The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery

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Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. In this story, she was behind the Lilliput Bar when the owner was shot. Now Sheriff Ben would like nothing better than to solve the case quickly by arresting her. But can he prove it? Get A Copy. Kindle Edition , pages. More Details Original Title. Lady Locksmith Mysteries 1. Other Editions 3. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about The Lilliput Bar Mystery , please sign up.

Be the first to ask a question about The Lilliput Bar Mystery. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. Sort order. Oct 08, Nmedlin43att. Net rated it liked it. Locksmiths and Murders, This book was very interesting and kept my attention throughout until the ending And then, it was a bust. I am not sure if the author lost interest in the book or didn't know how to wrap it up but it was very disappointing.

So, I have it a 3 star rating instead of a higher one. So, if you would like a good mystery story that ends with a dud, try this book but don't say you were not warned. Mar 27, Virginia Lee Boylan rated it really liked it Shelves: mystery , contemporary. I enjoyed Cassie and Chance and their friends and acquaintances, but found the bad guys one-dimensional and too many to keep straight.

Having a female locksmith is fun, but having her kidnapped twice stretched my suspension of disbelief. Sep 14, Ellen White added it. Sparks fly between Cassie and Chance, the detective on the murder case. When the bar owner was killed. She had a call out, being a locksmith in this small town and went. The car was behind the bar, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, she became a suspect. The plot was good, with enought twists, and kidnapping to keep you interested to the end. Dec 15, Sherry McWilliams rated it it was amazing.

I could spend my whole life picking points on the timeline and still never exhaust its potential. The time line covers everything from tech, to politics, art and cultural changes. I've updated it with minor revisions over the years and it's gone through three major revisions. It's a living document and I'm not afraid to change it from time to time. But, overall it's remained largely consistent over the years, which speaks well of its predictive power. I've been off on dates and occasionally I've missed a few developments, but it works well as a parallel future history. The timeline offers me a good way to unify my stories with a similar ideology and aesthetic, but it doesn't tie me down to telling the same story over and over.

The stories may or may not have recurring characters. A lot of times sequels don't live up to their expectations because the characters have already changed as much as they are ever going to change in the first book. This results in them being static in the later books. I only want to tell stories about Hoskin that matter. He doesn't need to be a franchise. I've thought about this a lot, but I don't really have a good answer. I can tell you that it's a fusion of high tech and detective fiction.

I know it's post-cyberpunk, probably post-post cyberpunk. There was a tendency for pure post-cyberpunk to use a lot of comedic elements that I don't really like. For a long time, I was using the term "bio-punk" because of my extensive use of organic technology and my story's street-savvy sensibility.

Even my cities are organic. Of course, no idea exists in a vacuum and eventually other people hit on the term. Now, it means something much different than what I was thinking. It tends to encompass books that are lower tech, that deal primarily with biotech alone and it usually has some sort of energy or ecological disaster. At least, that's how I have perceived it. I've never been a fan of pure disaster sci-fi where tech is crippled by a shortage of resources.

That's a little like near-future sci-fi to me. It's easier to write sci-fi when most of the stuff doesn't work anymore, making it effectively low tech. Frankly, the term punk is a little archaic now too. We need something new, even if I'm not smart enough to come up with it. It covered a relatively short-lived musical movement in the s. It's evolved beyond that, but it's still something that's rooted in the past. A lot of punk bands couldn't find an audience at first, so they self-produced and distributed through informal channels. That's very similar to what's happening with fiction right now.

The esthetic also meant something that was stripped down, with less pyrotechnics and pretentiousness; less bs. I like that too. Life is dirty and uncensored. It doesn't need to be sanitized.

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In sci-fi using the term punk has gotten seriously out of control. I saw a post on Wikipedia that said there were 15 sci-fi terms that had "punk" in it, nanopunk, steampunk, etc. It's gotten a little ridiculous. I can't find a good term for my work yet, but I figure other folks will come up with something eventually if they like it enough. I will leave it to them. Tony is young good-looking and successful, the ultimate ladies' man. Everything about him, from his clothes to his apartment, is designed to be a trap for the women who catch his eye.

Tony has no immediate plans except to advance his career and continue with his playboy ways. Then one day he meets Olivia, a beautiful plus-size executive, and he sees a way he can do both. Olivia is new in town, but not certainly not new to the ways of the player. She knows that no man can treat her the way she deserves so she doesn't even try to find one. As far as she's concerned, life is just fine without an encumbrance like a boyfriend or husband.

When she meets Tony, she sees him for exactly what he is, a playboy looking for a good time. She's wise to his playboy ways but still, she wouldn't mind spending a little time with him. Tony and Olivia get together, each with their own agenda. Then, against all odds, something happens that changes them both…. Gary Belmont is awoken in the night by a frightening, ghostly encounter.

The visitation reveals a letter containing a mysterious secret. He is intrigued to discover what hidden truth lays behind its contents, and so begins a journey of shocking revelation and great danger, involving covert intelligence operations and government conspiracy at the highest level. Gary is joined in his search by an attractive woman who doubts the supernatural clues which are leading him on.

Soon, however, she becomes entangled with him in the ever-deepening intrigue, pitted with life-changing consequences. As they confront an evil enemy, desperate to cover up the revelations that unfold, they begin to realise somewhere, beyond the power of human understanding, there are forces that guide and watch over us.

A powerful curse holds the ancient land Ceartas in its tight grip. Little do the people know of this, other than that no offender ever escapes the countries' harsh penalties, not even when the person isn't caught! Magic of the highest sort has to be involved. Everyone seems to know about the holy law book though, which is worshipped for many generations by the royal family and most of the Ceartasians fear this mighty book, even more than they fear their absent queen.

The young queen Artride has to carry this heavy burden, always obeying the law book in fear of a worse scenario, and finds herself frustratingly powerless once more when a young commander of her army, Tirsa Lathabris, comes pleading for the release of her harmless teenage brother, Elimar who has become a victim of the law book as well.

Artride sees no other choice than to reveal her terrible secret this time to her Commander, however that is all that lies within her power; telling a knight, for outside this select group of people the curse would take the life of the listener immediately. But there is hope; perhaps even the last hope for a free just country so together the young Queen and Commander set out on a journey to the ancient neighboring magical land, Dochas, where a great sorceress lives.

She is supposed to be capable of unlimited magical things, but that is all they know A perilous unpredictable journey follows with the goal to ask this sorceress for a counter spell, but first they have to deal with unwanted unfinished business of both their past and present. Confused and near fatigue, however still hopeful they gather more bits of information about the sorceress and her role in the Magical Land and new questions arise. And will they be in time? It looks like the sorceress; who is also the dominator of both Dochas and the Silent Folk, is in fact trying to prevent them from coming too close, or is she just taunting and testing them?

Either way, the toll is getting higher for them with the hour as the sorceress is getting to them personally and is cunningly playing with their mind, body and soul as they travel through her magical protected realm. Weary and exposed they have to decide who to trust and distrust for time is running out…. They find themselves facing a difficult choice in order to not only free their own country but Dochas and the powerless Silent Folk, whose only hope they have become, as well.

And that final choice and person is someone who is just as cursed as Ceartas is; not by a real spell, but by her own history and the prison she has build around her own heart over the years; the sorceress and self-made Queen of Dochas herself. Read some of the reviews received already:. It becomes a story of hope, loyalty, romance, trust and secrets. Also today's issue's are dealt with such as child abuse, gay-marriage, death and justice. It is an enjoyable read and never too heavy though. The two protagonist's backstories were well fleshed out, and created sympathetic characters that the reader wished to see succeed.

I enjoyed the Windchildren and Woodchildren very much, as well as the gods of the magical land. Sempervirens was a captivating villain as well, and I thought the author handled her quite well. The author of three novels, Jane Davis won the Daily Mail First Novel Award with her debut, ' Half-Truths and White Lies ', described by Joanne Harris as 'A story of secrets, lies, grief and, ultimately, redemption, charmingly handled by this very promising new writer.

These are big issues. They are, and I am hardly qualified to tackle the questions fully. I wanted to bring the premise down to one very simple question: what happens to an ordinary family when their daughter claims to be seeing visions. Of course the dynamics of the family will shift, but can they survive it? What was your own religious upbringing and how has this influenced the novel. In those days, I didn't think that there was any difference between God and Father Christmas.

It's the big white beard, I suppose. Except that it doesn't end there. Parables are stories that illustrate issues and have moral endings. Not at all like fairy tales. It seems to me that everyone worries too much about how children will react when they find out that Father Christmas doesn't exist. They spend far less time worrying about the moment when their brood stops believing that God exists. There is very little preparation for that. I suppose that with Santa Claus, the impact of the blow is softened by the fact that stockings are filled with presents regardless.

Where is the softener with regards to God? Who's left steering the ship? And then, later, my work in insurance, forced me to deal with that wonderful question, 'What is an 'Act of God'? A legal term that's still in use. The book is certainly about conflicts. A father who claims that God answered his prayers for the his daughter and hails her survival and subsequent recovery a miracle.

Who converts to Catholicism against his wife's wishes. A mother who was present when the ambulances took her daughter away and knows with absolute certainty that it was men who saved her. Who seeks a scientific explanation. Who feels that sides have been taken against her. Can a marriage survive those differences in opinion? And then there is Judy who has to make sense of why she survived a near death experience and its terrifying side-effects. Who, as an only daughter, tries to make diplomatic choices while treading her own path, wherever that may take her. The book's setting is Streatham in the Eighties.

Why those choices? When researching visionaries, I came across the story of 'Our Lady of Surbiton,' which is quite close to where I live. Streatham is also close by, but has a more urban feel. To begin with I simply substituted the change in location into my working title. Streatham is somewhere I used to visit in my teens, mainly to go ice-skating. In recent years, it has mainly been where I have sat in traffic jams on the A23 on my way to Brixton Academy.

But it was once a genteel area and had the longest high street in Europe, which was the favoured shopping destination for princesses. By the Eighties its reputation had been tarnished by a certain Mrs Cynthia Payne and shaken by the overspill from the Brixton riots. I chose the Eighties for several reasons.

Firstly, it was the decade when I was a teenager, and I was trying to get back into the mindset of a teenage girl. There was also the fact that I couldn't find a more fertile decade for Marian visionaries within my lifetime. I also wanted to write about a big event that I could bear witness to: the Great Storm of What was your experience of the Great Storm?

It was a very unreal experience for me. I was on holiday in Cornwall with a very good friend of mine. The last night of our holiday, to be precise. The next day we travelled back to London by coach and, as we neared the Capital, the devastation got worse and worse. We had been out of touch with the news and had no idea what had happened. It was only later that I learned a storm could have caused this level of damage.

My job in those days was handling insurance claims, and I spent the following two to three years dealing with people whose lives and livelihoods had been affected, and so I shared their stories. I don't know why but, faced with buildings that had been toppled and injured people, it is the images of the trees that have stayed with me. Trees, that had stood tall for hundreds of years, toppled like dominos.

There is a tree in your book that almost seems to be one of the characters. I'm lucky enough to live in an area where there are several good parks and I walk in all seasons, so trees are my calendars. During the writing of the novel, several of the large trees in the park either fell down or were felled because they were rotting from the inside out. I got a very good feel for the size of them and the extent of damage they could have caused. Carshalton can also lay claim to the tallest London Plane Tree. The tree that I describe is actually in Honeywood Walk.

It's a magnificent thing and I hope it outlives the lot of us. This is quite a departure from your previous writing. I hope it is a development! I had written two books on the trot where, central to the theme, were characters who discovered persons now missing or unable to defend themselves were not as they seemed. This book is about the fragility of everything you hold dear and the threat of it being taken away. Anna Brown. Ultimately relationships, albeit in extraordinary circumstances, are central to this book. In return for making the worst decision in his life, he is on the run from London's gangland identities.

It is only his family's connections that save him but in return he must hide in relative obscurity in a non-descript Australian suburban nightmare. But destiny, chance and the inevitable bad luck have dogged Tray like a gypsy curse all his life and eventually his fates collide into a seemingly impossible outcome. This book is about one man's journey through the international drugs trade set against the backdrop of House Music. The dialogue is direct and in your face. It contains frequent drug use and sex scenes but wending its way throughout the story is the underlying bond of love and mateship.

This is Romeo and Juliet for the modern generation. Families collide and vie for supremacy in a tale of lust and vengeance. Read it now. More a romantic novel than a romance, Water's End: A Love Rediscovered is the story of a lifelong, seemingly unattainable love, the one thing Anne Mills can hold onto during her struggles. The plot follows her as she grows emotionally, fights to regain her own power, and finds fulfillment, even in the face of tragedy.

Anne's journey takes her from a small Kansas town to fashion runways, Washington, D. Writing this book was cathartic when I went through a divorce in Caught up in the excitement of starting a new life, I finished the book in less than two months, pouring out the story that had been bottled up inside me for so long. However, life swept me up and carried me around a bit, so it was not until seven years later that I finally sent manuscripts to agents in New York. It is my hope that this book will demystify domestic violence and inspire women to become victors over their own lives rather than victims or mere survivors.

Dive deep into a dream like tale that transcends time. Twelve-Year-Old Piper Malone has the unique gift of being able to visit the world of the angels and to travel back in time, though the later talent is not known to Ms. There she learns that sometimes a great force of light can come from the darkest moments, and that true love can well be just a little too powerful.

This tale of love, light, death, and hope will heal your heart, break it and leave you wanting more. Blurb from "What Happened in Hallandale "The boy had disappeared. A panic swept over me, as I desperately started diving under the waves hoping to find him. All I could see was thick black darkness. Every time I came up to try and get a breath, the waves would try to choke the life out of me. I felt a lifeguard lift me out of the water and hold me with a much stronger grasp than before as he dragged me out of the ocean again.

It was undoubtedly human. What was it doing on my private balcony? A little sound like the other I had heard proclaimed the human. The figure stirred. I fled indoors, conscious that a diapha- nous nightie was not the proper costume for a Lady Saheb. It must be Hakim! I had recognized his turban! Softly closing the doors again, I thought it over. What a curious performance to have that strange Indian occupying my balcony! The blinds had no lock. I knew nothing about him. A rhythmic ster- torous breathing told me that! With a shrug compounded of annoyance, appre- hension, surprise, and amusement, I resigned myself to a stuffy room.

He never permitted other servants to enter the room if he could help it. Never once in all his service did he overstep the bounds of strict propriety and respect. I might have attributed this to the caste system had not my Chinese boy in Peking shown much the same quality. I still think the foundation of it is religious training. Under the insistent politeness of the Japanese servant I always felt disdain, and while my Arabian and Egyptian dragomen, who were Muslims, gave devoted service, the personal note was always present and had to be kept well in hand. Per- haps they had not learned the secret of good service.

The twentieth century leading, or trying to drive, the second - century. In Bombay is every race, every religion, every language that makes up India, the gentle and the beautiful, India the ruthless and the sordid, and, in the last analysis, the unfathomable. India, with its head in the snows, its feet on the equator, with every climatic variant and a babel of twenty-three major and two hundred other vernacular lan- guages, has at least four great streams of different blood that can be traced, running through its three hundred and forty- seven millions of people.

Yet, with it all, a national con- sciousness does exist which is Indian and not Dravidian or Aryan, Turkish or Persian. Perhaps this has come into vigor by making common cause against their overlords, the British. The Parsis keep in the middle of the road, where the going is the best. They mean well and they wish well, Bombay is their stronghold, and, since they could never hope to rule and must have an overlord, the dominant efficient West, provides greater opportunities for advancement, for wealth, education, and social and political liberty and justice.

A more fascinating city could not be imagined to initiate the stranger. The first impressions are not those of a typi- cal Indian city. One must go to the market and to the Hindu or Mohammedan quarters to find that. One might be in any metropolis of any warm country: in Hong Kong or Manila, in Rio Janeiro or Algiers, where palms and flowers, arcades and balconies, exist.

That is, until you look at the people. Those swarm- ing the streets on foot, in wagons, carriages, and motors present so varied a picture that I felt as though a film of the peoples of India had been chopped up and stuck together again haphazard. Like a great magnet, commercial Bombay has drawn samples of humanity from every part of its million and a half square miles. From Cochin, the most densely populated area in the world, along the west coast two thousand to the square mile, to the mountain fastnesses of the northwest frontier where the hardy Pathan defies nature — they come.

The pleasure-loving Madrassi and the pioneer jute planter from wild Assam, the Indian Hindu prince and the equally wealthy Muslim nawab, all pass through this port.

The Dutch, the German, the Italian, all add distinguishing touches to a solid background of British supremacy built on a foundation of Parsi bankers, of Hindu traders — the gold and silver and pearl markets are theirs— and of Mohammedan merchants. The traveler- need never suffer from ennui, if her strength holds out, also the amia- bility of her hosts. Government official calls to take me on visit — whisked to Government chawls and cotton mills. Through courtesy A. Hazri breakfast with a professor at Bombay Univer- sity — sun very hot.

Visit Bombay University. Miss K. Took me to see university settlement and Unity Hall and to meet medical girl students. Gokhalay, a Bombay Woman Councillor and the others — saw Chakra school, etc. A Mahratta luncheon — met progressive Hindu women. The Seva Sadan — Mrs. Received callers, had tea, changed dress, sent and received six chits.

Bombay races. Tea at Byculla Club only European members. Tea at Willingdon Club membership both European and Indian. Dined with English banker on Malabar Hill — wonderful chrysanthemums and cobras in his garden. Met Australian at Yacht Club — had a dance. Moon- light and military band on the Bund. Went to Parsi theater with Hindu and European.

Explored the night streets of Grant Road and Love Lane.

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Went to Nautch — Mohammedan dancing girl and Indian music. Hotel — Bombay Harbor. Moonlight and flowers. Say Good-night. Thus at the Gateway of India I found an epitome of the following months. Social reform, civic welfare, progressive education, Muslim, Parsi, and Hindu life and amusements, English life and amusements, the cream and the dregs of this great Anglo-Indian city, all swirled into my conscious- INDIA OF THE SAHEBS ness by weeks of forcible feeding and created the norm for that mysterious land which has managed to preserve an original civilization longer than any other country in this aeon.

Two or three of the adventures of that day leap into greater prominence. The first was the Burning Ghats, rarely, if ever, penetrated by visitors. The knowledge-forbidding walls of the Orient are one of its characteristics. Even the great places of England permit the public to short-cut through them, but the walls of China, Japan, and India are symbols of the noli me ta? Thin blue smoke may often be seen losing itself in the blue above.

Hordes pass it daily. Few penetrate the secrets it protects. Fewer care to pass through its arched gateway. To- do so means the carrying of a heavy burden — and a heavier heart. Passing the guarded portal, I entered a court where a row of bare-legged, turbaned idlers were doing nothing with characteristic thoroughness. On the left was a great she'd piled with logs cut in five-foot lengths. A certain number of these are loaded on little iron trucks and taken to where a pyre is to be built.

The far end of the court leads into a closed Mohammedan cemetery. The followers of the Great Prophet do not burn, but bury, their dead. Each mound in the Muslim cemetery was covered with growing plants and sur- rounded by its own particular wall — in this case only about a foot high, which formed an irrigation channel around the grave that the flowers might be nourished.

The acacia and palm trees here and there made grateful shade, the air was heavy with tropical bloom, the jasmine especially giving forth its message of the East. It was a pleasant place, and peaceful. With a deep thrill of interest I turned sharply to the right of the gateway and followed a little procession bearing a loved one on a litter, its form tightly wrapped, mummy fashion, in red cloth and cords, and I entered the place reserved for the Hindu ceremonies behind the yellow wall.

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Here no flowers greeted the eye; the time for that had passed. Only stark, grim reality held the place. A long narrow strip of bare earth was inclosed by yet other walls, but open to the sun and the air of heaven. On the right was a long shed under which were benches for the mourners. These were well filled, as about thirty burn- ings take place each day and the ceremony takes four or five hours to consummate in all its gruesome details.

On the right also was a small altar with a small fountain con- taining water, perhaps sacred water from the Ganges, and 'on either side a small shrine. One contained an irregular- shaped object about a foot high, painted bright orange. It was Siva, the god of destruction. The attendant described it as "the Stone. Fires of suffering and flames of the Shmasham are the portals of death through which souls must pass to meet their God.

Blessed be the name of the Lord. Five pyres were burning and a little procession was surrounding a central recumbent figure draped in rich silks, moving slowly toward an empty place partially surrounded by iron screens. In the center ashes still smoked. Systematic hands quietly, quickly piled logs like a huge oblong basket five feet high. This was filled with smaller stuff, to burn more quickly. The central figure was then laid upon its pyre. The gorgeous purple silk with splashes of crimson and gold blazed in, the sun. More logs were piled above it, still leaving the face exposed to heaven.

Leaping orange tongues of the devourer slowly rose and mingled with curling spirals of white smoke. The final rites of some wealthy dignitary were being committed. Within twenty feet of me the purifying flames had been at work for some time. An attendant was supplying fresh fuel. This is usually performed by the nearest male relative. In this case a brother, who with a graceful gesture lifted the pot filled with sacred Ganges water presumably , placed it upon his shoulder, and walked slowly around the funeral pyre, pouring its contents upon the ground so as to form a sacred circle of protection for the spirit, freed from all earthly ties, to depart in peace.

Three or four times he circled the flaming pile, murmuring a rr er to the gods, and then cast the fragile vessel from him so that it broke into many pieces upon the ground and became the shards of the Bible days. While I was watching this final act for the Hindu mortal, another candidate arrived, borne by two men only. The figure was on a simple litter. The slim oblong shape [14] Left' A Class at the Charka spinning wheel. There on the gray stones it lay while' the relatives built up the pyre.

A woman, evidently, and poor. There were no attendants, no trappings, no silk nor gold. Perhaps it had been difficult to find the necessary nine rupees to pay the Shmasham for the wood — a heavy tax upon the very poor, who think in terms of pice a tenth part of a cent.

The two men went about their business in a matter-of-fact way. In any event, according to the law of Karma, she was getting just what she deserved. The happenings of one life in the string of incarnations — since the spirit has many lives in as many bodies — are the direct result of past actions, just as present thoughts and deeds are forging the future environment.

A logical enough theory, better than damp clouds, fat, winged faces, gold throne, and blue robes of an anthropomorphic god! The gruesome effect of this extraordinary scene held me. One, especially, of a great raja, at who-se death ceremonies his successor, a sensi- tive, zenana-bred boy of ten, was frightened into fits by having to start the funeral pyre, to lay the first sticks and start the flame.

Of another raja who had the misfortune to die out of his dominions. When this was discovered. His Highness, yet warm, before rigor mortis set in, was placed on his favorite elephant, all decked with gold trap- pings, propped in his howdah with cushions, the curtains closed and a forced march to his capital begun. Another raja dying out of his domain was hurried to his kingdom in an automobile sup- ported by an official of high rank on either side of him, who placed High Highness in his bed before the work of Yom, King of Death, was announced.

Here ruled the elemental severity of cold stones, flaming wood, and equally indifferent sky. Here Truth stood naked, uncompromising, teaching the great lesson that life and death are one. Thus the Hindu philosophy makes death and love the two aspects of one deity. Siva, god of violent death, murder, and destruction, is also god of the creative force in nature. Those early seers comprehended the mystic function of the same creative force.

To build up, it must also tear down. Even as sunlight and other forms of cosmic magnetism, the knower can use Love to build his body, to develop his soul, to find infinite good — or God — but never has man mastered it. He harnesses a fragment of electricity. He vanishes beneath a lightning bolt. She hovers near in the ripening fruit, the blooming flower, and the bearded grain.

She walks with youth as Parvati leads them on through fairy fields of joy and pain. In kindness she catches the weary, wafts them to Never Never Land. Perchance she gives them rest. Beyond the market with its ever-fascinating display of tropical fruits and vegetables and a variety of food grains all heaped in yellow mounds on bamboo trays, I glimpsed the monkey, the mongoose, and parrot cages overflowing into the court- yard of a neighboring shrine. Abandoning the motor, we walked through the crowded street of the Gold Bazaar to the shop of the principal gold merchant.

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In a place slightly raised from the ground, barred off by railings on two sides and not more than five feet wi de and twice as long, I was invited to be seated upon a cushion. My friend, a European banker, introduced the gold bullion king — a suave, orthodox Hindu. Fifteen million dollars of gold passes through his tiny shop yearly. Half the gold bullion of the world slides through this dirty street with its postage-stamp shops.

I was shown great bars of the precious metal. This particular consignment was due in the Punjab, where it would be wrought into bangles and anklets and necklaces and earrings for wedding dowries. Turkish coffee was served in tiny brass cups. Now a mysterious bustle behind, a rustle of paper wrappings being removed, and then a shower of delight, as three large gar- lands of jasmine, of roses, and of pomegranate were dropped upon my shoulders as honor to the visitor.

Laden with these fragrant tokens, we rose to go. I know the portly European looked happy and foolish under his roses, and I know I felt so, but I am not even going to pretend that I did not like to be garlanded — even though the damp flowers stained my frock and the slaughter of all those lovely petals, torn apart and restrung in stiff, artificial rotation, might make one unhappy to think about. There is something so friendly and intimate and beautiful in the offering that I am thankful the commercial paper symbol of the Hawaiian lai has not reached India.

He also explained that he could not ask me to meet his wife, as she would be frightened at having to entertain a stranger. The purdanashin orthodox Hindu woman behind the curtain is not accustomed to afternoon calls and could not eat with a person of a different caste without losing caste, an event to be more feared than smallpox.

My banker friend next led the way to another street, that of the Silver Bazaar, where a very smiling gentleman added more ropes of flowers to our shoulders, more coffee for our lips, and explained that thirty million dollars of silver bullion exchanged hands on his and other little platforms each year. It was all I cared to do to lift a thousand-dollar bar of it. Followed by an Idle crowd of interested spectators into yet another street, we went to that of the Pearl Bazaar.

I felt as th' were in the cave of the Forty Thieves. It is said to be valued at five million dollars. More roses, more jasmine — and five huge bouquets! I began to feel like an animated corpse! But my heart sang. It was all so wonderful, so exactly what I had come to see. One of my earrings, a bit of carved jade from China, sus- pended by a slender strand of pearls, caught in a garland and broke. Without a word, the pearl merchant picked up the pieces and put them in an envelope.

I did not like to ask for them, so the matter dropped. Weeks later, in Delhi, they found their way to me all beautifully repaired.

Mail On Sunday

The smiles and the flowers have faded, but the earring and its message endure. We hurried away; punctual callers were waiting at the hotel, and chits notes which it is the custom in the East to send by servants were waiting. I found Hakim standing guard over three bearers camped in the corridors until their chit books could be signed and the answers placed within them. Under the trees. A boy about fifteen, Jamsyd, is the apple of her eye. To- gether they posed for a snapshot beside a sun dial sur- rounded by lilies. A Parsi mother and her son! I was rapidly shifting values.

That torrid noon hour when most of the Eastern world remains at home, I had been taken to a university settlement where Hindu maidens, escaping from early marriage, are enjoying the advantages of ad- vanced education. I saw her spinning-wheel classes and home-im- provement classes in music, sewing, and reading, for the married girl. She is president of the Hind Mahila Samaj. A short extract of a play she wrote is quoted, as it shows the method of propaganda and the point of view of the progressive woman Swarajist. The English is that of the author, Mrs. Avantikabai Gokhalay.

The first scene opened with the Darbar of Rani Laxmibai of Ghansi Rajput woman warrior in , in which the British ambassador asked the Rani to appear with her leading followers unarmed before the General, defied the ambassador as the demand was most insulting to her for her being loyal all along to the British Government. The second scene opens with the rebirth of Rani Laxmibai in this Landas. Her mission of freeing the country from foreign yoke was left unfulfilled.

In her wanderings she finds the country steeped in poverty. The emasculation of the people, people given up to drinking and all sorts of vices. The Rani feels utter helplessness to ameliorate the condition of the people when Hinddevi tells her not to despair as a Mahatma is born who started the movement of passive resistance and has given to the country a charka spinning-wheel the symbol of peace and prosperity.

The third scene in which Rani Laxmibai is shown introducing charka from house to house by advising people to take to it to improve their economical condition in preference to foreign and mill made cloth which has deteriorated the condition of a vast number of their factory workers. The luncheon was served Mahratta fashion to nine women, all leaders in civic and municipal and educational circles. We were seated on the shining polished floor. Before each of us was a large brass tray, upon which was the whole meal, soups, sauces, rice, curry, sweet concoctions, pastries, fruits, some in silver containers, others on leaves, all very dainty and delicious.

The conversation was brisk, along the lines of political and social reform. It sounded very familiar.

The locality was changed, the cramp of a kneeling position, and novelty of strange foods was different, but not the alert grasp of current events and the zeal to set things right. I learned many things from their dispassionately made observations, about the impossibly low wage of the laborer, the pressure for food in the mo fusil country districts. The farmer works hard for seven months and is comparatively idle the other five.

Has no conception of taking up auxiliary employment. The Gandhi followers are trying to teach them. So also is the Government. A question from me concerning domestic relations brought out many sidelights, contributed by every woman present. The man holds his home sacred and expects to be master of it and ministered to by a devoted wife, mother, widowed sister, and the usual horde of female dependents. The active part of his life is passed among men, business associates, friends. To the friends he looks for his stimulation and amusements.

Friendship plays a big part in the life of both husband and wife, especially the former. The rigid grip of custom holds her as in a vise. The walls of her home and, if she be rich, her gardens, are her horizon. Her mind is not fed by books, nor do enlarging thoughts from others send her intellect soaring. On the wings of the spirit, however, she can, and very often does, rise to the heights.

The constant religious ceremonies required of her daily — several times a day, in fact — keep her heart turned toward the Unseen Celestial Beings. She sees no men but those of her immediate family, to whom she must give unquestioning obedience and untiring service, and the priest, who only too often instills superstition and dogmatism instead of inspiration and reverence. Frequently deep friendships were formed between mem- bers of the same zenana , or perchance one wall-locked heart finds another gentle hungry one in a neighboring garden and the tulsi plant of sweet companionship grows into fragrant flower.

Also, alas! So greatly are the sweets of friendship prized that refer- ence is found to it in all the marriage services. Here an interesting anecdote was contributed by a European, one who is identified with life in Bombay. Gandhi recently declined an honor, he appeared before the assemblage attired only in a breech clout. One day I saw several gentle- men whose business had detained them in courts, offices, or banks, arrive at quarter to five. They were trailed by their bearers and the hat bags for the necessary few minutes until the mystic hour struck and the headgear could be decorously exchanged in unison with the rest of their kind.

What is the difference? Why is one correct and the other extraordinary? The demand for them is very great. We did not anticipate such a great demand and we hope to be able to cope with it early next year, when we expect a fresh batch of our nurses to pass out. At the Parsi Imperial Theater that night the first thing I noticed was the scarcity of women in the audience and the absence of them on the stage.

It was a rare sight to see the chorus of this opera. Scraggy men wore pink-cotton tights upon their stick-like legs, not a good calf among the whole sixty-two! Gay satin, bespangled, frivolous frocks, made high at the neck, hung dejectedly upon figures whose pulchritudinous charms were entirely lacking. The music, to a Western ear, was strident and monotonous, the illusion of stagecraft imperfectly sustained. A very different matter was the Nautch girl to whom I was next taken.

On the way we walked through several streets alive with humanity. The hour was now past mid- night, but we were in that section of the city which sleeps by day and works by night and where the degradation of women is at its lowest. The female population of this City of Sin is about 40,, including all nationalities except English. These are forbidden by a police regulation. The male. Even in the famous Yoshiwara of Japan women are no longer exposed to view, but on the balconies of Love Lane sit the painted and pathetic exhibits of lost womanhood.

Deprived of her protector, impotent through lack of education and training in the economic struggle, the flotsam 'and jetsam east of Suez sell the only thing which they have to sell. In doorways, on the sidewalks, in the very street amid dust and refuse, lay the huddled figures. Careful not to step on sleeping forms, we entered a tenement house and climbed four flights of stairs to where sounds of music and merriment indicated that even some of this world was still amusing itself.

These people were the small shopkeepers and petty clerks, and when I saw the housing congestion in this class, the difficulties of the laborers still further down the scale of living became apparent. A splendid scheme costing the municipality both labor and expense which the Land Directorate hopes may point the way, and educate the workers, to better conditions. An infant-welfare center is established in each group of about forty tenements.

The result has been to bring down the infant mortality from deaths among each 1, babies, which is the startling figure for single-room Bombay tenements, to to 1, for the chawls. The vast land reclamation of Back Bay, and other schemes, also designed to relieve the housing congestion, are under this Government Directorate.

Where irrigation has been established, as in the Sind area, famine has been unknown for fifty years. Our Hindu friend speedily gained admittance, and I followed the Euro- pean into a large room. Cushions and mats were piled up around the walls. The rest of the floor was covered by a padded carpet of white linen upon which musicians were seated. Two of them beat upon wooden drums, another thrummed upon copper, producing that hollow, vibrant cadence found in the Eastern music. A good-looking girl was singing and posturing with her arms, gold bracelets slipping up and dsbwn gracefully.

Tight linen trousers under the gold-and-pink-gauze sari proclaimed her a Mohamme- dan. Her nose stud was a big, flashing diamond. When asked to dance she coquettishly agreed, then consulted with her musicians as to which dance it should be. She sum- moned a slave, who brought her anklets of foot bells, which she exchanged for her elaborate ones of gold. Meanwhile our host demonstrated on a sorangi , or tabla-drum that was near us, that Indian music has sixteen beats and is harmonized to six to nine beats, quite different from our scale.

After I got this rhythm, the music began to unfold possibilities. Especially as the lithe figure and perfectly controlled muscles of the Nautch dancer moved to a slow evolvement of a story, or series of emotions. Now silent, now singing and swaying and swinging, like blossoms that bend to the breezes or showers Their jewel-girt arms and warm, wavering, lily-long Angers enchant through melodious hours, Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire!

Repelled, yet charmed, at last I slipped away. I found Hakim camped outside my door, as I had forgotten to take my luggage key and he dared not take it, nor leave it. Somewhere a clock struck twice. Moonlight was flooding my balcony and caressing the placid waters of Bombay Harbor. Below in the garden, faint perfume floated up a gentle good night — but most of the flowers were sleeping.

Where to Start With Cozy Mysteries #MarchMysteryMadness

The Viceroy had been kind enough to arrange a visit that would coincide with the opening of the Legislative Assembly and never shall I forget the splendor of that day and its contrasts. The advent of this A. A magic message went over the wires, which set the Government locksmiths busy, and this was not all. My stay at Agra finished with an accident that might have had serious con- sequences had I not been known to the Government. I was returning from Fateh-pur Sikri, that marvelous dream city of Akbar, with my head full of its carved palaces, its mosque, its inlaid marble courts, and nobly planned perspectives, when about ten miles from Agra and less than two hours before my train was due, my automobile ran over a cow!

The simple and common fact cannot convey to the unin- formed what it means to a Hindu, or to anyone living within the radius of Hindu thought. The cow is sacred. Quite aside from this, the sensation was unpleasant enough as the beast, who received the full charge of our radiator, went down under it. I jumped out of the back seat and surveyed the horror. She was walking placidly beside the road and suddenly, just before we passed, decided to cross over.

The driver jammed on the brakes, which helped some and — should the truth be known — -the car was a Ford! Fortunately, she was still alive and would not have been much damaged, if there had been any one to direct proceedings, but the half dozen men now collected, began to haul the car first one way, then another, on the body of that unfortunate animal. Calling to Hakim, I told him to get some stones and jack up the car and in a few minutes out came Mrs. Cow, looking dazed, but intact, save for the deep gouges that had been made in her hide by the unnecessary gyrations of the car.

She walked off stiffly and stood in a field looking stunned. Two cattle birds settled on the raw places on her back. Through Hakim, interpreting, I tried to get the wounds dressed. But this was too much coddling. Nobody bothered further. My own plight claimed attention. The Ford was much worse off than the cow. It would have to be towed In. I was stranded. I could not walk through that noon- day heat.

Get A Copy

If I missed that train I could not arrive at Delhi as per arrangements, and a guest does not upset the Viceregal Lodge schedule, if it can be avoided. The hour of arrival of Cinderella was already down in black and white in the long, printed program of the day. What a predicament! That tiresome cow had now begun to graze, and here was I marooned on a dusty road in a broiling landscape. Then, joy! Hastily I ordered Hakim to flag it, hoping that it would not belong to some Prince, or Nawab, and I would be committing another breach of the amenities.

Two friendly tourists took me aboard with Hakim and the luggage; the A. At luncheon one day H. What do you mean by em- barrassing the Government and getting into the Police Records? They breed bad blood and when the people are inflamed by agitators, they might easily seize upon as harmless a thing as that to stir up trouble. Every Viceroy, and before that term was used, every Governor- General, must have tossed on a heated pillow considering the problems of that difficult task. The present padishah chief , H. The Earl of Reading, P. He served for a time as Ambassador Extraordinary in Washington and his career is one of brilliant and continued success.

The Viceroy likes a good story and can tell one.

The Lilliput Bar Mystery

Suddenly bearers and beaters disappear leaving all the guns on the ground. The tiger comes under tree. Man keeps still. Soon tiger yawns. Man drops box of sleeping pills into mouth. In twenty minutes the tiger is safely sleeping. Man comes down, gets gun and kills him! No one, not even a house guest, addresses the Viceroy of India offhand. One drops to the knee in a deep curtsey when Their Excellencies enter the drawing room, where their guests are assembled.

And woe to the unlucky guest who is late. It is like catching a train — one just must be on time. No one is expected to enter the room after Their Excellencies. Cinderella then aired some of her views along the following lines. SJL, G. An observer cannot fail to be struck by the magnificent accomplishments of an enlightened rule and to sympathize with the difficulties, inscrutable, baffling, with which a West- ern foreign power has to contend in the Karmic East.

Through the Iron Hand customary with- Governments, it lost a mint of gold and gained a crown of jewels. Then the curious began to happen just as it had in the recent history of Egypt. What appears on the surface, in records and in treaties, is not what is really happening in either country. When the Khedive was ruling Egypt it was really Lord Cromer who was the dic- tator. In her treatment of India, Great Britain is paying the price of her own greatness and her own folly.

To the first, one bows in admiration and respect; to the second, one sympathizes, for she cannot help her mistakes. They are the shadows of her greatness. She is an enlightened, dominant nation. Wherever she goes, she proceeds to make herself comfortable, establishing a little England. She wanted English food, English sanitation, English transporta- tion, English education, English everything ad infinitum. She is perfectly sure what she has is the best and, there- fore, generously insists on giving it to her Eastern subjects.

What wonder that the infant, called progress, which she produced and nourished, should eventually grow up and, responding to the virus of self-determination, become un- pleasantly difficult to handle? John Bull was too generous and fair-minded to refuse the Tiger Cat the raw meat of education, so now must come the struggle between them. The only way the tiger of rebellion could be effectively laid low would be by shot and shell. But the British parent nowadays, even a foster parent, does not murder its insub- ordinate child. It reasons, persuades, coerces perhaps a little, and has infinite patience.

If the child is headstrong he will break the cords and suffer. If, on the other hand, it is wise, a basis of kindly co-operation is established and the youth is protected from his enemies and benefited by fair-minded advice in the administration of his property. She had seen in the census report of , that only one hundred and twenty- two men and eighteen women in every thousand can read and write, and scarcely 3 per cent are enrolled in the primary schools.

No less than 5 per cent of the total population is under instruction in secondary schools which means that this is a proportion far greater than for England and Wales. The university education shows even more striking figures — in both cases these apply almost entirely to males, as the female population is only now beginning to be educated — for they are no less than 0. In other words, the upper-class Indian man is very highly educated and the masses hardly at all while the vast majority of the mothers of the race still live in subjection, seclusion, and ignorance.

Cinderella commented upon the police protection which costs the Indian taxpayers less than one shilling per head per annum. When Cinderella got mixed up with an ugly-tempered crowd at Ajmere, she noticed that it required three Indian 1 For a complete, brilliant resume of what the Government has done, see the Report of Prof.

The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery
The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery
The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery
The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery
The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery The Lilliput Bar Mystery: A Lady Locksmith cozy mystery

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