Two Graves

“I only speak English!” Pendergast cried, raising his hands. “I’m a naturalist! I’m here to look for butterflies!”

One of the soldiers, apparently the man in charge, stepped forward and switched into excellent English. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“My name is Percival Fawcett,” Pendergast said, delving into his pack and pulling out a UK passport. “Fellow of the Royal Society. I came here by boat up the river, I can tell you it was no easy trip!”

The guards seemed to relax somewhat, both putting up their rifles. “This is private property,” the commander said. “You can’t come in here.”

“I’ve come halfway around the world,” said Pendergast in a voice that combined a shrill pleading with a certain truculence, “to find the Queen Beatrice butterfly. And I will not be turned away.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “I have letters of introduction from the provincial governor and another from Santa Catarina.” He proffered the papers, which had been duly stamped, embossed, and notarized. “And I have a letter here from the Royal Society, urging cooperation with my important mission, and another from the Lepidoptery Department of the British Museum, endorsed by the Sociedade Entomológica do Brasil.” More papers came out. “As you can see, mine is a mission of the utmost scientific importance!” His voice climbed in volume.

The commander took the sheaf of papers and rifled through them, a frown disfiguring his keen, Nordic features. “We don’t allow visitors for any reason whatsoever,” he said. “As I told you, this is private property.”

“If you refuse me entry,” said Pendergast shrilly, “there will be a scandal. I will make sure of it. A scandal!”

This created a certain uneasiness in the guard’s expression. He moved back and conferred with his subordinate. Then the commander went into the guardhouse and could be seen making a call on a radio. He spoke for some time, and then returned to the gate. “Wait here,” he said.

A few minutes later a jeep came down the road, driven by a man in olive drab, with another man, in a uniform of solid gray, sitting in the backseat. The jeep stopped, and the man in the rear got out and stepped forward. Even though he wasn’t exactly in a military uniform, he carried himself like a soldier.

“Open the gate,” he said.

The guards rolled the gate aside. The man stepped forward, his hand extended. “I am Captain Scheerma

“Dr. Fawcett.”

“Of course. I understand you’re a naturalist?”

“That’s right,” said Pendergast, his voice rising belligerently. “As I was telling these men, I’ve come halfway around the world on a mission of great scientific importance, endorsed by the governors of two Brazilian states as well as the British Museum and the Royal Society, in cooperation with the Sociedade Entomológica do Brasil”—he stumbled badly over the pronunciation. “I insist on being treated with courtesy! If I am turned away, I promise you, sir, there will be an investigation, a very thorough investigation!”

“Of course, of course,” said the captain soothingly. “If I may—”

Pendergast went on, undeterred. “I am in pursuit of the Queen Beatrice butterfly, Lycaena regina, long thought extinct. It was last observed in the Nova Godói caldera in 1932. My twenty years of research—”

“Yes, yes,” the captain interrupted, smoothly if a little impatiently. “I understand. There’s no need for such excitement, no need for investigations. You’re welcome to enter. We have our rules, but for you we will make an exception. A temporary exception.”

A beat. “Well,” said Pendergast. “That is most kind of you. Most kind! If there are expenses or fees—?”

The captain held up his hand. “No, no. The only thing we require is that you accept an escort.”

“An escort?” Pendergast frowned.

“We’re used to our privacy here, and some of our people might be startled by an outsider. You’ll need an escort—mostly for your own comfort and safety. I’m sorry, but that is not open for negotiation.”

Pendergast harrumphed. “If necessary, fine. But I will be moving about in the forest in all weathers, and he or she better be able to keep up.”

“Naturally. Now, may I escort you to our town hall, where we can take care of the paperwork?”

“That’s rather more like it,” said Pendergast, climbing into the jeep as the captain held open the door. “In fact, that’s capital. Just capital.”

59

AS THEY DROVE THROUGH THE TOWN, PENDERGAST peered about with evident interest at all that he saw. The drizzle was letting up slightly, the clouds lifting, and gradually the environs were coming into view. The village sported stuccoed buildings, and it spread across a grid of capacious streets along the shores of an emerald lake. While it could be no more than half a century old, it beautifully reproduced the architecture, cobbled streets, and general layout of an old Bavarian village, even down to the steep stone staircases rising up the shorefront, the hand-painted signs, the slate roofs and half-timbering of the larger public buildings.

The lakeshore itself was graced with long stone quays of neatly dressed stone, which led to a series of well-kept docks, wharves, and slips, on which crisply painted fishing boats and a few launches were tied up. Everything was cloaked in mist; the lake itself vanished into a drizzle of rain, its central island no more than a dim gray outline.

The town ended abruptly in a forest of immensely tall araucaria trees, mingled with pines and other subtropical species. The darkness, the fog, the dreary weather, and the untamed wall of forest formed a strange contrast to the town—so neat, clean, and so very European in character.

Perhaps because of the rain, the streets were eerily deserted.

In a few moments they arrived at the town hall, a half-timbered building done in faux-medieval style. The captain led the way into a spartan interior, with benches lined up as if for a town meeting, moving past them into a cluster of offices. Pendergast followed Scheerma

“This is Bürgermeister Keller,” said the captain. “Mayor of Nova Godói.”

The mayor rose and extended a small, fat hand. “Looking for the Queen Beatrice butterfly, I understand!” he said genially. He, too, spoke perfect English. “I hope you find it.”

The paperwork was time consuming, yet it was taken care of with great efficiency. Pendergast was given an official document, stamped and embossed, which he was told to keep on his person at all times. As they were concluding the arrangements, a thin man stepped into the office. He was about thirty-five, with a narrow head, a high-domed forehead that seemed to loom over his watery blue eyes, and a thick lower lip that also extended beyond the upper, giving his face a queer, caved-in look.

“And here is your escort,” said the mayor. “His name is Egon.”

“You are free to go anywhere you like, except out on the lake or to its island.” The captain paused significantly. “You did not expect to go to the island, I trust?”

“Oh, no,” said Pendergast. “The last QB was found on the mainland, along the shores of the lake. No need for water trips—I’ve had enough of that coming up the river!”

This little joke elicited a chuckle from the mayor. “Good. Egon will also show you to your evening’s quarters. Egon, please see that the Herr Doktor receives every courtesy.”