The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish

by Dido Butterworth

  Chapter 24

  The following morning Griffon learned that the fire brigade had been alerted by a tip-off. The fire chief quizzed him about the caller, but the director was unable to help. Examination of the scene revealed that the blaze had started in the old walk-in safe at the back of the director’s office. It had smouldered there for some time before the heat blasted out a window in the adjacent corridor. Then the influx of fresh air had caused the flames to explode.

  While inclined to arson as an explanation, the fire department could not rule out other causes. The electrical wiring of the museum, for one, was antique. Coming to a firm conclusion would be hampered, the chief explained, because the fire had almost completely consumed the director’s office, destroying vital evidence. As Griffon examined the ashes, he realised that not only had the museum’s financial records perished, but also his collection of Meissen porcelain and the Great Venus Island Fetish. All the exchange material he had accumulated for Professor Giglione had also gone up in smoke, though thankfully the rest of the museum had survived unharmed.

  While Vere Griffon was pondering the previous night’s events, Cedric Scrutton marched into the office of the premier’s secretary, Winston Spencer. ‘We have an emergency on our hands, Spencer. A full-blown emergency. The fire at the museum last night is highly suspicious, and I damn well know it was lit to cover up gross malfeasance, including a colossal misuse of government funds. If the premier is to avoid becoming besmirched, he must order an inquiry immediately.’

  The following day it was revealed that a special commission would investigate not only the fire, but also the entire administration of the museum. It would be headed by that hammer of evildoers, Sir Harbottle Grimston, retired chief of the premier’s department. Mentor and close friend of Cedric Scrutton, Grimston was renowned for his dogged ferreting-out of crooked public servants. It was whispered in the corridors that he always got his man.

  The commission’s first hearings, Grimston announced, would be held forthwith, in the Parliament building itself.

  In the aftermath of the fire, Archie made his way to the boarding house to organise the Venus Islanders for their return. How, he agonised, could he tell Sangoma that the fetish had been destroyed?

  ‘Uncle,’ he began. ‘The dance you performed last night was a triumph.’

  ‘Thank you, my son. I had no idea that we had been invited to perform at such an important ceremony. When we islanders come to the end of a great ceremonial cycle—one lasting many years—we burn the spirit house that the ceremonies took place in. We see that your tribe follows a similar custom. When the fire started we followed the museum clan outside. Then your enemies, the men dressed in red, arrived, and tried to put out the fire so they could steal the sacred things and shame you. We were ready to join the fight and drive them away, but your great war leader Jeevons was not vigorous. He did nothing to protect the cleansing flames.’

  ‘Uncle, I can’t explain things now. But I do have something important to tell you. Last night I tried to take the fetish.’

  Sangoma’s eyes widened. He held his breath as Archie went on. ‘I tried to pull it from the wall, but it was too strong. Then the fire came, and it was burned to ashes. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘By the bones of my ancestors, I thought at first that you had succeeded,’ gasped Sangoma. ‘What good fortune that you did not. It was you—your power—that destroyed it. There is no danger in ashes.’

  ‘But it was a great work of art,’ Archie lamented.

  ‘Such things can no longer be fashioned, I admit. Its age is past.’ Archie was beyond astonishment at Sangoma’s pragmatism. There were, he concluded, many things about the Venusians he’d never understand.

  On the docks Archie produced his old sea-trunk. It had been delivered to the steamer that morning, and was full of gifts. Clothes, drawing paper for the children, axes, bush knives. And a tap. He’d purchased it at the hardware so that Sangoma would remember the water coming from the wall. Archie placed five shillings in Sangoma’s hand. ‘This is from the director. It’s payment for your performance,’ he said, unable to look Sangoma in the eye. Then he watched as the islanders walked the gangplank. He knew that he would never see them again.

  Only the director’s office and boardroom had been damaged in the blaze, so most of the staff returned to work the following morning. After work Archie made his way to the Harris Tea Rooms, where Beatrice was waiting for him. As he walked he began to feel better, stronger. The fetish was gone. Future anthropologists would doubtless curse him for the loss. But he felt stronger and could finally see clearly. He saw a last chance to bring his director’s murderous spree to an end.

  He found Beatrice seated at an elegant marble table, surrounded by gold fixtures, sipping tea from a china teacup.

  ‘The fetish, Beatrice. I tried to take it, but something happened. I just couldn’t seem to free it from the wall.’

  ‘Now who will believe us about Polkinghorne, Sopwith and the others?’ she asked.

  ‘We should go to the police, though I’m not certain that they would get to the bottom of things. Vere Griffon is very well connected. He’d probably get warning of an investigation, and do away with any remaining evidence,’ said Archie. ‘We need more evidence, and only Henry Bumstocks can provide that. He can’t have done all his dirty work at the museum. Otherwise somebody would surely have noticed. I think we need to find out where he lives, and search his house. I remember Mordant saying that he lived in Balmain. Do you think that we could follow him home?’

  With the assistance of the police, Grimston secured several witnesses to the fire who were not associated with the museum. This, he felt, was invaluable. Staff were not to be trusted. His prize witness was rather unlikely: an urchin who had been playing on William Street and told the police that he’d seen smoke belching from a window. The boy stopped to see what would happen. As the fire grew he observed a one-legged Scotsman and a butcher emerge from the museum, and vanish into Hyde Park.

  Vere Griffon knew that he’d be called to testify, but he did not expect to appear on the first day. Dryandra Stritchley had not come to work since the blaze, and Griffon felt distinctly vulnerable without her. The inquiry was held in a large office used for state receptions. Below a portrait of the monarch a grand desk had been installed, upon which was a marble nameplate that proclaimed in gold lettering ‘Sir Harbottle Grimston, Knight Bachelor, KBE’, then below, ‘Chief Investigator, Museum Inquiry’.

  Vere Griffon stood to attention as an overweight and puffing Grimston waddled in, preceded by two secretaries. He was dressed in a black robe. Small, round, wire-framed spectacles obscured his bloodshot eyes. He took his seat and, without looking up from his notes, began.

  ‘Dr Vere Griffon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve been director of the museum since, let’s see, 1923, have you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Griffon was determined to face Sir Harbottle with a stiff upper lip.

  ‘And do you know of any reason why anybody might set fire to the institution under your care?’

  ‘No, sir. None at all.’

  Sir Harbottle fixed Griffon with a basilisk stare. ‘Do you have any one-legged men in your employ, Director?’

  Griffon smoothed his hair in bewilderment. He
had not expected this. ‘Well, no, sir, not that I can think of.’

  ‘Have you, or have you not? Answer plainly!’ roared Sir Harbottle, the veins in his forehead bulging.

  ‘No, sir. Though we do have a guard with a gammy leg, if that’s any help.’

  Sir Harbottle’s veins looked ready to burst. He composed himself, and switched tack. ‘Have you had any dealings with butchers recently?’

  ‘Beyond purchasing meat for my own needs, no.’

  ‘Details, details,’ Grimston roared.

  ‘Hmm, four pork sausages, a piece of silverside and a bung fritz last Thursday at Gordons in Darlinghurst.’

  During the war Grimston was responsible for sniffing out traitors and spies from the New South Wales public service. The mention of bung fritz triggered something.

  ‘Pickelhaube under the bed sort of chap, eh, Griffon? Do you speak German?’

  ‘Yes, passingly. I’m finding your line of questioning somewhat difficult to follow. A one-legged man and a butcher?’ Vere added cautiously.

  ‘We have a witness, Director—a disinterested witness—who claims to have seen a one-legged man and a butcher carrying a leg of lamb fleeing the scene of the blaze. I can assure you, sir, that my commission will get to the bottom of this if we have to interview every meat-vendor and amputee in the city.’

  Discharged at last from the inquiry, the director returned to work, exhausted. He’d hardly slept since the fire. Without Dryandra to support him and to attend to the day-to-day details, the pressure was becoming almost unbearable. He’d even begun to wonder whether it was all worth it.

  Later that day Vere Griffon sat in the museum library, where he’d temporarily set up office. He had received a letter.

  October 25, 1933. MV Prinz Wilhelm, 2nd Class

  Dear Vere,

  I hope that you will protect me by never revealing the contents of this letter. If you cannot promise me that, then please reduce it to ashes at once.

  The official purpose of this correspondence is to inform you of my resignation as your secretary. Please forgive its abrupt nature, but my choices are limited. I intend to relocate to Malaya, where my cousin manages a rubber plantation. As you read on, please understand that all I did—even the destruction of our illicit child, if you could call the Meissen that—was done for love of you.

  When I saw your face collapse as I told you about the visit of Scrutton and Descrepancy, I knew that things had gone too far for you to straighten out. I realised there was only one way forward. A cleansing blaze, and that it was I who must light it. As you always said, there’s no time like the present, and that evening the entire museum staff were at the opening of the evolution gallery. It almost broke my heart, as I know it will break yours, to see all that irreplaceable Meissen perish in the flames. Please forgive me, dearest Vere, if you will let me call you that just once. The accounts books, that horrible mask—the office where we worked together so happily. I knew that it had to be cleansed.

  At the last moment I faced a terrible crisis. What if the fire spread undetected? It might destroy the entire building and its priceless collections. It was a dreadful risk. But even as I weighed things up my hands were busy accumulating the kindling. The accounts books, the Marchant coins and the precious Meissen soon lay in a pile in the middle of the drinks pantry. I looked at the glorious porcelain one last time. How often had we sat in that small, windowless space gazing at it in perfect serenity, our minds elevated from the sordid business that is life in today’s public service?

  There was one thing which did not need to perish in the flames. Dr Doughty deserves better than to lose her precious meteorite, so I carried it to the board table and placed it there, in the hope that the fire brigade would arrive before the flames advanced that far.

  I wanted the fire to take quickly, and wasn’t sure that the single malt I’d poured on the pile had the alcoholic strength required for the job. Then I remembered the centipede in its jar of pickling alcohol. At 70 per cent proof it would go up with a whoosh. I knew, Vere, how much you would lament the loss of that unique specimen. But better lose it than being torn to pieces by the curs snapping at your heels. I unscrewed the jar and spilled its contents over the account books. I thought that you’d like to know that the Horribilipes flowed out with the liquid and draped itself atop the Meissen mantle garniture like a dead Viking chief atop his funeral pyre. Before striking the match I went to the phone and called the fire brigade, and then I walked out of the room.

  Vere, you stole my heart as surely as Dr Leggenhacker took Dr Doughty’s leg. But you did not know it, and my feelings were never reciprocated. If only things had been different.

  Yours affectionately,

  Dryandra Stritchley

  Chapter 25

  Vere Griffon had reached breaking point. An investigation into his administration, a burnt museum, and now he had lost forever the only woman who had ever loved him. He collapsed into his chair, hunched and grey, a defeated man.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed—he may have sat there for minutes or hours—when he heard a distinctive rumble. It was Mr Gormly, the museum’s storeman, announcing his presence by respectfully clearing his throat.

  ‘Seven large boxes have arrived. From Italy, sir, addressed to your good self. They’re in the storeroom. Shall I have them brought up?’

  Gormly took the dismissive wave as a sign of approval. ‘Very well, sir, I’ll only be a moment.’

  The librarian, who was doing temporary double duty as Griffon’s secretary, rapped on the pillar that acted as a door and said, ‘It’s Mr Abotomy, sir. He wants to see you, and won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘What-ho, old fellow?’ warbled Chumley Abotomy. ‘Looks like you lost a pound and found sixpence. Come on, Vere! Cheer up. Things can’t be that bad!’

  ‘It’s Dryandra. Resigned.’

  At that instant the first of the Italian crates arrived.

  ‘By Jove, I do believe these are the Giglione goats!’ exclaimed Abotomy. ‘What a treat. Let’s have a look at them, eh.’

  ‘Impossible,’ replied Vere Griffon. ‘We’ve not sent the exchanges yet. And now that the most important pieces have been lost in the fire, I doubt we’ll ever complete the transaction.’

  ‘Balderdash,’ Abotomy shot back. ‘More than one way to skin a cat. Giglione won’t be demanding the exchanges. Open them up, Gormly. Let’s have a look.’

  As the crates were prised open and the stuffed goats removed from their wrappings, Griffon’s heart sank even further. They were a motley lot, the majority bandy-legged, cross-eyed, or twisted of horn. ‘My God, how much more debasement must I suffer?’ he asked. But it was hard to hear anything he said, because Abotomy was laughing so loudly.

  ‘Look at that one clenching its bottom. What a painful expression! That, my dear director, is Cardinal Corleone, famous throughout Rome as a martyr to the haemorrhoids. They say the fellow prays hourly to Saint Fiacre. Even takes confession from the throne, Giglione reckons. And th
at one with the crossed eyes, he’s Cardinal Stefano. Head of the Roman Inquisition—and a famed self-abuser! And ah! See that big fellow over there,’ he said, pointing to the Chilean mounteback, whose testicles hung almost to the ground. ‘That, my man, well, that’s the pope! Biggest lecher in the whole damn Eternal City according to Giglione. Tremendous fun, isn’t it, Vere?’

  Vere Griffon erupted. As he howled, he didn’t know whether he was laughing or crying, but with Abotomy cackling alongside him he began to feel better. And this he could not understand, because things had definitely taken a turn for the worse.

  ‘Giglione says he is a good Catholic, but he hates the hypocrisy of the Church. Really, as he told me himself, he’s nothing but a naughty boy. Bit like me, I suppose,’ said Abotomy. ‘I say, Vere! Did you know that the premier is a great goat enthusiast? A breeder of champion cashmeres. I think he should get an eyeful of this. Let’s call his office and see if he can come over.’

  Vere was beyond caring. Would things get any worse if the premier saw these ridiculous ovine mounts?

  Abotomy sent out for cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of the premier’s favourite French champagne. With Gormly’s help he arranged the goats into a sort of guard of honour in the foyer, lining them up from least to most grotesque.

  He’d just finished when the premier strode in. ‘This better be important, Abotomy. I cut short a meeting with the treasurer to be here. The government hangs by a pubic hair at present!’

  Then he saw the goats. ‘Great Caesar’s ghost!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that an ancestral cashmere? And a Syrian fat-tail! Never thought I’d live to see the day.’