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.”