Rose then found herself with a few hours to kill and a desire to be outside, so she walked from Dulwich Village to Camberwell. It took her nearly two hours, but only because she rambled left and right, looking in shops. She could have made the journey in less than one hour if necessary, but the busy streets and inviting stores were a welcome distraction. The sheer normality of life around her was a balm to a soul battered by dark alleys and hooded attackers searching for birthmarks. Eventually she found another café on Peckham Road, a place of dark polished wood and blue velvet seating, with mirrors on the walls and stained glass lampshades hanging over each table to make rainbow pools of light. It felt safe, cozy, and was only about a five minute walk from the address she had been given. She settled in, ordered more coffee, and sent Jake a text message with the café’s address. Then she tapped up an e-reading app on her phone. She opened a collection of Annie Proulx short stories she’d been meaning to read for months and let the talented writer carry her away on a sea of words, but she couldn’t help keeping one nervous eye on the door, partly in anticipation of Crowley’s arrival, partly in fear that someone else would find her here.
She was getting hungry by the time Crowley showed up, just after one in the afternoon, and slipped into the seat opposite her. She was inordinately glad to see him. They ordered sandwiches and more coffee. She wondered if she ought to cut it back, before the caffeine set her buzzing, but for now it seemed to calm her nerves. They ate while she brought him up to speed on all the details.
After they’d finished and paid, Crowley put a strong hand on her shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “Come on, then. Let’s go and see who these people are.”
The house stood among several others just like it, thoroughly non-descript. A nice enough place, the tiny piece of garden out the front well-tended behind its low brick wall, a Japanese maple tree in resplendent leaf. The front door was painted a deep maroon, the doorbell in the center of the upper panel a shining brass affair with curlicue back plate and faux-ivory button.
“Think it’ll play Für Elise when you press it?” Crowley quipped, but his voice was tight.
Rose realized he shared her concern, but tried to mask it with levity. She threw him a quick grin and pressed the button. A muted ding-dong echoed from inside the house. Silence followed and Rose began to wonder if all her tension would be wasted on an empty residence when she spotted movement through the frosted glass panels beside the door. A gap appeared at the frame, then the door clanked to a stop on a brass chain. A woman’s face appeared, maybe mid-forties, friendly enough under a mop of blonde curls. A large port wine birthmark covered one half of her face from forehead to throat, right over one cheek and entirely circling her left eye.
“Yes?” The woman’s voice was taut with suspicion.
Rose swallowed, momentarily at a loss for something to say. The woman stared. Eventually, Rose said, “I was given your address. I think you might be able to help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes, I… Honestly, I’m not sure how, but I’ve got nowhere else to go. You’re my last hope.” Rose heard the fear in her voice and part of her loathed that she’d been reduced to begging strangers for assistance. But perhaps the genuine concern would convince this woman to open the door. Though Rose had no idea what kind of help she might be.
“Show me.”
Frowning, unsure what help it would be, Rose held out the slip of paper with the Holm Institute receptionist’s quickly scrawled handwriting. “I was given this address…”
“Not that. You’re not getting in until you show me proof.” The woman raised one hand, pointed to her purple cheek. “You want me to help you, so show me you need my help.”
Crowley leaned forward, whispered in Rose’s ear. “I think she wants to see your birthmark.”
Rose nodded. “Yes, I realize that now!” The response had been snippy. She glanced back at him. “Sorry.”
The woman crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting.
Rose turned and lifted the back of her shirt, her gaze darting nervously back and forth along the street beyond the wrought iron gate. What must this look like to anybody who happened to be passing?
The woman at the door gasped. She wore a horrified expression as Rose turned back to face her, then the door closed and she heard the clink of the chain being undone. Relief flooded her as the door opened again.
“Get in here.” She grabbed Rose’s hand and hauled her inside. Crowley stepped forward to follow but the woman put a palm into his chest to stop him. “Not unless you have a mark,” she said doggedly.
“I’m with her,” Crowley said, brow knitting in annoyance. “She’s in all kinds of trouble and I don’t plan to leave her alone in a strange house.”
“You got a mark?” the woman demanded.
A liquid panic swelled in Rose’s gut. Had she walked right into a trap? Was this woman somehow connected with the people who had been hunting her? Then again, the diminutive creature was really no match for Crowley should he choose to force his way in. Or Rose herself, for that matter.
A tall, thin man appeared along the narrow hallway, footsteps silent on the deep red Persian carpet. Rose jumped, but he put a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, wisps of gray hair floating around his almost completely bald head. He looked to be of a similar age and bore a bright red birthmark over the back of his right hand. It ran up his wrist and disappeared into the sleeve of a linen shirt. “What’s happening, Margaret?”
Margaret nodded toward Rose, her hand still pressed to Crowley’s chest. “She has the same mark as Danny.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. “The same? Really?”
“Exactly the same! And he insists on accompanying her.”
“I’m not leaving without her, and you’re not closing that door with her inside,” Crowley said. He ignored the hand on his chest, but his voice had become dangerously hard.
The man raised both hands, palms out. “It’s okay, no need to worry.” He gently removed Margaret’s hand from Crowley. “I’m George Wilson, this is Margaret. You’d both better come in.”
Chapter 10
Crowley’s breathing relaxed as he stepped into the house and closed the front door. The warm hallway smelled of roses and fresh coffee. A mahogany side table stood against the wall, with wallets and keys in a ceramic bowl on top. Alongside it stood a coat rack loaded with anoraks and scarves. At the end of the hall lay a kitchen bathed in sunlight; an inviting scene, all clean pine cupboards and gray marble benchtops. The place was as homely and unremarkable as anywhere he could imagine.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret muttered before turning to follow the man. Her husband, Crowley assumed.
“It’s fine,” Crowley said. “I don’t blame you for caution when strangers come knocking at your door.”
She glanced back. “Well, we get quite a few, but things have been tense lately.”
“Come in, come in,” George said firmly before Crowley could question what Margaret meant by ‘tense’. “I’ll make us a drink and we can talk.”
He led the way into a lounge room with a heavily padded floral sofa and armchairs. Glass-fronted wooden cabinets lined the walls, filled with all manner of souvenirs and knick-knack. It appeared that George and Margaret had spent many holidays in the Spanish islands, Majorca and Minorca memorabilia all over the place. A bookcase lined one side of the room, covered with novels and history books, atlases and dictionaries.