Death at the Olde Woodley Grange

By Tannis Laidlaw

She buys her dream home
Only days later the body of her ex is found in her new garden.
Murdered.

Maddie’s life as an estate agent in Oxfordshire is progressing. An old hippy contacts her about a gorgeous property but his former wife becomes her client, not him. Within days, his body is found on the property.
Would her client kill her ex, then leave his body in her own garden? Maddie doesn’t believe it, although the police do. But she does have questions. Did that shared hippy past have anything to do with the murder? And what about the murdered man’s more recent rather racy reputation?

Death at the Olde Woodley Grange is the 5th in the Madeleine Brooks Mystery series, an English village mystery, similar to those wonderful tales of amateur detectives written by Faith Martin and Frances Evesham. It's as if Miss Marple meets Midsomer Murders, but with manors and cottages and country houses. They are a delight to read, with a warm and intelligent main character who leaves no stone unturned in her quest for justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tannis Laidlaw
• Release date: Aug 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005040383

Tannis Laidlaw

Tannis has worn many hats: occupational therapist in her early days, psychologist, university researcher and lecturer at various universities and medical schools and now author. She's written many first drafts which are safely stored on her hard drive (perhaps, one day, to be revised...) but she has published four novels and two books of short stories. Two of the novels are in paperback as well as ebook format. She lives with her husband in various places: two homes in New Zealand - a town house in Auckland and an adobe beach house on an isolated bay in Northland - and, to take full advantage of the northern summer, a tiny summer cottage (off the grid and boat-access only) on a remote lake in North-western Ontario in Canada. All are places perfect for writing.

Book preview

Certain people shouldn’t be allowed to create chaos. Shouldn’t be free to go wherever they want, do whatever they want. That’s a given. So, a plan was needed way back then. And is still needed now….

First problem: the how.

Gunshot? A shot to the head (or the heart? yes, the heart) would do the trick. Plenty of guns around here, all rifles or shotguns – fine, they’d do the job – except they all are locked up. And buying one is out of the question. Besides, guns are noisy. Conclusion: a bad plan because … just too messy. Always thought it; still think it.

An ‘accident’? Drowning? Hmmm, not exactly easy to organise, so that’s a ‘no’. A ‘fall’? From where, though? An open window? From a high-rise maybe, but rural Oxfordshire is amazingly bereft of handy high-rises, so not a fall. A car accident? Better. Still the devil is in the details. And I’m no mechanic. Besides, most are not fatal. The last few accidents I’ve seen, the car has gone off the road with the front wheels stuck in the mud and one annoyed driver is standing nearby cursing. Blow that.

Poison? Not bad, on first thought. Being a social being and all, opportunity would be there, if clever. But you’d have to know what would do the necessary damage. Maybe it wouldn’t be fatal. Same shortfalls as the ‘accident’ with the possibility of leaving clues. Of course, a sub-category of poison would be drugs. Not illicit. But too close to home. Of course, most medications are poison. In sufficient quantities, that is. Even aspirin. But most have a taste. Not too practical, all in all. Except … could deserve more thought.

Thinking about this is a right royal pain in the cranium. Okay. Give it up for the time being.

Second problem: if any of the above is successful, how to get rid of the body? Too many people are caught because they foul up this bit. And forensic science is hellishly good at finding microscopic clues nowadays.

Just had a ferret around the internet. Lots more options. All, so far, out of reach. But nice to think about…

Can’t think of how to get rid of the body. Maybe forget that bit. If it’s clean, it’s clean.

This is becoming stupid.

In reality, an opportunity will present itself. Sooner or later. It just needs patience. And that I have in plenty.

Chapter 2

Madeleine Brooks had learned a lot about selling houses by the time she first met River Polson. Top of the list is that being an estate agent is not an easy way to earn a crust. Not that Maddie knew its difficulties when she reinvented herself. She’d moved to a small village in the south of Oxfordshire and thought this type of job would enable her to live in a small village in the countryside. It was an attempt to remove herself from the chaos that had recently plagued her life.

She quickly discovered there was a fundamental problem in her new profession, one that is never spoken but always acknowledged: buyers and sellers are natural opponents with the estate agent as piggy-in-the-middle. Naturally anxiety producing, which is why agents are necessary as supposedly neutral referees. People react to anxiety by becoming unpredictable, manipulative, evasive or all three. Just like the crims she used to handle when she was a Probation Officer. The sort of problems she thought she was leaving behind.

Still, River Polson was a potential buyer. The secret to handling buyers is to detect any subtle signs of enthusiasm. Listen carefully. Follow the cues. It took Maddie a while to get this straight. Far too long. But she had it now.

You saw the ad about the Grange? she asked River.

Olde Woodley Grange, he said with a roguish smile. That smile touched Maddie right where it was supposed to – it said, ‘I like you. I’m interested in you.’ Everyone reacts to attention. Maddie, too. Its touch of arrogance also said, ‘I’m onto you.’ A red flag for any Probation Officer worth her salt and superseding everything else.

Yes, well, she’d given up that career after putting in more than twenty years. Still, along the way she’d learned a thing or two about the kinds of people who ended up in prison. More ex-inmates than not could produce a roguish smile on demand.

I’d like to see the place. Now, if possible, River said with a reproduction of The Smile.

Maddie also knew never to go along with a request to skip necessary procedures. I’d love to show it to you, she said. Come with me and I’ll collect a few essential details before we go.

Oh, it’s not for me. River Polson was an older man but still retained the good looks nature had bestowed on him. It’s for a … relative. I just need to see whether it’s what it says it is. A period property. Renovated. Big enough. Pleasant view into the distance. Essentially if it comes across as presented.

A relative? The hesitation meant something. What, she wasn’t sure, but coupled with his roguish smile, Mr River Polson was a character she’d have to watch carefully.

This way, Mr Polson, she said with her own professional smile while indicating her desk in the open plan office.

Would it be all right to discuss the details over a drink? he asked. And it’s River. Please.

She smiled. Madeleine. How about a coffee?

He made a face. I was thinking of something cool. And long and wet.

She laughed. The Catherine Wheel has coffee. I’m in the middle of my working day, River. But you have something cold and wet and I’ll boost my caffeine levels. Yes, definitely a loveable rogue.

He was middle height with long hair gathered into a grey ponytail that hung down his back. She classified him as an old hippie in his mid-sixties or so. But a chat over a drink would be a good thing and they could talk as easily over a drink as anywhere else.

Lived here and there all my life, River said as they walked into the pub. I’m an Aussie by birth and accent, uni here in the UK, off to a commune in the mountains of Aus for a spell, then back here. He laughed. My life in one long sentence.

A commune in Australia? Confirmation of her ‘old hippie’ designation. She picked up the conversation as they sat in the warm cosiness of the old pub with their drinks. What do you do?

He took a long swallow of his beer. Manufacturing chemist.

She’d certainly heard that one before. Many times. So, her instincts about him being on the edge of the law were probably true. She wondered what he manufactured: could be anything from moonshine to methamphetamine. Maybe even heroin. But she doubted he was following a recipe for a better sunscreen. She didn’t have to wonder what he’d done at university. Chemistry would be her first and last guess. Still, she’d learned enough. Best drop the subject.

Once they arrived out at the property, the heavens opened and the lovely long view down the valley was completely cut off by sheets of autumnal rain. And the unoccupied house was distinctly chilly. Nevertheless, River was effusive in his approval. He poked his way into every nook and cranny, finally judging the property as ‘perfect’, even though he was not seeing it at its best.

Maddie left River with contact details to give to his ‘relative’. Better the ‘relative’ rang her than the other way around. In spite of all the enthusiasm on show, she was not at all certain she’d ever receive a return call.

Chapter 3

Maddie did not receive a call back anytime soon. In fact, the old hippie had almost slipped from her mind.

She was about to clean up the kitchen one evening after dinner when her phone rang. Not the old hippie or his ‘relative’.

Douglas.

How’s my favourite estate agent? he asked.

Pretty good, Douglas. Business is okay. Otherwise, a bit tired. Long day. How about you? Actually, her tiredness had disappeared like fog in the sunshine when she saw who was calling. Douglas, one of her favourite people.

Feeling stronger every day. I actually stripped some old paper from the walls of one of the bedrooms today. Hated doing it, but it had rotted through under the window.

Good for you, she said, meaning it. Douglas had been hospitalised recently. Don’t overdo it.

When shall we have dinner?

Maddie came off the phone with a smile on her face. Dinner with Douglas on Saturday – the first dinner out since his illness – her mind now on nothing more serious than what she’d wear.

Friday, after driving home in typical English rain that continued to sheet down, she emerged from the garage at the end of her back garden struggling to balance not only the grocery bags, but her business bag and an umbrella. At least the security light had come on. She paused. It should not have triggered until she was half way along the footpath towards the back door. She shifted the umbrella and cautiously glanced around. Something was caught in her peripheral vision – a movement – and she whirled around.

A small white dog raced towards her. He plopped himself on the path with his head on one side.

Who are you, little rascal? she asked him, experiencing a whoosh of disappearing tension.

He barked once and followed so closely behind her, she could feel his cold nose on the back of her ankle.

As soon as she opened up and before she could catch him, the dog dashed in and proceeded to shake his rain-drenched coat sending droplets all over the kitchen floor. Maddie dropped her wet umbrella on the mat and took off her squelchy shoes. She grabbed a hand towel.

Come here, trouble, she said to the dog as she crouched down. He was short haired and almost pure white with a black spot on one ear. He sat quietly while she gave him a good rubdown, which gave her an opportunity to read the tag dangling from his collar.

Whiffy McWhitty, She read aloud. Hello, Whiffy. She noted the phone number and grabbed her mobile.

Oh, thank heavens, a female voice said when Maddie told her the tale. I was so sure he’d been stolen, got himself lost or … or worse. She took a deep breath. Where are you? Is it alright if I come around and collect him?

When Maddie told the woman her address, she laughed. I’m right next door in Fuchsia Cottage. How funny. You must be what I’ve been calling the ‘People across the Lane’.

Maddie looked out her kitchen window. And you’re my ‘Neighbours over the Hedge’. I heard someone had moved in. The place has been empty for some weeks. Look, wait for the rain to ease. Your little Whiffy is fine here. I’ll put some water down for him.

Half an hour later, she had her vegetables cut up and the fish ready to put into the frying pan once her new neighbour had collected Whiffy and left again.

Fifteen minutes later, Maddie gave up waiting for her new neighbour. She opened the bottle of Oyster Bay Merlot, a favourite of hers and a red wine she figured was perfect with fish, and poured herself a glass.

She was half way through the news when she heard a knock on the door.

Come in, she said on opening the door to the woman who must be her new next door neighbour. She was much her own age, early fifties, but tall and built like a female body builder. She was wearing a loose top over exercise gear. And she was toned. Whiffy is…

Whiffy knew who had come in. He launched himself at the woman in a frenzy of excitement, licking her hands and making yips of utter delight.

The woman bent down to her dog and let him kiss her face, muttering endearments all the while. She was not a beautiful woman, not even mildly pretty, but attractive in a way the nineteenth century would have called ‘handsome’. She had a long face, a strong jaw and curly brown hair.

After a long minute or two devoted to her dog, she looked up at Maddie. Joy McWhitty, now living next door. I’m so pleased you found my naughty little boy. She smiled up at Maddie and it was as if the whole world had been lit up. Some people possess that type of smile. Joy was the perfect name for this woman.

Joy, Maddie said. I’ve always loved that name. It’s mine too; I’m Madeleine Joy Brooks, would you believe. But Maddie to friends and family. Would you like a glass of wine?

Now seated on the couch, her dog at her feet, Joy raised her glass to Maddie. To neighbours who share a name, she said with a twinkle. Nice you like Joy for a name, but yours is safely a second name. I’m often unhappy to be saddled with it as my given name. It conveys an expectation. And there are plenty of times when I’m not joyful. Or anything close.

Maddie was taken aback. Um … I’m sorry about that. But I still like the name.

Yes, well, divorce does take a bit of joy out of life. Especially when it’s unexpected.

Maddie stared at her for a split second before she realised Joy was talking about herself, not Maddie. I do agree. It’s a punch in the gut, for sure. Maddie felt a ghost of familiar feelings when she unexpectedly was reminded of her own marriage breakup. She was almost over it and didn’t like being reminded of her own unwanted marital problems.

I remind myself to keep remembering him when he was younger. Fit. Not the waste of a man you see today. Nothing to talk about. He’s become a whinger, Maddie. Old and decrepit and dreary, so boring. Joy’s eyes welled up. But Richard…. She couldn’t finish.

I’m sorry, Maddie said, reaching over to touch Joy’s forearm. It’s hellish. I do know. Relationship breakups are hell. I’m in the process of recovering from one, too.

Joy didn’t reply, just wiped her eyes with a tissue and nodded fervently.

But I’m getting there, Maddie said. You will, too, I’m sure.

Joy nodded. I hope so. I so so so hope so. She took a swig of her wine. This is a nice drop.

A New Zealand merlot, Maddie said. I always source merlots from New Zealand, shirazes from Australia, cab savs from France and rioja reserves from Spain.

Joy raised her glass with a wavering smile. Couldn’t agree more.

Maddie gestured with the bottle and Joy had a refill. Maddie was saving her second glass to have with her meal.

It’s the end of the week, Maddie. You’re not going to join me?

I’m an estate agent and my busiest days are Saturday and Sunday, Maddie explained. No more for me, but do enjoy it. She didn’t mention her dinner in the kitchen was awaiting her.

However, Joy finished her wine quickly and got up to go. I’m so pleased to meet you, Maddie. And to find you’re just out of a relationship and doing well, too. You can’t know how much that means to me. I just know we’ll be best friends.

Later, as Maddie cooked her piece of cod in butter and garlic, she was just that tiny bit discomforted at Joy’s assertion that they would be best friends. Best?

She was more comfortable saying good friends. Hopefully.

Chapter 4

Later that Friday evening, Maddie’s cell phone rang. Fern Rolson speaking. You gave my … erm … my friend River your card to give to me? asked a voice at the other end of the line. You have a period house for sale out in the countryside?

Yes, I have, Maddie replied, pausing. River’s last name was, if she remembered correctly, Polson. If it had been River Rolson, she would have noted the double ‘R’ sounds. I must get this straight. Your name is Fern Rolson? His is River Polson with a ‘P’?

Fern laughed. That’s right and it’s a long story which I may bore you with sometime. But he says the Olde Woodley Grange is exactly the kind of property I would be interested in. As well as all the details River discussed with you, top priority he might not have mentioned is for privacy and a very good security system.

There is a standard security system there and fancier ones are available, obviously, Maddie said, slipping effortlessly into work mode. More importantly, you’ll see that The Grange has all the privacy anyone could want. Nobody overlooks either the house or the majority of the grounds and the main road is beyond a small rise. The other side of the property from the road consists of woods, mostly large trees – beech, holly, the odd oak – climbing up a steep hillside. Completely private.

That does sound ideal, and I’m anxious to see it, Fern said. Tomorrow is Saturday. Do you work then? I can bring my kids with me to see it, if so.

They arranged to meet at Maddie’s office in Goring-on-Thames at three the next day.

One last thing, Fern said. Tomorrow, can we pretend it was me who found this house on the website? I have two teenagers, a girl of 18 and a boy of 14. I’d like to leave River’s name out of any discussions we have in front of them. She laughed again. Sorry to be so melodramatic, but I really don’t want him in our lives even though I appreciate his contacting you. He knows this, by the way, and is okay about it.

Maddie came off the telephone shaking her head. River Polson, ‘manufacturing chemist’ with a name strikingly like Fern Rolson’s, and a ‘relative’ or a ‘friend’ of hers, a man Maddie instinctively knew had been or was presently on the wrong side of the law, was not to be mentioned. And an emphasis on privacy? Details which set her antennae quivering.

Secrets. We all have ’em. Some just a tad more important than others. But Maddie knew when to be wary. She pushed down her doubts. She needed a decent sale to bolster her miniscule savings, and selling the Olde Woodley Grange would fit this requirement. Maddie was not living in her own place. A good friend had allowed her to stay in her beautiful 18thC cottage in Woodley Bottom. How Maddie wished she could remain in it forever, but there was no way that would happen. Now she was feeling settled in her new locality, she had no desire to leave. But how on earth could she afford to live here? The gentrification of anywhere within commuting distance from London – and these villages met the criteria – meant house prices were high. Still, this had been her choice and she’d figure a way out of her dilemma. Sooner or later.

Other than seeing the Rolson family, Maddie’s Saturday consisted of preparing for and conducting an Open Home in Courtneyside in the new estate there.

After the Open Home, Maddie was satisfied with the response. She was unloading her car of all the paraphernalia from her morning when her phone