“About my father.” Phoebe sounded a little remote. “Things he’d done, and ordered to be done. I think he hated him, and Johnnie. He certainly hates me on their behalf. He called me a stuck-up bitch again. I’ve never met the man.”

“Fee—”

“He was using language. Telling us what he could do if he wanted,” Maisie said. “He took hold of my face. And—oh God.”

“Don’t think about it,” Phoebe said urgently. “Don’t.”

Will’s knuckles were white on the spanner. Kim said, “What happened?”

Phoebe spoke in a barely audible whisper. “She was sick on his shoes.”

Kim choked. Maisie said, “It’s not funny.”

“Of course it isn’t, darling,” Phoebe assured her. “Though I’m positive you’ll be glad of it later. Anyway, that put him off his stride rather, and he went away, but we’d prefer not to be on a boat with him, that’s all.”

“No,” Kim said. “Unfortunately, we’re stuck here for the moment.” He pulled out a paper and pencil from a drawer and went to the small table. “Didn’t you have some story about getting stuck on a yacht, Fee? Something about Bubby Fanshawe?” He started to write, but made a cycling motion with his hand as he spoke: Keep talking.

“Bubby? Oh, yes,” Phoebe said. “Let me see, how did it start? I think we were in Monte Carlo—”

Will came over to see what Kim was writing. It was a brief list.

Flitby—helm. Unlikely to intervene either way

Anton—sick. Was at stern earlier

Will put his finger on ‘stern’. Kim crossed it out, and wrote back of boat.

Knowle—ranging around??

Chingford outside

Will lifted the spanner meaningfully. Kim nodded. Wait till they let us out?

Will shook his head and took the pencil. Now. I get Chingford, you take his gun, go up quick.

“—And it was all Bubby’s fault really, but Adela’s never set foot on a yacht since,” Phoebe concluded. She was staring at the page, then looked at them both with worried eyes. “One can’t blame her. I don’t feel awfully well-disposed to anything nautical at the moment.”

“Of course not. I hope this won’t put you off forever.” We need to make Chingford come in, Kim wrote.

Phoebe gave a little hop and raised her hand, startlingly schoolgirlish. Kim tipped his head, then indicated ‘carry on’ with a wave.

Will took up a position by the door. Phoebe and Kim came close to it, and Maisie raised herself on her elbows, curiosity briefly winning over seasickness.

“God, I’m wiped out,” Kim said. “Are you asleep, Will? I swear he is.”