“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.