The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (14 page)

Dr Doughty paused, searching the faces of the board members for traces of enthusiasm.
Not put off by the puzzled
looks, she plunged on.

‘Count Vidua's notes also hint at the possibility that Isleby Cummingtonite may be
had on Tidore. It's a rare new form of the mineral, known previously only from Isleby
rock stack in the Orkneys. As you may recall, Director, the original mineral species
was named after Professor Gaythorn Cummington, under whom I laboured most ardently
at Oxford.' A spot of moisture appeared in the corner of her eye. ‘With such rare
minerals in its collection, to what heights might this institution not rise?' she
concluded in rapture.

‘I don't think…Isleby Cummingtonite?' Jugglers muttered confusedly.

‘How much will it cost, Griffon, this little jaunt to the Spice Islands?' Cedric
Scrutton was scowling at the director. ‘You do realise, don't you, that thousands
of homeless people are sleeping rough tonight all around this grand museum of yours,
and that the government is most stringent in approving any new expenditures whatsoever!'

Dr Doughty was astonished that such a weary- and worn-looking body could generate
such a thunderous response.

‘The total cost of the
expedition
is £300,' Griffon responded calmly. ‘And if Dr
Doughty does manage to get her hands on the Dickite, who knows what the result will
be, my dear Cedric. We may be able to sell duplicates to other institutions for thousands
of pounds.'

‘Out of the question, Griffon. The premier would never approve the sum. Not in these
straitened times, and not on such a speculative venture.' Scrutton was already turning
to the next item when Chumley Abotomy raised his hand.

‘Chair, if I may? As a new board member and a man of independent means, I would like
to do something for this grand institution. Three hundred pounds is a large sum,
I admit, but if the state could contribute £100, I'd be willing to foot the rest
of the bill, as a tax-deductible donation to the museum.'

Scrutton looked warily at Abotomy. He knew that the squatter had the premier's ear,
and as a public servant he understood the value of avoiding trouble.

‘Very well. I'll take your proposal to treasury,' Scrutton said reluctantly. ‘I can't
promise anything, mind you,' he added, unable to hide his irritation.

‘That will be all, Dr Doughty. Thank you for your most stimulating presentation,'
said the director, looking to Miss Stritchley to usher the mineralogist from the
room.

‘I have just one further item under expenditure, Your Grace, if I may?' continued
Vere Griffon. ‘It concerns our splendid mammalogist, Dr Courtenay Dithers. You may
recall that he's our star recruit—a Cambridge man with a first-class academic record.
He had hoped to travel to Africa to study big cats. Unfortunately, we've had a communication
from the National Geographic Society refusing his grant. Not that it was considered
in the least unworthy. But, like us, they face straitened times. I haven't informed
Dr Dithers of this yet as I don't want to disappoint the chap. A rejection may even
incline him to return home, to Britain. He would be a great loss to us.'

‘How much does he want?' Scrutton asked, his eyes narrowed to slits.

‘Eight hundred pounds, for six months in the Kenya colony.'

‘Eight hundred pounds so that a public servant can join some
upper-class flappers
and their layabout gentlemen on safari in Africa! Out of the question!' Scrutton
thundered, emphasising individually each of his final four words.

‘Chair, if I may?' Abotomy had his hand in the air once more. ‘Abotomy Hall is rising
swiftly, and will soon need furnishing. A pair of stuffed lions beside the fireplace
and a zebra-skin rug or three would enliven the place, I think. If the institution
could see its way clear to have Dithers shoot a bit of big game for me, and if the
museum could prepare the mounted specimens and skins, I'd be willing to underwrite
the expedition—again as a tax-deductible donation.'

In the silence that followed Scrutton seemed to be gripped by an apoplectic seizure.
The Reverend Jugglers once again nodded his head, though by this time it was clear
he was fast sleep.

‘Thank you, Your Grace,' Vere Griffon said. ‘I believe that's the end of our business
for today. Anyone for a cup of tea?'

Chapter 11

Archie Meek had now been back in Sydney a little over two months. Sopwith's death
and the phantoms of missing curators haunted his imaginings, while his anxiety about
Beatrice had increased in her absence. A few days after his ‘trial', as he'd come
to think of Griffon's inquiry into Sopwith's demise, Archie dragged himself to work
after a sleepless night, feeling more dead than alive. And there was Beatrice, bent
over the great register, concentrating intensely.

‘Beatrice,' he gasped.

‘Stay away from me,' she hissed.

Archie backed into his room, and shut the door. He sat down, a crumpled heap, while
outside Beatrice shed silent tears onto her register.

‘By Jove,' Dithers exclaimed when he saw Archie later that day. You look a bit queer,
old cove. Are you unwell?'

‘I'll be all right.'

Dithers' eyes were shining with excitement. ‘I've got funding for my study of big
cats! Almost given up hope, but look at this.' He waved a memorandum in Archie's
face. ‘It seems that Vere Griffon has intervened
personally
with the board on my
behalf. And he's had a word with Mr Abotomy. The upshot is that they're willing to
fund the entire expedition! All I need do is pot a few extra lion and zebra for Abotomy
Hall—more a holiday than hard work, I'd say. What a splendid fellow our director
is turning out to be!'

‘Vere Griffon? Really?' Archie replied tartly.

‘Archie, show the man a bit of respect, please! He is your director, after all, and
he has a most difficult job at present.'

Vere Griffon, Archie felt, was now a closed subject between them. But should he tell
Dithers that Beatrice was showing no signs of relenting? His friend was so jubilant
that Archie felt there was no point in troubling him now. In any case he knew what
Dithers' advice would be: ‘Give her time, my boy.'

As things turned out, Dithers' departure for the dark continent was delayed by one
misfortune after another. First, news arrived that the steamer
Zambesi
, which ran
from Perth to Mombasa, had been wrecked on a reef somewhere in the Indian Ocean.
No alternative could be found. Then there was an outbreak of sleeping sickness on
the Masai Mara, and shortly after word came that Dithers' father had been taken seriously
ill. Courtenay considered diverting via England to visit him, until a telegram told
of a swift recovery, once again putting
Dithers' plans into disarray.

Through it all the mammalogist remained chipper. ‘The big cats will still be there,
Archie, when the tide turns in my favour.'

Thought of an overseas trip had Elizabeth Doughty salivating. Geologising on such
a remote island was a rare opportunity. As soon as Abotomy's cheque for £200 arrived
she left for Tidore, not daring to risk bureaucratic delay by awaiting the government's
£100. She hoped she might just scrape by on the reduced sum.

It was an ironclad rule in the museum that curators were responsible for their collections.
But while they were on fieldwork decisions could not be delayed indefinitely. So
a convention had developed. While curators were in the field, authority over their
collections fell to the director. Curators felt it was a convention more honoured
in the breach. Indeed it was rarely invoked for fear of a curatorial backlash. But,
under Griffon, things had begun to change.

On the very day that Elizabeth Doughty left for the Spice Islands the director ordered
Giles Mordant to go to the mineralogical collection and bring back the Bathurst meteorite.
Mordant was exultant. For once he had authority over the scientific staff. He found
the registrar of minerals with his finger up his nose, puzzling over a box of rocks.

‘I've come on behalf of the director. He wants the Bathurst meteorite.'

‘What does he want with it?'

‘That's none of your business. Now get it. Quick smart.'

‘Dr Doughty will be most upset. I mean, this is most irregular.'

Mordant looked him in the eye. ‘Hop to it! The director
himself has ordered this,
mate, and if you disobey or say a word about it you will be taken care of.'

The meteorite in question had shot to fame some years earlier when it had streaked
across the skies of the western plains and made a direct hit on the Church of St
Barnabas the Sinner in Bathurst, which was all but vaporised in a tremendous explosion.
The Protestants of the small community could not entirely conceal their glee. And
there were rumours of celebrations at the local joss house, though in public the
Chinese expressed their condolences, even putting on a charity yum cha for the churchless
Catholics. News of the singular event travelled round the globe and was the subject
of heated discussions in Rome. Which was perhaps how Professor Virgil Giglione heard
about it.

Vere Griffon was surprised when he saw the reddish lump of iron. At fifty pounds'
weight, the Bathurst meteorite hardly seemed large enough to destroy a church. But
the oddest thing about it was its shape. Rather like a leg of lamb, Griffon thought.
He ordered Mordant to store it in a wooden crate in the walk-in safe.

It had been a warm, sunny summer. The bones that Archie had placed in the windowsill
on the day of his return had remained undisturbed. One April morning, when the staff
decamped for morning tea, Archie stayed behind. He went to the windowsill and lifted
the piece of cardboard on which he had written ‘do
not disturb' nearly three months
earlier. There was no difference in colour between the shaded and exposed portions
of the bones.

The skulls on the fetish had been exposed to far less sunlight. If fading had not
altered their colour, then what else could have? Perhaps their smoking had been done
differently from the rest. But they had not looked different when he left. Perhaps
they were not the original skulls. He could hardly bear to think that they might
be the remains of the missing curators. That seemed insane. Yet the idea would not
go away. And if they were the missing curators, who had put them there?

As Archie walked past the entrance to the Egyptian room he ran into a small knot
of visitors. The place had a reputation for terrifying the more gullible members
of the public. It was poorly lit, claustrophobically small and crowded with Egyptian
arcana, and its contents included the hands, heads and feet of mummies which, judging
from their condition, had been roughly torn from their bodies. Even Archie had to
admit that the place could be unnerving.

The gaggle at the entrance consisted mostly of ladies whom his mother would refer
to as being of ‘a certain age'. A theatrical whisper carried through the air. Archie
recognised it as the voice of John Jeevons, the museum guard.

‘I'll never forget what I saw that day, not as long as I live. He was lying in a
queer sort of way, twisted up like a snake. The effects of the poison, me missus
reckons. And his face…' Jeevons' eyes turned heavenwards. ‘Black and puffed up like
a Christmas puddin', it was. One eye was open, all staring and glassy. Chilled me
blood to see it. But, my God'—he crossed himself—‘the worst was his hand. I seen
things on the Somme that'd turn a
man's hair white overnight. But that hand! I never
seen nothin' like it in all me living days. Like a mummy's claw it was, reaching
out for the treasure.' He paused for effect. ‘The treasure of the golden cowrie,
which that young Mr Meek brought back from the cannibal islands.'