The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish Read online

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ Griffon responded. ‘Our taxidermy department is more than capable of doing the final cleaning, but it would be a great kindness if somebody here could do the decapitation and skinning. Not quite right, I feel, to ask a colleague to do that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ll get an assistant onto it, but it might take some time. As you can see, it’s pretty much full house here, and tonight looks to be inclement. I expect to take receipt of at least a dozen corpses by morning. Pneumonia and starvation, you know. And that means that this gurney will be needed.’ Upton’s hand came down on the stainless steel trolley on which Sopwith lay. ‘Until we can get to the job, your curator may have to go into the freezer.’

  ‘Probably best not to say anything of this in public, old chap, given the run we’ve had in the papers. And it might unsettle the staff if they hear about Sopwith’s somewhat unconventional return to the workplace.’ Griffon gave a faint smile.

  ‘Of course, Vere. We must lunch at the club, say what? Next Tuesday is the seafood spread. All the great and the good will be there. Care to come along?’

  ‘Very kind of you, Upton. See you at midday on Bligh Street.’

  Griffon walked back to the museum. It was decent of Upton to have accepted his word on Sopwith’s will, he thought. Otherwise he’d have had to explain how it was that he had entirely forgotten to bring the document with him.

  Chapter 10

  The letter was written in elegant Latin script and signed, with a flourish, Professore Virgil Giglione, Curatore Principio dell’ Archeologia, Musei Vaticani.

  ‘The bloodsucker,’ Vere Griffon fulminated. ‘This is extortionate! Three Tasmanian tigers—and in good condition! Doesn’t the man know they’re next to impossible to come by these days? We’ve had a standing order for a Thylacinus in with the Hobart zoo for years, and it’s still unfilled. And fifteen Aboriginal crania. In perfect condition, he dares say! It would take the morgue years to supply such a number, especially if he insists on full-bloods. And getting them out of the collection will only cause trouble with the curators. My God! The list goes on and on. Look here: a desert rat-kangaroo! Well, the only place that’s got one of those is London, and they’re not giving it up, I can assure our dear professor Lily! And a Sepik River canoe and mask. And look at this: the man’s got the gall to ask for the Bathurst meteorite! Dr Doughty would have my stones if I tried to wrest that from her! And all of this in exchange for a few mouldering, stuffed goats! My God, this is impossible. Just impossible.’

  ‘Director,’ Miss Stritchley interjected rather firmly. ‘Do you think that Mr Abotomy might assist us in obtaining some of the exchange specimens? After all, this was his idea, and he has a very large run up country. All kinds of rare creatures doubtless abound on it.’

  Dryandra! Where would he be without her? Vere Griffon promptly dictated a letter to Abotomy, inviting him to the museum to discuss the Giglione goat acquisition. ‘Miss Stritchley,’ he said, addressing her with unusual warmth, ‘I think we’ve done enough today. How about a sweet sherry, and a moment with the Meissen? You deserve it.’

  Vere Griffon opened the door to a sort of alcove at the rear of his desk. Behind it was a small room. Then another door belonging to a massive walk-in safe. It had been installed at great expense in the early days, when enormous gold nuggets were commonly exhibited at the museum. The director turned the lock, opened the heavy metal door, and ushered Miss Stritchley in.

  Along one wall of the safe—more properly a strong room—stood a wine rack filled with bottles of Bordeaux and Burgundy, while in the middle stood a simple wooden table with two chairs. Elegantly placed on the table were a decanter and two sherry glasses. Beyond that, and occupying the rest of the table’s length, were a dozen exquisite porcelain vases, teapots and figurines. They had been arranged with great thought.

  Griffon filled the glasses. He and Dryandra savoured the excellent vintage.

  ‘This damn country might have the finest clay,’ Griffon said, ‘but it will never produce Meissen or anything near it. In Europe everybody knows their place. Even the forest is cultivated to perfection. Just look at that,’ he said gesturing at a vase. ‘Bavaria in spring. How glorious! Australia is as ugly as sin by comparison. Flat, dry and as pathetic as the naked blacks that once roamed it. And it’s still ruled by felonry rather than gentry. What a lot of galoots I’ve inherited here! I swear, Dryandra, I will bring my collection of curators to culture, order and discipline, even if it kills me.’ The pair communed in companionable silence, admiring the diminutive painted figurines in their wigs and tricorn hats, yearning for a Europe that existed only in their imaginations.

  Upon receipt of Vere Griffon’s letter Abotomy dashed to the museum. ‘No problem at all, old chap, with this lot!’ the squire declared after hearing Giglione’s demands. ‘Admittedly, Tassie tigers might be a bit of a stretch, but Abotomy Park is riddled with wildlife. Damn parrots and kangaroo-rats everywhere! As for those skulls, Grandfather Ebenezer was a crack shot, you know, and I’ve got a fair idea of where the bodies are,’ he said with a wink. ‘You just take care of the tigers and the Sepik stuff. And that meteorite—I’ll get the rest. By Jove, I know what I’ll do,’ Abotomy added. ‘We’ll have a battué. And a digging jamboree! That’ll produce such a swag of specimens it’ll knock old Giglione’s socks off. Would you care to join us, Director?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ replied Griffon, struggling to hide his disdain. ‘But I’ll think about who on staff might be useful to you.’

  Vere Griffon walked Abotomy out of his office and onto the street. He leaned towards the squire. ‘This is all very well, old chap,’ he whispered, ‘but there are certain, let us say, impediments, to me getting access to the objects Giglione requires. Curators need to be got out of the way—that sort of thing. It might require a bit of support from you—financial as well as moral—at our next board meeting.’

  ‘You have me intrigued, Director. But it sounds like good sport—and those goats are worth any effort!’

  Abotomy waddled off gaily down College Street. The fingers of his right hand twitched as if he was already pulling the trigger of his shotgun.

  ‘Miss Stritchley, can I see my copy of the board papers?’

  The board meeting was the most important event of the month for the director—the occasion on which his powers were tested against those to whom he reported. The board, and the board alone, could sack him, or order an investigation into any aspect of the institution he presided over.

  In fact, the august position of ‘Member of the Board of Directors of the Sydney Museum’ was a sinecure—a special favour from the premier to those from whom he himself needed favours. As a result, the board was stacked with people who had no idea at all about how a museum should be run. Abotomy was a wonderful instance of this. There were only a few sly reynards, and Griffon fancied that he’d learned how to manage them.

  But the greatest gift heaven had bestowed upon the director was his chairman, the Very Reverend Sir Crispin Jugglers, Anglican Primate of Sydney (and hence all Australia). He had held the position since the age of dinosaurs; his superannuated clothing hung on him like funereal garments on a mummer, and his slender black cane, doubtless once an elegant accoutrement, had long been an indispensible aid to perambulation.

  The old gent spent much of each meeting asleep, his sh
iny bald head nodding to the rhythm of his breathing. Which was all to the good, because when awake his interventions were at best inappropriate, at worst dangerous. Vere Griffon still fumed about the long and tedious discussion that had followed Jugglers’ opining what a great shame it was that public hanging was no longer in fashion. The enthusiasm with which the board members endorsed the death penalty for almost any offence had made the meeting run well over time, causing the director to be late for an important appointment.

  Vere Griffon read through the agenda. ‘Minutes, Apologies, Update on galleries. Ditto Science. Ditto collections. Donations, Finances. Request for funding. All very straightforward,’ he announced to himself.

  Listed among the donations were the seashells of a Reverend Bloomingdale, who had gifted his collection, numbering three thousand specimens, to the institution. These days such donations were worth almost nothing, and were becoming monotonously common as the previous generation, among whom shell collecting had been a fad, died off. Worse, now that Sopwith was gone there was nobody on staff to curate the donated shells. But since it came from a member of the clergy the director saw it as politic to accept it.

  The next donation was more interesting. A Mr Marchant of Double Bay had bequeathed his collection of antique coins. There was no numismatist at the institution, so the museum had no capacity to curate and catalogue old coins; but it would be handy to have the money. There was a danger that some smart alec might suggest giving it to the Nicholson Museum at Sydney University. Griffon made a mental note to prevent this potential occurrence.

  When the grandfather clock in the hallway struck two, the board members began to make their way to their accustomed seats in the grand boardroom. An extravagant bunch of roses sat in a glorious porcelain vase in the centre of the table.

  As usual, first through the door was Cedric Scrutton. Representing the state government, he was head of the Department of the Arts, which administered the museum. A grey man with pale blue eyes and a narrow face, Scrutton looked so prematurely hollowed out with worries and cares that he could already pass for an old man. Always businesslike and keenly interested in the museum’s finances, he was sharp enough to pick up the smallest of irregularities, and therefore was Griffon’s principal adversary.

  Next to enter was Chumley Abotomy, the board’s youngest member. Matters at Abotomy Park meant that he was a frequent apology, and this was only the fourth meeting he’d attended since his appointment. But now that they had formed an alliance over the Giglione goats he was, the director hoped, someone who could be relied upon. Then came Professor Harold Atleigh, a marine biologist from the University of Sydney. He could have been a danger, particularly in the scientific arena, but he was a timid fellow and Vere Griffon had learned long ago that he’d do almost anything to avoid causing a fuss.

  Mrs Adora Frederick, wife of Sir Clement Frederick, the owner of Mark Frederick’s department store, was doubly useless in Vere Griffon’s opinion, for not only did she know nothing about museums, but in all the years she’d served on the board she’d never once dipped into her personal wealth to assist a project. Adora was followed by Sir Hercules Robinson, the war hero, then Jock Higgins, the state architect. Dr Lawrence Bullock, head of the state agriculture department, was an apology. ‘No loss there,’ Vere Griffon said under his breath as he read the note proclaiming the doctor’s absence. ‘He has about as many brains as the average steer.’

  On a bad day, Vere Griffon had taken to fantasising about how, if the board fell into his power, he’d arraign its members. The setting was a cross between Dante’s Inferno and the museum’s taxidermy workshop. Bumstocks, who would make a suitable Mephistopheles, was busy administering punishments. Adora Frederick was being racked with great vigour, until streams of hitherto concealed pound notes flowed from her clothing. Bullock was being carved up, to be served as Christmas dinner to the starving staff, while Higgins was being crushed under a large stone inscribed with the words ‘New Museum, opened 2030—if ever’. But it was Scrutton for whom Griffon’s most fearful imaginings were reserved. He sat chained into a sort of iron throne, with a large accounts book before him. As a voice intoned the museum’s ever-diminishing budgetary position, a large steel spike penetrated further into his rectum.

  The board members were chatting among themselves when the chairman made his way into the room. They stood as one while Jugglers settled himself painfully into his ornate carver. Set above a high-collared shirt and black robe, his face bore, Griffon realised, an astonishing resemblance to the Venus Island Fetish that served as a backdrop. He must remember to get a photograph of Jugglers sitting below the thing before the chairman retired—for the wall of the boardroom—and perhaps as a gift to the departing chairman, who would be sadly missed.

  Following his usual practice, Griffon guided Jugglers through the tedious preliminaries. There was nothing much of note, except for the retirement of Mr Jonas Blockhead, the museum’s printer for thirty-three years.

  ‘He’s retiring to the Cook Islands,’ the director explained, ‘where we wish him many happy years of well-earned leisure. In honour of his long service, we felt it appropriate to present him with a fob and cufflinks, embossed with the museum crest.’

  Scrutton looked up.

  ‘To be paid for by staff donations, of course,’ Griffon added. He couldn’t resist baiting Scrutton.

  ‘With permission, Your Grace?’ Griffon warbled as he shuffled through his papers. ‘I’d like to report on the new gallery. Progress has been splendid. Many of the principal models have been completed, and the best of them are the equal of anything I’ve seen in the museums of the world. To my great delight I’ve had a letter from that most eminent of geologists, Sir Arthur Woodward, recently retired from the British Museum. You may recall that he’s been acting as an advisor, and it now seems possible that he will travel to officiate at the opening. This would be a great coup for us!’

  ‘Is this the new evolution gallery?’ Abotomy seemed to be confused about precisely which exhibition was being discussed. Griffon had avoided the word ‘evolution’ for good reason.

  ‘What’s this evolution nonsense? Monkeys and suchlike? Thought Wilberforce knocked that on the head years ago.’ Jugglers was having an ill-timed lucid moment.

  ‘Your Grace, may I respond simply by pointing out that Mr Charles Darwin lies buried in Westminster Abbey. The church has forgiven him.’

  ‘The abbey, eh. Very well.’

  The effort seemed to have drained Jugglers, who, to Griffon’s relief, was falling into slumber. He made a mental note to speak to Abotomy about sensitivities surrounding relations between the museum and the church.

  ‘Any questions?’ Griffon asked, before turning to the next item. ‘With permission, chair, several members of the public seek to make donations. Seashells from a Reverend Bloomingdale; a numismatic collection from a Mr Marchant; the offer of a jacket once worn by Napoleon Bonaparte himself from a Miss Delacour; and a replica bust of Queen Nefertiti of Egypt from a Dr Ernst Wonderlicht.’

  ‘Poor Bloomingdale,’ mumbled Jugglers, his eyes closed, providing the director with an opportune moment.

  ‘With the board’s permission, I’d like to move that the donations be accepted, and, furthermore that Reverend Bloomingdale be elected honorary correspondent to the museum.’

 
‘Entirely fitting given his lifetime of toils in the realm of malacology,’ Adora Frederick responded. At least she’d got the department right, thought Griffon.

  ‘Seconded,’ said Abotomy, following which Jugglers moved his hand as if in benediction.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace. We shall have a letter drawn up with the assistance of Dr Ponders, our corals expert.’ Vere Griffon nodded to Miss Stritchley to make a note.

  Griffon may have appeared obsequious, even slightly bored, as he worked his way through the agenda, but mentally he was en guard. The critical item was fast approaching.

  ‘Next item, gentlemen.’ Somehow, Griffon often forgot to acknowledge Adora Frederick at such moments. ‘We’ve had several requests for extra expenditure. I realise that in these straitened times such requests are generally not welcome.’ Scrutton’s ears pricked up, and a sour expression crept over his face. Vere Griffon ignored him, instead looking to the chair for permission to continue. Jugglers’ eyes were closed, but after a few moments his head nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Griffon said as he returned to his papers.

  The colour intensified in Scrutton’s face.

  ‘Miss Stritchley, could you leave off your minute-taking for a moment and tell Dr Doughty that her presence is required?’

  Elizabeth Doughty was waiting outside the boardroom door. She was mad keen on fieldwork, and her plaid trousers, which she was wearing now, were a frequent sight in every quarry and cavern in the country. She was always scrabbling for funds, and had been delighted when the director asked her if she would personally petition the board for funding for her latest venture. This was her great opportunity—her moment to shine. Best to be no-nonsense and to the point, she told herself, as she strode into the room.