Excerpt of Farthing by Jo Walton
(Page 8 of 8)
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"That's why the locals had the sense to call us in," Royston said. "Do you
think it was a whatsit, a political assassination then, terrorists like Mrs.
I'm-not-the-gatekeeper down there said?"
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 grey 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. "No," he said, answering Royston's question. "Murders
aren't 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 we'll find that this
one will be any different to all the others, except for the elevated
Royston was looking at the house as well, or at the row of half a dozen cars
drawn up outside. "Is that a hunch, sir?" he asked.
"No, sergeant, that's not a hunch, it's merely the voice of experience,"
Copyright © 2006 by Jo Walton