The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (26 page)

Chumley knew he had to act quickly. That night he dined at the Union Club. After
a sumptuous repast shared with a member of parliament, he retired to the billiards
room, where he smoked a cheroot, mostly for the sake of stubbing it out in the rather
splendid ashtray—a ram's head on wheels, complete with horns, inlaid with a silver
bowl. Then he retired to his room and penned a letter.

Dear Professor Giglione,

I trust that by now you've received correspondence from Dr Vere Griffon agreeing
to the exchange you proposed. We are most anxious to proceed with the acquisition
of your splendid collection of goats in its entirety, and are hoping that you can
dispatch it as soon as possible, in the knowledge that the requested specimens will
be received by you in the fullness of time.

I realise that this is a rather unconventional request, but matters have transpired
here that must be weighed in the balance. A police investigation is underway in Sydney
into certain thefts from the Vatican museum—your institution. Lord Bunkdom, who sells
antiquities in this city, has
privately told me that he received some of the supposedly
stolen objects from you. I of course believe none of it, and I have some sway with
the authorities in New South Wales. So I hope, my dear fellow, that you can see your
way clear to shipping the goats. If we receive them within sixty days I'm sure that
things will turn out favourably for your good self.

Yours sincerely,

Chumley Abotomy Esq.

Detective Albert Brownlow didn't like loose ends any more than he liked the whiff
of a cover-up. He had no proof of wrongdoing, but something stank in that antique
business, and he sensed that the source of the odour lay in the museum. It really
wasn't his bailiwick, but, to tidy things up, he took a stroll down to Macquarie
Street to have a word with Cedric Scrutton in the Department of the Arts. He'd worked
with Scrutton years before, when a painting by Constable was stolen from the art
gallery, and he liked the fellow.

‘Detective Brownlow, what a surprise! Good to see you again. How can I help?' Scrutton
warbled.

‘It's nothing really, Mr Scrutton. Just a minor investigation. Some antiques, possibly
stolen. And an assault. Can't say much more at present, but I wanted to pass a couple
of names by you. Apparently these individuals have been making rather large sales
and purchases on the antiques market. Hundreds of pounds, in fact. And one of the
individuals ended up pulverised
black and blue down the loo.'

‘I see. Who are they?'

‘G. Mordant and D. Stritchley.'

Brownlow, who was studying Scrutton's face, knew he'd struck gold.

‘Inspector, you have delivered them into the palm of my hand,' exclaimed Scrutton.

‘Delighted to be of service, old fellow.' Brownlow tipped his fedora as he strode
off.

Cedric Scrutton could hardly believe his luck. He'd long felt that Vere Griffon was
playing with him—indeed laughing behind the board's back at how easily he manipulated
them all. Moreover, the man seemed to be wriggling out of the latest trap set for
him. Griffon had written to Treasury, claiming that he needed more time to finalise
the museum's accounts, in light of the twenty per-cent budget cut. He was doubtless
busy shifting expenditure into the new financial year, hoping to defer his fiscal
doomsday.

But now, this most unexpected information had fallen into Scrutton's lap. It was
not possible that Stritchley or Mordant could afford expensive antiquities. Was Vere
Griffon behind it? If so, where was he getting the money? A full investigation was
warranted.

The firm of Descrepancy, Cheetham & Howe had served the Department of the Arts
in all matters financial for decades. It was trustworthy, discreet and sharp as razors
in all aspects of audit. When the firm's principal, Hardy Champion Descrepancy, picked
up the phone Scrutton explained that he had good reason to suspect fraud at the museum.

‘The museum! Mummies and that sort of stuff? By Jove, that could be fun!'

‘Yes. Antiquities. And an assault. Can't say too much more though, just now.'

‘I love a bit of cloak and dagger work, Cedric. This office gets stuffy at times,
I can tell you.'

As he put down the phone, Scrutton looked forward to a great adventure with his old
friend.

Chapter 22

‘My God, sir, what's happened to you?' Jeevons was looking at Archie's battered
face and bandaged hand. It was the day after the scrap with Mordant.

‘It's nothing really. Just a bit of bother down the loo.'

‘You must watch yourself down there, sir. I make it a rule never to go north of William
Street these days, and
I
carry a baton,' the guard said, indicating the truncheon
hanging from his waist.

‘I'll be all right, Jeevons. A minor mishap, really.' Archie passed swiftly through
the museum entrance and into the sanctuary of his office. The fewer people who saw
his black eye the better. News of fisticuffs between employees was bound to spread.
And to cast both parties in a bad light. Archie was
expecting to see Beatrice, but
as the hours ticked by she'd still not arrived. Visions swirled in his head of Mordant
or one of his associates harming her. When the clock ticked past eleven, and he was
about to begin a search, he received a note from Jeevons. It was in Beatrice's impeccable
copperplate.

‘Harris Tea Rooms. Midday.'

At ten minutes to the hour Archie made his way onto the street, pretending to be
buried in a newspaper, and headed to the Strand Arcade. It was posh, and Archie felt
doubly unworthy of being there on account of his bruises.

The tea rooms were abuzz. Fox furs and hats bedecked with birds of paradise were
the order of the day. Customers filled every table and crowded the counter, standing
as they drank. Archie found Beatrice hunched at a tiny table in a corner.

‘Oh, Archie! It was awful!' Beatrice sobbed, clutching his arm.

‘I've been so worried about you! Tell me what happened, from the very start. Let
me get you a cup of tea—Earl Grey?'

When the elegant china cup and saucer on its silver tray, accompanied by a small
silver teapot, was sitting before her, Beatrice stopped sobbing.

‘Oh, Archie, I wanted to get your foreskin back. Don't worry, it's safe. I read your
report and I know now why you gave it to me. Anyway, I waited for Bumstocks to go
out. Mordant had shown me where he kept it. I opened the drawer and picked up his
wallet. The foreskin was in it. I took it and went into the taxidermy workshop. It's
a strange place, Archie. Frightening. But I was so curious. There was a stoneware
jar on a shelf just inside Bumstocks' office, with a big sign saying “Do Not Touch”.
I couldn't resist. I fished in it with a wire hook, and it grabbed
onto something—and
out came Eric Sopwith!'

Archie found it hard to keep up. ‘You're making no sense, Beatrice. How could Eric
be in a jar?'

‘It was
his skull
, Archie! With bits of flesh still on it,' she wailed, alarming
the pair of shoppers at the adjacent table.

‘Beatrice,' Archie whispered loudly. ‘How do you know it was him?'

‘It had his name on it, Archie. On a metal tag.'

‘Could it have been a joke…or something?'

‘No!' Beatrice wailed. ‘Those teeth. I'd know those teeth anywhere! And the bad gums.
Oh, it's so awful. You were right all along, Archie. The director has gone mad. He
is collecting his curators. And Bumstocks is helping him do it. Thank God we didn't
let him collect your foreskin too!'

‘So, it really is true,' Archie whispered to himself. His worst fears were no yangona-fuelled
hallucination, no paranoia resulting from five years in the tropics. Vere Griffon
was
collecting his curators. He was probably a murderer as well, and Bumstocks and
Mordant were his accomplices. Dithers, his dearest friend, was surely next in the
firing line, and the poor man had no idea.

But what, he suddenly thought, if Beatrice was wrong? Could she possibly have been
mistaken?

Archie had to see the skull for himself. After his last encounter with Bumstocks,
he was not looking forward to returning to the taxidermy workshop. But this time
he would be more careful. The opportunity came two days later. Dithers told him that
in a few hours the Piltdown man was going to be installed in the new evolution gallery
and that most of the staff would be assembled
there to get a glimpse of the terrifying
reconstruction.

Archie loitered in the public exhibition space until he saw Bumstocks and Mordant,
who had a large sticking plaster on his nose, struggling along with the wooden case
containing the figure. The taxidermists would be some hours settling the exhibit
in.

The door to the workshop was open and Archie went directly to the stoneware jar.
The grey liquid it held looked revolting, and the ‘Do Not Touch' sign was still in
place. Archie lifted the wire hook off the nail, and dipped it gingerly into the
grey liquid. Almost immediately it snagged something, and Archie's heart began to
race. As he pulled it towards the surface he squinted in terror. An eye socket appeared
above the slime. Archie's hand began to shake. But he had to go on.

‘Sopwith?' he said softly as the skull emerged into the air. But there was something
wrong. The forehead was almost flat, and the canine teeth huge. Even though the precise
shape of the cranium was obscured by half-rotten slabs of flesh and sinew, Archie
could see that it was not human at all. It belonged to a chimpanzee, and was doubtless
destined for the new evolution gallery. He replaced the wire on the nail and strode
towards the light of the corridor, feeling an immense sense of relief.

That afternoon he walked Beatrice to the ferry.

‘Are you certain that it was Sopwith's skull you saw? The thing is, darling,' he
added patronisingly, ‘I went back today and looked myself. All I found in the jar
was the skull of a chimpanzee. Do you think that the gruesomeness of the place might
have triggered your imagination?'

Beatrice stopped, furious. ‘How dare you, Archibald Meek.
How dare you doubt my word.
I
know
what I saw! It was Eric's skull. I'd recognise those teeth anywhere.'

The look of hurt and betrayal on her face was more than Archie could bear. But one
thing was undeniable: the evidence of foul play had vanished, if indeed it had ever
existed.

Despite the skull incident, their adventures had drawn Beatrice and Archie closer
than ever. Beatrice realised that she had fallen hopelessly in love with Archie.
Yet she would not admit this to herself. Instead she remained stand-offish, except
in her dreams. She could not have explained, even to her sister Betty, the full cause
of her reticence. But she felt that things should be done properly. Archie owed it
to her to propose, formally. Why didn't he seem to understand this?