The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (19 page)

Archie sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for what seemed an eternity. Dithers'
note had hardly allayed his fears. On the contrary, its reference to departing urgently
on director's orders had convinced him that his friend was in grave danger of becoming
Griffon's next victim. As the days dragged by, Archie became more and more sure that
Dithers was dead. Perhaps he wasn't too far wrong: the man looked like he'd just
got out of a trench. Or a grave.

At length, Dithers returned in a clean set of clothes.

‘I need a gasper,' he said. ‘And a tot.' Dithers scrabbled under his bunk for a packet
of black shag and a bottle, then rolled a durry in silence, lit up, downed his Scotch,
and refilled the glass. ‘Tell me, my boy, how have things been? With Beatrice, I
mean.'

Archie, anxious as he was to hear about Dithers, divined that the man was
not yet ready to talk about his absence. ‘No progress, or very little, I should say.
She's speaking to me, though not with much warmth.'

‘Why, that's splendid, Archie! You've broken the ice.'

Dithers' enthusiasm meant little. Archie had pretty much given up on Beatrice becoming
his lover. In the silence that followed he added, ‘Perhaps. But something else has
happened. Something odd. Griffon has asked me to bring him eight native skulls, from
the collection. I've no idea why.'

‘I think I can help there. Abotomy and Griffon are working
on an exchange. Abotomy
is keen to secure a collection of goats—'

‘Goats!' Archie broke in. ‘Goats—for human skulls?' He could contain himself no longer.
‘For God's sake, Dithers, where have you been, and how did you end up in such a state?'

‘I've been to Abotomy Park. Things started out well enough. Then we stopped at Barrunbuttock
where Horatio Bastion told me of the terrible history of the region and the role
Chumley's grandfather played in it. I must admit, the horror of it shook me.'

‘What
do you mean?'

‘The massacres, Archie! This country was born in blood and war. Thousands. No, tens
of thousands were shot and poisoned by Australia's founding fathers. Out west they
still talk about it.'

Until then Archie's view of Australian history had been all
noble explorers and missionaries soothing the pillow of a dying race. His mind flashed
to the museum's collection. Many skulls bore marks of injury. Could it be that all
these years he'd been staring at evidence of systematic murder—and not recognised
it? His head began to spin. He pulled back from the brink, forcing himself to concentrate
on Dithers.

‘But what happened to you?'

‘A rum business, old chap. Chumley got it into his head that I was attracted to Portia.'

‘Who is Portia?'

‘His wife. She's pregnant. I tell you, Archie, she deserves better. The man actually
threatened me.'

‘Abotomy? Threatened you?'

‘Yes. With a knife.'

‘Good God, Courtenay! You mean he threatened your life?'

‘Not quite, Archie. He threatened my manhood. To be frank, I'm damn lucky still to
have my testicles.'

‘I knew it!' Archie cried. ‘Oh, the horror! Skulls, foreskins, testicles. The man's
collecting organs. He's gone stark raving mad, and he's recruiting allies to do his
dirty work.'

Courtenay gave his friend a questioning look, and then burst out laughing.

‘You, my dear chap, are the anthropologist—the one with the collection of organs.
Not our director.'

Archie felt ready to burst. ‘Dithers. Don't you see it? Your life is in grave danger.
He already has my foreskin. I sent it to Beatrice with my marriage proposal, island
style, but Mordant stole it for him. And I have evidence that Griffon has murdered
four of his curators for their skulls already. You are marked down to be the fifth.'

Dithers was stunned. ‘Evidence. You say you have evidence. What is it?'

‘The fetish, in the boardroom. Four of the skulls on it have been replaced. One,
which has buck teeth, is Polkinghorne.'

A chill went down Dithers' spine. Griffon had been behaving oddly of late. That,
at least, was clear. But Archie's ravings were over the top.

‘Oh, I see I can't convince you until you discover things for yourself,' lamented
Archie. ‘But please, tell me that we'll look out for each other. We are both in grave
danger, and we can't be sure where, or how, it will strike.'

The next morning saw Chumley Abotomy loitering at the entrance to the Nicholson Museum.
The institution occupied one corner of the University of Sydney's famous ‘quad',
as the glorious sandstone quadrangle that lay at the heart of the institution was
known. Chumley looked out of place in his country tweeds, holding a roughly wrapped
statue under his arm and with a suspicious bulge in his trousers' pocket. Gaggles
of bright young students drifted past on their way to their lectures, and one pretty
girl so distracted him that he almost didn't spot the thin, long-nosed and short-sighted
professor. Dressed in a dishevelled suit and brogues, Herringbone-Trout was bumbling
along beside a line of glass cases inside the museum. His eyes, disappearing behind
prodigiously thick lenses, were fixed on the vases behind the glass.

‘I say, old chap, are you Herringbone-Trout, the antique expert?'

‘Harvey Herringbone-Trout, professor of classical archaeology. You must be Mr Chumley
Abotomy?'

‘Abumley.'

‘Quite so,' said the professor, peering at Abotomy's ruddy face.

‘I've a couple of pieces I'd like your opinion on, Trout.'

‘Herringbone-Trout, if you don't mind.'

‘Hrumph. Double-barreller, eh? Now, what do you make of that?' asked Abotomy as he unwrapped the marble statue.

The professor examined it minutely, paying special attention to the feet.

‘Copy. A poor one. Itself from a Roman copy, after a Greek statue of Aphrodite. Venus,
if you like. That's the Roman name,'
he said, without enthusiasm.

‘Very good,' replied Abotomy, not entirely understanding what the professor was saying.
‘And what do you make of this?' He groped in his trouser pocket.

The priapus came out head first, and was so lifelike that for an instant the professor
averted his eyes. When he looked back, he was relieved to see that the object was
bronze.

‘Now, that's altogether more interesting,' he said when he'd regained his composure.
‘A priapus. And a very good one at that.' Herringbone-Trout took the piece from Chumley's
hand, drew a lens from his pocket, and studied it in detail. ‘Remarkable. Remarkable
indeed! It bears an astonishing resemblance to the one found in the House of the
Gladiators at Pompeii. Could you come to my office, so that I can compare it with
sketches I made in the Vatican Museum during my visit in 1923?'

The professor's office was high up in one of the towers bordering the quadrangle.
It was filled with books and papers, among which were scattered fragments of antique
pottery and statues, old coins and a few bones.

‘Yes, here it is.' Herringbone-Trout pulled a large sketchpad from beneath a tower
of documents. ‘Look here, Abotomy. See that scratch? Looks remarkably similar to
the one on your priapus, wouldn't you say? I very much fear, old chap, that the thing
has been stolen from the Vatican.'

‘Director, today's mail contains two items you must see immediately.' Miss Stritchley
held the tray aloft.

‘Very well, Dryandra. Would you mind reading them to me? My eyes are tired.'

‘Of course, Director,' said Dryandra, trying to hide her satisfaction. She loved
reading the correspondence to Vere. It made her feel so close to him. ‘Sender: Dr
Elizabeth Doughty. Postmarked: Ternate, May 15, 1933.'

Dear Director,

Please find below the first, and most probably the final, report of the Doughty Spice
Islands mineralogical expedition. I sincerely hope that you can see your way clear
to table it at the next meeting of the board.

The Dutch steamer Slachthuis made an excellent crossing of the Coral Sea, arriving
at Ternate just fourteen days after departing Sydney. I made my way from the docks
to the Dutch administrative offices and obtained the Surat Jalan, or travel document,
necessary to proceed to the island of Tidore. There I based myself in the village
of Pasir Hitam, from which each day I sallied forth up the volcano, seeking Count
Vidua's caverns.

On the seventh day, in a crevice on the eastern side of the crater, I located an
outstanding Dickite. I'm afraid it's not quite as prodigious as the count boasted.
Typical of the Italians, I suppose. But in colour and shape it is exquisite. My heart
beat wildly when I saw it. And, when I took it in my hands, I became quite faint
with excitement. I set to work and obtained eleven pounds of crystals, the largest
weighing three pounds and standing seven and a half inches tall.

Obtaining that ultimate nirvana, Isleby Cummingtonite, was more difficult. Vidua
had reported it as outcropping in a cavern high on the volcano's northern slope.
The mountain was in a state of eruption during my stay, with the magma flowing to
the north. After three attempts—each time being driven back by a rain of lava bombs
and ash—I finally reached the cavern on April 26. My cowardly guides had fled at
the foot of the final slope, saying that they feared the wrath of the volcano god.
I carried on alone, while they wailed and hullooed from below, before deserting me
altogether. Unassisted, I managed to fill my pack with twenty-five pounds of specimens,
mostly of excellent quality.

Regrettably, Director, I must inform you that I ran into a spot of bother on the
way down. The easiest route of descent followed a recent lava flow. It was tricky
going, however, because the flow was just a few days old and its surface was still
rough and extremely hot. I'm afraid to say that the weight of my pack told against
me. My left leg broke through the congealed crust and I was plunged up to the mid-thigh
in the molten lava flowing beneath. It was only with the greatest effort that I pulled
my parboiled limb free.

A crust of solidified lava now encased my left leg, to six inches above the knee.
This proved to be both an impediment and a godsend. The extra weight slowed me down,
but the rocky cast also kept my limb rigid, allowing me to walk rather than hop.
As I descended, the pain caused by the baking eased somewhat, and I was able to set
a better pace.

When I reached Pasir Hitam, around four o'clock that morning, I rather alarmed the
villagers. They'd imagined
that I'd fallen a virgin sacrifice to the volcano god,
the rocky embrasure of my limb only serving to convince them that my maidenhood had
indeed been taken by the deity. After they had marvelled at me for some time, prostrating
themselves at my feet, or rather foot, they made all haste to convey me and my specimens
to Ternate, from where I write.

I'm afraid, Director, that a considerable part of my already slender grant has been
consumed in medical costs. For the last few weeks I've been in the care of Dr Siegfried
Leggenhacker, a German ship surgeon who had sailed with me on the Slachthuis. Upon
seeing the state of my limb, he urged amputation most vehemently. He was very neat
about it—I'm rather proud of my little pink stump. And at my insistence he kept the
rock impression of the leg, sawing it in half, so that it forms a rather splendid
natural mould of my lower appendage. I'm bringing it home with me, as I thought it
might come in handy if we were ever to mount an exhibition of the marvellous ruins
at Pompeii, or on volcanism more generally.

Over the days of my recuperation, Dr Leggenhacker and I have become ever-more close.
Two evenings ago, as he dressed my stump, he made a proposal of marriage, which I
have joyfully accepted.