"Jo Walton - Farthing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Walton Jo)

тАЬYou can say what you like about hunches, that theyтАЩre good or bad, that you should follow them or
shouldnтАЩt, but the one thing you canтАЩt say is that someone shouldnтАЩt have them.тАЭ Carmichael swung the
iron gate open with an ear-splitting creak that set the crows rising out of an elm tree in the parkland
beyond.

тАЬDo you have them, sir?тАЭ Royston asked.

тАЬOccasionally, sergeant,тАЭ Carmichael admitted. тАЬMy rule with a hunch is that if it calls for more work, like
right now, follow it. If it calls for less or something like skimping, then ignore it. If itтАЩs a case where there
are sixteen leads and none more likely than any other and you might as well take them in alphabetical
order, then a hunch might well be the back of your mind drawing your attention to something the front of
your mind missed.тАЭ

The gravel path swept up between two sloping tree-studded fields. There was no sign of the house yet.
The gravel revealed that Betty was rightтАФthere had been many cars driving over it, and recently. It was
possible to pick out the tracks of this morningтАЩs Winchester police car as fresher; otherwise they were so
overlain and mingled as to be almost indistinguishable. There were occasional indications of footprints, in
both directions, including one very large pair heading both up and down. тАЬThe Winchester bobby?тАЭ
Carmichael hazarded as Royston measured the print.

тАЬNot unless he buys his boots in Savile Row,тАЭ Royston said, straightening. тАЬFourteen inches, and a very
aristocratic pattern. Probably Lord Eversley himself. I donтАЩt see many of the guests strolling all this way
down.тАЭ

тАЬIтАЩve seen photographs, and IтАЩm fairly sure EversleyтАЩs not a big man,тАЭ Carmichael said. тАЬThe murdered
man was though, Thirkie, great giant of a fellow.тАЭ

тАЬMaybe theyтАЩre his prints,тАЭ Royston said. тАЬNot much help to us then, because whoever made them was
definitely alive at the time.тАЭ

тАЬAwkward sort of business,тАЭ Carmichael said as they continued on up the drive. тАЬAristocrats, politicians,
that kind of thing.тАЭ

тАЬThatтАЩs why the locals had the sense to call us in,тАЭ Royston said. тАЬDo you think it was a whatsit, a
political assassination then, terrorists like Mrs. IтАЩm-not-the-gatekeeper down there said?тАЭ

Carmichael looked up at the house, which was just coming into view. If it had ever been a castle, it was
no longer. It was a pleasant seventeenth-century manor house of warm red brick roofed in gray slate. It
had an open welcoming look to it, perhaps because the rows of mullioned windows glinting in the sunlight
gave it the look of a smile. тАЬNo,тАЭ he said, answering RoystonтАЩs question. тАЬMurders arenтАЩt political, or
anarchist, not one time in a thousand. Murders are sordid affairs done between people who know each
other, nine times out of ten for personal gain, and the tenth time because someone lost their temper at the
wrong moment, the crime passionel as the French call it. I doubt weтАЩll find that this one will be any
different from all the others, except for the elevated surroundings.тАЭ

Royston was looking at the house as well, or at the row of half a dozen cars drawn up outside. тАЬIs that a
hunch, sir?тАЭ he asked.

тАЬNo, sergeant, thatтАЩs not a hunch, itтАЩs merely the voice of experience,тАЭ Carmichael said.
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