D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

all was that he’d only just met her two hours before. Surely, if she knew what was going on in his mind right this moment, she would laugh in his face.

“Is it much further?” Erika asked, breaking into the stream of his thoughts.

“It’s about a mile further up the road,” he said. “You’ll take a right at the crossroads.”

Ten minutes later they pulled into the long drive leading to his mother’s cottage nestled into a stand of fir trees. The Mercedes’ tires crunched over the gravel and Michael winced as he heard several stones glancing off the doors. Why his mother had never had it paved was like asking why they celebrated Boxing Day after Christmas when they didn’t have servants to give gifts. “It’s tradition,” his mother would say with an arched eyebrow. “We’ve always done it.”

The car rounded the circular drive with its concrete birdbath set into the tiny island garden, coming to a halt directly across from the front door.

“Welcome to Woodhaven,” Michael said, opening the car door and climbing out.

Erika followed suit; her eyes filled with wonder as she examined the cottage. It was typical English two-storey red-brick construction, built in the late 1800s, boasting a genuine thatched roof that needed replacing every five years, as well as leaded-glass windows that sparkled like rainbows when the afternoon sun arced through them every day.

“It’s lovely, Michael. But what did you call it?”

“Woodhaven. My grandfather built it in 1891 with his own hands and thought it should have a proper name. People did that back then.”

“I think it’s charming,” she said, flashing that hundred-watt smile again.

The front door opened, and Lillian Thorley emerged, a tentative smile on her face. Though, it had been nearly six months since he’d last visited, he noticed she’d changed her hairstyle. It was a shade darker and was now off her shoulders in a soft perm, making her look at least ten years younger. Her dress, too, was more contemporary, more stylish than he recalled her wearing.

Had she finally found someone to replace Michael’s father?

He felt a strange mixture of emotions. Happiness, envy, and perhaps more than a little shock. After all, one did not like to see one’s mother having a fling.

Lillian came forward and enfolded him in her arms. “Michael, darling,” she said, patting his back. “So good to see you.”

At least one thing hadn’t changed. She still wore the same fragrance she’d always worn—Chanel No. 5. It was her one extravagance, and he could never smell it without thinking of her. It was the main reason he’d never been able to date a woman that wore it.

Breaking the embrace, Lillian turned to Erika, appraising her with a cool eye. The moment stretched for so long that he found himself growing uncomfortable, though he could see no such discomfort in Erika, who returned his mother’s gaze with a level stare of her own. Just as he was about to intervene, Lillian broke the mood with a warm smile. “It appears my son has good taste, after all.”

Erika laughed, and Lillian and Michael joined in.

Lillian put her arm around Erika and led her inside. Michael followed, shaking his head.

The cottage remained unchanged; the same cozy room, fire in the hearth, stuffed chairs with lace antimacassars, the grandfather clock ticking away the hours, and dozens of photos of a growing Michael atop the baby grand piano in the corner.

Lillian motioned for Michael and Erika to sit on the love seat, while she took one of the hard-backed chairs. Between them lay the remains of her evening meal on the coffee table.

“You must forgive me,” she said. “I would have fixed you something, I’m quite embarrassed.”

Erika smiled and shook her head. “That is not necessary, Mrs. Thorley.”

“You have such a lovely accent, my dear. Where are you from?”

“Germany.”

“Beautiful country, I’m told, but such a troubled place. I’ve never traveled there, you see, but I’ve heard that the Oktoberfest is such fun.”

“Mother,” Michael interrupted. “Erika and I need your help.”

“You do?” she asked, with a puzzled frown.

“Mrs. Thorley, it’s not what you think. Michael brought me here because he thought you might be able to help me find out who killed my father.”

“What? Oh, my poor dear child.” She turned to Michael. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Michael and I met this afternoon.”

And then Michael listened as Erika retold her story to his mother. To Erika’s credit she kept her story emotionless, though he knew the retelling of it must be tearing her up inside. As for his mother, she listened patiently, her expression becoming more and more grave.

“...So, you see, Mrs. Thorley,” Erika said, “I’ve nowhere else to turn. I’m sure my father would not have told me to come to England, unless he knew that your late husband could help.”

Lillian glanced at Michael. “But surely he must have known that my husband died during the war....”

“I don’t know what to say.” She paused, her eyes clouding with tears. “My father was a meticulous man. He had to have known...and yet his instructions were explicit.”

“Perhaps Dad left something,” Michael offered, trying to defuse a situation that was becoming more and more awkward. He was beginning to think the whole idea of bringing Erika here was a fool’s errand. And yet, he couldn’t—didn’t—want to give up so soon.

Lillian shook her head, as if trying to remember. “It was all so long ago. I put all of your father’s things in the attic. I couldn’t bear to look at them after the army sent them home.... We had so many plans.” Her expression saddened, aging her badly, and making Michael’s heart ache.

How could she stand the loneliness all these years? he wondered.

“May we go