were so merry and voluble at the Chinese reception this evening that everyone fell to speaking French – to the astonishment of our hosts. English has quite replaced French as the language of diplomacy in Ankara but tonight we all dusted off our French. _Vive la France_!

Midnight. I'm just back from the Swedish Embassy, a little shaken by witnessing a promising career take a nose-dive. Sven, the Swedish third secretary, is orthodox and precise to a fault. However, it was his third function of the evening. The previous one had required him to win the confidence of a raki-drinking Turk, about to conclude an important timber deal with Sweden. Sven came late to dinner and not entirely sober.

The Swedish dining room is narrow and badly laid out: one door, a broad table, just sufficient room behind it to allow the waiters to circulate. Sven's place, empty, was near mine, at the foot of the table. We were eating _sanglier dans son sang_ , chewing hard. Their excellencies pushed back their chairs as their tummies expanded. Suddenly Mrs. Luxembourg hitched up the tablecloth and screamed 'Assassins!' The security men rushed in. Only that so many legs protected him, Sven might well have been shot.

Apparently, when he found that he couldn't get to his place without drawing attention to himself, he backed off a little to consider, caught his foot in a carpet and fell. Nobody noticed. He felt like Moses when the Red Sea opened. Between the two ranks of legs there was a clear passageway to the bottom of the table. He would have made it if Mrs. Luxembourg hadn't stretched her legs.

Poor Sven! Wherever he goes, the tale will precede him. A reputation for levity, for unsteadiness, is a terrible thing. I find it sobering to consider how a man's career can be wrecked by the impulse of a moment. I think I may promise you, darling, never to do anything precipitately. In this respect Walter is not a bad model. His ponderous approach irritates me occasionally, but he can be trusted never to go off at half cock. I am making myself a mug of cocoa. Then I'll go to bed. Don't forget to write to me.

Tried to clear a backlog of visa applications today. That consular case I mentioned – the Irish woman, disappointed in love, who drowned herself in Kusadasi – is proving difficult. I have a slight headache.

Before I came here, I was given a booklet and told to practice encoding and decoding messages. It is anticipated, given local conditions, that the skill may be needed. To practise I correspond with Seoirse (Personnel) in code. His last asked me how I feel about Ankara. I dashed off a boastful little 'weni, widi, wici' in reply. You once told me that that is how Caesar himself would have pronounced the words. Unfortunately O'Donovan, with whom I had that unfortunate incident in Argentina, saw the text. He commented, at coffee, to the effect that young O'Gorman still didn't know his 'V's from his 'W's. I shan't let it bother me.

Walter was in a talkative mood this afternoon, having made advances in his plans for Turkish investment in textiles, in Ireland. He says he is afraid that the right-wing response to the leftist movement will be devastating. The right-wing tendencies in the army and police forces alarm him. He claims that militants of the right, the 'Grey Wolves', who took action against left-wing students in Ankara University last August, are being trained as street-commandos, in camps outside the major cities, with the blessing of the Deputy Prime Minister.

'Fascism, Denis. Fascism,' he pronounced.

It is true, Millicent, that the air is crackling with political fervour. I have just read that a boy of seventeen, charged with the attempted murder of a sister, pregnant out of wedlock, gave the political persuasions of the putative father as part of her offence. I would not bring you out here if I really thought that things will get as bad as Walter forecasts. He enjoys being an alarmist. When he had got me thoroughly upset, he said that I must discount half of what he says since he is a natural pessimist. He finished by claiming, sardonically, that there is an unrecognised Freudian dimension to the current unrest, that the whole question of left or right political orientation, in the individual, depends on whether, as a youngster, in dressing, he wore his penis to the left or to the right and whether he developed a complex about this or not. I am depressed by his gloomy outlook and irritated by realising that every time I 'dress' in future, I'll suspect that I'm making a political statement.

### Chapter 4

Dear Millicent, I believe I have found a residence at last. It is in Çhankaya, just vacated by the Portuguese and not advertised yet. I brought the Countess to view it immediately. A policeman's booth, empty, stood outside, shielded from anything that might be happening in the house by an overgrown hedge. The agent opened the high gates with a flourish. Cats relaxing on the lid of the rubbish bin, jumped down and disappeared into the shrubbery. The front door screamed. It must be a little too tight in the frame to make wood screech against wood at the three-quarter open point.

'It is the Devil's house. I adore it,' Colette said, clasping her hands in rapture as we stepped from the hall into the central area of the house.

'It is cute, this diabolical decor, all black and gold,'

We stood on shiny black marble tiles. The panelling of varnished wood shone golden in light from cleverly positioned fittings.

'There are no windows to the outside at this level,' I said.

'It is true, Denis. It is built in the style of a seraglio – windows above the eye-level of a man on a camel, you know – but look at the darling little courtyard.'

The 'darling little courtyard' was quite little, wrapped around by the house and separated from it by sheets of grubby glass.

'Look, Denis, a sparrow!'

Of course there was a sparrow. There are sparrows everywhere in Ankara. Sparrows and pigeons, no other birds.

'And there is the Devil himself,' she added in a stage whisper, pointing to an upper balcony where a male figure sat in solitary state.

'That is the owner, Mr. Muftu, a most important business man,' said the housing agent.

The living space took the form of two large curving balconies above us. The landlord was on the upper one. He hoisted himself from the chair and began his descent. The agent withdrew. Deprived of his melodramatic setting, Mr. Muftu was quite an ordinary man, weedy, dark, paunchy, flat-footed, in his fifties. I introduced Countess Colette by her proper, Ankara, title, Mrs. Walter Brown, wife of the Ambassador of Ireland. He told her what a wonderful property she was about to view.

'Denis, we can fit our table here.'

Lack of suitable dining room space has forced us to reject otherwise acceptable properties.

'Why do they do it, Denis?' the Countess laments frequently. 'Where do I seat my guests before dinner if I put the table here and where do I put my table if I seat the guests here?'

I have stopped explaining that the traditional Turkish style of entertaining differs from ours and that there is really no reason to expect to find, ready-made, in Ankara, a house suited to the needs of the Irish Government and the taste of a French Countess.

'Why don't they build one?' the Countess wails.

'Parties in Government are rarely sensible at the expense of their annual budget.'I looked around uneasily for windows. At first there did not seem to be any on that floor either; the only natural light came from the deep well of the courtyard. There was a sundial in it. It could probably register midday and an hour or so on either side of it. There was, in fact, one narrow window on this first-floor balcony. I had not observed it immediately since it was hidden by a Venetian blind. I opened the slats and looked out.

'There is space behind the house,' the Countess announced, coming to peer out. 'In Ankara one finds a house and there is an apartment block in its pocket.'

'It will be built on,' I cautioned.

Mr. Muftu joined us at the narrow window.

'No building. The lots behind this house and the next door house, belong to me.'

'Trees....' said the Countess.

The trees were weed trees, poplars that sprout wherever they can. It was a scrubby slope, crossed by dust paths. Ankara is set in a great bowl and there is no level ground.

'Look, Denis, there is a goat out there.'

The goat clinched it. The Countess's ancestors milked goats in the Petit Trianon. The goat looked up and waggled its beard. The afternoon sunlight lit its strange eyes. A woman, stout, elderly, veiled, in black appeared briefly towards the top of the slope and disappeared again, moving away from us.

'A peasant woman, with my mother's approval, is allowed to graze her goats there,' said the landlord. 'She can be removed if the Ambassador wishes.'

'What was she picking?' I asked.

'Wild garlic. It has been eliminated from the area around the house.'

'The city extruded itself over the countryside,' said the Countess, with a sigh. 'One must cherish what survives. Perhaps she will sell us _chèvre_.'

The Countess stood at the rail around the balcony and began to look proprietorial. I joined her at the rail and tested it. It was quite secure.

'Don't say so to the landlord, Denis, but I really think you have found our residence. Guests can sit on the ground level and mount the stairs to dine. I go to look at the bedrooms.'

I leaned against the rail, looked down into the well of the house and suffered what I can only presume to be an attack of vertigo. I lost peripheral vision, began to sweat and feel weak. Then I saw the ghost. It was daylight outside. I do not believe in psychic phenomena. Yet my eyes penetrated the ground floor of the house. I saw dark, sparkling water and a figure in black with outstretched hands and feet, floating face downwards. I felt myself tumbling down into the black pit through a well of whirling golden railings. I can honestly say, Millicent, that not even during the most racking bouts of dysentery have I felt so ghastly.

'My dear Denis, whatever is the matter with you? You look terrible.'

The Countess laid her hand on my arm and broke the spell. I recovered sufficiently to leave the railing and ask if the bedroom space was to her liking.

'Denis, it is a harem. The bedrooms are magnificent. Each has a large black marble bath and gilt fittings.'

'Italian,' added the landlord.

'In the bedrooms, Denis, all the windows are up high. It is an introverted house. Walter will feel like a Sultan.'

Walter Brown masquerading as a Sultan is not easy to imagine. He is not given to flamboyance. How he persuaded Countess Colette to become Mrs. Brown is a mystery.

'Could some of the windows be enlarged?' I asked, expecting immediate consent, tardy and reluctant execution.

'Nothing can be changed,' said Mr. Muftu. 'The house was designed by my father. All things are in balance.'

We returned to the balcony. I leaned over again and looked down. The ground floor gleamed golden. No sensation. No vertigo. No holograph of a black floating figure. I remembered the wild and wonderful tripe and garlic soup I had eaten for lunch, blamed my digestion for the hallucination, and resolved to take more wine, as a disinfectant, in future.

'Is there a basement?' I asked.

'There is a wonderful swimming pool in the basement. Madame will love it.'

'Walter will put it to good use,' said the Countess.

There were stairs to the basement from beside the kitchen. The agent switched on lights. The pool was large. There was no body in it. The tiles were black but, by a trick of light, the surface of the water was liquid gold. The Countess drew in her breath in a whistle of approval. The owner switched on more lights, illuminating a dated American-style, 'wet' bar with furniture around it.

'Those stairs over there, where do they go?' I asked, pointing to a flight of steps on the other side of the pool.

'Up to the garden and the _kapici's_ , the janitor's, room. Underneath them is the gas heating and the laundry and over there is for storage.'

The heating plant showed no signs of leakage.

'The _buanderie_ ,' said the Countess peeking into the laundry. She shook the dust off a long black garment left hanging there.

'Fundamentals! Just what I need.'

She decided that the storage space could be a wine cellar.

'We will put my wine here just as soon as you rescue it from Turkish Customs. It is not right that I should have to buy my own Château Fontenoy wine at an inflated price in Ankara.'

'Tell that to the Turks,' I murmured under my breath.

I climbed the steps to the _kapici's_ room which had been used by the Portuguese driver. There was a delicately drawn blue eye, with an ironical expression, on the door. Yesterday's newspaper was on the table.

'You kept him on as watchman?'

'No.'

I unlocked the door into the garden and found myself close to the side-wall of the Italians' house. Poplars have grown up between the houses. Whatever they do to the foundations, they provide a pleasant screen.

'No security on this side or at the back.'

'There is always a guard outside.'

'All that ironwork and gates in the front, and nothing at the back and sides....'

'It is a secure area. All the residences are here. The Italian military attaché is next door.'

'The Barbellinis are dear friends of mine,' said the Countess.

Aside, to me, she added, 'He is a fascist and she is a neurotic.'

'It would be a condition of our Department that the grounds are secure,' I told the landlord.

'I would like Walter to see this one,' said the Countess, 'It has potential.'

'I don't like it.'

'Why on earth not, Denis, my child?'

'The drains are bad.'

She sniffed and said there was no smell.

'The pool makes the whole place damp.'

'Think how pleased Walter will be to be able to go round and round his own little pool every day, instead of having to share the hotel pool with sharks.'

'The rent exceeds our budget.'

'Mr. Muftu will reduce it.'

'We haven't seen the kitchen.'

'Let us examine the kitchen. Pierre will want to know all about it.'

We trooped upstairs again.

It was a perfunctory examination. Countess Colette never spends time in the kitchen. She has, in her château, a collection of family retainers of whom she speaks frequently and with such familiarity that I can only guess whether she is referring to family or servants. Among them is an excellent young cook, Pierre Dufié, son of an excellent old cook, Pierre Dufié. Young Pierre travels with the Countess and telephones his father for advice on professional matters. Other Irish Ambassador's wives, catering with the assistance of jobbing cooks, make snide remarks about the Countess. They might love her if she were either a penniless French aristocrat or a nouveau-rich American widow but the combination of aristocratic confidence and dollars is too much for their sensibilities. You will like her, Millicent. If you can see your way to giving in a little to her, initially, I am sure you will get along together quite well. Her first husband, the American, made his fortune in popcorn.

'Jean-Luc will adore all this white marble,' she said, running her finger along the counter top.The sink was scarcely larger than a mixing bowl.

'Why are the Portuguese giving up this house?' I asked the landlord.

'His Excellency returned to Portugal. He had heart trouble.'

It was said with such unease that I decided to ring Alberto, my opposite number in the Portuguese Embassy and find out why the house was not being retained for his successor. It occurs to me that some residual phenomena of an uncanny nature in the place might have triggered the Ambassador's heart attack. The idea appeals to me.

Nobody likes to be the only one to have seen a ghost. I went back to the same place at the railing and looked down. I saw nothing, but depression swept through me.'Is there an echo here?' I asked the Countess.

'Denis, you dismay me. Can you imagine poor Walter's after- dinner speeches in duplicate?'

'Hello.'

Not alone was there no echo, there was a surprising lack of resonance, given the absence of furniture, the hard surfaces. Her voice, normally high-pitched, fell, flat and dead, into the well.

'Hello,' answered a voice from below. The landlord came in from the hall having gone down the back stairs.

'It is only the Devil,' whispered the Countess.

'We have several other properties to view,' I told him as we left.

'It is a wonderful house, unique, designed by Mr. Muftu's father,' said the agent as he led us away.

'The location is not ideal,' I said to the Countess. 'It will be said, with significance, that the Ambassador of Ireland lives beside the Italian Military Attaché.'

Her chin came up and her eyes flashed. The owner of Château Fontenoy considers that she sets all standards herself. I returned to the office. The Countess rang me shortly afterwards to say that she had shown her cousin, M. d'Aubine, the house.

'Félix approves,' she said. 'He saw it exactly as I did, though he thinks the _cave_ too small.'

'Did he, too, see it as "The Devil's House"?'

'Naturally. Have you not noticed, Denis? Félix is Lucifer. He felt perfectly at home. When I was younger, I believed that he had invisible horns. Even now he can give me a _frisson_. It is time he married and became respectable. Middle-aged men should be solid, sensible and trustworthy, just like Walter – if only to be a foil to their wives.'

I must have betrayed surprise because she laughed and said, 'Félix I adore, and don't trust. Walter I trust and mock.

'But M. d'Aubine is your agent. How can you have an agent you don't trust?'

'Félix is devoted to Château Fontenoy. In business matters I trust him absolutely.'

I'd love to know, Millicent, what she means when she says she doesn't trust Félix and trusts Walter. Her talk of devils I find unsettling. She may be responding subconsciously to the unpleasantness I felt in the house.

'M. d'Aubine cannot play Lucifer in the residence,' I told her. ' You have already nominated the landlord in the role.'

'There are at least three devils in the Devil, Denis. Nature works in symmetries. The landlord can be Satan. We must find a third.'

I changed the conversation by telling her that Customs would not release her wine since there is no precedent for importation of a foreign wine, by its own manufacturer, for personal use in Turkey. She told me what she thought of the delay.

'I remember the name of the third devil,' she said, as she left. 'Beelzebub. Pierre will make a good Beelzebub. He is demonic when guests are late for dinner.'

### Chapter 5

Permission has been obtained from Dublin to purchase one of the smaller Mercedes. I have been trying to hire a driver. They are a select bunch. They confer together when their charges are engaged at meetings. They know everything. One recruits a driver by letting it be known in the proper circle that a driver is required. Approved candidates turn up. Only two presented themselves this afternoon. The first of the two has driven the Saudi Ambassador for three years and is tired of the ban on alcohol, being fond of a glass of raki with his meals. Investigation confirms that he is very fond of raki. The second candidate had excellent references and has been 'chauffeur to India and Luxembourg'.

I felt secure enough to carry the interview through to its second phase by inviting Walter to join us. Ambassador and prospective driver surveyed each other. The driver looked unimpressed. Ambassador Brown, in his office, takes off jacket and tie.

'There will be a dress allowance?'

'A modest one,' I replied.

'I will be in touch,' said the candidate, rising and leaving with a chilly bow.

'You fluffed that one, Denis.' said the Ambassador.

'I rather thought, Ambassador, that it was your casual dress style that gave offence. Among his colleagues, he could never live down an employer in shirtsleeves.'

'You might have told him that my dress is beyond reproach when I appear in my official capacity.'

'The cook and driver no longer required by the Portuguese are available. Perhaps we could take them on.'

'Did the driver give poor Miguel a heart attack by reckless driving?'

'His Excellency suffered the attack while eating breakfast.'

'I have been wondering, Denis, if I could manage without a driver.'

'No, you couldn't.'

Nobody knows better than himself that Ambassadors are prisoners of form, yet an urchin Wally Brown occasionally kicks truculently at the prison door. I suppose it is ironic that he is required by his doctor to walk and lower his blood pressure, while his position requires that he be driven everywhere.

'Think of the consternation in the Palace if you had to go and park the car while the President waited to greet you.'

Wally the urchin still kicked a little, so I enquired how security at Parliament would deal with a taxi, and clinched the matter by pointing out that it would not be advisable, given the current political climate, to have the Countess driving around alone in her little red sports car. (The Countess, who is accident- prone, should not drive, whatever the political climate.)

Walter said he hoped I would approve the house, driver and cook of the Portuguese ambassador and be done with it. He would even undertake to represent Portugal if Portugal could solve all his domestic problems at one swoop. Walter doodled in numbers as we spoke. I hate this habit of his. I feel that at least half his attention is on an obscure mathematical problem as I try to talk sense to him.

'Are you worrying about the accounts, Ambassador?' I asked him once.

'Oh no Denis! I leave them in your capable hands. I am working out the rate at which your hair grows – given that you had a haircut five weeks ago and another today.'

'One ought to have a haircut every six weeks,' I said, hoping that he would take the hint. He waits until his own hair grows over his collar before getting it cut.

Ambassador Brown, on the scale of evaluation maintained by third secretaries, gets just above average marks. He is moderately everything. Though he scores relatively high on reasonableness, manageability, giving credit where credit is due, his marks are pulled down by a lack of drive and ambition, which reflects adversely on junior officers associated with him. He has a cynical, somewhat sardonic sense of humour that prevents a single-minded pursuit of distinction. There is also the incongruity of his marriage to the Countess; an elderly turkey cock married to a fairly young bird of paradise. He limped as he moved across the office.

'I thought your ankle was better?'

'I hurt it again, this morning, on the stairs.'

I couldn't believe it, Millicent. Surely the embarrassment of the Patrick's Day episode should have been enough to send him quietly into the lift in the mornings.

'Ambassador,' I said, shocked into formality and a sense of responsibility by his folly, 'you really must stop running down those stairs. You won't burn up calories that way and you might do yourself worse damage than a sprained ankle.'

'Burn calories?' He gaped at me and broke into a laugh. 'What on earth made you think I run down to breakfast to burn calories? Is that what you do for exercise, Denis? No wonder you are developing a little paunch. I take the stairs because I cannot bear waiting for the lift. At least that is why I began to do it.'

'Why do you continue?' I asked, anxious to move the focus of interest from my blunder.

'I want to find out if I fell by accident, or was felled by design on Patrick's Day. I run down the emergency stairs every morning, but I keep a hand on the rail and carry a torch, switched on.'

'What happened this morning?'

'The light went out, as before. I didn't fall but I strained the weak ankle.'

'You think someone switched the light off on purpose?'

'I have proved it.'

'A hotel employee, a left-wing political activist, strikes out at a diplomat?'

'Don't sneer, Denis.'

'If you really believe that, you must take precautions.'

'Taken.'

I couldn't get any more information out of him.

'Denis,' he said as I left, 'never worry about putting on a few pounds round the middle. It is a sign of virility.'

It occurs to me, Millicent, that Walter may have a health problem. A minor blackout, followed by a fall on the stairs, would account for his experiences. I'll think of a tactful way to broach the subject of a general check-up.

The Countess's cousin, M. d'Aubine, had coffee with me in the lobby today. He has been called, urgently, to Cappadocia where he acts in a consultative capacity to the Society of Grape Growers. Turkey grows a lot of grapes but not much of it is translated into wine in spite of Kemal Attatürk's attempts to develop the wine trade.

'It is a terrible waste of opportunity,' M. d'Aubine said. 'The _terrain_ is wonderful in Cappadocia. Wine was important there in antiquity. Have you visited the underground cities of Cappadocia, my dear Denis? People claim that they were a defensive measure – perhaps they were – but those stone tanks for pressing grapes, for fermenting and storing wine, would make you wonder if they were not enormous wineries. It is certain, at any rate, that the underground cities were not without stored sunshine.'

Foreign businessmen are deemed to be at risk during the current crisis, but M. d'Aubine is not afraid of being assassinated by political activists. He says, merrily, that if he disappears, it will be due to getting caught in a local feud between Cappadocian grape growers. We must visit Cappadocia, Millicent. It is a four-hour bus trip from Ankara. We will stay in a hotel where the rooms are carved out of rock and have Byzantine paintings on the ceilings.

I like M. d'Aubine, but I am glad that he is leaving. He upstages Walter without being aware of doing so. His height, girth and jutting goatee give him an unfair advantage. His personality is as overpowering as his size. He also gives the impression, unintentionally I am sure, that the Countess should be at home in Château Fontenoy rather than slumming in the diplomatic service. Even when one allows for French exuberance, I find the degree of cousinly attachment exhibited by the Countess her cousin unseemly. They should be aware that they are not in France.

I asked him about the relative importance of grape-type and _terroir_ in producing characteristic wines, expecting him to claim that _terroir_ was of supreme importance in deciding character. Instead, he extended benign tolerance to international Chardonnay. He invited me to a wine-tasting session in Ankara when he returns. Perhaps I will be able to buy a superior wine at a reasonable price.

I went out, just now, to buy milk at the _bakkal_ , the corner shop. It stays open until midnight. The shop is the family living room. I delayed a while, as usual, practising my Turkish and teaching a few words of English to the children. We were startled by shouting and running footsteps outside. I moved towards the door, but Feroz _Bey_ held me back and switched out the light. More shouting, cars swerving, police whistles, shots, a cry, wailing that stopped abruptly.

'What is it?'

'The police shot someone. Stay until they have cleaned up. They don't like watchers.'

When I left the shop, there were police on duty preventing anyone from going down the side street, so I still don't know what happened.

Millicent, I was delighted to find your letter in the bag this morning. Wonderful that you have been working with the Turkish Linguaphone course. There was no mention of last night's shooting on the news. Does that mean that nothing serious happened, or does it mean that the press does not report this type of incident? How many of them occur?

You say that you cannot make out whether I like the Countess or not. I'm not sure. I was prepared to find a prima donna with the airs and graces of royalty and the temper of a fishwife. She is overpowering. She takes it for granted that things will happen as she wishes, and usually they do. She never has that slight unease about protocol that makes people like myself over-careful in our observations. When Walter was in Ottawa, she created an incident that might have had serious repercussions. The Saudi Ambassador stood in his own receiving line, on his own national day, greeting guests. (They have 'dry' receptions but provide excellent food.) It is understood by all that he shakes hands only with men. When ladies are introduced, he puts his hand on his heart and bows.

When the unfortunate gentleman bowed to the Countess, she swooped forward and planted a kiss on his forehead in full view of the cameras, and with malice aforethought. Only the most careful and tedious diplomacy hushed it up. Word got back to Dublin, however, and the Ambassador's standing suffered. She hasn't done anything of that magnitude here yet.

I expected her to be difficult to please when it came to finding a residence. However, the problem has been the shortage of suitable houses. When Attatürk moved the capital from Istanbul to Ankara in 1923, he gave sites to the established embassies. Ambassadors left palaces on the Bosporus to their Consuls and settled among dusty goat tracks in Ankara. (The British Ambassador arranged to have a luxury train carriage towed on to a sideline near Ankara and he used that as his office.) Ankara grew into a huge city of apartment blocks jammed tightly together, ringed by unplanned, unserviced houses, romantically individualistic in construction. Each one seems to have an apricot tree, a cock and his hens.

Five months in a hotel have not ruffled the Countess. She has created a feeling among the staff that the hotel is hers. Walter is frustrated. Failure to settle within a reasonable period is considered frivolous in Dublin and reflects adversely on all those involved. That we have found a suitable Chancery is not a mitigating circumstance. 'If they found an office, why couldn't they find a house?'

### Chapter 6

Millicent, I am using darker ink as you suggest. Of course you are correct when you say that Walter's jest about the effect of dressing, left or right, on one's political orientation, was coarse. Forgive me for repeating it.

I met my counterpart in the Portuguese Embassy this morning. He claimed that they surrendered the lease of the residence since another Ambassador might not be appointed immediately due to the unsettled nature of the country. I raised an eyebrow. He relented.

'The decision was taken , of course, on independent grounds. Between ourselves, however, Miguel, who is now in hospital in Lisbon, is raving. He insists there is ''evil'' in the house. Word got around. We had a query from the Spouses Association. We might keep the house empty for a year and then find that the new ambassador's consort had negative feelings about psychic manifestations.'

I thought of you, my dear Millicent. You would nail your rosary beads to the mast and put the kettle on. Yet, having had such peculiar sensations in the place, I would be reluctant to leave you on your own there. The cook and driver are highly recommended. If the cook will play second ladle to Pierre and the driver passes muster, our recruitment problems are solved.

I had to go to Istanbul yesterday on a consular case. An Irishman, exuberant and in need of relief after his first exposure to 'lion's milk', as raki is called, showed – inadvertently – disrespect to a statue of Attatürk and was arrested. They were anxious to get rid of him and he pleaded innocence, ignorance and repentance. In fact, he had no idea that there was a statue above him on a pedestal. He has been sent home. This morning I caught up on routine paperwork. We had a visit from a school group doing a project on Ireland. I provided orange juice and biscuits. Walter made an appearance.

We will take the Portuguese residence if Dublin approves. I told Walter that the Portuguese Ambassador called it a haunted house. He was not concerned.

'The Chinese cure a haunted house by hiring a poet to live there, Denis. Ghosts can't endure the workings of inspiration. Pierre will scuttle the supernatural with an ode to an aubergine.'

'Shouldn't we insist on improved security?'

'I suppose we should have the landlord fence the back of the house. For the sake of appearances.'

'You don't think diplomats are at risk?'

'I'll buy Colette a six-shooter. She will hold off the Indians.'

The house plans are ready to go to Dublin in the next bag. A morbid aura, perceived by myself alone, is not enough to justify opposition. The landlord, Mr. Muftu, has agreed to our price. I'll talk to him about security. The driver, Orhan Ahmet, presented himself this morning. He is twenty-four, handsome, self-confident, graceful. The Countess will be pleased.

'I do not wish, Dennis, to be driven around by someone who lacks style. It is not possible to make an entrée if a shabby, sloppy individual lumbers around to open the door for one. I have in the past been chauffeured by a toad and a cricket. It is embarrassing.'

Orhan's record is impeccable. His English is fluent. He was an Arts student at Ankara University until the present troubles broke out. Walter asked him to explain why, given the general impatience of drivers in Ankara, there are not more accidents. His answer – that Ankara drivers, like fish in a shoal, have an instinctive sensitivity to each other's movements – satisfied Walter.

'Where are you from?'

'From Fatsa, on the Black Sea coast.'

'A chauffeur from ancient Phadsa ... from Iasonion Akrotirion ... from the land of the Amazons. What could be better?' murmured Walter.

'There are no Amazons there now.'

'No, but you may find one in Ankara.'

I was afraid that Walter was going to make a more particular reference to the Countess, so I hastened to ask Orhan about his driving licence. He wants a salary slightly higher than that which I have been authorised to offer. He also wants to retain the kapici's room as a 'base' while on duty, as he did while working for the Portuguese. Dublin, quite rightly looked for reassurance that this room would not be used as live-in accomodation. I measured it and showed that the candidate could not lie down in it, except on the diagonal. Dublin still hesitated. I listed the jobs that Orhan will be expected to perform, in addition to driving: odd job man in the office, local postman, fetcher and carrier for office, and residence, translator, negotiator, custodian of the flag, caretaker of the pool. This last title was a mistake. While agreeing to the higher wage, Dublin noted the reference to a pool and decreed that 'A pool is not deemed necessary since Ankara is only seasonally hot. The pool should be drained, at the landlord's expense, before the ambassador takes up residence.'

I countered with a landlord's specification that it must be properly maintained in case of deterioration through disuse. I don't see why Walter should be deprived of the use of it when there will be no additional cost to the state. He will be easier to deal with if he takes sufficient exercise. He still runs down the hotel stairs in the morning.

'Has the light played tricks recently?' I asked him.

'It hasn't and won't.'

'Perhaps you suffered a blackout on previous occasions? It might be time for a check-up, Ambassador. Low blood pressure, perhaps?'

'No, Denis.'

I am pleased to report, dear Millicent, that Orhan Ahmet is now our driver. I took an early opportunity to quiz him about the house.

'You have an evil eye sign on your door.'

'A traditional charm. My grandmother gave it to me.'

'The Portuguese Ambassador did not like this house. He found it oppressive. Have you any idea why he felt that way about it?'

'His Excellency was...'

'Yes?'

'...was close to the age of retirement.'

My dear Millicent, I was quite sure that he had been about to say something else. I feigned indignation.

'Are you suggesting that his judgement was impared by his age?'

Orhan shrugged gracefully.

'It is a house in which things have happened. One can insulate oneself from the atmosphere. My 'loge' is quite comfortable.'

He would say no more. I didn't push him because I want information about the neighbourhood.

'Who lives in the house to the right of the Residence, as one goes in?'

'An oil company owns the house. There is rarely anyone there.

'The Italian Military Attaché lives on the other side...'

'On the left hand side,' he interposed with a quirky expression.

'I am acquainted with Colonel and Mrs. Barbellini...'

What I really wished to ascertain, dear Millicent, was the degree of intimacy that existed between the houses. (One would not wish to be snobbish, yet cannot help being aware that the status of an Embassy goes down if it is over run by military attachés.) I found it difficult to frame the question. Orhan availed of the pause.

'Mrs. Barbellini has a maid, Maria....'

'Yes?'

'She brings me meals sometimes.'

'Pasta?'

'Pizza. The relationship is Platonic.'

He spoke stiffly, evidently wishing to put the point on record. We went out for a beer together to celebrate his appointment.

My dear Millicent, You will find my writing less legible than usual. I have been critical of Walter because of his tumble on the hotel stairs. At least he had the grace to come down on his left side. I have sprained my right thumb and have a lump on my forehead. I worked late last night and then went to the residence to measure the guestrooms for carpets.

I went upstairs directly and took the measurements. I felt no malevolence in the house this time, yet I sensed recent presences. You know what it is like to stand in a theatre after the crowd has left? I didn't want to go down to the basement but decided that I had better conquer the feeling. I switched on the light and started down the stairs, looking towards the pool, not expecting a step to rise up and hiss. I fell past a humped back ... pink maw ... needle teeth. Then I bumped my head and blacked out. I was cold and sore when I awakened. Somehow, I had managed to wiggle over to the bar where there was a floor mat, and pulled a cloth, from the table, around me. You will be pleased, Millicent, that though unconscious, I still had that much presence of mind.

In spite of the pain in my head this morning, I feel quite happy. Even as the cat hissed at me, the horror receded. I saw a white blaze on its forehead and recognised it as a cat that sits on the roof of the guard's box, one of the semi-wild cats, tolerated as controllers of rats and mice. A cat is a cat for all that. Yet, how did it get in, and, even more to the point, how did it get out? When I recovered, I went all over the house looking for it. I didn't find it. Neither did I find any vent that might allow it to enter and exit. I had a few hours' sleep before opening the office.

This morning I did a 'reputation check' on the house with the local police. This is essential. Can you imagine what would be said if I proposed a house, previously of ill repute? It has no history. The police have assisted with parking and traffic control at large receptions, since it became a residence and they appreciate the hospitality accorded. I expressed the hope that there would be no change in the relationship. Any more hesitation on my part could be considered obstructionism. The lease has been drawn up. Dublin has agreed to it. There is one odd clause to the effect that everything in the property before our tenancy begins, whether known to be there or not, is the property of the landlord. I drew the attention of our legal advisor to it. No problem.

We have moved into the new office on Atatürk Bulvari. Everything is squeaky smelly-new. For the present, I am extremely tidy. We had hoped that our policeman might be accommodated downstairs in the foyer but Protocol insists that he should sit upstairs in the small hall between our door and the lift. I am uneasy about this. Before I came here, I was advised that Turkish security would monitor contact made with the Embassy by human rights activists, trade unionists, dissident minorities. The Office of Public Works has promised to dispatch furniture for the residence quickly.

If all goes well, Millicent, we could marry in mid-May, have a week's honeymoon anywhere you like, and then come to Ankara, a settled married couple. I'm enclosing a photograph of the view over the city from the kitchen of our own apartment. The balcony is big enough for a little table and two chairs. The apartment is only a ten minute walk from the office. There is a small Migros supermarket not far away. Unfortunately, it is down hill from us. I am told that this is a fixed rule about supermarkets.

Orhan brought me to a carpenter's shop in Ulus. They will make shelves for the books that are still in boxes. We went to a doner kebab café after that and had lovely juicy beef with lettuce and raw onion in fresh bread, all washed down with _ayran_ which is something like sour milk. Orhan endured my limping Turkish until I had used up every word I know. Then he answered questions that must seem, to him, to be terribly silly. I am continually amazed by the sheer bulk of merchandise for sale. Who buys all the shoes, light bulbs, underwear? Who buys all the dog collars, spiked to keep wolves at bay? Camel bells? I am intrigued to see women wearing the scarf and long skirt wrangling, unembarrassed, with male stallholders over the quality and price of bras and knickers, tugging at elastic to test its quality, poking at gussets, testing fastenings. There is a tenderness for the elderly that is endearing. But how can the old, blind and maimed survive in a city of potholes, lidless manholes, sudden, unrailed drops of six feet or more from pavement to basement? Having a companion from the area with you on a stroll through the city is exhilarating. You are no longer a stranger. I am tempted to buy two white, fan-tailed pigeons. I know you would love them. They would be happy in cages on the balcony for the present and would be sufficiently tame by summer to be let loose with reasonable hope that they wouldn't fly far. Tell me what you think.

It has become known that we are taking the Portuguese residence. People congratulate me. The Barbellinis are overdoing the role of friendly neighbour. Colonel Barbellini turns up at the hotel regularly to have afternoon tea with the Countess. (He has a membership in the hotel sports club.) She tolerates him. Walter says he is a bore and that even the Turkish right – who might otherwise adopt him – are peeved by his imperious manner. Just as well. We would not want people to say that the Irish Ambassador is 'wonderfully open', meaning that he has ranked himself, by association, with people of lesser status. The diplomatic community is not kind to the Barbellinis. One of the more shrewish Americans, Sharon Pyx - a lady whom I find it politic to remind frequently that I have a fiancée in Ireland - asked me if it were true that there is a track worn between our new residence and the house next door.

'Angelina Barbellini and the Portuguese Ambassador.... Haven't you heard? They had much in common. The talk is that Colonel Barbellini feels that it may now be his turn to go courting next-door, maintain the right of way, so to speak.'

Sharon is a mischievous woman. I refuse to worry over her insinuations. There is such a track, caused, no doubt, by the normal commerce between neighbours, by the goats that still graze in the vacant lot and by the platonic excursions of the friendly Barbellini maid, bearing pizza to Orhan.

### Chapter 7

The first consignment of furniture for the residence has arrived: twenty-two metal and glass coffee tables and ten pieces of off-cut dark green carpet with an inset white band. The Countess shrieked.

'My guests will walk round that white line like hypnotised hens. Denis, do you not feel like a mesmerised hen when you look at these monstrosities from a bargain basement? In Turkey one looks at carpets. Walter, do something.'

The second consignment arrived today. An assortment of sofas and settees in contrasting styles covered in different shades of red, cherry, brick and pink. The Countess wants to send them back. The glassware and china are unsatisfactory. The plates all have a gold harp but no two are exactly alike. Most of them have seen hard service. Stacked, they wobble in the cupboard every time someone walks past. Walter made the mistake of being insufficiently indignant. I was embarrassed by the Countess's vehemence. He took it in his stride. He was, however, prevailed upon to write a letter to Personnel Section. I saw a copy:

. _.. The beds are uniform in quality and in type. They_

are single beds. Each one consists of a base on

wheels and an economy mattress. The wheels are

excellent. It is impossible to get into a bed without

causing it to glide across the floor. If one sits up and

leans back against the wall, the bed will slide to the

opposite end of the room.

It is an error of judgment to tangle with Dublin on this issue. There is nothing to be gained unless one has the ace of a projected Presidential visit in one's sleeve. The OPW has a budget, a few pet projects, lots of old furniture and no particular responsibility for Ireland's image abroad.

Some days later I saw the telexed reply: 'The furniture is deemed to be adequate.'

The sentry box outside the residence is now manned by the police. We have a tall hungry-looking young man, named Ali, who kicks a football with the local children, and a stout, older man who sits on a box with his back to the rails, conversing with the _kapici_ of the house belonging to the Oil Company. They are to be supplied with an electric ring and get a monthly ration of black Turkish tea, sugar and biscuits. I stopped to smoke a cigarette with Ali today and try out my Turkish.

'Ciao!' sang out a high feminine voice, seemingly from the poplars between the Barbellinis and ourselves.

'Orhan must be coming out,' said the tall guard to his companion, with a grin.

'The maid,' explained Ali, making a sign with his hands that showed an appreciation of plump females. Orhan came around the corner of the house. I hope that there will be no complications of a romantic nature.

I miss many Turkish lessons because of meetings. I'm glad you find the cassette useful, Millicent. One feels so very foreign without a few words. The safe for the office arrived. I was relieved to put official documents into it and turn the key. I have been thinking over our telephone conversation. You are right, my love, when you say that I should not be too free and easy with local staff, that relations can be perfectly cordial yet retain a degree of formality. I went out on my own for coffee today.

The Countess has stopped worrying about the furniture and has set about 'rectifying' it.

'Denis,' she said this morning, 'I was wrong. At the Battle of Marengo a new dish was born, of necessity and scarce ingredients, for Napoleon's _déjeuner_. I forgive the Department. I forgive Walter for being complaisant. After all, that is why I adore him. What I must do is create artistic order out of bits and pieces of discount store category. A _collage_ of genius is genuine art.'

I had an appointment with the electrician at the residence. I arrived ahead of him and heard sawing on the first balcony. The saw was moving in time to _Sous le Pont d'Avignon_ sung at high volume by the Countess. She said ' _Voilà!_ ' and broke a leg from the new dining room table. It wasn't even a clean break, a splinter stuck down from the stump.

'I had an inspiration, Denis. It took most of the morning, but it came. I listened to the house and it said, ''Traditional house, traditional furniture!'' So you see...all these chairs go out... _n'importe ou_.... We will have sofas and cushions and _kilms_ ... and the table must come down low, so! Do you think I am taking off enough? '

Oh my dear Millicent, I held the amputated leg in my hand and counted myself blessed that my wife will be a reasonable, rational creature without 'vagaries'.

I eventually persuaded Colette to sacrifice her designer skills to the petty-minded bureaucrats at home, reminding her that Walter's colleagues are too stiff to squat on cushions. She agreed to allow me replace the table leg. I left her to open the door to the electrician and went in search of a hardware shop. By some trick of the light, as I turned to go, I had a fleeting vision of the place, as the Countess imagined it, a harem interior, in muted filtered light.

'Tell me again how many electrical points Walter wants in his study?' she called after me, shattering the illusion. On Nenehatun Street I found a shop that makes antiques. They provided three small metal spikes and glue. The Countess was sitting on the doorstep, subdued and white-faced, when I returned.

'Denis, I saw a ghost. I leaned over the balcony, thinking. There was a blast of cold air. I felt sick to my stomach, sick to death. Then I saw ...no ... saw is not the right word for it, I could not see through the floor could I? I had a vision of a woman in black floating in the pool, her arms out, like this.'

I have been so busy, Millicent, over the last few days that the shock of my own experience in the residence has receded. The Countess's story took me by surprise and I sat down on the step beside her.

'Denis, you are not sceptical? You are not saying to yourself ''Crazy Colette Brown.''

I should never have admitted to her that I saw something myself, yet that is what I did. It was a moment of fellow feeling that I should not have allowed myself. She is incapable of discretion.

'Everything that happens leaves some kind of imprint on a place that becomes visible under particular conditions,' I said, in an attempt to console her.'That woman in black drowned here,' she said with a shiver. 'We must find out who she was, how she died, what she wants. Then she will find peace.'

'Nobody drowned here,' I said. 'I checked the history of the house. You met the owner, Mr. Muftu, a sensible businessman whose father built the house. The Portuguese Ambassador was the only other occupant.'

'Denis, I must see the owner again before I come to live here. I want to ask him about the woman in black.'

We upended the table, and fixed the leg.

'We need not tell Walter about the table, Denis. Your Office of Public Works said that we were sent ''reconditioned and refurbished furniture''. We have just reconditioned it a little more.'

'He does not need to know,' I agreed.

She gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek. 'I really don't like to upset Walter.'

She looked so very sincere that you would swear – if you did not know of her propensity for creating mischief – that she was the most docile wife in creation. The hall door screamed as we left. Colette shivered. I must ask the landlord to fix it. It needs to be taken off its hinges and planed.

There was a thunderstorm today. Rain poured in through the roof of the new residence and down the walls. Mr. Muftu has promised to fix the roof as soon as it stops raining. Walter is about to find out the effect a rental deposit has on the sense of urgency of landlords. Orhan collected the diplomatic bag today for the first time. Walter, on principle, would never let me pay the unofficial 'tax', so fetching the bag each week has been a nightmare for me, relieved only by the hope that there may be a letter from you inside it. Orhan reports to me and I believe in working with, rather than against, established custom, in this case. Since the car is not yet registered, Orhan has been working in the garden. The older of our two policemen fancies himself as a horticulturist and is pleased to advise Orhan, who thinks up all kinds of abstruse questions, to which he receives unlikely but dogmatic answers.

Our local secretary has left, poached by the Americans. The word-of-mouth system worked again; several candidates turned up before I advertised. Our new secretary is Ayse Kiraç. She is a metallurgist but, jobs in her field being scarce, she took a secretarial course after college. Her English is excellent. She is beautiful, but only as long as she keeps her mouth closed. She has extremely ugly buckteeth. They must materially reduce her chances of matrimony. Any man thinking of kissing her must remember the teeth.

I took out a double membership in Friends of ARIT, an American archaeological society and said, 'My wife will be coming to Ankara soon', for the pleasure of saying it. I'll go on their day trip to Aizanoi next weekend. I called on Mr. Muftu to ask what has been done about the roof, to ask how arrangements for fencing the back of the house have progressed and to get him to fix the hall door The Countess came with me.

'I want to know everything about your marvellous house,' she said to the landlord, gazing at him as if he were marvellous also.

'It is a modern reincarnation of an old Turkish design. My father built it for his mother. There is poetry in the way light comes from within, from the beautiful courtyard. You observed the courtyard? You saw the mosaic of marbles from all over Turkey, the sundial....'

'Mr. Muftu,' said the Countess, putting her elbows on his desk, excluding me from the conversation, 'I need to know everything about the ghost before I go to live with it. Please do not equivocate. I saw the ghost of a woman in black with my own two eyes. Denis saw it also.'

'Granny!' exclaimed the landlord, horrified.

'A _revenant_! I knew it,' exclaimed the Countess.

The landlord recovered quickly. 'There is no ghost. When you spoke of a woman in black, I thought of Granny. She died when I was a small boy. I was afraid of her. But there was never any manifestation. I lived there. I know.''Mr. Muftu,' said the Countess, in a caressing voice, I am sure that there is a story behind this. Please tell me. It will not, whatever it is, affect our tenancy. That is settled. Yet, I need to know all you can tell me about the house and its occupants. Tell me about your grandmother. We will honour her memory.'

'I was a small boy when she died. I was upset by the trouble...'

'What kind of trouble, Mr. Muftu?' I interposed.

'We couldn't find the gold. Father did a lot of excavating. I associated the holes he dug with graves for Granny. I should explain that Granny came from Albania. Her people were landowners. They converted their wealth to gold to bring it to Turkey. She was an only child. She told my father, her only child, tales of Albanian gold.

'Was the gold found?'

'We found out what she did with it. It was all donated to a healer named Merita.'

'Merita, the living saint?'

'She was young in Granny's time. Our gold paid for her centre of healing near Gordion.'

'It is like a cathedral.'

'It is.' said Mr. Muftu, gloomily. 'Merita restored Grandmother to health. She prayed over her, read her health in the shapes molten lead took when poured into water. Grandmother, in her eighties, decided that Merita, the _djinji hoja_ , was a living saint. Merita, though she would take nothing for herself, accepted donations towards a special building where her clients could gather to be blessed and cured. Father designed it.'

'When did your grandmother die?'

'Forty years ago. She must have been surprised. Death was not in her plans.'

'What did she die of?'

'What the doctors expected her to die of. Cancer.'

'At home?'

'In hospital. She agreed to go in for examination – to prove the efficacy of the Saint's cure – and never came out.'

'Is that her photograph on your desk?'

'No. That is my mother.'

'She is alive?'

'Yes. She was much younger than my father.'

So, my dear Millicent, Granny died of cancer in hospital. Mother is alive. Neither drowned in the pool. I remember that I was suffering from gastroenteritis when I viewed the house. The vision was induced by dehydration. Could I ask you to send me some sachets of Dioralyte next time you write? As a specific against ghosts. The Countess continued her interrogation of Mr. Muftu.

'Are you sure that your grandmother gave all her gold to the healer?'

'My last search was with a metal detector.'

'That would seem to be pretty conclusive, Countess,' I suggested.

'I would love to have your mother to lunch some day soon, Mr. Muftu,' said the Countess, as we left.

'Thank you. Unfortunately, she never goes out.'

The Countess seized my sleeve as we left the building.

'Denis, do you get the point?'

'What point?'

'Ghosts walk when there is something they need to tell the living. Were you not brought up beside a the turf fire, listening to ghost stories?'

'We had central heating.'

The Countess is a little out of touch with modern Ireland.

'I don't believe she gave away all the family gold, Denis. Faith is all very well, but one has one's priorities. French peasants have their secret hoards. Even I have a little gold in reserve. The landlord's granny hid hers too well and didn't tell anyone about it, because she didn't expect to die. She will haunt the house until it is found. Tomorrow I will consult a _sourcier_. A good _sorcier_ can find anything, water, oil, gold, even the dead. Perhaps there will be an Albanian head-dress, hundreds of years old, passed down from bride to bride. Something like the one that Schlieman dug up at Troy.'

'There is no gold. The landlord made a thorough search.'

'Nonsense. Don't you remember that odd clause in the lease? Everything in the property before our tenancy begins, whether known to be there or not, is the property of the landlord. That is proof that the landlord thinks there is gold there still. If his granny buried her head dress more than a few inches deep a detector wouldn't find it.'

I had no ready answer. I find it difficult to argue about the findability of an Albanian bridal ornament that exists only in the Countess' imagination. She looked smug.

'I must talk to his mother, Denis. Women are more rational about the supernatural.'

'She never goes out.'

'Her friend, the woman who keeps the goats in our back garden, will find her for me.'

'We must forget the ghost. Since you mentioned it at a coffee morning, the residence is referred to as the 'The Haunted Shamrock'. '

I had gone too far and expected a bombshell. Instead, the Countess grimaced, mused awhile and said that, indeed, she was not very good for Walter's career.

Dear Millicent, That contrite mood didn't last. The Countess has contacted a diviner and hired Orhan, in his spare time, to help her in her search. She should be restrained. Walter is far too tolerant.

The one good thing is that - possibly as a result of her new interest - she has abandoned interior design. The rest of the furniture has been installed. Crockery and linen have been catalogued and stored by Gül who was cook under the Portuguese regime and is now housekeeper in the residence. I was afraid that Pierre and she would quarrel but they are swapping ideas about soup. They fell out briefly about the origin of the croissant but have agreed to differ. He says that her fermented yoghurt soup is an inspiration. This means that he will steal it for France.

The Department decrees that 'white goods' be bought locally and that I must supply three estimates. The problem is that nothing here has a fixed price and to bargain, without being serious, is bad form. Prices go up automatically at the end of every month to compensate for inflation. Shopping for the appliances with Orhan, as translator/mediator, and Pierre, as adviser, is unnerving. We parade around shop after shop, escorted by manager and attendant. In spite of difficulties, with more than a little manipulation of departmental regulations, the kitchen has been equipped. Ambassador and Mrs. Brown have taken up residence. Telephones have been connected. I reminded the Countess that lines are thought to be tapped by security and that no references to matters of a sensitive nature should be made on the telephone. She nodded sagely. I had no sooner returned to the office than I had a call from her.

'Hello to you, Denis, and hello to whoever is listening in.'

She has made friends with the goats behind the house and feeds them carrots. The puck, chained to a tree, gets double rations and oatmeal which, she says, is good for his hormones. She said this at table with a sidelong glance at Walter. She has adopted a cat. I think it is the cat that tripped me on the stairs though I can't see any white blaze on its head. It was twining round her shins, purring when I called today.

'Isn't he a sweetie? I'm going to call him Diabolo.'

'How does he get in and out?' I asked, remembering that the cat that caused my stumble had disappeared without obvious means of exit.

'I let him in and out, of course, silly Denis.'

Walter said that Colette now has a goat and a cat, a toad and a cockatrice as familiars. I dismissed the cockatrice as exaggeration and tried to remember if there are toads in Turkey.

'The cousin and the colonel,' Walter prompted.

The Countess laughed heartily. I don't think she can be romantically attached to either of them. This is a relief to me. She has made offhand comments about her cousin's virility and the Colonel 's Roman nose that caused me a little unease. I hope that you, my dear Millicent, won't be upset by what is - despite her title and background - vulgar behaviour.

A reception at the opera. I recognise the importance of these gatherings for making informal contact with colleagues, settling things that would otherwise take an eternity at meetings, yet I cannot enjoy them. Walter was not eating and sipped a glass of mineral water.'A touch of indigestion, Ambassador?'

'Pierre is an excellent cook, but he intends to kill me.'

I dropped my _vol au vent_.

'Not with strychnine, unless I prove recalcitrant,' continued Walter with a smile. 'Just with butter, cream and _foie gras_. He admits it you know. He pits my stomach against my sense of self-preservation and gambles on my stomach.'

'Why should he want to kill you?'

'He is homesick. If I die in mysterious circumstances, Walter, blame the Château Fontenoy mafia.'

Our flagpole has been erected and our crest is in place. The Minister for Industry and Commerce is to come to Istanbul on a trade promotion in early May and he will detour to Ankara to open the office, officially. I won't be able to take leave until after that. You were wise, Millicent, not to finalise our wedding plans. I am deeply disappointed, but the disappointment has given rise to an idea. Why not join me here for Easter? I know that you planned to give grinds over Easter and put the proceeds in the building society, but I would like to have you with me and show you our new city. Let me know what you think.

Yesterday I went on the trip to ancient Aizanoi organised by ARIT. The Countess, Alfredo Barbellini and his wife Angelina were in the party. Turkey is wonderful. We crossed what was the Rhyndacus (now the Orhaneli Cayi) on the original Roman bridge. There was a goose fight going on. The geese from the upper side honked and hissed at the geese from the lower side. I forgot everything and hung back to watch. I'm glad I did Latin for the Leaving Certificate, Millicent. I felt like a returned Roman. There were old women from the Turkish village that now occupies the site, washing clothes in the stream. Either they didn't spot me or they choose to ignore me. They kneaded the clothes on large marble tombstones turned into silky white troughs by generations of washerwomen. I had to hurry after the others and found them climbing down into an enormous barrel vault under the Temple of Zeus. Cybele was worshipped here as a Romanised version of the local goddess. I took out my bottle of water, ostensibly to have a swig, but I poured her a libation. Since falling in love, I have a right to pay tribute to the Great Mother in all her forms.

We were given lunch boxes on a lawn of wild flowers that was once the racetrack of the stadium. I climbed up the wide ledges, around and into the theatre, which in Aizanoi backs on to the stadium. It was enormous, empty. An earthquake had toppled all the seating down towards the stage. I sat on the upper circle, which remains intact and ate my stuffed capsicum, drank my aqua and said _bravo_ to the shade of the last actor to strut upon this particular stage. I heard voices. Barbellini and Colette Brown were following in my footsteps. I fled over the brink of the upper circle. From here the whole of the Anatolian plateau stretched out, magnificently green. It will be burnt to gold in no time. It was wonderful to be out on a sea of green under a blue sky after months in dusty Ankara. There was a solitary thorn tree on a path a few hundred yards away. I reached it and sat alone in a vast expanse of sunlit space. Being in love, I find myself at one with all creation in a special way. I am sure you share this feeling, my dear Millicent. On my way back, I caught up with the Countess and Barbellini. He was gallantly stepping her down the broken stones. They were too deep in conversation to notice me. He is from an Italian family with connections in France. She was tracing aristocratic bloodlines with the ease of a horse breeder who knows the studbook by heart. I have a premonition that he, also, will turn out to be a cousin of hers.

We walked along the bank of the river and crossed on stepping-stones to the remains of what was, in Roman times, a quay. There must have been a lot more water in the Rhyndacus in those days. I tried to engage Angelina Barbellini in conversation but she kept scowling over my shoulder at her husband and the Countess who were trailing after the main group. A Turkish village encircles the old Roman market-place. The price lists on the stone tablets that ring the central area are legible still. They were erected at the order of the Emperor Diocletian in an attempt to combat inflation ... the price of a yard of cotton ... the price of a hen. Cocks and hens scratched around us and the sun shone warmly. The houses in the village still have lovely skeletons of wood and stone. Only a few of them are occupied. The villagers who remain look like elderly beetles, crawling out into the sunshine. The young people have moved to a nearby town of dingy apartment blocks.

The Countess and Colonel Barbellini strayed off to take photographs. Angelina growled. She is highly strung, beautiful but haggard-looking. I wish I could have told her that the Countess has no designs on her husband, that she referred to him in my hearing recently as a 'pompous, fascist, stuffed-shirt, with halitosis'. Do you think, Millicent, that this may have been a blind?

Lucy Steele from the British Council, a stout spiritualist who has heard about the phenomenon at the residence, sat beside the Countess on the bus home, to give advice on dealing with ghosts. People tuned in to their conversation and in spite of my efforts to turn the conversation, all the passengers must have heard Steele's offer to act as exorcist. I hope that Henry will not hear of it. He might be tempted to say unkind things.

I understand, dear Millicent, how you feel about Easter. It is true that you would spend most of the time travelling. I'm sorry that I didn't consider the amount of dirt that a couple of white fan-tailed doves would make on the balcony or the fact that we might have a nest within a few weeks. I'll forget the pigeons. The lady spiritualist from the British Council is to visit the Countess. They are to recite Anglo-Saxon spells and burn 'organic' cottage garden herbs.

When I heard that the Countess was bringing her own family cook to Ankara, I foresaw all kinds of trouble from a French chef with an artistic temperament. I imagined a young man with an experimental approach to _cuisine_ who would gain for us the reputation of being an embassy you should dine in only after supping at home. He is a wiry little man in his forties and wears a magnificent moustache, modelled, I think on Asterix's. He is young Pierre because his father Pierre, old Pierre, is cook in the château. Pierre has not yet submitted to matrimony - so he phrased it - though long affianced to Liliane, also of Château Fontenoy. Pierre is in Ankara since the Countess has to be looked after while abroad, even though she committed the error of marrying a foreigner.

'A temporary arrangement,' said Pierre. 'She never stayed married this long before.'

That sounds as if she may have married more than once before becoming Mrs. Brown.

'The Ambassador and Mrs. Brown complement each other beautifully,' I said, to encourage opposition. Pierre shrugged.

'She knows that she must come home, sooner or later. She belongs to the château. She should have married her cousin. Do you want cream?'

Pierre interrogated me about my eating patterns when we first met and decided that I need feeding. He seated me at the kitchen table and gave me a slice of _tarte aux abricots_ with a _café au lait_. The pastry was sweet and crumbly, the apricots soft and sugar-burnt on top. I don't think I ever before tasted such a wonderful tart. It made me homesick for France, though I have no French connections.

'Do you miss your fiancée, Pierre?'

'Liliane is saving for her _dot_. There is an excellent market for _foie gras_. She stuffs forty geese several times a day.'

The French are not as romantic as they are reputed to be.

Our staffing arrangements are a source of satisfaction to me. Pierre and Gül work well together. Sharon Pyx, who rang me about something else entirely, mentioned that Erdem Kizilçan from the Ministry had raved about the _meze_ he had at our first official lunch. Gül is invaluable when it comes to hiring extra local staff at short notice and she has first-class connections in the meat, fish, fruit and vegetable lines. She learned French at school and is improving at a great rate. I don't think she remembers that she is working for the Irish Embassy, not the French. I spotted Orhan in action, after a lunch in the Japanese residence, yesterday. Colette came out without looking right or left. As she moved from the door to the top step, our car pulled out from among the assembled vehicles. By the time she reached the bottom step, Orhan had the door open for her. Away they went. Other ladies have to hobble on high heels over the gravel in search of chauffeurs, so deep in conversation that only heavy gravel-scrunching attracts their attention. If there is a ghost in the house it is quiescent. Pierre says that it is good for Madame to have an interest and that as long as the supernatural does not curdle his sauces, he can live with it. Gül says that when the Portuguese Ambassador lived here, the internal door from the basement was sealed. When she had laundry, she went in through the door at the driver's side of the house, but only when the driver was on duty.

Now, every evening, she locks the basement door and seals it with an evil eye bead. Pierre unlocks it for Walter's morning swim. 'Inconveniences', Gül says, have occasionally been heard downstairs at night, but nothing has asserted itself upstairs, apart from one night when a 'manifestation' forced her to waken Pierre. I don't want to encourage superstition. I told her to continue the locking-up regime for security reasons. Orhan keeps the side door locked unless he is in his room, his _loge_ , beside it.

I asked Walter if he had noticed anything, since taking possession, that might have given rise to the rumours about the house.

'Just the usual, classic ghost stuff: clanking of chains, wailing, creaking, slamming, the occasional breakage.'

I conclude he was joking. He was particularly irritating today. You know that he has a bent for mathematics and spends lots of time doodling figures on bits of paper. I was trying to get him to look at the accounts and he left it until the last minute because he had some little mathematical teaser in hand. He put it aside with a sigh only when I looked into his room for the third time. This morning I went to the residence early to deliver some notes to Walter who was to go to Istanbul with Orhan. I expected to find Orhan tinkering with the car in preparation for the run. He is forever polishing it, and the interior is so impregnated with car deodoriser that Walter goes to meetings smelling of pot pourri. I went around to Orhan's room, hoping that he had arrived. No Orhan. Car still in the garage. There is a path of black marble tiling around the house. As I turned the corner I stepped in something tacky. Congealed blood. The paving was streaked and blobbed with it. The side door was locked but there was blood on the door at shoulder level. I ran around to the front entry imagining horrors within. Pierre lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

'The Ambassador is breakfasting. Gül has brought Madame her early morning _thé au lait_. Orhan has gone to the office, on his way here, to collect documents for the Ambassador. Perhaps you should have coffee and calm down.'

He was unperturbed about my report of blood by the side door. 'A bitch in heat left a trail. Orhan will throw a bucket of water over it when he returns. You are _trop sensible_ , Denis.'

'Was there noise in the night, Pierre? Police cars? Shooting?'

'No.'

I drank the coffee, dissatisfied. Ankara is so built up that there are very few places where one is not overlooked by an apartment building full of windows. That side of the residence is unusually private, no windows on our side, the poplars shielding us from the Italians.

'I'll see if the Barbellinis heard anything unusual.'

Gül followed me to the door.

'Denis _Bey_ ,' she whispered. 'Last night there was moaning in the air and a cold wind blew through the house.''That is not quite what I meant by disturbance, Gül. I meant an ordinary disturbance, police chasing a robber, the guards challenging a suspect?'

'Nothing of that kind, Denis, _Bey_. Only the other kind....'

She looked frightened. I promised to give her Auntie Ita's collection of medals and scapulars before nightfall. When I last wrote to Auntie, my dear Millicent, I told her, tongue in cheek, about the strange manifestations in the residence. By return I got a fistful of spiritual artifacts. I'll hand them over to Gül in exchange for a promise that there won't be any more difficulty about supplying the guards with their rations. I found out that we were stinting them in tea, sugar and biscuits because Gül has reservations about the police force.

Orhan was standing with his back to the garage door when I went out. I asked him to come and look at the pavement by the far door. He followed me silently. There was no blood. If the pavement had not been wet, I would have suspected that I was the victim of another ghastly manifestation.

'This path was covered in blood only a few minutes ago.'

'I hosed it down. Someone killed a kid goat.'

I have seen a sheep being killed, with loving care, on the street outside a butcher's shop, nursed into death in kindly fashion. Our side door may have seemed a convenient place. I'll ask Gül to enquire of the goat-woman if a kid had been killed there last night. I opened the side door and a clot, stuck to the bottom of it, drew a brown arc on the floor.

' I'll see if the Italians heard anything.'

'I have already asked Maria. She was hanging rugs on the balcony next door, as I cleaned the path. The Barbellinis didn't speak of any disturbance, when she served breakfast.'

I went around to the back of the residence. The Countess's window was open. She might have heard something.

Ali, the younger of our two regular policemen, sat reading his paper in the sunshine. In reply to my questions, he said that there are never events in this area, many diplomats live here, all well guarded and there is no danger. Someone had served him a mug of coffee and – judging from the flakes on the plate – croissants. I had scarcely noted this and had only begun to wonder at Gül's largesse to the _polis_ when there was a commotion behind the residence. Commands were shouted. A dog barked. Ali caught up his gun. We ran around the side of the house. Walter and Orhan left the car and joined us. I was not sure what to expect.

'Les flics!' announced the Countess from her window, with something like a cheer.

Down the slope, towards us, came a bulldog on a leash tugging his handler. Policemen mashed their way through the undergrowth behind him. Walter, to give him his due, is not tolerant of high-handed actions that impinge on our diplomatic rights and our country's status. Immaculately dressed for the day's meetings, wielding his briefcase and umbrella, he led a counter-charge. We met the intruders at the point where our garden melds into the bushes of Mr. Muftu's vacant lot.

The bulldog was not to be distracted. Nose to the trail, it didn't even see Walter until it had run its head between his legs. Then it paused, puzzled. Walter stood his ground. He even narrowed the arch so that the dog's head was pinched between his knees. At that moment, Millicent, I gave him top marks for personal courage. He seemed careless of being bitten. A sharp word from the handler made the dog sit. It obeyed under protest. Nose, tongue, eyes strained ahead. Saliva drooled.

'You are on Irish territory,' proclaimed Walter , flourishing his briefcase. Orhan translated.

'Your Excellency, we are on the trail of a criminal who was wounded last night while resisting arrest. The dog has followed his trail here.'

'Nonsense. Your dog came in here because it smelt goat.'

On cue, a nanny goat in need of milking approached the dog and made feinting motions with her horns. The dog stood its ground.

'Nobody passed me during the night,' Ali said.' I was in the sentry box.'

'Please, give us permission to go through your garden, Ambassador.' said the officer in charge.

Honour was satisfied. Walter graciously waved them on. There was drool, dog hair and dust on his trousers and shoes. We joined the rearguard. The Countess, in a flowing red dressing gown, appeared. She had come out to wave goodbye to Walter, she said.

'Police looking for a felon, my dear,' Walter explained.

'What? In our garden?'

The dog whiffled its way to the side door. I was about to tell of the bloodstains, but some instinct of fair play made me hold my tongue and see what would happen. The dog sneezed.

'Allergic to detergent,' Orhan whispered to me with a grin that, even at this critical moment, struck me as being excessively familiar. The dog cast about, picked up the trail again. It led us to the front gate.

'The criminal used your grounds as a short-cut, your Excellency.'

'He cannot have passed me, I was in the hut.' said Ali, but his voice was less confident.

Fifteen people followed the bulldog. She (I learned at this point that the bulldog was a bitch, named Bebek) led us through the gate, into the guard's hut. The vanguard charged in. The dog charged back out through the tangle of legs. Trailing her lead, she led us back into the garden. She scrabbled between bushes and pulled out something white and gooey, the remains of a _fromage de chèvre_.

'I knew she was hunting goats,' said Walter.

'Nobody went past me,' said Ali, confidant once more.

I opened my mouth to tell about the blood that had been by the door. The Countess glared at me. Her eyes telegraphed 'Don't!'

My heart turned a somersault, Millicent. I just knew that she had meddled in some way.

'What crime has the fugitive committed?' I asked the officer in charge.

'He is a Communist, accused of crimes against the people of Turkey and the Turkish Government.'

'Is he armed?'

'He wasn't when he escaped.'

The police left by the way they had come, after compliments had been exchanged. The dog's bob of a tail pointed down. It hung its head. I felt guilty. I could have vindicated its nose.

Orhan swept Walter off to the airport. Orhan's salute to me, as they drove away, upset me, Millicent. It ended in a thumbs up sign. I couldn't guess why.

'Could I have a word with you, Countess?' I asked as she moved towards the house.

'Not just now, Denis. I really must get dressed.'

I was left alone with our sentry.

'Who brought you coffee, this morning, Ali?'

'Madame.'

'When?'

'At dawn.'

'Does she do that often?'

'Never before.'

'Why did she bring it this morning?'

'She rose to listen to birdsong. Since nobody in the world was awake, except me, she brought me coffee and a croissant.'

'She came in here?'

'She put the tray on the table where it is.'

'And returned to the house?'

'Yes.'

God knows what mess the Countess has got us into if she has, as I suspect, aided and abetted a criminal. She must have set out to confuse the dog with her _fromage de chèvre_. She never gets up at dawn. If it occurred to her that Ali needed early morning sustenance, she would tell Pierre to send Gül out with a tray. Should I confront her with my interpretation of her early morning activities? Should I ask her why she set a trail of goat's cheese to the sentry box, planning the humiliation of tracker dog and police? Should I ask her how she knew that dog and police might be expected? Should I telephone Walter and tell him. I am persuaded that you would counsel me to do so. You have a natural inclination towards the truth. All that is open and above board is dear to you.

I went to the _bacaal_ and asked Feroz if he had heard of any disturbances during the night. He shrugged. Whether it was a negative, positive or plain 'dunno' shrug, I'm not sure. He said that it is not good to be curious and asked if I had found a home for the kitten.

The kitten, Millicent, is one that turned up on the mat outside my apartment. It is a charming little thing, female, an Ankara cat. Since neither of us like cats, I'm trying to find a home for it. Ayse will take it if I fail. Ayse, you will remember is our local secretary. She is efficient and self effacing. I am sorry that I made some derogatory remarks about her teeth earlier on.

The kitten has stretched out on my feet. I'll disturb it now and go to bed. I have decided to call on Mrs. Brown early tomorrow, before Walter returns. It may be possible to bring her to a proper appreciation of the dignity of her position. She must not boast of blood on the tiles and cheese in the bushes.

### Chapter 8

Dear Millicent, I went to the office early to open up and put out the flag, since Orhan, is away. Gül rang from the residence. She was in such a temper that I could scarcely understand her.

'Come! Come here to the residence, at once, or I stuff Pierre with his own insides.'

Gül is a tall woman. Pierre is a small man. There is a knife holder in the kitchen with a dreadful array of razor sharp knives.

'I'll be there in a few minutes. Just a few minutes. Wait!'

I rushed around and found them confronting each other across the kitchen table, knifeless but with hackles raised.

'He, the _yaramaz, l'idiot_ says I interfere with his supplies. I resign. I call on you to take note. Write it now. For the reception tomorrow, _je m'en fou_!'

'You might have come to the office to resign,' I said repressively. 'I thought something terrible had happened. A mere squabble in the kitchen! Do you both realise that I rushed here, leaving the Irish flag at half mast. The phone will be bouncing in the office now, as secretaries ring to find out if their Ambassadors need to send messages of condolence.'

'I ignore the missing remains of _rôti de veau_ ,' declaimed Pierre. 'I ignore bread that disappears, the _petit salé_ that was designated for my own supper last Thursday ... but the _moules marinière_ prepared for tonight's hors d'oeuvre, I cannot overlook.'

'Do you think, you _imbécile_ ,' ( Gül is learning French invective rapidly) you _crétin_ of the first quality, that this is the figure of a woman who eats two kilo of _moules_ between lunch and dinner?'

'There was also the question of the _gâteau_ ,' snarled Pierre, eying the trim waistline that Gül almost spanned with her hands.

'Ha! You dog's _merde_ that should be _cardinalisé_ like a kicking _homard_ , where do you think they went? Down this stomach?' Her dainty apron lay flat and unwrinkled on her middle. 'Look at your own gut, always swelling.'

'It is true...' mourned Pierre, distracted, 'but that, Gül, is the fault of your _baklavas_.'

'Never will I make _baklava_ for you again.'

'I am not saying that you ate everything yourself,' said Pierre with the first hint of a conciliatory note in his voice. 'but there is the goat woman who likes good cooking and there is the _gendarme_ who makes eyes at you when you pass.'

'I feed the police? I? I?' shrieked Gül.

'What is this all about?' asked the Countess sternly, entering the kitchen. 'It is known that I do not like noise. Modulated tones are more effective than shouts. Denis, why are you here?'

'It appears, Countess, that food goes missing from the kitchen.'

'Food? Missing?' said the Countess. 'Did I not tell you, Pierre, that I occasionally bring a gift of food to a poor family of my acquaintance? Could you not have consulted with me before creating this racket?'

' I, Pierre, son of Pierre, regulate the kitchen and cannot have interference. Anything you want I will provide, Madame la Comtesse, but you must not interfere My fridge, my larder, my ovens – though they are too small – are sacred.'

'Very well, Pierre, I apologise,' said the Countess, 'and now, if you please, make up a large picnic basket and give it to Orhan, who will deliver it to my poor, deserving friends later today.'

She swept out. I hurried after her.

'To you, Gül, I tender my apologies.' I heard Pierre say stiffly as I left.

'And I regret the names I gave you.'

'What is it, now, Denis?' The Countess was still in an imperious mood.

'You brought breakfast to Ali yesterday in order to lay down, surreptitiously, a trail that the police dog would follow.

'How should I know that police were coming with a dog?'

'Your bedroom window was open. You heard noise, investigated and found the wounded criminal. You assisted him. I saw blood on the tiles before Orhan washed it away. In ordering Orhan to wash it away, you involved him in criminal activity. And Orhan, unlike yourself, cannot claim diplomatic immunity.'

'Denis, surely I couldn't claim diplomatic immunity in a situation like this.'

'I would have to look it up, Countess, there can have been no precedent, ' I said, grinding my teeth.

'He was only a boy ... very weak, badly wounded. Hassan is his name. He hadn't actually done anything, except join some ridiculous hothead society. I washed the wound in his shoulder and patched him up. He knew they were after him with dogs.'

'How did you lay the trail?'

'I put Hassan's stockings over my shoes and gummied them up with. Poor Ali's coffee was quite cold, I'm afraid. I threw the _chèvre_ in the bushes and put the stockings in my pocket.

'How did you delude a tracker dog?'

'What about Ali? His reputation? His job?'

' _À la guerre comme à la guerre_. Hassan's life was at stake.'

'How did you get him away?'

She looked teasingly at me.

'My God! You haven't stowed him away in the residence.'

'You didn't mention the blood at the side door to the police, Denis. I suspect that you, too, have an ambivalent attitude to the security forces of our host country.'

'Where is he?'

'I rather think, Denis, that he is in your apartment, in the guest room,' she said with the smile of a cat that has stolen the cream.

Millicent, you may imagine how shocked I was. Orhan has a key to my apartment, for the sake of convenience and security. If Madame instructed him to deposit the wounded man in my apartment, he would do so. He might well be in the guest room. I had shared supper with the cat in front of the television on the previous night and hadn't gone near the guest room. I was far too horrified to expostulate. Then I remembered that Orhan left the residence to drive Henry to Istanbul. He could have had no opportunity to drive to my apartment and evacuate the Countess' protégé there.

'Ha, ' said the Countess, reading my thoughts. 'Orhan possessed himself of the papers you brought here with you. When you seemed to have come without them, he drove past your apartment to collect them. I am sure Henry was much obliged to him. I'm also sure that he didn't once look up from his mathematical doodles.'

'I did not forget the papers.'

'Of course you didn't , my dear Denis, but consider that a young man's liberty, if not his life was at stake.'

'How did you get him away from here?'

She grinned. I remembered Orhan's extravagantly mischievous salute to me as he drove off to bring the Ambassador to the airport.

'In the official car? In the boot? You couldn't have done it. You couldn't have taken such an enormous risk. If anything had gone wrong.'

'Nothing went wrong. It worked like a dream. To see Walter tackling the police and straddling the dog! He was magnificent.'

'When I see Orhan, I'll kill him.'

'Don't do anything precipitate, Denis. Say nothing to Walter. Why discommode him?'

I rushed back to the office and raised the flag to its proper height. Ayse was at her desk , dealing calmly with visa enquiries. I told her that anyone who asked why the flag had been at half-mast should be told that there had been a mechanical error, now solved. You will understand that I went back to my apartment quite unable to present a calm, debonair appearance as I went. There was nobody there, Millicent, only the kitten. She had made a mess on the floor. Nobody had hidden in the guest room. I tickled the kitten and lifted it up above my head, rejoicing. Reaction set in almost immediately. Why had the Countess told me such a ridiculous lie? I'm sure you have guessed how I answered that question. Mrs. Walter Brown was hiding the youth in the residence and sent me off on a wild goose chase to get rid of me. This was terrible. If a fugitive were to be discovered in the apartment of a third secretary, the affair might be hushed up. If it became known that a fugitive had found sanctuary in the residence of the Irish Ambassador, every camera in the world would be directed on us.

I would have rung you, Millicent, to see what your calm good sense might suggest but I remembered that it was your Sodality night. I decided to take Pierre into my confidence. He is utterly loyal to the Countess, even to the extent of shooting down her wilder figaries. He gave me a Croque Monsieur and a mug of Barry's tea and listened.

'Madame has gone out to lunch. We must search the residence immediately,' he said.

'If we find him...' I began.

'If we find him, 'said Pierre, 'I shall identify him as one of Mr. Muftu's workmen. They infest the place, like woodworm and do as much damage. I shall put him in the renault and lose him in Ullus when I go shopping.'

There was no stranger in the residence.

Should I tell Walter, when he returns from Istanbul, that his wife aided an escaped prisoner to elude the police? She may even have smuggled him out of the residence under their eyes, in the boot of the Mercedes that conveyed him to Istanbul. I think he had better not know.

Dear Millicent, the Ambassador has returned from Istanbul. Orhan was sorting the post when I came into the office this morning. I challenged him. He looked amazed at first and then broke into peals of laughter. I was so overwrought, Millicent, that I might have punched him if he had not been reeling around so.

'Don't you remember that I opened the boot of the car to put in the Ambassador's suitcase?' he gasped.

As soon as I thought about it, I saw him lift the lid and stow the luggage in full view of everyone.

'The Countess has been making merry with you, Denis. I'm sure the man was well away before the police arrived. Didn't you notice that the blood was tacky. I had to scrub hard with the yard brush. Very often superficial wounds can make quite a mess. Blood spreads . It is easy to over estimate the amount spilt.'

This is how the matter rests, Millicent. I should, perhaps, resent Orhan's attitude and choice of words did I not realise that an inadequate grasp of the finer nuances of a language sometime lend a person's speech a didactic tone that is not intended.

It was difficult to settle down to routine. I dealt with a complaint from the _Turkish Daily News_ that a pub in Dublin is called _The Turk's Head_. I replied to a request from a teacher in Istanbul for the collected works of Victor O. D. Power. 'Our English class is enthralled by Kitty the Hare, finding much in it that reflects the traditions of Turkey.'

I check Walter's desk regularly at his request. By the time one becomes an Ambassador, one's head is so full of policy and strategy that an invitation to a function one does not wish to attend may be left in a drawer until it is too late to decline gracefully. I am not in time to save him from addressing a 'Ladies of Ankara' meeting on the subject of the Modern Irish Woman. Maybe Colette will do it.

A new folder caught my attention. There were three items in it. The first was a letter from the Büyük Ankara Hotel:

'With regard to the reported light-failure on the emergency stairs on 17 March, no reason for a failure has been discovered. No other part of the hotel experienced a failure. The controlling switch is in the basement. It would be possible for a guest to switch the light off in error but it is unlikely that a guest should find himself in the service area of the hotel.'

The second item was a report, in Turkish, from a detective agency. It enclosed a receipt and photographs. Though the quality of the shots was poor, there was no mistaking the subject: Félix d'Aubine with his hand on a light switch. According to the report, the photographs were taken at eight am on the thirteenth of April at the bottom of the emergency stairs in the hotel, the day Walter stumbled for the second time.

M.d'Aubine went to Cappadocia, on the fourteenth, supposedly to deal with a rumor of vine blight. Walter must have confronted him when he received the report. I initialled a corner of the file to show that I had read it, returned it to its place and locked the drawer.

I had witnessed Colette's affectionate farewell to her cousin in the hotel lobby. She has not been told. Walter will proceed no further with the matter, for her sake. I am the only one aware of the attempt on the Ambassador's well being. Walter has no close friend in whom he would confide. The responsibility shocks me. At one moment I think that M. d'Aubine attempted a practical joke; at another, that it was a murderous gamble to gain a wife and a château. He may even be in love with the Countess, in the pragmatic French sense of the word. Thank heavens he has gone to Cappadocia. I could not look at him without betraying my feelings.

Fence poles have been deposited at the top of the vacant site on Abdul Pasha Caddesi, the road above ours. The police reproved our landlord for inadequate security after their recent chase. The roof has been mended and a man, armed with a scraper, is chipping away loose plaster from damaged walls and ceilings. The landlord is availing of the opportunity to do yet another search for Albanian gold. Gül found him moving the sundial in the central courtyard. I pointed out to the Countess that we were entitled to set limits to his access to the house.

'He will save Orhan a lot of searching.' she replied.

I have told Orhan that such work must not take precedence over his official duties. It seemed an appropriate moment to ask him again about the role we played in the escape of the fugitive.'Denis, you wouldn't want to know,' was all that I could get out of him. Perhaps he is right. If I had definite knowledge I might have to act on it.

Your very welcome letter was waiting for me, Millicent, when I got back from Antalya. Of course I should have told the police about the blood on the pavement and told Walter about his wife's involvement. I agree with that one must be frank. Unfortunately, I lose sight of the principle when surrounded by conflicting circumstances. You say that it is ridiculous that Walter should keep the attempt on his life secret. I suppose it is, but he probably doesn't want to worry Colette. You ask if she might be a party to the attempt. Impossible. You asked me if Ayse has considered doing anything about her front teeth. How like you, dear Millicent, to take a sympathetic interest. In fact, I had quite forgotten that I mentioned them. They are not at all as prominent as I thought at first. In answer to your questions: dentistry in Ankara is second to none, far cheaper than at home, and you can get your bridgework done here when you come out.

Sharon Pyx from the American Embassy invited me to dinner. I found candles lit, romantic music and a table set for two. I talked politics and religion all evening and pretended she was dressed in a business suit. Over dessert she came to the point.

'I told you a while ago, Denis, of a liaison between the Portuguese Ambassador and Angelina Barbellini. Nothing in it. I have had it, since, on very good authority, that Miguel was not interested in women. Barbellini is a womaniser and Angelina just wanted to have her hand held. She will need consolation again, soon. The Colonel is in hot pursuit of your Mrs. Brown.'

'Why are you telling me this? How do you know?'

'I have connections in the Italian embassy who want to keep the Colonel out of trouble. He is usually discreet in his amours – the fox hunts a long way from home – but he seems to be bewitched by your Countess. '

'Mrs. Brown is devoted to her husband.'

'Barbellini's secretary, one of our people, has personal experience of his techniques. She judges that an advance has been made in the last week.'

'The Countess doesn't like him.'

'Keep her away from him.'

'When you say that the private secretary of the Italian military attaché is ''one of our people'' what do you mean?'

Sharon sighed. Her chest wobbled up to the top of her gown. I'm sure she uses the trick to distract people, the way a squid lets off a cloud of ink.

'Why force me to be explicit, Denis darling? We could find more interesting things to talk about.'

I spooned up the last little bit of pecan pie.

'Do you mean the CIA?'

'Well, you know, Denis, that since the six-day war in sixty-seven, we are concerned to keep a strong Turkey on the other side of Syria. The current unrest is not in anybody's interest. We need ears everywhere. Colonel Barbellini has the proper ancestry and political connections in Italy to make him acceptable to the Turkish right. He has been swallowed by a group of right-wing army officers. We make him more attractive to them by feeding him a little information ourselves. Our people milk him – unknown to himself, of course: he doesn't like America. Too liberal. If Barbellini creates a scandal with Mrs. Brown, we could lose him. The Italians are still sensitive about indiscreet liaisons. My boss thought you might draw Colette's attention to yourself, for a while. We could find ways and means of rewarding you ... all in the cause of peace on earth, of course. She has been heard to say that you are a handsome young man, though a trifle shy.'

I declined a _pousse-café_ and came home in a bad temper. I am annoyed that I missed the opportunity to ask Sharon if there is any truth in the rumour that the CIA has supplied the Turkish police with the latest in surveillance equipment. I wouldn't get a truthful answer but I might have annoyed her. Thank heavens our relationship makes me immune to the wiles of the Sharons of this world.

I slept uneasily and wakened at dawn, so I walked down to the market in Ulus. People were carrying home the bread that is distributed to the needy in the early mornings. Stalls were being set up. The fish stalls gleamed silver. The sellers were fanning out gills, bright pink under the light and draping octopus arms artistically over the counter edge. Roasted sheep trotters and heads were being packed into glass display cases. Deep in consultation with a honey seller was a wiry little man with a black beret and a drooping moustache – Pierre, sampling different slabs of honeycomb with a reverence that I would expect him to reserve for French wine. The seller offered me a taste of dark green honey.

'From pine trees,' said Pierre. 'No nectar in pines, but plenty of aphids.'

Someone once said that it is impossible to swallow an oyster while thinking of a blueprint of its interior. The mouthful of honey was not assisted in its passage by the knowledge that it was distilled essence of greenfly. It went against my breath. Pierre thumped me on the back and barely allowed me time to recover before launching an attack.

'Monsieur Denis, what is this brown soda bread that the Ambassador wants for breakfast? What is this coddle, boxty, colcannon? I steep kippers in whiskey and serve them alight as _Larousse Gastronomique_ says the Irish do and he thinks it is French. Your Ambassador's taste is equalled as a nuisance only by Madame's search for gold, which is rivalled only by the hammering of the landlord's worker and the telephoning of Colonel Barbellini.'

'What does Barbellini want?'

'Madame.'

I must have registered dismay because Pierre continued with a crooked grin that elevated one side of his moustache and exposed a fang.

'But Madame does not want Barbellini.'

'You are sure?'

'No.'

I realised how unseemly it was to be discussing this matter with the cook and asked: 'The search for gold is continuing?'

'Madame has scraped the bathroom fittings to be assured that they are not made of solid gold. She centres her expectations on the swimming pool, since that is where she saw the manifestation. Orhan emptied it this morning. He will assist Madame in tapping the floor underneath. She has offered him a reward if they discover a cache or a skeleton.'

'Did you ever see the ''manifestation'', Pierre?'

His left eyebrow shot up towards his beret.

'I have decided never to serve soufflé. There is turbulence in the house. Perhaps Madame has created a ghost by believing in one. For myself, I think the building is not stable. We are in an earthquake zone, close to a rift. We move.'

I returned to circumstances not so entirely out of our control.

'I trust that no actual damage is done to the house by the searchers?'

'Who allowed the amputation of a leg from the dining room table?'

Pleased at his little joke he clapped me on the shoulder and said,

' In a little time there will be a different enthusiasm. It is always so. Madame is an enthusiast. Only this matrimony has stuck,' Pierre sighed, 'and I should so like to go home.'

'Marriage is permanent, Pierre.'

'Madame's husbands never last long. Only the château is permanent. Sooner or later she will come home. M. d'Aubine has been patience itself.'

'Perhaps the Ambassador will retire early and go to France with her to manage the vineyards.'

Pierre shuddered fastidiously.

I am intrigued by his reference to the Countess's 'husbands'. Could there have been a marriage, even marriages we have not heard about? It is the second time he has made a comment open to that interpretation.

Walter got quite patriotic today in his enthusiasm for improved trade relations. It made him look youthful for a half-hour. This is the first chance I have got to tackle him about the file from the detective agency. He was dismissive.

'I don't anticipate further trouble from Félix. It was a casual gesture, opportunistic. He would like to marry Colette. No malice towards me personally. It just happens that I stand in the path of his destiny.'

'Tell the Countess.'

'Why should I? She is fond of him and depends on him. He kept the château afloat through the phylloxera crisis. He won't come back to Ankara for a while.'

'He may have an ally here.'

'Pierre won't put arsenic in my boiled egg while Barbellini is in the offing.'

I am embarrassed by the casualness of his reference to Barbellini and don't know how to interpret it.

I stood in for Walter at the Tuesday meeting of heads of delegation. Returning to the office, I stopped to look in a silversmith's window at a silver pomander. I think you might like. A woman in strict religious dress shoved in beside me. She was bent and leaning on a stick. I moved aside to allow her more room. She moved closer still, opened a big gaudy pink bag she carried, fished out a packet of peppermints and popped a sweet into my mouth – which, admittedly, was hanging open in surprise. Then she giggled, poked me in the ribs and went off at a great rate, hopping along on her stick. It was a very odd incident and I don't know what to make of it.

I'm rushing out to dinner in the residence, conscripted to take the place of a guest who is indisposed. The dinner is, ostensibly, in honour of the new Turkish Ambassador to Ireland but Walter has invited, by way of business, Türker Alpay from the Justice Department who has been agitating recently about our restrictive policy with regard to visas. The Barbellinis will be there, quite unnecessarily.

Nothing unusual happened until Walter got up to toast the new Turkish Ambassador to Ireland. He had scarcely got into his stride, welcoming the guests, saying how flattered we were that such a senior officer was coming to Ireland, when there were a series of crashes in the basement, as if someone had thrown glasses at a wall. Walter listened with a smile, made an urbane reference to the ghost in the machine. He continued his speech but he had lost his audience. The Countess pressed a napkin to her lips. I slipped out. The door to the basement was locked and the keys, tied with a miraculous medal and a blue eye, hung on a nail. I opened the door and went down. There was nobody below. Wineglasses lay shattered on the tiles near the pool. I checked the garden door. It was locked.

I returned to the table in time to toast the Ambassador designate. The lights went off as we raised our glasses. The Countess gasped. It was just another power cut. It did not last long and the light from the candles on the table was adequate.

Dinner was an artistic triumph. The first course was _oeufs surprises truffés_. Each white eggshell, perfectly guillotined, was set in a silver eggcup and filled with brown truffled yolk. It tasted awful, but it was proclaimed a triumph. It is a recognised classic of French cuisine. The eggs were served up with as much 'cock-a-doodle do' as if the waiters had laid them that instant.

We had wine from Château Fontenoy. I was pleased to note that Angelina and the Countess engaged in a brief conversation over coffee while the Colonel gave me his views about local politics. The 'forces of law and order' should be given 'free rein' in the fight against 'evil'. He is a stupid, blinkered man and consequently, forceful, fulfilled and happy.

I stayed until the last guest had gone. Then Walter and I retired to the ground floor where a log fire was burning on the hearth.

'You slipped out during my speech, Denis.'

'I checked the basement. A few glasses broken.'

'Subsidence. The poplars around the building draw water to themselves in a drought, the clay shrinks, the house subsides. Some morning you will come around and the residence will have sunk out of sight, drowned in its own swimming pool.'

'You still swim in the mornings, Ambassador?'

'At seven thirty each morning, Pierre unlocks the door for me and hands me heated bath towels and my dried, and ironed, swimming gear. I have said that I do not like hot towels, that I do not need to have my shorts pressed. Gül, he says, insists.'

'Maybe you shouldn't go down there alone until we find out what is happening.'

'I'm a materialist. If I ever meet with an accident, Denis, don't blame ghosts.'

The Countess joined us. Pierre brought fresh orange juice and coffee. I felt a rush of affection for the three of them.

'What I would really like,' said the Countess 'is a glass of Château Fontenoy. Have we got any left, Pierre?'

'Several bottles, Madame.'

'We will each have a glass. You will join us, Pierre, if you please. Don't stand on ceremony with Denis. He is one of the family.'

I had taken enough wine for one night but how could I refuse?

'I was afraid that we would not have enough for the dinner,' she continued 'so I bought some, at enormous expense, locally. I hope the Customs will clear our supplies soon.'

I hope so too but I anticipate more delay. Walter knows very well that the present system is a continuation of the Ottoman system where the official had to make his own wages from a client's subscriptions, yet he refuses to make the necessary payment or allow me to do so.Pierre joined us. The firelight flamed in our glasses.

'Delightful,' murmured Walter.

I thought it was a very good wine and said so. Pierre sipped, paused and sipped again. The Countess held some in her mouth and seemed to be swishing it around inside. Then her eyes sought out Pierre's and I saw her eyebrows elevate slightly. Pierre's rose in response.

'It has body,' said Walter. All his attention was on the wine and he did not see, as I did, the flash of intelligence that passed between his wife and the cook, the flash of fury that lit her eyes and reddened her face.

'Too excellent for words,' said Pierre dryly and I could see that he was willing the Countess to keep calm. She put down her glass with a thump and took several deep breaths.

'Denis, my love, you look tired.'

I said that she looked wonderful, as indeed she did. Her face glowed with contained temper. She patted her cheek and said that she had found a fantastic beauty salon. Just one trip a week kept her from looking like a witch.

I wonder what the fuss about the wine meant. My own palate, though improving, is not attuned to the finest nuances. Perhaps Pierre served it a degree too warm or too cold or handled it incorrectly in some way. Maybe the Countess detected some deterioration in quality under M. d'Aubine's stewardship. A locally purchased bottle may have suffered in transit. But why had she fumed in silence. It was unlike her.

The _oeufs surprises_ did not agree with me. I dreamed I was posted, as Ambassador, to China and required to eat a 'hundred-year-old egg' before I could present my credentials. Walter may also have slept uneasily. He came to work late, looking green, and didn't go out to lunch. His mood is grimmer than it was last night.

'It is time to get rid of the disturbances in the basement once and for all,' he said crossly. 'Denis, find the address of the Society for Research into Psychic Phenomena. I'll write to them today.'

'British or American?'

'British. They have more experience.'

Did I tell you, Madeline, that I have a fifteen-minute Turkish lesson, before work, with Ayse, our local secretary, most mornings? It is far more convenient than attending a class. The unsettling news is that Félix d'Aubine has returned to Ankara. I went to inspect the new plasterwork in the residence this morning and let myself in the front door. There was a thundering row in progress on the upper balcony. Certain members of the Spouses Association call Colette 'the Fishwife'. Her voice has a carrying quality more common in American women. I couldn't help overhearing as she yelled ' _Escroc!_ ' The man's voice was less distinct but as he retreated down the stairs, and I saw that it was her cousin. The Countess berated him from above as he descended. I retreated, unseen, to the guest cloakroom. M. d'Aubine left, pursued by a final ' _Merde!_ ' as he pulled the door shut.

I was delighted, Millicent. I have been plagued by doubts since you asked me if the Countess might have been implicated in M. d'Aubine's attempt on Walter. Pierre's reference to Madame's ''husbands'' took on a sinister meaning. I had begun to wonder how much Colette would inherit if Walter died, whether or not we might be dealing with three French adventurers engaged in serial killings for money. I had even got to the stage of wondering how much Walter would be worth in insurance and pension. I decided, as I listened to her voice that I had been unjust to her. She was truly, sincerely upset. There was no covert glee in her voice. She must have found out about his cowardly trick with the lights. I emerged from the cloakroom and collided with Orhan. He was dressed in overalls and covered in dust.

'Found anything yet, Orhan?'

'Denis, come and help us,' called the Countess from the stairs. I was saved by the doorbell.

'It is Colonel Barbellini, Madame.' said Orhan. 'I saw him come through from next door.'

' _Malédiction!_ ' growled the Countess. 'Hold him a moment, Denis. Orhan, disappear. No more work today.'

Gül opened the door and I sat with Barbellini and talked about the weather. He did not seem embarrassed by the bunch of pink roses he was holding. Was it a polite thanks for last Saturday's dinner or a tentative love offering? The Countess swept down the stairs and gushed over him and his flowers. I sought out Pierre in the kitchen and asked for coffee.

'I heard the row,' I said, as he ground the beans.

'A trifling disagreement about wine.'

'About the Château wine?'

'About a local _vin de table_.'

He gave me my coffee but excused himself from further conversation on the grounds that he must concentrate on a delicate culinary process. I inspected the recently completed plasterwork. It seems to be smooth enough. I wish they would tackle the roof.

When I returned to the office, I told Walter that d'Aubine was back in town.

'So Colette told me.'

'She had a row with him in the residence just now.'

'They row regularly. Virtuoso performances, enjoyed by both.'

'What precautions will you take?'

'Félix knows that Colette will get a copy of the photograph and a report from the detective agency, if I meet with an accident.'

'Did you tell her that he tried to break your neck on the stairs?'

'Of course I didn't, Denis. He will be sensible. Think it through. Colette has no other close relation. She has always relied on him. They were kissing cousins in their teens, I believe. Now he manages Château Fontenoy as if it were his own.' 'Isn't that the point? Doesn't he want it for his own? And isn't the way to ownership through Colette.' 'Denis, Félix may delude himself that Colette would turn to him if I were eliminated. I know better.'

'Or fancy you do!' I said to myself, as I turned away.

'As a young man about to be married, you should be prepared to believe in domestic felicity,' was his parting shot.

Dear Millicent, I was somewhat taken aback this morning on entering the office to find Orhan Ahmet caressing our secretary Ayse Kiraç, who did not seem to be discouraging him. Perhaps I misunderstood the nature of the gesture. It is only three weeks since they met for the first time. Massaging her head to cure a toothache seems to be excessively familiar behavior, in an office context. I offered her a couple of painkillers, for which she thanked me. Orhan turns his hand to every task: telephonist, translator, waiter, negotiator, postman, typist, cleaner. Now he is both toothache-curer to Ayse and part time researcher for Mrs. Brown. He spent yesterday afternoon in the city offices looking for the marriage certificate and the death certificate of our landlord's mother. The Countess sent him on that errand. Why she did so, I have no idea; she now considers me too 'mundane' for confidences. Generally, one trusts a man to know whether his mother is alive or not and Mr. Muftu said that his mother was alive. The crazy thing is that Orhan did find Mrs. Muftu's death certificate. Why did Mr. Muftu claim that she was alive but 'never goes out'? And why did the Countess doubt this and start investigating. Orhan only told me about the business because he has to account to me for his timetable. I have warned him that tasks undertaken for the Countess should not be done on office time. Though he is diligent and dependable, he treats his duties lightly, almost as if he were playing a game. Walter's lack of gravitas results in skittishness on the part of his driver. I hope Colette doesn't exhume the landlord's mother in our residence. I have been reading in Edith Sitwell's _English Eccentrics_ that in the eighteenth century Miss Beswick, a Manchester spinster, left her fortune to Dr. Charles White on condition that she should not be buried after what appeared to be her death and that he should pay her a visit every morning. She resided in his attic, embalmed, for nearly eighty years. There is no mummy in our attic. I checked. If there were, Colette would smell it out. If only she rested occasionally and gave the rest of us a rest.

Pierre, though devoted to her, is sometimes sufficiently exasperated to tell me of the latest contretemps. She commandeers what are admittedly her own supplies, when she considers that some poor family is in urgent need. This is no real problem when she confines her charity to hand outs from the store cupboard. One day last week, Pierre discoverd, just before the guests arrived, that four individual servings of _Coquilles St. Jacques_ , intended for lunch, were missing. How could he serve scallops to nine guests and something else to the remaining three? (He always has at least one 'spare'.) The alternative was to serve melon to everyone, and his melons were not yet _à point_. Pierre downed tools. The Countess said that a self-respecting cook would allow more than one spare helping and why should the poor get only tinned salmon. If Pierre could not see reason, she would ask the local butcher to send up deep fried sheep's trotters for a first course.

The lunch was for a visiting Irish banker and a delegate from the Turkish Central Bank. We hope for joint financing of one of the Turko-Irish industrial projects that Walter is promoting. I was unaware of problems until Gül rang to ask me to mediate.

'Thaw something fishy, Gül, serve it in scallop shells, dressed to look like the others.'

'But we do not have shells,' she wailed. 'Shall I pipe _pomme duchesse_ around saucers?'

I remembered the shells you picked up one evening on Sandymount Strand, Millicent, and gave me to use as ashtrays. I rushed them to the residence and they saved the day.

An inspector from the Society for Research into Psychic Phenomena is to come to the residence, next week, at Walter's request. It is a scientific society. Its reports, to date, would not encourage belief in the supernatural. Researchers have uncovered chicanery, self-delusion, occasional unexplained incidents but no evidence of genuine extra-sensory phenomena. I regret that I won't meet the representative. I'll be in Istanbul.

'You still think the noises are caused by subsidence?' I asked Walter.

'I'm afraid not,' he said grimly. 'I think I know what causes them, but I'd prefer to have someone else find out.'

'The shadow of a crime committed here in the past?'

'No, Denis. The only crime committed here will be committed in the future.'

It was lightly said but there was an incisive quality in his voice.

Millicent, I have just returned from Istanbul. I bought you a rug in the bazaar there. It a small, but genuine, hand-knotted woolen rug, in natural colours. The salesman assured me that it was made from 'live sheep'. Ayse says that sheared wool is considered livelier for carpets than wool salvaged from skins. So there you are; a handsome bedside mat which is still, in some dimension, trotting around the hills. Colette had given me a list of books she wanted from the 'Crusoe' bookshop on Istical Cadessi. I brought them to the residence this evening. She thanked me but seemed abstracted.

'Did the person from the Psychic Research Society come?' I asked Pierre when I brought him his spices from the bazaar.

'Yes.'

'What did he find?'

'Madame has not said.'

'Has anything happened since?'

'I served a cheese soufflé for lunch today and it was perfection.'

I couldn't face grammar this morning, so I brought Ayse for an early coffee instead. I have offered to help her with her English studies in return for her coaching in Turkish. She is studying the Portuguese Sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Walter called me into his office and shut the door. He looks pale and tired.

'I asked the Psychic Research man for an oral report, so there is nothing on file,' he said. 'He found an assortment of wires and pulleys, devices capable of creating the phenomena we witnessed.'

'Who was responsible?'

'Do you need to ask?'

'Why should she play ghost?'

'She embodies the restless, enquiring, playful, creative aspect of humanity. She is the eternal monkey, Pandora opening the box daily. She believed in a ghost to begin with, then began to play themes on the subject.'

'No,' I said instantly, instinctively. 'She might play ghost once or twice ... but to persist, to rig up and use elaborate devices over a period? She would have become bored within a week. She would have exploded the ghost publicly and gleefully.'

'The experience may have been addictive.'

'Did the inspector find evidence of any kind of psychic manifestation that could not be explained by the devices?'

'He didn't. How could he?'

'Did you question Orhan? He must have helped her. She is not mechanically minded.'

'Colette took complete responsibility. I didn't feel it to be appropriate, after that, to question Orhan.'

It is all very well for an Ambassador to be so nice in his behavior, Millicent, but a third secretary, who is responsible for the nuts and bolts of the system has to be more particular. I decided to interrogate Orhan.

'Mrs. Brown couldn't have initiated the business.' I reminded Walter. 'The Ambassador of Portugual claimed that the house was haunted. I myself felt a degree of psychic unease there. Mrs. Brown saw a figure, which did not exist, in the pool.'

'Colette believed that she was lending substance to a ghost, rather than creating one,' said Walter. 'She regrets the excessive disturbance during the recent dinner party. She planned a mild diversion as a conversation piece but overestimated the degree of force necessary. The failure of the lights was coincidental.'

I didn't know what to say.

'Don't worry, Denis. Colette is the fizz in the stagnant water of existence. Without her, champagne would be flat. She has undertaken to have a successful exorcism next week while I am away. I would take it kindly if you could attend.'

'Why not let the matter drop? If nothing further happens, people will forget the business.'

'If there is no resolution, we will be asked continually about our ghost. I think, Denis, that you should try for a mock-serious atmosphere. After all it was a relatively benign ghost and we don't want to bring bell, book and candle to exorcise it. A good supply champagne, music and some very good hors d'oeuvres...'

It is late as I write. I have unpleasant thoughts. The most definite result of the 'haunting' was to have the basement locked up from dusk until the Ambassador's early morning swim. The Countess, with the key to the side door in her pocket, would have a quiet and private place at her disposal. Until now I believed her sensuousness to be innocent. Now, I can see where and how she could translate flirtatious behaviour into something less innocent. The fat white sofa by the bar might have been a love nest. But was it Barbellini, or her cousin, or another who joined her there? If anyone did.

'Why did the Countess play ghosts?' I asked Pierre. 'She assisted the ghost to manifest itself from the very highest of motives,' Pierre assured me. Her confession to the Ambassador was, also, designed to deflect attention from something of transcendent importance. So Madame has told me.'

'Might she have created the ghost in order to keep the basement empty because she was meeting a lover there?'

'Madame is honourable. She might permit herself a modicum of physical expression with M. d'Aubine. He predates the Ambassador and will postdate him. But why precipitate matters for a little _frisson_? They are not children to sport in the hay.'

'Orhan helped her.'

'Orhan, when I spoke to him, told me to stick to cookery.'

At lunchtime I invited Orhan to join me in the local kebab shop. I asked him if he had helped to fake the ghost.

'How can I answer such a question, my friend?'

'I believe that you installed the apparatus that the inspector found.'

'Denis, don't take this the wrong way. I am much obliged to you and in any other matter I would take great pains to assist you, but on this topic I will speak only to the Ambassador or Mrs. Brown.'

I couldn't get anything more out of him.

The ghost, my dear Millicent, has been exorcised. The Countess invited me to the event. She said that business dress would be appropriate. Light refreshments would be served. I ask her if she really believed there was something to exorcise.

'But of course, Denis. There is always the Devil. Come early and get a good seat.'

I anticipated something in the nature of a brief religious ceremony, a general blessing of the house and its inhabitants, with no indiscreet references to recent happenings. I knew that Monsignor de Grace, the Papal Nuncio, could carry off the business with aplomb. He was present, but he did not seem aware that he was to officiate at a ceremony. The Imam of the local mosque arrived. So did a Methodist minister who is visiting relations in Ankara. The Countess had decided on a concelebrated ritual and required me to inform the celebrants accordingly.

I think I controlled the damage. They agreed with me that she had acted in innocence. All three would withdraw immediately and quietly, before they could be put on the spot. The Countess, when she saw her exorcists escape, felt that I could not have explained what she required of them.

'You will have to officiate yourself, Denis. You were an altar boy once, weren't you? I'll find you some holy water. An exorcism we must have, for Walter's sake.''Your spiritualist friend, Miss Steele, is here...'

The lady agreed. Colette relayed her instructions.

'Miss Steele says all guests must, please, sit in a circle and join hands. We must put out the light.'

There were nine of us.

'Denis, sit on my left. Colonel Barbellini, sit on my right.'

Pierre and Gül stood to attention by the side with brandy and glasses on a trolley, 'in case anyone is overcome.' Orhan stood in the doorway. I caught his eye. It twinkled. I frowned. Miss Steele twittered a little about her lack of experience, but was clearly delighted with her role. She told me afterwards that she was disappointed that the ministers of religion had been called away. She would have enjoyed co-operating with them. The Countess made a pious statement about peace between this world and the next. She held my right hand firmly. The Colonel held her right hand, pressed to his knees. Across the circle from us sat Angelina Barbellini, who had been placed between the medium and a friend of hers. I could feel Angelina's eyes sending darts of fire across the circle and wondered if she would remain seated if her hands had not been held firmly by two determined ladies.

The ghost responded to our minute of silent concentration with creaks and groans of the type that one associates with central heating pipes. Orhan was no longer to be seen. Some tinny plosive sounds came from near at hand. If you read Dorothy Sayers's account of Wimsey's Miss Climpson, as medium you will understand why I would have liked to run my hand along the Countess's inner leg. I am sure I would have found an empty tin box. A door banged below.

'I have done it,' cried the exorcist. 'You are free at last'

'Thank you,' said the Countess, blowing kisses in all directions.

The lights were switched on. Pierre raised the lids from dishes on the hostess trolley, releasing savoury smells. Colette invited Angelina to partake of refreshments. Angelina glared at her and stalked out. The Colonel stayed. I had to return to the office.

'So, our ghost is laid,' I said to Colette on my way out.

'Oh no,' she said. That was just for Walter's sake. The ghost is alive and well and living here still, Denis.' Truly, Millicent, she is impossible.

I'm just in from a Turkish/Austrian celebration of a joint archaeological venture in the Phrygian highlands. Walter invited me to join him and some others for supper in the Anatolia but I came home instead. I'm a bit hungry since I'm never sufficiently at ease at receptions to eat enough. Colette wasn't there. I think she had to go to a ladies' meeting about animal welfare. Félix d'Aubine put in a brief, late appearance in his capacity of local agent for an Austrian wine merchant. He was the tallest, portliest, most snazzily dressed man there. He stayed well away from Walter but cornered me to tell me that he loves W.B. Yeats. He recited a verse from 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree' with Gallic élan and not much concern for accuracy, waving a chicken wing in time with the metre. I told him that I don't much like Yeats. He asked me to convey his regards to Colette, glanced at his watch – an ostentatious model – tut-tutted and began to move away.

'Seven thirty-five. I'll have to run. Isn't this archaeological co-operation exciting. Walter looks a bit peakish. He should get more exercise. Wonderful evening.'

The Barbellinis were there.

### Chapter 9

Dear Millicent, It is late as I write and I am very disturbed. You may have sensed this when we spoke on the phone. I was anxious to reassure you; yet unable to do so, since I could not talk of the real issue. We are trying to keep it quiet for the moment to see if it can be resolved without publicity. To put it bluntly, it seems as if the Countess ran off with Orhan Ahmet yesterday. I had no idea that she was enamoured of him. There may be an alternative explanation: a kidnapping, double amnesia, an undiscovered accident. I am afraid that it is more likely to be love.

I feel sorry for Walter at the personal level. It is also unfortunate from a national point of view that something like this should happen, just as we were beginning to establish the Irish Embassy as one of the significant ones in Ankara. That she is French and he is Turkish will not be considered. The diplomatic community is as addicted to gossip as any gaggle of old ladies after ten o'clock mass. I'll tell you the story as it unfolded. This morning I felt frowsy, under the weather. The novelty of having a proper office has worn off. The air conditioning doesn't work; the windows won't open. Orhan hadn't put out the flag. Ayse came in and made tea. She was out of sorts too. Walter rang around ten thirty. He wished to speak to Orhan. I told him that Orhan had not yet come in. He asked me to check if the car was outside the office. It was not.

'Is it not at the residence, Ambassador?'

'It isn't. Is it due for a service?'

'No. It has just had one after the running-in period.'

'Get Orhan to ring me when he turns up.'

Orhan should have parked the car, as usual, at the residence last evening and been there again this morning, at nine, to drive Walter to the office.

'Did he collect you from the restaurant last evening, Ambassador?'

'No. I told him at lunchtime that he could go home after bringing Colette to the Netherlands residence and back. I walked home from the office and got a lift to the Austrian reception from the Barbellinis.'

'Was the car at the residence when you returned?'

'I came through from the Italians' garden – they also gave me a lift home – and in the front door. I didn't go around to the carport.'

'Perhaps Orhan has gone on an errand for Mrs. Brown?'

'Pierre has not seen Colette since lunchtime yesterday. I spoke to her yesterday morning. Gül brought up a tray this morning. Colette wasn't in her room and hadn't slept there.'

That they might have eloped did not yet occur to me. I thought that the car might have been hijacked. We are not primary targets for kidnappers but we might have become acceptable if other embassies had upped their security measures. I wanted to say that someone should stay by the phone in case a message came, but my voice trailed off. If Walter had not yet considered that Colette might have been taken hostage, I did not want to shock him.

'If Orhan rings, let me know,' he said. 'I'll stay here for a while, in case a message comes through.'

Ayse rang the garage. The car had not been left in for a minor repair. She rang the hospitals to enquire about admissions following accidents on the roads. Turkish highways are racing tracks at night; obstacles provided by unlit, slow-moving agricultural vehicles. She rang the _kapici_ in Orhan's apartment building and he knocked on Orhan's door. No answer. My first suspicion was that Colette had run off with Barbellini, and employed Orhan to drive them. The ghost business could have caused a greater rift with Walter than I realised. Her vaunted lack of regard for Barbellini might have been camouflage. I rang his office on the pretext of asking permission for our landlord's workmen to cross into his garden while erecting the fence. Barbellini was at his desk, in an affable mood and invited me to a bridge party. I dislike bridge.

Ayse says I look wretched. She insisted that I put sugar in my tea today. I have got used to sipping it, black, out of a tulip-shaped glass, avoiding, as you recommended, sugar lumps. Ayse stirs two into hers on a good day and three if things are going contrary. Today she put in four. I checked Orhan's schedule for yesterday. In the morning he drove Walter to a meeting in the Ministry of Agriculture. He brought the Countess to her beauty parlour at three and returned to the office. From five thirty to six fifteen he delivered invitations and collected messages. (Ayse verified this. I left just after five in order to wash and shave before the Austrian reception.) Orhan would have lowered the tricolour before driving to the Residence and parking the car. After getting something to eat he would drive Colette to the Netherlands Embassy for eight o'clock.

'I can ring them and ask if Mrs. Brown put herself down for a subscription in aid of stray dogs,' Ayse offered.

'Mrs. Brown didn't attend the meeting,' she reported a few minutes later, as she put down the phone.

Ayse looks tearful. I wonder how fond she is of Orhan. Any young man can be a target for extremists these days if he has clothes or hairstyle, gait or demeanour that suggest allegiance to the opposition. Perhaps Orhan was the victim of an attack, the Countess an unintended casualty.

I rang Hotel Ulus where M. d'Aubine was staying.

'M. d'Aubine has just gone out.'

'Did he check out?'

'No.'

'Please ask him to ring the Irish Embassy when he returns.'

Walter rang again. Would I go down to the residence immediately? I was there within ten minutes. Ali came out of his sentry box, as if he wanted to talk to me, but I did not delay.

'Ambassador is upstairs. Please go up,' said Gül.

I had never seen him so dishevelled.

'Denis, I hoped that Félix d'Aubine would know something. I got through to him just now. It is several days since he spoke to Colette and he knows nothing about any plan to go out of town. I spoke to the policeman outside, the tall one, Ali. He says that Orhan drove the car in last evening shortly after I left, at six thirty-five. Orhan was alone in the car coming in. He left just before eight. Colette was in the car then.'

'She had an engagement with the Dutch spouse for eight, Ambassador, but she didn't attend. Perhaps she decided to go to an event in Istanbul and forgot to tell you. There is a jazz festival there at present.'

'Orhan would check with me before going anywhere.'

Of course he would, Millicent. Even if the Countess neglected to inform the household of her movements, Orhan would have obtained Walter's sanction before such a departure from routine. For all that he has been too willing to facilitate her figaries, Orhan is anxious to keep his job.

'I have an appointment at the Ministry at eleven thirty.'

'You should keep it, Ambassador. Let me arrange a car.'

Ayse rang a firm that provides cars for weddings and funerals and I saw him off.

The Countess must be in her mid-thirties, at least ten years older than Orhan. The suspicion that they might have eloped I rejected, at first, as ridiculous but, as the day advanced and there was no communication from either of them or from a hostage-taker or casualty ward, it reintroduced itself. The gold and ghost hunt was camouflage, mere cuckoospit, a trick to enable them to spend hours together. Would they really have the gall, Millicent, to swim, make love, play ghosts and return upstairs to their respective roles without showing any guilt? I can't tell. There has always been something theatrical about Orhan and the Countess is unpredictable.

I went to the kitchen. The Colette's breakfast tray was still on the counter.

'I do not like to put it away,' said Gül. 'that is to end hope. Where is she, Denis?'

I asked Pierre when he had last seen her.

'Yesterday Gül and I were preparing _petits fours_ for today's "tea". Madame came in and had tea and biscuits before going out with Orhan at three o'clock. We worked until after eight. Madame did not come to the kitchen. I retired to my room at about eight.'

'I went to watch my television at about half eight. I don't think Madame came in late. She would have prepared a nightcap for herself in the kitchen. There would have been the glass on the drainer in the morning.'

'Did you look for a letter, Pierre? Is there any chance she left a letter?'

'Gül, look again if Madame left a message anywhere.'

'Did she bolt with Orhan?' I asked when Gül had left.

It was a relief to say it to someone.

'Not with Orhan. No.'

He must have felt it was an unconvincing 'No' because he repeated it. 'No. He is insufficiently mature. The worry I have about Orhan and Madame is a different one. If they found gold...'

'There was no gold to find, Pierre.'

'Suppose that there was. Madame, being feminine to excess, has excellent instincts. Suppose that there was gold and that they found it. What would happen?'

'The Countess would return it to the landlord.'

'Exactly. If Orhan coveted it, he would have to kidnap Madame to keep her quiet and take the car to carry the gold away. Gold is heavy.'

It is dreadful, my dear Millicent, to have no grounds on which to dismiss a theory, no matter how outlandish it seems.

I decided to search the house. Pierre came with me. We began at the top and checked quickly through two guest bedrooms that are used as separate studies. I didn't like intruding in Walter's study but Pierre threw open the door. The room was awash with papers and books. I backed out quickly.

There were books and papers on the Countess' desk also. A drawer in the desk was stuffed with letters and bills. I noted draft copies of a letter to the Ankara Municipal Authorities from the Diplomatic Spouses in Support of the Ankara anti-dump Committee, Hon, Sec. Colette Brown. I saw prescriptions, a Maryland driving licence, several guest lists, bills, receipts, a letter from M. d'Aubine on new French regulations on wine labels. I dumped everything back and shut the drawer. The situation is not yet sufficiently serious to warrant serious prying into the Countess' correspondence.

I looked at her bookshelves: books on Turkey, biographies – Jeanne d'Arc, Kemal Attatürk, Florence Nightingale, Constance Markievicz. _The Complete Bridge_ _Player_ was wedged between two first aid manuals. Mail order catalogues, Advanced Yoga....

'Are you searching for something to read?' snarled Pierre.

'One can learn a lot about a person by looking at their bookshelves.'

He snorted and plucked a bunch of wilting roses from their vase high on the window ledge. (Flowers don't last well here, Millicent. Most of them come from Holland and suffer in transit.)

'Who gives her red roses?'

'Gül buys all the flowers for the house in Ulus and arranges them. Madame cannot arrange flowers. They fall over.'

Pierre carried the withered flowers with him. The smell of decaying roses hung over us. It is an offensive smell. I even dislike rosewater. It stinks of rotten petals and I loathe food prepared with it. I felt that the sickly-sweet odour that accompanied us was the breath of the house itself. I opened the wardrobe.

'Why has she got so many tin whistles?'

'For the Irish Stall at the International Women's Bazaar.'

'Fifty first-aid kits? Boxes of _carraigín_ moss? Guinness tea-shirts? All for the bazaar?'

'The Ambassador is to sell Irish Coffee.'

I reached for a bundle on the upper shelf and yelped as a head rolled out and fell at my feet, detaching itself, as it did so, from a flowing wig of red hair.

'Madame's best wig,' said Pierre, picking it up and settling it back on a plastic skull.

'If she planned to go away, Pierre, wouldn't she have tidied up?'

'Madame never tidies up. She would consider it an affectation. I'll show you the bedrooms.'

Walter's bedroom reeked of paint. It was as monastic as possible, given the extravagant style of the fittings. He had contented himself with the narrow mattress-on-base provided by the department and had taped the rollers to prevent it from sliding around the wooden floor. The baroque bathroom was tamed by a neat arrangement of razor, shaving mug, brush and toothbrush. No other items were on display. Pierre opened the medical chest. My eyes were drawn to the shelves for a moment. There was nothing of a toxic nature there, only a large number of stomach preparations for use in either condition.

'The Ambassador eats out often,' Pierre said dryly.

Next-door, the Countess had revelled in the baroque nature of the appointments adding her own extravagances in the shape of two enormous china lions, one on either side of her bed. Many of the statues of Neolithic Goddesses discovered in Turkey have attendant lions. The Countess had chosen ostentatious and colourful ones. Pierre shouted for Gül and asked her if anything, especially clothing or jewelry had been taken away. She pulled back the doors of the wall-length _garde-robe_ and exposed an enormous collection of garments. The question would be almost impossible to answer.

'Jewelry?'

'In the bank, except for what she woremost often.'

Gül pulled out a bedside drawer and opened a jewelry box.

'This isn't solid gold, just plated. Madame said that everyone would presume the Ambassador's spouse wore gold, so she didn't have to. Only her wristwatch and some of her rings that she wore every day were valuable. She is wearing these things now, since they are not beside the bed. I never saw that case before,' she said, pointing to a wooden box the size of a flute case. The inside was lined with blue satin. There was one dainty gun inside and an empty form for another. I confess, Millicent, that for a moment I felt a pang of envy. Wouldn't it be exciting to head off from all that is stale and familiar carrying only pistol and toothbrush?

'Did you ever see this gun before now, Gül?'

'No, but I am not allowed to tidy Madame's things until she does a 'spring clean'.

'Did she ever mention guns to you, Pierre?'

'Not since I assisted her in shooting pheasants, when she was at the Château, on holidays from school. Her rifles are at the Château.'

The existence of one gun and the possibility that Colette had taken its companion with her should not be given undue importance, my dear Millicent. Guns are easy to buy in Turkey and are fired in the air at weddings or after football victories. She may have carried it for protection or perhaps she decided that an elopement deserves a few shots in the air.'

'Did she take her toothbrush? '

Gül looked in the bathroom and said that a toothbrush was in the stand. Millicent, if you were eloping would you bring your old toothbrush with you or would you feel you should have a new one?'

'Gül, where does she keep her keys, purse, papers?'

'In her handbag.'

Gül opened a door and displayed a shelf of handbags ranging from a stamp-sized model in gold filigree to a strong leather case that would swallow an overnight kit.

'Madame's favourite of the moment isn't here. You remember it, Denis _Bey_? Madame had it made for her by a bag-maker in Ulus from a photograph in a fashion magazine. Large, very soft leather, raspberry pink, gilt trim. Madame carries it as a joke.'

'It may not be so distinctive. I noticed an old lady on Tunali Hilmi with a bag like that.'

'When?' Pierre snapped.

'A week or so ago.'

He made a rude noise.

'Does Madame carry her passport in her bag?' I asked Gül.

'She keeps her passport in the drawer of the locker.'

It was in its usual place. So was her chequebook. I opened the passport. The Countess is forty. Pierre and I continued our tour of the house. On the way downstairs I stood by the balcony.

'Don't stand there Denis. One gets _vertige_ by doing that,'

'Did you ever get _vertige_ at this particular point, Pierre?'

He gave me a dirty look and grunted. I think, as grunts go, that it was an assenting grunt. We worked our way down to the door leading to the basement and the pool. Here and there black marble tiles were dull rather than shining. They had been taken up and re-laid ever so slightly out of line with the others so that they caught the light at a different angle.

'Could she really have found gold, Pierre?'

'She has been merry recently, like a child with a secret.'

'You begin over there and I will start over here.'

'What are we looking for, Denis?'

'Granny's hidey hole.'

Pierre sniggered.

I felt excessively stupid as I worked my way along the wall. Each 'if' in the chain of ideas rattled in my head. If Granny Muftu has retained some of her gold - if she ever had possessed any- if she had buried it in the house, if she had protected it with postmortem materialisations, if the Countess had found it and if Orhan had stolen it, surely no evidence of its existence would be allowed to remain. Each rapped tile sounded like every other rapped tile.

'Come here Denis.' Pierre said urgently. He was kneeling beside the bar and poking at the bottom shelf.

'When you close the door of the bar, this little nail rises up here, which helps you remove this little piece of wood...so that when you open the door again you have leverage – _et voilà_! – the bottom lifts out.'

There was a cavity underneath, the size of a small coffin.

'Run up to the kitchen, Monsieur Denis, and fetch the torch.'

We swept the cavity with the torch beam. Nothing.

'Yet it is not quite nothing, Denis. The police will find molecules of gold.'

'– and fingerprints.'

'For that hole, full of gold I, myself, might do murder,' he said reverently, 'then Liliane and her _dot_ might go to...'

I examined all the edges and angles in the area.'What are you looking for?''A hair, a button, a bit of fluff.'

'How convenient that would be.'

'We shed bits of ourselves continuously.'

I found nothing. I wish you were here, dear Millicent. Your calm good sense would control the wilder speculations of a temperamental French cook and an excessively imaginative third secretary. Pierre led the way to the laundry.

'Madame changes here after working in the garden and when she is going out to feed the goats'

In one corner lay nondescript female apparel and a pair of muddy shoes.

'There is something missing,' said Pierre. His voice, normally flickering with inflexions like his best kitchen knife, was flat and heavy.

'What is it?'

'Madame found a long black garment here when she arrived. She occasionally wore it as a disguise.'

'Fancy dress?'

'As a disguise when she didn't want to be Mrs. Brown. It was her _passe-partout_. She could slip out the side door, go through the vacant lot to the upper road and take a _dolmouche_ into Ulus. She was magnificent. Anyone would swear she was an elderly half-crippled Turkish peasant.'

I remembered, with chagrin, dear Millicent the old woman in black with the flashy pink handbag bag who had pressed a peppermint on me and goosed me outside the silversmith's, the day I bought you the silver pomander.

'Madame was too restricted by diplomacy. She needed to wander around the city incognito.'Yesterday was Tuesday. It was after a meeting of European Heads of Mission, always held on a Tuesday, that I swallowed the peppermint.

'Did she do her flitting on a particular day of the week?''Madame flitted when she felt like it. The big yellow hat she wore in the garden is also missing.'

'She chose an odd costume in which to disappear – a long black robe, a yellow hat and a pink bag.'

'Madame was always original. You asked about days of the week. I remember now that after her beauty parlour on Tuesdays she sometimes returned, late in the black thing.'

We continued up the stairs to the room used by Orhan. The calm blue eye looked at us, blandly, from his door. There were traces of mud on the telephone and muddy tracks from the garden door to the table.

'It hasn't rained recently.'

'Orhan must have watered the geraniums before he left.'

'And come back in a hurry to make a phone call?'

There was a row of books on an improvised shelf. Alongside the mystical poems of Mevlana Rumi, the dervish there was a British SAS training manual. One wall was covered with a map of Ankara, another with a map of Turkey. There was a small shelf with an electric element, tea glasses and coffee cups – six of each – a supply of Turkish tea, the essential sugar cubes, coffee beans and a mortar. Pierre sniffed the beans and grunted approval.

'It is a consolation that he has a palate.'

No phone list. No notebook by the phone. We went out the side door, into the garden. A hibiscus bush looked a bit squashed. The geraniums were set in drying mud-plaster.

'Pierre, the Ambasador will have returned from the Ministry. I'll go to the office now and tell him about the cavity under the bar.'

'No Denis. I do not trust the Ambassador.'

'I take exception to that remark, Pierre.'

'The Ambassador moves in the real world. He scoffs at ghosts and invisible gold . He will seek a real world solution. It is probably there for finding, though insufficient to explain things completely. We will follow a trail of the imagination, of Madame's imagination. We have until noon tomorrow. That is when the Ambassador will call the police. Don't burden him with our speculations until then. Let him deal with facts.'

'He must be told.'

Pierre glared at me. I should not allow Pierre to influence my decisions, yet, I have a feeling that , knowing the Countess from childhood, his instincts may be better than mine.

'Did the Ambassador know that the Countess was in the habit of sneaking out in disguise?' I asked, postponing the decision as to whether I should tell or not tell. The Château mafia may, after all, be better placed to handle the affair with maximum aplomb and minimum veracity.

'It would not be an escape if the Ambassador knew about it.'

In any conflict of interest between the Ambassador and the French interest, Pierre will act for Countess, Château and M. d'Aubine. I'll have to watch him.

'If they found gold and Orhan stole it, he will release the Countess when he is safely away,' I said with a confidence I did not feel.

'Your deductive powers are wonderful, Denis.'

'I hope for a happy outcome.'

' _Je m'en doute_....'

'Why are you so pessimistic?'

'This house is ill-omened. Bad will always become worse here. What do you want me to do about Afternoon Tea?'

The question was not as trivial as it might seem. It was past noon and a 'Mothers and Daughters Afternoon Tea party' was scheduled for four thirty. The current fund- raising fad is to provide Afternoon Tea for mothers and daughters in an Embassy. The Embassy provides cucumber sandwiches and the Ambassador's wife acts as hostess. The charity sells tickets to mothers with daughters.

'Twelve mothers and daughters, in aid of the Orphanage. The _petits fours_ are ready, but the mothers will express themselves if Madame does not appear. Do we cancel?'

We can't cancel without causing comment. I told him to go ahead. My mood has swung towards optimism. ''Fears may be liars'', as the poet said. It would be unlike Colette to neglect her mothers and daughters. She may turn up at any minute, claiming to have climbed Mount Olympus at dawn, or to have gone to Bolu for a breath of fresh air, or Istanbul for a haircut.

Pierre returned to his kitchen. I went to talk to the policemen at the gate. Both our regular sentries were there. The older horticultural policeman had come on duty and Ali had lingered. Walter's earlier questioning has given them something to talk about. In reply to my questions, Ali said that the car with the Countess as passenger, left, driven by Orhan, at eight last evening and has not returned. From the relish with which he says it, he suspects a romantic intrigue.

'She is visiting relations of hers,' I said, repressively. 'Did you speak to her?'

'Her window was closed. Orhan said good night to me.'

'How was she dressed?'

'She wore that big yellow hat which looks like a sunflower.'

'Was she in the passenger seat?'

'In the back.'

Would a woman, eloping with her driver, sit beside him or would she maintain the illusion of normality by sitting in the back? Why would she wear that outlandish sun hat?

'Did anybody, apart from the Ambassador, Mrs. Brown, and Orhan, go in or out since three o'clock yesterday?'

'Only the landlord and his workman. They came around four thirty. They left just after eight.'

Dear Millicent, I am back at my desk and I have Orhan's file in front of me, trying to find something that might help me to decide whether he is a villian or not. He looks honest in the photograph. He completed two years at Hacatepe University but left before taking a degree. He passed second year exams with distinction and intended to return to his studies when the universities were quieter and he had saved some money. While in Hacatepe he had been chairman of the inter-faculty debating society. That strikes me now with a significance that escaped me when I interviewed him. University debating societies are focal points for student unrest.

'Do you know any of Orhan's friends, how to contact them, how to contact his family?' I asked Ayse.

'The headman in his village has a phone. I'll see if I can get through to him.'

I rang Mr. Muftu on the pretext of asking when the repair work would be completed.

'Very soon.'

'Did Mrs. Brown tell you that she would prefer brilliant white to magnolia when you spoke to you yesterday?'

' Brilliant white, you said, brilliant white. Off white is better but, of course, the tenant always knows best.

''Mrs. Brown didn't express her preference when you spoke to her yesterday?'

The landlord had neither heard nor seen Colette when he was working in the residence.

It is now certain that no Ankara hospital has admitted either Orhan or the Countess. They can't have been merely overlooked. The Countess, in Casualty, could not fail to make an impression. None of Ayse's calls to Fatsa, Orhan's village, had been answered.

'It is spring. They are all out in the fields at this time of the day.'

She said it with a certain nostalgia. I remembered that Ayse's own romantic dreams might have been shattered by Orhan's disappearance.

'Would you prefer to tend hazel trees by the Black Sea coast than to work in this office, Ayse?'

She startled. I cannot tell whether it was because I hit the nail on the head or because I was very wide of the mark. You are the only woman, Millicent, whose thought processes I can understand.

'Ring the beauty salon, Ayse, and see if Mrs. Brown said anything about her plans to the assistant while having her treatment yesterday.'

'Which salon did she attend?'

Gül, found the number in the telephone book, kept in the hall of the residence. Ayse rang.

I could tell from her confusion that her polite enquiry was received with hilarity

'It is Rin Tin Tin, grooming salon for dogs. They will cut your hair only if you have four legs. Did Gül give you the wrong number?'

'No. It is one of the Countess's little jokes.'

'But the Countess always went to the salon on Tuesdays at three. Orhan was always engaged to bring her there. Where did they go?'

She looked so woebegone that I held her hand for a moment and wished you were there, my dear Millicent, to offer her consolation. I should have known that someone as self-satisfied as Colette would never feel she needed a beautician. She must have had - if you will pardon the vulgarity of the expression, other fish to fry.

Walter returned from the Ministry, seething. He was tired and grumbled about the 'Turkish imperial reflex'. I told him, as delicately as I could, about his wife's Tuesday escapades. It may have been her day for visiting the needy. I reminded him. Sometimes people prefer that their good deeds remain undetected. I thought of the food abstracted from Pierre's stores.

'Trust Colette to go in for cloak and dagger stuff. I'm glad she found escape routes. They are essential. I have my own.'

'What are they?' I asked, startled.

'Really, Denis! Let's stick to the matter in hand. Colette is a romantic. I hope she found her adventures satisfying.'

His voice was bland. I couldn't even begin to guess what he meant by 'adventures'. Did he mean sneaking out to buy a few oranges in Ulus, or to deposit Coquilles St. Jacques in an empty cupboard? Or did the word hold a more sinister meaning. I told him that Colette and Orhan had been searching for hidden treasure in the residence and that Pierre had found - empty - a secret hiding place under the bar by the pool. Walter listened impassively to my brief account of the gold hunt.

'Colette told me that the landlord's grandmother was supposed to have hidden gold in the house and that she hoped to find it. It was one of her fancies. I would be very surprised indeed if it turned out to be more than that.'

'Shouldn't we call the police now, Ambassador?'

'Not unless we find an indication that she went unwillingly. It would add to her negative feelings about diplomacy if we reported her missing because she took off for a few hours on her own.'

'There is the matter of the gun.'

'What gun?'

'Gül showed us a case, under the jewelry in Mrs. Brown's dressing table. There was a small gun in it and a space beside it for a companion piece, which wasn't there.'

'I'll have a look at it. It might jog some memory. I didn't think she had a handgun.'

'Ah those,' he said when I opened the box. 'I thought you meant a Browning, or something similar. This is really a toy. She mentioned, when we were still in the hotel, having bought two little antique pistols, as souvenirs, because of their intricate workmanship. I don't see any bullets. She probably never acquired any.'

I closed the drawer. I couldn't feel equally dismissive. A gun was missing.

'We have the Mothers and Daughters Afternoon Tea, at four thirty' I said apologetically. 'The Countess arranged it for this afternoon. I told Jean-Luc to go ahead with it. If she hasn't returned by four thirty, I'm afraid you will have to make a brief appearance, Ambassador, so that they don't feel cheated.'

Walter looked so haggard that I wondered if he would be able to charm the flock of ladies.

' Perhaps we should postpone....' I began.

'What? Scared of the Mammas? We will buy Colette a little time. Something has just occurred to me, Denis,' he said with the ghost of a smile. 'If Colette is in Ankara, she will be in the Ankara Palace right now, for the launch of the International Women's Bazaar. She is planning an Irish stall and she wouldn't want to let them fob her off with a poor site . I'll keep the Mothers and Daughters happy till you return. Go to the Ankara Palace. She may be there.'

The gala lunch was laid out, wilting, on long tables. The ladies, wilting, were listening to the guest of honour who had arrived an hour late. (It is local custom to delay all business until the guest of honour arrives.) The waiters, wilting, were lined up ready to meet a charge of hungry women. I stood among them, pleased, for once, to be undistinguished in appearance. The Countess wasn't in the hall. A queue formed as soon as the applause fizzled out. I asked the spouse of the Danish Ambassador - she is friendly and remembers me from one reception to the next - if she had seen Mrs. Brown.

'Colette? But I haven't seen her since...since....'

'Since bridge on Monday, perhaps?'

'She never comes to bridge now. I haven't seen her for quite a while.'

I moved along the queue until I came to Angelina Barbellini.

'I'm looking for Mrs. Brown.'

She gaped at me as if I had said something indecent.

'Did you see her today?'

'No.'

'Last evening?'

'No.'

'When did you last see her?'

'I don't want to hear anything about her. Go away.'

Her voice rose and the ladies in front of us looked around curiously.

'She has guests for afternoon tea, Mrs. Barbellini, and seems to have forgotten all about them,' I said, in the gentlest possible voice. 'I need to find her.'

She grabbed my sleeve, not to confide in me, as I imagined at first, but to steady herself. I know, Millicent, that you have scant sympathy with this kind of feminine sensibility, but I can assure you that Angelina really did need support. Only for a moment. Then she drew herself up and said with a dreadful smile that, of course, Colette was bound to turn up, soon. I excused myself and went to find the principal organiser. She told me that Colette had been expected but had neither come nor excused herself.

'She should have sent her number two,' she said sternly.

We got through the afternoon tea. Pierre was magnificent. Walter charmed the mummies and I allowed myself to be charmed by thirty young ladies aged between three and twenty-three. I had presumed that one young lady would accompany each mother. Colette had been more generous in interpretation. Pierre was obliged to raid his freezer.

Walter walked back to the office with me.

'I'll wait until tomorrow, Denis. At noon tomorrow we call the police.'

'Has she ever gone missing before this?'

'Colette is unconventional, Denis, as you may have perceived. She would not notice if I absented myself for forty-eight hours. She wouldn't worry until I had been gone a month.'

He cares more deeply for her than she does for him, I suspect.

'Women are difficult to understand, Denis.'

Isn't it sad, Millicent, that when men find one particular woman hard to understand, they blame the sex?

'What I cannot understand, Denis, is why Orhan has not contacted us. He is a sensible young man. I lent him Shaw's plays.'

My silence eventually conveyed my suspicions to him.

'Oh no, Denis, you really mustn't suspect them of having run off together. If Colette had fallen in love with the boy and he acquiesced, or reciprocated, we would know all about it. It would be full costume drama. She is a wealthy woman and wealth facilitates romance. I would not oppose her if she wanted a divorce. They have not run off together. After her fashion, she loves me, as I, God help me, have always loved her.'

As he spoke, I believed him to be right. Now, I have doubts. Orhan and the Countess are quite unsuited, yet in some antique sense I can see them as lady and troubadour. If you were forty, Millicent, and I remained twenty-eight, I would still love you to distraction. I can imagine, I think, a passion that burns regardless of consequences ... not something I would wish for ... something, indeed, to be prayed against. Someone as undisciplined as the Countess and someone as insouciant as Orhan might catch fire. The affair could seem as magnificent to them as it might seem sordid to outsiders. The circumstances are sufficiently bizarre to make them feel they had to elope. If that is what happened, I suppose we shall find out.

Ayse thinks we should go to see Merita, the saint to whom Mr. Muftu's grandmother is supposed to have donated her gold. Ayse thinks that Merita may tell us whether or not Selima Muftu gave all her gold to the building fund forty years ago.

'Merita won't answer questions about her finances, Ayse. Doesn't she claim to have been ''martyred'' by the government, gaoled for tax offences, bad-mouthed by the medical profession?'

Ayse stood her ground. I found myself agreeing to visit Merita, though I don't really expect answers from her. Before we left, Ayse tried again, unsuccessfully, to ring the headman in Orhan's village. We went in Ayse's car out along the road towards Gordion through fields of young, pale green wheat, broken by rocky outcrops and rows of poplars, to Altindäg where Merita lives beside the tomb of the saint, whose skills she inherited. The building that Muftu senior designed and his mother paid for, has in it, elements of mosque, church and sports complex.

Audiences are reserved for people in need of care, so Ayse said that I have an irregularity of the heart. The suggested donation was close to a consultant's fee, at home. We waited till called. Merita sat on something resembling a throne. She was an ordinary-looking elderly woman, neatly dressed. Ayse did the talking. I felt awkward and examined the inscriptions on the walls. Though I can now understand simple sentences, I can't decipher conversation. Merita seemed to like Ayse, who knelt at her feet. She called her 'my dear' and 'my daughter' and stroked her hair. She looked across at me and laughed several times. I caught an occasional word. They spoke rapidly, in low tones.

'Denis,' Ayse said eventually, 'you must come over here to Merita. She will first of all cure your pains. Then she will tell you of Selma Muftu's gold.

'What could I do but kneel down beside Ayse? When Merita put her hand on my head, I felt a surge of heat go through me and such a sensation of well-being as I have never felt before. It is crazy, probably psychosomatic, but there it is. Merita laughed loudly and said 'No more heart trouble. Relax. Fuss less. You will soon be made blissfully happy.' To Ayse she said: 'You will get what you want, my dear, but you could have asked for better.'

'Sit down, young man,' she continued, 'and I'll tell you about Selma's donation. It is fresh in my mind because I had a visit a month ago from the French Countess who asked the same question.'

'Did she....' I began, but Ayse nudged me to remain quiet.

'Selma _hanim_ was my first great cure. She gave everything she had to make this wonderful house for the poor of the city. I told her to keep some for her family but she said that her son's brains were of gold. To retain anything would show lack of faith. Everyone who finds peace here has cause to bless her. Her name is engraved there on the wall, forever.'

It was written in gold, appropriately enough.

'Did you tell the Countess there was no gold?' I asked.

Merita's face darkened.

'The woman demanded to see our accounts. She showed no reverence. My assistants helped her: I know nothing of financial matters. They showed her the records she wished to see. She did not deserve better.'

'Will you show us the same records, please?'

For a moment, Millicent, I felt gold fever too.Ayse entered into a rapid dialogue with Merita which left me entirely at a loss.

'You may see the records,' Ayse said eventually. 'but they are misleading. They were kept for the government.'

'The real record is here,' said Merita gesturing towards the golden roof. 'Everything is written in these walls. The labour, listed as voluntary in the books, was paid for by Selma's generosity. This is truly her monument.'

Selma Muftu could not have hidden gold in the residence. Though I had not quite adopted Pierre's theory, the loss of it left me nonplussed. I must have looked disappointed.

'Gold is, in itself, nothing,' the living saint said reprovingly.

As we drove back, Millicent, I told Ayse that Merita must have sensed my happiness in our engagement when she predicted bliss for me and I told her a little about you. I hoped that Ayse, in turn, might talk about Orhan.

'Merita said you would get what you wanted but that you could have asked for better,' I said. 'What do you think she meant?'

Ayse did not reply but she smiled. It is ridiculous to think that an old woman, however saintly could, by laying her hands on the head of a pretty girl with buckteeth, make her beautiful. Yet, caught in the slanting rays of the evening sun, Ayse was no longer the neat, pretty, efficient, helper that I have become used to but a startlingly beautiful woman. Perhaps she was transfigured by some promise of Merita's that Orhan would return safely.

The minute I got in, I checked with Walter. No developments. He still wants to wait until noon tomorrow before raising the alarm.

'Have you considered that they might have been taken hostage?'

Walter started to laugh in an odd, high-pitched way. I feared that he was becoming hysterical but he mastered himself and said, 'Most unlikely, Denis.

'Pierre was reading _Le Monde_ in the kitchen. He has forbidden Gül to vacuum, for fear the telephone should ring unheard. I told him that Granny's gold had been used up long ago, so Orhan hadn't taken car and Countess to facilitate its removal. He might not have accepted this if his theory had not suffered a blow in my absence. The landlord had come while I was away, inspected the hide under the bar and condemned it as shoddy, modern workmanship. He had been angry that the Portuguese had built it without his permission.

Pierre seemed anxious for company and gave me supper.

'You say Merita promised that you would soon be made blissfully happy, Denis. Does that worry you?'

'Why should it worry me?'

'I do not think I should like to have Merita promise me bliss. It would be unlikely, I think, to take any form I should recognise.

'I reminded him of my wedding plans. He offered me his felicitations correctly but without enthusiasm.

'You are a misogynist, Pierre.'

' _Au contraire_. I shall marry my cousin Liliane on June the fifteenth, nineteen seventy-five. It is arranged. We expect every happiness.'

For supper we had baklava from his private store, not the factory article but the real thing, buttery pastry flowing with nuts and honey.

'It is Gül's family recipe.'

There was a respect in his voice normally reserved for French cuisine.

I was too tense to sleep. Baklava, late in the evening, on an empty stomach, is not a good idea. I walked around the block. Here and there, friends of the policemen, who are on guard duty outside the various residences, gather round, brew tea and talk. Some of the sentry boxes are like little cafés, with customers sitting out on the pavement. I wish I didn't suspect them of being partisan and didn't believe, or half-believe, allegations of police brutality.

### Chapter 10

I went early to the office and put out the flag. As I struck yesterday's date off the desk calendar it hit me that today is Thursday. The Countess has not been seen since Tuesday. Walter came in at ten. At eleven thirty Ayse burst into Walter's office where we both sat drinking tea, having abandoned all pretence at work, waiting for the clock to reach noon.

'I got through to Orhan's village, to the headman, just now.' she said, breathlessly. 'I asked him if I could speak to Orhan Ahmet and he said that I could, if I wished, but that it was not a good idea because it would only excite him: was I the nurse from the clinic? Orhan Ahmet is the village _ahmak_ – simple minded – and he has never left home. I asked if anyone from the village had gone to Hacetepe University. He said that Derin Celebi had done so and had not turned out well, was wanted by the police. ''What would one expect?'' he said. His father before him was a Communist.'

'My God!' I said, 'Orhan is a Communst and has taken the Countess hostage.'

Ayse swayed against the desk. I jumped up and steadied her with an arm around her shoulder. Walter started to laugh. It was a horrid high-pitched howl that made my hair stand on end.

'Stop it,' I shouted at him and thumped the desk in front of him with his paperweight.

'Denis,' he sobbed, 'did you really hire a Communist activist who uses a false identity and is wanted by the police?'

I told Ayse to ring the police while I fetched Walter a glass of water. I don't think they recommend brandy for shock any more. Things clicked into place: Orhan's perennial attitude of mild amusement, his reticence, a touch of irony in his deference to the policeman's gardening advice, his choice of reading material, his grace as a chauffeur, which approached that of an actor playing a role to such perfection that it became an ironic comment on itself. Ayse returned.

'I spoke to the desk in the division that deals with political crime. Inspector Kadri Akin wishes to meet you in the residence directly. He speaks English.

'As we walked there, I tried to think of Orhan as the kind of person who would kill or kidnap for political reasons. I could only remember him drinking my health in _ayran_ in the kebab shop, quizzing me about Bernadette Devlin, putting out saucers of milk for the cats. The weather has turned thundery. My neck prickled as we went into the house. The hall door creaked.

'How much do we tell them, Ambassador?'

'Everything, Denis.'

'About the ghost?'

'That would not be relevant; no need to misdirect them.'

'About Mrs. Brown's row with M. d'Aubine?'

'That would be a red herring.'

'About the gun?'

'If they ask. Colette has been abducted by a left-wing militant. We answer questions fully and frankly but we won't clutter up the system with trivia.'

Walter shows signs of strain. He nicked himself when shaving and has ignored the flecks of blood on his collar. We waited in the house over an hour before the police arrived. By then Walter had become angry.

Detective Inspector Kadri Akin is tall, athletic-looking, extraordinarily handsome and has a great head of black, almost iridescent hair. He towered over both of us and I felt him to be even taller than he was because my imagination firmly fixed a hillman's turban on top of his head. He introduced himself, saying that he was from the division of the police with special responsibility for criminal political offences and the safety of diplomats. He is a Kurd who has spent some time in the United States. His manner irritated Walter, who became bossy and overbearing. The detective responded by turning officious. We spent an hour answering questions while Walter fumed at the delay.

'Send out an alert for the car, Inspector. We can answer these questions at any time.'

Walter's accent, which is normally refined Dublin, becomes quite British when he gets uppity, something to do with our colonial past, I suppose.

'At what time did you leave the office on Tuesday, your Excellency?'

'Early, because of the reception. Around four forty-five, I'd say.'

Walter glanced at me for confirmation.

'Yes. I was sorting the post, with Orhan, when you left. He went out with it just before five.'

'At what time did you get home?''Around half past five.'

'It took you rather a long time to walk a few hundred yards.'

Walter's jaw snapped shut.

'At what time did you leave the house to go to the

Austrian/Turkish reception?'

'Twenty past six. I had arranged to get a lift from Colonel Barbellini.'

'Your wife did not go with you?'

'No. She had another engagement.'

'Was your wife in the house when you left?'

'I presumed that she was out.'

'Your wife was last seen by the policeman at the gate who saw the car, driven by your chauffeur, with Mrs. Brown in the back, leave the house at quarter to eight. Isn't it odd? She left twice – once at three, once at quarter to eight but doesn't seem to have returned between times. Where were you, Ambassador, at three?'

'In my office.'

'Where were you at quarter to eight?'

'On my way from the reception to the restaurant where I dined. I walked there with the Austrian Head of Mission.'

Walter barked his answers. I wished he could be calmer.

'Was there a domestic incident recently?'

'What kind of incident?'

'A quarrel.'

'No.'

'Who else was in the house that evening?'

'The cook and the housekeeper. The landlord's car was on the road outside as I left. I could hear work in progress in one of the spare bedrooms. He was shouting at the workman over the noise of the radio. I avoided meeting him.'

'You did not notice last night that your wife and your car were missing?'

'The carport is on the far side of the house from the Italians. I went in the front door and directly to my room. It was late – midnight, as I told you. The lights were out and I presumed everyone was asleep.'

'Why did you wait for forty hours before raising the alarm?'

'Until we discovered the real identity of the driver, we had no reason to suspect foul play.'

'Did your wife taken any possessions with her – clothes, jewelry, passport?'

'A handbag she uses frequently is missing. She would have keys and cash in it. She has not taken passport, check book or jewelry, other than what she was wearing.'

'Keys and cash. Nothing else?

'She may be carrying a small handgun.'

'She carries a gun?'

'We found, in her room, a case for two small pistols. Only one was in it.'

'You didn't know, before that, that she had firearms?'

'She may have mentioned them some time ago. Colette would have bought dainty, well-crafted pistols, because she liked them, as I might buy a chess set, though I don't play chess.'

'Is it odd that she shouldn't have shown them to you?'

'Don't presume lack of affection, if I tell you that personal privacy has never been sacrificed by either of us in the interests of matrimony.'

'Can you give me a recent, clear photograph of Mrs. Brown?'

Walter had one ready. I handed over Orhan's c.v. The Inspector sat and looked lethargically from one photograph to the other.'

Aren't you going to do anything?' Walter snapped.

'I'm thinking.' said Inspector Akin.

He continued to think while Walter fretted.

'You have received no communication concerning Mrs. Brown? No threat? No demand for money?'

'Nothing.''If you get a call, try not to sound aggressive. Play for time. Don't reject any suggestion outright. We will have the phone tapped.'

'You think she was kidnapped?''Derin Celebi is on our wanted list. A student intellectual turned leftist radical.'

The phone rang. Walter picked it up.

I could hear that the voice on the other end was agitated.

'For you, Inspector.'

After listening Akin said 'Hold it,' said the Inspector. 'I'm on my way.'

'Stay there,' he said over his shoulder, as he went out the door.

'Don't get his back up,' I urged. 'You know how powerful the police are.

'Walter fumed.

Inspector Akin returned after half an hour, sat, and thought a while – ostentatiously, I felt – before giving us the news.

'Police headquarters received an anonymous phone call from Adana. Your car was abandoned outside the Caravansarai Hotel. The keys were left at reception, to be collected by the chief of police. Down behind the driver's seat and the back seat there was a pillow, wrapped in black and roughly shaped into a dummy, and a yellow hat. I must return to headquarters. We will contact you soon.'

'Where is Colette?'

Walter's voice was hoarse.

Akin shook his head, lifted his briefcase and hurried to the door.

'You may ring the Caravansarai Hotel if you wish. Here is the number.

'Walter eventually got through to someone willing to reply and able to speak English. He asked if Mrs. Walter Brown was staying or had recently stayed at the hotel. The reply was voluble. He summarised it, for me, by shaking his head.

'I am ringing from the Irish Embassy in Ankara. The car abandoned outside your hotel belonged to us. I can offer a reward for information.'

He scribbled a name on a piece of paper and handed it to me, clutched the phone to his ear and listened intently.

'Get Ayse to send a suitable reward,' he said when he put down the phone. 'The street is cordoned off. The police waited for bomb disposal experts from the army before going near the car. The hotel was cleared of staff. Only the bar in the courtyard has been left open as a centre of operations. The car has been opened now and the police are about to tow it away. There were no residents in the hotel last night. The season hasn't begun.'

'When did they notice the car?'

'It was there when the cleaner opened the gate at six o'clock. The hotel manager was curious about the CD plates. There was a shawl, a lady's hat and some pillows in it and a letter on the driver's seat. The letter was addressed in red ink to the local police chief. Red ink is the trademark of a left-wing guerrilla faction in Adana. A small boy delivered an envelope containing the car keys to reception at ten this morning and then ran away. 'Car to be collected by the police' was written on the envelope. The receptionist rang them. They took over the hotel and cordoned off the area. That is all he knows at present.'

Pierre brought us glasses of chilled white wine.

'Is it permitted that I should know what is happening?'

The wine was a good local Kavaklidere. Its sturdy everyday character suggested normality. At least, I believe that was the intention. We brought Pierre up to date.

'She left at eight, but only in effigy,' said Walter. 'When did you last see her, Pierre?'

'She came into the kitchen before three o'clock. Gül saw her out to the car at three when she was going to the beauty parlour. She was dressed smartly, for cocktails perhaps, and carried the regrettable pink bag.'

'Where do you think she is, Pierre?' 'Madame is dead.'

'It is much more likely that she is kidnapped or taken hostage,' I said, sharply, angry that Walter should be forced towards the blackest conclusion.

Pierre shook his head.'I feel she is here still. Dead.'

The last mouthful of wine tasted warm and bitter. I had been clutching the base of the glass. 'I should ring my father at the Château,' he added.'You do that, Pierre. Contact M. d'Aubine He was at the Austrian/Turkish celebration. You will probably find him at the Ulus hotel. Then stay by the phone in case there is a communication.

'Walter returned to the office to receive the courtesy call of the newly arrived Egyptian Ambassador. Pierre and I sat down again.

'As I see it, Pierre, the business has become less complicated. The Countess's private affairs can no longer be considered relevant to her disappearance. Whatever has happened to her is incidental to the type of person she was. The investigation has moved into a sphere where only the police can do anything useful. Our care must be to minimise damage to her reputation. You agree with me?'The front door creaked. Then there was an explosion.

'No. It isn't the return of the ghost,' said Pierre sourly. 'It is merely the return of Félix d'Aubine. He never can shut a door quietly.'

Pierre met him at the kitchen door. They confronted each other and read each other's faces. The nuances escaped me but the body language suggested that antagonism had been recognised and put aside temporarily, without prejudice. I caught Pierre's warning nod in my direction and the compression of his lips. M. d'Aubine was not to talk of – whatever it was – while Denis was listening. Pierre said ' _Alors_ '. Félix d'Aubine said ' _Alors_ ', added ' _Que voulez vous_?'and joined me at the table. My spine crawled, my dear Millicent, as he smiled at me. I remembered that the Countess had called him Lucifer. He sat in a slanting ray of sunlight that gleamed in his beautifully sculpted beard and sleek black hair. When someone chooses to look so handsomely sinister, he wishes to be thought tantalisingly wicked.

'You remember Denis, M. d'Aubine? Our third secretary.'

I ignored the possessive pronoun. d'Aubine nodded.

'You have had no news of her, Pierre, or you would have told me, at once.'

'Monsieur Félix, I had not permitted myself to despair until now for I hoped that she might have confided in you. If she has not done so, then the matter is serious indeed. Monsieur will have a _tisane_?'

'Tell me the latest news, Denis,' M. d'Aubine said.I could scarcely refuse to do so but I was determined to have a few questions answered, to my own satisfaction, first.

'When did you last see the Countess, M. d'Aubine?''The day I returned to Ankara, from Cappadocia. I have been busy since.'

'You quarreled.'

'We always do.'

'What about?'

'The quality of our Château Fontenoy wine,' he answered readily but with such a peculiar expression that I don't know whether I can believe him or not.

'What is wrong with it?'

'Turning the bottles is a ritual with us.' he continued easily.' It is a dance. One might almost say a sacred dance. It has been interrupted by delays in Customs. Our wine has been exposed to temperatures higher than we would wish. The Countess blamed me, but only in order to let off steam. It is still a most excellent wine but it lacks the perfect finish.'

'Have you met her since that quarrel?'

'No, Denis. Let me answer a question that you would like to ask. I was at the Wine Conference all day, Tuesday, except for the brief period I spent at the Austrian reception. You may check with the organisers.'

He poured his _tisane_ into a china cup and sipped thoughtfully as I told him what we know.

'Has Walter gone to Adana?'

'The car was abandoned there but there is no indication that the Countess was brought there, none that she ever left Ankara.'

'Yet that is where the car was left, the end of the string. Walter must go to Adana.

'I left d'Aubine with Pierre. I don't trust the man, Millicent. His natty little beard wiggles like a goat's.

It was a relief to step out of the residence. The threat of thunder had cleared. Though the air was heavy, the sun shone and the young foliage was green and tender in the poplar trees. Sparrows chased each other over the gravel. I stood a moment enjoying the fresh air. A police car screeched around the bend at the top of the road, raced downhill and pulled up dramatically outside the Italians' house. A police van tore uphill and swooshed to a stop in a shower of gravel. Policeman sprang out. One of them was Inspector Kadri Akin. He marched up to the Barbellinis' hall door and rang the bell. Maria let him in.

I stood in our side door, concealed by the poplars.

The police took tall poles, rolled canvas sheeting and shovels from the van. The handles of shovels in Turkey are not mass-produced and are rarely straight. These were no exception. Any time I remember this horrible afternoon, I'll remember the warped spade-handles. Inspector Akin came out of the house, accompanied by Barbellini. The Colonel carried himself as if he were about to review a parade. He stalked past the poplars that shielded me, and opened the little side gate that, notionally, divides their front garden from their back garden. Then he stood aside and allowed the policemen to enter with their equipment. Inspector Akin gestured to a rosebed at the very back of the Barbellinis' garden. By craning my neck, I could see that the rose bushes were wilted. Barbellini went back into the house. I parted the lower branches of the poplars. The police set up poles and canvas around the rosebed. Presently one of them came out with ten uprooted bushes and tossed them down close to where I was standing. A shop tag was legible. _Lively Lady. Colour: bright tangerine_. The police started to dig. I sat down on the step and waited.

Within minutes someone shouted. There was a rapid exchange that I could scarcely follow, but I caught the words for 'careful' and 'head' and the instruction to halt. I went back into the residence.

M. d'Aubine and Pierre were deep in conversation, bent conspiratorially over the table, frowning in concentration. I caught the word _vin_.

'The police have found a body in the garden next door.'

'Colette's?'

'They went straight to the spot. The body can't have been there long; the rose bushes were wilted, not withered.'

'I knew she was dead.' said Pierre.

'We'll see for ourselves.' d'Aubine said.

'No,' I said.

'The police would send you back here immediately. Besides, nothing is happening at present. They are waiting for cameras and a forensic expert before proceeding.'

'The police, M. d'Aubine,' said Pierre, 'are best left to the diplomatic skills of our friend Denis.'

'You are right, as always, Pierre. I am too agitated to be of use. Let Denis be our envoy.'

'We don't know that it is the Countess's body,' I said.

'Nothing in Colette's life should lead to her being buried in an Ankara rosebed,' said M. d'Aubine, bitterly.

'You forget, Monsieur Félix, the role that chance plays in our lives,' said Pierre solemnly. 'The most gallant soul can end up, by accident, buried in floribundas. Madame liked to drink a glass of Château Fontenoy in the afternoons. Let us drink.'

He fetched a bottle and three glasses. It seemed as good a way to wake her as any other. The first sip went against M. d'Aubine's breath. I caught a flickering glance between Pierre and himself and remembered a similar look between Pierre and the Countess over another glass of Château Fontenoy.

'A damn fine wine, for all that. How did she get hold of it?' said M. d'Aubine.

'We came to an arrangement with the Customs people,' I said, automatically.

They both raised quizzical eyebrows. It occurred to me, for the first time, that there was a certain similarity in their features and a fleeting look of the Countess's face – in one of her expressive moments – in both.

'It may be the driver's body,' I said, wishing to offer consolation.

'You postulate that Colette killed and buried the driver and ran away?'

'She might kill someone but she would never flee. Not to Adana, anyway,' Pierre added.I said I would go and see what was happening, call on Barbellini to see if Inspector Akin had given him any information.

'He has a few more rose beds to fill,' mocked d'Aubine.

The police were still behind the screen. Ankles and shadows moved in the small gap at the bottom. I knocked on the Italians' door. Colonel Barbellini answered. He looked blankly at me, as if trying to place me. Finally he pushed me into the drawing room and shut the door.

'Keep your voice down. Angelina is resting.'

'Is her room at the back of the house?'

'No, thank God! At the front. The police are digging in my back garden. You saw them?'

'What did they say?'

'They asked my permission to search for a body.'

'Did they say whose body?'

'No. They say they were informed that a body has been buried in our garden and that they had instructions not to talk about it. For God's sake, tell me if you know more. I looked out of the window upstairs. They have found something. They are taking photos and measurements. They haven't uncovered it.'

'Mrs. Brown has been missing since Tuesday.'

'I heard that she had gone away. Walter called yesterday to ask if we had seen her. Angelina said you were asking about her at the Ladies Lunch. Have they searched the residence? Why do they think she is dead and buried in our garden?'

He marched up and down the room, crackling with energy.

'What does Walter say? Have they spoken to Walter?'

I thought of Angelina's face when she looked across the room at the Countess holding hands with the Colonel at the 'exorcism', of Angelina's face when I told her yesterday that I was looking for Colette.

It would have been cruel, and pointless, to withhold information that will soon become public knowledge. I told him that the abandoned, official Merc. had been found in Adana, that the driver and Mrs. Brown were missing.

'Both missing?' he said hoarsely.

'It now seems that she may never have left. Our driver was a political activist, in hiding, known to the police.'

Barbellini was speechless.

'It seems to have been a political crime,' I said, to reinforce the point.

'Your driver? Left or right?'

'Left.'

'Then anything is possible. These people have no laws, no respect for anyone. They are anarchists, villains, murderers.'

'Why should Mrs. Brown have been singled out? They might have found a more suitable target.'

'Colette has a title and strong views on the need for law and order, unlike her husband and many of his colleagues.'

This was news to me. Perhaps he has interpreted polite attention to his harangues as agreement with his views.

'A letter addressed to the chief of police was found in the abandoned car. Given what is happening outside, I'd say the letter claimed the killing and told the police where to find the body.'

'Why hide the body?'

'To buy getaway time.'

'Come upstairs. We will be able to see what is going on from the window – only be quiet; don't waken Angelina. She is lying down. Maria is with her.'

'Was Maria, or anyone else, in the house after you left for the reception on Tuesday evening?'

'No, Maria leaves at six. She was a little late leaving on Tuesday. She left at the same time as us.'

'So anyone could bury a body in your garden, after that, without fear of being observed. There are few places in Ankara that are not overlooked.'

'I am surprised that my garden is not a graveyard of irregular burials.'

He led me into an empty bedroom and we both looked out the window.

'My God!' I said involuntarily.

The diggers were standing to one side leaning on their crooked shovels while a man in white overalls bent over a mummy shrouded in soil-stained white, laid on the lawn. There was a pink handbag beside it. One of the figures in overalls leaned over the body and pulled the covering from the face. It had been tucked, not wrapped around the figure. I recognised Mrs. Brown's dark hair and striking features. A shriek came from the room next-door, followed by another and another.

'Angelina,' cried Barbellini, running to her. 'She must have been looking out the window.'

Screams gave way to hoarse sobbing.

'Maria, where are you?' yelled Barbellini.

'Madame asked me to make tea. I am bringing the tea now. Here I am coming with the tea for Madame.'

The doorbell rang.

'Answer it, Denis. Say I'll be down in a minute. Maria. Come here. Pour the tea. Put sugar in it ... Sugar ... Not sweetener. She has had a shock. Fetch brandy. Denis, answer the door.'

I ran downstairs. Detective Inspector Akin stood on the step.

'Colonel Barbellini will be with you in a moment, Inspector. Will you step into the drawing room, please?'

'Are you serving two masters, Mr. O'Gorman? Should you not be in the Irish Embassy rather than playing butler here?'

'I called in the interests of good neighbourliness, Inspector.'

'You were upstairs with our good Colonel watching the peepshow. Who screeched?'

'You cannot expect us to be uninterested in your activities, Inspector.'

'It was a female screech,' continued the Inspector.

'The maid, or Madame?'

I hesitated.

'Don't bother to answer, Denis. Maids are not permitted to have hysterics. You recognised Mrs. Brown's face?'

I nodded.

'How did Barbellini react?' Akin asked.

'Both of us were horrified.'

The Inspector cocked his head, listening. The Colonel came into the room. He had sneaked downstairs and walked heavily to the door. I knew from the tiny quirk at the corner of the Inspector's mouth that he had noted the deception.

'Everything is under control, Colonel Barbellini,' the Inspector said in conciliatory tones. 'Nothing to worry about. We located the body in question. I believe that, when we look closely at the site map, we will find that it was not actually in your garden at all but in the vacant lot behind your house.'

I drew in a breath. That was a lovely little gerrymander. The Italian back boundary runs in a line with ours. They may have pushed the rosebed a foot or so back into the vacant lot, but it is still, very definitely, _their_ rosebed.

'Whose body is it, Inspector? And how did you know that there was a body there?'

The Inspector hesitated. For a moment I thought he would treat Barbellini as he had treated Walter. Instead, he said in a careful voice, 'The body has not yet been identified, nor have the next of kin been informed, but we have been searching for Mrs. Brown who has been reported missing. The body fits the description.'

'Where, when was she killed?'

'We don't know yet. You will appreciate, Colonel, that we need to search the whole area, with your permission, of course.'

'You are welcome.'

'And perhaps, Colonel, you will be kind enough to allow me to return later and have a chat with you?'

'Certainly.'

The Inspector thanked him and turned to me.

'Mr. O'Gorman, is your Ambassador at home?'

'He is in the office.'

'Then would you please come to the office with me.'

As we left, he turned again to the Colonel to regret the disturbance and thank him for allowing him and his men access to the site through his garden.

'I must collect my briefcase,' I told the Inspector and hurried into the residence before he could argue. Pierre and M. d'Aubine were still at the kitchen table. There was a bottle of brandy beside M. d'Aubine. I only had time to put my arm around Jean-Luc and tell him the bad news. M. d'Aubine flushed red and stood up, clutching at the bottle to steady himself.

'You are sure?''I saw her face.''I'll kill whoever it is. I'll squeeze every drop of blood out of him.'

I'm sure the Pierre matched him in angry threats, but I couldn't stay to hear them.

The Inspector stood, waiting for me, his back to the police car, twirling his elegant moustache and gazing blandly at the Italian house.

'Was she killed where she was found, Inspector?'

'Oh, I doubt it. Very unlikely. The body was wrapped in sheets marked 'Embassy of Ireland'.

That shut me up.

Walter showed no emotion. He became more formal. This did him no service in the Inspector's eyes.

'How did she die?'

'Until after the autopsy, we cannot say.'

'Where was she killed?'

'At present we do not know. I'll send a car for you in two hours. We will want you to identify the body.'

I am sitting at my desk, dear Millicent, writing, waiting for the two hours to pass. I told Walter what I had witnessed from Barbellini's window. He went into his office and shut the door. Ayse tried to work and failed. She has just come in with tea for me.

The Inspector accompanied us to the mortuary. Walter identified her. I stood by, mesmirized by a small red hole in the Countess's right temple.

'She was shot,' Walter said. 'Have you found the gun?'

'I may not say anything, at present.'

We stood in silence a moment. Then we left. What else was there to do? The Countess always filled the stage with her presence. She had withdrawn. Yet the figure on the trolley said something about her death. The gun had been fired close to her. I could see a darkening of the skin around the small puncture. Walter said nothing. I am glad that he restrained his grief in public. He is carrying his loss with dignity. The Inspector observed him coldly. I could almost hear him register 'no visible signs of sorrow'.

'You may find it advisable to stay with friends tonight, your Excellency. We have a team of experts ready to examine the residence, if you agree.'

'I contacted my authorities. I am permitted to allow you unrestricted access.'

'We shall begin immediately.'

'You examined the car?'

'It is being examined by the Adana police. It has been confirmed, from fingerprint evidence in the car, that your driver was Derin Celibi, wanted by the police in connection with political offences. You have been harbouring a terrorist, your Excellency. Unintentionally, I presume.'

'Has he, or has his organisation, admitted responsibility?'

'Strangely enough, Ambassador, the killing has not been ''claimed''. We are keeping an open mind as to the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Brown's death.'

Walter walked away. I hung back a moment.

'Inspector, the wound was in the right temple. Isn't that where you would expect it to be if she killed herself.'

'Correct, Mr. O'Gorman.'

'And wouldn't the powder burn indicate that the gun was held close to the head?'

'Close, Mr. O'Gorman, but – if you consider the pattern – not in contact with. Perhaps a foot away from the head. Suicides usually like actual contact. They seem to find it reassuring.'

I caught up with Walter before he reached the car. I am sure, Millicent, that you could think of something appropriate to say to him. I couldn't. Ayse booked Walter into the Büyük Ankara. It is only eight months since we first stood at Reception, on our arrival in Ankara. I promised to bring him an overnight bag.

'Gül will pack the necessities. Lend me some light reading material, Denis. I don't expect to sleep.'I hesitated. Walter smiled.

'Of course, you are a detective story buff. I had forgotten. Well, why not? It is time I began to educate myself in the ways of sudden death. Make a selection for me.'The trouble is, Millicent, that almost every detective story I can remember casts suspicion on the spouse, however innocent he or she may prove to be in the end. All writers seem to churn out the hoary old chestnut that marriage is the likeliest cause of murder. I'll give him Josephine Tey's _The Daughter of Time_. I took a taxi back to the office and rang Dublin immediately. Walter had contacted the Secretary earlier on but I knew that Seoirse, in Personnel, would be anxious to hear of the latest developments. For once, he listened without feeling obliged to set me right on points of protocol.

'I met the Countess only once,' he said, when I had finished. 'She came in to return the standard issue, gilt framed, OPW photograph of the President, saying she couldn't possibly hang such a bad likeness on her wall. A very feminine woman. Walter will miss her.'

When I got back to the residence, I found Pierre treating the investigators as guests. He had a tray of tea glasses and a kettle of tea ready for their refreshment. Gül preceded him with the sugar-bowl and he instructed me to go before, and open doors.

There were eight policemen around the swimming pool. The place was brightly lit. Pierre and Gül advanced. An officer shouted at them to stay out of the area. Pierre has not learned Turkish – one barbaric language, English, is enough, he says. He advanced therefore, placed the tray on the bar counter and poured tea, announcing that Madame would have so wished. They gave in. Perhaps it was time for tea. We left them to it. Pierre caught me by the arm and marched me to his kitchen.

'Why are they all in the basement, Pierre? Have they searched the rest of the house?'

'Two of them went through the house quickly. They are looking for some particular thing down there. It isn't the hole under the bar. I showed them that. You have been to the morgue?'

'There is a gunshot wound in the right temple. Maybe the police believe that she was shot in the basement.'

'While I was upstairs?' Pierre growled. 'If Orhan shot her here,' he continued, 'why would he bury her next-door?'

'He would know that the maid was out and the Barbellinis were at a reception. That rosebed is the only soft bit of earth around.'

'Orhan liked Madame. She wasn't a diplomat. Why couldn't he have killed you, or Walter, or both of you, if he was required to kill someone?'

'Perhaps a blow against the family of a diplomat is more terrifying than the murder of an officer.'

'Find out where she went on Tuesday afternoons, Pierre.'

I said it more from the belief that he should have something to do than from a conviction that this bit of information could any longer be considered crucial.

'She was scarcely having an affair, at her age,' I said, intending to provoke.

He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he smiled knowingly and patted me on the back.

'Is that what she told you when she caught you making calf's eyes at her?'

I allowed him his little triumph. It seemed to make him gloomy, however. He sighed and shook his head.

'You see, _mon cher_ Denis, I hoped in vain that in her escapes she might make an assignation with M. d'Aubine. After a row between them, there always came a reconciliation. I flattered myself that she might bestow her hand on him this time.'

'Before disengaging it from Walter's?'

'Ah my Denis, this matrimony lasted too long. What was the point of it? The Countess should have settled down and taken her responsibilities seriously.'

'Did M. d'Aubine know of your expectations on his behalf?'

'If only they hadn't fought about the wine....'

'Why did they fight about wine, Pierre? What was wrong with the wine?' I asked, remembering that, on separate occasions, both the Countess and her cousin had jibbed when they tasted it.

'Wrong with the wine? But nothing at all. What could be wrong with the wine? Madame thought that her cousin spent too much of his energies in the service of the Turkish wine growers instead of promoting Château Fontenoy.'

'If the police ask about the Countess's movements, we will have to tell them that she sometimes came and went, incognito, without being seen by the guard at the gate and that she may have done so on the day she was killed.'

'They may not need to know.'

That is my own feeling too, Millicent. The Countess's adventures, however harmless, would catch the fancy of the worst kind of journalist. I phoned Inspector Akin and told him that Ambassador Brown could be found at the Büyük Ankara Hotel.

'I will interview the Ambassador tomorrow,' he said. 'You may tell him that the police will issue a statement later today. It will announce that Derin Celibi, a member of the leftist militant organisation TUG, assassinated the wife of the Irish Ambassador to Turkey and fled.'

I was surprised by the speed with which this conclusion had been reached and relieved that it was so unequivocal. The letter in the abandoned car must have left no doubt about responsibility.

'So TUG has claimed the killing?'

'At present, no comment.'

'Did you find anything of significance in the residence?'

'Blood, among other things. Tell your Ambassador that I will see him in his office tomorrow afternoon. Five o'clock.'

I am deeply relieved Millicent, However tragic the killing, it has nothing to do with any of us. I filled an overnight bag for Walter and put in Tey's _The Daughter of Time_ and Dorothy Sayers's _Gaudy Night_. He nodded when I gave him the Inspector's message. I persuaded him to join me, before the news broke, for a bite to eat in the hotel restaurant. The menu hasn't changed since the day I arrived in Ankara. Then I had 'goulash soup'. When the Countess came, a month later, the three of us had eaten the alternative, lemon yoghurt soup.

'A festive soup for weddings.' the waiter had said, in response to the Countess' question. Tonight we had the goulash soup.Since observing the single bullet hole in the right temple, knowing that the Countess had a gun, I had feared that she might have killed herself. Nothing in her behaviour had ever suggested depression. Yet, who knows what lies behind the bravest smile? The idea must have occurred to Walter also. Better be killed, I feel, than to be so miserable that one kills oneself.

'It must bring some small measure of relief to you, Ambassador, that a conclusion has been reached.'

He did not respond. We planned tomorrow's schedule:

Contact Dublin and report developments.

Contact Father Delacroix at the oratory in the old French Consulate to fix the time for a Requiem mass.

Check with the undertakers.

Check with the Ministry about post mortem and inquest procedures.

When will the body be released?

Arrange with Air France to fly the remains to Lyons.

Book Walter on the flight and offer to book a seat for M.d'Aubine if he wishes.

There was never any question of bringing the remains to Ireland.

I returned to the office and rang Walter's local colleagues, as a courtesy, before the eight o'clock news. Ayse returned to the hotel with me, as interpreter, in time for the broadcast. We went to Walter's room.

The assassination of the wife of the Irish Ambassador was the first item on the television evening news: 'Leftist activists strike in Ankara.' Our photograph of Orhan, named as Derin Celebi, figured prominently. The Countess was referred to as an 'innocent victim of unscrupulous and bloodthirsty militants who were carrying out a war against the Turkish people, targeting diplomats in a new wave of violence.' A senior official from the Foreign Ministry told of tight security measures, and an Army spokesman said that it was necessary to combat aggression. I glanced at Ayse as Orhan's picture was shown on the screen. She did not seem more upset than she had been at the beginning of the broadcast. It may be that I mistook cordial working relations for a romantic attachment. The telephone rang. Walter motioned for me to answer it. The clerk at reception said that a M.d'Aubine was at the desk and wished to come up to the Ambassador's room.

'Put him on the phone, please.'Félix had been drinking. His voice was aggressive, somewhat slurred but, unfortunately, far from incomprehensible.

'I want to talk to the murderer. I'm coming up.'

My ear sang as his phone clattered down on a hard surface. The clerk came on the line again. He expressed his apologies and said that Security would remove the gentleman from the hotel. I shook my head dismissively at Walter's look of enquiry. By tomorrow d'Aubine will have calmed down. Ayse gave me a lift home and came in to feed the cat. Otherwise the poor thing would have gone hungry. They don't eat bread. Though I am tired, I am happier than I have been since Wednesday morning. The media will dub the Countess a martyr who lost her life in the on-going struggle to maintain peaceful relations between nations. The phone rang just as I settled down.

'Denis, darling, I thought I'd ring to let you know that you needn't worry about anything. Nothing will come out.'

'Sharon, what are we talking about?'

'Just between ourselves, Denis, how far did you yourself get with her? In the cause of international relations, of course.'

My dear Millicent, I was too shocked to think of a sufficiently repressive reply.

'You didn't, Denis? You are one smart guy. Deepest sympathy, and all that. Have to hand it to her: the poor bitch had balls.'

### Chapter 11

I came in to the office at seven this morning, Millicent, hoping to have a quiet hour to get the most urgent visas out of the way. The phone was ringing, an agitated Kerryman, his eighty-five-year-old mother stuck in Ankara Airport. Her passport had gone out of date, while she was on holidays in Antalya, so she couldn't get an exit visa. We sorted it out. I hope she is on her way back to Cathair Saidhbhín.

The autopsy is to be carried out this morning. We may expect that the body will be released to the undertakers this afternoon. I have been assured that the inquest will be brief and formal. They will bring the remains to the chapel in the old French Consulate building, near the Citadel, this evening. Mass tomorrow morning at ten. I have a car and driver waiting in order to notify the colleagues of arrangements as soon as we get the go-ahead. The chapel was once a private oratory. Now a Belgian priest says a lonely Mass there at seven every morning. Since Turkey has a problem about welcoming priests, he is on the diplomatic staff of the Belgian embassy.

The call came through now. We may have the body. I am going to the undertakers with Pierre, who has definite ideas about how the Countess would wish to be dressed for burial. (If I predecease you, Millicent, you may bury me in pyjamas, if you wish, collar and tie, if you prefer. I must be back in time for the interview with the Inspector.

The sky has fallen around our feet. Inspector Akin came to the office as arranged. He asked Walter if he wished me to be present, or not. Walter said that I should stay. Akin came to the point immediately.

'The autopsy shows that Mrs. Brown died between five and nine on Tuesday evening. Shortly before her death, she was shot in the right temple. The shot was fired close to her. The bullet lodged in the skull and has been recovered. Bloodstains corresponding to her blood type have been found between the tiles at the swimming pool in the residence. She was moved, soon after death, to a shallow grave in the vacant lot behind the adjacent house.' The killer escaped, driving the official car with a figure of the victim in the back, in order to delay discovery. The car was abandoned in Adana. A note from a well-known terrorist group was left in the car. That is the official version.

'The Inspector recited this in an offhand, contemptuous fashion. Then he sat back in an insolently casual pose and stared at Walter. Walter thought a while, then spoke in an unemotional tone.

'I have a difficulty with your thesis, Inspector. If you recovered the bullet from the bone, it didn't penetrate the brain. If it did not penetrate the brain, it is unlikely to have killed my wife.'

'Full marks. It didn't kill her. She drowned in your pool. We analysed the water in the lungs.'

'A twofold death,' murmured Walter. 'In the sagas heroes often died a threefold death. The house should have fallen on her as well. Perhaps it did.'

I could see that Walter was in shock and did not know what he was saying. I could also see that the Inspector was watching him as keenly as if they were duelling.

'What kind of gun, Inspector?'

'An unusual one for assassin, a lady-like weapon, an antique Derringer.'

'A one-shot weapon....''One shot was not enough. The murderer pushed her into the pool.'

'Did you find the gun?'

'You would expect him to take it with him, wouldn't you?'

'Did he?'

'Oddly enough, he buried the gun with the lady. The gun, also, had been in the pool.'

'Why would he put the gun in the pool?'

'You are attributing nerves of steel to killers, Ambassador. Luckily for us, they get fuddled like the rest of us, make mistakes. He probably dropped it in the water, under stress, and had to fish it out so that it would not be found before he could get well away. That is what Chief Inspector Eratalay believes.'

'Were his fingerprints on it?'

'It is not easy to take prints from a gun. The surfaces are rarely suitable. People don't realise that.'

'No prints?'

'I would prefer not to comment at present'

'The gun you describe, Inspector is like the gun in Colette's room.''Identical, except that this one has been fired.'

'Shot with her own gun,' said Walter softly.

'If she carried it around in her handbag, Orhan - I mean Derin Celibi - would have known it was there,' I offered.

'Celibi the unprepared,' sighed the Inspector. 'Why did he decide to assassinate the spouse rather than the ambassador and then have to borrow her own gun for the job? My Chief, who is not, in this case, willing to cast a wide net, postulates that Celibi may have had instructions to assassinate a diplomat or the spouse of a diplomat and found Mrs. Brown the easiest to kill. Extremists, my superiors say, are irrational, so irrational aspects of the case point to extremist involvement.'

'You don't sound as if you agree with their analysis, Inspector.'

'This was not a political assassination. Derin Celibi did not kill Mrs. Brown. I disagreed so vehemently with my superior officers that I am being transferred to Van – a death sentence, when you consider that I am both a Kurd and a policeman. It was stupid of me to oppose a conclusion, which provides excellent counter-leftist propaganda, worldwide.

''Have you another suspect?'

'Let me put it like this, Ambassador Brown. Though the right wing element in the police force and the army is dominant at present, it does not have full control, nor does it hold absolute sway in Parliament or in the Ministries, as you know. Before coming here, I met senior officials in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and in the Prime Minister's office. It has been agreed to go along with the official version in public, for the present at least. However, on my recommendation, you are being told to accompany your wife's remains when they leave the country and not to return. The order will remain unofficial if you comply with it. Nothing will pass between our respective governments. You may have a _crise de nerfs_ , in comfort, at the funeral and find yourself unable to return. Otherwise, steps will be taken to declare you _persona non grata_. You see where my suspicions lie?'

I couldn't believe my ears. Walter clearly could not believe his.

'You accuse me of killing my wife?'

'I am most careful not to do so. I will not be allowed to build up a case, so you will never be able to plead ''not guilty''. If you know yourself to be innocent, accept my heartfelt regrets. If, on the other hand, you know yourself guilty, rejoice that you are getting off so easily.

''But you cannot say something like that and leave it in the air. How can I refute unformulated suspicions? Why should I kill Colette?'

'The Inspector has been listening to Félix d'Aubine,' I said. 'd'Aubine got drunk to drown his sorrows and started making wild accusations.'

The Inspector looked interested. 'I have not had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman. I would of course, interview him, if I had time and a free hand.'

My head was spinning, Millicent. I looked at Walter and back at the Inspector.'You are making a grave mistake, Inspector Akin,' I said. 'Tell us the basis for your suspicions. Are you working on a rule of thumb that the spouse, in general, is the likeliest killer, or do you consider that you have evidence?'

'There was a letter from your driver in the abandoned car. He says he didn't do it. He found the body and concealed it in order to get away. My superior officers don't believe him. They feel that, by running, he admitted guilt.''

You don't?'

'I'd run myself, in the circumstances. His denial confirms what I know from my own sources within the leftist movement. I admit that I have not seen the letter. My authorities have communicated only what they thought essential to the duties they wish me to perform. It is expedient to have a politically motivated murder by the left, just now.'

'If the murderer is found, will you withdraw the threat to the Ambassador?'

'I'll also apologise.' He said this in a way that showed he had no expectation of having to do so. Then he turned to Walter and asked harshly, 'Why have you not suggested that your wife killed herself?'

'I can't think of any reason why Colette would kill herself nor of any circumstances under which she would do so.'

As Akin rose to leave he addressed one further question to Walter.

'To satisfy my curiosity. Have you any idea why Mrs. Brown should have been dressed, at the time of her death, in the attire of a strict fundamentalist believer?'

My wife, Inspector, was a most original and unpredictable lady. I would only be surprised if she failed, at any moment, to surprise.'

'Do you know where she went at three o'clock the day she disappeared?'

'No.'

'If you really feel innocent, find out.'

I accompanied Inspector Akin to the entry.'

Inspector Akin, we cannot leave these accusations of yours hanging in the air. You must pursue the enquiry.'

'I will not be allowed to do so. I am working on another case.'

'I will investigate.'

'I'll await your conclusions with bated breath. Do include yourself in the list of suspects. I hear, from a reliable source, that you were making overtures to Mrs. Brown.'

Shock left me unable to reply. Inspector Akin laughed.

'Weren't you commissioned by the Americans to distract Mrs. Brown's attentions so that she would not be receptive to Colonel Barbellini's wooing?'

'Sharon Pyx! I was approached by Pyx and rejected the idea vehemently.'

'Perhaps you did,' mused the Inspector. 'The trouble with undercover agents is that they always present themselves as being successful. I'll keep an open mind. Give me your alibi for the period between leaving the office and arriving at the reception and I'll consider you as an amateur assistant.'

'You have informants on all sides of the political divide, Inspector?'

'I am, of necessity, extremely good at my job.'

'I am sure of Ambassador Brown's innocence. I am also sure that he will return here after the funeral if the Irish Government will allow him to do so. However, in view of the threats relayed by you, it is likely that relations between our two countries will be damaged and that diplomatic relations may be suspended.'

'What relations? Ireland is just a speck on the map, not enough people in the whole country to populate one of our smaller cities.

'Dear Millicent, I have been trying to work out exactly where I went and what I did and when I did it, last Tuesday afternoon. I went from the office to the flat and had a bath and shave. Then I got a taxi to the reception. How could I prove I spent an hour in the bathroom? I thought of asking the lady in the apartment below if she heard my bathwater sloshing around but I'm afraid of being misunderstood. In the end, I decided that if the Inspector wishes to check up on me he may tackle her himself.

Pierre and Félix d'Aubine joined us at the mortuary for the removal. M.d'Aubine was calm. Everyone preserved the outward forms of civility. The Chapelle Ardente at the old French Consulate building was crowded. The Minister for Foreign Affairs was represented by his Deputy who expressed sincerest sympathy with Walter on his own behalf and on behalf of the Minister. There were flowers, candles, incense, hymns in French. It was late before I could get Walter on his own. He was so exhausted that it was not possible to discuss the Inspector's ultimatum. He will stay another night at the hotel.

I fell into bed last night after completing the last sentence. I had to drag myself out again immediately to rinse a shirt and underwear for today. There has been no opportunity to go to the laundry. I ironed cuffs and collar this morning. I also ate breakfast. I don't remember eating anything yesterday.

The Mass was well attended. Many Embassies indicated that they would be represented at the Airport at two thirty. I got Walter back to the Residence at eleven thirty and took some directions for next week's meetings and for our current consular cases while he packed. Pierre provided tea and ham sandwiches. He must have contacted someone in Ireland to see what would be considered appropriate funeral food. This exercise of French, culinary savoir-faire at such a moment might seem like black humour. In Pierre it is just a professional reflex.

We had no opportunity to discuss the Inspector's bombshell before this. Now we had less than half an hour.

'I wrote an account of our meeting with Inspector Akin. I would be obliged if you would write your own account, Denis,' Walter said. I told him I had already done so.

'Sign it and keep it in a safe place. It was a most extraordinary interview. Initially I thought he had been drinking. Upon consideration, however, it seems, to me, to be the first step in a demand for money.'

This explanation had not occurred to me at all.

'The police are paid a pittance, in the belief that they can make a living in unofficial fines. It is an inheritance from the Sultans.The system works. Who will be more anxious to catch drunken drivers than the person who gets the fine? The Inspector may have genuine doubts about the popular and convenient solution to Colette's murder. He may genuinely believe that I am guilty, though on what evidence I cannot imagine. He has nothing to lose by threatening me, and perhaps a lot to gain if I am guilty and wish to negotiate. In his view, if guilty, I get away with murder, unless he imposes a fine.'

'What about the politicians who will – he claims – act against you if you return here?'

'He may be bluffing.'

'He may not.'

'France first. After the funeral I'll go to Dublin and consult. I'll have to take advice. Looked at objectively, my position is an interesting one.'

'How can you be so calm about it?'

'Perhaps because decisions will rest with the Department.'

'They won't expect you to bow to this kind of threat.'

'Let's see what happens.'

'I will not allow Inspector Akin's allegations to go unchallenged while you are away.'

'Thank you, Denis. I feel that my reputation will be safe in your hands.'

I am writing this in the residence as the Ambassador finishes his packing. He will pay Pierre's wages for the present. (Pierre was privately employed by Colette with no subvention from the Department) We would not wish to give any signals that might indicate acceptance of the Inspector's ultimatum.

The remains were attended to the plane by Father Delacroix. A significant number of heads of mission turned up in the VIP lounge. Ambassador Brown and M. d'Aubine travelled to France, with the body, for the funeral. As far as the colleagues are concerned, Walter will be back soon. Only Ayse and I are left in the office now.

Colonel Barbellini gave me a lift from the airport. I studied his face, trying, and failing, to read evidence of his feelings. I enquired after Angelina.

'She is quite unnerved. Colette was more than a neighbour. She was a good friend to both of us. Has any progress been made in the investigation?'

'I haven't heard.'

'It will centre on Adana. The perpetrator will be aided and sheltered by other fanatics, but the law will catch up with him eventually.'

He didn't make the small detour that would have left me at the office. He pulled up in front of his own house and said, quite pleasantly, 'If you find any letters of mine in her effects, destroy them or return them to me, preferably without letting old Walter see them. What the eye doesn't see won't grieve the heart.'

It was an open avowal, almost a boast, that there had been clandestine correspondence, if nothing more serious, between himself and Mrs. Brown. I am at a loss to understand it. She never showed anything but an exceptional degree of patience towards him. If she was attracted to him, I'm sure it was on a very superficial level, one of those attractions of the flesh that can sweep over any of us though the soul is not engaged, or may even be engaged elsewhere. Even on the archaelogical outing to Aizanoi where Angelina had looked unhappy and the Colonel and the Countess had been apart from the group for a considerable period, I had witnessed that their conversation had not been romantic in tone.

'When did you last meet Mrs. Brown, Colonel?'

'I believe we exchanged greetings at Mass in the Nunciature last Sunday. Goodbye Denis.'I was too tired to shop. As I listened to my tummy rumbling and told it to wait until morning, the doorbell rang. Ayse had brought me a casserole of stuffed vine leaves in tomato sauce. I invited her to join me for supper but she wouldn't. She is very shy. I opened a bottle of wine and drank your health, dear Millicent. I think the stuffing was rice and lamb.

I was at my desk checking the mail this morning, feeling rather lethargic until one letter jerked me awake. It was addressed to me, postmarked in Adana, in Orhan's quirky handwriting. I looked at the envelope for a long time. There has been a letter bomb alert. I tried to remember the drill, something about dunking the item in a bucket of water. Whether it had been an instruction or a prohibition, I couldn't remember. Whether I would open it or not became a test of my faith in Orhan. Eventually I opened it, though I did go out of the building first, partly out of respect for the new fittings and fixtures, but mostly because of an idea, probably unfounded, that a blast would be less destructive in the open. Here is a copy of the letter and enclosure.

Dear Denis,

I have decided to send you a copy of a letter that I left in the car, in Adana, for the attention of the chief of police. I am not sure – given the state of our country at present – that the police will pay attention to the information it contains, unless they are aware that interested parties possess the same information. Isn't it ironic that I am trying to attract the attention of the police? I hope you will recover the car. I apologise to the Ambassador. If it is not inappropriate, given the circumstances, please convey my condolences. I hope that Countess Colette's murderer will be found and I want to do what I can to remove such confusion as my interference introduced. It is now up to you, Denis, to do what you can.

Trusting that we will meet again in better times,

Orhan

Statement of Derin Celebi, recently employed as a driver in the Irish Embassy under the name Orhan Ahmet:

I was a political science student in Ankara University, founder member of the Students' Action Debating Society until arrested following a police swoop, after an incident in the university. I escaped from custody and took employment as a driver in the Portuguese Embassy, subsequently in the Irish Embassy, under an assumed name, Orhan Ahmet.

On Tuesday, the 22 April, I left the office at approximately 6.30 pm and drove the car to the Irish Residence. The trip takes only a few minutes. The Ambassador did not require to be driven to the Austrian/Turkish reception. I was to drive the Countess to the Netherlands Residence to be there for 8 pm. I was early because I had got the missing piece for the pool filter and intended to fit it. I encountered nobody. The landlord's car was on the road outside. I parked the car in the carport, as usual. I watered the geraniums and went down to fix the filter.

Mrs. Brown was floating, facedown, in the pool and the water around her was slightly clouded with blood. I pulled her out. She was dead. I saw the hole in her head and a small gun in the water. It was 6.40.

My identity papers, though a work of art, would not stand up to police investigation. TUG, though innocent of the charge, has been blamed for the recent killing of a right-wing politician and, as you know, it is current policy to hold all members of a group responsible for acts attributed to the group. I wished to avoid arrest, torture, trial and execution.

To get away quickly, I took the car. To delay pursuit, I hid the Countess's body. I wrapped it in sheets from the laundry and buried her in the next-door garden. I knew there was nobody at home.

The Countess would understand the necessity. I have come to regard her as a true socialist, a friend of the people, a comrade. I regret her death.

I netted the gun from the pool and buried it with her, also the handbag, which was at the foot of my stairs. I sluiced down the edge of the pool so that blood – there was not a lot – would not be immediately visible. Traces will be found.

Her watch had stopped but indicated twenty past seven whereas it was twenty to seven by mine, when I found her. I checked my watch later and it was accurate. It is unlikely that she would have her watch forty minutes fast. It was not a modern, waterproof sportswatch but an old-fashioned gold wristwatch that would have stopped as soon as it got wet. This must be a significant fact in any investigation. I propped a hat of hers on a pillow to give the illusion to the guard at the gate that I was driving her to her engagement. It was 7.54. when I left.

I have sketched, from memory, the position in which I found the body and the gun.

Derin Celebi

The figure in Orhan's sketch is the figure I saw from the balcony on my first day in the house, a figure in black draperies floating spread-eagled, face down in the pool. I have recovered sufficiently to be rational about it. Any black floating figure must remind me of that vision. The brain would leap to pick out similarities and suppress differences. I have Orhan's sketch before me as I write. It has replaced what I saw on my first day in the house, even to the 'x' marking the place where the gun was found. I went back through the carbons of these diary letters to you, to check over my experiences in the residence in March. If I had not recorded them then, I would suspect that the sketch created a feeling of déjà vu.

Do I believe Orhan's story? I do, provisionally, subject to further investigation. There is no escape from the horrible conclusion that the Countess's death, if not a politically motivated assassination, was private murder by someone within our circle. A surprised burglar is an outside chance in this city where people are so honest that you can leave the ignition keys in the car, where flower-sellers walk away from their stalls every evening, knowing that the flowers will be there in the morning. Crime is principled, not petty. I sat, trying to discipline my thoughts and work out an effective plan of campaign suited to an amateur with no resources and little spare time. The landlord rang to complain.

'Who will rent a property where there has been a murder?'

He sounded as if we organised a murder in order to devalue his property. He was also indignant that Inspector Akin would not believe that he had seen nothing and heard nothing on Tuesday evening.

'I suppose it is difficult to believe that a person as alert as yourself would not hear a shot,' I said, even though I knew that a shot from such a small gun, fired in the basement, would not be heard upstairs.

'As I told the Inspector, I was in a spare rooms upstairs, the door closed, working. The radio was playing. My workman was singing. I was singing.'

'If you were together all the time, Inspector Akin must have been satisfied that neither of you could have anything to do with the murder.'

After a little show of disgust that anyone should consider him a possible murderer, Mr. Muftu admitted that he had taken a break for tea, which Gül brought him on a tray, to the upper balcony, just after seven.

'Was your workman unsupervised for that period, Mr. Muftu?'

'I heard him working all the time. If he went downstairs, he would have had to pass me. He didn't go downstairs.'

I took a new notebook and wrote ' Mr. Muftu and workman - opportunity'. Then Sharon Pyx rang.

'Thanks for the lunch, Denis. All alone in the office still? Ayse is there? Oh, I know she is a cutie pie, but don't let her get her teeth into you. I have first option.'

The thanks were for a lunch I gave Sharon yesterday in the Haci Arif _Bey_. I refused to discuss recent happenings, saying that I am anxious to put it all behind me and concentrate on clearing my desk. Her reference to Ayse's teeth is malicious. It is true that they are irregular, but it is an imperfection that sets off the regularity of her features. America would put us all in braces.I rang Seoirse, on the secure line, to tell him to expect Orhan's letter on the telex. Walter has reported the strange ultimatum from Inspector Akin to the Secretary of the Department and put some points on record. Seoirse read them out to me.

Mrs. Brown owned a modest house in Dublin and a small cottage in Donegal. These she willed to Walter, together with whatever funds she held in Ireland. The amount in question would not be substantial since her business interests are in France. Her French property, which has been in the Coerduroi family for generations, will have been left to her cousin, Monsieur d'Aubine, who is managing it at present.

Walter has contacted his solicitor in Dublin, Brún, Brún agus de Brún, and asked that the Department be facilitated in any enquiry it may wish to make. His financial position, he says, is probably about average for an Irish Ambassador paying back the advance on allowances permitted him when taking up a new posting: he has not yet quite exceeded his overdraft facilities. He has instructed his bank manager to answer questions from the Department. While he recognises that any inheritance could be considered a motive for murder, he would put it to the objective investigator that he is not so strapped for funds that this motive could be deemed a pressing one; nor was the amount to be inherited so large that it could tempt him to kill a congenial partner.

Since he has not been given any information as to the time of death and very little as to the circumstances, he cannot say whether he had opportunity or not.

About the threat from Inspector Akin that Walter might be declared _persona non grata_ if he returned to Ankara, he said it was likely that the Inspector would propose a financial transaction in the near future. An offer would be made to withdraw the threat in return for a relatively modest sum. (The degree of political unrest in Turkey means that normal standards no longer prevail.) Walter would, naturally, oppose any such transaction.

'If you are approached with an offer of that kind, Denis,' said Seoirse, ' let us know immediately.'

I listened impatiently. Since Walter knew nothing of Orhan's letter, everything Seoirse said seemed to be outdated.

'Seoirse,' I said. 'Just listen to this.'

I read out the letter Orhan - I find it difficult to call him Derin Celibi - had sent me. I also read out his letter to the police.

'Do you believe him?' Seoirse asked, when I finished.

'I do.'

'That seems to open up the possibility that Mrs. Brown might have killed herself.'

'No apparent motive. No suicide note.'

'In view of the extraordinary ultimatum the police inspector gave to Walter, we asked the Turkish ambassador here to consult with his Department, and clarify Walter's position.'

'What did he say?

'He is wary of getting involved in what he sees as a power struggle between right and left.'

'Sensible of him.'

'I think we can count on him for amiable support and long winded explanations of the issues involved.'

I made an impatient noise. Seoirse tut tutted.

'Denis, this is to be low key. Don't, without instructions, commit Dublin to any particular course of action. Don't play detective.'

I felt depressed after that conversation, Millicent. The Department will not want complications. They will tell the Turks that they are bringing Walter home on compassionate grounds. They'll give him a 'limbo' position at home. Whatever confidence they may express in him, they will be unlikely to give him another overseas posting, unless the case is resolved. He would have done better to have said nothing to the Department, to have returned to Ankara after the funeral and to have let the Inspector do his worst. One's instinct to be open with Dublin can lead one astray.

I went to the Küçüc Ulus hotel where the wine traders had held their conference. I am suspicious of M. d'Aubine and want to check the alibi he offered. The photograph of him, hand on the light switch, ready to tumble Walter down the hotel stairs, is proof of his potential as first murderer. According to what Pierre had told me, Walter expected that, sooner or later, Colette would come to her senses, divorce, marry him and return to her heritage. Suppose he had lost hope? The row I overheard might have been the definitive one. Perhaps he decided to help himself to Château Fontenoy by murder, if he couldn't win it by marriage.

The hotel manager pulled the programme of the conference from his file. One glance showed me that Félix d'Aubine had, as he claimed, an excellent alibi. Between four and six he had been on a panel during a seminar on the future of Cappadocian Wine. According to my own recollections he had been at the Austrian reception, from 6.40. or so, until he returned to the conference to sit on stage for a question and answer session.

I will admit to you, dear Millicent, that I am edging closer to the suspicion that Angelina Barbellini is the person most likely to have killed Colette. She struck me, from the beginning, as being highly strung and possessive. Driven frantic by some new evidence - real or imagined - of the Colonel's wooing of Colette, she might have rushed to attack her. I can visualise what happened. Colette took out her gun to hold Angelina off. There was a scuffle, a shot, panic. A frantic, mindless pushing of the body into the pool. The snag is that I can't believe that Colette would pull a gun on Angelina. I can more easily imagine that she would pull her hair and kick her ankles. If we had not found the matching gun in Colette's bedroom, I would have thought that Angelina owned the gun and ambushed Colette.

My fear, at present, is that they will make me chargé and that I will be stuck here indefinitely. If this happens, I think we should marry immediately and have the celebrations and honeymoon at our convenience. I expect to be called home soon for a briefing. How about a whirlwind wedding?

I showed Orhan's letter to Pierre. We stood in the reception area. From the kitchen, above, came sounds of vigorous activity. He kept pulling his left moustache as he read. That is a sign of thoughtfulness, i.e. scepticism.

'Denis, my friend, today is too warm for indoors. We will walk to Papa's Vineyard and have a cold beer in the canyon, under the trees and look at the ducks swimming in the pools and eat Turkish potato cakes.'

It sounded unlike Pierre. He is rarely happy outside his kitchen, unless he is foraging for materials.

'There is disturbance here,' he added, noting my quizzical look, 'Gül is agitated. She has thrown a plate at me and cried on both my shoulders. Now she should bake bread. To knead dough furiously helps the cook and the bread.'

We nodded to the guard sitting outside his glass box, a new face, and made our way to Papa's Vinyard, a tea garden in a shady chasm, which has, so far, escaped the construction industry.

'Why is Gül upset?'

Our beer arrived with potato crisps. I fed some to the ducks that waddled out of the pool beside us.'

Gül is friendly with the old woman who keeps goats behind the residence. She has not seen her since the day before Madame disappeared. The goats have vanished also. Gül made enquiries and was told that the old lady has gone back, with her goats, to her native village, address unknown. Gül is unsettled by Madame's death and imagines a connection. Gül never liked our landlord. The Countess once said, in a creative mood, concerning the identity of the ghost, that Muftu might have killed his mother and his grandmother in the residence. Gül is casting him as the villain. I told her that she is relying too heavily on feminine intuition, and then she started throwing dishes around.''I myself have not ruled out the landlord, Pierre.'

I dislike Pierre's supercilious French eyebrows. He can express scathing scepticism with one twitch. Then, if he is proved wrong he can claim that he never said anything. I got a one-eyebrow- putdown.

'Gül is imaginative, as a good cook must be. Being a woman, she has not a sufficient discipline of the imagination. She finds it hard to restrain her ardour. Too much tarragon in her _poulet à l'estragon_ , dishes flying because the goat-woman went on holidays.'

The landlord was in the house when Madame was killed. By his own admission there was a period, just around seven o'clock, when he drank tea, on his own, away from the workman. I raised one of my own eyebrows at Pierre and to my surprise he dropped the crisp he had been raising to his mouth.

'I shall preserve my appetite for Gül's _brioche_. She makes it, now, almost as well as I do.'

'You get on well with Gül in spite of her feminine temperament.'

'Her _café Türque_ was a revelation. All that her ragoûts require is a judicious male hand in charge of the salt.'

'You were both working in the kitchen from the time the Countess left at three until you both went to bed?'

'I went into the front garden for about ten minutes, for a breath of air and a smoke. It would have been around 5.30. I could have spent five minutes of the ten shooting Madame and drowning her...but check with the guard. He may have seen me seen me smoke two cigarettes and negotiate with the cat for permission to raise the bin lid to dispose of the buts.'

'Did you see or hear the Ambassador return?'

'The hall door creaked just before I went out for my cigarette. I supposed it was the Ambassador returning from the office. I put on the kettle: sometimes he comes up looking for coffee. He didn't on Tuesday. What did you do yourself on Tuesday evening, Denis? Just for the record.'

I gave him the account of my movements as prepared for Inspector Akin and he smiled sardonically and said ' _Enfin_!'

'When I rang Dublin today, Pierre, I was asked if the Countess might have killed herself. What do you think?'

'Absurd!'

'If I knew more about the Countess's background, I mightn't make absurd suppositions.'

He took a swig of beer, then rubbed his moustaches fastidiously.

'The Coerduroi family, straggled through the reigns of Louis xiv, Louis xv, survived the Revolution –'

'How did they survive with a name like Coerduroi?'

'Marriage has always been significant for us. At the time of the Revolution, the only daughter of the family was married to the descendant of an Irish émigré named d'Obyrne and they went through the revolution as d'Obyrnes, with the goodwill of the local peasants, who always cheat and bully the Coerduroi family and bestow on them the affection reserved for the inept and the non- threatening. The d'Obyrnes died without issue and the château went to a Coerduroi cousin. It has straggled along this way, that way since. Vines, of course, and we farm. My fiancée, Liliane, stuffs geese for their liver, since she dislikes vines. Nobody ever had money until Madame married. She married when she was a student visiting America – a love match – an American businessman, old and wealthy, who died after one year and left her his money. With him, she was Mrs. Cooke-Major the third. His money was perfectly respectable; it came from oil, not popcorn, as malicious people have said. With her inheritance, she re-established the château and restored the vineyard. The château sustains itself but does not, naturally, make money. Our wine is too good for the general taste.

'Madame remained four years a widow, and everything was well. It seemed as if she would marry the château in the next village, which would be even better than marrying her cousin. Unfortunately, she went back to America, on business, and married an actor within a week of her arrival. We received a telegram from Mrs. Randy Wilson.'

'You were disappointed?'

'We were disturbed but not unduly so. We could depend upon Madame to be – like many great romantics – sensible in her folly. She would never sacrifice our château for love. The marriage lasted six months. It was expensive but not disastrously so.

'I noted the name Randy Wilson. If a spouse is suspect, so is an ex-spouse.'How did the marriage end?'

'Divorce. Wilson got enough money to soothe his feelings and has been divorced twice since. You need not suspect that he crept back into our basement, driven to murder by fermenting passion.'I do not like Pierre's cynicism about love and said so.

' _L'amour_ ,' he sniffed, with a very 'French' intonation.

'You will marry your Liliane, who has a _dot_ , all in good time, rejecting the very idea of falling in love? How can you be so cold-blooded, Pierre?'

'I shall fall in love on my wedding night at the necessary moment,' he said haughtily.

All around us sparrows were chasing each other and mating with enthusiasm.

'Love,' he said, 'is largely a matter of hormones and the proper season. One should minimise its effects and regulate its consequences.'

I found his attitude distressing. How different it is to ours, Millicent.

'After the Randy Wilson episode, Madame stayed four years in the château and business prospered. Her cousin, M. d'Aubine, was her agent. It was understood that there would be a match between them. Unfortunately, Madame went to Paris, on business, fell in love with the Counsellor of the Irish Embassy and became Mrs. Walter Brown.'

'Was M. d'Aubine angry?'

'We all felt some chagrin, naturally, but Madame is susceptible to love and marriage as others are susceptible to influenza. We felt that it was a final fling and would follow the pattern of the previous one, last six months and cost more than we would wish. Then she would come home, ensure the succession and devote herself to duty. That was five years ago. Who would have expected this marriage to last so long?'

'Félix d'Aubine inherits the château.'

'Naturally. And the remains of the oil money.'

He mentioned - saying that the information was confidential- a very substantial fortune.'

Ambassador Brown inherits her possessions in Ireland, property and funds. Do you know how much?'

He gave a figure large enough to provide a motive for murder in the eyes of the world, though not impressive considered alongside the French figures.

'Are you sure?''We, of the château, consider Madame's business ours, so we ensure that we know exactly.'

'I regret that the Ambassador benefits. There will always be suspicion where there is financial incentive.'

'Bless you, my innocent,' said Pierre. 'He wouldn't thank you for the thought. He needs the money. Madame always said that he was unlucky with his investments.'

'His gratuity and his pension will keep him in modest comfort when he retires.'

'When he retires, he will want to enjoy himself.'

We finished our beers and left reluctantly. The canyon is a lovely place. The leaves have not quite spread fully yet, so the light was dappled. The little stream tinkled and the ducks guzzled under the tables. A few steps brought us to the gate, into the roar of traffic.

'This afternoon I give myself to the examination of Madame's files and correspondence,'

Pierre said, as we parted.

'Wait until we can do it together this evening.'

'Don't you trust me, Denis? You might as well. If I wanted to get rid of anything, I would have done so already. Come and eat supper. Gül will have cooked enough for three.'

Ayse had made an appointment for me with Inspector Akin. I expected him to be the same aggressive character I had met previously and was surprised to find him cordial. He was busy when I was shown into his office, but took time between issuing orders on the telephone and replying to questions – shouted at him from over the partition – to smile at me and invite me to sit. Eventually he subsided into the chair behind his desk and sighed.

'I would love to deal with ordinary criminals for a while – sane, greedy thieves, vicious assaulters and batterers. Political crimes raise goosebumps on me.'

He showed me a neatly typed message with a pin mark in the middle.

'What does ' _hain_ ' mean?'

'Traitor. I'll translate. " _This traitor has been executed in the name of the people. He is guilty of crimes against the glorious proletariat of Turkey. Let his death be a warning to those who injure the people. The day of freedom approaches._ " The victim was a shopkeeper, probably too successful, in a small way. I have a collection of these notes, left and right, all similar. You would expect a difference in style. Perhaps it is natural that they should all be alike. Freedom fighters, whatever they may care to call themselves, whatever side they happen to be on, are people who need to exteriorise their own faults and kill them in others. What have you got for me?'

'Orhan – Derin Celibi – sent me a copy of the letter he left in the car.

'He stretched out his hand immediately.

'Was there a covering letter? That too, please.

'He read avidly and grinned when he had finished.

'I get bodies regularly, most of them killed on principle. Your Mrs. Brown doesn't fit the pattern. The letter from the elected murderer doesn't fit the pattern either. His record is not a violent one. The organisation to which he belonged at the University was a debating society, a collection of endlessly arguing student dreamers: poets, philosophy students, social scientists. It got sucked into the maelstrom, involved in demonstrations, proscribed, used by more virulent groups as a front and is now condemned and its members wanted by the police. My information is that your ex-driver was a moderating force in the organisation. My working hypothesis – if I were working on the case, and I am not – would be that his letter is, for the most part, true.'

'I think so too.'

'Then Mrs. Brown was found at 6.40., drowned in the pool after being shot. I have established that the bullet was fired by the gun that was with her, the companion of the gun in her drawer. Her watch showed 7.20. It was put forward to suggest that she died later than she did.'

'It may have run fast.'

'Before I was taken off the case, I asked a watchmaker in Ulus to dry out the watch and see if it had a fault that would make it inaccurate. It didn't; it kept proper time. The time-fiddle, had it been successful, would have brought her death back to a time when the Ambassador was safely at his reception. The other people in the house – Gül, Pierre, the landlord and his man – were there all evening. Adjusting the watch would not benefit them.'

'You are prejudiced against the Ambassador.'

'I have an instinct for these things, a feel for guilt, a good professional's understanding of his material. Your Ambassador sets my alarm system in motion. The fact that he was put beyond my reach made me a little rash. In normal circumstances I would have issued no challenge, just set about collecting evidence that would prove or disprove my hunch.'

'Have you ever found yourself mistaken?'

'On occasion. Each time there were peculiar circumstances. In one case, my favourite had not murdered the victim in question but he had murdered someone else. In another, my murderer was innocent at the time – did not become a killer until several years later. I don't depend on my hunches, but they lend direction to my investigation.'

'Walter wouldn't believe that anyone would fall for the old stopped-watch gag.'

'But this is different to the watch-smashed-in-fall trick. The watch would have stopped as soon as she went into the water, so we expect it to show the time of drowning. If she had not been found until later that night or until morning, 7.20. would have been consistent with the post mortem findings. We would have no reason to dispute it. Above all, the watch would not insist that she had been killed at 6.40. It was bad luck for someone that your driver decided to check the pool filter.'

'I shall take that ''someone'' as evidence of an open mind, Inspector. Many people might be considered to have had motive for killing the Countess. Anybody who wished to kill her had opportunity.'

'The guards say nobody, other than the people we know of, passed them. There was no evidence of a break in. There are no ground floor windows and the two doors are kept locked, are they not?'

'The Countess was careless about locking, or even closing, doors. Her killer could have followed her in.'

'Followed her in? Do you know a little more than I do about her movements on the day of her death?'

I told him what I knew of the Countess's Tuesday escapes.'On the day she died, she left the residence at three, driven by Orhan. We don't know where he left her. She carried the pink handbag you found with her. It must have contained the disguise in which the body was dressed.'

'The clothes she wore under it were _très chic_ '

'It is likely that she amused herself, in incognito, for a few hours, then returned to the house by the goat path and the side door intending to change downstairs and keep her evening engagement in the Netherlands Embassy. She died before changing.'

'Odd, if Celibi is anxious to help us find the villain, that he doesn't say where he brought her on Tuesday afternoons.'

'She probably required him to stop outside a salon. Why should he suspect she went elsewhere?''

'Find out where she went and with whom. Nose to the ground, Denis. I suppose you have suspicions?'

'Her cousin M. d'Aubine will gain most by her death, but his time is accounted for on Tuesday. Colonel Barbellini, I suspect, was wooing her. Love can turn sour. Or his wife may have been tormented past endurance. Barbellini has a history of philandering.'

'How do you know? Ah, of course, Sharon Pyx ? Denis, beware.'

'Angelina Barbellini could have taken Mrs. Brown's gun' I insisted, ignoring the slur. (Why anyone should think me susceptible to the overstated charms of an American secret service agent, I cannot imagine.) 'A struggle, the fury of a woman scorned....'

'Don't labour the point, Mr. O'Gorman.'

'The landlord was in the house on Tuesday evening.'

'I'll bear him in mind. Tell me about your ghost? You held an exorcism recently.'

I told him about the ghost in its natural state and as a developed phenomenon. He showed no signs of scepticism when I mentioned that the figure Orhan had drawn was the figure Colette and I had previously seen.

'These things happen.' he said briskly. 'Your cook showed our officers a hidden compartment near the pool,' he said, changing the subject abruptly. 'I have had residue tests done.'

'Gold?'

'Guns.'

'Guns?'

'Now this is important, Mr. O'Gorman. If either the ambassador or you – the only two Irish people on the staff – bought guns for the Irish Republican Army, I need to know. It does not lie within my brief to take action, but I need to know.'

My dear Millicent, I was flabbergasted, as you may well imagine. That there should have been guns in our basement, that Ambassador Brown, that I, myself, should be suspected of Republican sympathies.... I tried to make the Inspector understand that my people had been Home Rulers and that the Ambassador would have been in Fine Gael if he weren't a civil servant, but appropriate Turkish parallels escaped me.

'The very idea is revolting to me,' I said. 'It would have been equally revolting to Ambassador Brown. Where did the guns come from?'

'Guess.'

'Orhan was storing arms in our basement. He built that compartment when he was driver for the Portuguese. He created the ghost to keep people out of his arms dump.'

'Good thinking.'

'The Countess found out,' I said, thinking as I went along. 'She approved. That is why she took responsibility for the ghost.'

'You are on the right lines and here is your reward: Mrs. Brown had a light meal – chocolate, shrimps, candied pumpkin, salami, about an hour and a half before her death, taken with a glass of champagne. There was no evidence of recent sexual activity. There was no evidence of a struggle, nothing under the nails and no bruises. She left a very clear set of prints in an appropriate position on the gun. Since guns were stored in your residence I can now, legitimately, take an interest in it as the arms dump of a proscribed organisation. However, you must do the foot- slogging. See how you like being a detective. Do a door-to-door enquiry on Abdul Pasha Caddesi, the road behind the residence. Someone will have seen Mrs. Brown return from her outing.'

'I've no authority. I know nothing of the rules of evidence. I can't speak Turkish adequately. I –– '

'Now, now,' said Akin, almost tenderly, 'we won't be doing this thing by the book. We just follow our noses. We know that she came in the back way; otherwise, the guard would have seen her. All you have to do is find the person who was watching. There is always someone watching in Ankara.'

And that, Millicent, is how I found myself on Abdul Pasha Caddesi this evening. It is a curving cul-de-sac of twelve neat villas and the two overgrown sites. Ayse accompanied me as interpreter. She explained that, Mr. Muftu was considering a regular right of way from the higher street to the lower one, in order to avoid wholesale trespass. In particular he wished to establish if the murderer they must have heard about on television had come through his land, or not. Families were sitting in their front gardens enjoying the evening sun. They were all interested in the murder, anxious to hear the latest news, more than willing to search their memories and contribute any information they could. The question 'Did you see a woman, tall but perhaps stooped, strictly dressed, going down the path over there?' excited a lot of interest, but Ayse had to work hard to get answers because everyone had a question of greater importance which had to be fielded first.

'We will never get a definite answer,' I said, dismayed, having interrupted several family gatherings and sipped many cups of coffee. Nobody seemed to have been outside at the right time. I crossed the fourth villa off the list. Ayse tried the fifth. The woman who answered had an apron on and brought a smell of frying garlic with her. She explained that few people used the path.

'You can't get out on to the road below because the police won't let you through the gates of the embassy. You can sneak down and go out through the next drive, but if the guards see you, they turn you back. Children run in. The old woman who minds the goats goes down. There is also a younger woman, over-religious, to judge by her dress, sometimes gets out of a car and goes down there. She might be the cleaner in the Embassy.'

'Last Tuesday?'

'Mother would know.'

She brought us upstairs to the front room where an old lady, large, comfortable, sat in the window. Ayse explained our mission as we were settled down hospitably, with tea and baklava. She asked the questions. She was as courteous and circumlocutory as the occasion demanded and I shan't bore you, dear Millicent, with an exact translation.

'The Tuesday woman came as usual this week,' the old lady said with certainty. 'Every Tuesday, just after five, she gets out of a black car and goes down that path, dressed in religious clothes. In a secular state it shouldn't be allowed. Attatürk didn't like it.'She waved away a photograph of the Countess.

'I never had a good look at her face.'

'Can you describe the driver of the car?'

Taxis, in Ankara, Millicent, are always yellow so I was fairly sure that she got a lift home.

'The car stops under the window and the hedge is in the way. I hear the door slam. She crosses the road and goes down there. Sometimes the car turns around immediately and goes away. Sometimes he smokes a cigarette first.'

'How can you tell?'

'Cigarette butts on the road, when I'm out for my walk. As he turns, I see an arm, the side of a head and face, dark hair going grey. A fairly big man.'

'Bearded?'

'Clean-shaven.'

'Does he ever follow her down the path?'

'Never.''Did he leave immediately last Tuesday?'

'He stayed for ten minutes or so after she left and drove away at 5.20.'

'You looked at your watch?'

'My daughter brings me my tablet at quarter past five every day, half hour before dinner, which I have at quarter to six.'

We called to the remaining villas on Abdul Pasha Caddesi but got no further information. Ayse stood out on the roadway to wave to the old lady in her window and my attention was drawn to her bright red high-heeled shoes. (I have, previous to this, and without success, tried to pass on your insight, dear Millicent, that high heels shorten the calf muscles and cause permanent damage to the leg.) One of her heels was stabbing a cigarette stub.

'Ayse,' I said, with bated breath.

'Lift your left foot very gently....'

She shrieked, jumped several feet in the air, landed on top of me, and started looking around for the snake. The cigarette butt was squashed.

'Inspector Akin may be able to analyse the tobacco, Ayse. Find fingerprints, perhaps.'

I got back to the office to find that Seoirse has sent a fax giving advance notice that the department may want me to move into the residence and give up the apartment. If I don't, I'll have to pay the rent, in total, myself. The subsidy works out at around thirty per cent. I have always thought of this apartment as ours, Millicent, and I have been adding colourful little bits and pieces as, I believe, a male bowerbird does. Perhaps the department will forget if I stall long enough.

Pierre has been examining the Countess's correspondence. He was sitting in her study. All available surfaces, floor included, were covered with paper. He growled at me to shut the door quickly; the draught was disarraying his categories.

'I found this.'

The paper had been scrunched into a ball at some stage. Pierre held it out to me by one of its dog-ears and looked at it as if it stank. The handwriting was emphatic but ornate. I glanced at the signature: Alfredo Barbellini . No address, but 'Tuesday' at the top right hand-corner.

'No envelope?'

'No.'

'Where was it?'

'Stuffed in a drawer with everything else.'

My dear Colette,

There is no way to put his kindly or

in any fashion that will lessen your grief or

ameliorate my own regret. We must not continue to

meet. My wife comes first in my affections. She has

forgiven me for my recent inattention.

Let the meeting, have arranged for this

afternoon, be our last. We must bid each other

farewell. We cannot avoid meeting in public.

I trust that you will be forgiving and kind and treat

me as the friend I am.

Sincerely, Alfredo Barbellini

'What do you think of that?' Pierre growled at me.

'Insensitive and obnoxious.'

He relaxed a little.

'She couldn't have loved him. It is against all reason. I don't believe it. He flattered himself.'

'Reason has very little to do with love, Pierre.'

It would have been cruel to say to him that we now had a motive for self-destruction, where previously we had none.

Colette's extraordinary vitality prevented me from taking the idea seriously until now. My writing skills are inadequate to describh her vivacity, Millicent, so you can have little idea what she was like. If she really fell in love with Barbellini and was rebuffed when his fancy flickered away, her passion –turned back on itself – might have led her to kill herself. How like her it would have been to lean out over the pool to shoot herself so that there could be no possibility of bungling the attempt. Cold-blooded French practicality in an emotional moment, not far removed from Pierre's resolve to fall in love on his wedding night.

'Give me back that letter, Denis. We will make Barbellini eat it. Look at this one. I found it in the Ambassador's study – a letter to his brother, never posted.'

'You searched the Ambassador's study?'

'Will you read it or not?'

Though reluctant to read it, I was even more reluctant to allow Pierre sole possession of any information it might contain.

Dear Tom,

Thank you for your letter. Thank Síle for the tie. I surprised Colette by turning out in something that wasn't dark, plain, unremarkable and with a red stripe.

We have acquired an office, which is well located, in a good building and suitable to our needs. For all the doubts I expressed about his ability, young O'Gorman is doing reasonably well. He is not the brightest but he is well intentioned and sufficiently ambitious to be amenable.

Colette has antagonised the Turkish Chef de Protocol, Selma Sezgin. We were at Sezgin's table in the Presidential Palace. Colette began, at the soup, to ask questions about human rights. She continued through the entrée with doubts about the relevance of Kemal Attatürk's teachings in the modern world, and began dessert with leading questions about the Kurds, ending, at coffee, with a discovery that Turkish coffee and Baklava were really Greek coffee and Baklava.

'Nonsense, Walter, pet,' she said afterwards ' I didn't say anything you haven't said yourself.'

Which, of course, is not the point. I will have some bridges to build. I sometimes relieve my feelings by working out the drop for her. Remember how we used to play hangman? I find the exercise cathartic. Marriage is the most wonderful institution and perennially amazing. I used to think of it as 'settling down', almost a preparation for retirement. Settle down on a rollercoaster? I suspect that I have become addicted to thrills.

I began this letter a while ago and was called away before it got into its envelope. I'll finish it now and send it off in the bag, if I can find an Irish stamp for it. There was a circular recently reproving people who sent unstamped letters home, expecting them to be forwarded at departmental expense.

Regards, W.

'The drop? What does he mean?' I wondered.

Pierre mimed a noose.

'A joke,' I said, firmly. 'They liked chipping against each other. Married people do. It keeps them on their toes.''Perhaps. Now will you kindly help me sort the rest of the Countess's papers, keeping things in the categories established.'Our filing systems did not correspond.

'Denis, if you will consent to absent yourself, of your own free will, I undertake to call you if anything of interest turns up. Go down to Gül; she wants to see you.'

I told Gül that Inspector Akin would make enquiries about the missing goats and their owner and interview the landlord. She was relieved but still had a scruple.

'Denis, mostly it is on my conscience that I tell Pierre the lady and her goats disappear the day before Madame disappeared. I did not want to contradict myself to him because he says women cannot make up their minds. I have remembered that on the night Madame disappeared, I heard the goats outside the house. I stood up on the ladder to close the kitchen window, which is high, and I heard them coughing.'

I really don't think the date of disappearance of the goats will prove significant but I thanked her and commended her attention to detail.

'Denis, there is something else. The day I last saw Madame, that evening, I saw a woman come down the slope behind the house. I saw her from the balcony window, so I had a good view. I had brought the landlord his tea. Then I looked out the window a while. This house closes you in. It is good to stand at that window and look out.'

'Can you describe her?'

'She came down slowly and went out of my sight by the side of the house. She was probably someone taking a shortcut. People don't go out our gate because the guard stops them. They go through the trees and out by the Italians' gate.'

'Did you recognise the woman?'

'No, but I nearly did.'

'How could you "nearly" recognise someone?'

'Perhaps she lives nearby.'

'Mrs. Barbellini?'

'No. That one is tall and thin and crackling with nerves. This one was smaller and plumper – young, Turkish.'

'How could you tell?'

'Foreigners don't walk properly. Only girls who grew up in Ankara can walk gracefully on the hills, wearing high heels, as she did.'

'The woman you saw was wearing heels?'

'There remains only _l'impression_ with me. She was not sure of the way, perhaps looking for someone.'

'Did she see you at the window?'

'No. People don't look up. I think I saw her again, at the ceremony for Madame. It was crowded in that chapel. If I see her passing here again, I will run out and ask her who she is.'

'If you see her, run down and get the police to ask her who she is. You brought the landlord his tea just after seven. Anybody who came near the house at that time should be interviewed.'

I had to hurry back to the office to close it. I knew Ayse could be depended on to wait until I arrived but I have really been taking advantage of her goodwill lately. She is gratified that neither the Inspector nor I consider Orhan guilty. When I told her about the woman Gül had seen, she stared at me blankly.

'What is it, Ayse? Have you thought of something?'

'What does Gül look like?'

'Tall, slender –'

'Then anyone who is not tall and slender will be small and plump according to her, especially if looked down at from above, as you say.'

'Angelina Barbellini is taller and thinner than Gül, and Gül would have recognised her.'

You may think, Millicent, that I confide excessively in Ayse. The thought has occurred to me. However, I need her co-operation and there seems to be no point in rationing information when she must be party to any developments.

I need a file of photographs. Some I have already. To get others, I went to the offices of the _Turque Diplomatique_. The name is a relic of the days when French was the language of diplomacy in Turkey. The _Turque_ is a curious publication, a kind of 'who's who' of the diplomatic community which it is fashionable to disdain but impossible to escape. Newcomers to Ankara are portrayed in it, often to their distress, amusement, or anger. The editor is an important little man who wears a toupee and dyes his fringes of hair to match. He modifies the baldness of the more important ambassadors with a little creative shading. Jealous of the moral tone of his journal, he adjusts ladies' gowns if necessary. I paid an hour's listening in exchange for the photographs I required – one of Colonel Barbellini and his wife on their arrival in Ankara, one of Walter and the Countess. The Italian had not required shading. Walter's natural Celtic-style tonsure had been Romanised slightly.

Ayse and I went back to the granny in the window on Abdul Pasha Caddesi. I showed her the photograph of Barbellini. It is an unorthodox way of doing things, but I had Akin's assurance that all we could do was follow hunches and hope to wing home.

'This is the man who drove the car,' she said, confidently.

I had warned Ayse not to show any reaction, but I found it difficult myself not to register satisfaction.

'And you saw him drive away. Did you go back to your window after dinner?'

'No, I don't look out after it gets gloomy. Why?'

'A second woman went down that same path, later. We would like to know who she was.'

'You are only interested in five o'clock or after it? I ask because a stranger came along the road earlier. Since it is a cul de sac, I don't see new faces often. A large fat man, middle-aged with black hair, bearded like a goat, walked up the road at around four. He was hot and he sat down on the little wall up there, on the other side of that young pine tree, mopping his face.

'Unfortunately, Ayse squeaked at the mention of a large bearded man. M. d'Aubine had occasion to call to the office once and had impressed her by sitting in Walter's chair and spinning himself round in it solemnly for several minutes, before speaking. I have also told her – with something approaching wistfulness, I admit – that he has a daylong alibi. An indication of particular interest in a subject may occlude the witness's memory. (At least that is what _Small's Detective Practice_ , borrowed from the British Council Library, says.) Ayse's involuntary expression of surprise didn't seem to distract the old lady.

When I opened my file and showed her the photo of M. d'Aubine, with his hand on the light switch, she said: 'Of all the men in Ankara who are big and fat and have moustaches, you have picked the right one.'

'Did he go down the path?'

'No.'

'What did he do?'

'He must have stayed on the wall behind the pine tree until after I went down to dinner. If he'd left I would have noticed.'

We went to the spot where M. d'Aubine sat on Tuesday when he should have been participating in a seminar. By holding down a branch or two, he could command a view of the road, yet remain unseen. I believe that Pierre told him about the Countess's Tuesday escapades and he came to spy. I should have checked that he really was at the seminar. It is my first real breakthrough, Millicent. I have positioned Félix d'Aubine, a man with a motive, within easy range of the victim at an appropriate time.

At Ayse's suggestion, I rang Inspector Akin and reported our findings.

'Excellent,' he said. 'Keep at it.'

'Since Félix d'Aubine is out of reach I'll interview Barbellini.'

'You do that, Denis. Keep going. Remember, all roads lead to the truth...eventually.'

Encouraging, but not precisely helpful.

I called on Barbellini. Though he was not overjoyed to see me he led me into the drawing room and offered me a drink.

'In view of new evidence that has come to light, Colonel, it is no longer certain that our driver murdered Mrs. Brown. At Ambassador Brown's request, I am trying to put together a timetable for the day Mrs. Brown disappeared.'

'You surprise me, Denis. I have had it on the highest authority that the case is closed.'

'Perhaps, as far as the police are concerned, but Dublin requires a report. It will be an internal report but it must be comprehensive. Please tell me where you were on Tuesday afternoon and evening?'

He decided to humour me.

' I got home from a meeting at around quarter past five. Your policeman saluted me as I turned into my drive. Maria was doing something to Angelina's hair. I had a coffee, rang Walter to confirm our arrangement, showered, shaved and dressed. I had to wait a few minutes for Angelina. Walter rang at the door and we drove to the reception in Angelina's car. Mine, as you know, is a two-seater. I drove.'

'What time did you leave?'

'Just after six twenty.'

'You said you drove home from a meeting at a quarter past five. Would you mind telling me what meeting you attended?'

'I was engaged in confidential negotiations on behalf of my government.'

'Was Mrs. Brown at the meeting?'

He poured more drink and looked mulish.

'It sounds as if you found some letters of mine to Colette. I can't discuss this now. I need to take advice about how much I may tell you, if anything. Delicate intergovernmental negotiations are in progress. Colette was a woman of rare political acumen. She could predict the French position. I found it convenient to cultivate her. It may relieve your mind if I tell you that I have already spoken at length on this subject, to Chief Inspector Eratalay. Nothing I know, that may be material to police investigations into the death of Mrs. Brown, is unknown to the police.'

'You didn't speak to Inspector Akin, who was in charge of the enquiry?'

'Why speak to the feet when you may address the head? Eratalay is a personal friend of mine. We go boar hunting in Bolu. We supply half the embassies in Ankara with wild boar. The farmers have no use for pork, and the pigs are destructive to crops. Have a word with the Chief Inspector.'

My mind flashed back to the dinner in the Swedish embassy where we had tough _sanglier dans son sang_ and Sven disgraced himself. If I persist in this enquiry, I may follow him on the slippery slope.

'I understand that the meeting on Tuesday was to be your final meeting with the Countess. What was her mood like when you parted?'

'You did find, and read, my letter,' he said, his lip curling. 'I'll think about this, Denis, and come back to you.'

I was wondering what chance I had of talking to Angelina when she came to the door, calling 'Alfredo'.

'I'm in here, darling, talking to Denis.'

Her long black hair was untidy. The air was brittle around her. The Colonel seated her on the sofa beside him, took her hands in his.

'Now, my dear, Denis just wants to know what we were doing on Tuesday afternoon and evening. You don't have to, of course, but poor Denis needs to show a comprehensive grasp of the local situation.'

Angelina composed herself.

'My sweet,' the Colonel rewarded her.

'Did you see Mrs. Brown at any time, last Tuesday, Mrs. Barbellini?'

'I was on the balcony in the afternoon, talking to Maria and I heard Colette Brown shouting something about '' _petits fours_ ''. She always remembered something to shout back at her cook, as she left. Her car pulled out and went past our gate. She was in it, looking out the window and waving to the guard. That is the last I saw of her.'

'Now that wasn't so bad, my dear, was it?'Angelina smiled a little. The Colonel smiled a little.

They sat bolt upright on the sofa, smiling, side by They reminded me of an Etruscan tomb-monument of a married couple.

'Did you go out yourself that afternoon, Mrs. Barbellini?'

'Not until Alfredo came home and we went to the reception.'

'We must let Angelina return to the kitchen now, Denis. Maria is quite unable to proceed without supervision.'

She rose and left in a somnolent fashion. I don't think she would be of much use in a kitchen. Barbellini accompanied me to the door. I had hoped to interview Maria but I had a definite feeling that I had reached the limits of his tolerance.

Maria was lying in wait for me in the garden of the residence.

'Where is Orhan? How is he?'

'I don't know. If you want to help him, think back to last Tuesday. Did you see him that day?'

'He drove out around three with Mrs. Brown. That is the last time I saw him.'

'What did Madame Barbellini do for the rest of the afternoon?'

'Madame Barbellini might not wish me to say.'

'Tell me.'

'I put henna in her hair and gave her a seaweed masque.'

'How long did this take?'

'I mixed the henna when we were on the balcony. You know henna? You buy it in the market. It is in great sacks, like pea soup powder, good for hair. The henna went on and the hot towels, replaced often and the face and neck in seaweed cream till it dries and cracks off. We were ready just in time for her reception.'

'All afternoon? You are sure?'

'Indeed yes.'

Since finding out that M. d'Aubine had been spying on the Countess as she returned home on Tuesday, I have been annoyed with Pierre. He has been less than forthcoming with me. I went to the residence to tackle him.

'Pierre, I believe that you told M. d'Aubine about the Countess's Tuesday adventures.'

'So?'

'You knew that he spied on her on the day she was killed. He told you that she was driven home by the Colonel.'

'Denis, you forget that I had my own quarrel with M. d'Aubine. We did not speak to each other from the day Madame was displeased with him until the day her body was recovered. Then, when you were looking over the fence at the policemen, he told me she had met Barbellini.'

'And you didn't tell me. What kind of an ally are you?'

'She walked away alive from Barbellini.'

'But did she walk away from M. d'Aubine?'

'See, Denis, you are distracted into impossibilities immediately. That is why I omitted to tell you.'

'Tell me why the Countess quarreled with her cousin. I'd find it easier to believe that you suspended communications with him if I knew why.'

'A Château Fontenoy matter, purely to do with wine. Nothing to interest you, Denis. You may be assured that M. d'Aubine would never harm Madame.'

Sharon Pyx rang. She wants to meet me urgently and unobtrusively. I suggested that we meet in Papa's Vineyard, where Pierre and I had fed the ducks. I feel safer in the open. She was wearing high heels and her blouse was unbuttoned to the point of no discretion.

'Is it difficult to walk in heels like that on hilly streets?' I asked, testing Gül's theory.

'Gee no! Where I come from streets have a gradient of ninety degrees.

'Even allowing for American exaggeration, Gül's theory must be modified.

'I have a serious request, Denis,' she began. 'I'll be absolutely honest and above board with you. I made a mistake. I didn't realise what a caring and passionate woman your Mrs. Brown was. I thought that she was just fascinated by Colonel Barbellini's charms. He is an impressive old boy, if you don't insist on brains. As I say, I made a mistake. Your Mrs. Brown had fallen for him hook, line and sinker.'

'How do you know?'

'I told you his secretary is one of ours? Christine, a big, warm, motherly woman, has handled Barbellini since he came here. He tells her everything. Our shrinks advised that the Don Juan business was just a desire to retire to the womb and that he would be best handled by a _mama mia_ type. They were right for once. Oh look, Denis. Isn't that an adorable little duck?'

'Drake.'

'Really?'

The beer arrived.

'I shan't beat about the bush with you, Denis. Christine contacted me when Mrs. Brown's body was discovered. Barbellini was in a bad way. He blames himself for her death.'

'He killed her?'

'Only in a manner of speaking. Her attachment to him was far deeper than he realised and he broke with her. I'm afraid he is rather naughty. He has left a litter of broken hearts after him all his life. He is irresistibly attracted to women, though faithful, in his heart at least, to Angelina. On Tuesday he met Mrs. Brown for the last time, expecting a scene. Colonel Barbellini regards the scene, at the end of an amatory episode, as punishment for transgression. He was not prepared for a tornado. Mrs. Brown said she would shoot herself. The Colonel thought it was just emotional blackmail. He didn't know she had a gun. You can figure how he felt when he heard that she was missing. The shrinks said that an old trauma of his resurfaced - the young girl who threw herself in the Swanee on his account, way back . Since then he has, on principle, always broken immediately with anyone who seems to be falling for him.'

'I don't believe Colette loved Barbellini.'

'What do you know of a woman's heart, Denis? The Countess had reached the age of insecurity. I asked Christine to find me something to show you as evidence. She pinched this from his desk.'

I recognised the Countess's handwriting:

Alfredo, mon chou, I must see you today. I really must.

I'll be at the café at 3.30. Do come. I'll put sugar in

your expresso. I'll hang on your lips and drop cream in

your ears. C

'It isn't much of a love letter.'

'You don't get the point, Denis. She had begun to demand that Barbellini meet her. If it had been a sex thing, he wouldn't have minded, but it wasn't. It was pure old-fashioned love she wanted ... meetings in cafés, hotel foyers, even in pastry shops in the market. No wonder he spooked. He should have let her down more gently. A woman of her years, in love, is pretty unstable.'

'Why are you telling me all this, Sharon?''I have been authorised to strike a bargain with you. If the Italians find out that the Colonel has boobed again, sexually, they'll bring him home and we'll lose the ear we have planted in the Turkish right.'

'Nonsense. Surely you have someone like Christina in Rome, ready to pull strings, or supply umbilical cords, or whatever she does.'

'Unfortunately we haven't, not at present anyway. The Colonel says you are big into detection. Rather than have you stir up mud, unnecessarily – you have no idea how much could be stirred up if someone starts lashing around – we have decided to hand you the truth, and trust to your discretion. Mrs. Brown was desperately in love and killed herself when it didn't work out.'

'Her watch was forty minutes fast. That was the work of a murderer who wished to give himself an alibi. Perhaps Barbellini was so desperate to escape that he killed her.'

'But Denis,' Sharon said, looking at me wide-eyed, 'can you possibly not know? Surely you must know that Mrs. Brown had the most extraordinary effect on watches. She was one of those people who seem to magnetise them in some way. She had to adjust her watch every day, adjustment at the end of the day. Our experts – and you are welcome to consult them – say that when she was labouring under intense emotion, the effect would be intensified. She would also be less careful about making adjustments.'

I could have kicked myself, Millicent. I seem to remember the Countess saying something about jinxing her transistor. I suppose those who were aware of her effect on watches knew it to be a thing of minutes per day and did not think to mention it when the Inspector spoke of a discrepancy of forty minutes.

'You do believe me, Denis. I wouldn't lie to you. I definitely wouldn't help to hush up a murder.'

I remembered the letter from Barbellini that Pierre had found in Colette's desk. The shot had been fired with her own gun. I told Sharon I would have to think about my position.'

If you stop stirring the pot, Denis, we'll be able to get a statement from the police to the effect that it is now accepted that there was no foul play involved in Mrs. Brown's death.'

'Every television station, every newspaper in the country blamed Orhan. Would they retract?'

'Have a heart, Denis. You know how it is in every country. The sensational headline today, then it is yesterday's news. No one wants to know.'

'The police could insist.'

'What about the freedom of the press?'

I instinctively distrust everything Sharon Pyx says.

I went in to the office before going to meet Inspector Akin. A message in code had come from Seoirse: 'Rumour has it Chancery now detective agency. Dept. not amused.

Inspector Akin was delighted to see me, Millicent, or so it seemed. He has very long arms and legs that seem to be in perpetual motion. I'm sure he didn't actually step over his desk to greet me, but I got the impression that he did – and that he would probably step over me, too, on his way to the door, if it suited him.

'Denis, my friend, have you made progress? Let me guess. Mrs. Brown killed herself. That is what you have come to tell me.'

'It isn't what I have come to tell you,' I replied, nettled, but it is what people have been telling me.'

'I may now reveal that we have found Mrs. Brown's fingerprints on the gun. A beautiful set of prints, just where they should be.'

'But the gun was in the pool, Orhan fished it out of the pool.'

'You think that water would remove the prints? A common belief, even among criminals, to our delight. Water of itself won't remove fingerprints. A nice dry finger on a nice dry trigger will leave its mark. Abrasion from currents or underwater gravel migh remove it but there was nothing in the pool to destroy a lovely latent. And remember, Denis, that we found the matching pistol in her room.'

'It is possible that she killed herself,' I said, frostily. 'I don't believe she did.'

'Bravo, Bravo! You suspect someone. Don't tell me. You suspect big bad Barbellini.'

'How do you know?'

'A hunch, helped along by the fact that my chief was on the phone a little while ago to say that the Italian military attaché, a person of considerable importance, in his estimation, was being harassed by the third secretary of the Irish Embassy.'

'If you let me speak for myself, I could give you the facts, as I know them, in orderly fashion, Inspector.'

'Call me Kadri. We are colleagues.'

I really couldn't bring myself to call him Kadri. It seemed far too familiar a form of address for someone who may yet turn out to be the enemy. I settled for 'Inspector Kadri' and gave him a summary of what I have recorded earlier.

'Well done,' he said when I finished. 'You deserve to share my news. What would you say if I told you that we have found the fingerprints of Adem Kaya, a well-known fugitive in the basement of the Irish residence? Two months ago Kaya escaped from police custody and was pursued by the police and by tracker dogs through the neighbourhood of the residence. After some negotiation the police were allowed through the garden of your residence, by your Ambassador. They lost the trail there. Now, Denis, wonderful to relate, Kaya's hand print, in his own blood, has been found inside the house, on the wall beside the steps that go down to the pool from the side entry.'

I groaned and told him what I knew of the Countess's, unfortunate, but innocent involvement in the affair.

'It was a momentary impulse, Inspector. She heard the groans of a wounded man and set about succouring him. She is entirely apolitical.'

'Magnificent. What a woman! Officially, I must tell you that this is most reprehensible. Unofficially, I can appreciate romantic chivalry, especially when exercised in relation to one who is a criminal of ideas rather than a criminal of acts.'

'There are extenuating circumstances. The Countess was of an age when maternal instincts are liable to be aroused by a young man in trouble. There is no need, Inspector, to let this information get past your desk, is there?'

'This particular fugitive's prints were in sweat and blood. Very dramatic and sympathy-provoking, I agree.'

'It can have no bearing on the Countess's death.'

'If the story came to the attention of my superior officers, they would say that the organisation had to silence her because she could identify its leaders.'

'Are you saying that Orhan killed her after all?'

'That's what my bosses would say. Besides, Denis , my friend, your Mrs. Brown had a greater capacity for maternal feelings than you allow. We found the fingerprints of six of the most wanted student activists in Turkey in your basement, in garlic butter, in olive oil, in orange juice and, if I can believe the analysis, in Irish whiskey.

'I was speechless, Millicent. I remembered the Countess's food parcels, the missing _moules farcis_ , her hijacking of the _Coquilles St. Jacques_ that were to have regaled bankers.

'Something has occurred to you, my dear colleague.'

'Inspector Kadri, if I had my hands around the Countess's neck at this moment, I would throttle her.'

'Good for you, my friend. You are far too repressed, you know. Sharon says that you never let yourself go.'

'Sharon Pyx? What has she got to do with anything?'

For answer, he pointed to the window where a spider had spun a web across a corner, anchored by guy-lines to the far sides of the frame.

'See that spider in the very corner. That is Inspector Akin.'

He waved his arms around as he spoke and I could well believe he felt that he had eight of them.

'Have you told the Americans about your discoveries in our basement?'

'Oh no! I only tell Sharon what I want her to know. At present she knows that I think Colonel Barbellini killed his mistress. That is why she was in a hurry to provide you with an alternative solution to present to me. The Americans don't want to lose him. You see why I am so pleased with you, Denis. You have come back to me positively covered in decoy ink, like a bit of seaweed that has just received the full blast of a squid's interior. You are half-convinced – against your will – that Mrs. Brown did herself in.'

There did not seem much point, Millicent, in insisting that he has willfully misunderstood my role in the affair.

'I think we can discount everything that Sharon says, Denis. Here is something for you to consider. The laboratory gave me the result of molecule tests they ran on Mrs. Brown's clothes and handbag. She hadn't carried a gun in her pockets, or in the handbag that was buried with her.'

'But....'

I couldn't continue. Everything I thought I knew was whirled around and set on its head by this casually relayed piece of information.

'Puts a different complexion on things, doesn't it?' he said smugly.

'Were there other prints on the gun besides the clear ones she left on it, correctly positioned for suicide?'

'No, Denis.'

'Shouldn't there be other ones – indistinct ones of her own – from handling the weapon?'

'One would expect so.'

'I see.'

In fact, Millicent, I wasn't quite sure at the time what I saw.

'And now, Denis, my friend, what windmill do you want to tilt against next?'

'I shall first of all consult with my Ambassador.'

'Wonderful! Tell him that if he decides to return, I shall meet him at the airport.'

'If Dublin permits him to come back, Protocol will meet him at the airport.'

The Inspector smiled a secretive little smile and cracked his knuckles.

'I rang the local policeman in Kazarköy, the village of the woman who kept goats behind the residence. She was there, with her goats; transport provided by your landlord, whose praises she sings.'

'Did your policeman ask her why she left so suddenly and why she left at the time she did?'

'She had a longing to see her native sky once more. You find a good reason to interview her, Denis, and I'll facilitate you.'

'She might have been hurried away because of something she saw.''She moved on Sunday, two days before Mrs. Brown died. Keep slogging away. Don't worry what step to take next. Think of your quest as a journey through a maze. If you mark off all the false starts you make, you are bound to find the one true path eventually.'

'Is this how you reach your own conclusions, Inspector Kadri?'

'No. But then, you see, a person in my position, Denis, has an overview of the maze.'

He threw a glance at the spider in its web and then looked at his clock.

The interview was over. All the Inspector's eight arms propelled me towards the door.

I showed him the cigarette butt that Ayse had stood on. He shook out the strands of tobacco and the scrap of paper on his desk.

'Doubtless, my dear Denis, some future Sherlock Holmes will have the skill and technology to make something of items like this. Unfortunately, at present....'He shrugged, scooped it back into the envelope and returned it to me saying, 'Put it in the freezer.'

Dear Millicent, I have long distrusted M. d'Aubine. I am now considering the possibility that Pierre conspired with him to kill Colette. When she came down that pathway to the house on Tuesday, Pierre might have met her and killed her for the sake of Château Fontenoy. I see how it might have been done. D'Aubine whistled when Colette started down the path. Pierre slipped out for his cigarette and was back in the kitchen, Colette dead, within ten minutes. He brazenly drew attention to the possibility himself.

Until now I have thought of him as a nurturer, the serious cook who sublimated all mundane desires by perpetual attention to his art, a man whose stockpot was his bank, whose heart was a full larder. Of course he is also the dispatcher of fowl, the executioner of lobsters. If both Pierre and M. d'Aubine had abandoned hope of recalling the Countess to a sense of duty – as they would consider it – might they not have decided to secure the future of the Château by killing her? When I rang Walter to tell him I would send him a full report, in the bag, he told me that M. d'Aubine has returned to Cappadocia to wind up his business there. I'll follow him there and challenge him.

Pierre has presented me with an inventory of the Countess's correspondence and personal possessions which fills a 40-page copybook. I flicked through it and put it aside. What on earth was the point in recording that she had ten lipsticks? I told him that the food she had raided from his kitchen was fed to hungry revolutionaries in our own basement. He did not seem to care that, from a diplomatic point of view, this is a disaster. Instead he bewailed ' _mes cuisses de grenouilles, mes tripes à la mode de Caen_ ' as if his confections had been profaned by being ingested through the wrong gullets.

'She aided and abetted revolutionaries.'

'Madame was a force of nature, like the wind or the rain.'

'Madame, unlike the wind and the rain, was responsible for her actions. Were you in love with her, Pierre?'

' _Passionnément_. Nobody will ever appreciate my cooking so much again.'

How to gauge the depths of such a passion I cannot tell.

'Did you kill her?'

'Did I what?'

His astonishment was complete. I had him off balance and used the opportunity to ask, 'What was wrong with the Château Fontenoy wine the last night I dined here?'

His whiskers drooped.

'Wrong with the wine?'

'When you gave some to M. d'Aubine the other day he, also, hesitated.'

'Go away, Denis; you are not funny. What would you know about wine? If I served it at the wrong temperature, you would not notice. Madame and M. d'Aubine demand perfection.'

'Is that all it was – a question of temperature?

'It is my consolation that the glass of wine I served Madame on the day of her death was perfection.'

I felt it necessary to observe a moment's silence. Then I asked him how I could contact M. d'Aubine.

'I do not expect him to return here.'

'Then give me his telephone number in France.'

'M. d'Aubine, after the funeral, left on his annual tour of French vineyards. He will be travelling for at least a month.'

'I have a job for you tomorrow, Pierre. My investigations, so far, suggest that Angelina Barbellini, crazed by jealousy, attacked the Countess. Maria, however, has given her an alibi. Ingratiate yourself with Maria. Find out if she could have spent from three o'clock to six fifteen working on Mrs. Barbellini's hair?'

'I myself could spend that long beautifying a table.'

'You will talk to her tomorrow?'

'Not tomorrow, Denis. I am developing a version of Ishkembe soup suitable to French taste. It is nearing its achievement.'

I said something dismissive about his Ishkembe soup.

I doubt if Maria will talk to him. I want to give him the impression that my suspicions are centred on Angelina Barbellini. In fact they centre on the d'Aubine/Pierre axis, strengthened by Pierre's lie about d'Aubine's whereabouts. I'll go to Cappadocia in the morning and beard M. d'Aubine among his grape-growers. I'll use the detective agency report and photograph to use as a lever. To what extent this could be considered blackmail, I'm not sure and don't care.

There was a commotion in the outer hall as I finished the sentence above. A woman's voice shrilled in protest. The guard answered, solid, negative and official. I went to the door. Gül burst in, wild-eyed and with flour in her hair.

'You must stop him, Dennis _Bey_. You have upset Pierre and he is packing his knives....'

'His knives?'

'A cook's knives are his toothbrushes, his underwear, his bread and cheese. Pierre is packing his knives. Then he will pack his valise. Then he will go back to France. You insulted him.'

'I asked him if he killed the Countess because I wished to give him an opportunity to deny it.'

'What is this about killing Madame? It was not this that so upsets him that he goes back to France where his horrid fiancée, whom he does not love and who is big and fat and ugly and old will pounce on him and carry him off.'

'He is engaged.'

'Bah, for the fiancée. It is I, Gül, he loves. He does not know it yet. He is afraid of love. It is the monster under the bed, but one day he will find himself walking on air and whistling and _voilà_! Take back what you said.'

'What did I say?'

'You insulted him in his _meslek_ , his _métier_. You called his beautiful new _Ishkembe soup_ _Parisienne_ garlic cough mixture.'

How typical of the man to swallow an accusation of murder and choke on soup. I tried to explain that propinquity can create feelings that might be mistaken for love. Though Pierre is a good cook and has a certain Gallic style, he is not in any degree handsome and I don't think he has any interest in anything beyond his art.

'Do you love his moustaches, Gül?'

'They are magnificent.'

I'm afraid, Millicent, that she must really be in love with him. I reminded her that, being engaged, Pierre is not free to go walking on air in Turkey.

'Denis _Bey_ , come down to the residence. Just tell Pierre that you regret insulting him and you can leave the rest to me.'

Ayse came in with papers to be signed. Gül shrieked, pointed at Ayse, gave another shriek. Ayse looked at her with interest.

'Who is she, Denis?'

'Gül, who is housekeeper in the residence.'

Ayse let the papers scatter on the floor.

'That is the woman,' said Gül. 'That is the woman who came down the goat path the evening Madame was murdered. The woman you suspect of murder.'

'But this is Ayse, our secretary. She has been with us for several weeks now. Surely, you know her?'

'Why should I know her?' Gül asked haughtily. 'We of the residence speak to assistant on the phone, concerning domestic things. We do not meet. Except on Patrick's Day, when we condescend.'

Ayse backed away from her and leaned against the wall. She tried to say something but failed.

'Were you on that path the day the Countess died, Ayse?'

She nodded.

'Gül, leave this to me. Go. I'll follow you soon, and make peace with Pierre.'

She left. I made Ayse sit down and asked her to explain what had brought her to the residence on that particular day. At first tears would not let her speak. Then she got hiccups. She staggered through her explanation between sobs and hiccups.

'Orhan is my brother's friend. Orhan told me of this job. He will give his life, laughing, for what he believes in. He didn't kill Mrs. Brown. He didn't kill anyone, ever.'

'Ayse, calm down. What brought you to the residence that day?'

'Orhan rang me in the office, just before I left. I was to take the key to his desk- he keeps it on top of the portrait of your President. I was to take his things and hide them at the top of the goat path you know at Abdul Pasha Caddesi.'

'What things?'

'His passport and wallet. When I got there, it was getting dark. How would he find them in the dark? I could see the residence through the trees and I went down the path expecting to meet him. I knew that he has his room at the side of the residence. I was there once with my brother. Was it not better to deliver them than to leave them under a bush, Denis? But Orhan was upset that I had come down the path. He said that he had not done anything wrong but that there would be a lot of trouble and the less I knew the better. I asked him if he were going away. He said he was going on a trip for Ambassador Brown and didn't want to admit that he had left his papers behind. He pushed me through the trees to the Italians' garden and said to go out their gate and turn right. I was to stay close to the hedge so that the guards would not see me.'

Her handkerchief was soaked. I handed her mine.

'He should not have involved you.'

'He did not intend me to go down to the residence. Besides, for the people of Turkey, we must all do as we believe right.'

'Oh my God, surely I didn't employ two revolutionaries'

'Poor Denis, I'm afraid you did.'

'Why didn't you speak up when the news broke? Why didn't you tell me? You might have trusted me.'

She sobbed afresh at this and fished in her pocket for the handkerchief that had fallen to the floor. Irritated, I picked it up and told her that I took a dim view of her involvement and would have to consider what disciplinary measures would be appropriate.

'Yes, Denis,' she said meekly.

I couldn't think of anything else to say.

Ayse got up, collected the papers and handed me one of them.

'This one,' she said shakily, 'is to remind you that you have agreed, next Tuesday, since the Ambassador is not here, to speak to the ''Ladies of Ankara'' on ''The Modern Irish Woman''.'

'Did you see Gül looking out the window that evening?'

'I didn't look up.'

'Are you sure you never met her before now?'

'I didn't.'

I remembered that it was Ayse's predecessor, who had looked after Gül's papers in the beginning. Perhaps I should give Ayse notice immediately, Millicent, but such a course seems unnecessarily harsh in the circumstances. I gave her a bundle of letters to type and decided to have a quiet word with Seoirse before taking any action. I hurried down to the residence and persuaded Pierre to take out his knives again. He accepted my apology for the unintended slight to creative genius. Gül came into the kitchen. I couldn't see any signs of romantic awareness on his part. Could a man, falling in love, be ignorant of the fact?

Peace established, Pierre felt hungry and began to whistle and chop herbs. Gül moved around him silently, as if in a dance, setting the table. He didn't seem to notice her. I sighed for Gül but rejoiced for the French Mademoiselle waiting at home, and enjoyed my omelette. The wine made me pause. Was it Château Fontenoy? I felt uneasy about drinking it and worried that Pierre might be making free of Walter's wine, for surely it must now be his. Pierre saw my hesitation and laughed out loud.

'Don't worry. It is from M. d'Aubine's private supply. He wouldn't grudge me a little wine.'

I drank it and enjoyed it. However it was another reminder of an identity of interests between d'Aubine and Pierre. I looked at the dregs in my glass and wondered.

'Do you intend to continue investigations tomorrow, Denis?' Pierre asked me as I left.

'Tomorrow I must catch up with office work.'

'Tomorrow my _Ishkembe_ will reach perfection.'

I bowed assent.

I'll travel on the early bus to Cappadocia tomorrow, Millicent. There is one that leaves at 6.45. in the morning, which should reach Göreme at eleven. I'll return on Sunday, on an early bus if possible. Ayse will contact me at the hotel if there is an emergency. She has promised to abjure politics while in employment here. She will alert me immediately if Orhan contacts her. It would be inconvenient to dismiss her now, even if I wished to do so. I'll stay at the hotel that M. d'Aubine recommended some time ago. If I'm lucky, I'll find him there.

'Is the wine-producing area in Cappadocia extensive?' I asked Ayse.

'They grow a lot of grapes there, but mostly for eating. Turks do not drink enough wine. Rich people do, but they buy imported wine, to show they are rich. Attatürk built wineries, but they are not all being used, or not making as much wine as they could.'

If M. d'Aubine is travelling around as an expert trouble-shooter, everyone will know him and I will be able to find him without too much bother. There cannot be many Frenchmen like him in Cappadocia.

'Shall I go with you?'

'No, thank you, Ayse.'

'Cappadocia is not Ankara. If M. d'Aubine is good for the vine growers, they will not like anyone who makes trouble for him.'

'I must talk to him.'

'Do you also want to talk to Orhan?'

'I do. Can you arrange it?'

'I'll try.'

I hope you don't think it is too rash of me, Millicent, to continue detecting in spite of departmental disapproval. It is unlikely that Dublin will find out, unless I succeed and if I do, Dublin will be pleased. Since no steps have, as yet, been taken to remove Orhan from employment, he is still employed by us, technically, and I shall say, if questioned, that I needed to discuss, with him, the termination of his contract. If he is in Adana, I'll have to think up something else.

I have a plan for tackling M. d'Aubine. I am going to tell him that he was seen on Abdul Pasha Caddesi, signalling to Pierre in the residence directly after the Countess left the Colonel's car? As I write, I remember something Gül said. She heard a goat bleat on Tuesday night. But the goats and their owner had been gone since Sunday. Perhaps this was the signal that, I have already deduced, must have passed between d'Aubine and Pierre, if they plotted murder.

D'Aubine, if he feels cornered, may turn on me. I will take the precaution of advising him, at the earliest opportunity, that you, Millicent, have a record of my ideas to date and will go to the Department if I meet with an accident. I would be reluctant to alarm you in this fashion if I did not know that the bag won't go until Monday. I will be able to assure you of my safe return before alarming you with the request above. It makes me happy to feel that you are my guarantor. I'll leave a note with Ayse for Inspector Akin; to be opened if I don't turn up on Monday morning. Protected by these two documents, I must be invulnerable. Goodbye, my darling Millicent.

I did not intend to write more today but a small incident happened in the office and I would like to tell you about it and set everything to rights. I brought my envelope for you out to Ayse and explained that it was very important that the bag should go out, even, if by some mischance, I did not return as expected. I gave her the note for Inspector Akin and asked her to make sure he got it, if my return was delayed for any reason. She began to cry. I gave her another handkerchief and she held it to her mouth and nose and looked at me with the tears streaming from her eyes. I have no idea what came over me. I actually bent over and kissed her on the forehead. I can only imagine that thinking of possible danger ahead has made me sentimental. She will take care of the kitten while I am away.

### Chapter 12

I was in the central bus station, on my way to Cappadocia, before dawn. Hundreds of small bus companies cried their destinations: Trabizond, Batman, Antalya, Aphion, Van. People bustled in all directions: old ladies lugging enormous shopping bags, soldiers in uniform strutting, schoolboys running, back-packing tourists all hairy legs and arms, elegant young women being nonchalant, young men being casual. A man dressed for solemn business sat on a narrow bench beside his briefcase and chewed a _simit_ dropping sesame seeds down his shirtfront. An old man spilled a cardboard box full of apples. A stout woman in traditional dress clasped a box of day-old chicks. I was sorry you were not with me, Millicent, to share the great flurry of life at 6.30. in the morning in a bus station in Ankara. You would enjoy it, Millicent. There are pigeons running and strutting all over the place, but I'd keep them away from you.

Seats are allocated in the bus when you buy your ticket. I found my bus and my seat and settled down to make notes on my discoveries. The bus filled up. The driver sat in. A young woman in jeans and jumper took the seat beside me. Some moments later the door of the bus was filled by a middle-aged woman with a determined jaw, not at all softened by the headscarf that framed it. She began to argue with the driver. All heads turned to look at me. The girl beside me blushed and spoke defensively to the woman. I got the drift of the argument. Mamma had specified that daughter was not to sit next to a man for such a long journey and they had put her, not only next to a man, but next to a foreigner. I tried to change places immediately – a manoeuvre not easily executed in a bus full of people, apples, chicks, rucksacks, uniforms and _simit_ crumbs. A cheerful-looking woman across the aisle nodded and rose to swap with me. Mamma relaxed and turned to the driver for a parting shot. Daughter smiled at me ruefully and batted her eyelids. I settled down in my new seat without glancing at my neighbour. Gradually a set of whiffling moustaches registered on my peripheral vision and I looked sideways at Pierre.

'Why are you following me around, Denis?'

'I might ask the same question.'

Exceedingly annoyed, I looked around for an empty seat.

'Have you made provisions for the journey, Denis? Five hours on the bus.'

'I shall dine in Göreme.'

'If you have no provisions, you should stay where you are. Gül made sandwiches for me.'

'I had breakfast.'As I said it, I realised that tea and a stale croissant at five o'clock does not hamper a seven o'clock appetite.

'As soon as we are out on the motorway, the attendant will serve coffee. We'll share the sandwiches.'

Gül had filled fresh white rolls with tomato, white cheese, olives and herbs.

'Your fiancée, Liliane; is she a good cook, Pierre?'

'Liliane? _Mais non_! She has the soul of a pastrycook. A good cook is inspired – a _soupçon_ of this, a pinch of that, lashings of the other. Never will my _rognons de veau_ taste exactly the same twice. Each dish is a thing of the moment and of what is to hand; chance supervised by an artist. So you see a good cook is not orthodox, not settled in his ways ever. A pastrycook is merely a chemist – x ounces of this, y ounces of that. This is exactly how to make _Gâteau St. Honoré_. Liliane is a pastrycook, though she never cooks pastry. She has no temperament. We will suit each other marvellously .... Have you a purpose in travelling to Cappadocia, Denis, or are you, like myself, taking a short break from Ankara?'

'I thought you were going to perfect your frenchified tripe and garlic soup today?'

'A creative block – the proportions of black pepper to cayenne. I decided to give my subconscious time to assert itself. But you, Denis, should you not be in the office?'

'I promised my fiancée that I would visit Cappadocia; we may honeymoon there.'

'Avoid it in July and August. Heat and tourists.'

I hope you don't mind, Millicent, that I mentioned this plan to Pierre before consulting with you. I wished to deflect his attention from the real purpose of my visit.

'Both of us are tourists, so. Join me on a tour, Denis?'

Pierre must have guessed that I was seeking M. d'Aubine. If I travelled with him, he would lead me on a grand tour of Cappadocia and wait, until I had to depart, before he made contact with the villain.

'No thanks, Pierre. Nothing organised for me. I intend to drift and absorb the atmosphere.'

'As you will,' he said amiably. 'Here, read this guidebook to Cappadocia. Be careful not to fall from one of the "fairy chimneys". There was a fatality recently. An over-adventurous tourist. I shouldn't like to have anything happen to you.'

For the next half-hour I studied the guide: Byzantine art, underground cities, St. Paul's letters. My eyes flickered now and then to Pierre's clasped hands, broad and stubby-fingered, wondering if they had killed.

We passed Tuz Gölü, the salt lake. Salt, like snow gleaming in the sun, stretched everywhere. The bus rattled down a narrow elevated causeway barely wide enough for it, miraculously passing approaching traffic without slowing.

'Salt,' said Pierre. 'The hero and the villain of the kitchen. A cook with a conscience will curtail its use. A cook who is proud of his art will not. So it is with all the good things: cream and butter and eggs, marbled beef, _charcuterie_. Ah Denis, how it grieved me never to put a good _pâté maison_ on the table. Madame minded her husband's waist at the expense of his stomach and my art. Have you not noticed? None of my dishes went to table salted _à point_. Always too little. Madame was exigent. And now, Denis, my friend, all this salt going to waste. It is enough to make a cook shed tears.'

I distracted him by pointing out the salt works and the lorries seeming to float, like boats above the horizon. The bus reached the outskirts of Cappadocia, a landscape stranger than anything I have seen in dreams. There were pillars and needles and stacks of rock excavated as dwellings. The cliffs were pitted with caves, decorated at their mouths with lines of washing. There were shallow modern buildings straight up against the rock, which was excavated to provide depth for the rooms. The place is a honeycomb, Millicent. It is too perforated for my fancy.

The bus stopped in front of the tourist office in Göreme. I loitered in the office until I saw Pierre depart on a tour of the rupestrine churches of Ürgüp. I was sure that he would get off the bus as soon as it was out of sight and head off to meet M. d'Aubine. However I had the satisfaction of making him buy a ticket.

The hotel that M. d'Aubine recommended, when I spoke of bringing you to Cappadocia, Millicent, is a small family inn in the centre of the street in Göreme. The lobby was a comfortable place with rugs and cushions and I could see out the back to a courtyard, with a few tables under a roof of vines. The man of the house was at the desk.

'Is M. d'Aubine in the hotel at present?'

'You are a friend of M. d'Aubine?'

I hesitated.

'We must give you a discount. Since M. d'Aubine came here our wine industry is improving. Now there is more money in grapes than in potatoes. He is very strict. No black-market. Every lira of tax is paid, and yet there is profit.''

'Where can I find him?'

'You wish to go to his house? I bring you in hotel minibus. Put your suitcase here, behind the desk. We look after registration when you get back.'

He left me for a few minutes. I suspect that he went to telephone d'Aubine. I would have preferred to arrive unannounced.

'How far is it to M. d'Aubine's house?' I asked as we got into the minibus.

'We go on tour: Güvencilik, Kaymakli.'

'Not a tour; not today please. I want to go to M. d'Aubine's house as quickly as possible.'

'Yes. We go.'

A half-hour later, near a signpost for the underground city of Kaymakli, we left the main road and bumped along a track. The running commentary of the driver and the fantastic scenery had made it difficult for me to collect my thoughts. We pulled up at a large shed with a typical, flat-roofed, Anatolian, red cavity-brick house alongside. It was two stories high and the roof was in the process of being raised another story.

My driver shouted at the builders, who shouted back at him. It seemed to me that he said he had brought the _enspektör_ with him and that the builder said something rude. My understanding of the local dialect may have been at fault. He turned to me politely and said that M. d'Aubine was in the _cave_ and if I did not mind getting a bit dusty, he would ask one of the workmen to show me the way. I was given a pair of overalls and put them on gratefully, only to find that they were so dusty they would do more damage to my clothes than a web-encrusted wine cellar would. The builders stopped to watch. My driver waved cheerfully and drove away. Entry to the _cave_ was through a trapdoor and down a long flight of shallow steps in one of the sheds.

'You are using an old underground passage for the storing the wine?' I observed as we descended.

'Part of an old underground city. In Derínkuyu you pay to see only three levels. Here we can go down levels and levels. It is perfect for the wine.'

'Is it used by all the Cappadocian wine- makers?'

'Yes,' said my guide, but in the tone of voice that means pleasant assent to whatever you wish.

'Here they had stables for the animals – mangers, storage bins, vats for grapes, thousands of years old. You can see the hole there where the juice flows down to the next level.

'His powerful torch pointed the way. It was a cool dry place, no trace of mustiness in the air.

'You had to do some reconstruction work to make the place suitable,' I observed. 'Did M. d'Aubine have trouble getting permission?

'The old entrance is collapsed. The steps brought us down two levels. Now we go up to first level to our _cave_.'

The way was narrower. He waved me courteously ahead sending the beam of the torch before me. I moved quickly, glad to be moving upwards. Then the light was guillotined with a heavy thump. Absolute silence and darkness followed.

Since I have lived to write this, you will know that I was not walled up there for all eternity, Millicent. I did not know, at the time, that that was not to be my fate, so I suffered considerably. My last glimpse ahead had shown that I was in a small chamber with a passage at the far end of it. As the shadow began to fall, I whipped around and saw a large circular stone, set in a groove, roll across the passage behind me. The guidebooks explain that the good citizens of Cappadocia used withdraw underground with their cattle, provisions and wine, roll across the great stones and sit tight until Roman legion or Seljuk band passed on.

I had not been quick enough to catch the implications of what my betrayer had said about the upper passage. I was now on the invader's side of the blocking stone, but the invader's entry was there no longer.

I felt that it was silly to die down in a hole while the beautiful world was just overhead – sky, hills, green things. For a while I was overcome with love for them. Then I wanted desperately to get out. I didn't care about the Countess or her cousin or Walter. It was meagre comfort to decide that M. d'Aubine admitted guilt by attacking me. I felt my way back to the great stone. My side of it was a smooth circle, its edges set within their circular stone frame. Impossible to shift.

I thought of the letter I had left for the Inspector, telling him that I was going to seek M. d'Aubine in Cappadocia. M. d'Aubine was probably securing an alibi elsewhere. I groaned when I thought of the hotel in Göreme. If only I had insisted on registering before being driven to M. d'Aubine's house. Whether it was his house or not, I couldn't tell. How long before the Inspector found me? I had left no trail. Cappadocia had swallowed me from the moment I left the tourist office.

I'm not sure how long I spent there in the dark. I knew that the passage continued at least some little distance but I also knew that there might be deep shafts, for ventilation or as part of the defences, at any point. I crawled away from the door inch by inch, testing the floor to the right and left of me as I went and raising my head regularly to check that the ceiling was not getting lower. My right hand descended on something wet and squishy and sank through it. The smell of rotten oranges was so unexpected that I almost fainted. My left hand found a rectangular corner. I gripped a doormat, a frayed gritty doormat. I found a firm stone horizontal, a wooden perpendicular. I ran my hand up along it, standing up as I did so. A doorway. There was an open door in the frame! My hand, reaching of its own accord to the place where there would be an electric switch, made contact with a real one. The light showed that I was in a small room with a rotating stand of postcards. The views were of Cappadocia. A few of them showed vines and an underground cellar full of barrels. There was a desk with admission tickets and souvenirs, a refrigerated display of soft drinks, an ice cream fridge.

How long could I live on coke and ice cream, if they decided not to open to the public again? I had no idea. If the stone rolled back, it would probably admit an executioner. I slept and wakened several times, read all the pamphlets on the stand and ate a lot of ice cream.

The great stone groaned. I advanced to meet my fate as I felt one should. I had alternated, during my incarceration, between the idea of making a desperate fight or a stoic and dignified exit from this life. I had decided to make a last stand. This depended, however, on my being by the stone and ready to club whomever entered with a Coke bottle. The stone rolled back while I was trying to decide between a choc ice and an ice lolly. Only dignified exit was left to me. I threw down my lolly and advanced. M. d'Aubine came through the portal followed by the innkeeper and two others. He came towards me, arms outstretched.

'My dear Denis, what a most terrible mistake! I hope you have not caught a chill. I am so sorry.'

'Hypocrite. Do you think me sufficiently intimidated to go away and forget murder? I am not to be turned aside by threats. I have taken precautions. Kill me and you destroy yourself.'

'My dear fellow, you are mixed up. I felt exactly the same after Colette's death. I wanted to hit out at someone, anyone, and I picked on poor dear Walter. Now you are just hitting out at me because you are blaming me for this ridiculous mistake. Truly I am not to blame. Come, Denis. Let us return to the world.'

I didn't believe a word he said but I felt it politic to allow myself to be floated to the surface on a raft of apologies.'You didn't bump your head, did you? Come along now, a bath, a shave, some real food. Too much ice cream is bad for one. You really shouldn't indulge...'

I was put into a car which was driven with exaggerated caution, 'for fear of rattling your brains, my dear boy', to a house, perhaps a mile away from the _cave_. I was wrapped in blankets. A hot water bottle was put under my feet and a glass of _raku_ into my hand. Then Mr. d'Aubine's three associates went to lurk in an ajoining room while M. d'Aubine began to explain everything away.

'How can I apologise sufficiently? You were the wrong man, come at the wrong moment. There is a wine war going on here. My friends, my associates, have been too successful to be popular. They are kind enough to say that I have been instrumental. What is more, we pay taxes. I insisted, always that everything must be above board. The grape growers of Kayseri have not, in general, been so successful but, because of us, they have been assessed for tax at the same level. They blame us for everything, even suspecting our growers of wishing to buy them out. Now they have resorted to sabotage. Their spies discovered certain minor irregularities in our system - nothing is perfect- and we are to be inspected.

'When you arrived at the inn and enquired for me, it was thought that you were one of the foreign experts, come to find some little rule that we had contravened. You can have no idea how complex the rules are. It seemed to the hotelier and his friends that they should detain you until I had been informed. Unfortunately I was away. I came the moment I heard.'

'Where is Pierre?'

'Pierre? In Ankara.'

'He is in Cappadocia, in league with you.'

'If you say so, dear fellow. You have suffered a shock to the system, you know. Do not cogitate excessively for the present. Why do you think Pierre is here?'

'Because I sat beside him on the bus coming here.'

'Did he say why he was coming?'

'Tourism.'

'That explains it. He felt the need to get away from it all. That is why he has not contacted me.'

'Do you deny, M. d'Aubine that you were on Abdul Pasha Caddesi, behind the residence, spying on the Countess on Tuesday evening at a time when you implied that you were reading a paper at the wine seminar?'

'So that is what is distressing you! Why didn't you ask me to explain long ago? It must have slipped my mind when I was talking to you. The guest of honour was late for the afternoon session. Everything was to be delayed an hour and that pushed my slot back until after dinner. I had time to kill. I took a stroll along Abdul Pasha. Pierre had told me that Colette was in the habit of sneaking in that way on Tuesday afternoons. I decided to have a look. It would not have suited us to swap Ambassador Brown for the Italian when Colette decided on a change of husbands. She came in Barbellini's car but there was no suggestion of romance. It was the last time I saw Colette. She must have been happy. She was singing as she crossed the road.'

'What did Barbellini do?'

'He smoked a cigarette and then drove away.'

'What did you do?'

'I had no desire to attract his attention by materialising from behind a pine tree. I waited until he had left and then I walked down the road and took a taxi back to Ulus.'

'I don't believe you. You signalled to Pierre that the Countess was on her way down to the laundry to change clothes. He went down there and killed her.'

'Your wits are truly astray, Denis. If I thought you were sane, I would kill you.'

'Gül heard you. You bleated like a goat when the Countess started down the path. There were no goats in the lot that evening. They had been shifted on Sunday.'

'Lie down until the doctor sees you.' He leaned towards me, his little goatee waggling as he spoke. 'I bleated like a goat? Does a goat bleat? Bleated like a goat .... And why would Pierre kill Colette?'

'So that you would inherit Château Fontenoy.'

'If this is the way your subconscious works, Denis, I am glad that your mishap has brought the thoughts to the surface. I have no idea how you concocted such an _histoire_. Let me think how best to set you straight. In the meantime, have a hot bath, a meal, then bed.'

I looked at the clock. It was after three. I threw off the blankets.

'Bring me to Göreme immediately. The last bus for Ankara leaves at four. I demand to be brought to Göreme.'

'Stay here till Monday.'

'Let me go now or I shall report that I was detained against my will.'

He expressed deep concern about my condition, begged me to go to my doctor as soon as I reached Ankara and bid me farewell with a show of affection calculated to infuriate me. The innkeeper, he said, would be only too pleased to convey me to Göreme as a personal favour to himself. The innkeeper let me out of the car at the bus terminal, collected my bag from his hotel and brought it to me, telling me with a grin that there would be no hotel charge. I had twenty minutes to wait. There was a tiny restaurant at the bus stop. I ordered an omelette and a glass of the local wine. The wine was excellent. In fact it was familiar. I ignored the omelette and sipped my way down the glass. There could be no doubt. It was, I knew it was, the very wine I had drunk in the residence as the Countess's own 'Château Fontenoy' from France. I had another glass and the conviction grew.

'May I buy a bottle of this wine?'

The price was modest. The label had a pen and ink drawing of a Byzantine crucifixion from a local cave-church. I bought several, finished my omelette and boarded the bus feeling better than I had ever expected to feel again. The bus was half-empty. No young lady sat down beside me in order to torment her mother. There was no sign of Pierre.

It occurred to me, as I settled down to sleep all the way to Ankara, that I hadn't covered myself in glory. Perhaps, Millicent, I have been excessively influenced in my expectations by the success rate of fictional detectives. I might have known that M. d'Aubine is not the kind of villain to admit anything, except perhaps in a boastful confession on the eve of execution.

I rang Ayse to tell her to bring the kitten to the office in the morning but she came around with it immediately. Indeed I was happy to see it. The kitten was one of the things I regretted when I thought I was buried alive. Do you think, Millicent, that I was imprisoned by Cappacadocian grape growers who thought I was an inspector, or by M. d'Aubine in an attempt to intimidate me. I am so pleased to be alive that I actually feel grateful to him for not having killed me.

### Chapter 13

A phone call from Seoirse: 'Denis,' he said, ' I'll read from my notes.

''The Department has not been able to obtain clarification from the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs with regard to its position in relation to investigations into the death of Mrs. Brown. Until clarification is obtained, the Irish Government is unwilling to allow Ambassador Brown to resume his post as Irish Ambassador to Turkey.'

'What does Walter say to that, Seoirse?'

'On balance, he would prefer to go back, but he understands that we must think of the wider picture. Our reading of events is that the Ambassador of Ireland has become a pawn between two factions in Ankara. The right-wing faction has blamed a leftist terrorist group for Mrs. Brown's death. The left-wing faction has countered by making trouble for Walter. If the circumstances were normal, we would have no hesitation in permitting him to return to help with routine investigations. We might even waive the right to diplomatic immunity. Our own investigation, you will be pleased to learn, shows that there is no case for him to answer.

'Given prevailing conditions in Ankara, however, Ambassador Brown's return, will be delayed, perhaps indefinitely. There is a vacancy in Protocol. You will continue in Ankara as chargé. Rather than incur storage charges for the furnishings of the residence, it has been decided to continue to rent the building for the moment. You, as chargé, are expected to move in there, immediately, if you have not done so already, invoking the diplomatic clause in your own lease in order to break it.'

'Will there be an increase in allowances?'

'No. I raised the issue. What you save on rent is what you get. I am to remind you that we have accepted the condolences of the Turkish government and their regrets that Mrs. Brown died, a victim of terrorism. As far as we are concerned the matter rests there.

'Seoirse, the Department has no guts.'

'It will have yours if you don't heed the message.'

That is that, Millicent. I'm off the case.

Ayse took a taxi to the airport to pick up the bag this morning. I was delighted, as usual, to receive your letter, Millicent. Under other circumstances I might have been disappointed that you opt for a proper wedding, with all the trimmings, whenever I can get leave, rather than a kind of Gretna Green whirl to Ankara. However, since I'm to move into a haunted house and do all the work of an Embassy, and have no extra money, I suppose I will be glad, by lunchtime, that you are patient and prudent. I noted, with relief, your recommendation that I should not continue to detect. Otherwise, I would be quite shamefaced now in admitting that I am about to yield to departmental pressure.

I wrapped a bottle of the wine I bought in Cappadocia and went down to the residence. My original dislike of the place has been renewed by its recent history. I put the wrapped bottle down beside me and placed my elbows on the kitchen table. Pierre sat across from me and I was pleased to find that his eyes moved frequently to the bottle.

'Pierre, you warned M. d'Aubine that I was coming to ask questions about the Countess's death. Together you decided to trap me underground, to administer what is technically known as a 'frightener'.

'Pierre bowed his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.'Oh stop crying,' I said. 'I think that both M. d'Aubine and yourself have been shedding crocodile tears all along.'

That was too much for him. He threw back his head and roared, and I could see that the tears were tears of laughter and that the howls were howls of mirth.

'I knew I could rely on you to get hold of the wrong end of the stick,' he gasped.'

I want to know what is going on in Cappadocia. It may well have a bearing on the murder. It is something to do with wine. Something to do with this....'

I unwrapped the bottle.

'This wine, purchased in Göreme, and with a Cappadocian label, is the wine I was given here in the residence, as wine from the Countess's château in France.'

Pierre lifted an eyebrow, uncorked it and poured two glasses.

'Aren't you going to let it breathe?'

'A bourgeois notion, Denis.'

He sampled it and said 'mmm' judiciously.

'Denis, this is a good stout _vin de table_ – honest, robust, just the thing to eat with your bread and cheese – but it lacks subtleties. It is not to be compared to ours, though I will admit that there are certain similarities. For you, Denis, I will open one of our remaining bottles of Château Fontenoy.'

'Don't. They belong to the Ambassador.'

'Au contraire, Denis, they belong to M. d'Aubine and when his honour is at stake, M. d'Aubine will not grudge a bottle of wine.'

Pierre uncorked a bottle of Château Fontenoy.

'Doesn't it look livelier in the glass, taste more complex, more interesting? Your bottle, Denis, will do very nicely for _coq au vin_. Did you buy much of it?'

I was outclassed and discomfited. What is it about the French and their wines that makes one feel at such a disadvantage? Nevertheless, the two wines still tasted to me more alike than not alike.

'You are hiding something from me – something to do with wine.'

'Only for your own good, Denis, so that you won't waste more time chasing after irrelevancies. You really are quite French in your approach, you know. Inquisitorial.'

I stopped at a café on my way up the hill and drank a syrupy cup of coffee. I needed both caffeine and calories. I have been so very careful, Millicent, never to jeopardise my career, to follow correct procedures, not to give offence by insisting on a home posting. I have even been, perhaps, more tentative than I should be, when it came to demanding leave for personal reasons. It seems utterly unfair that I should have found and recommended a house haunted by ghosts and occupied by terrorists, that I hired a driver who was on the run from the police and a local secretary whom I must now investigate. That my Ambassador is, unofficially, _persona non grata_ must tell against me also. One is one's ambassador's keeper. I suppose that, by extension, I could be considered to be indirectly responsible for his wife too.

Though Pierre was the Countess's personal cook, I am responsible for his continued presence in the residence. I am beginning to think him a crook. I suspect that he may have bought and served local wine to guests while billing the Countess for her own wine, at inflated Turkish prices? I had a second café Türque and hoped that Dublin would never find out the full extent of our problems.

### Chapter 14

The Department is adamant that I must move into the residence immediately. Seoirse said it is something to do with concern expressed by the OPW about the safety of artworks and other items of value, in view of the current unrest. I didn't bother pointing out that the OPW never got round to sending artwork and - in response to requests from Colette who was anxious to assist emerging Irish artists by displaying their paintings - said that the instability of the region ( they were referring to earthquakes) - made them reluctant to deliver.

I have decided to occupy one of the guestrooms. If I am still here in three months' time, I will begin to make savings on rent. At present I am three months down since I forfeited my deposit by breaking the lease. The kitten is cowed by the wide-open spaces and is clinging to me. Pierre will leave soon. Walter has dealt very handsomely with him. Gül has been given notice that she will be employed for only two mornings a week. I shall have the whole place to myself.

I'm glad I rang you, just now. Of course you must go to the Legion of Mary socials. I would hate to think of you sitting at home, lonely. You are perfectly right when you say that I should not continue investigations into the Countess's death.

Last night was my first night in the residence. Pierre, Gül and I had supper at eight – _consommé_ , a _mousseline_ of potatoes and a red mullet _en chemise_ , followed by _crème brulée_. I contributed a bottle of Kavaklidere. Don't be afraid that Pierre will poison me.

He knows you have my diary and that you will send it to Seoirse, should anything happen to me.I considered watching television. The Countess has arranged a corner of the upper balcony with easy chairs, a television and a record player. There was too much air and space around it for comfort. After watching the news, I retired. I couldn't sleep. You may think it superstitious of me, Millicent, but the idea possessed me that the Countess might have been haunted into killing herself. She once saw a vision in the house. I saw it too. In daytime I am sure that I was suffering from dehydration at the time.At night I'm not so sure. It prefigured her own end, as I saw in Orhan's drawing. Supposing the vision appeared to her again, just by the pool and confused her as to her own identity. You know the story of the witch in the wood – the shadowy figure that keeps pace with you, mimicking your movements until you are hypnotised into imitating hers. Then she trips and you trip too. If Colette had a gun, and this thing confused her and she tried to shoot at it but shot herself instead...I dozed off. A tap on the door awakened me. I sat up, switched on the light, said 'Come in', feeling a kind of horror that I have only experienced before in dreams.

'Sorry to waken you, Denis,' said Orhan.

He came in and looked around.

'You may dump my clothes on the floor if you are looking for a chair,' I said, proud of my swift recovery.

'Ayse says you want to talk to me. I need to talk to you.'

'You have come from Adana?'

'Adana? I never went to Adana. A friend drove the car there.'

'Don't tell me you have been hiding in this house all the time.'

'No. Too well policed.'

'I am disappointed in you. You let us down. You used the basement as a meeting place. You hid guns here. It was a breach of trust.'

'Killing Mrs. Brown isn't on your list?'

'I don't think you did that.'

'Good. I came to help you catch the person who did.'

'How could I trust you after your disgraceful misappropriation of the basement.'

'We were sitting tenants when you came. The Portuguese Ambassador sealed off the basement. I had command of the only entry point and saw the opportunity. I had a friend in danger.'

'You frightened the Portuguse Ambassador into a heart attack by playing ghost.'

'The ghost predated us.'

'You grew careless when the house was empty. You left newspapers in your room.'

'A mistake.'

'You let cats in and out.'

'One got in and I put it out. I protected you from a nasty chill when it frightened you and you fell downstairs. I rolled you up in a tablecloth. Were you not surprised to find that you had, even while unconscious, managed to make yourself comfortable?'

'Did you enjoy playing ghost?'

'It worked for a while. Gül kept the basement door locked so that, if anyone came ghost-hunting, we had time to retreat up my stairs.'

'How did the Countess find out what was going on?

'Late one night she reversed the usual procedure, came down my stairs and caught us. There were three of us. Hakkan had been beaten up by a rightist patrol and reached the residence before collapsing. We couldn't bring him to Casualty since the police watch the hospitals. Instead of turning us in, Colette examined Hakkan, bandaged him up and said he would survive. She prescribed brandy all around. She was an angel. Better than that, she was a socialist.'

'Come off it. What about the Château, the winery, the feudal system, the aristocratic élan, the disregard for ordinary rules of behaviour?'

'She worked for the cause. Barbellini was fascinated by her. He felt drawn to her blue blood, she said. He boasted to her about his work for law and order here in Ankara. She found it a dreadful bore until one day he told her, in confidence, that in just a few days the streets would be cleared of leftist riff-raff. She pretended to doubt it. He protested that he had had it from the camel's mouth, from Chief Inspector Eratalay. She continued to tease him and learned that Barbellini was in the confidence of the right wing of the security forces.

'If the information he gave her was correct, it could only mean a big swoop, perhaps a joint police and army exercise. The basement was full for the next few nights.It happened on the third night. The papers said it was a success. However the "most wanted" were safe downstairs. Colette saved several necks that night.'

'So that their owners could go on to break other necks.'

'Fortunes of war, Denis. I'm not in favour of violent means myself.'

'No? What about the guns then?'

'Necessity makes gunmen of us all. If you are a pacifist you might credit Colette with stopping a shipment of arms into Turkey; admittedly they were for the other side. She never yielded to Colonel Barbellini, but allowed him to hope. He escorted her to a _thé dansante_ in the Imperial Hotel once a week.'

'What is a _thé dansante_?'

'Kemal Attatürk instituted the _thé dansante_ in the Palace Hotel as a genteel form of social exercise. It has remained popular in Ankara. Everybody who is anybody eats canapés and waltzes at four in the afternoon at some stage of their lives. It used to be a patriotic duty. The _thé dansante_ at the Imperial is not in the same class. It is attended mostly by visiting provincials. Barbellini and Colette would have been unlikely to encounter anyone they knew. The savoury knick-knacks are excellent and the music is reputed to be good.'

'She went dancing and sipping afternoon tea with Barbellini to get advance notice of police raids, for your benefit?'

'She found out that an arms purchase in Italy by an association of Turkish, right-wing army and police officers was being facilitated by Barbellini, who manoeuvred it past the regular checkpoints. We tipped off the moderates, who tipped off the Italian customs people who have just acted on the information received. I couldn't denounce Barbellini as a murderer, to you, until that was wound up.'

'What grounds have you for calling Barbellini a murderer?'

'We were, all of us, inexperienced in the counter-intelligence game. Colette was never cautious. Any attempt to trace the various leaks would lead back to her. He killed her in revenge. He found out that Colette had been playing him like a fish. He found out that she had wrecked his arms deal and was extracting information from him about police raids in order to provide a safe house in her basement. He remembered that he had boasted to her of his friends; in other words, given her a list of army and police officers, active on the right. Who else could have had such a motive?'

'I concede that he may have had motive. He hadn't opportunity. On the Tuesday of her death you drove her to the Imperial at three and left her there?'

'Yes. Barbellini would have given her, afterwards, as usual, a lift to the street behind the residence. She would have pulled the long robe over her clothes in the car.'

'Why the charade? Couldn't you have collected her after her _thé dansante_ and driven her home?

'The Colonel was always relaxed and talkative on the drive home.'

'An old lady, who spends her time looking out the window, saw the Countess leave a car, driven by Barbellini, and go down through the vacant lot that evening at about twenty past five.'

'Then, he followed her and killed her.'

'No. Barbellini drove away after smoking a cigarette. The old lady saw him leave. Our policemen saw him drive in home a few minutes later. Maria says he entered the house and spoke to her.'

'Then he slipped out again and came after her. Maria is not dependable.'

I was on the point of telling Orhan that M. d'Aubine, also, had witnessed the departure of Colonel Barbellini but I decided against doing so preferring to keep the château card to myself for the present.

'Ignore Barbellini for a moment. There are blanks in my account of what happened on Tuesday. When did you come to the residence to collect the Countess?'

'Six thirty, six thirty-five. The piece for the pool filter had arrived and I wanted to fit it. I also wanted to see if Colette had any information. The landlord's car was on the road outside, as I came in. I parked in the carport as usual. I crossed along the path in front of the house and went in the side door to my room to see if there were messages for me.'

'Was the side door locked?'

'No. Colette never locked a door. Gül, escorted by Pierre, does the lock-up at night.There are no burgulars in Ankara. The Ambassador did not concern himself. Anyway Gül always kept the door from the basement to the house locked. I watered the geraniums and then I went down to the pool. The lights were on below. I hurried down to see if Colette had news. She was in the pool. I pulled her out. I saw the head-wound and gun and presumed that a shot had killed her. Ayse has since told me that she drowned.'

'Was there evidence of a struggle?'

'There isn't anything on that side of the pool to overturn in a struggle. There was some blood towards the bottom of the steps and water on the surround. Her watch was stopped at twenty past seven when it was as yet only six forty. To me that meant that she was murdered and it showed who killed her. Colonel Barbellini would be at the reception at twenty past seven.'

'How could he be sure she wouldn't be found before seven thirty?'

'He was to give Walter a lift to the reception within minutes. He would know, as a neighbour, that Gül and Pierre don't lock up until ten.'

'Inspector Akin will say that she is more likely to have been met by a jealous husband than followed home by an angry lover.'

'The Ambassador was not energetic, nor did he care enough to be jealous.'

'Inspector Akin suspects Walter. One of the points he made is that it took Walter far too long to walk home from the office, that evening. It sounded to the Inspector as if he were minimising the amount of time he had at home.'

'Walter probably didn't go straight home. He is on a diet – low fat, low sugar so he often goes to the café across the road for coffee and _baklave_ before going home, especially if there is no official dinner that night. Pierre took malicious pleasure in serving him green salad dressed with vinegar, ryebread, and a fruit for dessert.'

'Why didn't he tell Inspector Akin so?'

'Who wants to admit to eating pancakes before dinner.'

'It won't convince Akin, but it explains the anomaly to me. What did you do after finding the body? You were reticent in your letter to the police.'

'I can't tell them everything. I had to warn my friends, save the guns, delay pursuit and, if I could, point the finger at Alfredo Barbellini. I needed time. I remembered the rosebed. I wrapped her in sheets from the laundry. Everything got very wet. I fished the gun out of the pool with the pool-net and put it with her. I couldn't leave it where it was; the pearly bit shone. I was careful not to handle it. I pulled up the bushes and dug a trench. Then I carried her out. Afterwards I replaced the bushes. I made more of a mess than I'd expected. The clay got on to the grass; the bushes wouldn't settle back. I hadn't time to worry.

'The police obligingly found that the rosebed was in the vacant lot, not in Barbellini's garden.'

'Typical! Will you go after him?'

'I don't see how he can have done it, Orhan.'

'Easy. Your little old lady dozed off for a few minutes. Barbellini followed Colette down to the house. Afterwards he returned to the car. The sound of the door wakened your witness in time to see him drive off. He drove home, collected his wife and Walter and drove to the reception.'

'If Barbellini discovered that Colette had betrayed his confidences, he would retrieve the situation by feeding her false information, by tracking her, finding her protégés, claiming that this is what he had plotted all along. I'm not ruling out the possibility that he killed her, but it isn't certain.'

He shook his head.

'Consider the landlord Mr. Muftu, Orhan. He was in the residence at the crucial time.You saw his car. He had a workman with him but they weren't together all the time. The Countess was digging into his family history. She had you working on it too. What did she discover? What is the mystery of the landlord's mother?'

'No mystery at all,' he grinned.

'I don't see how you can say that. She is alive, officially – you checked the records office yourself – and dead according to the locals. That looks to me as if he might have killed her quietly and never registered her death. Everything went well for years. Then Colette started making enquiries.

'I don't see why you have to turn to spiritualism, Denis, when you have a perfectly good suspect next door. And it is nonsense to suspect the landlord.'

'How can you be sure?'

'Look up his mother's birth certificate, and you'll see.'

'You're not going to tell me she was never born?'

He refused to say any more on the subject.

'Perhaps it is time you returned to wherever you came from, Orhan. Leave me the keys. Your casual use of the Irish residence for nefarious purposes must stop. You should have given me notice that you intended to appear and I would have brought your papers with me. You can hardly expect to stay in our employment while you're on the run, suspected of murdering your employer's wife. Do you expect a reference?'

'Come down off your high horse, Denis. You wouldn't send me out starving into the night when there is a fridge full of good things in the kitchen. Pierre, unknown to himself, has been my cook since he arrived.'

'So Inspector Akin informed me.'

'Go and bring us both up a snack, Denis. Pierre will be proud of your appetite.'

What could I do, Millicent? I raided the fridge. Between us, we ate tomorrow's lunch. I told him that my choice suspect was Félix d'Aubine.

'Not Félix,' he said. 'He appreciated her.'

'I'll have to tell Inspector Akin about the peculiar role the Countess played with Barbellini,' I said as we finished our meal.

'You will admit to meeting me? A police officer, no matter how liberal, would expect you to try to capture the popular suspect. Should I give you a black eye so that you can be seen to have made an attempt. '

'No thanks, Orhan. I'll take my chance. Inspector Akin does not suspect you.'

Orhan left with the admonition 'Work on the Italian, Denis.' He turned in the doorway and said, 'Take care of Ayse. I'm fond of that girl.'

I fell asleep around three o'clock, wine, chicken and chocolate nice and warm in my insides. I washed one of the glasses, kept it in my bathroom and boldly brought the tray down with me at breakfast-time and put it, without comment, on the kitchen counter.

I'm afraid to think of the inroads that Pierre's cooking will make on my food budget before he leaves. I'll have to pay for his food too. Possibly the State will give an allowance towards Gül's. I suppose I should count myself lucky that we are no longer feeding a flock of young communists in the cellar.

Inspector Akin greeted me in an absent-minded way as if he had dismissed our case and recalled it with difficulty.

'Ah yes,' he said, when I told him I had been to Cappadocia in search of M. d'Aubine.

He listened with mild interest to my case against d'Aubine and chuckled when I told of my detention in the Cappadocian underground.

'He isn't the murderer, you know,' he said, infuriatingly, when I had finished. 'I can check out this story of the expected Inspector of Vineyards for you. M. d'Aubine and his colleagues in Cappadocia have been under surveillance for some time for tax reasons. I'll ring the local officer.'

He lifted the phone and, holding it poised, turned to me again.

'Of course you know that if I make this phone call, the local man will know that someone in Ankara is keeping an eye on procedures. He will feel obliged to put in the boot. Left to his own devices, he will probably assist M. d'Aubine and the grape growers to come to a reasonable compromise, an element of give and take, a certain accommodation. Do you want me to make the phone call?'

'Yes .... No.... leave it for the moment.'

When it came to the crunch, Millicent, I didn't really want to be the one to send the Göreme Grape Growers Co-op to the wall.

'Good for you, Denis. I'll tell you, as a reward, that your theory that M. d'Aubine bleated, as a signal to Pierre, has no foundation.'

'There were no goats there on Tuesday night.'

'No, Denis, but there were nightingales. They nest in the trees behind the residence, you know, and they are excellent mimics.'

I told Akin about Orhan's visit. When I reported the Countess's role in extracting information from Barbellini and passing it on, he slapped the table and said 'Bravo!'

'You approve of her behaviour?'

'Of course not! But she did well all the same, with élan.'

I disagreed, my dear Millicent.

'I have been working on the gun, trying to trace the purchase, Denis.'

'How can you do that when there is no gun control in Turkey.'

'Only a foreigner would presume that. We have a very good informal control. The vendors need the goodwill of the police. They know that we will be upset if we want to trace a particular weapon, and their sales records are inadequate. I put one officer on the job. He found that only two gunsmiths in Istanbul and one in Ankara stock the kind of fancy weapon in question. He is working on it.'

I told him that I must spend the rest of the morning in the office but that, in the afternoon, I would go to the Imperial Hotel in Bilkent to see what I could find out about the meetings between Barbellini and the Countess.

He nodded benevolently.

### Chapter 15

I took a taxi to the Imperial Hotel. It swims alone, like a mirage, on the horizon as you leave the city, going towards Bilkent. The area is marked for development, and the hotel is the flagship of the developers. I timed my arrival for mid-afternoon. The foyer of the hotel was enormous, full of light and palms, stories high, balconies like hanging gardens all around. There was a jazz quartet playing 'Midnight in Moscow', 'Sweet Georgia Brown', 'Starlight'.

Couples danced on a wooden floor set, like a raft, in a sea of marble. By far the most serious business of the afternoon, for many, was eating sweets and savouries from a table of delights.

I bought a ticket and enjoyed the delicacies until I gagged on the shrimps remembering the autopsy report. All around me were groups of smartly dressed middle-aged women, who looked as if they were taking a break from playing bridge, all with well-filled plates and teacups, all talking energetically. There were young men and women standing around , looking as if they were there under protest. The dancers were absorbed in the dance, translating the music into movement and tossing the rhythm to the musicians, who caught it and flung it back to them in a wild, yet disciplined communion.

'Mr. O'Gorman, how wonderful to see you. We were introduced at your very first reception in Ankara. Professor Tasnir, my husband, the banker, you know.'

I was wildly at sea to begin with and gazed blankly at the stout lady in good bottle-green satin. Then the filters began to work and I remembered her. She would not be averse to having herself described as a 'society' woman. She would be on the subscriber list of _Turque Diplomatique_ and would appear in it at least four times a year. I greeted her warmly. Here was the witness I needed.

'Do you come her often, Mrs.Tasnir?'

'Quite regularly, Mr. O'Gorman. May I introduce my niece Yasmin. Yasmin, this is Denis from the Irish Embassy. Yasmin is a wonderful dancer, Denis. I may call you Denis? Yasmin has been pining for a partner. And here you are, an answer to any Auntie's prayer. Yasmin was ready to be clasped and led away.

You know, Millicent, that since we started going out together, I have never danced. I did learn my h-aon, dó, trí's at school but the context was immeasurably different. I was panic-stricken as Yasmin raised her hands in anticipation and I could see past her to the dance floor where people moved in ecstasies of skill.

'I'm a terribly bad dancer, Mrs. Tasnir.'

'Yasmin will show you how.'

She did show me how, through fifteen excruciating minutes, when I earned the curses of all on the floor. I restored Yasmin to her aunt's care.

'Were you here last Tuesday week, Mrs.Tasnir?'

'Oh no, I rarely come on Tuesdays. Wednesdays are more sociable. But I'm afraid my dancing days are over.'

She was gliding away, Yasmin in tow, as she said it. I think she was afraid that I was going to ask her to dance. All the attendants were busy, or seemed to be busy. The doorman, a pantomime footman in red velvet, tall hat and gold embroideries, was the only one standing still.

'Are you generally on duty on Tuesday afternoons?'

'Always on duty.'

'Do you recognise any of these people?'

I showed him the photos in my collection – Walter, Colette, Barbellini, Angelina, d'Aubine, my uncle Mike for variety – not because I expected him to recognise anyone other that the couple in question but as a check on what might be an excessive willingness to oblige.

'This one,' he said, pointing at the photo of Mrs. Brown, 'this one here, is the wife of the Irish Ambassador who was killed by terrorists. It was on the news. She was our ugly-beautiful dancer who tipped well, our prize foxtrotter. This gentleman – he picked out Barbellini – was her partner. They were so good that everybody stopped dancing to watch.'

' Did they dance all the time they were here?'

'There is a quarter of an hour's break in the middle of the soirée for our musicians to relax.

He scrutinised Walter's picture and handed it back.

'Perhaps he was here. If so, he was not a distinguished dancer. Many men of that age look alike. If he was a distinguished gourmand, the waitresses may remember him.'

M. d'Aubine he shook his head at.

'And this lady,' he said, pointing to Angelina, 'is trouble. She comes on Thursdays, with this gentleman \- Barbellini - who is the Tuesday foxtrotter. On Thursdays he does tango. He and she are our best tangoists. But on Thursday only.'

I suppose, Millicent, I should not have been surprised. We are, after all, creatures of habit. If the tango on Thursday pleases one woman, why shouldn't the fox trot on Tuesday please another? If the legs are not faithful, what should it matter that they are unfaithful in a particular place?

'It was my opinion that the ladies were unaware that the gentleman dances twice a week,' added the doorman.

'So, they never came together, all three?'

'Once. Do you wish to know what happened on the Tuesday that the Irish Madame was assassinated, her last day here?'

'Definitely.'

'There is a quarter of an hour's break in the middle of the soirée for our musicians to relax. That is when the best dancers allow themselves a little refreshment and conversation. They sat together at that table under the palms.'

It was a quiet nook, away from the action.

'But they were dancing when Madame from Thursday, entered the foyer. I saw her face as she looked at the dance-floor and I signalled trouble to our floor staff. She took a subscription for afternoon tea and sat out of view of the dancers, there under the palms. Euclid, one of our floor men stood close by.

It was a day when the other dancers paid these two the tribute of standing aside to watch them. The musicians responded to the challenge. Even I was impressed. The Thursday lady had a handbag on her lap and opened it. Euclid drew nearer and, over her shoulder, saw a gun in her bag.'

'What kind of a gun?'

'Ask Euclid, I never saw it. It is our policy to avoid trouble here, so,Euclid beckoned to the tea trolley lady and she came to attend to Mrs. Thursday. Euclid gave the signal to her to spill the milk jug over the lady's bag. It was hustled away, to be sponged down, and the lady was besieged with apologies and tea towels while I engaged a taxi for her at the expense of the hotel. Her bag was returned intact, just as she was put in the taxi and left on a wave of our regrets. We offered a weekend, a deux, off-season, in our Alanya hotel. It was managed nicely, no fuss, no shots. Yet, you see, it was written in this Ambassador's lady's forehead that she would die that day. She escaped death in the hotel, only to be shot by terrorists. _Kismet_.'

I rewarded him and he pointed out the security man lurking under some potted palms. He was able to tell me that the gun in Angelina Barbellini's bag was a Derringer with a mother of pearl grip. Whether it was loaded or not, he could not say.

'You didn't confiscate the gun?'

'Of course not.'

'Were the dancers aware that there had been an incident?'

'There was no incident. The dance, the music, the conversation were not interrupted in any way.'The doorman pointed out the taxi driver who had brought Angelina home. When I asked to be driven to the same destination, he drove without hesitation, to Barbellini's.

'She got out here?'

'Yes.'

'What time was that?'

'Just before five.'

'What kind of mood was she in at that point?'

He whistled. 'Pretty cross.'

My heart should have been light but it wasn't. It was weighed down by the torment of jealousy that made Angelina Barbellini bring her gun to the hotel and, when foiled, to lie in wait for the Countess and shoot her... My imagination reconstruction always stopped there. I could see her slipping through the poplars to the residence, hear her husband's car pull up on the road above, see the Countess trip down the hill. I could see Angelina follow Colette down to the basement, pull out the gun, shoot her. But I couldn't believe that she stopped to wipe the gun and wrap the Countess' hand around it, set her watch forward and tip her into the pool. Surely she would have rushed home to kill her husband and, perhaps, herself. Could she have had gone to a reception at half past six with her husband and the husband of her victim? It seemed extraordinarily cold-blooded behaviour for a neurotic woman in a fury. When and how had she come into possession of the Countess's gun?

I have the office to myself as I write this. Ayse has gone to the airport in a taxi to collect the bag. I must decide what to do next. I'll sleep on it tonight and take some action tomorrow. I must talk to Angelina Barbellini. I am annoyed with Maria who must have lied, comprehensively, to me.

The phone interrupted me as I wrote the above.

'Meet me in the coffee shop across the road.'

That was all. The phone clicked down. I recognised Inspector Akin's voice and went out to the café.

'A gunsmith in Istanbul identified the gun that shot Mrs. Brown as one of a pair that he'd sold six months ago to Mrs. Barbellini. No doubt about it. She even filled out a guarantee form.'

'Then how did the Countess have its pair and the case in her drawer?'

'Think, Denis.'

'Someone wanted to protect Angelina Barbellini by making the Countess's death look like suicide, the gun and case might have been planted after the killing. If Orhan hadn't moved the body, the scheme might have worked. Inspector Kadri, do you intend to charge Mrs. Barbellini? Need the case be pursued further?'

'Don't you want to exonerate Orhan?'

'If there were some way to guarantee that Orhan would never be accused of the murder...perhaps a signed statement from Angelina....'

'Denis, what has happened to the avid amateur, defender of truth and the innocent?'

'Angelina Barbellini was tried beyond endurance.'

'You would be willing to allow Ambassador Brown to bear the brunt of my suspicions indefinitely?'

'Your suspicions are irrelevant if they remain suspicions only. I can let it be known in Dublin that the case has been resolved and that the suspect had no connection with Ireland. Walter will not be sent back here anyway. He is trapped in Protocol Section.'

Inspector Akin sipped the last sweet drop of coffee and peered into the cup. Then he swirled the sludge, turned the cup mouth-down on the saucer and tapped three times on its base.

'Let's see what the grounds say, Denis.'

He peered at the smears and held the cup out for my inspection.

'Don't you see it, Denis?'

I did see it, Millicent. There again was that horrid shape that Orhan had sketched, that I had seen on my first day in the residence. I shivered.

'You are not looking at it correctly, Denis. See the great white heart-shaped space, free of grounds. It spells innocence. I asked if Angelina Barbellini is guilty or not. See the answer. If you believe in this kind of thing, of course.'

'I don't think _you_ do.'

'Oh I do, when it confirms what I know. Come, come, Denis. Don't abandon the wicked cousin, the sinister cook, the naughty military attaché, the trusty maid, the dodgy landlord, the crafty driver, the naturally suspect spouse just because Angelina Barbellini bought guns in Istanbul.'

Dear Millicent, my head is spinning. Ayse should soon return with the bag. I long for a letter from you.

### Chapter 16

I must inform the reader that, from this on, the narrative is no longer based on carbon copies of letters to Millicent Mooney.

Ayse returned from the airport with the bag. In it was a letter from Millicent. She has decided that we are not suited. She has met someone she likes in the Legion of Mary. His name is Derek Gibbons. He is a solicitor, serious, a good Catholic, doesn't drink, has prospects and is violently in love with her.

I am crushed. How complacently I accepted the faith healer's promise of bliss. How dismissive I was of Pierre's comment that he would be afraid of such a promise.

Nothing Millicent said or wrote until now led me to suppose that we were in the process of becoming disengaged. I have been sitting here at the desk for several hours, incapable of movement, or of thought. For a long time I have known myself as Millicent's fiancé. Now I don't know myself any longer. Everything has shifted. The calendar on which I had marked one likely wedding day after another is a mockery. Even my personal ambitions were Millicent's. I don't care a damn about my career. I kept this diary for her.

Ayse tapped at the door to say she was going home.

She saw that I was in a state of distress.

'Denis? Someone has died?'

'No. My fiancée has broken our engagement. I am devastated.'

'Poor Denis.'

'That is the only word for it. Devastated.'

But as I repeated the word, I realised that it was not at all adequate to describe my complicated feelings. There was, somewhere at the very bottom of my shocked system, a little gleam of something that was not entirely grief.

Ayse went out and returned presently with strong sweet tea.

'I'll walk down to the residence with you when you feel able.'

I protested that I was not infirm. Nevertheless Ayse accompanied me when I left the office. In fact, she considered it necessary to put her hand on my arm occasionally, as if to steady me. I tried to collect my wits and deal with the normal business of the day as we walked but my wits sang 'Jilted. Set aside. Shocked. Discombobulated....'

I concentrated on detection.

'Ayse, tomorrow morning, will you try to find a birth certificate for me, the birth certificate of our landlord's mother, Mrs. Muftu?'

My mood was contagious, Ayse's eyes were brimming with tears and she could signify assent only by pressing my hand. At the door of the residence she delayed to talk to Gül. I hurried upstairs immediately, but I could tell that my change in status was being reported. I gritted my teeth. Pierre would hear sooner or later but, for the present, I could do without his sardonic sympathy. I went into my room and closed the door firmly. A broken heart needs neither victuals nor company. I looked at my face in the mirror and it looked back at me – the face of a broken man. To work! The mind must be divorced from the heart and driven to work. I no longer care if the Department sends me to Protocol, or to Ulan Bator, or gets rid of me entirely. I intend to write a full report of my investigation.

What shall I do about Angelina? Every chivalrous instinct says that nothing should be done. Should Derek Gibbons, Solicitor, present himself before me foxtrotting with Millicent, who could tell what I might not do? That Millicent doesn't dance, makes the comparison a little unreal, but the point is a valid one, nonetheless. I don't want to hand Angelina over to the Turkish judicial system. After many lapses into daydreams about my own blighted prospects, I decide to talk to her in the morning. I must see if there is a way to save her without damning anyone else. I am confident that this would have been Colette's own generous solution.

I did not decide to go down to dinner. In my strange, abstracted condition I found myself on the stairs, heading for the kitchen before thinking about it. It may have been the smell wafted through my nose to the more primitive part of my brain, which reminded me that I needed sustenance.

' _Filet mignon_ ,' Pierre announced. 'It is not every day that a man gets back his heart from the pawnbroker.

'Gül smiled at me, patted my hand and poured out an aperitif.

'Surely I should have chicken broth, Pierre, not steak.'

'I have considered, _mon ami_. We will have _consommé de poulet_ , with a _Petit Sancerre_ , to begin with, to heal the heart. After that, we will have red meat for courage and a good red _vin de table_. For dessert, there will be _glace au melon_ and a glass of _Sauternes_.'

'I am not hungry, Pierre.'

'Of course you are not hungry, Denis, but you will eat a little, to please us.'

'You will not give that one the satisfaction of going home thin,' said Gül, ladling out chicken soup.

' _Croutons_?' offered Pierre.

'I am cast adrift,' I said after my third glass of red wine, 'shipwrecked.'

'I am so sad for you, Denis _Bey_ ,' said Gül.

I had a sip of _Sauternes_.

'It is as vinegar, my friends,' I said. 'The vine has lost its sweetness. I must sleep here at the table for I have no strength to go upstairs. Samson's hair has been cut.'

' _Précisément_ ,' said Pierre. 'Therefore you will have a cognac with your coffee and sleep until you waken.'

'Millicent wouldn't dance. I never danced with Millicent.'

'She kissed well?' Gül enquired, solicitously.

'Millicent didn't like kissing,' I said sadly.

My attention focused on Pierre's hands as he poured the coffee. They were priestly hands, beautifully manicured, emerging from gleaming white cuffs, set off against the silver of the tray. Gül was clearing the dessert dishes. Pierre's hands filled my whole field of vision. Each movement was immeasurably slow and graceful. Cup one for Gül. Cup two for me. Then he put sugar in mine. He had made a mistake. Pierre had made a mistake. Gül took sugar in coffee. I didn't. Not unless I was distressed. I was too tired, far too tired, to point out his error. I just took the proper cup and slid the sugared one across to Gül's place while she was saying something to Pierre about the choice of cognac.

They would not let me sleep in the kitchen, nor yet on the sofa by the television. I must go to bed. I remember Pierre removing my shoes and telling me that his fiancée had a sister, who also had a dowry.

'Sweet dreams.' he said, switching off the light.

I was awakened by a thumping headache. After a while I realised that at least some of the noise was not internal. Something was happening downstairs. It was extraordinarily difficult to get up. I had a swig of water in the kitchen and carried the bottle with me carefully to the head of the basement stairs. Gül's evil eye bead had been tossed aside and the door was ajar.

I sat on the top steps, drank more water and tried to make sense of the scene. The area around the pool was full of cardboard boxes of uniform size. There were workmen, whom I had not seen before, carrying the boxes up the driver's stairs and out, returning after an interval for more. The boxes were heavy. They carried one at time. I drank deeply, sure that once my thirst was quenched, I would remember what they were doing.

It came to me all of a sudden. 'Stop!' I commanded. 'Bring those boxes back at once. Robbers! The china and Newbridge silver belong to the Irish government. The personal effects belong to the Ambassador. Bring those boxes back or I'll call the police.

'In the stress of the moment, my Turkish failed me and I spoke in Irish. The workmen shrugged and continued to work.

' _Gadaithe_! _Ropairí_!'

The door behind me opened. Pierre and Félix d'Aubine came through.'My dear fellow,' said M. d'Aubine.'What the devil?' said Pierre.

' _Arretez les_ ,' I said wildly. 'They are stealing our artwork.'

'That hasn't arrived yet,' said Pierre.

'I put enough in his coffee to keep anyone, who is not Irish, quiet until the day after tomorrow,' he said over my head to M. d'Aubine. 'Shall I knock him out?'

'No violence is required, Pierre. Denis is reasonable.'

I shook my head. It hurt.

'Let us retire to the kitchen and sort this out,' said Félix d'Aubine. 'These gentlemen will postpone operations until you yourself give the go-ahead, Denis. Word of honour. Pierre, bring them refreshments.'

We sat at the kitchen table. I drank coffee – horrid strong re-heated stuff that I sugared myself. I groaned, beginning to feel clear-headed but ghastly.

'What have they got in the boxes downstairs?''My own wine,' said M. d'Aubine patiently, 'My own wine which I delivered earlier in the week to Pierre for use in the Irish Embassy.

Here is the invoice.'He produced a dazzle of papers.

'You both knew at that stage that no wine would be required.'

'Pierre told me so yesterday. The sale was nullified immediately and the wine was sold to Anar and Sons, to be collected by them tonight. All open and above board.'

Even though my head was spinning, certain things began to coalesce.

'Bring me a glass of the wine that is by the swimming pool.'

'Certainly. I opened a case to give a bottle each to the workmen and one to the policeman on the gate. I troubled him to count the boxes in and out and sign several documents. This has kept him happy that the work is official. He will feel entitled to a bottle.'

'Pierre, bring a bottle and three glasses.'

The bottle was brought, wrapped in a napkin. They watched anxiously while I tasted the wine, rolled it around my mouth, swallowed and, to be sure of my verdict, tasted again.

'Is it not a wonderful wine?' M. d'Aubine asked anxiously.

'Does it not leave something to be desired?' asked Pierre, 'a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , insignificant certainly, yet in its very insignificance pointing out the difference between a good wine and an excellent one.'

'This wine is a very good wine,' I said. 'I have tasted it here in the residence. I tasted it in Cappadocia. Pierre said it would do for a _coq au vin_. He was wrong. It is a superior wine, but it is not one of the great wines of the earth.'

M. d'Aubine sighed. 'I see that I must bow to your judgement, M. O'Gorman. For one of your years, for one from a country, which, forgive me, is not known for its wines, your taste is remarkable. It is a wonderful wine, but it is not the best of wines. In other words, it is not Château Fontenoy.'

Saying this, he slipped the napkin from the bottle. The label was the familiar Château Fontenoy label, _appellation controllée, mise en bouteille...._

'Your superior detective skills have left me at your mercy,' said M. d'Aubine. 'I have sold all my stock of Cappadocian wine overnight by borrowing my late cousin's address. Who could question that Château Fontenoy wine from the store of the French Countess, recently deceased, was absolutely genuine? Provenance is always important. It was a necessary move. Because of recent agrarian unrest in Cappadocia – local vendettas are always bad for business – rumours have been spread in the trade by envious people that there is a connection between a famous French wine and our own Cappadocian product. To sell our Cappadocian Château Fontenoy quickly, we had to provide the trade with an unquestionable source. Provenance, my dear Denis, is everything.'

'Stop,' I groaned. 'I see now what you were up to. Wealthy people pay an outrageous price for imported wine of quality.'

M. d'Aubine sighed 'Three-quarters of it tax.'

'You have been selling Cappadocian wine in Turkey, at inflated prices, under the Château Fontenoy label.'

'You put it so crudely, my dear Denis. I have established wonderful vineyards in Cappadocia. I have brought cuttings of our own vines. I have brought the soil of our own vineyard and salted each plant with its native earth. To all but the expert, the wines are as close as any two vintages from the same vineyard.'

'Selling on the black market.'

'On the wine-red market. We are present on the very best tables.'

My head ached.

'With your permission, Denis,' said Pierre, 'I will tell the workmen to continue to load the wine. After all, it isn't ours. It was bought this afternoon by the Ankara office of Anar of Istanbul.'

'It is in everybody's interest to get rid of the evidence as soon as possible,' M. d'Aubine urged.

'Was my incarceration in Cappadocia linked with this wine scam?''I did apologise to you, Denis, for that unfortunate occurrence. It isn't friendly of you to keep referring to it. It was unfortunate that the innkeeper mistook you for a certain French investigator. Also unfortunate that Pierre and I suspected, for a while, that you were using your investigation into Colette's death to probe our wine business with a view to claiming a cut.'

'Never,' I shouted, incensed.

'You kept bothering me about the wine,' Pierre reminded me patiently. 'Then I found you beside me on the bus.'

'You, Pierre, were involved in this scam?'

'But of course. We were keeping the Château afloat.'

'The Countess knew about it?'

'The Countess created the scheme. It takes, you may imagine, quite a while to found a business like ours. The first years you only have expenses. Madame's dollars set us up in Cappadocia. Then the wine started to flow and everything was beautiful. We were prepared for all kinds of difficulties, but not for the one that presented itself. The Ambassador was posted to Turkey. Madame ordered that the business be suspended during his stay here. We agreed, of course. A woman must be humoured when she is trying to please her husband. But it was not at all possible to suspend operations. We considered a different label and immediately ran into difficulties. It must be a wine that is also legitimately imported from France. Our product must be close enough to the import to convince a good palate. We reviewed the list. There really was no suitable one. We were stuck with Château Fontenoy. There was no need to alarm the Countess. We would tell her when she was safely out of Turkey. Then she would be pleased to have the profit, without having had to deceive her husband.'

There was a knock at the kitchen door. The workmen wanted to know if they might continue. If they could not finish now, they would come back in the morning.

'Take it away now. Immediately!' I cried, the instinct to free the residence from such an albatross stronger than the inclination to hold on to the evidence. M. d'Aubine nodded his approval.

'Did the Ambassador know what was going on?'

'Oh no! My cousin was most careful of her husband's honour.'

'The row that you, Félix, had with Mrs. Brown. It was about the Cappadocian wine.'

'My cousin found out that I had not discontinued the arrangements. Of course she knew that I would not discontinue them, could not discontinue them, but she needed to be able to believe, with a clear conscience, that they were no longer in operation. It was Pierre's fault that she found out.'

'With all due respect, it was yours, M. d'Aubine.'

'Who mixed up the bottles?'

'Who brought Cappadocian Fontenoy into the house and left it where I could make the mistake?'

'How could I promote the wine in Ankara if I did not have supplies?'

'Why didn't you keep the supplies in your own room?'

'What could I say to Colette if she found several cases of her wine in my room.'

'It wasn't her wine.'

'How could I tell her that?'

'Stop it,' I said. 'There is no point in arguing about it. The whole business is a disgrace. I don't know what I can do about it.'

'Do about it, dear Denis? But you need do nothing about it. Everything has been accomplished – or will be as soon as the lorry pulls out of the driveway.'

'Oh my God. The guard. He will report ––'

'Why should he? A delivery made, by mistake, after the death of the buyer...returned to seller as soon as the error is detected...all the paperwork beautifully in order...signed and re-signed by him, as an added security measure. My paperwork has always been meticulous.'

'You, M. d'Aubine, have just shown that you had a very good motive for your cousin's death. If she reported you, you would have had the customs and the fraud squad of Turkey and of France down on you.'

'Denis,' he said wearily, 'How could she have reported us? It was _her_ business. She set it up with my help originally. Could she prove that she tried to cancel it?'

I went to bed. There was nothing else to do. As I reached the top of the house, I heard loud, resolute snoring. Gül was sleeping off the dose intended for me. The movements in the basement continued as I fell asleep. I never heard the lorry leave.

### Chapter 17

Nobody was awake as I left for the office. My head banged against a ceiling of pain with every step. Later, after quantities of weak tea, I thought I might be well enough to meet Angelina Barbellini. Dublin had made several calls in the course of the morning and Ayse had taken messages of increasing urgency, but I did not want to talk to anyone in Dublin. I went to Barbellini's house. The Colonel was at home. I asked to speak to Angelina.

'My wife is in Rome. Perhaps I can help you.'

'When will she be back?'

'She intends to remain there indefinitely. Maria is with her. You may speak to me. Angelina and I have no secrets from each other.'

A man may well think that there are no secrets because they are secret from him.'I don't think I can talk freely to you, Colonel Barbellini, until I have spoken to your wife first. It is a serious matter.'

He led me into his study.

'The death of the Countess is indeed a serious matter. You believe my wife responsible for her death on the basis of information you picked up at the Imperial Hotel. The doorman, for a consideration, gave me your questions and his answers. You wish to ask my wife if she shot the Countess later that day.'

'I want to talk to her.'

'There is the telephone. Ring her. The number is in the notebook. First of all, however, I want you to ring your Ambassador. You hesitate. You are surprised by my request? Ambassador Brown and I are in each other's confidence. We discussed whether or not you would arrive at this point of discovery. We agreed that, if you did, we would have to let you in on our secret. You may verify the facts, as I tell them, with Ambassador Brown. Eventually, you may ask Angelina for confirmation, if you wish, though she is suffering from nervous prostration at present and is under medical care. Let us have a drink and I will see how I should begin. What will you have? I'm going to have a Martini.'

'Mineral water, please.'He stood with an elbow on the mantelpiece, as if on stage. I collapsed into an armchair.

'I have always been attracted to handsome women and have had the good fortune to be attractive to them. It is just a fact,' said the Colonel, with a toss of his head and a noble air.'

Angelina is of a jealous disposition and her nerves are fragile, so I am always discreet. I play by certain rules. I never allow myself to become seriously attached and I terminate the acquaintance if the lady shows signs of falling in love. I call these episodes flirtations rather than affairs. Only very occasionally have I been tempted to abandon my natural caution and enter into a full physical relationship. In the case of the Countess, I was not so tempted, nor I believe was she. We found adequate release in dancing. If you, Mr. O'Gorman, are a disciple of the dance, you will understand.'

'My ex-fiancée did not dance.'

'It was convenient to meet for afternoon tea in the Imperial.'

'Did you spend all your time dancing?'

'A crude question, which I disdain to answer. Check with the hotel reception if you must.'

'I mean, did you have time for conversation?'

'Oh, I see. Yes, at the break we used to take tea.'

'What did you talk about.'

'Two cultivated and alert minds, quickened by exercise and unfettered by convention, range widely. Unfortunately my wife misinterpreted the nature of the attachment. She began to spy on me. She knew my routine. I can only account for her behaviour by referring to her nervous condition. Perhaps her age had something to do with it. Women become insecure.'

He observed a moment's silence, possibly out of compassion for the female sex.

'On the day Colette died, Angelina followed me in a taxi to the Imperial. I was unaware that she had come. She has since told me about her intention to shoot both Colette and myself. As the hotel staff told you, they foiled the attempt. They did not connect the incident in the hotel with Colette's death. The newspapers told them she had been assassinated by terrorists. I drove Colette home, left her, as usual, on the road directly behind the residence. She always had some kind of black cover-up and scarf in her bag. She went home in high spirits. I sat in the car smoking for about ten minutes.'

'Why did you do that?'

He looked a little sheepish.

'I wanted to have just enough time to change and go out, not to have time for discussion, recriminations.'

He took a moment, perhaps to contemplate his fortitude in the face of domestic strife.

'I drove home. Angelina was not around. She would be sulking in her room until the last minute – or so I thought. I got ready. Then I called her. She was on her bed, curled up in a knot, in a terrible state. Maria was with her.'

'Maria lied to me. You bribed her?'

'Maria would do anything for me. We digress. My wife confessed that when she came back from the Imperial Hotel she took her gun and went through the hedge to your residence. She waited until Colette came down the back way, trailing her black robe, humming a dance tune. Colette went in the side door. Angelina followed her. Colette backed away from her down the steps when she saw the gun. Angelina followed.

Of course I didn't learn all this at once. All she could tell me at the time was that she had shot the Countess. However, for clarity's sake I am filling in now what I put together over the next few days. Colette made a grab for the gun. There was a struggle. The gun went off. Colette half-fell, half-staggered, down the steps. The gun had fallen. Angelina, mad with terror, ran back home and collapsed on the bed.

'Walter was to get a lift from us. I rang and told him I was coming over and asked him to let me in himself. He was at the door when I arrived, partly shaved. I told him that there had been a terrible accident and that we must go down to the basement at once. Angelina thought she had shot and seriously wounded Mrs. Brown. He led the way down, unlocking the door, which has all kinds of seals on it, as you know. I had hoped that Angelina exaggerated. She hadn't. Colette was in the pool in a little cloud of discoloured water. The gun was lying at the bottom of the stairs.

'We pulled Colette out of the pool. She scarcely seemed dead. Walter asked me if I knew how to do artificial respiration. I tried. It was a forlorn hope. "I'm afraid she's gone," Walter said, "but keep trying." He took out a handkerchief, wrapped it around the gun and brought it over.

' "I'm going to wipe off Angelina's fingerprints and put Colette's where they would be if she had shot herself. The wound is in a suitable place and the gun went off fairly close. If we are lucky, it will pass off as accident. Colette was rash. And generous.'

'He was very calm.'

'So was I. In a crisis one tends to be self possessed. It is afterwards that reaction sets in.'

'There was no life in her. Brown took Colette's right hand. He held it a moment. Then he fitted it around the gun. Then he threw the gun into the pool.'

'Why did he do that?'

'In case there might be traces of chlorine on it. He said to go back to Angelina immediately, to bring her to the reception, even if I had to carry her. I remembered a story I read once about a watch, broken in a fall, marking the time of death. Colette's watch had stopped. I suggested that we should put it forward a bit. He agreed and promised to do it. I was to get my wet jacket off and bring Angelina out to the car. Walter said he would be at the car before us and travel with us. He wanted to say goodbye, I think. He would have to put her back in the pool.

'I changed, gave Angelina a double dose of her pills and bundled her out, as she was, to the car. Walter sat in the back with her and talked to her soothingly all the way. The tranquillisers had taken effect by then. I kept her moving through the crowd. We didn't stay long, excusing ourselves on the grounds of a dinner engagement. We made up a small dinner party and went to a restaurant in Ulus in case there were questions about where Angelina was during the evening. The whole thing was a nightmare. Later that night I gave Walter the matching gun and case to put among Colette's belongings, and a letter, to show a motive for suicide.

'Walter told me to expect a phone call from him in the morning. He was in the habit of swimming before breakfast. He would discover the body then and call the police. Later he would ring me to let me know what had happened.'

'Walter knew you were on terms of intimate friendship with his wife?'

'He knew I wasn't, that what we had between us was a magnificent flirtation.'

'Were you not worried about creating a scandal that might end your career?'

'I am not without influence. The matter would be treated with all possible delicacy once it was known that I was involved, though only in a minor role. We had covered every eventuality.So we believed. But when Walter went down for his swim in the morning, the pool was empty and all signs of what had happened the evening before had been removed. He rang me. We met in my garden. He thought I had interfered. I assured him I hadn't been near the place. We decided to do nothing, to wait and see. I was afraid he would crack up. He had been wonderful the previous evening. Now he was very distressed. Reaction, I suppose.

'Then it transpired that the driver had fled in the car. It was another shock to hear from the guard at the gate that Mrs. Brown had been a passenger in the car at eight the previous evening. You may imagine my feelings when the police came, tipped off by your driver, to dig among my rosebushes.

''How is Angelina?'

'Under medical supervision in Rome. In time, provided the thing blows over here, she will learn to treat it as an unfortunate accident. Have another drink.'

I declined. I returned to the café where I had sat, drinking syrupy coffee, the previous day before receiving Millicent's letter, before discovering M. d'Aubine's wine scam, before Colonel Barbellini turned inside out my ideas of what had happened on Tuesday night. I had more coffee and waited for my wits to stop reeling. Desperate, I took out my notebook and wrote Dear Diary at the top of the page.

What, if anything, should I do now? Walter's own actions make it clear where he stands on this issue. He is entitled to be chivalrous. Anyway, he has made himself an accessory after the fact. Orhan, however, is still, as far as the public is concerned, the terrorist-assassin. True, he is not in custody. True also that, in the event of being captured, he might feel it didn't matter if he hanged for a sheep or a lamb. I toyed with the idea that the Barbellinis and Walter might, together, write an account of the events of that night and deposit it in a safe place so that Orhan could produce it if ever he were brought to trial for the murder of Mrs. Brown.

I returned to the office. It was early afternoon. Ayse looked at me compassionately.

'Denis, there is a consignment of goods for the residence but the paperwork hasn't come through and the Customs won't clear it without documentation. The movers say they will have to put it in storage since they can't deliver and because it is artwork, storage will be expensive, and how much do you want to insure it for? There is also a bed. I rang Dublin. The papers are all inside the packing cases. The bed is to be kept for the Minister.'

'Good God, I forgot the Ministerial visit! Ring Dublin, Ayse. Get a list of the artwork and the estimated prices. Type out the list. I'll sign it. The Customs may be happy with that.'

'I found the birth certificate you wanted, Denis, the one for the landlord's mother. I went down to the Registry after you left.'

It was scarcely relevant. To please her, I looked at it. I could see nothing unusual about it for a moment. Then the date struck me. If the lady were still alive, she would be a hundred and ten. But our landlord could scarcely be more than forty-five. I put down the piece of paper, confused.'She can't have given birth at sixty-five, Ayse.'

Ayse smiled. 'The landlord is from a conservative family; you need only look at the house to know that. It is a real harem. You never asked Gül the question that I asked her an hour ago. How many wives had the landlord's father? He had three wives.'

'He was widowed? Divorced?'

'No. Married to all three together.'

'Polygamy is illegal in Turkey.'

'Of course it is. This is a modern secular state. But there can be religious marriages, not recognised by the state. Usually they happen in country places, where there is a question of land, or a need to survive. But sometimes very rich people, conservatively inclined, follow the old pattern. I rang Mr. Muftu and told him how devastated you were for love and how sympathetic your heart was and how you wanted to know about love in Ankara in the old days. He was understanding and said to tell you his story. His grandmother was the dominant person in the Muftu household. When there was no child of the first marriage, she insisted on another and yet another bride. Our Yusuf Muftu is the only child of the third wife. However, since the state would not recognise that marriage, or children of it, he is registered as the child of the first wife. That accounts for the age of his mother and the fact that there is confusion over whether his mother is alive or dead. The old lady, his official mother, is dead, but his biological mother is alive.'

Poor Mr Muftu! What an excess of mothers.

'It is something all his acquaintances would know about. He just would not want to talk about it to a foreigner, who might not understand.'

For the first time in two weeks I was able to smile.

'Do you dance, Ayse?'

'In my village we dance a lot.'

'I used to dance. When I was ten, I won the Leinster slip-jig championship for boys under twelve.'

I felt a giddy impulse to demonstrate a few steps, but controlled myself. I had left the residence in the morning without seeing Pierre or M. d'Aubine and was still undecided whether I should do something about the wine swindle, or do nothing and hope it would never come to light. I needed to return, to check that the basement was empty of wine, to lock up the basement, take the key, nail the door, making sure it would be impossible for anyone to use it, for nefarious purposes, ever again.

Pierre was reserved and silent and had one shoulder hunched against me. Gül wandered round yawning. M. d'Aubine had left. The basement was empty. I locked the door at the driver's side from the inside and put a wedge under it. Then I locked the inside door and pocketed the keys.

' _Tripes à la mode de Cayenne_ ,' announced Pierre.

He knows I can't stomach tripe.

He polished a glass, held it up against the light to check that it sparkled and set it in front of me. My lighthearted mood of an hour ago vanished. I thought of something so horrible that I sobbed and groaned. ' _Le pauvre_ ,' said Gül. 'He is suffering. Irish women, bah!'

' _Tenez, tenez, mon vieux_ ,' said Pierre patting me on the back, 'Women are the devil, even when they are angels.'

'Give me a glass of water, Pierre.'

I could have done the experiment discreetly in my room but I felt so lonely that I needed company.

I printed a thumb-mark neatly on the polished glass and then stuck the thumb into the water.

'Talk to me, Pierre. Tell me about France. Tell me about your fiancée. Talk.'

He decided to humour me. His voice droned on and I thought black thoughts and wiggled my thumb in the water.

'My fiancée Liliane,' said Pierre, ' if I stay away just a little longer, will become like your fiancée, Millicent, an ex-fiancée. A desirable situation. I have planned to go to Cappadocia for some time and supervise M. d'Aubine's interests there. The sale of Cappadocian Château Fontenoy wine in Turkey must stop. We see that. It is time to settle down and become totally legal. The vineyards of the disaffected villages could be bought by a person married to a Turkish national. If this person had money to invest, and connections.... We will see what can be done.'

Gül put a hand on his shoulder.

I reckoned that the Countess had been in the water for at least quarter of an hour before Colonel Barbellini and Walter pulled her out. I had kept my thumb in the water for ten minutes and could wait no longer.

'Could you get me some talcum powder, please, Pierre?'

He went off to get it. I gave my thumb a shake and dabbed it dry on the tablecloth. Then I planted it firmly on the glass beside the earlier one. No talc was needed to see that the imprint was wrinkled and scarcely visible by comparison with the first one.

I checked my notebook. Inspector Akin said that excellent prints had been recovered from the Derringer. I remembered his little lecture on finger prints. ''Water of itself won't remove fingerprints A nice dry finger on a nice dry trigger will leave its mark.''

Pierre came in with the talc, but I blundered past him up to my room. I rang Walter straight away.

'Ambassador, Denis here. I have just found out something. A print made by a dry finger and a print made by a wet finger are not one and the same thing.'

After a moment's silence, he said 'Thank you, Denis. Don't do anything until tomorrow. I'll send you a letter in the bag for Orhan. Did you talk to Barbellini?'

'I did. I'm sorry....'

'So am I. But it is all right, Denis, honestly. Don't worry about it. Good luck.'

I hung up the phone and blew my nose very hard, went downstairs and ate a plate of tripe, penitentially.

Next day, at midday, Seoirse rang me. Ambassador Brown had killed himself. He had left a letter for the coroner, one for Orhan and one for me. He took an overdose of sleeping pills which had been prescribed for his wife. That he had brought them with him to Ireland, after her funeral, probably meant that he had contemplated using them, even then.

I hung up without saying anything. There was nothing to say. Pierre, M. d'Aubine, Gül and Ayse rallied round and tried to keep me busy, or overfed, or drunk, as they each thought fit.

Walter's letter came.

Dear Denis,

It was the impulse of a moment. Life with Colette was life on a roller-coaster and I was tired. It had been a bad week. She had just told me about a wine swindle in which she was involved, the sale of a local Turkish wine, in Turkey, under the Château Fontenoy label.

When I found out that she had deliberately faked the 'haunting' of the house, I set out to discover why and found that our basement was being used, at night, by a Communist cell led by our driver, with Colette's connivance.

Colonel Barbellini will have given you an account of what happened the night Colette died. He is not in possession of all the facts.

As I returned from the office that evening, walking, I heard what sounded like a fire-cracker as I turned in the gate. A few moments afterwards Angelina ran through the gap in the line of poplar trees between the houses, towards her own house. I knew that she resented the attentions her husband was paying to Colette. I also knew that she was of a tempestuous nature.

I investigated. The door to the basement was open. I went down and found Colette. Dead, I thought at first. Then I saw that, though shot in the head, she was still breathing.

I had been full of bitterness towards her, loathed her heartily as only two people, tied together, can loathe each other. The gun was beside her. It was the work of an instant to take it up in my handkerchief, rub it clean and fix her hand around it. I had noted that the wound was neatly placed on the right temple, the shot fired close. Then I shoved her into the water.

I didn't roll Colette into the pool. I rolled in trouble, frustration and miseries. No sooner was she in the water than I was wild with regret. I pulled her head clear of the water. She had stopped breathing. I let her slip back in. I had not really been thinking. I had seen opportunity and had acted instinctively.

I went back up the steps across the front of the house and in the front door and began to get ready to go out. Then the phone call came from the Colonel. He said he was coming over. I creaked the hall door when letting him in and Pierre, later, and mistakenly, told Akin that I returned at 5.33. because he heard the creak at that time.

Barbellini will have told you what happened subsequently. One thing he will have got wrong because I deceived him. I did not put prints on the gun at that stage, though I pretended to do so. I had done it already, with her dry fingers. A better job, I felt. I did not consider the discrepancy that led you to realise the truth.

I had steeled myself to 'find' her body in the morning. You may imagine my amazement when the body had disappeared.

I enclose a statement for Inspector Akin and a copy for Orhan and Angelina. It merely states that I killed my wife. It would be impossible to say more without creating problems for many people. I am glad to have reached the end of the road. Life without Colette is dull. Every night I pull her out of the pool many times and each time I realise all over again that I killed her.

Put these events behind you as quickly as you can.

Sincerely,

Walter Brown

The bed for the Minister was delivered to the residence. It was too big to fit in the guestroom. I left it temporarily on the first balcony. The artwork arrived too. Pierre has left for Cappadocia with Gül, who has a cousin, who has a friend who has a vineyard to sell.

Ayse came, after supper, to help me hang the pictures. I had to take them from the crates to check for damage and I felt that they would be safer on the walls than stacked somewhere. The first item to come out of its wrapping was a print in black and white, an abstract design entitled 'The Swimmer'. It was the shape Orhan had drawn, what I saw on my first day in the place. Ayse took one look at the print and shook her head.

'No, Denis, this must finish. We are not going to start the cycle all over again. You cannot live here.'

'I have to.'

'You cannot live here alone. What would you do? Sit on that balcony up there and feel yourself being spun down into the darkness? Wait every night for a splash downstairs?

'I put the print back into the crate.'

There is a small apartment in the block across from mine. The price is good. The landlady is a friend of my mother's. You could move in there straight away. Shall I ring her?'

'Ring her now. I can't wait to get out of this place. I'll go and pack my things.'

I kissed Ayse. It seemed the natural thing to do. To my surprise she kissed me back. From the basement there came a small crashing sound, followed by another and another. Then the basement door began to rattle. We knew that it was merely that pipes creaking and a draught shaking the doors. Still, we caught hands and ran out of the house, pausing only to scoop up the kitten. I would pack by daylight.

Inspector Akin looked up from the file on his desk rather impatiently.

'Well, Denis, have you been to Adana yet?'

He looked more closely at me and put down the file.

'I see, my friend, that you have arrived where you did not wish to arrive. Being honest, you have come to tell me.'

Ambassador Brown killed his wife and has now killed himself. I remembered what you said about fingerprints. I rang him. I will show you the letter he wrote to me.'

'Poor Denis! I told you at the very beginning that he killed his wife.'

'That was prejudice on your part, Inspector Kadri. You had no evidence to support the assertion at that time.'

He led me to a piece of equipment like a small television screen and fiddled with the knobs.

'Equipment, courtesy of the CIA. I am the reluctant ear of America in the moderate camp.'

'Sharon Pyx's moderate connection?'

'She is a real human being... underneath it all.'

I drew myself up stiffly, as Millicent's fiancé would have done. Then I laughed uncertainly.

Inspector Akin patted me on the back and kept a hand on my shoulder as he adjusted the focus. It was a photo of the door of the residence taken from the inside. The door was open a crack.

'The camera is triggered by door movement. Ireland has such a turbulent history that it was feared we might get an ambassador sympathetic to subversive elements. We kept tabs on visitors this way.'

'You should have rigged the office door.'

'Why do you think I told you to come to the coffee shop the other day?'I felt indignant. Then I saw the funny side of it.

'Did you rig the side door of the residence?'

'Unfortunately not – limited resources.'

'How could you stoop to spy on diplomats?'

'It is only counter-espionage. You know very well that diplomats are licensed spies, fair game. Your own military intelligence could tell you that.'

He clicked a button. The screen showed the door, opened a little more. There were fingers around the jamb. He zoomed in on them. They were discoloured. A sequence of pictures showed the door being opened enough to allow a figure to enter crab-fashion.

'The door creaks if you open it all the way,' I said involuntarily.

'I know.'

The next shot showed Walter, straightened up and seeming to look towards the camera. There was no mistaking the stains on his light summer coat. What caught my breath was the expression on his face. There was no regret there. Only resolution.

'It is when excitement dies down that conscience wakes up. said Akin. If you had yielded to Sharon, you would understand this.'

'Why didn't you confront him with this? Why didn't you accuse him there and then?'

'Reveal that moderates within the security forces are, like left and right, being aided by American technology? Impossible! Besides, my bosses were bent on another solution. I couldn't act directly. But indirectly....'

'Through me.'

'Once I accepted that you were honest, I knew that, guided by me, you must come to the correct conclusion, and act on it.'

'You appointed me agent and executioner,' I said sadly.

'Are you desperately unhappy?'

'No,' I said eventually.'

Invite me to your wedding.'

'I regret that it will not now take place.'

'Will it not?' said Inspector Akin with a smile.

I wondered for a moment what he meant. Then I smiled too. I expect to be, as Merita has foretold, blissfully happy.

* * *

### Biddy Jenkinson, a gardener by profession, lives on a hill in Ireland with a dog, a cat and a flock of geese. She has a particular interest in the bumble bee and in the preservation of its habitat.

### While prepared to encounter the gloomier aspects of reality in other areas, Jenkinson avoids novels that promise to horrify, terrify or otherwise discompose the reader. She will count this story a success if the reader laughs, at least once. This does not mean that she condones murder.

### _Full-bodied Wine_ is Jenkinson's first detective novel.

