The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  Dithers found himself following Portia, trying to raise his fallen trousers with one hand and covering his bespattered privates with the other. She led him into a most splendid marble bathroom, where he showered. Portia fetched clean clothes. He was drying himself when he heard her call his name.

  ‘Courtenay, I’m so terribly sorry!’ she wailed. ‘But I saw a black snake—a horrid thing as thick as your forearm—crawl into the hatch at the rear of the outhouse. It’s been eating the chickens, I’m sure. So I took the shotgun that Chumley leaves at the back door, and fired at it. I had no idea that you were inside! I wouldn’t mind at all if you used the main bathroom, whatever Chumley says.’

  Dithers stepped out of the shower, a towel around his waist. ‘Don’t worry, Portia. Accidents happen. And, strangely enough, this one probably did me more good than harm.’

  ‘But I could have killed you!’ Portia wailed, grasping him in a terrific hug—just as Abotomy turned the corner.

  ‘Say what? Portia, what was that shot?’

  As Portia tried to explain things Dithers slipped away. Being trouserless in such circumstances left him feeling at a distinct disadvantage.

  Dithers dressed in a state of high anxiety and walked to the verandah, where he pulled on his boots. He had never run from anything before, but he’d decided that as soon as the battué was over he would cadge a lift out of Abotomy Park. When in Sydney he would explain to Abotomy that he had been urgently summoned to the museum. As he plotted his escape a workman carrying a gunny sack dismounted from a swaybacked nag and walked up the steps of the verandah. He emptied the sack in a corner, revealing a pile of human skulls. Some had wet soil still adhered to them. Despite the dirt, Dithers could see round holes—bullet holes—in several.

  Up until that moment the massacres Dithers had heard about were something abstract. But here was physical evidence of indiscriminate murder. If Britain had consumed her finest in the Great War, this revolting country had been born in butchery, in massacres so vile and craven as to defile all humanity. Massacres that were boasted of, even joked about.

  The truth hit Dithers like a sledgehammer. Those skulls would not be given a decent burial. They were destined for a museum: his institution, to be labelled, studied and traded. Studied, that is, for everything except forensic evidence of murder. The workman handed Dithers the bridle of the nag, saying, ‘Here’s your horse. For the battué.’

  Stunned, Dithers mounted and rode away from the house to join the others at the gate.

  The battué was itself a sort of massacre. Although it was not yet eight o’clock in the morning, several of the riders were dead drunk. They charged into the scrub as workers beat the bushes and clanged pots and pans, forcing all sorts of animals to flee towards the rabble, where they were gunned down en masse. Koalas and possums that climbed out of their trees to flee the noise were shot and shot again, or torn to pieces by dogs. Scores of wallabies and kangaroos were driven from their thickets into the arms of the shooters, and rare parrots fell from the sky by the dozen, bleeding as they landed in the dust—something Dithers resolved never to tell Portia about. As Courtenay watched from his horse, appalled, an excited yokel raced past, dangling a mangled body.

  ‘What’s this, do you think, curator?’

  It was, Courtenay realised, the remains of a banner-tailed rat-kangaroo, the rarest of marsupials. Perhaps it was the last of its species. It could have been a valuable specimen, but it had been shot almost to pieces and so was virtually worthless.

  As he looked at it, and at the drunken farmhand carrying it off, the battué, the dreadful business with the stallion, and the skulls all became too much. In an instant Courtenay Dithers understood that his sanity could be preserved only by immediate action. He turned his horse towards Abotomy Hall and did not stop galloping until he’d reached an outlying shed. There, an old bicycle leaned against a wall. He jumped on, determined not to stop pedalling until he’d reached the nearest town.

  For several nights Dithers slept rough beside the track. He’d slept rougher in the trenches, he reminded himself. But by the time he arrived at Narromine, over two hundred miles away, he was more mud-spattered, and had a sorer posterior, than he’d ever imagined possible. He headed straight to the railway station, where, to his immense relief, he found a police sergeant on the platform.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, old chap, but could I ask for a bit of assistance?’

  ‘Bugger off. I’m not locking you up,’ the policeman said. ‘I can only take a dozen, and I reckon there’ll be at least fifty on the next train.’

  ‘What do you mean? Incarceration?’ asked Dithers, taken aback.

  ‘They come up from Sydney and I give them four days in the cells. After that they’re on the wallaby, mate. Nothing more I can do for them. My wife cooks for them, and gets an allowance for it, too. These poor buggers won’t have seen a square meal for weeks, so they’ll be fighting to get into the clink, I can tell you.’

  ‘Sergeant, I’m not requesting incarceration. Only a little assistance returning this bicycle to its owner. Do you think you might see it taken back to Abotomy Hall?’

  The sergeant’s demeanour changed. ‘I’m sure one of the Sydney scrubbers will be only too grateful. Better than walking. Might even score a meal at Abotomy Hall as a reward.’

  The train was now pulling in. Men in rags—some with rope holding up their trousers, others with singlets but no shirts, and some even lacking shoes—spilled out of the carriages. They began to besiege the policeman. ‘Sergeant O’Reilly. Gov’nor. Sarge!’ It was a cacophony of voices. ‘Can you put us in the lockup for a few nights? I can cut and split wood,’ said one man, who was little more than a walking skeleton and coughing badly. ‘I’m good for as much work as you see fit,’ he begged. The misery of the Great Depression in Woolloomooloo was nothing compared with this, Dithers thought. He purchased a ticket and boarded the train, vowing never to see Narromine, Abotomy Hall, or its owner again.

  Chapter 15

  Abotomy had set off for the city in his Phantom a few days after Dithers made his escape. As the countryside swept by, he kept breaking into gales of laughter. Dithers’ puzzlement when he couldn’t get his shoes on! And the look on his face when he’d seen the stallion gelded! But the exploding toilet! That trumped it all. He’d planned that piece of devilry after Dithers had mentioned his fear of spiders. Banning the visitor from the inside bathroom was part of the joke, but the explosion was just good luck. Portia had told her husband about the black snake, of course, but he’d pretended not to believe her. He’d watched the entire thing—from the moment Dithers entered the ancient outhouse to the hug Portia had planted on him as he stepped out of the shower. The icing on the cake was the look on Dithers’ face when Abotomy appeared. The poor fellow’s tossle must have shrunk to the size of his little finger! How Abotomy had stopped himself from collapsing in hysterics, he did not know.

  Neighbours had kept the squire informed of Dithers’ travels. And when the swagman returned the bike, Abotomy knew the curator was safe. The jest, he reflected, had done a wonder of good. Portia had seemed to go off sex as the pregnancy progressed, but now she was positively kittenish—perhaps to appease him. And Dithers, bless him, had given him the name of that expert on antiquities. He hadn’t entirely trusted Bunkdom. But before he visited Herringbone-Tro
ut he must deliver his haul of specimens to Vere Griffon. And he wanted to beat Dithers back to the museum.

  ‘Delighted, old chap, to have you back,’ the director said. ‘And even more delighted to see that you’ve succeeded in procuring specimens. I do hope Dithers proved useful?’

  A thundercloud crossed Abotomy’s face, the intensity of which alarmed Vere Griffon. ‘Young whelp was sniffing around Portia. And he went missing without leave,’ Abotomy growled.

  ‘I’m shocked, Chumley. Deeply shocked. Dithers is no deserter. He was decorated in the war, you know. Highly decorated. And he’s a Christ’s College man, like myself. Are you sure there’s no misunderstanding?’

  ‘Portia did say it was all a colossal mistake. But then, she would. Still, if I so much as catch him anywhere near her again, I’ll have his balls for breakfast. Make sure you tell him that, Vere!’

  ‘I’ll have a word,’ said Griffon. ‘But I can’t believe that a man like Dithers would cause offence in any way, at least not intentionally. After all, he is so supremely grateful to you for funding his Africa venture.’

  ‘Well, never mind that.’

  ‘In any case, Dithers’ absence has been a godsend. I’ve had control over the mammal collection and have selected three Tasmanian tigers for exchange with Giglione. Given the state of his office, I suspect it will be some time before Dithers misses them. They’re in my safe, along with the Bathurst meteorite, awaiting shipment.’

  ‘Splendid, old chap!’ replied Abotomy, who saw they had almost everything required in exchange for the goats.

  ‘Now, let’s see what you bagged,’ said Griffon, gesturing towards the crates that the storeman Gormley was stacking in the middle of the boardroom floor.

  Chumley unscrewed the smallest box first. ‘Rare parrots,’ he said conspiratorially. When the top was removed, row upon row of salted skins were revealed. ‘Alexandra parrots on top. Then paradise parrots. We only got two of them. Haven’t been seen in years, you know—might well be the last pair in existence,’ he crowed.

  The director became solemn. ‘Oh dear. Rare birds indeed, Chumley. But just look at the state of them. This one looks like it’s been downed with No. 3 shot: great holes in it everywhere. And who did the skinning? The thing’s been butchered! I expected better from Dithers!’

  ‘As I said, Vere, Dithers did a bunk. But old Giglione won’t care! He’s a decent sort of fellow and will understand that one sometimes has to accept less than perfect specimens. Especially if they’re rare. But he’ll love the blackfellows. Got seven in the end. All ages and sizes.’

  Abotomy opened the largest crate, revealing the skulls his workmen had unearthed. Vere Griffon took one out, noted the bullet hole in its forehead, and replaced it in silence.

  Half an hour after Abotomy’s departure, Archie’s heart chilled. Dryandra Stritchley had summoned him, and once again he found himself in Vere Griffon’s inner sanctum.

  ‘Meek, I need eight native skulls. In perfect condition. Or as close as possible. Select them from the collection, and bring them to me.’

  Despite his best efforts to mask his feelings, there was something in Archie’s manner that revealed his loathing. He was clearly reluctant to act.

  ‘Meek, you are a curator. Almost one, anyway,’ Griffon said as he began to pace back and forth. ‘A high priest of science. And I am your director. For God’s sake, imagine where we’d be today if we returned to a mumbo-jumbo, superstitious approach to human anatomy? Just a century ago medicine was terrifically impeded by religious objections. Human bones must be studied, and sent to experts. As a museum employee, you will do your duty. Now go!’

  At six o’clock that evening the train pulled into Central Station. Dithers had slept most of the way, but hardly felt refreshed. It was already dark by the time he reached his digs in Stanley Street. The door to his room swung open and Dithers, his hair matted and clothing torn, lurched in. Archie sprang to his feet.

  ‘Thank God! Dithers, I thought you were dead!’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, old fellow,’ Dithers said wearily. ‘I left a note. But before I say another word, I must shower and change.’

  Archie sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for what seemed an eternity. Dithers’ note had hardly allayed his fears. On the contrary, its reference to departing urgently on director’s orders had convinced him that his friend was in grave danger of becoming Griffon’s next victim. As the days dragged by, Archie became more and more sure that Dithers was dead. Perhaps he wasn’t too far wrong: the man looked like he’d just got out of a trench. Or a grave.

  At length, Dithers returned in a clean set of clothes.

  ‘I need a gasper,’ he said. ‘And a tot.’ Dithers scrabbled under his bunk for a packet of black shag and a bottle, then rolled a durry in silence, lit up, downed his Scotch, and refilled the glass. ‘Tell me, my boy, how have things been? With Beatrice, I mean.’

  Archie, anxious as he was to hear about Dithers, divined that the man was not yet ready to talk about his absence. ‘No progress, or very little, I should say. She’s speaking to me, though not with much warmth.’

  ‘Why, that’s splendid, Archie! You’ve broken the ice.’

  Dithers’ enthusiasm meant little. Archie had pretty much given up on Beatrice becoming his lover. In the silence that followed he added, ‘Perhaps. But something else has happened. Something odd. Griffon has asked me to bring him eight native skulls, from the collection. I’ve no idea why.’

  ‘I think I can help there. Abotomy and Griffon are working on an exchange. Abotomy is keen to secure a collection of goats—’

  ‘Goats!’ Archie broke in. ‘Goats—for human skulls?’ He could contain himself no longer. ‘For God’s sake, Dithers, where have you been, and how did you end up in such a state?’

  ‘I’ve been to Abotomy Park. Things started out well enough. Then we stopped at Barrunbuttock where Horatio Bastion told me of the terrible history of the region and the role Chumley’s grandfather played in it. I must admit, the horror of it shook me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The massacres, Archie! This country was born in blood and war. Thousands. No, tens of thousands were shot and poisoned by Australia’s founding fathers. Out west they still talk about it.’

  Until then Archie’s view of Australian history had been all noble explorers and missionaries soothing the pillow of a dying race. His mind flashed to the museum’s collection. Many skulls bore marks of injury. Could it be that all these years he’d been staring at evidence of systematic murder—and not recognised it? His head began to spin. He pulled back from the brink, forcing himself to concentrate on Dithers.

  ‘But what happened to you?’

  ‘A rum business, old chap. Chumley got it into his head that I was attracted to Portia.’

  ‘Who is Portia?’

  ‘His wife. She’s pregnant. I tell you, Archie, she deserves better. The man actually threatened me.’

  ‘Abotomy? Threatened you?’

  ‘Yes. With a knife.’

  ‘Good God, Courtenay! You mean he threatened your life?’

  ‘Not quite, Archie. He threatened my manhood. To be frank, I’m damn lucky still to have my testicles.’


  ‘I knew it!’ Archie cried. ‘Oh, the horror! Skulls, foreskins, testicles. The man’s collecting organs. He’s gone stark raving mad, and he’s recruiting allies to do his dirty work.’

  Courtenay gave his friend a questioning look, and then burst out laughing.

  ‘You, my dear chap, are the anthropologist—the one with the collection of organs. Not our director.’

  Archie felt ready to burst. ‘Dithers. Don’t you see it? Your life is in grave danger. He already has my foreskin. I sent it to Beatrice with my marriage proposal, island style, but Mordant stole it for him. And I have evidence that Griffon has murdered four of his curators for their skulls already. You are marked down to be the fifth.’

  Dithers was stunned. ‘Evidence. You say you have evidence. What is it?’

  ‘The fetish, in the boardroom. Four of the skulls on it have been replaced. One, which has buck teeth, is Polkinghorne.’

  A chill went down Dithers’ spine. Griffon had been behaving oddly of late. That, at least, was clear. But Archie’s ravings were over the top.

  ‘Oh, I see I can’t convince you until you discover things for yourself,’ lamented Archie. ‘But please, tell me that we’ll look out for each other. We are both in grave danger, and we can’t be sure where, or how, it will strike.’

  The next morning saw Chumley Abotomy loitering at the entrance to the Nicholson Museum. The institution occupied one corner of the University of Sydney’s famous ‘quad’, as the glorious sandstone quadrangle that lay at the heart of the institution was known. Chumley looked out of place in his country tweeds, holding a roughly wrapped statue under his arm and with a suspicious bulge in his trousers’ pocket. Gaggles of bright young students drifted past on their way to their lectures, and one pretty girl so distracted him that he almost didn’t spot the thin, long-nosed and short-sighted professor. Dressed in a dishevelled suit and brogues, Herringbone-Trout was bumbling along beside a line of glass cases inside the museum. His eyes, disappearing behind prodigiously thick lenses, were fixed on the vases behind the glass.