The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (29 page)

‘Stritchley!' he cried out. ‘Come here! I want to see the coin collection bequeathed
to the museum a few months back.'

‘Mr Scrutton, it's 4.58 p.m. The public-service day ends at 4.56 p.m., and I have
an appointment across town. I'd be only too happy to bring it to you. But you'll
have to call again tomorrow.'

‘It may be for the best,' said Scrutton as he accompanied Descrepency down Macquarie
Street. ‘We'll need a full list of
the coins and valuations to make any sense of
things. Would you like to come along to the exhibition opening, old chap? We've still
got time to dress and return for the event.'

‘I think I would. Need a wee dram or two after today. And we might pick up a fresh
scent by observing Griffon in his element, so to speak.'

Dryandra Stritchley knew that she must tell Vere Griffon what had happened. It would
worry him inordinately—not a good thing when he needed to focus on the exhibition
opening. But, with an inspection of the coin collection the next day, she had no
choice. She found Griffon in the library, reading a research article on centipedes.
He seemed calmer and more content than she could remember.

‘Director, I hate to disturb you, but this won't wait. Scrutton and Descrepancy want
to examine the Marchant coin collection. Tomorrow.'

‘I see,' said Griffon. He wearily put down the journal, and walked off. The pressure
had been building on him for months. The stock-market crash, his useless curators,
Scrutton and then the business with the Giglione goats. And now that damn interfering
accountant Descrepency was scheduled to examine the coin collection! Well, there
was no catalogue, so who could say if anything was missing? And the Meissen he had
purchased by selling the odd coin. What of it?

As he'd planned his great evolution gallery Vere Griffon had thought again and again
about what might epitomise the highest achievement of mankind. And then it had come
to him: Meissen porcelain. Britain had the Hanovers (or Windsors as they now called
themselves) on the throne, so something German was
appropriate. And the cultured
figurines of eighteenth-century noblemen and women were exquisite. They spoke to
him of home.
Home
. The font of all refinement and progress in the world. There would
be a small room, he'd decided, at the end of the exhibition. A sort of treasury where,
in a soft light, the felonry of New South Wales could gasp at the beauty of Meissen
ware, displayed in glass cases like precious jewels.

Griffon's mind drifted back to his present worries. Even if no impropriety were found,
a departmental investigation could be disastrous, especially if it tainted the museum's
reputation and so deterred donors. Scrutton's malice, and the gossip columns, might
even see him sacked in disgrace.

‘Think of Caesar drawing his toga over his face as the last, fatal blows landed.
He endured the worst with dignity,' Griffon said to himself. It was, he realised,
time to receive his guest of honour, Sir Arthur Woodward, who had travelled from
London.

Archie had assembled the islanders in an antechamber off the main exhibition space.
They had spent all day preparing. He felt confident enough to leave them, knowing
they would appear on cue, and so returned to the main entrance to meet Beatrice.
Jeevons was stationed at the door, directing visitors towards the reception. A small
group was gathered round him, gawping.

‘He tottered towards me, with them terrible eyes. Fixed on me, they was. And his
mouth…my God. Great gollops of bloody slime were coming out of it. Oh! And that hand
of his. I'll never forget that hand as long as I live. Like a mallee root, it was,
all twisted up with the poison.'

‘Jeevons, would you desist in telling such ridiculous stories about poor Sopwith!
Our esteemed colleague deserves better,'
Archie said sharply.

Jeevons, open-mouthed—and for once speechless—watched as his audience scattered.

By six o'clock, the staff and guests had gathered in the foyer and the arrival of
Sir Arthur Woodward was imminent. Canapés and drinks were circulating, and a jazz
quartet played in a corner. Vere Griffon glanced around the room and, reassured that
all was well, slipped out and made his way to the exhibition.

What he saw did not please him. Henry Bumstocks, a picture of anxiety, was daubing
at the Piltdown man's face. Roger Holdfast was whizzing about like a dervish, a screwdriver
in one hand and a hammer in the other, screwing here, hammering there, seemingly
at random, while Mordant, his brow dripping with sweat, was wielding a paintbrush
at the rear of a plinth.

‘For God's sake, man, don't bother with the rear,' Griffon roared. ‘I'll keep Sir
Arthur to the front so he won't see the unfinished bit. And, Holdfast, the guests
are sure to hear your hammering. I'll get the band to play a little louder, but for
God's sake, keep the noise down!'

Griffon knew that museum artificers habitually worked up to the last moment on exhibits,
but this had him shaken. Tonight of all nights he needed to look professional. And
in control.

‘Strike up something lively. Now.' He said to the band when he returned to the foyer.

The transition from lazy, background jazz to ‘Ritzy Glitzy Mitzi' enlivened the atmosphere
marvellously. Beatrice started to wiggle her hips. She looked up at her man, as she
now thought of Archie despite the fact they had not even properly kissed. His eye
was almost back to normal. But his right hand was still
bandaged. She was so proud
of him.

Archie had managed to get Joe an invitation—a sort of thank you for feeding the Venus
Islanders. The fruiterer had turned up in an antique suit with a high-collared shirt
that must have been inherited from his grandfather. Joe was a little overwhelmed.
‘It's bloody wonderful, Mista Mik. Good onions,' he kept saying over and over. Then,
to Archie's relief, Joe struck up a conversation with Hans Schmetterling. Already
on his third champagne, Schmetterling was gabbling on in German, while Joe responded
in Italian.

Beatrice was engaged in conversation with Mr Trembley, when Archie saw her mouth
drop open. Her gaze was fixed on the foyer entrance. Roger Holdfast's son, Gerald,
was making his entry. Dressed in a smart linen suit, he was walking hand in hand
with Nellie. She looked radiant in a sumptuous ball gown of pink silk taffeta.

‘He finally won the duck raffle,' Dithers said, beaming. ‘But instead of dashing
into the truck, he asked Nellie if she'd accompany him to the opening.'

‘She looks beautiful. Her gown must have cost a fortune,' gasped Beatrice.

‘That's Nev,' said Dithers with a knowing wink. ‘Favour to a friend and all.'

The conversation lulled as a triumvirate strode into the room. Scrutton and Descrepency
wore tuxedos, in distinct contrast with the trench coat–wearing Inspector Brownlow.
Scrutton felt it appropriate that the detective should accompany them.

Abotomy greeted the three, but after a few words seemed anxious to get away. He fixed
Beatrice with a lascivious eye,
and slid across the room.

‘Dithers, please introduce me to this delightful young lady.'

Dithers was confounded by the squire's bonhomie. ‘This is Beatrice Goodenough,' he
managed to say. He was about to add ‘Archie Meek's girlfriend,' when Abotomy broke
in.

‘Not one of the Bombuggaree Goodenoughs, eh?'

‘Yes, indeed,' Beatrice replied. ‘My father is George Goodenough of Bombuggaree,
nephew of Admiral Joseph Goodenough.'

‘Aha! Holy Joe.' Chumley chortled. ‘Died in the New Hebrides, didn't he? Bringing
the good news to the savages?'

‘My family is rather religious,' Beatrice replied, blushing.

Chumley caught sight of Mrs Gordon-Smythe, who Griffon hoped might fund a new gallery
of Pacific cultures. His look, Beatrice felt, indicated more than a nodding acquaintance.

‘Gladys, please meet Beatrice Goodenough. She works at the museum. And she's a Bombuggaree
Goodenough—a relative of the admiral.'

‘My dear girl. How delightful to meet you! My darling late husband counted Admiral
Goodenough as a very close friend. But who is this? Not Archibald Meek, surely? Last
time I saw you, you were a mere stripling.'

‘I'm delighted to meet you again, Mrs Gordon-Smythe. I believe we met last when you
came to examine your husband's collection at the museum. As you doubtless know, the
reverend's memory is worshipped in the Venus Islands.'

A tear welled in the widow's eyes. ‘We must do something, here at the museum, to
honour his sacrifice. And we really must display the treasures you've brought back
from the wilderness,
young man. But what is that on your wrist?' She pointed to the
frigate bird.

Archie flinched. ‘Ah, it's just a small tattoo, madam. From the islands.'

‘My husband bore one almost identical. He always felt that missionaries needed to
understand the ways of the natives. He underwent initiation, you know,' she added
with a wink. ‘You remind me so much of him, when he was your age.'

Gladys Gordon-Smythe took Beatrice's left hand in hers, and examined it.

‘Perhaps, my dear, in time…'

Beatrice could not speak. She had glimpsed something that had struck her to the heart—a
parchment-like ring on the widow's fourth finger.

Abotomy sensed that Gladys Gordon-Smythe had been deeply affected. With surprising
solicitousness he shepherded her to a quiet corner and consoled her with a hug and
a glass of bubbly.

‘What a nice man. He reminds me of my cousins,' Beatrice said, regaining her composure.
‘And what a lovely lady. I can see she's mad on you, Archie.'

Dithers was perplexed by Abotomy's civility. Best to say nothing, he told himself.

A silence was falling on the crowd nearest the entrance, and a loose guard of honour
was forming. At the very front of the line was the museum's chairman, the Very Reverend
Sir Crispin Jugglers, who seemed to be practising a bow. Behind him was Vere Griffon.
As Sir Arthur entered the room Jugglers sprang forward, giving the impression that
his brilliantined body
was about to topple over. As those about held their collective
breath, he bowed deeply, from the waist, until his wizened torso was horizontal,
his left leg stretching forward and his right bent elegantly behind. Sir Arthur was
somewhat taken aback at the low obeisance—a form of prostration usually reserved
for royalty. Then, at the lowest point of Jugglers' bow, the silence was broken by
the strident trumpeting of a strangulated clerical fart.

‘Very pleased to meet you, too,' said Sir Arthur, trying to make the best of things.

‘It is an honour. A high honour indeed, Your Serene Highness, to have you visit these
colonies.' Jugglers seemed to have confused Sir Arthur with the Prince of Wales,
who had visited some decades earlier.

‘Sir Arthur!' Vere Griffon broke in. ‘How very good of you to come halfway round
the world on our behalf! Welcome, welcome, welcome to our humble museum.'

In the silence that followed, Archie gave a low whistle, and the Venus Islanders
danced into the foyer. With spears and man-catchers in their hands, they looked so
ferocious that gasps and stifled screams rippled through the crowd. Griffon took
the opportunity to lead Jugglers to the guard's office, where a cab was called for
him. The director then returned to watch what he later called a magnificent performance
of savage theatre. Sangoma led, dancing his shark mask hypnotically to the beat of
the kundu drum. As he recreated the movements of the hammerhead sharks that seasonally
visited the lagoon, he seemed to transform the mask into a living creature. The crowd
made way for him like sardines before a marlin.

Then the entire troupe simulated a headhunting raid, the finale of which consisted
of placing a man-catcher over Archie's head. When Cletus stalked onto the floor with
the device in his hand, it looked like he was carrying a tennis racket. Though innocent
in appearance, the man-catcher is a most devilish thing. Instead of strings, a spike
projects from the point where the handle meets the frame. When placed over Archie's
head, its horrible purpose became apparent. The spike sat where the spine meets the
cranium: the slightest push would sever the spinal cord. Native people rarely waste
energy; the purpose of the contraption was to force the victim of a headhunting raid
to walk to his fate. So much easier than carrying a corpse. Archie found that he
didn't need to mime terror as he was led off, the islanders whooping and pointing
spears at his chest. He felt it in the pit of his stomach.

The Venus Islanders danced out of the foyer to the beat of the kundu and to riotous
applause. The museum's supporters had, said one elderly matron, never been treated
to anything quite so excitingly savage.

As the drumming disappeared down the corridor, Vere Griffon called for quiet, and
speeches followed. Then the entire party walked to the new gallery. Griffon led the
way, and entered the hall just in time to see Holdfast's left foot disappear behind
a display case. The smell of paint hung a little strong in the air, but nothing else
was amiss. With Sir Arthur Woodward by his side, Griffon stepped towards a blue ribbon
strung between two chairs, on one of which sat a large pair of scissors. Sir Arthur
cut the ribbon, and the warmed-up crowd erupted in applause.

There were
oohs
and
ahhs
as the guests entered the exhibition
and took in the magnificence
of it all. The skeletons of a giant sloth and a tyrannosaurus formed the centrepieces.
But most attention was paid to the Piltdown man. He looked so brutish that one woman
fainted, depriving her of the chance to hear Sir Arthur expound on the discovery
of the Piltdown bones and their place in human evolution.