The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  That evening, Beatrice suggested that they take the islanders for a walk through the neighourhood. On the corner of Palmer and Liverpool streets an elderly man, dressed in a nautical cap and jacket, was pushing a pram that looked as though it dated back to Queen Victoria’s time. ‘Oysters. Buy the lovely fresh oysters from Jimmy!’ he was shouting. And indeed the pram was full of Sydney rock oysters scattered with lemon slices.

  ‘Karang, muli,’ Sangoma said, smacking his lips.

  ‘Oysters, lemon,’ Archie translated. He could see there was no helping it. He stopped and ordered three dozen from Jimmy, who opened them on the spot. They were gone in a instant. Archie dipped into his slender reserves to buy three dozen more.

  ‘We better move on before they bankrupt us,’ said Beatrice with a laugh. They walked towards Darlinghurst Road, where Archie caught sight of Nellie. She was walking beside a short, nuggety Italian man, and seemed reluctant to meet his eye. But a meeting was unavoidable.

  ‘Hello, Archie. This is my husband, Guido Galetti. Guido, Archie works at the museum.’

  Guido observed Archie through narrowed eyes. ‘So you know my wife?’

  ‘Yes, from the Maori’s Head,’ replied Archie.

  ‘And who are these fine gentlemen?’

  ‘My friends from the islands. They don’t speak English.’

  ‘Well, my friend, you think these fine men want a woman?’

  Archie was shocked.

  ‘Just five bob here for Nellie. We call this the stock-market special,’ Guido said with a smirk.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nellie, we must go,’ Archie stammered.

  He had expected Beatrice to be horrified. Instead she said, ‘It’s hard times, Archie. I don’t blame Nellie for making ends meet any way she can. Better than starving. Or dying of TB.’

  It was Sangoma who summed up Archie’s thoughts. ‘My son, that short, strong man is a bad man,’ he said in Venusian. ‘A very bad man. We should stay away from him.’

  Beatrice suggested that they stop at a cafe on William Street. The islanders enjoyed the buns that Archie bought, but the tea was another matter. Sangoma took a great swig, unaware that the liquid was scalding hot. He pouted and tossed the cup away, then sat in embarrassment.

  ‘Uncle,’ Archie said, seeing Sangoma’s humiliation. ‘Don’t worry. Do you remember when I first tried to eat sweet potato from the ashes, and burned my tongue?’ The islanders broke into laughter at the recollection.

  The next day they made a trip to the zoo, across the harbour at Taronga Park. The islanders enjoyed the ferry ride: the sea breeze in their faces gave them some of their old confidence back. And Beatrice and Archie were relieved to be away from the tension of the museum. Sir Halward was a model of hospitality. Now rotund, balding and mustachioed, in his younger days he’d traded round the Pacific, and he retained a great interest in all things Melanesian. He was anxious to show the islanders his magnificent collection of birds of paradise. He also took them to see the New Guinean wallabies, which he’d collected himself. He told them, through Archie, that the young kangaroo was born from the teat of its mother.

  ‘The great man is wrong,’ Sangoma said. ‘The young kangaroo is born from the vagina, and climbs into the pouch.’

  Archie thought it impolitic to contradict the bombastic industrialist. So he merely translated that Sangoma was impressed by Sir Edward’s biological knowledge.

  On the ferry trip back across the harbour Sangoma said, ‘Arciballe, you have shown me many things. But not the fetish. Is it truly here in your village?’

  Archie explained that it was in the museum boardroom—a place where only the most senior men could go. Sangoma said nothing, but he lifted the shirt Archie had lent him to reveal the horizontal scars on his chest that marked him as a fully initiated elder.

  Archie weighed up the consequences of showing Sangoma the fetish. Would it expose him to greater danger? Perhaps there was a way. Hamlet, Archie recalled from his school days, had forced his uncle to confront his crimes by putting on a play. Could Griffon be forced to reveal his perfidy if Sangoma recognised that some of the skulls on the fetish had been substituted?

  When they returned to the museum, Archie called the director’s office. ‘Miss Stritchley, Uncle Sangoma wishes to meet Dr Griffon.’

  ‘I’m sure the director would be most interested,’ Dryandra replied. Then, after a moment’s silence, ‘Can you come up now?’

  When Archie explained what was happening, Sangoma said, ‘Only me, Arciballe. These young men cannot see such a sacred thing.’ So Archie asked Beatrice to take charge of Cletus and the others until he returned.

  Dryandra looked on with fascination as, outside Griffon’s office, Sangoma stripped off his shirt and puffed out his scarred chest.

  She opened the door, saying, ‘Director, your visitors.’

  Sangoma appraised the fetish before entering the room. In a moment, he took everything in, then strode determinedly ahead, avoiding any further glances at the monstrous object. Archie trailed Sangoma, as if their relationship as it had been in the islands was re-established.

  ‘Welcome!’ Griffon said to Sangoma. ‘Care for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Perhaps water,’ Archie replied.

  ‘The fetish is altered,’ Sangoma declared, staring at Griffon. ‘The white men, whose great canoe foundered on our islands, were as easy to kill as flying foxes caught in the surf. We always feared they were not strong enough to contain the evil. But now I see that your big men have obtained substitutes—real champions no doubt—for the weakest of them. Congratulate your chief for me,’ he said to Archie.

  Things were not going as Archie had anticipated. Miss Stritchley passed a glass of water to Sangoma, and Archie fixed Griffon with a defiant look.

  ‘Sangoma believes that four of the skulls on the fetish are not original.’

  Griffon looked astonished. ‘Meek, is this why you came here? Your obsession with the mask.’

  ‘Sir, I am merely translating what Sangoma said.’

  The director became agitated. ‘I’m not sure I believe you. But whatever the case, you can tell your Mr Sangoma that if he is implying that we are not caring for the fetish, he is quite wrong. You should add that the mask is now the property of a museum. It will never be returned.’

  Archie was flummoxed.

  ‘We expect a great performance from our island dance troupe, Meek. Now, Dryandra, please show our visitors the door.’

  Archie could not understand how things had gone so badly wrong. He had not anticipated Sangoma’s response to seeing the mask. And Griffon had become agitated, all right. But he had not divulged his crime.

  ‘I see now where the power of the white man comes from,’ Sangoma declaimed as they walked towards Archie’s office. ‘You have collected all the sources of power in the world—the sacred animals, objects and the great mask—and gathered them here. The rail yards and other factories are an illusion. This spirit house is the true source of your power. The museum is the factory of the white man—the source of his cargo. And at its heart is our fetish.’

  Archie was disturbed. Cargo cults were beginning to spring up all over
the Pacific. Yet he knew that Sangoma was right in one thing. The fetish had become the centre of a cargo cult, a cult which worked through fundraising, and which was overseen by Griffon.

  That night Archie was unable to sleep. The second he closed his eyes, the fetish came towards him. Should he risk his career and steal it? Give it to the police as proof of Griffon’s perfidy? He understood now that he could no longer dither. He would have to discover the truth, with all its dark mysteries, that dogged the museum and his life. But before that, he needed to take care of his island friends, and ensure that they were prepared for the night of the gallery opening.

  Chapter 23

  John Jeevons stood beside Beatrice in the anthropology store, watching Sangoma rehearse his dance. Beatrice had retrieved some decorations and masks from the collection that she felt might be suitable. Sangoma donned a great headdress depicting a hammerhead shark. Painted black, white and red, and made of a framework of light timber and cloth, it was at least nine feet long, with jointed tail, jaws and fins, which were animated by the dancer’s slow rhythmic movements. The headdress moved to the slow beat of the kundu like a shark on the hunt, making one forget the dancer below. As Sangoma approached Jeevons, the guard seemed transfixed. It was only when the snapping jaws were an arm’s length from his head that he leapt aside.

  ‘By the Lord Harry, that’s a doozy of a contraption!’ Jeevons exclaimed. ‘It’ll have the old girls at the opening quaking in their shoes.’

  Sangoma stopped, looked at Jeevons and flashed a broad, toothy grin. ‘I can see the chief likes it,’ he told Archie in Venusian, before turning to his tribesmen. ‘Cletus, you lead the headhunting party. Put on those grass anklet decorations. They hide your feet, and if you vibrate your ankles and walk in small shuffling steps, it looks like you’re walking on air. You’ll look really spooky.’ The young islander did as instructed, and the others lined up behind him in single file and started to move in a similar manner.

  ‘No!’ interjected Sangoma. ‘You look like you’re going out to find girls, not heads. Come on! Look fierce! And Archie, can you get a boar’s tusk for Polycarp’s nose, and a man-catcher for Cletus? We need one to make this look authentic.’ Archie translated for Beatrice, and she soon returned with the requested items. ‘Right lads, on my beat of the drum, shuffle forward, and look fierce,’ Sangoma continued. ‘You’re going to cut off some heads, remember! And look out! There’s an ambush on your right! Some defensive action, please!’

  Cedric Scrutton and Hardy Champion Descrepency marched in lock step up Macquarie Street. Sharp-featured, smartly dressed and as keen as hounds on a scent, they made a pigeon pair. An element of surprise, they felt, was essential. In the foyer they met Dryandra Stritchley.

  ‘Miss Stritchley,’ Scrutton commenced. ‘This is Mr Hardy Champion Descrepency, the department’s auditor. We’d like to examine the museum accounts, if you please.’

  ‘Gentlemen, have you made an appointment?’

  ‘No, we have not. The accounts, please. Now!’

  Sensing danger, Dryandra demurred. ‘One moment, please, gentlemen.’

  She returned hastily to the director’s office. ‘Vere, ask no questions! Make yourself scarce. Go! Now! And don’t come back until you hear from me.’

  Vere Griffon was entirely unused to being addressed by his Christian name, let alone ordered around by Dryandra Stritchley. But something in her voice warned him not to cavil. ‘I’ll be in the library if you need me,’ he said.

  Dryandra ushered Scrutton and Descrepency into the director’s office. ‘Gentlemen, please be seated at the board table. I’ll bring you the accounts books.’

  ‘But where is the director? We need to speak with him,’ Scrutton interrupted.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s fully occupied with preparations for our new exhibition. The opening is this evening. You are invited, Mr Scrutton. And you too, Mr Descrepency, if you wish. Now, please wait here while I retrieve the books.’

  Miss Stritchley was in the director’s storeroom, bent over the filing cabinet where the accounts books were kept, when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Mr Scrutton, how dare you! This is the director’s private area!’

  ‘What in heaven’s name is that?’ Asked Scrutton, pointing to an elaborate porcelain chimney garniture that lay on the table. ‘And this?’ He pointed to a large black rock shaped like a leg of lamb.

  ‘That is the Bathurst meteorite. Part of an exchange, along with these birds and other specimens,’ Dryandra said, gesturing at the boxes Chumley had brought from Abotomy Hall.

  ‘Very well,’ Scrutton replied. ‘Bring us the books. And a pot of tea, if you would. You have a teapot, I see.’ He pointed to a magnificent piece of Meissen.

  The pair sat in silence for hours. As hard as they searched, neither Scrutton nor Descrepency could find the smallest irregularity in the museum’s accounts. The director was meticulous. And modest to the point of miserliness when it came to his personal expenses.

  ‘Well, Cedric, I’ve done my best,’ sighed Descrepency at the end of the day. ‘But these accounts are, well…exemplary. There’s not the slightest discrepancy, so to speak, that we might use as the basis of a wider investigation.’

  ‘But there is a rat here, Descrepency. I know it,’ said Scrutton. ‘And it’s probably right before our eyes.’

  Then it hit him. The coin collection. Donated by a Mr Marchant, he vaguely recalled.

  ‘Stritchley!’ he cried out. ‘Come here! I want to see the coin collection bequeathed to the museum a few months back.’

  ‘Mr Scrutton, it’s 4.58 p.m. The public-service day ends at 4.56 p.m., and I have an appointment across town. I’d be only too happy to bring it to you. But you’ll have to call again tomorrow.’

  ‘It may be for the best,’ said Scrutton as he accompanied Descrepency down Macquarie Street. ‘We’ll need a full list of the coins and valuations to make any sense of things. Would you like to come along to the exhibition opening, old chap? We’ve still got time to dress and return for the event.’

  ‘I think I would. Need a wee dram or two after today. And we might pick up a fresh scent by observing Griffon in his element, so to speak.’

  Dryandra Stritchley knew that she must tell Vere Griffon what had happened. It would worry him inordinately—not a good thing when he needed to focus on the exhibition opening. But, with an inspection of the coin collection the next day, she had no choice. She found Griffon in the library, reading a research article on centipedes. He seemed calmer and more content than she could remember.

  ‘Director, I hate to disturb you, but this won’t wait. Scrutton and Descrepancy want to examine the Marchant coin collection. Tomorrow.’

  ‘I see,’ said Griffon. He wearily put down the journal, and walked off. The pressure had been building on him for months. The stock-market crash, his useless curators, Scrutton and then the business with the Giglione goats. And now that damn interfering accountant Descrepency was scheduled to examine the coin collection! Well, there was no catalogue, so who could say if anything was missing? And the Meissen he had purchased by selling the odd coin. What of it?

  As he’d planned his great evolution gallery Vere Griffon had thought again and again about what might epitomise the highest achie
vement of mankind. And then it had come to him: Meissen porcelain. Britain had the Hanovers (or Windsors as they now called themselves) on the throne, so something German was appropriate. And the cultured figurines of eighteenth-century noblemen and women were exquisite. They spoke to him of home. Home. The font of all refinement and progress in the world. There would be a small room, he’d decided, at the end of the exhibition. A sort of treasury where, in a soft light, the felonry of New South Wales could gasp at the beauty of Meissen ware, displayed in glass cases like precious jewels.

  Griffon’s mind drifted back to his present worries. Even if no impropriety were found, a departmental investigation could be disastrous, especially if it tainted the museum’s reputation and so deterred donors. Scrutton’s malice, and the gossip columns, might even see him sacked in disgrace.

  ‘Think of Caesar drawing his toga over his face as the last, fatal blows landed. He endured the worst with dignity,’ Griffon said to himself. It was, he realised, time to receive his guest of honour, Sir Arthur Woodward, who had travelled from London.

  Archie had assembled the islanders in an antechamber off the main exhibition space. They had spent all day preparing. He felt confident enough to leave them, knowing they would appear on cue, and so returned to the main entrance to meet Beatrice. Jeevons was stationed at the door, directing visitors towards the reception. A small group was gathered round him, gawping.

  ‘He tottered towards me, with them terrible eyes. Fixed on me, they was. And his mouth…my God. Great gollops of bloody slime were coming out of it. Oh! And that hand of his. I’ll never forget that hand as long as I live. Like a mallee root, it was, all twisted up with the poison.’