By Geoffrey Household
A vintage mystery set in Dorset after the second one international battle, filled with Household's signature motion and suspense.
An afternoon's taking pictures within the state turns out a delightful prospect to Roger Taine, a revered kinfolk guy with a amazing 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 decided to thwart. a chain of auto 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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Additional info for A Rough Shoot
He went on. “Ever read state trials? ” “Don’t wonder you stopped! Think the evidence is all faked, ha? Well, it isn’t. Men who confess they are guilty are guilty. What of? There we have it! Guilty of muddle. And it doesn’t take any drugs or tortures to make them confess it. Of course they are muddled. Why? Because the bosses are muddled. There’s no firm creed. That’s the thing to remember. A creed is what the leader says it is, and no more. “That makes it easy to muscle in on the racket. Just like Hitler and Mussolini.
He was standing quite motionless on the top of the bank, under and against an ivy-covered oak, whence he could see for quarter of a mile on all sides of him. His disciplined stillness had its reward. A cock pheasant flew up to roost in the opposite tree. The trapper in the hedge saw it, drew an air pistol from his pocket and shot it neatly down. This made me unduly angry. I wouldn’t have minded a bit if they had been local villagers out for next Sunday’s dinner, but from their clothes I knew they were not.
I was a hard-working quarry agent, frequently on the road at short notice. No, I mean that ours was as good a marriage as you could find. If I was anxious or excited, she always knew it; if it was she who went through some silent crisis, I usually knew it. But we were both quite capable of feigning to see nothing wrong until the cloud over the other, whatever it was, had passed. This peace which she created in our home helped me through the next forty-eight hours. When Cecily found a report in Thursday’s evening paper of an abandoned motorcycle on the upper road, which had had its number plates removed and seemed to have been in a smash, I was able to grunt and answer, with complete lack of interest, that I suppose it was stolen.
A Rough Shoot by Geoffrey Household