By Geoffrey Household
A vintage mystery set in Dorset after the second one global struggle, filled with Household's signature motion and suspense.
An afternoon's capturing within the state turns out a delightful prospect to Roger Taine, a revered kinfolk guy with a wonderful army list. but if he discovers a poacher on his land, he fires a caution blast that prevents the intruder useless in his tracks.
Investigating extra, Taine inadvertently uncovers a new-fascist plot which he's decided to thwart. a chain of vehicle chases, aeroplane drops and cross-country scrambles sharpen the secret, however the event takes a brand new twist while Taine discovers that he himself is being pursued by means of the police.
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Extra info for A Rough Shoot
It might be innocent, but it was near enough to the bone to put me on my guard. And that was as well, for, when we came to the car, there was the handsome, nervous face which I had last seen staring, for a split second, at the dead companion in the bramble bush. The man was leaning against Heyne-Hassingham’s car with a rather too conscious grace. He was in his early forties, lean, hard and able. I think that even then I spotted him as the type of staff officer whom one most dislikes but from whom one cannot withhold respect.
Shooting a harmless poacher as if I were some callous county magnate a hundred and fifty years ago. At the best criminally negligent. At the worst a savage sadist from whom society must be protected. Make an example of him. Five years. I couldn’t expect to get less, and I deserved it. But when you have a family it’s not so much the sentence which counts as the result of it–the complete, irrevocable breaking of the continuity between past and future. I’m not one of your go-getters. A small post as a clerk with some charitable firm would be all I could hope for, and there, for the rest of my life, I should remain.
Shot him. ” “That’s just what I don’t know. ” “Why I am supposed to have killed a man hereabouts,” he answered, staring me straight in the eyes with a flash of the sanest and grimmest humor I ever saw. So he wasn’t a lunatic. So he knew that someone had met his death on my shoot. Was he a detective, or one of Heyne-Hassingham’s people? How much did he know, and how did he know anything at all? Was it true that he himself had been accused of firing the shot? It was impossible to answer any of those questions, so I tried to keep my face in its same casual and friendly expression, and play for time.