The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  ‘Reverend Jugglers, board members,’ she commenced in a stentorian voice, ‘I wish to travel to Tidore, in the Dutch East Indies, to obtain specimens of two most splendid minerals recently reported from that island. The intrepid Count Vidua of Genoa, whose immortal expedition is, as we speak, steaming homewards, has written to me concerning a strange mineral growth, a kind of phyllosilicate clay, which he encountered in the caverns of the volcanic isle. From his sketches, I can only assume that the count has stumbled across a massive Dickite.’ She wagged her forefinger back and forth like a school ma’am. ‘It really is a most exceptional new mineral: the royal purple crystals are exquisitely shaped, and in this instance are of a most prodigious size. A most unique discovery, Director,’ she said looking towards Griffon, ‘and most exciting to the public! Ours could be the first museum to obtain a specimen, which might form the centrepiece of a most popular minerals exhibition. It’s an opportunity not to be missed!’

  Dr Doughty paused, searching the faces of the board members for traces of enthusiasm. Not put off by the puzzled looks, she plunged on.

  ‘Count Vidua’s notes also hint at the possibility that Isleby Cummingtonite may be had on Tidore. It’s a rare new form of the mineral, known previously only from Isleby rock stack in the Orkneys. As you may recall, Director, the original mineral species was named after Professor Gaythorn Cummington, under whom I laboured most ardently at Oxford.’ A spot of moisture appeared in the corner of her eye. ‘With such rare minerals in its collection, to what heights might this institution not rise?’ she concluded in rapture.

  ‘I don’t think…Isleby Cummingtonite?’ Jugglers muttered confusedly.

  ‘How much will it cost, Griffon, this little jaunt to the Spice Islands?’ Cedric Scrutton was scowling at the director. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that thousands of homeless people are sleeping rough tonight all around this grand museum of yours, and that the government is most stringent in approving any new expenditures whatsoever!’

  Dr Doughty was astonished that such a weary- and worn-looking body could generate such a thunderous response.

  ‘The total cost of the expedition is £300,’ Griffon responded calmly. ‘And if Dr Doughty does manage to get her hands on the Dickite, who knows what the result will be, my dear Cedric. We may be able to sell duplicates to other institutions for thousands of pounds.’

  ‘Out of the question, Griffon. The premier would never approve the sum. Not in these straitened times, and not on such a speculative venture.’ Scrutton was already turning to the next item when Chumley Abotomy raised his hand.

  ‘Chair, if I may? As a new board member and a man of independent means, I would like to do something for this grand institution. Three hundred pounds is a large sum, I admit, but if the state could contribute £100, I’d be willing to foot the rest of the bill, as a tax-deductible donation to the museum.’

  Scrutton looked warily at Abotomy. He knew that the squatter had the premier’s ear, and as a public servant he understood the value of avoiding trouble.

  ‘Very well. I’ll take your proposal to treasury,’ Scrutton said reluctantly. ‘I can’t promise anything, mind you,’ he added, unable to hide his irritation.

  ‘That will be all, Dr Doughty. Thank you for your most stimulating presentation,’ said the director, looking to Miss Stritchley to usher the mineralogist from the room.

  ‘I have just one further item under expenditure, Your Grace, if I may?’ continued Vere Griffon. ‘It concerns our splendid mammalogist, Dr Courtenay Dithers. You may recall that he’s our star recruit—a Cambridge man with a first-class academic record. He had hoped to travel to Africa to study big cats. Unfortunately, we’ve had a communication from the National Geographic Society refusing his grant. Not that it was considered in the least unworthy. But, like us, they face straitened times. I haven’t informed Dr Dithers of this yet as I don’t want to disappoint the chap. A rejection may even incline him to return home, to Britain. He would be a great loss to us.’

  ‘How much does he want?’ Scrutton asked, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘Eight hundred pounds, for six months in the Kenya colony.’

  ‘Eight hundred pounds so that a public servant can join some upper-class flappers and their layabout gentlemen on safari in Africa! Out of the question!’ Scrutton thundered, emphasising individually each of his final four words.

  ‘Chair, if I may?’ Abotomy had his hand in the air once more. ‘Abotomy Hall is rising swiftly, and will soon need furnishing. A pair of stuffed lions beside the fireplace and a zebra-skin rug or three would enliven the place, I think. If the institution could see its way clear to have Dithers shoot a bit of big game for me, and if the museum could prepare the mounted specimens and skins, I’d be willing to underwrite the expedition—again as a tax-deductible donation.’

  In the silence that followed Scrutton seemed to be gripped by an apoplectic seizure. The Reverend Jugglers once again nodded his head, though by this time it was clear he was fast sleep.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Vere Griffon said. ‘I believe that’s the end of our business for today. Anyone for a cup of tea?’

  Chapter 11

  Archie Meek had now been back in Sydney a little over two months. Sopwith’s death and the phantoms of missing curators haunted his imaginings, while his anxiety about Beatrice had increased in her absence. A few days after his ‘trial’, as he’d come to think of Griffon’s inquiry into Sopwith’s demise, Archie dragged himself to work after a sleepless night, feeling more dead than alive. And there was Beatrice, bent over the great register, concentrating intensely.

  ‘Beatrice,’ he gasped.

  ‘Stay away from me,’ she hissed.

  Archie backed into his room, and shut the door. He sat down, a crumpled heap, while outside Beatrice shed silent tears onto her register.

  ‘By Jove,’ Dithers exclaimed when he saw Archie later that day. You look a bit queer, old cove. Are you unwell?’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  Dithers’ eyes were shining with excitement. ‘I’ve got funding for my study of big cats! Almost given up hope, but look at this.’ He waved a memorandum in Archie’s face. ‘It seems that Vere Griffon has intervened personally with the board on my behalf. And he’s had a word with Mr Abotomy. The upshot is that they’re willing to fund the entire expedition! All I need do is pot a few extra lion and zebra for Abotomy Hall—more a holiday than hard work, I’d say. What a splendid fellow our director is turning out to be!’

  ‘Vere Griffon? Really?’ Archie replied tartly.

  ‘Archie, show the man a bit of respect, please! He is your director, after all, and he has a most difficult job at present.’

  Vere Griffon, Archie felt, was now a closed subject between them. But should he tell Dithers that Beatrice was showing no signs of relenting? His friend was so jubilant that Archie felt there was no point in troubling him now. In any case he knew what Dithers’ advice would be: ‘Give her time, my boy.’

  As things turned out, Dithers’ departure for the dark continent was delayed by one misfortune after another. First, news arrived that the steamer Zambesi, which ran from Perth to Mombasa, had been wrecked on a reef somewhere in the Indian Ocean. No alternative could be found. Then there was an outbreak of sl
eeping sickness on the Masai Mara, and shortly after word came that Dithers’ father had been taken seriously ill. Courtenay considered diverting via England to visit him, until a telegram told of a swift recovery, once again putting Dithers’ plans into disarray.

  Through it all the mammalogist remained chipper. ‘The big cats will still be there, Archie, when the tide turns in my favour.’

  Thought of an overseas trip had Elizabeth Doughty salivating. Geologising on such a remote island was a rare opportunity. As soon as Abotomy’s cheque for £200 arrived she left for Tidore, not daring to risk bureaucratic delay by awaiting the government’s £100. She hoped she might just scrape by on the reduced sum.

  It was an ironclad rule in the museum that curators were responsible for their collections. But while they were on fieldwork decisions could not be delayed indefinitely. So a convention had developed. While curators were in the field, authority over their collections fell to the director. Curators felt it was a convention more honoured in the breach. Indeed it was rarely invoked for fear of a curatorial backlash. But, under Griffon, things had begun to change.

  On the very day that Elizabeth Doughty left for the Spice Islands the director ordered Giles Mordant to go to the mineralogical collection and bring back the Bathurst meteorite. Mordant was exultant. For once he had authority over the scientific staff. He found the registrar of minerals with his finger up his nose, puzzling over a box of rocks.

  ‘I’ve come on behalf of the director. He wants the Bathurst meteorite.’

  ‘What does he want with it?’

  ‘That’s none of your business. Now get it. Quick smart.’

  ‘Dr Doughty will be most upset. I mean, this is most irregular.’

  Mordant looked him in the eye. ‘Hop to it! The director himself has ordered this, mate, and if you disobey or say a word about it you will be taken care of.’

  The meteorite in question had shot to fame some years earlier when it had streaked across the skies of the western plains and made a direct hit on the Church of St Barnabas the Sinner in Bathurst, which was all but vaporised in a tremendous explosion. The Protestants of the small community could not entirely conceal their glee. And there were rumours of celebrations at the local joss house, though in public the Chinese expressed their condolences, even putting on a charity yum cha for the churchless Catholics. News of the singular event travelled round the globe and was the subject of heated discussions in Rome. Which was perhaps how Professor Virgil Giglione heard about it.

  Vere Griffon was surprised when he saw the reddish lump of iron. At fifty pounds’ weight, the Bathurst meteorite hardly seemed large enough to destroy a church. But the oddest thing about it was its shape. Rather like a leg of lamb, Griffon thought. He ordered Mordant to store it in a wooden crate in the walk-in safe.

  It had been a warm, sunny summer. The bones that Archie had placed in the windowsill on the day of his return had remained undisturbed. One April morning, when the staff decamped for morning tea, Archie stayed behind. He went to the windowsill and lifted the piece of cardboard on which he had written ‘do not disturb’ nearly three months earlier. There was no difference in colour between the shaded and exposed portions of the bones.

  The skulls on the fetish had been exposed to far less sunlight. If fading had not altered their colour, then what else could have? Perhaps their smoking had been done differently from the rest. But they had not looked different when he left. Perhaps they were not the original skulls. He could hardly bear to think that they might be the remains of the missing curators. That seemed insane. Yet the idea would not go away. And if they were the missing curators, who had put them there?

  As Archie walked past the entrance to the Egyptian room he ran into a small knot of visitors. The place had a reputation for terrifying the more gullible members of the public. It was poorly lit, claustrophobically small and crowded with Egyptian arcana, and its contents included the hands, heads and feet of mummies which, judging from their condition, had been roughly torn from their bodies. Even Archie had to admit that the place could be unnerving.

  The gaggle at the entrance consisted mostly of ladies whom his mother would refer to as being of ‘a certain age’. A theatrical whisper carried through the air. Archie recognised it as the voice of John Jeevons, the museum guard.

  ‘I’ll never forget what I saw that day, not as long as I live. He was lying in a queer sort of way, twisted up like a snake. The effects of the poison, me missus reckons. And his face…’ Jeevons’ eyes turned heavenwards. ‘Black and puffed up like a Christmas puddin’, it was. One eye was open, all staring and glassy. Chilled me blood to see it. But, my God’—he crossed himself—‘the worst was his hand. I seen things on the Somme that’d turn a man’s hair white overnight. But that hand! I never seen nothin’ like it in all me living days. Like a mummy’s claw it was, reaching out for the treasure.’ He paused for effect. ‘The treasure of the golden cowrie, which that young Mr Meek brought back from the cannibal islands.’

  A collective shudder went through the crowd.

  ‘Mister Jeevons,’ a tremulous female voice inquired. ‘The newspapers reported the death as a misadventure. Was poison really involved?’

  ‘There are suspicions. Suspicions indeed, ma’am.’

  Sopwith’s death was clearly far from a closed chapter with the public, and Jeevons seemed intent on stirring curiosity to a fever pitch. Would he, Archie, end up in the tabloids, portrayed as the Lucrezia Borgia of the scientific world? he wondered.

  Archie left the museum and walked automatically around Hyde Park, wondering what to do. There seemed little point in approaching Griffon about Jeevons’ behaviour. No, best to pick the right moment, and speak to Jeevons directly.

  As Archie walked back to the museum, he turned to his most unbearable problem. Beatrice had written him off, it seemed, and Dithers’ strategy of giving her time was yielding nothing. Could she really be in love with Mordant? Archie had not entirely lost faith in Dithers as his ‘Dear Dorothy’, so he made his way to the mammalogist’s office.

  Dithers was bent over the stuffed skin of a large rat, a durry with a perilously long ashy tip hung from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Courtenay, I’m having no luck at all with Beatrice. No matter how much time I give her, she just ignores me,’ Archie blurted out.

  ‘Hmm. A difficult case. But I’m sure that she can be won over, Archie. Might be best to speak to her, or write her a letter. Say you’re sorry. Got carried away. That sort of thing.’

  ‘But what about Mordant?’

  ‘There is absolutely nothing in that, Archie. I was a fool to have even mentioned the thing.’ Dithers turned his attention back to the rat on his desk.

  Archie walked to Anthropology and found Beatrice. She did not look up, but he could feel her body tense at the sound of his footfalls. The words tumbled out of him. ‘Beatrice. I am truly sorry for whatever I have done to offend you. I really am. I’m still mad about you. I meant what I wrote in my letter.’

  Beatrice didn’t even look up; she kept on writing. Archie crept back to his office, feeling thoroughly miserable.

  The following day Archie thought he could discern the slightest thaw. When they found themselves alone, by chance, in the collection, Archie saw his opportunity. Apropos
of nothing, and looking at nobody in particular, he said, ‘I got carried away in the islands, Beatrice. Five years is a long time, you know.’

  ‘It was horrible and embarrassing, Archie. But I forgive you,’ Beatrice said with some effort. ‘And I’m terribly sorry about Sopwith. I know how much he meant to you.’

  Beatrice met his gaze. They both blushed, and Archie retreated to his cupboard. That evening Beatrice permitted Archie to walk her to Circular Quay.

  ‘The place is so changed, Beatrice. And Vere Griffon frightens me. He has always been a martinet, but he never seemed unhinged, as he sometimes does now. With Polkinghorne missing, and Sopwith dead, there’s a ghastly gloom over the place. I can’t walk past the spot where I unpacked my collection without seeing Eric’s face. He looked terrible, Beatrice. Just terrible! And to think I might have been responsible. I was as careful as could be with the labels, but I feel so out of touch with the world just now that anything’s possible.’

  ‘Archie, it’s most emphatically not the same museum. Everything has changed since the stock-market collapse. I sometimes think that the worry of it is driving our director mad. At least, as you say, he seems to be so at times.’

  Archie took a deep breath. ‘Beatrice, could I ask you a favour? I don’t like the idea of my, ahem, love token, being the property of the state. Do you think it might be deregistered and returned to me?’

  Beatrice stood stock-still. Then she burst into tears. ‘Archie! I waited so very long for you. And when your proposal of marriage came I was the happiest girl in the whole world. While you were away the only person who seemed to care that I existed was Giles. I told him about my engagement to you, and showed him the thing in the letter. It was he who told me what it really was. He laughed so cruelly about it, Archie! I was so embarrassed and upset—ashamed that I didn’t know what it was, and that you could send me such an obscene thing. And Giles had been so very kind, letting me cry on his shoulder when I missed you.’