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SNATCHERS
    Immediately he saw what was happening. Everything had fallen into place. This was a conspiracy. His sister intended to sell the island to the American fellow in the yachting cap. His sister hated the island. His sister had been receiving glossy brochures from various estate agents. He’d seen them when he came out of his room at night, neatly stacked on the coffee table in the drawing room. St John’s Wood. Bayswater. South Kensington . Sybil was mad about South Kensington. He’d heard her on the blower the other day, talking to someone. Really, darling, South Ken is heaven, my idea of heaven. Well, he would rather live in South Korea than in South Ken. Wild horses wouldn’t drag him to South Ken.
    He tended to forget that the island belonged to Sybil. Papa had left it to her. Papa had never had a good opinion of John, for some reason. Papa had been a notoriously poor judge of character. Papa had been in the habit of wearing tartan gloves, John remembered. Green and yellow tartan. These gloves impart special powers to whoever wears them. That’s what papa told him once, when John was a little boy. It was again to Sybil that papa had bequeathed the gloves.
    There was a reason why his sister had filled the house with people. The guests were part of the plan . Sybil intended to make things difficult for him. It was always harder for someone to put up a fight if there were a lot of people around. All the guests had been carefully selected. They were all on Sybil’s side . And was it a coincidence that one of the men, the fat Teuton, was a medico? The fat Teuton was a member of Oswald Ramskritt’s entourage. Not an ordinary medico, oh no. The fat Teuton was a loony doctor . John had gathered as much from a conversation he’d overheard between him and the tall woman called Ella Gales –
    John knew exactly what was happening. His sister intended to have him certified and put away somewhere – no, not certified – having him certified would be too much trouble – Sybil wouldn’t want her smart friends to talk about it – he was to be killed .
    John ran his hand over his face. Yes. Sybil intended to have him killed. Killed and disposed of. They would do it the civilised way of course – they wouldn’t smash his skull with a croquet mallet nor would they strangle him with the cord of his monocle – oh no – a tiny prick on the side of the neck would be enough. That’s where the medico came in.
    They would drop his body in the sea. They would probably use the paperweights from the library, the large triangular ones with the Etruscan motif, to weigh him down. He would be gone in a jiffy. He would never be found. He might never have existed. The fish would have a feast. The seagulls would rejoice.
    Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to John de Coverley.
    It all made perfect sense now. His sister intended to have him replaced . She had already found a replacement. His replacement was downstairs. It would have to be someone who looked like him, though the resemblance didn’t have to be too great. Very few people knew the precise details of John de Coverley’s physiognomy. He had been, as they say, out of circulation for, oh, for quite a bit. One tall, distinguished-looking middle-aged man with grey hair carefully brushed back, looked very much like another.
    All the chap had to do was put on an old shooting jacket with leather patches, wind a Paisley scarf around his neck, stick an eyeglass in his eye and – voila !
    He knew how his sister’s mind worked. What Sybil wanted was a brother who didn’t embarrass her, who refrained from sneaking out of his room at the dead of night on one-man battues. A brother who observed les convenances , who came down to tea, brimming over with vacuous bonhomie, who haw-hawed and how-do-you-do-ed and spouted well-bred banalities.
    Aren’t we having marvellous weather? Would you like me to show you round the garden? It’s a bit soggy after last night’s rain