The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (31 page)

‘By the bones of my ancestors, I thought at first that you had succeeded,' gasped
Sangoma. ‘What good fortune that you did not. It was you—your power—that destroyed
it.
There is no danger in ashes.'

‘But it was a great work of art,' Archie lamented.

‘Such things can no longer be fashioned, I admit. Its age is past.' Archie was beyond
astonishment at Sangoma's pragmatism. There were, he concluded, many things about
the Venusians he'd never understand.

On the docks Archie produced his old sea-trunk. It had been delivered to the steamer
that morning, and was full of gifts. Clothes, drawing paper for the children, axes,
bush knives. And a tap. He'd purchased it at the hardware so that Sangoma would remember
the water coming from the wall. Archie placed five shillings in Sangoma's hand. ‘This
is from the director. It's payment for your performance,' he said, unable to look
Sangoma in the eye. Then he watched as the islanders walked the gangplank. He knew
that he would never see them again.

Only the director's office and boardroom had been damaged in the blaze, so most of
the staff returned to work the following morning. After work Archie made his way
to the Harris Tea Rooms, where Beatrice was waiting for him. As he walked he began
to feel better, stronger. The fetish was gone. Future anthropologists would doubtless
curse him for the loss. But he felt stronger and could finally see clearly. He saw
a last chance to bring his director's murderous spree to an end.

He found Beatrice seated at an elegant marble table, surrounded by gold fixtures,
sipping tea from a china teacup.

‘The fetish, Beatrice. I tried to take it, but something happened. I just couldn't
seem to free it from the wall.'

‘Now who will believe us about Polkinghorne, Sopwith and the others?' she asked.

‘We should go to the police, though I'm not certain that they would get to the bottom
of things. Vere Griffon is very well connected. He'd probably get warning of an investigation,
and do away with any remaining evidence,' said Archie. ‘We need more evidence, and
only Henry Bumstocks can provide that. He can't have done all his dirty work at the
museum. Otherwise somebody would surely have noticed. I think we need to find out
where he lives, and search his house. I remember Mordant saying that he lived in
Balmain. Do you think that we could follow him home?'

With the assistance of the police, Grimston secured several witnesses to the fire
who were not associated with the museum. This, he felt, was invaluable. Staff were
not to be trusted. His prize witness was rather unlikely: an urchin who had been
playing on William Street and told the police that he'd seen smoke belching from
a window. The boy stopped to see what would happen. As the fire grew he observed
a one-legged Scotsman and a butcher emerge from the museum, and vanish into Hyde
Park.

Vere Griffon knew that he'd be called to testify, but he did not expect to appear
on the first day. Dryandra Stritchley had not come to work since the blaze, and Griffon
felt distinctly vulnerable without her. The inquiry was held in a large office used
for state receptions. Below a portrait of the monarch a grand desk had been installed,
upon which was a marble
nameplate that proclaimed in gold lettering ‘Sir Harbottle
Grimston, Knight Bachelor, KBE', then below, ‘Chief Investigator, Museum Inquiry'.

Vere Griffon stood to attention as an overweight and puffing Grimston waddled in,
preceded by two secretaries. He was dressed in a black robe. Small, round, wire-framed
spectacles obscured his bloodshot eyes. He took his seat and, without looking up
from his notes, began.

‘Dr Vere Griffon?'

‘Yes.'

‘You've been director of the museum since, let's see, 1923, have you not?'

‘Yes, sir.' Griffon was determined to face Sir Harbottle with a stiff upper lip.

‘And do you know of any reason why anybody might set fire to the institution under
your care?'

‘No, sir. None at all.'

Sir Harbottle fixed Griffon with a basilisk stare. ‘Do you have any one-legged men
in your employ, Director?'

Griffon smoothed his hair in bewilderment. He had not expected this. ‘Well, no, sir,
not that I can think of.'

‘Have you, or have you not? Answer plainly!' roared Sir Harbottle, the veins in his
forehead bulging.

‘No, sir. Though we do have a guard with a gammy leg, if that's any help.'

Sir Harbottle's veins looked ready to burst. He composed himself, and switched tack.
‘Have you had any dealings with butchers recently?'

‘Beyond purchasing meat for my own needs, no.'

‘Details, details,' Grimston roared.

‘Hmm, four pork sausages, a piece of silverside and a bung fritz last Thursday at
Gordons in Darlinghurst.'

During the war Grimston was responsible for sniffing out traitors and spies from
the New South Wales public service. The mention of bung fritz triggered something.

‘
Pickelhaube
under the bed sort of chap, eh, Griffon? Do you speak German?'

‘Yes, passingly. I'm finding your line of questioning somewhat difficult to follow.
A one-legged man and a butcher?' Vere added cautiously.

‘We have a witness, Director—a disinterested witness—who claims to have seen a one-legged
man and a butcher carrying a leg of lamb fleeing the scene of the blaze. I can assure
you, sir, that my commission will get to the bottom of this if we have to interview
every meat-vendor and amputee in the city.'

Discharged at last from the inquiry, the director returned to work, exhausted. He'd
hardly slept since the fire. Without Dryandra to support him and to attend to the
day-to-day details, the pressure was becoming almost unbearable. He'd even begun
to wonder whether it was all worth it.

Later that day Vere Griffon sat in the museum library, where he'd temporarily set
up office. He had received a letter.

October 25, 1933. MV Prinz Wilhelm, 2nd Class

Dear Vere,

I hope that you will protect me by never revealing the contents of this letter. If
you cannot promise me that, then please reduce it to ashes at once.

The official purpose of this correspondence is to inform
you of my resignation as
your secretary. Please forgive its abrupt nature, but my choices are limited. I intend
to relocate to Malaya, where my cousin manages a rubber plantation. As you read on,
please understand that all I did—even the destruction of our illicit child, if you
could call the Meissen that—was done for love of you.

When I saw your face collapse as I told you about the visit of Scrutton and Descrepancy,
I knew that things had gone too far for you to straighten out. I realised there was
only one way forward. A cleansing blaze, and that it was I who must light it. As
you always said, there's no time like the present, and that evening the entire museum
staff were at the opening of the evolution gallery. It almost broke my heart, as
I know it will break yours, to see all that irreplaceable Meissen perish in the flames.
Please forgive me, dearest Vere, if you will let me call you that just once. The
accounts books, that horrible mask—the office where we worked together so happily.
I knew that it had to be cleansed.

At the last moment I faced a terrible crisis. What if the fire spread undetected?
It might destroy the entire building and its priceless collections. It was a dreadful
risk. But even as I weighed things up my hands were busy accumulating the kindling.
The accounts books, the Marchant coins and the precious Meissen soon lay in a pile
in the middle of the drinks pantry. I looked at the glorious porcelain one last time.
How often had we sat in that small, windowless space gazing at it in perfect serenity,
our minds elevated from the sordid business that is life in today's public service?

There was one thing which did not need to perish in the flames. Dr Doughty deserves
better than to lose her precious
meteorite, so I carried it to the board table and
placed it there, in the hope that the fire brigade would arrive before the flames
advanced that far.

I wanted the fire to take quickly, and wasn't sure that the single malt I'd poured
on the pile had the alcoholic strength required for the job. Then I remembered the
centipede in its jar of pickling alcohol. At 70 per cent proof it would go up with
a whoosh. I knew, Vere, how much you would lament the loss of that unique specimen.
But better lose it than being torn to pieces by the curs snapping at your heels.
I unscrewed the jar and spilled its contents over the account books. I thought that
you'd like to know that the Horribilipes flowed out with the liquid and draped itself
atop the Meissen mantle garniture like a dead Viking chief atop his funeral pyre.
Before striking the match I went to the phone and called the fire brigade, and then
I walked out of the room.

Vere, you stole my heart as surely as Dr Leggenhacker took Dr Doughty's leg. But
you did not know it, and my feelings were never reciprocated. If only things had
been different.

Yours affectionately,

Dryandra Stritchley

Chapter 25

Vere Griffon had reached breaking point. An investigation into his administration,
a burnt museum, and now he had lost forever the only woman who had ever loved him.
He collapsed into his chair, hunched and grey, a defeated man.

He didn't know how much time had passed—he may have sat there for minutes or hours—when
he heard a distinctive rumble. It was Mr Gormly, the museum's storeman, announcing
his presence by respectfully clearing his throat.

‘Seven large boxes have arrived. From Italy, sir, addressed to your good self. They're
in the storeroom. Shall I have them brought up?'

Gormly took the dismissive wave as a sign of approval. ‘Very well, sir, I'll only
be a moment.'

The librarian, who was doing temporary double duty as Griffon's secretary, rapped
on the pillar that acted as a door and said, ‘It's Mr Abotomy, sir. He wants to see
you, and won't take no for an answer.'

‘What-ho, old fellow?' warbled Chumley Abotomy. ‘Looks like you lost a pound and
found sixpence. Come on, Vere! Cheer up. Things can't be that bad!'

‘It's Dryandra. Resigned.'

At that instant the first of the Italian crates arrived.

‘By Jove, I do believe these are the Giglione goats!' exclaimed Abotomy. ‘What a
treat. Let's have a look at them, eh.'

‘Impossible,' replied Vere Griffon. ‘We've not sent the exchanges yet. And now that
the most important pieces have been lost in the fire, I doubt we'll ever complete
the transaction.'

‘Balderdash,' Abotomy shot back. ‘More than one way to skin a cat. Giglione won't
be demanding the exchanges. Open them up, Gormly. Let's have a look.'

As the crates were prised open and the stuffed goats removed from their wrappings,
Griffon's heart sank even further. They were a motley lot, the majority bandy-legged,
cross-eyed, or twisted of horn. ‘My God, how much more debasement must I suffer?'
he asked. But it was hard to hear anything he said, because Abotomy was laughing
so loudly.

‘Look at that one clenching its bottom. What a painful expression! That, my dear
director, is Cardinal Corleone, famous throughout Rome as a martyr to the haemorrhoids.
They say the fellow prays hourly to Saint Fiacre. Even takes confession from the
throne, Giglione reckons. And that one with the crossed eyes, he's Cardinal Stefano.
Head of the Roman Inquisition—and
a famed self-abuser! And ah! See that big fellow
over there,' he said, pointing to the Chilean mounteback, whose testicles hung almost
to the ground. ‘That, my man, well, that's the pope! Biggest lecher in the whole
damn Eternal City according to Giglione. Tremendous fun, isn't it, Vere?'