The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  The frightening reconstruction of Piltdown man dominated the space. The door to Giles’ office was unlocked. She opened the desk drawer and took out his wallet. There, sure enough, wedged between two two-pound notes, was Archie’s foreskin. It was a lot of money, she thought, for a taxidermist to be carrying about. She took the foreskin, and with a wicked flash of joy slipped it into her brassiere.

  Beatrice replaced the wallet, closed the drawer, and shut the door to Giles’ office. She was now back in the workshop. The door to Bumstocks’ room was ajar, and on a bench just inside sat a large stoneware vessel filled with greyish liquid. Its rim was almost at her eye level, making it hard to see inside. A sign hanging from it said, in large letters, ‘Do Not Touch’.

  Ever since Beatrice was a small child such a sign might as well have read ‘please do touch’. And today her excitement gave her the confidence to pry. Beside the jar was a long, hooked wire. Clearly it was used to retrieve whatever lay immersed in the liquid. She picked it up, and fished in the murky fluid, hoping to snag whatever lay below. The wire caught on something, and she gently lifted the object.

  As it neared the surface she could make out that the thing was pale, roughly spherical, and surprisingly heavy. She bent close to the jar’s rim to see. The object was only inches from her nose when she recognised it. A human head.

  With a thrill of revulsion, she turned the rotting cranium around until the face was pointing at her. The gums were still there, as was a piece of lip. A small metal tag was attached to the cheek bone with a piece of twisted wire. Something was inscribed on the metal. She turned the skull to get a better view.

  ‘Sop…Sopwith?’ She screamed under her breath. Not Eric! She looked at the teeth, and instantly recognised the browning, crooked fangs. There was no doubt about it. She was holding Eric Sopwith’s head.

  She dropped the skull in fright, plunging it back into the liquid and splattering her hair with the soapy fluid in the process. A rising panic seized her. She rushed to find Archie, but remembered he was at the doctor’s. Like an animal seeking safety, she fled home and to bed, where she feigned illness.

  Chapter 21

  ‘There is only one way that priapus could have left the Musei Vaticani: theft,’ said Herringbone-Trout. ‘And like it or not, Abotomy, we are now involved. We must lose no time in informing the police.’ The Phantom II caused a few raised eyebrows as Abotomy parked it ostentatiously outside police headquarters in Oxford Street. Herringbone-Trout, followed by a red-faced Chumley Abotomy, marched to the front desk. ‘Detective, we’re here to report a most serious matter: theft from the Musei Vaticani,’ pronounced Herringbone-Trout in his most authoritative voice.

  Detective Albert Brownlow stood at a counter examining some papers. A fedora sat at a cocky angle on his close-shaven head. Without looking up, he said, ‘Mate, I don’t give a bugger about your amusing fatty army, or whatever it is that’s had something nicked.’ He was used to dealing with arrogant, upper-class twerps with their assumed right to immediate attention. ‘Right now, we’ve got more murders and assaults on our hands than you could poke a stick at. So bugger off.’ He ended almost threateningly.

  ‘Detective, you don’t understand. The Musei Vaticani are among the most important museums in the world. They house the great treasures of the Catholic Church.’

  These last two words acted like a charm. ‘Catholic Church? Has somebody stolen something from a church?’ asked the suddenly engaged officer.

  ‘Not a church, sergeant, the church. The Vatican, to be precise. I’m sure the archbishop will be delighted to hear that the police are assisting the Holy Father. The piece in question is an antiquity nearly two thousand years old, and it was fenced from an antique shop on Oxford Street, in this city. Mr Chumley Abotomy—I mean, Abumly—here, purchased it, not knowing that it was stolen, and brought it to me for examination.’

  ‘Can I see the object?’

  As Herringbone-Trout unwrapped the priapus he began a dissertation on its history.

  ‘Looks like a job for you, Brownie,’ the duty officer quipped as he eyed the bronze dubiously. ‘Right up your alley, so to speak.’

  A guffaw erupted from an overweight policeman behind the counter.

  ‘Shut up, Slugger,’ Brownlow said, anxious to get the thing out of the police station. ‘Easiest to walk, by the sound of it. Doolan’—he gestured towards the guffawer—‘you come with me.’ The detective strode towards the door, and Slugger Doolan, Abotomy, and Herringbone-Trout, who was still hurriedly rewrapping the priapus, rushed after him.

  Lord Bunkdom was at the back of his shop, a rather poor print of Caravaggio’s The Calling of Saint Matthew propped up before him. In his imagination the bench on which he sat was the same one that supported the muscular thighs of the saint-to-be. He was about to lift the saintly tunic when he heard a knock at the door, followed almost instantly by the tinkle of broken glass and the forcing of a lock.

  Bunkdom leapt to his feet. ‘I say! What’s all this about?’ he gasped.

  ‘We have a warrant to search these premises,’ said Brownlow, who did not seem to find Bunkdom’s compromised position in the least remarkable. ‘We have evidence that this establishment is being used to fence stolen goods—objects stolen from the Catholic Church. Now, can we see your account books?’

  Bunkdom gestured limply towards a desk. The detective unlocked the solitary drawer—the key was already in the keyhole—and took out a small black volume.

  ‘Professor, we’ll need your help deciphering this.’ He passed the volume on to Herringbone-Trout, who began turning its pages.

  ‘What a tale of perfidy and imbecility is revealed here!’ Herringbone-Trout exclaimed in a rather too-dramatic way. ‘Just look at this: “23 April 1929. Statue of Venus. Purchased L. Corbone £1.6.6. Sold Chumley Abotomy, 29 January 1933, £165.9.6!”’

  ‘Let me see that! This, sir, is an outrage,’ shouted Abotomy. ‘You told me that the statue was an original, but for what you paid for it, it couldn’t possibly be!’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ Bunkdom said softly, ‘I told you that it was a Roman copy of a Greek original, which it is. It’s just not antique Roman.’

  Abotomy looked so infuriated that Herringbone-Trout feared steam would issue from the squire’s ears.

  ‘I’m afraid, professor, that making a large profit from, ah, shall we say, the uninformed is not against the law,’ murmured Brownlow. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, or we could all end up with egg on our face. Where is the evidence for receiving stolen goods?’

  ‘Here it is!’ said Herringbone-Trout excitedly. ‘“Three March 1931. One priapus, purchased Giglione, £67.11.6. Sold Abotomy, 29 January 1933, £127.9.6.” That’s the object. I have sketches of it that I made myself at the Vatican. It has without doubt been stolen and fenced in the colonies, where nobody thought it would be traced.

  ‘Bunkdom,’ Herringbone-Trout said solemnly as he turned to the shop owner. ‘Best to come clean. What is your connection with Giglione?’

  ‘It’ll go far easier with you if you turn over now,’ added Doolan. ‘Otherwise, mate, I’ll take the greatest pleasure in kicking your arse into the next world, while the archbishop gives his benediction!’

  After a prolonged sigh and much fidgeting, Lord Bunk
dom rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘My name is Edwin Breech, and I was born in London’s East End. It was my good fortune to have been apprenticed, aged thirteen, to Moses Weinstock, an antique dealer on the Portobello Road. He treated me like a son, and eventually trusted me to go on buying trips to the continent. It was on one such venture that I met Professor Virgil Giglione. What a fine specimen of a man he is! Immensely strong, and a hunter of the first water. He has true alpine calves, you know—a product, he told me, of a youth spent hunting ibex in the Tyrol. When I first saw him in his plumed hunting hat and lederhosen, I fell under his spell.

  ‘It was he who told me that there was a tremendous and rather undiscerning market for antiques in the colonies. He promised that, if I set up shop there, he’d keep me supplied. And so he has. Some pieces, I’ll admit, are nothing but clumsy forgeries, but others are truly beautiful antiquities. I never for one moment imagined that any had been acquired by theft!’

  ‘Well,’ said Herringbone-Trout, ‘I’m afraid that some almost certainly have. The priapus you sold Abotomy, for instance. It bears an uncanny resemblance to the specimen I sketched in the Vatican—right down to that scratch on its shaft. I very much fear, sir, that the treasures of Rome are being pilfered, and sold through your shop.’

  Abotomy had taken up Bunkdom’s account book to see for himself how badly he’d been diddled. Bunkdom finished his confession, and Abotomy abruptly shut the covers, looked up, and turned to Herringbone-Trout. ‘Professor, you say that the priapus is stolen. But can you be certain?’

  Herringbone-Trout was taken aback. A few seconds ago Abotomy had been baying for Bunkdom’s blood.

  ‘One can never be 100 per cent certain in such cases, but I’ve seen a plethora of priapuses, so to speak, in my time, and this is most likely the same specimen I saw in the Vatican in 1923.’

  ‘A photographic memory—for pricks, professor?’ said Detective Brownlow, getting his own back for his embarrassment at the station.

  ‘Old chap,’ said Chumley, ‘that scratch—I fear I made it myself. The road to Abotomy Hall is rough, and both of my antiques took a beating on the drive out there. I’m not sure that this case warrants the use of any more valuable police time. Detective, I suggest you leave this matter with me—as a member of the museum board—at least until more evidence is forthcoming.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ Brownlow said. ‘But before we go I’d like to have a look at that book,’ he gestured towards the black ledger sitting in Abotomy’s lap.

  ‘Really?’ said Abotomy. ‘Nothing exceptional in it…’

  Brownlow’s instincts were finely honed. He snatched up the volume and began reading. An entry caught his eye: ‘20 April 1933. Purchased: seven Hellenic gold coins, £350.00. G. Mordant…9 May 1933. Sold: Meissen figurine, £275.00. D. Stritchley.’

  ‘Do the names G. Mordant and D. Stritchley mean anything to either of you?’ He looked at Abotomy, then Herringbone-Trout. Abotomy was silent.

  ‘Stritchley,’ Herringbone-Trout said. ‘An unusual name. The only D. Stritchley I know is Dryandra, secretary to Vere Griffon, the director of the museum. A good man. Cambridge, you know. I think a fellow named Mordant works there too, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Sarge,’ said Slugger. ‘A cove of that name turned up in the loo last week. Beaten black and blue, he was. Said he worked at the museum. But I couldn’t get anything more out of him.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Brownlow said. ‘I don’t believe there’s a great deal more we can do here. We will be in touch if we have questions.’

  Chumley knew he had to act quickly. That night he dined at the Union Club. After a sumptuous repast shared with a member of parliament, he retired to the billiards room, where he smoked a cheroot, mostly for the sake of stubbing it out in the rather splendid ashtray—a ram’s head on wheels, complete with horns, inlaid with a silver bowl. Then he retired to his room and penned a letter.

  Dear Professor Giglione,

  I trust that by now you’ve received correspondence from Dr Vere Griffon agreeing to the exchange you proposed. We are most anxious to proceed with the acquisition of your splendid collection of goats in its entirety, and are hoping that you can dispatch it as soon as possible, in the knowledge that the requested specimens will be received by you in the fullness of time.

  I realise that this is a rather unconventional request, but matters have transpired here that must be weighed in the balance. A police investigation is underway in Sydney into certain thefts from the Vatican museum—your institution. Lord Bunkdom, who sells antiquities in this city, has privately told me that he received some of the supposedly stolen objects from you. I of course believe none of it, and I have some sway with the authorities in New South Wales. So I hope, my dear fellow, that you can see your way clear to shipping the goats. If we receive them within sixty days I’m sure that things will turn out favourably for your good self.

  Yours sincerely,

  Chumley Abotomy Esq.

  Detective Albert Brownlow didn’t like loose ends any more than he liked the whiff of a cover-up. He had no proof of wrongdoing, but something stank in that antique business, and he sensed that the source of the odour lay in the museum. It really wasn’t his bailiwick, but, to tidy things up, he took a stroll down to Macquarie Street to have a word with Cedric Scrutton in the Department of the Arts. He’d worked with Scrutton years before, when a painting by Constable was stolen from the art gallery, and he liked the fellow.

  ‘Detective Brownlow, what a surprise! Good to see you again. How can I help?’ Scrutton warbled.

  ‘It’s nothing really, Mr Scrutton. Just a minor investigation. Some antiques, possibly stolen. And an assault. Can’t say much more at present, but I wanted to pass a couple of names by you. Apparently these individuals have been making rather large sales and purchases on the antiques market. Hundreds of pounds, in fact. And one of the individuals ended up pulverised black and blue down the loo.’

  ‘I see. Who are they?’

  ‘G. Mordant and D. Stritchley.’

  Brownlow, who was studying Scrutton’s face, knew he’d struck gold.

  ‘Inspector, you have delivered them into the palm of my hand,’ exclaimed Scrutton.

  ‘Delighted to be of service, old fellow.’ Brownlow tipped his fedora as he strode off.

  Cedric Scrutton could hardly believe his luck. He’d long felt that Vere Griffon was playing with him—indeed laughing behind the board’s back at how easily he manipulated them all. Moreover, the man seemed to be wriggling out of the latest trap set for him. Griffon had written to Treasury, claiming that he needed more time to finalise the museum’s accounts, in light of the twenty per-cent budget cut. He was doubtless busy shifting expenditure into the new financial year, hoping to defer his fiscal doomsday.

  But now, this most unexpected information had fallen into Scrutton’s lap. It was not possible that Stritchley or Mordant could afford expensive antiquities. Was Vere Griffon behind it? If so, where was he getting the money? A full investigation was warranted.

  The firm of Descrepancy, Cheetham & Howe had served the Department of the Arts in all matters financial for decades. It was trustworthy, discreet
and sharp as razors in all aspects of audit. When the firm’s principal, Hardy Champion Descrepancy, picked up the phone Scrutton explained that he had good reason to suspect fraud at the museum.

  ‘The museum! Mummies and that sort of stuff? By Jove, that could be fun!’

  ‘Yes. Antiquities. And an assault. Can’t say too much more though, just now.’

  ‘I love a bit of cloak and dagger work, Cedric. This office gets stuffy at times, I can tell you.’

  As he put down the phone, Scrutton looked forward to a great adventure with his old friend.

  Chapter 22

  ‘My God, sir, what’s happened to you?’ Jeevons was looking at Archie’s battered face and bandaged hand. It was the day after the scrap with Mordant.

  ‘It’s nothing really. Just a bit of bother down the loo.’

  ‘You must watch yourself down there, sir. I make it a rule never to go north of William Street these days, and I carry a baton,’ the guard said, indicating the truncheon hanging from his waist.

  ‘I’ll be all right, Jeevons. A minor mishap, really.’ Archie passed swiftly through the museum entrance and into the sanctuary of his office. The fewer people who saw his black eye the better. News of fisticuffs between employees was bound to spread. And to cast both parties in a bad light. Archie was expecting to see Beatrice, but as the hours ticked by she’d still not arrived. Visions swirled in his head of Mordant or one of his associates harming her. When the clock ticked past eleven, and he was about to begin a search, he received a note from Jeevons. It was in Beatrice’s impeccable copperplate.