The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (34 page)

Archie and Beatrice were surprised at who turned up. Some board members came along,
and even the museum recluse, Mr Trembley, put in an appearance. He was, Archie was
surprised to see, wearing his Samurai sword.

Almost everyone had a story of Sopwith's kindness—and everyone arrived with a bottle
or two and some food. With the
five quid's worth of catering, they'd have a surplus
to give to the street kids.

Henry Bumstocks, Archie and Beatrice were debating who should say a few words when
Griffon and Dithers walked through the door. Immediately, the atmosphere chilled.
Dr Doughty hopped forward, a determined look on her face. ‘Director, I know you've
done much to support me of late, and I'm grateful for it. But you should be ashamed
of yourself, pilfering the Bathurst meteorite from the collection while I was in
the field. It was a despicable act!'

Vere Griffon's jaw tightened. He looked at the faces around him and fought the impulse
to be high-handed.

‘Elizabeth, I knew that you would be upset, but please try to understand. These miserable
financial times put the very existence of the museum at stake. And I do bear responsibility
for the fate of this institution. Sacrifices had to be made. I can't tell you what
a difference the acquisition of the Giglione goats has made to the finances of the
place. I'm only sorry that the meteorite perished in the fire.'

‘You're mistaken there, Director. On the evening of the blaze, my dear Leggenhacker
assisted me in removing it from your office and returning it to the mineral collection.
The Bathurst meteorite is a
most
precious celestial body. It has the power to reveal
the mysteries of outer space, and I have no doubt that one day it will! But after
wandering the heavens for millions of years it very nearly didn't get the chance.
No thanks to you.'

‘I see,' Griffon said, suddenly understanding why the urchin thought he saw a butcher
and a one-legged man fleeing from the fire. ‘That is good news, Elizabeth. And of
course
you are quite right. Quite right.'

Griffon drew himself into a directorial stance.

‘I have an announcement to make. At the next meeting of the board I intend to propose
an amendment to the rules. From now on, curators will be consulted, regardless of
where they are, if specimens they're responsible for are required for any purpose.
We will live with the delays entailed. After all, you curators are the backbone of
the institution, and your authority needs to be respected.'

A murmur of surprise rose from the crowd.

‘While I am on the subject of curators, I have another thing to say. This morning
I received approval from the Public Service Board for the elevation of Mr Archibald
Meek from the position of assistant to full curator in the anthropology department.'

A wave of jubilation swept through the hall. The efforts of an esteemed colleague
had been recognised. And many dared believe that the sanctity of a curator's care
for his collection was to be upheld. Nothing was more important to the museum men
and women assembled there. Dithers, catching the emotion, led a huge ‘hurrah'. He
grabbed Archie and old Mr Trembley, and together they lifted their rather alarmed
director onto their shoulders and began parading him around the room. It was Dithers
who struck up the old tune:

Here's to the prof. of museology,

Master of all natural history!

Good man he, and good men we,

that suu-ch—a one—our director be.

Hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray!

With each cheer the curators tossed an embarrassed Griffon into the air.
And
they
caught him again.

When things calmed down Archie tapped his glass. ‘Director, friends and colleagues.
In an institution such as this, where we live and die for our science and our collections,
it's not surprising that passions can lead to tension. And so it should be. But we
must honour the spirit of this place. And there you see it,' Archie said, pointing
to a skull mounted high on the wall. ‘The last and greatest gift a curator can give
to his institution is himself—whether in the field or in a will. Here's to one of
the finest curators this museum has ever known. And I believe that I can discern
a smile on him even now. Ladies and gentlemen. I propose a toast to our friend and
colleague, Eric Sopwith.'

‘To Eric,' the choir of voices rang out as all eyes turned towards the skull.

‘May he not be forgotten,' added Henry Bumstocks, a tear in his eye.

‘There's something I'd like to say.' Courtenay Dithers was tapping his glass. ‘I'm
sure that the entire staff will be most interested to learn a little secret. We have
one more cause for celebration today. This morning Miss Beatrice Goodenough informed
me that she has accepted a proposal of marriage from Mr Archibald Meek. So, here's
to the happy couple. Long may they sail with us!'

This time it was Archie and Beatrice being carried aloft, with Chumley Abotomy leading
the cheers.

As the drinking started in earnest, Abraham Trembley caught Archie's eye.

‘I've seen things in the corridors, young man. Things that
cause me to carry my sword
wherever I go. A word of advice. Look to your man-catcher.'

Archie barely caught the old man's words over the din. His man-catcher? Perhaps he
was telling him to look after Beatrice.

‘I certainly will, Mr Trembley. She's quite a catch herself, I think.'

Trembley raised a bushy eyebrow and a corner of his mouth, and transfixed Archie
with a look of horror, before vanishing into the crowd.

Chumley turned to Vere Griffon.

‘Must be off, old fellow. Portia's at the hospital. About to pup at any moment. I
might even be a father by now. But walk with me a little. I hear that Professor Picinnini
of Florence has the most tremendous collection of stuffed swine. Every wild and domesticated
breed, and every type of boar under the sun. What say we grab them for the colonies?
I understand that the treasurer's a keen pork man.'

‘Perhaps, old chap,' the director replied. ‘But I feel I need a holiday first. Might
ask for some leave. Just a couple of months. Fancy I'd like to see Malaya.'

Chapter 28

Courtenay Dithers felt that he had done what he could for Archie. Now he knew that
he must do something for all humanity. He took a copy of the paper he had given to
Griffon and strode to Speaker's Corner in the Domain. A crowd of fifty had gathered
around a cadaverous-looking fellow in a ragged black suit who stood on a fruit box
holding a sign proclaiming ‘Christ is Risen!' in handwritten capitals. A few yards
away a nuggety man stood atop another box, shouting to a smaller crowd about the
universal brotherhood of working men.

Dithers stepped onto a vacant box, and began to read.

‘The Role of Museums in a Nation Founded on Murder. By Dr Courtenay Dithers.'

A few people drifted away from the cadaverous speaker, and approached.

‘The continent of Australia was colonised by Britain less than 150 years ago. Prior
to that it was the home of hundreds of thousands of black men and women. What happened
to them? Many thousands died in a war. One of the bloodiest and most craven wars
ever known. Men, women and children were indiscriminately shot, poisoned and bludgeoned
to death—by colonial Australians.'

By now pretty much everyone in the Domain had gathered in front of Dithers. Even
the nuggety man had got down from his soapbox to listen, while the cadaverous chap
watched in silence from atop his. As he read on Dithers caught a glimpse of a man
throwing something at him, and felt a sharp pain in his forehead. Blood dripped into
his left eye. ‘Liar!' shouted his assailant, a man in a slick green suit, as he began
scrabbling in the dirt, adding to the stones he had already gathered.

‘Who are you, sir!' demanded Dithers, brushing the blood from his eye.

‘Ken Shuttlecrap. And I can tell you that the pioneers never massacred the blacks.
We've been spending a fortune soothing the pillows of a dying race. They get better
care on the missions than our unemployed do.'

Dithers folded his manuscript and placed it in his pocket.

‘You see that grand memorial up there, in Hyde Park? We built it, by public subscription,
to honour those who had fallen in the Great War. I was there, and I know. Nothing
is as horrific as war. The civilised countries consumed the finest flower of their
youth in the trenches of France. Brave men were shot in
the back as they fled the
insanity. The skeleton of the unknown soldier that rests in that sepulchre is symbolic
of all the glorious fallen.

‘But in the war I talk of, whole tribes fell facing an enemy whose armaments made
them all but invincible. The bravery of their heroes merits a VC. But where is their
monument? Do you see that building to the left of the war memorial? It's our museum.
And it is filled with the remains of the unknown dead, including some of the finest
soldiers this country has ever produced. Men who defended home and family armed with
wooden spears and clubs, against horses and guns. Yet we do not honour them. Instead
we study their bones, and trade them. We defile their glorious sacrifice.'

‘Nigger lover. Nigger lover.' The chant started low, but quickly swelled into an
aggressive howl.

‘Who did the killing?' Dithers shouted above the crowd. ‘Our bunyip aristocracy,
that's who. It was the great and supposedly good of this country whose ancestors
pulled the triggers. The Duggertons, the Abotomys…'

Dithers felt himself being pulled from his soapbox. His left hand was being shoved
far up his back. The blue of a police uniform pressed against his face.

It was early afternoon before Griffon learned that one of his curators was locked
in the police cells.

He arrived at Darlinghurst police station to find Slugger
Doolan slouched over the
counter.

‘You museum chaps do like a stoush, don't you?' he said as he led Griffon to the
cells.

‘Oh dear! My poor chap. What happened?'

Dithers was sitting on a concrete floor. The side of his head was caked in blood
and his patrician nose was badly broken.

‘Officer!' Vere shouted. ‘Get this man out of here. He is doing valuable work for
the premier. Now move it!'

Griffon hailed a cab, helped Dithers in, and headed for Dithers' rooms.

Dithers spoke from the heart. ‘I know what I must do, Vere. Never again will I suffer
an injustice of this kind to remain unchallenged. I am going to Alice Springs, where
the last of the wild tribes roam. The war still rages there, and I will not allow
the desert people to suffer the fate of their coastal neighbours. You have my resignation:
I can be nothing but an embarrassment to you from now on. Now go, Vere. Your museum
needs you. And the tribes need me.'

When Archie and Beatrice heard about Dithers they rushed to his rooms. They found
him lying on his bed.

‘Oh, Courtenay, what have they done to you?' cried Beatrice.

‘Don't tell the truth in this country, Beatrice.'

‘Dithers, old chap, did you really have to stand in the Domain reading your manuscript?
The place is full of rough types.'

‘No need to worry about me, Archie. I'm off to Alice Springs. The final frontier
of the black war. There are still shootings going on out there, and I'm determined
to stop them.'

‘We must come with you, Courtenay!' cried Beatrice impulsively. There were tears
in her eyes as she lit the cigarette
he had fumbled into his mouth.

‘No. No!' Dithers replied emphatically. ‘I need to face this alone.' He turned to
Archie. ‘For God's sake, treat the remains of the fallen with the respect they deserve.'