“For God’s sake,” Knowle said from above. He sounded like he was about a foot away. “You can’t hide. I’ll shoot them both and come after you.”

“You can’t sail the yacht,” Kim pointed out. “And Chingford’s in no shape to help. Kill us and you’ll be stuck out here till you get caught or die of thirst. I wonder if Will went overboard with Anton? That was quite the splash earlier.”

“If you believed that, you’d sound more worried.”

“Oh, well. Plenty more where that came from. And he was getting rather greedy.”

“Shut up,” Knowle said. “You go first. Try anything and your father dies. And tell Darling that if he doesn’t come out, I’ll shoot you in the kneecaps. Move, both of you!”

Will heard the steps go past. Kim’s light tread, Lord Flitby more like a shuffle, then Knowle.

“Will?” Kim called. “Will, where are you?”

Will braced his legs, pushed himself up enough to see they’d all gone by, and hauled himself up the side of the yacht without letting a grunt pass his lips. Knowle was behind Flitby, the gun pointed at his head, just a few inches away. That could be a problem.

He swung himself over the side and onto the deck, very aware of the wet flap of trousers round his calves. His sodden socks landed quietly enough. He pulled the spanner from his waistband, and paced silently after Knowle. One step, two, and then Kim, silhouetted in the lantern light, swung round and shouted, “Now!”

Knowle spun as well, the gun swinging with him. Will’s spanner cracked his shoulder at an ineffectual angle, sending his arm down. The gun went off, deafening, and Will’s leg went from under him as if he’d been kicked by a horse.

God’s sake. Not again.

He tried to regain his balance, but there was a searing heat through his left calf and it didn’t want to hold him. Knowle’s face twisted with vengeful triumph for a fraction of a second before Kim came flying in with a rugby tackle, hitting him amidships. Knowle went down, and Kim landed a couple of wild swings before Knowle kicked him off. Will braced to launch himself into the brawl but the yacht lurched underfoot, his leg gave way, and it was all he could do to hang on to the side and stop himself slipping to the deck. Knowle reared up, the gun in his hand, aimed point blank at Kim—

Another shot.

Knowle jolted. He put a hand to his belly and took it away again, looking at his dark wet palm, bewildered. He was still looking at it when the Marquess of Flitby walked up, put a revolver to his forehead, and fired.

Kim scrambled away, too late. Flitby let the gun drop on Knowle’s body. “Where is Chingford?”