Mightier Than the Sword (12 page)

“Depends what you’re looking for, good grub or the best ale in the county.”

“I always think you can judge a pub by its landlord.”

“Then it has to be the Shifnal Arms, owned by Fred and Sheila Ramsey. They don’t just run the pub, but the village as well. He’s president of the local cricket club, and used to open the bowling for the village. Even played for the county on a couple of occasions. And she sits on the parish council. But be warned, the food’s lousy.”

“Then it’s the Shifnal Arms,” said Seb. He sat back and began to go over his strategy, aware that he didn’t need Sloane to discover why he wasn’t in the office.

The taxi drew up outside the Shifnal Arms a few minutes after twelve. Seb would have given the driver a larger tip, but he didn’t want to be remembered.

He strolled into the pub trying to look casual, which wasn’t easy when you’re the first customer of the day, and took a close look at the man standing behind the bar. Although he must have been over forty, and his cheeks and nose revealed that he enjoyed the product he sold, while his paunch suggested he preferred pork pies to fine dining, it was not hard to believe this giant of a man had once opened the bowling for Shifnal.

“Afternoon,” said the landlord. “What can I get you?”

“A half of your local beer will suit me fine,” said Seb, who didn’t usually drink during working hours, but today it was part of the job. The publican drew half a pint of Wrekin IPA and placed it on the bar. “That’ll be one shilling and sixpence.” Half the price Seb would have had to pay in London. He took a sip. “Not bad,” he said, before bowling his first long hop. “It’s not a West Country brew, but it’s not half bad.”

“So you’re not from around these parts?” said the publican.

“No, I’m a Gloucestershire lad, born and bred,” Seb told him before taking another sip.

“So what brings you to Shifnal?”

“My firm is opening a branch in Shrewsbury, and my wife won’t agree to the move unless I can find a house in the country.”

“You don’t play cricket by any chance?”

“I open the batting for the Somerset Stragglers. Another reason why I’m not that keen on moving.”

“We’ve got a decent enough eleven, but we’re always on the lookout for fresh talent.”

Seb pointed to a photograph behind the bar. “Is that you holding up the cup?”

“It is. 1951. When I was about fifteen years younger and some fifteen pounds lighter. We won the county cup that year, for the first and, I’m sorry to say, last time. Although we did reach the semi-finals last year.”

Time for another slow long hop. “If I was thinking of buying a house in the area, who would you suggest I deal with?”

“There’s only one half-decent estate agent in town. Charlie Watkins, my wicket keeper. You’ll find his place on the High Street, can’t miss it.”

“Then I’ll go and have a chat with Mr. Watkins, and come back for a bite of lunch.”

“Dish of the day is steak and kidney pie,” said the publican, patting his stomach.

“I’ll see you later,” said Seb after he’d downed his drink.

It wasn’t difficult to find the High Street, or to spot Watkins Estate Agency with its gaudy sign flapping in the breeze. Seb took some time studying the properties for sale in the window. The prices seemed to range from seven hundred pounds to twelve thousand, so how was it possible for anything in the area to be worth one point six million?

He opened the front door to the sound of a jangling bell and as he stepped inside a young man looked up from behind his desk.

“Is Mr. Watkins around?” asked Seb.

“He’s with a customer at the moment, but he shouldn’t be long,” he added as a door behind him opened and two men walked out.

“I’ll have the paperwork completed by Monday at the latest, so if you could arrange for the deposit to be lodged with your solicitor, that should help move things along,” the elder of the two men said as he opened the door for his customer.

“This gentleman’s waiting to see you, Mr. Watkins,” said the young man behind the desk.

“Good morning,” said Watkins, thrusting out his hand. “Come into my office.” He opened the door and ushered his potential client through.

Seb walked into a small room that boasted a partner’s desk and three chairs. On the walls were photographs of past triumphs, every one marked with a red sticker declaring
SOLD.
Seb’s eyes settled on a large property with several acres. He needed Watkins to quickly work out which end of the market he was interested in. A warm smile appeared on the estate agent’s face.

“Is that the type of property you’re looking for?”

“I was hoping to find a large country house with several acres of farmland attached,” Seb said as he took the seat opposite Watkins.

“I’m afraid that sort of thing doesn’t come on the market very often. But I have one or two properties that might interest you.” He leaned back, pulled open the drawer of the only filing cabinet, and extracted three folders. “But I have to warn you, sir, that the price of farm land has rocketed since the government decided to allow tax relief for anyone investing in agricultural land.” Seb didn’t comment as Watkins opened the first folder.

“Asgarth Farm is situated on the Welsh border, seven hundred acres, mainly arable, and a magnificent Victorian mansion … in need of a little repair,” he added reluctantly.

“And the price?”

“Three hundred and twenty thousand,” said Watkins, passing over the brochure before quickly adding, “or near offer.”

Seb shook his head. “I was hoping for something with at least a thousand acres.”

Watkins’s eyes lit up as if he’d won the pools. “There is one exceptional property that’s recently come on the market, but I’m only a subagent, and unfortunately bids have to be in by five this Friday.”

“If it’s the right property, that wouldn’t put me off.”

Watkins opened his desk drawer and, for the first time, offered a customer Shifnal Farm.

“This looks more interesting,” said Seb as he turned the pages of the brochure. “How much are they asking?”

The estate agent hesitated, almost as if he didn’t want to reveal the figure. Seb waited patiently.

“I know there’s a bid in with Savills for one point six million,” said Watkins. His turn to wait patiently, expecting the client to reject it out of hand.

“Perhaps I could study the details over lunch and then come back this afternoon and discuss it with you?”

“In the meantime, shall I make arrangements for you to see over the property?”

That was the last thing Seb wanted, so he quickly replied, “I’ll make that decision once I’ve had a chance to check the details.”

“Time is against us, sir.”

True enough, thought Seb. “I’ll let you know my decision when I come back this afternoon,” he repeated a little more firmly.

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Watkins as he leapt up, accompanied him to the door and, after shaking hands once again, said, “I look forward to seeing you later.”

Seb stepped out onto the High Street and made his way quickly back to the pub. Mr. Ramsey was standing behind the bar polishing a glass when Seb sat on the stool in front of him.

“Any luck?”

“Possibly,” said Seb, placing the glossy brochure on the counter so the landlord couldn’t miss it. “Another half, please, and won’t you join me?”

“Thank you, sir. Will you be having lunch?”

“I’ll have the steak and kidney pie,” said Seb, studying the menu chalked up on a blackboard behind the bar.

Ramsey didn’t take his eyes off the brochure, even as he drew the customer’s half pint.

“I can tell you a thing or two about that property,” he said as his wife came out of the kitchen.

“Seems a bit overpriced to me,” said Seb, bowling his third long hop.

“I should say so,” said Ramsey. “Only five year back it were on the market at three hundred thousand, and even at that price, young Mr. Collingwood couldn’t shift it.”

“The new tax incentives could be the reason,” suggested Seb.

“That wouldn’t explain the price I’m hearing.”

“Perhaps the owner’s been granted planning permission to build on the land. Housing, or one of those new industrial estates the government are so keen on.”

“Not on your nelly,” said Mrs. Ramsey as she joined them. “The parish council may not have any power, but that lot at County Hall still have to keep us informed if they want to build anything, from a letterbox to a multistory car park. It’s been our right since Magna Carta to be allowed to lodge an objection and hold up proceedings for ninety days. Not that they take much notice after that.”

“Then there has to be oil, gold, or the lost treasure of the Pharaohs buried under the land,” said Seb, trying to make light of it.

“I’ve heard wilder suggestions than that,” said Ramsey. “A hoard of Roman coins worth millions, buried treasure. But my favorite is that Collingwood was one of them train robbers, and Shifnal Farm is where they buried the loot.”

“And don’t forget,” said Mrs. Ramsey, reappearing with a steak and kidney pie, “Mr. Swann says he knows exactly why the price has rocketed, but he won’t tell anyone unless they make a substantial donation to his school theatre appeal.”

“Mr. Swann?” said Seb as he picked up his knife and fork.

“Used to be headmaster of the local grammar school, retired some years back, and now devotes his time to raising money for the school theatre. Bit obsessed with the idea if you ask me.”

“Do you think we can beat the South Africans?” asked Seb, having gained the information he needed and now wanting to move on.

“M.J.K. Smith will have his hands full with that lot,” said the barman, “but if you ask me…”

Seb sipped his beer, while selecting carefully which parts of the steak and kidney pie he could safely eat. He settled on the burnt crust, as he continued to listen to the landlord’s views on everything from the Beatles being awarded the MBE (Harold Wilson after the young vote), to the possibility of the Americans landing a man on the moon (What’s the point?).

When a rowdy group of customers entered the pub and Ramsey became distracted, Seb left half a crown on the bar and slipped out. Once he was back on the street, he asked a woman clutching the hand of a young boy where the grammar school was.

“About half a mile up the road,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”

It felt more like a mile, but he certainly couldn’t miss the vast, redbrick Victorian edifice, which John Betjeman would have admired.

Seb didn’t even have to pass through the school gates before he spotted what he was looking for. A prominent notice announced an appeal for £10,000 to build a new theatre for the school. Next to it was a large drawing of a thermometer, but Seb observed that the red line only reached £1,766.
To learn more about the project, please contact Mr. Maurice Swann MA (Oxon) on Shifnal 2613.

Seb wrote down two numbers in his diary, 8234 and 2613, then turned and headed back toward the High Street. In the distance he spotted a red telephone box, and he was pleased to see it wasn’t occupied. He stepped inside and rehearsed his lines for a few moments, before checking the number in his diary. He dialed 2613, pressed four pennies into the slot, and waited for some time before an elderly voice answered.

“Maurice Swann.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Swann. My name is Clifton. I’m the head of corporate donations for Farthings Bank, and we are considering making a donation to your theatre appeal. I wonder if it might be possible for us to meet. I would of course be quite happy to come and see you.”

“No, I’d prefer to meet at the school,” said Swann eagerly. “Then I can show you what we have planned.”

“That’s fine,” said Seb, “but unfortunately I’m only in Shifnal for the day, and will be returning to London this evening.”

“Then I’ll come over immediately. Why don’t I see you outside the school gates in ten minutes?”

“I look forward to meeting you,” said Seb. He put the phone down and quickly retraced his steps back to the grammar school. He didn’t have to wait long before he spotted a frail-looking gentleman walking slowly toward him with the aid of a stick.

After Seb had introduced himself, Swann said, “As you have such a short time, Mr. Clifton, why don’t I take you straight through to the Memorial Hall, where I can show you the architect’s plans for the new theatre and answer any questions you might have.”

Seb followed the old man through the school gates, across the yard, and into the hall, while listening to him talk about the importance of young people having their own theatre and what a difference it would make to the local community.

Seb took his time studying the detailed architect’s drawings that were pinned to the wall, while Swann continued to enthuse about the project.

“As you can see, Mr. Clifton, although we will have a proscenium arch, there would still be enough room backstage to store props, while the actors standing in the wings won’t be cramped, and if I raise the full amount the boys and girls will be able to have separate dressing rooms.” He stood back. “My life’s dream,” he admitted, “which I hope to see completed before I die. But may I ask why your bank would be interested in a small project in Shifnal?”

“We are currently buying land in the area on behalf of clients who are interested in taking advantage of the government’s latest tax incentives. We realize that’s not likely to be popular in the village, so we’ve decided to support some local projects.”

“Would one of those pieces of land be Shifnal Farm?”

Seb was taken by surprise by Swann’s question, and it was some time before he managed, “No, we looked at Mr. Collingwood’s property and on balance decided it was overpriced.”

“How many children do you think I’ve taught in my lifetime, Mr. Clifton?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Seb, puzzled by the question.

“Just over three thousand, so I know when someone is trying to get away with only telling me half the story.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“You understand all too well, Mr. Clifton. The truth is, you’re on a fishing trip, and you have absolutely no interest in my theatre. What you really want to know is why someone is willing to pay one point six million pounds for Shifnal Farm, when no one else has bid anywhere near that amount. Am I right?”