The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  ‘What do you mean, lost their patina?’ asked Beatrice.

  ‘Well, they’re not quite the colour they used to be. I became very familiar with the fetish before I left for the islands. The skulls are stained dark brown by the smoke of cooking fires—perhaps lit when food was sacrificed to the fetish. But four of the skulls I saw the day I returned were more orange than brown. They’d changed colour, somehow.

  ‘At first I thought it could have happened through exposure to sunlight, so I carried out an experiment. I put some smoke-stained bones on the windowsill in the anthropology department. One end of each bone was exposed to the sun, while the other remained shaded. They have been there for about six months now, and their colour hasn’t changed. I don’t think it’s possible that the skulls on the fetish have faded due to sunlight. And I can’t think of another reason they would have changed colour. Unless they’re not the skulls that were originally attached to the fetish.’

  Beatrice was silent, taking in the implications of Archie’s words.

  ‘I noticed that one of the orange skulls was terribly buck-toothed—every bit as bad as Polkinghorne—and his was a severe case, as you know.’

  ‘As bad as Polkinghorne?’ Beatrice echoed.

  ‘You don’t think it was Polkinghorne’s skull, do you, Beatrice? Could the original skull have been taken off, and Polkinghorne’s put in its place? I know this sounds totally mad, but it was one of the orange skulls. And I can’t think of how the original skulls could have changed colour.’

  ‘But why would anyone do that? Exchange the skulls, I mean.’ Beatrice was shocked at the gruesomeness of Archie’s thoughts.

  ‘The day I returned, Vere Griffon raved about “his collection” of curators. How he wanted the best museum in the empire. Maybe he is getting rid of those who don’t perform. In any case, he is definitely collecting body parts. I’m convinced that Mordant stole my foreskin at Griffon’s request. And I think that Chumley Abotomy, Henry Bumstocks and maybe even John Jeevons are involved somehow, too.’

  Beatrice was becoming frightened. Archie’s thoughts were almost unhinged.

  He sensed her fright, and backtracked. ‘Polkinghorne drowned, his body was never recovered. It’s not possible that his skull ended up on the fetish. Tell me that’s right, Beatrice, please.’

  ‘That’s right, Archie.’ She knew that she had to hear him out, as distressing as that might be, and that now was the time to do it. ‘But go on. What else has upset you?’

  ‘Oh, Beatrice! So much has gone wrong. I still feel dreadful about poor Eric. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that he’d drink preserving alcohol from my collection! And I swear, hand on heart, that I was extraordinarily careful with the specimens and labels. I was tired that night, I’ll admit that, and there was much unpacking to do, but I can’t believe that I switched the trout for the toad fish. The value of the entire collection relies upon having the specimens correctly labelled.’

  He took a bite out of a ham sandwich. Beatrice was eating cucumber.

  ‘Archie, whatever happened that night, you can’t take responsibility for Sopwith’s death. It was an accident.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure about that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice shifted so that she could look Archie in the eye.

  ‘I didn’t switch the fish and labels. But someone else might have. Somebody who knew that Sopwith was drinking preserving alcohol, somebody who wanted him out of the way.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill Eric? He was a harmless old soul who was loved by one and all.’

  ‘Just after I returned, Sopwith told me that there was something suspicious about Polkinghorne’s death. And he said that Griffon was selling off the collection.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that Sopwith’s mind had become clouded with drink, Archie?’

  ‘There is one more thing. A few days ago I went down to Bumstocks’ office. It was late. The office was gloomy, and I thought the place was empty. When I entered the workroom I knocked a bone off a shelf. There was an awful bang and Bumstocks emerged with a great knife in his hand. He was roaring, Beatrice. I feel sure he’d have killed me if he’d caught me.’

  Beatrice wondered why Archie had gone to the taxidermy department. Was he trying to retrieve his foreskin from Mordant? She felt that to ask would risk inflaming Archie further. He was already in quite a state.

  Archie tossed his crusts to a duckling swimming behind its mother in the shallows. A dark shadow lay in the water underneath the birds—perhaps a piece of pond weed, he mused.

  Beatrice was turned away from the water, concentrating on Archie’s face. Suddenly she felt immensely tired. ‘The real world just isn’t like that, Archie,’ she said.

  The dark shadow revealed itself to be an enormous eel. In a single gulp, both the duckling and the crusts vanished. The mother duck turned, gave a single sharp peep, and started swimming in circles, looking for her chick.

  Archie couldn’t speak. Beatrice took his silence as a sign that quite enough stressful thoughts had been aired that day. ‘Dearest Archie, I’m sure that there’s an innocent explanation,’ she said in the kindest, most sympathetic voice she could muster. ‘You are home now. And I still…like you,’ she trailed off.

  But Archie wasn’t reassured by Beatrice’s words. They walked in silence back to the museum. Beatrice understood that in all this mystery there was one thing she could do for Archie. She could get his foreskin back. Perhaps that would ease his mind.

  Chapter 20

  Giles Mordant couldn’t hide his pleasure. ‘Come in, sweetie! Come in. What can I do you for?’ he said in the dulcet, mocking tone he adopted with Beatrice.

  Beatrice did her best to hide her distaste as she seated herself at his desk. She would have to go carefully, she told herself, if she were to succeed in her mission.

  ‘What’s that, Giles?’ she said, by way of making conversation, pointing to a sponge-like growth in a jar of brownish liquid.

  ‘Oh, that. It’s the skin from the hand of a bloated corpse,’ he said provocatively. ‘A fisherman saw the body floating in the harbour and tried to pull it into his dingy. But it was so rotted that the skin of the hand came away and the corpse sank to the bottom. The police brought it to me to tan. They’re hoping that fingerprints can be taken. It’s their only chance of an identification.’

  Beatrice told herself that she should not feel so revolted. After all, the collection she cared for included some gruesome objects. She thought of the dried pudenda war trophy from the Gulf of Papua that she had registered a few weeks earlier and the pile of chewed human bones from Fiji. But, despite herself, there was something about the object that filled her with revulsion.

  ‘We do quite a bit of work for the police here,’ Mordant went on. ‘Cleaning bones, tanning skin. That sort of thing. Sergeant O’Toole’s a close friend nowadays. A favour done…you know the saying. So if you’re ever in trouble, Beatrice, you know who to turn to.’

  ‘Giles, I am in trouble, which is why I’m here,’ she replied. ‘That love token you stole from the collection. It must be returned. At once.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Archie-boy’s foreskin? I’m having far too much fun with that to give
it back just yet!’ he said with a leer. ‘Besides, I’ve got plans for it.’

  ‘Where is it, Giles?’ Beatrice demanded sternly.

  ‘It’s in my wallet, in that drawer,’ Mordant said, gesturing teasingly towards a drawer in his desk. ‘It’s mine now. But I suppose we could trade for it.’

  ‘Trade what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. How about meeting me in Faucett Lane? At afternoon tea. So we can discuss it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘How about today?’

  Beatrice rose and turned to go. ‘Very well, Giles. But you better be serious.’

  Beatrice was a little worried about the place Giles suggested for their rendezvous. She’d heard that the area was thick with women of the night and their thuggish boyfriends. Just being seen there could stain her reputation. But for Archie’s sake she’d go.

  She was surprised to find the air of Woolloomooloo filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. An old horse pulled the baker’s cart, plodding along unguided, as the baker ran from door to door crying out, ‘Ba-kerrr!’ with his unmistakable upwards inflection. If no one emerged from the house he was delivering to, he just put the loaf down on the doorstep. ‘Could do with a bit of paper around it,’ Beatrice thought, as she glanced at the decidedly unhygienic stoops.

  Another delivery was being made. A strong man, his muscles bulging under his blue singlet, was accompanied by a gangly youth. They stepped from an idling motor van that chugged up the hill, went to the back of it, and used a pick to cut up a great block of ice.

  ‘Quarter of a hundredweight, Kenny. For Mrs O’Riordan,’ said the man.

  As he broke up the slab, splinters of ice sprayed into the street, drawing children who scrambled for the pieces and sucked them ecstatically. When the block finally split, the man put an old gunny sack on his shoulders and lifted a piece of ice onto it.

  ‘Stray dogs hang around Mrs O’Riordan’s place like flies at a barbecue,’ he said, gesturing to the dog poo littering the footpath. ‘You’ll have to learn to do the Scottish sword-dance before you can deliver ice here,’ he added with a laugh as he skipped between the turds, imitating the actions of a highland dancer.

  The activity reassured Beatrice as she turned into Faucett Lane. The place was claustrophobically narrow and choked with rubbish. Giles Mordant was in his work clothes, leaning against a lamppost. He beckoned her to follow him into an alcove. Beatrice’s self-confidence evaporated.

  ‘Hello, girlie,’ said Giles, who seemed to feed off her fear. ‘How about a bit of trade. Lots of it going on round here.’

  Before Beatrice could reply he grabbed her and kissed her. Beatrice was too shocked to react. She’d expected Giles to demand something—money, perhaps—but she’d never imagined this. She was too scared to move. But when Giles thrust into her groin the terror released her. She screamed. Her attacker grabbed her mouth and muffled her cries.

  He was lifting her dress, when he suddenly fell back. Someone had him by the shoulder and was pulling him away. Then a fist landed with a thud. Beatrice looked up to see that Giles had turned around and was punching Archie, whose right eye was bloodied. She was sure that Archie was badly hurt, but he barely recoiled before throwing a fist at the taxidermist’s nose. Mordant was not expecting pugilism from a scientist. Shocked, he grasped his injured organ. Then Archie struck again—with a blow to the jaw. Beatrice heard the crack of breaking teeth. Giles was writhing on the ground.

  Archie lowered his fists. His battered eye was already closed. Beatrice took his hand. His knuckles were so bloodied it looked like he’d been gutting a chook. ‘Are you hurt?’ she pleaded. Archie didn’t reply. He had astonished himself. All he felt was a primitive elation at seeing Giles lying on the cobbles.

  Giles hauled himself onto his knees, and sat propped against the lamppost. The blood from his nose formed a long, foamy drip, which reached all the way to his blue-and-white work shirt.

  ‘You’ll pay for this, Meek,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I have friends who could get you sacked. Or see you at the bottom of the harbour.’

  Archie remembered Giles’ confidence when Vere Griffon interviewed him about Sopwith’s death. A chill ran down his spine. He reached towards Beatrice and led her back across William Street.

  Outside the museum, Beatrice hugged Archie. She didn’t care who saw.

  ‘How did you know where I was?’ she asked.

  ‘I saw you crossing into the loo, and thought I’d follow. Just to make sure you were safe, really. Did you go there to meet Mordant?’

  ‘He told me that if I met him he’d give me back the foreskin.’

  Archie slumped, the tension draining from his body. ‘Oh, Beatrice. You never should have done that. You could have been very badly hurt.’

  Beatrice said nothing. But she was more determined than ever to get the foreskin back. There was only one way to do it. Somebody would have to lure Bumstocks away from his workplace for long enough for her to sneak in and take it from the drawer where Mordant kept it. And it must be done today, before Mordant’s return to work. There was only one person she could think of to help, and that was Courtenay Dithers. He was Archie’s best friend, and she felt sure he could keep a secret. She ordered Archie to the doctor’s, and then made for the museum.

  Beatrice ran into Dithers in the foyer. He was engaged in an animated conversation with a red-faced woman who was wrapped in a large fur coat, which she kept clasped to her sides.

  The curator was wearing a long white lab coat over his flannel suit and tie. He felt that it gave him an air of authority when taking public inquiries. And today he certainly needed it, for he suspected that before him stood that terror of all museum staff—a member of the public who believed she has a firmer grasp of a curator’s area of expertise than the expert himself.

  ‘But they’re in there,’ the woman wailed. ‘With the snakes. And I know they’re up to no good!’

  ‘Madam, the Australian Microchiroptera—or insect-eating bats—are entirely harmless.’

  ‘I can assure you that the bats in my roof cavity are doing the devil’s work, young man. Them and the snakes.’

  ‘What, precisely, madam, do you think they are doing?’

  ‘Brewing concoctions!’ the woman crowed triumphantly. ‘Little puffs of smoke keep coming out of the cracks in the walls and the floor. They’re mixing a witches’ brew, no doubt about it! Now, sir, will you remove the evil creatures? You are the curator of mammals, and they are your responsibility. I can’t stand it a moment longer.’

  ‘Good heavens, madam. How could they be doing anything? Snakes have no hands, and bats only wings!’

  ‘I don’t know. But they are doing it. Constantly. And if you won’t help me I’ll go to the police! And I’ll speak to your director about your lackadaisical attitude!’

  ‘Madam, I’m afraid that snakes and misbehaving bats are beyond my purview. I can only encourage you to enlist the assistance of our constabulary. Or if you wish, our director.’ Dithers turned on his heels and fled.

  In the corridor he collapsed against Beatrice. The pair of them bit their lips to contain their laughter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Beatrice,’ Dit
hers managed to blurt out, ‘but sometimes inquiries from the public passeth all understanding!’

  She accompanied Courtenay to his office holding his arm, giggling.

  On the way, Dithers said, ‘Don’t worry about Schmetterling staying with your uncle at present. He’s got a bit of a nervous problem, and has decided to lodge at the Maori’s Head until he’s over it. A good chap overall, I think. He’s helping me clean up the office, as a sort of penance for letting his centipedes loose. Spends several hours a day at it.’

  The encounter with the woman seemed to relieve Beatrice’s tension. She explained about Archie’s proposal of marriage, and all that had happened in Faucett Lane—omitting only the fine detail of Giles’ transgression—without breaking into tears. She explained too, that she wished to take the foreskin from Giles.

  ‘By Jove, poor you! And poor Archie.’ Dithers exclaimed. ‘No wonder he’s been so on edge. That cad Mordant deserves to be boiled in a vat of his own lye! Don’t worry, Beatrice. I think I can help you get access to the taxidermy rooms. I have a little job for Bumstocks. The zoo’s warthog has died, and I’d like its bones. Transforming that mass of corruption into a clean, white skeleton will take some time.’

  ‘Thank you, Courtenay. I shall await your signal.’

  In her entire life, Beatrice had never experienced anything half as dangerous as she had today. Or so exciting. Though she would hardly admit it, she felt strangely aroused. It had been thrilling to see Archie beat Mordant in order to protect her.

  Beatrice waited impatiently in the anthropology department. Then, around four o’clock she heard from Dithers. She made her way to the taxidermy department and slipped into the workshop. There was a distinctive soapy smell—a bit like a glue factory, she thought.