The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (33 page)

They have let him lie for a very long time till the rain from heaven did fall. Then
little Sir John sprang up his head, and he did amaze them all.

They let him stand till the midsummer day, till he looked both pale and wan. Now
they pour him out of an old brown jug, and they call him home-brewed ale.

Yes, they call him home-brewed ale.

‘I must take a wire and empty you. Grey you flow into the sink.

‘And now I must put out your eyes.

‘Then I'll put you to rest in your own brown jug. And tend you and clean and scrape
you, till you're whole again.

‘But how shall I put myself to rest?'

Archie took Beatrice's hand and they stole silently down the stairs. They could see
the great hulk of a man hunched over in his chair, breathing heavily. A bottle of
Scotch sat on the table beside him, and he held an empty tumbler in his hand. As
they approached the open kitchen door, the figure stirred. A flash of reflected light
revealed that Bumstocks' eyes, hidden so deep in their sockets as to be all but invisible,
were open—and fixed on them.

At that moment, if she could have, Beatrice would have screamed. But she was paralysed
with fear. Henry Bumstocks' stare seemed to pierce her soul. His gaze turned to Archie,
and he began clasping and unclasping his free fist, as if he was reaching for something
to club the pair with.

‘Mr Meek, Miss Goodenough. What are you doing here?'

Archie was now beyond fear. He knew only one thing: that he must not let Beatrice
come to harm. Their very lives, he felt, depended on what he said next.

‘Ah, Bumstocks,' he began as if he were expecting to meet the taxidermist. ‘We've
come with a message from the director. There are some specimens requiring urgent
taxidermic attention. As a result of the fire. He'd like you to be at work early,
to attend to them.'

‘But why are you standing here, in the dark, in my hall?'

‘Well, we knocked, Henry, and thought we heard somebody upstairs call us. So we came
in. But we couldn't find a light switch. We were just admiring your wonderful taxidermy,'
Archie said.

‘My little kittens,' Bumstocks said softly. ‘I get them from the pound. If nobody
wants them they drown them, you know. So I take the poor sodden things in. If I could
afford to feed them, I'd take them in live, I would.

‘Oh, it don't matter anywise, Archie, why you've come. I never get visitors, so it's
good to see you.' Henry Bumstocks' face was transformed by the kindest of smiles.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?'

‘It's a lonely life the taxidermist leads,' he said as they sat at the table. ‘Bit
like being a funeral director. I was never much to look at anyway, but whenever I
told a girl what I did for a living she'd run a mile. And the formaldehyde's not
been kind to my hands, or my head. S'pose that's why I never married. Anywise, the
kittens is my family now.'

‘Henry, can I ask you something?' If Archie did not ask now,
he knew he never would.
‘There have been some strange goings on at the museum, and I'm determined to get
to the bottom of them. When I returned from the islands I discovered that the Great
Venus Island Fetish had been installed in the boardroom.'

‘I know. I've been doing my best to look after it. The skulls started to sprout mould
and I've had to bleach them to get rid of it. I'm afraid it's damaged some.'

‘How many, Henry?'

‘Four, so far. You can pick them because they've lightened off a bit, with the bleach.'

‘Yes,' said Archie, ‘they've turned from dark brown to orange. And bits have started
to drop off—must be the corrosion caused by the bleach.'

‘I'm sorry, Archie. But orders is orders.'

Archie slumped into his chair. His whole world was suddenly turned upside down, and
he felt like a fool. Yet still it didn't make sense. ‘What happened to Polkinghorne?'
he asked.

‘Oh, it was so terrible, Archie. Soon after you left, a new cadet arrived at the
museum. His name was Peter White. White by name, and pale and delicate by nature.
He was about sixteen, and fascinated with mummies and suchlike. Anywise, Polkinghorne
took him under his wing, and they became very close. I saw them once, in the Egyptology
collection. You know what I mean. Anyway, one day Peter didn't show up to work. Instead
his dad came in, and he took Polkinghorne outside and flogged the poor bugger half
to death in the park across the road. It was dark. Winter. They had words too: I
know because I was walking home when they parted.

‘Polkinghorne said he didn't want a doctor. Just to get home.
But he never got off
that ferry.'

‘Do you think he committed suicide, Henry?' asked Beatrice.

‘Maybe. But I wasn't going to besmirch his name. Said nothing to nobody, 'cept Giles.
Only told him I didn't see Polkinghorne get off the ferry. But I reckon he leapt
off the stern with weights in his pockets.'

‘One more thing, Henry,' said Archie carefully. ‘We know that Sopwith's skull was
in the taxidermy workshop.'

‘Aye. What of it? What were you doing snooping around my work area?' Bumstocks said
sharply.

‘That's a long story, Henry. But why was Sopwith's cranium in your workshop?'

‘He donated himself to the museum, Archie. Most terrible job I've ever had to do,
cleaning him up. He arrived, skinned, in a hessian sack. No respect at all. But I
did it for him. When he was alive he often complained that there were no Scots' skulls
to compare with those of the blacks. And he loved the place. Seems he never wanted
to leave it. The director had a wonderful plan for him too. Eric represents the epitome
of human evolution in the new gallery: the British Race. His is a fine skull. Strong
and masculine. I even fitted him with a new set of teeth. You might have seen him
there already. Sitting atop the skulls of all the other races, with “Caledonian”
written in ink across his brow, as he'd have wished. And, you know, the director
showed me his will. Eric left five quid so the staff could drink a toast to him.
We were going to organise a small celebration in his honour, let everybody know that
he was still with us, so to speak, after we'd got the exhibition open.'

Bumstocks was becoming animated. Beatrice noticed a
dirty bandage on his left wrist.

‘Henry, come to the sink. Whatever's under that bandage needs tending to.'

Archie went to the laundry for some Eusol and a fresh bandage while Beatrice gently
removed the old one. Under it was a large festering cut.

‘It's been so long since I've had that,' Henry said as Beatrice took his hand in
hers and began gently to clean it.

‘How on earth did you do it?' Beatrice asked.

‘An accident. I was cleaning up Eric, and I suppose me nerves were on edge—not wanting
to be seen doing such a job and all. But I owed it to my old friend to do it. Then
a giraffe bone dropped from a shelf in the workshop. It broke into splinters with
a tremendous crash. I'm sure it was dislodged by someone. Probably some poor homeless
chap looking for a dry place to spend the night. Mordant often forgets to close the
taxidermy entrance, and more than once we've come to work to find a poor waif sleeping
among the taxidermy mounts. Anywise, the sound gave me such a fright that I gashed
my wrist with the flensin' knife, and I rushed outside, yelling in pain and anger.
But nobody came to help me. Nobody heard at all. So I just cleaned myself up, and
came home.'

‘Oh, Henry,' Beatrice said, resting her hand on his. ‘I'm so glad we got to know
you. You've set our minds at ease about so very much.'

Archie and Beatrice walked back to the Balmain ferry. A bright, full moon shone out
over the sandstone city. They were in no hurry, and stopped to admire the moonbeams
skipping over the waves.

It was, Beatrice felt, an impossibly romantic night. One on which a girl might swoon
if she received a proposal. When Archie began to speak, her heart swelled.

‘Beatrice. I've been thinking about things. I was wrong to propose to you as I did.
As you foresaw, my foreskin belongs in the collection.'

Beatrice could think of no response.

‘I wouldn't mind having it cared for,' Archie went on in the silence that followed,
‘into the unimaginable future, by curators of anthropology. They're priests and priestesses,
really—custodians of our human sense of ingenuity, belief and beauty. But for all
their efforts they can't preserve the full meaning of things. One day my foreskin
will be just a love token from the Venus Islands. But that's okay with me. Is it
okay by you too, Beatrice?'

‘Shut up, Archie! Actually, it's not all right by me. Not at all.'

Archie stood puzzled as Beatrice reached up and kissed him. As unexpected as it was,
it was the sweetest moment of his life. She flashed her left hand, and he saw a brown
parchment ring on her fourth finger.

‘It was meant for you, Beatrice. I've only got the one.' Then he plucked up the courage
to ask her. Again.

Chapter 27

Henry, Beatrice and Archie set to work organising Eric's final carouse. They spread the word around the museum
that the following Friday informal drinks would be held in the
evolution gallery, in honour of Eric Sopwith. Vere Griffon,
uncertain about whether he still had any respect among the staff,
debated whether to go.

‘You really must do it, old chap,' Abotomy advised. ‘Like going to the funeral of
a colleague. Expected of us big men, you know.'

Vere was girding his loins for the event when he heard a knock on the pillar that
served as his door.

‘Dithers! Good to see you, old stick.'

‘Vere, I've come because I'm worried about the museum. And
about you,' Dithers said
cautiously. ‘I appreciate tremendously the support you've shown me of late, but I
must say that when I sing your praises I'm a voice in the wilderness. I'm afraid
that the old European style of director doesn't work well here.'

To Dithers' surprise Vere Griffon listened. The director could tell that Dithers
was speaking from the heart.

‘You must understand, Vere, that the Antipodeans are a strange lot. I fought with
them at the charnel house that was Pozières. They were the bravest soldiers I ever
commanded, and they died like flies. In somebody else's war. I never saw one shot
in the back for deserting the fighting. But they hated being ordered about. The worst
day of my life came when I was commanded to assemble a firing squad to execute a
young man for failing to salute a brigadier. He was the best soldier we had. Fearless.
Refused a blindfold: just stood there staring at me as the squad fired, as if to
say, “I'm every bit as good as you, mate”. I was only twenty-one—just a year or two
older than him—and not a night goes by when I don't relive it.

‘I can't help but think,' Dithers went on, ‘that if you trusted them a bit—mixed
with the troops; that sort of thing—you'd find that you have the finest set of curators
in the world. And a far easier job of it.'

Griffon thought that maybe, just maybe, Dithers had a point.

‘I have my own problems, Vere,' Dithers continued. ‘Abotomy is a queer sort of chap.
Deficient, somehow. Lacking in character. He's convinced that I attempted to seduce
his wife, a charge of which I'm entirely innocent. He has threatened me with, er,
physical violence.'

‘Yes, a most disagreeable type. But in this case all bluff and bluster. Though I
do know what you mean about his character. I can't help but think that in a frontier
country like this, men like Abotomy are considered great solely because they get
things done. A conscience just gets in the way. If you want to find the truly great
here, you have to dig. History buries them deep.'

‘Thank you, sir. There is just one more thing. I have a manuscript I intend to publish.
Could I leave a copy with you?

Griffon scanned the title page: ‘The Role of Museums in a Nation Founded on Murder'.

‘I see. I'll try to get to it…in the fullness of time. But, my dear chap, the subject
is outside your area of expertise.'

Dithers knew what that meant. Obfuscation and delay, in the hope he'd lose interest
in pursuing what Griffon doubtless saw as his latest craze. He slumped against the
pillar. He had more sympathy than hard feelings towards his director. But the last
few weeks had changed him. It was as if the shellshock and despair had finally lifted.
He had discovered that there was something worth fighting for. He knew what he must
do, and now there was no way but the hard way.

‘Shall we be off to Sopwith's do?' Griffon asked. He took Dithers by the arm and
led him from the room.