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forbidden to consume anything else! They call themselves Cocovores, as the coconut is considered to be the only pure food.”
    They had reached the low fence around the Governor’s mansion. They tied Brunhilde to a rail, smartened themselves up, and walked to the swing gate. A native sentry was standing to attention under a small bamboo awning. He was a New Guinean wearing a police uniform of thick khaki with a gleaming white pith helmet low over his face. He had on a bandoleer but carried no firearm.
    Kessler saluted him and marched onto the gleaming sandalwood veranda.
    â€œHow many of these Cocovores are there?” Will asked.
    â€œWe do not know exactly, twelve or thirteen perhaps. Originally twenty or so.”
    â€œAre there women there as well as men?”
    â€œLately they have been trying to recruit women but I do not think they have met with much success.”
    â€œThe idea is that they go around naked all of the time?”
    â€œYes, at least that is what they say on their advertisements.”
    â€œNaked women on a tropical island. Where do I sign the pledge?”
    Kessler approached the door of the Governor’s mansion, which was made of heavy pine and had been shipped in from some old pile in Saxony. It wasn’t particularly ornate or beautiful, just heavy. The rest of the house was bamboo.
    The window shutters were open and the servants had seen their approach, but Kessler rapped the large gleaming brass wolf’s head knocker anyway.
    Will picked up on something Kessler had said. “What do you mean ‘originally twenty?’” he asked.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œYou said ‘originally’ there were twenty.”
    â€œSeveral left almost immediately, a few more arrived, several more left. Kabakon was not the paradise which many had been led to believe it would be, but perhaps more significantly Lutzow was not the first of the Cocovores to die,” Kessler whispered while the servants bustled around inside.
    â€œNo?”
    â€œTwo died in the hospital here. Another on the island. All, apparently, of malaria. The man who died on Kabakon was, presumably, buried on the island itself. No one thought anything about it; there was nothing strange about these deaths and Governor Hahl signed the death certificates as a matter of course.”
    The Governor’s door opened and a nervous little chap informed them that the Governor was not at home. Kessler didn’t believe it. “Don’t be an idiot, Bohm. He will be ‘at home’ to me. He has asked to see me.”
    Little Bohm looked genuinely put out. He was a secretary and wasn’t used to dealing with guests at the door, but the steward was dead, the footman was in an isolation room of the hospital with an unknown fever, and the deputy footman had run off into the jungle to find the “Silver River”—as likely a place as the “City of Gold.”
    â€œHauptman Kessler, sir, he is not at home. He is not physically in the house. He is at Queen Emma’s with Doctor Parkinson and an English lady. He has asked me to tell you to join him there,” Bohm said in a stage whisper.
    â€œI see,” Kessler said, taken aback. “Well, we shall go over there. Thank you, Bohm, carry on.”
    On the way back down the steps Kessler shook his head in annoyance.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Will asked.
    â€œI wished to keep Frau Forsayth out of this. I hope Governor Hahl has not told her of our suspicions.”
    They unhitched Brunhilde and headed back toward the center of the settlement. They walked back through the dusty, empty town, filled only with mosquitoes and dragon flies.
    â€œI will leave off Brunhilde if you do not mind,” Kessler said.
    â€œWith the sun going down it’s the only sensible course of action,” Will agreed with a slight shudder. On other parts of the globe the twilight hour was a delight, but in New Guinea the