Death to the Landlords (Felse, Book 11)
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Landlords the world over are not the most popular people, and there is little mourning when the greedy, ruthless Mahendralal Bakhle is blown up in his boat on the beautiful Periyar Lake. Suspicion falls on the boat-boy who died with him, but Dominic Felse, one of a party of young tourists accidentally involved in the fatality, is not convinced of the boy's guilt. And when they move on it seems that the terror is still pursuing them.
Violence and death erupt yet again in the home of a very different landowner, where Dominic and his friends are guests, and follow them relentlessly south to the very tip of India, where Dominic and the Swami Premanathanand, a man of peace, unravel a deadly Indian rope trick of hatred and murder...
a weight this fragile-looking girl could lift, with one arm hooked expertly into the victim’s surviving arm, the other hand steadying his rolling head. The white turban was a trailing rag, dirty and stained, but she did not discard it; it would serve as a tourniquet. They got the limp burden over the side and stretched out on a seat. She looked down briefly at Bakhle’s body, and the green water lay motionless over the ruined face. She looked up into Dominic’s eyes. All the delicate lines of her
be shaken off, Dominic dreamed of hearing a car’s engine climbing steadily up the. track from the main road, endlessly climbing and climbing and refusing to give up or be discouraged, though every yard gained was replaced by an equal distance unrolling ahead. A part of his mind was still awake enough to realise that this was one of those frequent frustration dreams that come between waking and sleeping, usually in the last hours before arising, and go on for an eternity that turns out to have
the ultra-sweet Indian sweets made with coconut, which treacherously soak you with a fountain of syrup unless you know how to eat them. Forks had been thoughtfully provided for the foreign guests, but both of them chose to eat with the fingers, like the rest of the party. The two teenage daughters went off to feed the gaggle of hungry children in the kitchen, and the feast overflowed into the yard and into the street. When everyone else was taken care of, Mrs Madhavan and Priya also helped
rearmost of them Dominic laughed, and slapped a hand lightly on the wheel. ‘This is where we came in! What did we say? Provincial France has caught up with us again.’ There was no mistaking that old, sky-blue Ford, with the scratches of some ancient skirmish ripped across one door, and dabs of red retouching on the rear wing. The Bessancourts must be inside the temple enclosure with their box camera, doggedly making up the record of their travels. A tall, rangy young man in khaki shirt and
were out of the room, ‘are formidable!’ It was a good word for the Bessancourts. ‘What can they want here?’ she demanded in a feverish whisper. ‘What brought them here? I don’t understand!’ Dominic, still charmed and touched by that courteous departure, so reminiscent of a respectable couple quitting a small restaurant in St Dié or Chaumont, wondered if it was so vital to understand. Wasn’t it their business? Why not just be glad about that impressive, three-dimensional reality of theirs? But