Matthew found the pistol as Bogen rolled this way and that between the seats, gasping like a dying fish. As he cocked the hammer, the doors to his right opened.

He put the pistol in the faces of the two men who stood there, one indeed with the musket in hand but not yet levelled to take aim.

“Drop that,” Matthew said.

Either the ferocity of his command or the blood coming out of both his nostrils spoke for quick obedience, because the musket fell into the snow.

“Don’t shoot, sir,” the other driver said, lifting his hands. He cast a quick glance at the strangling and thrashing Bogen, and then he said, “I’m a hired man, sir, I don’t have no dog in this fight.”

“Move back. Both of you put your hands behind your heads.” As they did so, Matthew climbed down from the coach on the little wooden steps one of the men had lowered. He kept the pistol aimed somewhere between them. If they knew how wrecked he felt they might have rushed him; he only had a shot for one man, but it appeared that neither one wished to take a ball for the vice admiral and certainly not for Bogen.

Where were they? Matthew quickly took his bearings. A faint purple blush had begun to paint the darkness of the clouds. Through the falling snow he saw they were still on Endsleigh Park Road but the illuminated windows of the Lash mansion looked to be at least a hundred yards away. Was the guard still at the gate? Had he seen the coach stop? Possibly he’d gone into the house for warmth after the coach had pulled away? Matthew couldn’t worry about that at the moment; he had to move and move fast while that party of killers still sat at their feast.

“Both of you start running,” Matthew said. He kept the pistol as steady as a man suffering with the shakes could. He pointed with his free hand in the direction opposite Lash’s house. “That way. If I see either one of you coming back, I swear to God I’ll shoot to kill.”

The two drivers might fear the wrath of Samson Lash but since Lash was not present, they feared the wrath of Matthew Corbett much more, particularly as he was wild-eyed and spraying spittle, hoarse-voiced and most importantly with that gun in his grip looked like a very bad man.

“Go now,” Matthew croaked. “Be glad you didn’t wind up as shark food.”

They went, without realizing Matthew had likely saved them from a horrible death at the hands of Professor Fell. Within seconds they were taken from sight by the currents of snow.

But he doubted they’d go very far without trying to get back to the house. They would hunker down somewhere, probably in the park, and wait until their courage had—

Bogen fell on him from the coach.