As he left Dithers’ office, Archie looked back. The mammal department was a scene of chaos. Dithers had created a niche in one corner by lining up his specimen cabinets. Behind them were mountains of papers on the floor and desk. Laboratory benches and cabinets occupied the remaining space, but they were covered with objects. Hippo skulls tangled with stuffed tree-kangaroos, and hyena jaws jousted with babirusa tusks in a great confabulation of stuffed, pickled and skeletonised specimens. How Dithers ever found anything—or indeed got anything done—was a mystery.
Archie decided to avoid his own tiny office and instead walked towards the ‘old men’s room’, a space in the museum’s attic reserved for retired curators who wished to continue with their studies. The corridor which gave access to it passed by most of the curators’ offices. A few of the doors were open. He passed Elizabeth Doughty at her desk. She was reading a journal article, her face rigid with concentration. A second desk in the same room was occupied by the registrar of minerals, a thin, feeble-looking type who was vacantly picking his nose. The office of the curator of jellyfish, Dr Abraham Trembley, was so enveloped in darkness that Archie couldn’t make out what was going on. The only evidence of life came from a lamp, barely visible behind a stack of filing cabinets. Then came Clive Wrigley’s den. Archie flinched as he peered in. The place was crammed with terrariums, in each of which lurked enormous, hairy spiders. Wrigley himself stood before a terrarium. Its lid was open. On the back of the curator’s hand sat a fat, black funnelweb spider. Archie shivered and hurried on.
The old men’s room was tiny, and barely high enough to stand up in without knocking your head on the exposed wooden beams of the roof. Half-a-dozen desks had been assembled there for the use of the retired curators, who worked in a voluntary capacity. As Archie anticipated, Sopwith was in residence. The old curator was bent over his desk, upon which he had arranged several dozen ginger-spotted cowrie shells in neat rows. When he lifted his eyes, his face brightened. Visitors to the old men’s room were infrequent, to say the least.
‘Ay, Archie! What do ye say to a wee snifter? I’m sure the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the Empire, and I’m tiring of my cowries. There’s a new species to be found, for sure, in this Umbilia complex, but it has me defeated for the moment.’
‘Sorry, old chap, I can’t today.’ Archie touched the back of his still-aching head. ‘But I did want to ask you something. Do you know how many curators are away or on long-term leave?
‘Aye, but that’s a strange question, laddie.’
‘I was just wondering how the place changed while I was away.’
Archie wasn’t ready to share his fears with anybody yet. He remembered Sopwith’s warnings about the effects of yangona, and didn’t want to be thought of as drug-crazed or having gone native.
‘Well, let’s see. Bray Hadlee, the bird man. Do you remember his work with cuckoos? He’s been on sick leave for a year or more now. Very strange, it was. The director announced at a staff meeting that he’d be gone for some time. We never saw him again. Rumour was it was a nervous complaint. Wouldn’t be surprised if he were locked up in a home for the mentally infirm, and I can understand his family wanting to keep that under wraps.
‘Then there’s Alan Jonah, the curator of parasites. He kept rough company, ye ken. One fella he got tangled up with swore he’d sew him into a chaff sack and throw him off the end of a pier! But that came to nothing. Anyway, he was none too careful with his dissections, and his body became riddled with flukes and parasitic worms of all sorts. The director heard from his family that he choked on his own phlegm. Then there was Andrew Dolt. I’m sure you remember the blowfly expert? Always buzzing around. Did ye ken he was one-eyed? The other was glass. He lost his vision altogether, they say, and went to stay with kith and kin in Victoria, at Nar Nar Goon. The first we knew about it was a letter that the director read out. But, all in all, Archie, most of the old crew are still about.’
‘Hmm,’ said Archie. ‘That’s four.’
‘What do ye mean four? I just told ye, it’s three.’
‘I’m not sure, exactly, Eric,’ said Archie. His heart was in his throat. Four absent curators, if you count Polkinghorne. Four orange skulls on the Great Venus Island Fetish. In his mind’s eye Archie saw an image, close-up: a hand removed a skull from the fetish and replaced it with another. In the instant that a gap existed in the skull-fence, a torrent of pure evil rushed into the world. Archie forced the vision from his mind. It was too ridiculous for words.
Chapter 7
When in town, Chumley Abotomy wore a rustic three-piece suit and a hunter’s hat that Sherlock Holmes might have envied. In rude good health and large of hand, Abotomy walked with a swift, slightly bow-legged waddle, grasping at the air as he went. He loved nothing more than playing the role of country squire.
As he strolled towards the museum he was feeling particularly pleased with himself. He’d got the honeymoon over, and with any luck Portia was already bubbly. If he’d sired an heir, the family name would be assured. And, my God, the things he’d seen in Italy! Enough culture to last a lifetime. That old fussbudget Vere Griffon should bring a little of that culture to the colonies.
While Abotomy was striding down College Street, Dryandra Stritchley was arranging a bunch of white roses on her desk in the office antechamber.
‘My God, Dryandra, you are a gardening wizard!’ Griffon exclaimed as he drank in the exquisite scent. ‘I don’t know how you do it. Colonial roses are usually pale shadows compared with those from home. But these roses, well, somehow they transport me—to a green and pleasant land.’
Griffon’s reverie was interrupted by a sharp treble rap. The director retreated to his desk, and Dryandra opened to Chumley Abotomy. The squire charged into the room, intent on marching straight into the director’s inner sanctum. Dryandra had to insert herself between his imposing frame and the inner doorway to check the rhino-like charge.
‘One moment, please,’ she managed to gasp. ‘I’ll see if the director is available. Now take a seat over there, Mr Abotomy!’
Dryandra enjoyed the routine that she and Griffon had developed. Her gentle knock was followed by his low ‘come in’. She found the director in his thinking position: heels on the floor, body stretched stiff, eyes gazing at the ceiling.
‘It’s the new board member, Mr Abotomy.’
Griffon murmured a Latin phrase under his breath. He relaxed into his chair. ‘He insists on pronouncing it “Abumley”, you know. After the French village his ancestors supposedly resided in prior to the Conquest. Ah, the nouveau riche. What would we do without them? Show the fool in.’
‘Chumley, how perfectly splendid to see you!’ crowed Vere Griffon as Abotomy waddled through the door. ‘I trust the grand tour went well? Perfect time of year for Florence. What did you make of Michelangelo’s David ?’
‘Not much, quite frankly, Vere. Supposed to be a statue of that chap who slew the giant. Jewish, wasn’t he? Couldn’t help but notice, though, that he’s still got that bit of nonsense at the end of his tossle. Rum, if you ask me. Think the damn statue’s been misidentified. But, my God, there were some good things in Rome! That Vatican Museum’s a corker. Most interesting things in it are the Giglione goats. Spent half a day looking at ’em. You do know the Giglione goats, old chap, don’t you?’
> The director was having trouble keeping up. ‘Not my bailiwick, old fellow. I trust you saw the Pantheon?’
‘Saw a few old piles. Wife took notes. Useful in designing Abotomy Hall. But the goats, old man! Never seen anything like them. One of every sort, and the finest billies, most of ’em. Giglione shot them himself, you know. He’s even got a Chilean mounteback. Last one in Tierra del Fuego, the professor says.’
At last Vere Griffon understood what Abotomy was raving about. Professor Giglione, the expert in early domestication at the Vatican Museum, was legendary for his collections of domestic livestock and their wild ancestors.
‘Jeellionay, pleaaase!’ Griffon ejaculated loudly, before regaining his self-control. If there was one thing he could not tolerate it was mispronunciation. Nor could he suffer fools, unless of course they were very rich ones. And even then his limits were narrow.
‘What I said,’ Abotomy shot back. ‘Giglione’s goats. We’ve got to have ’em, Griffon. My support depends on it.’
The director wasn’t sure precisely what Abotomy meant but, given the dismal state of the museum’s finances, his support could count for a great deal. Griffon sensed that he was becoming trapped, and he began to feel his way cautiously.
‘Are you suggesting, my dear fellow, that we might borrow the collection?’
‘Not at all what I had in mind. I’d like to have them here at the museum. Permanently. I’m sure the professor’s willing to entertain the idea of an exchange. Took the opportunity of discussing it with him. Knew you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I see,’ said Griffon unenthusiastically. ‘I shall write to Professor Giglione this week. But such matters can be delicate, and there’s no guarantee of success. Foreign institutions often expect the crown jewels in exchanges. Now, dear chap, would you mind leaving me to my labours? I’ve some serious issues with the new exhibition, which I must resolve today.’
When Dryandra re-entered the office, a slight wrinkling of the director’s forehead and a look in his black eyes spoke of his distaste.
‘Abotomy,’ he said quietly. ‘Most ridiculous man. If it wasn’t for his donation potential I’d have him stood down from the board.’
Miss Stritchley shut the door and watched Griffon cradling his head in his hands. ‘I’d have been spared these colonial bumpkins if I’d got the directorship of the British Museum. Only missed out by a whisker. Freakish unfair the way that relative of Lord Brenchley was given it…’
There was more than self-pity in his ruminations. In the deepest recesses of his heart Griffon feared that, despite his Cambridge education, he too was second rate. Fit only to be the Lord of Misrule over this colonial rabble. How he hated them! From the pesky and incompetent board to his errant curators. He’d get them into line come what may, and make a fine collection of them yet. Even if it killed him. Or them. But Abotomy’s financial support was crucial. And if it hung upon acquiring Giglione’s goats, by God, he’d get them. In fact, the venture might even assist in turning Abotomy into a useful tool to further the museum’s needs.
Griffon turned to Dryandra. ‘No help for it. I’ll write to Giglione and see what he wants in exchange for his collection.’
‘Which collection, precisely, director?’
‘His damn stuffed goats. I’ll dictate the letter to you. But for now come into the liquor cellar with me. I think we need to commiserate over a little Meissen.’
Abotomy had business to conduct in Oxford Street. No matter how much Portia begged, he’d resolutely refused to buy any ‘knick-knacks’ while on the grand tour. He didn’t trust the dagos who were trying to sell them—and now it seemed that Portia would never let him forget it. To shut her up he’d promised to look into buying something antiquey in Sydney. He remembered Bunkdom from the fundraising dinner. He’d given the man the seat of honour, even though he made Abotomy’s skin creep, in the hope that he’d provide some introductions in Europe. Bunkdom’s shop was reputed to have the best collection of antiquities in the city, so he’d set aside his dislike and arranged a visit.
Abotomy rolled up the hill towards Oxford Street, grasping the air. What was it, precisely, that riled him so about the man? Bunkdom’s goggle eyes and verrucose skin were certainly repulsive, but he’d never let looks put him off a chap before. If the cause of his dislike were to be summed up in a word, it would be unctuousness. Lord Bunkdom was so unctuous and cloying that Abotomy found him nauseating. Still, there was no help for it. If Portia was to be placated he needed to beard the revolting toad in his den.
Stopping outside Bunkdom’s shop, Abotomy had to concede that the man did a good line in window displays. The shop-front was filled with elegantly placed antiquities and curiosities, from enormous yellow Chinese vases to classical figurines and paintings. As he pushed through the doorway, a bell on a coiled spring rang out. Bunkdom emerged from the shadows.
‘Oh my goodness. Oh, my beard and whiskers! I am overwhelmed, sir! What an honour, sir! What an honour your visitation does my humble premises! Please, please come this way, into my inner penetralia, so to speak, and take a seat. I’m afraid there’s nowhere in this shabby shop even remotely suitable for a man of your quality.’
Bobbing his head, Bunkdom retreated backwards to the rear door. Abotomy allowed himself to be led into a back room. A comfortable lounge chair with a small round side-table sat in a corner.
Bunkdom ushered him into the seat. ‘Please take your leisure, sir. I insist that you partake of a cup of tea. I have the best Puer, which will be yours presently. I obtained it from Chinese Morrison’s widow, in Devon, years ago.’
‘The best what, man? I’m not here to buy your poo-jar, nor any sort of chamber pot,’ roared Abotomy. He was finding Bunkdom’s honeyed ways more cloying than shit on a shovel. ‘I am here to look at those Roman bits and pieces you said you might be receiving.’
‘Ah yes, of course. But please, give me a moment, sir. A man of your quality must be served tea.’
Chumley Abotomy demurred in an irritated sort of way. To his surprise he found that he enjoyed the smoky brew Bunkdom offered.
‘It’s fifty years old, you know. The best Puer is itself an antique,’ purred Bunkdom. ‘It really is most fortunate, Mr Abotomy, that you dropped by today. As you may know, I’m a late convert to Catholicism. Last year I took the opportunity of combining business with pleasure. I travelled to Rome to kiss the Pope’s toe—and while there got my hands on some truly remarkable stock.’
‘A left-footer, eh? And a convert. It’s a rum business in my view, this popery jiggery pokery. Toe-kissing indeed! But each to his own. Now, man, show me these knick-knacks. I must be on my way.’
‘Of course, Mr Abotomy. But if you opened your mind to the spiritual, I’m sure you’d find the rites of the Church of Rome sublime. They’re my only enduring pleasure these days.’ The antique dealer sighed.
Bunkdom disappeared behind a curtain, only to appear a few moments later carrying a half-sized marble statue of a naked woman, and a strange-looking bronze object.
‘This statue of Aphrodite is a Roman copy, from a Greek original. Possibly Praxiteles. But very fine in any case.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Abotomy suspiciously.
‘Know what, sir?’
&nbs
p; ‘That it’s Roman?’ Portia was particularly keen to have something from Rome.
‘The toes,’ replied Bunkdom. ‘Greek statues have toes that decline evenly in size from the greatest to the least, while on Roman statues the second toe is longest.’
Abotomy was impressed.
‘And this,’ continued Bunkdom, holding up a curved bronze object about a foot long, ‘is a most magnificant priapus.’
‘Bunkdom. I mean, bunkum!’ said Abotomy. ‘Looks nothing like a platypus. More like a tossle, I’d say. Except for the wings.’
‘Well, sir, it is indeed, as you say, a “tossle”, but a very ancient one. It is reputed to have come from the ashes of Pompeii itself. The ancient Romans, you know, hung the membrum virile by their doors as a goodluck charm.’
‘S’pose I could hang it in the smoking room. Might give the lads a laugh,’ said Abotomy. ‘How much do you want for it?’
‘I can let you have them both, sir, for £299. But I beg you, not a penny less. I’ll barely cover my costs at that price.’
‘Done!’ said Abotomy decisively. ‘Have them sent to my city residence. And cover the delivery yourself.’
Chapter 8
A few days after his return, Archie’s collection, having cleared customs, arrived at the museum. The pile of crates, trunks and oversized artefacts formed a veritable mountain on the floor of the anthropology store. With the help of Jack Gormly, the museum storeman, Archie laid the items out methodically and began to open them. As word spread through the great institution, staff gathered to see what Archie had secured in the little-known islands.
Soon, the unpacking had turned into a sort of curator’s Christmas. Whenever Archie unwrapped a bird or a worm preserved in spirit, or a giant cockroach, cries of admiration went up from the relevant experts. So great indeed was the attraction that even gouty old Slederman, the herpetologist, who’d been virtually bedridden for decades, turned up. ‘Rana arfuckiana!’ he crowed as Archie unveiled a massive frog floating in a glass jar. ‘Never thought I’d live to see the day.’ Slederman wiped a tear from his eye.
The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish Page 7