"Then whose is it?" I asked.
Mendis pulled a small, folded paper from his sarong. On it was a rubbing of an ancient Brahmi inscription. "The victim left a message before he died. Not a note. A riddle —carved into a potsherd with his own fingernail. It reads: ‘When the mirror wall speaks, the fifth fingerprint is a lie.’ " chandana mendis sherlock holmes books
"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." "Then whose is it
I poured him tea. "And you?"