English Summer by Raymond Chandler

For almost three weeks I stayed clear of them, or they let me. I was pretty good, for an amateur, in a small tight country like England.

I ditched my runabout late at night, in the loneliest copse I could drive to without lights. It seemed a thousand wind-swept solitary miles from anywhere. It wasn't, of course. I dragged my suitcase across infinite English landscapes, through the dark, through fields of drowsy cattle, past the fringes of silent villages where not a single lamp warmed the night.