The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (20 page)

I'm now on my way to Kupang, accompanied by Siegfried, and we have secured berths
on the next steamer bound for Sydney. If I'm to get my collections packed and secure
I'd better sign off this report, and hop to it!

Yours sincerely,

E. Doughty

Dryandra folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. For a while, she and
the director sat in stunned silence.

‘Remarkable,' Vere Griffon ventured. ‘What a formidable woman. Most admirable.'

‘I'm very happy for her, finding her Leggenhacker, I mean,' said Dryandra. She looked
up at Vere, her eyes searching for a flicker of affection, or at least of personal
recognition of his loyal lieutenant.

But Vere was lost in his own thoughts.

‘I suppose the cast might be of some use to us,' he opined.

Wearily, Dryandra reached once more into the in-tray. ‘Letter No 2,' she said. ‘Sender:
Herr Dr Mertens, Director, Statliches Museum, Stuttgart. Postmarked: January 30,
1933.'

Herr Doktor Director Vere Griffon,

Or my dear Vere, if you will permit me an informality most welcome in our student
days, which I hope does not offend now; but I fondly remember when as a young Cambridge
scholar you visited the Institut für Zoologié to examine our comprehensive collection
of the fang-bearing Myriapoda—your area of special expertise. I was also a mere student
then, but how dear to my memories is the time we spent in the tavern, eating sour
pork lung and singing leider as we downed our lager! I was so touched that you named
one of the most ferocious of the centipedes—a specimen you had collected yourself—in
honour of me. I shall be forever grateful. Now we are both museum directors. How
the world changes!

My esteemed colleague, I have a favour to request of you. We have a promising student
here in Stuttgart by the name of Herr Hans Schmetterling. Like yourself, he is a
devotee of the Myriapoda. He is visiting the old fatherland colonies in Melanesia,
as well as your adopted home of Australia, to make a collection. He is a bright young
man. For old time's sake, I hope you can take care of him while he is in Sydney.

On a more personal note, do you keep your interest in Meissen? A colleague of mine
has located here a unique Böttger Steinzeug and a most splendid chimney garniture
once owned by the Duke of Saxony himself. They are yours, for a most modest price
of £300 and £700 respectively, if you just say the word.

‘Did you say the postmark was January 30?' asked Vere. ‘That's over four months ago!
Schmetterling must be arriving at any moment. It's a most inconvenient time to have
a student about the place. The evolution gallery is running behind schedule and will
require all my attention. But of course we must reply about the
Böttger Steinzeug
,
don't you think, Dryandra? Could you contact Bunkdom, and find out what seven Hellenic
gold coins might fetch?'

Chapter 16

When Courtenay Dithers walked to the museum the following morning, he half expected
Chumley Abotomy or one of his henchmen to leap at him from every alleyway he passed.
He slowed down and cautiously eyed the unusual-looking fellow loitering near the
museum entrance. Slender, almost mouse-like, he sported a finely pointed and waxed
moustache and a cowlick of hair over his high forehead. He clasped to his chest an
oversized wooden box, with a perforated lid like a pepper pot and a large brass clip
fastening it shut. From one elbow hung a bag that Dithers could see was filled with
tin cans.

‘
Guten morgen
—'

‘Can I help you, old chap?' Dithers asked, fairly confident that the stranger didn't
hail from Abotomy Park.

‘I am looking for Herr Doktor Director Vere Griffon.'

‘Don't think our director'll be in as yet. But come on through. I'm Courtenay Dithers,
curator of mammals. Abotomy didn't send you, did he?'

‘
Nein
. Herr Doktor Professor Mertens of Stuttgart me sent.'

‘I see. Let's rouse up a cup of tea for you while you wait. What is your name?'

‘I am Hans Schmetterling, student of the Myriapoda, and I am in Australien for the
collecting expedition. I am looking forward to meeting Herr Director since so long.
My weeks in the Bismarck Archipelago, on die route to Australien, have been most
productive.'

By the time they had finished their tea, the museum was stirring into life, and Dithers
judged the moment right to guide Schmetterling to the director's office. A rather
surprised Miss Stritchley greeted the pair.

‘Mr Schmetterling, we have been expecting you, but not quite so soon! I'll see if
the director is available.'

‘My God,' said Vere Griffon. ‘That letter must have arrived by the same steamer as
Schmetterling himself. Might as well bring him in. And Dithers too. He may be able
to help.'

It was a distinctly nervous Herr Schmetterling who stood before Vere Griffon. He
had heard great things about the man, and the office and boardroom were so imposing
that the German's slender grasp of English seemed to desert him.

‘Herr Doktor Professor Director,
Ich bin…
' He struggled before falling into an awkward
silence. He reached into his bag. ‘This lung of the swine, pickled as you like it,
is a gift from Herr Doktor Professor Mertens. He was sure that such delicacies are
not obtainable in the Antipodes—at least not those of the finest grade.'

Something about the hapless visitor roused Vere Griffon to cruelty.

‘Dithers, thank you for delivering Mr Schmetterling into our hands. We could, of
course, speak German if we wished. Most of us have a strong grasp of technical German
at the least. But, Schmetterling, you will do no good here unless you master English.
Dithers, would you be kind enough to find some bench space in the mammal department
for our visitor? And Miss Stritchley, show Mr Schmetterling where the Myriapoda are
kept. We will conduct a daily examination, in this office,' he said, giving the awe-struck
German a penetrating gaze, ‘to assess your grasp of the subject.'

Schmetterling detested examinations. He could not sleep for days before one, and
inevitably emerged a trembling mess. The idea that Griffon would examine him was
paralysing, but he managed to nod his understanding and follow Dithers.

‘There you go, old fellow. Hope that bench space is enough,' Dithers said unconvincingly.
‘The mammal department is rather crowded at present.' Bones, boxes, books and papers
lay so thick on every surface that there was barely room to put down a pencil. ‘Might
be time for a tidy-up,' he added. ‘We can at least move that walrus skull if it helps.
But please do make yourself at home. And, by the way, what do you have in that box?'

‘My myriapods. You would like to see them?'

‘By all means, old chap. Be delighted.'

It took no further inducement for Schmetterling to loosen the bronze fastener. Inside
were compartments, each one containing
dozens of glass vials and jars, their tops
covered with squares of muslin tied in place with string.

‘This is my finest trophy,' Schmetterling said, reaching for the largest jar.

As the muslin was lifted Dithers glimpsed the coiled shape of a centipede, hiding
among some dried leaves. It must have been the length of his forearm. The scarlet
head, tail and limbs contrasted with the fluorescent green body, and a pair of wicked
black fangs a centimetre long protruded from its head.

‘
Sind sie hungrig, meine schönheit
?' Schmetterling murmured. Dithers cocked an eyebrow.

Schmetterling reached into a cloth bag and pulled out a tiny pink mouse. Dithers
could hear its mother squeaking as the hapless infant was dropped into the jar. The
monster roused itself and began feeling about. A leg touched the pink flesh, and
instantly the centipede turned and plunged its fangs into the newborn. As Dithers
watched, the mouse blackened and shrivelled.

‘The toxin is…
sehr wirkungsvoll
.'

‘Powerful indeed,' replied a shaken Dithers. He took a handkerchief from his pocket
and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Do you think, old chap, we might keep the
box shut while you're here?

A knock at the door interrupted them. It was Miss Stritchley.

‘Schmetterling, you'd best use your time wisely. Follow me to the collection.'

The museum's collection of myriapods was not large, but, as a result of donations
from Vere Griffon, it contained some important specimens.

‘Here are the Myriapoda. But don't go in there,' she added, gesturing to a bay of
wooden shelves to the right. ‘That's arachnids, and Dr Wrigley has a colony of funnelwebs
under study. Most importantly, don't forget that the director has requested your
presence in his office at three o'clock. Please be punctual.'

Schmetterling spent most of the day rapt in that sublime pleasure only a researcher
ensconced in a collection can know. Seated before a white enamel tray, he peered
intensely through a magnifying lens at the jointed legs, mouths and genitals of creatures
new to him. He made pages of notes, drawings and measurements, and details of one
new species after another began to accumulate in his mind. Species that he, Schmetterling,
would have the honour of naming. The hours flew by, his concentration so deep that
he didn't feel his muscles cramp or his joints ache. He didn't even hear the approaching
footsteps echo in the corridor. So, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, he leapt
from the bench. It was Miss Stritchley again.

‘Schmetterling, your appointment with Professor Vere Griffon was for three. It's
now ten past. The director is an extremely busy man. Follow me—and be smart about
it!' She marched off along the narrow corridor. The young German was still placing
articles in his bag as he followed.

‘Unforgivable. To be so tardy,' Schmetterling mumbled once he was in Griffon's presence.
On the splendid board table stood a solitary specimen jar.

‘What do you make of that?' asked Griffon, looking down his aquiline nose at the
specimen bottle. Schmetterling moved towards it and saw that it contained a gigantic
centipede,
its prodigious, pinkish-purple jaws jutting from its face like instruments
of torture.

‘
Ich denke
,' Schmetterling said, to buy time.

‘Well, man, out with it. In English please. What is it? Come on!' Griffon barked.

‘
Ja
, legs long. Fifteen leg-bearing segments. A scutigeromorph, I think. I guess
that it is the
Scutigera coleoptrata
?'

Griffon rose from his desk and began pacing up and down.

‘Schmetterling, you might be an intelligent young fellow, but you don't know your
Myriapoda. This is no
Scutigera
! Look at the fangs, man! This is in fact the one
and only specimen of
Horribilipes mertensi
—the rat-eating centipede of the Arabian
Sea—which is named for your beloved professor! It is without doubt the most spectacular
and, might I add, most beautiful of all the myriapods. And do you know who collected
and named it?
Me
. Vere Griffon, during the cruise of the HMS
Sulphur
, sent to punish
the pirates of Socotra. I went ashore as the howitzers blazed. It was under a coconut
shell beside the village latrine that I found the
Horribilipes
, my greatest scientific
triumph.' Drops of foamy spittle had appeared on Griffon's lips, and he was almost
barking out his words.

A look of horror came across Miss Stritchley's face. Her gaze was fixed upon the
professor's left shoelace. It had come undone. She rushed forward and bent before
the great man. But Griffon was so fixated on his lecture that, before she could fasten
the errant lace, he had marched up onto the podium once more. Miss Stritchley crawled
after him.

Despite his terror, Schmetterling had to bite his cheek to stop himself laughing.
Finally Griffon stopped long enough for
Stritchley to fasten the lace. He had not
even noticed. ‘If you hope for a job in a museum, Schmetterling, you'll have to do
better than this. Now go back to the collection and study your Myriapoda. Until you
have mastered them.'

‘Might be time for a restorative lager,' Dithers suggested as the quaking Schmetterling
returned to his office.

He collected Archie, and, on the way to the Maori's Head, the trio ran into Beatrice.
She was not entirely comfortable in pubs—even in the lounge—but she did speak fluent
German and so agreed to come along.

The men ordered lager, and Beatrice had a lemonade.

Schmetterling bolted down his first schooner and Dithers bought him another. The
German grasped it in shaking hands, took a few gulps, and said, ‘Oh, how I am unnerved!
The ale will calm me, thank you.' As the drink worked its magic, he went on. ‘But
how wonderful to be in this young country of yours. The fatherland is terrible now.
Destroyed by the war. On every corner you find the old soldiers—their faces just
a mess of scars, a leg or an arm missing, or both—trying to sell matches or some
other trifle. They are broken men, still frozen in terror, or men who want only to
keep on killing. And the politics! Oh, how savage it is! There will be more blood.
Yes, much more, before long. It is a country in which I can no longer live.'