Full-Bodied Wine
A Vintage Murder
By
Biddy Jenkinson
Published by Biddy Jenkinson
Copyright 2014 Biddy Jenkinson
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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.