The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (28 page)

Guido observed Archie through narrowed eyes. ‘So you know my wife?'

‘Yes, from the Maori's Head,' replied Archie.

‘And who are these fine gentlemen?'

‘My friends from the islands. They don't speak English.'

‘Well, my friend, you think these fine men want a woman?'

Archie was shocked.

‘Just five bob here for Nellie. We call this the stock-market special,' Guido said
with a smirk.

‘I'm sorry, Nellie, we must go,' Archie stammered.

He had expected Beatrice to be horrified. Instead she said, ‘It's hard times, Archie.
I don't blame Nellie for making ends meet any way she can. Better than starving.
Or dying of TB.'

It was Sangoma who summed up Archie's thoughts. ‘My son, that short, strong man is
a bad man,' he said in Venusian. ‘A very bad man. We should stay away from him.'

Beatrice suggested that they stop at a cafe on William Street. The islanders enjoyed
the buns that Archie bought, but the tea was another matter. Sangoma took a great
swig, unaware that the liquid was scalding hot. He pouted and tossed the cup away,
then sat in embarrassment.

‘Uncle,' Archie said, seeing Sangoma's humiliation. ‘Don't worry. Do you remember
when I first tried to eat sweet potato from the ashes, and burned my tongue?' The
islanders broke into laughter at the recollection.

The next day they made a trip to the zoo, across the harbour at Taronga Park. The
islanders enjoyed the ferry ride: the sea breeze in their faces gave them some of
their old confidence back. And Beatrice and Archie were relieved to be away from
the tension of the museum. Sir Halward was a model of hospitality. Now rotund, balding
and mustachioed, in his younger days he'd traded round the Pacific, and he retained
a great interest in all things Melanesian. He was anxious to show the islanders his
magnificent collection of birds of paradise. He also took them to see the New Guinean
wallabies, which he'd collected himself. He told them, through Archie, that the young
kangaroo was born from the teat of its mother.

‘The great man is wrong,' Sangoma said. ‘The young kangaroo is born from the vagina,
and climbs into the pouch.'

Archie thought it impolitic to contradict the bombastic industrialist. So he merely
translated that Sangoma was impressed by Sir Edward's biological knowledge.

On the ferry trip back across the harbour Sangoma said, ‘Arciballe, you have shown
me many things. But not the fetish. Is it truly here in your village?'

Archie explained that it was in the museum boardroom—a place where only the most
senior men could go. Sangoma said nothing, but he lifted the shirt Archie had lent
him to reveal the horizontal scars on his chest that marked him as a fully initiated
elder.

Archie weighed up the consequences of showing Sangoma the fetish. Would it expose
him to greater danger? Perhaps there was a way. Hamlet, Archie recalled from his
school days, had forced his uncle to confront his crimes by putting on a play. Could
Griffon be forced to reveal his perfidy if Sangoma recognised that some of the skulls
on the fetish had been substituted?

When they returned to the museum, Archie called the director's office. ‘Miss Stritchley,
Uncle Sangoma wishes to meet Dr Griffon.'

‘I'm sure the director would be most interested,' Dryandra replied. Then, after a
moment's silence, ‘Can you come up now?'

When Archie explained what was happening, Sangoma said, ‘Only me, Arciballe. These
young men cannot see such a sacred thing.' So Archie asked Beatrice to take charge
of Cletus and the others until he returned.

Dryandra looked on with fascination as, outside Griffon's office, Sangoma stripped
off his shirt and puffed out his scarred chest.

She opened the door, saying, ‘Director, your visitors.'

Sangoma appraised the fetish before entering the room. In a moment, he took everything
in, then strode determinedly ahead, avoiding any further glances at the monstrous
object. Archie trailed Sangoma, as if their relationship as it had been in the islands
was re-established.

‘Welcome!' Griffon said to Sangoma. ‘Care for a cup of tea?'

‘Perhaps water,' Archie replied.

‘The fetish is altered,' Sangoma declared, staring at Griffon. ‘The white men, whose
great canoe foundered on our islands, were as easy to kill as flying foxes caught
in the surf. We always feared they were not strong enough to contain the evil. But
now I see that your big men have obtained substitutes—real champions no doubt—for
the weakest of them. Congratulate your chief for me,' he said to Archie.

Things were not going as Archie had anticipated. Miss Stritchley passed a glass of
water to Sangoma, and Archie fixed Griffon with a defiant look.

‘Sangoma believes that four of the skulls on the fetish are not original.'

Griffon looked astonished. ‘Meek, is this why you came here? Your obsession with
the mask.'

‘Sir, I am merely translating what Sangoma said.'

The director became agitated. ‘I'm not sure I believe you. But whatever the case,
you can tell your Mr Sangoma that if he is implying that we are not caring for the
fetish, he is quite wrong. You should add that the mask is now the property of a
museum. It will never be returned.'

Archie was flummoxed.

‘We expect a great performance from our island dance troupe, Meek. Now, Dryandra,
please show our visitors the door.'

Archie could not understand how things had gone so badly wrong. He had not anticipated
Sangoma's response to seeing the mask. And Griffon had become agitated, all right.
But he had not divulged his crime.

‘I see now where the power of the white man comes from,' Sangoma declaimed as they
walked towards Archie's office. ‘You have collected all the sources of power in the
world—the sacred animals, objects and the great mask—and gathered them here. The
rail yards and other factories are an illusion. This spirit house is the true source
of your power. The museum is the factory of the white man—the source of his cargo.
And at its heart is our fetish.'

Archie was disturbed. Cargo cults were beginning to spring up all over the Pacific.
Yet he knew that Sangoma was right in one thing. The fetish had become the centre
of a cargo cult, a cult which worked through fundraising, and which was overseen
by Griffon.

That night Archie was unable to sleep. The second he closed his eyes, the fetish
came towards him. Should he risk his career and steal it? Give it to the police as
proof of Griffon's perfidy? He understood now that he could no longer dither. He
would have to discover the truth, with all its dark mysteries, that dogged the museum
and his life. But before that, he needed to take care of his island friends, and
ensure that they were prepared for the night of the gallery opening.

Chapter 23

John Jeevons stood beside Beatrice in the anthropology store, watching Sangoma rehearse
his dance. Beatrice had retrieved some decorations and masks from the collection
that she felt might be suitable. Sangoma donned a great headdress depicting a hammerhead
shark. Painted black, white and red, and made of a framework of light timber and
cloth, it was at least nine feet long, with jointed tail, jaws and fins, which were
animated by the dancer's slow rhythmic movements. The headdress moved to the slow
beat of the kundu like a shark on the hunt, making one forget the dancer below. As
Sangoma approached Jeevons, the guard seemed transfixed. It was only when the snapping
jaws were an arm's length from his head that he leapt aside.

‘By the Lord Harry, that's a doozy of a contraption!' Jeevons
exclaimed. ‘It'll have
the old girls at the opening quaking in their shoes.'

Sangoma stopped, looked at Jeevons and flashed a broad, toothy grin. ‘I can see the
chief likes it,' he told Archie in Venusian, before turning to his tribesmen. ‘Cletus,
you lead the headhunting party. Put on those grass anklet decorations. They hide
your feet, and if you vibrate your ankles and walk in small shuffling steps, it looks
like you're walking on air. You'll look really spooky.' The young islander did as
instructed, and the others lined up behind him in single file and started to move
in a similar manner.

‘No!' interjected Sangoma. ‘You look like you're going out to find girls, not heads.
Come on! Look fierce! And Archie, can you get a boar's tusk for Polycarp's nose,
and a man-catcher for Cletus? We need one to make this look authentic.' Archie translated
for Beatrice, and she soon returned with the requested items. ‘Right lads, on my
beat of the drum, shuffle forward, and look fierce,' Sangoma continued. ‘You're going
to cut off some heads, remember! And look out! There's an ambush on your right! Some
defensive action, please!'

Cedric Scrutton and Hardy Champion Descrepency marched in lock step up Macquarie
Street. Sharp-featured, smartly dressed and as keen as hounds on a scent, they made
a pigeon pair. An element of surprise, they felt, was essential. In the foyer they
met Dryandra Stritchley.

‘Miss Stritchley,' Scrutton commenced. ‘This is Mr Hardy Champion Descrepency, the
department's auditor. We'd like to examine the museum accounts, if you please.'

‘Gentlemen, have you made an appointment?'

‘No, we have not. The accounts, please. Now!'

Sensing danger, Dryandra demurred. ‘One moment, please, gentlemen.'

She returned hastily to the director's office. ‘Vere, ask no questions! Make yourself
scarce. Go! Now! And don't come back until you hear from me.'

Vere Griffon was entirely unused to being addressed by his Christian name, let alone
ordered around by Dryandra Stritchley. But something in her voice warned him not
to cavil. ‘I'll be in the library if you need me,' he said.

Dryandra ushered Scrutton and Descrepency into the director's office. ‘Gentlemen,
please be seated at the board table. I'll bring you the accounts books.'

‘But where is the director? We need to speak with him,' Scrutton interrupted.

‘I'm afraid he's fully occupied with preparations for our new exhibition. The opening
is this evening. You are invited, Mr Scrutton. And you too, Mr Descrepency, if you
wish. Now, please wait here while I retrieve the books.'

Miss Stritchley was in the director's storeroom, bent over the filing cabinet where
the accounts books were kept, when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Mr Scrutton, how dare you! This is the director's private area!'

‘What in heaven's name is that?' Asked Scrutton, pointing to
an elaborate porcelain
chimney garniture that lay on the table. ‘And this?' He pointed to a large black
rock shaped like a leg of lamb.

‘That is the Bathurst meteorite. Part of an exchange, along with these birds and
other specimens,' Dryandra said, gesturing at the boxes Chumley had brought from
Abotomy Hall.

‘Very well,' Scrutton replied. ‘Bring us the books. And a pot of tea, if you would.
You have a teapot, I see.' He pointed to a magnificent piece of Meissen.

The pair sat in silence for hours. As hard as they searched, neither Scrutton nor
Descrepency could find the smallest irregularity in the museum's accounts. The director
was meticulous. And modest to the point of miserliness when it came to his personal
expenses.

‘Well, Cedric, I've done my best,' sighed Descrepency at the end of the day. ‘But
these accounts are, well…exemplary. There's not the slightest discrepancy, so to
speak, that we might use as the basis of a wider investigation.'

‘But there
is
a rat here, Descrepency. I know it,' said Scrutton. ‘And it's probably
right before our eyes.'

Then it hit him. The coin collection. Donated by a Mr Marchant, he vaguely recalled.