‘I say, old chap, are you Herringbone-Trout, the antique expert?’
‘Harvey Herringbone-Trout, professor of classical archaeology. You must be Mr Chumley Abotomy?’
‘Abumley.’
‘Quite so,’ said the professor, peering at Abotomy’s ruddy face.
‘I’ve a couple of pieces I’d like your opinion on, Trout.’
‘Herringbone-Trout, if you don’t mind.’
‘Hrumph. Double-barreller, eh? Now, what do you make of that?’ asked Abotomy as he unwrapped the marble statue.
The professor examined it minutely, paying special attention to the feet.
‘Copy. A poor one. Itself from a Roman copy, after a Greek statue of Aphrodite. Venus, if you like. That’s the Roman name,’ he said, without enthusiasm.
‘Very good,’ replied Abotomy, not entirely understanding what the professor was saying. ‘And what do you make of this?’ He groped in his trouser pocket.
The priapus came out head first, and was so lifelike that for an instant the professor averted his eyes. When he looked back, he was relieved to see that the object was bronze.
‘Now, that’s altogether more interesting,’ he said when he’d regained his composure. ‘A priapus. And a very good one at that.’ Herringbone-Trout took the piece from Chumley’s hand, drew a lens from his pocket, and studied it in detail. ‘Remarkable. Remarkable indeed! It bears an astonishing resemblance to the one found in the House of the Gladiators at Pompeii. Could you come to my office, so that I can compare it with sketches I made in the Vatican Museum during my visit in 1923?’
The professor’s office was high up in one of the towers bordering the quadrangle. It was filled with books and papers, among which were scattered fragments of antique pottery and statues, old coins and a few bones.
‘Yes, here it is.’ Herringbone-Trout pulled a large sketchpad from beneath a tower of documents. ‘Look here, Abotomy. See that scratch? Looks remarkably similar to the one on your priapus, wouldn’t you say? I very much fear, old chap, that the thing has been stolen from the Vatican.’
‘Director, today’s mail contains two items you must see immediately.’ Miss Stritchley held the tray aloft.
‘Very well, Dryandra. Would you mind reading them to me? My eyes are tired.’
‘Of course, Director,’ said Dryandra, trying to hide her satisfaction. She loved reading the correspondence to Vere. It made her feel so close to him. ‘Sender: Dr Elizabeth Doughty. Postmarked: Ternate, May 15, 1933.’
Dear Director,
Please find below the first, and most probably the final, report of the Doughty Spice Islands mineralogical expedition. I sincerely hope that you can see your way clear to table it at the next meeting of the board.
The Dutch steamer Slachthuis made an excellent crossing of the Coral Sea, arriving at Ternate just fourteen days after departing Sydney. I made my way from the docks to the Dutch administrative offices and obtained the Surat Jalan, or travel document, necessary to proceed to the island of Tidore. There I based myself in the village of Pasir Hitam, from which each day I sallied forth up the volcano, seeking Count Vidua’s caverns.
On the seventh day, in a crevice on the eastern side of the crater, I located an outstanding Dickite. I’m afraid it’s not quite as prodigious as the count boasted. Typical of the Italians, I suppose. But in colour and shape it is exquisite. My heart beat wildly when I saw it. And, when I took it in my hands, I became quite faint with excitement. I set to work and obtained eleven pounds of crystals, the largest weighing three pounds and standing seven and a half inches tall.
Obtaining that ultimate nirvana, Isleby Cummingtonite, was more difficult. Vidua had reported it as outcropping in a cavern high on the volcano’s northern slope. The mountain was in a state of eruption during my stay, with the magma flowing to the north. After three attempts—each time being driven back by a rain of lava bombs and ash—I finally reached the cavern on April 26. My cowardly guides had fled at the foot of the final slope, saying that they feared the wrath of the volcano god. I carried on alone, while they wailed and hullooed from below, before deserting me altogether. Unassisted, I managed to fill my pack with twenty-five pounds of specimens, mostly of excellent quality.
Regrettably, Director, I must inform you that I ran into a spot of bother on the way down. The easiest route of descent followed a recent lava flow. It was tricky going, however, because the flow was just a few days old and its surface was still rough and extremely hot. I’m afraid to say that the weight of my pack told against me. My left leg broke through the congealed crust and I was plunged up to the mid-thigh in the molten lava flowing beneath. It was only with the greatest effort that I pulled my parboiled limb free.
A crust of solidified lava now encased my left leg, to six inches above the knee. This proved to be both an impediment and a godsend. The extra weight slowed me down, but the rocky cast also kept my limb rigid, allowing me to walk rather than hop. As I descended, the pain caused by the baking eased somewhat, and I was able to set a better pace.
When I reached Pasir Hitam, around four o’clock that morning, I rather alarmed the villagers. They’d imagined that I’d fallen a virgin sacrifice to the volcano god, the rocky embrasure of my limb only serving to convince them that my maidenhood had indeed been taken by the deity. After they had marvelled at me for some time, prostrating themselves at my feet, or rather foot, they made all haste to convey me and my specimens to Ternate, from where I write.
I’m afraid, Director, that a considerable part of my already slender grant has been consumed in medical costs. For the last few weeks I’ve been in the care of Dr Siegfried Leggenhacker, a German ship surgeon who had sailed with me on the Slachthuis. Upon seeing the state of my limb, he urged amputation most vehemently. He was very neat about it—I’m rather proud of my little pink stump. And at my insistence he kept the rock impression of the leg, sawing it in half, so that it forms a rather splendid natural mould of my lower appendage. I’m bringing it home with me, as I thought it might come in handy if we were ever to mount an exhibition of the marvellous ruins at Pompeii, or on volcanism more generally.
Over the days of my recuperation, Dr Leggenhacker and I have become ever-more close. Two evenings ago, as he dressed my stump, he made a proposal of marriage, which I have joyfully accepted.
I’m now on my way to Kupang, accompanied by Siegfried, and we have secured berths on the next steamer bound for Sydney. If I’m to get my collections packed and secure I’d better sign off this report, and hop to it!
Yours sincerely,
E. Doughty
Dryandra folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. For a while, she and the director sat in stunned silence.
‘Remarkable,’ Vere Griffon ventured. ‘What a formidable woman. Most admirable.’
‘I’m very happy for her, finding her Leggenhacker, I mean,’ said Dryandra. She looked up at Vere, her eyes searching for a flicker of affection, or at least of personal recognition of his loyal lieutenant.
But Vere was lost in his own thoughts.
‘I suppose the cast might be of some use to us,’ he opined.
Wearily, Dryandra reached once more into the in-tray. ‘Letter No 2,’ she said. ‘Sender: Herr Dr Mertens, Director, Statliches Museum, Stuttgart. Postmarked: January 30, 1933.’
Herr Doktor Director Vere Griffon,
Or my dear Vere, if you will permit me an informality most welcome in our student days, which I hope does not offend now; but I fondly remember when as a young Cambridge scholar you visited the Institut für Zoologié to examine our comprehensive collection of the fang-bearing Myriapoda—your area of special expertise. I was also a mere student then, but how dear to my memories is the time we spent in the tavern, eating sour pork lung and singing leider as we downed our lager! I was so touched that you named one of the most ferocious of the centipedes—a specimen you had collected yourself—in honour of me. I shall be forever grateful. Now we are both museum directors. How the world changes!
My esteemed colleague, I have a favour to request of you. We have a promising student here in Stuttgart by the name of Herr Hans Schmetterling. Like yourself, he is a devotee of the Myriapoda. He is visiting the old fatherland colonies in Melanesia, as well as your adopted home of Australia, to make a collection. He is a bright young man. For old time’s sake, I hope you can take care of him while he is in Sydney.
On a more personal note, do you keep your interest in Meissen? A colleague of mine has located here a unique Böttger Steinzeug and a most splendid chimney garniture once owned by the Duke of Saxony himself. They are yours, for a most modest price of £300 and £700 respectively, if you just say the word.
‘Did you say the postmark was January 30?’ asked Vere. ‘That’s over four months ago! Schmetterling must be arriving at any moment. It’s a most inconvenient time to have a student about the place. The evolution gallery is running behind schedule and will require all my attention. But of course we must reply about the Böttger Steinzeug, don’t you think, Dryandra? Could you contact Bunkdom, and find out what seven Hellenic gold coins might fetch?’
Chapter 16
When Courtenay Dithers walked to the museum the following morning, he half expected Chumley Abotomy or one of his henchmen to leap at him from every alleyway he passed. He slowed down and cautiously eyed the unusual-looking fellow loitering near the museum entrance. Slender, almost mouse-like, he sported a finely pointed and waxed moustache and a cowlick of hair over his high forehead. He clasped to his chest an oversized wooden box, with a perforated lid like a pepper pot and a large brass clip fastening it shut. From one elbow hung a bag that Dithers could see was filled with tin cans.
‘Guten morgen—’
‘Can I help you, old chap?’ Dithers asked, fairly confident that the stranger didn’t hail from Abotomy Park.
‘I am looking for Herr Doktor Director Vere Griffon.’
‘Don’t think our director’ll be in as yet. But come on through. I’m Courtenay Dithers, curator of mammals. Abotomy didn’t send you, did he?’
‘Nein. Herr Doktor Professor Mertens of Stuttgart me sent.’
‘I see. Let’s rouse up a cup of tea for you while you wait. What is your name?’
‘I am Hans Schmetterling, student of the Myriapoda, and I am in Australien for the collecting expedition. I am looking forward to meeting Herr Director since so long. My weeks in the Bismarck Archipelago, on die route to Australien, have been most productive.’
By the time they had finished their tea, the museum was stirring into life, and Dithers judged the moment right to guide Schmetterling to the director’s office. A rather surprised Miss Stritchley greeted the pair.
‘Mr Schmetterling, we have been expecting you, but not quite so soon! I’ll see if the director is available.’
‘My God,’ said Vere Griffon. ‘That letter must have arrived by the same steamer as Schmetterling himself. Might as well bring him in. And Dithers too. He may be able to help.’
It was a distinctly nervous Herr Schmetterling who stood before Vere Griffon. He had heard great things about the man, and the office and boardroom were so imposing that the German’s slender grasp of English seemed to desert him.
‘Herr Doktor Professor Director, Ich bin…’ He struggled before falling into an awkward silence. He reached into his bag. ‘This lung of the swine, pickled as you like it, is a gift from Herr Doktor Professor Mertens. He was sure that such delicacies are not obtainable in the Antipodes—at least not those of the finest grade.’
Something about the hapless visitor roused Vere Griffon to cruelty.
‘Dithers, thank you for delivering Mr Schmetterling into our hands. We could, of course, speak German if we wished. Most of us have a strong grasp of technical German at the least. But, Schmetterling, you will do no good here unless you master English. Dithers, would you be kind enough to find some bench space in the mammal department for our visitor? And Miss Stritchley, show Mr Schmetterling where the Myriapoda are kept. We will conduct a daily examination, in this office,’ he said, giving the awe-struck German a penetrating gaze, ‘to assess your grasp of the subject.’
Schmetterling detested examinations. He could not sleep for days before one, and inevitably emerged a trembling mess. The idea that Griffon would examine him was paralysing, but he managed to nod his understanding and follow Dithers.
‘There you go, old fellow. Hope that bench space is enough,’ Dithers said unconvincingly. ‘The mammal department is rather crowded at present.’ Bones, boxes, books and papers lay so thick on every surface that there was barely room to put down a pencil. ‘Might be time for a tidy-up,’ he added. ‘We can at least move that walrus skull if it helps. But please do make yourself at home. And, by the way, what do you have in that box?’
‘My myriapods. You would like to see them?’
‘By all means, old chap. Be delighted.’
It took no further inducement for Schmetterling to loosen the bronze fastener. Inside were compartments, each one containing dozens of glass vials and jars, their tops covered with squares of muslin tied in place with string.
‘This is my finest trophy,’ Schmetterling said, reaching for the largest jar.
As the muslin was lifted Dithers glimpsed the coiled shape of a centipede, hiding among some dried leaves. It must have been the length of his forearm. The scarlet head, tail and limbs contrasted with the fluorescent green body, and a pair of wicked black fangs a centimetre long protruded from its head.
‘Sind sie hungrig, meine schönheit?’ Schmetterling murmured. Dithers cocked an eyebrow.
Schmetterling reached into a cloth bag and pulled out a tiny pink mouse. Dithers could hear its mother squeaking as the hapless infant was dropped into the jar. The monster roused itself and began feeling about. A leg touched the pink flesh, and instantly the centipede turned and plunged its fangs into the newborn. As Dithers watched, the mouse blackened and shrivelled.
‘The toxin is…sehr wirkungsvoll.’
‘Powerful indeed,’ replied a shaken Dithers. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Do you think, old chap, we might keep the box shut while you’re here?
A knock
at the door interrupted them. It was Miss Stritchley.
‘Schmetterling, you’d best use your time wisely. Follow me to the collection.’
The museum’s collection of myriapods was not large, but, as a result of donations from Vere Griffon, it contained some important specimens.
‘Here are the Myriapoda. But don’t go in there,’ she added, gesturing to a bay of wooden shelves to the right. ‘That’s arachnids, and Dr Wrigley has a colony of funnelwebs under study. Most importantly, don’t forget that the director has requested your presence in his office at three o’clock. Please be punctual.’
Schmetterling spent most of the day rapt in that sublime pleasure only a researcher ensconced in a collection can know. Seated before a white enamel tray, he peered intensely through a magnifying lens at the jointed legs, mouths and genitals of creatures new to him. He made pages of notes, drawings and measurements, and details of one new species after another began to accumulate in his mind. Species that he, Schmetterling, would have the honour of naming. The hours flew by, his concentration so deep that he didn’t feel his muscles cramp or his joints ache. He didn’t even hear the approaching footsteps echo in the corridor. So, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, he leapt from the bench. It was Miss Stritchley again.
‘Schmetterling, your appointment with Professor Vere Griffon was for three. It’s now ten past. The director is an extremely busy man. Follow me—and be smart about it!’ She marched off along the narrow corridor. The young German was still placing articles in his bag as he followed.
The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish Page 14