The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (8 page)

By the time they'd eaten lunch and were onto their second round of shouts, Archie
was asking about the museum.

‘You should know that Polkinghorne's vanished,' said Dithers with some emphasis.

Vanished? Cecil Polkinghorne was Archie's supervisor. It was to him that the painfully
shy teenager had applied for a museum cadetship. He was a queer old coot, sure enough,
but Archie had grown rather fond of him. Polkinghorne had started out as a museum
guard, and there his career might have ended if he hadn't developed a fascination
with the Egyptian room. Enthralled with antiquities, he took a course in classical
archaeology, following which he applied for a curator's job.

The museum had its own reason for wanting to move Polkinghorne on. He was without
doubt a diligent guard. But a purple growth had sprouted on the tip of his tongue
and swiftly swelled to the size of a cherry. Not only had it given him prodigious
buck teeth, but it left him incapable of speaking without spraying his listeners
with saliva. When Vere Griffon arrived he'd experienced the problem firsthand. The
guard, who was somewhat in awe of the new director, had drawn himself up at his approach,
saluted, and sprayed out, ‘Cecil Polkinghorne, sir. At your service!'

Complaints from the sprinkled and befuddled had been accumulating, and it was with
some relief that the director had, upon Polkinghorne's graduation, assigned him to
a role away from the public—as curator of archaeology.

‘What do you mean, vanished?' asked Archie.

‘Just what I said. Around three years ago. He left work one evening and never came
back. The most popular theory is that he fell off a ferry and drowned. But no one
saw anything, and no body was found.'

‘There's summat rum about it, Archie. I fear the worst.' Eric Sopwith shook his head,
his eyes more watery than ever.

‘Utter rubbish, Sopwith,' exclaimed Mordant contemptuously. ‘Bumstocks saw him getting
onto the ferry that night, and he didn't disembark at Balmain. No doubt about it.
Polkinghorne drowned and his body was eaten by sharks. The harbour's full of them
now that the abattoir at Homebush dumps blood and offal into the water by the ton.'

For a moment silence reigned. ‘I best be off,' said Roger Holdfast. He and Gerald
rose from the table as one. ‘The skeleton of the giant sloth needs articulation,
and work for the new exhibition is falling behind.' Dithers announced he had a report
on giant rats to complete.

Mordant seemed to find the diminished company not to his liking. As the assistant
taxidermist stood up he got out his wallet with a flourish, and winked at Nellie.
‘There's a few treasures in here, love. How would you like to be paid?' There had
been no tab. Nellie looked confused as she peered into the open wallet. Mordant snapped
the wallet shut and turned to Archie. ‘Welcome back to the happy ship HMAS
Museum
,
Archie. Consider this my homecoming present.'

Archie, concluding that there was something seriously awry with Mordant, was about
to rise too when Sopwith laid a hand on his arm. ‘How about staying for another'un,
Archie? I've a few things I need to tell ye.'

Archie got in first. ‘How could Cecil Polkinghorne have disappeared? It beggars belief,
Eric! I still remember the first day I came to work. There was the director in the
centre of the long table, sipping his tea, with the curators lined up on either side.
Polkinghorne was immediately on his right. It looked like Michelangelo's
Last Supper
.'

‘Aye, those were the days!' enthused Eric. ‘The institution'd be a far better place
if the director had continued taking tea with his staff, rather than locking himself
up in that great office of his.'

Mind you, it hadn't all been fun working with Polkinghorne, Archie recalled. When
they were alone in the collection, the older man would sometimes become rather too
excited, especially when he was explaining the process of mummification and how the
bowels were removed with a hook via the anus. The salivary spraying was one thing,
but the way Polkinghorne would stand rather too close, his hands groping about as
if trying to insert a hook into his young cadet, was quite another. Nothing untoward
ever happened, but in those first few years Archie sometimes felt that it might.

‘Could it have been anything else?' Archie asked Sopwith. ‘Could he have…offended
somebody?'

‘Laddie, take my word for it! There's summat suspicious—mighty suspicious—about Polkinghorne's
vanishing. I saw the man on that very day. He was not happy; had a falling out with
the director, they say.'

‘But not bad enough to top himself, surely?'

‘This place is mighty changed, Archie. And so is our director. He's become angry
and domineering. And he's rifling the collections for their treasures. After Polkinghorne
went, he shipped off the two best mummies to America, to be sold. I tell ye Archie,
there's summat mighty rum goin' on.'

Beer disappeared down Sopwith's throat like water in desert sands, especially as
the cry ‘last round' rang out. To his shock, Archie realised that it was nearly 6
p.m.—way after closing time
at the museum. He was more than a little unsteady on
his legs as he meandered back to his office. It had been a momentous first day back.

The sun had sunk low by the time Archie left the museum, but it was still stinking
hot and the road reeked of molten asphalt. Dithers' rooms were only a few hundred
yards away, behind the museum, and Archie decided to go on foot. His trunk had been
delivered to the museum, and he struggled to get it across Yurong Street and into
the cash and carry, where he bought some biscuits as a gift for Dithers. He was covered
in sweat as he dragged it along the street and up the narrow stairs of the boarding
house to Dithers' room.

The white walls and ceiling were stained yellowish-brown with tobacco smoke. A narrow
barred window, which was nailed shut, ornamented the far wall. ‘Put your trunk down
there, Archie,' Dithers said, pointing to a tiny clear space at the foot of one of
two narrow beds that took up much of the room. He was absent-mindedly puffing on
a durry while reading a scientific publication on the diversity of Australian bats,
and seemed not to notice the heat. Archie could reach the space indicated only by
stepping around and over piles of dirty clothes and books. Dithers was notorious
for his chaotic office, but it was a paragon of tidiness compared with this. It dawned
on Archie just how cramped life would be until Courtenay left for Africa.

Dithers put down his publication, pulled a whisky bottle from under his bed, and
groped about in a pile of soiled shirts before coming up with some shot glasses.
‘We must have a dram to welcome you home!'

It was the last thing Archie felt like, but he took the proffered glass, sat on his
trunk, and downed it in a gulp.

‘How does it feel being back, Archie? A bit queer, I'd venture.'

Something in Archie
collapsed. ‘Very hard,' he said. ‘Beatrice is acting quite bizarrely. She has refused
my proposal of marriage. She stormed out when she saw me.'

‘Oh, Archie! My dear, poor old fellow. Five years, you know, is a very long time.
You're a different man now, and Beatrice is quite possibly a different woman. I know
how you feel, though. The war cost me dearly in love. And trust. But I'm sure things
will work out. Give her some time, Archie. That's what she needs. After all, your
return must have come as quite a shock. Now, have another tot.'

Archie found himself unable to say anything else about Beatrice. Everything was so
confusing that he seemed to be in a dream.

‘Courtenay, I can't thank you enough for this,' he said. ‘I can see it will be quite
a squeeze with two of us staying here.'

‘Not at all, old chap! Delighted to have you doss down with me. A man needs company
at times. I'm out late at least one night a week with the Society for the Preservation
of Native Animals. They've just appointed me treasurer. And with any luck I'll be
off to Africa before too long.' Dithers rolled and lit another cigarette.

‘What will you do there?'

‘Oh, I'll study the fauna. That sort of thing. But I also hope to answer some questions
that have been with me for quite some time—since 1918, you know. Africa's the last
place where the cold-blooded killers thrive—the lion, leopard and the hyena.
Our
stone-age ancestors lived among them. I want to understand how the prospect of being
eaten alive impacts the psyche. It might account for the devil in us.'

Archie was stunned. This was so uncharacteristic of the genial, untroubled Dithers
he thought he knew.

‘The common washroom is down the hall. Just one thing, Archie. I don't always sleep
well. If you hear me yelling and carrying on, take no notice.'

Dithers flung a towel over his shoulder, and disappeared out the door.

As Archie arranged his belongings he developed a severe headache. Was it the beer,
the whisky, a malarial attack—or the effect of Beatrice's rejection? Before he could
decide, he collapsed onto the bed beside his trunk, and was instantly asleep.

He found himself back in the Venus Isles, in the head-hunting days. Polkinghorne
had been captured by cannibals, and a ritual leader approached with a bamboo beheading
knife. The curator screamed, and his buck teeth lunged forward, as if to bite at
Archie's face.

Buck teeth! Archie sat upright in his bed. He had a crushing headache, was covered
in sweat, and was shaking. He went to his jacket pocket and took out the incisor
that had fallen from the fetish. He looked at it. ‘Don't be so bloody stupid, Archie.
It's impossible,' he said to himself.

‘Go back to sleep,' Dithers drawled from the adjacent bed. ‘There's a good chap.
It's just a bad dream.'

Chapter 6

Archie had slept badly. He struggled into his new shoes for a second time. His suit
was damp and musty with sweat, and he disliked putting it on. ‘In the islands, a loincloth is haute couture,' he
thought wistfully as he limped to work. Jeevons, the museum guard, was waiting for
him in the foyer. The man had, by his own account, seen a torrid war. His own limp
seemed to come and go with his retelling of the battle of the Somme. But Archie had
to admit that John Jeevons really looked the part in his polished shoes, military-style
uniform, and cap, with its magnificent three-inch wide, shield-shaped badge, proclaiming
‘Museum Guard'.

‘There's somebody waiting that I hope you might speak to, sir,' Jeevons confided
with a knowing look. ‘He arrived
early, and I must say I think he's rather queer.'

‘I see,' Archie replied wearily. His headache was increasing, and the last thing
he felt like was dealing with an inquiry from a member of the public. Jeevons led
him to the guard room, where a man sat slumped in a chair. Beside him was a parcel
the size of a golf bag.

‘Good morning,' Archie said. ‘How can I help you?'

The man leapt to his feet. ‘Are you the curator of artefacts? You see, I've got a
priceless treasure.' He started unwrapping the parcel, and soon the floor was covered
with sheets of newspaper. Still, the fellow unwrapped, until the parcel was reduced
to the size of a large cigar. As the last sheet came off, Archie saw that it contained
the point of a spear.

‘This, professor, is the spear that killed Captain Cook! The very one!' The man thrust
the object under Archie's nose.

‘I see,' Archie said, nursing his head and stalling for time. ‘How do you know that
this is the very spear?'

‘Oh, that's definite, prof. I got it from my grandfather, who was given it by a sailor
who'd been to Hawaii, and he bought it off the chief who ate Captain Cook's leg.
Said he found it in the flesh of the inner thigh. Near broke his teeth on it, he
said. Anyway I've looked at the painting—'

‘What painting?' Archie managed to interject.

‘The one of Captain Cook's death in a book my sister's got. There's no doubt about
it. You can see the spear going in, and I reckon I can even see the tip breaking
off. How much will you give me for it, it being a family heirloom and all?'

‘If it could be authenticated—'

‘Whaddya mean, authenticated? I told you, my grandad got
it off a sailor, who got
it off the dirty cannibal wot ate Captain Cook's bloody leg. What more proof do you
want! You know that the council's going to put a statue of Captain Cook in the park
outside the museum, so I'm sure people'd want to see the spear that killed him when
they come in.'

‘Well, this really is a weighty matter,' Archie said, biting his lip. ‘I'd need to
discuss it with the highest authorities. It might take some time.'