“They won’t,” I said, though they certainly would. A poor Catholic boy whose only defense for killing a rich man was a mad tale told by a bastard French girl? If Vellacott had not believed us, then no one else would.
“They will,” I said. “But we won’t let them. We can’t stay here. We have to hurry.”
I started to run, pulling Dominic after me. His mother’s flat wasn’t far, thankfully. He looked a fright, and drew stares from each of the few townspeople we passed. Once inside, he came back to life. He washed his face and hands in the basin, then went into his room to hastily change from his gory clothes.
“Bring whatever money you can,” I said. “I have enough for the trip to London, but there won’t be much left after that.”
Dominic came out of the bedroom in fresh clothes, staring at me.
“London? What will we do in London?”
“Hide, for one thing,” I said. “My friend there will help us. Please hurry, Dominic. We have to get away before Vellacott comes back with the constable. This will be the first place they look.”
He stood there, staring at me. Shock had apparently dulled his mind. I seized his hand and pulled him to the door. He stopped me and yanked his arm away.
“Why are you doing this, Thea?” he asked. “If you help me run, they will think you helped me kill him. You had nothing to do with this.”
I stared at him. “Nothing to do with this? Those were my notes he was following! And I am the only one who understands … it could just as easily have been me!”
Dominic was shaking his head. “I can’t let you do this. I will turn myself in. I will tell them what happened. And you can ask your father to speak for me.”
“He won’t. You heard him. Don’t be stupid, Dominic. I have nothing to stay for anyway, not after that.” I seized his arm, and this time he went with me.
We went down backstreets to the coach station, walking as quickly as we could without drawing attention. The next coach to leave for London was mercifully soon, and I bought us both inside passage and nearly forced Dominic into the carriage. An elderly gentleman, already dozing, was the only other passenger. We pulled away.
I watched Oxford go past with hatred. I had never enjoyed a place less. I resolved not to come back if I could help it, then realized at once that the resolution was unnecessary. I couldn’t come back now that I was fleeing with a fugitive, unless it was under guard, to stand trial.
8
I spent the journey trying to get a glimpse of the road behind us, expecting the constabulary to catch up at any moment. But when the first few hours had passed, and it became clear they would not catch us on the road, at least, I turned my anxiety to Dominic.
He sat next to me. His head leaned back against the boards, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. His chest was alternately still and heaving. His face was tinged green, and I didn’t think it was from the coach’s movement. The elderly gentleman across from us, on the other hand, snored violently. I placed my hand over Dominic’s tightly curled fist and leaned toward him.
“Everything will be well,” I whispered.
Dominic’s head tilted toward me, but he didn’t open his eyes.
“My mother.” His voice caught. “She’ll think … What will she think?”
“She’ll know you’re innocent.”
“I shouldn’t have run. I should have stayed and told them the truth.”
“They would not have understood.”
“Then they never will,” he said. “They will catch me sooner or later.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I had no plan to hide him beyond getting away from Oxford and throwing him into Will’s hands. I didn’t know if Will could hide him, really. What if I hadn’t saved Dominic at all, but only made it worse? My stomach turned over at the thought.
“I’m no criminal,” Dominic said, finally opening his eyes. Only a few inches from mine. “I don’t know how to hide.”
I swallowed hard and summoned my resolve.
“Leave that to me.”
“You’re no criminal, either,” said Dominic. “How do you know how to hide?”
“I don’t,” I admitted. “But I know someone who does.”
It was the middle of the night when we arrived at the staging post in London. All I could see of the city were glimpses of the wide river and dark, tall buildings on narrow streets. The staging post was on a crowded street outside a church whose shadowy spires sliced into the night sky. Dominic looked up at it. Small hackney cabs were parked on the street, and a young man came toward us almost the moment we disembarked, offering his services.
I knew Will’s address by heart, but hesitated to give it to the cabdriver. Up to this point, we had left an easy trail to follow.
Dominic, standing beside me, spoke into my ear, too quietly for the cabdriver to hear. “I need to see a priest.”
“We can find one tomorrow,” I said.
“No,” said Dominic. “Now.”
I decided not to argue.
“Do you know of any Roman Catholic chapels hereabouts?” I asked the cabdriver.
It was dark, but I could see his eyebrows shoot up. I suddenly realized what an unusual request this must be here in the heart of the Anglican religion. I had forgotten, in my exhaustion, that England was not France, where a priest could be found on every street corner even in these enlightened times.
“There’s one on Warwick Street. The one they tore up in the riot,” he said after a moment. “But it’ll be locked up tight at this hour.”
“It’s almost morning, in any case,” I said, though morning was several hours off. I knew I couldn’t give this cabdriver Will’s address.
