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 kingdom turns out a delightful prospect to Roger Taine, a revered relatives guy with a uncommon army checklist. but if he discovers a poacher on his land, he fires a caution blast that forestalls the intruder lifeless in his tracks.
Investigating extra, Taine inadvertently uncovers a new-fascist plot which he's decided to thwart. a sequence of auto chases, aeroplane drops and cross-country scrambles sharpen the secret, however the experience takes a brand new twist whilst Taine discovers that he himself is being pursued through the police.
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Extra info for A Rough Shoot
Well, that hadn’t happened and seemed unlikely to happen, but I began to think I would prefer the police to this fog of uncertainty. I didn’t know whom to protect myself against. I even wondered whether I had interfered by my mysterious, unaccountable shot with some private action of the Intelligence Services. That, if it were so, made my guilt a thousand times worse. When I got home, there was further evidence that somebody was interested in my movements. ” Cecily asked. “No. ” She said that a man had called up and wanted to know if I had found his case.
He seemed to be making a sort of census of traffic. The vet and the baker both stopped at the farm, and, as if glad of the opportunity, he asked them questions. His self-satisfaction was obvious, even from a distance. I couldn’t believe this little man was a policeman, or that his questions were police routine. If anyone had approached the Dorset Constabulary with some story, necessarily vague, of a man shot on Blossom’s land, their very first move would be to interview Blossom and inspect the ground.
I told my clerk–there were only the two of us in the office–that I was going to do a round of visits, and that I shouldn’t come back. Then I drove twice round the shoot through all the lanes and roads that were near to it. There was no sign at all of anything wrong, no cars of police or strangers parked by the roadside or on the cart tracks. I dropped in on old Blossom, the farmer from whom I rented the shooting. We had a mug of cider together–he was one of the few men left in the county who still made his own–and talked of local affairs.