The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (25 page)

‘Thank you, Courtenay. I shall await your signal.'

In her entire life, Beatrice had never experienced anything
half as dangerous as
she had today. Or so exciting. Though she would hardly admit it, she felt strangely
aroused. It had been thrilling to see Archie beat Mordant in order to protect her.

Beatrice waited impatiently in the anthropology department. Then, around four o'clock
she heard from Dithers. She made her way to the taxidermy department and slipped
into the workshop. There was a distinctive soapy smell—a bit like a glue factory,
she thought.

The frightening reconstruction of Piltdown man dominated the space. The door to Giles'
office was unlocked. She opened the desk drawer and took out his wallet. There, sure
enough, wedged between two two-pound notes, was Archie's foreskin. It was a lot of
money, she thought, for a taxidermist to be carrying about. She took the foreskin,
and with a wicked flash of joy slipped it into her brassiere.

Beatrice replaced the wallet, closed the drawer, and shut the door to Giles' office.
She was now back in the workshop. The door to Bumstocks' room was ajar, and on a
bench just inside sat a large stoneware vessel filled with greyish liquid. Its rim
was almost at her eye level, making it hard to see inside. A sign hanging from it
said, in large letters, ‘Do Not Touch'.

Ever since Beatrice was a small child such a sign might as well have read ‘please
do touch'. And today her excitement gave her the confidence to pry. Beside the jar
was a long, hooked wire. Clearly it was used to retrieve whatever lay immersed in
the liquid. She picked it up, and fished in the murky fluid, hoping to snag whatever
lay below. The wire caught on something, and she gently lifted the object.

As it neared the surface she could make out that the thing was
pale, roughly spherical,
and surprisingly heavy. She bent close to the jar's rim to see. The object was only
inches from her nose when she recognised it. A human head.

With a thrill of revulsion, she turned the rotting cranium around until the face
was pointing at her. The gums were still there, as was a piece of lip. A small metal
tag was attached to the cheek bone with a piece of twisted wire. Something was inscribed
on the metal. She turned the skull to get a better view.

‘Sop…Sopwith?' She screamed under her breath. Not Eric! She looked at the teeth,
and instantly recognised the browning, crooked fangs. There was no doubt about it.
She was holding Eric Sopwith's head.

She dropped the skull in fright, plunging it back into the liquid and splattering
her hair with the soapy fluid in the process. A rising panic seized her. She rushed
to find Archie, but remembered he was at the doctor's. Like an animal seeking safety,
she fled home and to bed, where she feigned illness.

Chapter 21

‘There is only one way that priapus could have left the Musei Vaticani: theft,'
said Herringbone-Trout. ‘And like it or not, Abotomy, we are now involved. We must
lose no time in informing the police.' The Phantom II caused a few raised eyebrows
as Abotomy parked it ostentatiously outside police headquarters in Oxford Street.
Herringbone-Trout, followed by a red-faced Chumley Abotomy, marched to the front
desk. ‘Detective, we're here to report a
most
serious matter: theft from the Musei
Vaticani,' pronounced Herringbone-Trout in his most authoritative voice.

Detective Albert Brownlow stood at a counter examining some papers. A fedora sat
at a cocky angle on his close-shaven head. Without looking up, he said, ‘Mate, I
don't give a bugger
about your amusing fatty army, or whatever it is that's had something
nicked.' He was used to dealing with arrogant, upper-class twerps with their assumed
right to immediate attention. ‘Right now, we've got more murders and assaults on
our hands than you could poke a stick at. So bugger off.' He ended almost threateningly.

‘Detective, you don't understand. The Musei Vaticani are among the most important
museums in the world. They house the great treasures of the Catholic Church.'

These last two words acted like a charm. ‘Catholic Church? Has somebody stolen something
from a church?' asked the suddenly engaged officer.

‘Not
a
church, sergeant,
the
church. The Vatican, to be precise. I'm sure the archbishop
will be delighted to hear that the police are assisting the Holy Father. The piece
in question is an antiquity nearly two thousand years old, and it was fenced from
an antique shop on Oxford Street, in this city. Mr Chumley Abotomy—I mean, Abumly—here,
purchased it, not knowing that it was stolen, and brought it to me for examination.'

‘Can I see the object?'

As Herringbone-Trout unwrapped the priapus he began a dissertation on its history.

‘Looks like a job for you, Brownie,' the duty officer quipped as he eyed the bronze
dubiously. ‘Right up your alley, so to speak.'

A guffaw erupted from an overweight policeman behind the counter.

‘Shut up, Slugger,' Brownlow said, anxious to get the thing out of the police station.
‘Easiest to walk, by the sound of it. Doolan'—he gestured towards the guffawer—‘you
come with
me.' The detective strode towards the door, and Slugger Doolan, Abotomy,
and Herringbone-Trout, who was still hurriedly rewrapping the priapus, rushed after
him.

Lord Bunkdom was at the back of his shop, a rather poor print of Caravaggio's
The
Calling of Saint Matthew
propped up before him. In his imagination the bench on which
he sat was the same one that supported the muscular thighs of the saint-to-be. He
was about to lift the saintly tunic when he heard a knock at the door, followed almost
instantly by the tinkle of broken glass and the forcing of a lock.

Bunkdom leapt to his feet. ‘I say! What's all this about?' he gasped.

‘We have a warrant to search these premises,' said Brownlow, who did not seem to
find Bunkdom's compromised position in the least remarkable. ‘We have evidence that
this establishment is being used to fence stolen goods—objects stolen from the Catholic
Church. Now, can we see your account books?'

Bunkdom gestured limply towards a desk. The detective unlocked the solitary drawer—the
key was already in the keyhole—and took out a small black volume.

‘Professor, we'll need your help deciphering this.' He passed the volume on to Herringbone-Trout,
who began turning its pages.

‘What a tale of perfidy and imbecility is revealed here!' Herringbone-Trout exclaimed
in a rather too-dramatic way. ‘Just look at this: “23 April 1929. Statue of Venus.
Purchased L. Corbone £1.6.6. Sold Chumley Abotomy, 29 January 1933, £165.9.6!”'

‘Let me see that! This, sir, is an outrage,' shouted Abotomy.
‘You told me that the
statue was an original, but for what you paid for it, it couldn't possibly be!'

‘Actually, sir,' Bunkdom said softly, ‘I told you that it was a Roman copy of a Greek
original, which it is. It's just not antique Roman.'

Abotomy looked so infuriated that Herringbone-Trout feared steam would issue from
the squire's ears.

‘I'm afraid, professor, that making a large profit from, ah, shall we say, the uninformed
is not against the law,' murmured Brownlow. ‘You'll have to do better than that,
or we could all end up with egg on our face. Where is the evidence for receiving
stolen goods?'

‘Here it is!' said Herringbone-Trout excitedly. ‘“Three March 1931. One priapus,
purchased Giglione, £67.11.6. Sold Abotomy, 29 January 1933, £127.9.6.” That's the
object. I have sketches of it that I made myself at the Vatican. It has without doubt
been stolen and fenced in the colonies, where nobody thought it would be traced.

‘Bunkdom,' Herringbone-Trout said solemnly as he turned to the shop owner. ‘Best
to come clean. What is your connection with Giglione?'

‘It'll go far easier with you if you turn over now,' added Doolan. ‘Otherwise, mate,
I'll take the greatest pleasure in kicking your arse into the next world, while the
archbishop gives his benediction!'

After a prolonged sigh and much fidgeting, Lord Bunkdom rolled his eyes heavenwards.
‘My name is Edwin Breech, and I was born in London's East End. It was my good fortune
to have been apprenticed, aged thirteen, to Moses Weinstock, an antique
dealer on
the Portobello Road. He treated me like a son, and eventually trusted me to go on
buying trips to the continent. It was on one such venture that I met Professor Virgil
Giglione. What a fine specimen of a man he is! Immensely strong, and a hunter of
the first water. He has true alpine calves, you know—a product, he told me, of a
youth spent hunting ibex in the Tyrol. When I first saw him in his plumed hunting
hat and lederhosen, I fell under his spell.

‘It was he who told me that there was a tremendous and rather undiscerning market
for antiques in the colonies. He promised that, if I set up shop there, he'd keep
me supplied. And so he has. Some pieces, I'll admit, are nothing but clumsy forgeries,
but others are truly beautiful antiquities. I never for one moment imagined that
any had been acquired by theft!'

‘Well,' said Herringbone-Trout, ‘I'm afraid that some almost certainly have. The
priapus you sold Abotomy, for instance. It bears an uncanny resemblance to the specimen
I sketched in the Vatican—right down to that scratch on its shaft. I very much fear,
sir, that the treasures of Rome are being pilfered, and sold through your shop.'

Abotomy had taken up Bunkdom's account book to see for himself how badly he'd been
diddled. Bunkdom finished his confession, and Abotomy abruptly shut the covers, looked
up, and turned to Herringbone-Trout. ‘Professor, you say that the priapus is stolen.
But can you be certain?'

Herringbone-Trout was taken aback. A few seconds ago Abotomy had been baying for
Bunkdom's blood.

‘One can never be 100 per cent certain in such cases, but I've seen a plethora of
priapuses, so to speak, in my time, and this
is most likely the same specimen I saw
in the Vatican in 1923.'

‘A photographic memory—for pricks, professor?' said Detective Brownlow, getting his
own back for his embarrassment at the station.

‘Old chap,' said Chumley, ‘that scratch—I fear I made it myself. The road to Abotomy
Hall is rough, and both of my antiques took a beating on the drive out there. I'm
not sure that this case warrants the use of any more valuable police time. Detective,
I suggest you leave this matter with me—as a member of the museum board—at least
until more evidence is forthcoming.'

‘Sounds reasonable,' Brownlow said. ‘But before we go I'd like to have a look at
that book,' he gestured towards the black ledger sitting in Abotomy's lap.

‘Really?' said Abotomy. ‘Nothing exceptional in it…'

Brownlow's instincts were finely honed. He snatched up the volume and began reading.
An entry caught his eye: ‘20 April 1933. Purchased: seven Hellenic gold coins, £350.00.
G. Mordant…9 May 1933. Sold: Meissen figurine, £275.00. D. Stritchley.'

‘Do the names G. Mordant and D. Stritchley mean anything to either of you?' He looked
at Abotomy, then Herringbone-Trout. Abotomy was silent.

‘Stritchley,' Herringbone-Trout said. ‘An unusual name. The only D. Stritchley I
know is Dryandra, secretary to Vere Griffon, the director of the museum. A good man.
Cambridge, you know. I think a fellow named Mordant works there too, but I can't
be sure.'

‘Sarge,' said Slugger. ‘A cove of that name turned up in the
loo last week. Beaten
black and blue, he was. Said he worked at the museum. But I couldn't get anything
more out of him.'

‘Thank you, gentlemen,' Brownlow said. ‘I don't believe there's a great deal more
we can do here. We will be in touch if we have questions.'