Showing results by author "H. R.F. Keating" in All Categories

The First Inspector Ghote Mystery. It is just Inspector Ghote’s bad luck to be landed with solving a seemingly perfect murder at the very start of his career with the Bombay police. For in this baffling crime there is no corpse…. But he also has the cunning tycoon Lala Varde to contend with and the mysterious theft of one rupee from the desk of the Minister of Police Affairs and the Arts.

Newly promoted Inspector Ghote is thrilled to be granted casual leave until he takes up his post, as it allows him to spend time with his heavily pregnant wife, who is desperate to watch a showing of Hamlet at the cinema. Their plans are ruined, however, since Sir Rustom Engineer requires Ghote to investigate the suicide of his friend's wife. Worried about his wife's imminent delivery, Ghote nevertheless travels to the home of Mr. Dawkins, where he is unconvinced by the story of Iris Dawkins' death.

An American visitor to India is killed on the road from Bombay to Poona. Called in to investigate the murder, Inspector Ghote soon makes the acquaintance of the victim's brother, Professor Gregory Strongbow. But the professor is both stubborn and evasive, refusing to tell Ghote what he knows about the events leading up to Hector's death. Soon Ghote finds his own life in danger, as he is faced with a conspiracy that reaches to the very highest levels of Indian politics... This is the third book in the hugely popular 'Inspector Ghote' series from H.R.F. Keating.

Some crooks have tried to snatch the plump son of a business tycoon, and have accidentally made off with his playmate instead. But they're not changing their plan: a payment is to be delivered to them or a small corpse is to be delivered to Inspector Ghote. But what kind of ransom can a mere tailor's boy demand? And, as something more unpleasant than just a ransom note arrives from the kidnappers, are the police helping to keep the boy in one piece?

What had until recently been a police sergeant is now lying at Ghote’s feet bleeding its last. An accident it may have been, but Ghote saw exactly what happened, and it’s his duty to arrest the killer. Isn’t it? Or can the inspector better serve his beloved police force by disposing of the body - by concealing a crime? And if he does, will he manage to keep his terrible secret?

A grisly murder has plunged Bollywood, the film capital of India, into chaos. Ghote gets so caught up with giving an Academy Award-winning performance as a sleuth that the curtain almost comes down on his own life.

Inspector Ghote embarks on one of his strangest cases when he is ordered to prevent a murder - the killing of a precious flamingo in the Bombay zoo. And then there is the racehorse fancied to win the local Derby, which gets replaced by a donkey... Ghote finds things going disastrously as bit by bit he unearths the traces of a monstrous practical joker. But then the fun stops - and Inspector Ghote has a more serious murder on his hands.

Detective Superintendent Harriet Martens took great pride in her twin sons deciding to follow her into the police by moving to London and joining the Met. Imagine her horror when, as she sits with her husband over evening drinks, the phone rings and she learns that Graham has been killed by a terrorist bomb and Malcolm is in hospital, gravely injured. Her world falls apart around her.

In his proud new position in the prestigious Bombay Police Crime Branch, Inspector Ganesh Ghote sees his career finally take off with the prospect of only the most high-profile murders to investigate. Unfortunately, the Assistant Commissioner of Police has other ideas and chooses to keep Ghote busy with interminable paperwork. Waiting to be given his first case, Ghote doesn’t expect to find it planted in his waste bin....

Who wanted him? What for? Why was Roger Farrar (if that was his name) on the run in Dublin? Was he a traitor and deserted? The innocent target of a kidnap plot? Or a lonely persecuted paranoiac? One thing is certain: he is likely to suffer a fate worse than death if he is caught by the gross villain who specialises in brain-washing.

Inspector Ghote of the Bombay police has been regulated to antipickpocket patrol, where he promptly gets himself into one of those fearful fixes which are equally the product of his faults and his virtues.

Sent to a remote part of India to find out who could benefit from Judge Asif's death, Ghote can get no cooperation from the judge until it becomes evident that the anonymous threats are coming from someone in the judge's household.

A princely state in India, 1930, under the British raj. To Bhopore and its opulent Summer Palace comes a handful of Western visitors to meet the outrageous Maharajah and his entourage. There they meet the Maharajah's heir, the sensual Porgy, and his English chorus-girl mistress. They meet the enigmatic chief minister--and the aloof British resident, with his dignified little nine-year-old son. And before long they also meet sudden death....

The Imperial Hotel, scene of the brutal murder of the Boy Preacher over 30 years ago, is about to be demolished, and the Chief Constable wants Harriet to take one last look at the scene. Seven people had waited outside the ballroom where the Boy Preacher was to begin his sermon shortly before he was found brutally strangled. Now, with the use of DNA, the suspects' clothes are to be scientifically examined. The Chief Constable is intending to close this case once and for all.

Whilst relaxing with her husband at the Majestic pool one hot August bank holiday, Harriet Martens does not expect the refreshing glass of Campari soda at her side to conceal a deadly drug. When she awakes from a doze she is no longer by the water, but in a hospital bed recovering from a near fatal dose of aconitine. As Harriet makes a slow recovery, she tries to come to terms with the fact that someone wanted to kill her....

This was no ordinary murder, for the victim was Frank Masters, millionaire and philanthropist. The case was bound to attract much public attention. But Inspector Ghote finds that his demands for evidence are met with nothing but lies and evasions.

For London the worst has happened. There have been riots, uncontrolled fires, outbreaks of savage looting, artillery battles, mass flights. The great city lies three parts deserted, open to marauding gangs and beast-wild individuals, its highways and landmarks tumbled like ruined temples. To Mark, comparatively safe in less troubled Highgate, there comes a message that his estranged wife is dying in Wimbledon, right across on the far side of the dangerous bowl of the devastated city.

Val Leary is handsome, charming and broke. On the morning of April Fool's Day 1871, while walking through one of London's wealthiest districts, he notices a young maidservant scrubbing the steps of 53 Northbourne Park Villas. In that instant he conceives the idea for a remarkable case of burglary. The set-up seems perfect, but chance intervenes in a succession of coincidences that place the jewels further and further beyond the reach of Val and his cronies - until...

The singers who have come to perform at the Flinwich Festival have large temperaments as well as large voices, and cannot readily be diverted from the furious feuds and obsessive quarrels that are essential to their natures. To detect which of these exotic creatures has committed murder become the task of Superintendent Pryde of Scotland Yard. Luckily, or unluckily, for him his work falls under the unsparing scrutiny of Mrs Craggs, the charlady.

For a respectable governess like Harriet Unwin, her first few weeks in the shabby, inhospitable home of the Partingtons were as unhappy as any she could remember. The bone-chilling cold, the grim sparseness of the meals, the embittered meanness of old Mr Partington: But for the kindness shown by his son, her spirit must surely have been crushed. But worse was to come for Harriet. Her chance discovery of the old man's cherished secret was, she felt sure, the cause of the attack that finally stilled his heart. The doctor, however, thought otherwise. It was neither illness nor old age that killed poor Mr Partington. It was poison....