The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (18 page)

‘Courtenay, I'm so terribly sorry!' she wailed. ‘But I saw a black snake—a horrid
thing as thick as your forearm—crawl into the hatch at the rear of the outhouse.
It's been eating the chickens, I'm sure. So I took the shotgun that Chumley leaves
at the back door, and fired at it. I had no idea that you were inside! I wouldn't
mind at all if you used the main bathroom, whatever Chumley says.'

Dithers stepped out of the shower, a towel around his waist. ‘Don't worry, Portia.
Accidents happen. And, strangely enough, this one probably did me more good than
harm.'

‘But I could have killed you!' Portia wailed, grasping him in a terrific hug—just
as Abotomy turned the corner.

‘Say what? Portia, what was that shot?'

As Portia tried to explain things Dithers slipped away. Being trouserless in such
circumstances left him feeling at a distinct disadvantage.

Dithers dressed in a state of high anxiety and walked to the verandah, where he pulled
on his boots. He had never run from anything before, but he'd decided that as soon
as the
battué
was over he would cadge a lift out of Abotomy Park. When in Sydney
he would explain to Abotomy that he had been urgently summoned to the museum. As
he plotted his escape a workman carrying a gunny sack dismounted from a swaybacked
nag and walked up the steps of the verandah. He emptied the sack in a corner, revealing
a pile of human skulls. Some had wet soil still adhered to them. Despite the dirt,
Dithers could see round holes—bullet holes—in several.

Up until that moment the massacres Dithers had heard about were something abstract.
But here was physical evidence of indiscriminate murder. If Britain had consumed
her finest in the Great War, this revolting country had been born in butchery, in
massacres so vile and craven as to defile all humanity. Massacres that were boasted
of, even joked about.

The truth hit Dithers like a sledgehammer. Those skulls would not be given a decent
burial. They were destined for a museum: his institution, to be labelled, studied
and traded.
Studied, that is, for everything except forensic evidence of murder.
The workman handed Dithers the bridle of the nag, saying, ‘Here's your horse. For
the
battué
.'

Stunned, Dithers mounted and rode away from the house to join the others at the gate.

The
battué
was itself a sort of massacre. Although it was not yet eight o'clock in
the morning, several of the riders were dead drunk. They charged into the scrub as
workers beat the bushes and clanged pots and pans, forcing all sorts of animals to
flee towards the rabble, where they were gunned down en masse. Koalas and possums
that climbed out of their trees to flee the noise were shot and shot again, or torn
to pieces by dogs. Scores of wallabies and kangaroos were driven from their thickets
into the arms of the shooters, and rare parrots fell from the sky by the dozen, bleeding
as they landed in the dust—something Dithers resolved never to tell Portia about.
As Courtenay watched from his horse, appalled, an excited yokel raced past, dangling
a mangled body.

‘What's this, do you think, curator?'

It was, Courtenay realised, the remains of a banner-tailed rat-kangaroo, the rarest
of marsupials. Perhaps it was the last of its species. It could have been a valuable
specimen, but it had been shot almost to pieces and so was virtually worthless.

As he looked at it, and at the drunken farmhand carrying it off, the
battué
, the
dreadful business with the stallion, and the skulls all became too much. In an instant
Courtenay Dithers understood that his sanity could be preserved only by immediate
action. He turned his horse towards Abotomy Hall and did not stop galloping until
he'd reached an outlying shed. There, an old
bicycle leaned against a wall. He jumped
on, determined not to stop pedalling until he'd reached the nearest town.

For several nights Dithers slept rough beside the track. He'd slept rougher in the
trenches, he reminded himself. But by the time he arrived at Narromine, over two
hundred miles away, he was more mud-spattered, and had a sorer posterior, than he'd
ever imagined possible. He headed straight to the railway station, where, to his
immense relief, he found a police sergeant on the platform.

‘Sorry to bother you, old chap, but could I ask for a bit of assistance?'

‘Bugger off. I'm not locking you up,' the policeman said. ‘I can only take a dozen,
and I reckon there'll be at least fifty on the next train.'

‘What do you mean? Incarceration?' asked Dithers, taken aback.

‘They come up from Sydney and I give them four days in the cells. After that they're
on the wallaby, mate. Nothing more I can do for them. My wife cooks for them, and
gets an allowance for it, too. These poor buggers won't have seen a square meal for
weeks, so they'll be fighting to get into the clink, I can tell you.'

‘Sergeant, I'm not requesting incarceration. Only a little assistance returning this
bicycle to its owner. Do you think you might see it taken back to Abotomy Hall?'

The sergeant's demeanour changed. ‘I'm sure one of the Sydney scrubbers will be only
too grateful. Better than walking. Might even score a meal at Abotomy Hall as a reward.'

The train was now pulling in. Men in rags—some with rope holding up their trousers,
others with singlets but no shirts, and
some even lacking shoes—spilled out of the
carriages. They began to besiege the policeman. ‘Sergeant O'Reilly. Gov'nor. Sarge!'
It was a cacophony of voices. ‘Can you put us in the lockup for a few nights? I can
cut and split wood,' said one man, who was little more than a walking skeleton and
coughing badly. ‘I'm good for as much work as you see fit,' he begged. The misery
of the Great Depression in Woolloomooloo was nothing compared with this, Dithers
thought. He purchased a ticket and boarded the train, vowing never to see Narromine,
Abotomy Hall, or its owner again.

Chapter 15

Abotomy had set off for the city in his Phantom a few days after Dithers made his
escape. As the countryside swept by, he kept breaking into gales of laughter. Dithers'
puzzlement when he couldn't get his shoes on! And the look on his face when he'd
seen the stallion gelded! But the exploding toilet! That trumped it all. He'd planned
that piece of devilry after Dithers had mentioned his fear of spiders. Banning the
visitor from the inside bathroom was part of the joke, but the explosion was just
good luck. Portia had told her husband about the black snake, of course, but he'd
pretended not to believe her. He'd watched the entire thing—from the moment Dithers
entered the ancient outhouse to the hug Portia had planted on him as he stepped out
of the shower. The icing on the cake was the look on Dithers'
face when Abotomy appeared.
The poor fellow's tossle must have shrunk to the size of his little finger! How Abotomy
had stopped himself from collapsing in hysterics, he did not know.

Neighbours had kept the squire informed of Dithers' travels. And when the swagman
returned the bike, Abotomy knew the curator was safe. The jest, he reflected, had
done a wonder of good. Portia had seemed to go off sex as the pregnancy progressed,
but now she was positively kittenish—perhaps to appease him. And Dithers, bless him,
had
given him the name of that expert on antiquities. He hadn't entirely trusted
Bunkdom. But before he visited Herringbone-Trout he must deliver his haul of specimens
to Vere Griffon. And he wanted to beat Dithers back to the museum.

‘Delighted, old chap, to have you back,' the director said. ‘And even more delighted
to see that you've succeeded in procuring specimens. I do hope Dithers proved useful?'

A thundercloud crossed Abotomy's face, the intensity of which alarmed Vere Griffon.
‘Young whelp was sniffing around Portia.
And
he went missing without leave,' Abotomy
growled.

‘I'm shocked, Chumley. Deeply shocked. Dithers is no deserter. He was decorated in
the war, you know. Highly decorated. And he's a Christ's College man, like myself.
Are you sure there's no misunderstanding?'

‘Portia did say it was all a colossal mistake. But then, she would. Still, if I so
much as catch him anywhere near her again, I'll have his balls for breakfast. Make
sure you tell him that, Vere!'

‘I'll have a word,' said Griffon. ‘But I can't believe that a man like Dithers would
cause offence in any way, at least not
intentionally. After all, he is so supremely
grateful to you for funding his Africa venture.'

‘Well, never mind that.'

‘In any case, Dithers' absence has been a godsend. I've had control over the mammal
collection and have selected three Tasmanian tigers for exchange with Giglione. Given
the state of his office, I suspect it will be some time before Dithers misses them.
They're in my safe, along with the Bathurst meteorite, awaiting shipment.'

‘Splendid, old chap!' replied Abotomy, who saw they had almost everything required
in exchange for the goats.

‘Now, let's see what you bagged,' said Griffon, gesturing towards the crates that
the storeman Gormley was stacking in the middle of the boardroom floor.

Chumley unscrewed the smallest box first. ‘Rare parrots,' he said conspiratorially.
When the top was removed, row upon row of salted skins were revealed. ‘Alexandra
parrots on top. Then paradise parrots. We only got two of them. Haven't been seen
in years, you know—might well be the last pair in existence,' he crowed.

The director became solemn. ‘Oh dear. Rare birds indeed, Chumley. But just look at
the state of them. This one looks like it's been downed with No. 3 shot: great holes
in it everywhere. And who did the skinning? The thing's been butchered! I expected
better from Dithers!'

‘As I said, Vere, Dithers did a bunk. But old Giglione won't care! He's a decent
sort of fellow and will understand that one sometimes has to accept less than perfect
specimens. Especially if they're rare. But he'll love the blackfellows. Got seven
in the
end. All ages and sizes.'

Abotomy opened the largest crate, revealing the skulls his workmen had unearthed.
Vere Griffon took one out, noted the bullet hole in its forehead, and replaced it
in silence.

Half an hour after Abotomy's departure, Archie's heart chilled. Dryandra Stritchley
had summoned him, and once again he found himself in Vere Griffon's inner sanctum.

‘Meek, I need eight native skulls. In perfect condition. Or as close as possible.
Select them from the collection, and bring them to me.'

Despite his best efforts to mask his feelings, there was something in Archie's manner
that revealed his loathing. He was clearly reluctant to act.

‘Meek, you are a curator. Almost one, anyway,' Griffon said as he began to pace back
and forth. ‘A high priest of science. And I am your director. For God's sake, imagine
where we'd be today if we returned to a mumbo-jumbo, superstitious approach to human
anatomy? Just a century ago medicine was terrifically impeded by religious objections.
Human bones must be studied, and sent to experts. As a museum employee, you will
do your duty. Now go!'

At six o'clock that evening the train pulled into Central Station. Dithers had slept
most of the way, but hardly felt refreshed. It was already dark by the time he reached
his digs in Stanley Street. The door to his room swung open and Dithers, his hair
matted and clothing torn, lurched in. Archie sprang to his feet.

‘Thank God! Dithers,
I thought you were dead!'

‘I've no idea what you mean, old fellow,' Dithers said wearily. ‘I left a note. But
before I say another word, I must shower and change.'