The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  ‘Jeevons, would you desist in telling such ridiculous stories about poor Sopwith! Our esteemed colleague deserves better,’ Archie said sharply.

  Jeevons, open-mouthed—and for once speechless—watched as his audience scattered.

  By six o’clock, the staff and guests had gathered in the foyer and the arrival of Sir Arthur Woodward was imminent. Canapés and drinks were circulating, and a jazz quartet played in a corner. Vere Griffon glanced around the room and, reassured that all was well, slipped out and made his way to the exhibition.

  What he saw did not please him. Henry Bumstocks, a picture of anxiety, was daubing at the Piltdown man’s face. Roger Holdfast was whizzing about like a dervish, a screwdriver in one hand and a hammer in the other, screwing here, hammering there, seemingly at random, while Mordant, his brow dripping with sweat, was wielding a paintbrush at the rear of a plinth.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t bother with the rear,’ Griffon roared. ‘I’ll keep Sir Arthur to the front so he won’t see the unfinished bit. And, Holdfast, the guests are sure to hear your hammering. I’ll get the band to play a little louder, but for God’s sake, keep the noise down!’

  Griffon knew that museum artificers habitually worked up to the last moment on exhibits, but this had him shaken. Tonight of all nights he needed to look professional. And in control.

  ‘Strike up something lively. Now.’ He said to the band when he returned to the foyer.

  The transition from lazy, background jazz to ‘Ritzy Glitzy Mitzi’ enlivened the atmosphere marvellously. Beatrice started to wiggle her hips. She looked up at her man, as she now thought of Archie despite the fact they had not even properly kissed. His eye was almost back to normal. But his right hand was still bandaged. She was so proud of him.

  Archie had managed to get Joe an invitation—a sort of thank you for feeding the Venus Islanders. The fruiterer had turned up in an antique suit with a high-collared shirt that must have been inherited from his grandfather. Joe was a little overwhelmed. ‘It’s bloody wonderful, Mista Mik. Good onions,’ he kept saying over and over. Then, to Archie’s relief, Joe struck up a conversation with Hans Schmetterling. Already on his third champagne, Schmetterling was gabbling on in German, while Joe responded in Italian.

  Beatrice was engaged in conversation with Mr Trembley, when Archie saw her mouth drop open. Her gaze was fixed on the foyer entrance. Roger Holdfast’s son, Gerald, was making his entry. Dressed in a smart linen suit, he was walking hand in hand with Nellie. She looked radiant in a sumptuous ball gown of pink silk taffeta.

  ‘He finally won the duck raffle,’ Dithers said, beaming. ‘But instead of dashing into the truck, he asked Nellie if she’d accompany him to the opening.’

  ‘She looks beautiful. Her gown must have cost a fortune,’ gasped Beatrice.

  ‘That’s Nev,’ said Dithers with a knowing wink. ‘Favour to a friend and all.’

  The conversation lulled as a triumvirate strode into the room. Scrutton and Descrepency wore tuxedos, in distinct contrast with the trench coat–wearing Inspector Brownlow. Scrutton felt it appropriate that the detective should accompany them.

  Abotomy greeted the three, but after a few words seemed anxious to get away. He fixed Beatrice with a lascivious eye, and slid across the room.

  ‘Dithers, please introduce me to this delightful young lady.’

  Dithers was confounded by the squire’s bonhomie. ‘This is Beatrice Goodenough,’ he managed to say. He was about to add ‘Archie Meek’s girlfriend,’ when Abotomy broke in.

  ‘Not one of the Bombuggaree Goodenoughs, eh?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Beatrice replied. ‘My father is George Goodenough of Bombuggaree, nephew of Admiral Joseph Goodenough.’

  ‘Aha! Holy Joe.’ Chumley chortled. ‘Died in the New Hebrides, didn’t he? Bringing the good news to the savages?’

  ‘My family is rather religious,’ Beatrice replied, blushing.

  Chumley caught sight of Mrs Gordon-Smythe, who Griffon hoped might fund a new gallery of Pacific cultures. His look, Beatrice felt, indicated more than a nodding acquaintance.

  ‘Gladys, please meet Beatrice Goodenough. She works at the museum. And she’s a Bombuggaree Goodenough—a relative of the admiral.’

  ‘My dear girl. How delightful to meet you! My darling late husband counted Admiral Goodenough as a very close friend. But who is this? Not Archibald Meek, surely? Last time I saw you, you were a mere stripling.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you again, Mrs Gordon-Smythe. I believe we met last when you came to examine your husband’s collection at the museum. As you doubtless know, the reverend’s memory is worshipped in the Venus Islands.’

  A tear welled in the widow’s eyes. ‘We must do something, here at the museum, to honour his sacrifice. And we really must display the treasures you’ve brought back from the wilderness, young man. But what is that on your wrist?’ She pointed to the frigate bird.

  Archie flinched. ‘Ah, it’s just a small tattoo, madam. From the islands.’

  ‘My husband bore one almost identical. He always felt that missionaries needed to understand the ways of the natives. He underwent initiation, you know,’ she added with a wink. ‘You remind me so much of him, when he was your age.’

  Gladys Gordon-Smythe took Beatrice’s left hand in hers, and examined it.

  ‘Perhaps, my dear, in time…’

  Beatrice could not speak. She had glimpsed something that had struck her to the heart—a parchment-like ring on the widow’s fourth finger.

  Abotomy sensed that Gladys Gordon-Smythe had been deeply affected. With surprising solicitousness he shepherded her to a quiet corner and consoled her with a hug and a glass of bubbly.

  ‘What a nice man. He reminds me of my cousins,’ Beatrice said, regaining her composure. ‘And what a lovely lady. I can see she’s mad on you, Archie.’

  Dithers was perplexed by Abotomy’s civility. Best to say nothing, he told himself.

  A silence was falling on the crowd nearest the entrance, and a loose guard of honour was forming. At the very front of the line was the museum’s chairman, the Very Reverend Sir Crispin Jugglers, who seemed to be practising a bow. Behind him was Vere Griffon. As Sir Arthur entered the room Jugglers sprang forward, giving the impression that his brilliantined body was about to topple over. As those about held their collective breath, he bowed deeply, from the waist, until his wizened torso was horizontal, his left leg stretching forward and his right bent elegantly behind. Sir Arthur was somewhat taken aback at the low obeisance—a form of prostration usually reserved for royalty. Then, at the lowest point of Jugglers’ bow, the silence was broken by the strident trumpeting of a strangulated clerical fart.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, too,’ said Sir Arthur, trying to make the best of things.

  ‘It is an honour. A high honour indeed, Your Serene Highness, to have you visit these colonies.’ Jugglers seemed to have confused Sir Arthur with the Prince of Wales, who had visited some decades earlier.

  ‘Sir Arthur!’ Vere Griffon broke in. ‘How very good of you to come halfway round the world on our behalf! Welcome, welcome, welcome to our humble museum.’

  In the silence that followed
, Archie gave a low whistle, and the Venus Islanders danced into the foyer. With spears and man-catchers in their hands, they looked so ferocious that gasps and stifled screams rippled through the crowd. Griffon took the opportunity to lead Jugglers to the guard’s office, where a cab was called for him. The director then returned to watch what he later called a magnificent performance of savage theatre. Sangoma led, dancing his shark mask hypnotically to the beat of the kundu drum. As he recreated the movements of the hammerhead sharks that seasonally visited the lagoon, he seemed to transform the mask into a living creature. The crowd made way for him like sardines before a marlin.

  Then the entire troupe simulated a headhunting raid, the finale of which consisted of placing a man-catcher over Archie’s head. When Cletus stalked onto the floor with the device in his hand, it looked like he was carrying a tennis racket. Though innocent in appearance, the man-catcher is a most devilish thing. Instead of strings, a spike projects from the point where the handle meets the frame. When placed over Archie’s head, its horrible purpose became apparent. The spike sat where the spine meets the cranium: the slightest push would sever the spinal cord. Native people rarely waste energy; the purpose of the contraption was to force the victim of a headhunting raid to walk to his fate. So much easier than carrying a corpse. Archie found that he didn’t need to mime terror as he was led off, the islanders whooping and pointing spears at his chest. He felt it in the pit of his stomach.

  The Venus Islanders danced out of the foyer to the beat of the kundu and to riotous applause. The museum’s supporters had, said one elderly matron, never been treated to anything quite so excitingly savage.

  As the drumming disappeared down the corridor, Vere Griffon called for quiet, and speeches followed. Then the entire party walked to the new gallery. Griffon led the way, and entered the hall just in time to see Holdfast’s left foot disappear behind a display case. The smell of paint hung a little strong in the air, but nothing else was amiss. With Sir Arthur Woodward by his side, Griffon stepped towards a blue ribbon strung between two chairs, on one of which sat a large pair of scissors. Sir Arthur cut the ribbon, and the warmed-up crowd erupted in applause.

  There were oohs and ahhs as the guests entered the exhibition and took in the magnificence of it all. The skeletons of a giant sloth and a tyrannosaurus formed the centrepieces. But most attention was paid to the Piltdown man. He looked so brutish that one woman fainted, depriving her of the chance to hear Sir Arthur expound on the discovery of the Piltdown bones and their place in human evolution.

  Vere Griffon found himself bailed up.

  ‘Director! Let me introduce my husband, Dr Siegfried Leggenhacker.’

  It was Elizabeth Doughty, dressed in a tartan skirt and highlands blouse, and a tam-o’-shanter on her head. Her one leg looked splendid in a tartan stocking, while her newly fitted peg of black ebony was striking, to say the least. At her side was a stout, blue-eyed, walrus-moustached gent, peering at the world through a monocle. Dr Leggenhacker was, Griffon thought, Teutonic to his bootstraps. Even his pot belly, loosely constrained behind his blue-striped shirt with its low collar, seemed unmistakably German.

  ‘Guten abend. Herzlich willkommen, sehr geehrter Herr Doktor Leggenhacker. Ihre anwesenheit heute abend ist uns eine ganz besondere ehre!’ said Griffon.

  ‘How kind of you to welcome me in my native tongue, Director. It’s a rare thing in the far-flung colonies,’ Leggenhacker replied.

  ‘Have you met your countryman, Herr Schmetterling? Let me introduce you.’

  Griffon grew less certain as he approached Schmetterling. The man was somewhat the worse for wear.

  ‘Guten abend, Herr Schmetterling. Meet your countryman, Dr Siegfried Leggenhacker.’ Griffon’s presence had reduced Schmetterling to a trembling mess. It was Joe who responded.

  ‘Good onions, Dottore Leghacker! Is a good party, eh!’

  ‘Ja. But the best is yet to come, I think.’

  The Japanese sailors, meanwhile, had gathered beneath an exhibit titled ‘The Ladder of Progress’. It consisted of skulls, arranged in a pyramid whose bottom rung was labelled ‘Australian Aborigine’. Then came layers of Africans, Papuans, Islanders, Chinese, Arabs and finally, at the apex, a single skull with ‘Caledonian’ written in ink across its brow.

  ‘Director!’ cried Admiral Iamaura. ‘Very excellent. British on top. But next should be Japan. Why no Japanese?’

  ‘Oh…well, Admiral. Quite simple, really. Couldn’t get the skulls.’

  ‘Ah so.’ Iamaura bowed as Griffon moved on.

  The director was intending to visit the bathroom, but at the far end of the hall he felt a tap on his shoulder. He swung around, and came eye to eye with Cedric Scrutton. Behind him was Hardy Champion Descrepency.

  ‘Griffon, you vile thief. We’re onto you!’ Flecks of foam appeared on Scrutton’s lips.

  ‘Really, old thing. No idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps we could discuss it tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, that we will,’ Scrutton spat back.

  ‘You’ve met your Golgotha now, Director,’ added Descrepency.

  ‘Golgotha, please!’ Vere Griffon insisted with an emphasis on the first syllable, as if he were correcting an ignorant child. He found mispronunciation intolerable.

  The director was standing at the urinal with the faintest echo of satisfaction at the launch having gone off so well, when he heard a tremendous crash. He cut things off as best he could, buttoned up, and returned to the hall. A crowd had gathered around the soaring tyrannosaurus skeleton, which he could see now ended at the neck.

  An ashen-faced Cedric Scrutton was holding his shoulder. Brownlow, notebook in hand, stood beside him. In front of them lay a shattered saurian cranium. Roger Holdfast was looking up in horror at the abruptly terminating neck.

  ‘I just can’t understand what happened. Gerald checked all the bolts this afternoon. It’s impossible that they could have come loose.’

  Scrutton woke as if from a trance.

  ‘Griffon, I knew that you were a low life, but I had no idea that you were a murderer as well. There will be an investigation into this, I swear. There will, indeed! I’ll see you hang!’ He cried as he stormed off.

  The museum guards soon erected a temporary barrier around the fallen skull. More music, and a fresh round of drinks and canapés, restored gaiety. Archie, however, could not relax, and did not trust himself to have a champagne. He was on the lookout for Dryandra Stritchley, who was nowhere to be seen. Tied up with officework, he thought. Just as the guests were getting over-jolly she marched into the hall, looking about as if in search of someone.

  Archie slipped out and made his way to the boardroom. To his shock, the door opened as he approached. Elizabeth Doughty and Dr Leggenhacker stepped into the hallway, Leggenhacker’s jacket was wrapped around what looked like a leg of lamb.

  ‘Meek. What are you doing here?’ hissed Elizabeth.

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ he replied. Seeing the steely look in her eyes, he added, ‘Err, I’ve come to replace the tooth in the fetish.’

  ‘The what!’

  ‘The tooth. On the day I returned from the islands I discovered that an incisor had dropped out of one of the skulls of the Great Venus
Island Fetish. I haven’t had a moment to replace it until now.’

  The Leggenhackers seemed not to care for his explanation. They moved swiftly down the corridor towards the exit. Archie entered the darkened boardroom. The great fetish hung in the eerie twilight. Its eyes seemed to be staring at him, their manic spirals drawing him closer.

  He was soon face to face with the beastly thing. He struggled to lift it from the wall, but his damaged hand lacked strength. It was as if he could smell the smoky fumes of hell itself emanating from the monstrous oral cavity. The fetish was far heavier than he’d imagined, and in his battle to lift it he found himself leaning repeatedly into the tooth-lined cavern. He felt like he was being consumed by it.

  Then something broke. An object crashed to the floor and split in half. It was a skull—one of the orange ones. Archie stared at it in petrified silence. Then he looked at the gap in the skull ring.

  The next few moments would always remain confused in his mind. His clearest memory was of a tremendous roar, as if the hobnails of hell had been let loose. The air about him turned into an inferno, the flames of which licked at him like the tongue of the devil himself. He knew that to save his life he must drop the mask, yet now it seemed to be holding onto him. Then the sleeve of his coat burst into flames, and he found himself running down the hall, screaming, ‘Fire, fire,’ at the top of his lungs.

  Almost instantly Vere Griffon was at his side, acting with the resolve of the captain of a sinking ship. The director seemed to be simultaneously organising an orderly departure of the guests, a bucket chain of museum staff to pour water on the fire, and directing the newly arrived firemen towards the blaze. It was, everybody later agreed, the man’s finest hour.