Mendis turned and pointed down the rock face. At the base, a saffron-robed monk was walking away, head bowed, a brass alms bowl in hand.
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"The ghost," he said, settling into my rattan chair, "belongs to a dead archaeologist. Dr. Anil Samarawickrama. Found three days ago at the base of Sigiriya Rock, neck broken. The police call it a fall. The family calls it a curse of the Lion King." Mendis turned and pointed down the rock face
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“You know, Watson,” he said quietly, “Sherlock Holmes had his cocaine and his violin. I have Ceylon tea and the sound of frogs after rain. But the game… the game is always the same.”
Mendis did not draw a pistol. He drew a small whistle and blew three short notes. Within minutes, two village headmen and a veda mahattaya (traditional healer) appeared—Mendis’s own network, his Baker Street Irregulars of the jungle. They surrounded Sarath before he could flee.