Copyright & Information
The Asking Price
First published in 1966
© Estate Henry Cecil; House of Stratus 1966-2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Henry Cecil to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Judge Henry Cecil Leon was born in Norwood Green Rectory near London in 1902. In 1923 he was called to the Bar and from 1949 to 1967 he served as a County Court judge. He developed his writing skills whilst serving with the British Army during the Second World War, reputedly telling stories to officers at the behest of his colonel, so as to keep their minds off alcohol whilst sailing on ‘dry’ ships. These stories formed the basis of his first collection, Full Circle, published in 1948. Thereafter, the legal year, his impressions at court, or at other official functions, as well as dinners at the Savoy Grill or at his club, the Garrick, all provided material for his considerable brain power.
He wrote during the three-week-long family holidays which were usually spent in comfortable hotels in Britain. He would sit in a deck chair in a sunny garden, exercise book on lap and pen in hand, writing from 10 am to 1pm, then again from 2.30 to 4 pm each day.
Cecil had an extraordinary ability to examine the law in both a humorous and a more serious, analytical way, providing a series of thought provoking works.
Many of his stories have been made into films or plays – notably ‘Brothers-in-Law’ and ‘Alibi for a Judge’. These and other books have also provided a stimulus for those wishing to take up law as a career, although whilst dealing with the legal system they also have more than an element of the mystery/thriller genre about them. They are a delight for those who look for authenticity in the most aptly described British characters.
Cecil died in May 1976, still at the height of his mental powers.
CHAPTER ONE
For Sale
Mr Highcastle, of Highcastle & Newbury, surveyors and estate agents, sighed faintly. It was a very professional sigh. He had learned it from his father, who had been a pawnbroker. In his father’s case it had been intended to convey that, if the stones really were diamonds, the ring wouldn’t be worth all that much and that anyway money was in short supply. It would be followed by: ‘Lend you ten pounds, buy it for fifteen.’
‘But another place told me it was worth fifty.’
‘Remember the address?’ his father would ask.
‘Certainly – it’s …’
‘Well, as you remember it,’ his father would interrupt, ‘I should go there, if were you.’
The lender’s sigh had been successfully passed on to the estate agent.
‘So you want to sell your house,’ said Mr Highcastle. ‘Please sit down.’
The customer sat.
‘May I have your full name, please?’
‘Ronald Timothy Holbrook.’
‘And your address, Mr Holbrook?’
‘It’s Colonel, as a matter of fact.’
‘Sorry, Colonel.’
‘I wouldn’t have mentioned it,’ said Ronald Holbrook, ‘but I thought it sometimes helped. In advertisements, you know.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Highcastle, ‘you mean something of this sort – “Axed Colonel, never actually court-martialled, wishes to sell his detention barracks which could be converted into a most attractive penthouse (now out of fashion) at exorbitant expense. It would be absurd to pay £10,000 for it. Try an offer”.’
‘Not bad,’ said Ronald admiringly.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Highcastle. ‘I don’t actually use that type of advertisement myself. I hate giving something for nothing if I can help it.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, we poor agents are doing it all the time, you know. Hours and hours of work trying to sell a house, and then the client decides not to sell. And we don’t get a penny. So it goes against the grain to give additional reading matter to the newspapers for nothing. I believe some people buy the better Sunday newspapers simply to read Mr Brooks’ advertisements. And now your address, please, Colonel. Are you living at the house you wish to sell?’
‘Yes, but before I tell you where it is, I must ask you to treat the information in confidence. No boards, or anything of that sort.’
‘Certainly not, if you prefer it that way, Colonel. But I must confess we do find boards a most effective advertisement. And there’s no charge, you know. Only last week I sold three houses to people who’d seen the boards. At good prices, too.’
Ronald hesitated.
‘Of course, I wouldn’t dream of insisting on a board,’ said Mr Highcastle, thinking he saw signs of weakness, ‘but, if I may say so, you’d be most unwise to reject the idea.’
‘No,’ said Ronald, a little regretfully, ‘it wouldn’t do.’
‘Well, think it over. There’s no urgency at all.’
‘No urgency?’ said Ronald. ‘There is every urgency.’
‘You’re in a hurry to sell?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘Well, then, a board would …’
‘No, impossible, I’m afraid. No one must know but you. And any purchaser, of course.’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Highcastle, and sighed again. It was a sigh that knocked at least £500 off the price. ‘And the address is?’ he went on.
‘Well, in confidence, it’s 18 Eleanor Gardens, Islington.’
‘Islington?’ queried Mr Highcastle. ‘You mean Canonbury?’
‘We always call it Islington.’
‘Well, we don’t,’ said Mr Highcastle. ‘18 Eleanor Gardens, Canonbury,’ he said as he wrote it down.
‘You will keep it confidential, won’t you?’
‘You can rely on us, Colonel. All our business is confidential.’
‘Even when there’s a board?’
‘Even then we never mention the name of the owner or the reason for selling, unless specifically instructed.’
‘But people can look up the name of the owner in the Post Office Directory.’
‘That would not be our fault,’ said Mr Highcastle. ‘What, by the way,’ he added, ‘is your reason for selling?’
Ronald hesitated a moment, and then: ‘Confidentially,’ he said, ‘money.’
Mr Highcastle sighed again.
‘Terraced, three up, three down and the usual, I suppose?’ he asked.
‘Four up.’
‘Four? One’s divided into two, I suppose?’
‘I’ve never thought about it. We have four rooms upstairs and,’ he added with slight asperity, ‘you can come and see them.’
‘Certainly,’ said Mr Highcastle, ‘when I have a moment. We’re rather rushed off our feet at present. There’s the usual residents’ garden in the middle, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what price are you asking, Colonel?’
‘I’d like to get £10,000.’
A cough was substituted for a sigh.
‘I’m sure you would, Colonel. So would a lot of people.’
‘But there’s a great shortage of houses, isn’t there?’
‘There may be,’ said Mr Highcastle, ‘but there is a greater shortage of buyers. And, quite frankly, this type of house is very difficult to sell. I won’t say it’s a drug in the market. That would be going too far. But there’s no money, you see. Now flats, or very small houses, are a different matter. They’re snapped up at once. But seven- or eight-roomed houses are very difficult. I might get you five or six thousand.’
‘Five or six!?’ said Ronald, and his voice showed horror at the suggestion. ‘Five or six!!’
‘Or possibly a little more – if we put up a board.’
‘But it’s absurd,’ said Ronald. ‘I’ve read of houses like this being sold for ten or eleven thousand.’
‘D’you happen to know the name of the agents who sold them?’
‘I don’t, as a matter of fact.’
‘Pity,’ said Mr Highcastle. ‘I’d have suggested your going to them.’
Mr Highcastle’s father would have approved.
‘What’s the most you think I can get?’
‘The most?’ repeated Mr Highcastle. ‘The most – well, no one can be certain. But if you like to give us the sole agency, the sole right to sell, I mean, we’ll do the best we can.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Ronald. ‘The sole right to sell?’
‘Just our jargon,’ said Mr Highcastle. ‘I expect you had yours in the Army.’
But Mr Highcastle knew well enough that it was not just jargon. He had learned early in his career that, if he were given the sole right to sell for a period, he became entitled to commission during that period, even if the owner sold to an old friend who had never been near the agent. But if he were only given the sole agency the owner did not have to pay commission if he sold to someone whom he found himself.
‘But I must have an idea of the price,’ said Ronald. ‘What’ll you ask for it?’
‘I suggest £8,000 as an asking price, but I’d strongly advise you to take six.’
‘I couldn’t possibly accept so little.’
‘Just as you say, Colonel. But I’m sure you will understand that we’re in this together. It’s to our mutual interest to get as much as possible. The more you get, the more we get.’
Mr Highcastle did not add that on a sale at £5,000 his firm would receive £137.10.0., but that it would only receive £15 per £1,000 for any sum over £5,000. As he would get nothing at all in the event of no sale, he would, of course, prefer to sacrifice a possible £15 or so to make sure of a sale. £1,000 or so above £5,000 makes little difference to an agent, but a lot to a vendor. Some of Mr Highcastle’s clients may have wondered why he tried so hard to persuade them to accept a purchaser’s offer. Sometimes an agent is so eager to persuade the owner to sell that the latter could be forgiven for thinking that the agent was acting for the proposed purchaser. The truth was, of course, that Mr Highcastle was acting for himself. An estate agent is a human being with the normal instincts of one. He had to keep himself, and a wife and children. How could he be expected to spend all his energies on looking after his client when he had to look after himself as well, and did not receive a penny unless he effected a sale? The estate agent’s profession will never be conducted in a satisfactory manner until it is remunerated on a proper basis.
‘Well, please do the best you can,’ said Ronald.
‘We always do.’
‘And your definite view is that houses of this size in London are not fetching good prices?’
‘That is not just my view, Colonel. It is a fact. You can’t argue with facts. Most purchasers of this type of house need a mortgage. Is yours mortgaged by the way, Colonel?’
‘As a matter of fact, it is not.’
‘Well, that makes no difference in the case of a sale. But it’s a great advantage these days to have cash when you’re buying a house. But how many people have the cash? Nothing like enough. And nowadays mortgages are very difficult. You’ve got to be young or youngish, healthy, and earning a good salary. And even then you may not get one.’
‘Well, you’ve cheered me up in one way,’ said Ronald.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Mr Highcastle, in a voice which almost suggested that he was disappointed.
‘I want to buy a house in London. Not a very small house or flat, but a seven- or eight-roomed house with the usual and I don’t mind if one of the rooms on the upper floor is divided into two or not. In other words, the type of house which you assured me was almost a drug in the market. I’m glad to hear that it should be easy to get and won’t cost much. And I don’t need a mortgage.’
If Mr Highcastle felt embarrassed, his professional experience enabled him not to show it in the least.
‘In what particular neighbourhood?’ he asked blandly.
‘Anywhere,’ said Ronald, ‘which is nowhere near Islington – I mean Canonbury.’
‘Have you any particular requirement?’ went on Mr Highcastle.
‘No,’ said Ronald. ‘Something like what I’ve got now, but I’m not particular, except that it must be away from Canonbury.’
‘And what sort of price have you in mind? Ten to twelve thousand?’
‘Good gracious no. Something less than I shall get for mine.’
Mr Highcastle sighed.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be at all easy.’
‘But you just said these houses were difficult to sell.’
‘Indeed they are. But I didn’t say they were easy to buy. Sellers are holding back. Waiting for an improvement.’
‘Then you would recommend me not to sell mine yet?’
‘On the contrary, Colonel. I would recommend you to sell before things get worse.’
‘But you said that sellers are holding back, waiting for an improvement.’
‘I did indeed, but I didn’t say that they were right to do so. In my considered opinion they’re in for a nasty shock. In a year’s time your house may fetch even less than it would today.’
‘Then why can’t I buy from someone like myself?’
‘Because people are very stupid, Colonel, and I’m sorry to have to say it – greedy. Of course, some people like yourself, Colonel, may be forced to sell because they need the money. Forgive me for mentioning it, Colonel.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. I’m not ashamed of wanting money. Other people want it too. Surely there must be other people owning a house like mine who have to sell it?’
‘I’m sure there are, Colonel.’
‘Then why can’t I buy one of their houses?’
‘Quite simply, Colonel, because there aren’t enough of them. Their houses are snapped up as soon as they come on the market.’
‘Then why isn’t mine?’
‘Because your price is too high, Colonel. I could sell yours tomorrow for … for £4,500.’
‘I dare say. No doubt you could. No doubt someone would accept it as a gift.’
‘What is the state of repair, may I ask?’ said Mr Highcastle, of whom his father would have become prouder and prouder during this conversation. ‘I should have asked you before. My suggested prices were, of course, based on it being in a good state of repair.’
‘It’s in very fair repair.’
‘No woodworm, or dry rot?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You’ve had it examined, then?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Then how can you know for certain, Colonel? I’m afraid there are more infested houses than you think. Have you a cellar?’
‘Yes.’
‘A frequent source of trouble. What about the roof timbers?’
‘I’ve never been in the loft.’
‘Let’s hope it’s all right,’ said Mr Highcastle. ‘But I can assure you that some houses are so pest-ridden that they’re worth little more than the site value. Not that, sometimes.’
‘So the long and the short of it is this,’ said Ronald. ‘No one wants a house like mine, so I shall only get a low price for it. On the other hand, no one will sell houses like mine, because the prices are too low. It’s a buyer’s market for my house, but a seller’s for every other house of the same description. In addition to that, my house is lucky to be standing at all and, if I don’t get prosecuted by the local council for having a dangerous structure, I shall be lucky.’
‘I take it,’ said Mr Highcastle, ‘that you would like to take your business elsewhere?’
‘Not at all,’ said Ronald. ‘Hurry up with both houses as quickly as you can. I’ve got to get out.’
CHAPTER TWO
The Vendor
Ronald was fifty-seven and he had lived in Islington for nearly twenty years. He was one of the first objects of interest which new residents usually discovered, for his great asset in life was his aptitude for personal relationships. Everyone liked him and women sometimes adored him. He was excessively lazy, had no regard for the truth and was a persistent and unashamed borrower. But he borrowed so charmingly it was difficult to resist him. His ‘I suppose you couldn’t by any chance lend me …?’ was irresistible by most people. He never deliberately cheated anyone, though, had it been essential to do so, he would have yielded to the inevitable without any trouble from his conscience. He could fairly have been described as a parasite, but for the fact that he made a definite contribution to the world merely by existing. Anyone who could instil happiness into his neighbour by borrowing a lawnmower or a pound of sugar does, at least to some extent, pull his weight. The fact that it involves no conscious effort on the part of the borrower does not detract from the benefit it confers. There is not all that happiness on earth that one can afford to dispense with people who add to the store of it. He had quite a good intelligence but was far too idle to make use of it, except in extremities.
So, if the inhabitants of the world had been suddenly assembled and ordered from on High to be decimated on merit, it would have been most unlikely that Ronald would have been extinguished. At first sight he would have been an obvious case. He belonged to no profession, he had no job, no business, he contributed nothing tangible to the public store, except for rates and taxes, he had not even produced sons and daughters and, though still capable of doing so, showed no sign whatever of getting started. And, indeed, any progeny of his might have inherited only the laziness and none of the charm. Nevertheless, when the Recording Angel read out the names and called for justification for continued existence, Ronald, probably arriving late, would have charmed the Angel from the start.
‘You’re late.’
‘I’m terribly sorry. I’m afraid I usually am.’
‘But this is a special occasion.’
‘I know. That makes it so much worse.’
Ronald would have adopted the same attitude as he adopted over motor car accidents. He nearly always softened the other driver, who rushed up to him breathing fire and slaughter, by apologising profusely and sometimes adding: ‘I’m always doing this, I’m afraid.’
‘Then you ought to be off the road.’
‘I know,’ Ronald would say. ‘D’you think we should report it to the police?’
Only once had an angry driver said ‘yes’ and proceeded with Ronald to the nearest police station.
‘Anyone hurt?’ asked the sergeant.
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t concern us,’ said the sergeant, and turned his attention to a lady who had lost her dog.
The Recording Angel would have been far more likely to put on the short list for extinction the lady in the post office who was never late for work, seldom away through illness, did her full stint every day, was never in trouble of any kind, but who had never been known to smile at the customer when she sold a stamp, and would often keep people waiting for no obvious reason without an apology. Without such ladies the post office could not carry on. Without similar people in all branches of the state machinery, civilian life would grind to a halt. Ronald’s absence would have made no practical difference to the world. But he would have been sadly missed by many people outside his immediate family, while the post office lady would not. And she could easily have been replaced. But not Ronald.
It would not, of course, do if the world were composed of Ronalds, but a few of them dotted around are definite assets.
Before the second world war, Ronald had been a civil servant in an undistinguished position. He had been educated at a public school and Oxford, but those were the days when hard work was not necessary. He had just got through his examinations and was eventually called to the Bar. But there he found that not only was hard work essential but that it was often unrewarded. He had actually worked really hard on a case once. He had been asked to do it at the last moment by another barrister. He worked right through the night and was actually successful the next day. But he was not paid a penny and only received the most casual thanks for what he had done. His humour was not improved when his clerk told him that it was excellent experience, and he soon decided that it was not the sort of experience which he wanted to repeat.
He left the Bar and drifted into the Civil Service, but there he found even the irregular hours which he kept far too regular, and, though in order to live he had to remain on for some years, he was almost glad when the war came and he went into the Army. There he did quite a useful job in an infantry battalion – not because of his military proficiency, which was negligible, but because everyone liked him. He was definitely a morale-raiser, and his death would have been far more lamented than that of the extremely efficient but equally bloody anti-tank platoon commander. Ronald’s only assets were his cheerfulness, friendliness, and the fact that he never panicked. He had no eye for country and no head for administration. He made some sort of effort to carry out the orders which he was given, but not very successfully, while the orders which he gave, if intelligible at all, were usually almost incapable of being carried out. He never rose above the rank of lieutenant. Had he not been Ronald, he would have lost his commission early in the war. But each successive battalion commander went through the same phases regarding him. At first the CO would say to himself: ‘That’s a charming fellow. Glad I’ve got him.’ Very soon afterwards, having discovered his extreme indolence, he would say: ‘I must get rid of this chap.’ And then, as it takes a little time to get rid of this chap, he would suddenly become aware of the advantage there was in having Ronald about the place. So that is how he was used. To be about the place. And, in and out of danger, officers and men were glad that he was there. He might not be able to make the simplest plan successfully, but his mere presence was an asset.
‘Go on, Private Hemmings,’ he would say to the battalion joker during a particularly unpleasant bombardment of his platoon’s position, ‘go on, make me laugh.’
Providence decreed that Ronald should neither be killed nor wounded, and he was the only officer in his battalion who went right through from Dunkirk to Berlin. His last CO recommended him for a mention in despatches. But the brigadier queried it.
‘That fellow?’ he said. ‘All he seems to do is smile.’
‘True enough,’ said Ronald’s CO, ‘but we’ve found it a pretty useful smile.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve no sense of humour,’ said the brigadier; which was true, though he did not mean it. ‘Put up someone else.’
So Ronald left the Army with nothing but a host of friends and his rank of lieutenant. And then he had a piece of luck. It was at the time when temporary civil servants in the Ministry of Supply, most of whom would never have been employed but for the war, had discovered a lucrative method of disposing of surplus stores. Ronald managed to get in on a deal involving a vast quantity of parachute silk. In the end he found himself the richer by £60,000. It was the best day in his life. The horrible fear that he might have to work again for his living vanished. Somehow or other he could live for ever on £60,000. He promoted himself to colonel and bought a house in Islington.
