The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (32 page)

Vere Griffon erupted. As he howled, he didn't know whether he was laughing or crying,
but with Abotomy cackling alongside him he began to feel better. And this he could
not understand, because things had definitely taken a turn for the worse.

‘Giglione says he is a good Catholic, but he hates the hypocrisy of the Church. Really,
as he told me himself, he's nothing but a naughty boy. Bit like me, I suppose,' said
Abotomy. ‘I say, Vere! Did you know that the premier is a great goat enthusiast?
A breeder of champion cashmeres. I think he should get an eyeful of this. Let's call
his office and see if he can come over.'

Vere was beyond caring. Would things get any worse if the premier saw these ridiculous
ovine mounts?

Abotomy sent out for cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of the premier's favourite
French champagne. With Gormly's help he arranged the goats into a sort of guard of
honour in the foyer, lining them up from least to most grotesque.

He'd just finished when the premier strode in. ‘This better be important, Abotomy.
I cut short a meeting with the treasurer to be here. The government hangs by a pubic
hair at present!'

Then he saw the goats. ‘Great Caesar's ghost!' he exclaimed. ‘Is that an ancestral
cashmere?
And
a Syrian fat-tail! Never thought I'd live to see the day.'

‘And here, Premier, is a Chilean mounteback. Almost the
last of his race,' Abotomy
exclaimed as he poured a glass of champagne. ‘Just look at those lips! It's the only
beast on the pampas able to take on the prickly pear—and beat it! Eats it down to
the stumps, they say.'

‘Is that right, old fellow! The pear's devastating the grazing lands of the west
as we speak. The graziers are in uproar. Chumley, I don't suppose this could be described
as stage one in the fight against the pear, could it? If we could get some living
examples of the mounteback and breed them up, in a few years we might have the dastardly
shrub on the run! And what a handsome fellow! Proud, strong and virile. Answer to
a maiden's prayer the beast is, surely. And to a premier's, perhaps. If we play our
cards right, Chumley, that creature might just save my neck at the next election.'

‘You mean there might be votes in goats, Premier?' said Abotomy gleefully.

‘Vere,' the premier said, turning to the director. ‘Well done. Always knew you were
a good man. Was a bit worried at first that you were overly academic, so to speak,
coming from Cambridge and all. But I can see now I was wrong. The Royal Agricultural
Show opens in a week, and if you could arrange to have these splendid specimens displayed
there—perhaps with the Chilean mounteback chewing on a prickly pear—along with a
few words on its potential to rid us of the infestation, I'd be immensely grateful.
After that we could get the whole lot out on tour in the west. I know finances have
been tight lately, and you've had a terrible fire, which must have set you back.
But for this, money would be no object.'

Vere Griffon felt like he was in a dream. He had expected the
axe to fall on his
career, if not his neck. But instead he was being feted as some sort of political
Svengali. It was as if he'd entered another world. And perhaps he had.

‘Do you think we should tell the premier that the Chilean mounteback is supposed
to be extinct?' Vere Griffon asked after the politician had left. ‘Giglione claims
he shot the last one.'

‘Politics, Vere, is all about expectation—and the management of it. What's required,
in this moment of peril, is hope. Hope that the pear can be defeated. That and public
confidence that the premier is doing his utmost to eradicate the vicious weed. I
think we can leave any
practical
concerns on the backburner for the moment. But I
tell you what, credit would redound on the museum if an expedition were dispatched
to secure a few living mountebacks—whether it succeeded or not. Perhaps Dithers should
delay his African safari and go instead to South America?'

‘I thought your feelings towards Dithers were hostile,' Griffon replied.

‘I was just having a little fun, Vere. Dithers is such a serious sort of fellow.
Believes everything a chap says. A bit like you that way.'

‘I see. Perhaps you could try to mend fences with him. Tremendous asset to the place,
you know.'

Griffon thought he'd try his luck a little further. ‘Chumley, despite my best efforts,
and my—I mean our—considerable triumph with the Giglione goats, I find myself in
a spot of bother. On a couple of fronts. There's the fire, of course. Blame could
fall, entirely without basis I hasten to add, on me. Then there's that damn investigation
of Grimston's. He's
found nothing, but the very fact he's sniffing about the place
is damaging. A museum director must, you know, be like Caesar's wife—above suspicion.
Otherwise the great and the good will avoid the place.'

‘Vere,' Chumley responded after a brief silence. ‘The premier is so in awe of your
perspicacity right now that I'm sure he won't want your reputation, or indeed that
of the museum, tarnished in any way. I'll have a word in his shell-like. But now
a word of advice to you, if you don't mind. You might want to see that Mordant fellow
moved on. Could be a spot of bother if Bunkdom was ever rolled for his fencing. Perhaps
the government pathologist has a suitable position for a man of Mordant's talents?'

Vere Griffon finally understood that he had met his match. ‘I'll speak to Leopold
on the morrow,' he said evenly—despite the fact that he had no idea what Abotomy
was talking about.

Chapter 26

‘It must be tonight, Beatrice. There's not a moment to lose. Bumstocks might be
destroying the evidence as we speak.'

Archie and Beatrice were once more in the Harris Tea Rooms. Beatrice looked fiercely
at Archie. ‘Yes. Tonight. I'll be ready.'

Bumstocks was working late. It was the gloaming before he made his way hurriedly
down Macquarie Street towards Circular Quay. Beatrice and Archie, who had been watching
from the park opposite, followed at a discreet distance. The old fellow was remarkably
fast on his pins, and Beatrice had difficulty keeping up. Why she had worn her new
heels that evening she could not say.

Bumstocks boarded the Balmain ferry, followed by a furtive
Archie and Beatrice. After
Bumstocks seated himself for'ard and inside, they moved to the open deck on the stern.
Beatrice shivered, and Archie hugged her. He took her hand in his and warmed it.
He was even considering a second experiment in maritime kissing when the ferry started
reversing. They'd reached Balmain.

Bumstocks shot down the gangway with the speed of a man half his age, and proceeded
up the hill at a cracking pace. Beatrice shed her heels, and was soon puffing. The
taxidermist stopped at 88 Short Street, a worker's cottage with a tiny neglected
front garden. He rummaged in his trouser pocket for a key, entered, and slammed the
front door shut. After a moment a light went on.

‘Well, we know where he lives. But how do we get a look inside?' asked Beatrice,
still panting.

‘I think he lives alone, Beatrice. The cottage was in darkness when he arrived. And
nobody came to greet him. It might be worth hanging about for a few minutes. He was
in such a rush, perhaps he's running late for something and will go out again. We
can wait just round the corner, behind that picket fence.'

As they stood in the darkness Beatrice thrilled to feel Archie take her hand in his.
But she refused to be distracted, and kept one eye fixed on the front door of number
88. Sure enough, a few minutes later Bumstocks emerged, an ornate apron tied round
his waist and a briefcase in his hands.

‘I say! A Mason. I would never have guessed,' whispered Archie.

‘He locked the front door, Archie. I don't think we'll be able to get in.'

‘Let's try the laneway at the back.'

In the dark space of the rear lane, Archie counted off the blocks: ‘100, 98, 96,
94.'

‘No, that's still 96, Archie, it's a double block,' corrected Beatrice.

‘94, 92, 90, 88. This is it.'

Archie stood beside a dilapidated paling fence. A crude wooden door a couple of feet
square had been cut into it. It was used by the nightcart man to remove the can.
Archie tugged on the latch. It opened easily.

‘Thank God the can's been emptied,' Archie said as he lifted a malodorous old kerosine
tin from the opening. ‘I'll go through and open the front door.' Beatrice was grateful
that Archie was such a gentleman. She really doubted that she could have followed
him in through the toilet.

Beatrice walked to the front door. There was a creaking sound, and the door swung
open. ‘Hurry up. Come in,' urged Archie. ‘We can't put the lights on. Someone might
see us.'

Archie struck a match. The entire hall seemed skewed to the left, as if it was falling
into the neighbouring block. Its floorboards were covered with a single threadbare
runner that extended less than half its length. A naked light bulb, its upper half
black with filth, hung by an electrical cord from a Bakelite socket. Paint was peeling
from the ceiling and walls.

‘I'm scared, Archie,' Beatrice whispered. ‘Maybe we shouldn't be here.'

But Archie kept moving down the hall. When they reached the kitchen he struck another
match. A wood stove—a Metters No 2, its face spotted with rust—stood in the fireplace.
Beside it
a pantry lay open, revealing a few mismatched cups and plates. On one of
the plates was half a pork pie.

‘Upstairs,' said Archie. He gingerly made his way up the narrow staircase. At the
top was a closed door. For a second Archie hesitated. Moonlight flooded in from a
window opening into the staircase. He touched the knob, and the door swung open.
‘Must be the tilt of the house,' he said nervously as he stepped forward and struck
another match.

‘My God!' exclaimed Beatrice. In the middle of the room was a narrow, single bed.
Its old striped horsehair mattress was falling apart. There was nothing else on the
floor. What had caused Beatrice to gasp was the walls. Every inch of space was taken
up with glass-fronted display boxes. Row upon row of them. And in them were the most
varied scenes of domestic life imaginable. In one, a mother wearing an old-fashioned
Mother Hubbard dress was busy frying sausages, her child playing at her feet while
the father sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and smoking his pipe.
In another, a mother was bathing her children, and in yet another, mother and father
lay together in bed, reading
Harper's Bazaar
.

The innumerable scenes had each been constructed with the greatest care: the furniture
was so intricately wrought that it would not have been out of place in a dolls' house
at Buckingham Palace. The tiny frying pan and other kitchen utensils were forged
out of metal, and included every detail. They must have been made under a microscope,
Beatrice marvelled. But what drew her gasp were the figures themselves. The mothers,
fathers and children enlivening every scene were not human. They were cats. Kittens
mostly, judging from their
size. And they had been stuffed with so much care that
the expressions of concentration, weariness, disapproval or joy they wore were almost
human.

Archie and Beatrice stood for a long time in silence, uncertain of what to do next.
It was Beatrice who heard the front door open. The hallway light came on downstairs,
and their hearts froze. They were trapped.

Bumstocks' heavy footfalls moved along the hallway, and ceased. The clink of glass
on glass was heard, and the pouring of liquid. A kitchen chair creaked under a heavy
weight. And an unearthly mumbling began.

‘Be still, my hands.' It was Bumstocks, in a reverie.

‘It's not right, God damn, it's not right for you to arrive here in this bloody sack,
dropped in the sink with such a thud. If only they had asked me, I would have done
things different. Brought you here in a fine box. As fine as I could get. No help
now, anywise.

‘I must look at you. Forgive me, to uncover you in such a state. I keep the light
low.

‘Your eyes are not as kind as they were. Nor is your mouth. But the wee spots of
flesh at the corner of your eyes—I know them. The sweetness of their memory pierces
me to the heart.

‘You are heavy, and slippery. I must sing as I go. And drink. To you.'

The clink of a glass was followed by eerie chant.

There was three men come out o' the west, their fortunes for to try, and these three
men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn must die.

They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in, throwed clods upon
his head, and
these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn was dead.