Crowley hid his smile behind his mug as he sipped.
“Birthmarks, I believe, are windows to past lives.” Brown downed his remaining tea in one long draught. “This is a more common belief and one I do share.”
Crowley winced at the thought of the tea scalding Brown’s throat, but he just smiled and put his mug on the ground. “How does that work?” Crowley asked. “Does a person have the same birthmark as someone in the past, is that it? We know at least three people now have a mark the same as Rose’s. Does that mark travel back through history? In their family line or something?” He couldn’t believe the questions he was asking, but the investigation had led them this far and it was pointless to shy away from its continued progression, no matter how unnatural that might seem. “Should we be searching for a historical figure who had the same mark as Rose?”
Brown shook his head. “Not so literal. The birthmark tells you the way someone died. The markings match the death wound. Imagine some birthmarks you’ve seen and then think of sword wounds, spears, bullets.”
“There are lots of birthmarks that don’t make sense that way,” Rose said. “I mean, a small mark on an arm isn’t going to be an echo of some ancestral death, is it?”
“Maybe not. Or maybe that tiny wound got infected and did lead to the death of someone.” Brown smiled again. His grin was wide and easy, gave him an open, friendly expression it was hard to ignore.
This guy could sell snowplows to the Bedouin, Crowley thought to himself.
“I’m not suggesting all birthmarks are necessarily death marks,” Brown went on. “Just that some deaths are significant enough that they echo down through the ages, through generations, as marks permanently on the skin from birth.”
Rose frowned, shook her head slowly. “But neither my mother nor father have a mark like mine.”
Brown raised his palms. “So I guess their lives are not intrinsically tied to the life of their ancestor like yours appears to be. Your mark may well connect you with the death of someone back in your genetic history and there’s something here, now, that ties you together.”
Crowley turned to Rose, skepticism rising again despite his attempts to take all this seriously. “So we're looking for someone who was ambushed by an eagle?”
Brown left half a smile on one side of his mouth, but his brow wrinkled in a frown, puzzled.
Rose shot Crowley a glare, and he looked away, let the joke die. “What do you know about the Devil’s Bible?” Rose asked.
Brown’s eyebrows popped up. “Now, there’s an interesting artifact, and an even more interesting story accompanies it, especially with regard to past lives. If the truth is known.”
Crowley stiffened, and shot one finger up to silence them both. Brown and Rose watched him with wide eyes, alert. “Footsteps,” Crowley whispered. A soft tap and scuff in the distance drifted along the stone chambers, drawing nearer. Crowley had noticed them, but the strange acoustics made it impossible for him to determine the direction.
Brown nodded, gestured out the door and right, across the Roman baths.
“We need to go,” Crowley said. “But that’s the only way I know. Is another way out of here?”
Chapter 15
Brown moved quickly, unhooked the lantern, and pointed to one of his bookcases. “Help me here. Rose, close that door, there’s a lock inside.”
Crowley didn’t question. He slipped his fingers behind the wood where Brown indicated, and pulled. The thing moved far more easily than he had anticipated, and completely silently, as if it ran on oiled runners.
“Rubber wheels underneath.” Brown grinned.
Behind the shelving stood a low wooden door, like a trapdoor in the wall. As Rose locked them in, Brown pressed a hidden trigger in the wood and the trapdoor popped open. “Mind your head,” he said, and ducked inside.
Crowley waved Rose ahead of him and dropped to his knees to crawl in after her as the door behind them rattled. The noise became a vigorous shake. Presumably whoever was on the other side realized they had lost the element of surprise. Booms echoed in the small room as heavy kicks thudded into the wood.
“That won’t hold them for long,” Brown called back. “Hurry.”
They moved single file on hands and knees for several meters and, as Crowley was beginning to wonder how far they could carry on like this, Brown’s lantern illuminated a larger space. He and his light dropped from sight, then the brightness bobbed around somewhere below them.
“The drop’s only a few feet, but don’t twist an ankle,” the hermit called up, waving his light to guide them. As Rose and Crowley joined him on an uneven flagstone floor, he turned and pointed. Two wide tunnels led away from the opposite side of the room. Old pipes and wooden boxes, long since broken down and dilapidated, hung off the walls.
“This is an old maintenance room,” Brown said. “I made my escape tunnel through to here years ago. It’s saved me a few times.”
“Maintenance for what?” Crowley asked.
Brown grinned. “The London Underground. You guys have to go in the dark now.” He pointed to the tunnel on the left. “I’ll go that way, try to draw them away. Then I can lose them in a maze of old, uncharted catacombs. I know my way around, so I’ll have the advantage over them. You take the other passage.”
“We have torches,” Crowley said. “Or I can use the light on my phone.”
Brown shook his head. “It’ll shine back and give you away. That way goes for about a hundred feet, then you’ll hit a door. Feel for the handle, it’s unlocked. Close it behind you, then use your light. You’ll be in a side tunnel of the Central Line. Go right, follow your nose, you’ll pass through another disused maintenance room. Go right through and follow the tunnel again and you’ll find the tracks. Keep your ears open for trains, eh? Don’t get hit. You’ll come out at St. Paul’s station.”
Crowley reached out, shook Brown’s hand. “Thank you. I wish we’d had more time.”
“You’re welcome. Now watch out for the homeless people down there. Be nice to them if you can. They’re broken, not evil.”
“We will. Thanks.”
The sound of splintering wood echoed along to them.
Brown winced. “That’s my front door. Go! Oh, and based on everything you told me, I suggest you find the Devil’s Bible. It won’t be easy, and don’t be confused by urban myths and old legends. Find the real one.”
Without another word he ran across the maintenance room and into the left hand tunnel. His light glowed back in a pale, watery sheen. Rose shot for the other passage and Crowley followed, voices and cursing floating into the room behind them.
Once out of the glow of Brown’s lantern, the darkness was absolute. Crowley caught up to Rose, made them both stumble.
“Sorry, can’t see a thing.”
“Let’s hope they can’t either.” She grunted as Crowley heard her bump into something. “Here’s the door.” The handle creaked and the door scraped as she pushed it open. Crowley crowded through behind, pulled the door closed, and flicked up the flashlight app on his phone. The new corridor was red brick. Old, but far more recent than the large sandstone blocks of the lost Roman rooms. And Brown had mentioned a warren of catacombs. Crowley ached to come back and have time to explore the area. The historian in him was lost in wonder at the possibilities. What might he find? Perhaps he would visit Declan Brown again and request the man’s assistance.
They heard muffled shouting and a crash, then an echoing report.