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awfully adept at providing him with regular supplies of eatables. And if she wasn’t around, it would be that obliging American girl who answered his call. The other day he had asked for a dish of fritto misto – and he’d got it – hey presto! – piping hot – done to perfection!
    The American girl had also brought him a whole cherry Bakewell tart. He had tried to lure and entice the Enemy with pieces of cake, which he had left lying on his windowsill. His intention was to capture a seagull alive, put it in a cage and subject it to some refined nastiness worthy of Dante, but the blasted things were too clever to fall for such a ruse, it seemed.
    There was still some cake left. Goody! He swung his monocle on its black silk ribbon.
    The American girl was actually the kind of girl he’d enjoy making friends with. But she seemed to be at the beck and call of the chap in the yachting cap, another American, whom John suspected of coveting the island. It was the kind of aberration that urgently needed correcting.
    As John poured boiling water over the Gunpowder tealeaves, he felt the beginnings of a headache. The fellow in the yachting cap looked ruddy and hearty and he had discussed the island with Sybil. They had been standing on the terrace below. The fellow said the island was exactly what he needed …
    There should be an eleventh commandment. Thou shall not covet thy host’s island.
    He carried his cup to his desk and sat in the swivel chair. The window was open. Such a magnificent day – not a single cloud in the sky! He couldn’t see any gulls either. He took a sip of tea.
    No, he didn’t care at all for the chap in the yachting cap. Not one little bit.
    What was that – voices? There were people in the library – which was immediately below his room.
    His headache was worse now, so he reached out for the rosewood box that lay on the desk before him. Taking out a sheet of blotting paper, he tore out a large piece, crumpled it up between his fingers and popped it into his mouth. Then another.
    The trick was to concentrate and chew slowly . Once the blotting paper was transformed into paste, he would insert it between his front teeth and the upper lip and thus prevent the vibrations of the skull which caused the shooting headaches.
    The voices in the library were becoming louder. He was a perfectly reasonable man, but if they went on like that, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Should he get his gun and fire a warning shot in the air?
    He could actually hear what was being said . Nellie Grylls asking when Sybil was coming back. He knew her voice well enough. Once, years ago, he and Nellie Grylls had sat next to each other at dinner. He then heard the chap with the hearty American accent – the chap who coveted his island – ask the girl called Maisie to sit beside him. Damned presumptuous of him.
    John put down his cup. He heard a door open and then there was a sudden hush.
    Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises. Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
    He didn’t see himself as Caliban, but the Bard might have had Sphinx Island in mind when he wrote The Tempest . I wouldn’t mind a Miranda, John thought. Or for that matter, a Maisie. It was some time since he had enjoyed female company of the right sort. That American girl would be quite perfect.
    He glanced out of the window. L’isle, c’est moi , he murmured. Sybil and her American could go to hell. He believed the skies would be clear tonight. There was going to be a moon – a full moon?
    The next moment a voice started speaking. It was a schoolmarm-ish sort of voice. Some bossy middle-aged woman. Really, the people his sister mixed with!
    What was it the woman just said? John sat up. No, ridiculous, he couldn’t have heard properly. The teacup shook slightly in his hand and tea spilled in the saucer.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to John de Coverley!’

6
INVASION OF THE BODY