The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (9 page)

‘That's all right,' the man said, sitting down. ‘I can wait. But how much time? And
how much money?'

‘Oh, it could be months. At least. Might even be years. And the money. Well, that
would be up to the museum board.'

‘In that case, young fella, I'm going to offer it to another museum, one that might
appreciate it!' He grabbed a handful of newspapers, wrapped them roughly round the
spear point, and stomped out.

‘Well, sir, that's one for the books,' Jeevons said as the fellow disappeared. ‘But
as you'll probably soon be a curator, you'd better get used to it. We get at least
one duffer a week wanting to sell some priceless relic or other. Last week it was
a bloke who claimed he had the wireless radio that Abel Tasman took to New Zealand.
Sure enough it had “1642” engraved on the back, but poor Dr Doughty had to tell him
it was a serial number, not the date of manufacture. Fellow got so upset he smashed
the radio on the spot! We direct all the rum'uns her way. A lot of the other curators
just won't turn up for an inquiry.'

‘Thank God for Dr Doughty!' Archie replied. He remembered her as being a distinctly
academic type with little interest in anything beyond her minerals. The fact that
she'd been
performing such a valuable service on behalf of the institution raised
her even higher in his esteem.

When Archie reached his office he was dismayed to discover that Beatrice was not
at her desk. He could not go on without clearing things up, even if it did end with
another rejection. He was about to go looking for her when the phone rang. He picked
up the handpiece and listened to the prim tones of Dryandra Stritchley. ‘The director
requires your presence on the second floor, Meek. The old skeleton gallery. Please
be there at two o'clock sharp.' Before Archie could reply, he heard the dial tone.
She had hung up.

At 1.59 p.m. Archie was in the public galleries, ascending the ample staircase leading
to the second floor. The entrance to the old skeleton gallery had been temporarily
blocked off with a pair of enormous, paint-flecked tarpaulins. Behind them could
be heard much hammering, sawing and shouting. Archie ducked through the gap between
the sheets. The old skeleton exhibit, which had occupied the hall for many years,
was being dismantled to make way for a new display.

‘Step aside, please, sir!' a strained voice warned. Almost immediately the skull
of a great whale, borne aloft amid clouds of dust by half a dozen workers, came within
a whisker of Archie's head. The men had evidently been hired from the boxing gym:
arm muscles on them like Popeye, he mused. And cauliflower ears to boot!

The dust cleared a little and the light improved. Much of the hall was already vacant.
In the middle of the great vaulted space a shaft of sunlight from a roof lantern
pierced the gloom. In the centre of the beam stood Vere Griffon. He was dressed
immaculately
as always, in white shirt, bow tie and spats, and a black suit which was dusted at
the shoulders. In that light, Archie thought, he looked like a figure out of a Rembrandt
painting. Then he noticed that Vere Griffon was not alone: on the periphery of the
beam crouched, or rather stooped, another figure. Dressed in a leather apron and
a striped blue butcher's shirt, it seemed the embodiment of a goblin from a fairytale.
But, of course, Archie knew the man. He was Henry Bumstocks, the museum's chief taxidermist.

Bumstocks' situation seemed somehow appropriate. A creature poised on the border
of lightness and dark. He was almost a caricature of a man, and had certainly deteriorated
while Archie had been away. His long grey hair was falling out in clumps, perhaps
as a result of exposure to the chemicals used to prepare hides. His greasy beard
reached almost to his waist, and his eyes were so deep-set they couldn't be seen,
leaving his hairy eyebrows and beak of a nose to dominate the wrinkled face.

‘Welcome back, Archie,' Bumstocks mumbled through his thick lips, revealing irregular
yellowed teeth. He gave an obsequious nod and offered a hand whose skin was so scabbed
from contact with acids and alkalis, and whose nails were so deformed by constant
exposure to formaldehyde, that they resembled mottled claws.

‘Good day, Henry.' Archie forced himself to touch the proffered hand. ‘I must say
it's good to be back,' he lied.

‘Afternoon, Archie,' Vere Griffon said stiffly. He consulted his watch. ‘This is
the site of our grand new venture: a gallery of evolution. In the great European
institutions of learning Darwin's theory has become the dominant paradigm, though,
regrettably, here in the colonies it's been rather slower in achieving ascendancy.
An exhibition of the key fossils—ancestors and missing links—will do much to educate
the public on the matter. It may even, over the long term, result in increased funding
for science. You, Archie, have a key role to play in this enterprise. Which is why
you are here today.'

Archie looked around. The skeleton hall was the museum's most opulent exhibition
space. Its roof was supported by rows of fluted columns, each carved of a different
rock type: creamy sandstone, black basalt, royal purple porphyry, pure white marble.
Perhaps it had once housed an exhibition of minerals, he thought. In the golden days,
before the 1890s depression, there had been huge interest in mineral wealth, and
money was no object. The upstart Australian colonies were desperate to import culture
and to show that they were the equal of the British in everything, from the sciences
to sport. Extravagances such as this hall had been commonplace: they placed the museum,
for a few decades at least, as one of the finest in the world. Back then it was routine
for the museum's agent to outbid all comers for specimens collected by the greats,
such as John Gould, Wallace, and Humboldt, even Charles Darwin himself.

‘Now, Archie, this new gallery will house many of our greatest treasures,' Vere Griffon
continued. ‘Wallace's orangutans, for example, and our gorilla, one of the first
brought out of the Congo, you know. We shall tell the whole story of the evolution
of life, from the ancient fishes of the old red sandstone right through to modern
times. But it's the evolution of the human race we will focus on. Some months back
Professor Radcliffe-Brown gave a most interesting lecture on the evolution of our
species, from Pekin man to Heidelberg man, and of course our very own Piltdown man.
I'm determined to illustrate all stages of development, and am delighted to say that
through the kind offices of Sir Arthur Woodward, who as you may recall is the retired
curator of geology at the British Museum, I've been able to obtain an excellent cast
of that inestimably important missing link, Piltdown man. Sir Arthur has even taken
a personal interest in our new exhibition. He has intimated that he might be induced
to make a trip to Sydney for the opening, health permitting, of course, as part of
a farewell tour, so to speak, of the geological curiosities of the Antipodes. Under
his guidance Bumstocks has been undertaking a full reconstruction of the Piltdown
man, which will form a centrepiece of the new exhibition. The model is well advanced:
and a splendidly barbaric creation it is!'

Vere Griffon marked a line in the dusty floor with his shoe.

‘Your input will be required from here on. Eastwards to the far wall, it's all man:
modern man, the story of our ascent from a state of savagery to the pinnacle of human
development—the English race. Your job, Archie, is to find striking examples to illustrate
the ladder of human development, starting with the degraded state in which mankind
exists in nature. The black fellow must figure large: he's an immensely important
human document, so to speak. The Venus Islanders clearly belong with him, on the
lowest rung of the developmental ladder. Warfare, cannibalism, idolatry: that's the
sort of thing we'll need to show if we're to get the point across. Your first task
is to provide me with a list of objects suitable for the exhibition. Have them ready
for inspection before the end of the month. I'm not sure yet
what we'll use to illustrate
the superiority of the English. But I feel certain it will come to me soon.'

For once the director seemed happy. But Archie was flummoxed. He'd never thought
of the Venus Islanders as being at the bottom of the human totem pole. On the contrary,
during his years among them he had learned how sophisticated their canoes, gardening
and social relationships were. What's more, Auntie Balum and Uncle Sangoma had fed
and educated him—indeed, taken care of him as if he were their own child. He was
more fond of them than he was of his own parents, who, he reflected bitterly, had
not sent a single letter while he'd been away. Archie silently vowed that the Venus
Islanders would
not
feature as savages in this new exhibit.

‘Meek,' Vere Griffon added. ‘You have come back at the right moment. I have one more
task for you. I'd like some savages to perform at the exhibition opening. It would
bring the display to life. Arrange for a troupe of Venus Islanders to travel to Sydney
and perform for us.'

For a moment Archie was silent. Sangoma would surely want to see the fetish. What
would he make of the four orange skulls? Griffon looked at him demandingly. ‘Yes,
sir,' he said reluctantly as he turned and made his way to the entrance. As he walked
away, it occurred to him that it might not be such a bad thing to have Uncle Sangoma
visit Sydney. He could see civilisation, and he might take some useful ideas back
to the islands. Archie would write to him via the mission, asking for a dance troupe.
He would protect them, and make sure the islanders had a damn fine time of it during
their stay.

Archie headed straight to Dithers' office. The mammalogist
had dozens of flying-fox
skulls arrayed on the desk in front of him, and was evidently considering a knotty
problem concerning their classification. ‘Have you seen Beatrice today, Courtenay?'
Archie asked.

‘No. I heard she's on sick leave. But, as I said, give her time, Archie. You'll do
more harm than good chasing her around before she's ready.'

‘But I don't understand it, Dithers. I get the feeling she abhors me. Do you think
she's found someone else?'

‘I don't think so, old chap,' Dithers said, his mind on his studies. ‘Mordant's been
giving her a bit of company lately, but—'

‘Mordant! My God! Surely not!' Archie exclaimed. ‘I mean to say—she wouldn't stoop
that low. No, not Mordant, Courtenay? That nasty, mediocre little ponce!'

Dithers immediately regretted his injudicious words. He did not for a moment think
there was anything between Beatrice and Giles.

‘Archie, listen to me. I'm certain that Beatrice has waited for you. Just give it
time, man. If you go off half-cocked now you'll lose all chance of winning her over.'

Archie felt as if he were about to explode, a feeling made worse by the knowledge,
deep down, that Dithers was right. He must be patient. With a supreme effort, he
told himself that his thoughts would be best directed elsewhere. And, heaven knew,
he had enough distractions to keep him occupied.

As he left Dithers' office, Archie looked back. The mammal department was a scene
of chaos. Dithers had created a niche in one corner by lining up his specimen cabinets.
Behind them
were mountains of papers on the floor and desk. Laboratory benches and
cabinets occupied the remaining space, but they were covered with objects. Hippo
skulls tangled with stuffed tree-kangaroos, and hyena jaws jousted with babirusa
tusks in a great confabulation of stuffed, pickled and skeletonised specimens. How
Dithers ever found anything—or indeed got anything done—was a mystery.

Archie decided to avoid his own tiny office and instead walked towards the ‘old men's
room', a space in the museum's attic reserved for retired curators who wished to
continue with their studies. The corridor which gave access to it passed by most
of the curators' offices. A few of the doors were open. He passed Elizabeth Doughty
at her desk. She was reading a journal article, her face rigid with concentration.
A second desk in the same room was occupied by the registrar of minerals, a thin,
feeble-looking type who was vacantly picking his nose. The office of the curator
of jellyfish, Dr Abraham Trembley, was so enveloped in darkness that Archie couldn't
make out what was going on. The only evidence of life came from a lamp, barely visible
behind a stack of filing cabinets. Then came Clive Wrigley's den. Archie flinched
as he peered in. The place was crammed with terrariums, in each of which lurked enormous,
hairy spiders. Wrigley himself stood before a terrarium. Its lid was open. On the
back of the curator's hand sat a fat, black funnelweb spider. Archie shivered and
hurried on.

The old men's room was tiny, and barely high enough to stand up in without knocking
your head on the exposed wooden beams of the roof. Half-a-dozen desks had been assembled
there for the use of the retired curators, who worked in a voluntary
capacity. As
Archie anticipated, Sopwith was in residence. The old curator was bent over his desk,
upon which he had arranged several dozen ginger-spotted cowrie shells in neat rows.
When he lifted his eyes, his face brightened. Visitors to the old men's room were
infrequent, to say the least.

‘Ay, Archie! What do ye say to a wee snifter? I'm sure the sun's over the yardarm
somewhere in the Empire, and I'm tiring of my cowries. There's a new species to be
found, for sure, in this
Umbilia
complex, but it has me defeated for the moment.'

‘Sorry, old chap, I can't today.' Archie touched the back of his still-aching head.
‘But I did want to ask you something. Do you know how many curators are away or on
long-term leave?