The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (11 page)

‘A left-footer, eh? And a convert. It's a rum business in my view, this popery jiggery
pokery. Toe-kissing indeed! But each to his own. Now, man, show me these knick-knacks.
I must be on my way.'

‘Of course, Mr Abotomy. But if you opened your mind to the spiritual, I'm sure you'd
find the rites of the Church of Rome sublime. They're my only enduring pleasure these
days.' The antique dealer sighed.

Bunkdom disappeared behind a curtain, only to appear a few moments later carrying
a half-sized marble statue of a naked woman, and a strange-looking bronze object.

‘This statue of Aphrodite is a Roman copy, from a Greek
original. Possibly Praxiteles.
But very fine in any case.'

‘How do you know?' asked Abotomy suspiciously.

‘Know what, sir?'

‘That it's Roman?' Portia was particularly keen to have something from Rome.

‘The toes,' replied Bunkdom. ‘Greek statues have toes that decline evenly in size
from the greatest to the least, while on Roman statues the second toe is longest.'

Abotomy was impressed.

‘And this,' continued Bunkdom, holding up a curved bronze object about a foot long,
‘is a most magnificant priapus.'

‘Bunkdom. I mean, bunkum!' said Abotomy. ‘Looks nothing like a platypus. More like
a tossle, I'd say. Except for the wings.'

‘Well, sir, it is indeed, as you say, a “tossle”, but a very ancient one. It is reputed
to have come from the ashes of Pompeii itself. The ancient Romans, you know, hung
the
membrum virile
by their doors as a goodluck charm.'

‘S'pose I could hang it in the smoking room. Might give the lads a laugh,' said Abotomy.
‘How much do you want for it?'

‘I can let you have them both, sir, for £299. But I beg you, not a penny less. I'll
barely cover my costs at that price.'

‘Done!' said Abotomy decisively. ‘Have them sent to my city residence. And cover
the delivery yourself.'

Chapter 8

A few days after his return, Archie's collection, having cleared customs, arrived
at the museum. The pile of crates, trunks and oversized artefacts formed a veritable
mountain on the floor of the anthropology store. With the help of Jack Gormly, the
museum storeman, Archie laid the items out methodically and began to open them. As
word spread through the great institution, staff gathered to see what Archie had
secured in the little-known islands.

Soon, the unpacking had turned into a sort of curator's Christmas. Whenever Archie
unwrapped a bird or a worm preserved in spirit, or a giant cockroach, cries of admiration
went up from the relevant experts. So great indeed was the attraction that even gouty
old Slederman, the herpetologist,
who'd been virtually bedridden for decades, turned up. ‘
Rana arfuckiana!
' he crowed as Archie unveiled a massive frog floating in a
glass jar. ‘Never thought I'd live to see the day.' Slederman wiped a tear from his
eye.

Not being expert in the amphibia, Vere Griffon suspected the old man of possessing
a foul mouth. But on that day nothing could have dispelled his joy. For here, at
last, was a truly worthy addition to the institution's holdings. One that, when studied
and described in full, would carry the museum's name—and its director's reputation—into
the glorious annals of scientific achievement.

Archie's own joy would have been unalloyed if it were not for one thing. Beatrice
was not there to witness his triumph. She had taken annual leave to visit her family
up country. Nobody knew when she would be back. He'd considered visiting her, but
thoughts of her stern uncle, along with Dithers' advice to give her time, saw him
procrastinate.

Amid all the hubbub, the director's gaze was soon fixed on a group of workers who
were pulling apart a tall wooden scaffold. The prow of a magnificent war canoe could
be seen emerging from the timbers. It was exquisitely carved and at least eight feet
high, the wood blackened and decorated along its outside edge with hundreds of white
egg-cowry shells. But what really caught Vere Griffon's eye was the figure crowning
it. It was a homunculus, whose oversized head was resting in its hands. The thing
was so expertly inlaid with mother-of-pearl that it could have been the work of the
finest Renaissance craftsman.

‘That headhunting canoe, Meek, is of a most superior type!' Griffon enthused. ‘It
could seat thirty paddlers, I'd guess, and
the figurehead is the finest I've seen.
It would make a splendid centrepiece for a gallery of Pacific Cultures. And it may
help in gaining Mrs Gordon-Smythe's support. Congratulations on securing it! I just
hope you didn't pay too much, funding being what it is.'

‘Well done, old chap,' shouted Dithers as he held aloft the stuffed skin of a rather
large rat. ‘The
Mus carnivorans.
We don't have one in the collection, and this is
the largest and most perfect specimen I've ever seen. Professor Stein in Berlin will
be green with envy!'

By late afternoon the unpacking of the major items was complete, and Archie was left
alone to sort the smaller objects. One of the last crates he opened was filled with
fish and marine molluscs. It contained that rarest of shellfish, the golden cowrie.
He wanted desperately to show it to Sopwith, but the old man was probably already
at the Maori's Head. So he told Jeevons to let Eric know that an item of interest
awaited him in the anthropology store. That way the old fellow could drop by at his
earliest convenience.

Just one job remained before an exhausted Archie Meek could head home, and it was
a messy one. The pickled fish had to be transferred from their temporary jars into
permanent ones.

By the time Archie had finished it was almost eight o'clock. He was exhausted but
also exhilarated. It really had been his great day. He had been back less than a
week, and already he was the museum's golden boy. Even Vere Griffon had looked upon
him with new respect. If he had passed the rites of manhood during his initiation
in the Venus Islands, then here
in the museum he had passed the rites of passage
that mark one as suitable for promotion to curator.

When he got home there was no sign of Dithers. He was doubtless attending a meeting
of the Society for the Preservation of Native Animals. Archie negotiated his way
around the chaos, climbed into bed, and slept the sleep of the blessed.

When Archie awoke at dawn, Dithers was still snoozing. Archie dressed quietly, slipped
out of the room and returned to the museum. It was well before opening hour, but
he was eager to examine once more the haul of treasures he'd secured. He roused Jeevons,
who was snoring in his guard box, and gained entry. He slipped through the wide doors
of the anthropology department's unpacking area, and was surprised to see Eric Sopwith,
bent over a crate on the floor.

‘Ah, Eric. Didn't expect to see you here so early! What do you make of that golden
cowrie, eh?'

Eric neither replied nor rose to meet him. Archie walked to his friend and looked
into his face. Sopwith's skin was even more liverish than usual, and a gobbet of
drool extended from the corner of his open mouth. The old man was, at the very least,
not well.

A half-drained museum specimen jar, its lid removed, was on the floor beside the
crate. The head of a pickled fish poked into the air. At seventy per cent proof,
preserving alcohol is more powerful even than the navy's renowned hospital rum. It
was not unknown for museum curators to develop a taste for it.

‘My God, you've really been on a bender this time, haven't you?' Archie said. He
tried to lift the curator to his feet. But Eric would not cooperate. He was as stiff
as a board.

The young man was shaking uncontrollably as he ran back to the guard's room. ‘Help,'
he bellowed. ‘Get a doctor! It's Sopwith. In the anthropology store. Dead!'

Archie was so upset that he could not stay in the museum. He walked round and round
the block, then into Woolloomooloo. North of William Street the usual toughs were
loitering by lampposts, while a few sharp-looking men in suits sat at tables outside
terrace houses that might have been sly grog shops. Their faces were hard. One fellow
had a fresh scar running from his left eye to his chin and the most chilling blue
eyes Archie had ever seen. Archie turned up Crown Street into Darlinghurst, where
he ran into Dithers, who was strolling to work.

‘Good God, old chap!' Dithers exclaimed. ‘You look half frightened to death! What
were you doing in the loo? Not really safe these days, you know. Let's have a cup
of tea before we go into work, and you can tell me all about it.'

Over a cup of sweet, milky tea, Archie told Dithers about Sopwith.

When he had finished, Dithers sat silent for a moment, then said, ‘He was the best
of men, Archie. Gentle, kind and generous. But we all had our suspicions. The preserving
alcohol in molluscs was disappearing far too quickly for evaporation to be the only
cause. Honestly, I don't know how anybody could drink the stuff. It's so full of
formaldehyde and the stench of shellfish that it would put a dead man off. And he'd
begun saying strange things, almost raving at times. He was nervous as well. Looking
back, I think he feared that the museum was onto him, and that he'd be turned out
on his ear. You know, Archie, once you start drinking that stuff, it
kills you pretty
quickly. He probably only had months left, in any case.'

‘Bless you, Courtenay, for trying to ease my conscience,' Archie replied. ‘But I
can't help feeling responsible. If only I hadn't told Jeevons to let him know about
the golden cowrie.'

‘Come on. You've nothing to reproach yourself for, Archie. You've done the right
thing.'

Dithers rose and placed a few pennies on the table. By the time the pair reached
the museum the ambulance carrying Sopwith's body was pulling out of the courtyard.
The mood was sombre, and as Archie walked by people fell silent. A golden boy indeed,
he said to himself.

At his desk, Archie did not know what to do or think. He absent-mindedly picked up
the latest issue of the journal
Eugenics
. Among its offerings was an article tracing
the ancestry of the editor back to Roman times—through the male line. The Venus Islanders
would have laughed at that, he mused, cuckoldry being what it is. At least the islanders
were realistic about such things. And from the United States came another article
proposing the sterilisation of the mentally feeble. It was a barbaric piece which
claimed, among other things, that the American Negro was of subnormal intelligence.
Disgusting, Archie thought. No, not just disgusting. Delusional.

Even these distractions could not shift the focus of his thought. What had Sopwith
told him? The director had gone mad. Curators were disappearing. Were these just
the ravings of a man in the grip of
delirium tremens
? Or…what? And whose skulls were
they on the fetish—those four orange ones? Could his suspicions be true? Could they
be Polkinghorne,
Hadley, Jones and Dolt? Buck teeth like those were a rarity, that's
for sure.

Then it struck him: what if Sopwith's death hadn't been accidental. What if he'd
been killed to shut him up?

Chapter 9

Vere Griffon tried to form his features into the sort of saintly, caring look that
he imagined was appropriate in the presence of a corpse. His friend, the state pathologist
Dr Leopold Upton, had greeted him warmly at the city morgue. Griffon had known him
since their student days. Neat, mustachioed and discreet, Upton was, despite his
profession, perhaps the most clubbable man in Sydney. Now the pathologist wore the
solemn expression of one about to deliver bad news.

‘All signs are consistent with poisoning, I'm afraid, Vere.' Upton and Griffon were
standing in a cold room, and in front of them lay the body of Eric Sopwith, stretched
out, arms by his side. A long criss-cross of coarse stitches held together an incision
that stretched from groin to neck.