By Geoffrey Household
A vintage mystery set in Dorset after the second one global conflict, choked with Household's signature motion and suspense.
An afternoon's taking pictures within the kingdom turns out a delightful prospect to Roger Taine, a revered kinfolk guy with a exceptional army list. but if he discovers a poacher on his land, he fires a caution blast that prevents the intruder lifeless 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 experience takes a brand new twist while Taine discovers that he himself is being pursued by means of the police.
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Extra resources for A Rough Shoot
I was about to set off when it occurred to me that the traps were still in position. Was I to leave them or remove them? Either act might be evidence against me if there were ever any inquiry. I put him down, and hunted about in the last of the light. There were no traps at all. I found a spirit level, a foot rule and three more of those murderous broad-headed spikes. The sweat poured down my ribs. Had I shot at some harmless Post Office surveyor? But that didn’t make sense. The wildest conjectures went through my head.
He guessed just what I was going to think of Hiart, and let me know–if I were clever enough to see it–that the contrast between us amused him. He was a subtle and likable creature. Natural enough, I suppose. If he hadn’t been, he could never have founded and held the devotion of his People’s Union. Hiart shook hands. His narrow, dark eyes were laid on me as directly and expressionlessly as the guns of a tank. ” I asked him. ” “I’d find it unnecessary too,” I retorted, “if I still had army rations.
But it’s ridiculous for an ordinary businessman to go walking about as a colonel. ” I didn’t believe that my grandfather had any connection with the Heyne-Hassinghams–except that he sold them a famous ram of his own breeding–but I accepted this lush suggestion of friendship. Grandfather, if he visited their house at all, would certainly have made some memorable inroads on the Heyne-Hassingham cellar before parting with his ram. “The country needs men like you,” he said. That was an invitation, but I wasn’t having any.