The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (10 page)

‘Aye, but that's a strange question, laddie.'

‘I was just wondering how the place changed while I was away.'

Archie wasn't ready to share his fears with anybody yet. He remembered Sopwith's
warnings about the effects of yangona, and didn't want to be thought of as drug-crazed
or having gone native.

‘Well, let's see. Bray Hadlee, the bird man. Do you remember his work with cuckoos?
He's been on sick leave for a year or more now. Very strange, it was. The director
announced at a staff meeting that he'd be gone for some time. We never saw him again.
Rumour was it was a nervous complaint. Wouldn't be surprised if he were locked up
in a home for the mentally infirm, and I can understand his family wanting to keep
that
under wraps.

‘Then there's Alan Jonah, the curator of parasites. He kept rough company, ye ken.
One fella he got tangled up with swore
he'd sew him into a chaff sack and throw him
off the end of a pier! But that came to nothing. Anyway, he was none too careful
with his dissections, and his body became riddled with flukes and parasitic worms
of all sorts. The director heard from his family that he choked on his own phlegm.
Then there was Andrew Dolt. I'm sure you remember the blowfly expert? Always buzzing
around. Did ye ken he was one-eyed? The other was glass. He lost his vision altogether,
they say, and went to stay with kith and kin in Victoria, at Nar Nar Goon. The first
we knew about it was a letter that the director read out. But, all in all, Archie,
most of the old crew are still about.'

‘Hmm,' said Archie. ‘That's four.'

‘What do ye mean four? I just told ye, it's three.'

‘I'm not sure, exactly, Eric,' said Archie. His heart was in his throat. Four absent
curators, if you count Polkinghorne. Four orange skulls on the Great Venus Island
Fetish. In his mind's eye Archie saw an image, close-up: a hand removed a skull from
the fetish and replaced it with another. In the instant that a gap existed in the
skull-fence, a torrent of pure evil rushed into the world. Archie forced the vision
from his mind. It was too ridiculous for words.

Chapter 7

When in town, Chumley Abotomy wore a rustic three-piece suit and a hunter's hat
that Sherlock Holmes might have envied. In rude good health and large of hand, Abotomy
walked with a swift, slightly bow-legged waddle, grasping at the air as he went.
He loved nothing more than playing the role of country squire.

As he strolled towards the museum he was feeling particularly pleased with himself.
He'd got the honeymoon over, and with any luck Portia was already bubbly. If he'd
sired an heir, the family name would be assured. And, my God, the things he'd seen
in Italy! Enough culture to last a lifetime. That old fussbudget Vere Griffon should
bring a little of that culture to the colonies.

While Abotomy was striding down College Street, Dryandra Stritchley was arranging
a bunch of white roses on her desk in the office antechamber.

‘My God, Dryandra, you are a gardening wizard!' Griffon exclaimed as he drank in
the exquisite scent. ‘I don't know how you do it. Colonial roses are usually pale
shadows compared with those from home. But these roses, well, somehow they transport
me—to a green and pleasant land.'

Griffon's reverie was interrupted by a sharp treble rap. The director retreated to
his desk, and Dryandra opened to Chumley Abotomy. The squire charged into the room,
intent on marching straight into the director's inner sanctum. Dryandra had to insert
herself between his imposing frame and the inner doorway to check the rhino-like
charge.

‘One moment, please,' she managed to gasp. ‘I'll see if the director is available.
Now take a seat over there, Mr Abotomy!'

Dryandra enjoyed the routine that she and Griffon had developed. Her gentle knock
was followed by his low ‘come in'. She found the director in his thinking position:
heels on the floor, body stretched stiff, eyes gazing at the ceiling.

‘It's the new board member, Mr Abotomy.'

Griffon murmured a Latin phrase under his breath. He relaxed into his chair. ‘He
insists on pronouncing it “Abumley”, you know. After the French village his ancestors
supposedly resided in prior to the Conquest. Ah, the nouveau riche. What would we
do without them? Show the fool in.'

‘Chumley, how perfectly splendid to see you!' crowed Vere Griffon as Abotomy waddled
through the door. ‘I trust the grand tour went well? Perfect time of year for Florence. What did you make of Michelangelo's
David
?'

‘Not much, quite frankly, Vere. Supposed to be a statue of that chap who slew the
giant. Jewish, wasn't he? Couldn't help but notice, though, that he's still got that
bit of nonsense at the end of his tossle. Rum, if you ask me. Think the damn statue's
been misidentified. But, my God, there were some good things in Rome! That Vatican
Museum's a corker. Most interesting things in it are the Giglione goats. Spent half
a day looking at 'em. You
do
know the Giglione goats, old chap, don't you?'

The director was having trouble keeping up. ‘Not my bailiwick, old fellow. I trust
you saw the Pantheon?'

‘Saw a few old piles. Wife took notes. Useful in designing Abotomy Hall. But the
goats, old man! Never seen anything like them. One of every sort, and the finest
billies, most of 'em. Giglione shot them himself, you know. He's even got a Chilean
mounteback. Last one in Tierra del Fuego, the professor says.'

At last Vere Griffon understood what Abotomy was raving about. Professor Giglione,
the expert in early domestication at the Vatican Museum, was legendary for his collections
of domestic livestock and their wild ancestors.

‘Jeellionay, pleaaase!' Griffon ejaculated loudly, before regaining his self-control.
If there was one thing he could not tolerate it was mispronunciation. Nor could he
suffer fools, unless of course they were very rich ones. And even then his limits
were narrow.

‘What I said,' Abotomy shot back. ‘Giglione's goats. We've got to have 'em, Griffon.
My support depends on it.'

The director wasn't sure precisely what Abotomy meant but, given the dismal state
of the museum's finances, his support
could count for a great deal. Griffon sensed
that he was becoming trapped, and he began to feel his way cautiously.

‘Are you suggesting, my dear fellow, that we might borrow the collection?'

‘Not at all what I had in mind. I'd like to have them here at the museum. Permanently.
I'm sure the professor's willing to entertain the idea of an exchange. Took the opportunity
of discussing it with him. Knew you wouldn't mind.'

‘I see,' said Griffon unenthusiastically. ‘I shall write to Professor Giglione this
week. But such matters can be delicate, and there's no guarantee of success. Foreign
institutions often expect the crown jewels in exchanges. Now, dear chap, would you
mind leaving me to my labours? I've some serious issues with the new exhibition,
which I must resolve today.'

When Dryandra re-entered the office, a slight wrinkling of the director's forehead
and a look in his black eyes spoke of his distaste.

‘Abotomy,' he said quietly. ‘Most ridiculous man. If it wasn't for his donation potential
I'd have him stood down from the board.'

Miss Stritchley shut the door and watched Griffon cradling his head in his hands.
‘I'd have been spared these colonial bumpkins if I'd got the directorship of the
British Museum. Only missed out by a whisker. Freakish unfair the way that relative
of Lord Brenchley was given it…'

There was more than self-pity in his ruminations. In the deepest recesses of his
heart Griffon feared that, despite his Cambridge education, he too was second rate.
Fit only to be the Lord of Misrule over this colonial rabble. How he hated
them!
From the pesky and incompetent board to his errant curators. He'd get them into line
come what may, and make a fine collection of them yet. Even if it killed him. Or
them. But Abotomy's financial support was crucial. And if it hung upon acquiring
Giglione's goats, by God, he'd get them. In fact, the venture might even assist in
turning Abotomy into a useful tool to further the museum's needs.

Griffon turned to Dryandra. ‘No help for it. I'll write to Giglione and see what
he wants in exchange for his collection.'

‘Which collection, precisely, director?'

‘His damn stuffed goats. I'll dictate the letter to you. But for now come into the
liquor cellar with me. I think we need to commiserate over a little Meissen.'

Abotomy had business to conduct in Oxford Street. No matter how much Portia begged,
he'd resolutely refused to buy any ‘knick-knacks' while on the grand tour. He didn't
trust the dagos who were trying to sell them—and now it seemed that Portia would
never let him forget it. To shut her up he'd promised to look into buying something
antiquey in Sydney. He remembered Bunkdom from the fundraising dinner. He'd given
the man the seat of honour, even though he made Abotomy's skin creep, in the hope
that he'd provide some introductions in Europe. Bunkdom's shop was reputed to have
the best collection of antiquities in the city, so he'd set aside his dislike and
arranged a visit.

Abotomy rolled up the hill towards Oxford Street, grasping the air. What was it,
precisely, that riled him so about the man? Bunkdom's goggle eyes and verrucose skin
were certainly repulsive, but he'd never let looks put him off a chap before. If
the cause of his dislike were to be summed up in a word, it would be unctuousness.
Lord Bunkdom was so unctuous and cloying that Abotomy found him nauseating. Still,
there was no help for it. If Portia was to be placated he needed to beard the revolting
toad in his den.

Stopping outside Bunkdom's shop, Abotomy had to concede that the man did a good line
in window displays. The shop-front was filled with elegantly placed antiquities and
curiosities, from enormous yellow Chinese vases to classical figurines and paintings.
As he pushed through the doorway, a bell on a coiled spring rang out. Bunkdom emerged
from the shadows.

‘Oh my goodness. Oh, my beard and whiskers! I am overwhelmed, sir! What an honour,
sir! What an honour your visitation does my humble premises! Please, please come
this way, into my inner penetralia, so to speak, and take a seat. I'm afraid there's
nowhere in this shabby shop even remotely suitable for a man of your quality.'

Bobbing his head, Bunkdom retreated backwards to the rear door. Abotomy allowed himself
to be led into a back room. A comfortable lounge chair with a small round side-table
sat in a corner.

Bunkdom ushered him into the seat. ‘Please take your leisure, sir. I insist that
you partake of a cup of tea. I have the best Puer, which will be yours presently.
I obtained it from Chinese Morrison's widow, in Devon, years ago.'

‘The best what, man? I'm not here to buy your poo-jar, nor any sort of chamber pot,'
roared Abotomy. He was finding Bunkdom's honeyed ways more cloying than shit on a
shovel. ‘I am here to look at those Roman bits and pieces you said you might be receiving.'

‘Ah yes, of course. But please, give me a moment, sir. A man of your quality must
be served tea.'

Chumley Abotomy demurred in an irritated sort of way. To his surprise he found that
he enjoyed the smoky brew Bunkdom offered.

‘It's fifty years old, you know. The best Puer is itself an antique,' purred Bunkdom.
‘It really is most fortunate, Mr Abotomy, that you dropped by today. As you may know,
I'm a late convert to Catholicism. Last year I took the opportunity of combining
business with pleasure. I travelled to Rome to kiss the Pope's toe—and while there
got my hands on some truly remarkable stock.'