By Geoffrey Household
A vintage mystery set in Dorset after the second one international battle, jam-packed with Household's signature motion and suspense.
An afternoon's capturing within the nation turns out a delightful prospect to Roger Taine, a revered relations guy with a exclusive army checklist. but if he discovers a poacher on his land, he fires a caution blast that prevents the intruder useless in his tracks.
Investigating additional, Taine inadvertently uncovers a new-fascist plot which he's made up our minds to thwart. a sequence of vehicle chases, aeroplane drops and cross-country scrambles sharpen the secret, however the event takes a brand new twist whilst Taine discovers that he himself is being pursued by way of the police.
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A vintage mystery set in Dorset after the second one global conflict, filled with Household's signature motion and suspense. An afternoon's taking pictures within the nation turns out a delightful prospect to Roger Taine, a revered family members guy with a exceptional army list. but if he discovers a poacher on his land, he fires a caution blast that forestalls the intruder useless in his tracks.
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Extra info for A Rough Shoot
Brought up with ‘em,” he answered. “Liked ‘em for breakfast. ” He was a fiery-looking little bouncer, about five and a half feet high with a pointed face and a thin sandy mustache. There was a network of scars on one side of his chin, and he had a slight limp which suggested still another war wound. His age was unguessable–somewhere between forty and fifty-five. Whatever it was, he was undoubtedly fighting fit, and his movements were fast and jerky as those of a well-strung puppet. We had a short conversation–one of those curious interchanges wherein nothing whatever is revealed but instant mutual sympathy.
They crashed into it as I picked myself up, and gave tongue loudly in oaths that certainly weren’t those of local men. There were two of them. One had a cultured accent, and a loud and hearty voice. The other was a foreigner. Their speed and energy made me certain that neither was the man I had seen at Blossom’s gate. Dense cloud was moving over the ground, and in that foggy darkness I could get no impression at all of height or build. It was a comforting thought that to them too I must have been nothing but a piece of night which moved.
I am thirty-four, with a family and no capital. I have a good job as Dorset agent for a big quarry combine, producing cement, roofing tiles, special bricks, stone for building and gravel for roads, and all sorts of by-products that interest an up-to-date architect or county surveyor. What with commission and salary, I’ve no complaints, but my family, of course, has no security beyond my own earning power. So, as I stood over the corpse and watched the dark shadow–in a dusk already too deep to distinguish color-spreading over his clothes from beneath the head of that gigantic thumbtack, I passed from the police interrogation to what the judge would say.