Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“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.